The crowd parted as Portia and Leah approached the home. The women’s voices died down. Seated in the chair in the center of the room, Brus held court. Breads, stews, meats, a medley of vegetables, and fishes laden the table and Portia had never seen such a clean home though she heard the animals behind a partition. Even the faded curtains held nary a mark of dirt.
Around her, the ladies fawned over him. Some served him while another poured his drink. Others folded laundry and some washed dishes. Leah mentioned each by name. Columba, Rosin, Mavis, Una, Lili, Peigi, Orna, Ciarda and on it went until their faces blended in to a blur and their names became just as mixed up.
Portia sat, letting the whirlwind happen around her. She should have been happy Brus was a popular man and not lacking a woman who wished to be his wife. She could make the wrong choice. Instead, there were too many choices and chances for an inner turmoil to erupt in discord. Having completed every chore, the women departed, needing to see to their own homes.
“They cam ance a day. My daughters dinna have to come verra often. A good thing since they dinna like all the ladies chasing me like a highland cat seeking food.”
“I understand. It’s hard to see a parent replaced. From the stories I heard from my father, my sister had a difficult time accepting my father—my very English father.”
“Your sister isna a Sassenach?” His bushy brows lifted.
“Nay, she’s Scottish. Lairdess MacKintosh, actually.” Portia braced for his harsh words.
Brus tugged at his droopy earlobe. “I’d keep that to myself.”
She loosened her grip, slipping her nails free from her palms. “As I’ve discovered. Hatred runs thick in these lands. I am married to a Cameron, which makes me one so I must cut ties with England. My sister is my enemy and…” Once again, she depended upon a man and his kindness. She sighed and gave a melancholy shake of her head.
“Nay, wrongs need ta be righted.”
She mulled over his words. Was that what she needed to do herself? “I believe you are right however, one doesn’t always get to do that.”
“That’s why your family dae it for you.”
Her gut twisted as she saw no chance for it. “I do have one question. What if it is your family who is guilty of the wrong?”
“Then mak it your life quest ta right it and pray for help.”
Help…like Alec. Was this her chance at righting a wrong?
* * * *
She strolled up the tract, kicking a rock. Today was laundry day and the washing women’s songs floated on the air. Here in Scotland, she learned there was a song for every chore. The drover sang, the herders sang even the soldier’s sang while they built up their strength. When she returned from Brus’ she asked the first servant she spotted about Alec and his possible return. The morn was half spent and her husband had yet to return. The last time she waited for her husband to return, he returned lifeless and bloody. Refusing to relive those fears, she decided she had to waste the day away by keeping busy. So, she decided the focus on her second duty as lairdess and wife.
“Lairdess.”
Portia peeked up from the chest. Cairine stood in the archway of the castle’s stores. Her gaze danced about the space.
“Please call me Portia. I look for my sister when called lairdess.”
“Very well, Portia. I’m here to assist you.” Cairine had one leg in and the other out, seeming ready to flee.
“I would love your help. To be truthful, you look like you are about to run.”
Cairine swallowed and took a small step into the dank bowels of the castle. “Tis true, I hate being here. This place is haunted. Before I was born, soldiers were locked in here. One by one, they died a gruesome death, starving to death after being tortured. One man had his eyes eaten by a rat while he still lived. Well, as he died he put a curse on this place and swore he would not rest until the last Cameron was wiped from the earth’s face. Soon after his death, spooky things began to happen, servants and guards coming down here and being attacked. One maid had her face scratched. And a guard was knocked out. Then there are the voices and moans of pain.”
She glanced about the dim room. “I’ve been here for a time and nothing has happened.”
“Perhaps because you’re English,” Cairine said as if her words made perfect sense.
“But I’m Lairdess. He should know that.”
Cairine shrugged. “Who knows why the spirit does what he does?”
“Let’s hope he doesn’t want to be a bother because I can use your assistance. I’m redoing the laird’s chamber and I am seeking items I need.”
“Need for?”
“To help Alec be the laird he is.” Portia sat back on her legs. “Can you tell me more about Alec?”
Cairine joined Portia before the chest. “Such as…our past relationship.”
“Aye.” Portia withstood Cairine’s steady gaze, waiting for her denial or agreement.
“There isn’t much to share. We were children and he was the laird’s son. He would have to wed a lady to benefit the clan’s standing.”
“Is that why you wed Quinlan?”
“Not because of Alec—the laird,” she corrected herself, reminding herself of the difference in their standing or to appease Portia. Not that she was offended. “The laird wasn’t able to love at that time.”
“What do you mean?”
“You see how his father haunts him. You have heard the tales of his father’s love or as I believe an obsession. Love doesn’t turn to hate. Sure when it ceases it can pain a person but he won’t become like his father. Becoming his father is his greatest fear.”
A burning spread from her stomach to her neck. Cairine knew a part of her husband that she would never know. Portia chided herself for the twinge of jealously. Cairine had been kind to her and wished the best for her.
“Why does he believe that?”
“Alec may have the coloring of his mother but there is much he shared with his father.”
Her heart raced into her throat and made her croak her next words, “Such as?”
“He cares deeply. He is a man of action. Once a choice is made he never second guesses himself. The most is that he sees a weakness in him that he glimpsed in his father.”
“Weakness?” That one word blared in her ears like a trumpet call.
“When his father betrayed the agreement with MacLean, Alec lacked the strength to kill his father. He saw it as a weakness but he wasn’t. He controlled the man and corrected his wrongs. Most highlanders saw it as a weakness against him, not that it mattered since they speak of him in such Godless terms anyway.”
“So, he wishes he did take his father’s life?”
“At times, but I think he set his hopes on a life that Connor’s death denied him and he hasn’t let it die. Your task may be the kick the man needs. How can I help?”
“I’ve planned to transfer his personal items to his new chamber. I still need to gather a few more items for a personal touch.”
“We should visit Baird. He has carvings the laird likes. We can see about more plaids and the trader ought to be arriving soon.”
“That sounds wonderful and I can escape this dust. Besides, I believe a rat has been sitting there…” Portia tilted her head to the black corner where red eyes glowed in the dark and squeaked and scratched its nails against the stone. “…watching me. He still hasn’t decided to attack me or not.”
The rat scurried forward. Portia flew to her feet and pushed Cairine out of the bowels as they fled the darkened cavern with a drawn-out scream. Portia slammed the door shut behind her and knocked in to Cairine. Their screams bounced off the walls. Portia covered her ears, still screaming. She wagered the whole castle rumbled from her screeching.
“Lairdess, what is wrong?” Hurley held the pummel of his dirk. Leah stood at his side, one hand clutched his arm and the other she clenched in to a fist.
“A rat decided to attack us.” Cairine rested her hand over her heart. If it
matched the speed of Portia’s own, the hand would be no help to calm it.
“Rats reside down here.”
“That may be true, Hurley however, I do not need to be in the same room as the vermin nor be threatened by one, a particularly fierce one.” Portia nodded in emphasis.
“I will have the castle cats sent down. They shall never threaten you again.” Hurley chuckled under his breath.
Portia led the way from the depths of the castle. Once outside the castle walls, Portia turned her face toward the sun. She dusted off her plaid and, together with Cairine, set out to the village. Leah joined them before reaching the tract.
The midday sun slid from its apex. The farmers were departing from the fields and returning home. Their talk centered on the harvest. Their conversation dropped like a horse off a cliff. The clattan quieted when she reached the homes. Portia noticed the sneers on their faces and their hurried voices chasing behind her.
Leah and Cairine shared a worried glance.
“The berries are starting to fruit, perhaps we can gather some in the morn.”
“We must go.” Cairine turned her too bright eyes on Portia. “Lairdess, please join us. Berry picking is a great fun.”
“I remember when I was little and would stuff my mouth with handfuls, never stopping until the juices dripped from my mouth and down the front of my gown.” Her voice remained even though her throat was shutting. Her eyes burned. She wasn’t a Cameron. She refused bow her head or hunch over to hide. She continued onward even as her legs shook. She had caught the servants talk up in the castle and knew the clan disliked her. Just another problem to solve and this day was the beginning.
A drover and his cattle packed the tract. The animals raised their heads and let loose their calls. The bedraggled man planted his staff into the earth. His narrow gaze followed her. It was his snicker that slammed into her lungs.
“Here is the woodworker’s home,” Cairine said with relief. She knocked.
A smiling woman with graying hair answered. When she spotted Portia, her friendly grin died.
“The lairdess is in need of your husband’s talents to redecorate the laird’s chamber.”
“All are welcome,” she said, still blocking the threshold. The ladies lingered at the door. In England, the villagers had welcomed her while here, it seemed they would rather ignore her and perhaps soon, burn her.
Cairine cleared her throat.
“Oh, Lairdess, please enter.” She stumbled back.
Portia crossed into the home, pretending she received her with a warm welcome. A peat fire licked the bottom of the pot and a fragrant meal filled the home. The curtains were pushed back, not letting enough light into the home especially since a goat poked its head through the opening. The furnishings were of excellent quality and proof of the woodworker’s skill.
The thin man rose from his chair. Cairine introduced the couple to Portia. Baird and his wife, Dara, remained anchored to the spot. Portia was unsure of the next action. She needed their help and the clan’s acceptance. Dara glanced to the small window while her husband put his arm around her shoulder as if she needed protection.
“I’m reworking the laird’s chamber and wish you to create pieces for it.” Portia ran her hands over the chair, feeling the solid back and nary a splinter of wood. “Something like this beauty along with the Cameron badge details.”
“I can make a matching chair to the one in his chamber.”
Portia glanced up. She avoided venturing into his old chamber. Too much of an invasion…nay, to walk through his space would reveal too much about him. She didn’t know if she was ready to learn more about him. Now she must invade his space so that the chamber reflected him and his position.
“I have many items at the workshop.”
“Then I must stop by after you finish your meal. I shall leave you.”
The couple bid a warm farewell. Outside a crowd had gathered. From their rigid bodies, crossed arms and intense stare, Portia knew how witches felt when villagers came to drown them.
“Perhaps, we should return to the castle,” Cairine said.
“Lairdess MacLean advised me to meet with Elspeth. Please show me to her home.” Portia lifted her head to the perfect angle to show her standing. The reason for their hatred she was unsure, but that didn’t fail to lessen the sting of their rejection.
“My lady, do not fret. You shall earn the respect and welcoming of the clan. They will see the kind person you are.”
“I shall believe you.” She held onto Leah’s words and tucked them tight to her chest, even as she knew it was a grand feat, near to as impossible as her climbing Ben Nevis.
“Cairine,” Quinlan shouted.
Leah and Portia halted. Cairine continued onward. Portia looked back at Quinlan. He always wore a scowl, yet the one he donned now seemed darker. His brows were slanted downward that she couldn’t make out his eyes. His nostrils flared, turning his broken nose a deep red.
“Halt.” His order fell on her shut ears. “You are my wife and you will obey.”
Cairine spun around and slammed her hands on her hips. “Are you calling me daft?”
Quinlan looked confused. “Nay.”
“I know you are my husband so there is no need to bellow it through the clattan.”
He shook his head and let out a frustrated breath. “I shall deal with you later.” Quinlan continued over Cairine’s shouting. “I have come for the lairdess. You are to return to the castle.”
* * * *
Alec leaned against the wall alongside the chimney of the great hall. His forehead rested on his raised forearm. Through his wrinkled liene, she glimpsed his tense muscles as his neck strained. Embers shot out. Alec never flinched though some must have scorched his legs. Portia let out a relieved sigh to see him hale and whole, but she turned to get away from hearing whatever dreadful truth that weighed him down. Portia stirred from the entrance way then halted.
“Portia, come here.” He faced her. His brows pinched. His mouth was turned down. “Sit down.”
“Please tell me what you wish to say.” She drifted forward. She peeked at the turret stairs but continued forward with heavy steps.
“Sit down, then I shall.” He waved toward the chair then turned back to the fire.
She perched on the edge of the chair. Placing her hands on her lap, she covered one with the other. Beneath her palm, she pinched the wool fabric. She counted, reaching ten before he faced her again.
“The MacKintosh and Chattan raided last night.” He rubbed his brow. “An outer crofter family was killed along with the cattle. Nothing but embers remain.”
Portia covered her gaping mouth with her hand. An innocent family working the fields was ruthlessly killed because of land. That was the way of this world but Portia hated it. The innocent always suffered.
“The attack was because of me?” She gripped the chair’s seat.
He lowered his head. “Nay, though you played a part.”
Her lip trembled. “I am to blame.” Again.
And the clan blamed her for it. Alec never neared, sending signals for her to keep her distance. It was the same rejection she had received from the clan. It seemed they were following his behavior. Leah’s words blew away, leaving nothing but the empty space of where she planned to create a new life.
“You are not to depart from the castle. Here you will be safe.”
She stared unseeing at the floor. Instead, she conjured images of smoke rising into the air, screams and smell of burning flesh. The terror the family must have been racked with, awoken in the night as devilish men attacked.
“Portia,” he snapped. He must have said her name a few times because he seemed to be yelling for her attention.
She licked her dry lips. “Is there any way I can help?”
“Nay, I cannot protect you.”
“Protect me from?” Her voice shook.
“The clan’s hot blood is demanding your head.”
“And you?
”
At this moment, him standing before her, tall and straight with his powerful feet planted firmly on the ground, he appeared every part the laird. She swallowed hard. Time slowed. He did. She shut off every emotion within her.
Not willing to run from another rejection, she rose and said, “What will protect me from your anger? You are my husband and I stand at your side.”
“Do you?”
Portia stepped back from the blow the question delivered. She bolted to the laird’s chamber when she ached to run to England and her childhood home. She didn't care that her life might end there since anything was better than this torment. The burn in her eyes began once the latch fell. She let a few tears drop then scraped her hands across her cheeks. No more tears. Again, she was snagged under a man’s cruel control.
* * * *
Night hung heavy over the glen. The flames of the beacon flapped about as the wind raced down the mountains. Even that light failed to banish the thick blackness covering the glen. The clouds obscured the moon. Not one sliver of moonshine bounced off the River Loy, a perfect night for retribution against Clan Chattan and MacKintosh.
Mackintosh had sent patrols to ride the lands with Liam in command. This night, Alec planned to find the bastard and kill him.
Quinlan directed a small force of Camerons toward the crofters while Alec, along with his men, rode from the oak forest to the fields. Twenty men rode tonight. For a few, this was their first raid—a chance to bloody their swords and prove themselves as Cameron warriors as they helped run the Chattan from the land.
“Camerons are gentlemen but tonight, we are jackals.”
A frisson thickened the air. Inhaling, Alec caught the balm of the grass, blending with the musty scent of peat and earth just beneath the scent, he smelled of his own sweat. His sight acclimated to darkness. Hell, he could hear the worms beneath the top soil. Alec remembered his first raid, the excitement cut with fear. Much like Alec, those untried warriors would prove themselves tonight.
Alec charged out of the cover of the shadows and in to the opened glen. Cattle scattered, braying their fear. A bull charged Alec. He turned his mount and corralled the beast, adding it to the numbers of fattened beast. From the east, a blaze ran through the night, appearing like sunset. Quinlan had burned the crops.
The Laird's Right Page 9
