Highlander Unbroken (Highland Adventure Book 8) (2 page)

The man must be more insane than Neacal, if he thought anyone could believe that line of horse dung. "No one mistreats my sister."

Sleat sighed. "We're back to that, are we? Did no one tell you? I was betrothed to the lass. We were practically married. I was merely pursuing my husbandly rights."

"That is a lie!" Neacal's whole body tensed, his instincts demanding that he palm the hilt of his sword and run the man through. "Maili didn't agree to the match."

"But Elrick did and that's all that mattered. He was chief at the time."

His elder brother had been cut from the same cloth as Sleat. No wonder the two had gotten on so well. "Women have a right to refuse when they ken the man will be an unfit husband."

Ruthlessness again glinted in Sleat's narrowed eyes before he forced a tight mock smile. "Well, cousin, I'm here to make amends and help you."

"Help me?" Neacal snorted. With friends like him, who needed enemies?

"Aye. Many in your clan were killed during the MacKenzies' siege. I've brought you two dozen of my best-trained soldiers. They'll help you defend the castle until you can rebuild your own garrison."

If any of his other allies had made the offer, Neacal would've taken him up on it, but he would never trust Sleat. Did the man think him daft? He often wondered if Sleat coveted Bearach Castle. Aye, something in his gut told him the man was greedy beyond measure. One of Sleat's sons stood beside him, looking like a younger version of his father. He was no better than Sleat. Mayhap worse, in truth. Knaves, the lot of them.

"I thank you but I cannot possibly accept your offer," Neacal said. He could pretend diplomacy as well as the blackguard. 'Twas obvious he wanted to get a couple dozen of his own men into Bearach.

"And why not?" Sleat demanded. "What will you do if a larger clan attacks?"

"I do not make enemies as readily as you do."

"Very few would dare to be my enemy," Sleat sneered.

Neacal barely held back a laugh. "You've wasted your time coming here. I have many allies. Have no worries about the strength of my clan."

"You're making a mistake, lad. If your da were here, he'd tell you the same. 'Tis dishonorable to insult another branch of the MacDonald clan."

"Do not dare bring up my da! We both ken what he thought of you." Neacal glowered at the whoreson. If his da were here, he'd tell him to chase the bastard back to his galleys. "You don't ken the meaning of honor. If you did, you wouldn't have treated my sister as you did. 'Twas you who insulted another branch of the MacDonald clan. Ours."

Sleat laughed. "You're weak, Neacal, allowing a wee lass to dictate who your friends and enemies are, letting her interfere in the business of running a clan and castle. The truth is you have few skilled soldiers. If you wish the castle to remain undefended, then so be it. Send no urgent missives begging me for help when someone lays siege to this place."

"Have no fear of it."

After one last smug smile, Sleat turned and strode away, back down toward the shore, his glowering men following.

If anyone were to attack, 'twould no doubt be Sleat himself. And when he did, Neacal had to make sure his clan was ready to fight.

***

Anna Douglas descended the stairs and entered the great hall of Bearach Castle to break her fast, noticing immediately the servants and MacDonald clansmen were in an uproar. As one of the traveling minstrels who'd arrived a fortnight earlier, she was not a member of the clan and had no right to pry into their business. But she did wonder what was afoot.

Taking a seat on the bench beside Jules, a ginger-haired lad of seventeen who traveled with them and played the flute and other instruments, she asked, "What is happening?"

"The laird disappeared," he whispered. "They wondered if he was taken hostage and were organizing a search party when some other chief named Sleat arrived."

"An enemy?" Anna asked.

Jules shrugged.

"What about the laird?"

No sooner had the words left her mouth than the entry door opened and Chief Neacal MacDonald strode in, his long black hair damp. She could not help that her gaze devoured his tall, lean and muscular form in the belted plaid. He had to be the most beautiful man she had ever seen, despite the jagged scar which marred one side of his face… and his infuriated expression.

His large, shaggy brown dog followed. Clansmen surrounded the chief, asking a hundred questions at once. He answered a couple of them before impatiently moving through the crowd. His stark, blue-eyed gaze darted to Anna and burned into her. Her breath halted. She felt trapped, her secrets and her soul laid bare.

Not stopping, he disappeared up the steps.

"Heavens, he's a strange one," her fellow singer, a matron named Harriet, muttered on her other side.

Anna frowned, her breath slowly returning. "I think he is simply misunderstood," she murmured. No one knew what secrets lurked behind those haunted blue eyes of his. The servants whispered that he'd been tortured by an enemy clan, but she did not know the details.

One part of her craved knowing everything about him, while the other urged her to pack up her meager belongings and leave immediately. Something about him frightened her. 'Twas not that she feared he would physically harm her. Nay, it was in the way he watched her intently when he thought she didn't notice. With those perceptive, intelligent eyes, he might see beneath her surface… he could discover the secrets she hid that no one could ever find out if she wished to live. Her stomach ached so severely she didn't think she could eat, but she forced down a few bites of the porridge.

The mysterious chief had barely spoken to her since she had arrived at Bearach. But why would he? She was naught but one of the five traveling minstrels, hoping to sing for their room and board. Not much better than beggars, in truth, but at least they provided a service wherever they stayed—entertainment. They made people laugh, clap and dance. She was glad to bring people joy, even though she experienced little of it herself.

The laird might order them to leave at any time and they'd have no choice but to do as he bid. They depended upon his hospitality and generosity. She didn't even know whether he enjoyed their music or not. Often, he arose from the table and left the room whilst they were playing, saying not a word to anyone.

At other times, she noticed him staring at her while she sang, his deep blue gaze sharp as the dirk he carried at his belt. He seemed a lethal blade himself at those moments. And his look of raw anguish distracted her so much she had to look away and focus on someone else in order to remember the words of the song.

When she'd sung at his sister's wedding feast a fortnight ago, she'd become aware of Neacal's attention on her, and it had only intensified since that night.

The servants whispered that the former chief, Elrick, had been a terrible leader, but they were not certain Neacal would be any better, when it came down to it, for he suffered from madness.

***

Neacal quickly climbed the spiraling stone stairs to the top and shoved out the door to the ramparts. Drawing the cool breeze into his lungs, he watched Sleat's galleys being rowed away into the distance. The bastard might be leaving but Neacal's simmering rage remained. Damn the man! After his threats and taunts, Neacal was itching for a fight. The bastard would without doubt return another day, and Neacal had to make the clan ready.

Even seeing the beautiful singer in the great hall for a moment hadn't calmed his fury at Sleat. Anytime he looked into her green eyes 'twas like a quick punch to the gut. They called her Anna Douglas and that was all he knew about her.

And why should he wish to know more?

He'd avoided women since one had betrayed him. Aye, of course, he still craved a woman now and then, but he dealt with it through physical exertion and training. That was likely the only reason he'd noticed her specifically… she was a pretty lass and her voice dug into his soul. 'Twas so beautiful that, at times, he could not endure it.

"Forget about her," he growled through clenched teeth. But he knew he wouldn't. Seeing her face, hearing her sing… these sparkling jewels had latched themselves onto his mind and wouldn't be shaken loose, taunting him to want something more. What the hell was wrong with him?

At the soft footstep behind him, warning surged through him. He whipped his head around, hand flying to his dagger hilt. When he saw 'twas only Eonan, his manservant, annoyance gored a hole through his gut. He hated it when people sneaked up on him.

"Chief?"

"Aye?"

Eonan stared at him wide-eyed for a moment. "I left your breakfast in your bedchamber."

"I thank you. Tell Matthew to assemble the men in the bailey for training."

"Very good, m'laird." Eonan hastened back down the stairs.

'Twas time to strengthen the clan and ready them for future combat, for there would always be conflict between clans. And Sleat was not deterred from whatever his twisted goal was. In fact, Neacal would wager the man was even more determined.

Though he was not hungry, Neacal descended the steps to his chamber and ate part of his breakfast. Impatient to start the training, he gave the rest of his food to Dunn and left the room. One of his bodyguards, Leith, waited in the corridor.

"Ready for practice?" Neacal asked him.

"Aye, chief." He gave a brief bow, then followed.

In the great hall, he met his sword-bearer, Matthew MacDonald. "The men are gathering for training, as you requested, chief." He quickly looked away.

Annoyance twisted through Neacal yet again. Why the hell did Matthew have a difficult time looking him in the face? This had been the case since the torture. He saw his reflection in the polished silver mirror every day and in many a pool of water on a clear day. 'Twas true, a scar marred his face. Did this frighten people? Were they disgusted by it? He didn't give a damn.

He would be a good leader for them, even if it killed him. That was all that mattered.

A flash of blond hair several yards to his right snagged his attention. Mistress Douglas' green gaze met his and did not falter. The lass possessed more courage than most of his men. How could that be?

She held a violin beneath her chin but the bow did not touch the strings. She lowered the instrument and turned to one of the other musicians who spoke to her.

Muttering a curse, Neacal tore his gaze away and headed outside. He had far more important things to do than wonder about Mistress Douglas. The clan depended upon the strength of its men. Training them was something Neacal could do easily. No social graces required. He knew himself to be the best damned swordsman and archer in this part of the Highlands, and could train his men to be just as skilled.

He descended the steps into the bailey.

Dozens of his clansmen were gathered about and two—Gegrim and Parlan—were already sparring in the center with dull practice swords. He watched them with a critical eye, studying their postures and movements. Swordplay was an art form and something that came as naturally to him as breathing.

When Parlan caught sight of him watching, he faltered. Gegrim knocked him to the ground and held the tip of his sword an inch from his throat.

Neacal shook his head. Damnation! These men still needed a hell of a lot of training. He couldn't believe Elrick had ignored something of such great importance while he'd led the clan over the past year.

"Well done, Gegrim." Neacal held out his hand for the practice sword. Once the guard handed it over, Neacal said, "Rise to your feet, Parlan, and I will show you how 'tis done."

***

As Anna tightened the string on her violin in the great hall, a ruckus of shouting and sword clangs sounded from the bailey. 'Twas far louder than their usual training.

"Heavens, what's amiss?" she whispered to her fellow musicians, then ran to the window. Surely the clan was not being attacked again. She couldn't see what was happening because of dozens of men gathered outside, blocking her view, but it didn't appear to be a siege. As far as she could tell, only two men fought. After placing her violin on the table, she slipped out the exit to find out what was afoot.

The chief practiced sword fighting with one of his warriors. Sweat dripped from both men's faces and drenched their hair. After they circled each other, the mock battle resumed in earnest as the chief advanced on his opponent and drove him backward with strike after strike against his blade. Chief MacDonald's blue eyes glinted with wild fury. A chill went down her spine as she feared his next blow would be the one which killed his opponent. This did not appear to be practice at all, but battle, in truth.

Would he kill his own man?

The chief slashed and thrust the blade at his sparing opponent as if the man were his worst enemy rather than his own soldier. Staying well out of the way, Anna pressed a hand to her mouth, praying no one would be killed this day.

Several warriors rushed to intervene, grabbing onto his arms and blocking Anna's view. Surely the rumors of the chief's madness were not true. Were they?

"Release me!" he roared. "Do you truly think I would kill my own clansman?" When the other warriors drew back, he threw the practice sword to the cobblestones with a clang and strode toward her. Anna's heart vaulted into her throat, but she remained in place. His eyes, normally icy blue, were now dark, narrowed and unfocused. He bypassed her and headed toward the entrance, fury written clearly on his flushed, sweat-drenched face. Once he'd disappeared inside, she released the breath she'd been holding.

The men's murmurs of concern filled the bailey. An older, white-haired man, large of frame and using a walking stick, followed after the chief. Mayhap the elderly man would calm him down.

A massive guard stopped beside Anna, leaned in and whispered, "Do not concern yourself with the mad laird. I'll protect you from him." He winked.

She frowned, unable to believe the chief's own man would say such a thing about him.

"I'm Farquar." He held out his hand as if he expected her to grasp it.

"Anna Douglas." Ignoring his hand, she gave a brief curtsy.

A girl stopped beside them, her glare shifting between Anna and the guard. "Why are you talking to her?" she demanded of him.

The lass was beautiful, her coloring similar to Anna's—blond hair and green eyes. She was perhaps a couple of years younger than Anna's own twenty-two summers. Her hair was styled to perfection in many lovely small braids and curls, whereas Anna made do with whatever style she could manage on her own. She used to have a lady's maid, too, who'd made her look pretty. But no longer.

"I was only reassuring her she need not fear the chief." Farquar gave a stiff grin.

"Nay, he is my cousin." The lass shrugged. "He's a bit odd, but naught to worry over. I'm Constance Gordon, by the way."

"A pleasure to meet you. I'm Anna Douglas, one of the minstrels."

"I know." After sneering down at Anna's drab, worn clothing, Constance glanced up at the guard, whose gaze remained on Anna. Her mouth tightening, Constance took his arm and led him off.

Glad to be away from those two, Anna hastened up the steps and into the great hall. She had noticed Farquar and a few other men here staring at her from time to time. They were not the first. Many men had complimented her looks, but beauty did not equal happiness. She would not care if she looked like a hag if only that knave Blackburn MacCromar had not destroyed her life and ripped everything she loved from her. The grief, rage and fear crawled its way up from the pit of her stomach as it did any time she thought of the bastard. Tears pricked her eyes but she forced them away. He had bent and mangled her, but she refused to be broken. She would hide from him for the rest of her life, treasuring the only things she possessed—the lovely memories of her first husband and the child they almost had. And her music. Along with the knowledge her dear sister was protected and taken care of.

And if she ever encountered Blackburn, she had a small dagger reserved for him.

Was this MacDonald chief like Blackburn, the new chief of MacCromar? Barbaric, uncivilized and murderous? If so, this was not the right place for her and her fellow minstrels. She'd always heard the clans of the west were ferocious, but she hadn't believed they could be worse than Blackburn. Now, she thought perhaps she'd ventured too far west to this coastal castle. She'd wanted to travel as far as she could get from Blackburn, but was she now putting herself in equal danger?

She gathered three members of her party in a corner of the great hall as they pretended to discuss the evening's entertainment. "I've decided we should leave here," Anna whispered, glancing into the faces of each of them.

"But why?" white-headed Eli asked. He was a brilliant musician who had taught her much. "This is one of the best castles we've visited. We have soft, warm beds to sleep on and plenty of food to eat. The residents are welcoming and they enjoy our music."

"Aye, 'tis true." Anna nodded. "But you have heard the servants' whispers. They say the laird is mad and, after what I just witnessed in the bailey, I believe it. We may not be safe."

"What happened?" Young Jules stared at her wide-eyed.

"During practice, he was possessed of a rage and almost killed his own soldier."

All of them gaped at her.

"Mayhap the man insulted him," Vardon, the tall, lanky piper, said. "There could be any number of reasons he would fly into a rage."

"I am tired of traveling, lass," Eli said with a sigh. "Me old bones ache when I have to sleep outside on the hard ground at night."

Anna chewed her bottom lip, the fear they'd made a mistake in coming here still overwhelming her. But autumn was upon them and they needed to find a warm place before winter, for Eli's sake. "Very well," she said reluctantly. "We'll stay a while longer and see what happens. But if any of us feel unsafe, we may need to leave."

Her fellow musicians nodded. They had no inkling of her past or that she was hiding from a vile man who thought he was her husband. All they knew about her was that singing was her life. She'd lied and told them she was the daughter of a merchant and the widow of a tacksman. In truth, her father had been a chief and so had her husband, both from much further east. No one called her lady anymore, for which she held no regret. This kept her safe. Never could she let anyone know who she truly was.

***

The battle rage which had possessed Neacal a quarter hour earlier, drained by slow degrees. From the ramparts, he gazed out over the loch and drew in deep breaths of the fresh salt air. 'Twas all Sleat's fault. Now, the whole clan saw him as truly mad. "Damnation," he growled.

Even the lovely singer had been there to witness his berserk outburst. The frightened look in her eyes flayed him severely. She was the last person he wanted to fear him.

"Chief," called a voice behind him.

He turned to find the ancient warrior, Sir Hugh MacDonald, along with another clan elder, Uncle Bhatar—Neacal's grandfather's brother. He did not know how either man had lived to be over eight decades in age. Clearly, they'd had little problem climbing the multiple flights of stairs to reach his sanctuary on the roof… although Hugh did clasp a walking stick in his gnarled hand.

"Aye?" Neacal answered.

"Are you well, lad?" Bhatar came forward, concern in his sharp blue eyes.

"Of course," Neacal said, unsure if he was lying. Either way, he had to appear as sane and normal as any other man. 'Twas the only way he could serve the clan and honor his father's memory. That was his sole purpose in life at this point. If he could make his father proud, mayhap he would forgive Neacal for the death and destruction he'd brought to their family.

"We were in the courtyard, watching." Hugh lowered his bushy white brows and narrowed his dark eyes as he scrutinized Neacal.

Annoyance twisted through him. "And?"

"You were possessed of a bloodlust of which I have not seen since I was a young man."

"Well then, you ken if we suffer another siege, I'll off a few of the invaders before they can kill me," Neacal growled, a tinge of the rage returning. Gazing out over the loch again, he drew in a deep breath and willed the dark poison of anger away.
Please, God. I hate the anger.

"You're a highly skilled warrior, Neacal," Bhatar said, his voice raspy.

Neacal ground his teeth, waiting for his great uncle to continue. Was he buttering him up for some reason?

"And you're a fine chief," Bhatar went on.

"What is it you two want?" Neacal asked, forcing himself to remain patient.

Bhatar gave him a look that was both bold and mischievous. "
Cha laidh na siantan anns na spéuran
."
The storms rest not in the skies.

"I'm well aware," Neacal snapped. He knew what the old man was saying—that conflict would always exist, and he should find a better way to deal with it.

"As part of the clan council, and your advisors, we're concerned about…" Hugh trailed off.

A long pause followed.

"What? My sanity?" The words burst from Neacal's mouth. His pulse pounded at his temples and in his ears. "Are you here to boot me from the clan?"

"Nay, 'tis not that at all," Bhatar said in a placating tone.

"Do not mollycoddle the lad," Hugh grumbled.

Trying to force the hot, turbulent anger away, Neacal inhaled deeply. "You think I'm not suited to be chief?"

Hugh tapped his cane upon the wall walk. "I'm not certain."

Neacal wanted to curse and throw things. Instead, he dug his fingers against the hard stones of the battlement and forced himself to speak with patience and control. "The clan and all of you elders agreed that I should be chief. If 'twas not so, why did you go along with it?"

"I've had concerns from the first, but Bhatar and the rest convinced me to give you a chance. I was outnumbered," Hugh said.

"And now my chance is over because of swordplay practice?" Neacal asked.

Neither man responded. In the moment of silence that stretched out, Neacal drew the cool, salty air into his lungs and thought of his da—the only reason he stood here grasping at the threads of control. The only reason he wanted to be chief… and his only reason to go on living.

"You both kenned my father well. What would he say?"

"He would wish you to be chief," Bhatar said with confidence.

"We need allies," Hugh declared in a determined tone.

"Nay now," Bhatar said softly, as an aside to his comrade. "We can discuss that later."

"But we decided—"

"Aye, but it will keep 'til later," Bhatar announced jovially, forcing a smile.

Hugh narrowed his eyes at having been cut off.

Neacal frowned. What the devil were they up to? "We have allies—the Camerons."

"Bah!" Hugh said. "We don't need them coming here."

Neacal's rage threatened to return. "I trust Colin Cameron more than anyone. We were foster brothers."

"Aye, well… there are many more Camerons besides him. The chief for instance."

"You don't like Colin's father?"

"'Tis ancient history, Hugh," Bhatar warned gruffly. What he was talking about Neacal hadn't a clue.

"If we need allies, 'tis either the Camerons or the MacKenzies. Or both," Neacal said.

Hugh grimaced. "The MacKenzies are powerful, but I'll nay forgive them for killing so many in our clan."

Neacal shook his head. "Elrick must take the blame for their attack, because he captured a MacKenzie hostage."

"Aye, I'm well aware. I was here! I saw what happened."

"You like none of our allies. You're impossible to please!" Neacal said.

"Come, Hugh, let's leave the lad to his thoughts." Bhatar started toward the stairwell, turned back and said, "
Tuitidh á chraobh a bhithear á sìor shnaidheadh
."
The tree that is constantly hewed at will fall.

Neacal ground his teeth even as Hugh followed his fellow elder.

Neacal was no tree, nor did he intend to fall.

Every day was a struggle to control the rage that simmered beneath the surface. He hadn't been like this before the damnable torture. He no longer even liked himself. 'Twas no wonder everyone feared him or nagged at him to change.

He wished he could change.

But more than anything, he wished he could go back in time to right all the wrongs he'd sparked off. Since that wasn't possible, he had to help the clan in some other way. Although Hugh had discouraged him from contacting Colin Cameron, Neacal knew this was his best option at the moment.

Over two dozen men had been killed in the recent siege. But even before then, the garrison had diminished over the years, while his father was chief.

Though Neacal didn't like admitting it, he needed help in the event Sleat returned with a large force and tried to seize the castle. Neacal had hired on a few new guards, but he needed more in order to protect the clan and castle adequately.

He headed downstairs to his solar. At the desk in the corner, he took a seat in the wooden chair. After dipping the quill into the ink, he quickly penned a missive to his foster brother. Colin Cameron was one of the few people Neacal had trusted since he was a lad. Neacal had fostered with the Camerons for a few years to strengthen their clans' alliance. Colin had spent much time at Bearach as well. He would know where to find dependable soldiers in need of a clan and perhaps even loan a few of his own men in the meantime.

He would have Lawler and Roth deliver it to Colin on the morrow. He hoped Colin would arrive before Sleat had time to gather more forces and return.