Was that not the perfect way to live? he asked himself over and over as he galloped thunderously into shady forests and across moonlit glens.
Yet, here he was, committed to a new mission—for his laird and for his clan. He had promised to fulfill a different duty outside his role as husband, which left him many miles from his wife’s warm, inviting bed.
No doubt, she too was alone—longing desperately for him. He knew it because he was confident in her love. Even from many miles away, he felt it in his soul.
* * *
On the second day of Logan’s journey to the duke’s estate—late in the afternoon, when he was only a few miles from the gatehouse—he stopped on a pebbly beach at the edge of a loch. He did not know the name of that particular body of water, but it was an oasis that drew him out of the forest like some sort of magical beacon.
Exhausted and knowing that it would be ill-mannered to cross a duke’s threshold smelling like an unwashed heathen, Logan walked his horse to where the waves lapped gently onto the shore, and dismounted.
“Drink up,” he said to Tracker. “I’m thirsty, as well.”
Kneeling down, he scooped some water into his hand and raised it to his lips.
A moment later, he was back on his feet, unbuckling his sword belt, removing his tartan, and stripping off his shirt. The boots came off next and he dropped everything in an untidy pile at the water’s edge. A few seconds later, he waded into the loch, naked as the day he was born, then dove in.
Kersplash! The chilly water bombarded his senses and he broke the surface with a cry of shock. “Sweet Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! That’s cold!”
Taking a few short breaths to calm his pounding heart, he swam further out, giving himself time to grow accustomed to the chill. Wishing he had soap, he made do by scrubbing at his scalp with the pads of his fingers and swimming under the water for extended periods of time.
That’s when something caught his eye.
At the bottom of the loch—a flash of light on metal.
It reflected the rays of the sun that speared through the murky, undulating depths.
Rising to the surface to drink in as much air as he could, Logan treaded water for a moment, then dove straight down to the bottom where he finally placed his hands on what appeared to be a weapon.
A sword, still in its leather scabbard and belt. The tip was buried deep in the sand and he had to tug its considerable weight relentlessly through the resistance of the water.
A few seconds later he broke the surface again with the heavy claymore in his hand. He sucked in a massive breath of air, and swam back to shore.
Wading out of the loch and onto the pebbly beach—barely noticing the chill of the air on his nude body—he examined the exquisitely designed basket hilt of the sword and the large gemstone at the top. The stone was cream colored with veins of gray and specks of sparkling crystal.
Impressed by the detail of the workmanship—which appeared to be ancient—and the sheer size and weight of the claymore, he slowly slid it out of the wet scabbard and examined the blade.
Though in need of a polish, it was a fine sword indeed, the most impressive Logan had ever seen. He swung it through the air with his good arm, lunged forward to strike an imaginary death blow, and swung it again. Ach, it was a perfectly remarkable piece of weaponry!
Pausing and turning toward the water, he gazed in all directions, wondering who in their right mind would have discarded such a priceless treasure. He wondered who it had belonged to and how long it had been sitting at the bottom of the loch. How had it come to be there?
Logan shivered suddenly, and realized he needed to get dressed before he went numb and froze to death. Sliding the sword back into its leather case, he donned his shirt and tartan, pinned it at his shoulder with his brooch, then pulled on his boots and secured Mairi’s father’s sword to his saddlebags.
Crouching down, he picked up the heavy claymore he had found in the loch and fastened it with the wet belt around his hips.
It fit perfectly. The weight of it felt good on his body.
Aye, this was an excellent find. A priceless treasure, to be sure. Far too magnificent a weapon not to be worn by its finder.
Chapter Eighteen
The sun was just setting when Logan emerged from the forest onto a lush green field. He reined in his horse, for there it was in the distance—the famed Castle Moncrieffe. Logan decided in that moment that whoever had decided to call it a castle was grossly understating the majesty of the estate, for the main structure looked more like a French palace.
It stood on a small grassy island, surrounded by stone walls and drum bastions that rose high up from the water. A drawbridge and gate tower provided protection from the mainland, along with outbuildings around an inner bailey. Behind the main house, a more ancient-looking keep could be reached by a bridge corridor over the water.
Kicking in his heels, Logan urged his mount onward and hurried to cross the field and reach the gatehouse before the sun went down.
* * *
When Logan was questioned by the guard at the gate, all he had to do was present his sealed letter of introduction from Angus the Lion, Laird of Kinloch. Immediately, he was admitted. He rode his horse across the bridge, beneath the raised iron portcullis, where Tracker was attended to by a groom, and Logan was escorted across the bailey to the main house.
A servant in a curly black wig and elegant livery greeted him at the door and invited him into the hall where they passed through a stone archway to a small, elegant reception room. The manservant instructed Logan to wait there, then he left him alone to look around and ponder the incomprehensible grandeur of his surroundings.
Though Kinloch Castle was an impressive Scottish citadel with an enormous banquet hall and luxurious bedchambers throughout, there was something rustic and medieval about the place. It was nothing compared to this ornate palace with marble columns, priceless paintings and sculptures, upholstered chairs and elegant draperies, and collections of colorful porcelain vases displayed inside glass cabinets.
The reception room was paneled in dark wood. On the wall, above the fireplace, hung an enormous portrait of a ferocious-looking warrior in an armored breastplate and kilt. Logan stared at the painting for a long while, reaching an understanding as to how this family had achieved such tremendous power and property over the centuries—no doubt through brutal battles and the ruthless spilling of blood. Logan strode closer to examine the threatening expression in the warlord’s eyes…
“Good evening.”
He jumped and turned at the sound of a low, yet reverberating voice from the open door. Logan found himself dumbstruck as he regarded the tall, brawny aristocrat dressed in a fine green brocade evening coat with extravagant lace cuffs and cravat, and a kilt of the MacLean tartan. His high black boots were polished to a fine sheen and his hair, dark with hints of gray at the temples, was tied back in a tidy queue.
Logan lowered his gaze and bowed, for he had never been presented to a duke before, nor any other gentleman of such high-ranking. “Your grace. It is an honor.”
The duke strolled casually into the room and stopped in front of Logan, who looked up at last.
“The honor is mine, sir,” the duke replied. “Angus MacDonald is a good friend. We go back many years. I read his letter just now. He speaks highly of you.”
Logan hadn’t actually read the letter of introduction, for it had been sealed. But he was relieved to hear that it mentioned nothing about desertion, or the fact that he had been living his life as an imposter since the day he set foot upon MacDonald territory at the age of eleven.
“And of course I met your brother, Darach,” the duke continued. “He worked for me as a night watchman at my distillery. He was here for over a month.”
Logan’s heart began to pound with anticipation. “Aye, Angus mentioned that. Thank you for your kindness to my brother, your grace. But may I ask…?”
“Yes?”
Logan cleared
his throat nervously. “Could you tell me where he has gone? We parted on rather ugly terms, and I do not wish to leave things as they were.”
The duke spoke matter-of-factly. “I gave him my word that I would tell no one of his whereabouts.”
Logan exhaled heavily. “I understand, but I wish to explain myself to him. To apologize.”
The duke regarded Logan curiously for a moment, then at last he responded. “If you wish to pen a letter while you are here, I will see that it is delivered.”
And that was the end of that. The duke crossed to the other side of the room, picked up the crystal whisky decanter from the side table and poured two glasses. He offered one to Logan.
“Much obliged.” Logan sipped the splendid, first-class whisky and remembered how genuinely he had appreciated it on his first night in Mairi’s stable, when it had helped to abate his physical agony. Tonight it was coming in handy to calm his nerves.
“Angus has written that there have been troubles with the English colonel in charge of the garrison at Leathan,” the duke said. “Have you met Gregory Chatham?”
“Nay, your grace. I’ve only heard tell of him from others.”
“Is there any chance that the stories are exaggerated?”
Logan swallowed back the bile that rose in his throat at the memory of what Angus had shown him the other day. “Nay, your grace. I saw for myself the evidence of Chatham’s brutality. There was a family on MacDonald territory. Chatham ordered the house and stable to be burned with all the livestock inside. The son was killed and the daughter was used in the worst possible way.”
A muscle twitched at the duke’s jaw. “Is she alive?” he asked with an intense, fevered stare.
“Aye, but she said she wished she were dead.”
The duke downed the full contents of his glass, turned his back on Logan and poured himself another. Logan listened to the sound of the liquid spilling into the glass.
“This feels familiar,” the duke said in a quiet, gruff voice. “I once knew a British officer, many years ago, who was much like Chatham. He was courteous on the surface and behaved like a gentleman for the most part, but his heart was black as night.” The duke faced Logan again and sipped his whisky. His lips pulled back, baring his teeth. “Not all British soldiers are bad. I’ve met some very good men—honorable men—over the years who I would welcome at my table any day. But others…” He drank again, then set down his glass and returned to the center of the room.
As he approached, his gaze fell to the claymore at Logan’s hip. The duke stopped where he was, stared at it intensely, then frowned and lowered his voice to an almost imperceptible utterance. “Where did you get that sword?”
Logan felt a shakiness in all his limbs and extremities at the possibility that the sword belonged to the duke and he was about to accuse Logan of stealing it. His hand moved to grip the handle. “This?”
“Aye, that.”
Clearing his throat, he began to explain. “I found it today.”
“Where?”
Logan swallowed uneasily. “I went for a swim, west of here. It was buried in the sand at the bottom of a loch. Do you recognize it, your grace? If it belongs to you and you wish to have it back…”
“Nay,” the duke barked. “You found it. It is yours. But I do recognize it.” He strode closer and held out his hand. “May I?”
“Of course.” Logan set down his glass, then slid the weapon out of its leather scabbard. He laid it flat on both his palms and offered it to the duke.
Moncrieffe picked it up, examined the blade, as well as the elaborately carved basket hilt and the Mull agate at the tip of the handle. After a moment, he turned away and swung it through the air a few times with the skills of a master swordsman.
At last, he faced Logan and handed it back. “A fine weapon indeed. Use it wisely, and well.”
“Thank you.” Logan accepted it and slid it back into its casing. “But you mentioned that you recognized it. May I enquire as to its owner?”
A brief flash of something almost diabolical danced across the duke’s features. Then he backed up a few steps. “Aye. That is no ordinary sword, Logan. It once belonged to the Butcher of the Highlands.”
Logan felt suddenly breathless. “The famous Scottish legend who slayed entire armies of Redcoats singlehandedly? Some say he was naught but a ghost. The ghost of a barbarian.”
The corner of the duke’s mouth curled up with touch of amusement. “I suspect he did have the blood of a barbarian running through his veins, but he was true flesh and blood. I know because I met him once. And he was barbaric.”
Overcome with curiosity, Logan strode closer. “You met him? What ever became of him? They say he simply disappeared…vanished into thin air. I also heard that the English continue to hold his shield, which they keep at Fort William as a prize.”
“I’ve heard that, too,” the duke agreed. “So it’s likely that the Butcher is dead, especially if you found his sword at the bottom of a loch. He was probably captured, killed, and tossed over a boat rail. Either way, he is a remnant of the past. Nothing now but an ancient piece of history.”
Logan gripped the handle of the sword and gazed down at the gray-and-white gemstone on the handle. “Surely I am not worthy of this. Someone else should have it.”
“Such as whom?” the duke asked, seeming genuinely dumbfounded.
“I don’t know,” Logan replied. “You? Or Angus the Lion? I am nobody.”
Moncrieffe raised an eyebrow. “The Butcher was a nobody as well. And I am sure, if he were alive today, he would be more than pleased to learn it would be used to reclaim a Scottish castle that was seized by the English. Like I said, use it well.”
In that moment, Logan experienced an exhilarating rush of sensation at the thought of charging through the gates of Leathan Castle, wielding the sword that once belonged to one of the most courageous and heroic Scottish warriors of all time.
Logan thought of his father dying at the hands of his enemy and the subsequent loss of the Campbell stronghold to the English.
Wouldn’t his father be pleased to know that his death would be avenged, and his castle returned to his clan—as if the Butcher himself had risen from the grave to see it through? Perhaps this was Logan’s true destiny after all—to become the warrior he’d always wanted to be, even as a boy when he was not yet ready to step onto a battlefield.
But he was ready now. He was more than ready.
His heart raced at the prospect of taking back the castle that had once been his birthright.
A passing image of Mairi flashed in his brain suddenly. He remembered how she had wanted him to stay with her. She had feared he would put himself in danger.
He cared for Mairi deeply and did not wish to cause her pain. She would most certainly be grief-stricken if he were killed during the invasion.
But if he survived and was successful in taking back the castle? What then? What about their quiet, peaceful life in the glen?
Picking up his whisky glass, he quickly finished it off.
The duke gestured for Logan to follow him, and Logan had to shake himself out of the flood of his confounding thoughts.
“Come with me now,” the duke said. “I will have my butler show you to a room for the night, and my valet will get you some clean clothes—something appropriate for dinner. The duchess will enjoy making your acquaintance, as will my brother Iain, and his wife. After dinner, we will retire to the library for brandy to discuss your plan of attack. I’ll offer advice and my brother is an excellent military strategist. You will learn much from him.”
Logan followed Moncreiffe to the door.
“I will also send word to the King,” the duke continued, “as well as Lord Rutherford, who is Gregory Chatham’s father. They must both be made aware of what that foolish lad is up to, for it will jeopardize English and Scottish relations if he continues to harass the Highlanders. I know for a fact that the King wishes to avoid another uprising.”
&n
bsp; “I believe we all wish that,” Logan agreed as he followed the duke into the main hall. “Most of us do, at any rate.”
The duke gave him a shrewd look of agreement.
* * *
The following morning at dawn—after a late night with the duke and his brother where he learned much about English military strategy, then later, penned a long, personal letter to Darach—Logan mounted his horse to return to Kinloch and make preparations for the march on Leathan Castle.
As he kicked in his heels and galloped out of the bailey and across the bridge, every fragment of his body hummed with anticipation for the battle ahead. He imagined the moment he would behold the interior of Leathan Castle for the first time in many years. Would everything look the same? Would he be able to recall where his bedchamber was located? Would he sleep there again if the invasion was a success?
As it stood now, the clan was without a chief, the castle had no laird, and leadership would have to fall to someone. Perhaps the clan would desire Tomas in that position. He was, after all, a loyal Campbell and a brilliant, courageous warrior—a good man with a heart of honor. He had also been the one to push Logan to secure an alliance between the MacDonalds and Campbells to help reclaim their castle. None of this would be happening if not for Tomas.
Yet, a part of Logan felt as if the lairdship should belong to his brother, Darach. And if not him, to no one other than himself—for he and his brother were the true blood heirs of Ronald James Campbell. Could it be that this was some sort of divine providence?
Ach…maybe it was only the Butcher’s sword and the dazzle of the rising sun that was filling Logan with superstitious dreams of destiny and magic. Even the notion that a ghost warrior might inhabit his body on the day of the battle…
Logan felt almost invincible as he rode into the woods, imagining the attack on Leathan Castle, for he had one slick trick up his sleeve—a trick that would put the English at a severe disadvantage, undeniably.
It was not until Logan reached the loch where he’d found the Butcher’s sword that he realized he had not thought of Mairi once since he woke that morning, mounted his horse, and galloped away from Moncrieffe Castle.
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