Return of the Highlander (16 page)

Keep him safe. Let this not be the final good-bye
.

* * *

With his wrists still in irons, Darach followed the British soldier through the stone corridors of the keep while a flood of memories—both good and bad—inundated his brain.

Though it had been fifteen years, he still knew these passageways like the back of his hand. How clearly he recalled dashing through them as a young lad, playing hide and seek with his brothers, getting into fist fights with other lads and causing all sorts of trouble with the lassies who didn’t enjoy getting their hair pulled.

Later, the games had changed where lassies were concerned. He’d stolen his first kiss in the stable one night after a feast and had fancied himself in love for a few days. He remembered the lassie well. She was a cheeky little redhead named Tavia who went on to kiss every other lad at Leathan.

Though his family was all gone now, Darach wondered if anyone from his past might recognize him. It was not something he had a hankering for, so he would simply have to do his best to stay out of sight and keep his head down.

Unfortunately there wasn’t much he could do about Gregory Chatham.

Darach was not surprised when the soldiers led him toward the prison stairs. He’d suspected this was where they would take him.

They descended quickly, without explanation.

In short order, he was shoved into a cell. At least the guards had the decency to remove the irons from his wrists before they slammed the heavy oak door shut in his face.

With a sigh of resignation, Darach sat down on the cot and wondered how long he would have to remain there, waiting for something to happen.

And what, in the meantime, was happening to Larena?

* * *

“Apologies, Miss Campbell,” the cook said as she walked Larena through the torch-lit stone corridors and up the tower stairs to her bedchamber. “One of the officers took your room as his own, but as soon as the colonel learned you might be on your way, he cleared that man right out of there and asked me to freshen everything for your return. He was very hopeful, you see.”

Larena followed Mrs. Henderson through the chamber door and let out a sigh of relief when she found everything as it had been—her own comfortable bed and floral coverings, the thick fur rug on the floor in front of the fireplace, the tapestry on the wall, and her collection of books. They stood just as she had left them, in a tall, leaning pile on the bench beneath the window.

“It’s so good to be home,” she said, feeling briefly as if nothing had changed, though she knew that was not the case at all if an English officer had been sleeping here for the past fortnight.

“I’ll have one of the girls light a fire for you right away.” Mrs. Henderson moved to fluff the pillows on the bed.

“How many of you remained after the attack?” Larena asked.

“There are only a few of us working in the kitchen. They’re paying us handsomely to cook for the men.” Clearing her throat, she continued to fluff the pillows. “A tub is on its way. You’ll have a chance to bathe and rest awhile before you meet the colonel.”

Larena swallowed uneasily. “Have you met him yourself, Mrs. Henderson? How is he? What do you think of him?”

Mrs. Henderson set the pillow back down and slowly turned to face Larena. She seemed to struggle with how best to answer the question. “He’s grown into a handsome man,” she said at last. “There can be no argument there. But we’re all a bit confused, if you must know. We understand why you agreed to marry the colonel—to save your father from the executioner—but we’re not sure what this will mean for the clan. Colonel Chatham still wears the uniform of the English, yet he is to be our laird?”

“That is correct,” Larena confirmed. “And I wish I could tell you what to expect, but I’m not even sure myself. I haven’t spoken to Gregory Chatham since I was eleven years old, but if it helps you to know, when I discussed the terms of our marriage with Lord Rutherford at Fort William, he told me that his son has always considered Scotland to be his true home and that he maintains a genuine affection for our clan. Rutherford also suggested that as soon as the threat of a Jacobite uprising is eradicated, the soldiers will leave and Colonel Chatham will resign his commission with the army.”

Mrs. Henderson’s ample bosom rose and fell with noticeable relief. “That sounds promising. I hope that will be the case, miss, and if so, the clan thanks you for your courage in traveling to Fort William, and your sacrifice in agreeing to the marriage. Perhaps, with a good woman like you at his side, the colonel will turn out to be a fair-minded laird in the end.”

“That is my hope,” Larena replied. “I will certainly speak to Colonel Chatham about all of this as soon as I meet with him. But first, I must see my father. Can you take me to him?”

“Ooh, I don’t know about that, lass. He’s locked up in the prison. I reckon you’ll have to ask the colonel.”

She felt a prickle of unease at the thought. “When will I see him?”

The empty tub arrived just then, bumping through the door in the arms of two maids she recognized—Eileen and Edina.

Mrs. Henderson waved them in and directed them to the area in front of the hearth. “He’s arranged for you to join him for dinner in his private apartments at nine.”

Larena watched the women set the tub down. “His private apartments…. I suppose you mean my father’s chambers?”

She faced Larena again. “Your father’s
former
chambers, miss. Now let’s get you cleaned up, shall we? It’s not every day a lassie meets her future husband.”

While a brigade of buckets arrived through the door, containing hot water, Larena couldn’t help but imagine a very different future husband for herself—a dark-haired Highlander who was presently clamped in irons somewhere in the castle.

Sadly, as Mrs. Henderson began to unlace her, she knew such thoughts were unwise and unrealistic, and it would be best to sweep them from her mind completely.

* * *

Darach must have drifted off, but for how long he had no notion, for there were no windows in the cell to indicate the time of day.

The cell door opened with a heavy clank. Darach rose instantly to his feet.

Two soldiers walked in. They carried another pair of irons and moved in to close them around Darach’s wrists.

“Is this necessary?” he asked. “You’ve already seized my weapons and clearly I’m outnumbered.”

“The colonel doesn’t want to take any chances,” one of them replied. “He knows there’s no love lost between the Campbells and MacDonalds.”

With no interest in debating the issue, Darach followed them out the door and back up the stone staircase.

“Where are we going?” he asked, keeping his eyes peeled for Larena as they emerged onto the open bailey again. It was full dark by now. A dense cloud cover blotted out any light from the moon and the area was illuminated by torches. The flames danced wildly in the wind.

“To see the colonel of course.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

Darach inhaled deeply with a sense of foreboding, for Chatham was one of the last people he wanted to see here at Leathan—though he was curious about the sort of husband he would make for Larena. It wouldn’t hurt for Darach to assure himself that the man was honorable.

The soldiers shoved Darach through the East Tower doorway and pushed him up the curved staircase.

“All the way to the top,” one of them said.

These stairs were all too familiar to him as well, for they led to his late father’s former chambers where Darach had been summoned more often than he cared to recall—usually to receive some form of punishment for one thing or another.

How ironic that Gregory Chatham now inhabited these rooms and had risen to a position where he could be the one to summon Darach up these stairs. He supposed that proved it then:
No bad deed goes unpunished. We reap what we sow
.

They reached the door and one of the soldiers knocked.

“Enter!” shouted a voice of command from within.

They pushed the door open and nudged Darach over the threshold. “We brought the MacDonald.”

And there, at last, behind the desk, was Gregory Chatham—the man who would become Larena’s husband.

Darach felt a muscle clench at his jaw as he beheld the finely dressed English officer, seated with his back to the dark window. Chatham’s eyes lifted at the sound of Darach’s approach. Setting down his quill pen, he slowly rose to his feet and took in Darach’s appearance from head to foot.

Darach regarded him warily, for there could be no doubt in his mind that this was the lad he remembered from his youth—the lad he and his brothers bullied and taunted mercilessly, at least for a time. Darach braced himself, wondering how long it would take for the man to recognize him.

Chapter Twenty

“They tell me you’re the Highlander who rescued my future bride from certain peril,” Chatham said as he moved around the desk to stand before Darach. With one hand resting on the gleaming hilt of his dress saber, he now matched Darach in both height and stature. Chatham relaxed his stance and stared into Darach’s eyes for what seemed an eternity. “Thank you for bringing her home to me.”

“You’re welcome,” Darach replied. Then he raised his wrists up high, in front of Chatham’s face. “Can you have your men remove these now?”

Something flickered in Chatham’s eyes—a flash of annoyance perhaps—but he nevertheless signaled to the guard inside the door. “Release him.”

While the guard slipped the key into the lock and freed Darach, Chatham returned to the opposite side of the desk. Before he sat down, he gestured to the empty wooden chair behind Darach.

“Take a seat. We have much to discuss.”

Darach hesitated briefly, then sat down. The guard quietly left the room and closed the door behind him.

Chatham folded his hands on top of a pile of papers. “Darach MacDonald. They tell me you are a scout for Angus the Lion of Kinloch Castle.”

“Aye.”

“And what can you tell me about his politics?” Chatham asked, leaning casually back in his chair and regarding Darach with interest.

“Not much. I’m just a scout.”

“But surely you know the leanings of your laird and fellow clansmen. Even I know that your people fought against us at the Battle of Sheriffmuir in support of the Stuart pretender.”

“That was a long time ago,” Darach replied, “and it was Angus’s father who led the charge, not Angus. His father is dead now.”

Chatham’s eyes narrowed with cynicism. “So you are telling me that his son, who also fought in that same battle, supports the House of Hanover now?”

“I’m telling you no such thing,” Darach replied. “All I know is that he wants peace at Kinloch.”

“So you
do
know something of his political leanings,” Chatham replied, crossing one leg over the other and carefully scrutinizing Darach’s face.

Darach looked away. “No one at Kinloch wants another war.”

“But wasn’t there some upheaval a few years back?” Chatham asked. “The castle was seized from the MacDonalds who were considered Jacobite traitors and awarded to the MacEwens for their service to the Crown. Angus took it back by force and claimed a MacEwan for a wife…if memory serves me correctly?”

“Aye,” Darach replied, “but that had nothing to do with kings and crowns. Angus only wanted his home back, and after he reclaimed it, he discovered a Jacobite rebel amongst the MacEwans and turned that man in to Colonel Worthington at Fort William. From what I’ve heard, the colonel holds Angus in high regard. He sends him a bottle of Moncrieffe Whisky every year at yuletide.”

“For a scout who knows nothing,” Chatham said with a suspicious tone, “you seem to know a great deal.”

Darach exhaled sharply. “Are we done here, colonel? I am expected back at Kinloch.”

“No,” Chatham firmly replied. “We are not done.” His eyes practically burned into Darach’s. “I have not yet thanked you properly for your service to the Crown, and to me personally. You must share a drink with me. We will raise our glasses in honor of my future nuptials.”

Without waiting for Darach to respond, he rose from his chair, moved to the sideboard, uncorked a crystal decanter, and poured two glasses of whisky. He handed one to Darach.

Darach did not make eye contact as he accepted it.

In a leisurely manner, Chatham moved behind the desk again and held up his glass. “To my beautiful bride, Larena Campbell.”

Rising to his feet, Darach raised his glass as well. “To the bride.” He downed the entire contents in one gulp and set the glass down on the desk.

They both remained on their feet, staring at each other intensely.

Within seconds, a burning sensation erupted in Darach’s gut as he imagined this man at the altar with Larena, taking her into his arms, pressing his mouth to hers. He had to bite back the urge to release a bellowing war cry and leap over the desk to strangle Larena’s fiancé until he was dead.

“There’s something familiar about you,” Chatham casually mentioned. “Have we met before?”

Damn…

“Have you ever visited Kinloch?” Darach replied.