A Highlander's Scars

by Aileen Adams

  Especially for a man such as him.

  Yet, if behaving as though she were one of these mindless women would help her learn the true purpose of Clan Cameron’s sudden interest in an alliance with the other Highland clans, she would simply have to do it. She’d withstood backbreaking work ever since her arrival, all in the hopes of overhearing the true plans which Angus and his men harbored for the clans they sought to unite.

  Clan Gordon would thank her for it one day, and when they did, all of the scrubbing and withering beneath Angus’s interested gaze would be well worthwhile.

  4

  It was a fine, soft day when Donnan mounted his horse to ride away once again.

  He did so with a heavy heart, asking himself all the while if he would return to find his father dead. The chances of it being so were high, he supposed, and he wished he had something to offer the village healer that she might pay regular visits to the house.

  A healer could only do so much, this Donnan had learned on the field of battle. When a body decided it was time to give up, it did just that. No matter the ministrations of outsiders.

  His body had decided not to give up, but Clyde Ross did not possess that strength.

  He looked down at his father, sealing his image in his mind’s eye. The smile which lifted his wrinkled cheeks might be mistaken for a grimace of pain. The tunic hung from him, a stiff breeze making it billow like a sail.

  Nay, he could not remember him this way. When he thought back on his father, it would be upon the man who’d once whipped him for falling through the roof. He hadn’t liked the man much at the time, but he respected him a great deal and admired him even more.

  “Take care of yourself out there,” Clyde urged. “Especially among the Camerons.”

  “I will that.” He glanced at Cook and Edward, his father’s two faithful servants. They’d promised to care for Clyde if he tried to refuse it. There were no two people Donnan would have felt safe leaving his father’s care to.

  With one last nod, he set off west. His heart was heavy, but that seemed to be the way of it as of late.

  No, as of the last several years. As though he would never feel happy or lighthearted again.

  Happiness was a fleeting thing, a useless goal. Not worth the trouble one went through to secure it. A fool’s errand, as there was no way to hold onto it.

  Something simple could take it all away. Tripping over a man’s body could result in one having their face all but sliced off. How could a man with a face such as his ever find happiness? No wife, no children, no one to carry on the family name.

  His father. Clyde might have been happy had his younger son not run away, leaving him with debt which he could not hope to repay. Losing his land, his household, one piece at a time. Watching it slip away as his life slipped away.

  Perhaps it was the hopelessness, that having to sit and watch as the life he’d worked tirelessly to build slipped from his clenched fists, which was killing him.

  Damn Ewan. If only Donnan could get his hands on him.

  And what? Kill his own brother? No, but he’d throttle him within an inch of his life. It would change nothing, make nothing better, but at least his brother would suffer the consequences of his actions. Just once.

  Would that he had suffered them long ago. He might have avoided destroying his father’s life, his clan’s future. How could either of them provide an heir?

  No woman in her right mind would touch him, much less allow him to touch her. While it had been years since he’d known the pleasures of the flesh, he at least remembered the importance of that bit.

  Memory was all he’d ever have.

  A fine rain began to fall, and he raised his hood against it.

  He arrived in the early evening after riding several days through rain which seemed as though it would never end. It still hung in the air, the wetness, as though he could drink it with every breath. His cloak was heavy with it.

  But he’d arrived in spite of the mud, the reluctance of the horse at times. He was on Cameron land, the northwest Highlands, and the grounds around the great house glowed thanks to the many fires which burned there.

  How many men camped before the place? Hundreds? Much of the men aligned with the clan, like as not, and any others the Camerons had managed to bring into the fold.

  He progressed slowly, walking the horse down the muddy road, keeping a watchful eye all the while. He came in peace, but they did not know he did. Best to take his time.

  A pair of lads—they looked hardly old enough to shave—approached once he came near the house with arms outstretched, palms facing out. “What brings ye here?” one of them asked, and it was clear to Donnan that he strove to lower his voice and appear more of a man.

  “I’ve come to see Angus Cameron. My name is Donnan Ross, of Clan Ross.”

  “Clan Ross?” A loud voice exploded from behind the lads. “I canna recall sending for anyone from Clan Ross, though it’s glad I am you’ve arrived.”

  The pair of not-quite-men parted to allow the owner of the voice to approach. He extended his hand as well, though this was a gesture of friendship. Donnan shook it with what he hoped was a smile.

  Angus Cameron was an impressive man, tall and thick as a tree trunk. He held his head in a manner which spoke of someone who believed the world to be his. Confidence, yes, but something more.

  Self-assurance.

  Donnan disliked him instantly.

  “So, you’ve come from Clan Ross, is it? I take it this means ye support our plans.”

  “I only arrived home a short while ago, having been away for years. I’d heard of ye workin’ to unite the clans and wished to learn more for myself.”

  Angus looked him up and down, possibly wondering if he could believe this. The light of a dozen small fires played along the sharp lines of his face, making it difficult to discern his impression of the newcomer.

  Then, he nodded. A man who made up his mind rather quickly. “Come. One of the lads will see to your horse. We were just about to gather in the great hall. It will be an honor to have ye with us.” Angus strode ahead of him, not waiting to see whether his new guest would follow.

  He simply expected his wishes to be followed.

  Donnan walked behind him, entering the house through an arched doorway, eyes sweeping the wide corridor with its straw-covered stone floor. It made good sense when the weather was wet. Otherwise the stone would be too slick and dangerous as men brought mud and rainwater in from out of doors.

  Women hurried back and forth, all around him. They carried baskets and platters from the kitchen to the men outside, pitchers of wine and ale, buckets of water. None of them were the Fenella who Aleck had described—brown hair, gray eyes, slight of build.

  He stepped into the great hall, the ceiling stretching far above his head. Candles and torches burned in the corners, on the surface of the long table positioned against the far wall. Men straddled stools, benches, laughing and boasting and watching the lasses hurrying in and out from a doorway beside the table.

  Angus clapped his hands once, and the conversation stopped. All sound ceased. Donnan found it rather unnerving.

  He was accustomed to those around him falling silent in his presence, but never like this.

  “We have a new arrival,” Angus announced, going straight to the table to pick up a mug. “Another clan joining our ranks.”

  Donnan bore the weight of their stares, looking around as though daring any of them to speak a word of his appearance. Many of them had little room to speak, he noted, most bearing the scars of battles long since fought.

  A pair of lasses entered from the kitchen carrying pitchers. One wore her golden hair in long curls, hanging freely over her back and chest.

  The other…

  His breath caught.

  There she was.

  She’d grown, of course, having gone from a girl with freckles across her nose and cheeks, her hair always snarled and windblown, to a young woman with large, striking
eyes and a thick braid of shining, brown hair which hung halfway down her back.

  She had become a woman in full measure, her body full of plumpness at the breast and hip, the roundness of her rump something which made the men around him take notice.

  Notice? They stood there with tongues nearly hanging from their mouths like animals.

  She paid them no mind, either unaware of the attention or uncaring. Perhaps she’d grown accustomed to it, so much time spent among so many men.

  If she was truly Angus’s woman, none of them would dare touch her or even breathe a word.

  There was comfort in no longer being the center of attention, at the very least. What man would pay mind to his ruined face when there was something so much more pleasing nearby?

  Very pleasing to the eye, indeed.

  And to the hand, he was willing to wager.

  But that was not for him to ever find out, and Aleck Gordon did not instruct him to explore the lass’s charms. They were nothing to him. Why, then, did they stir something long since dead and quiet? A deep, dark well of desire he had not paid mind to in years.

  He was merely a man reacting as men did in the presence of lush beauty. It would pass, especially once she got a look at him and recoiled in horror.

  He was to bring her home. Nothing more. He reminded himself of this as she turned his way, pitcher at the ready to fill his empty mug.

  Even when their eyes met for the first time and that deep awareness flickered to life again, stronger than before.

  He was only to bring her home.

  5

  Fenella knew him, or thought she did. This stranger with his hideous scar was not entirely a stranger to her.

  Yet every time she looked at him to study his face, he found a way to avoid her. She knew if she had a moment to see him clearly, she would remember. A half-memory tugged at her, but she could not place him.

  “Why are ye staring?” Lorna whispered, her cheeks flushing as though she were embarrassed on her friend’s behalf.

  “I feel like I know him, is all.”

  “Aye, that’s all well and good, but you’re makin’ a fool of yourself.”

  Fenella blinked, suddenly aware of her actions as she had not been before. Yes, she was behaving like a fool. The man more than likely thought she stared because of his scar.

  Granted, the thing was monstrous, extending from temple to the jaw, raised and bumpy as though there were pebbles beneath the skin. But the weapon which had caused it had not destroyed his eyes. They seemed to glow from beneath a heavy brow.

  They glowed with resentment. Hatred, even. She had not exchanged a single word with the man, but she knew it, felt it coming from him as though she’d feel the heat from a fire without placing her hand into the flames.

  How would she feel about the world if she were in his place? She might come to hate it, too, especially seeing as how the stranger was at that very moment surrounded by a group of handsome, strapping young men.

  She sensed that he’d been quite handsome once. His fine profile, the sharp jaw and strong nose, the dark hair which hung thick over his temples. If only he would smile.

  Why did he fascinate her so?

  “Fenella!” Lorna was already in the doorway, jerking her chin to signal Fenella to join her.

  She hurried along, nearly tripping over her feet in her haste to leave the room before Angus or any of the others raised a question as to her presence.

  “What did ye think ye were doin’?” Lorna hissed as they scurried to the kitchen to fetch more wine, which the men would undoubtedly need if this meeting was to go as the others always did.

  “I canna say,” Fenella replied, turning her face away so her friend might not see the flush of her cheeks. She could not say, but knew if she explained the flash of recognition and the way the man fascinated her, Lorna would misunderstand.

  She had a knack for that.

  As they waited beyond the open door for Angus or one of the others to call out, the two of them passed the time by chattering on as they normally did. While Fenella had never been overly fond of other women in general, Lorna provided an excuse to stand about. If a man were to ask why she listened to the talk going on in the great hall, she could simply pretend as though she hadn’t heard a word over her friend’s voice.

  Which would not be entirely false, as Lorna could not stop going on about how striking Angus appeared when compared to the stranger.

  “He might hear you,” Fenella warned, casting a glance through the doorway.

  The men did not seem to pay them any mind, but the stranger held himself in a way which suggested he was not entirely involved in the conversation.

  Unlike the rest of them, he did not train his gaze on Angus and drink in every word the man spoke. Instead, he appeared to size up his surroundings and the other men in the room. Observing them rather than being part of them.

  He was just like her in that respect, for she was no more a part of things.

  What was his intention, then? If he was not interested in the cause which seemed to excite the men so, why had he come?

  Was he like her?

  The notion sent her heart into her throat. It would explain his sudden appearance, the fact that none of the Cameron men had brought him along with them. He had simply arrived as though he’d been invited, and whatever his name, Angus Cameron had welcomed him gladly.

  The man was a bigger fool than she’d always thought him if he had truly welcomed and trusted this stranger. For the man was dangerous.

  The only matter would be getting to the root of why he was such a danger.

  “More wine!” Angus shouted before returning to whatever it was he murmured to the men. They stared at him, some of them unblinking for lengths of time, while he explained whatever it was.

  Fenella kept her ear trained on his words and the questions of the men as she poured one after another mug of wine. None of them granted her much attention—at most, a grunt of acknowledgment, and she moved quickly and silently through the group.

  “…the MacKenzies, the MacIntoshes, the Reids and the Frasers…”

  What about them? What was Angus saying? Fenella glanced at him over her shoulder…

  Only to find him looking straight at her.

  She gulped, bumped into the nearest man and splashed wine over him.

  “Forgive me!” she gasped, lifting her apron to dab at the blood-red stain which would soon fade to the bluish purple of a bruise. “I am a clumsy fool.”

  She looked up.

  He looked down.

  Of all the men she might have soiled. The stranger.

  She did not see his scar. Not when eyes of the darkest brown pierced her soul and brought her memories into the light.

  Oh, he was no stranger. He was Donnan Ross, eldest son of Clyde Ross, her father’s oldest friend.

  But he was dead!

  Or allegedly. In the war. He had never returned, and she remembered Clyde’s sorrow well. They had paid calls upon him in those days, when the treaty was signed, and the ink dried, and the soldiers returned to their homes.

  She let out a choked yelp of surprise and disbelief.

  His eyes hardened. “Aye?” he muttered, clenched teeth hardly allowing the words through.

  “I—I—forgive me.” She lowered her head and scurried away, back to the kitchen, hoping the men would mistake her haste for embarrassment.

  When she was out of sight, she leaned against the wall with one hand over her heart and her eyes closed. He was alive. He was alive!

  He was horribly disfigured.

  But he was alive.

  “What is wrong with ye?” Lorna shook her on entering the kitchen, her tone reminding Fenella of a mother scolding her bairn.

  “I lost my senses for a moment,” she shrugged, fighting to keep a light tone in her voice. “I couldna help looking at the stranger’s scar.”

  Lorna grimaced. “Ye need to get yer mind together,” she hissed.

  “I know, I
know.”

  “If ye canna, Angus might move ye to some other part of the house, and I would never get to see ye.”

  Fenella sighed as she embraced her friend. Lorna had her faults—many of them, in fact, but she was not an entirely bad sort. She was merely lovesick over Angus and a bit too giggly, but she had a good heart.

  “I’ll do better,” she promised. “For working in this household would be a sorry chore if I didna have ye to pass the time with.”

  “Aye, that is so.” They shared a smile, though all the while Fenella’s mind was miles away.

  Donnan Ross was alive and well, if not whole.

  She needed to be alone. She needed to take hold of herself, and such a thing would not be possible under Lorna’s watchful eye. “I would like to take the air,” she announced, pressing a hand to her chest.

  “Are ye unwell?” Lorna touched her forehead as though to feel for a fever.

  “Aye, my head is aching terribly. A bit of air normally helps.” Please, do not come with me. Please, do not come with me.

  Lorna cast a doubtful eye toward the great hall. “Go, then. I will see to their needs.”

  “Thank ye,” Fenella breathed, already turned and halfway to the door which led to the back garden and the stream beyond. She’d never been so anxious to have a moment to herself, to be away from everyone and everything.

  The water was cool, refreshing against her overheated skin. She splashed her face several times, then paused to catch her breath, crouching alongside the flowing stream. Moonlight shone through the trees, the shadows of the waving branches dancing with each fresh burst of the evening breeze.

  The air chilled the water on her cheeks, making her shiver and rub her arms.

  How was it possible that he’d lived? Where was he for two years? In hiding? How could he allow his father to believe he was dead?

  Or her? How could he allow her to believe so?