The Highlander's Promise

by Heather Grothaus

  Finley looked accusingly at her father and muttered through her clenched teeth, “Did someone tell him about the hornet’s nest I put in Dove Douglas’s bed? Because, otherwise, I’m insulted.”

  Her father leaned in to hiss, “Why on God’s earth would we want anyone else to know of that?” He looked to the Carson chief. “Murdoch?” he said pointedly.

  But all eyes went back to the chapel steps, where the young redheaded man had pulled away from a voluptuous brunette woman and was striding toward the doors. Lachlan at first shook off the lad, much as Finley had done with Kirsten, but the interloper was relentless, putting himself nose to nose with the larger man, speaking quickly. He finished whatever he had to say with a punch to Lachlan’s sternum.

  The green was silent with expectation while Lachlan turned furious, resentful eyes to Finley. “I. Apologize,” he ground out.

  Her father was shepherding her to the steps once more. “See there? All better. Now, go,” he whispered. “For the clan, Fin.”

  Finley jerked her arm away from her father, stinging tears welling up in her eyes. She didn’t know what the red-haired man had said to Lachlan Blair, but it had obviously made an impact.

  “Doona touch me,” she warned Kirsten as she reached the threshold once more. Kirsten reclasped her hands meekly at her waist.

  There was no pretense between them now as Finley once more stood facing Lachlan. Her teeth hurt at being ground together so firmly, and her stomach was a hot knot of fury.

  The red-cheeked friar cleared his throat again and shone forth a ridiculous smile. “Now, then. As I said, Lachlan Blair, do you swear to take this woman, Finley Carson, as your wife?”

  He glared at her for an interminable moment, and Finley thought she understood the true reason her father had been so insistent that she not wear her dagger at her waist.

  “Aye,” he snapped.

  The friar squirmed. “You must say, ‘I swe—’”

  “I swear,” Lachlan amended.

  “Very good,” the friar said with a sigh and a nervous chuckle. He cleared his throat again and turned, and Finley saw his enthusiastic smile from the corner of her eye as she matched Lachlan Blair’s glare with one of her own. “Finley Carson, do you swear to take this man, Lachlan Blair, as your husband?”

  Her jaws felt frozen shut. No matter that she commanded them to open, they would not.

  Lachlan Blair’s glower increased and his lips barely moved when he spoke. “If you say nay just to spite me, I’ll—”

  “Touch me and I’ll turn your cock into crab bait,” Finley said through her own teeth. Her eyes never left his face as she said louder. “I swear.” And she raised her eyebrows at him.

  “Very good,” the priest said on another sigh. “Your pledges?”

  Lachlan stepped forward, producing the brooch given him by Marcas Blair. He pinned it to Finley’s shawl with such a light touch that, had she not been watching his every move with her own eyes, she might not have known he’d left it.

  Then Finley took her father’s clasp and affixed it to Lachlan Blair’s costume. She considered for a moment running the long, sharp pin into his chest, and perhaps Lachlan had expected it, for his shoulders relaxed as she stepped away from him.

  “Lachlan and Finley,” the friar said, and then drew a deep breath. “In-so-much-that-you-have-given-yourselves-to-each-other-and-to-your-clans-I-proclaim-that-you-are-now-wed-and-all-shall-acknowledge-you-as-husband-and-wife-from-this-day-forward.” The friar gasped a breath and then paused, looking over the crowd with an expression akin to surprised jubilation. He held up his hands. “The clans are joined!”

  There was a hesitant pause, and then shouts rang out over the green, and Finley turned to see Blairs and Carsons greeting each other cautiously, some shaking hands. The gravity of what had happened—and her role in it—began to dawn on her.

  The clans were joined.

  “Now,” the friar said more quietly, leaning toward Finley and Lachlan, “we shall go in and bless this union before God in the taking of the Eucharist. And there shall be no violence from either of you. And no cursing,” he added quickly. “I am more than ready, God willing, to depart from this place before there are any more funerals to keep me here. Follow me.” He turned and opened the door, disappearing inside the darkened chapel.

  Finley looked up at Lachlan, her whole being still filled with resentment for how he had humiliated her. But now he was watching her with a curious expression.

  “This was not the wedding day I expected,” he said. “And I feel that there is aught left woefully unsaid.”

  She wanted to believe he was remorseful, but there was a glint in his eyes that made her uneasy. And so she only nodded.

  His white teeth flashed in his beard. “Your hair is like the dawn; your eyes, a gentle fawn’s…”

  “I hate you,” she muttered, and made sure to tread on his foot as she turned and marched into the darkness of the chapel as if entering into a great battle. She was not heartened by the dark laugh he gave as he pursued her.

  Chapter 6

  The green was once more ringed with torchlight, but this time the wide circle contained a sphere of merriment and celebration as the two clans drank and danced and sang late into the night. Lachlan sat alone at the bridal table at the head of the inner circle, his elbows on the planks, a tankard in his hands that seemed to magically fill each time he emptied it. Well, he was alone save for the redheaded shrew on his left, to whom he paid no heed, choosing instead to watch the revelers twirl and spin across the green, appearing to possess a happiness Lachlan himself feared he would never again come close to. Thankfully, his new bride had just as much to say to Lachlan as he had to her.

  He caught sight of Dand across the way, particularly immersed in quiet conversation with the diminutive blonde Carson woman, much to the apparent chagrin of Searrach, who also sat alone at a nearby table and glared at the pair. Apparently, Searrach’s loyalty was to the future chief of the Blair clan only. Lachlan’s insides burned, both with envy and resentment.

  Sudden movement on his left reluctantly drew his attention, and he turned his head to look up at Finley Carson, now standing.

  “I’m going home,” she said. There were little shadows under her eyes, and her fairy face was pale and small with sadness.

  “Follow along after you like a pup, shall I?” Lachlan shot at her, a little surprised at the comfortable slur in his words. He’d gotten properly drunk and hadn’t even realized it. “Or maybe you’re just eager for the wedding night, eh? Hoping I’ll get a babe on you before you bite my head off and eat me.” He purposefully let his gaze rove over her body.

  Her expression didn’t change and she said nothing, only turned from the table and disappeared into the darkness beyond the green.

  But others must have been watching for her to leave, for now raucous masculine shouts echoed up into the sky, and before Lachlan could think of defending himself, he was seized by no fewer than four men, Cordon Blair leading the charge, and carried into the darkness. Their calls and songs were good-natured, but even so far into his cups, Lachlan could hear the roughness behind their meaning and felt little friendship in their jests when they flung him across the saddle of his waiting horse and slapped its rear, sending the mount charging into the darkness with a startled whinny before Lachlan could struggle aright in his seat.

  He galloped past another on the path, the crown of his head just grazing some part of horse or rider, and he strained to pull himself aright. But the horse stiffened its forelegs and skidded sideways, throwing Lachlan head over heels against the wall of a longhouse before bolting back toward the faint glow of the town green.

  He groaned as he turned himself over to sit on his proper end, then leaned his back against the dwelling. His stomach churned and his head throbbed and he wondered if he was going to vomit. Hoof falls came from the darkness,
and when he looked up, there was Finley Carson, astride, holding the reins to his runaway horse.

  Of course.

  He shifted his eyes from her as he staggered to his feet and took the leather leads. The fall had done much to clear his head, though, so that he only had one false start in pulling himself up into the saddle. She was already riding into the edge of the wood when Lachlan gained her side.

  “No one’s following us,” he said, immediately regretting the imbecilic phrase. He was truly drunk.

  “Sure, they wished to give the happy couple privacy,” Finley quipped. And then, “They’ll be along in the morning, with the rest of the supplies.”

  “Ah, aye—the supplies,” Lachlan said, unable to keep the sneer from his tone. “The spoils from Carson Town’s victory.”

  Only the soft, warm spring darkness answered his words, studded with the peeping of frogs and night insects. She was ignoring him.

  She was ignoring him.

  “So, how many suitors did you have?” Lachlan pressed, unable to stop himself from goading her.

  Finley Carson kicked at her horse’s sides and left Lachlan riding alone in the darkness. He didn’t bother chasing her.

  He didn’t see her again until the woods opened up near the bridge, and the space in the canopy above allowed the moonlight to shine through as if reflected from a lamp. He saw her gallop across in the white mist of the falls and lean into the curve of the trail, disappearing once more. He slowed his horse as it clomped onto the wooden planks, feeling the loneliness of his surroundings, both literal and figurative, press around him. He was truly between clans, belonging to both of them and neither, if what rumor and Lucan Montague said was true.

  What awaited him at Carson Town?

  Probably Finley Carson with a great sword, he thought darkly to himself. He paused, checking his belt for his own blade before continuing on the path.

  The trail emerged from the wood above the bay, and Lachlan was struck by the beauty of the scene, the moonlight rippling on the sea like the iridescent scales of a fish, the dark shadows of the dwellings below snuggling together like newborn pups. He turned to his right, toward the cliff face to which the town backed up, and saw right angles of constructed openings illuminated by the moonlight—a tall, stone house of some sort, lording over the lower structures. He wondered if it was Murdoch Carson’s house.

  It was only by luck that the moonlight caught the shadow of Finley Carson galloping up a rise on the far side of the town, and Lachlan waited a while for a lighted square to shine, indicating that she had entered into the house that was to be their own. Only then did he carry on through the dark town, riding straight to her door. He sent his horse into a stall of the small animal shelter, already outfitted with the treat of oats in a bucket, and then went through the yard to the house, looking around him as he walked at the shadowed rooflines and dark shelves of pen walls in the night. It was a small stead, but a fitting gift for a couple just married.

  He pushed open the door and was surprised at the comfortable interior, the selection of cooking pots and dishes, the soft welcome of stitched textiles and well-worn chairs and tables, polished to a gleaming sheen. The furnishings were old but plentiful, and the room smelled of warmed beeswax and fresh baking, so that Lachlan had to blink against sudden drowsiness.

  Finley Carson was moving through the room toward a door along the left wall, her discarded cloak over one arm. He couldn’t help but acknowledge how beautiful she had looked today, in the fine gown and with her fiery hair piled atop her head like a fae queen. Her rib cage narrowed to an impossibly tiny waist, and Lachlan knew from the time he’d held her against him in the wood that she possessed enough softness in the right places.

  He remembered curvaceous Searrach at the wedding fete, and how she’d pouted jealously at Dand when only a fortnight ago she was pleasuring Lachlan with that same mouth. He shook the image from his mind and followed Finley Carson through the doorway, stopping short at the threshold as she spun on him.

  “What do you want?” she demanded.

  But Lachlan was taking in the small chamber lit by a single lamp, casting jolly waves of light over the walls, and the pair of bedsteads pushed against opposite sides of the room. Pegs and hooks ringed the walls, displaying a selection of aprons and gowns, worn trousers and bonnets. A thin curtain hung from the center of the ceiling.

  Lachlan finally looked at her. “Who sleeps here?”

  Her expression was unamused. “I do.”

  “Who else?” he pressed. “There are two beds.”

  “My first husband, God rest his soul,” she said. And then rolled her eyes and turned away from him to hang her cloak on an empty peg. “My parents.”

  “Your parents live here?”

  “It’s their house; where else would they live?” she asked in exasperation, and then turned around to face him. “I told you they would stay in Town Blair until morning, but you…” Her eyes widened a bit, and a smile that Lachlan felt he would come to dread came over her face. “You thought this house was yours. Didn’t Marcas tell you you’d be taking on the farm with my da?”

  “Of course he did,” Lachlan scoffed.

  “He didna,” she insisted smugly, crossing her arms over her chest. “And you assumed the lowly Carsons would surely gift such a mighty man as Lachlan Blair with one of the finest farms in the town just for the inconvenience of marrying me. I doona believe I’ve ever met anyone as full of himself as you.”

  “If this is one of the finest farms in the town, little wonder you all nearly starved,” he said, his pride creaking under the strain of her correct assumption. “A strong fart would likely blow out the walls.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “No one’ll be forcing you to sleep here. Certainly nae me.”

  “Fine. After all this, I’ll nae be sleeping under another man’s roof. I’ll pay a visit to the Carson and avail of his hospitality until other arrangements can be negotiated.”

  “Avail of his hospitality, will you?” Finley laughed. “Murdoch has nae more room than we do here.”

  “He’s a large man, aye, but he doesna take up the whole of that stone house.”

  Finley looked confused for a moment, and then that blasted grin was back. “Oh, Murdoch doesna live up on the cliff.”

  “Then who does?” Lachlan demanded.

  “No one at all,” she said airily. “It’s completely empty.” She began to stroll slowly toward him. “In fact, I’m sure no one would mind should you decide to move in there yourself.”

  Lachlan grew wary. “This is some sort of trap. Sure, I’m to be attacked as soon as I enter in.”

  “Nay,” Finley answered straightaway, her eyes wide. “I swear it: no one lives there. It would be a perfect place for you to be alone to ruminate over that dark-haired cow who’s after your brother.”

  Lachlan ground his teeth together. His thoughts weren’t clear enough to trust his mouth to convey them, but he was so humiliated by his mistakes—and his clan’s neglect—his pride wouldn’t allow him to remain under this roof with the sharp-tongued lass, face of a fairy or nay.

  Lachlan turned and quit the doorway, marching back through the warm, comfortable main room and sweeping his bag from the polished table.

  “Good night, then,” Finley called out as he opened the door.

  He slammed it shut in answer.

  Lachlan didn’t bother retrieving his horse from the stable for the short walk through town and up the foot of the cliff. The chill sea air was good for his head and his temper. It was not difficult to find the path that led toward the rear of the town, although his resolve wavered as the condition of the trail rapidly deteriorated. He kept looking up as he strode up over slippery rocks and stumbled in washed-out ruts, the moonlight revealing his folly.

  It was a ruin of a house jutting from the cliff. A ruin.

  By the
time Lachlan stood before the towering stone structure, he could make out the three distinct floors, the tall, narrow openings of shutterless windows, the pointed peaks where the roof had once been at the very height of the cliff. He looked back down at the town, and the moon-slicked bay beyond. He could once more see the square of light from Finley Carson’s house. No doubt she was warm inside, smiling smugly to herself at what she had known Lachlan would encounter on the cliff. But he would not give her the satisfaction of returning to the little longhouse.

  He turned to regard the grand, arched doorway standing empty before him. Likely this structure had once housed the chiefs of the Carson clan. But now, all around him, the sea wind was the only thing inhabiting the manor, swirling through the perforated stone column, playing as on a set of pipes a low, haunting song, the pitiful cry of some abandoned and betrayed thing. It raised the hair on his arms and neck, so familiar a tune was it to his heart in that moment. He’d drunk too much, aye, that was all. Lachlan hadn’t wept since he was a very, very young lad—a bairn, near—and then it had been over his beautiful mother, who he’d been told was never to return to him. Standing before that burned-out disaster that represented his life, he was as close to once more weeping since that long-ago day.

  Lachlan slung his bag higher on his shoulder and entered the ruin.

  * * * *

  Finley lay in her narrow bed, staring at the low ceiling, now draped in shadow from the nearly spent lamp. It would have been an outrageous luxury to enjoy such light after the sun had gone down, but there was plenty of oil to be had since the new treaty with the Blairs. Plenty of light to lie alone in, and relive her disastrous wedding day.

  What a fool Lachlan Blair was, to think that any such habitable place in the town would be so empty without just cause. The old house was a burned-out ruin—full of ghosts, if you asked any of the old folk. She felt her mouth curve in a slight smile as the faint rumbles of thunder tickled her eardrums, but the amusement was short-lived.

  What a fool she was. And a bigger fool she would be on the morrow, when it was learned that her new husband preferred the ghosts of his enemies over her, even when so drunk he could barely sit a horse. She heard the soft patter of the storm on the roof.