Highlander's Prize (8 page)

That idea rubbed his temper in a way that stunned him. The irritation went deeper than pride, and he’d be a liar if he didn’t admit it.

Faolan raised his mug. “I’ve enjoyed yer company, lads, but Laird MacNicols and I have important matters to discuss.”

Many of the men raised their tankards to their laird before turning back to dice and card games. A piper was beginning to play, along with several drummers. It was the time of night when the Chisholms retainers relaxed, the only time of day they allowed themselves the luxury of being at ease. Broen’s own men were quieter and merely sipping at the cider. The MacNicols retainers wouldn’t be at ease unless they were secured behind the walls of their stronghold, Deigh Tower.

“Ye know the way of it well, Broen.” Faolan led him down a well-lit hallway. Both men still looked at the ground to check for shadows before going too near a connecting corridor—no fortress was fail-proof, as Broen had proven when he’d stolen Clarrisa.

“But ye should also know me family has more to lose if the king gains a York-blooded son,” Faolan continued.

“Now, I will nae agree with ye on that point.” Broen followed Faolan into a chamber. He recalled it well from when it had belonged to Faolan’s father. Faolan smoothed a hand over the edge of the large table. A large chair sat behind the table, one worthy of the laird.

“I remember standing next to ye while me father scowled at the pair of us over this table.” Faolan sat in the large chair. “I still find the chair a bit uncomfortable for that very reason. I expect me sire’s ghost to arrive at any moment and begin giving me hell for the time I spend chasing the lasses instead of doing what he’d sent me to do.”

“Aye, I know what ye mean. Both our sires spent plenty of time trying to tell us how important the responsibility of being laird is, but it’s far more pressing when ye must feel the yoke yerself,” Broen muttered. But he didn’t let his guard down; suspicion was still raising the hair on his nape.

“Exactly. Hearing me father warn us to always remember what we were to become was nae the same as having to curtail me own desires in favor of what is best for me clan.” Faolan frowned. “Which brings us back to the matter of young Clarrisa and the good that can come from having her here at Raven’s Perch.”

“I stole her, so I’ll be the one finishing what I began. If ye wanted the duty, ye had the chance to speak up when yer uncle put the matter to us.” Broen didn’t sit in the chair his friend gestured to. Every muscle in his body was too tight. “Do nae betray the trust between us, Faolan. I would nae have ridden here if I doubted ye were a man I can call a friend.”

“Me position as laird is nae as secure as yers, Broen.”

Broen snorted. “Ye have a distorted view of me position, man. The Grants would love to know I’ve ridden off me land, so they could burn enough of me villages to believe they would have a chance at taking control of me clan. A few of me men would like that as well, because it would give them the chance to start the feud they are demanding from me.”

“Donnach Grant is nearing the end of his days.”

“Not soon enough for my taste. The fact that he’s getting old only promises that I’ll be hearing his son Kael has returned, a man whose loyalty none of us is sure of,” Broen insisted. “I stole the lass, so tell me where ye had her taken.”

Faolan stood, tension evident in his stance. “Wedding Daphne was the only issue we ever fought over.”

Broen nodded. “True enough. Until now, it seems.”

“Ye are nae the only one who wants justice for her death.” There was a warning in Faolan’s voice.

“I am no’ blind to that,” Broen muttered softly. “But ye welcomed me here as a friend, so let me finish what I promised yer uncle I’d do, because forcing Donnach to meet me and explain what happened will give us both the answers we seek.”

Faolan shook his head.

“Curse ye, Faolan.”

The Chisholms laird laughed, but it wasn’t a pleasant sound. “I am that, Broen. Cursed for certain, for I swear to ye I’ve seen young Daphne’s ghost.”

A shiver went across his skin, for there was a light in Faolan’s eyes that made it plain the man believed what he was saying.

“Ye mean ye’ve dreamed about her, man.” Broen softened his tone, commiserating with his friend over the topic. “Understandable, considering—”

“It was more than a dream,” Faolan interrupted. “It was so real it scared me.”

An uneasy silence filled the room. Faolan’s face was drawn tight with tension as Broen swore softly.

“I would have called any man who accused ye of being afraid of anything on this earth a liar.”

“Except we are nae talking of anything natural.” Faolan sat back down, looking older than his years for a moment. “I do nae want to believe it meself, and ye are the only man I’d confess it to, but I swear that woman is haunting me. In the darkest hours of the night in my dreams, I see her in a stone room wearing naught but a pure white robe…” His voice trailed off as he looked like he was captivated by the vision once more.

“It’s clear ye believe what ye’re saying, so it’s best I take Clarrisa to Sutherland so we can both hear the explanation of how Daphne died. Only that knowledge will end this.”

Faolan slapped the tabletop. “Nay! It’s clear I need to settle accounts, so Daphne can rest in peace. She haunts me, so I must be the one.”

“Ye are nae making sense, man,” Broen argued. “Clarrisa has naught to do with Daphne’s fate.”

Faolan straightened. “She does, and it’s me she’s haunting, so I must be the one to take the York bastard to me uncle.”

Broen looked closely at his friend and noticed the dark circles beneath his eyes. The emotion in his friend’s eyes burned brighter than what he’d ever felt for Daphne. It was a truth he didn’t care for, but he couldn’t ignore it either. Clarrisa’s face surfaced from his memory, her blond hair shimmering like a spring morning. She was far more fetching than he’d admitted to himself…
Oh
Christ.
He didn’t need that sort of trouble. Broen shook his head. Faolan snorted.

“I mean what I say, Broen. I’m taking Clarrisa to me uncle to satisfy Daphne. Since she’s haunting me, ye can just make yer peace with my decision on the matter.”

“If Daphne is truly haunting Raven’s Perch, it will take more than delivering one Englishwoman to the Highlands to get her to leave.”

Faolan grunted. “I suppose ye know a thing or two about ghosts walking the halls of yer home.”

Someone used the heavy brass knocker set on the door.

“Come,” Faolan barked. There was a hint of uncertainty in his voice, which drew a sound of disgust from Broen.

Distrust between them was a new thing—a sign of the troubled times, but it was also a result of Daphne. Broen tried to recall her dark eyes and the way they’d seemed irresistible the last time he’d seen her, but what surfaced instead was the memory of the last look Clarrisa had shot him, her blue eyes full of spirit and determination in spite of the burly Chisholms retainers flanking her petite form. There had also been a hint of regret, but he was better off not noticing that. He needed to recall that she was English, nothing else. But it seemed good sense wasn’t prevailing, because his thoughts lingered on that last look she’d sent him. He itched to take action, feeling the walls around him closing in.

“Where did ye put her?” Faolan asked his men.

Broen jerked his attention to the men who’d entered. Both tugged on the corners of their bonnets before the eldest spoke. “I put her in one of the kitchen storage rooms. She did nae give me any trouble, so I thought to spare her the dungeon. That’s a right frightful place for such a slight lass.”

Faolan frowned, appearing as though he was going to argue. The elder of the two men looked surprised, but his years gave him the courage to speak plainly. “Those storerooms have solid doors and bars. The lass cannae be going anywhere unless someone lifts it for her.”

“It would take a man, too. We used a heavy bar, one of the new iron-wrapped ones,” his companion added.

Faolan grunted. “I suppose ye’re correct. There’s lasses aplenty sleeping in the kitchens too. Well done, lads.”

The retainers left, the older one looking glad to be done with his laird’s bidding. Broen watched as Faolan waited for his men to leave the room before he emptied his cider mug.

“Ye think I’ve gone mad.”

Broen shook his head. “Nay, I think ye believe what ye say ye saw, but I’d be sorely tempted to tell ye it would be disappointing to hear ye spent the night in that chair because ye feared another encounter with Daphne. As far as specters go, she’s a fair bit better than the one I’ve got at Deigh Tower.”

Faolan chuckled, returning to the good-humored man Broen called friend. It didn’t last, though; Faolan’s grin faded until he was once more somber.

“Aye, that spirit walking yer halls is a mean one, and no mistake. Too bad ye did nae have a sister or three. If yer father had promised one to the church, maybe Deigh would be peaceful.”

“I’ll just have to make me own way, as ye will.” Broen made to leave but heard Faolan stand behind him. Broen turned and raised an eyebrow at the suspicious look being aimed at him. “I’ve had little sleep since I left yer uncle’s home, Faolan, and I do nae plan to be gone from me own lands much longer.”

Faolan nodded. “I do nae want to make an enemy of ye, Broen.”

“Then have done with this nonsense about you delivering the English lass to quiet Daphne’s spirit. I’ll gladly help ye discover who caused her soul such unrest just as soon as I deliver Clarrisa to yer uncle so I can gain that information from Donnach Grant. Me men are demanding a feud, Faolan, something guaranteed to give me plenty of sleepless nights thinking of the men who died because I failed to be a good-enough laird to maintain peace.”

Broen watched his friend clench his hands into fists until the knuckles turned white. “Think on it, man. If Daphne is disturbing yer sleep, she’s needing the same justice me own father does. Such a thing does nae come from making a prisoner of a wee English lass—even if I went and stole her, because I agree it was the best thing for us all. Honor is nae satisfied through women.”

“Ye have a point, Broen. I’m nae blind to it.” But his tone made it plain he wasn’t willing to agree. “We’ll talk more in the morning. I’ve missed too much sleep recently to be making sound decisions.”

Broen nodded before quitting the room. His men were leaning against the walls in the hallway. Shaw watched the doorway. Broen lifted his hand to keep the man silent while placing some distance between Faolan’s study and himself.

“What are ye thinking, Laird?”

Shaw asked the question quietly, but Broen could feel the weight of his men’s stares. No one was at ease, nor did they have any liking for Faolan’s desire to keep their prize.

“I’m thinking we’ll nae be getting any sleep tonight, lads. I’m feeling chilled, too chilled to remain here.” Eyebrows rose, along with the corners of his retainers’ mouths. “Gather up the rest of the men and send them out on their way home under the excuse I do nae need all me men here.”

“And how will we make our way past the gate?” Shaw asked.

“First we’ll get the lass,” Broen answered. “There’s nae point in thinking on how to pass the gate without her.”

And he wasn’t leaving without his prize. There was sure to be a priest or two who’d frown at him over his pride, but Broen didn’t pause. He made his way down the stone hallways, pinching out half the candles as he went. He left a few flickering in the darkness to make the staff think the wind had blown them out. Pitch blackness would have announced his plans. The hall was still full of merriment; the cider barrel, not yet empty. There were more pipers playing now, and couples were dancing now that the cider had made them all merry.

“Go on, men. I’ll join ye when I have the lass.”

***

The supper the Chisholms retainer brought her was cold, but it didn’t stop her belly from rumbling. Her hands shook with anticipation as her nose picked up the scent of the broken bread sitting on top of the bowl. A small ceramic pitcher of milk was left on the table before the door closed once more. With no candle, the room became nothing but shadows. Slim fingers of golden light from the hallway teased her from beneath the door. They didn’t penetrate even halfway across the room.

Well, she didn’t need to see her meal. Sitting on the narrow bed, she broke off some of the bread and tasted it. Spring was new, so the flour would have been ground from last year’s harvest. But it wasn’t musty or stale, proving the housekeeper knew her craft well. Unlike the staff in the keep in which Clarrisa had met the king.

Clarrisa tried to slow down, because she heard her own lips smacking. Maybe it was the darkness or the fear that she’d never see the sky again. Every sound hit her as louder, more intense while she consumed the meal. The milk was chilled from being stored in the cellar, the pottery cold against her fingers. She forced herself to leave half of it in the pitcher in case no one remembered to bring her breakfast.

Her thoughts wanted to whirl like a snowstorm, but with her belly full, her body longed only for rest. She lay down and pulled the single blanket over her body. Damn Maud for insisting she dress in summer linen to better display her curves. She doubted James had cared what she looked like; it was her blood he was drawn to.