Highland Promise

Book 3: Murrays

by Hannah Howell

Genres: Historical Romance; General Fiction; Romance

Synopsis

Eric Murray, the youngest of his brothers, is determined to gain his rightful inheritance after thirteen years of bitter dispute with his father's family. Starting out alone to confront his tight-fisted kinsmen, he encounters a chestnut-haired beauty set upon by thieves. When she begs for Eric's protection for herself and her infant nephew, Eric promises to deliver them to the safety of her family.

Bethia Drummond has tried desperately to ignore her attraction to the azure-eyed stranger. Still, Eric Murray is Bethia's only hope of escaping her ruthless kin who plan to kill her and her orphaned nephew, and claim their inherited land. Then Bethia learns that Eric, too, is seeking land and coin from his own kin-her family's closest allies. How could she love a man she might one day be forced to stand against? And yet she cannot ignore what her troubled heart knows-that this proud knight is her very destiny.

Release date: March 1, 2011

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

Scotland—1444

Bethia Drummond watched the two sweating men throw the rock-strewn dirt on top of her sister’s body and held her tiny nephew James a little closer. Orphaned before his first birthday by the greed of his own kinsmen, he was going to need a lot of love and, much more importantly, a lot of protection. Bethia swallowed her tears and tossed a few sprigs of white heather onto her sister’s grave. Her heart found it hard to believe that her womb sister Sorcha was gone forever, but her mind knew that Sorcha now lay entwined forever with her love, her husband Robert, beneath the deepening dirt. Put there, she thought with a rising fury, by the avarice of Robert’s family.

She stared across the slowly filling grave at Robert’s uncle William and his two sons, Iain and Angus. They were Drummonds only by name, never by blood, William having taken the name when he had married Robert’s aunt Mary. The barren Mary had willingly taken William’s two small sons as her own, but none of her kindness and love had penetrated their thick, evil hides. The woman had, without doubt, clasped a whole nest of adders to her bosom and paid dearly for her charity. The woman’s death, barely a year past, had been a slow and agonizing, and very suspicious, one. Now two more obstacles to the lands and wealth of Dunncraig were gone and she held the last. William and his two hulking sons would never get James. Bethia swore on her sister’s grave that she would see all three men dead first and that they would be made to pay for all of their crimes.

When William and his sons approached her, Bethia tensed. She resisted the urge to turn and run, taking the happily gurgling James far away from the three dark men. It would be neither safe nor wise to let them know that she was suspicious of them.

“Ye need not fear for the laddie’s care,” William said in his rough voice as he lightly ruffled the little boy’s bright red curls. “We will care for the wee bairn.”

Bethia wanted to scrub the man’s touch off the boy, but forced herself to smile. “My sister asked me to care for her child. ’Tis why I came here.”

“Ye are a verra young lass. ’Tis sure that ye dinnae wish to waste your life caring for another woman’s child. Ye should be away making a few wee bairns of your own.”

“Caring for the bairn of my womb sister could ne’er be a waste, sir.”

“Mayhap this isnae a good time to discuss this.” William forced his thin-lipped mouth into a parody of a sympathetic smile and patted Bethia on the shoulder. “Ye are still wrapped too tightly in your grief o’er your poor sister’s death. We will talk of this later.”

“As ye wish.”

It was hard not to yank herself away from William’s chilling touch, but Bethia forced herself to smile at the three men once again. She then turned and walked back to the keep with a hard-won calm. Bethia wanted to scream out her suspicions, wanted to unsheath her dagger and plunge it deep into William’s black heart, but she knew that would gain her nothing except one brief, pleasant taste of revenge. The man’s sons would quickly and bloodily avenge his death, killing both her and James. In truth, she would probably accomplish no more than giving them a ready explanation for the boy’s death since she could not be sure she could even kill William.

Defeating William and his sons and making them pay for their crimes required care and planning. Bethia needed to subdue the emotions twisting her insides into a painful knot. She knew that she would also need some help and she could not count on finding any amongst the cowed people of Dunncraig. William had a tight grip upon all who lived at the keep and on the lands—one Robert had either not seen or been too often away at court or fighting in France to break. Robert’s naivete or neglect had cost him and Sorcha their lives. Bethia had no intention of allowing James to join them in their cold grave.

“Your father was all that was brave and honorable,” Bethia told little James as she entered the small, dark room they shared, “but he should have watched his home fires much more carefully, laddie.”

She settled the yawning child in his cradle and sat on the edge of her small, hard bed to watch him. Sorcha’s brilliant green eyes blessed his sweet little face and his hair was only a little brighter than his mother’s. The envy Bethia had sometimes suffered over her sister’s often acclaimed beauty now seemed petty and sad. She might have a duller, browner hair color and the curse of mismatched eyes, as well as a far less womanly figure than her sister’s, but she was still alive. Sorcha’s highly praised beauty and charm had always seemed such a blessing, but they had not saved her.

And she was stronger, Bethia decided as she watched the fair James fall asleep. Sorcha had been like a candle admired for its light and warmth, for the beauty of its color-rich flame, but also easily snuffed out and left cold, lifeless. She had always been more wary than Sorcha, more able to see the evil in people. It had surprised her when Sorcha had sent word asking her to come and help with James, for Dunncraig was filled with women eager and able to help care for their laird’s son and heir. Bethia now wondered if, finally, some hint of suspicion or fear had crept into her sister’s loving, trusting heart.

She sighed and vigorously wiped away a tear. If it had, it had come far too late. It did, however, explain Sorcha’s odd choice of words in her missive. Sorcha had asked her sister to come and watch over James. Not nurse him, play with him, visit him, or aid his mother, but to watch over him. And that was exactly what Bethia intended to do.

Every breath she took, every whisper of her skirts over the rush-covered floors, made Bethia’s heart skip painfully as she crept along the shadowed halls of Dunncraig. She knew how to be quiet yet that skill appeared to be failing her miserably. No outcry came, however, as she made her way through the keep and out into the bailey. It had taken her three torturous days to find a way out of Dunncraig, one she could possibly get to unseen, and it felt as if it was taking her almost as long to get to it. And every step of the way, she was terrified that James, so sweetly oblivious to the danger he was in, would make some sound that would give them away.

For each minute of those three days she had wavered between doubting her suspicions and searching for a way to flee unseen. The death of James’s little puppy had brutally ended all of her doubts and suspicions. Bethia doubted she would ever know why, after blissfully eating and drinking everything brought to her and James the first day after the funeral, she had suddenly felt compelled to test the food on the second day. When the puppy had died after tasting the food, she had wept out of guilt for using the poor, trusting animal in such a way and a strange mixture of fury and fear because all of her dark suspicions had been so gruesomely proven right. The fact that she had not been able to give the little animal a burial worthy of his sacrifice only added to her anger. She now knew that the slow, painful deaths of Sorcha and Robert had been caused by poison and not by some unnamed wasting sickness as was claimed.

Finally, Bethia reached the spot she had been seeking: a small break in the wall behind the reeking stables. Robert had not only been unaware of the deadly enemies within his keep, but of the crumbling state of his keep as well. If he had seen how poorly the place was kept, he never would have left William in control of the accounts. Bethia was not sure what William and his sons were doing with the money from the lands and tenants but they were certainly not maintaining the keep they were so willing to kill for.

As she squeezed herself and James through the opening a few pieces of the crumbling wall clattered noisily to the ground. She held herself still within the opening, holding her breath as she waited for the outcry she was sure would come. It surprised her a little when there was none. Such a noise should have caused one of the men at arms to at least glance her way. As she cautiously slipped out into the night and hurried toward the woods at the far end of the surrounding fields, she felt a little more confident about her chances of escape with every step she took. The men guarding Dunncraig were obviously as lax in their duties as William was in keeping Dunncraig strong.

It was not until she entered the frightening yet welcome shadows of the forest that Bethia dared to breathe a sigh of relief. She knew it would not be long before a pursuit was begun, but she had taken the first step toward freedom and safety and she allowed a touch of hope to enter her heart. A horse would have been a great help but she had not dared to try to steal one, not even dared to retrieve the sweet little mare she had ridden in on. She would never have gotten the animal out through her tiny bolt-hole. Bethia silently promised the little mare that she would not leave her in that rotting stable any longer than necessary. Without a horse, however, if she was going to put any distance at all between herself and James and their enemies, she was going to have to do a lot of walking.

James shifted in the blanket sling resting against Bethia’s chest and she idly rubbed his back as she started to walk. “Be at ease, my bonny wee laddie.” She took one last look at Dunncraig, wishing she could have bid a final farewell to Sorcha, but promising that she would return. “I will see that those swine who feed out of your father’s trough will soon be choking on their ill-begotten meal. And may God heartily curse all men who seek to fill their pockets with the riches of others,” she whispered as she marched deeper into the wood.

“Are ye sure ye ought to go and face these people?” Balfour Murray asked his young foster brother Eric as he sat down at the head table in the great hall of Donncoill and began to fill his plate with food.

Eric smiled at Balfour, then winked at his brother’s wife Maldie, who just rolled her eyes and began to eat. “We have tried every other means to gain my birthright, but everything we do is either contested or ignored. This game has been played out after thirteen long years. I grow heartily weary of it.”

“I still cannae see how confronting the fools will change anything.”

“It may not, but ’tis the only thing we havenae tried.”

“There is still the king to turn to.”

“We have tried that too, although mayhap nay as ardently as we might have. Howbeit, I think our liege would prefer nay to take any side in all of this. The Beaton lairds may have been swine, and still are, but they have ne’er angered or offended the king. The MacMillans, my mother’s clan, are also on amiable terms with the king, considered loyal and able fighters. I believe I may be the proof they cannae deny. I carry the Beaton mark upon my back and many have said that I carry the look of my mother and her kin. Mayhap ’tis past time the Beatons and MacMillans see the proof with their verra own eyes.”

“Do ye think the Beatons will heed the truth e’en if ye bare your back and force them to see the mark there?” asked Maldie.

“Nay, mayhap not, but it cannae hurt to try,” Eric replied. “I have heard nay ill about the MacMillans. Unfortunately, I have yet to meet with one during my times at court. They may but heed the lies told by the Beatons too closely. Mayhap I can finally make them see the truth.”

“Ye must take someone with you,” insisted Balfour. “ ’Tis a pity Nigel went to France.”

“Gisele has now born him three bonny bairns. ‘Twas past time they were shown to their kinsmen in France.”

“Aye, I ken it. If ye can but wait until my work is done, I could come with ye or Nigel may have returned.”

“This is my fight, Balfour, and mine alone.”

It took Eric the rest of the evening and most of the next day to convince Balfour that this was indeed something he had to do alone. Neither of them feared any real threat from the Beatons or the MacMillans, for they and their quarrels were all too well known to the king. Any harm coming to Eric on the lands of either family would bring a swift and harsh response and both families knew it. There were other dangers in traveling alone, however, and Balfour did not hesitate to list them in gruesome detail.

He was still listing them three days later when Eric was leading his packed horse out of the stables. “A mon to watch your back wouldnae be a bad thing,” he said, frowning as Eric just smiled and mounted his black gelding Connor.

“Nay, it wouldnae,” agreed Eric, pausing to tie his long, thick reddish gold hair back with a wide strip of blackened leather. “Howbeit, ye have more need of able-bodied men than I do. I can care for myself, Balfour. I dinnae go to do battle and I think I can fight off a thief or two or e’en outrun them. Cease mothering me,” he added gently.

Balfour grinned. “Go on your way then, but if ye meet with more trouble then ye can deal with, pause at an inn and send back here for a mon or two. Or return and we will set off in more force when the work in the fields is done.”

“Agreed. I will be certain to send word of how I fare.”

“ ’Tis best that ye do, for if we havenae heard from ye in what we feel is too long a time, we will come hunting for you. Go with God,” Balfour added as Eric rode through the gates.

Eric waved, then continued on. He was torn many ways about what he was doing. What he sought was indeed his birthright, yet it galled him to have to go and beg for it. Balfour had gifted him with a small peel tower and some land to the west of Donncoill. At times he felt strongly inclined to cease trying to get what was not willingly being offered, to just go and make a life at the peel tower. Then his sense of what was right and fair rose in his breast and he went back to struggling to gain his birthright.

There was also the often ignored fact that he was not a Murray by blood. The ties were as strong and had been deepened by his half sister Maldie’s marriage to Balfour, but legally the Murrays owed him nothing, did not have to provide for him in any manner at all. But they did. They called him brother and they meant it. That made the refusal of the Beatons and the MacMillans to accept him as kin all the more infuriating. Eric had a right to all that had been his mother’s and his father’s. In his heart he knew he could never be anything but a Murray, but he intended to retrieve all that had been stolen from him by the lies of the Beatons. If his blood kinsmen wanted to fight over it, then fight he would. For thirteen years, since they had learned the truth about his birth, they had clung to the gentle, diplomatic way. Now was the time for confrontation.

It took him only a few hours to reach the gates of the Beatons’ keep. Although he was not surprised when they refused him entry, refused to even speak to him, he was disappointed. His father’s cousin had slipped onto the lands within days after his father’s death and clearly intended to stay. Sir Graham Beaton was as cruel and as clever as his father had been and, if only for the sake of the long-suffering people who lived in and around the keep, Eric would like to see the man unseated from his stolen lands, but it was clear now that that would take a fight.

As he rode away, struggling to ignore the insults flung from the walls, he decided to continue on to the MacMillans’. If he could win his battle for recognition there, he would have more men, more power, and more money with which to fight the Beaton usurper. Eric suspected that Sir Graham knew the truth and thought that, by refusing to look closely or heed any of the calls to surrender the stolen lands, he could hold on to his riches. An alliance through blood with the more favored MacMillans might be just enough to force the man to admit the truth, to concur with all he fought to deny and decry as lies. Eric became even more determined to win the favor of his mother’s kinsmen. It now meant more than the legal winning of his birthright. It could easily mean the final ousting of a long line of despicable Beaton lairds.

“Maman?”

Bethia swallowed a sudden welling of tears as she held the ornate silver quaich up to James’s mouth and let him sip at the water it held. The small, shallow drinking cup, its two handles beautifully carved with an old Celtic design, had been her sister’s wedding cup. Their father had spent a great deal of money on it and had searched long and hard for the best craftsman to make it. To hear Sorcha’s child ask for his mother as he drank from that treasured memento made Bethia’s heart clench with a sorrow she had not yet had time to deal with.

“I fear I must be your maman now, laddie,” she whispered as she ruffled his silken curls and gave him a small piece of bread to chew on. “I ken that I am nay as good as the one those bastards stole away from you, but I shall do the best I can.”

A small voice in her mind murmured that she would at least keep James alive, something his mother had almost failed to do; then she cursed herself for having such a disloyal thought. In the two days she had been creeping through the wood, inching her way toward home and safety, she had found herself suffering more and more unkind thoughts about her sister and her husband. She cursed their weakness, silently derided them for their blindness, and wondered how such a sweet child could have two such fools for his parents. Each time she thought such things, she felt overwhelmed with guilt.

“I need time to sit and look into my heart,” she said to the boy, then idly chewed on a piece of bread. “I am so angry, and ’tis odd, but most times I am angry at your poor parents. They did naught but get murdered, which isnae their fault, not truly. Aye, they could have been more alert, more cautious, mayhap looked at those around them instead of at each other all of the time, but those arenae really faults.”

“Maman?”

“Nay, laddie, no maman.” Bethia kissed her nephew’s forehead. “She is gone. ’Tis just me and ye now. Mayhap that is why I feel so angry. Sorcha should still be here. She was young and hale, nay ready for a cold grave. I fear I can think of too many things she and her bonny husband could have done to save themselves and then I become angry that neither of them did any of those things. There is only one mon I should curse—William. Aye, and his two brutish sons. That is where I must direct all of my anger, eh?”

“Baba.”

“Baba? What is a baba?” She smiled, then sighed. “We dinnae ken much about each other, do we, James? I dinnae think that fleeing men who wish to kill you will give us much time to do so either. Mayhap when we get to my home, to Dunnbea, we may take the time to learn of each other and your grandmere will be most eager to help. Aye, and your grandpere. Ye willnae be alone, sweet James, though none of us can replace those ye have had stolen away from you. There will be loving and caring aplenty and mayhap that will ease the loss ye have suffered. ’Tis a blessing that ye are still such a young bairn for the loss and pain may nay be so deep or painful.”

Bethia knew that she was fortunate in one thing. James was a very even-tempered child who did little fussing or crying. He had his mother’s sweet nature—Sorcha’s ever flowing happiness with life and the world around her. It served Bethia well as they ran for their lives, but she was determined that Sorcha’s son would learn the value of a little wariness and caution.

She was just preparing to pack up their things and continue her long walk home when she heard a soft noise. Cursing herself for not watching more closely, she drew her dagger and stood in front of the child. Two men slipped out of the shadows of the surrounding trees. She frowned slightly, for they did not look like William’s men.

“Ye willnae take the bairn,” she said firmly.

“We dinnae want the bairn,” the taller of the two men said, briefly glancing at her dagger and then at the silver cup James still held in his tiny hands.

“Ye are naught but base thieves.”

“Weel, ’tis certain we arenae what ye were expecting, but we arenae base thieves. We are verra good ones and it looks as if luck has smiled upon us.”

Bethia knew that she ought to just let them take what they wanted, that fighting with the men would only endanger her and James, could even get them killed. What the thieves wished to steal from her, however, was all she had left of Sorcha. Her mind told her to pick up the baby and run, but her heart, still raw and aching with grief, was determined that these rough men would never touch Sorcha’s things.

“Ye willnae take what is mine without a fight, sirs,” she said coldly, praying that they were abject cowards.

“Now, lassie, are those few things really worth your life or the bairn’s?”

“Nay, but the question should be, are they really worth yours?”

The sound of voices pulled Eric from his thoughts. He tensed in his saddle and listened more carefully, finally determining the direction they came from. He had decided it was best to take the less traveled routes to his mother’s family to avoid any trouble, yet it appeared that he was about to ride into some.

Cautiously, he edged his mount toward the voices. He briefly considered dismounting and approaching on foot, but decided to remain mounted. If there was trouble ahead and it was more than he could deal with, he wanted to be able to get out of its reach as fast as possible.

When he first saw the people through the trees, he had to resist the urge to rub his eyes in disbelief. A tiny, slender, chestnut-haired woman with only a small ornate dagger stood facing two sword-wielding men. Eric stared at the bairn behind her for a full moment before he believed it was really there.

“Now, lassie, are those few things really worth your life or the bairn’s?” Eric heard the taller of the two men say.

And the little woman replied, “Nay, but the question should be, are they really worth yours?”

Brave, Eric thought. Foolish, but brave. The woman’s question was enough to make the two thieves hesitate and Eric decided their indecision gave him the perfect opportunity to help the woman. As the two men assumed a fighting stance, Eric boldly rode into the small clearing. He had to smile at the way all three people gaped at him as if he was some apparition formed by the mists of the forest.

“I think the lady wishes to keep her things, sirs,” he drawled as he drew his sword. “If ye wish to keep your brutish heads upon your cowardly shoulders, I suggest ye run—now—verra fast and verra far.”

The men hesitated barely a heartbeat before stumbling back into the wood. Eric watched their flight until he could no longer see them and then turned to look at the woman. She still stared at him as if he was a ghost and he took full advantage of her openmouthed confusion to look her over carefully.

His brothers’ wives were small, delicately built women, but he suspected this one would look small even next to them. Her hair was thick and long, hanging in soft waves to her small yet shapely hips. It was a rich, deep chestnut color; the sunlight that broke through the cover of the trees decorated it with glimpses of red. Her face was small, vaguely heart shaped, with the hint of a stubborn chin, a small straight nose, and an invitingly full mouth. What grabbed and held Eric’s attention, however, was her eyes. Wide, thickly lashed, and set beneath delicately arched brows, they did not match. The left one was a rich, clear green and the right was a brilliant blue.

After swiftly examining her form from her small but tempting breasts to her tiny waist, he glanced at the baby behind her. The little boy had strikingly red curls and green eyes. Eric suddenly found himself keenly interested in whether or not the child was hers and where the father was. He looked back at the woman and smiled as she began to shake free of her shock.

Bethia had been stunned when the tall, lean knight rode in and sent the robbers fleeing for their meager lives. It took her a long time to shake aside her astonishment. She knew he was studying her and found herself carefully studying him back.

He was a beautiful man, she mused, knowing there was no other word to describe him. His long, reddish gold hair fell below his broad shoulders; it was so thick that even tying it back could not fully contain or hide it. His face was one of the most perfect she had ever seen, with its smooth, high forehead, high, wide cheekbones, long, handsomely unbroken nose, strong chin, and mouth that even she, in all of her innocence, recognized as dangerously sensuous. Deep, rich blue eyes were framed by surprisingly long brown lashes and set perfectly beneath faintly arced light brown brows.

His face was not all that was beautiful either. His body, attired handsomely in a crisp white linen shirt and a plaid she did not recognize, was tall and leanly muscular. Broad shoulders, a trim waist and hips, and long, well-shaped, muscular legs were enough to make any maid’s heart beat faster. It was not surprising that she had thought him a vision. Men like him did not simply ride out of the trees and save one’s life.

That started Bethia wondering what he was doing there, at this spot and at this opportune time. She held her dagger at the ready as her suspicions began to grow. Just because he was a pleasure for her eyes did not mean he was a good man. He could be working for William. She might not have been rescued at all—she might simply have changed one danger for another.

“Who are ye, sir?” she demanded. “I dinnae recognize your plaid or your clan badge.”

“Such a sweet thank-ye for my aid,” he murmured.

Bethia refused to let his soft reprimand over her apparent ingratitude embarrass her. There was too much at stake to be overconcerned with courtesies. “I am nay sure I have been rescued yet.”

Eric bowed slightly in the saddle “I am Sir Eric Murray of Donncoill.”

“I dinnae recognize the name or the place, so ye must be verra far afield, sir.”

“I seek out my mother’s family. And what are ye doing in the depths of the forest with naught but a bairn and a dagger?”

“A fair question, I suppose.”

“Verra fair.”

She eased her wary stance only a little, trying not to let the man’s deep, attractive voice lull her suspicions. “I am taking my nephew to his family.”

The word nephew made Eric a little happier than he thought it should. “With no one to aid or guard you?”

Bethia tensed again as he sheathed his sword and slowly dismounted. There was nothing threatening in his movements, but she dared not trust anyone. James’s life was at risk and that was something far too valuable to gamble with.

“There was no one I felt I could trust with his life.” She backed up, planting herself firmly between James and Eric as he took a small step toward her. “I think ye may understand that, at this moment, that also includes you, sir.”

“Ye dinnae recognize my name or my clan, lass. I cannae believe ye dinnae ken exactly who your enemies are and ’tis clear that I dinnae number amongst them.”

“Not yet.”

Eric smiled faintly. “I have told ye who I am, but ye havenae returned the kindness.”

Bethia wished the man would cease smiling at her. That beautiful smile threatened to steal away her wits, soften her wariness, and make her ready to believe he was truly her savior. His deep voice was almost like a caress, making her feel unforgivably rude for not trusting in him immediately. He might not be one of William’s men, but she began to think he could be dangerous in many other ways.

“I am Bethia Drummond and this is my nephew, James Drummond, laird of Dunncraig.”

“Dunncraig?”

“Ye ken the place?”

“Only that it is but one of the many I must pass to get where I am going.”

“Weel, depending upon which way ye ride, ye may have already passed it.”

“I ride to the MacMillans of Bealachan.”

Bethia knew the family well, but that only eased her wariness a little. The man might not be going to them as a friend. “Why?”

“They are my mother’s kinsmen.”

“Yet ye speak as if this is the first time ye travel there.”

“It is, but the reasons for that make for a long, sometimes dark tale and I cannae say I feel inclined to relate it whilst a dagger is held to my throat.”

Even as she did so, Bethia knew it was a mistake, but she glanced down at her dagger to see where it was pointed. It angered her, even frightened her, but it did not surprise her when his long fingers wrapped around her wrist and he easily snatched the dagger from her hand. She waited tensely for his next move and frowned a little . . .