Highland Scandal (12 page)

“Who ye be?”

He turned his attention to the woman glaring at him from the threshold. “Where is the healer?”

She blinked and stepped from Semias’ way.

“Laird,” Semias said as he crept into the room. “Mistress Cullen is the healer. However, Mistress Murray should be brought to another chamber.”

Lachlan rose with achingly slowness that he had no time to squander. “This is still the Laird’s Chamber?” At Semias’s nod, he asked, “The best chamber in this place?” Another nod and Lachlan said, “Then this is where she shall stay.”

A bellow for his mother reached Lachlan’s ear. The wee lad pushed between their legs. “Come here, lad.”

The boy ran to him and skidded to a stop. Lachlan rested a hand on the boy’s stiff shoulder, feeling tremors racking his little body. “Your mother is ill and requires care. Can you be a brave lad for her?”

“Aye.” He straightened and threw his shoulders back, appearing very much a MacKenzie warrior but for his coloring.

“Go see your mother.”

The boy leapt on the bed. “Ma, Ma.” He shook her shoulder.

Lachlan looked away, swallowing back the knot in his throat. “Get the lad food, dry clothing and prepare a space for us.”

“Kenny.” The croaky whisper sent chills down his spine. “We are safe.” She curled her arm around her son and hugged him to her. Over his head, she looked at Lachlan.

He moved forward, pulled by her. Her limpid, blue eyes were glazed with fever.

“Protect him. Don’t let him kill him…”

She struggled to stay awake and failed.

“I won’t.”

She wasn’t safe yet. Not from him…

* * * *

Rowen struggled to turn away from the fire. The flames licked at her skin, devouring her from the inside out. An oppressive weight pressed on her. She couldn’t flee. Her arms were pinned to her side. She peeled apart her lips. A faintly metallic taste touched her taste buds. Her tongue darted out but her mouth was too dry to give her any relief.

Cool liquid flooded her mouth. She drank greedily, only for it to be taken away. She groaned. The croak flayed the tender flesh of her throat.

“I know it delicious, but you can’t have too much.”

“Lach…lan.”

She felt a cool, firm touch on her brow. Her eyes felt sealed. With all her will, she forced them open. A blurred face hovered above her. Slowly, the face cleared. She struggled to smile.

“All well,” she mumbled as she lost the fight to stay up.

She was pulled down into a wooly, watery world. Oddly enough, she never cooled. Then she heard howling wolves. The cries blared in her ears as if their claws ripped at her. There was nothing but blackness. She tried to run. A black mire seized her legs. She tugged and tugged, twisting, and she sank deeper. She knew not to struggle, but some instinct in her bowels forced her to fight.

“Ma…Ma.” Kenny’s fearful tone broke up the howling. The blackness hid him. She stretched out her hands to find him. Had the wolves gotten him?

She opened her mouth to call out to him. There was no sound. She opened her mouth again. Her neck muscles strained. Her lungs pulled, drawing all the air from its sacs. A hand clapped over her mouth.

Laird Murray sprung at her. He grasped her by the neck. His fingers pinched her and cut off her breath. His dull, blond hair hung in greasy stalks over his face. Spittle gathered at the corners of his mouth. The vein in the center of his heavily creased forehead pulsated. He bellowed. She couldn’t hear him above the rapid drum echoing in her ears.

“I killed him. Fed him to the wolves.” He held out his hands. Soft, rounded limbs rested in the center of his palms. Blood dripped. Ping. Ping. He let them fall. The bones rattled as if striking stones. He reached behind him and held up a chopped off head. Kenny’s. Where his true brown eyes were to be, there was nothing but empty sockets. His flesh fell from his face.

Rowen dropped down and struggled to pick up the pieces to put him back together. But the pieces melted away.

Arms grabbed at her. Kenny’s hiccupping cries surrounded her. She screamed for him.

“You have killed him.” Eacharn peeled away from the blackness and raised a fleshless finger at her.

“Nay, I tried to save him.” She held out her hands palms up. “I had him in my arms. I never betrayed you.”

“Your betrayal killed my son.”

“It wasn’t me.”

A wolf leaped over him and sank his fangs into her neck. She clutched handfuls of fur. A female cry rent the air.

* * * *

Lachlan pulled her fingers free from his hair. “I knew you still had fight in you.” He rubbed his head, sending a few ripped-out strands flying.

“Ma.” Kenny climbed atop her. He lay upon her chest, curling up and appearing very much the wee lad he was, though he had acted brave. He sniffled and his mouth trembled. “Wake up, Ma.”

“Kenny, she’ll wake soon once the fever breaks. Come away and let…” He glanced at the servant girl, silently asking her name.

“Ceiteag.”

“Ceiteag feed her the broth.” He scooped up the boy. Kenny weighed nothing, but was solid in his arms. He looked nothing like his father or his mother. His hair was brown and the torchlight gleamed off his fine strands and turned them a burnished red. His eyes were brown with hints of yellow and ambers. His skin was darker than Rowen’s flawless, pearlescent coloring. True, the MacKenzies held dark coloring in their family. Yet he lacked the black hair and eyes of this boy’s uncle Magnus. He must favor the Murray line.

“Sit with me and tell me about yourself.” Lachlan set him on a stool and leaned against the wall.

Kenny turned his red-rimmed eyes to the floor. Through the strands hanging over half his face, Kenny peeked up at him. He nibbled the corner of his lower lip. Lachlan pulled up a stool and settled beside the lad.

“I am a friend of your uncle Caelen. We were fostered together under the auld Laird MacLean.”

“Really? He’s the Viking Highlander.” His childish voice stumbled over Viking.

Lachlan grinned. “That he is. I would not want to be on the sharp end of his sword.”

“Ma says he is the finest warrior in all the lands. She said I am tall like him.”

Lachlan took stock of the lad. He straightened under Lachlan’s gaze, holding his head high. “Aye, she is right.”

“Is he as tall as you?”

Lachlan looked down at his legs stretched out before him. “He is taller than me, but not by much.”

“Ma says I shall be as great a warrior as he.”

“Aye, it’s in your blood. You are a MacKenzie.”

“
Seanathair
says I’m a Murray. I am to be laird.”

His grandfather was wrong. This boy held none of the Murray traits. The lad was not short and barrel-shaped. This lad was tall and straight. But for his coloring, Lachlan might think he was looking at a young Caelen.

“Do you wish you were home?”

He rolled up his right shoulder so the bone brushed against his ear. “Ma dinna like it since Da died.
Seanathair
told her she’d go home to MacKenzie.”

“What about you?”

“I go wit Ma.”

Lachlan doubted that. He would not say it to the lad. Though he belonged to Rowen until he came of age to be fostered, he fell under the rule of his mother. Laird Murray must have other plans for the boy, plans excluding his mother.

He peered over his shoulder to the woman who had haunted him these years. There were nights he awoke with his seed sticky on his thigh and coated with a fine sheen of sweat. Sometimes, he heard her call for him. He would spin around to find her only to shake off the shiver charging down his spine. Or the days he felt broken, the pain cramping within him. He even laid his hand over his heart, unsure of what stormed within him.

He had given her up. She had come back. It might have been the worst event of his life.

* * * *

“Laird, there are duties requiring your attention,” Semias said.

Lachlan leaned toward Kenny. “A laird’s duties are never done.” He smacked his hands against his thighs, and then rose. “Lead me to my duties. Be sure to get this lad some food. He is a MacKenzie, so make sure it is more than enough.” He grinned at Kenny, and then left the chamber.

The Laird’s chair was set upon the dais and was the lone seat in the hall. He hesitated before he stepped up and took the seat. It closed in on him. The damn thing was only oak, solid and worn smooth from the men who sat here before him. He had stood before this chair with his head craned back to meet his father’s eyes. Then there had been another chair, smaller, but with no less detail. His father’s wife. She had yelled down on him. Her face red and her hands fisted. He still heard her words—whore’s son, devil. There were others, but he had stopped listening. She had slapped him then. His neck had twisted. His cheek burned and throbbed. He hadn’t cried. He wanted to.

“Where is my father’s wife?”

Semias lowered his eyes but his head remained straight. “She has gone off with Jonty.”

Lachlan laughed.

“She plans your death and you laugh.”

“Many plan my death. What is but one more? Now what requires my attention?”

The hall’s door opened and four men appeared. “May I present Artur, Domhnall, Eanruig and Ianatan? Your commanders.”

Lachlan pushed up from the chair.

“Where are you off to? We must deal with the troubles within the clan,” Semias said. “Jonty has a band of men with him that—”

“Nowhere, all are standing and I stand with my men.”

His commanders relaxed their stances and shared a pleased look.

“Don’t question me again. You will not like the punishment for such insolence. He stepped before Ianatan. A scar bisected his face from his curly, red locks along his nose where a hunk of his nostril was missing and through his mouth. His dark eyes reflected the torch light.

“Nice scar.”

Ianatan nodded, pleased at the compliment.

Lachlan moved onto Eanruig. “You are a hairy mess.” He was blond with blue eyes to match and reminded Lachlan of a ball of light.

Domhnall was hairless. Stubble barely covered his chin and his jawline was smooth as a bairn’s arse.

“You look like you take order well.”

“Aye, Laird.”

Lachlan made a sound in the back of his throat. “You also look like you settle disputes with a sword.”

“Aye.” Domhnall rested his hand on the grip of his sword.

“Then there was Artur,” Lachlan said. His brown hair was thinning and his eyes were as gray as the sky was on this wintery day. He had the look of Lachlan’s father.

“Do we share a father? Guess the old laird feared the clan’s numbers were dwindling and saw to the task of gathering more followers. There is no better way to ensure loyalty than blood.”

“I am your second cousin on your father’s side.”

“That explains it.”

Unsure whether he could trust these men to watch it...hell, protect it. After all, his father was stabbed in the back. One of these men could have held the dirk. Lachlan realized how alone he was. He didn’t like it.

“Now, this band’s numbers…” Lachlan trailed off.

“At last count, near to a hundred men,” Artur said.

“That sounds larger than a band.”

Semias dipped his head in agreement. “With the Lairdess, she will go to her family—the MacKintoshes to add to Jonty’s numbers.”

“I have allies to add to our numbers and a few clans that may join in just to fight the MacKintosh.” Laird Cameron came to mind. He had reviled the clan before he wed his Sassenach bride. After MacKintosh banded with the baron to kill Portia, Cameron had a deep, abiding hatred for the Laird and their clan. Aye, he would love to cut a few men down.

“Aye, but with Mistress Murray and her son here, they may enlist the Murrays’ help.”

“You sound as if I should send her out in the state she is in. Do not fret about her. We shall send word to her brother and if Murray wants to war against us because of her, then MacKenzie will bring forth his wrath.”

“What if he does not?”

“Do not fret, Semias. That is a woman’s duty.” He clapped him on the shoulder. Semias’s words were true. Not that he worried about MacKenzie. He would come to defend his sister. He might look to bloody Lachlan. Then again, Lachlan was Laird. Their meeting would be different.

“What information do we have from last reports?”

“They were spotted near the forest at Glen Fiddich,” Artur answered.

“So they are either heading away to seek more support or coming closer. If I were in Jonty’s position, I would attack now. The clan hasn’t accepted me. The men may not fight.”

“Nay, Laird. You have been chosen and the clan stands with you.” Domhnall stood at order, ready for the battle that was coming.

Lachlan snorted his laughter. “First time they chose me. Tell me of this Jonty.”

The men looked to Eanruig. “I have fought with him and ken him best. He is skilled with a sword. He is a learned man. He willna always charge ahead.”

“Does he drink much?”

All Lachlan saw were confused faces. They smacked their lips and gawked at him.

“Well.” He threw up his hands.

“Aye, he does enjoy it.” Eanruig nodded with each word.

“More than most men?”

More confusion ensued before Artur said, “Nay. I ha’e seen him drink even after his company has fallen.”

Lachlan nodded.

“Do ye wish to send him something to drown himself in?” Semias asked, earning grins from the men.

“Do you not see? If a man loves to drink more than others, then he has a weakness to exploit. Does he gamble? Does he pay his debts? Is he a sharp tongue man prone to cruelty? Does he like his comforts? Which lasses has he spent most of his company in? Does he sleep late? Such things let me know if he can lead men or if all he holds will crumble.”

His commanders nodded. Lachlan caught the prideful beam on Semias’s face. “Find out all you can from the men, lasses—hell, ask the animals if you must. We will speak more of it tonight.”