Claiming the Highlander

by Mageela Troche

  “What about when your father sends a command?” father asked.

  “I expect a reprimand.”

  “Sit, son. There is—” Father dry heaved. Blood swelled in his face. Caelen froze.

  Mother jumped to him and rolled him on to his side. Guttural sounds spewed from him. His face reddened, darkening with each heave. His veins popped out from under his skin. Tears squeezed from his eyes.

  Caelen did nothing. He didn’t know what to do.

  “Caelen, leave.”

  He stood rooted to the wooden floor. His arms tucked tightly to his side, afraid to move. He swallowed hard. His mother’s shouts knocked him back into himself. “Caelen! Kenneth, you need to rest.” With one hand on his thin shoulder, his mother pushed his father on his back. He went without a struggle.

  “I’ll rest after.”

  Mother sighed and tossed up her hands. Not bothering to hide her frustration, she said, “Come speak to your stubborn father. Maybe he’ll tire himself and rest as he ought.”

  Caelen stood beside the bed. When he was a lad, his father had looked upon him resting in his bed, tucked under the sheets.

  “I wish for you to see my wants to fruition. Manus must wed the Stuart lass. Don’t worry about Rowen’s marriage prospects. I haven’t found anyone worthy. As for the clan—” He made a wheezing sound like the winds rushing over the mountains. He coughed. He was too weak to raise his hand. The dry heaves racked him again.

  “Enough, Caelen.”

  He left. Again, he lingered outside the chamber. The rough throat scraping sound twisted his stomach. He turned back to the door. His hand hovered over the handle. He dropped his arm and turned away. The last time he had been with his father, he had told Caelen, “You return to us when you are the man our clan requires.”

  What did the clan require?

  * * * *

  Brenna shut her chamber door. The smoke from the wall torches filled the turret stairs and stung her eyes. She waved away the cloud as she descended from the top floor. That chamber had been her own since she was seven, when the laird and lairdess first fostered her. Brenna loved the space, since Caelen once rested his head there. Being in the chamber was the closest she came to sharing a bed with her husband.

  Learning her role as the future Lairdess of Clan MacKenzie, her life consisted of watching, waiting and being a help or a hindrance. Lately, she had been a help. Only that mattered to Brenna, especially after she intruded upon the Lairdess weeping in the garden. That was her place of refuge. Brenna had moved forward and then stepped back, leaving her to her sadness. What did one say when death hovered near? The truth was, Brenna wished she could make the laird survive. Brenna took pride in her healing skills and knowledge of herbs, but in this instance, those skills were meaningless, so she strived to lessen the Lairdess’ burden. This day, the duties had been split between her and Rowen.

  Rowen would see to the household, the meals, the cleaning of it, and other duties. Whereas Brenna was to assist the clan and handle any issues the clanfolk faced this day. So being a crumpled mess of shattered bones at the bottom of the stairs was not part of her plan. As a child, she had sped up and down the stairs without a care that she might fall. Yet, when she returned here a sennight ago, she had fallen up the stairs and landed on her face, three steps up from the one she just tripped on.

  She reached the last step and halted. The smoke must have conjured images. Caelen stood at the end of the corridor. She blinked, believing the vision would vanish into nothingness. The arched doorway framed his muscular form, which was draped in MacLean plaid. His head hung down. His long locks draped around his face and blocked him from her view. Light flickered over his Viking blond hair. She blinked a few times, waiting for him to notice her standing here. She must have moved because his head flew up. When she had lived on Grant lands, Brenna caught—stalked—a young couple sneaking to the back of the kitchens. She watched the maid nibble on the kitchen’s boy ear.

  Brenna should have been ashamed. Should have. “Caelen.”

  He faced her. A smile spread across her face and her cheeks hurt from it. She wanted to throw herself in his arms. Instead, she buried the urge. She even squeezed out a couple of tears.

  Her feet skipped over the floor as she raced to him. She threw her arms around him and squeezed him tightly. She lacked the strength to hold him as she wished. Caelen was all hard muscle. He smelled of the outdoors—greenery, and of the fresh wind that whirled about him and caught in the weave of his plaid, along with a manly scent that was his own. She stroked her cheek against his plaid. The scratchy wool caused her skin to tingle.

  She ran her hands over his thick arms. He had come for her. She linked her fingers with his. She leaned her head to the side to look at the shut chamber door. Last night had been a difficult one. The healers and servants had been going in and out through the night. Their muffled voices reached her chamber along with the groans of pains coming from the laird—aye, the laird would be leaving this earth soon. Her smile dimmed along with the heady delight within her. “You have finally returned.”

  Caelen arched a brow, revealing his blue eyes. She loved his pure, blue hue that shined bright with shards of white, unlike her plain, brown ones. He pulled his hand away. She tucked her empty hand within the pleats of her dress. This was not the reunion she had imagined since she learned he was returning home. Caelen was supposed to grab her in his arms and swing her about. After her holding her close for a drawn-out moment, he was supposed to slide her down his body, and then kiss her. After he ravished her mouth, he was to stare deep into her eyes. He might have even whispered tenders words. Instead, he stood there, his arms at his side. The man didn’t even reach out to her.

  “You look well, Brenna.” His gaze slid over her, lingering at her hips. She felt the heat of his inspection. He no longer looked at her as a little lass.

  “You haven’t cleaned up from your journey.” His plaid was wrinkled and the pleats were flat. She brushed at a smear of dirt marring his leine. It was just a reason to touch him.

  “Seeing my father was more important.” He peeked over his shoulder. “I should have been here earlier.”

  She licked her lips. “Has the laird fallen asleep?”

  “Nay, he…he started coughing.” He shook his head. The ends of his blond hair fanned out. The pale tips caught the amber light of the torches. His strong brow was more pronounced from the lowering of his brows.

  “Last night was hard for him, but your arrival shall make him feel better. When I sit with him, he always speaks of you.”

  When he hung his head, she wished she could take back her words.

  “You sit with him often?” He pushed back his hair.

  “Aye. Sometimes, we discuss you, and other times he tells me stories or curses the healers. It depends upon how he feels.”

  His broad shoulders that seemed to be able to bear all of Scotland and England upon them, straightened. “I am here so I can see to the running of everything. You shall assist me.”

  She rose to the tips of her toes. “Of course. I am your wife.”

  * * * *

  The heavy shuffle of footsteps scraped behind him. His mother touched his arm, stroking it as if he needed the comfort.

  “Mother—”

  “He is resting.” Her narrow shoulders slumped. “The stubborn man refuses to listen to the healers.” Her mellow voice deepened from her sharp pitch. “Brenna, have you seen to the clan?”

  “I am off now.”

  “Thank you, dear.”

  Brenna spared a lingering glance at Caelen. She might have even embraced him if his mother hadn’t been between them. He sent a glance at his mother. Brenna started down the steps.

  “She has been a help to me and this household.”

  “That isn’t the reason you sent for her.” He crossed his arms.

  “Caelen, she is your wife, and soon you will be leading this clan.” She kneaded her left shoulder.

  “How long
has he been ill? Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

  She shook her head, confused by all the happenings. “He seemed to become ill suddenly. Now, looking back, I saw the first signs. He paced about and complained about not using the…seeing to his needs. The stubborn man wouldn’t see the healers.”

  Caelen squeezed her shoulder. He could do nothing else.

  “He will not live too much longer.” Grief cracked her voice. “Caelen, do not question me anymore. You have duties requiring your attention. The council has convened and will be in place until your father’s”—she cleared her throat—“passing.”

  “Who is on the council?”

  “Finian, Gilroy, and Tavish.”

  “Tavish.” He spit out.

  “Caelen, you can deal with Tavish.”

  “He blames me for Dairmad’s death.” A crack formed in his wall. That event always slammed into and rocked as if it were that night, and followed with a heavy darkness that settled within him, knowing he couldn’t change the outcome.

  “Soon you will be laird and must deal with such things. That isn’t the only difficultly you face.”

  “That’s why you summoned Brenna.” Not that he planned to summon her yet. He wished for a more opportune time. When that time was, he could not say.

  “She is your wife. Now is the time to be at each other’s side.”

  He crossed his arms. “Why now?”

  “’Tis time. The Grants were questioning why she hadn’t made her home here; even the king sent a missive. Her presence isn’t a problem. She has been a great help to me; however, ten and six Grants accompanied her and have joined the clan.”

  “That must please Finian.”

  His mother chuckled. Her laughter was once light. Her head would tip back slightly, showing off her long neck. Now, it was hollow. The merriment never reached her eyes. “The council wishes to speak with you. Remember, you are their leader and the Earl of Wester Ross.”

  “Thank you, Mother. I might have forgotten.” He placed a peck on her forehead.

  Coming from the stairs, his father’s commander halted behind his mother. Keir kept his eyes from meeting Caelen’s own and fixed on the door behind him. Age had not changed him much except for dulling every part of him. His square head was still covered with hair that was more pewter than light brown. His hooded eyes hung heavier at the corners, matching his mouth. He was still fit, but not as dominating in presence as Caelen remembered.

  “The council requests your appearance.” The commander’s tone scraped through Caelen.

  His mother placed her hand upon his arm. Her tender touch stifled his rising urge. He was no longer a boy. Keir would learn that through smarts or fists.

  “You have done your duty.”

  Keir turned away and vanished down the stairs.

  “Do not fret. I know what I must do.”

  Caelen made his way to the great hall. The three men sat behind the trestle table. The torchlight bounced off Finian’s bald head, and his razor thin nose. The tip hung almost to his thin lips and caused his face to fall into deep shadows so Caelen couldn’t see his eyes.

  “Ye are much changed,” Finian said.

  Gilroy nodded, shaking his thick, gray hair like a banner stirred by the wind.

  “We shal’ see.” Tavish glared beneath his thick, black brows.

  “You haven’t called for me to see how I change.”

  “That we haven’t,” Gilroy said. “With the laird dying, we have been seeing to the clan’s needs. Now with you arrived, there are many things you must know.”

  “The Grants. We ’ave ten an’ six new members. They are set up in the north fields.”

  “They’ll cause trouble,” Tavish added.

  “So far, they haven’t; however, Laird Grant is doubting the ties between our two clans.” Gilroy stroked his white beard.

  “Ye weren’t the one who sent fae her. They think ye wish to send her back.”

  “Nonsense.” Caelen shook his head.

  “Those Grants will be reporting back to Laird Grant.” Finian slid to the edge of his seat.

  “Then they don’t belong here.”

  “That’s nat a choice. Ye are mae MacLean than MacKenzie. Ye still wear the MacLean tartan. Ye maun learn aboot our life an our ways now.” Tavish aimed a finger at him.

  “Aye, get your wife with child and then all will be well,” Gilroy said as if a bairn solved all problems.

  Caelen gritted his teeth. “A child will come soon enough. She is here with me now, and that is enough.”

  “Yer father winna like that.”

  “My father is not to be disturbed with such issues.” He planted both his feet firmly on the ground.

  “You don’t understand. With the new lands, we require more followers and allies to protect it. Other clans will be looking to cut our power. Settle these disputes.”

  “We will guide ye as ye learn the details. Remember ye are a MacKenzie an’ the future leader of this great clan.” Finian drummed his forefinger against the table with each word he uttered.

  Tavish rose to his feet and leaned his hands flat on top of it. His dark eyes locked on Caelen’s own. “Ye winna want yer father to gae onto his reward knowin’ the clan is lost.”

  Chapter Two

  “Please bring the light here.” Light flickered over Aobh’s plump face. Brenna wrung the cloth. She wiped away the last of the blood caked on Aobh’s face. The poor lass, she had been chasing after a calf and slipped, falling among the rocks and cutting up her face. Brenna had been caring for a tenant when the cry rent through the clattan.

  “She shall be fine—sore and purple all over though. Keep her off her swollen foot, put the salve on her cuts, and if she catches a fever, please come get me at the castle.”

  Her mother nodded. “Thank ye, my lady.” She ran her hand over her daughter’s golden locks.

  “Aodh, you just rest and drink all that is in that cup. It shall help you sleep.”

  Aodh scrunched her face. “’Tis smelly.”

  “I know and that is why I sweetened it for you. I cannot promise you that it will taste or smell much better, but you need it to rest. Promise me.”

  Aodh looked to her mother and then back at Brenna. She smelled the drink again, scrunched up her face, and made a sound as she stuck out her tongue.

  “Pinch your nose and drink it down. I will check on you on the morrow.”

  “Wat da we say to the countess?”

  “Thank ye, my lady.”

  Brenna smiled down at Aodh. “Feel better. I must return home. The meal must have begun already.”

  “My lady, my sons will escort ye.”

  Before Brenna could speak, Moira screamed out to her boys. Her call was not yet out of her mouth when the door opened. Instead of Moira’s three skinny boys, Caelen filled the doorway.

  “Brenna.” He ducked to enter the home.

  That was all he said in a tone that was a mixture of warning and reprimand. Instead of being upset, she had the opposite reaction. She rose to the tips of her toes as a heady rush spread through her. He had come for her. In his letters, he vowed that once she was at his side, he would always be with her, and, in one letter, he wrote that wherever she journeyed, he would always come for her. He had kept his promise. Moira hovered by the bed, and then curtsied. Caelen gave a nod in greeting.

  “Aodh had a spill but her injuries are minor and she will be about in a day or two.”

  He crossed to the bed. He towered over the dear lass, hands on his hips and brows pinched. “Heal fast.”

  He made those words of comfort sound like an order. Aodh jerked her head in a nod. Her eyes were as wide as a full moon in a cloudless sky. Brenna scratched her top lip to hide the grin dancing on her lips.

  Brenna made her farewells and stepped out to the tract. “I am surprised you came for me.”

  “You hadn’t appeared for the meal. I had Cook wrap up some food for you and me.”

  “That was very kind.
” She didn’t know what to do with her arms and crossed and uncrossed them before she left them to hang at her side.

  Caelen raised his eyebrows. No other reaction. So, he wasn’t very expressive, but he was her husband and she had to learn his ways.

  She veered around the horse and stepped onto the well-worn path that led to the castle.

  “My mount is here.” The white horse, dusted with shades of gray, tossed his head. His long mane flipped about. The beast was a Spanish horse, with a thick chest to match his teeth, and hooves that must have trampled many a foot soldier.

  She aimed glances at the beast. She stayed a safe distance from its wide head. Caelen swung up with ease. He clasped her forearm. She grasped his arm, not wanting to have her own yanked from her body. He lifted her and plopped her across his firm legs. She raised her gaze from the hard ground to his chin. Short, blond hair covered his blunt chin and softened the hardness of his face. His breath breezed through her hair. She forced herself to look upward. His bright blue eyes locked on her. Something stirred inside her, a mixture of passion and fear. Not fear of him—never would she fear Caelen. Nay, it was an uneasiness of what lay ahead. She had been schooled on how to be a wife, yet before her husband, she was unsure of how to be the wife to Caelen.

  He tucked his forefinger under her chin, lifting her face closer to his lips. Through her parted mouth, she drew in a sharp breath. Her lips began to tingle. The corners of his eyes pinched. She waited for his mouth to touch her own. He brushed his thumb across her lips.

  “Hold tight, Brenna.” His voice lowered to a caressing tone.

  Unsure if he spoke of waiting for a kiss or if to hold onto him, she gripped his forearm. She pressed closer against him until their bodies melded against each other. He was so deliciously warm. Her nose filled with a vibrant blend of salty air, crisp greenery, a hint of smoke, and the evening air. She turned her face toward him for a better sample of his fragrance. She promised herself to remember this night. After all, this night was the beginning of her marriage. It would be a great marriage, as she planned.