No Other Highlander

by Adrienne Basso

  “One of us has to be,” Malcolm replied. “Or else we have all witnessed a miracle of conception.”

  “There might be another explanation,” Joan ventured. Before he could open his mouth to ask, Joan raised her hand to stay his questions. “I need to speak with Brienne and her sisters first. Give me an hour; then meet me in the chapel.”

  “The chapel?”

  “Aye. Though Father John tries his best, ’tis a seldom used building. ’Tis the only place that I can think of where we can speak openly without being overheard.”

  Malcolm nodded—reluctantly—and Joan was pleased to discover that he trusted her. Carrying her basket of medicines, she left, and after an enlightening discussion with the MacPhearson women, Joan arrived at the chapel an hour later.

  The church was shrouded in gloomy light when she entered, though Joan soon noticed a hulking shadow near the altar. Malcolm. She hurried forward, then stiffened, her footsteps halting. He wasn’t alone.

  Her heart tripped in a fearful rhythm until she realized the two men huddled with him were his father and brother. Of course! Malcolm respected and honored his father and the McKenna always showed great concern over the welfare of his children. It stood to reason that he would be there.

  Alas, her own experience was quite the opposite. The last person in the world she could turn to when faced with adversity would be her father.

  All three men faced her as she approached; Malcolm with curious interest, James with mistrust, and the McKenna with a fierce scowl. Joan took a steadying breath, praying that she had not misjudged the McKennas. Powerful men were often looking for someone to blame and women were always a convenient target.

  “Well, lass, we’ve gathered here like a group of docile sheep, just as ye ordered. What do ye have to tell us?” the McKenna inquired.

  Despite his acid tone, Joan was rather impressed that the McKenna was able to hold on to his famous temper. “I’ve spoken with Brienne and her sisters. Though she fears her father’s wrath, she’s agreed to explain why she claims that Malcolm sired her child.”

  “She admitted to ye that she lied?” James asked.

  “Brienne acted in good faith,” Joan replied. “But there is more to the story and I’ve convinced her the only way to resolve this dilemma is to confess all.”

  The men were momentarily bewildered by her cryptic response. James narrowed his eyes; Malcolm cocked his head; the McKenna drew his scowling brows tighter.

  “What did Brienne confess?” the McKenna asked impatiently.

  Frowning, Joan peered up at him. “I’ll tell ye what I’ve learned, but first ye must all swear an oath.”

  The McKenna furrowed his forehead suspiciously. “What sort of oath?”

  Joan flushed. She was used to challenging strong-willed men and conceded that the McKenna’s reputation for intimidation had been well-earned and was not in the least exaggerated. He was the most terrifying man she had ever met. However, she would not falter; she would keep her word to the MacPhearson women.

  “Ye must pledge that no matter what I reveal to ye, ye’ll not seek vengeance against the MacPhearsons,” Joan insisted. “Ye must also pledge that ye will aid Brienne, if the need arises.”

  James’s gasp was audible. “Aid Brienne? We shall do no such thing! The lass started this feud with her lies and accusations.”

  “She dinnae lie,” Joan declared.

  “Are ye saying that Malcolm did?” James protested hotly.

  “Nay. I’m saying ’twas an honest mistake.”

  “How could such a devious lie be an honest mistake?” the McKenna challenged.

  “I’ll explain it all after ye make yer pledge.” Joan lifted her chin at their dubious glares. “Men thirst fer retribution, especially when they believe that their honor has been slighted. Shedding blood between yer clans will accomplish nothing and most likely lead to more bloodshed. Will ye swear not to seek vengeance?”

  The McKenna shook his head slowly. “Ye tie my hands with this demand, lass.”

  Joan sighed. “Aye, ’tis indeed the point.”

  The McKenna men exchanged glances. Joan nearly stomped her foot in frustration at their suspicious expressions. She was offering them a solution that would save their honor and their hides. Pray God that they were smart enough to take it.

  There was a bit of low grumbling between them and then Malcolm spoke. “I trust that Joan is doing all that she can to aid us,” he said, breaking away. Standing directly in front of her, he ceremoniously dropped to one knee. “I give ye my pledge.”

  Something snapped inside Joan as she looked down at him—a coil of emotion that felt like pride. No one—especially no man—had ever valued her opinion so highly, had ever trusted her so unconditionally. Straightening her shoulders, she turned toward James and the McKenna.

  They were both staring at Malcolm. James was clearly puzzled by his brother’s gesture; the McKenna seemed even more suspicious.

  “There! Ye have yer pledge,” the McKenna declared with a smug grin. “Now, tell us all.”

  Joan returned his grin with a haughty, accusing glare. “Aye, I have Malcolm’s pledge, but not yers or James’s.”

  “I dance to no one’s tune except my own,” the McKenna insisted, pounding his fist on the altar for emphasis.

  Inwardly, Joan cringed, battling the instinct to shrink away from his fury. For just a moment she considered abandoning her promise to Brienne and telling them everything she had discovered.

  In the past, Joan knew she would never have subjected herself to such a difficult task at the behest of another. And if she had gotten involved, she would have taken the easiest route, spoken her peace, and walked away. Or at the very least, bargained for something that would benefit her, and her alone.

  But she had changed.

  She knew the feeling of being a terrified, powerless woman, beholden to the whims of the men in her life. And she now knew the importance of helping another who suffered the same desperate turmoil. She had promised to aid Brienne and she intended to keep that promise, no matter how long or loud the McKenna shouted.

  Beneath her woolen gown, Joan’s knees trembled, but she raised her chin defiantly. “We’ve called fer another meeting between the McKennas and the MacPhearsons.”

  Disapproval framed the McKenna’s face. “We’ll not be there—we’ve naught left to say.”

  “I agree. But there’s plenty that ye’ll want to hear.” Joan held her breath. “Do I have yer pledge? James?”

  James looked to his brother, then nodded. “Aye.”

  “Laird McKenna?”

  The McKenna squirmed. Clearly annoyed, he finally grumbled, “We pledge no vengeance upon the MacPhearsons. But I’ll be damned if I make the same vow about the Armstrongs!”

  * * *

  Malcolm knew that it was wrong, nay, almost disloyal, to feel such delight watching Joan best his father. Yet it was so eerily similar to the disagreements he had witnessed through the years between his parents, he could not help but smile.

  Joan was fearless in her attitude, passionate in her determination. Malcolm’s admiration for her soared, along with his sincere thanks. He listened carefully to her explanation, impressed at how she had managed to decipher the truth.

  He noted that James and their father were also intently engaged, though their expressions gave no clues to their thinking. ’Twas a great deal to take in and all were silent when Joan finished speaking.

  “Does Laird MacPhearson know this?” Malcolm asked.

  Joan shook her head. “Nay. Brienne feels great shame fer the disgrace she has brought upon the clan and fears her father’s wrath will fall on her son once he learns the truth of the lad’s parentage. ’Tis the reason why it was so important that ye vowed not to seek revenge.”

  “So he’ll be hearing it all fer the first time at this meeting? Do ye think that’s wise?” Malcolm questioned.

  “There’ll be no other men in the chamber except my father, a few MacPhearsons,
and the three of ye when Brienne confesses. We thought that best.”

  “We?”

  “Aye. Myself, Brienne, and her sisters.”

  “Och, so ye’ve got this all planned out, have ye?” the McKenna said.

  Joan nodded.

  James groaned. “God save us all from meddlesome females.”

  “This meddlesome female has most likely prevented a clan war,” Malcolm said with a pleased grin. “We owe Joan our gratitude.”

  “I’ll be saving my thanks until we witness the outcome of this meeting,” the McKenna answered wryly. “When will it take place?”

  Joan cleared her throat. “Now.”

  The McKenna raised his brows. “Ye were very sure of yerself, Joan Armstrong.”

  “I was hopeful, Laird McKenna. Nothing more.”

  The McKenna grunted in disbelief. Malcolm hid another grin and proffered Joan his arm. She accepted it with a nod and led them from the chapel.

  All were grim faced as they entered Laird Armstrong’s solar for the second time that day. Confident that he would be exonerated, Malcolm steadily returned the hard glares of the MacPhearson men without flinching.

  Brienne sat in a chair, her sisters standing immobile beside her, each with a hand on one of her shoulders. She looked slightly lost and very young. Her body tensed every time another person entered the chamber. Fortunately, as Joan had promised, there were not many.

  “Why have ye brought us here again, Armstrong?” Laird MacPhearson asked.

  Laird Armstrong turned in surprise. “I was told that ye—”

  “I sent word on my father’s behalf,” Joan interrupted smoothly. “Brienne has something she needs to tell all of ye.”

  All eyes swung in Brienne’s direction. She paled, looking as though she would bolt if she could only reach the chamber door. Malcolm’s heart softened at her distress and he wondered if she was going to faint again.

  “All will be well,” one of the MacPhearson sisters said, squeezing Brienne’s shoulder in support. “Tell them.”

  Brienne shifted, running her hands up and down her arms as though to warm herself. Finally, she spoke. “The man who wooed me at the fete told me he was Malcolm McKenna.”

  “We’ve already heard these accusations,” Laird Armstrong cried in a huff, rapping his knuckles impatiently on the table. “More than once.”

  “Ye might have heard it, but ye’re not listening,” Joan interrupted. “Brienne said the man told her his name was Malcolm McKenna. Yet once she set eyes upon the true Malcolm McKenna this morning, she realized that he was not the man that had taken her maidenhead.”

  “’Tis why she fainted,” one of the MacPhearson sisters added.

  “Is that true, Brienne?” Laird Armstrong asked.

  “Aye.” Brienne’s reply was so low, ’twas barely audible.

  Laird MacPhearson froze at the confirmation. “Why did ye not tell me, daughter?”

  “I . . . I couldn’t.” Brienne bowed her head and scrubbed away the tears on her face with the heel of her palm. “All these months I told ye ’twas Malcolm McKenna who fathered my babe, because it was what I believed. When I realized my mistake, I knew I’d made a terrible mess of things. I dinnae know how to say that I was wrong. So very wrong.”

  Her voice strained with desperation, clearly heard by all in the chamber. The MacPhearson men shifted uneasily on their feet, refusing to meet Malcolm’s eyes.

  Laird MacPhearson’s shoulders slumped as he abruptly sat, his soft sigh cutting the air. “What’s to be done?”

  “First, we must all agree that Lady Brienne is innocent of any wrongdoing,” Malcolm insisted, glad to see the furrows of shame on Brienne’s face ease a bit.

  “Aye, she showed her true mettle by confessing her error and revealing the truth to one and all,” the McKenna agreed. “We shall not condemn her.”

  “We dinnae want yer pity,” Laird MacPhearson said proudly.

  “I’m not offering it,” Malcolm countered. “The lass is not at fault. ’Tis true that she was wrong in naming me as the father of her child, but she did so unintentionally and without guile. Ye should be proud of her. When faced with a dark realization, she chose to be honest and truthful.”

  “The real rogue is the shameful cur who played her false and impersonated my son,” the McKenna declared. “What can ye tell us of him, Lady Brienne? Did he wear the McKenna plaid?”

  “Aye, he wore the plaid. ’Twas how I noticed him that first morning.” Brienne blushed. “He is tall, though not as tall as Sir Malcolm, and very handsome.”

  “That’s hardly a unique description,” Laird Armstrong said tartly.

  “The man’s eyes are green,” Joan offered. “The same as the babe he fathered.”

  “’Tis not much to go on, but a help nonetheless,” Malcolm said. “We shall start searching and hopefully flush the rogue out.”

  “Ye cannae be dragging every tall, handsome, green-eyed man in Scotland to McKenna Castle fer justice,” Laird Armstrong jeered. “How will ye even know if ye catch the right one?”

  “Lady Brienne will know him in an instant,” the McKenna said. “Will ye help us, lass?”

  Laird MacPhearson’s lips curled in suspicion. “What are ye suggesting, McKenna?”

  “’Twould behoove us both if Lady Brienne returned to McKenna Castle with us and resided there whilst we search fer this culprit,” the McKenna answered.

  “Nay.” Laird MacPhearson shook his head.

  “’Tis a sensible suggestion, Father,” one of the MacPhearson daughters implored. “We all want this man caught.”

  “We would be in yer debt, and Lady Brienne’s,” Malcolm added.

  Brienne reached up and fingered the gold cross that hung around her neck. She seemed intrigued, though her gaze was wary. “May I bring my child?”

  “Of course!” the McKenna exclaimed. “My wife likes nothing more than to coddle an infant. She will be very pleased to have ye both beneath our roof and under our protection.”

  Laird MacPhearson drew back his shoulders. Malcolm could almost see the gears spinning in the man’s head as he contemplated the proposal.

  “Yer saintly wife will welcome her? A lass who has birthed a child without benefit of marriage?”

  “She would.” The McKenna nodded fiercely.

  “Aye,” Malcolm agreed. “We hold no malice toward the lass.”

  Laird MacPhearson’s expression grew speculative. “’Twas my hope that when I left here, I’d see my Brienne either avenged or married.”

  “The vengeance will have to wait until we find the right man,” Malcolm said evenly, tamping down the sudden, uneasy feeling churning in his gut.

  “And the marriage?” Laird MacPhearson lifted a brow. “’Tis still possible to make a match between ye. Brienne’s future would be assured if she carried the McKenna name.”

  All eyes shifted to Malcolm. He looked to his father for guidance, but the McKenna shrugged, letting him know the decision was entirely his own. The suggestion actually held some merit. An alliance through marriage with the MacPhearsons was a good way to bury this unpleasant incident and every man in the chamber knew it.

  Malcolm studied Brienne, trying to open his mind to the notion. She was a comely lass, with a gentle bearing. He had spoken the truth when he said he held no malice against her, nor did he object to the fact that she had a child. But she was simply too young. He needed a woman with greater maturity and spirit.

  Unbidden, his eyes traveled to Joan.

  It was difficult for Malcolm to reject Brienne so publicly, especially when her confidence and reputation had been so newly restored. But taking her as his wife would be no favor to either of them.

  As if sensing his hesitation, Laird MacPhearson pressed on. “Is Brienne not a fine lass, worthy of the McKenna name?” Laird MacPhearson’s chin jutted out. “Ye just said that we should be proud of her honesty and courage, Sir Malcolm. Were ye lying?”

  Malcolm favored them all with a con
genial smile. He was not about to get snared in the trap that Laird MacPhearson had set—yet he knew he must extricate himself in a way that would cause no insult.

  “Lady Brienne is indeed a fine woman, with many qualities to recommend her,” Malcolm said, keeping his tone deliberately light. “Any Highlander would be proud to claim her as his wife.”

  “Including ye?” Laird MacPhearson asked.

  “Aye.” Malcolm turned his expression regretful, hoping he looked sincere. “Alas, ’tis an impossibility.”

  Laird MacPhearson’s hand moved to the jeweled hilt of the dirk at his waist. “Why?”

  Malcolm folded his arms over his chest. “I am already betrothed.”

  “What?” James cried.

  “When?” the McKenna bellowed.

  “To whom?” Laird MacPhearson sputtered.

  The chamber grew silent as all awaited his answer. Malcolm felt but a slight hesitation before calmly uttering, “I am to marry Lady Joan.”

  * * *

  Joan’s mouth dropped open. She could feel the eyes of all those in the chamber trained upon her, could hear the grumbles and whispers. She closed her mouth to stop the swift denial that sprang to her lips, took a long breath, and counted to fifteen. She would have to tread carefully. They were so close to achieving a peaceful solution; any misstep now and it would all crumble to dust.

  She found it impossible to look at Malcolm, fearing all would see the absurdity of his lie reflected in her expression. Instead, she dared to risk a glance at her father.

  Laird Armstrong’s lips were tight with displeasure. “Explain yerself,” he demanded of her.

  “’Tis only recently been decided,” she said weakly.

  “We are both of an age to make these decisions of our own accord,” Malcolm said, moving closer and placing a hand on Joan’s shoulder. “Are ye displeased with the prospect of an alliance between our clans, Laird Armstrong?”

  “We are already aligned through James and Davina,” Laird Armstrong answered tersely.

  “And now the bond shall be even stronger,” Malcolm concluded.

  Joan stiffened. She could see the hard spark of temper in her father’s eyes. Desperate to avoid an outburst, she looked to the MacPhearson sisters. They all appeared in shock.