Highland Vixen

by Mary Wine

  “I am no’ a man of soft words. Ye’ll have to be patient with me.”

  “I hope I shall be able to give ye forever, my love.”

  He buried his face in her hair. “And a day, vixen.”

  * * *

  Two months later, spring finally arrived in full force. The snow melted, and planting began. Merchants could once more take to the roads and sell what they had made during the winter months. Goods that had been stuck in harbor towns began to make their way into the Highlands.

  It was also the time of year for raids, because storerooms were running low while everyone waited for the earth to provide new bounty. No one was happy to hear that the McTavishes were riding on MacPherson land. Marcus ordered the castle locked tight as he went out to meet them.

  Rolfe McTavish pulled up when he spotted the MacPhersons. “There is the man I’m coming to see.”

  “Ye are either the most brazen puppy I’ve ever laid eyes upon or the biggest fool,” Marcus informed Rolfe McTavish. “Perhaps both.”

  Rolfe grinned, arrogant and confident, as though he wasn’t facing down a force equal to his own. “Well, at least ye will no’ be thinking I would let something go unattended. Something important, that is.”

  Rolfe reached into his doublet and pulled out a parchment. “It seems me father thinks yer father needs to see this.”

  “I recall rather well what yer father sent me the last time he thought I needed something,” Marcus growled.

  Rolfe became serious for a moment. “Aye. I don’t suppose ye’d believe me when I say he’s seen the error of his ways?”

  Marcus slowly shook his head. “That will take a bit more time, puppy.”

  Rolfe moved his horse forward so he could hand off the letter. “In that case, MacPherson, I’ll be getting off yer land.”

  “Likely a good idea,” Marcus told him.

  Rolfe pointed at him. “Aye, but there’s no fun in it, MacPherson, none at all.”

  Marcus chuckled at him. “Go home and grow up, lad. Ye can nae be more than twenty.”

  Rolfe sent him a grin before he turned his stallion around and rode through the center of his waiting men. They all turned and followed him. Last spring, Marcus would have envied the lad his freedom. Now he saw the merits of having a bed to retire to early and linger in. Like an old man? No, the young truly did not know of what they spoke. He was never more alive than when he was next to Helen.

  Marcus arrived back at the castle in time for supper. His father and brother looked up as he came in. He sent his wife a smile as he stopped and tugged on the corner of his bonnet before climbing the stairs to the high ground.

  “Laird McTavish has sent ye a letter.” He offered the parchment to Shamus.

  His father took it, but finished chewing and swallowing as Marcus went around to join Helen at the table. His belly was growling, but he kept his attention on his sire. Waiting, as all the captains at the table were, to see what was so important that Rolfe McTavish seemed to think it needed to be hand-delivered.

  Shamus looked up, his expression one of frustration. “I do nae think I have ever heard of a couple who had a harder time staying wed.”

  He handed off the parchment. His captains clustered around it, some of them standing on their toes to stretch high enough to peer down on it. But it was Marcus who cursed. Long, low, and in Gaelic, and he shot Father Matthew Peter a look that made it clear he didn’t care that the priest had heard.

  “I am putting an end to this here and now,” Marcus declared. He stood and pulled his dagger out of the scabbard on his belt. “Helen.”

  She looked up as he came around the front of the table. “That”—he pointed at the parchment—“is an annulment. One Laird McTavish arranged for.” The hall went deathly still. “So.”

  “So…what?” she demanded as she pushed her chair back.

  “So…” Marcus aimed his voice so everyone in the hall might hear it. “I want to know, do ye want it?”

  “Ye know I do no’.” Their morning together replayed across her memory. Doubt tried to needle her, but she refused to dance to its tune.

  He nodded. “Nor do I. Since we can nae seem to stay wed because the world is being turned upside down by those fighting over the throne, I propose we fall back on tradition.”

  He used the dagger to cut his kilt and tore off a strip. Understanding flashed across the faces of many of the men seated at the high table, and Bhaic pushed his chair back, coming around to join them.

  There was a half sound of protest from Father Matthew Peter. Marcus shot him a hard look. “I’ve wed her twice and been told the church does no’ believe she is me wife as many times.”

  The priest closed his mouth and tucked his hands up into his sleeves. Perhaps it was not approval, but it was a lack of resistance. Marcus handed the dagger to Bhaic. His brother drew it across Marcus’s wrist, cutting the skin. A thin line of fresh blood welled up. Helen offered Bhaic her own wrist. He cut her and then turned her hand so the two wounds met when Marcus clasped her hand and she closed her fingers around his forearm.

  Bhaic bound them together with the length of plaid as Marcus clearly spoke the Gaelic words of a blood oath. She answered him, their voices filling the hall while their blood mingled.

  * * *

  “Was that too barbaric for ye?” Marcus had barely closed the door to their chamber when he asked the question.

  Helen had lifted her hand to observe the line marking her skin. She looked up and discovered her husband considering her. Only now, she knew he was concerned for her tender feelings.

  “I think it far more savage to annul our vows in some distant place while we are merely trying to get on with living.”

  Marcus slowly smiled at her. “Aye. For all the good that is brought to us by the outside world, I have to question what those men of learning and exploration think they are doing by making mockery of a man’s vows.”

  “So…” Helen began to finger the buttons going down the front of her doublet, a garment she’d started to wear because she knew he enjoyed her wearing long stays so much. “Since we are now a pagan Highlander couple…may I dispense with being an obedient wife?”

  Marcus offered her a hopeful look as he dropped his kilt and she separated the fronts of her doublet to expose her cleavage. “I can nae wait…vixen.”

  * * *

  Young Robbie heard the strangest sounds coming from the stairway. He got up from his spot on a bench and went closer, cocking his head to the side to listen. There was a thump and a scrape and a loud growl.

  “Here now, lad,” Finley called out. “Best to stay down here.”

  Robbie’s eyes widened as he heard a heavy thud. “But there’s something happening up there.”

  Finley laughed and elbowed Kam in the ribs, but they didn’t share whatever it was they found so amusing. “Just Marcus chasing that vixen he’s wed to.”

  “Aye, naught to worry about.” Kam gestured the boy back.

  “But—”

  “Listen well, lad.” Finley got up and shepherded the lad back into the hall with a fatherly arm around his shoulders. “Everything is very right.”

  “Even if it sounds as though she is killing him?”

  Kam collapsed into a fit of laughter, lowering his head to the table to rest on top of his crossed arms as he chuckled.

  “Believe me, lad, he’ll die a happy man.” Finley slapped Kam on the shoulder as he joined him in laughing.

  Another loud sound came bouncing down the stairwell, but it was the last, which left Robbie trying to puzzle the entire situation into something he might understand.

  Women sure were odd creatures. Between Helen Grant becoming a high-standing member of the clan, and the English girl wanting him to teach her how to wrestle, he was very confused.

  It was likely a good thing he didn’t like g
irls all that much. They did tend to make his head hurt. When he wed, he’d make sure it was not to a vixen.

  * * *

  Depravity.

  It had been a word used to instill obedience in her when she was young. Now, Brenda faced its true meaning and the ugliness of those who embraced it as a challenge.

  The sun had not risen, and she half believed it was because of the shame that would be illuminated when it did. Around her, Brenda heard the snoring of Scotland’s ambassador to England and England’s ambassador to Scotland. There was a stench in the air from their excesses the night before.

  She felt as though it was permeating her very soul.

  But the sun would rise, and she would feel every ache they’d inflicted upon her flesh, so she rolled over and sat up, trying to ignore the pain that went through her passage. She didn’t want to think about what was past.

  It would replay across her dreams soon enough.

  Morton had made good on his threat, making her his whore to be used at will, and the ambassadors had heard of her plight and decided to take advantage of Morton’s generosity.

  Indeed, she understood the meaning of the word depravity now.

  There were scattered retainers in the room as well. They were all sleeping off the effects of the numerous bottles of French wine they had consumed during the course of the night. She picked her way through the limbs, escape from the chamber the only thing she might grant herself.

  But she stopped when she realized how many of the retainers were inside the room. The horror of the night before had numbed her wits as to just how many men had been involved; now, she looked around and counted them in the predawn light. Her heart started to accelerate as she realized there was no one left outside the door. At least, no one belonging to the personal households of the ambassadors.

  It was an opportunity she’d scarcely hoped for, and everything she needed was right there, within reach.

  Suddenly, the aches in her body weren’t so terrible, the welts down her back from the whip no longer excruciating. She was more focused on the clothing strewn about the chamber. She pulled a shirt up and put it on, wincing just a bit as the fabric landed on her back.

  She didn’t have time to dwell on the pain.

  So she sat down and picked up a boot, lacing it in the low light and then pushing her other foot into a second one. When she got up, she spied a sword belt and a kilt lying forgotten on a table. She grabbed it and hastily pleated it. She had to use the dagger to work a new hole into the belt so it would fit her, but she got it fashioned and pulled on the doublet.

  At last, she drew the dagger through her hair, shearing off two feet of it before she stuck a bonnet on her head and took a deep breath. The horizon wasn’t really even pink yet. There was that lightening of darkness that happened right before dawn broke. Enough light to see, so the servants would be beginning their day.

  Brenda crept toward the doors and pushed them open. Two men stood there, weary of their duty but still awake. She looked at the ground and heard one of them snicker at her, but he didn’t stop her.

  “Off to confession with ye, lad,” the other said. “Best to gain forgiveness when ye’ll be needing more soon enough.”

  Forgiveness. She didn’t need it, and she certainly wouldn’t be granting it either. But she was hearing the sound of her deliverance. The castle was opening its gates as dawn broke. She caught the scent of food as she walked through the passageways, but she didn’t dare stop. No, Brenda Grant walked toward the yard and through the gates. No one stopped her, or at least the young lad she appeared to be. They thought her a messenger or a servant being sent on ahead of her master to prepare a welcome for him.

  That made it simple to take a horse from the stable.

  Simple? She was not sure if it was the correct word to use, but it did fit at the moment. She was suddenly on her way back to the Highlands, mile after mile falling behind her as the horse walked along.

  Simple.

  Perfect.

  * * *

  Brenda Grant walked right into Grant Castle. Two burly retainers stepped into her path, but she pulled her bonnet off and sent them a solid stare. They immediately pulled on the corners of their caps and cleared her path.

  She ignored the gnawing hunger in her belly and chose instead to climb the steps to the laird’s chamber. Her uncle was propped up on pillows, and still he struggled to draw in breath. She stood at the foot of his bed for a long moment, listening to the sound of his manservant scurrying out of the chamber, no doubt to summon help in case she decided to kill her uncle.

  “Ye look…as though…ye have tasted…the harsher side of life.”

  “I have,” she confirmed. Truly she must be a sight, filthy and bedraggled and wearing men’s clothing. Yet she had never felt so victorious in her life. It was surging through her, awaking her spirit in a way she’d never thought possible.

  There was a soft step behind her, and she turned to discover Symon reaching for her. He froze as he caught sight of her face. “Brenda?”

  “Aye,” Laird Grant confirmed. “It seems…she has…remedied…her situation…herself.”

  “I did,” Brenda said. “So ye will no’ be surprised to hear that I will no’ be honoring the arrangement ye made for me.”

  Symon made a sound behind her, a moment before he gently tugged the filthy collar of her doublet down. She knew what he saw, the swollen red tracks of the last lashing she’d received. The doublet was bulky and large, allowing him a good view. The cuts were infected now—she’d felt the burning start several days past.

  “And if I survive this fever, I will never answer to a husband again.”

  That was the thing that had kept her going. The need to speak her mind to her uncle. Now that it was done, her strength was running out, but she would be damned if she were going to allow her knees to buckle now. Just a few more paces to a chamber she could call her own. She turned and shot Symon a hard look before she left.

  She might die, but she was going to draw her last breath as a free woman, and that was enough contentment for her. She got to her chamber, where the furniture was covered in sheets, making it look shrouded. Perhaps it would be her tomb, perhaps not.

  All that mattered was she was free, and that was the last thought she had strength for before she collapsed onto the bed.

  * * *

  “I did nae do right by her.”

  It had been a long time since his father had spoken so clearly or without struggling for breath. Symon turned to stand by his side.

  “Me brother failed her as well. Wedding her to that boy-lover.” Laird Grant made a low sound of disgust. “And too young. A disgrace, it was.”

  He lifted his hand. “Bring me…me secretary.”

  His father waited while the man settled his small traveling writing desk on a table. Withdrawing a piece of parchment and uncorking a small inkwell, the secretary dipped the quill into it and waited for his laird to speak.

  “Brenda is to have her mother’s property.” His father sent Symon a firm look. “Do nae begrudge her. Ye are better than her father and me.”

  “I will nae,” Symon promised.

  The secretary scratched away, filling the creamy length of paper with words that were shiny before the ink dried.

  “She’s to be her own woman.”

  Laird Grant was talking to Symon now, and he realized his father was making his peace, no longer fighting his death.

  “I will no’ force any match on her,” Symon promised.

  Laird Grant struggled to sit up. Symon had to help him, but the laird gestured to the secretary, who brought the document to him. His father signed it with a hand steadier than it had been in years, and then waited while the secretary melted wax from a stick with a candle so the laird might push his signet ring into it. His father read through the words one time before he n
odded in satisfaction.

  “Honor me words, Symon, as the fine man I have been blessed to see ye become. I’m righting a wrong here… Grant me the peace of knowing I’ll no’ carry this sin with me.”

  “I swear it to ye, Father.”

  His father reached up and placed his hand on top of Symon’s. “Ye will be a good laird.”

  Symon watched as his father’s eyes lit up and he seemed to stare into the distance. A rare smile curved his lips as he reached for something beyond the foot of the bed. Whatever it was, his father’s spirit went to it. Symon felt a chill touch his spine as he noted the passing of life from his father’s eyes. It felt as though the very chamber went cold.

  The secretary looked at Symon for a long moment before offering him the parchment.

  “It stands,” Symon told the man.

  The secretary nodded before he withdrew to his desk and put away the tools of his trade. Before long, the bells were ringing out his father’s passing, leaving Symon to face his clan as the new laird.

  * * *

  Brenda opened her eyes and found Symon sitting next to her bed.

  “Have ye no’ had enough of attending deathbeds?”

  Symon offered her a smile. “Ye are nae dying.”

  “No’ anymore, it would seem.” She felt worn out, in spite of having been in bed for the last two weeks. But the fever was gone, even if it was still painful to move.

  She started to say something, but stopped when she noted the three feathers on his bonnet. They were all pointing upward, instead of one being lowered.

  “Aye, me father has died,” Symon confirmed. He tapped something lying on the bedside table. “His last will was to make sure ye inherited yer mother’s dowry property, and to extract a promise from me that I would no’ make any match for ye that ye do not wish.”

  She reeked, and her back hurt every time she moved, but she got to her knees, clutching the bedding against her front to shield her bare body, and pulled the parchment closer. She read it twice, fixated on the seal for a long time.

  “I’ll send a bath up for ye.”

  Brenda looked at Symon. “I am sorry for yer loss.”