A Heartless Laird

by McQueen, Hildie

  Servants marched in with trays of steaming food. A red-faced Moira rushed forward with a tray and came straight to the high board. “My apologies, Laird. Time got away from me. I tried to hurry the food and ended up with a burnt disaster.” The woman babbled, apologizing while serving Malcolm and his brothers.

  “Tis not words we need right now, Woman,” Kieran snapped.

  Annoyed at Kieran, Malcolm narrowed his eyes in his brother’s direction. If there was a soft spot left in Kieran, it had always been for the sweet cook.

  “Do not be distressed,” he told the woman who looked about to cry. “We eat now and that is what matters.”

  “Thank ye, Laird,” Moira replied and approached Kieran slowly. “More bread, dear?”

  Kieran looked first to Moira and then to the floor before standing and rounding the table. So tall that he towered over most men, Kieran bent to look down at the diminutive Moira and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Forgive me.”

  The woman sniffed and nodded, then headed back to the kitchen.

  “There’s no need to apologize to a servant,” their mother snapped, sitting down to eat. “Everything is horrible since yer father left. Nothing is the same.”

  Tristan huffed. “Father did not leave. He died.”

  The same argument occurred regularly. Their mother not seeming to accept that her husband was gone and Tristan annoyed about it. It did little good to correct her. She pretended not to hear.

  Like the others in the family, his mother had also changed in the last couple months. She was bitter and resentful, constantly complaining or demanding things. His sister wasn’t much better. Verity, who’d always been a spoiled, immature girl was now almost tyrannical.

  Malcolm almost laughed at considering the battlefield was a respite compared to life at the keep.

  “We must speak of the wedding.” His mother resumed their earlier conversation. “If we don’t proceed as planned, the Munro will consider it a slight on our part.” From where she sat at the end of the table, Verity watched intently. Obviously, she tried to gather what her future held. Her face reddened and she jumped from her seat, the chair flying backward.

  “I don’t wish to get married. There is no need for it at all,” she yelled. “I choose to remain here.”

  Malcolm didn’t bother scolding her. Little good it would do. Instead, he looked to his mother. “If there were to be a wedding, it would be the perfect opportunity for the McLeods to attack. We can use it as bait.”

  At Verity’s triumphant expression, his mother scowled. “Go to yer room, Verity. I am tired of yer outbursts.”

  “I will not until I know for sure what will be done. This is my life…”

  Malcolm met Tristan’s gaze and then motioned to Verity with his head. Within moments, their sister was swooped up and carried away to be locked in her chamber.

  “What if it’s a discreet affair, without much in the way of feasting or music? She and I and perhaps a guard of eight can travel to…” his mother persisted.

  Malcolm had enough. His food had become cold and he pushed the plate aside. “Good plan, Mother. What a perfect way for us to trap the McLeods than to send ye and my sister as decoys. Of course, ye’ll probably die before we reach ye, but that is obviously a price ye are willing to pay for this wedding to take place.”

  His mother blanched. Without a word, she left the room.

  Chapter Four

  It was an unusually warm day and Elspeth was glad for it. Gathering herbs in the forest meant hours in the dank, cold shade with only trickles of sunrays that managed to get through the thick canopy of branches. Walking along a narrow path, with her basket dangling from her arm, she let out a contented sigh and looked up to the tree branches at a loud ruckus of birds chirping.

  Not too far from the loch, she considered it would be a wonderful day for a swim and perhaps after gathering herbs, she’d suggest it to her unhappy escort.

  Over her shoulder, she spied Conor, her younger brother, who by the annoyed expression wished to be anywhere but there. He hated going with her and guarding as she harvested herbs, often pronouncing it a waste of his time. The lanky young man bent over to pick up a branch and threw it.

  Conor wanted to learn blacksmithing from their father, hoped to one day take over, but between the constant trips to the battlefields and escorting either her, their mother or grandmother, he rarely had time to himself. It was almost enough to make Elspeth feel bad except that, in her opinion, he was not exactly suffering and, besides, he already spent plenty of time with their father.

  “Hurry up, will ye? Tis getting late and I would like to help father this afternoon,” Conor said, throwing a stick and then bending to pick up another.

  Elspeth rolled her eyes. “We’ve just arrived.”

  Doing her best to ignore her brooding brother, she continued picking the herbs she’d been taught to use.

  It was strange how the plants grew in some of the same spots that her tutor had indicated even a year after he’d suddenly gone. Elspeth took a breath and lowered to a tree stump, her gaze moving across the underbrush.

  Conor neared. “How do ye know which plants to pluck?”

  “My teacher, a traveling monk, taught me everything.”

  “Who?”

  Elspeth was glad he asked questions. Perhaps he’d allow her to linger longer. “Grandmother and I came for walks and often sat with him. He would point out plants and tell us the healing properties.”

  They’d first met on a day while out in the forest, and she’d been startled by a wild boar. Fearing for her life, Elspeth had raced as fast as her legs could carry her toward her home. Unfortunately, having to run in circles to avoid the angry beast, she’d become disoriented and lost.

  Suddenly, a man wearing a hooded tunic, which was tied at the waist with a rustic belt, appeared out of nowhere. Elspeth had rushed to him insisting he run, but he’d calmly turned toward the boar and stared down the raging beast. The animal had snorted several times, pawed at the ground and then to her surprise, turned and trotted away.

  “How did ye do that?” Elspeth had asked, trying to catch her breath. “I thought it was going to kill me. I am sure it had every intention of it.”

  “I doubt it,” the monk had replied gently. “The beast is ensuring ye are aware of his territory.”

  “By chasing me and goring me to death?” She’d been incredulous.

  The monk was short and slender, with a heavily-bearded face. Other than bright blue eyes, it was hard to tell what he looked like. Waving a hand as if presenting her to the forest, he’d motioned to the trees. “Come. I have something to show ye.”

  Not trusting the stranger, she’d taken a couple of steps back. “I must go home. My brothers are no doubt searching for me now.” Elspeth had looked around in an attempt to get her bearings. “Which way to the village?”

  Instead of a reply, the monk had moved to a patch of greenery. “When boiled, the leaves will cure stomach ailments.”

  When she remained silent, he’d moved to a different plant, that one more of a bush. “This plant, when dried and mixed in ale, will render a good night’s sleep.”

  Despite trepidation at first, Elspeth remained for a long while as he pointed to different plants and explained their healing properties. He seemed tireless and, although enthralled, her head spun from too much information.

  “I must retrieve something to make sketches,” she’d said, interrupting him. “I cannot remember all of this.”

  He’d nodded in understanding. “Return tomorrow.” The sparkling blue eyes had made her smile. “Try to avoid the boar.” He pointed with his right hand. “Yer village is in that direction.”

  For a long time after, Elspeth had met the monk and he’d taught her about healing as she sketched the different leaves and drew pictures, writing simple words to explain what the plants did. Elspeth barely knew enough to write basic things, so she depended on pictures and hoped her sketches would be enough to remember ev
erything he’d taught her.

  Sure her parents would not approve of meeting with the man alone, she’d recruited her grandmother to accompany her.

  Over time, she became sought after to heal the sick, provide aid to those injured and even helped her grandmother deliver babies. Her gift of healing was something she enjoyed.

  Since the battling of clans, her father insisted Conor accompany her to gather herbs, which was bothersome since he had little patience for it.

  Elspeth mused at how, since the war between clans had begun, her sense of accomplishment in healing had ended. The fulfillment of helping those in need lost its luster in the face of the clan battles. Yes, she still wanted to help the wounded and injured, and did her best to get there in time to save lives. However, the needlessness of it all made her downhearted. That men did this to one another was heartbreaking.

  Upon spotting a rather large patch of herbs, she crouched down and placed her basket on the ground.

  “Conor, can I borrow yer knife?” When there was no reply, Elspeth looked up to find the rascal had left. She huffed in annoyance. Not that she was scared to be in the forest alone, but more because her father threatened that she’d not be allowed to forage without Conor along.

  “Conor?” she hissed and waited. The wind in the trees and rustling of leaves were accompanied by another sound. Splashes. It was the unmistakable sound of someone swimming. Her brother must have gone for a dip.

  “He cannot very well watch over me from the loch,” Elspeth said, lifting her skirts and stomping toward the water’s edge. She searched the ground for a stick or a stone to throw at her annoying brother. Triumphant at finding a short, thick branch, she put her basket on the ground, crouched down and snuck toward the water’s edge.

  Hiding behind a fallen tree, she rose up just enough to peek over it. A long arm extended out of the water followed by a second. When he dove, his bottom lifted out of the water and then disappeared.

  Elspeth’s lips curved. When he turned around, she’d throw the branch and hit him right on the rump. Giggling, she moved closer, this time hiding behind a bush. Once again, he swam back in the opposite direction and when he dove, she threw the stick with all her might. At the satisfying “whomp”, she fell to the ground laughing.

  There was splashing, cussing and wild slapping as he came out of the water.

  Elspeth could barely get her breath. “Th-that…is…wh-what…ye g-get for not wa-watching over me.” She couldn’t see past the tears of mirth.

  A shadow came across her, but she couldn’t stop laughing long enough to look at him. Conor was silent, probably figuring how to get her back. But he would never lay a hand on her. Their father had never allowed it.

  When pulled up by her arms and thrown over a shoulder, she sputtered. “What are ye doing?”

  Since when had Conor gotten so strong? He headed to the water, carrying her with ease. Elspeth bounced on his shoulder. “Conor, put me down this instant.”

  “I am not Conor,” the man said. Then without hesitation, he tossed her into the loch.

  Eyes wide, all mirth evaporated. She turned while in the air and caught a glimpse of who’d thrown her just as she hit the water. An entirely naked Malcolm Ross stood on the bank with a murderous expression.

  Stunned at the situation, Elspeth was not prepared for what happened next. She hit the water hard and sank like a stone. Although she could swim like a duck, it was impossible to untangle herself from the long skirts that floated up and over her head. She struggled wildly, attempting to free herself in a rising panic.

  Not only had she just hit one of the most feared warriors with a stick, but now said man was probably taking great satisfaction in watching her being drowned by her own skirts.

  *

  Malcolm stared at the water and waited for the woman to emerge. Bubbles came to the surface and he narrowed his eyes. Was the minx up to another trick? Why hadn’t she surfaced yet? He walked closer ensuring to keep his distance but, at the same time, trying to scan across the water to see where she was. Once again, bubbles surfaced in almost the same location.

  It dawned on him that she’d been fully dressed and, no doubt, the thick wool dress made it hard for her to swim. He cursed and dove in.

  Sure enough, she was just a few feet in over her head with the skirts around her arms, shoulders and head. She was struggling fiercely, so much so that when he grabbed her, it was hard to keep from being hit. He pulled her none-too-gently from the water and onto the shore where both lay spent. She coughed and sputtered. He sat up and watched to make sure she could breathe.

  “Ye,” she sputtered. “Almost drowned me.” Coughing, she rolled to her side, her body shaking with each round of hacks and sputters.

  “And ye could have hit me in the head and done the same,” he retorted, unsure why he remained and didn’t leave. There wasn’t time to be wasting with the woman who’d obviously wanted to kill him.

  “I thought ye were my…brother,” she said breathlessly. “Besides, I did not aim for yer head.”

  Not wishing to hear anything more, he stood and pulled her to her feet. Her gaze roamed down from his face and to his body. It was entertaining that her cheeks turned a bright crimson. “Ye should not be here.”

  “It’s my land.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Tis closer to my village.”

  Malcolm went to where he’d left his tartan, picked it up and wrapped it around his midsection. “Go away.”

  “Do ye not want to know about Ian?” she asked, seeming to search for something else to be angry with him about. “He is yer warrior, is he not?

  “I assume he is alive,” he began, and then deciding against asking anything else, stopped speaking.

  “Aye he is. But very ill.”

  “I did not expect he would live.”

  “Still may not. Ye could see about him.” She narrowed her eyes. “Instead of frolicking.”

  “I do not frolic.”

  She lifted an eyebrow, her green eyes going dark. “I have no desire to argue with ye.”

  “Away with ye then,” he replied airily.

  “Will ye not apologize then?” With feet planted apart, she placed fisted hands on her hips.

  The woman was dripping wet, the clothing plastered to every curve. Round, plush breasts high on her chest may as well have been on full display as her soaked white blouse and chemise did little to hide them. His gaze lingered on the pert tips that beckoned a man to suckle.

  She would make a good bedmate if she were the kind to allow bedding without commitment.

  Malcolm was about to propose a tryst when she slapped him so hard his head snapped to the right and his neck popped.

  “Ye are despicable,” Elspeth yelled. Lifting her sodden skirts, she did her best to hurry away into the forest, but shuffled more than sprinted.

  Running his hand down his face, Malcolm let out a long breath. He looked toward where she ran off noticing she’d left her basket behind. Served the wench right.

  The corners of his lips inched up, just a bit, and he rubbed his jaw as she disappeared. If it weren’t for the fact women were a distraction, she would be worth pursuing.

  Chapter Five

  Clyde McLeod sat forward in his seat on the high board as several of his guards entered the great room.

  “Laird, the messenger has returned.” The guard hesitated and looked to Ethan, his youngest son. “He’s dead.”

  “We have our answer then.” Alec, the older son, stood from the table. “We have our damned answer.” He groaned in frustration. “The Ross will not stop until they see every single one of us dead.”

  “Or we kill them,” Ethan, the younger son, replied, slamming his fist on the tabletop. “I do not understand why we…”

  “Cease talking at once,” his father interrupted. “It is because of yer rashness that we find ourselves in this impossible situation.”

  Ethan would not be quieted. “Why do ye consider it impossible? We can fight, we
are not weaklings.”

  Alec had had enough. His brother refused to see the consequences of his actions as a detriment. Quite the opposite, he seemed to take pride in having killed Laird Ross.

  “Ye killed their laird, the father of some of the best warriors in our region.” Between clenched teeth, he continued. “Clan Ross is twice our size, their warriors outnumber us.”

  The laird motioned the guard closer. “See that the messenger’s family is rewarded. Take two men to his home and assist in the burial.”

  “Aye, Laird,” the guardsmen left to their miserable task.

  Clyde turned to Ethan, motioning to the departing men. “That is what ye’ve caused. Go with them. Ensure ye remain quiet or I will see that ye are whipped and thrown into the dungeon.”

  Ethan’s eyes narrowed, but he stood and went after the guards.

  “If they do not allow even a messenger, how can we possibly get them to agree to a meeting?” a member of the council asked.

  “Perhaps deliver a missive with an arrow?” another proposed.

  Alec studied his father’s weary expression and let out a breath. “Up until that day several months ago, we’d lived in relative peace with Clan Ross. My mother and Lady Ross had even formed a friendship. Perhaps that is a possible way to reach out to them. Send a woman to speak to Lady Ross…” He stopped speaking.

  “We can declare ourselves as surrendering?” an older man, member of the council said. “Twould be a loss of pride for our clan, but will save many lives.”

  Scouts had reported seeing Ross warriors on the outskirts of their land. At only a few weeks since their last battle, it seemed their enemies itched for another confrontation.

  They were forced to protect their people and their livestock or chance starving once winter came. Already, two farms and several small villages had been razed to the ground. The people who’d come to their home to find shelter lived there now within the keep gates. There was little room left, but more would be welcome rather than left to die.