Kate Robbins - The Highland Chiefs Series 03 (13 page)

As a child, she had thought nothing could ever harm her brother. Fierce and strong, he was the one everyone cowered from, but also looked to for protection—he was feared by his enemies and trusted by his clansmen. She could not imagine what Nessia was going through having lost her first husband, and Freya’s brother, William, to the Sutherlands two years ago. Losing Fergus on top of it, and to the same family, would surely turn the woman mad with grief.

They went along a bend in the road and before them stood the towers of Dunrobin Castle. Freya’s belly tightened and her guts heaved. She would have to face Ronan soon. What would she say to him? Marry him now as Alexander had suggested? Not a chance in Hell. She would rather stick a blade him as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

Their horse meandered down the path leading to the castle and the land flattened. Once, she had thought Dunrobin was beautifully situated with the lush lands before it and the sea at its back.

What stood before her now was a vessel that had birthed evil and grown it into a seething, sickly mass of poison set to destroy everything in its path.

“Are you well enough to help the other two?” Neville’s voice brought her back to the present.

She turned her head to the side. “Aye, Neville. I can help them. Do you have a plan?”

“I do not, but keep your eyes open, lass. I believe the Sutherland will use you in his schemes, but will grow tired of you soon enough. Remember that. As long as you are useful to him, I believe he will not harm any of you.”

“What schemes?” she whispered.

“Oh, that one is up to a lot of no good, lass. All you need to do is keep your wits about you and listen to your heart. It will always guide you in the right direction, as it always has.”

“You there!” Alexander Sutherland rode up along-side them just then.

He picked Freya off Neville’s horse and placed her in front of him.

“You will ride into Dunrobin with me.”

“As you wish, my lord,” she said as evenly as she could. Attacking him last night and his resulting arousal was not in her plans to repeat. She prayed complacency would at least keep her from a beating—or worse. Neville was right, once he tired of her, she would be handed over to the guards. Then the real hell would begin. No. She needed to find a way to keep his attention without exciting his interest.

“Ah, lass. If you think you will win me over with pleasantries, you are mistaken. I have one purpose for you and one purpose only.”

“And what is that, my lord?” she dared to ask, keeping her voice soft.

His arms squeezed tighter around her. “Do not think I am not familiar with the ways of loose women. I am aware of your affair with my nephew, young Freya, and so I am immune to your whorish ways. I will not fall into any of your traps.”

Her stomach dropped. She had been forewarned often enough from Nessia of the repercussions of continuing an affair out of wedlock. At the time, nothing seemed to matter more than spending time with Ronan. Still, this man’s words implied far more than censure.

“My lord, I do not mean to offend you. I merely ask what your intentions are.”

“You will find out soon enough. My nephew has made his wishes clear; who am I to deny family?”

The menace in his tone made the hairs stand up on her neck. She did not know what was worse, marriage to Ronan now, or living under the same roof with the monster at her back.

When they arrived at Dunrobin, a scurry of activity greeted them. Men and women lined up to greet them, with their hands clasped at their front and their heads bowed low in submission. These were not people happily anticipating their laird’s arrival. They were afraid.

Freya dismounted without his assistance after Sutherland. His raised eyebrows and smirk only made her chin lift higher. She looked around to find Muren and Morag being drawn forward. Neville was nowhere in sight. Good. She was comforted enough just to know he was nearby—one savior among a den of demons.

Chapter Thirteen

The scent of incense burned his nostrils as he waited for the chapel to empty. Ronan took stock of the people shuffling toward the door. Dornoch was a bustling hub, but the din in the sanctuary was so low, the crowd could be cut in half or less. A sombre crowd then. Was that a sign of just how bad life had become for these people?

He kept his hand over Allain’s mouth to ensure he did not give away their hiding place in the shadows. As much as he would like nothing more than to snap the man’s neck right now, Allain held important information necessary if he was to secure the bishop’s assistance and free his mother, his sister, and Freya.

How had it all gone so wrong so fast? One moment, he was close to claiming Freya once and for all, and in the next, he feared he would never see her again. He shook his head. He would not let his thoughts go down that path. He needed to stay focused on the individual steps toward success.

Soon, the chapel was empty, save for the priest and the bishop. Ronan stepped out of the shadows with his prisoner and approached the men.

“Ronan, my son,” the bishop gasped, his eyebrows nearing his hairline in surprise.

Ronan grinned. Was there also a little fear in the man’s eyes?

“I wish I could say it is good to see you, your grace. However, since your endorsement of my uncle’s campaign has cost me everything but my life, I fear you will earn no pleasantries from me.”

Bishop Strathbrock frowned and held out his hand. Ronan looked at it and shook his head. “You will get no such devotion from me either. Do you know what you have unleashed?”

Ronan shoved Allain forward. The man fell to his knees at the bishop’s feet and stayed there with his head bowed.

“This man needs to beg forgiveness for his sins. Is there anyone here qualified to hear him?”

The priest, a man Ronan had never seen before, stepped forward.

“Now see here, young man—”

“I am not just any young man. I am Ronan Sutherland, and I tell you what I see,” Ronan said. “I see men who would rather line their own pockets than consider the lives of those they doom in doing so.”

The bishop stepped around Allain and grasped Ronan’s shoulders. “I agree with you, young Sutherland. I have erred in my judgement of your uncle, and of you. The situation is grave and delicate and may take some time to rectify, however.”

Not if he could help it. “Take some time? You cannot be serious. Time is the one thing we do not have. The MacKays have been attacked, the MacKenzies march into a trap, and I have blades pointed at me from all sides. How much more dire do you think the situation needs to become before you will act?”

“Your grace, does he speak the truth?” the other priest asked. Then to Ronan, “I am Father Sinclair. I have only been in these parts for a few weeks, but I have seen a great change in the people coming into the parish. There is desperation in their eyes and they speak of the earl’s wrath.” He turned back to the bishop. “If there is a way to stop this man, I would offer any assistance I can in order to speed it along. One life lost is too many.”

Those were the sanest words he had heard in the last day and night. There was no time to lose. His uncle gained more ground with each passing moment, and the sooner he was stopped, the more lives would be saved.

“You must reverse the writ,” Ronan demanded.

The bishop’s face grew pale and he dabbed at a sheen of sweat on his brow with a cloth he pulled from inside his vestments. He moved to a pew and slumped down into it.

“It is not quite as simple as that, my son. You see the king has endorsed the writ—”

“You told me the king’s counsel endorsed the writ. I am telling you that we not only need it reversed, but we may well need the king’s army to contain my uncle, or there will be nothing left of the Highlands to rule, to hear your sermons, or to save.”

“You suggest he travel to Edinburgh?” Father Sinclair asked.

“Aye. As soon as possible. ’Twill be a good three days for you to get there if you leave this night.”

“I fear my bones will not withstand the journey.” The bishop’s pallor turned grey.

Father Sinclair looked between both men and frowned. “I would have to agree with him, Ronan. Look at him. He will never even make it to Inverness in his aged state.”

“What do you suggest?” Ronan asked.

The bishop looked up. A serene look washed over him. “I will draft a letter to the king and Father Sinclair will deliver it. With my seal, he will be able to place it directly into King James’s hands.”

“And what will you write in this letter?”

“I will request immediate reversal of the writ, and your reinstatement as Earl of Sutherland. I cannot promise the king will agree, but I will do this, as I know it is the right way of things.”

Father Sinclair provided parchment, quill, and ink. Within an hour, he was packed and ready to make the journey south.

“I can make better time than three days, Ronan. You must have faith all will be well.”

“Thank you, Father. I am grateful for your clear vision in these dark times. Believe me when I say we fight the Devil himself here.”

Father Sinclair nodded and left the chapel.

* * *

Freya had only been to Dunrobin once, and that was with her sister-in-law two years earlier, when they had tried to save Fergus from Artair Sutherland’s clutches. At that time, she was young and reckless enough to be oblivious to the real dangers women faced when in the company of bloodthirsty men.

Anyone fool enough to provoke them would find out soon enough just how dangerous men can be. As she gazed down along the table at the hungry gazes of the Sutherlands, she shifted Muren’s chair marginally closer to hers. The lass was smart enough to keep her gaze lowered and her mouth shut. Morag on the other hand had wailed like a banshee when one of the guards had approached them earlier, lifting a piece of Muren’s hair and inhaling. She had attacked like the mother lion she was and had a bruised and swelling eye to prove the folly in her efforts.

The rest of the day had passed without incident. The three women were locked into a guest chamber and subsequently bathed, fed, and dressed. Sutherland had insisted they dress and join him for dinner each evening. Why he insisted on the guise of pleasantries, when clearly there were none, defied her understanding. He had yet to join them. And on that note, she wondered where Ronan was as well. Sutherland had said his nephew awaited them at the castle, but from what she gathered, he was absent.

Not that gathering information was easy. She gleaned as much as she could from snippets of conversation, but the only definite thing she could be sure of, was that Ronan was not at Dunrobin Castle. Then where the hell was he?

She did not have to wait long to find out. A hush fell over the table prompting her to turn in the direction of everyone’s gaze.

Her breath caught in her throat as she watched Alexander Sutherland enter with Ronan by his side. Their gazes locked for one moment and she thought she recognized a flicker of the man she had loved, but then it was gone. His gaze hardened and he looked away. When they approached the table, Ronan bent low to kiss his mother’s cheek and in turn Muren’s. He did not bestow the same upon Freya.

“MacKay,” he said to her, his tone tight.

She gasped. MacKay? He had never called her thus. Ever. The last inch of her heart split and she now knew she had lost him. She could not hide the sorrow in her eyes as she lifted her gaze to meet his. His jaw ticked, but his countenance gave away nothing.

“I see she is not the love of your life, as I have been told, my nephew. Perhaps she does not deserve to sit at a Sutherland table after all. Shall I return her to her chamber until we decide what to do with her?”

Long moments passed as Freya held her breath. Ronan’s hard stare bore holes into her soul. It tore her apart from the inside out. How was it possible he had convinced her so thoroughly of their love?

“She should not be at this table, Uncle,” Ronan said. “Nor should any of the ladies. We have much to discuss regarding the MacKay and MacKenzie alliance to attack us. The women will only do as women always do—get in the way of men’s business.”

Freya jumped to her feet knocking her chair back in the process. “You bastard!” She spat at Ronan and lurched at him with fists raised, but a guard caught her by the waist, holding her back. The tick was back in Ronan’s jaw, and just for an instant, a flash of the man she knew was back in his eyes.

Morag and Muren stood beside her and Freya saw his glance fall on them. His expression softened.

“Take them back to their chamber,” Alexander said. “See to it they are guarded and no one goes in or out.” He then placed his arm around Ronan’s shoulder and led him to the head of the table. “Come, my nephew. Tell me everything you’ve learned of the MacKenzie’s battle tactics. It will aid us greatly in the coming weeks.”

Freya looked over her shoulder as Ronan took his seat on his uncle’s right hand side. He did not glance her way, rather filled a goblet full of ale and drank deeply. Her brow furrowed. Ronan did not usually drink ale. He slammed the goblet down and poured again. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she wondered if he was trying to tell her something.

* * *

After three goblets of ale, Ronan was feeling the effects enough to stay calm and stick to his plan. After leaving the bishop, he visited the sheriff and was assured Allain would be properly secured. The only logical place to go from there was Dunrobin and figure out what his uncle was up to.

He had succeeded in making Allain’s arguments to his uncle and convincing him they wanted the same thing—MacKay and MacKenzie clans destroyed. His uncle seemed gleeful at the prospect of them working together—Ronan had to work hard to not throttle the man.

Walking into the great hall and seeing Freya again nearly made him forget everything and go to her. By doing so, he would reveal too much and they would all be hanged by dawn. No, he needed to convince his uncle he could be trusted until the king’s army came to their aide. He just prayed Freya would keep her cool until then.

The hurt in her eyes drove daggers into his heart. Would she ever forgive him once this was all over? Even if she did not, at least she would live.

“Now, my nephew. You say they are seaworthy, these MacKenzies.” He stroked his beard. “I may have use of ships when our campaign drives us southward.”

Southward? Did the man covet all of Scotland?

“Aye, they are seaworthy. Though we could not make it ‘round Duncansby Head.”

Alexander chuckled. “No doubt because the men were soft in the belly and too unused to a flogging.” He leaned forward. “You see, men, like women, need to be reminded of their place as often as possible.”

At that moment a young serving girl came with another pitcher of ale and placed it before her laird. He grabbed her arm and twisted until her head was inches away from his groin.

“And kitchen wenches should know better than to approach a laird’s table unbidden.” He shoved her away and threw the pitcher at her, covering her with the draught. The silver pitcher clanked its way across the floor.

Ronan stood, his chair scraping the wooden floor and his uncle’s attention honing in.

“We do ourselves no justice by wasting good ale, uncle.” Ronan picked up the pitcher and placed it back in the maid’s hands. “Now go and fill this up and do not be so clumsy next time.”

Her eyes grew wide and he saw the hint of a smile on her lips. He shook his head in warning. She appeared to catch his meaning when she lowered her head and then bobbed it once as if to nod. Shannon. He recognized her and recalled her father, Hamish, recounting the stories she had told him. At least he had one in the castle he might the able to rely on.

He had almost given himself up in that moment and had to recover quickly. He would need to be smarter and more careful in order to pull this off.

“As you wish, my nephew,” Alexander said. “I see no need to be kind to any of them, as they will serve me in the same manner, regardless if I waste good manners on them or not.”

Christ’s blood, his uncle really was a monster.

“The servants are the least of our concern right now,” Ronan said. “As I told you earlier, the MacKenzies are a very real threat. You must make ready for attack. With all due respect, you have not been through a war up here in a very long time.”

“You speak the truth, but if the so called formidable MacKay defences were any indication, I have nothing to fear from the MacKenzies. Their numbers may be significant, but they cannot harm me, or beat through my army.”

This was what Ronan wanted most. A definitive account of just how much man-power his uncle wielded. Only then could he find a way to get word to the king’s army and the MacKenzies so they could properly prepare.

“You are certain of your numbers, Uncle?”

Alexander cocked his head to the side and narrowed his gaze. He leaned forward, and for the second time that evening, Ronan was certain the man saw into his very soul. Ronan worked to keep his countenance calm, focusing on his even breath.

“I am very certain of my numbers, young Ronan. And if you think five thousand men is not enough to defeat those worthless MacKenzies, you must tell me what secret weapon they possess.”