At the sight of his nephew, a wave of hatred washed through him. Rory was so much like his father, Hector’s arrogant half-brother. Rory brought no men with him, as if to tell the world he feared no one. MacKenzie warriors respected that brazen fearlessness.
And the lasses were drawn to it like moths to a flame, as evidenced by the lass on the back of Rory’s horse. Even from this distance, Hector could tell she was a beauty. A memory of Rory’s mother with her hair flying out behind her as she galloped her horse struck him like a hot poker in his eye.
He had seen Agnes Fraser first, had pointed her out to his brother. She was meant to be his. Instead, she chose his brother. Years later, when she humiliated him again, he made her pay for it and took what she would not give him. But it was not the same, and even in death, he could not forgive her.
The son she loved so much would suffer for the pain she caused him. He clenched his fists as he recalled the grave wrong Rory himself had done to him. Never again.
Hector’s mood lifted as he watched Rory shake his fist and shout at the guards to no avail. Ha, this is only the beginning of your disappointments, nephew.
Rory was obstinate as hell, a fierce warrior, and a crafty opponent. Unlike Brian, who was weak and easy to manipulate, this nephew would be a challenge.
Hector lifted his cup to the window. Rory would test his skills, which would make crushing him all the more satisfying.
***
Rory’s temper rose as the guards kept him waiting in front of the castle gate.
“I am Rory Ian MacKenzie, the son and brother of MacKenzie chieftains, as ye well know,” he shouted, and shook his fist. “Open the damned gate!”
Angus Macrae, the captain of the guard at the castle, appeared on the wall.
“My apologies, Rory Ian MacKenzie,” Angus called down, “but I cannot let ye inside.”
“Have ye lost your wits?” Rory shouted back. “It would be foolish to challenge the MacKenzie clan.”
“Aye, it would,” Angus said. “’Tis not my intention.”
“Then explain yourself.”
“Hector of Gairloch has ordered us not to open the gates to ye.”
Rory should have known Hector was behind this. “Hector is not the chieftain of the MacKenzie clan. He has no right to deny me entry to any MacKenzie castle!”
Fury burned through him. Hector had used the time of Brian’s minority to establish himself in the minds of their clansmen as the only man who could lead them. When the king demanded a hostage from every Highland chieftain’s family to assure their clan’s good behavior, Hector had sent the young chieftain to Edinburgh when he could have easily sent another. Brian was held there for two years, giving Hector a free hand.
“Hector gave the order on the MacKenzie’s behalf,” the Macrae called down.
“He no longer has the right to issue orders in my brother’s name,” Rory shouted.
Brian had failed to put Hector in his place after he came of age, and that had been the source of all conflict between Rory and his brother. Hector was a wolf in the guise of a loyal dog. Brian, along with most of the clan, failed to see that Hector’s intent was to undermine the young chieftain’s authority and hold power himself at all costs.
“My brother would never agree to such an order!” Rory had to believe that. Though they had exchanged angry words, Brian knew Rory only meant the best for him.
When Macrae turned to confer with one of his men, Rory hoped he was finally recognizing the seriousness of his error.
While the Macrae commander was distracted, one of the other guards, a man Rory had fought with at Flodden, took the opportunity to draw his finger across his throat and nod toward the hills in a clear signal that Rory was in danger and should flee. Apparently, he had at least one ally among the Macraes.
Rory wanted to pound his fists against the gate and challenge the guards to try to take him. But the soft warmth of Sybil’s body pressed against his back penetrated his violent thoughts and reminded him that she was in danger too.
Without hesitating another moment, he turned Curan and galloped back across the bridge.
CHAPTER 15
Sybil held on tight as they galloped at breakneck speed across the bridge and down the trail along the shore. She barely held back a shriek when Rory abruptly turned Curan and they plunged into the woods.
After a while, she realized they were following a trail, but it was so old and overgrown that the tree branches slapped at her legs. Someone would have to know about this trail to find it.
“What happened back there?” Sybil asked when Rory finally slowed the horse to a trot. “Why wouldn’t they let us in the castle?”
“I don’t know yet,” Rory said. “But we must be well out of sight before the Macraes decide they ought to try to capture us.”
Capture us?
Rory offered no more explanation. His continued silence and relentless pace sent tendrils of fear through her. After following the little-used track over hills and valleys for several miles, they came to a cottage with a sagging thatched roof.
The cottage looked exactly how she imagined the one belonging to the old hag who turned into a witch in the tales her nursemaid told them as children. Sybil sucked in her breath when a gray-haired woman hobbled out the door with the aid of a cane.
“Ye know this place?” she whispered to Rory.
“Aye,” he said. “A man I can trust lives here.”
Sybil hoped he was right.
“So you’ve come at last, Rory Ian MacKenzie,” the woman chided Rory in Gaelic as they dismounted. “We’ve been worried sick about ye.”
“’Tis good to see ye, Grizel.” Rory kissed her cheek.
A man with a shock of white hair and the frame of a still-powerful warrior emerged from the cottage. He and Rory gripped forearms in greeting.
“Guma slàn dhuibh,” health to you both, Rory said.
“Praise God you’ve returned,” the man said. “Have ye just come from Eilean Donan?”
“Aye,” Rory said. “I was refused entry.”
“’Tis as I feared,” the older man said. “Come inside. I’ve much news to tell ye.”
It must be very bad news for the old couple to dispense with the customary greetings and barely spare her a glance.
“This is Sybil.” Rory took her hand and drew her to his side. “We’ll need to speak in English for her.”
The man gave Sybil a curt nod, and his wife kept her worried gaze fixed on Rory.
“This is Malcolm, a famed MacKenzie warrior who fought at my grandfather’s right hand and served on my father’s council,” Rory continued. “And this is his wife, Grizel, who is famed in her own right as a healer.”
“Now, laddie,” Grizel said, taking Rory’s arm, “ye best sit down to hear this.”
The doorway into the cottage was so low that even Sybil had to duck her head when she followed them inside. The cottage was surprisingly clean and cozy, considering that half of it served as a stall for their cow.
“Is this about Brian?” Rory asked as soon as he dutifully sat on the too-small stool that Grizel led him to. “Where is my brother? I thought he’d be at Eilean Donan.”
Malcolm took a stool facing Rory, while his wife stirred a pot that hung over the hearth. As there was no place else to sit, Sybil perched on the edge of the bed built into the corner.
“I’ll tell it to ye from the beginning, as I learned it,” Malcolm said. “Brian came here, mayhaps a fortnight ago, asking where ye were. He was desperate to speak with ye.”
“What did he want to tell me?”
“Wouldn’t say. When I told him I’d no notion where you’d gone to, he decided to ride on to Killin,” Malcolm said. “He hoped you’d either be there or that your sister Catriona would know where to find ye.”
“Catriona didn’t know. I didn’t tell anyone,” Rory said. “Did Brian say anything else?”
“Aye,” Malcolm said. “After Killin, he planned to travel to Edinbur
gh.”
“Edinburgh!” Rory ran his hands through his hair. “How did he guess that’s where I’d gone?”
“Is that where ye went?” Malcolm shot a searching glance at Sybil. “Nay, Brian had no notion where you’d gone. He had his own reasons for traveling to Edinburgh.”
“O shluagh, what was he thinking?” Rory said. “Brian knows it’s dangerous for him to set foot off MacKenzie lands. How many warriors did he take as his guard?”
“Only a few of the younger men, including one of my grandsons,” Malcolm said. “Your cousin Farquhar Mackintosh was with him as well.”
“Ach, Farquhar has no business going to the Lowlands either. He’s wanted for the same offense as Brian.” Rory stood and darted glances around the small cottage like a caged animal. “I must go after my brother.”
When his gaze caught Sybil’s, his expression grew more troubled.
“I can’t take her with me,” Rory said in Gaelic to Malcolm. “The journey here was too grueling to subject her to it all again. Besides, Edinburgh is as dangerous for her as it is for Brian.”
Sybil tensed. Was he going to abandon her here?
“I haven’t time to take her to Killin to stay with my sister.” As he glanced around Malcolm’s humble cottage again, he looked as uneasy as she felt at the prospect of leaving her here. “I’ll only be gone for a few weeks.”
A few weeks? The thought of being separated from him made her throat close in panic. She was about to object—and reveal that she understood what he said in Gaelic—when Malcolm spoke again.
“You’re needed here at home,” he said, resting his hand on Rory’s shoulder. “I haven’t told ye the worst of it yet.”
The catch in Malcolm’s voice alarmed Sybil even more than his words. The older man’s broad shoulders seemed to slump as if under a weight, and a deep sadness filled his eyes.
“Your brother Brian is dead.”
CHAPTER 16
Rory’s chest felt too tight to breathe. Claws of grief sank into his belly and tore his guts.
“Please, God, not him,” he said. “Brian cannot be dead.”
“He made it past Stirling, but not to Edinburgh,” Malcolm said. “He was killed in the village of Torwood, near Falkirk.”
“Nay, this is a lie devised by Hector.” It had to be. Rory could not let himself believe it, would not believe it. Not without proof.
“I’m sorry, son,” Malcolm said.
“Even if Brian and Farquhar were foolish enough to ride into the Lowlands, that doesn’t mean they’re dead,” he protested. “Brian is probably on his way back now.”
“My grandson who traveled with him rode as hard as he could to bring me the news before Hector learned of it,” Malcolm said. “He was here not more than an hour before you and the lady arrived.”
Rory gripped Malcolm’s arm. “Your grandson saw my brother die with his own eyes?”
“Aye,” Malcolm said.
Rory felt awash in guilt as he accepted the painful truth. “How did it happen?”
“The Laird of Buchanan killed him.”
“What reason could he have to murder Brian?” Rory asked. “We’ve no quarrel with the Buchanans.”
“Some years ago the king issued a proclamation allowing any man who was wanted for a crime to clear his name by bringing another criminal to justice,” Malcolm said. “Buchanan had a murder warrant against him. When he met Brian and Farquhar on the road, he recognized them and recalled their escape from royal custody years before. He decided to deliver them to the crown and be relieved of his own heinous crime.”
“No Highlander would stoop so low,” Rory said.
“Buchanan did.”
“May he burn in everlasting hell.” Rory clenched his fists. He needed to punch something. “How did Buchanan find my brother in Torwood, a place Brian never should have been?”
“I’m afraid that was just bad luck,” Malcolm said. “Buchanan and his men happened to be traveling north on the same road that Brian and his men were traveling south.”
That coincidence struck Rory as odd. Was it just bad luck?
“My grandson says the Buchanan laird pretended friendship when they met,” Malcolm said. “He and his men joined the MacKenzies at the house where they were staying for the night and shared a jug and storytelling with them until late into the evening.”
The bastard had coldly calculated how to put Brian and his men at ease.
“After the MacKenzies went to bed, the Buchanans returned and surrounded the house,” Malcolm continued. “They demanded that your brother and Farquhar surrender.”
“Surrender? Ye said Brian was killed.” Rory’s throat was so tight he could barely get out the words. “What happened?”
“Brian came out of the house brandishing his claymore, and he was cut down.” Malcolm swallowed. “Your cousin Farquhar surrendered after that, and Buchanan took him to Edinburgh to be imprisoned.”
“Your grandson saw Brian fall, but perhaps he was only wounded.” Desperation made Rory grasp at straws. “He could be imprisoned with Farquhar.”
“While my grandson rode here, the others in Brian’s party started for Beauly Priory with Brian’s body, so that he may be buried with your father.”
Rory sank down on the stool and covered his face with his hands. He could not deny the truth. His brother was gone.
“I wish to God I didn’t have to tell ye this last part,” Malcolm said, “but ’tis better that ye hear it from me.”
When Rory looked up and saw tears glistening in the tough old warrior’s eyes, he felt as if a hole had opened in the floor beneath him.
“As proof for the pardon Buchanan sought”—Malcolm paused, struggling to get the words out—“he took your brother’s head to Edinburgh.”
***
Sybil clutched at her skirts. She was at a loss as to what she could do or say to ease Rory’s pain in the face of losing his brother to such a wretched death. His eyes were filled with horror, as if he was watching his brother die and could not stop it.
“I should have been there,” he said, running his hands through his hair. “I could have prevented this. I know I could have.”
In his grief, Rory kept repeating the same words, over and over.
Sybil went to stand beside him and rested her hand on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”
“’Tis my fault he’s dead,” he said. “I failed him.”
“You’re not to blame. He was a grown man,” she said, attempting to soothe him. “He made his own decisions.”
“Ye don’t understand.” Rory turned fierce eyes on her and thumped his fist against his chest as he said, “It was my duty to protect him.”
He got up and stormed out of the cottage. When Sybil started to follow him, Grizel held her arm in a surprisingly strong grip.
“Give the lad a bit of time,” Grizel said. “He’s had a bad shock.”
“Trust my wife on this, lass,” Malcolm said, nodding. “We’ve known Rory since he was a babe.”
“We didn’t give the lad a chance to tell us anything about you.” Grizel eyed Sybil up and down. “So who are ye to our Rory?”
“I’m…I’m…” Sybil hesitated, not sure how to describe herself in a way that would explain her traveling alone with Rory.
She could see from Grizel’s sour expression that the woman’s opinion of her was sinking lower the longer Sybil failed to answer. Though Sybil normally could spout white lies when the situation called for it, she found herself unable to lie to this old couple who were obviously very fond of Rory.
Finally she settled on, “Rory signed a marriage contract to wed me.”
That was true as far as it went. She could not very well tell them the full truth—that the contract was a fraud and Rory did not know it.
“You’re Rory’s bride?” Malcolm said.
Again, Sybil could not bring herself to lie outright, so she smiled and let them draw their own conclusions.
“Well then, Rory
won’t have to sleep with the cow tonight after all,” his wife said. “The two of ye can share the loft.”
“They won’t be staying the night,” Malcolm said. “Rory will want to be on his way to Castle Leod.”
Sybil glanced over her shoulder toward the door, wondering if it was too soon to go to him. “Why does Rory blame himself for his brother’s death? He wasn’t even there.”
“Brian was a kindhearted lad, well liked by all,” Grizel said as she resumed stirring the pot that hung over the hearth fire. “But he was too trusting by half. Rory was always the strong one.”
“I don’t like speaking ill of the dead, but Brian never had the makings of a chieftain.” Malcolm found his pipe on the table, lit it with a bit of kindling he held over the hearth fire, and sat down again. “If Rory had wanted it, I believe the clan would have chosen him over Brian when their father died, but Rory always insisted that the chieftainship rightly belonged to Brian.”
“Loyal to a fault, that one.” The old woman pointed her wooden spoon at Sybil. “That suited Hector. He knew he could control Brian.”
“The two lads were only fifteen when their father died. Hector, as the closest adult kinsman and a man of great experience, was given the role of tutor to the young chieftain,” Malcolm said around the pipe clenched between his teeth. “After Brian came of age, Hector continued to hold the reins.”
“And Brian let him,” his wife put in. “That’s what caused the strife between the two brothers.”
“Ach, Rory will have a fight on his hands now,” Malcolm said.
“What fight is that?” Sybil asked, though she thought she knew.
“To take his place as the next MacKenzie chieftain.” Malcolm paused to draw on his pipe. “After years of ruling in Brian’s name, Hector won’t let go easily.”
“Rory has the better claim,” Grizel said, “being both Brian’s heir and his father’s eldest living son.”
Sybil struggled to absorb the news that Rory was about to become chieftain of a powerful Highland clan.
This changed everything.
CLAIMED BY A HIGHLANDER (THE DOUGLAS LEGACY Book 2) Page 11
