The Bride Chooses a Highlander

by Adrienne Basso

  Katherine righted herself and Sir Hamish promptly removed the arm he had wrapped around her midriff.

  “Where is the garden?” she asked.

  “This way,” he replied.

  There were too many pairs of eyes to count trained upon them as they left. Nervously, Katherine knotted her fingers into fists at her side, hoping she looked dignified. Literally falling into Sir Hamish’s arms was hardly the impression she was hoping to make to him and his clan.

  Sir Hamish remained silent, leading her around the main keep to a half-walled plot that extended beyond the kitchen door. The ground was indeed covered with a layer of snow; the trees planted along the south side stark and barren.

  “I can assure ye, it looks far more impressive in the spring and summer,” he said. “Even in the fall there is beauty to be found here.”

  “Laird Drummond said this was yer mother’s garden?”

  “Aye, ’twas her pride and joy. She supervised the planting of every tree and bush, deciding which herbs and flowers would be included.”

  Katherine ran her fingers over the branch of a snow-covered bush. “Naught is in bloom, yet I can see she did a fine job with the design.”

  Sir Hamish nodded. “She loved seeing things grow. Though all lies dormant now, I feel her presence most strongly when I am here,” he added, his voice tinged with sadness.

  “Ye miss her,” Katherine said quietly.

  The pensive look in Sir Hamish’s eyes deepened. “I do. Her death was so sudden. She complained of a headache one afternoon and took to her bed, asking fer quiet so she could rest. Her maidservant found her a few hours later, prostrate on the floor, her body cold with death.”

  “How dreadful!”

  His expression was laced with sorrow. “’Twas more than three years ago. At times it seems so long ago, at others, like it was yesterday,” he said, his voice quivering.

  “I’m sorry fer yer pain,” Katherine said sympathetically.

  Sir Hamish turned his head abruptly, avoiding her gaze. “Fergive me. I should be welcoming ye to Drummond Castle, not regaling ye with maudlin tales.”

  Katherine rested her hand upon his arm. She didn’t mind the awkward conversation, for it gave her a glimpse into his emotions and she liked what she saw.

  “Grieving the loss of someone we love is hardly maudlin, Sir Hamish. ’Tis noble.”

  He released a quiet sigh. “I believe my mother would have liked ye, Lady Katherine. Very much.”

  “Och, but would she have approved of me marrying her son?” Katherine said, squeezing his arm playfully.

  “Aye, she would. ’Tis a good match that will forge a strong bond between our two clans.” His smile faded and his expression grew solemn. “Are ye certain?”

  Katherine could feel the heat of a blush rise in her face. “I know ’tis said that I am a fickle woman, changing my mind like the ever-moving direction of the wind. But once decided, I stand firm. And I have decided.”

  Sir Hamish placed his hand gently upon her cheek. His fingertips were cold, but Katherine knew that was not the reason she shivered. Boldly, she took a step closer.

  Sir Hamish’s eyes widened in surprise. He hesitated a moment before snaking his other hand around her waist. Katherine sighed and willingly pressed herself closer, gasping at the feel of his hard, muscular body pressed against the softness of her breast, the feel of his warm breath on her cheek.

  She raised her hands, her fingers gripping the blue wool of his cloak, anticipating with nervous excitement the kiss she knew was forthcoming.

  He tilted, then lowered his head, but instead of claiming her lips, he placed a kiss on her cheek before rubbing his jaw across it. There was a softness, a gentleness to his movements that she found pleasant. Eagerly, Katherine angled her head, hoping their lips would meet. Instead, he pulled back, ending the contact.

  Katherine sighed with regret and shut her eyes, needing a moment to compose herself. When she was ready, she took a deep breath and raised her eyelids.

  He favored her with an uneven smile. She held her eyes steady on him, trying to read his expression. Did he think she would have rejected his kiss? Or even worse, disliked it? The proper custom was for a couple to wait until their official betrothal ceremony to kiss. Was that the reason he had hesitated? Or was it something else?

  “I’m certain yer parents are wondering why we have not returned. We must go back before someone is sent to fetch us. ’Tis important fer me to make a favorable impression upon them, especially yer father.” Sir Hamish gave her a slight bow and extended his arm. “Shall we join the others?”

  After a moment, Katherine nodded. She was relieved to discover his reason for forgoing a kiss, though truthfully she would have been happier if he had been bolder and taken the risk. And she would have liked to have more time alone together.

  He is being proper and respectful, she told herself as they walked away, tamping down the twinge of disappointment that washed over her. When they reached the entrance to the garden, Sir Hamish paused. He placed his hand over Katherine’s and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

  “I will care fer ye and protect ye, Katherine. Ye shall want fer nothing as my wife.”

  Sir Hamish’s tone was earnest and sincere, his expression kind and agreeable. It pleased her that he had already dropped the formalities and no longer addressed her as “lady.”

  Katherine’s heart swelled with relief. She had chosen well. They were making a good start toward feeling at ease with each other. The rest would come with time.

  By all accounts, their marriage should be a happy one.

  Chapter Two

  “Word has reached us that Robbie is being held prisoner by the McKennas,” Lady Morag said, her voice laced with hope. “’Tis but a four-day ride to the McKenna border. If ye negotiate a ransom, he could be returned to us in a week’s time.”

  Laird Lachlan MacTavish straightened in his chair, glancing over at his stepmother. Lady Morag was an attractive woman, yet she appeared much older than her forty-two years. Her dark hair was streaked with swaths of gray, her shoulders slightly stooped by weariness, her figure far too thin and fragile.

  She had worked tirelessly to aid Lachlan when he became laird of the MacTavish clan at the death of her husband—Lachlan’s father—a little more than a year ago. He was grateful for her support and well aware of all that he owed her.

  Last spring, Lachlan’s half brother, Robbie, had been lured south by the glittering prize money offered at the tournaments in the Lowlands. He was expected to return in a month, two at most. ’Twas now nine months later and each day Lady Morag’s pain over the mysterious absence of her youngest son visibly grew.

  It brought Lachlan no small measure of grief to witness her decline and tore at his heart to see her suffering. It further needled his pride knowing he couldn’t answer the wide, hopeful expression that now glowed in her eyes. How he wished there was something he could do to bring her the relief she so richly deserved!

  “Every few weeks there is another rumor about Robbie,” Lachlan said gently. “Last month we heard that he had been taken by the English and the month before that he was off to sea.”

  “This time ’tis different,” Lady Morag insisted. Hope dampened her eyes and she grasped his arm tightly. “Old Angus heard it from his grandson’s wife. She was an Armstrong before she married and came here. She went to visit her kin and heard that our Robbie was a prisoner, sentenced to hard labor working in the McKenna quarry. Angus shared the information with me the moment he discovered it.”

  Lachlan scrubbed his hand across his chin. “The Armstrongs and the McKennas do share blood ties,” he conceded. “There’s a possibility that this information could have merit.”

  “It does! I feel it in my bones.” Lady Morag hastily crossed herself. “Oh, Lachlan, at long last my prayers have been answered.”

  Looking away guiltily, Lachlan let out a heavy sigh. “I share yer deep concern fer the fate of my missing brother, but if t
he McKennas have him, there is naught we can do.”

  “Truly?” Lady Morag brought a trembling hand to her mouth to muffle her cry. “There must be something. Can ye send a messenger to see if they will ransom him?”

  Lachlan frowned into his bitter, watery ale. “We have nothing to offer in exchange—no coin or plate, no grain, no livestock, no fine goods.”

  The words were a sour reminder of how far the MacTavish clan had fallen, how his father’s efforts—and now Lachlan’s—had failed to significantly improve their lives.

  Once a wealthy and powerful clan, generations ago they had chosen the wrong side in the Scottish war for independence, a conflict that had thrown the country into turmoil, breaking long-held alliances and dividing loyalties among the fierce Highland clans.

  When he finally secured his regal power, Robert the Bruce had not forgotten the MacTavish clan’s misguided allegiance. If not for Lady Morag’s blood ties to the Campbells—an ally of King Robert—the MacTavish clansmen might have all been put to death.

  Though their lives had been spared, the clan had paid a heavy price. The king had stripped them of their most fertile land, gold plate, coins, livestock, and other wealth.

  In the ensuing years, they had proven their loyalty time and again to the Scottish king and his son, fighting to keep Scotland free. Yet many of the Highland clans still remembered that generations ago the MacTavish had paid homage to the hated English.

  The land on which they now lived was mountainous and rocky, the soil of poor quality. The planting of crops was a futile endeavor, though many of his clansmen and women persisted in trying. A thin yield of barley, oats, scrawny turnips, cabbages, and carrots was preferable to starving.

  For the past few years Lachlan worked tirelessly training himself and his men to be skilled fighters. Each spring, summer, and fall he had taken his best soldiers south, offering their services to the clans in the Lowlands who were struggling in the fight to keep the borders secured from the English.

  Lachlan’s reputation as an excellent leader, a clever tactician, and a talented swordsman quickly grew and the Lowland lairds aggressively bid for the services of the MacTavish soldiers. The coin he and his men earned had kept the clan alive, but it was only a temporary solution.

  As laird, Lachlan’s goal was to petition the crown for the return of some of the MacTavish fertile lands. This year, two of the Lowland lairds he had fought for had agreed to support his request and speak on his behalf. Yet this plan was most certainly doomed to failure if a man as powerful as Brian McKenna opposed it.

  “I could write to my cousin,” Lady Morag suggested, wringing her hands. “He might intercede on Robbie’s behalf.”

  “The Campbells and the McKennas have a long-standing rivalry. Even if yer cousin is willing to help, the McKennas willnae be inclined to grant a Campbell any favors.” Lachlan drained his tankard before pushing it aside. “In truth, it could make matters worse.”

  “There must be something we can do,” Lady Morag cried, her voice rising with emotions.

  Lachlan tightened his fingers on the well-worn wooden arms of his chair. Justice was serious business in the Highlands and the clans were fiercely protective of their right to dispense it as they saw fit.

  “If the McKennas have indeed imprisoned Robbie, they must believe they had good cause,” Lachlan said slowly. “Even if we had the means to negotiate his release, I doubt the McKenna would consider it.”

  “We need to try,” Lady Morag insisted.

  “Aye, Mother. We do,” chimed another male voice. “And if our laird will not organize a rescue party, then I will.”

  Lachlan’s half brother Aiden strode into the hall, surrounded by several younger clansmen. He was the elder of Lady Morag’s two natural sons and though they shared the same father, Lachlan and Aiden bore little resemblance to each other.

  Lachlan was dark; Aiden fair. They were both considered handsome men, yet their features were stark contrasts. Lachlan’s face possessed a sharp, rugged edge while Aiden’s was chiseled and pretty in an almost feminine manner.

  Aiden sported a beard; Lachlan preferred to be clean-shaven. Both were tall, with wide shoulders and well-defined muscles, earned from hours of swordplay on the practice field. Women swooned equally over the pair and each had his pick of willing females, though out of respect for Lady Morag they exercised restraint and discretion.

  Each man was stubborn in his own way, and they disagreed on everything from the number of men that were needed to guard the gates of the keep to the time the evening meal should be served. ’Twas no surprise that the fate of their third brother, Robbie, would be discussed any differently.

  Lady Morag turned her full attention to Aiden. “Ye’ve heard the news about Robbie?” she asked.

  Aiden nodded. “Old Angus told me. As soon as we can gather supplies, my men and I will ride to the McKenna border,” he proclaimed. “I will bring him home to ye, Mother.”

  “We dinnae even know if they are holding Robbie prisoner,” Lachlan protested.

  “I intend to find out.”

  “Then what?”

  “I shall free my brother.”

  Lachlan frowned in exasperation. “How? We’ve nothing of value to offer in exchange fer his freedom.”

  Aiden moved his hand to the hilt of his sword. “If necessary, we’ll take him by force.”

  Lachlan took hold of his brother’s arm, forcing Aiden to face him. “I forbid it.”

  A glint of anger invaded Aiden’s eyes. “Ye’ve no right to give me such an order!”

  “I am yer laird.” Lachlan stood, tension knotting his limbs. Frustration coursed through his veins, but he tamped down his emotions. Getting angry would change nothing, though he suspected his stepmother would appreciate a show of outrage and indignation from him.

  “The McKennas are not known fer their mercy,” Lachlan continued. “If we dare to interfere in their clan business, none of us would walk away.”

  “’Tis exactly why we must save Robbie!” Aiden insisted, gritting his teeth.

  Lachlan slowly shook his head. “If the information old Angus received is true, then the McKennas have spared Robbie’s life. He will return to us once he has paid his debt to them fer whatever crime he committed.”

  “Crime? Our Robbie is not a criminal,” Lady Morag protested.

  “The McKennas are not so heartless as to hold a man fer no reason,” Lachlan said, hoping a gentle tone would soften the blow. “We must believe they have just cause.”

  Truth be told, hearing of this circumstance was not a complete surprise. Robbie had a wild, impulsive streak that reminded Lachlan too much of the undisciplined, reckless Englishmen he sometimes faced in combat.

  “And what if Robbie does not survive his imprisonment, Lachlan?” Aiden asked. “Will ye sleep well at night knowing ye could have saved yer brother, yet ye chose the easier path?”

  Lady Morag turned a desperate eye to him. “Lachlan?”

  Lachlan felt a hot flush of anger crawl up his neck. Damn, Aiden! This was not an easy choice, yet ’twas the only sane choice in these circumstances. How could Aiden not see it?

  “Dinnae fret so, Mother,” Aiden said sharply. “Lachlan might not have a care fer Robbie, but I do.”

  Lady Morag wiped her eyes. “I’m grateful, Aiden.”

  His stepmother’s words surprised Lachlan. She was not one to show overt favoritism; ’twas rare for her to pit one sibling against the other. These uncharacteristic actions indicated the extent of her distress and desperation and it wounded him deeply that he could not oblige her and do as she bid.

  Though Lachlan was not her natural son, he had never been made to feel that way. His own mother had died in childbirth and his father had married Lady Morag the following year, when times were still good and the new Scottish king had not yet exacted his revenge on the clan. Lady Morag had lovingly cared for Lachlan and that devotion never waned, even when she had given birth to two sons of her own.

>   The heated discussion between Lachlan and Aiden had attracted an audience—many eyes in the great hall were upon him. Lachlan knew he needed to tread carefully. Only his fighting soldiers knew him well; the rest of the clan were curious and cautious around him, uncertain of his mood, temperament, and motives.

  Lachlan knew the importance of being a respected, strong leader. This situation was a prime test of his will to put the needs of the clan above his personal desires and he was determined not to waver in his decision or attitude. ’Twas the only path he deemed honorable to win the support he needed from his clansmen.

  He looked meaningfully at his brother. “My order stands.”

  A glint of defiance clouded Aiden’s eyes. “I willnae let my brother suffer and die at the hands of the McKennas.”

  Lachlan’s stony expression yielded. “Our best swordsmen are no match for the might and strength of the McKennas. Ye will quickly fall prey to slaughter.”

  “The MacTavish are Highlanders—we fight with skill and honor,” Aiden declared proudly.

  “Ye’ll die with it too.” Sighing, Lachlan rubbed his hand over his face. He understood Aiden’s passion—hell, he shared it. But he had to be practical and act on what was best for the safety of the entire clan. As laird, he didn’t have the luxury of pursuing a personal vendetta. Especially now.

  He had not told anyone of his plans to regain some of their property, fearing to raise hopes that could be dashed. And he dare not breathe a word of it to Aiden, for if it failed it would be held as a mark against Lachlan’s leadership.

  “Yer wild talk is upsetting our lady mother.” Lachlan placed his arm around Aiden’s shoulders, bent his head, and whispered in his ear, “We dinnae even know if this information about Robbie is true.”

  Aiden’s mouth turned down in a mulish frown as he batted Lachlan’s arm away. “’Tis the first solid lead we’ve had about Robbie’s whereabouts fer months. We owe it to him to bring him home.”

  Lachlan held up his hand. “Dinnae be a fool! If it is true, then there is a chance that Robbie will be released once he has settled his debt with the McKennas. But if ye persist in this madness, our mother will most assuredly be burying two sons.”