by Amy Jarecki
Andrew folded his arms and didn’t budge. “This is not my home.”
A pained expression of hurt stretched the lady’s features before she turned on the pretense of looking to the shore. Lachlan’s gut twisted in a knot. If he didn’t have to jump over nine rowing benches and jockey around twenty guardsmen, running the risk of being hit in the head by a swinging boom, he’d march over there and introduce the whelp to a knuckle sandwich. He groaned. Though deep down he wanted to slap the lad until he begged for mercy, Lachlan’s training forbade it. Aye, he could defend himself, but he couldn’t be the aggressor. Sooner or later, Andrew would snap. He had to, because Lachlan was too bloody close to snapping himself. If the little shit didn’t learn a modicum of respect, Lachlan couldn’t be held accountable for his actions.
The breeze pushed back Christina’s hood, picked up her dreary veil and whisked it from her head. By some miracle, it sailed directly into Lachlan’s hands. He turned to Hamish and held it up. But before the guard could say anything, her ladyship’s voice rang out. “Please, I cannot possibly arrive at the castle with my tresses flapping in the wind like a young maid.”
Hamish nodded. “Just keep your head down.” Then he motioned to the sailor controlling the sail ropes. “Tack north.”
No one on the planet could have convinced Lachlan that Hamish hadn’t ordered the boom to swing just as he was about to cross the hull. He’d already taken two whacks to the head and he wasn’t about to take another.
“Jibe-ho,” shouted the man with the ropes.
How the hell was Lachlan supposed to know what jibe-ho meant? Well, he did now, and he crouched as low as he could while he crawled over the benches. He was rewarded with a smile from Christina, strained as it might be. Even when she was stressed to her limits, the woman looked cuter than a pixie covered with morning dew. She draped the grey veil over her head and tried to cover her hair, but it wasn’t playing nice. Ringlets of dark chocolate curls danced with the wind. Lachlan clasped his hands together to keep from cupping her face between his palms and planting a very inappropriate kiss on her lips. Such an outward display of affection would be frowned upon by everyone, especially Andrew.
No, Lachlan needed to keep his distance. The slip the other day wouldn’t happen again. Christ, he could never, ever crawl into the woman’s bed, not ever again. It didn’t matter that he’d passed out and someone had carried him there. Nope. He shouldn’t have ended up in her goddamned bed. Admiring Christina de Moray from afar must suffice. Eventually, this nightmare, or whatever it was, would be over and he’d go home to clean up the shambles of his life. This wasn’t his time. He had a job to do in mentoring Andrew and once the lad figured out who really loved him, Lachlan knew without a shadow of a doubt he’d be whisked back to the future just like his mum had been.
As they sailed onto the beach, clansmen, women and children lined the shore, all shouting their welcomes and waving their arms. They all looked like hearty stock, stout and rosy cheeked. The women wore muted kirtles with plaid arisaids pinned around their shoulders or draped over their heads. The men dressed in all manner of colorful plaid. Some wore trews, many in furs and others with woolen plaids belted around their waists. Cavemen came to mind.
Perhaps that’s a bit harsh.
After the men had pulled the boat onto the shore, Christina stood on a rowing bench and held up her hands. “I am elated to tell ye my son, Andrew, has been returned to us.”
The crowd erupted with boisterous shouts and applause.
She waited with her hands folded until the noise ebbed. “I also want to introduce Sir Lachlan Wallace, my new champion.”
When she gestured to him, Lachlan bowed his head, though his welcome came more in the form of murmurs and curious stares.
But that didn’t dissuade Christina. She clapped, pasting on a brilliant smile. “Thank ye all so much for your warm welcome. Your greeting means the world to me and to celebrate the heir’s return to Ormond, we will have a grand feast!”
***
Christina sat at the high table and looked out over the noisy hall. It had been a long time since she’d had family sit with her. Aye, there had been guests and Hamish always joined her even though he wasn’t of noble birth. But tonight, he joined his family at the table close to the dais. Andrew sat to Christina’s right. One day he would take up his mantle and occupy her chair—the chieftain’s seat—though not yet. Sir Lachlan sat on Andrew’s other side. They all faced the clan, as was traditional. Before her husband’s death, there had been many feasts where both sides of the table had been filled with happy and boisterous kin. Honestly, before King Robert liberated Ormond Castle, there had been few visitors aside from the clansmen and women under de Moray protection who lived and worked on the surrounding crofts or held positions in the castle. A prisoner in her own home with an English retinue of rude and obnoxious English sentries patrolling her curtain walls, her son held captive beyond the border, there was no reason to celebrate anything.
Now that she was home among the happy faces of her clan, she wanted to sing of joy and dance all night. If only Andrew were content to be among his kin again. If only those conniving English brutes had left him alone. But they had filled him with false hope and lies. With no one to show him the truth, why wouldn’t a child believe his captors? Why wouldn’t he try to impress them and better his station in life? Andrew was a de Moray. He naturally would rise above his lot and work to earn respect and honor, even if he wasn’t entirely certain what those words meant.
Yet.
And I aim to make this a Yule celebration my son will never forget.
When the doors from the kitchen opened, children ran and squealed in anticipation of a hearty feast of roast pork and applesauce. Christina couldn’t help her chuckle, though Andrew grumbled beside her. She gave him a nudge. “We have fifty breeding sows, a thousand head of sheep and two-thousand head of stocky Highland cattle.”
“Have ye counted them lately?” asked Andrew.
“I haven’t. We employ herdsmen to the task.”
Andrew held up his palms and scoffed like a highbrowed snob. “I wouldn’t trust a one of them.”
Fortunately, Tearlach offered her first pick from the trencher of meat. Pointing, she forced a smile. “The end piece with all the spices baked into the rind for me, thank ye.”
“And some applesauce?”
“Of course.”
Christina waited while Andrew was served, but her son started eating before Lachlan had selected his. “’Tis proper manners to wait until everyone at the table is served afore ye start in.”
Andrew looked up. “Only in Scotland.”
“Actually, if Lord de Vere had given ye proper training, ye would have found manners much the same throughout Christendom.” Christina leaned forward. “Do ye not agree, Sir Lachlan?”
The knight held up his new eating knife. “Wholeheartedly. Manners were drilled into me from a young age.”
Andrew shook his head and shoveled food into his mouth.
Christina cringed, watching him from the corner of her eye while she cut her meat and carefully pulled each bite from her knife. Perhaps she shouldn’t say anything about etiquette until Andrew had a chance to settle in.
“Our crops are extensive as well,” she said. “Wheat, oats, barley and hops, and all manner of vegetables.”
“Lots of things to dry and can for winter.” Lachlan swirled a bite of pork in applesauce. “And an apple orchard, I’d guess.”
“Indeed,” Christina said, thrilled someone was engaging. Even if Andrew sat there like a lump, he still had ears. “We have apple trees, hazelnuts, walnuts, plums, and my favorite, raspberries.” She held up her tankard of ale. “And Angus is our brewer and winemaker.” She took a long drink. “He can work miracles.”
Andrew picked up his tankard and guzzled. “Hmm. If ye drink it fast, ye cannot taste the piss.”
Christina drew her hand to her chest, her tongue growing dry with her revulsion.
“Enough of your disrespectful rubbish.” Lachlan used his fingers to flick the back of Andrew’s head—nothing that would hurt, but a gesture clearly expressing disapproval. “This woman’s your mother and you’ll pay her due respect or we don’t have a deal.”
Andrew clamped his lips shut, shooting Christina the most hateful glare she’d seen since the English were booted out of her castle. She ate in silence for a time, until someone came into the hall and announced snow had begun to fall. Truly, she couldn’t stay upset for long, not with Yule around the corner. Taking advantage of the welcome news, she clapped. “We must make a Yule log and green the castle. It will be Christmas in a fortnight.”
The lad beside her snorted. “Why bother? This crumbling old keep is so dank and cold, nothing could make it inviting.”
“Where the hell did you come up with that line of tripe?” Lachlan grabbed Andrew’s wrist and bent it downward until the lad grew red in the face and began to pant. “I’m not going to say it again. You treat your mother disrespectfully and I’ll treat you ten times worse. Do you understand?”
“Y-y-y-y-yes,” the lad said, his face redder than the scarlet comforter on Christina’s bed. “Let. Go.”
“Stop,” she whispered. “People are beginning to stare. Dunna make a show in front of the clan.”
“This is only temporary pain.” Lachlan gave her a glare of his own and didn’t let up. “But are you suggesting I can kick his bony bum when no one is looking?”
Gasping, Andrew practically fell under the table, bending downward in the direction of his wrist.
Christina pursed her lips. “No,” she clipped.
Releasing his grip, Lachlan nudged the lad in the shoulder. “Don’t grow too confident. Your ass is mine for an entire year.”
Andrew rubbed his wrist. “And I’ll put ye on the meanest stallion in my mother’s stable.”
Lachlan raised his hands and beckoned with his fingers. “Bring it on.”
Christina sighed and rolled her gaze to the rafters. Sir Lachlan had been awfully brash with the lad since he’d stopped him from running away. They’d struck up some sort of agreement where Andrew would teach Lachlan to ride and he, in turn, would train Andrew how to be a knight. She approved for the most part. She even liked the fact that the man had demanded respect from her son, but must he do it so forcefully?
Fortunately, Christina was spared from having to answer or further ponder his question when Kenneth, the clan bard asked to climb the steps to the dais.
“Please do,” she beckoned him. “And what story will ye tell us this eve?”
Kenneth looked to Andrew. “I believe ’tis time for the heir to hear how his father took Urquhart Castle from the English overlord, Edward the Longshanks.”
The hall erupted in applause while Andrew now turned a shade of white.
Impressed with Kenneth’s choice, Christina joined in the applause and motioned for him to continue. Andrew needed to hear the true tale of his father’s heroics by someone other than herself and this was a fine place to begin.
A short man with wild eyes and furry all over, Kenneth stepped forward and spread his arms wide. “The death of King Alexander III in the year of our Lord twelve-eighty-six marked the opportunity England had been waiting for to invade Scotland. Licking his chops, Edward the Longshanks rode his black steed across the border and claimed he was rightful suzerain over our kingdom.
“With no forthright heir to the throne of Scotland, the tyrant king took it upon himself to appoint the weaker John Balliol, Lord of Galloway, to rule our lands. Balliol was considered the least likely to pose a threat to England, though everyone knew the better candidate was the powerful, Lord Bruce of Annandale, grandfather of King Robert the Bruce.”
“Here, here,” came bellows from the clan.
“Immediately, Longshanks began his humiliation of Balliol, issuing personal insults and demanding public demonstrations of fealty. Adding to the outrage, the Scots were used like pawns and forced to fight England’s battles on the continent. When Balliol tried to fight back, the evil English king sent his army to sack Berwick.”
Kenneth eyed Andrew with a ferocious glare. “No mercy was shown and the English took no prisoners. The slaughter continued for three days. The atrocity of Edward’s barbarism is still remembered to this day.”
With an enormous sigh, Kenneth faced the crowd. “After Balliol abdicated, Edward marched his army northward, killing and pillaging as they laid waste to the land. In the north they took Urquhart Castle, gateway of trade with the south. He nearly starved us out of existence.”
The bard continued the tale, “He imprisoned the great Sir Andrew de Moray in Chester Castle, but he couldn’t hold our leader for long. Sir Andrew dug his way beneath the curtain walls, stole away north on a farmer’s hay wagon. After weeks of running and hiding, the great knight pounded on Ormond Castle’s gates.”
The clanspeople cheered.
“Wasting no time, he brought together the de Moray army and marched to Urquhart Castle. For days, he laid siege to the fortress, with nothing but bowmen and a single trebuchet catapult. Sir Andrew and his warriors drove the English south, liberating Scottish keeps and villages in their wake until the met up with William Wallace in Scone.” Kenneth peered over at Andrew as he spoke.
“Together they formed an alliance and beat Longshanks in Stirling. That’s when our great and powerful chieftain took an arrow for his kingdom and lovely Lady Christina laid him to rest three months hence.”
Kenneth again looked to Andrew, who sat upright, his expression unreadable. “Your da was a warrior of great repute, respected by the hero, William Wallace. Together they fought the most powerful army in Christendom and won. It wasn’t the end of the dark times for the kingdom, but their victory was a call to arms throughout the land. And now that the Bruce was victorious at Bannockburn, we are free men once again.”
Kenneth gave Christina a wink and bowed.
The hall erupted with applause. Christina grinned as wide as she could. The two men dining with her this eve could not have been more different. Andrew was again red in the face and Lachlan was slapping his hands together and whistling for more.
Andrew slammed his fist on the table, making the hall go suddenly quiet. “Ye are all wrong. My father was a traitor and my mother a whore. Lord de Vere said Scottish varlets shag their mothers and know no honor.”
Lachlan sprang to his feet, grasping Andrew by the shoulder. “That’s enough. You do not go into someone’s house and tell them they’re cheats and liars.”
Andrew jerked his shoulder from the knight’s grasp. “But ’tis true. Everyone wants me to be happy to be here. But this is not my home. These are not my people and she is no mother to me—and ye—ye are nothing but a charlatan.”
Lachlan’s face grew dark, his mouth in a hard line. “You want to become a knight?”
“I will become a knight. Lord de Vere promised.”
“Well then your training starts here and now.” Lachlan grabbed Andrew’s wrist and pulled him toward the steps. “Clear the tables!”
Christina clasped her hands over her heart. “Please, do not hurt him!”
Glancing back, Lachlan met her gaze. “I’ll make sure he lives.”
Christina wanted to scream—tell the man he was overreacting to an adolescent’s outburst. “But—”
“M’lady,” Hamish bellowed from the floor. “May I have permission to join ye?”
Sinking back into her seat, she nodded.
“The only reason I haven’t planted my boot in the lad’s arse is on account he’s your son.” Her old man-at-arms approached.
“He’s awful, is he not?”
“He’s foolish.” Hamish took the seat to her left. “And I dunna envy the task to bring him around.”
Down below, Lachlan held up his fists to his face, circling her poor son. “Come now, show me what you’ve got.”
The lad clenched his fists, but too low to protect his face
from a strike. Clearly he had little training. “I could kill ye.” Though he lacked nothing in insolence.
“I doubt that.” Lachlan nodded. “Give me your best.”
Roaring like a braying bull, Andrew lunged in with a jab to the jaw. The big man caught Andrew’s fist midair and flipped the lad on his back, the floorboards thudding with a bang. Clutching his chest, the child gasped like he couldn’t breathe.
“Get up,” Lachlan demanded, pacing back and forth.
“I c-can’t,” Andrew shouted between gasps.
“No?” Lachlan bent down, grabbed the boy by the shoulders and stood him on his feet. “I’ll give you until the count of ten to catch your breath, then we go again.”
Christina sat clutching her arms across her midriff. “I canna bear this.”
Hamish placed his hand on her shoulder. “Whatever ye feel inside, do not interfere. This is for the lad’s own good.”
Clenching every muscle in her body, her stomach roiled while she watched Andrew rush toward Lachlan with attack after attack, only to be thwarted every time.
“I hate ye, ye evil tyrant.” Andrew yanked a dirk from Kenneth’s belt, raised it over his head and charged.
Stepping to the side, Lachlan swept the dirk into his hand as if by magic and spun Andrew into a strangle hold, inclining the knife to the lad’s neck. “Apologize to your mother.”
The boy shook his head vehemently. “I cannot.”
“Do it now,” growled the knight. “Or I’ll cut out your tongue and make sure you never speak another word.”
“Damn ye.” Andrew struggled, glaring at her. “I’m sorry for calling ye a whore.”
Lachlan tightened his grip. “Not good enough.”
Tears streamed from Christina’s eyes. “Please, stop.”
Lachlan ignored her. “Apologize!” he bellowed so loudly the chandeliers overhead seemed to shudder.
“Please!” Christina pleaded.
“Do it!” Lachlan didn’t give an inch.
