Highland Faith

by Hill, Madelyn

  They rode through the streets on rented nags. Crowds gathered and there was a different air about the place. Far more treacherous than when he’d left several years ago. Men brawled at nearly every corner and chits bartered their bodies from the doorways of the inns and taverns. They garnered as much attention, him with his crew of misfits. He suspected Amit captured their stares and filled their conversations the most.

  He prayed the Crown would accept his offer—’twas more than generous.

  The magistrate welcomed him with a broad grin. “Here to see yer father?”

  “Aye. And to settle some business.”

  The man’s brows furrowed and then his eyes widened. “Are ye telling me ye have the funds?”

  He shifted his weight and settled his hands at his waist. His father wasn’t the only one who thought he’d fail. “Aye. Didnae you receive my missives? I sent them from each port.”

  “Aye, aye. Ye gather enough funds?” Magistrate Paddy slapped him on the back. “Weel, ’tis grand news. The Crown has had a devil of a time keeping the lands safe all these years. Yer father has raided many a time. ’Tis why he’s here, to be sure.”

  “May I see him?”

  The man shrugged. “I have to warn ye, he’s in a bad way and may not want to see ye.”

  He stopped walking. “You promised to watch him. Keep him out of trouble.”

  The man held up his hands. “No’ me, but some of the men he surrounds himself with. I reckon I’ll see if he’s willing to have a visitor.”

  His nerves rattled. “I’m his son, not a visitor.”

  The magistrate nodded. “Aye, m’laird. But ye’ve been gone quite a bit of time and yer father has cursed ye since the day ye left.” He unlocked the door leading to the cells and headed in without him.

  Cursed him? Aye, certainly his father’s style. And with his brother’s death still fresh, he had left with the promise he’d save the castle over three years ago.

  After a few moments, Magistrate Paddy entered the front of the gaol. He shook his head and said, “’Tis sorry I am. Laird Ross won’t be seeing ye today.”

  He fisted his hands at his waist. “Damn. Did you tell him I brought funds?”

  “Aye. And he said his son died.”

  Fury swept through him, fiery and hot. How dare his father act this way. “Let me see him,” he demanded as he moved to force his way into the cells.

  The magistrate set a hand on his chest. “Nay. I have to be listening to yer father, whether I like it or no’.”

  He glared at the man. “Let me pass.”

  “Now, m’laird. I dinnae want to be calling me guards to toss ye in yer own cell. Come back on the morrow. Mayhap his heart will soften by then.”

  With a grunt, he left the building in search for his crew. Damn his father. Damn him to hell.

  “Captain,” Amit called from across the way.

  Bah, not another problem. Several men circled his rigger. They prodded Amit in the chest, yelled in his face. He thought to call the magistrate, but changed his mind. His crew could defend themselves—mostly. Amit was a wee man and the brawny Highlanders surrounded him like a pack of wolves.

  “Cease,” he yelled.

  “Just having a bit of a laugh,” one of them said as he spilled his ale down the front of his tartan.

  “Aye, Captain Ross,” another chimed in.

  Then the brutes’ eyes widened, they stepped away and rushed back into the tavern. He grinned, as did Amit.

  “Thank you, Wee Will,” Amit said with a bow.

  He glanced over his shoulder and nodded toward his tall mate. ’Twas grand when he appeared and without a word Wee Will scared away most threats. Few realized how gentle the man was, which worked to his advantage.

  Amit glanced about. “Where is your father?”

  He bristled. “He’ll see me on the morrow.”

  Amit frowned. “He wouldn’t see you today?”

  To state his father refused him damaged his pride, to be sure. The indignities thrust upon him during his youth came to him. Unfortunately, they didn’t stop when he became a man; nay, his father continued to disregard him. He had to admit many times his behavior warranted punishment. In fact, he’d striven to incite his father, and rarely did his father disappoint. Why he’d bothered, he wasn’t certain; mayhap he wanted to get any sort of emotion from his father, even if it was anger.

  Why? Why did it matter so much to gain his father’s approval? He rubbed the bridge of his nose as he thought. Pride? Loyalty? Glutton for punishment? Truly, he wanted to show his father, prove to his father he was just as worthy as his brother.

  And now, if he got the chance to see his father, he’d remind him of what he’d done and all he’d sacrificed.

  If he saw his father.

  And once his father was safely in the castle, there would be redemption.

  “Captain.” Amit nodded toward Wee Will and said, “We’ll head back to the ship.”

  He glanced toward the port and nearly followed the men. Instead, he watched them walk away, Wee Will and his towering height and Amit with his foreign clothing ambling to the Blue Boy. How he wanted to join them.

  Instead, he returned to his father’s rented rooms. Far from a home, but he needed to be here, close to his father, and mayhap any peace that could be wrought between them.

  An urgency filled him. If he was to move on with his life, forge a path for himself, with, God willing, a wife and someday bairns, he had to resolve the anger between him and his father.

  ~ ~ ~

  After a restless night of sleep, he headed to the gaol and demanded to see his father. Again to no avail. Bollocks.

  On the seventh day, he decided not to take no for an answer. Too much time had passed on the voyage to Ross territory; now waiting for his father to rise above his dour mood and allow him to visit had cost too many days. If there were more setbacks, Faith may be lost to him forever. Aye, once he settled his father, he’d set out to win Faith’s heart.

  “He doesn’t want visitors,” Magistrate Paddy countered.

  Raged filled him. How dare this man refuse to see him after all he went through to save the family. He took a step forward and stood within a breath of the man. “If you want the coin, you’ll bring me to my father,” he growled.

  The magistrate tossed up his hands. “Aye, aye, Captain.” After he grabbed a ring of keys and unlocked the main door, he motioned for him to enter.

  With a heavy sigh, he nodded to the man to keep walking. They entered the dank cell area. His father was the only occupant.

  When they reached the cell, he pulled up. The man before him couldn’t be his father.

  “Up you go, m’laird.”

  His father rose and shuffled to the door of the cell. Stooped shoulders and slow movement mocked the man he used to be. When he was but a lad, he thought his father was a giant of a man. A true Highlander with brawn enough for ten men. After his mother’s death, those happy times fled the castle.

  This withered man before him couldn’t be his father.

  “What the devil are you doing here?”

  He scoffed. Aye, ’twas his father.

  The magistrate unlocked the door. “Ye are free to go.”

  His father glanced up with a distrusting grimace on his face. “Go where?”

  “Home, Father.”

  Damn if anger didn’t push across his face. “I have no home, thanks to you,” he grumbled.

  The magistrate sighed. “This way, m’laird. We’ll talk around me desk.”

  His father pass before him and he resisted the urge to aid him down the hall. He’d been a fool thinking his father had changed. The same snarl and disregard filled his countenance.

  After they settled into chairs, th
e magistrate said, “Yer son has the funds to pay the Crown.”

  His father frowned. “My son is dead.”

  Used to his father’s disregard, he remained silent, yet his stomach twisted at the cold tone of his father’s voice. But he still watched him, saw how the man fidgeted with the sleeves of his shirt. He avoided his son’s gaze as if he didn’t realize he was there. Or as if he didn’t care.

  “Yer son, the captain, has arrived with enough funds to pay the Crown,” Magistrate Paddy repeated. He sat back and tipped his chin toward Graeme. “I would think ye’d be grateful.”

  His father lifted his gaze as agitation had him clenching his fist. “’Tisn’t my home any longer.”

  He stood and his anger rose quickly. “I have sailed far and wide to save our home. For years I have lived on the sea, fought each storm as if it were going to be my last, to save our home. Get off your arse and come with me.”

  His father cringed as if slapped.

  He inhaled and waited a moment. “Mother and Michael are gone, there’s no changing that—no matter how much we wish it so. I am still here—ready and willing to help you, Father.” He closed his eyes and remembered his brother’s beaten body. How long could he blame himself? Forever? Or would providing restitution to his father help ease the guilt from his shoulders?

  The once mighty Laird Ross’s hands began to shake as he covered his face. His shoulders heaved and weeping filled the chamber.

  Damn. He walked toward him, raised his hand to pat his father’s shoulder, then let it fall to his side.

  “I’ll leave ye be.” Magistrate Paddy left the chamber.

  After the door shut, Laird Ross said, “Your mother was me life, to be sure. And I ken I doted on your brother, but he was to be laird and I had to guide him.” He scrubbed his hand over his face. “Verra hard to change me ways after your mother died.” A pitiful look filled his eyes.

  Was he contrite? Mayhap. But he’d risked his life to get to this point. Did he want the risk to be for naught? Did he want his clan’s name to be in ruin because of one laird’s mistakes?

  After a few moments, he sat, reached across the desk, and grabbed his father’s hand. When his father gripped his hand back—a sign of hope, hope his mission hadn’t been folly.

  With a trembling voice, his father said, “I canna go back there—your mother. Och, I miss her so. And your brother, such a braw lad. All I see is his face with those dead eyes. I should have stopped him.” He rubbed his eyes. “I canna go back.”

  No mention of his younger son. He sighed and pulled back. “’Twasn’t your fault. Michael loved Ross Castle with the same fervor as you.”

  “Aye, he did.”

  “If anyone is to blame, ’tis me. I should have been at the castle and not at the tavern.” Not drinking his fill and flirting with the lasses until one said yes. He should have been at the castle to fight alongside his brother.

  His father gave him a sharp glance, then he lifted his brow. “I never blamed you—”

  He scoffed.

  “I said I blamed you, but in me heart I didnae.”

  The proclamation surprised him, especially when he remembered his father bellowing all of his ire in his direction.

  “The castle is nothing but doom for me now.” His father rose and paced to the window. He shrugged before he said, “We were so happy, your mother and me. And when she died, och, it felt as if me heart were ripped out.”

  “She was a beautiful woman.” Kind and gentle, with a sweet tooth she’d passed on to her sons. At every moment, the kitchen offered tarts and pies. The scent of baking filled his imagination. How he loved when she baked for the clan, forcing the cook to leave the kitchen domain so she could whip up her magical desserts.

  One early morn, he and his brother had sneaked to the kitchens. A feast planned for the following eve included every imaginable treat to fill the larder. His brother, a tricky lad, forced the lock without the key secured in his mother’s chest of drawers. When their mother had risen, she found them groaning on the larder floor, their stomachs close to bursting.

  When their father had learned, he’d chuckled, then made them muck stalls for nearly a fortnight. His mother had fought against the punishment, but his father had insisted. She was tendered-hearted, to be sure.

  “Aye. The best of us, I’m afraid. And then she was gone.” A wretched sickness stole his dear mother in less than a sennight. She’d withered away before their eyes.

  “Me wife saved my soul. Helped me lead the clan and raise me lads. But I lost my heart and when you lose your heart, ’tis dire.”

  He held back as his father wept. He thought of Faith and the shattered look in her eyes as he refused to ask her to stay. And how his heart nearly ripped in two when she’d left and he’d realized what he’d done. It had killed him, even though it was for the best. When his father spoke of a broken heart, damn, he knew how that felt. As if someone had smashed a fist through his chest and ripped out his heart, then flogged it to pieces. And as he thought on how Faith had looked as she stepped over the ship’s bulwark, he’d ripped her heart out and shattered her spirited soul. He’d do anything to restore her belief in him. Anything.

  He loved her.

  He had to return to her.

  All of the reasons of his mission returned to his mind—the reason he’d kidnapped Lady Faith MacAlister and how he’d purposely pushed her away. And now the man didn’t want to return to the clan’s land?

  After a moment, he touched his father’s shoulder. “Sail with me.”

  Damn, had he just asked his father to join him on his ship? The urgency to see Faith had caused a momentary lapse in judgment.

  His father gasped as he glanced at him. Disbelief flared in his eyes, and he rubbed his chin as if contemplating the offer. “After how I’ve treated you, you ask me to join you?” Tears filled his eyes once again.

  He stood, knowing ’twas too late to take back the invitation. Not that he was sure he wanted to. Such a strange position to be in—trying to prove himself to his father seemed to be unimportant. Too many years wasted. He’d forgive his father and move forward—get past the hatred and the wretched anger.

  Mayhap they’d both changed.

  “I was wrong.”

  He pulled up. Surely, he’d misheard his father. “What did you say?”

  “You aren’t a wastrel.”

  He laughed. Apparently he was on his way to proving himself.

  His father canted his head and said, “Will you truly pay back the Crown?”

  A bit of spirit returned to his father’s eyes, straightened his shoulders—a slight return to the man he’d remembered.

  “Not yet.” He thought of the money sitting in his pouch. He arrived at an impasse: pay the magistrate or allow the family lands to remain in possession of the Crown.

  A face full of stark pain came to mind. Wide eyes, swimming with tears, and the crushing weight of betrayal tightening the lines bracketing her mouth.

  He’d devastated Faith when he’d accepted the ransom. In his mind, the money needed to be returned. Without it, the Crown wouldn’t be satisfied. A decision awaited him.

  “But you will. Grand.” He narrowed his gaze at his son. “’Twould be a place for you to raise your family.”

  Taken aback, he shook his head. “My home is at sea.”

  His father wagged his finger at him. “For now, but when a bonnie lass captures your heart, your mind will be changed whether you want it or not.”

  He looked to the floor, then back up to his father.

  With a hearty guffaw, his father slapped his knee. “Where is she, me son?”

  No matter how much he tried to push it away, the phrase “me son” warmed his heart. Dare he allow it? What if on the morrow, his father remembered his hatred of h
is younger son and caused issues on the ship?

  “She has returned to her clan.”

  His father placed his hand on his forearm. “Sorry, lad. Shall we go to her?”

  He ruefully shook his head. “Nay. She’ll never forgive me.”

  “Och, a lass no’ forgive a Ross? ’Tisn’t possible.”

  He grinned even though he felt wretched. “’Tis an ugly story.”

  “I’m listening, lad.”

  It seemed to take hours, but just a few minutes passed as he revealed the story. As he spoke, the horrid way he’d treated the woman he loved disgusted him. Surely it must disgust his father as well? He gave his father credit though; he’d not bellowed a reprimand or even given him a glare.

  His father gripped his shoulders and gave a quick shake. “Do you love her, lad?”

  He looked at his father. Those rheumy eyes filled with regret and sympathy. And truth. Dear God, he loved her. There was no doubt in his mind, he loved her as he’d loved no other.

  “Aye.”

  “Why the hell did ye waste time helping me?”

  The question hung in the air. “Because you are my father,” he rasped.

  His father grinned and his eyes twinkled with a youthful glimmer. “Thank you, lad.” He playfully punched his arm. “We must go to her.”

  ~ ~ ~

  “Drink up,” Honor said as she held a tumbler toward her.

  She wrinkled her nose. “It smells vile.”

  Her younger sister sighed and rolled her eyes heavenward. “You say that every night.”

  “Because ’tis true. And it tastes worse than it smells.” She accepted the tumbler and looked dubiously at the contents. This had become their evening ritual. Honor brought her mixture of herbs and tea and she protested, knowing her sister could make the tonic more flavorful if she wished to do so.