The Highland Dynasty: The Complete Series

by Amy Jarecki

  Gyllis kept her eyes on John. “I’d like that.” She held her tongue until Helen’s footsteps echoed down the passageway. Thank heavens John didn’t leave her to fret alone in her cell. “Tell me what happened.”

  “We received word of an outlaw attack in the forest.”

  He was going to force her to draw it out of him, but she had to ask. The gooseflesh rising on her skin was warning enough. “Is Sir Sean all right?” Gyllis nearly choked on the words.

  John let out a long breath. “He escaped with only minor injuries. The crier stopped by to warn us of the danger. Dunollie men are after the culprits now. If I ken Sir Sean MacDougall, they will be brought to justice before this week is through.” John pulled the latch.

  “But—” Before she could finish, John closed the door. Gyllis stared for a moment, hating her damned legs. What on earth could she do to help? Balling her fists, she pounded her useless thighs. There she sat, incarcerated within the walls of a priory while Sean rode into unimaginable danger.

  She smoothed her hand over the Bible in her lap and closed her eyes, offering a silent prayer for his well-being. What did John mean by minor injuries? And when would she see Sir Sean again? Please, dear God, watch over your servant Sean MacDougall, and lead him home to safety.

  Sean wasn’t one to let a few stitches and a bruised arm set him back. Besides, spending a night tracking was what he needed to cement his priorities. He’d not taken the cattle thieving seriously enough and the brigands had the gall to attack him. It was the slap in the face he needed.

  With the dawn, Sean and Angus lay on their bellies, staring down at the outlaw’s camp.

  “Only four,” Angus said.

  “If I’d just attacked the Chieftain of Dunollie, I’d be a bit less conspicuous,” Sean growled.

  Obviously they didn’t expect retaliation. The bastards were sloppy. Nestled within a glen, their morning fire was like a beacon flickering through the light mist. For the past half mile, Sean could practically smell the roasting meat. The MacDougalls had them surrounded. All Sean needed do was give the signal. But he was more cautious than that. Were they stupid or were they luring Sean and his men into a trap?

  Only four men. Regardless, they do not stand a chance.

  Sean slid back and mounted his horse. Drawing his sword, he gave the signal by holding it straight up above his head. Bellows erupted from the men charging down the hillside. The bastards barely had time to draw their weapons and face the onslaught. Fifty to four were unbeatable odds.

  Sean called a halt before the fighting began. “Throw down now.”

  The leader faced him. “Throw down so you can run us through? I’d rather you gave me a fighting chance.”

  Once again, he recognized the man’s face—aye, he was sure of it now. This was the same man who’d attacked him during the footrace. “I’d be running you through this day regardless.” Sean dismounted and Angus followed suit, sword at the ready.

  The man’s gaze darted to the right. Sean followed that gaze, straight to a MacDougall guard—Gawen was his name. Sean gave the guard a stern stare to let him know he’d not missed the interchange, then he focused on his prisoner. “Why did you attack me in the forest?”

  The scoundrel spread his palms and smirked. “I see a man with a horse as finely outfitted as yours and I ken he has some coin in his purse.”

  The smug look on the bastard’s face made Sean’s blood boil. He closed his fist. With a roar, he slammed it across the animal’s face. The man careened to his arse, blood streaming from the corner of his mouth. He swiped an arm across his lips and eyed Sean. With a bellow, he jumped up, brandishing his sword. Sean skittered aside and disarmed him. The laggard was no match for Sean’s years of training. The other mongrels dropped their weapons. A mangy lot of mutts they were. Sean yanked the bastard’s arm and spun him into a hold with his sword leveled against his neck.

  “I’ll be paid my due respect the next time you address me,” Sean growled. “I’ve seen you afore. Now tell me why you attacked me during the footrace at Dunstaffnage.”

  The man spat blood, squirming in a futile attempt to break free. “Don’t kill me.”

  “I need to know. Why?”

  “He paid us a crown.”

  Sean pushed the blade until it drew blood. “Who?”

  “Jesus Christ.” The man’s fear stank like a steaming pile of cow dung. “I don’t ken his name. Black hair—an ugly bastard—wore leather breeks.”

  Sean nodded to Angus. “Tie them up. We’ll take them back to Dunollie and hang the lot at dawn on the morrow. Give them a chance to atone to the maker for all their evil deeds.”

  “Please, m’laird, have mercy on a poor beggar,” the miserable leader whined.

  Sean threw him to the ground. “Would you have been merciful had your mace knocked me from my mount last eve?” A guard wrapped a rope around the man’s wrists and Sean sheathed his weapon. “I think not.”

  By the time the Dunollie guard arrived at the castle, the sun had set. As a warrior, Sean had gone days without sleep before, but his limbs were heavy with exhaustion. His shoulder throbbed—hurt like the devil. “Take the prisoners to the dungeon,” he bellowed, then he pulled Angus aside. “Do not allow Gawen anywhere near the prisoners. If he tries to visit the dungeon, throw him inside and he’ll hang with the others.”

  “Gawen, m’laird?”

  “You heard me.”

  Pushing into the keep, he yelled louder, “Jinny, I need your salve and a flagon of whisky in my chamber. Now.”

  He loosened his sword belt as he climbed the stairs. When in God’s name had he aged? He strode into his chamber and tossed his weapons on the bed. Life had been a mite easier before he’d become a chieftain. Chasing a mob of thieves provided good sport, but digging into the Dunollie coffers and acting the part of lord-high executioner soured his stomach.

  Jinny dashed in with her basket. “Do not tell me you’ve torn your stitches, m’laird.”

  “What would you do if I had?” He pulled off his doublet and shirt and sat in the chair in front of the hearth.

  She set her basket on the table and crossed her arms. “Don’t you be patronizing me, m’laird. You may be lord of this keep, but ’tis my duty to see you do not succumb to the fever or worse.”

  Groaning, Sean leaned back. “’Tis but a scratch, woman.”

  “Aye? You should have let my Angus track down the brigands. Look at you, you’ve purple bags under your eyes,” she hissed. “Goodness, oh my goodness. Your shoulder is a sight.”

  Sean glanced down at the swollen mass of purple flesh. “Quit your bellyaching and slap some salve on it—you ken, the concoction that eases the pain.”

  She fished in her basket and pulled out a pot. “You need to rest your blessed shoulder.” She leaned forward and sniffed. “At least it is not putrid—yet.”

  “Did you bring up the whisky?”

  “Aye.” She swabbed on a glop of smelly goo.

  “Well, are you planning to keep it to yourself? A man could die of thirst whilst you dawdle.”

  She reached into her basket and pulled out a flagon. “Here, since you cannot wait.”

  “You’re a good matron. A swipe of your ointment and a few strong tots of MacDougall whisky, and I’ll be fit to fight on the morrow.” He pulled the stopper and took a long drink.

  “Bloody men,” Jinny whispered under her breath.

  “Aye, that’s too right. Where would the lassies be without men to look after them?” The whisky hit his empty stomach and burned.

  Jinny finished rubbing and examined her work. “You’re going to have a nasty scar.”

  “Good.” He took another healthy swig. “The lassies like scars.”

  “Oh do they now? I thought you might be done with your womanizing.” Jinny stoppered her pot. “And what about Miss Gyllis Campbell?”

  Sean’s eyes flew open. “What about her?” If Jinny had been a man, Sean would have jumped to his feet, fists ready for
a fight.

  But Jinny chuckled. “Look at you, you big bear of a man. You’re smitten. You used to be quite free with the lassies, but I haven’t seen a one catch your eye in months.” The matron looked mighty proud of herself. “And I’d reckon all those trips to Ardchattan have had something to do with it.”

  He grumbled into the flagon and drowned his next words. So what if he liked her? Christ, he’d already said he loved her. But did he love her like that? Sean glanced up at Jinny. The damned woman looked like she’d just swallowed the best plum duff ever made. “So? Gyllis needs me.” Her crutches were leaning against his clothing trunk with the sheepskin pads around the armrests. Thank God something was working as it should.

  “Aye?” Jinny didn’t let it rest. “And how is she recuperating? You ken, some folks are never the same again after a bout of paralysis.”

  “Gyllis will come good, mark me.” He flicked his hand toward the door. “Off with you now.”

  The next morning, Sean couldn’t say what throbbed more, his head or his blasted shoulder. But he wasn’t about to call Jinny and ask for another application of her salve. Listening to her bloody opinions was worse than the pain. Besides, he had an ugly duty to perform and he might as well be in a foul mood for it.

  He grimaced as he pulled on his shirt. He could scarcely lift his left arm. He reached for the flagon, but he’d drunk the damn thing dry. The chambermaid brought in a tray. “Angus said they’ll be ready once you’ve broken your fast, m’laird.”

  “Is everyone looking after my health?”

  “Aye. Everyone kens you didn’t eat a thing all day yesterday and your shoulder is on the verge of turning putrid, and if you do not take care of it you’re going to end up like your da and we’ll not have a chieftain to replace you.”

  Sean stared at the lass. Now a skinny wisp of a girl was spewing the same rubbish he’d heard from Jinny?

  She handed him a spoon and curtsied. “For your porridge, m’laird.”

  He snatched it from her and pointed to the door. “Go. Tell Angus I’ll be down momentarily.”

  Sean had half a mind to leave the food, but it smelled too good. His stomach rumbled. Cook hadn’t missed a thing, porridge, eggs, bacon and haggis. Suddenly ravenous, he ate every bite and then headed down to face his duty.

  By the time Sean walked into the courtyard, Angus had the prisoners lined up on the gallows with their hands bound and nooses around their necks. The man-at-arms had carried out his duty efficiently, without a qualm.

  Sean surveyed the faces of his men, all standing as witness to the hanging. Gawen stood away from the others on the far end. “Gawen, how do you know these men?” Sean asked.

  The lad looked up as if shocked the chieftain knew his name. “Pardon, m’laird?”

  “You heard me.” Sean scowled. “Come forward and tell us about these scoundrels.”

  “I-I do not know them.”

  “Very well. Then you’ll have no qualms kicking the stools out from under these outlaws’ feet?”

  The lad blanched. “N-no, m’laird.”

  Sean nodded at Angus who grasped Gawen by the arm and led him up the gallows’ steps.

  The cleric stepped forward and opened a scroll. “For the crime of attack on Sir Sean MacDougall, Chieftain of Dunollie with intent to do harm, you are sentenced to hang by the neck until dead. May God have mercy on your soul.”

  Gawen hesitated at the first stool. The lad glanced at Sean over his shoulder with fear in his eyes. Sean gave him a thin-lipped nod. Turning slowly, Gawen kicked the stool, followed by a clatter, a twang of the rope and a crack, breaking the man’s neck. Death was never a pretty sight, even when it was done to rid the world of murderers—men who placed no value on human life. Sean had no idea how many people these men had killed or how many women they might have raped.

  In the somber moment of the misty dawn only one thing was certain. Not one would live to pillage another day.

  14

  Sean mounted his horse and drove the beast like he was running from the devil. Aye, he’d attended hangings before, but he’d never presided over one as Chieftain of Dunollie. The image of the men swinging from their nooses, their feet kicking like beheaded chickens would be seared on his memory forever. Would he pass such severe punishment if again faced with the same circumstances? Yes. There would be no question. If not dealt with relentlessly, lawlessness would pervade Dunollie lands and his clan would suffer the consequences.

  He rode full tilt all the way to Ardchattan Priory. When he pounded the knocker, the monk who answered didn’t even ask him his purpose—one look at Sean’s face and the man opened the door. “Miss Gyllis is in her cell.”

  “My thanks,” Sean mumbled, carrying the crutches as he strode past.

  Though he wanted to rush in and gather her in his arms, hold her for hours and ask her to take away the agony caused by hanging four brigands, he stood at the door and watched. She worked the embroidery needle, making painstakingly small stitches—something he knew would be difficult for her. The concentration on her face made his heart squeeze, but it wouldn’t be right to try to help. She was a determined lass and would regain her strength as a result.

  Something in her determination, her concentration soothed him. When he watched Gyllis, the evils of the world faded as if they no longer mattered. With Gyllis, his soul sailed to an island of peace.

  When Sean rested the crutches against the wall, she looked up. “Sean!” She cast her sewing aside. “Thank heavens you’re safe.”

  The corner of his mouth ticked up. “You heard?” He had hoped she would have been spared the burden.

  “I’ve been so worried, I could scarcely think of anything else.” Gyllis reached for his hand. “John reported you had injuries.”

  He kissed her hand and sat on the stool. “Just a bruise to the shoulder.” He kept her palm in his. The softness of her skin soothed him as did the depth of the concern reflected in her eyes. The tension in his neck eased. “I hanged four outlaws today.”

  “My God.” Gasping, she clapped her free hand over her mouth. “How awful.”

  “I hope ’tis not something I have to do often. I’d much rather fight a man than tie his hands and hang him—even if he is a scoundrel.”

  “But you risk injury by fighting.”

  Sean said nothing. Painfully aware of the open door behind him, all he could do was stare into those eyes. Gyllis could caress his soul with a single look. And from her expression, he could read so much. She cared as deeply for him as he did her. So intense was the current holding their stares, he could not bring himself to look away.

  Gyllis smiled, her dimples melting the tension from his shoulders to the base of his spine. “And what are you thinking about, sir knight?”

  Sean grinned. “Why, the winsome maiden seated before me, miss.” With her tiny gasp, his blood rushed like a white-capped river.

  He raised her hand to his lips, closed his eyes and kissed. There in that room with monks wandering about the halls, he was completely and utterly entranced with this woman. He’d never met anyone who could calm his deepest agony with a look. Her pulse thrummed a steady rhythm beneath his lips. If only they could be alone.

  Long lashes shuttered those green eyes and for a brief moment, Sean felt lost.

  “I know not what to say,” she whispered, a blush spreading across her cheeks.

  He raised her chin with the crook of his finger. “Sometimes more is said with a look than with words.” He gestured to the wall behind. “I’ve returned your crutches complete with sheepskin armrests.”

  She looked past him and beamed. “They are marvelous, and I’m certain I’ve grown stronger since your last visit.”

  “Do you think you can make it out to the garden?”

  “I’m sure I can.” She clapped her hands. “If I could use those things to walk outside the cloistered walls I would. I’ve felt so cosseted, what I wouldn’t do to sit a horse with the wind in my hair.”

 
Sean fetched the crutches. “Well, let us start by taking a stroll out into the sunshine.” He chuckled. The Gyllis he’d grown up with had gradually returned and gone was the skeletal, bitter lass. She’d put on a wee bit of weight and maneuvered her crutches with lip-biting determination. Aye, she indeed was a woman to be admired.

  Though Sean hadn’t been able to visit the priory as often in the past few sennights, Gyllis’s heart swelled every time she saw him stride through the cloisters. Long legged, tall, and incredibly handsome, her problems faded into oblivion when the young chieftain came to call.

  And on account of his generosity, in the past fortnight she had become more adept with her crutches. How wonderful it was to regain a modicum of freedom and tend to her most personal needs without a monk’s aid.

  Today she and Brother Wesley were working in her tiny chamber due to a bout of morning drizzle. After John and Sean had their disagreement, her brother required the monk to keep the door ajar when he ministered to her within. Gyllis pulled her woolen mantle around her shoulders. “’Tis difficult to believe only yesterday the sun provided a balmy day.”

  “Are you cold?” Brother Wesley asked. His voice always sounded so serene, it calmed her directly.

  She tried not to shiver. “A wee bit.”

  “Shall I light the brazier?”

  “Oh no, ’tis early yet, I’m sure the day will warm. Mother always says ’tis a waste of peat to burn it during the summer months.”

  “Your mother is a wise woman.”

  Gyllis reflected on her carefree upbringing at Kilchurn Castle. Ma had a way of running an efficient keep for certain. “I suppose she is.”

  “I have no doubt of her wisdom. Your brother is still young and is already a prior.” He stopped massaging and arched his eyebrows. “Then there’s Lord Duncan. He’s one of the most powerful men in the Highlands—both men raised by your mother.”

  Gyllis smiled, though her heart squeezed. “Do not forget our father was Black Colin of Rome. He had something to do with our rearing for certain and his legacy alone will transcend generations.”