Highlander Untamed (44 page)

The Fairy Flag of the MacLeods is merely a wispy scrap of fabric now, but it is still quite something to behold. It hangs framed in the great hall of Dunvegan Castle, which is still the seat of the present MacLeod of MacLeod.

Until the mid–eighteenth century, Dunvegan was accessible only by sea. Now there is a beautiful entry on the landward side of the castle. Although it seems that there should be one, there is no evidence of a secret entrance to the castle. Dunvegan is a wonderful place to visit, and the dungeon, as I described, is quite horrible. And a rather cruel MacLeod chief did have the kitchens vent into the dungeon.

Although there was no record that James VI brokered Isabel’s marriage, there is evidence that she was part of Queen Anne’s retinue. And as Rory was indeed “at the horn” around this time, I thought their marriage
could
have been a diplomatic solution by King James to unite the feuding MacDonalds and MacLeods.

The Lordship of the Isles represented the height of Gaelic political power and culture in Scotland. For almost 150 years, under the leadership of Clan Donald, the Lords effectively ruled a large part of west Scotland and the Isles independently of the rest of the country. The Lordship forfeited to the crown in 1493. There were a couple of attempts to revive it, including the purported attempt I described in a letter to Queen Elizabeth by Donald Gorm Mor, the MacDonald of Sleat. The fall of the Lordship ushered in the period of Highland history known as “the Age of Feuds and Forays” and a shift in power from Clan Donald to Clan Gordon and Clan Campbell.

Finally, King James was already in England by the time Margaret made her appearance at court in the summer of 1603. King James left Edinburgh for England on April 5, 1603. He returned to Scotland only once—in 1617.

Looking for more sexy Scottish adventure?

Turn the page to catch a sneak peek at the second pulse-pounding book in the Highlander series

Highlander Unmasked

by

Monica McCarty

Lochalsh, Inverness-shire, June 1605

It was going to rain. Perfect. Meg Mackinnon pulled the wool
arisaidh,
the full-length plaid she’d wrapped around her for protection from the elements, more firmly around her head and once again cursed the necessity for this journey. They’d only just begun, and already she was dreading long days on horseback, navigating the treacherous tracks of the drovers. Even had her father been able to arrange one, a carriage would have been useless along these paths. The “road” from the Isle of Skye to Edinburgh was barely wide enough to ride two abreast. The cart that carried their belongings had proved to be enough of a burden on this rugged terrain.

Meg had at least a week of discomfort left before her. It would take them that long to reach Edinburgh, where she must begin her search in earnest for a husband.

She felt the familiar flutter of anxiety when she thought of all that was ahead of her. Her father had entrusted her to find the right man for her clan; she would not let him down. But the responsibility inherent in her decision weighed heavily on her. The pressure at times could be stifling. A wry smile touched the edges of her mouth. Perhaps a week of travel wasn’t long enough.

Yet part of her couldn’t wait until it was all over. It would be a relief to have the decision made and behind her. Of course, then she would be
married.
And that brought a whole new bundle of anxieties.

Meg glanced over at her mother riding beside her and felt a pang of guilt for dragging her so far from home. It was difficult enough for Meg to leave her father and brother; she couldn’t imagine how her mother must feel.

“I’m sorry, Mother.”

Rosalind Mackinnon met her daughter’s gaze with puzzlement. “Whatever for, child?”

“For taking you away from father at a time like this.” Meg bit her lip, feeling the need to explain. “I just couldn’t bring myself to accept—”

“Nonsense.” A rare frown marred her mother’s beautiful face. “Your father is much better. A trip to court is exactly what I need. You know how I love all the latest fashions, the latest hairstyles”—she smiled conspiratorially—“and all the latest gossip.”

Meg returned the smile. She knew her mother was only trying to make her feel better, though she did love going to court. Meg, on the other hand, hated it. She never fit in the way her mother did. Partially, it was her own fault. She did not share her mother’s enjoyment of frippery and gossip and was not very good at pretending otherwise. But this time, she swore she would try. For her mother’s sake, if not her own.

“Besides, I’ll not have you marry a man you do not love,” her mother finished, anticipating the apology Meg had been about to make.

Meg shook her head. Rosalind Mackinnon was a hopeless romantic. But love was not the reason Meg had refused the offer of marriage from her father’s chieftain. The offer which, had she accepted it, would have dispensed with the need for this trip.

But Meg’s choice of a husband was dictated by unusual circumstances, and Thomas Mackinnon was not the right man for her. He was an able warrior, yes, but a hotheaded one. A man who reached for his sword first and thought later. Meg sought a strong warrior, but a controlled one. Equally important, she needed a clever negotiator to appease a king with growing authority over his recalcitrant Highland subjects. Tensions between the two ran high. The time of unfettered authority by the chiefs was waning. She must find a husband who could help lead her clan into the future.

But the lack of political acumen was not the only reason she’d refused Thomas. She also sensed too much ambition in him. Ambition that would jeopardize her brother’s position as the next chief.

Above all, she needed a fiercely loyal man. A man she could trust.

Love was not part of the bargain. Meg was a realist. She admired the deep affection between her parents, perhaps even envied it, but she recognized that such was not for her. Her duty was clear. Finding the right man for her clan came first. And second.

“I don’t expect to be as fortunate in marriage as you, Mother,” Meg said. “What you and Father have is rare.”

“And wonderful,” Rosalind finished. “Which is why I want it for you. Though just because I love your father does not mean I always agree with him. In this, he asks too much of you,” she said with a stubborn set to her pointed chin. As Meg had never heard her mother speak against her father, it took a moment to register what she was saying.

Her mother shook her head. “And now he expects you to sacrifice your future happiness,” she lamented, as if a daughter marrying for the good of the clan were anything out of the ordinary. When in fact, Meg choosing her own husband—albeit one who met certain specific criteria—was the oddity.

“Truly, Mother, it is no sacrifice. Father asks nothing of me that I don’t want myself. When I find the right man to stand beside Ian, he will be the right man for me.”

“If only it were that easy. But you cannot force your heart to follow your head.”

Maybe not, but she could try.

As if she knew what Meg was thinking, Rosalind said dismissively, “Don’t worry. Just leave it to me.”

Warning bells clanged. “Mother…you promised not to interfere.”

Her mother stared straight ahead with a far too innocent look on her face. “I don’t know what you are talking about, Margaret Mackinnon.”

Meg’s eyes narrowed, not fooled one bit. “You know exactly—”

But her words were lost in the violent crash of thunder as a deluge of rain poured from the skies. The ground seemed to shake with the sudden fury of the storm.

Her mother’s terrified scream, however, alerted Meg to the fact that the shaking was from more than just a storm.

Still, it took her a moment to comprehend what was happening, so suddenly had it begun. One minute she’d been about to take her mother to task for her matchmaking ways, the next she was in the midst of a nightmare.

Out of the shadows, like demon riders on the storm, the band of ruffians attacked. Huge, savage-looking men in filthy shirts and tattered plaids, wielding deadly claymores with ruthless intent. They seemed to fly from the trees, surrounding Meg’s party in all directions.

Her cry froze in her throat, terror temporarily rendering her mute. For a minute, she couldn’t think. She watched helplessly as the dozen clansmen her father had sent along to protect them were locked in a battle of un-tempered ferocity against at least a score of brigands.

Her blood ran cold.

There were too many of them.

Dear God, her father’s men had no chance. The Mackinnon clansmen had immediately moved to protect Meg and her mother, circling them as best they could in the confined area. And one by one, they were cut down in front of her.

Meg gazed in rapt horror as Ruadh, one of her father’s chieftains, a man she’d known her entire life, a man who’d bounced her on his knee and sung her songs of the clan’s illustrious past, was unable to block the deadly strike of a claymore that slid across his belly, nearly cutting him in two. Tears sprang to her eyes as she watched the light fade from his gaze.

Her mother’s scream sliced through the terror, jolting Meg from her stupor. The moment of panic dissolved in a sudden burst of clarity. She gathered her courage, with only one thought. Protecting her mother.

Heart pounding, Meg leapt down from atop her horse and grabbed the dirk from Ruadh’s lifeless hand, his fingers still clenched around the bloody hilt. The weapon felt so heavy and clumsy in her hand. For the first time in her life, she wished she hadn’t lingered so long indoors with her books. She had no experience with weaponry of any sort. But she shook off the bout of uncertainty. It didn’t matter. What she lacked in skill she would make up for in raw determination. Clasping the dirk more firmly, she moved to stand before her mother, ready to defend her.

They’ll have to kill me first,
she vowed silently.

But a bit of her bravado faltered when another of her father’s men fell at her feet. The way it was going, it might not be long before they did. Only six of her father’s men remained.

The
arisaidh
had slid from her head and rain streamed down her face, blurring her vision. The pins holding back her hair were long gone, and the wavy tendrils tangled in her lashes, but Meg hardly noticed, focused as she was on the battle. The battle that was tightening like a noose around them, as their circle of protectors quickly diminished.

She bit back the fear that crept up the back of her throat. Never had she been more terrified, but she had to stay strong. For her mother. If they were to have a chance to survive.

Meg’s action seemed to snap her mother from her trance, and she stopped screaming. Following Meg’s lead, her mother slipped down from her horse. Meg could see her hands shaking as she pulled Ruadh’s eating knife from his belt.

She turned, and Meg’s chest squeezed to see the resolve on her mother’s face. To see the direness of their circumstance reflected in her gaze. Even drenched, her hair and clothes a sodden mess, Rosalind Mackinnon looked like an angel—albeit an avenging angel. Though forty, her beauty was undiminished by age.
Dear God, what would these vicious brutes do to her?
Meg swallowed. To them both?

Though Meg knew her mother must be thinking the same thing, her voice was strangely calm. “If you see an opening between them, run,” she whispered.

“But I can’t leave you—”

“You will do as I say, Margaret,” her mother said, and Meg was so shocked by the steel in her dulcet tone that she simply nodded. “If you need to use the knife, strike hard and do not hesitate.”

Meg felt an unexpected swell of pride. Her sweet, gentle mother looked as fierce as a lion protecting its cub. There was far more to Rosalind Mackinnon than Meg had ever realized.

“I won’t,” she said, feigning courage. But what chance did two women, and two particularly diminutive ones at that, have against such strength and numbers?

A filthy, hulking ruffian lurched for her mother. Without thinking, Meg stabbed his arm. At least three of the ten inches sank deep in his skin, opening a wide gash in his forearm. He roared in pain and backhanded her across the face. Stunned by the blow, she lost her grip on the dirk and it dropped to the ground, where he promptly kicked it out of her reach.