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 | Jaci Burton, Jasmine Haynes, Joey W. Hill, Denise Rossetti |
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 | Janet Chapman, Sandra Hill, Trish Jensen, Veronica Wolff |
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Daring the Highlander Excerpt Scotland, Mid-January, 1309 An icy blast of Highland wind whipped over the top of Dunbeg, shoving against Ailig MacLeod as if to keep him from cresting the last hill on his long journey home, as if the wind itself knew his clan would hate him for the news he brought. Shoving his thrashing hair out of his face, he pulled his horse to a stop and studied the glen below. Assynt Castle crouched amongst piles of soot-encrusted snow. Its gray imposing bulk uncomfortably straddled the narrow strip of land between the glorious open freedom of the white-clad mountains and the dark, frigid depths of the frozen loch. The horse danced sideways and Ailig loosened the grip he had on it with his knees. Assynt Castle. Home. Heavy gray clouds raced across the sky, spitting icy pellets down his neck, pulling his attention away from the castle and what awaited him there. He watched the clouds flee the glen, driven by the rising wind, and, for just a moment, he considered following them. But he couldn’t. Less than a month ago he’d left this glen with his four older brothers in pursuit of their runaway sister. Now he was the only one returning. Catriona, his sister, had run off and married a good man of her own choosing; a man Ailig respected and admired. But she had been promised to another, the dog-faced chief of a neighboring clan. The ramifications of her escape were but the least of what awaited him at Assynt. His foolish eldest brother, in league with Catriona’s dog-faced intended, had conspired to kill the king. And now it had come to this. He shook the icy snow out of his eyes and returned his attention to the castle. Ailig, who had never gotten along with his brothers, nor his own father, was all that stood between the clan and the king’s vengeance. ‘Twas up to him to fulfill the king’s command, a task that would mark him as little better than a traitor in his father’s eyes. But the clan must be protected. He’d not let the king destroy his family, his home. He’d not let his father throw away this chance at a future just because he had no use for his youngest son. For anything less than doing as the king commanded would doom them all. Ailig sat up straighter, picked up his reins and took a long, deep breath. No matter how confident he wished to be, ‘twas a daunting future that awaited him, a future he could delay no longer. He twitched the reins and the horse started forward, heading downhill towards the castle and the dubious welcome awaiting them. ‘Twould be no welcome at all when his father learned that the king demanded that which Ailig had never wanted, which his father would bitterly decry. He'd demanded Ailig rip the reins of power from his own father. He’d demanded Ailig become chief.
Morainn MacRailt hugged the sunset-colored plaid, her latest creation, to her stomach as she stood looking out over the frozen expanse of Loch Assynt. The castle loomed behind her, but she was not ready to enter it. She’d been putting it off all day, chiding herself for being a coward. It wasn’t like her to avoid confrontation, but she was tired of fending off her would-be suitor. She missed the days when she could hide behind her mourning. No one had approached her about marrying again until her official mourning period had ended just a fortnight earlier. She let her gaze wander over the double-peaked expanse of snow-draped mountain on the opposite shore, then up to the scudding clouds retreating down the length of the glen. She hadn’t always been a coward but marriage hadn’t turned out the way she had expected. They had both quickly seen their mistake but ‘twas too late when they discovered it. They were married and there was nothing to undo that, until Hamish’s early death one night while reaving the MacTavishs’ cows with the chief’s sons. She should have felt a stab of pain at the mention of him, or at least guilt, but lately even that had faded to a small hollow ache that was becoming all too easy to live with. Not that anyone else need know that. She had been mortified that her first reaction to the news had been relief. She had been sad. He had not deserved to die so young, but deep inside where she would never let anyone see it, she had felt a door open. She had felt her true self pour forth again from where she had locked it away trying to be a good wife. But she would never do that again. And she’d never marry again. She had thought herself in love with Hamish, but the flush of infatuation had quickly burned out and she’d been left living with a man she did not particularly like, and one who no longer liked her overmuch, either. For three years they had avoided each other as much as possible, speaking little. He had been miserable and she blamed herself for that, but she had also been miserable and that, too, she blamed on herself. He was older than she was. He knew what he wanted in a wife. She was much younger and had been so lonely after the death of her mother and the emotional retreat of her father that the gratitude at the attention Hamish heaped on her had felt like love. What did she know of love? Nothing, it turned out. She let the calm and quiet of the winter landscape seep into her, fortify her. She drew the sharp-edged air into her lungs. Sick of her own cowardice, she faced the castle only to find herself being watched. Baltair, the clan’s champion, stood between her and the castle. A slow smile spread across his ruddy face, pulling his narrow lips tight, and his crooked nose even further out of line than it usually was. The man really shouldn’t smile. His eyes went to slits and he looked almost as if he were grimacing. She’d like to grimace, too, but she managed to stop at a frown. "Is there something you need?" she asked, clutching her bundle of plaid tightly to her like armor. The man was relentless and she was tired of it. He didn’t seem to understand her when she told him she was not looking for a husband. Why couldn’t anybody understand that? One thing she was beginning to understand was that when Baltair got it into his wee little mind that he wanted something...say, her...he was just as unyielding and just as hard of hearing as the stone wall his chest resembled. "Why are you always in such a hurry to get away from me, Morainn?" he asked, his voice low as if he spoke to a lover. She clamped down on the urge to kick him in the shin...or maybe higher. She satisfied herself with the thought, not the action and cocked her head at him. "I have much to do. Do you not as well?" "Not so much that I cannot take time to woo my future bride." His nose shifted direction subtly with each word he spoke. His hair, so dark a brown ‘twas almost black, writhed around his face in the breeze that was growing stronger, and colder, by the moment. "You used to have sweet words for Hamish. Do you not have a sweet word for me?" Sweet words meant little and she certainly didn’t have any for this big muttonhead. He was cut from the same rough cloth as the chief’s offspring, wild, willful, and too sure the world should bow down at his feet—something she would never do. "Hamish was my husband. You are not." "Aye, but I will be." Baltair grinned at her. "Only if I am dead and lying in my grave," she muttered, stepping around him. Unfortunately, he followed her, his long legs catching him up quickly. "Was that an acceptance?" he asked. She stopped in her tracks and glared at him. Irritation was an emotion she did not like and this man gave it to her in heaps. "Baltair MacLeod, have you no ears? Can you not understand my words? I. Will. Never. Marry. Again. Not you, not anyone. Shall I repeat it again more slowly so you will understand it this time?" The grin left his face and his eyes went black and stony. "You will marry again, Morainn, and ‘twill be to me. I am champion now," he said. "‘Tis time for me to take a wife, have bairns." A jolt ran through Morainn, but she did not let him see how his words pierced through her. Once she had wanted bairns but she had given up that dream. "You are a good weaver, a good cook, or so Hamish used to say. I am sure Hamish trained you well in the other wifely duties," he continued, leering at her. "‘Twould be a good match for you to wed me." She was actually grateful he had continued, thus stoking her ire and steeling her will. "‘Twould be a good match for you to wed me," she said, "but ‘twill not happen." Morainn’s patience was at an end. "I have much to do before the light fails." She stepped around him again and set off for the castle. She had not gone three steps before Baltair spun her around. She lost her grip on the plaid as he pulled her so close his nose doubled in her vision. She arched her back to get enough distance to judge his intent. ‘Twas a mistake, for he took the opportunity to kiss her. Revulsion combined with anger and all her control fled. She struggled to get loose, shoving against his rocklike chest, trying with all her might to wrench away from him, but he was too big, too strong, too determined. Too gone. One moment she was caught in the vise of his embrace, his hard lips pressed against hers, the next he was whirling around, trying to keep his balance. She stumbled backward, catching her own balance with difficulty. "It doesn’t look like the lass wants to be kissed, Baltair," came a smooth voice from behind the champion. Baltair shifted to his left just enough so she could see who her new hero was. Flaxen hair danced about an oh-so-handsome face. A smile skirted the corners of his mouth, somehow balancing between a smirk and a grin. His eyes stayed on Baltair but she could feel his attention on her. Quickly he glanced at her. "Are you well, Morainn?" His smoky-gray eyes held her gaze for a moment. His full-blown smile slammed into her with enough force to make her step backward. She stumbled on an icy patch and Ailig reached out to steady her, rescuing her once more. She wasn’t sure she was comfortable seeing one of the chief’s sons as her rescuer, especially not given the mayhem his smile was causing in her gut and the odd way her arm tingled where he held it. She stepped away from him, removing herself from his grip. Ailig gave her a quizzical look, his honey-brown brows drawn down over eyes gone the color of clouds.
Ailig was puzzled by Morainn’s lack of greeting. He knew she did not think much of him but he had expected some word of thanks at the least. Her wildly curling brown hair showed glints of copper in the fading sunshine, though most of her curls were severely tamed in a thick braid that hung over one shoulder. Her smile was cautious. "Did he harm you?" he asked. She glared at Baltair, and Ailig was startled at the look of hatred Baltair flung in his direction. "He did not. ‘Tis only that he is hard of hearing, or gone completely daft." "‘Tis none of your affair, wean," Baltair said to Ailig as he grabbed Morainn’s elbow and pulled her against his side. Morainn tried to pull her arm free but the man obviously had a tight grip upon her. An unfamiliar protectiveness insinuated itself into Ailig’s thoughts. He stepped closer, facing down the much larger man. "I’d say ‘tis none of yours, either, from the look on the lass’s face. Release her." "I do not take orders from you, bairnie. I am champion. I answer to the chief alone. I do not think you are that person." "Not yet," Ailig said. Rage painted Baltair’s face a brilliant red and Ailig prayed the man would give in to it. He’d like nothing better than a good fight to rid himself of the nervous energy that plagued him, but now wasn’t the time for it. "Not ever!" Baltair roared, shoving Morainn behind him, then surging toward Ailig. A rage of his own swept through Ailig as he ducked the meaty fist that whistled just over his head. "I’ve no time to fight you now." He whirled to his left as the big man charged at him, grabbing Baltair’s arm as he passed. Before the larger man could react, Ailig had spun him so that his arm was twisted up against his back, his shoulder in danger of wrenching out of its socket. Baltair’s fists were clenched and his chest heaved as he tried to get loose. "You always were too much of a coward to fight fair." "Calling me names will not change the fact that Morainn did not want your kiss, Baltair. ‘Twould seem you are the coward for forcing yourself on someone unable to defend herself." He heard Morainn gasp behind him. "I can defend myself!" He grinned at the spirit in her voice. He glanced over his shoulder at the beautiful woman glaring at the both of them, hands on her hips and challenge in her sparkling eyes. In truth, he could not fault Baltair for wanting to kiss her, only for acting upon it when the lass clearly did not want his attentions. "If I release you"—Ailig pulled harder on Baltair’s arm, making his point—"will you leave us and cease bothering Mistress Morainn?" "You cannot hold me here forever, wee Ailig." Ailig figured that was as close as he was likely to get to an affirmative answer from the man, so he released him with a shove toward the gate. "You can take your anger out on me later, Baltair, and I will relish the excuse to break your nose again, but for now I must see the chief." "‘Twas a lucky punch, pup, and many years ago. ‘Twill never happen again." He scowled at Morainn. "We are not done, lass." He shifted the scowl back to Ailig. "‘Twill be my pleasure to beat you to a bloody pulp, just as soon as the chief is done with you." The man rubbed his shoulder, then turned his back on both of them and stomped through the gate into the castle. "Do not look at me like that, Morainn. Had I known you could defend yourself I would have happily watched you scratch his eyes out." He watched as her glare shifted into an embarrassed smile. "I do appreciate your rescue," she said, looking down at the snow-crusted ground. "He took me by surprise." As she took him. He vaguely remembered her as a little girl, all gangly arms and legs, but now ... now she was grown up, and the sharp elbows and knees had given way to womanly curves. His body surged, surprising him, and he quickly turned back to gather the reins he’d dropped when he’d vaulted off his horse. "Are you well?" he asked over his shoulder. "Aye," she said, her voice tentative. "Did you find your sister?" He nodded. "Catriona is well." But he could say no more. Not yet. He turned back to face her, his horse following behind. "I must speak to the chief." She nodded and stepped back breaking a thread that he hadn’t even realized had connected them, even if only for a moment. "You were in mourning when I left, were you not?" he asked, though he wasn’t sure why. "I was," she said, then looked to the castle. "Thank you for your help, but I would not keep you from doing what you must." Reluctantly he agreed. "Perhaps I shall see you at the evening meal?" Ailig said as he mounted his horse. "I do not take my meals in the castle." "Pity," he said, mostly to himself. He leaned on his saddle and looked down at her. The icy snow pellets had shifted to light fluffy flakes that caught on her coppery-brown hair and melted where they landed on her softly freckled nose and cheeks. "You’ve grown up, Morainn," he said. "Most people do," she said, looking up at him. "Aye, but not many turn out as bonny as you have." He smiled at the pink that stained her cheeks and urged the horse on his way. At least there was one bright spot to returning to Assynt. He looked up at the castle looming over him and realized ‘twas likely the only bright spot he would find for a very long time.
A few people bustled through the shadowed inner bailey, casting curious glances at him as he approached the stable. Grimy, snow-blanketed, well-trod paths leading amongst the outbuildings, the Great Hall, and the two towers showed that the denizens of Assynt Castle still kept to their work. A lad darted out of the stable and took the reins as Ailig divested the horse of his belongings. "Be sure he gets oats and a good brush," he said, his voice more brusque than he had intended. For all that seeing the beautiful Morainn had buoyed his spirits, the thought of finally confronting his father with his news, and the king’s command, had him on edge. The lad grunted his assent as he led the tired horse away. Ailig hooked his traveling sack over his shoulder and made for the chief's tower. He’d had a full fortnight to mull over what he must do next but he still didn’t know how to break the tidings to his father—nor to anyone else for that matter—but that, at least, would be his father’s trouble. He stepped out of the windy cold of the bailey and into the damp, bone-chilling cold of the stone tower. He took the winding stairway, two steps at a time, his sack bouncing against his back as if urging him on. Passing the first landing, he moved upward to the second, the one that led to his own chamber. He thought fleetingly of a long night's sleep in his own bed; of the feather-filled mattress covered in soft linen sheets, and, for warmth, a heavy woolen blanket and another of furs his sister had made for him several winters ago. If the beautiful Morainn were to join him there... But no. Before comfort, before rest, sustenance or anything involving a very bonny woman, before anything else, duty called and ‘twould accomplish nothing to put it off. He laid his bag next to a plain door, much like the one at the bottom of the stairs and raised his fist. Each rap of his knuckles against the hard wood tightened the knots across his shoulders. At the muffled reply "enter" Ailig lifted the latch and pushed open the heavy door, ducking slightly as he stepped under the low lintel and into the chief's outer chamber. His father, Neill, chief of Clan Leod, sat at the battered table he used as a desk, scratching away at a parchment, mumbling to himself, ignoring Ailig as he always had. Ailig cleared his throat. "Da." "What? What is it?" Neill asked without raising his head from his work. His stringy gray hair fell about his face and he was crouched so close to the table Ailig could swear his nose almost touched the parchment. ‘Twas the same way he dealt with the clan’s business, and his own family, so close he could see the immediate situation, but never far enough away to see all that happened around him. He’d even missed the treachery brewing right under his nose. "Da!" Neill finally looked up from his work and seemed to take a moment to shift his concentration away from the parchment and toward the door where Ailig stood. After a moment his eyes focused. He sighed and leaned back in his plainly carved chair. "Where are your brothers? And Catriona?" He looked past him, as always, as if expecting his four other sons and a run-away daughter to file in behind him. The time had finally come to deliver the news that would destroy any hope of ever winning this man’s elusive, ungraspable respect. He took a seat across from his father, took a deep breath and dove in. "Catriona has wed another," he said, starting with the easiest thing he had to tell. "My brothers will not be returning." His father looked at him, his eyes narrowed. But he did not reply to this news. "Calum, Gowan and Jamie serve in the king’s army until such time as the Bruce deems their service done." Still his father said nothing, but he leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table and lacing his fingers together. When Ailig said nothing, the auld man raised an eyebrow. "You do not wish to tell me the rest? Where is Broc, my heir? And what of Duff? We shall have to tell the MacDonells who yet reside here what has happened to their chief." So the MacDonells were still here. That was a complication he’d rather not have. Ailig took a deep breath and met his father’s cold eyes. "Duff has been taken to the gaol at Dingwall Castle. He awaits the king’s justice for treason." Now there was a spark of worry in Neill’s eyes. "And Broc...?" Ailig swallowed, unsure how the chief would take what he must say next, and still ‘twas not the worst news he must deliver, at least not as far as Neill was concerned. "Broc...is dead." "Nay!" Neill surged to his feet. He banged the table once with his fists. "It cannot be! What have you done with him? Where is he?" Neill was leaning over the table, his eyes so wide the whites around them shone. "Where is he?!" "He was buried in Culrain. ‘Twas where we met up with the king." Worried at the wild look in his father’s eye, Ailig rose and poured a cup of ale from a pitcher set on one corner of the table. "There is more, sir, but I would have you calm yourself. Drink this." He held the cup out for his father to take. The chief stared at the cup for a moment, as if he could not understand what it was his son offered him. He looked up at Ailig with grief-filled eyes, red rimmed. His skin was ashen and he looked as if he had aged a decade in but a moment. At last, he reached out and took the ale, downing it in one long gulp, then he lowered himself back into his chair, staring past Ailig. "What more can there be?" he finally whispered. Indeed, what could be worse than learning of the death of your eldest child, the one who would follow you as chief of the clan? What could be worse than knowing your next three children were fighting bloody battles in the king’s army that they weren’t likely to survive? What could be worse than your only daughter, betrothed to one man, running off and marrying another? What could be worse? Ailig forced himself to sit absolutely still, schooling his features into cool indifference. The king had laid the fate of Clan Leod in Ailig’s hands, and he would not shirk that responsibility. "The king commands that you relinquish your place as chief of Clan Leod of Assynt," Ailig said at last, firmly, matter-of-factly, without emotion. Neill stared at his youngest son as if he were a stranger. "I will not." "You must. Da, the king will set his men upon us, turn us out of Assynt, out of our homes, scatter us into the bens and lay a price upon the head of every man, woman and child amongst us if you do not. We will all be hunted down and slaughtered." Neill sat back in his chair heavily, resting one elbow on the chair’s arm and his head in his hand. "But Broc is dead." "He is." "And the others are serving in the king’s army." "They are." Ailig could see the exact moment his father began to understand what the king had commanded. He glared up at his youngest son. "Who is the traitor who seeks to steal my place upon the command of a king who knows nothing of Highland custom?" ‘Twas not so much a question as an accusation. Ailig forced himself to hold his father’s glare with his own. "‘Tis I." |
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