Kathleen Harrington (45 page)

“The fault for what happened on that island lies at your feet, not mine,” Rory replied. “’Twas you who risked the lives of your family and clansmen to protect a fugitive from the king’s justice. I’ve no pity for traitors.”

Iain Mor’s bearded chin lifted arrogantly. “We fought for the rights of the chieftain of the Glencoe Macdonalds.”

“The Red Wolf has no rights,” Rory told him. “He relinquished them the day he killed Gideon Cameron and ran from the law.”

Despite the irons that bound him, Somerled glowered with the ferocity of a cornered bear. The Red Wolf of Glencoe had a great beak of a nose, shoulders as wide as a yardarm, and a massive chest. Beneath the full gray beard that hid his craggy features, his mouth curved in a taunting smirk. “You’re naught but a landless beggar, MacLean, with no home except this paltry ship. You hope to ease the sting of your shame by destroying the castles of honorable men, but greedy bastards like you aren’t fit to lick a Macdonald’s boots.”

In less than a second, Fearchar’s dirk pressed against Somerled’s throat. “You’ll not talk to The MacLean that way, you miserable worm,” he warned with a low growl, “or I’ll split your gullet easier than filleting a fish.”

Rory laid his hand on his cousin’s arm. “Leave the fellow be,” he said calmly. “Let’s not cheat the king of a legal execution. They’ll both be hanged in due time. Now send them below.”

As the prisoners were led away, Rory gazed across the water at the two warships awaiting his orders. “Signal the others to weigh anchor,” he told his chief mate, then added with a wry smile, “It’s time to show my younger brothers which of us is the finest sailor. We’ll leave both ships floundering in our wake before nightfall.”

Fearchar shook his head, his flaxen hair whipping about in the salty air. “Keir’s got half a league on us already, and he’s carrying the castle’s women and children. With all that caterwauling going on, he’ll be spreading every inch of canvas he’s got. We won’t have a chance to catch the
Raven
.”

“Damned if I’ll let Keir make port first,” Rory replied with a good-natured laugh. “No one outsails the
Sea Dragon
, not even my cocksure baby brother.”

The command to get underway sent the nimble-footed seamen scrambling up the ratlines to loose the sails. Nearby, the
Sea Hawk
returned the
Dragon’s
signal and prepared to come about. The
Black Raven
replied from a greater distance, her topgallants already unfurled in the strong breeze.

“Light out to windward!” Rory ordered the helmsman. “Full-and-by!”

The
Sea Dragon
leaped forward, her sails full and close to the wind.

In tight formation, the three galleons sailed out of the Sound of Islay, heading for the open sea. The full-rigged ships sliced through the gray water in a fiercely competitive race that pitted brother against brother. Sails bulged and boomed as they caught the gusts blowing over the curling whitecaps. Rigging creaked and tall masts shuddered. Each crewman knew his captain would award him an extra fifty crowns if his vessel reached port first.

Then, after their doomed cargo was discharged and their stores reprovisioned, the three men-of-war, commissioned by James IV to protect Scottish merchantmen from Dutch and English pirates, would set sail for the Continent and the untold booty that awaited them.

C
HAPTER
O
NE

May 1498

Kinlochleven Castle

Western Highlands

S
urveying the formidable forty-foot stone wall, Fearchar grinned mirthlessly. “Welcome to your new home, laird.”

Rory’s scowl deepened. “And ’tis a damn strange feeling I’ve got about it.”

If he’d hoped to find festive banners and a joyous celebration to welcome Kinlochleven’s future laird to his castle, Rory would have been sorely disappointed. Not given to flights of fancy, he rode across the lowered drawbridge with a wary gaze on the ramparts overhead and his hand on his sword hilt.

The lack of resistance made him edgy.

An heiress’s fortune wasn’t a prize easily relinquished to a foe, and he hadn’t expected the Macdonalds to submit to the king’s decision without a fight. He’d brought along fifty of his kinsmen, armed and ready for battle, in the event he’d have to force his way into the fortress. If a long siege was required, he would send to his uncle’s castle in Appin for reinforcements.

Damn it to hell, marrying into a nest of treasonous vipers hadn’t been
his
idea. The preposterous scheme to bring the Glencoe Macdonalds peaceably under the authority of the Scottish Crown had been hatched by James IV.

Once through the arched gateway and inside the eight-foot-thick sandstone walls, Fearchar seemed to feel the same disquiet. His gaze moved constantly about, skimming the outer bailey for any sign of a trap.

But the inhabitants of Kinlochleven barely looked up from their tasks at the large party of horsemen. The blacksmith continued to swing his hammer, his brawny apprentice beside him at the fire. A cooper sauntered leisurely across the grassy courtyard with an ale barrel perched on his shoulder. Two dairymaids ducked into a barn with frightened backward glances, as though sighting Satan and his legions on Judgment Day. From the bakehouse, the tantalizing aroma of fresh, warm bread lingered on the still air.

Not a blasted soul offered a word in greeting.

At Rory’s signal, his men dismounted and followed him into the keep’s dim vestibule, where a man in his early sixties, with thinning brown hair and stooped shoulders, appeared to be waiting for their arrival. He rose from a carved bench the moment he saw them. The fellow suffered from what appeared to be an old leg injury and moved with an obvious limp.

“I’m Kinlochleven’s bailiff, David Ogilvy,” he told Rory as he inclined his head in a brief salute. His gaze quickly assessed their strength, and his bristly brows met in a frown over his slightly protruding eyes. “Please follow me, laird.”

With a brusque nod, Rory motioned for Ogilvy to proceed. The bailiff led them with a slow, shuffling gait up a flight of stone stairs to the castle’s upper hall, where the Macdonalds stood waiting in small groups, their weapons sheathed. About twenty were men-at-arms; the rest were castle retainers, along with a handful of menservants. A thin, ascetic priest stood at the edge of the gathering, his hand on the shoulder of a dirty-faced lad.

Brilliant colors adorned the vaulted timber ceiling; rich tapestries covered the walls. Ornately carved cupboards held silver tankards and jewel-encrusted plates. Even the floor boasted thick carpets from the Levant, as glorious as any made for an Ottoman’s harem.

To a man used to the spartan furnishings of a ship, the magnificent display of household comforts in a Scottish castle should have been a pleasant surprise. But the setting’s opulence only increased Rory’s uneasiness. Anything this fine had to come at an exorbitant price. And as the new laird of Kinlochleven, he wasn’t about to pay with his own blood—or that of his kinsmen.

With a flick of his hand, he signaled his men to be prepared for an attack from all sides.

At the far end of the hall, a middle-aged lady in a gold-trimmed black headdress sat waiting, her embroidery on her lap. She shifted nervously in her chair as they approached. Standing next to her, a maiden about the age of Rory’s bride-to-be cradled a plump white cat in her arms.

“Laird MacLean,” the woman said before they’d quite reached her, “welcome to Kinlochleven Castle. I am Lady Beatrix, Lady Joanna’s cousin.” Without offering her hand for his salute, she added briskly, “I’m sorry that my husband isn’t here to greet you. The king’s letter arrived only yesterday, and Laird Ewen remains at Mingarry Castle, unaware of the proposed alliance.”

As Rory inclined his head in curt acknowledgment of the chilly greeting, he studied the younger female from the corner of his eye. The king had told him the heiress favored her notorious grandfather. Her large nose, square body, and frizzled hair made the resemblance to Somerled Macdonald unmistakable.

Having no lands of his own to bring into the marriage, he was scarcely in a position to quibble about the lassie’s face and form. But somewhere in the back of his mind, Rory had always hoped his future bride—chosen for prudent reasons, of course—would be easy to gaze upon.

His wife-to-be’s English blood was another disappointment. Her father, Alasdair Macdonald, had married Lady Anne Neville, whom he’d met in London while trying to enlist the aide of Edward IV against the former King of Scotland, James’s father. And the lass herself had spent half her life in Cumberland. So now Rory was forced to mate with the offspring of a traitorous devil and a Sassenach witch.

But here he was, at Kinlochleven—the dutiful future bridegroom—ready to present his gifts to the bride-to-be.

Hell, he hadn’t come expecting a bonny lassie, any more than he’d expected a festive welcome. Rory glanced up at the resplendent ceiling. For a castle such as this, most men would gladly marry a toothless hag. Determined to get the worst over, he turned to greet the heiress.

“Laird MacLean, this is my daughter, Lady Idoine,” Beatrix said.

For the first time since he’d entered Kinlochleven, Rory smiled. “Milady,” he said warmly.

Idoine froze beneath his gaze. In her obvious fright, she squeezed the cat, and the outraged pet scratched her hand and leaped down. “Ouch!” she squawked, kicking out at the scurrying ball of fur with the toe of her silken slipper. Her lumpy features darkened in a sullen glower as she watched the feline scamper across the hall and out the door to freedom.

With a sense of relief, Rory looked about the room filled with men and boys. “And the Lady Joanna?”

“My cousin isn’t here,” Beatrix answered brightly.

“Not here?”
His gaze snapped back to the woman. “You said you received the king’s letter yesterday. I expected the maid to be waiting to welcome her future husband.”

Beatrix’s eyes glittered suspiciously beneath his glare. Twin spots of scarlet stained her cheeks. “And s-so she should be, laird,” she replied, her voice high-pitched and quivering, “b-but I’m afraid that’s not so. When the contents of the letter were read to Joanna, she immediately disappeared.”

“Disappeared?”

Beatrix looked to her daughter for verification, and Idoine nodded vigorously. “She’s gone, laird.”

Rory stepped closer to tower over the two cringing females. “Just where did Lady Joanna go? Mingarry Castle?”

“I have no knowledge of my cousin’s whereabouts,” Beatrix answered with a nervous flutter of her ringed fingers. Her embroidery hoop slid to the ground, and she reached down to retrieve it, then reluctantly met his gaze once again. “We searched everywhere for her, once we discovered her missing. But when the lass is upset she frequently vanishes without an explanation, only to be found later, wandering about the forest or glen in a daze.” Beatrix touched the middle of her forehead with the tip of one shaky finger. “Joanna’s a little slow. I’m sure His Majesty warned you about that.”

“I was given no such warning,” Rory growled.

Directly behind him, Fearchar moved restlessly. “Shall we search the castle?”

“Oh, please do!” Beatrix exclaimed. “I worry about the poor dear when she’s missing like this. Sometimes we can’t find her for days—till she’s half-starved and caked with dirt. She’s as helpless as a child, you know, without someone to care for her.”

Rory drew his sword with an oath. His men immediately followed his lead, showing the steel of their broadswords and dirks. He turned to face Lady Joanna’s kinsmen, and his words rang out in the still hall. “I am The MacLean. By order of His Majesty, King James of Scotland, this fortress now belongs to me, as does all the property and goods of my future wife.”

The Macdonalds watched him with sullen faces, but made no attempt to draw their swords. Clan MacLean’s reputation for savagery in battle was known throughout Scotland. The hall’s fancy carpets would be soaked with Macdonald blood should they try to resist.

“Take their weapons,” Rory ordered. “Then search all the buildings within the castle walls. I want every blasted female in Kinlochleven brought to this chamber at once.”

T
he women and girls spilled into the upper hall from all directions, like a flock of sheep driven before a pack of hungry wolves. Clearly terrified of the large, ferocious MacLeans, many buried their faces in their aprons and wept. Others held the hands of the frightened children they’d brought with them, or drew the halflins close to their skirts with maternal protectiveness.

“Line them up,” Rory said as he jammed his sword back into the scabbard.

Hands locked behind his back, he marched up and down the rows of females, searching for a lass of about seventeen with the beak nose and grizzled locks of the Red Wolf—and the empty eyes of a simpleton.

They came in every shape and size. Tall, thin household servants with pursed lips and pointy chins. A cook and her daughter, both round as haystacks. Middle-aged women who sewed and bleached linen. Dimple-cheeked dairymaids whose work-roughened hands proved their occupation. Hook-nosed crones who did the spinning and weaving. And fresh-faced lassies with long braids and freckles who tended the ducks and geese.

Rory stopped and asked each her name and position in the household. Most of them were bawling so hard, he couldn’t understand a word they said. When he asked them to repeat their answers, they averted their eyes, as though addressing a fiend from hell.

“Jesu,” he muttered to Fearchar, “I’ve never seen such a gaggle of puling, timid-hearted wenches. All this wailing is enough to unnerve a man.”

“’Tis true,” his cousin replied, his teeth flashing in a cheery grin. “Ten of them together wouldn’t equal one MacLean woman in her dotage.”

’Twas easy to see that not one of them could be the mistress of this splendid castle. The king had told Rory that the future bride’s maternal grandparents were the marquess and marchioness of Allonby, and along with her aunt, she was their heiress. As part of her inheritance, Lady Joanna had been awarded Allonby Castle in Cumberland. Dull-witted or not, Lady Joanna would have all the haughty pretentiousness ingrained in the Sassenach nobility.