Highland Groom

by Hannah Howell

  “I thought ye said Liam would settle down after a wee while, that he was only acting like a randy goat because he had been with the monks and they wouldnae let him have any,” said a young boy with reddish-blond hair.

  “Aye, I said that, Thormand,” replied Sigimor. “And, I was right.”

  Thormand scowled at Sigimor. “He has been tupping near every lass for miles about for near to two years now.”

  “Weel, he was with the monks for five.”

  Diarmot took a quick drink of wine to smother his urge to laugh. He could tell by the look upon the youth’s face that he desperately wanted to argue that ridiculous reasoning, but was not sure it was a good time to do so. Many another in the hall were doing exactly what Diarmot was doing. Sigimor wore that smirk that so irritated Diarmot when it was directed at him, and he could sympathize with the youth’s blatant annoyance.

  The man who strode into the hall at that moment quickly grabbed firm hold of Diarmot’s attention. He knew this was the famous Liam because of all the somewhat lewd remarks directed at him as he strode past his kinsmen. With him was Gilbert, but Diarmot’s reply to that man’s greeting was only half-hearted.

  Liam Cameron was a beautiful man. Diarmot hated to think of him so, yet could think of no other way to describe him. He was much like Gillyanne’s cousin Payton, but bigger. Long dark copper hair threaded with gold, perfect features, a perfectly proportioned lean, strong body, and grace in his every step. When he neared them and smiled, Diarmot met the man’s friendly blue-green gaze and suddenly sympathized with Connor’s many grumbled complaints about Payton Murray. Such manly perfection was irritating.

  “He is a good lad,” Sigimor said, smiling faintly at Diarmot. “Still, someone that bonny can feel like a splinter under the skin at times.”

  “Aye,” agreed Diarmot, for once not troubled that Sigimor had guessed his thoughts. “Lady Gillyanne has just such a cousin and I was suddenly able to understand why Connor keeps saying the lad needs seasoning, in the form of a broken nose and a few scars.”

  Sigimor chuckled, then looked at Liam who had seated himself beside Diarmot and was filling a plate with food. “Worked up an appetite, did ye?”

  “It was a long walk here,” Liam drawled, then he looked at Diarmot. “How is my sweet cousin Ilsa? Did ye bring the bonny wee lass with you?”

  “Nay,” Diarmot replied, knowing he was being taunted. “I left her home with my eight children.” He smiled faintly at the look of shock on Liam’s face.

  “Dinnae prod the mon, Liam. He is smarter than he looks,” said Sigimor. “Now, tell us what ye ken.”

  “Ye need to go speak to Lord Ogilvey,” Liam said.

  “That is all ye have to say?”

  “That is all I am going to say. Ye have to go and talk to Lord Ogilvey. Ask him about his wife, Lorraine.”

  Diarmot looked at Sigimor and suspected he was wearing the same look of shocked recognition that man was. “L.O. Lorraine Ogilvey.” He looked at Liam. “Why will ye say no more?”

  “Because a lot of what I have been told is gossip, nay more. Tis also sordid—sinful, if one heeds the monks—and I willnae blacken any woman or mon’s name on gossip alone. Talk to Lord Ogilvey and I will confirm or nay what he says.”

  “Ye will be able to do that quickly, too, for ye will be going with us,” said Sigimor.

  Diarmot looked around the small clearing amongst the thick oak trees and fought to regain his composure. He knew the four Camerons riding with him sat on their horses a few feet away watching him, and suspected they knew why he had suddenly veered from the trail and come here. For several moments he had been so caught up in the return of a memory lost for too long that he doubted he would have noticed if they had ridden right over him.

  As they had almost done once before, he thought. He had made love to Ilsa here several times. It had been a favorite trysting spot of theirs. Here was where her brothers had found them that day. Here was where he had taken her maidenhead.

  Everything she had told him had been the truth. He had begun to believe it, but it was a relief to have his own memory now confirm it. Finlay and Cearnach were his sons, could be no other man’s. That, too, he had decided upon his own, but could not help but heartily welcome the memory that proved it, the memory that took away all chance of insidious doubt.

  Without saying a word, he remounted and rejoined the others. They, too, said nothing, simply continued on their way to Ogilvey’s keep at Muirladen. He was grateful for their silence as he needed time to accept this new flooding of memory, time to calm himself and prepare himself for the confrontation to come. Despite some rather bloodcurdling threats from Sigimor, Liam had refused to say any more, and Diarmot found that ominous enough to feel that his wits had to be very sharp before he met Lord Ogilvey.

  It was tempting, however, to leave them and the trouble ahead and return to the copse where he had first made love to Ilsa. He wanted to savor that sense of joy he had found that day, the passion followed by a peace and happiness he had not known in far too long. It had swept over him along with the return of that memory. The words she had whispered while held fast in his arms had seemed to echo in the copse, sweet words that he had not heard since. Her voice alive with passion and joy, Ilsa had told him that she loved him. He knew now as he had known then that she spoke the truth.

  He wanted that back. In some ways, it was his own fault it had slipped through his fingers. Diarmot knew he could not completely blame his memory loss for the way he had treated Ilsa. He also knew it would not help his cause to return with his restored memory and try to pull from her all he had pushed aside during these last weeks. It had been a mistake not to let her know when he had begun to change his opinion of her, when his feelings for her had begun to eat away at his mistrust. Doing so now was going to have Ilsa think it was only the return of his memory that drove him, that washed away the mistrust.

  There was no time to fret about that now, he thought with an inner sigh, as they rode through the gates of Muirladen. As he and the Camerons dismounted, Diarmot looked around and suddenly knew he had been here before. At that time the laird had refused to see him and he had ridden away angry and swearing to return, only to be beaten that night and forget the man altogether. This time he would not be turned away.

  Even as he came to that decision, Sigimor and Somerled began to remove the opposition. When the fact that Sigimor was a neighboring laird did not get him in the door, he simply picked up the guard and tossed him aside. Somerled did the same with the one standing in front of him. The other men standing around began to edge away. With Somerled and the rest of them watching his back, Sigimor strode into the great hall of Muirladen.

  “Ye have to admit my cousin has a memorable way of introducing himself to the neighbors,” murmured Liam as he stood next to Diarmot.

  Diarmot shook his head. He was beginning to think that all the Camerons were just slightly mad. The way Lord Ogilvey was staring at the Cameron twins told Diarmot he was thinking the same. When Sigimor and Somerled sat down flanking the laird and helped themselves to some of the man’s wine, Diarmot looked at Liam. That man just shrugged and moved to sit next to Somerled. With Tait at his heels, Diarmot moved to sit next to Sigimor; Tait sat down next to him.

  “What are ye doing here?” demanded Lord Ogilvey.

  “We came to ask ye a few questions about your wife,” began Sigimor.

  “Lorraine has been dead for eleven years.”

  “And the two girls who fostered with her at about that time.”

  Lord Ogilvey paled slightly. “I dinnae wish to talk about those spawn of the devil.”

  “I really dinnae care what ye want, m’laird,” Sigimor drawled, his voice icy and hard. “Ye will tell me what I want to ken. Ye see, it may help me keep my wee sister alive. Since I am rather fond of my sister, she being the only one I have, I willnae be verra happy with anyone who doesnae help me protect her.”

  “I havenae e’en met your sister. I am nay do
ing anything to hurt her.”

  “I didnae accuse ye. What ye ken from years ago is what I seek, for I believe it will lead me to my sister’s enemy. Do ye recognize this mon?” he asked Lord Ogilvey and nodded toward Diarmot.

  “Nay,” replied Lord Ogilvey. “Why should I?”

  “Because I tried to speak to ye a year past,” said Diarmot, and nodded in reply to the question in Sigimor’s quick glance. “I remember coming here after leaving Dubheidland to go home, but this mon refused to speak to me.”

  “And that night he was beaten near to death in the village here,” added Sigimor. “Are ye nay curious as to why he wanted to speak to ye or why someone would feel compelled to try and silence him?”

  “Ye are nay going to go away, are ye?” Lord Ogilvey asked in a weary, defeated voice.

  “Nay, m’laird, we arenae,” replied Sigimor.

  “I believe my late wife was one of the lasses who fostered with your wife, ten years ago or more,” said Diarmot. “Anabelle.” His eyes widened at the foulness of the curse Lord Ogilvey spit out.

  “My poor Lorraine had no bairns,” the laird said. “She thought it would be wondrous to have two girls here to teach and help raise. The woman had such plans, expected sweet lasses who would learn from her and bring her joy. Instead she got two demons from hell. Your Anabelle was fair on the outside, but black as night on the inside.”

  “If the ones sent to her were so bad, why did she allow them to stay?”

  “Stubborn. My Lorraine could be stubborn. She wasnae going to let two lasses beat her.” He frowned. “I think she also began to believe it was her duty to try and save them.” He snorted. “I could have told her there was no saving those two, that they were damned ere they arrived here. If I had kenned what they would cost me, I would have thrown them out myself.”

  “What did they cost ye, m’laird?” asked Liam quietly.

  “My wife. Och, I cannae prove it. If I had had proof I would have had the little bitches hanged from the walls. Weel, that Anabelle for certain. Nay sure I could have survived hanging the other one e’en though I am sure she was the one who did the killing.”

  “Why would hanging her have been so dangerous?”

  “Powerful family.”

  Diarmot became aware that this was not the first tankard of wine the man had drunk. Lord Ogilvey was teetering on the edge of drunkedness. The ragged look of the man told Diarmot that Lord Ogilvey spent a great deal of his time in that state.

  “What happened to your wife, m’laird?” he asked, anxious to get his answers before the man was too drunk to provide them.

  “That Anabelle was a whore,” Lord Ogilvey replied and shook his head. “She was a viper-tongued slut. My wife tried everything she could think of to change the girl. At first she just lectured Anabelle, tried to talk sense into her. Naught worked. When she caught Anabelle with the shepherd’s lad, she had the girl locked in her room for three days, no food, only a wee drink of water. My wife was nearly killed falling down the stairs that night. She couldnae say for certain whether she was pushed or not, wouldnae believe the girls would do it. I believed they would. Lorraine wouldnae heed me. She was so certain that discipline was all that was needed.”

  “But discipline didnae work?”

  “Nay. Each time she disciplined Anabelle something happened to her. Then she caught Anabelle doing something that shocked her to the bone. She wouldnae tell me what. Lorraine was a godly woman and whate’er she had seen was too sinful for her to put into words. I tried to convince her that the church calls a lot of things sinful that arenae so verra bad, but Lorraine believed all the priest told her about sin. There was nay any mayhap or compromise about that. She had Anabelle beaten. Nay as badly as I thought the lass deserved, for past sins if nay the one that had Lorraine so upset. My Lorraine was dead two days later.”

  “Dead? How?”

  “I dinnae ken, but she died screaming. I think she was poisoned in some way, but no one could find out how. I sent those bitches away and buried my wife.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes. “All Lorraine wanted was a child. She wanted one so badly she was willing to borrow someone else’s for a wee while and she got two demons who murdered her.”

  “Who was the other lass?”

  “I think she was the worse. Anabelle was brazen, didnae hide what she was. She was the enemy ye could see, if ye catch my meaning. That other one was so sweet, so calm. It took ye a while to see the evil in her, for when ye suspected it, ye had to doubt. How could such a bonny, quiet lass be evil? Ah, but she was. Behind that sweet face was a cold, evil woman, a killer. She was the enemy lurking in the shadows. She hadnae been here verra long when I began to see that she wasnae right, but Lorraine wouldnae heed me. The way that lass would sit there, so sweet, but with a coldness in her pale blue eyes that would chill ye to the bone, made me so uneasy I oftimes couldnae bear to be in the same room with her.”

  Diarmot felt a chill invade his bones at the man’s words. Sweet, calm, pale blue eyes. There was only one woman he knew who fit that description, but he scolded himself for jumping to conclusions. There could be other women like that, and Lord Ogilvey’s description did not have to be that accurate. Even so, he could not shake the suspicion growing inside of him.

  “Who was the other lass, m’laird?” he asked again.

  “Why, the daughter of my laird.”

  When the man said no more, Diarmot had to fight the urge to get up and shake him. “And who is your laird, Lord Ogilvey?” he pressed, trying to be polite, but feeling as tense and aggravated as the Camerons looked.

  “Sir Lesley Campbell. He was so pleased that Lorraine was willing to train his lass Margaret.” He frowned, vaguely cognizant of the shock in the men seated at his table. “There was some trouble with the lass recently, I think. Some marriage she was supposed to make, but didnae. I suspicion that is why she is gone to her cousin’s.”

  It was taking all of Diarmot’s strength not to race out of Muirladen and ride straight to Clachthrom. “Her cousin’s?”

  “Aye.” Lord Ogilvey frowned. “Let me think. The woman lives in a wee cottage nay far from some oddly named place. Crackdrum? Clackhum?” He shrugged. “The woman’s name is Elspeth Hamilton, if that is any help.”

  Diarmot was not sure what he said to the man, but the next clear thought he had was that he was going to beat the Camerons senseless as soon as they let go of him. He struggled in Sigimor’s tight hold, but the man was far stronger than he was. They were outside in the bailey of Muirladen, but the Camerons obviously had no intention of letting him get on his horse.

  “Calm yourself, lad,” Sigimor said.

  “I have to get back to Clachthrom,” he said, even as he struggled to do as Sigimor commanded. “The woman Lord Ogilvey called a demon is living but an hour’s ride from my lands. She can get to Ilsa at any time she pleases.”

  “Aye, and she has been there for a while, hasnae she? A few more hours willnae make any difference. Your brother Nanty and Tom are watching o’er Ilsa, as are the women. She is protected for now. Twill be dark soon and, if ye go hieing yourself off now, ye will just end up with your fool neck broken. That willnae help her, either.”

  Diarmot took several deep, slow breaths and felt Sigimor’s grip loosen. The man was right. It was too late to ride out now. Waiting for dawn would be wiser, safer, and give him time to plan what he would do when he got there. The danger had been there all the time. It was not any more acute now than it had been just because he knew about it.

  “Cease calling me lad,” he muttered as he mounted Challenger. “I am of an age with you.”

  “As ye wish,” said Sigimor as he, Somerled, Liam, and Tait mounted and followed Diarmot out of the keep. “What would ye wish me to call ye? Rogue? Fool? Lecherous swine? Debaucher of my only sister?”

  “How is it that your kinsmen have allowed ye to survive for so long?”

  “It wasnae easy,” muttered Liam from the safety of riding on the side of Diarmot away from
Sigimor.

  That started an argument and, by the time they returned to the great hall of Dubheidland, Diarmot was in control of himself. Since he knew the Camerons were not very good at restraint, he suspected they had used the argument to gain control of themselves, as well. He was a little surprised that it was Sigimor who had retained the sense to halt a mad dash to Clachthrom. Since it was a temptation still almost too strong to resist, Diarmot sat next to Sigimor at the head table and poured himself a large tankard of ale.

  “I cannae believe I almost married the woman,” he muttered, then grimaced when he realized he had spoken that thought out loud. Worse, Sigimor had heard it.

  “Ye mean the calm, sweet, face-like-an-angel Margaret?” asked Sigimor, sipping at his ale as he watched Diarmot closely. “The one who was going to give ye peace in your life? The one who wasnae beset by troublesome emotion? Weel, aside from that urge to kill people.”

  Diarmot decided he was getting accustomed to this brother of Ilsa’s for he just quirked a brow at the man and said, “I believe ye saw the lass. Did she look like a murderess to ye?”

  “Nay, I will give ye that.”

  “So kind.”

  “Weel, tis certain ye havenae got much sense in choosing wives. Tis a verra good thing we convinced ye to choose our Ilsa.”

  It was, but Diarmot was not about to admit that to this man. “Ye mean Ilsa who throws ewers at my head? Ilsa who knocks me on my arse in the bailey in front of most of my men and some of my family? Sweet wee Ilsa who says I am fouler than the slime at the bottom of a midden heap? That Ilsa?”

  “Aye,” Sigimor agreed, laughter shining in his eyes. “At least ye need nay worry she will sneak up behind ye and cut your throat.”

  “True. Although, she did threaten to rip it out with her teeth once.” He winked at Somerled who was laughing along with Tait and Liam, but then he grew serious. “Margaret is the one trying to kill me and Ilsa. I am certain of it. Margaret is Precious Love.”

  “Aye,” Sigimor agreed with equal seriousness. “She was wedding herself to ye so that she could kill ye with ease. I wouldnae be surprised to hear, if ye think on it a wee while, that your meeting the lass and the march toward the altar were all her doing. Sweetly and calmly, of course. That would explain why there was that time of peace and safety. Her attempts to kill ye in other ways having failed, she had planned to get as close to ye as a woman can and deal with the problem herself. Ilsa ruined that grand plan.”