CLAIMED BY A HIGHLANDER (THE DOUGLAS LEGACY Book 2) (38 page)

“How would ye like to go hunting?” Rory asked.

“With you?” The boy’s face lit up like a torch. “When? Tomorrow?”

“I have business away from the castle tomorrow.” Rory had asked before he’d thought it through. He had a dozen things he ought to do instead of hunting, but when he saw the look of disappointment on the lad’s face, he said, “But I’ll take ye the next day.”

Before he left, he ran his hands over the pony to see if he could discover what made him bolt. His legs and hooves were fine, and he had no sores from the saddle rubbing. The pony did have a couple of raised bumps on his rump, but nothing unusual for a horse.

Anything could set off a horse—a bee sting, a sudden noise, a nip from another horse. Luckily, there was no harm done.

***

Rory and his men rode across the Black Isle to the great red sandstone cathedral that had stood for more than three hundred years on the MacKenzie side of Moray Firth. Several highborn MacKenzies were buried here, along with a few Frasers.

Alex was waiting outside for them.

“Hector and his men arrived first,” Alex said. “They and the bishop are waiting for us inside.”

“I’m surprised the bishop is allowing us to bring our men inside.”

“They must disarm, of course, but they are invited to bear witness to the bishop’s peaceful—nay, miraculous—resolution of this dispute.” Alex rolled his eyes. “The bishop appears to relish his role and wants to be lauded for it.”

Rory drew a deep breath and crossed himself as he stepped inside the cathedral’s hallowed walls. Even in the dim light of the cathedral, the bishop was hard to miss standing in the middle of the nave with his arms outspread and wearing his red silk tunic, snowy white gloves and stockings, a large, bejeweled cross, and purple ropes of braided silk embroidered with gold thread hanging from his neck.

Hector’s men stood to the bishop’s left along the north aisle. Rory thought he had steeled himself to see his uncle, but a blinding rage took hold of him when he saw Hector.

The bishop cleared his throat. “Shall we begin?”

Rory walked past the bishop to stand toe to toe with his uncle.

“Are ye not afraid of being struck down in this holy place?” Rory said. “The blood of my brother is on your hands.”

“If you’re speaking of our sadly departed chieftain, I did my best to protect him,” Hector said. “But where were you when your chieftain needed you? You abandoned him, that’s what ye did.”

Alex hauled Rory back and said in his ear, “Don’t let him bait you.”

“Shall we turn to the matter that brought us here?” the bishop said. “I understand that you, Hector of Gairloch, have an offer to make.”

“We can end this conflict right here, right now, without bloodshed,” Hector said. “They pay good money for fighting men in Ireland and France. With a good ship and thirty strong warriors, a man could make a new life for himself.”

Rory was stunned by his uncle’s proposal. Surely Hector would not agree to go so easily.

“I give ye three days to accept my offer and leave MacKenzie lands,” Hector said. “If ye don’t, the blood of MacKenzies will be on your head.”

“I came here to discuss the terms under which my uncle will cease his rebellion,” Rory said. “If it takes bloodshed to end it, then so be it.”

Rory was furious that Hector and the bishop had brought him here for nothing.

“Wait,” the bishop said when Rory started to leave. “I believe Hector of Gairloch has brought evidence bearing on the question of who is the rightful MacKenzie chieftain.”

“I
am
the MacKenzie, the 9
th
of Kintail.”

“By what right,” Hector said in a voice that carried to every corner of the cathedral, “do ye claim that honor?”

“Ye know verra well by what right,” Rory said. “I have been chosen by our clan, and I carry the blood of chieftains from my father and his father and his father for as long as there have been MacKenzies.”

“Your mother was not wed to my brother when ye were conceived,” Hector said.

“Their marriage may have been irregular, but my father claimed me, as you and everyone in the clan knows.”

“My brother was so bedazzled by Agnes Fraser that he was blinded to the truth,” Hector said. “She was with child by another man before she ever went to my brother’s bed.”

Rory’s vision was tinged with red. “That is a lie!”

“Your mother was a whore,” Hector said.

Rory lunged for him, but Alex and several other men rushed between him and Hector.

“This is hallowed ground!” the abbot shouted, holding his hands up. “Any man who sheds blood here commits a sin against God.”

“Not here,” Alex said as he held Rory’s arm. “Not unless ye want yourself and the whole clan excommunicated.”

The bishop appeared to motion to someone behind Rory. He turned to see the figure of a hunched woman emerge from one of the chapels built into the south aisle. He did not recognize the woman at first. But when she stood in the light of the candelabra next to the bishop, he knew who she was.

“Isn’t that Mother’s old servant?” Alex whispered.

“Aye. She’s also a wise woman.” Rory felt as if a hole was opening beneath his feet. “And a midwife.”

Rory knew what was coming. He should leave now, but something compelled him to stay and watch the disaster unfold.

The bishop made the old woman hold the large, heavy cross he wore and swear by the blood of Jesus Christ that every word she spoke was true.

“My mistress,” she began in a soft voice.

“Louder,” the bishop told her.

“My mistress, Lady Agnes, was with child by one of the stable lads in her father’s castle and was frantic not knowing what to do about it,” the old woman said, glancing several times at Hector. “When the MacKenzie chieftain laid siege to the Fraser castle and demanded to wed her at once, Lady Agnes believed her prayers were answered, and readily agreed.”

“How do you know this?” the bishop asked.

“I was her personal maid, and she confided in me,” she said, with another furtive glance at Hector. “I’m a skilled midwife as well and helped her deliver the child. She confessed to me again then that the babe was her lover’s babe, and I agreed to say he was born early.”

Hector had coerced the poor woman to say these lies. Rory should have foreseen this. The damage was done now.

“And who was this child?” the bishop prodded her.

“It was him, Rory.” The old woman looked at him for the first time, and there was sorrow in her eyes. “He was a fine, fine boy and always her favorite.”

“I forgive you,” Rory told her in a soft voice.

A tear trickled down the old woman’s cheek.

“I am the MacKenzie,” Rory said, locking gazes with Hector. “And one day ye will answer for this.”

Then he turned and walked out of the church.

“You can never be the true chieftain when ye don’t have chieftain’s blood!” Hector shouted after him. “You’ll bring bad luck to yourself and the clan.”

Rory kept walking.

“You’ve no right! I warn ye, you’ll lose everything and destroy the clan.” Hector’s voice rang out through the cathedral. “Everything ye touch will turn to ashes.”

CHAPTER 41

The river was swollen from the winter rains, and the rushing water drowned out other sounds as Rory and the Grant lad walked the trail along its bank. He was glad to be away from the demands of the castle for a couple of hours. Between his troubles with Sybil and yesterday’s meeting at the cathedral, he needed the chance to clear his head and think.

Kenneth picked up a rock and threw it into the water.

“Mind ye don’t go near the edge,” Rory said, pulling him back. “The ground is slick with mud and the current is fast. If ye slipped and fell in, you’d drown long before I could get ye out.”

The lad nodded and looked up at him with his usual serious expression. “I won’t fall in.”

Farther up the trail, Rory caught sight of a flash of brown through the trees and signaled to Kenneth to keep quiet. Moving silently into the wood, he stalked the animal for several yards until the stag, sensing danger, paused and lifted its head, ready to bolt.

Holding his breath, Rory drew back his bow and took aim. Ach, this fellow was a beauty. Just as he was about to release the arrow, a child’s scream rent the air and echoed off the hills.

Rory dropped his bow and ran through the woods toward the boy’s shouts. He’d gone farther from the path than he realized, and it seemed as if he would never reach the river. When he did, he caught sight of the boy a hundred feet downstream, his head bobbing in and out of the water.
Jesu.

“Kenneth!” Rory shouted. “I’m coming!”

His heart was in his throat as he raced down the path. The fast current was carrying the lad downstream toward the falls.
Just like my mother.

This was not the same river, not the same falls, but Rory felt as if he was in the nightmare he’d had a thousand times, in which he watched her body being swept over the falls and battered by the rocks. He could not let that happen to the boy.

He flew over the ground until he was just past where the boy was in the river. In an instant, he jerked off his boots, stripped out of his heavy clothes, and dove in. The icy cold hit him like a wall of ice.

He looked around frantically. God have mercy, he could not see the lad anywhere.

“Kenneth! Kenneth!” He could hardly hear his own voice over the rushing water. “Kenneth!”

He feared the lad had been sucked under and drowned when Kenneth’s head popped up some distance ahead. The current was pulling him downriver, ever closer to the falls.

He was only thirty feet away, but it seemed a mile. Rory closed the distance to twenty feet, then ten. Kenneth’s head sank and popped up and then sank again. Rory swam as hard as he could toward where the boy had gone down. A heavy tree branch rammed into him, knocking him sideways, but he kept his eyes fixed on the spot where the boy should be.

The roar of the falls grew louder, pounding in his ears. In his mind’s eye, he saw the boy’s battered body at the base of the falls. He had to reach him
now
.

“Kenneth!”

The lad’s head broke the surface just beyond his reach. Rory lunged and caught hold of his shirt. Wrapping one arm around the lad, he swam like hell for the shore. The fierce pull of the current was like a giant beast trying to drag them over the edge. He could see the drop of the falls on the edge of his vision.

With his free arm, he caught hold of a low-hanging branch. He pulled himself and the boy along the branch toward the riverbank until he gained purchase with his feet. The stones were slippery with algae, and he went down, banging his injured leg, but he managed to keep the lad’s head above water and regain his footing.

Finally, he climbed out and crawled onto the bank.

He was on his hands and knees, gasping for air. Water streamed into his eyes as he looked down at Kenneth’s still form.
Jesu,
he was not breathing. Quickly, Rory turned him on his side and slapped him between his shoulder blades.

Breathe, Kenneth! Breathe!
Rory thumped his back again.
Breathe!

The lad’s small body convulsed, and he coughed and choked as water gushed out of his mouth.
God be praised.
Rory sat back on his heels and let out a shuddering breath.

The boy rolled onto his back and looked up at him with wild eyes.

“You’re going to be all right,” Rory said as he wiped Kenneth’s face off with the edge of the lad’s sopping shirt.

The lad’s skin was blue, and he was shivering like a frozen leaf in a winter storm. Rory scooped him up against his chest, heaved himself to his feet, and started down the path.

“I left my plaid up the trail,” he said, talking to reassure the boy. “We’ll get it and dry ye off.”

When Rory reached his pile of discarded clothes, he stripped the boy of his wet clothing and wrapped him in his plaid. Then he held him and rubbed his back and limbs until Kenneth finally stopped shaking.

The lad was bruised and bleeding, and his face was so pale that the sprinkling of freckles across his nose and cheeks stood out. He could have worse injuries Rory could not see. Rory had to get him back to the castle quickly. When he lifted him in his arms again, he seemed so small and fragile.

Sybil’s words came to him.
The lad needs you.
Ye must protect him.

She was right. His life could be extinguished in a careless moment. And nearly was.

Rory had tried to ignore this child, to deny the blood tie that would take everything away from the son he hoped to have with the woman he loved, the son who should be his heir. Sybil had been wiser, and certainly more generous, and embraced the truth.

Holding this child in his arms now, he needed no proof. He felt their blood bond. He could no longer deny that this copper-headed lad was his. And he did not want to. He prayed it was not too late.