The Highlander's Promise

by Heather Grothaus

  “I had the farm. It was set up so high and apart from the town or the old house, most everything was saved. I was alone. Widowed. Frightened.” She paused again, and then looked up to meet Lachlan’s gaze with her own. “Rory married me for the good of the town. Both our resentments and mourning made us little use to each other for a good long while.”

  “I ken the feeling,” Lachlan said.

  “Nay,” Ina said gently and with a little shake of her head. “Years, Lachlan. Our bedchamber has always kept two beds, if you ken.”

  Lachlan stilled. He could hardly imagine the loving couple he knew as Finley’s parents so at odds with each other.

  “So the brooch, it was my marriage gift from my first husband, and I wanted Finley to give it to you.” She held out her hand. “May I?”

  Lachlan undid the clasp and laid the brooch in her wrinkled palm.

  Ina brought the piece close to her, stroked it with her thumb. “I never took it off. For ten years after he was dead. In my heart, I was still Andrew’s wife.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Lachlan saw Murdoch look away with a pained expression beneath his beard.

  “Let me at last see this blade.” Ina drew his attention once more, returning the brooch to him. Lachlan refastened the pledge, then reached to his belt to remove the sheath. He laid it on the wood with barely a sound and Ina leaned forward, admiring the piece, stroking it with her fingertips. “Ah, aye. It’s just as he described it.” She sat back in her chair. “My first husband was Andrew Carson, Murdoch’s older brother. It was he—Andrew—who told me of the dagger.”

  Lachlan turned to the bearded man still leaning against the door. “You said you’d never seen it before.”

  “And I hadna,” Murdoch said. “’Twas Andrew who would have been chief. Andrew what was Da’s pet, the one he confided in. The man barely looked at me.”

  “Murdoch,” Ina chastised.

  “It’s true, innit? The chief wasna surprised when I disgraced him by Sal falling pregnant and having to marry her. Nae that I was put out by it. Would have done it anyways.”

  He looked back to Lachlan. “I wasna supposed to marry before Andrew. But that’s how it happened. After our bairn was born, Ina wed the future chief of Clan Carson. All stiff an’ proper, the way everyone liked it.”

  “Murdoch,” Ina said again, and this time there was a thread of warning in her tone. “I’ll nae let you speak badly of it.”

  “The dagger belonged to Andrew?” Lachlan interjected, fearing that a row between the older people might jeopardize the entire conversation.

  “Nay,” Ina answered. “It belonged to Andrew’s grandfather.”

  “Then how did it end up hidden in Archibald Blair’s house?”

  “They only ever called him the Old Carson,” Ina said, ignoring Lachlan’s question. “He had two children, a son who became chief; that was Murdoch and Andrew’s father. And a daughter, Myra.”

  Lachlan waited, listened, the back of his neck prickling, but for what reason he could not say.

  “The Carsons were always mighty, warring. Especially with the Blairs, but we’ve been at war with nearly all the clans along the coast at one time or another,” Ina said. “And foreign enemies coming from the sea as well. We were nae without our own ships, after all. Our clan grew wealthy, and we began to command trade along the coast.” She paused with a pleasant smile. “Can you imagine wealthy Highland Carsons, Lachlan? It was true for a long while, I suppose.”

  “We brought goods into the Highlands from the Irish,” Murdoch added. “Traded with all the clans. Took their wools and their skins. Sent them to Edinburgh, Glasgow, west back to the isles. North to Skye, all along the coast south of us.”

  Lachlan’s head spun with all the things he was learning. “But you didn’t trade with the Blairs,” Lachlan said. “I’ve heard the tales; you left them to starve.”

  Murdoch shook his head and met his gaze squarely. “That was an old feud and one I wasna witness to. But my understanding of it was that it was a punishment for a wrong done to my grandda’s da—a Blair lad killed a Carson lad in a bit of mean play. He was just a wee boy, they say; nae old enough to join in the sport, but had gone along any matter. Just a bairn. It grieved the Carson’s wife something fierce, and she swore an ancient hatred that was never to be forgiven on earth. Carson women can hold a grudge like nae other.”

  This information shook Lachlan, as he realized how deep the resentment of the Blairs by the Carsons went. And yet, he had kindled the need-fire today, with the Carson Town’s blessing.

  “Our success gained our clan powerful friends in Edinburgh,” Murdoch continued. “Friends who made it possible to secure a hold on the Forth in order to continue our trade when the tolls in the city became unfair, and they thought to cheat the stupid Highlanders. But we could nae claim the keep as our own without help.”

  It was Ina’s turn. “And so the Old Carson arranged a marriage for his Myra to a baron of the Borderlands. The keep on the firth was her dowry. And the dagger, matching the marriage brooch that would go to the Old Carson’s son, and then to my husband Andrew, was her legacy.” She paused. “It is likely she gave the dagger to her new husband as a wedding gift.”

  Lord Thomas Annesley…

  “Do you mean to say,” Lachlan began haltingly, “that Thomas Annesley was—”

  “Myra Carson’s son,” Ina supplied with a gentle smile.

  Lachlan went stone still for a very long moment. Then he turned his head slowly to regard Murdoch Carson. “If Thomas Annesley is my father, that means I am descended from the Old Carson. It means…it means we are blood kin, Murdoch.”

  “Aye,” the chief agreed in a neutral tone. “Cousins, by my reckoning.”

  “It’s why you let me kindle the need-fire,” Lachlan realized. “My lineage is as much Carson as it is Blair.”

  “More so, I’d say,” Ina interjected. “Edna and Archibald are both dead. Even if Thomas Annesley is, as well, you have us, Lachlan.” She gave him an encouraging smile. “Me and Rory, we think of you as ours already. Murdoch is your blood. And sure, you’ve a Carson bride.” She looked about the little room, quiet, warm, safe. “Do you think this place is suitable for living yet?”

  “You did this for me?” Lachlan hedged, a thorny pit widening in his stomach.

  Ina shook her head with a mischievous smile. “Nay. It’s for myself and Rory. We want you and Fin to have the farm to yourselves.”

  “I’ve no heir, Lachlan,” Murdoch said abruptly. And then he left it alone, hovering between them in this quiet place that Lachlan had unwittingly helped ready.

  “Is their aught else I should know?” At their shaking heads, Lachlan stood up from the chair, his own head buzzing with confusion. “I need to be alone.” He walked to the door, still blocked by Murdoch’s considerable size, but then was struck by another thought.

  “Did you know who I was when you bargained for me?” he demanded of the chief.

  “Aye,” Murdoch answered. “After the English knight came with the letter.”

  “And still you kept it from me. Called me an outsider, when I was your kin.”

  Murdoch stared at him. “You still have Blair blood in your veins. And everyone knows Blairs canna be trusted.”

  Lachlan shoved Murdoch away from the door and stepped toward him, daring him to retaliate. He wanted to plant his fists in the man’s red-bearded face. He wanted to take his rage, his pain, out on Murdoch Carson. How dare he speak such insults against the people who had raised him? Against the people who had—

  The people who had turned on him. The people who had exiled him. The people who had forgotten him.

  Murdoch only stood with his hands resting at his sides and met Lachlan’s gaze. “What are you goin’ to do, Blair?”

  Lachlan wrenched open the door and left it swinging as he exited the li
ttle cottage. He stormed up the street into the darkness, his gaze fixed on the bonfire that was still being kept before the old cliff house. The old cliff house where the Carson had lived.

  Where his great-grandfather, the Carson chief, had lived.

  Lachlan stopped in the street, his breath heaving in and out. He turned in a circle, looking at the quiet, peaceful town. The wood, the falls, the old house, the sea; they all seemed to be whispering his name, vying for his attention, his affection, his loyalty. He didn’t know which way to turn.

  Even though he now knew from where he had come, Lachlan Blair had no idea who he was, or where he belonged.

  * * * *

  “Shh, get down,” Finley hissed, and yanked on Kirsten’s arm, pulling her into the black shadows of the underbrush. Her legs were trembling and heavy from the slow, steep climb through the wood in the dark, and the thick wool of her gown was scratchy and damp with sweat. Kirsten had led them directly to Town Blair as a hound on a scent, but if Finley hadn’t stopped her, she swore the idiot would have walked straight into their midst without pause.

  The pair of men passed less than ten feet from them, but didn’t so much as glance in their direction as they carried on with their low conversation. Finley at last let out her breath.

  “That was close,” Kirsten said with a giggle. Then she rose. “All right, let’s go.”

  Finley reached up with a roll of her eyes and pulled Kirsten back down into the brush so the blonde gave a little yelp.

  “Where do you think you’re going to, Kirsten Carson?”

  “Sure, to the green. We aren’t bound to hear or see anything, hiding here behind the trees like ninnies.”

  Finley laughed despite herself. “We can’t simply go marching into town.”

  “Really?” Kirsten asked, holding Finley’s gaze intently. “Let’s hear your plan, then, if mine is so terrible.”

  “That wasn’t a plan,” Finley muttered, putting off answering immediately. She blew her hair out of her eyes and peered toward the backs of the houses nearest the wood.

  Lachlan was right; most of the town must still be about the festivities, for the air beyond the sloping roofs seemed to glow like an iridescent mushroom cap over the green. And although the town appeared brightly lit, and indeed there were faint strains of music floating on the breeze fragrant with delicious smells, there was no hushed roar of a gathering. No whooping or shouts of gamers and dancers; no bawdy songs.

  It seemed odd to Finley that so large and prosperous a town should have such a solemn feast to welcome the summer when poor Carson Town had been redolent with music and laughter all the day.

  Very odd.

  “All right,” Finley said at last. “Let’s move a little closer, then. Only to the nearest house, though.”

  “Och, you mean we’re to march into town, closer to the green?” Kirsten taunted. “I’d never have thought that up on me own.”

  “Shut up, Kirsten.”

  “Good thing I brought you along, Fin. Master of strategy, you are.”

  Finley growled a bit, but let her friend have her say. She was right, after all.

  “Don’t run, and don’t crouch,” she instructed. “That would only draw attention. We’ll walk purposefully, arm in arm. If anyone happens to see us coming from the wood as if we belong to the town, they won’t raise the alarm.”

  “Who made you the leader?”

  “You did, when you asked me to come,” Finley said. Then she looped her arm through Kirsten’s and stood and, after taking a deep breath, the pair of Carson women stepped into Town Blair proper.

  They were strolling across the short expanse between the wood and the house when they saw the same two men who had passed moments before returning in their direction.

  “Oy! Oy, you women—halt!”

  Halt?

  “What now, leader?” Kirsten whispered.

  Chapter 14

  Finley fell onto her hands and knees, belting out a high-pitched shriek of laughter, and then an oof, as Kirsten fell atop her, crushing her into the soft dirt and rolling across her spine in hysterical squeals.

  The footfalls of the approaching men sounded near their heads, heavy-soled shoes, the jangle of metal.

  “What are the pair of you about?” one demanded in a nasally accent. “Why aren’t you at the green with the others?”

  Finley burst out in forced laughter again, and Kirsten howled as if it was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. “Fairies! We’ve found ’em at last!” And she dissolved again into convincing giggles.

  They don’t recognize us, Finley realized. They think we’re Blairs.

  Finley took a chance.

  “Wait a minute,” she slurred and turned her body onto her flank toward the men, dumping Kirsten to the dirt behind her with another yelp. “Just who are you now, to be askin’ us such a thing? Yer nae Blairs.”

  “Aye,” Kirsten added indignantly, popping up over Finley’s shoulder. “We doona know you. Mind yer o-o-own business.”

  “Get ’em on their feet,” the first man said and stepped forward.

  Finley’s struggle against the hands that gripped her upper arms painfully was real, and Kirsten gave a sharp screech.

  “Sure, you’d better mind what yer grabbin’, ye bastard.”

  “I’d nae jostle her too much,” Finley warned as she was yanked about to face the man. He was wearing a strange leather vest, with plate armor draping his shoulders, and a smooth metal helm outfitted with small round rivets along the brow and nose piece.

  English armor…

  Finley shook herself. “I’ve just spent the past hour in the brush with Miss while she puked up her guts and half a barrel o’ mead.”

  Kirsten gave a loud, dramatic hurk and brought her hand to her mouth. She leaned into the man holding her, her shoulders hunched.

  All in all, Finley thought her show very impressive.

  The man shoved Kirsten away, and Finley jerked free of her captor to go to her side. She ducked beneath her arm and pretended to support Kirsten’s sagging, spasming frame.

  “She just needs her bed,” Finley said, sidestepping toward the house. “Beddy-bed for Miss; nae more feasting for you this night. Here we go.” She turned toward the narrow space between the houses.

  “Oy, where do you think you’re going?”

  “Good night, fairy man,” Kirsten called, flopping her head back onto her shoulder.

  “Just here. This is our own place, right here,” Finley said, slapping the wall of the dwelling on her right as she kept walking, praying it was actually a longhouse and not one of the many animal shelters she’d seen when last she was in Town Blair. “Misses to bed.”

  “Straight to bed!” Kirsten called out in a singsong.

  “Wait just a—”

  “Let ’em go,” the other man said. “They’re too pissed to be any threat. Too stupid as well, likely. Scotch whores.”

  Finley stiffened.

  “Shh,” Kirsten warned against her neck.

  “Aye,” the other answered. “Not worth it. We’ll be gone by morning, and they’ll be just as dead on the green or in their beds.”

  As soon as Finley and Kirsten were around the front of the house, they came away from each other. Looking in all directions for anyone else who might raise a warning, they bolted hand in hand toward the shadows of the roof overhang. Kirsten went immediately to the door of the house.

  “Nay,” Finley warned in a whisper, pulling her away. “That’s the first place they’ll look for us if they change their minds. Come on.”

  They crossed the narrow street and headed northeast toward the center of town, ducked through two narrow passages, and then Finley fell upon the door of a longhouse with a back made up the outer edge of Town Blair’s green. It opened easily, and the two women dashed inside, closing the do
or as silently as possible.

  Finley and Kirsten worked together to quickly locate the bar and secure the door. Then they both stood panting, staring at the closed barrier in the dim light of the house’s interior. They looked at each other in the same moment.

  “What is—”

  “Who were—”

  Finley drew a breath and started again, in a whisper. “I think they’re English soldiers.”

  “English soldiers?” Kirsten squeaked.

  “Shh!”

  “What are they doing at Town Blair? On Lá Bealltainn?”

  “I don’t know,” Finley said, looking around the dim, unfamiliar interior. Snugged under the eaves of the rear wall was a short window, its wooden shutter propped open at the bottom with a stick so that it slanted outward. Light from the green beyond filtered through and down into the room. Finley walked toward it.

  “And why did they say we’d be dead in the morning?” Kirsten whispered.

  “I don’t know.” Finley picked up a chair to move it soundlessly beneath the window and lifted her skirts to step up to the seat in a crouch, so that her head was not above the bottom edge of the opening.

  “What are we going to do, Fin?”

  Finley half-turned on the chair. “Why do you keep asking me questions you know good and well I have as much answer for as you?”

  “I thought you were the leader.”

  She sighed and turned back toward the window, gripping the ledge with her fingers and then rising up slowly, slowly, until she could see the scene beyond. Her breath froze in her chest, her fingers digging in to the hard sod window ledge.

  It looked as though all the inhabitants of Town Blair were indeed gathered on the green. But rather than singing and dancing and gaming, instead of laughter and making merry, the people sat silently on their benches at the tables lined up like a battalion. The children and those for whom there was no seat were clustered on the ground, huddling together as if in fear.

  Around the perimeter of the green, also nearly shoulder to shoulder, stood a ring of men dressed just as the ones who had stopped Finley and Kirsten. Most of them wielded broadswords at the ready, although some braced wicked-looking crossbows on their hips. Finley realized that if she could see a solid ring of soldiers across the green…