The Highlander's Return

by Marguerite Kaye

  ‘What do you mean the old ways?’ Ailsa asked suspiciously.

  ‘In times gone past problems were often solved by taking what you might call a more direct approach. There is a lot to be said for pre-emptive action.’

  ‘Mother, what on earth are you suggesting?’

  ‘There is no need to be so dramatic, Ailsa,’ Lady Munro said ruthlessly. ‘I am talking about granting Donald a few liberties as a token of your willingness, that is all. I am hardly suggesting you surrender your maidenhead to him.’

  ‘I won’t. I can’t. You are under the impression I have taken this decision lightly, but I have not, I assure you. For a while now, since before my father’s death, I have been unhappy about it.’

  ‘My mistake has been in allowing the betrothal to go on so long. We will remedy that urgently, and when you are married I will prove to you that I can be the loving mother you deserve. You will thank me for this later,’ Lady Munro said implacably. ‘I will leave you to complete your toilette. Dinner is in fifteen minutes, do not be late.’

  She closed the door of her daughter’s chamber behind her and leant against it for support, for she was shaken by Ailsa’s strength of will. Shielding her eyes with her hands for just a moment, Lady Munro’s sharp mind sifted through the possibilities. She could not take the chance on Ross’s leaving, even after he heard what Morna had to say. She could not take the chance on Ailsa being here waiting for him. She could not take the chance on her plans, her long-coveted plans, for keeping Ailsa close, for coming out of the laird’s shadow, failing now, at this last moment. She could not take the chance of another of the laird’s shadows hanging over her for ever. Ross must go. Ailsa must marry McNair.

  The solution, obvious as it was, was also repugnant. But Ailsa would forgive her. And if she did not—Lady Munro took a shaky breath. The truth about Ross. If needs must, she would tell her. Then she would understand.

  Standing up straight, Lady Munro set off down the corridor with a determined step. The truth was a last resort. Donald McNair was a first.

  The Laird of Ardkinglass was drinking a glass of claret when Ailsa made her way downstairs to the great hall, but he put it down at once to press a kiss on his betrothed’s hand.

  Ailsa had always thought him a tall man, as indeed he was compared to most Highlanders, but tonight he appeared diminished. It was not just that he was shorter and of slighter build than Alasdhair, but he lacked his presence. She had always thought Donald McNair a good-looking man, too. At thirty-two years old, with dark brown hair, a strong nose and a decided chin, he passed for handsome in most company. She could not decide what colour were his eyes—brown or hazel or a sort of grey-green?

  ‘Here is Donald, come to pay his condolences,’ Lady Munro said. Her smile was that of a witch who has completed a particularly taxing spell.

  Ailsa curtsied. ‘I trust you are fully recovered, Laird,’ she said.

  ‘Aye, I’m well enough. All the better for seeing you.’ Donald patted her arm.

  They made their way through to the small dining room for dinner. Lady Munro presided over the dinner table like a death’s head. Donald sat at her right hand, Ailsa at her left, in a state of nervous anticipation bordering on panic. She could not believe her mother really meant what she had said. She could not eat for wondering if she did. She felt sick, and wished fervently that Calumn had not gone to Edinburgh.

  The conversation focused largely on the threat of incomers. Lady Munro took little part but sat, sphinxlike and inscrutably threatening, as Ailsa and Donald debated the issue. In the aftermath of the Rebellion, many Jacobite lands had been sequestered by the Crown, and were now being sold off cheaply to farmers from the south of Scotland and the north of England. Intent only on lining their pockets, these men were clearing the land of the crofters and cotters who had lived there for generations, leaving them homeless and starving.

  ‘Fraser of Straad shipped those of his tenants that wanted to go off to a new life in America before the new landowners arrived,’ Donald said. ‘’Tis a sorry sight, seeing men so proud come to this. Fraser has only his name left to him.’

  ‘If we are not careful, it will be the same for us all,’ Ailsa replied. Like both of her brothers, she could see the necessity for change. ‘Calumn says the trick is to stay ahead of the pack.’

  ‘What can a bunch of Sassenachs teach us Highlanders about farming our own land?’ Donald said scornfully. ‘We’ve been working this land the same way for centuries.’

  ‘Precisely. There is no point in sticking to tradition just for the sake of it.’

  ‘Your brother is in danger of throwing away his heritage. Lord Munro would be turning in his grave to hear you, Ailsa.’

  ‘He’s like to be spinning in it by the time Calumn is finished,’ Ailsa said, ignoring her mother’s warning frown. ‘He has no intention of allowing his tenants to follow those of Fraser of Straad across the ocean. If enclosure is what is needed, so be it. The good heart of Munro lands and Munro people is what matters. What use is pride to you, when you have an empty stomach? There is no such thing as a traditional way to starve.’

  Donald looked scandalised. ‘I hope you’re not thinking of bringing this radical talk with you to Ardkinglass.’

  Lady Munro pushed back her chair abruptly. ‘Ailsa listens too much to her brother’s modern ideas. She likes to tease, Donald, I am sure she has no such intentions.’

  ‘It is not just Calumn who says these things,’ Ailsa said defensively.

  Lady Munro closed her eyes. ‘I am aware, Ailsa, that your other brother is even more revolutionary. You would do well not to heed him.’

  ‘My brother’s name is Rory, Mother. Can’t you even bring yourself to say it?’

  ‘Don’t imagine you have the monopoly on feelings, Ailsa,’ Lady Munro snapped.

  For a split second her mask slipped. There was pain in her eyes, dark pools of it, but by the time Ailsa had opened her mouth to apologise it was gone and Lady Munro was turning a bright smile on Donald. ‘You will forgive me if I retire early tonight. I have the headache.’

  ‘I’m sure Ailsa will keep me entertained,’ Donald replied.

  The meaningful look they exchanged left Ailsa in no doubt that her mother had made good on her threats. She watched incredulously as Lady Munro made her stately way out of the door without even looking back.

  The sound of the latch clicking to made Ailsa jump to her feet. ‘I must bid you goodnight, too,’ she said, backing away from the table. ‘I find I am tired.’

  Donald drained the contents of his claret glass in one swallow. ‘Has not your mother spoken to you?’

  ‘Yes, yes she has.’

  ‘Lady Munro is minded to keep to tradition.’

  ‘Donald, there has been a misunderstanding. You must know that I have …’

  He smiled. ‘There now, you’re nervous. Of course ye are.’ He took her hand between his. He had strong hands, calloused and scarred. The hands of a man who worked hard for a living. The hands of a warrior, too. Donald’s skills with the broadsword were legendary. It was something she had liked about him before.

  She tried to pull away, but his grip on her tightened. ‘Donald, you mistake the situation.’

  ‘There’s nothing to mistake. We are betrothed. It is high time you showed willing.’

  She did not like being in the room alone with him in this way. Though the table had not been cleared, she had no doubt that her mother had left instructions with the servants not to disturb them. The room was in the square tower, in the oldest part of the building, where the walls were almost a foot thick. No one would hear her. With Alasdhair away at the smiddy, there was no one to rescue her.

  ‘I am very tired, Donald, it’s been an exhausting few days,’ Ailsa said a little desperately.

  ‘Is it wooing ye want? I didnae think you were one for pretty speeches and the like, but if that’s what it takes, you must know that I think you a fine-looking woman.’

  ‘Donald, I ca
n’t …’

  He gave an exasperated sigh. ‘And were you not such a fine-looking woman with such a big dowry, I don’t doubt I’d be looking elsewhere for a wife.’

  ‘Donald, I’m sorry, but that’s exactly what you are going to have to do. We have made a mistake. I have made a mistake. It is all my fault. I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, but we are not suited.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that. I’ve brought more spirited fillies to heel than you. Come now, lass, don’t be shy,’ Donald said with a smile that was meant to be reassuring. ‘A strong hand on the rein and a sure seat in the saddle is what it takes, and I have both.’

  ‘Donald, you must listen to me. I don’t want to marry you. I can’t marry you.’

  ‘That is not what your mother tells me.’

  ‘She is wrong. She doesn’t understand.’

  ‘I think she understands you very well. What you need is taking in hand.’ He edged her back against the wall. ‘You are to be my wife, Ailsa, best you learn now that I will brook no refusals.’

  ‘Donald, please don’t do this.’

  But the Laird of Ardkinglass was deaf to her protests. ‘Haud your wheesht, ‘tis not words I’m wanting from that mouth of yours.’ He kissed her, his mouth hard and hot on hers. His tongue and his hands were like an invasion. She tried to push him away, but her flailing blows were no match for Donald’s superior strength. He held her easily, though she fought him with all her strength. His hand on her breast was like a vice. Her mouth was suffocated by his. He yanked painfully at her hair to angle her head. She tried to kick his shins, but she was pressed hard against the wall. She managed to free one hand and ripped her nails into his face.

  Donald gave a cry of fury and cursed viciously. Touching his finger to his cheek, he stared in astonishment at the blood she had drawn.

  Ailsa began to edge away from him, heading for the door. Donald took a step towards her, then stopped. ‘A wild cat. Who’d have thought it, with that frigid mother of yours?’

  Ailsa grabbed the door and ran, crying and panting with relief and fright, back to the sanctuary of her bedchamber. In the dining room, Donald mopped his face with a discarded napkin. There would be time enough to tame her, but tame her he would, and soon. It would be a challenge he would enjoy, he thought with relish. With a grim smile, he tossed back a fortifying glass of claret, before ringing the bell.

  ‘Tell Lady Munro that I am of a mind to do as she suggested,’ Donald told the servant. ‘Tonight.’ Then he headed out to the stables in search of his groom.

  Pacing backwards and forwards between the window and the fireplace as the dawn light crept across the ocean, Ailsa watched the fishing fleet make its way out to sea. Her head felt as if Hamish Sinclair was pounding her brain with the smiddy hammer.

  Until today, she had not disliked Donald. On the contrary, she had genuinely believed he had all the attributes of a good husband. Seeing him again, she was taken aback at the degree to which her feelings for him had changed. The very idea of being intimate with him appalled her. He looked at her without really seeing her, he heard her conversation without listening. Save for their heritage, they had nothing in common.

  Yet it was their heritage that, according to her mother, would guarantee the success of their marriage. That, and Ailsa’s recognising that entering into such a marriage was her duty. She had not realised, until she started to question it, how strongly entrenched her own acceptance of such a rationale had been. She had not realised until tonight just how successful her mother had been in moulding her in her own image, playing on Ailsa’s insecurities in order to do so. How successful, too, in making her subdue her own wants and inclinations—in making her feel guilty for having them in the first place!

  Tonight had been a revelation in more ways than one. She was not made like her mother, no matter how much she resembled her. The relief of that was so intense that for sometime it obscured the pain of the consequences. She was not made like her mother; she could not be like her. The reservations she had been unable to express, which had been fluttering on the periphery of her consciousness ever since she had finally agreed to marry Donald, now coalesced into tangible objections.

  She did not love him and would not bring children into the world that were the product of a loveless marriage. She would not immolate herself on the altar of duty, either. Respect and loyalty to her kin and to her clan she owed, but without integrity, they were meaningless.

  She did not love, but she was capable of it. That was the thing her mother couldn’t understand. She could, if she let herself, and knowing that she could glimpse happiness. And it made the notion of casting the hope of it aside an outrage. She would not sacrifice herself. Her mother could not understand that, but finally, with a clarity that was dazzling, Ailsa did.

  Which begged the question. Why?

  Ailsa curled up on the window seat, hugging her nightgown around her knees. She knew why. And so, frighteningly, did Lady Munro.

  Alasdhair.

  Alasdhair, whose kisses she could not help but compare to Donald’s. Whose touch made her want to beg for more, not scream for release. Whose honourable restraint she could not but contrast with Donald’s ignoble compulsion.

  Lady Munro had noticed. Had Alasdhair? Was that why he had so tactfully warned her off? He cared, but he would never care enough, that’s what he’d said. He did not want her for a wife. He did not want anyone for a wife. On that point, her mother was right to caution her. She would do well not to build her happiness around a dream that would never become a reality.

  But her feelings for Alasdhair had already set her upon the road to happiness—or away from the road to unhappiness, perhaps. His return had forced her to look closely at her life. He it was who had made her realise just how fully she had shut her emotions down. He had roused her from her cocoon. She would not return to it. It was that that she must cling to, to give her the courage to stick to her decision not to marry Donald.

  The final lonely star faded from the night sky as the last of the fishing boats turned into a dot on the horizon. Ailsa returned to her bed, curling up under the covers, shivering with the cold. She had been right after all, thinking Alasdhair portended change. The thought made her smile. She had no idea what the future held, but at the moment it was enough to know that a loveless marriage was one of the things it did not.

  Tomorrow he would say goodbye and be off in search of his mother. She wouldn’t think of that right now. Too painful. Strange, that her own mother had hinted at reconciliation, too. If she was not careful, she would start to feel sorry for her. It was obvious, despite all her claims, that Lady Munro was a deeply unhappy person. Why had she not seen that either, until now? Perhaps she had been too hard on her mother tonight? Perhaps this time she really meant it. It didn’t matter, after all, what put it in her mind. It was a risk worth taking. Tomorrow—today—Ailsa thought sleepily, she would ask her if she meant it. And she would enlist Calumn’s help in the matter of her betrothal. Calumn would support her.

  Tomorrow Alasdhair would be gone. Don’t think about that. Ailsa fell into a troubled sleep.

  A short while later, a noise outside in the corridor roused her. Even as she struggled to full consciousness, the door was flung open and Donald stood on the threshold of her chamber. He was dressed for a journey, in trews and a short jacket over which was pinned his filleadh mòr. His dirk, the long thin knife that no Highlander would travel without, was sheathed in his belt, and his broadsword dangled at his side.

  Ailsa sat up in bed. ‘What on earth do you want? Don’t you dare come in here or I’ll scream.’

  Donald ignored her and marched into the room. Ailsa clutched the bedcovers to her. ‘Get out,’ she said, her voice rising with panic, ‘get out of my bedchamber this instant.’

  ‘Be quiet and get dressed. We’ve not much time,’ Donald said, standing at the foot of her bed.

  In the grey light she could not see his expression clearly, but she did not need to do so to be
afraid. ‘Get out,’ she said again. Realising how vulnerable she was, she scrabbled out of her bed and tried to edge towards the bell pull by the fireplace. If she could just summon one of the servants …

  Donald cut her off. She shrank away from him. ‘What do you want?’ she asked, backing towards the window.

  He smiled. She could see the glint of his teeth. He had very white teeth. ‘Get dressed, Ailsa.’

  He made no attempt to touch her. She was backed up against the window seat. Her bedchamber was on the second floor. She would not survive the jump.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we’re going on a little journey, you and I.’

  ‘Now? It’s the middle of the night.’

  ‘It’s past dawn. The horses are waiting.’

  ‘Where—where are you taking me?’

  ‘Questions, questions. I warn you, Ailsa, I expect my wife to be a little more compliant.’

  ‘Your—I am not going to be your wife, Donald.’ Cold. It was cold. Fear clawed its horny fingers around her heart, squeezing the breath slowly from her.

  ‘By the time I’m finished with you, you’ll think yourself lucky to call yourself my wife. You think I’m likely to forget the way you behaved last night? I am McNair of Ardkinglass—no one says me nay. I shall have you, Ailsa Munro, and if you please me, I’ll gie you my wedding ring. But if you do not …’ He unsheathed his dirk so quickly she realised what he had done only when the sharp point touched the exposed skin under her chin. ‘So, you would do well to please me, my dear. Now put your clothes on or I will take you as you are.’

  She did not doubt for a moment that he would make good his threats. It was obvious now that her mother was intent on a wedding at all costs. That Lady Munro was at the very least aware of Donald’s plan to abduct her daughter, Ailsa did not question. He would have bound and gagged her by now if he was not certain that no one would come to her rescue.

  Shaking, Ailsa pushed the dirk away from her throat. The blade was so sharp that it sliced open her finger. Blood dripped on to the polished floorboards. She put her finger in her mouth. The metallic taste of her own life force trickled on to her tongue. She saw Donald watching her. Saw he found her action arousing and hastily withdrew her finger. ‘Turn your back.’