Buch lesen: «A Highland Feuding»
Safe in her Highlander’s arms!
After discovering her role in her father’s plot to destroy another clan, Sorcha MacMillan risks her life to go into hiding. Her safety relies on her disguise, but she is drawn to a man who could see through her...
Unknown to Sorcha, Alan Cameron has been sent to track her down. He’s attracted to the woman in disguise. Even after learning her true identity, he can’t overcome his instinct to protect her. No matter the danger, he will keep Sorcha safe...and claim her as his bride!
Sorcha could not explain her reaction to Alan Cameron.
Of all the men here, he was the most dangerous to her. God forbid she should slip up and err in front of him. What had James said about him? Ah, aye, that he was a tracker. He found and sorted clues to find missing things and people.
All the enjoyment she’d felt during the last few hours soured as she realised he was the worst possible man for her to spend too much time around. Her inexperience with men while under her father’s protection had left her with little knowledge of how to protect herself from him.
Sorcha understood the danger of him. Of his appeal. Of his smile. Of the way he met her gaze and stared back. But for tonight she would allow herself the weakness of savouring those few special moments during which he’d been with her.
Author Note
While I was researching I came across information about the three-centuries-long feud between two powerful Scottish clans–the Mackintoshes and the Camerons–and knew I’d found a wonderful source of stories. That’s how A Highland Feuding began–as a way to share many generations, many locations and a lot of history with my readers.
Alan Cameron appeared in the first book in this series, Stolen by the Highlander, as a young man, and he even tried to be the hero in the most recent one, Kidnapped by the Highland Rogue. I took that as a message that Alan needed to be a hero in his own right. So here is his story. Though you will find some familiar faces, there are some intriguing new ones that might show up in their own stories, too.
Sorcha MacMillan is a woman lost–and she must not be found. Of course there’s nothing more enticing to a man experienced in finding things than that. Drawn in by her vulnerability, Alan discovers many of his own secrets in this story as he seeks out Sorcha’s truth.
I hope you enjoy Claiming His Highland Bride!
PS–I’ve just got home from a wonderful trip to Scotland, where I had the chance to visit Cameron lands and the Clan Museum. Let’s just say that my visit and my sightseeing and research have inspired many stories. See you soon!
Claiming His Highland Bride
Terri Brisbin
TERRI BRISBIN is wife to one, mother of three, and dental hygienist to hundreds–when not living the life of a glamorous romance author. She was born, raised, and is still living in the southern New Jersey suburbs. Terri’s love of history led her to write time-travel romances and historical romances set in Scotland and England.
Books by Terri Brisbin
Mills & Boon Historical Romance
and Mills & Boon Historical Undone! eBooks
A Highland Feuding
Stolen by the Highlander
The Highlander’s Runaway Bride
Kidnapped by the Highland Rogue
Claiming His Highland Bride
The MacLerie Clan
Taming the Highlander
Surrender to the Highlander
Possessed by the Highlander
Taming the Highland Rogue (Undone!)
The Highlander’s Stolen Touch
At the Highlander’s Mercy
The Highlander’s Dangerous Temptation
Yield to the Highlander
Linked to The MacLerie Clan
The Earl’s Secret
Regency Candlelit Christmas
‘Blame It on the Mistletoe’
Highlanders
‘The Forbidden Highlander’
Visit the Author Profile page
at www.millsandboon.co.uk for more titles.
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This last year I have been very busy with the two very special girls I call the ‘Brisbin Princesses’–Alexis and Sydney, my first two granddaughters. Watching them grow has been amazing for me. Now, with more grandbabies expected in 2017–just around the release of this book–I’d like to dedicate this book to them.
To my grandchildren Alexis and Sydney–and the new ones coming–I wish you happiness, health, success and lots of friends and family around you at all times. But mostly I wish you lots of love and books!
Contents
Cover
Back Cover Text
Introduction
Author Note
Title Page
About the Author
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Epilogue
Extract
Copyright
Prologue
Castle Sween, Lands of Knap, Argyll,
Scotland—summer, ad 1370
‘Sorcha, come and sit with me a while.’
Sorcha glanced over at her mother’s companion for permission before approaching her bed. Anna nodded, so Sorcha climbed up on the high rope-strung mattress, having a care not to sit too close. Her mother had been ill and failing for years, but the last few weeks had brought a sunken and grey look to her face. From Anna’s grim expression and her mother’s glassy, weak gaze, Sorcha understood that Erca MacNeill had little time left living on this earth.
Sliding a bit closer and reaching out to touch her mother’s hand, Sorcha found it difficult to speak. Her throat tightened and clogged with tears as she understood this might be their last conversation. With a slight movement of her eyes, her mother dismissed Anna and soon the silence was disturbed only by the sound of laboured breathing.
‘Honour,’ her mother whispered before coughing. When she regained her breath, she struggled to say two more words, two words Sorcha knew would follow. ‘Loyalty. Courage.’ More rough, deep coughing that produced blood filled the chamber. Even when she tried to hush her mother from trying to speak, the woman shook her head and forced herself to continue.
‘Mother, I pray you, do not speak,’ she urged, as she leaned closer. Careful not to press against her mother’s frail body, Sorcha felt the tears tracking down her own cheeks.
‘Honour. Loyalty. Courage, Sorcha,’ her mother whispered, tugging her hand to bring her closer still. ‘Women know it. Women live it.’
‘Aye, Mother.’ She nodded and promised, hoping it would quiet her mother’s spirit and struggles. ‘I will live it. As you taught me.’
‘You father has none. He follows a path that will lead to our destruction and your death.’
Her mother’s gaze cleared then and Sorcha saw a strength there she’d not seen in years. Her father made certain his wife was obedient and biddable, if not with harsh words and commands, then with his fists and other punishments. Yet just now Sorcha recognised something in her mother’s eyes that had been long gone—defiance.
‘Mother, you should rest now,’ Sorcha began. The tight squeezing of her hand stopped her.
‘I will not go to my death without protecting you, Sorcha. I will not allow him to sell you into a life of suffering and pain and destroy the rest. Not as I was. Not for gold. Not for power. Nor for this castle. I will not.’
The words admitted things that her mother had never spoken of between them. Everyone knew the laird was a rough man, with little tenderness or mercy within him. Everyone whispered behind their hands that he beat his wife. Everyone guessed Erca MacNeill would die soon and that her daughter would be married off and gone soon. With that, his claim on Castle Sween would weaken. He had needed a son off Erca MacNeill and she’d denied him that.
What most were not privy to was the fact that her father was in talks with a powerful chieftain in the Highlands for Sorcha’s hand in marriage. One who was surely powerful enough to shore up his claim against anyone who tried to push him out. But that was not the disturbing part of the rumours. Nay, there was something more. Something worse and more frightening to her.
She’d heard the gossip about the harsh lord whose past wives had met unhappy ends, but they’d only been rumours. As a dutiful daughter who understood her place and her value to her clan, she’d wait on her father’s word about her future. Though now, with her mother’s warning and declaration fresh, she wondered if the stories were true and if there were more to this than she knew.
One glance at the frail and failing woman on the bed told Sorcha that refusing her mother’s attempts to speak about it would exhaust her mother and upset her even more. So, Sorcha stroked her mother’s hand and nodded.
‘Tell me, Mother. What would you have me do?’ She expected some ramblings about a woman’s place and the choices ahead of her, but instead her mother spoke with clarity.
‘You must be ready. It may be before I pass or just after. Someone will come in the light of day or dark of night. Someone you know I trust will bring you word.’
‘Mother! I pray you not to say such things. You will recover...’ In that moment, the sadness that entered her mother’s eyes then, making them appear grey rather than blue, forced the truth upon her.
‘Courage, Sorcha. You must be ready.’
‘Ready for what? What do you wish me to do?’
Small beads of sweat gathered on her mother’s brow and her upper lip. Her grip on Sorcha’s hand tightened more than she thought possible with her mother’s waning strength.
‘You must run...’
Her mother collapsed then, releasing her hand. Sorcha called for Anna. The woman rushed into the chamber and brought a cup of something steaming and aromatic to the bedside. Sorcha slid away to give her room to minister to her mother. As she watched the servant tend to her, Sorcha thought on her mother’s odd and disturbing words.
And how she had spoken them. Her mother had shown no such fortitude for weeks, not rising from her bed for over a fortnight. Yet her words and her grip revealed strength hidden somewhere deep within her and now coming out.
She must run?
As Anna assisted her mother in drinking some of the concoction, the words, a warning in truth, swirled inside her own thoughts. Run from here? Run to whom or where? When Anna stepped back, Sorcha understood her mother would and could answer nothing she would ask. The grey colour spread through her neck and face and she lay listlessly on the pillows, seeming now even smaller and frailer than just moments ago. But she must try.
‘Where would you have me run, Mother? I know no one outside of our kith and kin here and none would help me and face Father’s wrath.’
‘My mother’s family would aid you. One of my cousins is an abbess in the north, if you can reach her,’ she managed to whisper. ‘And I have other cousins, MacPhersons, who would give you refuge.’
‘You would have me take holy vows?’
‘It is one escape.’ Her mother pushed herself up to sit then and waited as Anna arranged pillows to support her. ‘Once done...’
Sorcha understood that not even her father could unravel vows taken to enter the religious life. Was that a better life to face than marriage? Staring at her mother’s worn face and knowing her beaten-down spirit, Sorcha had to accept it might be.
‘Anna.’
At her mother’s whisper, her companion left her mother’s side and walked over to a place behind the door. She touched and searched along the stones until she pulled a small one free. A small leather sack came free and Anna held it out to Sorcha.
‘For you, my lady. Put it with the others and be ready as your mother instructed,’ Anna said softly.
Sorcha could feel several pieces within the sack, more jewellery from the size and shape of them. Her mother or Anna had been giving her such things for the last several months with some plan in mind. Though she wanted to press both of the women for more knowledge of whatever they planned, the grim expressions of determination that now met her own gaze told her they would reveal nothing for now. She walked back to the bedside to take leave of her mother.
‘Rest well, Mother,’ she whispered, lifting her mother’s hand and kissing it. ‘I will see you on the morrow.’ The only response was a single tear that trickled out of the corner of her mother’s eye and down her face.
Sorcha nodded to Anna as she passed her and tucked the small sack up into her sleeve, hiding it from anyone who witnessed her outside this chamber. Once in her chamber, she dismissed her own maid and hid this sack with the other parcels and bundles her mother had given to her over the last months.
As night fell and the keep and the MacMillans there settled into their sleep, Sorcha could not find rest. Her mother’s words and the other hushed words she’d heard whispered about Gilbert Cameron repeated in her thoughts, keeping her awake and adding to her confusion. Giving up the battle, she rose, lit a small tallow candle and brought out the things her mother had given her. If she organised and assessed them, mayhap she would find sleep?
She’d not kept a count of how many times her mother or Anna had given these to her, so Sorcha was surprised to discover fifteen such gifts. Though most contained small trinkets or coins, bits that could be used without drawing much attention, one ring was costly enough to raise concerns from anyone receiving it. Her mother had not worn it in years, but Sorcha remembered it as a gift passed down from her mother’s mother. A thick and wide gold band covered in precious stones and gems. Something like this would be worth...a small fortune.
* * *
Stunned by this small treasure, Sorcha had found that sleep eluded her long after she’d bundled the items up and placed them back in their hidey-hole. As the sun rose and her sleepless night ended, Sorcha prayed that her mother would not die and that word of a need to flee would not come for a long time, if ever.
* * *
‘If ever’ did eventually come for Sorcha.
It did not come when her father approached her with the news of her betrothal to the chief of the Camerons. It did not come when she dared to utter her refusal, nor did it arrive when her father punished her for her disobedience in the matter of marriage.
It did, however, come in the dark of night.
Chapter One
Achnacarry Castle, Loch Arkaig Scotland
‘It took you long enough to answer my summons.’
Gilbert Cameron’s voice echoed from where he sat—at one end of the large hall—to the place where Alan stood near the entrance. Enough arrogance and anger filled that voice that anyone not needing to be in the hall for duty or interest scurried out through every possible doorway. No one wished the chieftain of Clan Cameron to turn his eye or his ire on them. As it now was on Alan.
‘Uncle, I came as soon as I received word,’ Alan said, walking forward. A few who yet remained nodded at him, careful not to let his uncle see their greeting. When he reached the place where his uncle sat, at a long table and in the high chair of the chieftain, Alan stopped and bowed. ‘My lord.’
Alan detested his uncle, though he’d made a vow that not through word or deed or curses whispered under his breath would anyone know. The curses now were aimed at his own stupidity for, indeed, delaying before answering the call when it did come. No encounter between them ended well and probably never would. Not since his uncle had become chieftain. Truly though, not since Agneis had married Gilbert Cameron.
‘Did The Mackintosh have you dancing to his tune then, Nephew?’ Gilbert sneered out the words. ‘So that you could not answer the call of your kin and chief in a timely manner?’ A few snorts and chuckles echoed around them as some of his kin joined in his uncle’s scorn.
‘I was not in Glenlui, Uncle,’ he explained in a half-truth. ‘As soon as I received your message, I rode.’ Alan watched his uncle’s reaction to his softened and almost respectful tone and saw the moment that the man decided to move on from scorn to...
‘I require your presence,’ he said, tilting his head towards the small chamber near the corridor. ‘Come.’
Alan followed his uncle and two others into the chamber used by the steward of Achnacarry Castle and waited for his uncle to sit. From the continued silence, he suspected the subject would not be to his liking.
‘I need you to accompany me south towards MacMillan lands.’
‘Knapdale is about four days’ ride, when I travel alone.’ He always travelled faster and better alone. Several questions sat on the edge of his tongue but he held them back, waiting for more about the task. Then Alan realised his uncle’s words—towards MacMillan lands. ‘Towards their lands or to them?’
‘It seems I must go to meet my betrothed,’ Gilbert said. Alan let out a breath and shook his head.
‘Betrothed, Uncle? I did not ken you were marrying again.’
The thought of it roiled in his gut. Another woman put to the not-so-tender mercies of a cruel man who ruled with cold regard for anyone but himself. The icy gaze that felt upon Alan then told him he had overstepped once more. The only thing he could do was draw Gilbert’s attention from his anger or sense of insult to the matter before them. ‘As I said, four days.’
‘Then, since I had to wait on your arrival, ’tis a good thing we will meet them halfway.’ Gilbert nodded at the others. ‘They should be near Ballachulish now and we can reach there in two days.’ Gilbert paused when someone knocked on the closed door. ‘Come.’
‘My lord, they are ready.’ The servant delivered his message and tugged the door closed behind his interruption.
‘We leave now,’ his uncle declared. ‘Fill your skin and get some food.’ With nothing else to say, Gilbert left the chamber. Alan stood for a moment as the surprising news sank in.
His uncle, the widower of two very young and now dead wives, had sought yet another. In secret. For, if The Mackintosh had known this news, he would have shared it or asked after it with Alan. And that sent a shiver of foreboding down Alan’s spine. The old laird had been fierce and ruthless, but never had Alan not trusted him or his word. As he left the chamber and walked to the kitchen to replenish his supplies, he realised that was the problem now.
He did not trust his uncle.
Not for a moment.
Not to keep the clan’s interests placed before his own.
Nor did he trust any young woman to his care.
Alan had not known Gilbert’s first wife, Beatha, but he had known Agneis. They’d run the forests and swam the lochs together as children when she would not be left behind by the lads seeking childhood adventures. Mimicking their every action, she boldly claimed her place among them...until she reached the time when it was clear she was a young woman.
As she’d blossomed in body, Alan had even had a wee dream of marrying her, but their bond was too deep to allow him to think of her as anything but a friend. When news came that she was to be Gilbert’s second wife, he was forbidden to speak to her again.
Agneis had not wanted to marry Gilbert, but since he was high in the esteem of the clan elders and his brother the chieftain, her father forced her to it. Two years, she’d lasted. The subtle marks of abuse became more blatant but no one took her husband to task for it. Alan had not been here, had not been here for her, and he blamed himself even now for her eventual death.
Turning the corner into the corridor that led to the kitchen, Alan nodded to several people along the way, trying to make the grim smile he kenned he wore into something less threatening. He yet had many friends among the kith and kin of Achnacarry Castle and did not wish to frighten them away during this short and rushed visit.
With his uncle waiting for him, Alan did not dawdle too long in the kitchen or in the chamber he used when here.
* * *
A scant quarter-hour later, he mounted a horse and rode out with the chieftain and his men. All were warriors and accomplished at travelling hard and fast and Alan’s estimate of his own travelling time was not increased by much by their company.
* * *
Alan kept to himself during the two days on the road, as he always did around his uncle. His father’s presence could have a moderating effect on the animosity between them, but Gilbert had made certain his father was away from Achnacarry as much as Alan was. By placing him in charge of Tor Castle in the southern part of their lands, it kept his father out of sight. As they crossed out of Cameron lands his uncle approached him.
‘You will speak of this to no one,’ Gilbert said. ‘Nothing you hear or see. To no one. Unless I give you leave to do so.’
‘Certainly, Uncle,’ Alan said, nodding in agreement, still not sure of his purpose here. He was not high enough in the clan to need as a witness and not liked at all by his uncle. So, why had he been summoned then?
‘Not even your beloved Mackintoshes.’ There was so much more than disdain and dislike in his tone. Something else deeper and darker echoed there.
Alan nodded again. His uncle turned and walked away as quickly as he’d approached. Clearly, his task was done and he felt no need to speak to Alan otherwise. The comment, or command as it more felt to him, about the Mackintoshes worried him.
Something about this whole situation—a secret betrothal to the MacMillan heiress—did not feel right to him. There was no love lost between the MacMillans and the Mackintoshes or others in the Chattan Confederation. Or with the Camerons for that matter. So, why would his uncle tie himself and their clan to them? There had to be some benefit, even if just for himself and not the clan. Right now, Alan could not see it.
His father had been banished to Tor Castle though his uncle couched it in terms of loyalty and defence. When they passed by Tor without pause, Alan knew there was no one to question or from whom he could seek counsel. So, he would have to wait and see what happened when his uncle met with his betrothed. Would they return to Achnacarry or travel back to Knapdale? Would the marriage occur soon? He had many questions he dare not speak.
* * *
Any hope of getting answers were dashed the next morning as they reached the encampment of the MacMillans. A huge man wearing a grim, dark glare stood waiting for them as they approached. They drew to a stop a few yards from him and all remained mounted while his uncle climbed down and strode to the man.
There were no pleasantries spoken between them. No greetings exchanged or signs of familiarity or friendship. His uncle matched the man’s stance, feet spread wide and arms crossed over his chest, and they spoke in tones so low no one could hear. Tension rippled in the air around them as the two chieftains spoke for some time, each one’s voice getting more strident as the conversation continued. Alan studied the two men and realised that, of the two, his uncle was more at ease. Calmer. More focused. The MacMillan, who it surely must be, was agitated. Angry. Worried.
‘Alan!’
He threw his leg over the horse’s back and dropped to the ground. Well, if nothing else, he would now discover what had happened and his part to play. He strode to the two and bowed. ‘Uncle. My lord.’
‘It appears that there is a problem with The MacMillan’s daughter,’ his uncle said. Alan remained silent, for his uncle wanted to control how he spoke of this problem. And he had no doubt at all that whatever had happened was no surprise to Gilbert Cameron. So he waited. ‘She has disappeared.’
Of all the things he could have dreamt of hearing that was not one of them. Alan glanced first at his uncle and then Lord MacMillan and knew one thing. His uncle was not surprised by this news. That played into the reason for his summons, Alan knew.
‘How can I help?’ he asked, carrying out the role he was meant to have.
‘Your uncle speaks highly of your skills in finding those lost. She has been missing for nearly three days.’
There were many questions he wished to ask, all of them would be deemed impertinent or too personal, so he asked for that which he needed to begin his task.
‘When did she go missing? Where was she?’ Alan looked back at the encampment. They’d chosen a place by the river, on high enough ground to stay dry.
‘She was seen last after we had our evening meal, three nights ago. She retired to her tent and her servant saw to her. The next morning, when she was called to break her fast, the tent was empty.’
Alan nodded. ‘Take me there.’ At the surprise on the chieftain’s face at being given an order, Alan added, ‘If you please, my lord.’
With a huff, the MacMillan laird turned and walked towards the tents and the river. They passed by several larger ones, reaching the last one that lay closest to the river. The noise of the rushing river grew as they approached it. How had the lady slept with this much noise? ‘This one?’ he asked in a near shout. ‘Has anyone touched or moved anything? You have searched the area?’ he asked, believing that the laird would have done that first.
‘Aye, my men searched along the river and back to the last village. No sign of her.’ As Alan lifted the edge of the tent’s flap, the laird continued. ‘Her maid said nothing is missing from her belongings and nothing seemed awry when my daughter retired for the night.’
‘And no one else went missing at the same time? Could your daughter have gone off with one of your kin or other servants?’ Alan asked.
He paused and stood blocking the entrance for he did not wish the laird to follow him inside. He wanted a chance to search for himself. A chieftain’s daughter, a wealthy heiress, did not simply walk away from her father. There was every possibility that she had been kidnapped.
‘Have you received any demands for her return?’
‘You think she was taken?’ his uncle asked before the other could. ‘Who would do that?’
From his uncle’s expression, he’d not thought of that possibility. Why not? The MacMillan’s daughter stood as his only heir and would be worth a huge ransom. Alan narrowed his gaze, watching his uncle’s eyes. His stomach clenched then, making him certain his uncle both knew more and was more involved than the woman’s father might be.
Though he wanted to understand his uncle’s part in this, right now he needed to look for signs so he could track the woman. Good God, he did not even know her name!
‘My lord, what is she called? Your daughter? How many years has she?’ he rattled off the questions quickly. He needed to know certain things now. ‘How tall is she? Her hair and eyes—what colour are they?’
‘Her name is Sorcha,’ Hugh MacMillan said. There was no hint of affection or concern in his voice. ‘She has ten and nine years and stands to my chest.’ The chieftain marked her height on his chest then. ‘Her hair is dark brown and her eyes are blue mostly.’
‘I need some time to examine her belongings. How far downriver have your men searched?’
‘Storms raged until late last night, so not far yet.’
‘There were storms the night she disappeared?’ Alan glanced at the swollen, raging river and suspected something other than kidnap then.
‘Aye. Heavy rains, lightning.’ The laird pointed over towards the river. ‘A bridge upstream washed out yesterday. Some farmers said they’d never seen such storms or such a flow as it is now.’
Alan was filled with a strange sadness then, for he suspected the lass was not just missing but was, indeed, dead. If she left her tent for any reason and lost her way or her footing, she would have been washed away in a moment.
‘I want to search her things,’ he said. ‘If you will gather the searchers, I would speak to them as well, my lord.’
* * *
Alan spent the next hours examining the woman’s belongings, questioning her maid and the men who’d gone off searching for her and walking the course of the river for several miles himself. His uncle stood with a knowing look in his eyes and The MacMillan glared at him the entire time, giving no hint of warmth or true concern over his daughter’s loss.
From the few bits of conversation he’d overheard between the two chieftains, Alan wondered which one was the more ruthless man. He also came to realise that the lass mattered not to either of them, but the marriage and the alliance did. That was all that seemed of importance to them.
