The Highlander's Welsh Bride: A Scottish Medieval Romantic Adventure

Book 5: Hardy Heroines

by Cathy MacRae, DD MacRae

Genres: Historical Romance; Medieval Romance; Scottish & Highlander; historical romance; enemies to lovers; women warriors

Synopsis

He's a hard-headed Scot seeking a wife. She's a fugitive Welsh princess under arrest for poaching. Can Birk convince Carys marriage to him is preferable to a hangman's noose?

Birk MacLean has been ordered to take a bride. But the lasses paraded before him promise little more than delicate natures and selfish motives. He requires a wife strong enough to help lead one of the most powerful clans in Western Scotland. One like the Welsh woman sitting in his dungeon, arrested for poaching MacLean deer.

Carys Wen, a princess of Wales, once picked up arms alongside her husband in the fight for Wales's Independence. Now homeless, her husband dead and buried beneath good Welsh soil, she has fled north, penniless and completely bereft of hope. She desires little from life beyond peace and a place where she will not draw the attention of the English king who destroyed her family and country.

Will Birk's plan to marry Carys gain him the strong wife he desires? Or could his abrupt handling of the circumstances bring him more than he expected?

The Highlander's Welsh Bride is an epic tale of honor, betrayal, passion, and the redeeming power of love. If you like romantic tales with a blend of history and fiction, you'll love this addition to the Hardy Heroines series by Cathy & DD MacRae.

Release date: December 27, 2018

Publisher: Short Dog Press

Print pages: 331

Sample

THE HIGHLANDER’S WELSH BRIDE

 

 

Prologue

 

 

MacLean Castle

Morvern, Lochaline, Scotland

1279

 

Birk MacLean stood at the window overlooking the Sound of Mull, rain misting the air, whorling in glistening patterns across the thick, leaded glass pane. He stared at the missive in his hands as emotions too powerful to identify seeped into his soul.

 

All hands aboard the Mara Cu’ lost in a storm crossing the North Minch.

 

“My laird, be there anything else?” the messenger asked, a wobble in his voice.

Birk glared at the source of interruption and crushed the parchment. The slight man paled.

“What?” Birk growled and stepped toward the man.

“I asked if there be anything else, my laird.” His clansman backed toward the door of the laird’s solar.

“Nothing,” Birk bit off.

The sound of his hasty retreat tempted Birk to feel guilty for frightening him, but his anger swept aside the notion as easily as a feather on the wind. He finally had proof the wench was unfaithful. Now she and her lover lay at the bottom of the sea, robbing him of the right to revenge. No one would wish to speak ill of the dead, leaving pity to be her legacy rather than the scorn and banishment she deserved.

“What is it, son?” his father called from the next room, his voice soft and infirm.

Birk strode to the open doorway leading to his father’s chambers, halting at the cloying stench of sickness hanging in the air. The lung fever which had claimed many older clansmen this past winter left the laird in a diminished condition. Birk had taken on his father’s responsibilities since and was the MacLean in all but name.

“’Tis news of Rose,” Birk answered with a calm he did not feel.

“What of the MacDonald bitch?” Alex MacLean asked bitterly.

“She and Lyal MacLeod died during their passage to Stornoway. A storm sank their ship crossing the Minch. No survivors.”

“Thank God for His good judgement,” his da pronounced, his eyes glittering above the blanket clutched to his chin. He sputtered then heaved a wet, wracking cough.

Birk grabbed the cup of mulled wine on the table next to the bed and helped his da sit up to drink. He tried not to think about how his once robust sire—even at his advanced age—had been reduced to the skeletal form before him in a matter of weeks. Unable to rise on his own, Laird MacLean had become bedridden less than a month ago.

“I should have never asked ye to marry that jezebel. Had I known her true colors, I’d have told MacDonald to go to hell. His offering of peace brought more bad blood, no doubt his intention. The only good to come of your debacle of a marriage are my wee granddaughters. At least the Almighty wrought two miracles from my misjudgment.”

“’Tis over, now, Da. Ye need yer rest,” Birk replied.

“Bah. I have lived long and buried three children and my first wife, though yer ma will always have my heart and will outlive me by years, God willing. I’ll be resting in my grave soon enough. The mantle falls to ye now.”

Birk was tempted to offer reassurances, but knew they would ring as insults, hollow words more befitting the weak-spirited, not a man who had lived a braw life leading one of the strongest clans in the Highlands. They both understood his time drew nigh and naught could be done to change their circumstances.

“I’ll ask the elder council to schedule the ceremony. No need to wait until this frail auld man becomes a corpse to do what needs doing.”

“As ye wish, Da.” Birk wanted to say more, but could think of nothing that didn’t sound like the sentimental talk of a woman.

“Ye know what this means?” Alex asked.

Birk tilted his head in invitation.

“With no male heir, ye’ll have to take another bride.”

Birk’s lips thinned and his jaw clenched. As much as he hated the idea, sooner or later, he’d be forced to wed again. Heaven help the woman who agreed to be his wife.

 

 

CHAPTER ONE

 

 

Battle of Orewin Bridge, Wales

December 1282

Three years later

 

Three English soldiers emerged from the woods, footsteps crackling on frozen branches and snow. Carys caught her brother’s arm in warning, but the alarm arrived too late. They’d been spotted.

“Stop!” one of the soldiers shouted, drawing his sword. He burst across the small glen, the other two men at his heels.

Hywel snatched his bow from his shoulder. “Take the one on the left.” In a swift move born of too much practice killing the English, he nocked and released an arrow, dropping the lead soldier in his tracks.

Carys flung her javelin. The leaf-shaped blade struck her target in the chest, piercing his leather armor and knocking him to the ground. The instant her hands were free, she drew her bow, aiming for the third Englishman whom Hywel had already staggered with an arrow. She added a feathered shaft of her own to ensure he fell and stayed down. Drawing her short sword, she stalked the bodies.

“Carys, we must fly!” Hywel called softly. “The prince has fallen. More of Longshanks’s men will be upon us anon.”

The scream of steel on steel and of men dying rose on the air behind them, adding urgency to his plea. Carys nodded, pausing to stuff the few coins the dead English soldiers had in their possession, along with their daggers, into the small pack she carried. She spotted a silver necklace and yanked it from the neck of its owner. A fine silver ring with beautiful filigree work set with an amber stone hung from the chain. She hastily stashed it into a pocket.

Unbuckling the belt from the man with two arrows in his chest, she sheathed his short sword in its scabbard and tossed it to Hywel. The man in leather had been an archer, so she blended his quiver with hers, slung her bow over a shoulder, and reclaimed her javelin. Carys then trotted after her brother into the forest. The fresh, clean scent of snow and evergreens replaced the stench of death as they loped silently through the wood, away from the battle. They moved like ghosts in the long shadows of the afternoon. Their footsteps crunched softly on the frozen ground, leaving little evidence of their passage. Sunlight filtered weakly through the heavy canopy, leaving the dense underbrush deeply shadowed.

The sounds of battle faded, and the eerie quiet unnerved Carys. It seemed the forest along with all of Cymru grieved the loss of her prince.

“Where are we headed, Hywel?” she asked, her voice pitched on a whisper. Though most English soldiers wore chain armor and lumbered about like oxen—easily heard in the silent forest—she didn’t wish to draw attention in case scouts roamed this direction. Sound carried easily on the crisp winter air. Wearing dark green woolen leggings, leather jerkins, boots, and leather cowls covering their heads and shoulders, Carys and her brother blended in with the evergreen foliage and shadows.

“Our cousin, the prince, is dead,” Hywel reminded her. “That means Cymru has fallen to the English. We’ve naught left of family and nowhere to turn. I say we travel to the coast and find our way beyond Edward’s reach.”

The reminder of her husband Terwyn’s death in battle only a few weeks past tore a fresh wound in Carys’s aching heart. They’d been married only a few months, and her dreams of hearth, home, and children died along with him.

She considered her brother’s words. She didn’t know much of the world but knew Longshanks’s reach stretched far. Was there such a place where his presence wasn’t a blight upon the land?

Somehow, the English had crossed the Irfon River downstream today and attacked the Cymru army from behind. Carys and her brother had been part of a small band of archers charged with holding the Orewin Bridge, keeping the English on the south side of the river. Once the Marcher Lords attacked the Cymru flank, the English cavalry crossed the bridge unopposed. Equipped with better armor and weapons, the English had soon turned the battle into a slaughter. Carys and her brother were among the few who had survived. Their next steps would lead to their safety—or death.

The coast lay a good two or three days’ march south on foot. They had traveled farther before, though typically not in the dead of winter, or with an English army at their backs.

More at home in the forest than in any dwelling, Carys settled into her stride, keeping her eyes and ears open for the enemy. By nightfall, she and Hywel had put many miles between them and the battle. Hywel placed a finger to his lips as they approached a cluster of cottages in a small valley ringed by hills. The rock walls and thatched roofs appeared in good repair.

“Ho, the house,” Hywel called, keeping a respectable distance between himself and the cottages. Carys hid behind a tree, an arrow nocked and ready. With as much treachery as they’d witnessed today, she’d guard her brother’s life with her own.

A large man opened the door to the nearest cottage. “Aye? What the devil do ye want this late of an eve?”

“My companion and I seek a hot meal and mayhap a place in yer barn for the night. We have news of the battle and of Prince Llywelyn.” Hywel held up a brace of hares they’d shot along the way.

The big man motioned for them to enter. “Come in, come in. ’Tis cold and I’m lettin’ out the heat.”

Carys stowed her arrow and caught Hywel at the doorway. They stepped into the warm cottage. Her nose twitched and her mouth watered as the aroma of freshly baked bread and simmering pottage struck her. It had been days since they’d had a home-cooked meal, and she prayed for the goodwife’s hospitality.

“All Cymry are welcome in me home if they come in peace. Seat yerselves. Alis makes the best cawl lafwr in all of Cymru, and we were about to sit to supper.”

Hywel and Carys leaned their bows, javelins and packs against the door frame and eased onto the bench their host indicated.

“I’m Mal, and this is me wife, Alis. Our oldest son, Derwyn, daughter, Begwn and youngest boy, Derfel.”

“I’m Hywel ap Pedr, and this is my sister, Carys. Many thanks for your hospitality.”

Alis set two mugs full of cider and bowls of lamb stew in front of them. “Here, this will take the chill off. Ye needn’t have to pay for yer meal with game.”

“Mewn pob daioni y mae gwobr,” Hywel replied.

Alis planted both hands on her hips. “A reward in every goodness, aye? I can see yer mam taught ye well.”

Carys glanced downward while Hywel offered a sad smile.

“How’d they go?” Mal gently asked.

“When Longshanks’ men took Ynys Mon, they were counted among the dead that day.”

“We’ll pray for their souls this eve,” Alis said.

Hywel nodded as Carys heaved a sigh.

“Ye said ye had news.” Mal motioned for them to fill their bowls, and Hywel obliged with his tale.

“We fought the English at the battle of Moel y Don and drove them into the sea nigh on a month ago. We then followed the prince to Orewin Bridge. Our numbers were in the thousands, and we would have won the day, but someone showed the English where to cross the Irfon beyond the bridge. They attacked from both sides. We did what we could but ran once we saw Prince Llywelyn fall.”

Mal shook his head, a heavy frown on his face. “Our dear prince has died? Aye, ’tis dire news, and no mistake. There’s no shame in living to fight another day. Our strength is in our knowledge of these forests, mountains and hills, and in the ambush. We’re no match for the English on an open field.”

Carys drank the cider and soaked in the heat from the fire. Seeing this herder with his family enlarged the hole Terwyn’s death left in her heart. In another year, she would have been picking up their first child. Instead she picked up arms against the cursed invaders. Her ancestors had done the same against the Vikings, Saxons and Romans before them. She longed for the violence to end.

Mal sent his two youngest to bed shortly after supper. Hywel regaled their hosts and eldest with tales of their recent battles. He had the soul of a bard and entertained everyone with his stories. He and Mal speculated how long until Longshanks would send his Marcher Lords and their men deeper into Cymru to crush any further rebellion.

Carys watched her brother. Hywel’s black wavy hair mirrored her own. They both were tall and slender and shared the same brown eyes, an inheritance from their parents. Carys spotted their da’s humor when her brother smiled, though he did so less these days.

Their da had taught them both woodcraft and how to hunt at an early age, something all Cymry learned, even nobility. She speculated they’d spent more time in the woods than on their small holding while growing up. Cymru’s mountainous terrain was unfit for farming, though they grew enough crops and livestock in their small vale to allow them and their tenants to prosper. Like Mal and his family, they’d kept sheep, pigs, chickens and a few goats.

Hywel tapped her on the shoulder. “Sister mine, ’tis time to find our rest and allow these fine people to sleep.”

Carys nodded and sat upright, blinking against the red glow of the banked fire. She must have dozed. “My thanks for yer generosity,” she murmured.

“Ye are welcome to sleep before the fire. ’Tis too cold in the barn this time of year,” Mal said.

Carys smiled. “We’ve slept on the ground the past several nights. Yer barn will be a welcome comfort. Besides, we’ll be off afore light and do not wish to disturb ye.”

“Here, at least take some laverbread for yer journey,” Alis said as she handed Hywel a linen-wrapped bundle.

He accepted the gift. “Dduw bendithia eich teulu,”

Mal smiled. “May God bless your family as well.”

Carys and Hywel settled deep into a straw-filled stall and tucked their cloaks and blankets around them. Carys nestled into her seal fur-lined cloak, a wedding day gift from Terwyn. He’d taken her wool cloak without her knowledge and his mother and sister had sewn the hide of a seal he’d killed into the wrap. Too flustered by the details of her wedding day, she never realized the cloak was missing until he’d offered the sumptuous gift. Tears brimmed her eyes as Carys recalled the joy of receiving something so thoughtful and practical. More than a warm garment, it was a sign of a caring husband and of acceptance by the women in his family.

From her pocket, Carys fished out the ring she’d claimed earlier in the day from the dead man. She took her own ring, the thin gold band Terwyn had given her at their wedding, and placed it on the chain with the other. She then drew them around her neck, the cold metal soothing against her skin. The delicate filigree circlet was obviously a woman’s ring and she wondered who it had belonged to. Had the soldier purchased it as a gift for his wife? If so, there was an Englishwoman soon to be grieving the loss of her husband. Her mother told her once, men went to war while women bore the burden of it. Carys hadn’t understood what she meant at the time. She did now.

Rising before the sun, she nudged her brother awake. “Time to be on our way, Hywel.”

Hywel stretched and walked to the back of the barn to relieve himself. Gathering their weapons, they resumed their journey. Breaking their fast with a piece of laverbread as they walked, Carys recalled when her mother taught her how to make the staple. Boil seaweed for hours until soft, then chop it fine and roll in oats before baking or frying. Alis had baked this batch, making it harder, ensuring it traveled well. Carys carefully tucked the memory of her mam away and sent a silent blessing to Alis for her thoughtfulness.

Though unlikely the English were nearby, Hywel set a brisk pace to devour the miles between them and the coast.

“Where exactly are we headed?” Carys asked, eager to learn of his plan.

“Aberystwyth is the nearest port of any size. We should reach the Rheidol River today. It will lead us to Aberystwyth and to the sea. From there we can find a ship to take us to either Éire or Scotland.”

“Which has better forests?” Carys wondered, anxious to return to a familiar life.

“Scotland, I think. ’Tis the larger of the two. Vikings and their decedents still hold parts of the northern end. We can either buy passage when we sell the sword and the daggers ye took, or we can hire on as crew for a merchant vessel. Either way, ’tis time to find another home, though it pains me to say.”

Carys frowned as she considered their future. “We’d die within the year battling the English if we remained. I do not fear dying but would rather not throw my life away fighting for a hopeless cause.”

Hywel dipped his head. Treachery among their kinsmen had cost them dearly.

As predicted, they met the Rheidol by noon and followed it toward the sea. They exchanged two grouse and a pheasant for another hot meal, more laverbread, dried meat, and a night in a barn. The third morning they encountered the coast.

Carys and her brother stood on a hill overlooking the seaside hamlet of Aberystwyth. The sun lay just behind the mountains to the east, sending orange and pink streaks to announce the day’s arrival. The briny smell of the ocean filled her nose. A crying seagull wheeled in the brisk wintry air. She saw no sign of English soldiers, nor were any naval vessels moored nearby. The small fishing village appeared to be awakening to a new day as if unaffected by recent events.

“Come, sister mine. We will need to find a ship quickly as they will want to sail with the tide.”

They trotted toward the docks where fishermen—their nets at the ready—launched, and merchant vessels—both large and small—loaded goods.

“Wait for me here,” Hywel said, handing her his bow and javelin.

Her brother’s easy style gained the attention of the old men gathered around the pier closest to them. Hywel said something to make the men laugh then shook his hand in greeting. One old man pointed toward another dock. Her brother patted him on the shoulder and strode back to her. Carys grinned.

“What?” Hywel asked as he approached, his smile mirroring hers.

“Ye could charm the Almighty Himself if given half the chance.”

“Mayhap, but I have found us a boat. The captain sails around Scotland, trading as he goes.”

She nodded approval and stepped in behind him, the hood of her cowl pulled low. They passed taverns and inns, the aroma of cooking food in the air.

“Wait, here, Princess,” Hywel teased, “and I will sell the steel we took from the English to yon blacksmith.”

Carys punched his arm. “You know I hate it when you call me that.”

His eyes softened “Aye, I do, but ye are a true princess of Cymru.”

“As ye are a true prince, Brother.”

Hywel offered a sad smile and removed the signet ring given him by their father, a symbol of his place in the royal house. The heavy gold ring was embossed with the Dragon of Cymru, Llywelyn’s symbol.

“Keep it safe with yer others,” he bade, then strode toward a building, smoke rising from its stone chimney.

Carys surreptitiously placed the ring on her chain and watched Hywel enter the smith’s shop, her nose twitching at the scent of baked goods. She spotted a vender selling fresh meat pies and bought four bundled in a cloth.

A gnarled hand grasped Carys’s arm. “Ye’ve the stench of death on ye, lass.”

Carys wheeled, meeting the gaze of a half-blind old woman, her milky eyes staring from a deeply wrinkled face.

“Aye, nain,” Carys replied kindly. “I’ve just come from battle where our beloved prince was struck dead by the English.”

The old woman clucked her tongue. “Dreadful news that is, indeed. What I sense is not simply the death behind ye, though there be plenty, but the death afore ye.”

A pit gaped in Carys’s stomach at the thought of more loss. “What shall I do?” she asked, her voice a choked whisper.

The old crone patted her arm. “It matters not, fy merchd. Stay or go. Death follows ye like a hound. Though if ye leave this day, ’twill send yer own death into the distant future.”

Stunned by the prediction, she absently handed the old woman one of her meat pies and settled a brief kiss on the wrinkled brow.  “God be with ye, nain,” she whispered.

“And with you, daughter.” The woman accepted Carys’s gift and blended into the crowd.

Carys strode toward Hywel as he left the smithy and handed him his pies.

He gave her a pleased grin. “The English may be a curse upon the land, but their steel isn’t. The blades fetched a good price. Hmm, this is good,” he mumbled around a mouthful of lamb and root vegetables as he took a bite.

“If we are to be at sea, there’s no saying when we’ll have an opportunity to eat anything other than fish for a while,” Carys replied distractedly, still stunned by the prophecy she’d received.

Finishing their pies, they hurried to the pier as one vessel prepared to sail and two others finished loading.

Hywel approached a sturdy man whose shock of red hair gleamed in the morning light. “Captain Ferguson?”

“Aye, I’m Murdoc Ferguson,” the ruddy man replied. A sandy-colored Cymru Shepherd marked with a black saddle and white belly bounded next to Ferguson, its front paws on the rail. The man placed a hand on the dog’s head. “Easy, Dewr.”

Carys pulled her cowl low over her face to hide her features and smiled at the dog’s name—brave in her native tongue. Dewr was much like the dogs their father’s sheep herder kept.

“I was told ye are in need of hands,” Hywel said.

“Do either of ye know yer way around a boat?”

“Aye. Our uncle was a fisherman at Holyhead. We grew up fishing the bay.”

Though not completely the truth, it wasn’t a lie, either. The two of them did have an uncle who was a fisherman and they did go out many times, but neither was much of a sailor.

“Are ye handy with those bows?” the captain asked, eying their weaponry.

“We both recently were archers in the prince’s service, and I can shoot an Englishman betwixt his eyes afore he ever hears me,” Hywel said with a wink.

“And yer brother?” Ferguson asked.

“This one?” Hywel patted Carys on the shoulder. “This one has always been a better shot, though I win on distance.”

Captain Ferguson nodded once. “I sail through the day, hugging the shore, then land at night. I make me way up the coast of Éire, then the Scottish Lowlands, Highlands, and the inner isles. Depending on how well the weather holds and the trading goes, I’ll be gone three months or more. Does that suit ye?”

“Aye, it does, though we aim to stay in the Highlands. Will that leave ye in a bind?” Hywel asked.

Ferguson waved a hand in the air. “Nae. This fight with the English has taken all the lads I’d usually hire here, so I’ll take the two of ye and be glad of it. We should be able to find more hands along the way.”

He named their wages and duties. The ship was a single-masted birlinn with a square sail and ten oars, though there were only twelve hands plus the captain, leaving four oars unmanned. The work would be hard, but it would take them beyond Edward’s reach.

Hywel and Carys shook hands with the captain then assisted the other men loading the boat, rolling barrels across the gangplank and stacking them mid-ships. Her height and the calluses she’d gained drawing a bow and swinging a sword helped Carys pass as an older lad. None paused to peer through her disguise. The dog, however, gave them both a good sniffing.

“Dewr likes to get to know her crew,” the captain noted. “She’s canny as a selkie and protects the boat. When we’re a’port, she’ll keep a weather eye on the ship fer us.”

Carys smiled at the mix of Gaelic and Cymraeg the captain used while speaking. She’d traveled enough to have developed an ear for Gaelic, Erse, and a smattering of English. Ferguson’s speech gleaned words from each.

A sturdy red-haired boy of perhaps fifteen summers, a splatter of freckles across his sun-burned nose, approached them with a friendly grin. He stuck out his hand in greeting. “I’s Tully. ’Tis me da’s boat. I love boats,” he said in a manner more befitting a lad of four or five rather than one at the cusp of manhood.

Hywel shook his hand and gave the lad a warm smile. “’Well met, Tully. I’m Hywel and here’s my younger brother.”

Tully nodded vigorously, his smile widening. “S’times they call me, Stew. I ken how to make stew. I’s thirteen summers, though da says I’s big for me age.”

Carys’s heart immediately warmed toward the boy. Though it was plain to see he was simple, he had a good heart and a strong back. The fact Ferguson brought his boy along instead of hiding him away made her respect the captain more.

“Tully m’lad, leave them be to finish their work so we can shove off,” Ferguson bellowed.

“Aye, Da,” the boy replied, undaunted by his father’s loud rebuke. Tully snapped his fingers and Dewr followed him to a bench where he took his place at an oar.

Once loaded, they pushed off and raised sail, catching the outgoing tide and morning breeze, leaving the small bay behind.

A large ship emerged on the horizon. “Bloody English,” Captain Ferguson spat.

Hywel quickly recounted the events of the past month to the captain and crew.

“To oars,” the captain shouted. “I dinnae wish to give the bastards a chance tae get close. The Seabhag can outrun their lumbering cogs any day. That’s it, lads. Show the bloody English who rules these seas.”

Carys sat on the bench beside her brother, grasped the oar and mimicked his movements. The oar wasn’t terribly heavy and she was strong from her years with the long bow, but she doubted her ability to row for hours on end. They settled into a steady rhythm, moving the Seabgag swiftly across the water. One thing was certain, she would be stronger after this trip. With the wind and tide in their favor, they kept the English ship at a distance and ceased rowing once the cog abandoned the chase and made for port.

Hywel leaned over and whispered, “How’d ye fare?”

Carys shrugged. “’Tis nothing I cannot and will not do daily. I only fear not being able to keep up with you when we have to row for most of a day.”

“Don’t worry. Ye’ll grow stronger as we go along, and the wind never ceases to blow this time of year. Besides, he needs the hands. Ferguson will see how hard ye work. By the time he realizes ye’re a woman, we’ll be either in Éire or Scotland. If he insists we leave, at least we’ll be a few coins richer and farther away from the English.”

 

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

 

MacLean Castle

Morvern, Scotland

 

Birk shifted in his chair, steadying himself against the urge to dismiss the entire council arranged before him in the great hall. He resented being recalled to MacLean Castle like a disobedient lad. Managing the improvements to Dairborrodal Castle overlooking the Sound of Mull from a promontory on the Ardnamurchan Peninsula kept his mind off both the past and the future. With the elder council calling him to task once again, he could deny the future no longer.

“They look a right solemn bunch,” Dugan noted quietly with a short nudge to Birk’s ribs.

He and Birk both glanced up as a dark-haired woman approached the table, her rounded belly giving her a bit of a waddling gait. Rising to pull out the empty chair to his right, Birk seated his older half-sister carefully. She lowered herself to the chair with one hand pressed to the small of her back. The council rose to its collective feet, a short bow to Gillian instead of the words of rebuke Birk had grown accustomed to.

“They are solemn,” she shot back at Dugan. She adjusted her sights on Birk. “And if ye would only come down from that ancient pile of stones on Ardnamurchan long enough to take a wife—and breed an heir—I wouldnae be drawn into this.” She sighed heavily. “’Tis nae enough my husband is away on the king’s business and cannae attend this council in my place, but I am still weeks away from delivering this bairn, and as such, my discomfort means little to these auld men gathered.” She indicated the elder council with a curt nod.

Birk covered her hand with his in a comforting gesture. “I would not have agreed to have them send for ye, even if ye are the only other remaining MacLean. Though I mean no disrespect to Ma or Signy.” He managed a grin at the thought of his other half-sister, completely unrelated to Gillian, who had lived with them for only a handful of years before marrying a man from the Isle of Mull. Despite her short time at MacLean Castle, she and Birk had been very close for she had treated him as the brother she’d lost to the Scot raiders who’d destroyed their village years earlier. Though their da, Alex, had been able to bring Signy home to his grieving soon-to-be wife, nothing had ever been heard of Sten, and a memorial stone had eventually been quietly placed in Hanna’s garden.

Gillian sent him a pensive look. “They have grown more determined since Da passed away. I dinnae know how ye keep from dispensing with the lot of them.”

The twinge of guilt he always felt when reminded of his da’s passing bit then was gone. No matter how much he wished it otherwise, his da had lived long past the years given to most men, and the lung fever had not been an enemy he could defeat.

“Mayhap they will offer ye the lairdship. Ye already have two heirs growing nicely at home.” He cocked his head. “And from the looks of ye, mayhap twins this time.”

“Perish the thought—on both accounts. ’Tis unlikely they’d offer it to a woman, and I have enough on my hands, thank ye verra much.” She frowned. “I can think of things I’d rather have offered me—a trip across the sound in a storm, for one. Which reminds me, we’ve had verra strong tides of late. I hope none of yer ships have been inconvenienced.”

Birk shook his head. “Nae. I’ve none reporting damage or mishaps. Weather worry isnae new.”

“And ye have good captains,” Gillian replied, rubbing a hand across her belly.

“Is something bothering ye?” Birk asked, offering faint courtesy. Though he’d two bairns of his own, Rose hadn’t invited his interest in the proceedings. As always, thoughts of his deceased wife inspired a frown and a swell of anger. At least he could face his daughters with the knowledge they were his and not another man’s. They’d inherited their dark hair and slightly olive colored skin from him, and did not resemble their red-haired, pale-skinned ma at all.

As if Gillian sensed his train of thought, she patted his hand.

“How are my nieces? Did ye bring them with ye, or did ye leave them in that pile of rocks at Dairborrodal Castle?”

“Abria and Eislyn send ye their love,” Birk said. “They are with their grandma if ye wish to see them.” He tossed her a mischievous look. “You should ask her how she, the dowager baroness, managed to escape the council’s summons.”

Gillian smiled. “None dares insist Ma do something she doesnae wish to. And, of course, I wish to see the lassies. They are adorable.” She tapped a fingertip on the table. “How is Abria?”

Her hesitation was slight, but Birk, ever-conscious of his youngest daughter’s troubles, noticed. “She doesnae speak.” The skin on his neck heated; his reply curt.

Gillian nodded, her happy smile fading to one of commiseration, offering little hope and less assurance. “She will in time.”

“Her ma abandoned her when she was but a bairn. I fear the lass is scarred.”

“She is yet a bairn,” Gillian reminded him. “’Tis good ye allow her to spend so much time with ye. She shouldnae fear losing ye, as well.”

Birk ground his teeth, a predictable response when his dead wife was mentioned.

Gregor MacLean’s chair scraped the floor as he resumed his seat. “If my lady is comfortable, mayhap we could resume our talk?”

If Gillian caught the mild rebuke from the elderly man, she did not respond. Casting a beatific smile his way, she gave him her attention. “By all means, Gregor. Let us be about deciding my brother’s future.”

Birk stifled the urge to kick Gillian’s chair. He, for one, did not wish to hear more demands that he marry again.

Gregor lifted a ragged piece of parchment. “The council has compiled a list of women who meet our approval as the next Lady MacLean.” He waved a lad near and handed him the scrap. Birk stared at the offending page as it approached, his glare, he was fairly certain, standing a decent chance of igniting the parchment. Being of a particularly non-burnable element, it unfortunately arrived intact. He reluctantly accepted it and scanned the scrawled contents quickly.

His frown deepened. “Ye wish me to take another MacDonald wench to wife?” Birk cast the parchment away. It slewed across the table and landed in a platter of congealing mutton juices. “Because the last time worked so well?”

Gregor spread his hands. “Mairi MacDonald is a good lass.”

Birk bristled. “She’s fourteen! If I have more bairns, I’ll breed my own—not marry one.”

“Robena Balloch isnae a bairn,” Gregor countered quickly.

“Nae. She’s seeking her fifth husband. I dinnae care to land in her net.”

“She’s experienced,” someone offered.

“Well-plowed,” another quipped.

Birk sent a quelling look down the table and the wave of laughter choked.

Gregor bristled. “Ye cannae object to Seonag MacBrehon. Her father has ties to the MacDonnell laird.”

A round of nodding heads drifted down the table.

“Aye. The MacDonnell clan wields great power.”

“They have lands along our shipping routes,” Gregor added.

It was true. There was little he could say against Seonag MacBrehon. He risked sounding like the bitter man he’d become to point out the young woman’s timidity, her seeming lack of courage. She’d eaten at the MacLean tables often enough with her da, a brawny man who did a brisk business in Morvern in whisky and leather goods in the autumn when worn footwear was exchanged for warm, sturdier boots toward off the cold in winter. Her character was well known.

But to join with a woman of no mettle—what courage would a son of hers have? Birk suppressed a shudder. Assuming he had enough of an urge to sire a child on her.

“Enough. I will consider the will of the council. But I dinnae wish to discuss it further.”

His pronouncement was met with silence and skeptical looks. He waved a hand, catching the eye of his steward. “Fill their cups and assure them of a bed. I will make myself available for any questions on the morrow.”

I’ve had my fill for today. Gripping the armrests of his chair to force a hesitation, he barely managed to push his seat back without overturning it in unseemly haste. Belatedly remembering his sister’s presence, he wheeled about.

“Might I escort ye to yer room?”

She lifted a delicate brow. “As much as I would love to put my feet up, I believe we should take a stroll about the garden.”

Birk hid a groan, his chest near to bursting with the frustration building inside. He needed an outlet and escorting his pregnant half-sister about the garden did not appear promising.

“In this weather?” he asked, hoping to put her off.

“’Tis bracing. Hand me my cloak.”

“Certainly,” he gritted, forcing a congenial smile, though he feared it resembled naught more than a grimace. Her knowing grin confirmed his suspicion.

She took his arm. They strode across the hall through the lingering council members who edged out of his determined path. Disapproval and disappointment lit their eyes, dragged the corners of their mouths downward. Birk answered with a brisk nod.

He and Gillian reached the walled garden his mother had spent the early years of her marriage creating. After spending the first half of her life as a minor Norse lord’s wife on the Isle of Mull, she had fled the isle after her family and village were destroyed. She married Gillian’s father, Alex MacLean, and, after giving birth to Birk a year later, embraced the beauty of the Scottish landscape by creating this marvel of sturdy Rowan trees, spring and summer blooming flowers, and pebbled pathways.

Around the first bend stood a slender stone Birk had brought her when he was twelve, the smooth sides crossed with peculiar symbols carved into the rock’s surface. He’d found it nestled in a small copse, half-buried in thorns and twisted vines, as he trailed a buck through the brambles. Presenting it to her as a memorial stone for the son she’d lost years before, he’d meant to soothe the sadness from her eyes. She’d given the stone with its ancient carvings a place of honor in a bed of pretty white flowers, and it ruled the entrance to the rest of the garden with a benevolent eye.

“Ma is half-superstitious about that stone.” Gillian nodded to the weathered rock, topped with snow and glistening with frost. “I remember when ye gave it to her.”

Birk spared the rock a glance, a frisson of unease rippling across his shoulders. Gillian was quick to notice.

“Does it affect ye?”

“Nae. Rather, ’tis the first time it has done so.” He frowned. “’Tis only a stone.”

“Ye know better,” his sister chided. “It belongs to Sten.”

“That’s ridiculous.” The hair on the back of Birk’s neck rose, as if sensing the presence of his long-dead half-brother. “I dinnae come out here to indulge yer womanly prattling.”

Gillian halted, drawing her hand from his arm, surprise on her face. “Ye have changed, Birk MacLean,” she accused. “I felt sorry for ye when Rose showed her true colors, but even with her dead, ye have grown more bitter, not less.”

Rage bunched his muscles, flamed across his skin. Heat crept up his neck. He held onto his ire, using it to fuel his self-righteous anger. Fingertips pressed into his forearm, weight increasing until he lifted his gaze and met Gillian’s worried eyes.

“Birk, she’s gone. Why do ye allow her to torment ye so?”

His wrath subsided like a billowed sail losing the wind. It clung to him but failed to rise. Gillian was right. He brushed a layer of snow from a carved wooden bench across the path from the stone and Gillian sank with a sigh to its supporting comfort.

“I did love her,” he admitted, surprised to hear the words. He didn’t want to remember his boyish infatuation when he’d first met the voluptuous, spirited Rose.

“I thought ’twas an arranged marriage,” Gillian replied.

Birk nodded, seating himself on the bench abruptly, as if he no longer could count on his burning rage to fuel his movements.

“’Twas. But I secretly hoped Da would agree. He wasnae interested in her da’s offer at first, but I was already infatuated with her.” He shrugged. “I dinnae know if she’d been instructed to do her damnedest to ensure the alliance, or if she was attracted to me in the beginning, but during the sennight she and her da were here, she taught me a few things I’d never dreamed of as a lusty lad.”

He risked a glance at Gillian, hoping she did not condemn him for his youthful transgressions. Her shoulders shook, not, apparently, with indignation, but, if the twitch of her lips was to be believed, with humor.

“What?” Irritation sharpened his voice. “I confessed having swived a lass in manners I’d not imagined, and ye laugh?”

“Oh, Birk,” Gillian cried, abandoning all attempts to rein in her laughter. “Ye fell for the oldest trick in the world and fell hard. Ye always were passionate in whatever ye did. None out-sparred ye on the training field. Ye brought back the heaviest buck, the largest brace of hares. It doesnae surprise me ye felt so passionate about yer wife—may God have mercy on her soul. She doesnae deserve yer sacrifice, ye know. Ye dinnae have to keep her memory alive. As passionately as ye loved her, ye hate her just as much—or more.”

She tilted her head, compassion on her face, in the touch of her palm on his cheek. “Let the anger go. ’Tis stealing yer bairns from ye. They love ye yet are cautious in yer presence.”

Her observation shook Birk to his core. “I would give my life for my bairns,” he growled.

“I know that, and they do as well. But they need laughter, brother. Laughter and fond memories. I have those with our da,” she added, the sheen of tears in her eyes before she blinked them away.

“Do ye think that is why Abria—” The words fouled in his throat. He did not wish to be responsible for his daughter’s affliction. His fingers clenched, fisting on his thighs. “Why she doesnae speak?”

“Nae.” Gillian’s pronouncement was firm. “She has heard too many hateful rumors about her ma. I know ye try to shield her from them, but bairns have big ears. She was but two summers old when her ma ran away. All know Abria was a difficult baby, and she and her ma nearly died at her birth. ’Tis my belief she has heard it said she was the reason her ma fled. Either her ma dinnae wish to risk her life with another bairn, or raising Abria was too difficult. It doesnae matter. I suspect Abria fears ye will hate her if ye learn the truth.”

Birk leapt to his feet. “It isnae true! None of it. Why would she believe such a thing?”

“She is a bairn,” Gillian reminded him. “Reason doesnae enter into it. I’d hoped she would grow out of it, but ye say she remains mute.”

New anger hammered in Birk’s ears. Grinding his teeth, he paced before the bench.

“Ye have done yer best to include her,” Gillian said. “’Tis not yer fault.”

Birk shook his head, his sister’s kindness falling on deaf ears. He should have heard the rumors, realized what they were doing to Abria. But the whispers confirmed his wife was a vain, self-indulgent woman, lacking in morals, with no interest in raising bairns. The pitying looks, the sympathetic gestures—all had fed his sense of betrayal, the justice in Rose’s death.

He halted abruptly. “I will change everything,” he vowed. “If I feel rage, I will hide it. If I hear rumors, I will stop them. And I will hire a nurse who will play with the girls and brighten their spirits.”

“Very noble, and ’tis certain Rose’s auld nurse, Ina, is a gloomy thing,” Gillian agreed. “But what of yer life? Will ye agree to the council’s charge and marry?”

A frown threatened to take charge, but he halted it with supreme force.

“Nicely done,” his sister quipped, missing nothing.

“I will marry,” he said. “But a woman of my choosing. I cannae stomach a weak-willed woman. She must have a caring heart, loyalty.” He considered Seonag MacBrehon’s timid behavior. “She will be capable of defending herself. Her actions will inspire respect and approval.”

“And she must be beautiful,” Gillian added, her voice solemn.

It took Birk a moment to register his sister’s laughing skepticism.

“Where do ye expect to find this paragon of virtue?” she asked, her eyes dancing.

He shrugged, humor restored. “Not on the list I was given today.”

A rustle of leaves announced another’s presence. Birk schooled his face into a bland expression. A woman strolled down the path from the far reach of the garden, her russet cloak lined with plush fur. Silver glinted in her blonde hair. Her green eyes glowed, peace smoothing the lines of her face. The pair of lasses at her side were her exact opposite, possessing the dark, slanted eyes that bore evidence of their Armenian great-grandmother, their tresses a mass of thick sable curls. Their cold-pinked noses peaked out from the hoods of their cloaks.

Birk smiled at the pair, his exact images down to the slightly dusky hue to their skin.

Love and compassion gripped him in a stranglehold as he peered at the smallest of the children. Abria. Her name meant strength, but her eyes reflected the fragility of a troubled child. He squatted before her, draping his hands to dangle at his knees, neither reaching nor refusing her.

“How’re my bonny lasses? Is yer amma taking good care of ye?”

Hanna’s hand whitened as Abria’s grip tightened.

Her sister sent her da a reproachful look. “Abria doesnae like the big dogs, but the garden is much better.”

Birk held his half-smile and slid his gaze to Eislyn. Her quickness to shield her younger sister was admirable, but it had given her a sharp tongue and allowed Abria to hide in her sister’s shadow.

“I thank ye for noticing,” he told Eislyn. “What do ye like about the garden, Abria?”

“She likes—”

Birk lifted a finger, silencing Eislyn’s response. He waited patiently, hoping Abria would break her silence. The child turned her face to Hanna’s skirts and did not speak.

Clenching his jaw, Birk counted to ten before slowly rising. “I will let ye help with the new gardens at Dairborrodal, aye?” His words laced with entreaty, he had to be satisfied with the partial appearance of one of Abria’s eyes, as though his promise provoked interest.

“And what would ye like to help with, Eislyn?” he asked. Though his greatest concern was with Abria, he could not let his older daughter feel slighted.

“I should help with the weapons,” Eislyn announced. “I wish to continue my lessons, and there is no blacksmith or armorer at Dairborrodal yet.”

Gillian elbowed Birk. “Spoken like a true MacLean. She takes after her amma.”

“She comes from quite a lineage of warrior women,” Birk agreed. “And ’tis remiss of me to not keep up yer lessons.”

He lifted his gaze to his ma, noting the steel barely hidden beneath her serene façade. “How do ye fare this fine day?”

“I am pleased to spend it with my granddaughters, and understand your concern, though I have not yet reached my dotage,” Hanna replied with a faint nod to Abria. “This one has my gardening heart, the other will make a fine shield maiden.”

“I will,” Eislyn declared. “Amma has agreed to teach me to throw a blade. She says ye are much too busy with clan ’fairs.” She shrugged, a puzzled look furrowing her brow. “I dinnae know we were having a fair, but I want to go!”

Birk laughed. “She means clan politics, leanbh,” he said. “Dinnae fash. Mayhap we will have a fair close to harvest time. I will speak to the steward and have him look into it. Will that do?”

Eislyn nodded vigorously. “Aye! And a dagger-throwing contest?”

“We will see. Though at seven summers, ye are a bit too young to compete.”

Her scowl told him he would hear more on the subject. “Let’s go inside and find something warm to drink. Would ye like that?”

Eislyn nodded vigorously. Abria cut her gaze from her da to her sister, her thumb lodged in her mouth. She pressed closer to Hanna.

Dugan appeared at the entrance to the garden. Abria disappeared behind Hanna. Biting his tongue at his daughter’s continued fears, Birk merely swung about to face his captain.

“A word, Laird?” Dugan murmured.

Birk met his urgent gaze and drew in a breath sharp with the tang of winter. He glanced over his shoulder. “Mayhap yer amma and Auntie Gillian would see to the hot drinks?”

The women nodded, concern etched on their faces, and gathered the two lasses, bustling them past the men, their voices pitched unnaturally high with forced jollity. Birk folded his arms over his chest, belligerence returning as he guessed the council was not finished with him.

Dugan slanted a look at the retreating forms, then shifted his attention to Birk.

“Laird, there has been trouble at one of the crofts.”

“Not pirates?” Birk asked, startled to find the problem not where he’d imagined.

“Nae. Raiders inland. A lad brought the report. They killed his da and left the lad for dead. Ran off with the cattle and a side of pork.”

Birk’s blood boiled. “Where is the lad?”

“In the hall. Awaiting the healer.”

Birk surged forward, long stride quickly overtaking his ma and Gillian. “Take Abria and Eislyn to yer solar,” he barked as he swept past. Startled, his mother halted and put a hand out, catching his sleeve.

“Do ye need my help?”

He shrugged from beneath her touch. “Nae. I will speak of it to ye later.”

Hanna’s eyes narrowed, but Birk did not apologize, even though he knew she was the last person who required sheltering from life’s harsher truths.

He burst into the hall where a small group clustered, distress thick enough to almost touch. The group broke apart at his approach, baring a young lad of perhaps twelve summers to Birk’s view. A jagged gash, bound together with a rag and crusted blood, marked the lad from crown to jaw. His dark eyes burned hot and large in his pale face.

“Do ye know who did this, lad?” Birk asked, blunting a bit of the authoritative rumble of his voice as he attempted to reassure the boy.

The lad shook his head. A grimace snatched at his lips, whitening with pain. “Nae,” he croaked. “I’ve nae seen the man before.” He measured Birk’s body with his glance. “Yer height he was, and broad. Dark as night his long hair was.”

Birk grunted, exchanging a quick glance with Dugan over the lad’s head. It was not the first time a thief of long dark hair and unusual size had been reported. The soldiers had given him the nickname Colin Dubh. Nothing else was known about him. He attacked crofters, stole their livestock and food, and left dead any who resisted.

Birk ground his teeth. “Get the lad food and clean clothes. Tend his wounds and find him a place to sleep. I will speak to him again later.” He brushed past Dugan who wheeled about and matched his pounding stride.

“Gather enough forces to scour the land. I want no bothy, croft or cave left unexplored. I willnae have this devil on my lands.”

Dugan gave a curt nod and peeled away to gather his men.

A powerfully built man with the remnants of shockingly red hair planted himself before Birk. “I heard ye refuse to name a wife from those presented to ye today,” he growled. “Seonag is a bonny lass, and well brought up.” James MacBrehon grabbed his daughter’s arm and dragged her between Birk and himself. “Whatever ye want, my lass will provide it for ye.”

Seonag risked a look at Birk but jerked away as if struck as his eyebrows snapped together.

“Can ye tend the lad’s wounds?”

Seonag glanced at her hands, the long fingers unmarred by work. Fury at the lass’ ineptness overtook Birk. He stepped closer.

“Can ye wield a sword? Rally troops to rid my lands of this scourge?”

She shook her carefully coifed head.

“Bah! Then find another man to work yer wiles on. ’Twill not be me.”

James shoved his daughter behind him, chest puffed out in righteous anger. “Ye will rue this day, Laird MacLean!” he proclaimed. “Ye dinnae deserve a wife to care for yer needs. Ye seek naught more than a warrior to fight yer battles—a woman like yer ma!” He pointed his nose into the air. “A Norsewoman when yer da could have had the pick of sweet Scottish lasses!” He jabbed a finger in Birk’s direction.

“Ye’re just like him!”

Birk’s fist arced through the air. Bone crunched beneath his knuckles and blood spurted from James’ broken nose. Not satisfied with the warning, Birk brought his other fist up, connecting firmly with the point of the other man’s jaw. For a moment, James stretched up on his toes. His eyes flew open wide an instant before they blanked, and he crumpled to the icy path.

Stepping over the fallen man, Birk continued to the hall, not sparing a speechless Seonag a second look.