Claiming the Highlander (5 page)

“Why did he leave Grant lands?”

“He wanted to wed Cait. He went to set up his household, but he didn’t receive enough. So she denied him. When I was summoned, he begged to come along. He wants a new life.”

“He’d fit into the clan?”

“I believe he shall.”

“The others?”

She lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know much about the men. I didn’t have many dealings with them.”

“You were reared among them.”

“We, women spend most of our time in the home. I knew all who lived and worked in the castle. I always believed my father did it so when I came to you I would not miss anyone.”

“How would you then champion the clan’s needs with me?”

Her scalp prickled. She knew his gaze bore into her. The heat spread to her face. She removed her touch, not wanting him to feel her shake.

“No need to answer, Brenna. I understand his reasoning.”

Brenna did as well. She hated her father for it. He had deepened the bond between her and Caelen, and now threatened to tear it asunder.

“The council sent them to the north of Mackenzie lands,” She said. “Far enough so they can be forgotten.”

“The council is full of fools.”

“I agree, even though our reasons are different. I know mine, what are yours?”

“Tell me yours.”

She let out a heavy sigh. “These men should be among the clan so they can be brought in to the fold. The only ones about here are Alastronia and her family and a few others.”

“This Alastronia?”

“According to Rowen, she is the most desirable of all the clan’s women. Your brother, Manus, is here each day. I think he desires her.”

* * * *

Caelen understood about wanting a woman. There had been women he felt a stirring of desire but he had never acted upon them, leaving the lasses to fall under Lachlan’s spell. Once he turned his attention to other things, he had forgotten his desire. With his wife, he couldn’t. She fit against his body. With each sway of the horse, her backside stroked his manhood. Her breast brushed his bare forearm. Her head tucked under his chin. A swirl of rosewater wafted around him and teased him with its erotic scent. He loved the way Brenna smelled—feminine, wild, and desirable so all he wanted to do was bury his nose in her neck and breathe her in.

He gave a slight shake of his head. When that didn’t work, he started reciting his Latin grammar to get the blood back in his head. He had more pressing matters, and branding her with his touch had to wait.

He’d have to solve this without both Manus and the council scurrying over to his father.

A group of five men milled about, and further behind them a small cluster of men gathered. They meandered into a line to watch Caelen and Brenna approach.

“There is Oran.” She sat straight and released her grip. She teetered, though he still held her, and dug her nails in his arms.

With one arm, he set her on her feet. She sighed her relief. So pleased to be off his mount, she patted his leg.

“My lady.” Oran fell quiet when Caelen dismounted. He squinted up to Caelen, the sun in his eyes. He bowed.

“It has been a fortnight since your arrival, so show me what you have accomplished.” The other men gathered behind Oran and looked to him. They seemed a capable bunch, brawny and straight.

“First, we set up housing. One structure, a simple one that serves our needs fae now. We are more concern wit plantin’.” Oran pointed toward the fields.

“Why did you leave the Grants?”

Brenna sent him a sharp look. The men squirmed.

Oran straightened, the top of his head reached Caelen’s chin. “I codna build a life there. The clan hadna forgotten the tales of my mother being a witch.”

“A witch?”

“Aye.” He kept his head up. “Before my birth, the crops had failed. Someone said my mother was in the fields the night before a terrible storm that drowned the crops. So, she was branded a witch.”

Oran tensed with each word. He finished his telling through clenched teeth.  

A witch’s son—that would stir up problems. Caelen didn’t believe in witches. Failing crops, sacrifices, death, and other nonsense was nothing more than the tales of a weak mind. Thanks to Scottish weather, crops were ruined. Animals were killed. People died.

That wouldn’t stop others from fearing it especially Gilroy. If there was a potion, amulet, or another foolish item to ward off the evil eye, he carried it on his person and filled his home with it. That meant Tavish would learn of this.

Brenna tried to catch Caelen’s eye. Instead, Oran met his hard regard. His nostrils began to flare. His ears reddened. Oran lowered his sight.

When Oran swallowed, Caelen asked, “Can you fight?”

“Aye an’ I will wenever I am called upon.” Conviction deepened his voice.

“These men,” Caelen asked.

Oran moved to his side and presented each man. There were ten and six men. All were young and healthy. That meant problems. Men became restless and could start fights with their pent up energy, and they needed wives. Chasing MacKenzie lasses could stir up more problems with the clan. Another problem to add to his growing list.

“I served the laird,” one of the men said as Caelen spotted Oran and Brenna off to the side but near enough not to appear suspicious. Oran was talking. Brenna shook her head. Oran emphasized his words by jutting his chin after each one. She put her thumbnail in her mouth and then dropped it when she noticed Caelen watching her. She crossed to his side, a carefree look erasing the worry lines.

What secret was she hiding?

Chapter Three

The horse wandered away again. Oran walked along the green. The loch was nearing and still he hadn’t found the horse. Every time the stupid beast was out in the field, he walked away. That animal was too important to their existence and these searches took time from the men’s day. Lucky for him, this was his day for the horse hunt.

He halted as he spotted the cottar. The horse stood there as a woman stroked his long face. Oran hurried over.

He slowed before he spooked the horse. He called out, “Good eve.”

From around the animal, a face peeped out. The most beautiful face…Oran’s mouth fell open. That was the only part of him that moved. He didn’t even blink. Riot of reds—sparking copper, sunset reds, to firing bronzes—were scraped back and revealed her cool skin. Her skin was unmarred, and she had a beautiful, creamy complexion that made the flush pink of her full mouth seem even more plump. She lifted her brows and he knew she was real.

He cleared his throat before he stammered a greeting. “I see ye hae found my horse.” He came forward, putting a swagger into every step.

“He was stealin’ frae my garden.”

He watched her wide mouth move. Her teeth were white and straight. She looked out the corner of her eye. The ghost of a playful smile twitched her mouth. He felt heat through his cheeks. She had caught him staring. He blinked. His mouth parted but he said nothing.

“Have ye come to join him?” Her sweet tone rang, and it even had the horse’s ears twitching.

Oran shook his head so rapidly his brain shook. “Nay. Nay. I wod ne’er.”

Her hand rose to cover her chuckle. He gave a low chuckle, unsure why he did. He wagered it must have been because he didn’t want her to laugh alone. “Sad, many people dinna travel this far.” That was when he saw her eyes. A stormy blue that added stubbornness to her and intrigued him more. He reached to grab his bridle, but instead rested his hand on the horse’s back.

He pointed behind him. “I hae set up a croft near ’ere so I shall be aroond ’ere.”

“Ye’re the Grants. I hae heard aboot ye.”

He spared a glance at his plaid. “I ha’e joined the MacKenzies. I am Oran.”

“Alastronia,” she replied, her tongue rolling each letter. “Umm, yer animal is wanderin’ away again.”

He tore his gaze from her bright face. “I must get him. Perhaps, I shall see ye on the morrow.”

“Perhaps.”

Oran was never a dreamer. He knew his situation—he had nothing to offer her, along with his shaky standing in this clan. Him chasing her would surely end with him rejected and pained, but he had fallen in love.

* * * *

Brenna lingered outside the stable. Thankfully, Caelen hadn’t overheard her and Oran, though he had spotted them. He had stared at her, never taking his gaze from them. From the sharp angle of his body, his curiosity was roused.

He must have of learned about her father desiring to dissolve their marriage. Her father had sent messengers to Laird MacKenzie. She wondered if he knew the exact details. She knew the reason for this marriage and she must see to the betterment of the Grants while gaining her place among the MacKenzies. With the council and with the laird’s impending passing, she might not accomplish her task. Her father would petition the king for the sheriffdom. King Alexander III was not the one who consented to the marriage. His father had. There was a chance he might have a different perspective to this union. Her father would have to prove blood relations between her and Caelen. Though there wasn’t, that didn’t mean any couldn’t be found.

Brenna scanned the courtyard, passed her gaze over the Great Hall’s stairs, and then swung them back. Neacal stood in the shadows of the doorway’s arches. He was one of the shortest men in the clan, but had a stocky build. His dark, wavy hair added height to him. When she first arrived, she hadn’t thought about him after introductions were performed, but now he had caught her attention. He lingered in the same spot. From the distance, she couldn’t see if his eyes were on her but she knew they were.

Brenna flinched when Caelen rested his hand on her shoulder. Her hand flew to her heart. His icy blue gaze ran over her, peering deeply. She peeked back at Neacal. He had vanished. Trailing alongside Caelen, she used the scant distance to push her worries away.

The torchlight flicked across the great hall and shined on the servants setting up the trestle tables. Between their conversations and the thump of the tables, Brenna started to develop a pounding behind her eyes.

“My lady,” Finian said. He darted around the commotion. “We maun speak wit ye…alone.”

“You will not speak to my wife without me present.” Caelen offered his arm.

She slipped her own through his and smiled up at him. As he had written in his messages, he was by her side and shall be the husband he vowed in his heartfelt writing. Aye, behind his warrior exterior was the heart of a romantic.

Caelen whispered in a servant’s ear on his way forward. The servants scurried out. The three men sat before the hearth, the chairs turned outward. Firelight danced over Finian’s bare head. Gilroy looked like he was chewing on his beard. His healing charm peeked between the frizzy mess. Tavish aimed his black eyes on her. His thick, black brows pinched down and matched his mouth. The truth was, Brenna didn’t like the man. He forgot himself and his position.

“There was na need to escort yer wife.”

She watched Tavish’s mouth and the way it curled when he spoke, as if he were being charming, but he only seemed to be disdainful.

“Wherever my wife is, that is where I need to be. I will not have her questioned before the council. If you ever wish to speak with her, I must be present.”

“Ye think to mak’ demands of the council. We are ’ere to follow the laird’s wants an’ wishes an’ protect this clan.” Tavish’s words held a chill.

“From the future laird? Nonsense.”

“Ye ha’en’t been ’ere.” Tavish jabbed a finger against his knee.

“Aye, but the clan’s future lies with me. The Earl of Wester Ross and Chief of the MacKenzies.”

“Na yet Laird—yer father shal’ hear of yer disturbance.” Tavish fisted his hands.

“Running to him with every worry will hasten his death.” Caelen’s back teeth grounded.

“Enough,” Finian said, as he cut his arms through the air. “Let’s focus on the issue demandin’ our attention. My lady, the laird wishes us to address yer most pressin’ duty.” A red flush spread across his face. “An heir.”

Her ears burned and her mouth dried. “I am aware of my duty. I do not require a lecture.”

“Well, one needs to be produced soon.”

“Forgive me, Gilroy, but my husband has only arrived and nine months are necessary for me to produce a son…if that. Are you asking for us to share our bedroom habits with the council or perhaps oversee the consummation? Nay.” She looked each man in the eye and then inclined her head. “Very well, that is enough about that particular duty of mine.”

Brenna dropped her husband’s arm and stepped away.

“’Tis nat all, my lady.” Finian motioned her back.

She was very close to making a regal exit.

“My lady, are ye”—he licked his lips—“tryin’?”

Her eyes bugged out her head.

“Do not put such questions to my wife.”

Brenna nodded. Her ears rang from the boom of Caelen’s voice. She turned to walk away again before she sputtered out the tirade building in her throat.

“A messenger arrived frae ye father. Tis fae ye.”

“Where is he?”

“In the kitchen, fillin’ his belly. Ye will tell us wat he says to ye,” Tavish said.

Brenna sputtered.

“That is not necessary,” Caelen pronounced.

Gilroy sent one of the guards to the kitchen. “Caelen, isn’t it only right we know what is happening?”

“And you shall when you must.”

The messenger walked in and stretched out the letter to her. With a shaky hand, she pinched the edge between two fingers. She clutched it between her hands, crinkling the paper. With a tremor in her throat, she said, “If that is all…” Brenna moved forward.

“Nay, my lady.”

She let out a frustrated sigh.

Tavish waved his hand. A guard went outside. It took all of Brenna’s very thin control not to look toward the door. The Great Hall door opened. Neacal, the laird’s commander, strolled in. Brenna schooled her face. His presence explained why he had been watching her and Caelen.

“Neacal has informed us that the Grants are causing tension among the clan.”