Highlanders To Surrender To: A Scottish Medieval Historical Romance

by Alisa Adams

  Nevin could even now feel the weight of his responsibilities begin to settle on his shoulders and it was a deeply unpleasant feeling since he was terrified of failure. If he did anything less than his best dozens of people could lose their livelihood.

  Now, after a hard day's work, Nevin flopped into a chair by the fire in the parlor and tossed down a full tumbler of whiskey. He had made up his mind to go and tell his father, Laird David Kirk, what he wanted from the marriage settlement with Allana so that things could proceed more quickly. It seemed that his father had only a matter of days left. He knew the terms of his father's will, and how much each of his sisters and his mother would be receiving. However, even if they had been bequeathed nothing, Nevin would have shared whatever he had with them and made sure that they were comfortable for the rest of their lives.

  He did not know how much his father would be giving Laird Dundas, however, and that was the sticking point. That was the last item to be ironed out before the betrothal could be announced. He poured himself another glass of whiskey and it was then that Annie, the housekeeper, came hurrying into the room. Nevin knew that something was wrong straight away by the fact that his normally dignified and solemn servant was running and her face was flushed and anguished.

  "Sir!" she cried breathlessly. "It is your father. Please come quickly!"

  Nevin dashed past her to sprint up the stairs two at a time. Laird Kirk's room was lit with dozens of candles and beside the bed were his mother, his two sisters, Margaret and Lucy, and the priest, Father Stephen. They all looked up when he came in, and everyone's eyes were glistening with tears.

  When David saw his son, he made a feeble attempt to sit up but was unable even to raise his head off the bed. He lifted his hand to beckon his son to his side. "Nevin," he said, in a croaking whisper. "Come near, my son." Then he made a motion to shoo everyone else out of the room.

  "Do not tire him," Gwenda whispered, "he has not got much time left."

  Nevin nodded and kneeled down by the living skeleton that was all that was left of his father. David’s breathing was ragged and labored as if each inhalation was being torn from him by a heroic effort, which it was. Nevin felt tears pricking his eyes.

  "Son," he wheezed weakly, "Allana Dundas…" he paused for another breath, swallowed, and went on. "Do not… Do not… marry her."

  Nevin frowned, mystified. "Father, why not? She means everything to me."

  David took another few agonized breaths then spoke again. "She… will never… make you… h-happy."

  "But I love her and she loves me, Father," he protested. "Why should I not marry her?"

  His father's weak grip on Nevin's hand tightened for a moment and he shook his head. "No, son… she does not…" He began to become agitated and Nevin lifted his father's head and held it against himself.

  "Shh…" he whispered gently. "I promise, Father. I promise."

  "Thank God," David said, closing his eyes. For a moment, Nevin thought that he had gone, but he opened his eyes again. "Gwenda… Girls…"

  Nevin admitted them and then Father Stephen. For an hour, the family sat around the bedside of the dying man, listening to the quiet voice of the priest intoning the last rites and encouraging them all to pray in their own words until finally, no-one felt able to speak anymore. Now, it was only a matter of waiting. Finally, David took his last breath and let it out in what sounded like a sigh of relief. Father Stephen composed David's body and drew a sheet over his face then quietly left the family to mourn in peace and privacy.

  No-one said anything. Nevin gathered them all into a hug and they stood, weeping quietly.

  "I had better get the ladies to come and see to him," Gwenda said quietly. She made no move to stand up, however, and Nevin pressed her shoulders to indicate that she should stay seated.

  "I will do it," he said gently, "you sit here as long as you need to, Mother, and all of you. I have things to see to." Then he pulled the sheet back a little to kiss David's forehead. "Goodbye, Father," he whispered. He went slowly downstairs where Annie was waiting. There was a question in her eyes as she looked at him, but she stayed silent as if afraid to speak.

  Nevin swallowed and cleared his throat. "My father has passed on, Annie." His voice was a husky croak. "Please see to the arrangements for the laying out."

  "Yes, m’laird," she replied sadly, "he was a good man, and I am very sorry for your loss."

  Nevin nodded and turned away, suddenly conscious of what Annie had called him: 'm’laird’. The title had passed to him with his father's last breath. Now there was much thinking to do, but as yet he was in no state to do it. Once again, Nevin sought solace in the whiskey bottle. He was not usually a heavy drinker, but this day had been the worst of his life so far and all he wanted to do was to render himself insensible to any more pain.

  When he woke up after passing out for six hours, Nevin had the most savage headache he had ever experienced. At some point, he had been put to bed, probably by one or two of the heftiest manservants in the castle. He had also been undressed and a hot stone was placed at his feet. He lay for a long time thinking about the promise he had made to his father: Do not marry Allana Dundas—she will never make you happy. But he believed he loved her and he knew he could be happy with her or at least he thought he could.

  He remembered the few times when he had seen her being serious about anything. She was like a different person. That Allana was deeply thoughtful, considerate, and intelligent. It was not that he disliked the carefree, happy Allana, but he preferred the quieter one. However, they were all part of the same madly fascinating woman that he loved. So, why had his father told him not to marry her? Nevin knew that Allana could satisfy him as a wife, so what was it that David had seen in her that would make him think otherwise? Nevin was baffled. He tried to conjure up in his mind a picture of Allana with a solemn face but found it impossible.

  Nevin had promised his father on his deathbed that he would not marry her. Should he honor that promise? There lay more worry, more choices, and possibly more heartache, and the only person in whom he could confide was dead. He went through his family members to see if there was even one who could help him, but no-one sprang to mind. It seemed that for the moment he was on his own.

  3

  Mourning

  The Dundas family received the news of Laird Kirk's death when Nevin rode over the next day to tell them the bad news. Malcolm received Nevin in his office. Nevin did not have to say anything—the news was written all over his face. Malcolm bade him sit down and poured him a glass of spiced wine.

  "I'm sorry, my boy," he said heavily. "Your father was a good man and I shall miss him. How is your mother?"

  Nevin sipped his wine. "Thank you, m’laird. She is doing as well as can be expected. Devastated, of course, but putting on a brave face."

  "And you?" Malcolm asked, looking at Nevin keenly.

  "I am still looking for my brave face," he replied with the hint of a smile.

  "There is no need for such here," Malcolm consoled him. "It is a strong man who can openly show his sadness without shame and no-one will judge you for it, so be at ease, Nevin."

  "Thank you, m’laird." Nevin's voice was almost a whisper.

  "I think that is your title now, m’laird," Malcolm reminded him.

  "I keep forgetting," Nevin said in surprise. "I feel as though I have no right to it. Not yet, anyway, while Father still lies in the castle. I will feel differently when he is buried, no doubt."

  Malcolm stood up and walked around the desk. Nevin looked up at him as Laird Dundas put his hands on his shoulders. "You are Laird Kirk now, and you must be proud of it," he said, urging Nevin to his feet. "Whether your father is above the ground or below it, he has passed his title and his property to you, so wear your title as a Laird should."

  For the first time since his father's death, Nevin smiled broadly. Malcolm refilled his glass, and they both held theirs up for a toast. "Long live Laird Nevin Kirk! Slàinte Mhath!" he
cried, laughing. "I am not being disrespectful by laughing, Nevin. But we must reaffirm life in the midst of death. Do you understand?"

  Nevin nodded. "I do. You are very wise, m—"

  "Call me Malcolm," the Laird stated firmly. "After all, we are of equal rank now."

  "Thank you, Malcolm," Nevin replied, "for your wishes, your wisdom, and your wine! You have shone a bright light on this dark day." He tipped back the last of his wine. "Now, I must gather my strength for it will be a long day."

  "Would you like me to come with you?" Malcolm asked anxiously. "You may need some moral support."

  "Thank you, Malcolm, but I might as well get used to the weight on my shoulders as soon as possible."

  Malcolm nodded in understanding. The two men shook hands and as soon as they descended the stairs, they met Allana.

  "Nevin," she greeted, frowning. He turned to her and suddenly she knew exactly what was wrong. She put a hand to her mouth. "Your father?"

  He nodded, unable to speak again.

  "Goodbye, Nevin," Malcolm patted him on the shoulder and went to seek Edme and Bettina.

  Allana put her arms around him, pressing his head onto her shoulder. "I am so sorry, my dear. So, so sorry, but he is out of pain now and in a better place." She knew the words were clichés, but hopefully, they would comfort him a little. However, nothing she could say or do would ever make up for the loss of the beloved father he could never replace.

  "I know," he said huskily, "but he was so dear to me, Allana, and I loved him so much." He shook his head. "I do not know how I can cope without him."

  "Can I do anything?" she asked, looking up into his face with such tender concern that he felt like weeping all over again.

  He smiled and kissed her gently on her soft lips.

  "Yes." He leaned his forehead against hers and closed his eyes. The feel of her arms around him, her warmth, her scent, had brought him to an oasis of comfort in a sea of sadness. "Be here. Just be here, Allana."

  "I will be," she whispered, "to give you whatever comfort you need, Nevin."

  "Thank you, pet." He managed another sad smile. "The wake is tonight. I would be very grateful if you and your family would come."

  "We will be there," she assured him. "Now, can I get you a glass of wine?"

  "Your father gave me two and I have a few more places to go," he replied. "No doubt, I will have quite a lot to drink at the wake, so no, Allana. I must leave you now and I will see you later."

  This time, to his surprise, it was she who initiated the kiss, pulling his head down to hers. It was not deep or passionate, but it left him trembling with desire and he realized that to have her in his bed would be the biggest comfort of all.

  "Please look after yourself," she begged, "and I will be thinking of you."

  "That comforts me greatly, Allana," he answered.

  When he walked away, he found it one of the hardest things he had ever had to do. He felt as though a cord was binding them together and she kept tugging on it to bring him back to her. He leaped onto his horse and got safely away before he was tempted to go back.

  Bettina ran up to Allana and skidded to a halt beside her. "I just heard the news from Father," she said with a gasp. "Is Nevin gone?"

  "Yes, poor thing," Allana said sadly. "He is broken-hearted. His father meant a lot to him, I know. He was a fine man."

  The two sisters watched as Nevin's horse cantered out of the gate. Bettina had come out too late to express her commiserations. As well as that, she could only say polite, conventional words. She was not in the fortunate position that Allana occupied where she could kiss him and put her arms around him. He had put his hands on Bettina’s shoulders and kissed her on the cheek only once before and it had tingled delightfully for hours.

  Bettina sighed. She knew that by becoming betrothed to Nevin, Allana was doing her duty, a pleasurable one, no doubt, for she was fond of him, but a duty nonetheless. She consoled herself with the fact that nothing could be done until after the official mourning period, which would likely be months, and even then, the betrothal period could take a few more. The bridal couple could still have conjugal relations during that time, but Bettina refused to think about that for her own sake.

  When Nevin arrived home, exhausted after a whole afternoon of riding and breaking bad news, he found his mother sitting quietly in her favorite little parlor making a tapestry. It was something she did every day, but it seemed strange to him. She was acting as if nothing had happened and he was surprised by her apparent lack of concern. "Mother, should you not be busy preparing for the wake?" he asked, frowning.

  "Annie has done most of it," Gwenda replied, shrugging. "All it needs now is my approval."

  Nevin sat down. "But—" he began, however, Gwenda held her hand up for silence.

  "But why am I sitting here sewing?" she finished for him. Her eyes suddenly had a dangerous, hostile look in them. "Because I am trying to take my mind off the fact that the only man I have ever loved is gone. Because doing small, familiar things keeps my mind off it. Because the wake this evening is going to break my heart all over again and I need to be by myself for a while. Because while I do this small task, I can pray for my beloved's soul and for all who are left in the family. Does that answer your question?"

  "Yes, Mother," he answered, "I did not mean that you had to justify yourself. I will acquiesce to whatever you need to do to ease your passage through this trying time. We are all suffering but perhaps you the most."

  Gwenda sighed and nodded. "I do not know how to measure these things, Nevin, but perhaps you are right. I am declaring an official six-month mourning period which may seem like a long time to you, but it is my wish."

  "But my betrothal—"

  "Will have to wait," Gwenda stated firmly. "I want time to mourn my husband properly. You are young, but I am not, so please indulge me with this one wish."

  Nevin bent down and hugged his mother, swallowing the bitter taste of another disappointment. "You are right, Mother." He kissed her cheek. "It can wait."

  He left her and went downstairs to where the food, tons of it, was being cooked and set out. Many of the servants were weeping which almost made Nevin want to join in. Suddenly, he realized that he was famished. He helped himself to some bread, cheese, and venison pie, then ordered milk to be sent up from the kitchen. When he sat down to eat his meal the butler, Johnny Wilson, came up to him.

  "M’laird," he began, "the staff has asked me tae express oor sympathy on the loss of yer faither. He wis a good man an' we will a' miss him."

  Nevin gave him a sad smile. "As will I, Johnny. Inform them all of my deepest gratitude."

  Johnny bowed and walked away. Nevin began to eat, chewing not only his food but his problems. Should he keep his promise to his father or try to arrange a marriage with Allana anyway? Laird Dundas had mentioned nothing about the matter, but then it was a delicate time and perhaps he did not feel that it was appropriate yet. Such things needed delicate handling.

  Gwenda Kirk had thoughts of her own. She had known that David had reservations about Nevin's possible betrothal to Allana. He had often expressed the idea that she was altogether too free with other men even when Gwenda pointed out that she was still very young and had no real idea what her teasing ways could lead to.

  Her sister is even younger, he had pointed out, yet she is a quiet, demure girl with a good head on her shoulders, unlike that flibbertigibbet Allana.

  Since that day Gwenda had watched Allana carefully. She could find no wrong in the girl other than the fact that she was very playful and men sought her out for that very quality. That, of course, was a dangerous thing in itself since it was a character trait that could lead to possible complications even if she was innocent. Sometimes her signals could be misinterpreted as an invitation. Gwenda decided that she would watch Allana even more carefully than usual. A wake was meant to be a solemn occasion, but as the wine, whiskey, and ale flowed, sometimes events became happy, frivolous, and some
times got out of hand altogether. She sighed. It was time to get ready.

  4

  The Wake

  Allana was unnaturally subdued on the night of the wake after having been warned by her father and mother not to be too exuberant. They had no need to warn Bettina who was her usual demure self. Allana looked dramatically beautiful as always. She arrived in a dress of deep purple silk with her depthless brown eyes and long, ebony hair. She looked like a dark angel.

  When Nevin saw her, he was stunned by her loveliness. For a moment, his mind was taken off the enormity of his father's death as he gazed at her while she greeted his mother.

  "Milady." Allana curtsied to Gwenda as she spoke. "I am so, so, sorry for your loss. Please let me know if I can be of help to you in any way."

  "Thank you, my dear," Gwenda said quietly, "everyone has been so kind. Please help yourself to our hospitality."

  "I would like to pay my respects first, milady," Allana replied.

  Gwenda smiled at her. "Of course."

  Nevin was waiting just behind her. "I will take you." He looked down at Allana, his expression deeply tender. "Thank you for coming. You look lovely."

  Allana shook her head. "I did not dress up to look lovely for the occasion, Nevin, but thank you." She turned away from him and began to mount the stairs. Just outside the bedroom door, Nevin stopped her.

  "He looks unlike himself, Allana," he informed her, "I am preparing you for you may be shocked."

  Allana nodded in understanding, but when she saw the body, tears sprang to her eyes. She experienced an unexpected visceral loathing for which she immediately felt ashamed. She had only ever seen one corpse before, that of her grandmother, but she had not resembled this poor, shriveled thing. David's bones were jutting out so sharply from his flesh that his skeleton was clearly visible and he seemed so fragile that it appeared even the flimsy shroud would tear the transparent, gray, and wrinkled skin underneath which dark blue strings of veins could be seen.