The Outcast Highlander

by R. L. Syme

  “Don’t excite him, Robert.” Kensey placed a hand on his arm before he could bolt across the room. “Just stay back here and let me take care of him.” She scurried around the side of the bed just as she saw two blinking goldenrod eyes.

  “I see you’re finally awake.” Kensey took the wet cloth from the nightstand that had long ago been cleared of the bloody clothes and water, and mopped his forehead carefully.

  For days, she had imagined what this moment might be like. Him looking into her eyes, full of gratitude. She blushed at the thought, admitting to herself that she did wish for his health if only to look into his eyes again and feel the warmth of his gaze. But the way he looked at her, as he acclimated to his surroundings, this was not what she had expected. Instead of the warmth of an appreciative countenance, his eyes stared her down coldly.

  He stammered, looking around him again. With a deeply furrowed brow, he exhaled. “Mother of God, lass. Why did you bring me here?”

  ***

  As Broccin’s eyes adjusted to the light, he thought he was either hallucinating or in heaven. An angel stood in front of him and he was bandaged, rested, and warm. Even his stomach felt full. Then he looked around the room, and recognized the trappings. The fireplace. The giant bed. The shield of arms over the door. He was not in the angel’s home, nor in heaven. He was in Castle St. Claire.

  Broc didn’t remember much since the boar, but he did remember asking not be left here. He remembered the beautiful angel face of Kensey MacLeod hovering over him and pouring warm drink down his throat that soothed some of his pain.

  Although a good bit of the pain remained. He stretched his back and a shot of sharp agony ripped down his side.

  “Och, lass. I asked you not to bring me here.” Broc couldn’t help the downward cast to his face, even though he could tell by the wide-eyed anticipation that Kensey wasn’t expecting anything but sunshine and gratitude. He hated to let her down.

  “It was the only place to bring you.” She fisted her hands and placed them on her hips. In that low-waisted green gown with the blue strip of her skirts visible down the center, she did look like a faerie princess, which he’d thought her before.

  But she wasn’t to be placated by appreciative gazes. She continued in a tight voice. “Not to mention that from the bothan, where we found the boar, you were heading in this direction. Malcolm said the only place you could have been coming was here, to Castle St. Claire. So it’s not outside the realm of possibility that one would assume you meant to come this way.”

  He turned his head away from her, and reached up one hand to smooth out his dark hair. “I wanted to be in sight of my home when I died.”

  “Well, I wasn’t about to leave you in the wilderness with no help.” She threw up her hands and the long, cascading sleeves of dress fell away from her slender arms and exposed bruises on her forearms. Broc started out of bed, but the pain stopped him.

  “Who gave you those?” He raised a finger to his own forearm and she looked down, blushed, and shook her head.

  She pulled at the heavy fabric until it recovered all of her skin, even swallowing her hands. “It’s none of your concern.”

  “Who gave you those bruises?” His voice was deep, thick, rumbling.

  “You did, if you must know.” She couldn’t meet his eyes and the color in her cheeks slid all the way down her neck and disappeared under her dress. “I made the mistake of trying to change your bandage alone. You’re stronger than you seem.”

  Broc pounded the bed with a frustrated groan. The last person on earth he’d wanted to hurt, and what had he done? He’d not only hurt her, not only bruised her perfect skin, but he’d made her feel like her help was unwelcome.

  He lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “I told you I was beyond help. I asked you to leave me.”

  “Perhaps I should have left you.” She turned to the fireplace and crossed her arms, nearly knocking over the boy who’d been trying to peek around her.

  “And who is the lad?” Broccin tried to place him by his coloring and assumed he’d been brought with Kensey. Perhaps this was her brother.

  But before she could answer him, footsteps clamored on the stairs, and deep voices mumbled in the hallway.

  From near the fireplace, she muttered, “I did what I could to make sure you’d live. And this is the thanks I get?”

  “If only you knew what you’d done,” Broccin whispered. Suddenly, through the door, came Duncan, Malcolm, Quinlan, and Alec. The four men stood, legs spread, arms either clasped or hands splayed on their waists, staring at the man in bed.

  “Hello. Brother.” Duncan said tightly, after a few seconds of silence. Malcolm, Quinlan, and Alec stood silently, surrounding Duncan. Kensey turned slowly, recognition dawning on her face.

  Suddenly, his allies looked to be one less. He knew he should have told her when he first came across her on the Highlands, but he couldn’t bare the thought of that look from her again. The one she’d always given him, as though he troubled her. As though his presence vexed her. As though she were beneath him.

  With guarded tones, he greeted Duncan in return. “Hello, Duncan.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I asked the lass not to move me when she found me on the moor.” Broccin looked away from the anger on Duncan’s face. “I didn't ask to come back here.”

  “Well, you’re here now and that’s all there is to be done with it.” The other three men still kept their silence.

  “No. I will be leaving again as soon as I’m well enough to travel.”

  “There will be no need for that this time,” Duncan said.

  “And why is that?”

  “Because he is dead now, Broc.”

  Broccin bowed his head and closed his eyes. His tone, once insistent and almost angry, shifted into sadness as he thought of his father. “That’s why I came back. To see his grave. Why did no one send for me?”

  “We tried,” Duncan said. “After you rescued Kensey, we tried to contact you. You bolted each time we opened the gates and would come no nearer to any one of us than a stag to a bow.”

  A tear came to the corner of Broccin’s eye and he crushed it with the back of his palm before it could slide down his cheek. “He was my father, too, Duncan.”

  “Aye, he was that.”

  “Not that I would have grieved, but I wanted to at least see it for myself.”

  “I am sorry.”

  The tense silence that followed made both Kensey and Robert squirm. But the five men remained still, all. Malcolm finally spoke, an edge to his voice.

  “I suppose you will be wanting to claim the title now.”

  “I don’t want that, Malcolm.” Broccin closed his eyes and lowered his head to his chest, shutting out the nostalgia and the newness alike.

  “Well, you have to take it.” Duncan’s voice was soft and Broc looked up to find his brother leaning on the end of the bed. “As the oldest, it is yours. You cannot deny the title, nor the duties. Is that not right, Quinlan?”

  Quinlan looked back and forth between Duncan and Broccin, then nodded gravely. “Duncan is right, the title must pass to you. Even the royal council, if it were able to be convened, would agree.”

  “We abided by Magnus’ rules when he was alive because he would have flayed the whole clan alive if we hadn’t.” Duncan nodded to Kensey. “But like Kensey’s father, I had the Earldom stripped when I wouldn’t take up arms against my countrymen. Reginald de Cheyne is now the Earl of Caithness.”

  “Lucky for you, you’re to be wed to his daughter, so we’ll have the Earldom back, too, once Reginald joins Magnus in the grave.” Malcolm smiled a bit too widely at that and Duncan shook his head.

  “I see no reason to abide by any of Magnus’s edicts. Broc should marry whom he sees fit. And soon. Before the war reaches us.”

  Quinlan snorted. “It’s reached us. Or at least as far north as Assynt.”

  The roo
m quieted at that and Kensey took a seat in the chair near the fireplace. She still hadn’t spoken since she discovered who he was. This would undoubtedly put a damper in her plans to marry Duncan, the laird. Although if she did love him as she said, perhaps she wouldn’t care that he lost the title.

  Oh, who was he fooling? He didn’t want the title anyway. Blast the stupid title.

  “But you are the laird, Duncan,” Broccin said. “And you’ve had the leadership since Magnus passed. Just let me go away again and you can have them all to yourself. Pretend I was never here.” He looked to Kensey and felt the familiar knife in his heart. “Take a woman, make an heir, settle into your life as the leader of Clan Sinclair and let me go.”

  “No, Broc.” Alec grunted and walked to the dressing cabinet. “It’s time for you to be home and stay home. As the eldest, you carry the responsibility.” From the cabinet, he pulled the long, plaided cloak that Magnus Sinclair used to wear when entertaining or hosting a formality.

  It was the symbol of everything Broc hated about this castle and this life. It trapped him here and put the laird’s yoke around his neck. He shifted in his bed.

  “I’ve said what I need to say for now.” Duncan turned to leave. “We’ll speak more after you’ve rested.” When he exited the room, the rest of the men followed him. Alec left the brat hanging over the door of the cabinet, mocking him.

  Malcolm turned, just as he was about to walk out the door and took one last look at Broc. “Don’t leave again.” Malcolm sounded almost emotional, as he stared at his brother. “It’s time you stayed with us for good.”

  Broc nodded reluctantly and Malcolm finally left, seemingly content for the moment, and shut the door behind him. Yet after all the anger he’d endured from his brothers, the anger he couldn’t face was now trapped in the room with him.

  Chapter Eleven

  As Malcolm left, Kensey recognized the unnamed emotion she had seen when they first came across Broccin. It was the kind of respectful anger that she sometimes saw in Robert’s eyes when she had done something that he did not approve of. It was the kind of hurt only a younger brother could feel.

  And of course, now she knew why Broccin’s face had seemed so familiar when she’d really seen it for the first time. Because it bore a very striking resemblance to Malcolm’s and Duncan’s. The similar clan had thrown her. She hadn’t seen the boy Broccin that she’d known in the face of the outcast Sinclair that she knew today.

  Only now, she saw it. The same aloof disappointment. The same frustrated deference. He was always above, her always present.

  After a moment of him staying in the bed with closed eyes, Kensey stood and took Robert by the arm, heading for the door as well. Broccin caught her gaze with tears in his eyes and she melted. Suddenly, he pulled the covers off his body and made a move to stand.

  “Do not leave me, lass,” he said, quietly pleading. Kensey stopped, leaving Robert by the door, and rushed back to Broccin’s side. The plaintive note in his voice tore at her heart.

  “You mustn’t get out of bed yet,” she chided, pushing him gently back into the giant bed and pulling the bedclothes up to cover his chest again.

  “May I please stay, Kensey?” Robert begged from the door.

  “I need you to run down to the kitchen and tell Lydia to send up a bowl of hot soup for Broc… for the Laird, and another pan of hot water with some more clean-boiled strips of cloth.” Kensey smiled at the young boy. “Now that he’s awake, we need to change the dressing of his wound. I’ll need you to find Peter, and when it’s all ready, bring it back up. Then you can stay.”

  Robert ran out the door with a smile on his face and Kensey smiled to herself, turning back to Broccin. She knew, before even turning her head that he was staring at her.

  “How long have I been asleep?” He averted his eyes when she tried to meet them with hers.

  “Almost three days.” She sat on the chair next to the bed and straightened the folds of her dress, carefully watching her hands.

  “And you stayed with me all that time?”

  “Not all of it. Malcolm sat with you for a few hours, as did Brigid. And Duncan sat with Robert and I this morning. We are teaching Duncan to play shatranj.”

  “Robert?”

  “My brother.” She pointed to the door he’d just left through. “He came here with me.”

  “Why are you here, Kensey?”

  “So you remember me?” She raised her eyes to his. The connection heated her, even from a distance. She stepped backward and fell into the chair they left near the bed to allow the visitors some rest as they sat with him.

  “Aye, how could I forget you?” he said, thickly.

  With the heat she felt, she could look into his eyes no longer. “My mother has taken ill. And my father…” she stopped, the vivid thoughts of her father suffering in jail overcoming her ability to speak.

  Broccin reached one of his large hands across the span of distance between them, and placed it atop her two small hands, clenched together in her lap. She jumped when their skin touched, but did not evade the heavy warmth. It comforted her to be touched by him.

  “I’m sorry, lass,” he said quietly. They sat very still for a few moments, his hand covering hers. She felt tears coming to her eyes, and took a deep breath to keep them at bay. Something about his touch made her want to tell him everything. The plans she and her mother had made. Her father stuck in custody of the English. Her brother’s pending responsibilities. Something in her heart told her that if anyone could fix all these things for her, it would be him. But could she trust him?

  “We came to Duncan… er… to Castle St. Claire only a few days previous.”

  “And brought me, with you,” Broccin said, almost chuckling. “Ah, lass, only you would have thought to bring me here.”

  “Why?” The abrupt question turned down the heat between them, and he retreated. His hand moved from atop hers and slid back onto the bed.

  “Why what?”

  “Why did you ask me not to bring you here?” Kensey straightened the fall of her dress, pretending she didn’t notice the absence of his touch.

  “I did not believe I would be welcome.”

  “Nor did you think you would survive.” She smiled at him and folded a corner of the bedclothes into a more symmetrical covering.

  “But it was your touch and your medicines, and here I am.”

  The door opened, suddenly, and Robert staggered in, carrying a tray full of food.

  “Lydia said you should not think only of Broccin, and sent food for all of us.” Rob wriggled under the weight. “Peter will be up with the other things later.”

  Kensey jumped to her feet and went to help him with the loaded tray before he spilled anything. She took it from him and stilled as she thought of how to arrange things.

  “Rob, pull that table over here from the door and we’ll eat by the bed.” She nodded toward the table with her head. She felt a body near her shoulder before she realized that he’d somehow hoisted himself out of the bed. The naked flesh of his chest was inches from her face, peeking over the nicely tightened bandage.

  “I cannot let the lad lift that heavy thing by himself,” Broccin said before she could tell him otherwise. Kensey stepped in front of him, looking up into his face, sternly.

  “I refuse to let you lift anything,” she said. “You might tear your stitching and then where would we be?” Looking around, she finally handed him the tray for holding. “You should at least sit on the bed. Robert and I will carry the table.”

  Once the table was in place, Kensey began to set out the food. There was far too much abundance for merely the three of them and Kensey chuckled at Lydia’s preparation of the meal. But, thankfully, there was a bowl of steaming soup for Broccin and a pitcher of sheep’s milk, which she told Lydia he would need if he were to heal properly.

  This is probably the first full meal he’s had in who knows how long, Kensey thought.
And though he was probably ravenous, he ate with at least a little care.

  “Well, lad.” Broccin rested his arm gingerly on the table and tried to straighten his back. “We’ve not been introduced.”

  “I’m Robert MacLeod.” Robert sat up and smiled. “She’s my sister.” He jerked his thumb in Kensey’s direction. “We came here to escape the English.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Broccin said quietly. “And what do you do, Rob MacLeod?”

  “I am teaching Duncan to play shatranj,” he boasted. “I can beat Kensey now.”

  “When you pay attention,” she qualified. The boy acted himself at last. It was good to see him like this again. “He is quite good at strategy, when he’s paying attention.”

  “Do you play?” Robert asked, turning to Broccin.

  “I have never heard of this game, shatranj.”

  “It is a game that my grandfather received from a far away land. I could teach you to play after we finish eating,” Robert said.

  “I don’t know about that.” Kensey looked from Broccin to Robert. “Malcolm said he would take you and Peter riding this afternoon and I need to change those bandages. Besides, the Laird needs his sleep.”

  Broccin’s face creased into a silent wince. Kensey wasn’t sure if he was in pain or if it was the title that bothered him so. Surely he wasn’t in that big of a hurry to be back on the mountainside, homeless and loveless.

  She pressed the bowl of steaming herbs toward him. “Drink this. It will help with the pain.”

  “Then after I go riding?” Robert begged, pulling on Kensey’s sleeve. When she nodded finally, Rob beamed a happy smile.

  “Aye, lad, I would be happy to beat you at any game.”

  Kensey could see how much they both needed this. Broccin needed someone who could look at him with admiration, and Robert needed someone who could pay him the attention he so missed from his father. She allowed herself the thought that this might work out better than she expected, after all.

  * * *