My Brave Highlander (2 page)

"We'll go into the library." Lachlan led the way down a short corridor, then closed the door behind them.

Though no fire burned in the small hearth, Dirk had always found this smaller, low-ceilinged room cozy and comforting, maybe because it reminded him of his father's library at Dunnakeil, a place he'd felt safe as a lad.

"Out with it, man," Rebbie said, dropping into one of the cushioned leather chairs. "We want to know what the missive said."

"You are demanding of a sudden," Dirk muttered, pacing before the cold hearth. He could hardly bring himself to voice the words he needed to say, but stalling was doing naught but wasting precious time. He cleared his throat, trying to relieve the slight ache. "My father is ill. My uncle does not expect him to live long." Speaking the facts aloud was almost like an arrow piercing his chest for he had always been close to his beloved father.

"Nay." Rebbie frowned, his eyes troubled.

An unexpected illness of some sort had taken hold of his father. Dirk should've returned to Durness months ago, but he hadn't known his father would become sick.

"I'm saddened to hear of it," Lachlan said in a comforting tone. "When did you last see him?"

Dirk was ashamed to admit how many years it had been. "When I was fifteen summers."

A weighty silence filled the room. Dirk stared into the black coals of the hearth rather than his friends' curious eyes. He knew what they must be thinking.
Why so long?

"Was there some sort of rift?" Rebbie asked.

"You could say that." His friends needed to know the whole truth. A truth Dirk hadn't spoken of for twelve years. It seemed like forever. He was closer to these two men than he was to anyone, even his own family. If he couldn't trust them, who could he trust?

He inhaled a deep breath and released it. "When I was a wee lad, my mother died giving birth to my sister. My father remarried a year or two later and had two more sons. My stepmother, Maighread Gordon, wanted her oldest son to inherit. So… she tried to kill me—or have me killed—more than once."

"'Slud!" Lachlan rasped, his amber-brown eyes darkening and his face turning into a warrior's mask. "When you were but a bairn?"

"Aye. The last time, when I was fifteen, a man attempted to push me off a cliff onto the rocks far below in the sea. My cousin, a good friend, was with me. He died but I, by some miracle, managed to land on a wee ledge about fifteen feet down. The next morn, my uncle came to my rescue. My father thinks I'm dead, as does the rest of the clan. The only people who know I still live are my uncle, aunt, and two cousins."

"Saints," Rebbie hissed. "What a witch. Is she still alive?"

"Last I heard. Anyway, my uncle told everyone I died and took me to live with my mother's clan in Strathspey. I went to university a couple of years later." That was where he'd met Lachlan and Rebbie. "I've kept my identity secret for the past twelve years."

"What is your true name?" Rebbie asked.

"Dirk MacKay."

"You're not a MacLerie? Why did you not tell us?" Lachlan asked.

"My mother was a MacLerie. And… well, it was simply easier and safer that everyone think my name MacLerie. My uncle ordered me to tell no one, for my stepmother comes from a powerful clan with a far reach."

"I see. Your father holds a title and property, then?" Rebbie asked.

"Aye, but nothing so remarkable as yours. He's a baron and a chief. MacKay lands are vast but contain little arable land. The holdings include a keep called Castle Dunnakeil, a manor house about twenty miles away and several hundred clansmen scattered over MacKay Country along the north coast."

"'Tis impressive," Lachlan said. "You will one day inherit, then?"

Dirk shrugged. "'Tis my duty and responsibility to lead and guide the clan when my father is no longer able. He trained me for this from as far back as I remember."

One of his first memories was riding a large horse with his father. Dirk must have been three or four at the time.
One day this will be yours,
Da had said.
When I'm gone, I want you to take care of the clan as if they are your children. Do you understand?
Dirk recalled looking up into his father's proud and noble face, with his russet beard and blue eyes. Dirk had nodded, even though he truly didn't understand. But his father had known that someday Dirk would remember and know what he'd meant.

Now, he didn't even know whether he'd see his father again. His throat ached.

"Did you get on well?" Rebbie asked.

Dirk nodded. "As well as could be expected. But Da was smitten with Maighread. Back then, he thought her the most beautiful creature on earth. He didn't believe me when I told him she was trying to kill me. He accused me of having too vivid an imagination."

"How did you ken 'twas her?" Lachlan asked.

"She threatened me from the first time she laid eyes on me, and took great joy in slapping me every chance she got, when no one was looking. She was not careful in what she said to me because she thought no one would believe me. She was wrong. My uncle believed me even if Da did not."

"Bitch," Rebbie muttered.

Dirk nodded, a sense of urgency coming over him. "I'm thinking 'tis time for me to take my leave. But first, I want to thank you both for your friendship these last ten years. You've become like brothers to me."

"Och," Rebbie muttered. "You ken we feel the same way."

"Indeed, brother." Lachlan stepped forward for a handshake. "Have a care on your journey north. And I must thank you also for your help in clearing up the mess we had here at Draughon last month. I wouldn't have survived without you both."

Dirk nodded. "That's what friends do. Help each other."

"Which is why I'm going with you," Rebbie said, standing.

"I must warn you that the weather, especially in winter, in MacKay Country is harsher than anywhere we've been thus far."

"I'm well aware. I've traveled to Thurso before."

"And my murderous stepmother might be just as inclined to kill my friends as she is to kill me."

"Och. Let her try," Rebbie grumbled.

"Well then, you've been warned. We'll need some warmer clothing and some wool plaids."

"I have some excess ones," Lachlan offered. "And we have the thick, shaggy wool mantles we wore back from Kintalon. They'll work well in the snow and wind."

Dirk nodded. "I appreciate it."

"I wish I could go too, but Angelique is not feeling well."

"You must stay here and care for her and the clan." Dirk clapped him on the shoulder. He'd never seen Lachlan smitten before, but his wee wifey had tamed the wild Scot.

"Send me a missive to let me know how things go there. If you need me, let me know and I'll be on the first galley north."

Dirk nodded. "I thank you."

"I hope your father is alive and well when you arrive," Lachlan added as they proceeded into the corridor.

Dirk prayed his da had a miraculous turn of health. At just over two-score and ten, his father was not an elderly man and 'haps that would work in his favor. Dirk had always imagined returning to Durness one day and seeing the surprised look on Da's face. He hoped he still would.

***

With no candle to light her way, Isobel MacKenzie swiftly climbed the stone turnpike staircase within Munrick Castle. Soft footsteps pursued her, spurring her to quicken her pace. Likely, 'twas Nolan MacLeod, her future husband's younger brother. This would not be the first time he'd approached her. He was ever leering at her or murmuring lewd comments when no one was paying attention. She'd done naught to encourage him. In fact, she'd tried her best to ignore him as she awaited the return of her betrothed. No doubt the chief, Torrin, would tell his brother to go attend to his own wife.

When Isobel emerged at the top of the steps, the dimness of the cold corridor gave her a sudden chill. She had been here less than a fortnight and the unfriendly place felt less like home every day.

"Where are you fleeing to, my wee witch?"

Glancing back, she couldn't see him in the stairwell, but the voice belonged to that knave, Nolan.

"Leave me be." She rushed toward the only light, a sconce at the end of the corridor, near her own chamber.

Footsteps thumped behind her on the wooden floorboards, but the boisterous music from the
céilidh
in the great hall ensured no one would hear. Her heart beating loudly in her ears, she glanced over her shoulder and found him looming no more than two paces away. Stopping, she faced the bastard. In the dimness, one side of his thin lips quirked up within his scraggly brown beard, and the lusty gleam in his light brown eyes disgusted her.

"I'm feeling nauseous and thought I would retire for the evening," she said, glaring up at him. In truth, she wished she could vomit on him. Then, maybe he'd lose some of his unhealthy interest in her.

His smirk broadened and he took a step toward her. "I ken how to make you feel better, lass."

Her stomach truly did turn then. "Where is your wife?"

"Busy. Taking care of the babe."

She cringed. He was the sleaziest of men, seeking out attentions from other women when his wife had only given birth a fortnight ago. 'Twas indeed a pity her intended, Torrin MacLeod, was meeting with another clan and he'd left Nolan to oversee the castle.

"I'm sure she will be looking for you," Isobel said. "And in case you've forgotten, I'm to marry the MacLeod."

Nolan snorted. "Are you thinking Torrin cares about you? He's only seen you one time. Nay, he has Ruthann in the village. He has been smitten with her for years, and they have children."

Could this be true? Her nausea increased tenfold.

"With you, he but wants an heir," Nolan went on. "If you're capable of providing one." He snickered. "The rumor is you're barren, since you failed to produce an heir for your last husband before his death."

Revulsion and anger swelled inside her. She'd heard the rumors about her, but they were all lies. "That is none of your concern."

"I'm making it my concern. You see, if you're a widow who is barren, it will matter little if we have some fun betwixt the sheets."

She wanted to scratch his eyes out. "I am not barren." At least she didn't think so. It was difficult to tell since she was still a virgin. "Do you think your brother wants your bastard as his heir?" she asked. "Leave me be." She turned toward her room, her skin crawling.

Close on her heels, he grabbed her arm, jerked her around and forced her up against the stone wall. Her heart catapulted into her throat.

She tried to yank herself free, but couldn't budge his grip. "Unhand me!"

"Nay. And be quiet." His breath reeked of strong whisky, and his belted plaid smelled like a wet sheep that had wallowed in a bog.

"Knave! What do you think your brother will say about this?" she asked. "Laird Torrin will be furious." At least she hoped he would. It was her only ammunition.

"He will never know, because if you tell him, you'll regret it." He breathed his odorous breath against her face, then pressed his lips to her neck, his beard scratching her skin.

She cringed. "Ugh." She twisted, trying to wrest herself out of his grip, but his arm only tightened around her.

"And even if he does find out, what of it?" he asked. "He's only marrying you for the three hundred acres in your dowry. You are a seductress and I must have you! Or 'haps you are a witch who has cast a spell upon me."

"You are mad!" She jerked her knee upward, slamming it toward his groin but his sporran and her own skirts hampered her efforts.

He tightened his grip and shoved his legs between hers. "You whore. Don't you dare attempt to fight me. 'Twill only make it worse for you."

He snagged his fingers in the back of her hair and pulled. Her head thumped hard against the stone wall. Pain shot through her skull but she dared not let him know he'd hurt her. Besides, none of his clan would come to her rescue. Nolan could do no wrong in their eyes. She was the outsider.

He covered her mouth with one hand and wrapped the other around her throat. "Do not utter a sound or I'll kill you now," he growled in her ear. "I'll squeeze the breath from your soft, slender neck."

Icy fear freezing her muscles, she remained still, her mind scrambling for an escape. Someone to help her? A weapon? His dagger! It was always in a sheath on his belt. She prayed it was now. If so, she would snatch it and stab him. She went limp as if acquiescing to his demands.

"Aye, that's a good lass. Now, we'll go into your chamber for some privacy." Grinning, he pressed against her so tightly, his hardened member jabbed against her stomach.

Rutting bastard.
She would make him regret touching her. Her brothers had taught her well how to fight.

He loosened his hold, propelling her toward the door to her small room. One of his hands bit into her arm, while the other covered her mouth. When he pushed her through the doorway and kicked it shut behind him, her fingers landed on the bone hilt of his dagger. She yanked it from its sheath, the metal hissing against the leather.