Beneath a Dark Highland Sky: Book #3 (6 page)

6

Sorcha gritted her teeth. She’d almost blurted out she’d sewn up many a ragged battle wound.

But she was supposed to be a maid servant, skilled at such banal things as changing rushes, cleaning vegetables, plucking fowl and scaling fish, seeing to the hearths and basins in each room, wiping down tables and benches, and of course seeing to all of her lady’s personal needs.

She stuck her nose in the air. “I ha’e ne’er sewn up a man’s bleeding buttocks nor would I e’er wish to. So if ye find my arrow sticking in yer sorry hide, ‘tis because yer gormless fools.”

A smile crested the face of the man with midnight black hair but there was something dangerous about it. He said something in Gaelic to the blonde man, who laughed again.

              “What did ye say?” Sorcha asked.

              “Ye dunna speak the old language?”

              “I speak good plain Scots, nae that Highlands muck.”

              “I asked him if he thought ye’d need a hand down from that tree. I could offer my hand upon yer rump so ye could keep yer balance.”
              “I dunna need yer help or yer hand upon my arse!”

              “’Tis good news lass, as I’d hate for my laird to be surprised by the likes of ye in that tree with a bow and arrow. He may get the wrong impression.” There was something hard to the set of his mouth now. “He may e’en think he’s nae welcome here. And he’s already in a sour mood about having this marriage forced upon him.”

              Sorcha felt an unexpected stab of hurt. Why should she be surprised that the Highlander also loathed this arrangement? Perhaps it was because several of the men in the clan had been eagerly trying to convince her to marry one of them instead, and their attentions were flattering. She supposed she was not undesirable, but she did not have the kind of delicate, blonde beauty that Nessa had nor near the amount of suitors she’d managed to put off thus far. Even though Nessa was a maid servant, she often caught the admiring glances of nobles. And some of their attentions had been
less than
noble, with near disastrous results for her friend.

Sorcha grunted and shimmied down the tree with expert grace. “I need no man’s aid. Certainly nae a
Highlander’s
.” She put the arrow in her linen bag and looped the bow over her shoulder. Wind ruffled the unruly curls that weren’t secured by her braid. Irritated, she pushed them from her forehead and looked to the hill above the men, searching. “Tell me, what sort of character does yer laird possess? Does my lady ha’e need to fear him?”

              “He eats wee children and maid servants with bows and arrows who climb trees,” the blonde giant said, amusement shining in his deep blue eyes.

“What is yer name?” the dark-haired one asked.

              She almost said “Sorcha” but bit her tongue. “Nessa.”

              “Nessa. Somehow ‘tis nae a fitting name for a wild lass such as yerself. Tell me, what ha’e ye heard about the Maclean laird?”

              She thrust her stubborn chin even higher into the air. “He drinks the blood of his enemies from their hollowed out skulls. He can cut a man’s heart from his breast with a single glance and eat it. He’s an ogre who lives to fight at the merest insult and will bed any willing wench with open legs. He possesses the Sight, and ‘tis said his wits are scattered to the winds.”

              The blonde man nearly toppled from his horse in a fit of laughter.

              “I am nae finished yet. I ha’e also heard the Macleans must be especially wicked to ha’e acquired so many missionaries sent by Iona to save their souls.”

              “Ye and yer clan will ken soon enough what sort of character the Maclean laird possesses,” the dark-haired one said, an edge to his voice. “Had ye nae best be getting back to the keep? There are hungry men to feed and they’ll soon be descending that hill behind us.” He arched a dark brow. “Yet ye ha’e caught no dinner. Nae e’en a stringy rabbit. For the laird’s sake, I hope someone in yer clan kens how to hunt.”             

She stepped closer to him and his horse and realized her mistake as his tall shadow fell over her. “I’d wager I’m a better shot than any man in yer party,” she said, craning her neck to look up at him. “Better e’en than yer esteemed Highland laird.” His horse snorted as if in response to her boast.

              “Is that so? Perhaps later we will ha’e a contest with the laird to find out. He might enjoy that. He’s fair with bow and arrow.”

              “He’ll need to be more than fair to best me.”

He frowned. “What can ye tell us about the lady of the keep? Our laird will also be most curious.”

              Sorcha pursed her lips. This was a chance to help them form an impression of the odious woman they were about to meet. Perhaps they would warn the laird before he set foot in the keep. “She will be a good match for the Maclean, for she eats wee children and arrogant Highlanders who dunna behave. But I understand Highlanders dunna taste vera
good
.”

              The blonde man continued to be amused but the one with hair as black as night was not. He said nothing, and his direct gaze nearly unnerved her.

              “Is the lady as beautiful as a blooming rose and as pleasant as a summer breeze?” the blonde giant asked.

“Well, her face is unflawed by the pox and she has most of her teeth.”

“Good Christ.” When the blonde man stopped laughing he said, “Well then, lass, do ye require assistance back to the keep? Would ye like to ride with us?”

              In response, Sorcha stormed off, the sound of the men’s laughter rankling her pride. Impudent men! How much worse would their laird be? Unable to resist, she turned to look behind her and saw movement, men not a half mile off, beginning to descend the closest hill now, afternoon sun glinting on steel.

The arrogant Maclean was somewhere in that throng of men, and he was early. Which one was he? The movement on the hill became a line of horsemen, then two, then three, advancing perfectly and in sync at a canter despite the marshy ground, with the Maclean banner rippling proudly in the wind.

             
The battle of wills was about to begin. The ruse was on.

              She reminded herself she was the daughter of a brave Douglas man, her ancestors had been crusaders in Spain and the Baltic, and as soldiers, were allies and vassals in the service of the kings of France. They’d been warriors who had carved out a great reputation among the noble houses of Europe and in Scotland. Her ancestor, Sir James, had fulfilled a vow of Robert the Bruce himself to make a pilgrimage to the Holy Land.

When Bruce died in 1329, it was Sir James who took the king’s embalmed heart with him on a crusade. En route, he found himself in a battle and all avenues of escape sealed off. So he threw the small silver casket containing the heart into the fray and charged after it, yelling, “Always before me, Great Heart!” He was killed but his bravery lived on.

              Another ancestor, Archibald Douglas, Fourth Earl of Douglas, had married the daughter of Robert the Third. He became a general in Joan of Arc’s army and fought valiantly against the English, earning the title of Duchy of Touraine. But he was killed at the Battle of Verneuil in 1424. Then there were the women of the clan, no less courageous. Maybe even more so. They braved childbirth, raised children, managed estates, cleaned and treated battle wounds, defended their castles when the men were away, and sometimes even disguised themselves as men to carry messages to the fighters. Sorcha had even done it herself once, though no one had ever known it.

While she could not see the future like the Maclean could, she would not give up trying to
shape
it. She would face it bravely because she was a Douglas. As far as she was concerned, her future did not include being beholden to a Highlander’s every wish and whim. She took one more backward glance at the dark-haired man with the challenging amber eyes, at his strong, proud silhouette upon the hill, and was thankful
he
was not the Maclean.

7

Stable hands saw to their horses as Malcolm and his men were led into the keep and up a winding turnpike stair, to the first-floor hall, where a fire crackled brightly in a wide hearth.

Servants scurried about, faultless and industrious, the great hall clearly prepared for a banquet and many guests though Malcolm had arrived earlier than expected. Great clouds of smoke rose from the kitchens where various foods were being prepared. Tall iron candelabras held a myriad of flickering candles, giving the cavernous hall a pleasant glow.

Underfoot the rushes were clean and fragrant, with herbs and white flowers strewn among them. When he was a small boy, Malcolm’s mother Isobel had explained the little white flowers were used for protection and good luck. They were called Wind Flowers because they would not open until the wind blew on them.

Douglas clan members greeted clan Maclean politely if cautiously. Even the hounds sprawled by the hearth were well-behaved. Fine tapestries lined the walls and the pine tables looked clean. Swords hung above the great hearth along with the Douglas family crest—a salamander surrounded by flames—and the family motto:
Never Behind
.

              Malcolm’s gaze followed Nathair’s to a second stairway as a petite, beautiful woman with a long, blonde braid descended the stairs. Her slender figure was adorned in a white gown with gold trim and she held a small bell in her hands. When she reached the great hall, she stopped and studied the throng of Maclean men gaping at her.

              She cleared her throat and rang the bell loudly and awkwardly, startling the crowd. The maid they’d met outside, the one who’d been sitting in the tree with bow and arrow at the ready, appeared.

“Nessa, bring refreshments for these men,” she said. “Whisky. And bring our finest.” The maid scurried off to do her bidding and Malcolm found himself watching her rather than the blonde woman, who must obviously be Sorcha Douglas, lady of the keep. The maid was extremely efficient, returning posthaste with the drinks while other servants also emerged to offer drinks and oat cakes to his men.

              There were murmurs as Nessa and her clan waited for the laird to present himself. Wee, rosy cheeked children clutched their mothers’ hands for assurance, not sure about the giant Highland strangers in their midst. Douglas men crossed their arms over their brawny chests.

              The crowd parted and a tall, dark-haired man stepped from the throng. He gently took Nessa’s hand. “Sorcha Douglas?” he said. “I am Malcolm Maclean.” It was so quiet the wind howling about the corners of stone, buffeting the towers and rattling the shutters, was all that was heard. And then there was the sharp clattering of a goblet smacking the stone floor.

Malcolm turned to see the maid Nessa murmuring apologies and staring at him, then at the lady of the keep. “My sincere apologies, my lady,” she said, but her deep green eyes were not sorry, they were angry. Malcolm had the distinct feeling that had she realized he was the laird when they’d met outside, he
would’ve
had an arrow in his hide. He had not been wrong that his presence here would be resented. What had he heard once? That Lowlanders were bad enough but their wives and women were wild devils, even fighting in battles themselves. He could envision the maid fighting in a battle but not the delicate, pale, blonde woman standing before him.

              The Lady Douglas withdrew her hand from Malcolm’s, making a fist and shaking it at the maid. “Clumsy chit! Clean that up at once, ye half-witted, flea-bitten hag, and bring another!” She turned calmly to Malcolm. “A sorrowful waste of whisky. I am Sorcha Douglas. Come and sit by the fire and make yerselves warm while my addle-brained maid brings ye another drink.”

              Malcolm didn’t like the way she chastised the spirited maid. In that moment, all his hopes about the character of Sorcha Douglas were dashed. Though he could not find fault with her running of the keep, the blonde beauty was obviously cold and compassionless.

He and Nathair seated themselves by the fire, Lady Douglas between them, while the other men sat at tables or filled benches and awaited the meal and banqueting to come as introductions were made.

              “This is Nathair, my war advisor and husband to my sister Andreana.”

She nodded. “I trust yer journey was uneventful? Sometimes the burn swells and it can be difficult to then go roundabout those hills and find a shallow enough stretch for fording. It can take ye miles out of yer way. They call it the Burn of Black Sorrow. Ye ha’e to be vera careful when the mists come and the waters swell nae to be caught in the valley.”

              “’Twas uneventful but extremely soggy going,” Nathair answered.

“Yea, well, that is the Lowlands,” she said. “Soggy.”

“’Tis a well-kept keep, strategically placed with a defensive view,” Malcolm said.

“I’ve heard the whisky is vera fine,” Nathair added. “I heard ‘tis so warm it can turn a man’s insides to fire. One of the few enjoyable things about the cold and soggy Lowlands.”

              “Yea, the whisky is strong and fortifying. But ye ha’e been misinformed about the Lowlands. There is much to love here, bogs and marshes aside. And the Highlands, are they nae a place of wild wind and rain, bogs and boars and wolves?”

Nathair opened his mouth to answer but she cut him off with an impatient wave of her hand. “I grow bored talking of mud and weather. As for the fortalice, it was built vera high so watchmen could see warning beacons lit on our tower top, this in case of Border raiders.”

Nathair quirked a blonde brow as the maid with the fiery chestnut hair returned with goblets of whisky, but he kept silent, looking bored himself.

“Tell me, Sorcha, were the beacons e’er lit when the English invaded?” Malcolm asked. “Or were they kept dark? ’Tis no secret the Black Douglas aided the Sassenach as they sought Scotland for an English king. Tell me, do ye still aid the Sassenach, or do they still aid ye, as they did at Arkinholm?”

              The hall grew quiet as all awaited her answer to Malcolm’s bold question.

              “’Tis nae unusual for a clan to work with the English when it suits them and ‘tis necessary,” the maid answered fiercely. “And is it nae true Maclean men ha’e on occasion been hired to fight in Ireland at the behest of the English as members of the
Galloglass
?”             

Murmurs swept the hall. Malcolm’s amber eyes grew steely and his jaw tightened. “Aye, ‘tis true. And they fought valiantly.”

              “Then ye ken alliances are nae always simple things when it comes to a clan’s survival. And lest ye question the Douglas loyalty to the crown let me enlighten ye. Many a brave Douglas man and woman has defended Scotland against the Sassenach when it was right to do so! We fought against King Henry the Fourth at the Battle of Shrewsbury. The Fourth Earl commanded ten thousand Scots sent to the aid of Charles the Seventh of France against the English. Yea, the Douglas clan hasna always seen eye to eye with the King of Scotland, ‘tis true. I will e’en declare I
dunna like kings
. But dunna be so quick to judge to me or my clan for it.

“When King James the Second was only ten summers, his advisors beheaded two Douglas brothers, mere boys, without provocation. He was distraught, for they were his new friends. But when he grew to be a man, James the Second grew to hate and fear the Black Douglases. He killed the Eighth Earl of Douglas, cousin to Murry Douglas, head of this clan, while he was under the promise of safe conduct no less, stabbing him and callously throwing his body from a tower window. At the battle of Arkinholm, where the king himself fought, the Lady Douglas lost her father and two auldest brothers.”

Nathair rose from his chair. “Careful lass. Some would say yer words border on treason to the Lion Rampant of Scotland.”

              “I dunna speak treason, Nathair. I speak fact.”

              “Yer maid is quite outspoken,” Malcolm said, arching a dark brow.

              “One should ne’er forget one’s
history
,” she said. “Whether a lowly maid like myself, lady, or laird. One should ne’er forget those who ha’e been lost.”

“Indeed, a truth well spoken,” Malcolm said. “But I would ha’e thought the words to come from the Lady Douglas?”

Lady Douglas, at that particular moment, looked aghast.

Malcolm took a sip of whisky. “Nathair, sit yer arse down. ‘Tis nae time for disagreements. We will ha’e a peaceful gathering this day.”

Frowning, Nathair sat.

Malcolm turned to Lady Douglas and took her small hand in his. “I am vera sorry for yer losses. In these turbulent times we ha’e all lost people we held dear, regardless of the reasons we fought or for whom.”

              The crowd relaxed, and just in time, for some would’ve drawn swords at Nathair’s accusation.

Nessa’s eyes beseeched Sorcha to keep her mouth shut. She smiled weakly, withdrew her hand from the Highlander’s, and took a robust gulp of whisky. “I’m afraid my maid doesna ken when to curb her tongue. She is vera honest and loyal to this clan.”

“Loyalty is surely a trait to be admired,” Malcolm said, studying Sorcha with curiosity. “As much as honesty. Do ye ken just before I entered this keep she challenged me to a contest with her bow and arrow? She claims to be a better shot than any man. I wonder if she is being honest about that?”

              “She…what?”

“The challenge still stands, Highlander. I began shooting arrows when I was four summers, and after years of practice, I got vera, vera good at it.”

              “It isna difficult to hit a fat stag with a hunting bow,” Nathair said. “But there is a vast difference between a hunting bow and a bow made for war. A man’s strength is necessary to bend a great yew stave, which is twice as stiff as a hunting bow. I wonder if ye e’en ken how to use the bow ye held in the tree or if it was just for show. Do ye ha’e a brother, and is it yer brother’s bow?”

              Sorcha felt a stab of pain thinking about the brothers she’d lost. She pinned Nathair with her heated, proud gaze. “It is
my
bow. I can hit a hare, or a Highlander’s fat arse, at seventy paces. And there are ways to compensate for lack of strength.”

The Douglas men laughed and raised their cups.

“Enough!” Lady Douglas barked. “Let us talk no more of politics, stabbings and silly contests. After the e’ening meal ye’ll be given a tour of the castle, Malcolm, and we’ll see to yer accommodations. I suppose tomorrow ye’ll want to see the grounds. We can ride out to the chapel and the village and along the shores if ye like. There are some vera interesting auld stones and caves near the cove.”

              “That would be agreeable,” Malcolm said.

              Inwardly, Sorcha seethed. Of course he would find it agreeable.
The laird would go out to survey his new domain on the morn and judge its worth.
She felt a pall of despair in her chest as she thought of the days ahead, the deceit she would need to practice, of having to bear Malcolm’s presence until he was finally driven away. How long would it take? She could barely contain her resentment as she retreated to the kitchen and returned with oatcakes.

“I think a bit of fun would be in order on the morrow,” Malcolm said. “We will ha’e that bow and arrow contest. It will be good sport for the men to watch.”

Sorcha stared openly at Malcolm, meeting his gaze, aware of his curious, penetrating stare. Malcolm did not
look
like a mad man. His prominent cheekbones and jawline and a straight nose complemented a well-defined mouth and his amber eyes were framed by dark lashes. Sorcha shifted her gaze to Nessa, whose cheeks were now flushed in the presence of the handsome Highlander.

Nessa looked as if she’d just remembered she was supposed to be the rude and uncouth Lady Douglas and was being far too polite. She drained the rest of her whisky and made a production of wiping her mouth across the sleeve of her gown. Inwardly, Sorcha winced. It was her favorite gown. The costly fabric had been imported from Paris. But it was a small sacrifice to make, considering what was at stake.

Malcolm raised his brows in surprise but quickly masked his expression as he brought his goblet to his lips. Nathair, on the other hand, was openly amused by the lady’s ill manners. “Between the outspoken maid and her lady’s lack of decorum, I feel oddly at home here,” he said, “Lady Douglas, ye do remind me of my own sister Dolina. Malcolm, do ye feel at home here?”

Before he could answer, Sorcha turned and knocked Malcolm’s goblet over, making it look like an accident, the golden liquid spilling across his lap.

The Lady Douglas stood and made to slap her maid’s face but her arm was caught firmly in Malcolm’s grip.

“Dunna strike her,” he growled. “’Twas an accident.” A muscle in his jaw twitched. “If she’s as clumsy with bow and arrow as she is with a goblet of whisky, it will be a short-lived contest on the morrow.”

There was laughter from his men but silence fell as a thin, dark-haired man dragged himself from the shadows. His face was sallow, half of it bubbled and scarred as if someone had poured hot oil on his skin. He looked angry with Lady Douglas. He opened his mouth as if to speak but no words came forth.