Highlander’s Veiled Bride: Scottish Medieval Highlander Romance (Highland Seductresses Book 2)

by Shona Thompson

  Cormag tried to follow them without protest, even as he tripped while being dragged along. There was no point arguing with the two of them, simply because they were only pawns.

  He had to save up his energy for when they would bring him to their leader. He wasn’t a young man anymore, and so he couldn’t afford to fight battles he was certain to lose, especially when he had a bigger battle ahead of him.

  When the two men brought him to the square, Cormag looked around at the mayhem that they had spread. The rest of the villagers were gathered aside, the women holding onto their children and their babies, screaming at the soldiers to not hurt them, offering themselves instead. The men, at least those who were still young and strong after a lifetime of hard work, were trying to punch their way out of their captivity, but the Keith clansmen showed them no mercy.

  Where the men had fists, the Keiths had blades, and they didn’t refrain from using them against those who were unarmed.

  In the middle of them all stood Hamish Keith, a man that Cormag knew well. The MacMillan clan and the Keith clan had always had a friendly relationship, after all, at least until that point in time, when Hamish decided to attack the village.

  Cormag had trained him for a while when he was a young man, and he would be lying if he said that he hadn’t seen it coming. Hamish had always been quick to anger, rash and filled with a burning desire for more than he had. It was precisely that attitude that had led Cormag to stop training him, but perhaps it had been the wrong call to make. Had he continued teaching him, perhaps Hamish would have grown up to be a decent man, much like the other boys that he had mentored, such as Donal and Ronald of the Cameron clan, and even Angus himself. Had he been a good role model for him, perhaps Hamish wouldn’t be killing and torturing innocent people.

  It was too late for regrets, though, and Cormag could only try and salvage what was left of Tayvallich and its people.

  “Hamish,” Cormag said, once he was brought up to the other man. “Ye always were a little fool. What do ye think yer doing here? Why are ye hurting these people?”

  “It’s Laird for ye, Cormag,” Hamish said.

  His voice was rough and strained, Cormag noticed, as though he had been screaming. He wouldn’t be surprised if he found out Hamish had thrown a tantrum.

  “Ach, who died and made ye the Laird?” Cormag asked. “Terrible choice on yer people’s part. Wasnae there anyone else to make Laird?”

  “Ye’ll shut yer mouth if ye ken what’s best for ye. I may not be the Laird yet, but I soon will be!” Hamish hissed at Cormag, his pale face rapidly turning red as a beet. He hadn’t changed at all since he was a young man, and Cormag couldn’t help but scoff at his childish reaction, which only served to make Hamish roar in frustration. “Yer no clever man, Cormag! Dinnae ye think for a second that yer clever!”

  “What do ye want, Hamish?” Cormag asked with a sigh, already getting tired of the other man’s behavior. “Ye came here for a reason, correct? Or did ye simply come here to kill and maim?”

  “I want ye to kneel in front of me,” Hamish said, as he took a few steps towards Cormag, his heavy boots loud and jarring as they hit the earth with every step. “I want ye all to kneel before me!”

  Cormag didn’t move from where he was standing, even as Hamish came so close to him that their noses were almost touching. He didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, and he certainly didn’t want him to think that he was afraid of him.

  He was afraid for his people’s lives, that much was true, but he was not afraid of Hamish.

  “Ye say that I’m no clever man, but what do ye think aboot yerself?” Cormag asked. “Do ye think that this is the behavior of a clever man? Men like ye never command respect, Hamish, ye should ken that weel. Men like ye . . . they are killed and forgotten, no more than a stain in a clan’s history. Is that the kind of man ye wish to be?”

  Hamish sputtered for a few moments, clearly unable to find the words. Speaking had never been his strong suit, after all, Cormag thought, and that thought brought a small, amused smile to his face.

  “If ye dinnae kneel before me, I will kill ye,” Hamish said. “I will kill ye meself, Cormag, I swear it.”

  “Go ahead, lad,” Cormag said. “If ye truly think that ye can best me in battle, give me a sword and fight me. I may be an old man, but I’m not dead yet. Until I go to my grave, I can beat ye any day. I only kneel before God and the Laird.”

  Cormag could see the doubt in Hamish’s gaze, but he could also see his fury and stubbornness. He wouldn’t back down, and as much as it was a shame for Cormag to kill him, it was what he deserved in the end.

  Just when Cormag thought that he was going to be handed a sword, though, Hamish glanced to the side, where the rest of the villagers had been gathered, his eyes narrowing as he looked through the crowd.

  “And what aboot ye?” Hamish asked, shouting at the men and women that stood there. “I said kneel!”

  None of the villagers moved. There was silence among them, until one of them, a young woman with a child in her arms, stepped forward, towards the men who were guarding the crowd.

  “I only kneel before God and the Laird,” she said.

  Like a wave, the men and women behind her joined her, all of them repeating Cormag’s words to Hamish, all of them standing proud and tall even as Hamish’s clansmen threatened to harm them, brandishing their blades and spewing out curses.

  Cormag watched them for a moment before he turned to look at Hamish once more. He was enraged, that much was obvious, but there was doubt there, too. Killing an entire village of men, women, and children wouldn’t get Hamish what he wanted, and both he and Cormag knew that. He couldn’t simply slay them all, and he couldn’t get them to accept his rule, so he seemed to be uncertain of his next move.

  Cormag didn’t like that uncertainty, because with uncertainty came unpredictability, and he couldn’t know what Hamish would do next. He had become a madman, a man who only cared about controlling entire villages and subjecting their people to torture if they refused to bow to him.

  “What’s this aboot, then, Hamish?” Cormag asked him, needing to know. “Are ye trying to expand yer clan? Are ye looking to take over the MacMillan lands? Is that what this is aboot? Ye ken that Angus willnae allow ye to do such a thing. I’ll be surprised if he isnae already on his way here with his men.”

  “This is bigger than me, or ye, or Angus, Cormag,” Hamish said, though that did little to explain anything to Cormag. “Ye had yer chance to kneel before me, and ye had the chance to save yer people. Yer people had their chance to save themselves. Angus and his men willnae come to Tayvallich soon enough to save ye, any of ye. Ye must ken that everything that will happen to Tayvallich the noo is because of ye and because of these people.”

  “No, Hamish,” Cormag said, shaking his head slowly. “No . . . whatever it is that ye’ll do to these people is on ye. If ye kill us, then the blood of these women and these bairns will be on yer hands. Yer the one who came here, demanding that we kneel before ye, when yer not our Laird, nor will ye ever be. Yer blinded by yer own greed, Hamish. The Keith clan has its own land, and yer land isnae anything to scoff at. Ye have plenty of land for yerself, why do ye need ours?”

  Cormag had figured that the longer he talked, and the longer he got Hamish to talk, the more chances Angus and his men would have to arrive in Tayvallich on time to chase Hamish away. It was a good thing that he was an excellent talker, after all the feasts that he had attended while living at the MacMillan castle, and he could keep Hamish occupied for long enough.

  “There are things at work that ye dinnae understand, Cormag,” Hamish said, though he would still not disclose what precisely those things were. It only made Cormag even more curious to find out what it was that Hamish was talking about. “Ye must believe me, I never wanted to do this . . . I never wanted to have ye killed. If ye had only knelt before me, if ye had only done as I said, then I wouldnae have to resort to such measures. Ye could have
lived the rest of yer life peacefully, as much of it as ye’d have left. Yer the one who is forcing my hand here. Ye and the rest of the people in Tayvallich.”

  Suddenly, before Cormag could say anything else, the crowd began to boo Hamish, shouting at him to leave their village, and giving him a piece of their minds, calling him names that he was bound to remember for the rest of his life. None of them dared to move, as they were surrounded by Hamish’s men, all of them wielding swords, but their words were more than enough to have Hamish rattled, his hands shaking with fury.

  Unfortunately, they also pushed Hamish to the edge.

  “Burn them!” Hamish shouted. “Burn the entire village to the ground! And him . . .” he said, pointing at Cormag. “Kill him.”

  With that, Hamish turned around and left, accompanied by two of his closest men, while those who had brought Cormag there in the first place approached him menacingly, each grabbing one of his arms to stop him from fleeing.

  Cormag could hear the panicked screams of the crowd as Hamish’s men lit up their torches and began to throw them into the houses that were scattered around the village, on the hay that lay there for the horses, and the wooden carts that the villagers owned to transport their goods.

  Tayvallich was up in flames in seconds. The atmosphere was thick with black smoke, and the blazing fire had turned the night into day, its orange flames illuminating everything around them.

  That was what hell looked like, Cormag thought, as a fist collided with his stomach, and the air was punched out of his lungs, forcing a cough out of him that rattled his ribs and scratched his throat.

  It seemed that Hamish’s men would take their time killing him, even as the smoke rose up in the air, making it hard to breathe. It seemed like they would use their fists, happy to draw out the torture for as long as they could.

  Cormag didn’t care so much about the pain. It wasn’t the first time that he was being punched, nor was it the worst pain that he had felt in his life. After surviving as many battles and fights as he had, pain was but a nuisance.

  No, what hurt him the most was the shrieks and the cries of his people. What hurt him the most was knowing that there was nothing he could do to save them and that they would all perish there, all because of a foolish man who had grand ideas about himself.

  Tayvallich would be no more.

  The two men continued to punch and kick him until he couldn’t even groan in pain anymore. Cormag could taste the blood on his tongue, but every other sense was dulled. It felt as though he was underwater, hearing everything around him like it was happening far away, and his eyes struggled to stay open, even as the two men threw him on the ground.

  Cormag watched their feet as they walked away from him, using all of his strength to stay awake. It was the least he could do, being there with his people while they perished in the fire. He could already see some of the younger children collapse from the smoke, their mothers kneeling over them and begging them to wake up. He could see the men trying to gather water to put out the fires as Hamish and his clansmen left, leaving Tayvallich to face its destruction.

  Cormag realized that he still didn’t know what had pushed Hamish to do such a thing. He seemed to be utterly uninterested in the village since he had burnt it down without a second thought, and he was now leaving, not caring about its eventual fate. He didn’t want the village. He didn’t want the land or its people.

  In Cormag’s mind, it felt a lot like revenge. As far as he knew, though, the MacMillan clan had never done anything to the Keith clan to warrant such behavior.

  Cormag’s eyes fell closed, but he could still hear the people screaming, crying, begging their loved ones to stay awake; to stay alive. He could feel the heat of the fire on his skin, now that the flames had engulfed most of the village, and he could feel the sweat as it ran down his back, soaking his garments.

  He prayed for Angus, begging God to have him come to Tayvallich as soon as possible. Cormag knew that he couldn’t be saved; he was too close to death, too beaten up, and too old to withstand the beating. The people of Tayvallich, though still had a chance, at least some of them. If they could only run, if Angus’ men could put out the fires, if the wind carried the smoke away, then they still had a fighting chance.

  Cormag prayed and prayed until he couldn’t pray anymore. He prayed until he couldn’t feel the heat of the flames, until he couldn’t feel the sweat on his back, until he couldn’t even hear the screams of his people.

  He prayed until he was plunged into darkness, and then there was nothing.

  Chapter Seven

  The chambers where the servant girl took Ishbel were beautifully decorated, with royal blue and gold accents and even a vase of fresh flowers that gave off their fragrance in the room. In the middle, there was a large wooden bed, recently made with fresh linens, and Ishbel couldn’t help but stand by the door for a few moments, looking at the four walls and their contents with her mouth agape.

  She had never been poor. In fact, her family had been rather well-off, and she had never missed anything while growing up. However, she had never seen such luxury before, not even in France, and the sight gave her pause.

  She could get used to this, she thought. Going to sleep and waking up in a room as beautiful as that and having every comfort available in the world was something that no one would refuse.

  Then again, she had come to Scotland so that she could be with her uncle, and as long as Cormag was in Tayvallich, that was where she would be, as well—even if Tayvallich didn’t have such grand rooms or such comfortable beds.

  Ishbel threw herself down on the mattress, all but squealing in delight as her back hit the soft sheets. Even through all the layers of clothing that she was wearing, the bed was the most comfortable thing she had ever lain upon, and the linens under her hands were like running water, silky and cool under her touch.

  She wondered what the Laird’s chambers would look like if that was only a chamber for guests. Then, she wondered what the Laird himself looked like.

  His voice had sounded familiar to Ishbel, a Scottish lilt that was common in those parts laced with something else, something that she could only describe as the mannerisms of an educated man. She knew that she had heard that voice before, but she couldn’t place it, especially since she was certain that she had never met the Laird before in her life.

  She was going to have to ask Cormag, she thought. Perhaps she had met him at some point without knowing, or perhaps she was simply mistaken, and she remembered someone else’s voice, one that was similar to the Laird’s own.

  Just as Ishbel was preparing to take her clothes off for the night, craving the moment that she could finally unlace her garments, she heard the voices.

  There was a commotion in the castle, and the shouts of the men reached her room, even through the thick door that separated them. She could also hear their footsteps, loud and hurried, as they ran down the corridors and the whinnying of several horses under her window.

  Ishbel rushed to the window and looked down, gazing at the courtyard below her. She could see some clansmen, all of them donning their armor and their weapons, and in the middle of them all, she could see the man that she had met at the market in Tayvallich, the man who had saved her from the merchant.

  The Laird of the MacMillan clan.

  For a moment, she felt so stupid. How could she have not connected the dots? How could she not have realized that the man at the market and the Laird of the clan were the same person? It all made sense, then, the way that he had spoken to her at the market.

  If that was the same man, though, then Ishbel had met him twice, and both times, he had been kind to her. She couldn’t see the monster that the people of his clan said that he was, and she couldn’t see how they could all be so cruel to him.

  If it was the same man, it also meant that covering her face from him had been for naught. He had already seen her face, he had already seen her resemblance to Vika, and he had still been kind to her when
their paths had first crossed. Isabel didn't know where the rumors about the Laird had started, but she knew in her heart that they were simply not true.

  There was no time to feel sorry for him, though, not when Ishbel heard his words, the ones that he was addressing to his men.

  “Tayvallich and its people are under attack, lads!” Ishbel heard him say. “The Keith clan has made itself our enemy, and we have no choice other than to show them what happens when another clan hurts our people!”

  At that moment, her heart fell to her stomach, and her throat constricted, making it impossible to draw in a breath. She could hear nothing but a faint buzzing in her ears, and the world seemed to melt away from her, leaving her suspended in momentary darkness.

  Tayvallich was under attack. Her uncle was in danger.