The Highlander's Promise Read online

  “Would have,” Ina said. “It was in his blood.”

  A movement from the corner of her eye drew Finley’s attention to the doorway, shoving aside all thoughts of dead young men and ruined old houses. “Da!” She lunged from her chair and dashed through the doorway, her bare feet skimming over the cool dirt of the path.

  Rory caught her beneath one arm and Finley turned to walk once more toward the house with him.

  “Did you talk of the treaty?” she asked straightaway, her nerves making her breathless.

  “Good day to you, too, Finley.”

  She grinned and reached up at the top of her next stride to kiss Rory’s whiskery cheek. “Hello, Da. I’ve kept the cakes warm for you.” He squeezed her hand. She couldn’t help herself, though. “Did you talk of the treaty?”

  “Aye. We did.”

  Finley sighed to herself in relief. “Nothing about me, then.”

  “Aye. We did.”

  Finley’s feet dragged to a halt. “Da?”

  “It’s been decided, Fin,” he said, and it was only then she noticed her father’s haggard expression, beyond fatigue from being kept at council all night, the hardness in his normally gentle eyes. “You may well be pleased. I am pleased.”

  “You don’t look pleased,” Finley argued as fear bloomed in her stomach. “Who is it?”

  Rory dropped his head and turned toward the house, his arm pulling behind him, still in Finley’s grasp. “Come inside. There’s much to tell, and I’d have your mother know before I return to the storehouse for our share.”

  “Our share of what?” Finely demanded. “Da!”

  But he pulled free of her fingertips without looking at her again, and Finley was left standing on the path alone while her father’s stooped form disappeared into the darkness of the house. Her eyes were drawn up over the rooftop to the crumbling stone of the old house, carved from the steep cliff that sheltered their bay. The afternoon sunlight poured into its roofless depths, casting sawtoothed shadows through blackened, empty windows.

  He could have been chief. Mam’s husband could have been the Carson, if the Blairs hadn’t killed him. Mam could, right now, be living in the old house.

  Nay, the grand house, Finley corrected herself. It was grand once. Their town had been grand once, too.

  For some reason, memory of the Blair who had been spying on the English knight near the bridge came to her mind, and she wondered if he was proud of what his clan had done—felt pride at that terrible massacre. He was older than Finley, but still too young to have lived through that bloody time.

  She shrugged it off. It did no good to be bitter. Finley hadn’t ever known Carson Town to be anything other than what it was. And she didn’t expect it to ever change. Even if her own life was about to.

  She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and walked into the house.

  * * * *

  Lachlan came awake with a start, his breath hanging around him in a cloud. It was just morning, the light through the storehouse door faint and gray, the green sparkling black and frosty white. The lamp had gone out , and although Lachlan was sunk into the pile of hay that had been his bed through the night, the tip of his nose and his feet felt frozen through.

  The air was silent, crystalline, like the skin of ice on the loch in first winter. What had woken him so abruptly?

  He sat up fully and blinked in the shadows, the pages of Thomas Annesley’s confession sliding to the floor. Then he noticed that something was different across the green: The Blair’s door was open, the interior still dark.

  But there—there was a wash of orange light, like a torch being swung. There it was again, only steady now, and growing larger. A man walked out: Harrell, carrying a lamp. And another man, with white hair. Archibald, so soon recovered?

  Nay, ’twas Marcas, a bundle clutched in his hand. Harrell turned toward the Blair’s house and held the lamp higher while Marcas strode to the wall. Lachlan saw the hammering motions before he heard the ricocheting barks across the green. In a moment, Marcas stepped away from the longhouse, and let what appeared to be some sort of banner or cloth hang free where it was suspended.

  Archibald’s shawl.

  Lachlan gathered the fallen papers into his fist, then pushed himself to his feet and walked toward the half-open storehouse door as if in a dream. He struggled blindly with the latch, not daring to take his eyes from the dingy fabric fluttering in the weak dawn light, then emerged onto the green just as Harrell and Marcas turned. Lachlan strode forward in starts and jerks, and all around him the sounds of doors scraping open echoed over the green. He walked on toward that thin length of shawl as if entranced.

  Yer nae grandson o’ mine…

  From a traitor’s loins you sprang…

  Dead to me…

  He passed between Marcas and Harrell to stand before the Blair’s shawl, and he stared at it as if he’d never seen the thing before, instead of having set eyes upon it every day of his living memory.

  The Blair was dead.

  Movement to his right drew his attention, and a line of townswomen were filing solemnly through the Blair’s door, one of them his own foster mother, carrying lengths of cloth.

  The winding sheets. Because the Blair was dead. Lachlan’s grandfather was dead.

  Yer nae grandson o’ mine…

  His breath caught painfully in his throat.

  Neither of the men behind him broke the silence, and Lachlan knew why: There was naught they could say. Archibald Blair was dead, and he had disowned his only grandson before the entire fine just before he’d died. There would be no reconciliation, no time to think things through differently. His damnation of Lachlan was eternal.

  A rumbling sound, like many hooves, vibrated in the air, and Lachlan turned in the same moment as Marcas and Harrell to behold the group of riders just coming onto the green. They stopped at the far side of the pitch, the mist from the forest seeming to have followed them through the wood to swirl around the feet of their mounts.

  Carsons. And they were armed.

  The red-bearded man Lachlan had confronted just last night urged his mount forward. “We’ve come to collect our due.”

  Lachlan swung his gaze to Marcas, whose expression was stony as, behind them both, Harrell addressed the man. “The Blair is dead, Murdoch. You’ll have to wait.”

  “We have waited long enough!” Murdoch Carson bellowed. His words echoed in the valley, and birds were stirred from their treetop nests. The green was now crowded with townsfolk, wide-eyed and pale, watching the Carson chief with wariness, but the man kept his own gaze locked on Lachlan’s foster father. “I demand a council. Now,” Murdoch said. “This will be settled before my men depart, lest you wish more Blair lives lost this day beyond that of your thieving chief.”

  Lachlan and Harrell both drew their daggers at once, and the ringing of steel echoed on the green as the riders followed suit, with sword and dagger of their own.

  “We’ll fall upon ye like rats,” Harrell warned. “Nary one o’ ye left in whole-piece before my eyes can blink.”

  Marcas stepped between them all, his arms outstretched, turning in a slow circle. “Nay!” he shouted. “There will be no bloodshed this day. God damn whoever dares it!” He flung his arm toward Archibald’s shawl, fluttering like a rag on the wall, and looked back to Murdoch. “We can call no fine until the new chief is named.”

  “Then name him and be done with it,” Murdoch said, and to Lachlan’s ears it sounded almost like a challenge. “Is it such a mystery? Everyone along the western coast knows the Blair’s heir is his grandson. You will have no quarter from me for your games.”

  Marcas turned his head to look into Lachlan’s eyes, and hope rose inside him. Lachlan stepped toward his foster father, his words coming out low and rushed.

  “He’s right, Marcas. I have always been th
e heir. I—”

  Harrell thrust into the conversation. “He disowned ye, lad. Everyone heard it. And there was nae repentance from him in the night, of that I can attest.”

  “And I’m to take your word, am I? He wasn’t in his right mind,” Lachlan argued. “That English bastard, Montague—”

  “Had naught to do with what yer father did thirty years ago,” Harrell interrupted. “Ye hold the proof of it in yer own hand.” He looked to Marcas. “The fine willna stand for it, Marcas. Ye know what has to be done, well as I.”

  Lachlan locked eyes with his foster father, feeling the morning air cut through his shirt like the icy waters of the Keltie, the pendulous weight of his future pulling him down just as surely as water over the falls. He could still see his grandfather’s shawl on the side of the house from the corner of his eye. All he needed do was pull it down and claim it.

  Marcas must have read his thoughts. “Lachlan–”

  “It’s mine,” Lachlan ground out.

  Murdoch’s voice rang out over the green. “As chief of the Carsons, I demand council with the Blair!” His gaze was a weighty thing on Lachlan, taunting him.

  The tension between Lachlan and Marcas vibrated, and as Lachlan glanced again at the fluttering scrap of fabric, Harrell called out his own warning. “Marcas…”

  Lachlan and his foster father turned toward the house in the same moment, and in hindsight, Lachlan knew he could have reached the plaid before Marcas, could even have taken it from the older man by force if he’d so chosen; fought him for it and bested him. But there had been a part of him that had thought—had hoped—that Marcas was only taking hold of the shawl in order to hand it to Lachlan with his blessing. The fine would listen to Marcas.

  But the gray-haired man, the only father Lachlan had ever known, yanked the long sheet from the wall, ripping the corners from the nails and whipping it through the air. He held it in his right fist, the ragged ends now dragging in the mud as he met Lachlan’s gaze.

  “Marcas,” Lachlan whispered to him, a quiet plea.

  Marcas drew the shawl through his fists, length by length, until it dangled evenly between his two hands. Then he raised it slowly, dropping it over his own left shoulder, tucking both ends over his right hip beneath his belt.

  “It’s the law, Lachlan,” Marcas said.

  No blade delivered to Lachlan’s heart could have wounded him more, and he felt the physical shudder in his chest.

  It was over now. Marcas had sealed his fate.

  Lachlan’s foster father turned back to the group of Carsons, who weren’t bothering to hide their surprised and intrigued expressions.

  “The council between the clans shall gather in peace at my own house while the old chief is prepared for the funeral,” Marcas called out for the benefit of the entire green, including the townspeople, who seemed frozen into place with wide eyes. He turned his head slightly over his shoulder to address Lachlan but didn’t quite meet his eyes.

  “Dand needs be told. I didna wish to rouse him until I knew for certain the Blair was dead. I’ll meet you both there.”

  Each pounding beat of Lachlan’s heart was like a blow. Now he was Marcas’s runner? And Dand’s, too, he reckoned. The chief, and the chief’s heir.

  It was Harrell who objected, though. “Lachlan’s nae right to be present, and ye know he’ll nae leave once he’s there.” Harrell tossed him a spiteful look. “Want to be sure of hearing everything that doesna concern him.”

  “Lachlan is welcome to stay,” Marcas said. “It is my house and it is still his home.”

  “He canna address the fine,” Harrell argued.

  “I will decide who will and willna speak, Harrell,” Marcas said, and although his voice was low and even, it was very clear that Marcas had had enough of Harrell’s interference. “You demanded law, and so you shall have it. I am the law.” He dropped his eyes to near Lachlan’s boots again. “Will you go or nay?”

  Lachlan wanted to refuse. But he could think of no other way in the moment to escape the hundreds of Blair eyes still watching him, the scrutiny of the Carsons. He buffeted through both Harrell and Marcas, striding across the green, careful to keep his eyes forward.

  He pushed open the door of Marcas’s house—the house he had grown up in—and was surprised to find Searrach sitting at the table. She rose immediately, and her brown eyes were startled, wary.

  “Lachlan,” she said, a quaver in her voice. “Is it true? Da would tell me nothing.”

  He took a brief moment to observe her—her dark hair, her rounded, womanly shape. Normally, the sight of Searrach could cause Lachlan to forget all thoughts besides taking her to bed. But in that moment, it was as if all desire for her had vanished; what need had he for physical distraction when his soul lay dead on the green?

  “Aye,” Lachlan said with a nod. “Archibald is dead. You have to go. There is to be a council with the Carsons. Here. Now.”

  “Oh, thank God.” Searrach placed a hand on the tabletop and seemed to sag there for a moment in a strange show of relief. Then she rushed across the floor to throw herself into Lachlan’s hesitant embrace. “Last night Da said you would never be chief. I’m so glad that—”

  “It’s Marcas,” Lachlan interrupted, staring over her head at the wall.

  He sensed her raising her face to look at him, and he could hear the confusion in her voice. “What?”

  Lachlan’s jaw felt made of granite. “Marcas is chief now. I’ve only come to rouse Dand.”

  Searrach stepped away from him abruptly, her features pulled together to the center of her face in confusion.

  “You should go,” Lachlan said, and turned away to walk to the door set in the partition wall. “I’m sure your father wouldna want you here alone with me.” He pushed open the door and stepped inside the sleeping chamber, shutting out the woman still standing in the main room.

  Dand was sprawled on his back on the wooden bed, his unruly hair standing from his head like a thistle bloom. The room was dim, owing to the small, high set windows. Lachlan walked to the side of the bed and stood for a moment, looking down at his younger brother. The heaviness of the moment fell upon him; just as with Marcas, with Searrach, nothing would ever be the same between him and Dand as soon as his brother awoke.

  Lachlan’s breath caught painfully in his throat for the second time that young day. He wanted to sit on the edge of the matching bedstead and put his head in his hands. Instead, he kicked the rail at Dand’s feet.

  “Huh?” Dand raised up his head and blinked at Lachlan, then promptly rolled to face the wall, pulling the blanket over him completely as he curled up in a ball.

  “Get up,” Lachlan said. “Marcas wants you.”

  Dand mumbled and squirmed beneath the covers.

  “Archibald’s dead,” Lachlan said abruptly. “The Carsons are here, demanding council.”

  The tumbling beneath the blankets ceased, and then the coverings were thrown off as Dand sat up. “Do we fight?” he asked, wincing at the dim light.

  Lachlan started to shake his head, but then stopped. “I don’t know. Not yet.”

  It only took the young man moments to dress, but they both heard the commotion in the next room well before they opened the door again. The house was packed with men, many wearing red, bushy beards. They sat on the low chairs, on the floor, at the table near where Marcas and Harrell stood; they lined the walls. There were even Carsons half in, half out of the doorway. Dand walked through first, and all eyes in the room went to him, and then over his shoulder to where Lachlan stood. The silence was loud.

  Searrach had not heeded Lachlan’s directive to leave, and his heart gave a hopeful twitch as she now weaved her wide hips through the tight crowd toward where Lachlan stood, bearing a mug and plate of food in her hands. At least someone was still on his side.

  “Good morning,” she sai
d with a bright smile and handed the mug and plate to Dand. Her words seemed clear enough to be heard all the way to Glasgow. “I’ve kept you a place at the table next to your father.”

  Dand took the offered sustenance and glanced over his shoulder at Lachlan, who only stared straight ahead, willing himself to show no reaction.

  “Let’s get down to it, then,” Marcas called out, at last drawing the attention away from Lachlan. “Murdoch, what is it you have so rudely come demanding on the day our clan has lost its leader?”

  “So rudely come, have we?” the red-haired Carson queried. “I’ve never had use for Archibald Blair the whole of my life, and I’ve no shame in saying ’tis glad I am that he’s at last dead. Rotting in hell is my hope.”

  The room erupted in shouts, some of the men rising and facing their clan’s enemies, shoving, stumbling.

  “That’s enough!” Marcas shouted. “I’ll nae ask you again, Murdoch.”

  “Verra well,” the Carson man acquiesced. “We’ve come to dissolve the old treaty. There will be no more trespass on Carson lands—west of the falls and bridge—ever again. Guards have been set, with orders to cut down any Blair who comes in sight.”

  The room was tomb silent again.

  “Our town depends on the river, Murdoch,” Marcas said levelly. “There’s a reason the waters here are named Starving Lake.”

  “Aye, and it’s starving you were before your clan stole everything the Carsons had, tricked us into giving you rights to our bounty.” Murdoch rose. “It was we who used to have the plenty. We who prospered. We havena had fodder enough to keep our sheep alive for years!”

  His men sounded their agreement.

  “You cheated us,” Murdoch continued. “Archibald Blair cheated us. And now that he’s dead and we know the truth, it is up to you, Blair, to set things right.” Murdoch paused. “We Carsons arena unreasonable people. Unmerciful people. We only want back what we have lost. And once we have gained that, we are willing to grant Town Blair two days of the run.”

  “Two days to harvest salmon enough to last all the year?” Harrell exclaimed. “That’s nae en—”