The Highlander's Claim (Highland Romance) Page 15

  James opens his mouth to reply, but the Duke holds up a hand to silence him. He sits back in his seat, a petulant look on his face. But when his eyes shift to me, they narrow as he casts a baleful look at me. I glare right back, putting as much heat and rage into my eyes, letting him know I will not be intimidated by him. The hatred I feel for this man burns through my very soul, and it’s all I can do to keep from leaping across the table and throttling him.

  “We are not here to discuss anything but my daughter’s safe return,” the Duke intones. “So what is it you want?”

  I tear my eyes away from James and turn to the Duke, the hatred so hot inside of me it feels like I’m going to burst into flames.

  “What I want is my father and brother back,” I growl. “But your brother called for talks and then murdered them.”

  “What are you talking about?” the Duke questions.

  “Charles, this man lies −”

  I slam my fist down on the table so hard, it rattles all of the wine cups on the table, and the two Englishmen jump in surprise. The rage in me has never been deeper or darker than it is right now, and my hand hovers near the hilt of my dagger, the desire to pull it and take my vengeance overwhelming.

  “It is not a lie. It was our Clan Chief − this man’s father,” Gaven speaks up, his voice low and menacing. “Your brother lured them to a meeting under a flag of truce with promises of peace rolling off his tongue like honey. And then he slaughtered every man who showed up.”

  The Duke’s face blanches, and he turns to his brother, a look of outrage spreading across his features. But he quickly composes himself, smoothing out his features before he turns back to me. The man’s face betrays no emotion, but in his eyes, I can see burning anger. Who that anger is directed at is another question altogether.

  “We are getting far afield again,” the Duke says, his voice tight and controlled. “You have my daughter, and I want her back. What are your terms?”

  From the corner of my eye, I see Gaven looking at me. When I turn to him, he gives me a small nod. His face is calm, and he’s far more composed than I am, so I try to rein in my own emotions and focus on the bigger picture. For the sake of my people.

  “This war between our people has stretched on far too long,” I start. “It has claimed far too many lives.”

  “I dare say you will run out of people before we will,” James scoffs.

  “Brother,” Charles hisses. “Shut your mouth or remove yourself from these talks.”

  James lapses into a sullen silence, leaning back in his chair, looking for all the world like a scolded child. He picks up his wine and takes a deep swallow, glaring at me from over the rim of his glass. Satisfied that he has silenced his brother, Charles turns back to me, the expression on his face cold and imperious.

  “I agree. There has been much blood shed on both sides,” he states. “So what is it you are proposing?”

  Still holding the Duke’s eyes. “In exchange for your daughter, we want a declaration of peace,” I state firmly. “No more English troops on our lands. And no more murdering innocent Scots.”

  James scoffs. “Innocent. That is not a word that can or should be applied to any of you,” he hisses. “Bloody savages. You’re no better than animals.”

  “Aye. Maybe that’s true,” I say. “But we don’t murder women and children. Nor do we lure men in under a flag of truce and cut their throats.”

  “Those lands are ours by right,” the Duke interjects. “We have a royal decree that predates −”

  “That royal decree became worthless when you lost at Bannockburn, and the borders of our two countries were set,” I spit. “Your king, Edward Longshanks himself signed the treaty long ago.”

  The Duke’s eyes widen slightly, but he quickly smooths out his features again. He is clearly surprised that I know my history. I think all Scots should, and once this fighting has ended, I plan on seeing to it that my people get the sort of education I did. Only an educated people will be able to remain free and independent.

  “Be that as it may. Do you really believe that your nobles in Edinburgh truly care about what happens in the Highlands?” the Duke continues. “Your King James himself is rumored to be very close with my Queen. Do you believe either would risk open war for an inconsequential scrap of land?”

  I give him a feral grin. “No. The Scottish nobles have never cared much for the Highlands,” I admit. “But is this inconsequential scrap of land worth your daughter’s life?”

  His face blanches slightly, and his mouth forms a perfectly tight line across his face. It’s as I suspected − his daughter is his weakness. But in his eyes, I see that it’s not merely because he thinks of her as a commodity or a chip to bargain away to improve his station. In his eyes, I see a genuine and a deep love for Catherine. The thought of something happening to her hurts him. It’s a stupid thought to have in the moment, but seeing the care he has for his daughter makes me somehow feel better for her.

  “We won’t insist you abandon Caldryn House,” I offer. “But neither you nor your men will set foot north of there again. Agree to that and we’ll give Catherine back to you.”

  The Duke sits back, his face impossible to read. But his brother is not so difficult. James’ face is red and patchy, his nostrils are flaring, and there is the rawest, purest hatred in his eyes that I’ve ever seen in my life. To me, the biggest pity is that I will not get a chance to fight this man and avenge my family for I would like nothing better than to plunge my dagger into his beating heart.

  “And what is to stop us from killing you right here and now and taking my niece back by force?” he finally hisses, unable to control himself any longer.

  “Aye. You could kill us right here. But you won’t be getting Catherine back if you do,” I tell him. “And you’ll be starting a war that will last long after you’re nothing but bones in the ground. The Highlands don’t forget. Nor do they forgive.”

  James flashes me a toothy smile and utters a cruel sounding laugh. “You cannot defeat the English army −”

  “If that’s true, how is it you haven’t gained an inch of land in the last ten years?” Gaven growls.

  “Enough,” the Duke finally says. “Return my daughter safely and unharmed, and you will have your terms.”

  “I want it in writing,” I press.

  “And you shall have it,” he replies, sounding exhausted. “Need I send for a scribe from Caldryn House, or will you accept my word?”

  I look at him for a moment, and for the first time, see his age beginning to show. It’s in the shadows around his eyes mostly. No doubt, the unending war here in the north along with all of the political intrigues he has to deal with in London have taken a toll on him. He looks like an old man who is worn out and tired of fighting. More than that, I see sincerity in his face, and I know without a doubt, this is a man who would die for honor. Unlike his brother, when the Duke gives his word, he will keep it lest it tarnish his legacy.

  “Your word is enough,” I tell him. “I will remain in Weykirk to await a signed treaty.”

  James looks positively apoplectic. “Brother, I −”

  “Silence,” the Duke cuts him off. “I have spoken. This is the way forward. I will hear no more of it.”

  Gaven and I raise our wine cups, and after a moment’s hesitation, the Duke follows suit. I give him a nod.

  “To peace,” I declare.

  “To peace,” he echoes.

  James picks up his cup and stares at me, the hatred painted plainly upon his face. His movements deliberate, he turns his cup over, letting the crimson liquid spill out onto the table, the sound like rain upon the ground. He drops the cup to the table with a clatter and storms out of the tent. The Duke sighs and shakes his head.

  “You will have your treaty,” he tells me. “I will send riders to Weykirk to deliver it.”

  Gaven and I stand. I deliberate with myself for a moment before extending my hand to him. If we are to truly have peace, we wi
ll need to learn to live together − or at least, in close proximity to one another. The ghost of a smile touches his lips as he takes my hand and gives it a firm shake before repeating the gesture with Gaven.

  Our business concluded, we turn and walk out of the tent and into what I truly hope is the start of a new day in the Highlands − one that doesn’t include bloodshed and death on a daily basis.

  Chapter Twenty

  Catherine

  “You’ll want a bath and a proper dress, I expect,” he says.

  “Yes. It would be most pleasant,” I give my father a small smile and look away.

  The horses plod down the road, bound for Caldryn House, and I can’t help but feel like I am leaving pieces of my heart on the hard packed earth behind us. I cut a glance at my uncle, who is glaring at me. His eyes smolder with anger, and his lips curl downward, a thin slash of disapproval on his face.

  I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and turn away, doing my best to ignore my uncle. He is obviously upset about the bargain my father struck with Malcolm since he wants nothing more than to exterminate the Scottish. Or perhaps I was right in my assumption, and he is upset that I am coming home.

  There are three armed soldiers ahead of us and three behind. I am riding beside my father with my uncle on the other side of the small procession, and I feel trapped. I feel like I am being hauled off to a cell instead of being escorted home. The urge to turn my horse and run northward again, to run back to Malcolm is overwhelming. It is so powerful that I have to physically restrain myself from doing it.

  But then, I do not know how welcome I would be after putting up a wall between Malcolm and myself. It was intentional. Knowing he was heading back home, I wanted to make it easier on us by trying to cut those emotional bonds that were beginning to form between us. Or perhaps I was merely seeking to make it easier on myself.

  The reasons for the deal struck between Malcolm and my father are valid. They are understandable. I have no desire to have Scottish blood on my hands or to see them tear the north apart because of me. I refuse to provide my uncle with the excuse he so desperately wants, to do what his heart desires.

  But that does not make it any easier for me to accept that I will never see Malcolm again. After the time we spent together, and the pieces of ourselves we shared with one another, having to leave him behind is tearing a hole through the center of me.

  “Are you alright, Catherine?”

  My father is looking at me with concern on his face. Truthfully, I am not alright. I am nowhere close to it. I feel like my heart is being torn into a million pieces and then thrown into a fire. But I cannot tell him that. Nor can I show him how much I am hurting. He would not only not understand; he would not approve. So all I can do is swallow it all down and pretend that I am fine.

  “Yes father,” I reply. “I am fine.”

  “Are you certain?”

  I nod but say nothing more. But he is not content to take me at my word and leave it at that.

  “Did the man holding you − this Malcolm − did he hurt you?”

  I shake my head. “No father. He was a perfect gentleman the whole time.”

  “A savage like that?” my uncle spits. “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Believe what you will, Uncle,” I fire right back. “But he is more of a gentleman than you will ever be.”

  “Catherine,” my father’s voice is scolding.

  My uncle chuckles and shakes his head. “That is one thing I love about my niece, Charles,” he says. “She is never afraid to speak her mind.”

  “No, she is not,” my father replies though not unkindly then turns to me. “You are certain he did not hurt you in any way?”

  “Not so much as a hair on my head, father,” I reply. “He tended my wounds and fed me well.”

  He nods, but I can see the concern in his face as he looks at me. I can see the questions in his eyes. He turns to my uncle and says something softly that I cannot hear. But then I see my uncle ride on ahead of us to give us some privacy.

  “I am loath to ask this, Catherine, but I must know,” he begins, and I already know the question before it passes his lips. “Did he force himself upon you? Did he force you to lay with him?”

  Force? No, I gave myself to him willingly father. And I would do it again, here in front of you all if only to see the shock and outrage on my uncle’s face. But more than that, I would give myself to Malcolm again because I want to. Because I already long to feel his touch. Yearn to see the way he looks at me. When his eyes linger upon my body, it makes me feel like the most beautiful woman in the world. Like I am all that matters. Like I am all he needs or wants. It is a feeling I am now well acquainted with. I say none of that, however.

  “No father, he did not force himself on me,” I reply, which is technically true. “He did not force me to lay with him.”

  “That is good. Your wounds though,” he begins, keeping his voice low. “how did you come to be hurt in the first place?”

  “Do you not know?”

  He shakes his head. “I have heard several different stories and theories now and would like to ascertain the truth of it.”

  A few unruly strands of hair have gotten loose, so I tuck them behind my ear again. I clear my throat and turn back to my father again, sitting up a little straighter in my saddle.

  “I was tending to some people in a village,” I start. “James’ men stormed the village.”

  My voice grows thick with emotion as I remember what happened that day. For such a short period of time, it felts like something that happened in another lifetime. And yet, no matter how much distance I have from it, the pain of it all is still powerful and vivid. It is as fresh today as it was the day it happened. I can still hear the agonized screams of the dying and the laughter of the soldiers who seemed to be enjoying themselves as they slaughtered the innocents.

  “They killed everybody, father. They killed them for no reason,” I hiss, my voice filled with a righteous anger. “They were not threatening anybody. They were not harming anybody. They were simply trying to live. And James had them all killed for no reason other than they were born on the wrong side of the Wall.”

  “Did you see your uncle among the soldiers?” he asks gently.

  “No. I did not see him. I was too busy trying to keep from being killed myself,” I spit. “But they were soldiers from Caldryn House, that much I am sure of.”

  “But you never saw James among them?”

  I see where this is going and the story my uncle might have spun now, and I can’t possibly be more disgusted by it.

  “If they were not acting upon his orders, then who −”

  My father sighs, suddenly looking much older than I remember him being. There is a weariness about him as if he has been carrying the weight of the world upon his shoulders for a very long time and is enervated by the effort.

  “Sometimes men do foolish things. They act with callous disregard,” he says, his tone somber. “Especially when they’ve been in their cups.”

  I see my uncle slipping out of the noose that I had planned to fasten securely around his neck once we got back to Caldryn House. I had planned to detail every atrocity my uncle has committed in his absence, certain that my father would be so outraged by my uncle’s actions that he would swing the sword that would finally rid me of that murderous cretin himself.

  But I see now that he has planted enough seeds of doubt in my father’s mind that he will slither out of it once more − and it is incredibly distressing to me.

  Maybe it is a misguided loyalty to his family or the fact that he cannot stomach the thought of executing his own brother for a crime that would see him take the head off another man for committing without hesitation or remorse. He would call it his duty to uphold the values and ideals of our crown and country.

  And yet, when it comes to James, my father cannot do it. He simply cannot believe that his own brother could be such a monster, regardless of the evidence. For reasons
unknown to me, he always tries to see the best in James − despite there being no good in the man to see − and will give him the benefit of the doubt every time.

  “Father, this was not drunken men killing for sport,” I say, pitching my voice low. “They were acting on orders. James’ orders.”

  He sighs. “Catherine, I know there is a long history of animosity between you and your uncle. I know that you two don’t much care for one another, but −”

  “That is because I neither like nor respect men who commit cold-blooded murder with such glee,” I cut him off. “Men who kill for no reason other than a hatred for another simply because they were born in the wrong country are repulsive to me father. And they stand against everything I believed our family stood for.”

  “If you must blame somebody, blame me, Catherine,” he tells me. “Your uncle is following my orders. I charged him with holding these lands and pressing our claim to expand northward.”

  I turn to him, shocked at what I am hearing. His level of self-denial, when it comes to his brother apparently knows no bounds. It is as if God himself has configured my father’s brain to automatically find a justification for my uncle’s actions when they are called into question. It is well beyond appalling at this point.

  “Are you completely daft, father?” I ask. “You did not order him to murder innocents, father. You did not order him to butcher women and children. And he has. Many times over.”

  He lapses into silence, and we ride on for a little while, with neither of us speaking a word. My uncle glances over his shoulder at me, his eyes narrowed, and a cruel smile quirking one corner of his mouth upward. It is as if he knows what we are talking about and is taunting me, knowing his brother will never do anything to curb his tendencies.

  “I admit, your uncle can sometimes be − intemperate,” my father finally says. “But a cold-blooded murderer? You go too far, Catherine.”