The Highlander's Claim (Highland Romance) Read online

  My uncle rounds on me, and I can see the barely controlled fury in his eyes. This is not the first time we’ve clashed. Nor, I suspect, will it be the last. He and I do not see eye-to-eye on much of anything, and it has led to a number of pitched fights between us. It’s fair to say we don’t like each other much.

  My brother, on the other hand, can be counted on to always fall onto our uncle’s side of things. Morgan is more interested in drinking and whoring. He wants to inherit his title as well as the lands and estates that go with it. He also wants to expand his lands as far northward as possible, regardless of who must be killed or subjugated to satisfy his personal ambitions. To that end, he allows my uncle to commit acts of brutal savagery in the name of our House.

  The two of them, Morgan and James, would bleed all of Scotland red if they could. To them, it seems as if this war they are waging is somehow personal, and both seem ghoulishly delighted to inflict as much pain and cruelty as they can. They seem to enjoy doing violence and murder upon the Scottish people. They commit atrocities gleefully, leaving the battered and bloody bodies of their victims behind all in the name of my father.

  My father, for his part, does what he can to check their worst impulses. But with his duties requiring him to be at Court in London and his trips here to the north so infrequent, there is only so much he can do. I know he hopes that Morgan will redeem himself and learn to rule with a gentler touch. He hopes the best for my brother, but Morgan, having had only James around as an example for most of his life, I fear is beyond redemption.

  Morgan is my father’s sole heir, and since I cannot inherit my father’s title – not unless my brother was to die – he tries to steer my brother onto a better path. My father believes in diplomacy and in treating people – even the Scottish – as equals. My brother, thanks to the influence of our uncle, sees them as human chattel. He sees them as less than a person and things to be used for his pleasures and amusements or murdered should it please him.

  My brother’s attitude is deplorable, and I often wonder how we sprang from the same womb.

  “You will not be joining us in the field, Catherine,” my uncle growls. “I will not have you in our way as we deal with this threat to our lands.”

  “Threat? What threat is there to our lands, Uncle?” I ask. “I see no army of savages at our gates. I see no marauders wishing to do us violence storming the bailey. What I see is two men wishing to go out and do violence to people who are doing naught but trying to live their lives in peace.”

  “People,” my brother snorts. “You take a generous view of these – creatures.”

  “Live in peace?” my uncle says. “Were they trying to live in peace when they killed four of your father’s soldiers just last week?”

  “As I recall it, you took an expedition into their lands and tried to forcibly remove them at the point of a sword,” I note. “Conflict and violence were inevitable at that point.”

  My uncle drains the last of his wine and hurls his glass across the room with a snarl. It hits the stone wall and shatters with a high tinkling sound as shards of glass spray across the floor. I swallow down the lump of fear that rises in my throat and carefully control myself, giving no outward sign of the butterflies that are battering my insides. I’ve never been one who is comfortable around violence or such outward explosions of anger.

  “Why can you not see these bloody Scots for what they are?” my uncle roars. “They’re filthy beasts! No better than animals.”

  I feel my face growing warm with the anger that’s welling up within me. My uncle glares at me with utter disdain in his eyes while my brother continues staring into his goblet of wine as if it contains the answers to the mysteries of life.

  “Why do you hate them so?” I ask. “Why do you have nothing but hatred in your heart for these people?”

  “Because they’re savages!” he roars. “They’re filthy, murdering savages!”

  “And what are you, Uncle? Your sword is stained red with the blood of how many of them?” I spit. “Do you even know how many you’ve slain? Dozens? Hundreds? And what of you, Morgan?”

  My uncle sighs and stares at me for a long moment.

  “You are clearly overwrought. You’re not thinking clearly,” he says. “I’ll have the physician give you a tonic –”

  I slam my fist down on the table so hard, my own wine glass topples over, sending a small wave of wine spilling over the edge of the table. I shoot to my feet to the astonished expression of both my uncle and brother. They are not used to seeing outbursts of passion like this from me. But I’m at the end of my tether with the both of them and their hateful nonsense.

  “This conversation is at an end. I will be going beyond the bailey today,” I snarl at them. “If you have an objection, you may speak with my father.”

  I turn and stride out of the room before either of them can answer.

  * * *

  A soft mist falls as I ride with my four guards at the rear of the procession. Making me ride at the rear is just an indignity my brother and uncle wanted to inflict upon me to show me my place. Or at least, what they believe is an indignity. The truth is, I would rather ride at the rear of the procession with only my own thoughts to keep me company than ride beside them.

  Besides, I will not be with them long today. They say they are doing nothing more than a routine patrol, but I’ve seen them come back from routine patrols covered in blood and gore many times before. And I won’t be a party to their slaughter. Not when I can be doing something good and useful to try and salve the wounds they’ve wrought.

  After leaving the bailey, we come to a fork in the road a couple of miles from home. My uncle and brother lead their small cadre of men-at-arms to the left while I take the opposite fork. Given that neither of them has deigned to look back at me on this journey, it could be quite some time before they realize I am not with their little party. Which suits me just fine since it will hopefully curb their violent impulses – if only for a little while.

  I nudge my horse forward, quickening her pace, and force my guards to keep up with me. Following the path, I make my way across the open field and plunge into the forest. The trees press close on either side, and the thick canopy overhead makes the world around us even dimmer. Birdsong echoes from the pockets of shadow darker than ink, and although I cannot see them, I hear them flitting from branch to branch like spirits in the trees above us. The air around me is thick with a rich and earthy musk I find pleasing, and the sound of small animals moving through the underbrush sounds all around.

  The path through the woods eventually opens up to a small village and as we emerge from the trees, all activity stops as heads turn toward us. I feel the heavy weight of the eyes on the faces of those around me and feel the tense fear radiating from all of them. They know well what my uncle and brother have done – and are doing – to their people and have a hard-earned distrust of the English I can understand. But I’ve been coming to this village for quite some time now and have earned some degree of trust.

  When they realize it is me, most return to what they were doing. A few offer me waves and words of greeting, their eyes still wary upon my guards who are fully armed and armored – as per the agreement I struck with my father.

  I slide off my saddle as a small girl with curly brown hair and lively brown eyes rushes toward me, her arms spread wide and a smile on her face. Before I can even kneel to embrace the girl, Sergeant Whitworth, the head of my armored detail inserts himself between us, his sword bared. The man moves with an unnatural speed that shocks even me.

  The girl, Lyanna, stops in her tracks, eyes wide, a look of absolute terror on her face. I step out from behind the soldier and round on him, fury in my eyes.

  “Sheath your sword, Sergeant,” I command.

  “My Lady, I have strict orders –”

  “I am the daughter of the Duke of Lancaster. The only orders you need concern yourself with are mine,” I snarl. “And I order you to sheath your sword.
Now.”

  He hesitates, and I straighten my spine, making myself as tall as I can to glare at him. He looks back at me with uncertainty in his eyes. I am quite certain is was my uncle who gave him the word to strike first.

  “I said now, Sergeant,” I make my voice as icy cold as possible. “Unless you would enjoy mucking out the horse stalls with your bare hands for your next detail.”

  Reluctantly, he sheaths his sword but continues to eye the villagers warily. I turn to the three standing beside their horses behind us who look as skeptical as the Sergeant, my anger continuing to simmer inside of me.

  “Sergeant, I wish for you and your men to wait with the horses by the trees,” I say. “I will have no need of you here.”

  “My Lady –”

  “I said go.”

  I hand him my reins and then walk over and take the reins of the horse laden with supplies I brought along with us from the other men who look at me with expressions of shock. I walk the horse back toward the village, and the sergeant still has not moved from his spot. He stands there stubbornly,

  “If you and your men do not move back to the trees this instant as I have commanded, the lot of you will live to regret it,” I hiss. “Mark my words, Sergeant. Obey my word or I will spend the rest of the day dreaming up the sort of torment I will rain down on you and your men.”

  He lets out a long breath but finally takes his men and retreats to the edge of the village, near the trees where I’ve instructed him to wait. I feel bad for being so harsh with him. He’s caught between two masters – me and my uncle – and I can sympathize with him for that. But if I’m to have an armed shadow where ever I go, that shadow will learn to heed my word – and I will not have them further scaring a village full of people who have suffered enough at the hands of my family – if it can truly be called that.

  I wait until the soldiers are a safe distance away before I turn back to the village. The men are casting dark looks back at the villagers, telling me they share the sentiments espoused by my uncle – which means I will have to find new guards who are not so corrupted and biased against these people. Lyanna remains where she stopped, fear still in her face. I walk over to her, hoping my smile puts her at ease. I stop and squat down, putting myself at eye level with her.

  “Hello lovely girl,” I say. “It’s wonderful to see you again.”

  Lyanna is still looking at the men behind me, so I produce a piece of sweet candy from within the folds of my cloak. The girl’s focus is pulled to me, and her eyes light up as the smile stretches her face. She takes the piece of candy from my hand and pops it into her mouth. I laugh as I stand up, and with her hand in mine and my other hand on the reins of my horse, we walk further into the small village.

  I found this village some years back quite by accident while I was out on a ride. It’s tucked back into a clearing deep in the woods – which was no doubt intentional to avoid attracting the attention of my uncle – something I can’t blame them for. Had I been in their position, I’m quite sure I would have done the same.

  Over the time I’ve been coming to this village, I’ve earned the love and trust of the people. It’s a sentiment I return to them. They are a kind, warm, and generous people. I cannot for the life of me, understand what it is that my uncle and brother find so terrible about them or what they could have done to engender such hatred. Truth be told, I’ve found more kindness and compassion among these people than I did among many of my own back in Carlisle.

  “Lady Catherine, it is wonderful to see you,” Abigail beams.

  Lyanna runs to her mother and pulls the piece of candy from her mouth, showing it off. It makes me laugh. Abigail is a tall, sturdy woman of middle years. Her dark hair is shot through with gray, and she has deep lines etched around the corners of her eyes and mouth. She is the matriarch and leader of this small settlement. She’s the person people look to and rely on. A queen in her own right. My admiration for her strength in holding these people together and keeping them safe is limitless.

  “Lyanna, put that back in your mouth,” she says, doing her best not to laugh. “Let’s not behave like wild animals.”

  The girl does as her mother asks, grinning wildly. I pull a handful of candies from the small pouch beneath my cloak and put them in the girl’s hands.

  “Spread these out among your friends,” I say.

  “Share ‘em, Lyanna,” her mother admonishes her. “Don’t even think about keepin’ those to yourself.”

  Lyanna grins as if she’d had that thought, and her mother had caught her. But then she turns and scampers away, and I see her handing out the sweet treats to some of the other children in the village.

  “She’s a slippery one that girl,” Abigail says. “Too smart for her own good, that’s for sure.”

  “A girl with her intelligence has grand things in her future,” I note.

  Abigail looks away as a dark look crosses her face. It’s a conversation we’ve had before. She takes a more pessimistic view of the future of the Scottish people than I do. She believes they will never be anything other than chattel and that men like my uncle will eventually crush Scotland beneath the heels of their boots.

  I take a more optimistic view of the future though. I want to believe that the English and Scottish people will learn to live together in peace and that men like my uncle, men with cruel, wicked minds will be beaten back and relegated to the burning rubbish piles of history. I believe the future will usher in a better world for us all and wash away those who would seek to maintain this system of subservience, abuse, and murder some of my own countrymen perpetrate north of Hadrian’s Wall.

  I clear my throat and adopt a smile. “I have brought gifts. Breads and other stores of food for your village. Vegetables and the like,” I say. “I thought with the weather turning colder; you might be able to use them.”

  Abigail smiles and takes my hands in hers. “You truly are an angel, Lady Catherine.”

  “It is the very least I can do,” I respond. “I cannot right all of the wrongs my uncle and brother are doing –”

  “What they do is not yours to apologize for,” Abigail says, her voice earnest. “You have done nothing that requires apology. Or reparation.”

  I give her a small smile. “It eases the burden on my own heart,” I say. “Just know that I wish with all my heart there was more I could do to stop the barbarism of my family.”

  Abigail smiles and pulls me into a tight embrace. This too is a conversation we’ve had many times before. She does not hold me at fault for what my brother and uncle do while I am ravaged with guilt by their actions. I know that a few baskets of food and supplies cannot make up for what is being done to the Scottish people, but I am trying to make a difference in ways I can.

  And one of those ways is not just giving food but also using the knowledge I’ve gained from the physician at Caldryn House to care for the people in villages I visit. I’m certain my uncle would be appalled to know I am providing care for the people he hates so much, which makes me even more glad I do it.

  Abigail takes the reins from me and hands them to a young man who leads it to a small building made of earth and stone where they begin unloading the baskets and storing the contents inside.

  “How is everything here, Abigail?”

  “We’re doing fine,” she says. “We’re making do as always.”

  Abigail is an intelligent woman. Proud. Independent. She’s hard and tough. But she loves fiercely and is protective of her people. She’s compassionate and can even be tender. I’ve seen her gentle hand with the children in this settlement, and it never fails to warm my heart. I often wonder who she could have been or what she might have been able to do had she not been forced to live beneath the yoke of my uncle.

  “Is there anybody who needs care?” I ask.

  “Just a few bumps and bruises,” she replies. “Nothing that would require your time or attention.”

  “Nonsense,” I smile. “This is what I do.”


  Abigail gives me a smile and takes my hand, leading me back to the small building where I normally provide care for anybody who needs it and spend time with the children. She gets me set up and then sends a steady flow of villagers in to see me. It’s mostly bumps and bruises, as she said. Nothing too serious. And I’m just finishing wrapping a cut on a man’s arm when there is a commotion in the village outside.

  The man and I both shoot to our feet, listening to the frightened shouting outside. My heart is thundering in my chest when the animal skin covering the doorway is pulled to the side. Abigail is ushering a crowd of children inside, telling them to stay inside and stay down, her eyes wide with fear. She exchanges a look with the man who rushes out of the small building and into the gloom of the forest as the sounds of steel ringing on steel and the frightened shouts turn into cries of agony.

  “Abigail, what is it?” I ask.

  “The English,” she gasps. “They’re coming.”

  Chapter Eight

  Malcolm

  Not that I would ever admit it to him, but my father was right; our home was in dire need of repair. I’ve spent the past two days patching the thatch on the roof, repairing the stone wall that surrounds our home, and clearing out the menagerie of bugs and small animals that took up residence inside the house in our absence.

  By the time the sun rises on my fourth day home, I’ve gotten our home more or less habitable again. As I watch the sun rise over the distant peaks, I savor the taste of the Auld Man’s Milk I put together this morning. It’s a traditional Scottish drink made with milk, sugar, whipped eggs, and a healthy dose of whiskey. It’s the perfect drink to help get your wits about you in the morning and a wee touch of home I missed while I was abroad. The French aren’t known for their love of Scottish delicacies.

  As I enjoy my drink, I let my mind wander. I have not heard from my father, brother, or any of their proxies since leaving them in Weykirk, and it has me concerned. I did not like the idea of them meeting with the Duke in secret, to begin with. But now two days after their meeting was supposed to have taken place with no word from either has only compounded that concern.