CLAIMED BY A HIGHLANDER (THE DOUGLAS LEGACY Book 2) Read online

  A short time later, they were saying their farewells to the Grants. Rory’s jaw hurt from gritting his teeth. Though he did not like it, he could not think of a better compromise. And what harm could it do to let the lad stay for a time?

  “If I am any judge of women, your bride is none too pleased with ye,” Grant said, and elbowed Rory in the ribs. “Mind your step, MacKenzie, or I’ll steal her away.”

  By the saints, Sybil had even won over crusty old Grant. The man tried Rory’s patience to the breaking point when he took his leave of Sybil.

  “An older man has the wisdom to recognize a woman of value when he sees one,” Grant said, and kissed her hand. “And he knows how to treat a wife.”

  CHAPTER 38

  Hector had made certain the Grant chieftain learned of Rory’s marriage, and he was looking forward to hearing how the old goat received the news. As he waited for Duncan, he rubbed the talisman of his dead brother’s ear and imagined Grant’s humiliation.

  Grant needed to pay for raising a slut of a daughter. God how Hector had wanted that lass. More than any other, except for Agnes, of course. He gritted his teeth as he recalled how he’d burned with desire when she sent a message through her maidservant that she wished to speak with him in the castle courtyard. He thought she chose a place where they would be in view of others because she was an innocent lass who protected her reputation.

  He remembered her smile as she told him she had given her virginity to Rory. I confess I can’t control myself around your handsome nephew, she’d said, all wide-eyed with feigned innocence. He would have knocked her to the ground and had his way with her until he wiped that mocking smile off her face, but there were too many witnesses.

  Aye, the Grants needed to pay for his humiliation, and it was only fitting that the slut’s son play a part in Rory’s destruction.

  When Big Duncan came in, Hector poured them two whiskies and sat down to enjoy the tale.

  “Old Grant got on his horse and rode straight to Castle Leod with his grandson to confront your nephew.”

  “Ha! I suppose it’s too much to hope that they came to blows in front of both clans?”

  “They might have, if Rory’s new wife had not smoothed everything over, as if she was churning butter.”

  Hector slammed his fist on the table. His fury grew as Duncan related how the damned woman had welcomed the lad and won over the Grants, including Rory’s castoff bride.

  “No one knows how she persuaded him, but Rory allowed the lad to stay,” Duncan said. “They say the lad sticks to her like a burr.”

  “The sly bitch.” Hector drummed his fingers on the table. “She must realize Rory can’t afford a clan war with the Grants now. And she can always rid herself of the lad later.”

  “What do ye want me to do?” Duncan asked. “Have her killed?”

  “Not her. At least not yet.” Hector went to the window and stared out over the fields in the direction of his enemy. “The Grant lad can still serve his purpose.”

  The boy was just one piece of his plan.

  “Time to sharpen our swords.” He was a fighting man and tired of sitting in Fairburn Tower. He was looking forward to the battles ahead.

  “When do I get that lass ye promised me?” Duncan asked.

  “You’ll have her after her grandmother plays her part,” Hector said. “Then ye can do with her as ye please.”

  Hector almost felt sorry for the lass. He had seen what Duncan did to the last one when they disposed of the body.

  CHAPTER 39

  Rory was training the younger men in one of the fields outside the castle when he saw Malcolm and Alex riding toward them. He signaled to the others to continue their practice, sheathed his sword, and went to greet them.

  “’Tis good to have ye back,” Rory said as he clasped arms with Malcolm in a warriors’ greeting. He squeezed his brother’s shoulders and asked, “How is your wife faring?”

  “Grizel predicts another easy birth.”

  “I hear ye had a visit from the Grants,” Malcolm said when they were out of earshot of the other men.

  “Aye.” At least Rory could rely on Malcolm and his brother to take his side regarding Grant’s grandson.

  “A bairn by another woman is not the sort of news a wife ever takes well,” Alex said. “But for Sybil to hear it from a stranger and in front of the entire household, ach, that could not be good.”

  It was not. And the longer Grant’s grandson remained under Rory’s roof, the worse the tension between them became.

  “Take advice from a man who’s been wed a long time,” Malcolm said, resting a hand on Rory’s shoulder. “Don’t let this trouble between the two of ye fester.”

  “Did Grizel send ye out here to tell me that?”

  “Aye,” Malcolm said with a smile twitching at his lips. “When we heard what happened and didn’t see Sybil in the castle, Grizel feared she’d left ye.”

  Not yet. “She’s gone off for a picnic by the river with the Grant lad.”

  “The Grant lad, is that what ye call him?” Alex said. “Folk are saying he’s your son.”

  “Saying he is doesn’t make him so.”

  “Hmmph.” Malcolm and Alex both gave noncommittal grunts.

  “This isn’t just a brotherly visit,” Alex said. “My bishop sent me.”

  “What could the bishop want with me?”

  “He’s concerned that the dispute between you and Hector will end in violence and sweep in other clans as well,” Alex said. “He says it is his duty to act as an intermediary to reconcile the two of you before the whole region is awash in blood.”

  Unfortunately, the bishop was right about the risk of bloodshed. “Tell your bishop that Hector can end this anytime he wants by coming to Castle Leod and pledging loyalty to his chieftain.”

  “Perhaps God will surprise us with that miracle,” Alex said. “The bishop, however, invites you and Hector to meet at Fortrose Cathedral tomorrow, with each of ye guaranteeing safe passage to the other. Hector has already agreed.”

  “I’d wager Hector is the one who asked for this meeting,” Malcolm said. “He’s up to something.”

  “The bishop is not fond of either Rory or me,” Alex said, “but he’ll not allow bloodshed in his cathedral.”

  “It could be useful to find out what Hector wants.” And if there was any chance of resolving this without MacKenzie bloodshed, Rory had to take it. “Tell the bishop I’ll come.”

  “He’s waiting, so I’d best take my leave,” Alex said. “I’ll see ye at the cathedral.”

  “Let’s ride out and join that picnic,” Malcolm said after Alex left. “I want to have a look at this Grant lad—and you need to make peace with your wife.”

  Rory was about to say he had no time for a frivolous outing but thought better of it. Getting to know the lad would do no harm, and it would please Sybil. If it could help mend the breach between them, he was willing to do it. Nothing else had worked.

  They had just mounted when Rory saw a line of horses galloping toward the castle. The first horse was several yards ahead of the others and had a small rider bouncing on his back.

  “The lad’s horse has bolted,” Rory said, and spurred Curan.

  Even from this distance he could see that the second rider was Sybil. Her hair streamed out behind her as she rode at a reckless pace. Sybil was rapidly closing the distance to the runaway horse while Rory and Malcolm raced toward it from the side. Rory cursed as Sybil caught up to the bolting horse, rode dangerously close side-by-side to it, and reached for its bridle.

  Suddenly, the boy’s horse stumbled and went down, flinging the boy over its head. Sybil pulled her horse up hard and jumped down. Her anguished wails filled the air as she leaned over the lad on the ground.

  Rory reached them a moment later, leaped off his horse, and knelt on the lad’s other side. When the boy opened his eyes, relief washed over him.

  “I’m all right,” the lad said, and started to sit up.
/>   “Wait.” Rory held him down while he ran his hands over the boy searching for broken bones or other injuries, then he signaled to Malcolm. “I don’t see anything serious, but take him back to the castle and have Grizel take a look at him just to be sure.”

  Sybil appeared to have taken the fall much harder than the boy. She was shaking and pale as death.

  “You’re riding with me.” He took her arm and helped her to her feet. “I’m sure the lad will be fine.”

  An hour after he left her with Grizel and the boy in one of the upstairs chambers, he returned to find the two women alone.

  “Where’s the lad?” he asked.

  “He was only bruised, so I let him go,” Grizel said. “Lucky for him, he’s blessed with a hard head, like his father.”

  Rory let that pass. “He’s all right, then?”

  “Oh, aye,” she said. “If he’s anything like you were, he’ll get himself into more trouble in no time.”

  Why did everyone assume the lad was his?

  “How many times did I bind your wounds?” Grizel shook her head and started for the door. “I’d best refresh my supplies now that he’s living here.”

  Sybil still looked shaken.

  “Grizel is a good healer,” Rory said, resting his hands on her shoulders. “If she says the lad is all right, he is.”

  “That’s not what concerns me,” Sybil said. “What about the next time?”

  “I’ll make certain he has a gentler pony until he learns to ride better.”

  “Kenneth is a good rider,” Sybil said, “and there’s nothing wrong with that pony.”

  “Nothing wrong with it? The men guarding you told me it reared and spun, trying to toss the lad off before it bolted.”

  “I know horses,” she said. “That pony is sweet-tempered. Something made him go mad.”

  “Anything could have spooked him.” Rory shrugged. “Perhaps a hare jumped in front of him.”

  “A hare would not make the pony behave like that,” she said.

  “Speak plainly.” There was something more to this, something she was not saying. “What do ye believe it was?”

  “What I don’t believe is that it was an accident,” she said. “Someone wanted to harm Kenneth.”

  “I selected the men who were guarding the two of ye myself,” Rory said. “If ye accuse them, ye accuse me.”

  “Of course I don’t believe ye would hurt a child,” she said. “At least not on purpose.”

  “Hmmph.” She seemed determined to insult him.

  “You’ve made it clear to your men that ye never intend to claim Kenneth and that ye don’t want him here,” she said. “Perhaps one of them hoped to gain your favor by solving the problem for ye.”

  “They would never do that.”

  “I’m not saying it was one of them, but don’t underestimate the power ye wield as chieftain,” she said, clenching her fists. “For young Kenneth’s safety, show your men that you accept him as your son. At the very least, behave as if ye might do it.”

  “I am chief of the great Clan MacKenzie,” he said. “I’ll not allow the Grants to coerce me into claiming that lad as my son and heir.”

  “For God’s sake, forget your damned pride,” she said. “The lad needs you. Ye must protect him.”

  “He fell off his horse,” Rory said, throwing his hands up. “Every lad does that.”

  “I’m telling ye,” she said, “Kenneth is your son, and he’s in danger.”

  “He is my guest,” Rory said, getting a wee bit angry himself. “And I will ensure his safety, as I would for any guest.”

  She stamped her foot. “There’s too much at stake for ye to be so damned stubborn!”

  “Aye, there is a great deal at stake.” He took her hand. “Our son should be my heir and the next chieftain of Clan MacKenzie. Don’t ye want that too?”

  “Nay, I don’t,” she said, and jerked her hand away. “I wouldn’t have my son be a thief and take it from the rightful heir. He’d be no better than Hector.”

  Rory tried to hold on to his temper and failed. “Do not compare any son of mine to that man.”

  “You’ve let your pride blind ye to the truth,” she said with fire snapping in her eyes.

  “And what truth is that?” he bit out.

  “Kenneth is the very image of you,” she said. “Your blood runs through that lad’s veins. As I see it, ye have a duty to him, and ’tis high time ye accepted it.”

  “So the lad has red hair,” Rory said, spreading his arms out. “Half the men in Scotland could be his father.”

  “One of the reasons I loved you—or thought I did—was that ye always chose to do the right thing, no matter the consequences,” she said. “But you’re not the man I thought ye were.”

  Though she was being wholly unjust, her words were like a blade she thrust straight into his heart.

  “Power has made ye like every other man I’ve known,” she said. “I liked ye better, Rory MacKenzie, when ye were just a warrior.”

  Having delivered her final stab to his heart and twisted the knife, she spun on her heel and left him without a backward glance.

  CHAPTER 40

  Sybil’s opinion of him now was lower than dog shite. How would he ever win her back? He could not accept the Grant lad as his just to please her. If he somehow managed to hold on to the chieftainship, claiming the lad would make him the next chief. If the lad did not have MacKenzie blood, that would be wrong. A false chief inevitably brought bad luck to the clan.

  The boy’s mother had not named Rory as the father for eight years—if then. He had only Grant’s word for her supposed deathbed confession.

  And yet it was possible the lad was his.

  He knew of no way to resolve that question, but there was another he could lay to rest. Sybil’s accusation that someone purposely tried to harm the lad would nag at him until he proved it false.

  After supper, he headed to the stables to examine the pony himself. When he asked where it was, the taciturn stable master pointed to the far corner of the stable. Rory paused when he saw a head of bright red hair pop up on the far side of the horse. His own hair had turned to auburn as he grew older, but when he was a bairn it was that same blinding shade.

  The boy kept up a steady, soothing murmur as he brushed the pony.

  “You’re not afraid of him after he bucked and bolted on ye?” Rory asked.

  The lad looked at him over the horse’s back with wide eyes. He was clearly more frightened of Rory than of the horse that had nearly broken his neck.

  “It wasn’t his fault.” The lad stroked the pony’s neck as he spoke, a gesture that Rory suspected soothed him as much as the animal. “He’s the best horse ever. I’ll not let ye take him away from me.”

  “I won’t.” Rory patted the pony’s rump. “I can see he’s a fine animal and good friend to ye. A lad needs a horse like that.”

  “Thank you, Laird MacKenzie.” The tension in the boy’s body visibly eased.

  He must have been worried sick he would lose his horse. For the first time, Rory began to see the situation from the lad’s side. He was only eight, and his family had left him among strangers and in the care of a hostile stranger. He carried no blame for his mother’s deception or his grandfather’s scheme to make him the future MacKenzie chief.

  “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.

  Anyth
ing 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.”