The Forbidden Highlands

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “He is old enough—” she began.

  “To be my father? Aye, he is that. I grieve for yer losses, Lis, but I refuse to beg forgiveness for seeking and finding my own happiness.”

  Davina didn’t wait on her response. Truly, what could she say? As she watched in silence, Davina rose and stepped away from the table. Before she left, she leaned back down to Ailis.

  “And, no matter what ye might think, I never once broke a confidence of yers. I havena told yer father anything about our time as friends.” She left the table, followed by a servant and the steward.

  The other servants, who had clearly understood the private nature of the conversation between the lady of the keep and the chieftain’s daughter, now returned to clean up the dishes, plates and cups from the table. As she walked to Iain’s chamber, her thoughts turned back to Davina’s words. She could admit to herself that she had feared the exact thing that Davina denied, that she’d revealed private knowledge to Ailis’ father in the intimacy of their marriage.

  If Ailis had been in her right mind and not driven nearly mad with grief, she wouldn’t have begrudged her friend’s happiness, no matter where she’d found it. Davina was a distant cousin to Ailis’ mother with few prospects. She had hoped to find a place in Ailis’ household on her marriage and never dreamed of anything higher than that.

  She sighed as she approached the bedchamber at the end of the corridor. No sounds came from within, so she knew Iain was still with her father. With a warning knock before she lifted the latch, she spoke his name and opened the door. As she entered, she left the door ajar so he would be aware of her presence when he arrived.

  The room was as she’d directed. A fire tended in the hearth, food on the table and jugs of ale and water waiting for him. She walked to the small chest along one wall and found two tunics and trews folded neatly on top of it. Ailis touched the unused garments.

  ’Twas almost as if he didn’t want to take anything offered him. As if he didn’t belong.

  It amazed Iain how cold the chambers in a stone keep could be. If not for the well-set fire in the chieftain’s hearth, Iain would have been chilled. Standing naked, except for his boots, before The MacKinnon was not what he had planned to do, but the man would brook no refusal. Breac and the other man stood nearby in case he thought to naysay their laird, though their gazes were directed elsewhere throughout this inspection.

  “Does it yet pain ye?” The MacKinnon asked as he nodded his permission for Iain to dress.

  Iain shook his head as he turned his back and tugged the trews up, tying the laces at his waist. The hooded tunic followed, but he left the hood gathered at his neck as he placed the fabric mask over his face and tied it behind his head. When he eased the hood into place, Iain felt more secure. Facing the others as he slid on the gloves, he looked for their reaction to his disfigurement and was surprised by the lack of it.

  “I’d sent men to the brothers to confirm yer story,” The MacKinnon said as he offered Iain an empty cup.

  The older man reached up on a shelf and took down a precious glass bottle. Opening it himself, the laird poured a good amount of the golden liquid into Iain’s cup before pouring some for himself. Breac and the other two were dismissed with another nod before the powerful man directed him to sit.

  Iain waited for him to take a drink of the uisge beatha first and then sipped from his cup. This was a powerful brew and he waited as it moved over his tongue and down his throat. ’Twas a smooth, deep, intense and rich flavor of a skillfully-distilled spirit. He paused before drinking more and looked at the chieftain.

  “Did ye find what ye were seeking?” he asked. Iain had questioned the brothers for days trying to find out more about himself.

  “Gold has a way of loosening men’s tongues,” The MacKinnon began. “Much like this does.”

  He held up his cup of uisge beatha between them and drank more of it. Did the man think Iain held back some secret that spirits would free? If only it was that simple. Iain took a deep swallow and waited for the rest of The MacKinnon’s disclosures. The warmth of the golden liquid spread from his stomach to his limbs, removing any lingering discomfort. But it didn’t ease the sense of warning in his blood.

  The chieftain’s gaze revealed not a glimmer of recognition. No sign that the man saw anything in his features, those that had not been burned, that were familiar to him. Iain let out a breath and waited for what the chieftain would say, now that Iain understood his identity was yet unknown.

  “They told me exactly what ye had said. Injured and left for dead. Ye spent the last several months in their care.” The laird drank another mouthful and then nodded at Iain. “They said that ye are lucky, blessed, to be alive at all. That ye should have died ten times over but ye are a stubborn one and wouldna give in.” Another deep draw on his cup. “They pray that ’tis not vengeance that drives ye so.”

  “Someone tried to kill me.”

  He’d thought on it in the long hours filled with pain and torment. Someone wanted him dead. Did they know they hadn’t succeeded? Were they watching him as he sought out his past? Or had they thought themselves safe?

  “Aye. From the look of ye, they almost succeeded. That ye stand before me speaks to yer strength and courage. Admirable traits in a man.”

  Iain could hear the hesitation and the coming word.

  But. . . .

  “Ye will be on yer way on the morrow.”

  Iain smiled as the chieftain confirmed what he’d suspected. The man would never let this stranger marry his daughter. His instincts had been proven correct. No man as powerful and intelligent as this one would let some stranger walk in and take his daughter in marriage.

  “I was a convenient weapon to force her to yer will.”

  He stated the words without rancor. ’Twas what his own father would have done. Though he didn’t know who his father was, he knew to his marrow that he was as canny and strong as the man who stared at him over cups of uisge beatha.

  “Just so,” the man said, finishing his spirits and rising to his feet. “I dinna wish ill of ye,” he said. Iain drank the last drops from his cup and placed it on the table. “But my daughter will marry Duncan MacNeil.”

  Iain almost asked if his daughter understood that, but he held the words behind his teeth. He walked across the chamber to the door and would have left without another word exchanged, if the laird hadn’t called out.

  “She may not wish to, but she kens her place and her duty.” The man paused as though waiting for the conviction of his own words to make him believe them. “When ye sort things out or if ye canna, I could find ye a place if ye have need of one.”

  He understood that by the time that happened, Ailis would be safely married and sent off across the sea to Barra, one of the MacNeils’ lands.

  “I will think on yer offer, my lord,” he said before lifting the latch.

  “Iain? One more thing.” The man crossed the chamber and stood in front of him. “The brothers said that ye were found elsewhere before they brought ye to their community.”

  “I was?” He’d not been told that before. “Did they say where? When?”

  “Only that two of their number were traveling back from Iona and found ye closer to the coast in the south. Once they thought ye might survive, they took ye to the settlement and cared for ye there.”

  When he met the laird’s gaze, the gleam told Iain that The MacKinnon knew or suspected more than he was saying. The coast to the south of Mull belonged to the MacLeans, from just below Tobermory, around past Craignure and towards Iona, the Holy Isle.

  The MacLeans were enemies of the MacKinnons.

  The man’s green eyes, the same as his daughter had, narrowed ever so slightly. Iain might have missed it if he hadn’t been looking at just that moment.

  “See yerself gone by the noon meal. Breac will see to ye if ye dawdle.”

  Iain walked out, passing Breac in the corridor as he waited on his brother’s orders. The chieftain had thi
ngs in hand, but Iain wondered if Ailis understood her father’s plan.

  But right now, all Iain could think about was the woman waiting in his chamber and getting to her.

  Chapter Eight

  Finnan MacKinnon watched the young man leave and poured himself another half-cup of the potent spirit before sitting down. He’d seen many things in his life, many injuries in battle and accidents, but nothing compared to the damage wrought on this man.

  Like he’d survived Hell’s fires on earth was how his men said the brothers had described his condition when they’d found him. Burned over half of his body, the back of his head and the side of his face and neck. From his own inspection just now, Finnan couldn’t imagine the amount of pain and suffering the man had endured to survive.

  Yet, he had. Not only had he survived but he was recovering and regaining his strength. The training bout with him, Breac and the others demonstrated that this man made it this far back into living by sheer force of will. He drank another mouthful and thought on the other information his men had brought back.

  Finnan had asked him if he lived for revenge. ’Twas a powerful emotion, nay a need, and one that could give purpose and focus when everything seemed hopeless. And this man had lived in the constant torment of his injuries for months. So only something as powerful as vengeance could drive him back from the edge of death.

  Or. . . .

  The brothers had also told his men something else. That this man’s dreaming and waking hours were filled with visions of a woman. He’d spoken to her in his delirium, called out to her for help and declared his love for her countless times. He screamed for her in the worst of his pain so much that the brothers feared he’d damaged his already-burned throat and voice.

  He’d never spoken and said he didn’t know her name or her identity. Iain, as they called him, could describe every single feature of the woman, some of it shocking in its intimacy and, yet, couldn’t recall her name.

  Long, flowing, blonde hair that reached below her hips.

  Deep, emerald-green eyes surrounded by long lashes.

  Full lips, creamy skin and a lithe figure.

  In other words, Finnan’s own daughter, Ailis.

  He tossed back the rest of the uisge beatha and was tempted to fill his cup again. That report had forced his hand. He took the distasteful action of making the man undress before him.

  He needed to discover if he recognized this man. Had he some connection to their clan? Finnan needed to know what the injuries did to him. He needed to know. . . . if this man knew his Ailis.

  But what bothered Finnan most were the bits of other details he was now remembering that might be linked to this man.

  Though Ailis might not believe it, he had and still grieved the loss of Elisabet. The last year since her passing had been a jumble of loss and grief and life moving on. If it wasn’t something critical to his rule of Clan MacKinnon, Finnan would admit that he paid little heed in the confusion of the times.

  His precipitous marriage to Davina had seemed harsh and unfeeling to his daughter, but he’d had his reasons for doing so. Good reasons, too, in his mind, for the lass’ father had a much different fate in mind for her. The only way Finnan could stop it was by offering marriage. That it had brought the intelligent, kind and passionate woman into his bed and his heart and given him a son were results he wouldn’t argue about. Best of all, she was safe. . . and she was his.

  He’d watched as Ailis sank into the clutches of grief and almost madness after her own injuries that left her marred. Now, considering the timing of this man’s injuries and his daughter’s, Finnan wondered if they were linked. Had there been a fire in a place where they’d both been?

  Something struck him, a memory of word coming from the MacLeans in the south. A son. Lost in a fire. When had it happened? Could Ailis have been involved?

  Could this man truly be a MacLean? Could he be the MacLean son his family believed had perished in that fire? It would explain the man’s skills with the sword, ease on horseback and other small details that had shown in his behavior.

  Since his daughter had not a civil word for him, Finnan knew there was only one person he could ask such things. One person who would know if his daughter had been injured with the MacLean son. Involved with the MacLean son.

  And she would return to this chamber after seeing to their son’s needs in a short while.

  Davina knew more about Ailis than anyone, living or dead. She’d been closer to his daughter than even Elisabet had been. Though he had poked and prodded, his wife had never spoken of his daughter except in general terms. She’d offered her opinion and advice, made suggestions about how to deal with Ailis, but had never revealed anything of their time spent as friends.

  It had frustrated him. It angered him sometimes when trying to manage her. But Davina wouldn’t speak against her friend no matter what he asked of her.

  Would she speak now? Would she tell him the truth of Ailis and any involvement with this man?

  Remembering the day of Ailis’ injury, Finnan realized there had been no actual explanation of the burns. Just a lot of crying and tears and calling the healer from the village. Once she’d been seen to and as she healed, Finnan had brushed the incident aside. He paid heed more to his then-pregnant wife than his stubborn, strong-willed daughter who refused his wishes at every turn.

  And now?

  The possibilities of the truth shocked him as he connected seemingly unrelated events.

  Well, no matter what his wife would tell him or not, on the morrow, whether a MacLean or from some other clan, Iain would be on the road away from Dun Ara. When Iain was gone, Finnan would think on whether he should send word to The MacLean to speak to the man. After all, if Kennan had been in a situation such as this, he would sell his soul for word of his survival. Enemies or not, The MacLean deserved that consideration.

  Since, by the end of the day, Ailis would be married to Duncan and his responsibility to bear, ’twould do no harm.

  Iain pushed the door open and found Ailis sitting on the bed. He stepped inside. With a glance at the guard that now dogged his steps, he closed the door. She jumped up as though embarrassed to be found sitting there.

  “That took longer than I expected,” she said, walking towards him. “What did he say?”

  “His men returned from speaking with the brothers. He wanted me to ken what they told him.” He could see the interest in her lovely eyes as he spoke. She wanted to know and knew her father wouldn’t speak to her of it.

  “And?” she blurted out as she wrung her hands together. He had offered to speak candidly with her and he would.

  “It mattered not, for yer father has no intention of allowing me to marry ye, lady.”

  From her reaction, or lack of one, it had surprised her as little as it had him. She nodded and it made her hair ripple over her shoulders and down her back. He’d only just noticed that it was loose. . . as in his dreams.

  “So it surprises ye not?”

  She shook her head, a slight sadness in her green gaze. “I ken his ways,” she admitted. “I had hoped. . . .”

  Iain watched her as she smiled, but it was not like the smiles he’d seen these last days. Instead, it was one filled with the wistfulness and wanting of a woman who would never be permitted to marry as she chose. Surely not a man without a memory, without kith or kin.

  “He has ordered me gone by midday on the morrow.”

  Her gasp echoed across the chamber. He stood by the door, believing the distance between them would keep him from doing anything foolish before he departed Dun Ara. Like taking her in his arms and kissing her breathless until she melted in his embrace. And peeling off her garments and finding out if he did, indeed, know every inch of her body as he thought. He would finally know if her place in his dreams was just the machinations of a disturbed mind or something else.

  He would discover if she had a birthmark on the inside of her right thigh or if he’d only dreamt it. And if she had
a weakness to being tickled in the curve of her buttocks that made her sigh and laugh. He would kiss her there and lick a path between her. . . . He shook at the intensity of the wanting that flooded him.

  So lost in his lustful thoughts was he that he never heard her approach. She stood inches away from him. He fought the urge to grab her, take her and mark her in some way as his.

  “I have felt both a comfort and a desire in yer embrace that I never thought to feel again, Iain,” she whispered.

  The tip of her tongue darted out to moisten her pink lips. His control frayed with every second that passed and with every movement she made toward him.

  “Ye shouldna speak of such things, lady,” he warned. Iain tried to step back and found the wood of the door in his way. “I leave in the morn and. . . .”

  “Aye, ye leave on the morrow and I face marrying a man I dinna wish to marry.”

  “Lady –”

  “Ailis.” She took the final step between them and he felt her soft curves against his body. “I pray ye, say my name.”

  Iain understood the dangers of letting her name free on his tongue. Desire filled her eyes and flushed her cheeks. Her breathing grew shallow and quick. His body reacted to the signs of her arousal.

  “Ailis.”

  He reached out, slid his gloved hands into her hair and pulled her face to his. For once, he hated the mask and hood that usually gave him comfort and security. He wanted to touch her skin to skin, but he couldn’t bear to see the disgust in her gaze if she saw the disfigurement her father had just witnessed.

  “Iain,” she said on a sigh.

  He ached for her touch, her kiss and her love. Since he could never lay claim to that, he would take her desire and passion instead and give her pleasure in return. He searched her eyes for any sign of hesitation before taking her mouth. Now he would kiss her breathless.

  And he did, plunging his tongue in to taste and feel hers. She opened to him, even leaned into his embrace, and he delved deeply into the heat he found there. He heard the moan she made as he suckled on her tongue. He stilled when he felt her hands, her bare hands, cover his gloved ones.