The Scot's Betrayal (Highland Swords Book 1) Page 3

  “Aye, your mama spoiled you,” Alick said.

  His cousin had read his mind again. This time Alasdair just smiled.

  They arrived at the gates of Grant Castle, the wind whistling through the pines as they galloped through the meadow. The portcullis opened as soon as they neared the entrance, the men on the curtain wall recognizing them instantly.

  It was a sad testament that they kept the gates locked at all times. They never knew when or if the English would attack. The cousins dismounted once near the stables, and Alasdair tossed the reins to one of the stable lads and hastened toward the keep. He passed Aunt Gracie, Els’s mother, who stopped to give him a hug before continuing on to greet her son.

  “The lairds?” he asked.

  “Off on a visit to our neighboring clans,” she said as she stepped away. “They’ll be back in a few days.”

  A few moments later, his uncle Finlay, Alick’s sire, called out to him from the lists. “He’s in his usual spot awaiting your report.”

  “Thank you, Uncle!” he said, hurrying on toward the keep. Once there, he threw the door open, found the staircase, and took the steps two at a time until he reached the top floor. He then hurried down the hall to the end of the passageway and made his way up the final flight of stairs. When he reached the top, he opened the door carefully, always cautious around the old man.

  Alexander Grant, his namesake, sat in his stone chair, built into the wall of the parapets, his favorite place in the world. At nearly seventy summers, the man was ancient, but his mind was as sharp as the tip of the sword he still polished every night.

  “Greetings, Grandsire.”

  “Alasdair, I noticed your arrival. Tell me what you discovered. Anything new?”

  “Nay. The English are bastards, but we already knew that. I fear Edward will not stop until he subdues all of the Scottish rebels. He thinks we’ve succumbed, given in to his rule. We all know better. Our quest for freedom will never die.”

  His grandfather stared off over the edge of the crenellations, something he often did when a memory came to him. They’d all been given strict instructions to let him be during those times, simply because it was probably something he relished.

  By the look that crossed his face, however, Alasdair guessed this memory was not one of the good ones. “Are you thinking of your first battle, Grandpapa?”

  “Aye.”

  His grandsire had told him the story often, so much so he could probably recite the details, and yet he said, “Tell me more about it. Tell me about the lass.”

  “Why do you ask?” He brought his sharp gaze back to Alasdair, probing in his silent way, ready to pick up on any change in his demeanor. His many years had made him skilled at detecting behaviors before they appeared.

  “May I tell you after?” Alasdair also liked to test the old man. He would do anything for him, including carrying him up here to his favorite spot on the parapets when he struggled. Grandpapa often cursed his old bones. Alasdair noticed the finely hewn piece of wood next to him, so he knew he’d been able to make it this time with the assistance of that wood support. Sometimes he made it on his own, but oftentimes he needed help from one of his children or grandchildren.

  “I’ll never forget it, as you know, nor the look in the eye of the lass. She looked so hopeless, so resigned to her fate. Her name was Sarah. My sire knew right away it was the English who’d done it. He said they had no honor, no morals. What they did to that poor lass…” He shook his head and stared off for a few moments.

  Alasdair gave him the time he needed, leaning over the stone wall and peering out over Grant land. As a younger lad, he’d thought it stretched out forever, and indeed, the land was theirs almost as far as the eye could see. Hills, valleys, burns, the loch, and mountains. It wasn’t the most fertile land, but they’d made good use of the soil they had.

  “Your question, lad?”

  “You often speak of the look in her eyes… I think I saw it on our journey. We happened upon a group of travelers being attacked by reivers. There was a woman who’d been abducted. I chased her kidnapper, pulled him off his horse, and brought her back to her husband.”

  His grandsire tipped his head back, a sign that he had his complete attention. “And?”

  “She was a beautiful Scot, but she was married to an English fool, some baron. Not quite newlyweds anymore—they’ve not been married for long, I’d guess. I cannot explain it, but after watching him for a few moments, listening to his empty words, I knew he was a bastard.”

  “Trust your instincts. He probably is. Get on with the tale.” That spark of wisdom and the beam of pride in his country flashed in the old man’s gaze, something that always caught Alasdair.

  “The look she gave me…it was like she was beseeching me to help her, but it passed so quickly. Almost as if I’d imagined it. Can you make any sense of it?” He was clearly worried about her, but something was not right.

  “The marriage must have been forced on her. Which reminds me. I received a message from someone who believes a lass needs help. She’s the daughter of a late Scottish laird who was an ally of mine. My friend is concerned about the lass’s new husband.”

  “Who sent you the message?” He couldn’t believe his grandsire still had any friends left at his age. To live seven decades was quite rare.

  “The stablemaster.”

  “But Grandpapa, how can you trust something a stablemaster sends you? Don’t you need a warrior’s opinion?”

  “Always trust a stablemaster’s opinion. They know everything that takes place in the clan. It was a stablemaster who sent me a message about the mistreatment your grandmother was suffering. I have him to thank for all of this and all of you. He brought me to Maddie, bless her sweet soul.”

  His grandsire stopped speaking and looked down at his lap for a moment. Alasdair did not need to ask why. Alex Grant missed his wife every day, even though she’d been gone around five years.

  But when he lifted his gaze again, he gave Alasdair the look of a fearless leader, a strong fighter.

  Of a fierce Highlander who you would never dare question.

  His long peppered gray locks blew in the wind, but he never touched them, and his gray eyes settled on Alasdair’s matching eyes.

  “Her name is Emmalin MacLintock and you must save her.”

  Alasdair nearly fell over the parapets in shock.

  “That’s the lass’s name, Grandsire. She is in trouble. I knew it.”

  Chapter Four

  Two days later, Emmalin sat beside her husband, who was selecting the food to offer her from their shared trencher, when the door flew open with a gust of wind behind it.

  It was her steward, Gaufried, his face flushed. “My lady, there is a messenger here for your husband.” He pointed to the dais and the messenger strode toward them, intent on delivering his message post haste.

  The man gave them a slight bow.

  “Speak. What is the message?” her husband barked.

  “The message is from King Edward. He requests your immediate presence at his royal castle in Berwick.”

  Emmalin waited for her husband’s response. Berwick was in the Borderlands, quite a distance from her property in the Lowlands. King Edward had ravaged the town not long ago and declared Berwick Castle an English castle, something the Scots hated. It was yet more evidence that their nation was under siege.

  Her husband asked the messenger, “How long a journey was it?”

  “It took me nearly two days, my lord.” The lad wiped the sweat from his brow. “I must convey that the matter is urgent. He requests your presence immediately.”

  The baron waved a hand at Tamsin, one of the serving lasses. “Feed the lad and find him an ale.” Then, turning to his private steward, he said, “Assemble my things. I’ll be leaving within the hour.” He gave small instructions to a few other servants before he turned back to her.

  “Do you wish me to travel with you, my lord?” she asked, praying he would say no
. She would much prefer to stay at home alone.

  “Nay, my dear,” he said, leaning over to kiss her cheek. “Being that it’s an urgent matter, I must insist on a punishing pace. I would not subject you to such a journey. I vow to be back as soon as possible. I have no idea why our king wishes to see me, but I suspect it has something to do with the savage Scots.”

  Her sire’s voice rang out in her conscience. He’d always insisted she should always honor her ancestors. Her heritage. “But I’m a Scot, my lord.”

  He turned to look at her. “You were a Scot, now you’re English. You’ve married an English baron and your sire’s castle is now an English castle, as is your land.” He ran his finger down her jawline, letting his nail graze her skin. “Please do not forget this, my sweet.”

  A sudden chill shot up her backbone. But the chill wasn’t simply inside her—it was in the air. She felt certain her sire had heard the comment, the heresy.

  Her husband strode over to speak with his second, and she stood, looking at the others in the hall. Did they feel the chill, too?

  Aye, she saw others shivering. Mothers pulling mantles about their shoulders, children edging closer to their parents. She was not the only one.

  Tamsin rushed to her side once she had delivered the food to the messenger. “What has happened, my lady? Why is he leaving? More battles?” Tamsin, Aunt Penne’s personal maid, had been part of their household for two years. She was lovely, with long waves of hair a deep shade of chestnut brown, but Aunt Penne always insisted she wear it up. She had a slew of other rules besides, and Emmalin often felt a wee bit sorry for Tamsin, who was close to her in age. Whenever possible, she talked to her, trying to make her feel more at home. Bessie did the same. Of course, Aunt Penne put a stop to their efforts whenever she could, insisting there must be a separation between the family of the house and their servants.

  Langley whole-heartedly agreed.

  “I don’t know, and we may not find out until he returns,” she said, waving her on once she noticed Aunt Penne frowning at them, something she often did when she took the time to answer the servants. Tamsin nodded and continued her work without another word.

  Ever since King Alexander III had died, all the Scots were unsettled, even the servants. This lass was no different. There was far more chatter amongst everyone in her clan ever since the baron had arrived.

  And she’d bet none of them were any more pleased about it than she was.

  Her father had made her repeat his favorite saying every day: MacLintock Scots, always brave and forever strong.

  Always brave and forever strong.

  She didn’t feel so brave or strong at the moment.

  Instead, her home, her mighty castle had been overtaken by a stranger, someone who didn’t have a speck of Scots blood inside of him. Someone who disrespected the very people he lived among. Bearing that in mind, how could she expect Langley to love this land the way she did? To him, the soil they tilled was but a handful of dirt to be thrown into the wind; to her, it was the land her ancestors had fought for, land that had belonged to her clan for decades.

  A place to bring up bairns to be happy, carefree, and productive.

  As her sire’s only child, she should have been laird, just like Diana Drummond had famously been laird of Drummond Castle. She knew it was what her sire had intended, for he’d told her so. He’d trained her for it. MacLintock Castle was to be her heritage, and she was to run it with pride. He’d even taught her to use a dagger, a last line of defense in case anyone managed to get past her guards and attack her.

  Only her lairdship had been usurped by an English baron, one who hadn’t needed to fight for the pleasure. While she still hoped to win him over, if only to make her life more palatable, she felt as if she were standing on one side of the moat and he on the other. Could they ever bridge that gap?

  Did she want to?

  She stood by the hearth as her husband prepared to leave, and after a time her dear companion Bessie appeared by her side, holding her mantle up for her. The garment was a beautiful dark blue wool, with a fur-trimmed hood and a wide pocket in the front where she could tuck both of her hands as protection against the cold Scottish winds. The hem nearly swept the ground.

  Her aunt Penne, her sire’s sister, came flying out from behind Bessie. “Your husband is leaving? Make sure you follow him out like a proper Scottish wife. All good wives must say farewell to their husbands, and then you must pray for his quick return.”

  “Of course.” She leaned down to kiss the older woman’s cheek, a necessity since she towered over the woman. Aunt Penne lost her husband in battle years ago after only a few short years of marriage. She’d lived in the castle ever since. Her age showed in her soft gray hair and widening hips, but she still liked to have a say in everything that happened.

  Sometimes she wondered if Aunt Penne didn’t envision herself as laird of the castle.

  Bessie ignored the woman, probably a wee bit upset she’d been interrupted. She didn’t always get along with Penne, who tended to treat the servants as if they were nothing more than hired help. She held out the garment for Emmalin. “’Tis fiercely cold in here, and you’ll be expected outside soon enough,” Bessie said, clucking her tongue. “’Tis important that our mistress be warm. Your boots are only so tall.”

  She thanked Bessie and her aunt, then made her way out of the hall. Her steward, Gaufried, already awaited her. Since it was proper for a wife to be at the gates whenever her husband was to leave, Emmalin always complied, simply because she always did what was proper. At least she had her own friends and allies within the house to support her.

  Baron Hawkinge flew down the pathway to the stables, but he hastened to her side once he’d given his orders to his second. Another man she’d never met arrived, calling out to him, “Hawkinge, I’m here to escort you to Berwick. King’s orders that we’re to get you there safely as soon as possible.”

  She listened to their talk, hoping to get more information as to the urgent matter at hand, but they said nothing of importance. As she watched her husband, his outfit too pretty for travel, she found herself thinking of a fierce Highlander with dark wind-blown locks and intense gray eyes. Eyes that had been focused on her. Her memory even teased her with a growl—had he made such a sound?

  Although her husband was an attractive man, she found she preferred the callused hands of a warrior to the baron’s soft skin. She’d watched his ways for a long time now. He was exceptional at giving orders, but rarely did he take part in any activity that required physical exertion. His sword skills were barely passable compared to her sire’s, and laughable when compared to the prowess of Alasdair Grant. He’d used his sword as if the weapon were an extension of his being. Heavy and large as it was, its movements had been as fluid as the twists and turns of a river.

  The Grant warrior had been more skilled than her sire.

  This man in front of her, her husband, was as far removed from a Highland warrior as any man she’d ever met. Even if she could make him love her, she knew she would never love him. She would always see him for what he was not.

  “As soon as I’m done with my lovely wife, I’ll be ready to leave,” Langley said. “Tend to my bag first. My thanks for joining us, Sheriff de Savage.” Then he gave his attention to her, reaching for her trembling hands.

  “Sheriff?” Her husband was English yet this sheriff was Scottish. She wondered if that was significant.

  “Aye, our esteemed king has gone out of his way to install more Scottish sheriffs. Since I am of noble rank, he would send a proper escort for me. A sheriff familiar with the area along with many knights is necessary. You don’t know much about my station in nobility, do you?” He lifted his chin a notch and peered at her.

  “I am unfamiliar with the English nobility rankings, my lord. We don’t have many…I’m only…” He had her flustered, something that happened much too often. She did not feel comfortable around him. She did not feel capable of being hersel
f. He’d ensured it was so.

  “Nay, I’m unfamiliar with English rankings,” she said. “We do have earls and barons, but chieftains carry noble blood in the Highlands. It carries over into the Lowlands.”

  He gave her a smile. “Forgive me. I know you had many adjustments to make when we married.” He squeezed her hand. “For now, I must focus on the matter at hand. I’ll be gone at least a sennight, possibly a fortnight depending on the reason I’ve been summoned.”

  Curiosity got the best of her. “Do you have any notion why you’ve been called away so urgently? You haven’t done anything to anger the king, have you?”

  “Of course not. I am one of his favored barons, which is why I was given your land, er…” It was his turn to be flustered. “Why I was given your hand in marriage. I am most pleased to have such a lovely wife to return to.”

  He gave her a brief kiss on the lips, then spun on his heel, barking orders as he strode away.

  “Godspeed, my lord,” she called out, though she doubted he was listening.

  He mounted his horse and turned to give her a wave and a smile. “Gaufried will take good care of you, I’m sure.”

  Emmalin’s heart lifted as she watched the group depart. She hoped he would be gone longer than he planned.

  Or, better yet, that he would never return.

  ***

  Alasdair sat at the table the next morn, finishing his third bowl of porridge. He reached for the honey, but Alick beat him to it.

  “Did you tell Grandsire about the lass? Emma or whatever her name was?” Alick asked, focusing on making his porridge and honey mixture just so.

  When had his cousin become so particular? He couldn’t help but stare across the table at him, noticing how his hair was neatly combed, his beard trimmed just the way he liked it. Alasdair tipped his head to him. “When did you become so fussy about everything?”

  Alick put the honey down and said, “Fussy? I’m not fussy.”

  “The hell you aren’t. You didn’t used to be that way.”