The Highlander's Promise

by Heather Grothaus

  “I’m nae violating the treaty until the village,” he argued, correctly, much to Finley’s disappointment.

  “Well, what are you doing here?” she asked, her fear melting away under the building heat of curiosity. He didn’t mean her harm, obviously.

  The man nodded toward the bridge. “The rider. He’s caused upset with the Blair fine, and I’ll wager he’s set to stir trouble here, too.” His brown eyes bored into Finley’s. “Perhaps trouble between the clans.”

  “Oh, and so you thought you’d just walk into Carson Town after him with your shawl wrapped about your head and expect to be welcomed?” Finley laughed as she raised an eyebrow. “In fact, if they discover you’ve been in the wood alone with me…”

  * * * *

  “They’ll likely apologize and ask after my welfare, if what I saw of the other fellow is to be believed,” Lachlan taunted, but he couldn’t keep the admiration from his tone. And then he, too, laughed, much to his own surprise, remembering the trollish man’s clumsy and gross courting.

  The girl’s milky complexion pinkened even as her wispy red brows knit together. “And here I thought ’twas a dog I heard in the wood.”

  The droll insult only increased Lachlan’s mirth. “I myself took exception to the reference of his braw loins.”

  Her lovely pink lips disappeared into a grim line and she threw out a slender arm toward the bridge. “They actually expect me to marry him! Can you imagine the hair of our children?” she asked with a horrified squint of her eyes.

  “Och,” Lachlan huffed another laugh, louder this time, unable to help the grin that seemed to have taken up permanent residence on his face. “You’d do them a mercy to toss ’em over the bridge as well.”

  But rather than be offended, the girl’s perfect, elfin face had relaxed. She was like a fairy woman, and Lachlan couldn’t look directly at her for long without the unsettling feeling in his stomach that he would be enchanted by her. Then he realized he’d done naught but stand about the wood for the last several moments, laughing and making light, and wondered if she hadn’t already cast some sort of magic upon him.

  “You go before me so I know the way is clear,” Lachlan ordered in a gruffer tone. “I’ll wait for you to gain the bend to follow.”

  “Aye, that’s a grand idea,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “I might even run ahead and warn them you’re coming.”

  “Sure, tell them,” Lachlan said. “I’d know what that English snake is about.”

  “Why nae simply ask your own fine?” she challenged. “Or is the legendary Blair too fearsome to be approached by a mere…what are you? Some kind of shepherd?”

  Lachlan felt his ire rising at being argued with so blatantly, and by a woman, no less. And she thought him a shepherd? “Now listen here, lass—”

  “I’m nae your lass, you ham-headed sawbuck,” she scoffed. “And furthermore—”

  Lachlan cut off her chastening as he caught the faintest sounds of hooves upon the trail. He grabbed the girl about the waist and pulled her behind the oak, covering her mouth with his hand. She promptly sank her teeth into the flesh of his palm.

  Lachlan stifled his cry and thrust her upper body clear of the trunk for a heartbeat so that she might see the bridge path, then he yanked her back behind the tree. She stilled against him, her breathing shallow, rapid. He loosened his grip on her slowly, and the pair of them watched the retreat of the party in silence, Lucan Montague leading the charge.

  When they were gone, the red-haired pixie looked up at him with all the solemnity she could likely muster in those clear blue eyes. “Have you still a care to carry on to Carson Town when most of the fine has just departed for your own valley?”

  He stared at her for a moment, wondering what unlawful thing she’d done for her town to saddle her with such a repulsive man as a husband.

  Oh, well; it was no concern of his.

  “Good luck to your future husband,” Lachlan said, walking backward away from her with a cheeky salute. “I have a feeling he shall need it.”

  She watched him without reply until Lachlan was forced to turn and trot eastward once more. And yet he thought he felt her gaze on his back until he disappeared over the ridge of the valley, and the weight of the sadness that followed him was startling.

  Chapter 3

  The sun was melting into the dark gray horizon of the sea by the time Finley emerged from the wood into Carson Town, and the longhouses below sprawled like soldiers on a battlefield dressed in long, funereal shadows. She was later than she’d wanted to be; and because she hadn’t seen her father’s figure among the other elders riding toward Town Blair, she knew Da must be waiting for her to return. She hurried through the streets toward home, noting the emptiness of the alleys, the doorways already shut tight against the night, when they would normally be thrown open to the balmy spring air, so welcome after the long, dark Highland winter.

  The Blair clansman had been right: The handsome English knight had brought concern to the town. The families must be all snugged around their suppers, whispering and speculating. Finley only wished she knew what about.

  Rory Carson was drawing the second bucket to the rock edge of the well as Finley came up the last bit of hill toward her family’s stead. She paused for a moment, observing her father’s stooped posture, his gray hair poking from beneath his old knit bonnet. His hands moved deftly, but she knew if she was closer, their tremble would be apparent.

  She crested the hill with long, lunging strides and picked up the first bucket from the grass as her father turned. “Why did you nae wait for me, Da?”

  “Ah, Finley, there ye be,” he said, a stiff smile breaking through the worried expression Finley knew he hoped she hadn’t seen. He lifted the bucket from the ledge and fell into step beside her. “Nae need to rush back. Ye had a fine time with Eachann, then?”

  She looked at him from the corner of her eye. “As fine as could be expected with a man such as he. He takes liberties with his words, Da.”

  “Aye, I feared he would. He understood yer refusal of all the younger men in the town as a sign he had a chance with ye.”

  Finley stopped. “More like he had nae the courage before he was near the only unmarried man left.”

  “He is the only unmarried man left, Fin.”

  Finley pressed her lips together. “Good. Perhaps now I’ll nae longer have the fine pestering me.”

  Rory Carson lifted one gray brow. “Ye think because you gave Eachann Todde a swim they’ll nae longer expect ye to marry at all?”

  Finley tried to keep her eyes from widening, but was obviously unsuccessful, judging by her father’s rueful look. “You know.”

  “Sure, I do.” He began walking again, and Finley fell into step with him. “As do the rest of the elders. You’re nae a wee girl any longer, Fin. Yer mother and I have indulged you overlong, and the fine have in turn indulged your mother and me. But I’ll nae be able to take care of the farm much longer on my own.”

  “I can take care of the farm just fine for the three of us,” Finley said with a frown. “I might not have been the son you hoped for, but there is naught I canna do that requires a man. Did I nae help you build this very wall with my own hands? Stone by stone?”

  “You know I’ve never regretted that you were nae a lad,” her father chastised, stopping beside the boundary she’d mentioned. “We always wished for more bairns, aye, but it wasna to be. And, sure, I love you enough for ten children.”

  “Then why can’t I simply carry on here on my own, taking care of you and Mam?”

  Rory sighed and filled the first trough with his bucket. “It’s too much for a…it’s just too much.”

  “For a woman, you mean? Dorcas manages her own plot,” Finley said, handing her bucket to her father and then lifting her chin. “And I’m younger and stronger than she.”

  “Dor
cas is a widow, and you know as well as I that she goes in with the others in winter. She keeps nae stock.”

  “I’d be a widow soon, too, were I forced to marry Eachann Todde,” Finley muttered.

  “Well, ye may well be forced to marry someone,” Rory said, no trace of jest in his voice as he stacked the empty wooden buckets and set them on the wall. “Ye’ve had your pick and yet ye’ve nae chosen. ’Tis past time for you to settle and start your own family for the town.”

  The shock of it put Finley to silence for a moment. “Da—”

  “You’ll be spared this night, though,” Rory cut her off. “There’s been a visitor.”

  Her heart was pounding in her chest even before she picked up the fork and began throwing the last of the limp, pale winter hay into the pen for the shaggy, thin cows. “The English knight,” Finley said, relieved to have the topic of conversation moved from her own failings. “I saw him.”

  Rory paused, the pail of meager scraps poised in his hands. “You could tell from where he hailed by his looks, could ye?”

  Finley threw herself into the chore. “He asked the way to the town. That’s all.” She waited in silence while, behind her, her father fed the sow, heavy with the litter she would soon bear. When Finley had given the cows as much as she dared, she turned around. “Well? What did he want?”

  Rory shrugged.

  “Something to do with the treaty, you reckon?” she pressed, hanging up the fork. “He’d already been to Town Blair?”

  Her father looked up at her with exasperation clear on his face. “Only asked the way to town, did he? What else did you get up to at the bridge, Fin?”

  Finley wanted to bite off her own tongue, thinking of the brawny Blair clansman who had held her behind the tree.

  “Saw Murdoch and the others heading that way,” she said with a shrug of her own, and the explanation sounded weak even to her own ears.

  To her surprise, he didn’t press her. “Aye, well, I’m certain we’ll all know the more of it come the morrow.” He turned over the pail against the shed wall and held out his arm, which Finley gladly ducked under, grasping his left hand with both her own as it hung over her shoulder. He pressed a kiss to her temple.

  “Let’s go home, me gel.”

  And Finley was glad, for it was the only place she ever wanted to go.

  * * * *

  By the time Lachlan jogged into Town Blair, the quiet darkness of the green at night had been thrust upward by the handful of lit torches ringing the grass, the flickering light slashed by the oblong shapes of the Carsons’ mounts grazing before his grandfather’s door. It had taken him longer to return to the town; the way was uphill and the spring night had fallen quickly, like a cool, moist blanket dropped over the land, making for a slippery, steep climb through the wood.

  His breath misted before his face as he slowed to a striding walk, and between the horses, he saw the lanky shape of Dand come away from the wall.

  “Lach?” he called. “Where’ve you been at?”

  “I followed the Englishman,” Lachlan said. “He went straight to the Carsons and brought them into our town. He’ll answer my questions now, whether Marcas and the rest of the fine like it or nae,” he said, heading straight for the door.

  Dand placed his long-limbed form between his foster brother and the entry. “He’s nae here, Lach.”

  “I saw him, Dand. He was—”

  “He must’ve gone on, then,” Dand interrupted. “I’m telling you, the Englishman didna return.” His eyes flicked to the structure behind him. “Only Carsons inside.”

  Lachlan felt his brows lower. “Move, Dand.”

  “I canna.” Dand shook his head and stepped toward Lachlan, going so far as to place his hand upon Lachlan’s chest. “Da said he’ll call for you when—”

  Lachlan swiped at Dand’s forearm, causing the young man to stagger. Then he pointed at the Blair’s house. “There is a room full of Carsons addressing our fine—my fine.” He said, leaning forward to place his nose close to Dand’s. “My patience for this shite has run out.” He pushed the door inward and charged through.

  He came chest to chest with a stranger, a red-bearded man with deep lines radiating from the corners of his eyes as if his face was usually pressed into a smile—or a grimace. But the man was definitely not smiling as he came eye to eye with Lachlan, and neither were the handful of Carsons who backed him, including the toadish poet whose clothing appeared damp yet from his rendezvous with the river.

  Lachlan knew he was blocking their exit, but he would be damned if he’d give way for a flock of Carsons in the house that would soon be his own. The red-haired man obviously recognized their disadvantages of location and number, for he nodded and stepped to the side, although he did not lower his gaze or soften his expression.

  Enemies since long before Lachlan was born. Why were they here?

  “Lachlan.”

  He turned toward the fire in the center of the room and saw Marcas standing on the far side of the blaze, surrounded by men Lachlan had known all his life. They all stared at him, their faces blanched by flames. Lachlan sensed the Carsons filing out the door behind him, but he paid them no heed as he took notice of Archibald Blair lying near the fire.

  His grandfather, too, watched him, and if the Blair elders’ complexions were ashen, the Blair himself seemed nearly without life. His skin was the color of the peeling birch bark in the wood beyond, his eyes sunken and dark. It seemed to Lachlan that he could see all his grandfather’s scalp, his white hair now thin and dark, perhaps with sweat. The sound of the door closing behind him and the presence of Dand at his side brought Lachlan’s attention back to his foster father.

  “I demand to know what’s going on, Marcas. Why the Blair’s house was full of Carsons; why I was barred from my own fine.”

  Marcas nodded toward the empty seat near the fire, probably only recently occupied by the red-bearded Carson who had thought himself Lachlan’s equal. “Come; sit down.”

  Lachlan moved forward but said, “I’ll stand.”

  “Ye’ll do…what…yer tol’!” The whispery barks came from his grandfather, and when Lachlan looked down at Archibald, he was surprised at the sudden red in his cheeks, his eyes. His grandfather had a wild look about him now, where a moment ago there seemed to lurk only quiet, white death.

  “Aye, Blair,” Lachlan said in a low voice, and then eased down into the short chair, his eyes never leaving Archibald’s face. His grandfather was looking at him, had spoken to him as if he were some base stranger and not his only grandchild who would soon lead their clan. Lachlan’s skin tingled, his ears strained for any sound, his eyes catching the tiniest flicker of movement in the house.

  “Lach,” Marcas said quietly. Lachlan’s foster father was sitting on the edge of his woven seat with his hands clasped loosely between his knees. “The Englishman—Montague. He brought word from London. From Tom—” He paused, seemed to collect himself. “From your father.”

  Lachlan stared at Marcas for a long moment. “He’s lying. Tommy died at—”

  “Thomas Annesley died in London,” Marcas interrupted, and the bitterness in his tone curled around each syllable and squeezed it like famine. “He’d been on the run for more than thirty years, evading capture for the murder of his young bride. He was to be hanged shortly after Montague left the city.”

  Lachlan frowned and squinted at Marcas. “He didn’t murder my mother. I may have been but a wee thing when she died, but I still have memory of her.”

  Marcas shook his head. “Nae Edna. ’Twas before he came here. He had come into Scotland to hide from the man he said accused him, but his enemy followed. He ventured into the Highlands to beg help from his kin.”

  “Why would an Englishman think a Highland clan to be of any aid to him? Especially the Blairs? He was nae kin to us. Tommy was a lowland Scot witho
ut clan.” Lachlan noticed now that most of the elder men of the council were no longer looking at him. Only Harrell, Searrach’s father, whose gaze bore into Lachlan’s face with something akin to disgust. “He came here to prove himself worthy of Town Blair.”

  Marcas’s wide shoulders rose and fell in silence. “He didna come seeking aid from the Blairs; Thomas Annesley’s mother was from the Carsons. ’Twas Carson Town he sought.”

  “That’s shite,” Lachlan scoffed. “Are you all so gullible that—”

  “It’s nae shite, lad,” Harrell said. “’Twas I who found him that night on the old bridge. He’d come upon us at the salmon run and spilled his guts; who he was, where he was goin’. Boastin’ he was a laird. We took him back with us, so he wouldna tell his kin we were poaching the salmon. ’Twas before the treaty. And besides, Carson Town was already burnin’.”

  Lachlan turned his gaze back to Marcas while the fire between them danced and popped. It was the only sound in the dark longhouse while the seemingly impossible implications wheedled their way into his brain.

  Thomas Annesley, Englishman. Murderer. Carson.

  Lachlan’s blood was the same as some of the men who’d only just left this house; blood of the clan he held in contempt.

  “I doona see how this changes anything,” Lachlan said abruptly. “Tommy was dead to us yesterday, he’s just as dead today. I’m still the Blair’s grandson, and when I become chief—”

  “Nay,” Archibald rasped. The old man’s body, face, were as still as the granite cliffs; only his thin, pale lips moved. “Edna put herself on that maggot when he was my prisoner. When he died…” The old man paused, and hatred flared in his eyes. “When Edna tol’ me she was with child, I tol’ the town they’d married in secret. To save her honor, though there was little left to salvage.”

  Harrell smirked at him over the fire. “Annesley wasn’t Edna’s first, Lachlan. Hell, I coulda been your da.”

  “Fuck you, Harrell,” Lachlan spat, and he started to rise.

  Marcas’s strong hand wrapped around Lachlan’s arm, staying him, centering him.