The Highlander's Claim (Highland Romance)

by Jessica Knight

  “I would never mock you, m’Lady” I assure her. “Him, I might. But never you. I swear it.”

  Though she tries to look stern and imperial, I see the ghost of a smile playing upon her lips. She somehow manages to fight it off and gives me a haughty look of indignation.

  “Are you always this cheeky?” she asks.

  “Usually,” I tell her. “My pa’s gone through quite a few leather straps.”

  “I have no doubts,” she finally allows herself a laugh.

  “Sister, what do you think you’re doing?” a high, reedy voice asks.

  I turn and find a man about my age wearing dark breeches and cloak with a deep blue doublet emblazoned with the heraldry of House Seeley upon the breast. Like their man Corman, he too wears a sword and dagger upon his hips, although on him, they look more decorative than functional. He’s slight through the shoulders and chest and lacks the hardened experience in his face that only battle can grant you.

  “I’m enjoying my day in the market,” she replies, the steel tone returning to her voice.

  “Father said he did not want you consorting with – the rubbish,” he says, the disdain thick in his voice.

  “Morgan!” Catherine gasps with a flush of embarrassment in her cheeks. “You are as uncouth as you are unkind.”

  “No offense taken,” I chime in. “In case you were concerned.”

  Morgan doesn’t spare me a glance as he glares directly at the large, angry soldier standing behind us.

  “And you,” Morgan hisses. “You are meant to prevent this sort of thing from happening.”

  “By this sort of thing, do you mean a pleasant conversation?” I ask. “So, his task was to suck any sliver of joy out of the day for your sister, was it?”

  “Malcolm –” Catherine gasps.

  Her brother finally turns to me, as if only now realizing that I’m standing there. The look on his face is dark and filled with sheer disgust. He looks me up and down, that disgust only deepening.

  “You presume to speak to somebody so high above your station?” he growls. “I should have you lashed for such insolence.”

  “You will do nothing of the sort,” Catherine spits, her voice hard and colder than ice. “And now that you and Corman have conspired to ruin my pleasant afternoon, I should like to return home to my cell now.”

  “Your cell, sister?” Morgan scoffs. “You have always had a gift for the melodrama.”

  “And you have always had a gift for being vulgar,” she huffs and turns to me. “Please accept my apologies for my – brother. His boorishness knows no bounds.”

  She turns to move away, and I know our conversation is coming to an end. My insides are churning wildly, and I want to stop her before she goes, ask her to speak with me again. But I know that would not be well received by the two men with swords. But then she stops and turns back, favoring me with a soft smile.

  “But I did enjoy speaking with you today. I appreciate the laughter,” she says softly. “It seems to be such a rare commodity these days.”

  She follows her statement with a very pointed glance at both Corman and her brother, a frown touching her features. I would give anything to replace that frown with the smile I saw earlier. Gritting my teeth, I find my voice and give her a sincere smile.

  “Aye. And I enjoyed speaking with you,” I tell her as the two men in her company continue to glower at me. “I hope we can speak again some other day.”

  “I would – enjoy it.”

  And without another word, she turns, and I watch her glide away. She moves like she floats on a cushion of air. Her brother lingers for a moment, his gaze burning holes through me.

  “You should not presume to reach above your station, filth,” he growls.

  He turns and follows his sister, and I’m struck from behind by a mass that feels like a mountain. The shove in the back sends me sprawling, and I land face first in the muck and mud with a wet thump. Doing my best to avoid thinking about what else might be in the foul-smelling mud aside from the rain, I quickly clamber to my feet and wipe the grime off my face as best as I can manage. I turn and find myself face to face with Sir Corman. His scowl is etched deep into his face.

  “As m’Lord said,” Corman rumbles, “do not presume to reach above your station.”

  “Heard it the first time. You’re bein’ repetitive now,” I tell him, trying to maintain some shred of dignity while covered in muck. “But then, you’re not being paid for your ability to think or speak for yourself, eh?”

  He looks flustered for a moment but then strides away from me, bumping my shoulder hard as he goes. I watch them go and catch a glimpse of Catherine’s cloak as she melds into the crowd. Even that small glimpse of her sets my heart fluttering and churns my insides in ways I never considered before. She’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever known, and somehow, someway, I aim to free her from the cage she says she’s trapped in and make her my own.

  Chapter Two

  Catherine

  I stroll along the flagstone walk that winds its way through what passes as a garden in this dreary motte-and-bailey castle my father dubbed Caldryn House. The stone castle that sits atop the motte is smaller than the structure in Edinburgh but still somehow seems twice as gloomy. In the front of the bailey below the castle are the usual things one would expect to find like stables, a smithy and ironworks, and barracks for my father’s soldiers.

  But on the backside of the motte, my father built something for me – the gardens and more genteel pursuits. Penned in by the wooden and stone palisades however, it seems more a prison that’s beautiful to look at rather than a place of peace and solace for me.

  I trail my fingers along the stone of my cage, musing on the fact that the flowers that grow within the walls of this place are not nearly as vibrant, nor is the aroma as sweet. I long to be back in Carlisle, where I can smell the ocean. The scent of the sea just seems to make the gardens there more fragrant. Life on this side of Hadrian’s Wall just seems so – bleak.

  That is not to say Scotland is not without its charms. Or beauty. In fact, I’ve enjoyed much about my time here. But it is not home. I am not surrounded by things or people that are familiar to me. The things and people I take comfort in. Oh, I have many of my material possessions – my books mostly – as well as my ladies here with me. But it is not the same.

  However, my life is tied to my father’s ambitions. If he sees an opportunity to better his standing at Court or our family name, he will take it. Every single time. It seems that everything he does is an effort to raise the esteem of our family with the scant hope that Queen Elizabeth will notice him.

  Personally, I do not much care for the politics of Court, and I could truly give a whit whether the Queen notices me or not. And my ambitions lie elsewhere. I have no desire to sit the throne or amass power and prestige for my family name. To me, prestige and honors are things collected by the dead. I wish to leave a lasting mark upon the world – but I wish to do it while I live.

  My desire is to make the world a better place for all rather than collect castles and wealth, titles, and honorifics. But perhaps that is the difference between men and women.

  I take a seat on a bench that sits between a pair of rose bushes and open my book. My books have become my only solace and escape in a place such as this. A cool wind whispers past, drawing a shiver from me. I pull my cloak a bit tighter and try to shut out the cold as I attempt to lose myself in the words on the pages before me.

  I say attempt because after reading the same page three times and still not retaining a bit of it, I sigh and put the book down on my lap, unable to focus on my reading. Instead, my thoughts continually drift to the boy in the market – Malcolm.

  He’s handsome in a rugged, wild, and primal fashion. He is irreverent and brash. He’s bold and so bloody cheeky. But he made me laugh. He made me smile. Two things I feel I haven’t done in quite some time. It was a nice respite from what has been a morose existence here north of the Wall.


  I slip the flower he gave me out of my cloak, and a smile touches my lips as I recall the ragged, scruffy boy from the market. He made me feel something I’ve never felt before. There was a swell in my heart and a stirring in my stomach that filled me with a warmth I found as disconcerting as it was unexpected.

  I’ve never found myself attracted to anybody before, but I confess to having a powerful feeling for Malcolm. It’s not like anything I’ve felt before. My father has paraded an army of suitors before me though, it is more for him than it is for my benefit. My father will choose whom I am to marry, and it will be a choice based upon political expediency rather than on anything remotely resembling my feelings or preferences. I do not have a choice in who I am to marry.

  I push those dour thoughts away and let my mind fill with thoughts of Malcolm, which brings a smile to my lips and a flush to my cheeks. At least until the voice of my uncle intrudes on my thoughts.

  “Always with your nose in a book,” he says.

  “It is a pleasing distraction.”

  My Uncle James perches on the end of the bench and turns to me. He looks down his nose at me, a look of disapproval on his face – which is a constant expression from him. My uncle does not think much of me. He never has. Of course, he also thinks my brother weak and ineffectual – an assessment that I don’t necessarily disagree with. We are a family, and he does the duty our father charged him with, which is to care for and protect us when he is away, but my uncle’s dislike of Morgan and I is more than clear. It is a sentiment that is returned in spades.

  “Your brother told me about your dalliance in the market with that – Scottish filth,” he begins.

  “Of course he did,” I reply. “I am sure he came running to lick your boots the moment we arrived home.”

  Uncle James stares at me for a long moment, unblinking and silent. But then a slow smile spreads across his face. And he laughs, the sound a deep rumbling that starts in his chest, then passes his lips and drifts away on the breeze like rolling thunder.

  “Yes, your brother has always been a bit obsequious that way,” he says. “But Sir Corman informed me as well, and he is far from obsequious.”

  “I am glad to know he licks your boots with more dignity. I’m sure that pleases you,” I reply. “But regardless of what you have been told by your minions, it was hardly a dalliance. It was a conversation.”

  He picked a bit of lint off his breeches and straightened his doublet, a smug, arrogant smirk on his face.

  “What would please me is for you to behave as a proper lady,” he says, ignoring my barbs. “What would please me is for you to not disgrace our House.”

  “Is our House so fragile, a simple conversation in a marketplace can destroy it?”

  He sighs, and his expression darkens. “While your father is away, you are in my care,” he says, his voice low and bursting with anger. “And while you are in my care, you will do as I command.”

  “You are not my father –”

  “But on this point, your father and I are in agreement. You are forbidden from fraternizing with the – Scottish rubbish,” he snarls. “They are beneath your station, and you will treat them as such. If you do not, you will be confined to the grounds.”

  “Am I not already?” I retort. “When was the last time I was allowed beyond the palisades that hem us in?”

  “This is a wild, untamed land, Catherine,” he says. “And until we have broken these bloody Scots, it is simply not safe for you. Not without a full complement of soldiers at your back.”

  “Hardly a relaxing ride in the countryside.”

  “This is not a relaxing place,” he replies. “The moment you let your guard down –”

  “Yes, yes, the heathens will descend and spirit me away to the shadows where I will be sacrificed to some pagan god.”

  His tone grows as dark as his expression. “Do not make light of this, Catherine. These filthy savages pose a genuine threat to your life.”

  My laugh it sharp and brittle. “And I am certain you would mourn my passing, dear Uncle.”

  “Regardless of what you may believe Catherine,” he says. “I bear you no ill will, and I have no desire to see anything untoward happen to you.”

  I’m relatively certain he couldn’t care less if anything untoward happens to me. It appalls me that my father leaves me in his care when he’s away. What is worse is that he will not listen when I share my – concerns. He waves them off as meritless or the ravings of an overly sensitive girl. It infuriates me every single time.

  “Let’s not be dramatic, Catherine.”

  There is a scathing reply perched on the tip of my tongue like a caged bird just waiting to be set free. But I bite it back. This conversation is getting circular and boring, and I want nothing more than to bring it to an end. I close my book and get to my feet.

  “Thank you for the conversation, Uncle.”

  He looks like he has something more to say, so I turn and walk briskly away, following the path that will lead me back to our keep at the top of the hill. As I go, I push away the thoughts of the conversation with my uncle and let my mind drift back to my conversation with Malcolm – a far more pleasant memory that brings a smile to my face as I revel in my small bit of rebellion.

  Chapter Three

  Malcolm

  The sun is slipping toward the horizon, and an army of shadows are marching across the land as night lays claim to the world. I emerge from the woods behind our farm with a sack full of rabbits – Ian and I won’t be going hungry tonight.

  I cut through the barley fields and climb over the low stone wall that surrounds our home, approaching the house from behind. Ian is at the well, hauling up a bucket of fresh water as I come around and drop my sack on the rough-hewn wooden table we use to clean our game.

  “Any sign of them yet?” I call.

  Ian shakes his head. “Not yet.”

  He sets the bucket down beside my sack, and we both lean against the table, looking out across the fields to the north – the direction our father and Dougal headed a couple of days ago now.

  “What do you think it means?” I ask.

  “It means they’re not back yet.”

  He tries to project an air of confidence, but the quaver in his voice and the fear I see in his eyes betrays him – he’s every bit as concerned as I am. Two days ago, old man Finlay – our clan chief – came by our hold. He was grimmer than usual and didn’t offer the usual array of insults he typically hurls my way. That told me something bad was afoot.

  He told us the English were on the march and they needed to rally the clan. The English did this every couple of years or so – they encroached on our clan’s lands, trying to lay claim to it in the name of Charles Seeley, Duke of Lancaster – otherwise known as Catherine’s father.

  Duke Seeley believed the land was his by right. Clan MacDonaugh – my clan – had other thoughts on the matter. And every once in a while, swords cross, and blood spills. But most of the time, as my papa puts it, both sides march out to the field of battle and wave their cocks at one another before going home.

  “Do you think they’re alright then?” I press.

  “Aren’t they always?” Ian snaps. “Now go clean the rabbits and put the stew on. If I get any hungrier, I may have to eat the horse’s arse.”

  “Judgin’ by your breath, I’d say you already did.”

  Ian moved to cuff me behind the ear like Dougal does, but I duck out of the way and go to fetch my knives to start skinning the rabbits. My brother is being blithe about it, but I can tell that something’s different. There’s something in the air telling me something’s wrong. It’s like I can smell it the way I can smell the scent of rain on the air before it rolls in. And I can tell by the strain I see in my brother’s face that he feels it too.

  Dinner that night is a quiet affair – Ian is not himself. There isn’t much he takes seriously in this world, and he always has a joke for everything. But tonight, he’s been subdued t
o the point of melancholy, and it’s left me shaken.

  As I stand at the stone wall that surrounds our home, I look to the south, wondering what’s going on out there.

  * * *

  “Malcolm, get up. Wake up.”

  I groan as Ian shakes me. It had been a fitful night of very little sleep, and when I sit up on my straw covered pallet, my eyes feel grainy and sore. I yawn and stretch, and that’s when I hear voices in the yard outside the house. I jump out of bed like my arse is on fire and pull my tunic down. Grabbing the rough-spun, dark green brat from the peg on the wall, I throw it over my head and pull it tight around me to ward off the morning chill.

  I pull open the wooden door and step out into the yard to find Ian already standing with my father and brother. My father is covered in mud and filth – and so much blood it scares me. Dougal is in no better shape.

  “What happened, Papa?” I ask. “Are you both okay?”

  “We’re fine, lad,” he replies. “Knicks and bruises.”

  I look up at Dougal and see the front of his saffron tunic is stained crimson from the deep cut on his cheek. My father bears several shallower cuts on his arms, and legs but for the most part, they both seem to be intact and in one piece. Which makes me think much of the blood on their tunics is not theirs.

  “What happened?” Ian presses.

  My father sighs and exchanges an uneasy glance with Dougal. “Finlay is dead. Slain by the Duke’s men,” he says, his tone carrying a hard edge. “They caught us by surprise. We weren’t actually expectin’ a fight. We lost six good men, and that’s our fault. We shoulda been ready.”

  A long moment of silence draws out between us as we let that sink in. I knew there was something wrong. I just knew it. But I know saying that out loud isn’t gonna do anybody any good.

  “So what are we gonna do about it?” I ask.