The Highlander's Claim (Highland Romance)

by Jessica Knight

  Gaven rushes me a third time, and as he closes in, I realize too late that he’s a bit more clever than I thought. I don’t even have time to gasp before I realize his overhead haymaker is just a feint and that the real blow is coming from the other underneath. And as he drives that hammer, he calls a fist into my gut with the force of a mule kick; I feel my feet literally lifted off the ground.

  My eyes widen, and the air is driven from my lungs in a forcible whoosh as I stagger backwards a few steps before falling flat on my back. I stare up at the slate-gray clouds cluttering the sky overhead as I try to catch my breath and start to wonder if Colban’s prediction that Gaven could put his fist clear through me has actually come to pass. I have never been punched so hard in all my life.

  I manage to get myself into a sitting position, hearing the howls of laughter from the crowd for the first time and check my gut. No fist-sized hole, thank God. I cut a glance at Patric and Colban, who both give me a quirked grin and a shrug of the shoulders. Gaven is on the other side of the yard; one arm raised, the other thumping his chest as he preens for the crowd who rain down cheers of adulation upon him.

  “What a bloody peacock,” I mutter.

  I slowly climb to my feet with a groan, quietly making sure I’m still in one piece. I take a moment to catch my breath, and Gaven turns to me. His eyes lock onto mine, and he flashes me a wolfish smile.

  “You ready to yield, boy?” he calls.

  I laugh. “Over that little tickle?” I shout back. “Your mother’s hit me harder than that before when I forgot to leave her a few coins before I snuck out her window.”

  His smile turns to a snarl of anger almost instantly, and like an enraged bull, he charges across the yard. His feet kick up small puffs of dust as he heads for me, his path straight as an arrow. I swear I can feel the packed earth beneath me vibrating as he charges, but I stand my ground, drawing him in closer. And as he closes in, I can see him trying to figure out which way I’m going to move to avoid his charge. So I do the one thing he doesn’t expect − rather than sidestep his advance, I draw my leg back then putting everything I can manage behind it, deliver a devastating kick to his balls.

  My foot connects with a meaty thump, and there is an audible ‘oomph’ as the breath is driven out of his lungs. Gaven immediately falls to his knees, clutching his injured jewels with both hands, moaning wildly and loud as a cow giving birth. His eyes are wide, his face has taken on a greenish hue, and he’s sputtering and gasping.

  “How’s that for a surprise, eh MacTavish?” I crow as I stand over him, grinning.

  The crowd laughs along with me, and if Gaven had been able to do anything other than kneel there cradling his balls, he surely would be roaring for everybody to shut up. He’s not a man who likes to be laughed at.

  Rather than be the preening peacock Gaven is though − and really not wanting to give the big man a chance to recover himself − I press my advantage. Circling around behind him, I slip my arm around his neck and using my other arm as a fulcrum; I start to squeeze his throat, cutting off his air supply. He chokes and wheezes, the greenish hue in his face giving way to a deeper purple color. He struggles and writhes in my grasp, feebly trying to break my grip. But the harder I squeeze, the weaker his fight becomes.

  “You yield, MacTavish?”

  He throws his elbows backward, trying to land a blow that will force me to release him. I respond by tightening my hold on his throat even more. Gaven is a proud man and one who has rarely been bested − if ever. But he finally seems to get that he’s lost and pats my forearm.

  “Yield,” he croaks. “Yield for fuck’s sake.”

  I let go of him, and Gaven draws in deep, shuddering breaths. He doubles over, pressing his forehead to the dirt, still clutching his balls and moaning miserably. The world around us is utterly silent. It’s as if everybody drew in a deep breath at the same time and is holding it. Turning in a circle, I take in the crowd, trying to make eye contact with as many as I can and see the stunned disbelief on the faces of most everybody. Patric and then Colban both give me a hearty smile and a shake of their heads, clearly as stunned as everybody else that I felled the mighty beast.

  “Anybody else?” I shout.

  There’s a quiet murmur that ripples through the crowd, but nobody steps forward. And then the applause begins − tepid at first − but it soon becomes a full-throated roar of approval. Satisfied, I nod and offer my hand to Gaven. His breathing and his color have started returning to normal, and he looks up at me.

  “You kicked me in the cock, ya bastard,” he says, his voice still hoarse and raw.

  “Aye, and I’d do it again,” I reply. “Have to even the odds against a man your size.”

  He takes my hand and lets me help get him to his feet. Gaven gives me a nod and a watery smile but grips my forearm and squeezes tight, a sign of acceptance and respect.

  “S’pose you won fair,” he says. “Even if you did kick me in the cock.”

  I laugh. “Don’t worry, brother, it’s not like you were usin’ it anyway.”

  We share a laugh together as Patric and Colban step up beside us. They both give Gaven a cordial nod, and the big man pats me on the shoulder before limping off with a grimace on his face, obviously still uncomfortable.

  “Never doubted you for a second,” Patric grins.

  “Not even when he nearly put his fist through ya,” Colban adds.

  I shake my head, and now that the excitement is wearing off, my mood starts to turn sour as I contemplate what comes next.

  “Right,” I say. “Now that we have that sorted, we have to say goodbye to our dead.”

  * * *

  The night is dark and unusually clear. A thin crescent of the moon hangs in the velvety blackness overhead, the stars sparkling like chips of diamond. The light from overhead reflects dazzlingly off the surface of the lake, making it shimmer like a pool of liquid silver.

  The clearing where I buried our dead is ringed by hundreds of people who’ve come to pay their respects and say their farewells to our clansmen. Shadows dance and writhe around the clearing, their dark, sinuous shapes cast by dozens of torches that fill the clearing with a soft, orange glow.

  I stare at the two mounds of dirt that cover the holes I buried my father and brother in. My vision blurs as tears well in my eyes, but I try to keep them from falling. I want to yell and scream; I want to curse God for the injustice of having just gotten back to my family only to have them ripped away from me such a short time later. But in the end, I say nothing. I hold it all in and remain as stoic as possible. It’s what they would expect of me.

  As is our custom, the seanchaidh, our clan historian, tells the stories of those being laid to rest, detailing the deeds and achievements they wrought in life. Everybody listens attentively, the mood solemn and somber. And when it’s done, a prayer for the dead is offered.

  With the formalities observed and at a close, and all the proper words said, the real sendoff begins. The beer and mead we brought with us begins to flow as easily as the stories and laughter. Tales are told, jokes are made, and we all celebrate the life of the people we’re bidding farewell to.

  Hearing the love the people had for my father and brother does my heart good. Listening to stories about them from when I was abroad makes me somehow feel closer to them. And it makes it a bit easier to let go of my grief and focus on the good memories I have of both of them.

  Laughter and lively music from the pipers fill the clearing as we celebrate the lives of our loved ones − a celebration that goes well into the small hours of the night.

  Chapter Twelve

  Catherine

  I awake to see rays of sunlight slanting in through the windows of the bedchamber. Motes of dust swirl and dance in the morning sun and everything is still and silent around me. I slip out of the bed and pull the massive tunic down, straightening and smoothing it out. The rough fabric is a far cry from what I’m used to, but it’s better than waking up in a strang
e man’s bed naked, I suppose.

  Stretching myself out, I am glad to see the stiffness in my body is receding, and I’m feeling more limber than yesterday. Looking down, I take the bandages off, satisfied to see the cuts are healing well. I may carry a scar or two, but at least the pain from my wounds is fading. I am well pleased to be feeling something closer to normal.

  I pull on my slippers and pad out to the main room of the cabin to find it empty. The man has not returned yet. I walk outside and look at the land around me. Tall, craggy peaks stand in the distance with nothing but a sea of forest before me. Empty fields, some of them lying fallow, others choked with weeds surround the simple stone and timber home. For being a farm, as the man claimed it to be, they don’t seem to be growing much of anything.

  I look out at the endless vista of green all around me and feel a note of despair tinged with fear. Almost everything in me is telling me to run. To get out of here. But as I look around, I realize there’s nowhere I can go. I don’t know where I am or how to get back home.

  Even if I did run, I see it wouldn’t do me any good since I would likely wind up wandering the woods forever. The man knew what he was doing when he brought me here. It is a thought − an acknowledgement of the reality of my situation − that scares me. Strangely enough, however, it does not scare me nearly as much as I think it should.

  Walking back into the house, I put on a kettle for tea and rummage around in his larder for something to eat. I come away with some smoked meat, soft bread, and hard cheese. Not gourmet fare, but it will quiet the rumbling in my stomach.

  I pour my tea and find some honey to add into it. After stirring it up, I take a sip and feel it warming me from the inside out and begin to feel some semblance of normalcy. As I nibble on my breakfast, I let my mind wander a bit, thinking through my situation and what I am going to do. Or whether there is anything I can do about it.

  I know I should be terrified being in this situation. I do not know this man, nor do I know his intentions toward me. I know there is no love lost between his people and mine, and there is some small part of me that fears I will be made to pay for the sins of men like my uncle. Am I to be this man’s servant? Is he to make me his whore? Does he plan to work me to the bone by day and ravish me at night as he sees fit? Or is he planning on taking my head and sending it to my uncle?

  He is a large, rugged man, thick in the shoulders and chest. His dark, unruly hair and the scruff shadowing his jawline makes him look wild. Savage even. I can see that he’s a man well acquainted with violence, and he looks big and strong enough to acquit himself well in any fight. I have no doubt that if he wished it, he could hurt me badly. Very badly.

  But he has not mistreated me. He has not handled me roughly. He has cared for me. He has tended to my wounds and made sure I am fed. He also has a bearing that tells me that his anger or violence would never be directed at me. When I looked into his eyes, a pure, crystalline shade of blue, I saw something there. It is not something I can put my finger on, but for reasons unknown to me, it makes me certain I am in no danger. Not from him. It almost feels as if this man, this complete stranger, somehow cares for me.

  It is yet another layer of confusion added to the pile of growing contradictions and curiosities that surround this man.

  “Who are you?” I whisper to the empty home.

  Finished eating, I stand up and decide that I need to search for answers to the questions that have seized my mind. My father believes me to be too curious sometimes, but I see that curiosity as an asset. Especially now, when I seek to discover whether I am dealing with a friend or a foe. And whether or not I should be prepared to fight for my very life.

  I begin in the bedchamber. There is little in the way of anything personal that might tell me who this man is lying about. All of the furniture in the room − in the entire house, more precisely − is simple and plain. There are none of the ornate carvings and etched designs like in my own furniture. Everything is rough-hewn and functional. But still well-crafted and sturdy.

  As I turn in a circle, I notice four large wooden trunks sitting lined up against the far wall. From my position in the bed, I did not notice them before, so I walk over and stare down at them. With a lacquered finish, brass accessories, and detailed scrollwork etched into the wood, they are beautiful to look at and are obviously expensive. They stand out in the monument to simplicity that is this home.

  I open the first and find it filled with clothes of beautiful craftsmanship and in a wide array of colors. It seems to be formal clothing − doe-skin breeches, velvet jackets and cloaks, and silk tunics. Beneath the clothing, I find a pair of intricately carved silver daggers and a matching sword. Everything in the trunk looks to be suitable for a lord which takes me aback as it is not what I expected to find. I do not know what I was expecting precisely, but fine clothing was not it.

  Moving to the next trunk, I find it filled with books. They are in good condition and judging by the cracking in the spines; they appear to be well-read. There are volumes penned by Chaucer, Thomas Aquinas, Heloise, as well as a number of ancient Greek philosophers and poets. The collection is eclectic, and only somebody with a formal education would be able to not just read them but grasp their meaning. No simple farmer would waste the time or money assembling a collection such as this.

  The other two trunks are filled with more clothes, books, papers, and other personal effects. But nothing that tells me the man’s name or much more about him.

  Closing the lid with a growl of consternation, I prowl the rest of the house, looking for clues. A ladder leads up to a loft that contains little more than a padded pallet − it’s obviously where the man slept while I occupied his bed. A second room set off from the main reveals a desk, a large table set with parchment and ink, and cabinets with shelves that are stuffed to bursting with more books.

  A pair of trunks sitting against the wall holds more fine clothing, and several pairs of boots and hanging on hooks above them are a few of the saffron-colored tunics and a drab colored brat, not unlike the one he gave me to cover myself in when I first awoke.

  I look around at the room again, marveling at what I see and have learned about this man − which truthfully is not much, but it is somewhat illuminating. If he is a man of education and means, which judging by what I’ve found he is, why would he hide it beneath the facade of a simple peasant farmer? Why hide who he really is? And who is he really?

  I step out of the room, still trying to reconcile all of the different pieces of this puzzle that fill my mind. It’s then I notice a small table I did not see before. It’s tucked away beside a tall cabinet near the larder and hard to see unless you are coming out of this room. It’s not the table that draws my attention, though but what sits atop it.

  I walk over to it and stare at the white flowers that protrude from the rounded clay vase. Reaching out, I gingerly stroke the soft, white petals as I feel the puzzle pieces suddenly falling into place in my head. I see a small square of parchment sticking out from beneath the vase, so I pull it out and unfold it, reading the message written in a neat, precise hand. I read it several times as the meaning of the words, and the flowers begin to coalesce within me.

  Perhaps this will help you to remember who I am.

  The connection in my mind slams into place so quickly that it is jarring. I look from the note, to the flowers, and back again. I am no botanist, so I cannot name the exact species of flora sitting before me. But then, I don’t have to be. I have a preserved specimen sitting inside of my lacquered box of personal effects back at Caldryn House.

  “Malcolm Dunbarr,” I whisper and feel the smile touching my lips.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Catherine

  The day is unusually warm, and thick, fluffy white clouds drift lazily across the azure sky. I sink into the pond, letting the water wash over me. It is a bit cooler than I would have preferred, and I would rather be doing this in a tub, but I am not in a position to cry about it. I am ha
ppy simply to be taking a bath at all.

  I found this pond earlier this morning, and though it appears to be natural, I can see that it has been − improved upon. Flat stones and wooden timber lines the bottom, preventing me from standing in ankle-deep mud. A stream flows through the pond, keeping the water moving, clean, and fresh. Tall trees and thick brush surround it, providing a natural screen to protect one’s privacy.

  I wade over to the table that sits at the edge of the pond, open the box that sits atop it, and pull out the chunk of soap. It’s not the fragrant, professionally crafted variety from France I usually use, but it will serve its purpose. I soap my body and my hair, one of the few acts of normalcy I’ve had in the last few days, and the comfort I find in the mundane is immense. It allows me to clear my mind. To think.

  And naturally, my thoughts drift to Malcolm. I should have seen it sooner. Should have realized who he was. When I close my eyes and conjure his image in my mind, it seems so obvious now. When I picture his face, I see the boy I knew in the face of the man. A smile stretches my lips when I recall his boldness both then and now. He was such a cheeky boy, and as I replay our interactions from the last couple of days, given this new insight, I see that he has not changed much. He remains as cheeky and brash as ever.

  Malcolm Dunbarr has never been far from my thoughts. Not in the ten years since he disappeared. After our first meeting, I had hoped that one day, I would run into him again. I had hoped we’d be able to speak together again. But he never returned. We were never able to speak together again after that day, and I have often wondered what happened to him. Some days I feared the worst for him. Feared that he had been struck down by my uncle’s men on one of their endless campaigns of violence.

  It did my heart a world of good to see that wasn’t the case and that he is very much alive and well. And as I think about him, I can’t seem to keep the smile off my face, and I hum a tune to myself while I wash. It seems we have been given a second chance. At what, I do not know. It is not as if we could even think about being together. My father would never consider him an acceptable suitor. Not that Malcolm thinks about me that way. The truth is that I do not know what he thinks or feels. His mind and heart are mysteries to me.