The Highlander's Claim (Highland Romance)

by Jessica Knight

  My father sighs and runs a hand over his muck-covered face. “Right now, your brother and I are goin’ down to the brook to wash up,” he says. “And I need you to put somethin’ on for us to eat.”

  “And after?” I press.

  “And after that, I’m going to sleep like the dead for a while.”

  Their heads down and shoulders slumped, my father and Dougal head off for the brook that sits behind our home. The brook cut through a small glen in the trees, and we’d dug it out to build a wide pond for bathing and such. While they did that, I go back inside and put together a morning stew, making a double batch since I know they’ll eat enough for an army.

  But all the while, my mind is occupied by thoughts of war. I know the clan will want to fight back against the Duke’s men. There is no way they will let the challenge go unanswered. What that means for my people is anybody’s guess. The Duke has more men and weapons than we have. They are better armored and equipped. But the Highland clans are known for their courage and ferocity in battle. And we never back down.

  This fight, when it comes, is going to be a violent, bloody affair, and I fear it is going to claim many lives.

  As I fret about the seeming inevitability of the coming fight, my mind takes an unexpected turn and conjures up images of the beautiful, fire-haired girl at the market. Catherine Seeley, daughter of the Duke of Lancaster – the girl who captured my imagination and my fancy. Just thinking about her sets a warm glow burning inside of me and raises a smile to my lips.

  But it makes me wonder what’s to become of her if a war breaks out – which is nearly a certainty at this point. What is going to happen to her? Images of her bloody, broken body fill my mind, and it’s a thought that strikes a chord of fear in my heart. But I push those dark thoughts away and focus on her smile. On the sound of her voice, and the way her laughter was like music in my ears. I hold onto the memories of her graceful figure and the way she made my heart spin, and it’s enough to bring a fleeting smile to my lips once more as I continue on about my daily chores.

  Later that night, after my father and brother have slept and we’ve had a quiet supper together, I’m piling the wooden bowls into the bucket to take down to the pond for washing.

  “Malcolm.”

  I turn and see my father standing in the doorway of the house. He turns and walks out into the night beyond, clearly expecting me to follow him. Ian surprisingly takes the bucket from me and heads out to do the washing – which should have been my first indication that something was amiss.

  Stepping out into the yard, I cross to the stone wall where my father is standing, looking out over the land as he smokes his pipe. I watch as a thin tendril of smoke rises upward out of the bowl and curls away into the darkness of the sky overhead. We stand there for a long moment, and I feel my body growing tighter, the tension thicker than his pipe smoke. I open my mouth to say something, but my father finally speaks.

  “War is coming, lad,” he says. “Sure as the sun will rise tomorrow.”

  I nod and fight off the churning in my gut. “I’m ready, Papa,” I assure him. “I’m ready to fight.”

  He turns and blows out a thick plume of smoke, momentarily wreathing his head and obscuring his face. But when it clears, I see he’s wearing the strangest expression on his face. I see the fear clearly – which sets my gut churning so hard I fear I might sick up. My father is never afraid. Of anything.

  But there’s something else there. Something behind his eyes that I can’t put my finger on. It’s almost mournful. Like he’s suffered the most profound loss in his life. I’ve only seen that look in his eye once before – when my ma died. But now he’s givin’ me that same look, and I feel like he’s expecting me to keel over right here at his feet.

  “Son, I’m sending you away,” he says. “Heloise, your aunt on your mother’s side, lives in France. She’s married to some minor noble or some such. You are going to be sent to live with them.”

  “Sending me away?” I gasp, unable to fully understand. “Why would you send me away, Papa? Have I done something wrong?”

  A sad smile touches his lips, and he puts his hand on my shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. And that’s when I recognize what that sad light in his eyes was – it was him saying goodbye to me. If only in his mind.

  “No lad,” he says. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Then why are you sending me away?”

  “Because war is comin’, son. And I won’t have you caught up in it,” he explains. “More than that, with Finlay dead, I expect to be the new clan chief, and that’s gonna make things even more complicated.”

  With the shock of his announcement quickly fading, what’s left to churn my guts is raw, hard anger. I look up at him, glaring hard, and set my jaw. That he thinks I’m such a delicate flower, that I’m too fragile to fight – it fills me with the darkest anger I’ve ever known.

  “I’m not going anywhere, Papa,” I tell him. “I’m going to stay here and fight. Same as you.”

  “You’ll do no such thing, lad,” he replies. “You will do as I say.”

  “This is my home. I have as much right and reason to fight for it as you.”

  “I’m not sayin’ you don’t, son. But I don’t want that for you. And neither did your mother,” he says softly but firmly. “Before she died, she made me promise I’d send you to her sister when you were of age. I intend to honor that promise. I intend to honor her by stayin’ true to my word.”

  I’m still seething and want to lash out. I want to break something. Punch somebody. I want to commit a hundred acts of violence just to prove to him that I am as capable of it as my brothers are.

  “Why aren’t you sending Dougal and Ian away too then, Papa?” I demand. “Why are they allowed to stay and fight for their home, and I’m being sent to France?”

  He sets his pipe down on the wall and kneels down in front of me. His hand is still on my shoulder, and he gives me a gentle squeeze. The moon peeks out from behind a shroud of clouds, and I see his eyes shimmering with tears. It’s an image that knocks me off-kilter. I’ve never seen my father cry before. Ever.

  “Malcolm, you’re the best of all of us, lad. You’ve got more of your mother in you than your brothers do. And that’s a good thing,” he says firmly. “That’s a light I don’t want to see extinguished sooner than it should be. You have great things ahead of you, lad. I won’t let you throw your life away when you don’t need to.”

  The mention of my mother is like a dagger of pain slicing into my heart. It’s compounded by the well of emotion overflowing on my father’s face, and it’s all I can do to keep my own emotions in check.

  “You’ll be raised in France. You’ll get a good education. You’ll live a good life, Malcolm,” he says. “And maybe when things here are settled, you’ll come back to us.”

  “But papa –”

  “You have a bright light inside of you, Malcolm. Same as your mother. And I won’t be the one who snuffs out that light,” he says. “You’re smart, son. And like I said, you’re the best of us all. Great things are waiting for you, lad. You will do incredible things for our family, our clan, and our people.”

  “But papa, I want to fight,” I argue. “I want to defend our home like a man.”

  His smile is gentle. “Bein’ a man isn’t just bein’ able to pick up a sword, lad,” he said. “It’s knowin’ when to pick up a sword and when to use what God saw fit to stick between your ears.”

  He smiles again and taps on my forehead to emphasize his point. Although what he’s saying makes sense to me, it can’t quite conquer that primal urge to fight that’s bubbling up inside of me. Not completely. But I see the earnestness in my father’s eyes and let out a long breath. I know if I don’t agree my brothers will just tie me up and stick me on a ship against my will anyway. My father’s mind is obviously made up on the matter, and all I can do is accept it.

  He gives me that sad smile and a firm nod before he stands and walks a
way, melting into the shadows that are draped across the land. I watch him go, still not understanding why he’s sending me away. The pain I feel is deep, and it’s unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. It’s all I can do to keep myself from bawling like a newborn. But I know if I want him to treat me like a man, I can’t do that.

  In that moment of silence, as I stand by the wall, wrapped up in the darkness of the night, I make a silent vow to myself. I vow that I will come back home. And I vow that I will defend our lands and our people. I will. And if I don’t, may God strike me dead.

  As I walk toward the house, still grappling with everything that’s happening and trying to come to grips with the fact that my father would rather send me away than stay on our land, fighting for our home alongside him, one thought pierces my mind and my heart with the power and intensity of a lightning bolt. It’s a thought that very well rips the sob out of my throat I’ve been doing my best to keep penned up inside.

  And it’s that I suddenly realized that I may never see Catherine Seeley again.

  Chapter Four

  Catherine

  Ten Years Later…

  I walk the grounds of the bailey, finding my way to my usual bench and sit down. A faint smile on my lips, I turn my face up to the sun, relishing the feel of the warmth raining down on me. It’s one of those rare sunny days here north of the Wall, so I’ve spent most of it in the garden. I long to be on horseback, riding through the endless fields that are filled with a riot of colors and green, rolling hills that extend to the horizon.

  In the more than ten years I’ve been here in the north, I’ve developed a certain fondness for it. No, it’s still not home, and I’d much rather be in Carlisle, but after so much time, I have to admit that this place and the people have carved out a certain niche in my heart. And on those days, I visit the market, spending time with the children of this land carves that niche even deeper. I’ve watched small children grow into beautiful young boys and girls. I’ve taught them to read and to write. I’ve taught them to be young lords and little ladies. It’s one of the most gratifying things about living here, and it’s soothed the bruised feelings I had about being forced to live here when I was younger.

  My brother and my uncle though, still despise everything about this place. And they remain resentful that they are here in the north, rather than at Court in London. They believe this land and the people are beneath them – and they treat them accordingly. Their methods are harsh and oftentimes brutal. But they won’t hear it from me. To them, I’m simply a girl who’s too sensitive for her own good and is ruled by my emotions. They see my compassion for the Scots as a weakness.

  They point to the gains in land they’ve secured in their endless war against the Scots. They thump their chests and applaud each other for their bravery and prowess in battle. I find it all thoroughly disgusting and their cavalier disregard for the lives of the Scots – even the children – thoroughly despicable.

  There’s nothing I can do to stop their exploits, so I try to make a difference where I can – in the lives of the children who are so adversely impacted by this never-ending war. It breaks my heart to look into the faces of these children who have lost parents, brothers, and sisters. The loss and grief in their eyes are unbearable. It hurts my heart in ways I sometimes fear I will never recover from.

  And for what? For scraps of land? In the decade that we’ve been here, the gains have been minimal. My uncle and brother underestimate the Scots at every turn. Yes, they have had their victories, but their defeats have been numerous and has halted their forward conquest. In more than a decade, they have not grown my father’s fiefdom all that much.

  Oh sure, our castle is twice the size it used to be. We have more workers, larger fields of crops, more livestock, and more soldiers. But the borders of my father’s lands have not expanded northward nearly as much as my father desired. It’s been a source of consternation between my father and uncle for quite some time.

  “My dearest girl. It has been far too long since I last laid eyes on you.”

  I look up, a genuine smile upon my face when I see my father striding toward me. Two men in black breeches with a black tunic beneath a black boiled leather doublet emblazoned with the House Seeley crest walk silently behind him. A black cloak trimmed in red finishes off the uniform of my father’s personal guard.

  I rise to my feet and embrace my father as he places a gentle kiss on my cheek. His wiry beard tickles my bare cheek, and I giggle.

  “It is wonderful to see you Father,” I say. “When did you arrive?”

  “Late last night,” he replies as he takes a step back. “You were already asleep.”

  His hands rest on my upper arms, and he squeezes me gently, the smile on his face warm and kind. He’s a large and formidable man, broad through the chest and shoulders, with thick, strong arms. He is a hard man – one who has seen many battles – and has a noble, regal bearing. His shoulder-length hair is dark gray like the clouds above us, and his beard is thick and neatly trimmed. With lines etched deep around his eyes and mouth, the wear of the years shows on his face, but his eyes are still blue and clear, and sparkle like sapphires.

  “It warms my heart to see you, father.”

  “Look at you,” he smiles. “Growing into the radiant beauty your mother was.”

  That familiar shadow of grief clouds my heart when I think of my mother. She succumbed to typhoid several years ago, and I still grieve her loss. But the immediate sharp pain I felt for so long is beginning to dull around the edges and is allowing the happier memories to replace that grief.

  My father sits down on my bench, and he pulls me down next to him. He places my hands between his and squeezes them. There’s a gleam in his eye that brings a smile to my lips because I know what he’s going to say.

  “So what did you find objectionable about the Boucher boy?” he asks – as I knew he would.

  I give him a faint smile. “He abhors reading, father,” I tell him. “He believes books are a waste of time.”

  He sighs, but his smile does not falter. “Would I be correct in assuming that you will find fault with every potential match I find?”

  “Of course not,” I reply, giving him a roguish grin. “But maybe try finding one who does not smell, talk incessantly about himself, and loves books as much as I do.”

  He laughs softly, but I can hear the strain in his voice. He’s frustrated with me. Because of our inability to tame the northern lands, my father has lost a measure of esteem at Court. Our family is not regarded as highly as we once were. And as a result, the suitors from some of the major, more powerful Houses in England have gone elsewhere. He has been unable to match me to somebody with what he believes to be the political or financial clout that befits our station.

  I do not lament this in the least. In fact, the loss of esteem our House has suffered has benefitted me in that it has given me options I dared not hope for previously. With nothing but minor Houses and lesser nobility from France as well as England lining up to make a match, hoping to better their own position at Court by being associated with House Seeley, my father is allowing me some degree of agency in choosing between the suitors who would have my hand in marriage. To a degree. I know his patience has its limits, and if I don’t select one of his approved choices soon, he may make the decision for me.

  “I do not wish to be difficult father,” I tell him. “I just hope to find somebody I feel a strong match to.”

  “I understand, Catherine,” he replies. “But you must understand that our options are not what they once were. Much to my shame –”

  “There is no shame to be had,” I tell him. “No blame to be assigned. You know as well as I do the winds of esteem at Court are fickle.”

  He purses his lips. “Aye, but they might not be blowing our esteem out to sea if we’d been able to tame these lands.”

  My father does not have the personal animosity for the Scots that my uncle and brother do. Nor does he look down on them
as lesser beings. While they think of the Scots as little better than animals, my father is more generous in his assessment. All the same, he is every bit as focused on conquering the lands as my uncle is. But he believes it can be done far more humanely than through the methods they espouse. But, the fact that they have not been able to tame the lands has been a thorn in his side for quite some time.

  “So what brings you north of the Wall, father?” I ask, hoping to move the conversation along from talk of matches and marriage.

  “I needed to have a conversation with my brother about the state of affairs here,” he states plainly. “And to map out how we will accomplish that which we’ve been trying to accomplish for the last decade.”

  Over the last few years, my father has had to spend more time at Court, trying to keep all our House’s esteem from crumbling into dust. He leaves my uncle and brother here to serve as his proxy and to press our claims. That he’s left Court to come here personally does not bode particularly well for them.

  “You look tired, father,” I say. “Perhaps you should take your ease here with us for a little while.”

  “I am exhausted. Court politics is tiresome work,” he says. “But I fear I do not have the luxury of time to take my ease. I must continue the fight for our House at Court while the fight continues here as well.”

  He gets to his feet, and I join him, linking my arm through his as we stroll through the gardens in the bailey below the castle. In the years we have been here, the gardens have grown quite lush. The flowering bushes now fill the air with their sweet aroma, and their beauty has been able to keep me distracted from the high, stone palisade that keeps me from enjoying the countryside. Somewhat, at any rate.

  With my father’s shadows trailing close behind as if there are assassins behind every busy and stone, we walk up the well-trod path that leads us back to the castle together, enjoying a companionable silence between us. I love having my father here with us. It’s a treat we don’t get to enjoy often enough for my liking. We walk through tall wooden doors thick and heavy enough that an invading army would not be able to batter them down and into the castle proper.