The Highlander's Claim (Highland Romance)

by Jessica Knight

  “Bugger this,” I mutter then quaff down the last of my milk.

  Knowing it will take half a day to get to where I’m going, I pack some water and food in a bag then hook it to the saddle of my horse. Snuffing out the fire in the hearth, I mount up and ride south, heading for Weykirk. If they weren’t going to come to me with news of their meeting with the Duke, I’ll go to them. I know my father won’t be happy about it, but I’m not happy about being kept in the dark.

  Traveling along a well-worn path that cuts through the dense forests that surround my home, I breathe in the world around me. It has been so long since I’ve soaked in the beauty of the land I grew up in. I’ve seen some truly remarkable places in this world – my aunt and her husband were fond of traveling – but none of the places I’ve been measure up to the natural beauty of the Highlands.

  I’ve been riding for about three hours or so when I get my first hint that something is wrong. The trees around me are still. Silent. There is not a bird to be heard nor a creature stirring in the underbrush. It’s the silence that alerts me. The forest is never completely silent. Not like this. A gentle breeze slips by me, carrying upon it the scent of smoke – and death. It sends a shiver along my skin as I breathe it in.

  Reining my horse to the east, I follow a path that’s mostly hidden by the brush, carefully picking my way along the trail, the scent of fire and decay growing stronger as I go. Another hour carries me to a clearing beside a small lake. The charred remains of a small home and barn still smolder, sending tendrils of smoke curling into the sky. The massacre that happened here cannot have been more than a day ago.

  Half a dozen bodies, lie in much of the clearing surrounding the ruins of the house. A couple of them have been left with their bodies full of arrows and gashes left by sword thrusts. These men died hard.

  But it’s the two bodies lying off by themselves, closest to the smoldering remains of the house that draw my attention. Lashed together, the corpses are draped with a familiar flag – that of Clan MacDonaugh. My stomach roiling and a dark flutter in my heart, I walk over to the bodies and fall to my knees. I pull back the flag to reveal the faces beneath and immediately I retch up everything I consumed today and then some.

  Reaching out, I take the lifeless hands of my father and brother, flinching at how cold and waxy they feel. The cry torn from my throat is primal and savage, the grief sharper than any dagger blade sears every corner of my mind and body. My wailing echoes across the lake and through the dark, gloomy forest around me. To have been without my family for so long and then have them stolen from me so soon after finding my way back to them – devastating isn’t close to the right word.

  Letting go of their hands reluctantly, I stand and look around the grounds. Judging by the condition of the grass and foliage around me, it looks like there were many men on horseback here. The impressions in the ground are deep, telling me it was heavy cavalry – armored men on horseback. That can only mean one thing – the English.

  This wasn’t an attack by the clans, upset by the fact that my father was meeting with the Duke’s brother. This was an ambush. The Duke’s brother set a meeting and then murdered those who attended. That can be the only explanation for what happened here.

  The rage burns inside of me, twisting my insides into knots, and I want to lash out. But the first thing I must do is care for our dead. I cannot let them continue to rot in the open. Nor can I bring them to ancestral grounds by myself. With tears in my eyes, I dig six graves for these brave men. From now on, this clearing will be hallowed ground for Clan MacDonaugh.

  It takes several hours, and I am slicked with sweat and covered in mud by the time I finish. The sun is on its downward slope for the day as I stand before the graves of my father and brother. My eyes sting with tears, and there is an emptiness in my heart I know will never be filled. I am alone in this world now.

  Bowing my head, I say a silent prayer for all the men buried here. I linger before the fresh mounds of earth that mark the final resting place of my father and brother. The tears flow down my cheeks, blurring my vision, and making my eyes sting.

  “I swear you will be avenged,” I say, my voice thick with emotion. “I will see that those responsible for this pay with their lives.”

  The rage in me boiling, my first instinct is to lash out. I want to charge straight into the Duke’s castle and kill everybody I see. My father was right when he spoke of a Scotsman when he gets his blood up. But my time with my aunt in France and everywhere we traveled, being schooled as I was, taught me to use my brain rather than just my brawn. It’s what my father said he wanted me to learn just before I left.

  I need to be smart about how to react. The death of my father and brother mean the mantle of clan leadership falls to me. I am the new Clan Chief. Of course, convincing the clan to accept me might be something else altogether. But that is a battle for another day. Right now, I need to get to Weykirk to tell them what I found here.

  I get back onto my horse and cast one last look back at the graves and choke back the flood of emotion rising inside of me once more. I need to keep my head clear, and my thoughts focused. There will be time enough to properly mourn them later.

  Reining my horse around, I head down the path that will lead me away from the death and destruction, stuffing down my grief. A thousand thoughts are swirling through my mind as I ride and let that thick fog of emotion coalesce into a hardened shell of anger. I’m so lost in my own head that I lose track of how long I’ve been riding, let alone in what direction, but when I look up, I find myself on the edge of another clearing.

  “What the bloody hell?”

  Sitting just inside the dense tree line, staring out at a village, I don’t recall ever seeing before. I remember combing every inch of the forest when I was younger, and this wasn’t here. It’s hidden among the trees out here though, well away from prying eyes and the Duke’s swords. Which makes me think that maybe, that was the intention of building this small settlement out here in the first place.

  I slide down off my horse and slip the sheath off my saddle then belt it to my waist. The world around me is silent again, which sets my teeth on edge. The last time the forest was this quiet, I walked into the middle of a massacre that included my family. What will I find this time?

  Holding my own breath, I edge my way down the small road, as slowly and quietly as I can. I slip my short sword out of the sheath on my hip, moving cautiously. When the woods are this quiet, the smallest snap of a twig can sound like the crash of thunder. Pausing for a moment, I strain my ears, listening for the slightest sound but hear nothing. Drawing in a deep breath, I let it out slowly as I come around the corner of one of the buildings on the outer edges of the settlement and gasp when I see what’s waiting for me.

  Like the clearing that held my father and brother, I walk into the site of another massacre. There are bodies everywhere. And as with the other clearing, the deep impressions in the soft earth of the village make it clear a heavy cavalry swept through here like a murderous steel wave.

  Seeing so many of my countrymen lying dead in the muck, in pools of their own blood breaks my heart. I pick my way through the village carefully, searching for any signs of life but despairing ever more with every torn and broken body I pass.

  My mind is so clouded with pain and anger that I almost don’t hear it at first. But as I walk past a small building, I hear the soft but unmistakable noise again− it’s the low moan of somebody in pain. Gripping my sword tighter, I step to the doorway. My body tenses as I reach out and grip the tattered curtain that hangs over it and quickly tear it away, letting it fall into the mud behind me.

  My sword held out in front of me; I step inside and look around. Tables and shelves have been knocked over and smashed to pieces. Rubbish is strewn everywhere − sacks, broken boxes, papers, spoiled food. My eyes fall upon a form beneath a dirty, bloody blanket against the back wall. A low moan slips out from beneath the shroud as I make my way over. Unsure what
I’m going to find, I nudge the form with my foot. It moans again and stirs slightly.

  Using the tip of my blade, I flip the blanket back and take a step back, ready to strike. But what I uncover is not what I expected, and I stare at it in shock for a long moment. Or rather, I stare at her. She’s dressed in a shapeless dark wool dress and like the cloak about her shoulders, it too is in tatters. Stains darker than the fabric show me she’s taken several wounds.

  I don’t need to see the heraldry of her House to know who she is. Her flawless skin, the color of cream, and hair the color of flames give it away. Even after a decade away, I would know her anywhere.

  “Catherine Seeley,” I murmur to myself.

  My mind is whirling with thoughts and questions. The primary question being − how did she get here, and what happened? If this was indeed another English attack on a Scottish settlement − as it certainly appears to be − why did they attack Catherine? Why was she left here to die? And will armored English soldiers be returning to fetch her when they realize she’s missing?

  Nothing about this makes any sense to me. All I know is that I need to get Catherine out of here. She’s been hurt. And she needs help. She needs to have her wounds tended before infection can set in. Or worse.

  “Bloody hell,” I mutter.

  Sheathing my sword, I reach down and scoop her up. I carry her out of the ruins of the building and back to my horse. The politics of Weykirk will have to wait for now. It might make things more complicated when and if I assert my rights as Clan Chief − something I don’t know that I wish to claim − but for now, Catherine is my biggest priority.

  Catherine is my only priority.

  Chapter Nine

  Catherine

  I open my eyes slowly, grimacing at the vicious hammer beating a staccato rhythm in my head. My body aches in a thousand different places − places I was not aware I could ache. I struggle to sit up but cry out as I’m gripped by an iron fist of pain. I have never felt pain so excruciating as the agony holding me fast right now.

  “Oh, you might not want to move about just yet,” comes a voice to my right. “You must feel like a bear had a go at you.”

  The unexpected voice, thick with a Scottish accent, startles me. My heart slamming against my chest with shock, I turn my head as quickly as I can to see a large man filling the doorway. He’s very tall and wide through the shoulders and chest with thick, corded arms to match. His chestnut hair is pulled back into a tight braid that falls to his shoulders. The man’s eyes are a crystalline shade of blue that is piercing and when he turns his gaze upon me; it’s almost as if I can see through to my very soul.

  I know I should be afraid. I am in a strange place with a strange man looming over me and should be terrified. And I am. But there is a kindness I see in his eyes. I do not know how I can be certain − perhaps it is the naivete my uncle and brother delight in telling me I suffer from − but I just know, deep in my bones, that this man would never hurt me.

  He wears brown breeches beneath a saffron-colored tunic, open at the neck and belted at the waist. His boots come up to just over the ankle and look to be made from a soft leather. He has the look of a Scotsman, but I see subtle differences between him and his countrymen − such as the breeches. Most Scots I’ve seen simply wear the long tunics without the breeches underneath. And most don’t have boots that look quite as nice or well-crafted as this mans does. They’re small differences, but they stand out and make him something of a curiosity to me.

  As I look at him, I’m overcome by a sense of familiarity. I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something about him that just seems − familiar.

  “Where am I?” I ask.

  “You’re in my home,” he replies.

  It is then I realize my gown is gone, and I have nothing on aside from some cloth bandages bound to my shoulder, arm, leg, and stomach. The crimson stain is faint, but I can still see it bleeding through the fabric. I’ve obviously been wounded. But that doesn’t change the fact that I have nothing on. My cheeks flare with heat, and I pull the covers up to my chin, doing my best to preserve my modesty.

  “Wh - where are my clothes?” I gasp.

  “They’d been cut to rags, and I’ve been tending to your wounds the last couple of days,” he explains.

  “But I’m − naked,” I cry.

  He flashes me a roguish grin. “Don’t worry, love,” he smirks. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

  My cheeks burn even hotter, and I narrow my eyes, glaring at him. “You scoundrel.”

  His smile fades as his expression turns more serious. “If it makes you feel any better, I did my best not to stare,” he says. “But I had to see to your wounds. Thankfully, most weren’t too bad, but they needed a cleaning. Didn’t want you getting an infection, eh?”

  Still clutching the blanket around myself, I offer him a small smile. “I appreciate your care,” I say. “But −”

  He holds up a finger and disappears into the other room. He comes back a moment later and lays a cloak down on the edge of the bed and then backs away. I hold up the cloak, recognizing it as a Scottish garment called a brat, which is made of a light wool and is slightly more versatile than a normal English cloak. The brat is large and can be worn over your shoulder like the old Greeks wore their togas, pulled over your head to keep your hair dry, or pulled about you tight to fend off the chill at night. Though this one would undoubtedly only fall to the large man’s thigh, on me, it will likely drape all the way to my ankles. But still, it is better than sitting here naked, I suppose.

  “It’s not the most fashionable thing I’m afraid,” he grins. “But it’ll help keep you covered up.”

  “Thank you again,” I say. “But − what happened? How did I end up here?”

  “Looks like the English sacked a small village,” he says, a hard note of anger in his voice. “Killed everyone from what I could see.”

  I shake my head; everything jumbled in my mind. So I close my eyes and try to think back, try to remember what happened and how I ended up here. The last couple of days are a blur. All I seem able to recall are bits and fragments. Flashes of what happened.

  I remember being in the village, seeing to their children. It was a normal day, and I was enjoying being there with them as usual. I remember my uncle’s soldiers storming in. I remember the thunderous sound of the horses. The way they made the very ground shake. I remember them cutting down everybody in their path. I made Abigail take the children into the forest, telling them to run and get away from there.

  While the soldiers were ravaging the village outside, I hid in the small house where I was tending to the sick, trying to shelter behind whatever I could find. But then the soldiers were inside, destroying everything. I remember being discovered and trying to fight the man off only to earn a hard punch from him. I feel a flare of pain in my cheek, as if the mere memory of it conjured the pain again. I touch the side of my face, wincing at the tenderness that was left behind.

  “They were killing everybody,” I whisper.

  “I guess the good Lord above was lookin’ out for you. You’re lucky to be alive,” the man says. “Nobody else in that village can make that claim.”

  I feel a yawning chasm open up inside of me at his words. Nobody else made it out alive? I turn to him, my eyes wide and brimming with tears.

  “The children,” I whisper. “Did they find the children?”

  His expression is troubled, but he shakes his head. “I didn’t see any children among the dead. Lots of men and women but no children.”

  His tone is hard. It is angry. But it doesn’t seem directed at me. And although I understand why he is so upset, I can’t help that his statement is met with a wave of relief inside of me. While I grieve for the loss of so many, I am also relieved to hear the lives of the children have been spared. That Abigail got them to safety. It is not much, but it is something good to hold onto in this darkness.

  The man disappears from the doorway, an
d I hear him shuffling around in the front room. Grimacing and racked with pain, I manage to sit up and slip the cloak around my shoulders, pulling it tight. With that done, I’m fully able to take my surroundings in for the first time. The walls are stone, patched together with mud or some other substance. Rough-hewn timbers line the ceiling overhead, and there is a thick thatch for the roof. I can tell that I am in a rural Scottish village somewhere. But where?

  There’s one small window in the room, but all I can see is the darkness of the night beyond. The man said he’s been tending to me for the last couple of days, which is worrisome for any number of reasons. The most pressing of which is that if my uncle and brother believe I have been taken, they could destroy many villages and slay many innocents in the search for me.

  The big man enters the room again and looks surprised to see me sitting up. He nods as if impressed and crosses to the bed, setting the tray he’s carrying down on my lap. I take a deep breath, and my stomach rumbles as I inhale the rich, savory aromas drifting out of the bowl. It smells like the fare that comes from the kitchen at Caldryn House and not something I would have expected to find at a table in a home of modest means.

  It feels like I have not eaten in weeks, and I give the man a grateful smile.

  “Please thank your wife for the wonderful meal.”

  His laughter rumbles like thunder rolling in off the craggy peaks of the mountains that surround my father’s castle.

  “I have no wife,” he says, surprising me.

  “Have you not?”

  He shakes his head. “I’ve been waiting for the right one,” he replies, and his gaze pins me to the bed, feeling somehow meaningful. “Please, eat. You must be starving.”

  I am famished but did not wish to appear rude. But with his permission, I dig in. I raise the spoon to my mouth and moan in pleasure as it hits my taste buds. I have never been one for mutton stew, but he has managed to turn it into something akin to a gourmet feast. Not quite, but close. I tear a piece of bread that is still warm from the loaf and dip it into the stew, relishing the explosion of flavors. It is perhaps not the most ladylike fashion to eat, but since I am sitting in a strange man’s bed rather than at a proper table, I feel it should be okay.