The Highlander's Outlaw Bride (15 page)

“What is yer mother’s name, lad?”

“My mother was Lady Elasaid of Morven and Perth,” Conn replied. “And shame on ye, Seumas, for not recognizing yer laird’s son.”

Seumas stepped forward, peering shortsightedly at Conn, and placed a gnarled hand on the bars of the gate. “Me good eye isnae so good anymore. I know ye now.” His look sobered. “Why did ye not come home when yer father died?”

“The message was overlong reaching me. And I am here to find out why.”

Seumas shouted over his shoulder to the guards. “Raise the portcullis! Let them in!”

Men came forward to greet him, some pounding his shoulders, others calling to him. It had been a little over a year since he’d left, and the change in his father’s men was remarkable. It would likely take some doing to oust Malcolm from his position, but his tight-fisted rule would have gained him few friends, judging from the murmur of approval now running through the men. Conn and Bray dismounted and, passing their horses over to a pair of eager lads, strode purposefully across the bailey to the great hall, Gillis following behind.

Conn stood firm as the doors swung slowly inward. Even in the day’s new light, the castle hall appeared dark and uninviting. He squared his shoulders and crossed the threshold.

The white stone which gave the castle its name was dingy with smoke ash, and the tapestries that once glowed with vibrant color against the stark walls were dusty and in need of a good cleaning. As were the rushes strewn across the floor, so old they created an almost continuous mat of crushed reeds mixed with what, Conn shuddered to think. He kicked aside a dented goblet lying unheeded on the floor, and the resulting clang echoed loud in the silent room. Near the back of the room a frightened servant scurried away, disappearing into the darkness.

“I have seen more life in a churchyard at midnight,” Bray muttered under his breath. But even his softly spoken words sounded harsh in the nearly empty room, and Gillis jumped at the sound, his earlier bravado obviously fading in the murky hall.

Conn lifted his scowling gaze to the filthy stained glass window, whose jeweled colors were now those of the loch at low tide. With a growl of anger, he swung toward the staircase and halted as a portly form appeared at the balcony above. Conn adjusted his glare to the flustered man, who tried repeatedly to pull his robe closed, though his trembling fingers and excessive girth kept him from accomplishing his goal.

Bray reached behind Gillis and lightly slapped the lad’s head. “Close your mouth,
garçon
. It is rude to stare.”

Gillis’s cheeks flushed as he shrugged Bray’s hand away.

The man gripped the robe’s edges just below his plump waist, and though he regained some of his modesty, his paunch was wont to poke through above. “My lords.” His voice squeaked unnaturally high. He cleared his throat and tried again. “My lords. I am Angus, steward of Corfin Castle. There was, ah, a bit of celebration last night, and the servants are slow this morning. I apologize for your welcome.”

Conn gave vent to his anger, his voice thundering in the hall, shaking dust motes from the tapestries. “Where is Malcolm?”

“He isnae here, my lord,” Angus squeaked.

Conn took an ominous step forward. “The captain of the guards said Malcolm was still abed,” he countered.

Angus looked about frantically, but there was none around who would help him. “I am sure he is abed, wherever he is,” he offered weakly.

Whirling, Conn stomped to the hall’s open doors and faced the soldiers gathered there. “Let it be known, by Malcolm’s cowardly retreat, that he has been holding this clan falsely. I am Connor, now Laird MacLaurey, and I will have either yer allegiance or yer departure!” Furious, unable to challenge Malcolm to his face, he stared at each man in the bailey with a warrior’s eyes, searching for any hint of treachery, demanding their loyalty. Each head began to nod, slowly at first, then with increasing assurance as the men welcomed him home.

“Aye!” they shouted, fists pumping the air in agreement.

Conn sought the belligerent captain who had offered such rude hospitality, but did not see his face in the crowd. “Seumas?”

The old man limped forward. “Aye, Laird?”

“Take charge of these men.”

“Aye!” He saluted smartly, then pivoted to the men, whose shouts of pleasure filled the yard.

“You have won that lot over,” Bray noted agreeably.

“It wasnae hard. Seumas was their captain years ago, and anyone would have been better than the lout Malcolm chose.”

Fierce strides echoing against the stone floor, Conn stalked the length of the hall, kicking debris out of his way. His initial search of the castle turned up seven servants cowering in the kitchen, three disheveled young women of questionable reputation tucked away in various bedrooms on the second floor, and a kitchen boy who stared at Conn and Bray in wide-eyed shock. The castle and its many rooms was otherwise abandoned.

As Conn stalked the upstairs gallery, he scanned the hall below. Its dimensions were immense, and the fireplace, large enough to roast an entire beef in its massive cavern, scarcely filled the far wall. The tables pushed haphazardly against the walls would easily seat a hundred men. In the middle of the floor, light from the stained glass window set high in the wall fell in murky, fractured colors. His anger rose to see the lack of care his cousin had for his home. The fact his father had been spared the sight of the severe neglect and the knowledge of Malcolm’s spite was poor consolation, for it only reminded him his father had been laid in his grave without his son to see him honored.

He turned to the servants who had crept to the entrance of the room, their curiosity overcoming their initial fear. “I want this castle cleaned from top to bottom. It will reflect the honor of the MacLaureys, or I will find others who will do the job.”

They were quick to locate buckets and rags, and Conn didn’t pause to instruct them a second time. He did not have time to waste. He would bring home a bride in a fortnight’s time, and he would not bring her to a home filthy and in need of repair. And he must look to her safety. He did not trust Malcolm and would not rest until the man was captured and faced his peers for his actions. Not for the first time, Conn wished he could talk to his da. His thoughts shifted to the stone memorials on the island in the loch, and the weight of his responsibilities came crashing down.

Chapter 19

Conn stared across the loch to the cairns raised on the tiny island where MacLaurey lairds had been laid to rest for generations. What had happened to his da? How had he died? There was nothing but rumors to guide him, and the only one who knew for sure was now nearly three months in the ground. All Seumas had been able to confirm was that the laird had been thrown from his horse during a hunt, and though he lingered for some days, he never regained consciousness.

Utter helplessness swept over him. The things he’d taken for granted in his life had not turned out as he assumed they would. He had never intended to become laird at the young age of a score and three years. Though he had been raised to assume the leadership of the clan, he felt his da’s loss keenly.

“The men have done as you instructed. No one has seen Malcolm or his cronies since sometime last night. Mayhap he fled at the report that his men did not kill you last night.” Bray stepped through the archway to Conn’s side. “It has been a long day,
mon ami
, and dinner is prepared.”

Conn roused as Bray’s words reached him. With great effort he turned from the sight of his father’s grave and trudged up the path through the small garden behind the castle walls.

The hall glowed with a mellow light, the result of many flickering candles reflected off the freshly cleaned white walls. The stained glass sparkled, shooting colored patterns on the scrubbed stone floor. Tables had been set up and food prepared, and he was startled to see the men seated quietly, leaving the laird’s chair empty.

Conn strode to the chair that had couched the rumps of four generations of MacLaurey lairds, himself now the fifth. He touched the carved wood, the grain worn smooth with years of service. His ancestors had sat in this chair, presiding over their many duties as laird, and their blood ran hot in his veins. He surveyed the faces crowding the room.

“These have been difficult days for me, and for ye as well. I realize I havenae been home in over a year, and much has changed in that time. Understand when I tell ye, word was late reaching me of my father’s death. I would have never forsworn my duty had I known.”

He paused, breathing through the pain in his chest. “I will, with all my power, honor the lairds who have come before me. I will, with yer aid, keep Morven safe and help it flourish. This is my pledge to ye.”

A steady beat began, growing louder as the men stomped their feet and thumped the tables with their fists in support of their new laird. Conn knew most did not understand the distance from the glen to France or the difficulties of travel abroad, and likely still harbored resentment over his absence. But they appeared prepared to trust him, and their approval of his words showed.

With a nod of acceptance, Conn settled himself in the laird’s seat, motioning for food to be served. The noise in the room abated as the men and women began to eat.

He stirred the rather greasy stew as it soaked into the crusty bread on his wooden trencher. There was still much to be accounted for in the castle. He remembered the silver and gold serving pieces that once graced his father’s table. Apparently Malcolm had wasted no time pilfering the MacLaurey riches.

He lifted a piece of gristly meat on the point of his knife and placed it in his mouth. It took an extraordinary amount of chewing to reduce the food to a state to be swallowed, and he glanced around to see how the others fared. Bray chewed resolutely at a piece of bread, his stew uneaten, and Gillis pushed the unappetizing pieces around, obviously finding it difficult to make anything edible from the food on his plate. Conn sighed. He would inquire of a new cook tomorrow. For tonight, he missed Gillis’s oatcakes.

* * *

Eyes narrowed with hatred peered through the slit in the door. Exchanging his velvets for stained brown wool and running a muddy hand through his hair had been enough to disguise his appearance among the servants, who he never mingled with anyway. The insolent slouch of a once-rich man had been replaced by a servant’s scurry conveying a willingness to accomplish as little work as possible. He stayed out of sight whenever he could, and caused as much damage to the night’s supper as could be done with little notice.

The news of Conn’s imminent arrival at the castle had filled him with astonishment and fear. His years of soft living had come to an abrupt end, and to his surprise as much as anyone else’s, he decided to stay and ensure the new laird’s life would be as miserable as he could make it. And as short as possible.

A tall man next to Conn rose and strode toward the back of the hall. “I will see if the
chef
can fry some oatcakes for you, Gillis.” His voice was mocking as he tossed the words over his shoulder. Malcolm stared at him as he approached, curiosity warring with his need to remain hidden.

“’Twould likely contain weevils,” the younger man groused. Conn glanced up sharply, and Gillis shrugged before slouching deeper in his chair. Fascinated, Malcolm watched as tempers worsened.

He rubbed his hands together gleefully.
I havenae had time to put weevils in the oats, my lad, but ’tis a marvelous idea.

The door to the scullery burst open, flooding the hall with light. Taken aback, Malcolm scrambled away, trying to keep his face in shadows. The tall man’s head swiveled in his direction, and Malcolm dropped his gaze, eyes furtively seeking the closest escape.

“You! Find cheese and fruit that is not moldy, and take it to the head table. I do not know how you have survived this long, eating this
nourriture horrible
.”

Bobbing his head repeatedly, Malcolm darted to the back of the room, trying to remember where the cellar was located. He tripped, hands flailing as he tried to catch himself. His fingers latched onto voluminous fabric with soft flesh underneath.

“Och!” a loud feminine voice screeched. Startled, Malcolm’s glance fell on the sturdy bosom of one of the kitchen servants, her ample assets filling his hands. He sneered at her before he remembered his disguise.
The auld besom would have been glad for my attentions as laird.

“The cellar is over there, ye amadan,” she grunted, shoving him away with a sweep of her arm. Bobbing his head, Malcolm slipped from the room and down the narrow stone stair.

They will pay for this. I willnae let Conn remain long as laird. I was meant to rule Morven. Corfin Castle should belong to me, not that sniveling arse. He would never wield the power as laird. But me, I revel in it!

He stared at his ragged clothing as he reached for a wooden bowl. The raveled cuff of his sleeve fell back, revealing his reddened hands, once soft and white, now blistered and roughened, attesting to the chores he was obliged to complete in his new role.

Cursed mercenaries! Could they not halt a handful of unsuspecting men? Curse my cousin’s luck!
Malcolm rubbed a grimy finger across the bridge of his nose.
’Twill not be so easy to rid himself of me as he supposes. I will get Corfin Castle back. I will be laird again. And ye, my cousin, will take yer place beneath the burial cairns of Loch Morven.