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

by Shona Thompson

  Laird MacMillan and his men were about to ride to Tayvallich, Ishbel knew, but that was not enough for her. She couldn’t simply stay at the castle, not while she knew that her uncle and her home were in danger. She had come close to the people of Tayvallich, after all, and she wasn’t only going to mourn her uncle if their village was destroyed.

  Her mother’s death had been a complete and terrible shock to Ishbel, leaving her devastated. She didn’t think that she could handle losing everyone else, too.

  Ishbel decided that she should head back to Tayvallich, no matter how dangerous it was. For all she knew, the village could already have been destroyed, or perhaps the attackers were still there, waiting for the Laird and his men to come just so that they could kill them, too. For all she knew, she was walking into the mouth of the beast, completely unprepared, as she had nothing on her save for the blade that Cormag had given her for protection.

  The blade alone would have to do, Ishbel thought. She knew that her uncle wouldn’t hesitate for even a moment if she was in danger. She couldn’t simply leave him to his fate; she had to do the same for him.

  Ishbel ran down the corridors of the castle, frantically trying to make it to the courtyard. Once she was there, she located the stables, and then her horse, before she started to make her way back to the village.

  The night was almost over, but the sky was dark. Still, Ishbel could see enough of the path that she was following so that she wouldn’t be lost. She remembered the way to Tayvallich well, and even in the dim light of the moon, she could almost keep up with Angus and his men, whom she could hear in the distance as they rode their horses.

  The cold wind of the night was whipping her skin, turning her face red and making it sting as she made her horse run faster and faster, as fast as it could. Ishbel clutched onto her blade, holding it securely in her hand, her eyes searching for any sign of danger the closer she got to the village.

  Then, she saw it. She saw the smoke in the distance, thick enough to turn the sky completely black, and the red of the fires that blazed under it.

  Tayvallich was in flames. The village was burning, and perhaps so were its people, trapped in their houses, unable to leave and flee.

  Or perhaps the people were already dead, slain by whatever monster had committed such an atrocity. There were good men and women in Tayvallich, there were innocent children, people who had never done anything to deserve such an end, and yet there they were, suffering or already dead.

  Ishbel’s lips pursed into a thin line as her anger bubbled up inside her, threatening to spill. It didn’t matter if she only had a small blade with her anymore. All that mattered was finding the men who had burned down the village and killing them one by one.

  All that mattered was revenge, and if that meant that she had to die, too, then it was a small price to pay.

  Still, there was a tiny sliver of hope inside her, and so Ishbel doubled her efforts, trying to get to Tayvallich as fast as her horse could carry her, and soon, she was riding through the first flames, making her way to the village square.

  There were people still alive, and the relief that washed over Ishbel was like nothing she had felt before. She collapsed onto her horse, a strangled cry leaving her lips as she saw the Laird’s men helping the children evacuate their village, and she gave herself a few seconds for the reality to sink in.

  She had to find her uncle, though. She had to make sure that he was alright, too.

  Ishbel hopped off her horse and began to look around, calling her uncle’s name repeatedly, but there was no answer. Then, she saw a familiar figure kneeling on the ground, surrounded by half a dozen men, and she knew precisely what, or rather who was in front of her.

  “Uncle Cormag!” she cried, pushing the men aside and falling onto her knees next to the Laird. Indeed, her uncle was lying there, on the ground, his face beaten up and bloody to the point that she could hardly recognize him. “Oh, Uncle Cormag . . . what did they to do you?”

  “Ishbel . . . what are ye doing here, lass?” Cormag asked. Ishbel could tell that he was tired, so tired and that talking to her took a lot out of him.

  Part of her wanted to shush him, to tell him to keep his energy, but another part of her knew that it would be the last time she would ever talk to him, and she wanted to leech out as much of the moment as possible. Her hands found her uncle’s own, and she held them into hers as the tears rolled down her cheeks, staining her dress.

  “I . . . I heard the Laird tell his men about the attack,” Ishbel admitted. “I had to come, Uncle . . . I couldn’t leave you here all alone.”

  “Ach, I’m not alone,” Cormag said, as he looked around the village. Some of the locals had also gathered around them now, all of them in tears just as Ishbel was.

  Cormag was the kind of man that everyone loved. Ishbel wasn’t surprised to see the impact that his condition was having on the population of the village, but she was happy to know that he had touched so many lives, so many hearts.

  “I know, Uncle. I know.” Ishbel spoke softly, her words barely a whisper. There were so many things she wanted to say to him, but she couldn’t find the words to do so, and so she simply looked at him, hoping that her gaze would tell him all that he needed to hear.

  “Angus,” Cormag said, then, and Ishbel only then remembered that the Laird of the clan was right there, next to her. She glanced at the man and found him staring at her, his lips parted in surprise as he no doubt realized who she was.

  Ishbel couldn’t care less about what the Laird thought about her at that moment. She couldn’t care whether he was angered that she had concealed her identity or that she hadn’t told him who she was from the start. To his credit, the Laird didn’t mention any of that. Instead, he simply nodded at Cormag, eager to hear what the man had to say to him.

  “Take care of my Ishbel, will ye?” Cormag asked. “She doesnae have anyone else in the world. She came here, to Tayvallich, to live with me and, weel . . . I willnae be living for much longer. If ye can do one thing for me, let it be this.”

  Ishbel glanced at the Laird, and he glanced right back at her, looking uncertain about what he was being asked to do. He only nodded, though, placing a hand on Cormag’s shoulder.

  “I promise ye, Cormag,” he said. “I promise ye, she’ll be safe. She’ll always have a home in my castle, and she’ll always have a seat at my table.”

  “I canna thank ye enough, lad,” Cormag said as he looked at the two of them, and a tear fell down his cheek. “Ishbel . . . take care of Angus, too, will ye? Even a Laird needs care sometimes.”

  “Yes, Uncle,” Ishbel said. She didn’t have it in her heart to refuse her uncle’s last wish, and besides, she doubted that it would be hard to take care of the Laird when he had so many other people already doing that for him. “You can rest now. You can go and be with maman.”

  Cormag nodded at her, giving her a small smile, one that sent a piercing pain through Ishbel’s heart. Then, he reached for Angus’ hand, taking it in his.

  “Angus . . . forgive me,” he said. “I can only ask ye to forgive me for everything that Vika did.”

  “Cormag, there isnae anything to forg—"

  As Angus spoke, Ishbel saw Cormag take in a rattling breath, and that was his last. His hands were limp in hers all of a sudden, and she couldn’t help but pull them back, surprised by the lack of life in them.

  Her uncle had always been so full of life.

  Isabel didn't know what to do. She didn’t want to talk to the Laird; in fact, she didn’t even want to look at him, fearing the worst. She didn’t want to talk to anyone else, either, and she didn’t want to leave her uncle there.

  All she wanted to do was to go back to her house and lock herself inside until the pain had faded enough to be manageable, but she couldn’t do that, not when her house was nothing more than embers and ashes.

  She had lost everything. She had lost her uncle, along with every single belonging she had, every single thing of her mo
ther’s that she had kept to remember her. There was nothing left but herself, no one that she could call family anymore.

  For the first time in her life, Ishbel realized that she was truly, utterly alone.

  “Come.”

  That familiar voice sounded in her ears once more, and Ishbel turned her head to see the Laird standing behind her, offering her his hand. She looked at it with a frown for a few moments, until the Laird thrust it closer to her, urging her to take it.

  “Come, Ishbel,” he repeated. “We shall head back to the castle.”

  “Uncle Cormag—”

  “We’ll take good care of him,” the Laird said. “I promise ye.”

  Ishbel took the man’s hand, albeit hesitantly, and he helped her stand to her feet before he led her back to the horses. Around them, the fire was slowly dying out, partly because the clansmen were doing their best to put it out and partly because it had already eaten through most of the village, leaving nothing behind.

  The screams had stopped, too, and they were now replaced by mournful wails and the rushing of boots against the ground. The people were still fleeing, and Ishbel wondered if the Laird would be so kind as to allow everyone to live in the castle while they rebuilt the village, since their men seemed to be guiding them that way.

  The two of them began the ride back to the castle, following the rest of the people, some of whom were on horses, while others were on foot. It was brighter now, the morning sun slowly breaking through the horizon, and Ishbel kept her gaze glued there, knowing that if she looked at the Laird or the people around her, she wouldn’t be able to stop her tears from falling.

  There was nothing but silence among them. None of them spoke, and none of them made a sound other than that of their feet against the earth as they walked. There was nothing to be said, and even though the silence was maddening, Ishbel knew that any talk would be worse torture.

  She didn’t want to accept people’s condolences. She didn’t want to hear about how sorry they were that her uncle had passed, even though she knew that they would mean well. All she wanted was to avenge her uncle, to make the man responsible pay for the blood with his blood.

  The Laird spoke, then, as though he had read Ishbel’s mind. Perhaps he was simply thinking about the same thing as she was; perhaps he had the same desire.

  “We’ll have our revenge,” he told her. “Trust me, Ishbel . . . I ken who did this, and I will hunt him down meself, do ye hear? I’ll hunt him down, and I’ll kill him.”

  Ishbel forced herself to look at the Laird, and she even surprised herself by the control that she had over her grief. She didn’t shed a single tear as she spoke.

  “I will be the one to deal the last blow, my lord,” she said. “You can hunt him down, but I will be right there with you, and I will be the one to kill him.”

  Chapter Eight

  Ishbel hadn’t left her room for days. That was something that Angus knew because he had been keeping an eye on her through his servants, as he wanted to make sure that he would keep his final promise to Cormag.

  He had promised him that he would keep her safe, but now Ishbel wasn’t eating or leaving her room, nor was she even talking to anyone. Angus’ servants had told him that they had tried to engage her in conversation, and no matter what they tried to tell her, she would simply stare out of the window, ignoring them completely.

  Part of him was afraid that there was nothing that he could do to get her to enjoy her life again. Part of him feared that she would wither away in that room, all alone in her sorrow.

  Angus couldn’t let that happen. He had to take the matters in his own hands, and he had to do so before it was too late.

  He decided that evening that he would take Ishbel’s supper to her himself, and so he did, bringing enough food for the two of them, thinking that it would be easier to get her to eat something if he was there with her, the two of them sharing their supper. Angus held the tray full of food in one hand and knocked on her door with the other, waiting for a few moments for permission, but it never came.

  He opened the door regardless and stepped inside the room that he had assigned to her. Ishbel was sitting by the window, a shadow of the woman that he had met in that market only a few days prior, watching the clouds as they moved in the sky.

  He wondered how long it had been since she had last slept, though if he were to judge by the dark circles under her eyes, he would guess she hadn’t done so in days.

  Angus placed the tray on the table before he sat down and began to nibble on the food. He didn’t have much of an appetite, either, those days, not after finding out about the Keith clan and seeing Cormag die in front of his eyes.

  “Will ye be so kind as to join me?” Angus asked Ishbel, though he didn’t push her when she once again ignored him. He knew that if he gave her enough time, she would eventually open up to him.

  Angus took a few sips of wine, waiting patiently. Eventually, he heard Ishbel sigh as she stood from her chair before she dragged it back to the table where it belonged, sitting down across from him. He gave her a small smile, and though she didn’t return it, Angus was happy that she had taken the first step.

  Then, Angus had an idea, one that was perhaps not his brightest, but that he hoped would cheer Ishbel up just a little.

  “Once upon a time,” he said, and he saw her glance up at him, suddenly curious, “there was a young lad who dreamt of faraway lands.”

  Angus began to tell Ishbel the story that his governess used to tell him when he was a young boy, though as he started to narrate it, he realized that he didn’t remember much of it. His tongue stumbled as he spoke, and he paused every few words as he tried to remember what came next, but he persevered, determined to tell Ishbel the entire story, no matter how inaccurate.

  Ishbel seemed to know the story, too, though, eventually, she seemed to be fed up with all the mistakes that he was making, and she corrected him.

  “You are terrible at telling stories,” she said. “There’s no such thing as a magic horse.”

  Her voice was rough, as though it hadn’t been used for a while, but she had finally spoken, and Angus couldn’t be more pleased by the progress that they had made. She even laughed, just a little, and Angus couldn’t help but notice that when she laughed, she looked nothing like Vika.

  “How do ye ken this story?” he asked her. “How do ye ken the same story that my governess told me when I was a wee lad?”

  “It’s not an uncommon story,” Ishbel informed him. She took a sip of wine as well, before she coughed just a little, trying to get her throat used to speaking again. “Don’t forget that my mother was from these parts, too. She only moved to France after she married my father. She used to tell me all sorts of stories from these parts when I was a child.”

  “It was ye who read those French documents to me, wasnae it?” Angus asked. He had suspected that it was the case ever since he had found out that Ishbel was Cormag’s niece, and ever since, he had realized that her voice was rather familiar. “It was yer mother who said that stories are good for the soul.”

  “Yes,” Ishbel admitted. “Uncle . . . Uncle Cormag was tired that night, so he sent me to translate the documents for you.”

  Angus didn’t miss the way Ishbel’s voice cracked when she talked about her uncle. Even so, she didn’t cry, nor did she lose her newfound energy, and Angus took that as a good sign.

  “Why did ye hide yer face?” he asked her. “Why didnae ye want me to ken who ye were?”

  Ishbel hesitated then, her hands fidgeting with the fabric of her skirt as she tried to avoid Angus’ gaze. She seemed uncomfortable, all but squirming in her seat, and Angus was even more curious now to find out the truth.

  “My face . . . everyone has always said that I look just like Vika.”

  There it was, Angus thought. He wasn’t surprised that Ishbel knew what had happened between him and Vika. After all, they were cousins, and the entire world seemed to know. News traveled fast, even across
the sea.

  He only wished that he wouldn’t have the reputation that he carried. Once the world had found out about what Vika had done to him, they had collectively decided that he hated her to death, when in fact, he had even spared her life and had sent her to a monastery instead of the gallows.

  “Yer no Vika, though, are ye?” Angus asked. “I wouldnae have thought so simply because ye look alike.”

  That wasn’t strictly true, of course, since he had, in fact, wondered if she had been just as awful, just as cruel and manipulative as Vika when he had first met her at the market, but that question had faded from his mind the moment that he saw her do a good deed. After that, and after the initial shock, he could have never thought ill of her.

  “No?” Ishbel asked. “But everyone says . . .”

  Ishbel’s voice trailed off, and Angus couldn’t blame her. She probably felt uncomfortable letting him know what others thought of him, but Angus already knew. There was no reason to try and spare his feelings.