The Highland Dynasty: The Complete Series

by Amy Jarecki

  He looked her from head to toe. What was she about? Was she deliberately trying to unnerve him? And why was she mumbling all this rubbish about peace and hatred? Unless she was… “You’re a Lamont,” he growled.

  With a gap-toothed grin, she leaned in. “Och aye, and do ye ken what happened in May four and twenty years past?”

  Jesu, everyone knew of the Dunoon Massacre. It had posed a black mark on the Campbell name for two generations. Quinn’s grandfather massacred nearly the entire Lamont clan, including the chieftain. Only a few had escaped and those who did were thought to have fled to the Lowlands.

  The way the woman stared at him with ice in her eyes did not seem of this world. He narrowed his gaze as he backed out the tent’s flap. “Are you a spirit come to haunt me?”

  “I am an old woman who has lived a life of misery and sorrow.” She flicked her cane toward Quinn’s horse. “I have shown you to the path of your salvation. Whether or not you choose to take it is up to you. Are you a merciful man, or are you a tyrant?”

  “I am a Campbell,” he growled, reaching for his mount’s reins.

  “Perhaps you are, but I’ll not hold such malfeasance against you—not this day. You, sir, hold the power to change your destiny.” She grasped his wrist and squeezed. “If you’re nay too bull-headed to see the opportunity when ’tis laid out before you.”

  He shook his arm free and mounted. But as he rode away, the woman’s words needled like a swarm of bees attacking every inch of Quinn’s flesh.

  Nearly time for the opening ceremony, Alice hastened through the maze of tents, clutching tight her basket of herbs. Never in her life had she seen so many people gathered in one place. It was like an ant hill with humanity everywhere. Though this was an annual gathering, it was the first time she and Gran had attended—primarily because it was sponsored by the Earl of Argyll. Oddly, Alice’s grandmother had insisted they come because this year it was but a short ferry ride across the Clyde. All Highland clans were welcome, or so said the posting on the church door.

  Truth be told, Gran had decided it was time for Alice to be introduced to society, as it were. A handful of families lived in Toward, but no lads her age. Gran had insisted that at four and twenty, Alice was on the verge of spinsterhood which was not acceptable for the Lamont heir and it was high time for Alice to marry.

  Marriage.

  Good heavens, the thought of finding a spouse made perspiration spring across her skin. Who would want to marry Alice anyway? She might be the sole heir to the chieftainship, but she had naught but a plaid and brooch to show for it.

  As she rounded the corner and started into the tent, she stopped dead in her tracks, the basket in her arms nearly tumbling to the ground. Merciful fairies, Lord Quinn was sitting beside Gran having a wee chat.

  Backing as fast as she could, Alice bumped into a Highlander, some the contents of her basket spilling.

  “Watch yourself,” growled the man.

  She hardly acknowledged him as she skirted around to the side of the tent, her ears pricked, listening to Gran’s banter, not certain if their conversation was friendly or not.

  “…Are you a merciful man or are you a tyrant?” Gran’s parting words sounded more like a challenge before His Lordship briskly marched out of the tent.

  Still crouching, Alice raised the basket to hide her face. Yes, she knew Lord Quinn would be at the fête, but the last place she expected to see him was in her tent talking to Gran. It was a wonder the old woman hadn’t tried to give him a tincture laced with nightshade as Alice had suggested. Clearly, her grandmother had something up her sleeve—and it didn’t appear to encompass the end of Lord Quinn’s life. Further, Gran had spoken to the heir to the earldom of Argyll speaking with the same cryptic nonsense she’d used with Alice. Och aye, the woman was scheming for certain. The quandary? What in heaven’s name was she about? And why was the thorny rose at the center of it?

  Aye, they’d put up a sign on the tent to tell fortunes and earn a bit of coin. But Gran was no witch. True, she was a bit odd at times, and she knew more about herbs and remedies than most anyone but that was the extent of it.

  Alice lowered her basket and, after checking to ensure Lord Quinn was long gone, she slipped into the tent and set the herbs she’d purchased beside the bedrolls. “I saw Quinn Campbell leave a moment ago.”

  Gran arched an eyebrow. “Did you now?”

  “Aye.” Alice stood with her hands on her hips giving her grandmother a hard stare. “Now tell me true, what is it you are planning for his demise? Is there something in that rose that will slowly take away his breath? Will he fail at the games? Will his death be agonizingly painful?”

  Pursing her lips, Gran’s face wrinkled like a prune. “He’s not going to die. At least not by my hand.”

  “I beg your pardon? Of all the people at this ceilidh, you have more cause to hate him than anyone.”

  “Is that what you think? That hate is the answer? That the Lamonts should feud with the Campbells for the rest of eternity?”

  “Of course—” Alice clenched her teeth and set to fishing in her valise for a hairbrush.

  Bless it, at times Gran was infuriating. Could there ever be a truce between the Campbells and the Lamonts? After they mercilessly massacred her clan? She’d lived her life in a shabby cottage. Aye it was cozy, but thanks to the Campbells, Alice had been deprived of growing up in fine style. She’d been deprived of lavish gowns and a marriage arranged to strengthen bonds between clans. Her mother had died in childbirth, but her very own father had lost his life in battle with the Campbells—Lord Quinn’s kin.

  Could Alice ever put the past behind her? She’d been an infant when Archibald Campbell had mercilessly struck in the dead of night with no warning.

  Could she ever forgive? Or was the tonic too bitter?

  Four and twenty years had passed since that fateful day, but it may as well have been a fortnight.

  4

  “Merciful fairies,” Alice whispered behind clenched fists. She knew Lord Quinn to be a powerful man, but she never would have guessed he possessed the strength to nearly double any other man’s mark in the stone put. God might strike her dead for admiring the man—either God or Gran, but how could anyone help but do so? Besides, it was good to develop healthy respect for the strengths of one’s adversary. Right. That’s all she was doing and absolutely nothing more.

  Making Alice all the more self-aware, dear Gran sat beside her and watched every bit as intently.

  They’d chosen a place atop the hill away from the crowds. Behind them loomed the partially ruined Rothesay Castle. The medieval fortress was no longer occupied, though her walls were in far better condition than Toward Castle. And tonight the men would build a bonfire in the courtyard. Alice was looking forward to the music and dancing, and especially the pork which the lads had been turning on the spit all day.

  “That Highlander is quite braw,” Gran mumbled.

  Alice gaped, feigning ignorance. “To whom are you referring?”

  The old woman met her stare with a wizened one. “You cannot fool me, lass.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “He’s the most handsome man at the fête.” She pointed to a gathering of girls all giggling and waving their kerchiefs at Lord Quinn as he held up his arms in victory. “Look at those lassies making fools of themselves.”

  Simply watching their shamelessness lassies made her skin hot. “They can have him.”

  “Mm hmm.”

  Feigning indifference, Alice adjusted her arisaid about her shoulders. And she didn’t care much for the smug expression on Gran’s face, either. “He came in second in the footrace.”

  “And first in archery.”

  “Pardon me, but if I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were trying to make me like him.”

  “Oh aye?” Gran bit into an oatcake. “I thought we were having a conversation about how well the Campbell heir was faring. As a matter of fact, I reckon he’ll be the
victor again this year.”

  It was likely he’d win the caber toss, and that would seal it…unless something drastic happened like his mount coming up lame in the horse race. With all the jumps planned, such a thing could happen.

  “I don’t suppose it matters overmuch to us who wins, as long as the Campbells go back to Inveraray and leave us be.” Alice snatched the last oatcake and shook it. “And I’m not about to deliver any more roses in the middle of the night. That rose didn’t do a thing to him, except mayhap make him stronger.”

  “I assure you, he is unchanged.”

  “Then why did you send me?”

  “Because I thought there might be hope.”

  Nibbling her oatcake, Alice studied her grandmother. “Hope for what?”

  “Never you mind.” Uprighting her cane, Gran started to rise. “Come, lass, ’tis time to dress for the ceilidh.”

  “Dress?” Alice hopped to her feet and helped her grandmother stand. “’Tis a gathering, nay a fancy ball.”

  “Thank the good Lord for small mercies.”

  Tankard in hand, Eachan led the way through the maze of people. “I reckon you ought to find something else with which to occupy your time next year and give the rest of us bleating sops a chance.”

  “A bit jealous, are you?” asked Quinn as he passed his brother and headed for the long row of tables reserved for attending chieftains and gentry.

  A lass rose from a plaid she was sharing with her family and curtsied. “Good evening, m’lord.”

  Though he didn’t stop, Quinn bowed his head respectfully. “Good evening.”

  Of course, Eachan stopped and grasped the girl’s hand. “And a fine night it is, especially with you making it so.”

  Good God, his younger brother ought to be a bard. The lad flaunted his charm to every lassie who crossed his path.

  Let Eachan have his fun. Quinn hadn’t an eye for just any lassie this eve. After his wee chat with the old seer, he hadn’t stopped searching for a bonny blonde wearing a blue dress. To his chagrin, when he’d been named grand champion too many women had surrounded him, each one paling in comparison to the nymph who’d given him the rose. He glanced at the flower still pinned at his shoulder. It had opened a bit more and, bless it, the bloom had taken on a healthier glow.

  “Och, if it is not the behemoth himself,” said Rory MacLeod, chieftain of Clan MacLeod of Harris.

  Sliding onto the seat beside the man, Quinn gestured for MacGregor to join them. Eachan would follow in his own time—when he finished slavering over the lassies no doubt.

  A serving wench placed tankards of ale in front of them. “What’s this?” Quinn asked. “The way everyone is carrying on, you’d think I’m akin to Goliath.”

  “Ye are,” grumbled MacDougall across the board.

  Quinn took a healthy drink of ale. “Not by half. And MacGregor’s a hand taller,” he said, stealing a glance over each shoulder.

  Where is she?

  The courtyard suddenly grew quiet and all eyes shifted to the arched entry. Sitting a bit taller, Quinn looked as well.

  And then he saw her. The woman from the forest. The nymph who visited Quinn’s dreams. His heart thudded against his chest. His mouth grew dry.

  “God’s bones,” he blurted, his skin growing hot.

  “Aye,” said MacGregor in a tone so lecherous, it immediately made Quinn want to throw a jab across the lout’s jaw.

  The goddess moved gracefully the entire length of the hall until she reached the high table. She stood at the far end like she belonged—mayhap as if she were above them all. A bumbling servant pulled out a chair and bowed. But she didn’t sit immediately. Her gaze swept across the laird’s faces, stopping when those captivating sapphire eyes met Quinn’s. In a heartbeat his breath caught as if she’d slayed him. Would he be begging for the scraps from her plate by the night’s end?

  Aye, I’d beg on my knees if she’d allow me five minutes to gaze into her eyes.

  She embodied the regality of a Scottish queen, wearing a crown of red roses, a gown with a snug fitting bodice, and a blue and green plaid fastened at her shoulder with a chieftain’s brooch with four emeralds—one as bold as Quinn’s.

  “A woman clan chief?” mumbled MacGregor. “Bloody figures.”

  But Quinn paid him no mind. What he wanted to know was why had the lass appeared alone in the forest? Especially if she was highborn. Why had she brought the rosebud to him last eve? Blessed be the saints, the woman defined beauty. Beneath her circlet, the nymph wore her hair unbound. Aye, the cascades of waves flowing all the way to her hips made every man in the hall weak at the knees. A medieval princess presiding over a medieval castle could not be more fitting for this eve.

  What were the words she’d said?

  Quinn’s mind couldn’t focus, but he knew his victory that day had not impressed her. Aye, dozens of women around would give their eyeteeth to lie with him this night, but not a one would suffice but the beauty who gazed upon him without a smile. Did she harbor some dark secret about him that was too horrible to utter?

  “Who is she?” he asked MacLeod.

  “I have no idea,” Quinn mumbled, unable to avert his gaze.

  Down the table, the rest of the men appeared to be baffled as well, but nary a one spoke out.

  Quinn spent the rest of the meal watching her. She rarely glanced his way, but when she did, his heart pounded like the thundering of a racehorse.

  “You aiming to eat that?” asked MacGregor.

  He blinked. “Huh?”

  The henchman pointed with his fork. “The pound of pork on your plate. Bloody oath, after the day’s activity, I would have thought you’d be famished.”

  Quinn pushed the food toward his friend. “Take it.”

  When finally the pipers and fiddlers announced a reel, he sprang to his feet and boldly strode toward the lass. A delicate eyebrow arched as he executed a courtly bow. “May I have the honor of this dance?”

  When she hesitated, the chieftain beside her leaned in. “It would be disrespectful to refuse His Lordship.”

  “Nay,” Quinn said. “I want only what the lady desires.”

  “What I desire, m’lord?” she asked in the same sultry tone he’d thought he dreamed the night before.

  “Aye, for I believe a woman of your ilk should not be cosseted by the rules that bind mere mortals.”

  Enticing blue eyes grew darker. “I assure you, I am as mortal as you, perhaps more so.”

  “Perhaps, but this night you are not of this world.” He bowed, deeper this time. “Please dance with me, m’lady.”

  By the time Alice placed her fingers in Lord Quinn’s outstretched palm, she was shaking like a sapling in a gale-force wind.

  Curses to Gran for putting her up to this. Since she’d stepped into the hall everyone had been was staring at her as if she were the queen of the fairies. Moreover, they acted as if she would smite them if anyone uttered a criticizing word. Had Toward Castle not been burned, had the Lamont lands not been stolen, Alice might be a force to be reckoned with, but without them she was nothing. She was nothing but a poor maid who had grown up hiding from her enemies—people like Quinn Campbell who presently held her hand, leading her to the round patch of grass where the dancers were congregating for a reel.

  With bold strides, His Lordship escorted her to the lady’s line. Before he left to join the men, he leaned forward and whispered, “Pray tell, what is your name?”

  “Alice,” she replied, his closeness making her tremble all the more.

  “Merely Alice?”

  “Aye.”

  The music demanded he accept her response and join the men’s line. Taller and bonnier than the others, he stood there like a king, his gaze not leaving her face even after they began to dance. Intense and focused, his eyes were a rich mahogany, nearly the same color as his hair. He danced like a competitor, his motion crisp and accurate while his kilt slapped the back of his legs. During the turns, he grasped her hand
firmly though gently enough not to cause pain.

  Alice didn’t want to like him, but it was impossible not to fall victim to the handsome contours of his face. Rather than a periwig, he wore his hair clubbed back, though a wave falling to the side of his chiseled cheek had escaped. It gave him an air of wildness, which combined with the shadow of his beard, made him almost irresistible. Had the man not been a Campbell, Alice doubted she’d be able to move her feet.

  “Are you enjoying the fête?” he asked, his deep brogue rolling off his tongue.

  It didn’t escape her notice that he’d mentioned nothing about the games earlier. “I have.” Again, Alice chose brevity in her response. “And you?”

  He grinned, a smile as brilliant as the sun set her stomach aflutter. “I suppose I haven’t had much time to consider it.”

  “Does the competition make you nervous?”

  “Not overmuch. I hate to lose, though, so I suppose—” His words were cut off by the need to skip along with the woman to Alice’s right while she locked elbows with a man she’d never seen before.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she assessed the new man, hoping to find him attractive, yet she was unduly disappointed. She couldn’t hide her smile when she again joined hands with His Lordship.

  His eyes twinkled. “You’re the bonniest woman here,” he whispered, his breath skimming her neck.

  Merciful fairies, why not allow herself to like this man, just for tonight? The thought made her search the faces for Gran. She must be lurking somewhere in the shadows. Alice had been dismayed when her grandmother had pushed her toward the ceilidh alone. If only they could have gone in together. But the wizened woman had been emphatic that Alice must join the clan chiefs alone without letting anyone know who she truly was.

  Aye, by the end of the evening, she might mention she was the sole Lamont heir, but not until.