The Scot's Betrayal (Highland Swords Book 1) Read online

  Els, who sat beside Alasdair, said, “I have to agree with him, Alick. You’ve changed. Your hair is almost as fancy as that English baron’s. Why?”

  “Did you two eat some boar shite? Because ’tis all I’m hearing from you.” Alick slammed his dagger down on the table. “Alasdair just wants to shift the subject from his lady.”

  “Mayhap so, but I’m ready to move on, as well,” Els said. Turning to Alasdair, he asked, “What did Grandsire say about the king?”

  “Not much. He is hoping the Bruce will become King of Scotland. He thinks Wallace is failing in his quest for the throne.” Alasdair said, making a mess of his food as if to make a point.

  Alick glared at him.

  “And Grandsire said something else, too. You know how Edward himself has left Scotland for now?” he asked, not using the monarch’s title as intentional disrespect, something he would only dare to do on Grant land, away from prying ears. Not recognizing Edward as the rightful King of England was considered traitorous.

  The man had been known to hang men for less.

  “Aye,” Els said. “Does he think he’ll try to come to the Highlands?”

  “Nay, he said he has the men but not the provisions. Edward seems to think his victory at Stirling Castle established his dominance. And ’tis for the good of all that he stopped pushing forward, reinstated the Scottish sheriffs, and returned some land. But he’s a fool for thinking this is over. Wallace and Bruce will never end their quest for Scottish independence.”

  Alick, looking more serious than usual, asked, “But what if someone agrees to give him food? Then what? Will they make it here? Will they go after our food stores?”

  “Grandsire said the clans and magnates are having a meeting in the Highlands. Our lairds will be attending. We must band together to support the Bruce. Scotland must prevail, but we must be more careful.”

  They would never forget their heritage. Even as the thought crossed his mind, a pair of deep blue eyes surfaced in his memory. It hurt to think of the indignities suffered by Emmalin MacLintock, whose castle had been all but taken from her. The Scots were a proud people, and King Edward needed to recognize that.

  They needed to prove it to him. The king had more than ten thousand men at his disposal, however, and the only way the Scots could win was for the strongest clans to band together. Not an easy task when so many men wished to claim the throne.

  The door opened at the end of the hall, and their grandfather made his way through the door, slowly as if his legs pained him this morn. “We’ll not speak of any of the details we heard in front of Grandsire,” Alasdair said in an undertone. “He’ll only get upset.”

  In a louder voice, he said, “Good morn to you, Grandsire.” He saw a look of pain cross the man’s face just before he crashed to the ground, his stick unable to hold his weight.

  “Grandsire!” The cousins’ voices rang out together as they raced to his side, joined by anyone else within hearing distance.

  “Grandpapa, are you hale? Don’t try to get up. We’ll help you,” Alasdair said, his stomach twisting in a way that made him wish to vomit. He’d already lost so much—he couldn’t lose his grandfather.

  Not yet—not ever!

  Aunt Kyla and Uncle Finlay appeared on the balcony above. His aunt looked stricken when she saw her father on the floor. “What happened?” she shouted. “Papa!”

  Alasdair scooped his grandsire up and headed back toward his bedchamber, which had been moved down to the lower floor some years ago. He stopped when the old man grabbed his wrist. “Nay, I’ll not go back in there to stare at the four walls. Move my bed into the hall,” he said, his eyes fluttering closed.

  Alasdair gave instructions to his cousins, who’d followed him. “Els, you and Alick move the bed out here while I hold him. Aunt Kyla, go for Aunt Gracie.” His aunt had become the healer for their clan, though she did not yet have much experience.

  Once they had him settled in his bed, arranged at the end of the hall, Aunt Gracie came in and hustled over to see to him. She assessed Grandsire’s leg, which seemed to have buckled under him, but he couldn’t seem to stay awake either.

  Anxious to do something to help, Alasdair found a partition and moved it over to the bed to give the poor man some privacy.

  He paced and paced, praying furiously, and scratched his head as though he had one thousand bugs in his hair.

  “Stop scratching,” Aunt Kyla said. “He’ll be fine.”

  “Will he?” he asked, staring at his aunt as if she’d just kicked him in the belly.

  She patted his shoulder, a movement he knew was an attempt to soothe him, but it wasn’t working. He welcomed any words she would offer him.

  “My father is the strongest man I know. This won’t stop him.” Aunt Kyla was the spitting image of his grandfather, except she had the piercing blue eyes of her mother. The years had done nothing to dim her beauty, but only a fool would underestimate her.

  She was as tough as any man.

  Aunt Gracie stepped out from behind the partition. She was shaking her head, a sight that instantly alarmed him.

  “What the hell does that mean, Aunt Gracie?” Alasdair bellowed, blushing at his crudeness a moment later. “Sorry, Auntie. I shouldn’t yell or curse. My thanks for coming so quickly.”

  “I understand your concern, Alasdair,” she said, setting her hands on his towering shoulders. “I think he’ll be fine, he just cannot move. I don’t know what’s wrong with his leg or hip. We need Jennie.”

  Aunt Jennie was his grandsire’s youngest sister, one of the best healers in the land.

  The two lairds were on patrol, so Alasdair made a decision. “Alick and Els, we must go after Aunt Jennie. We have to do everything we can for Grandsire.”

  A voice called out to them then, quiet but steady. “Alasdair?”

  He hurried around the partition and knelt next to his grandfather’s bed, pleased to see him awake. “Grandsire, is there something I can do for you? We’re going to get Aunt Jennie. Aunt Gracie doesn’t know how to help you.”

  “Let the other two go for Aunt Jennie. You must go after her.” He closed his eyes and panted as if in severe pain. “Alasdair, please. This is just my old bones squawking at me like a hooded crow, naught to concern yourself with, but what I’ll tell you is more important. I had a dream. You must go.”

  “Where? I’ll do whatever you like.”

  “The lass from Clan MacLintock. You must help her. She’s in grave danger. I don’t know…” He paused and sucked in a deep breath, holding it before he let it out again. “I don’t know what is happening, but you need to go to MacLintock land. Finnean came to me in my sleep and told me that his daughter needs our help. You must go at once.” He wiped the sweat on his brow away with a sigh.

  “Was there something else he said? You don’t usually sweat like that, Grandsire.”

  The man closed his eyes in resignation, pausing for a few moments before he opened them again. “He said she’s in danger. Someone means to kill her. You must go.” He was silent for a moment longer, then he glanced over Alasdair’s shoulder and smiled. “And you must take her.”

  When Alasdair glanced behind him, he saw his cousin Dyna, her nearly white hair pulled back in a tight plait, her light blue eyes filled with fear. “Grandsire? What’s wrong? I heard you fell.”

  Their grandfather panted and held his breath again, his eyes fluttering as if he struggled to stay awake. Suddenly, they opened wide, and he said, “Promise me, Alasdair. Promise me you and Dyna will go to MacLintock land and save Emmalin.” His voice slowed. “Promise. Let the others go for Jennie.” His eyes fluttered shut again.

  “Grandpapa!” Alasdair shouted, not caring if he was bothering the man. When the old man opened his eyes again, he said, “I’ll do it. I promise, but you must also promise me.”

  His grandsire met his gaze. “What?”

  “Promise me you’ll not die while I’m gone. Promise me! I am not ready to lose you. Not yet.
It’s too soon.” He squeezed his grandfather’s hand, doing his best to keep him alert. He’d never let on how important this was to him, but he needed his promise.

  The sly old man shut his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them again, there was a twinkle in them. “Wise arse,” he whispered. “Go.”

  Alasdair couldn’t help but smile.

  Chapter Five

  Emmalin savored the wind against her face as she rode through the land outside the castle gates. Riding was her favorite pastime, not just because she adored her dear mare, but because it was the only time she ever felt free.

  Free of everything English.

  Free of others’ expectations and the need to pretend.

  When she rode her horse across the lovely Scottish countryside, it reminded her of her upbringing, of her sire and his pride for their clan, and of her mother. Her mother had died about four years ago in her sleep. She’d never been sick, so it had been a shock for all of them.

  Her father had been shattered over the loss of his wife, but he’d done his best to stay strong for Emmalin, keeping her busy with different tasks. He’d taught her all he could about managing their estate—the keep, the village, and the many tenants who lived on MacLintock land.

  She’d impressed him with her ability with numbers, so much that he’d had her do sums in her head to impress his steward and others. She’d blushed every time, but his pride had emboldened her. Although it was her papa who’d first taught her to use a dagger, she’d practiced on her own. Her skill with the weapon had grown into an obsession as the English continued to encroach into Scotland. Although it was foolish—a dagger could do little against a sword or an arrow—it made her feel less helpless. Her maid had sewn a pocket into every gown she had so she could always carry her dagger with her, though she hadn’t taken it to Edinburgh with her.

  It was there now, for all the good it would do her.

  Heaving out a sigh, she leaned down to whisper into her mare’s ear. “We’ve little enough freedom, don’t we, sweet lassie? Let’s fly. Take me over the outcropping there.” Moments later, she sailed through the air on the graceful beast, her guards choosing to go around the boulders embedded in the ground.

  She laughed at them. “Gaufried, why did you not even make an attempt? Your stallion could have made it.” The feeling was as close to flying through the air as possible and she loved it, but when she glanced at Gaufried, her feeling of euphoria quickly disappeared.

  Gaufried froze, drawing his weapon. She slowed her horse simply because of his expression. It took her a moment to realize what had put him on alert. His voice carried that low tone she dreaded because she knew immediately what it meant.

  Gaufried was afraid for her. “Mistress, return to the keep at once. We will follow as soon as we determine the source of the noise. It sounds like horses to me.”

  How she prayed it wasn’t more English. Her husband had left just over a sennight ago, so she doubted it would be him yet. She certainly hoped it wasn’t. When the horses came into view a few moments later, she sighed with relief. The approaching men wore plaids, which meant they were definitely not English. She’d allow Gaufried to handle them. They could be bringing news or just seeking out a light repast.

  She did as he advised and turned her horse around, sending the mare into a gallop toward the keep. When she was nearly at the gates, she glanced over her shoulder.

  Gaufried was escorting two men toward her, while another four held back. She had a sudden burst of butterflies in her belly.

  One of the men riding with Gaufried looked like Alasdair Grant, but why would he be here?

  She moved across the bridge and inside the gates, bringing her horse to the stable lads, who helped her dismount. Rather than return to the castle, she decided to wait for her steward. In the interim, she couldn’t stop herself from smoothing her riding skirts and tucking in the wild curls that had escaped her plait. She loved the feeling of the wind lifting her hair as she rode. In fact, her favorite way to ride used to be with her hair unbound, long and flowing behind her.

  She hadn’t done it since her wedding day. Langley had said it was conduct unbecoming of her station.

  The stable lads moved out to grab the reins of the visitors’ horses. The riders quickly dismounted and moved to stand in front of her. She’d been right—it was Alasdair. His black hair was askew, just as hers had been, and he looked at her with fire in his eyes.

  Gaufried said, “Mistress, the Grant contingency have come for a visit. They are requesting an overnight stay. What say you?”

  She couldn’t think of a better way to spend the next day with her husband gone. “Of course, you’re welcome to stay.” She hadn’t taken her eyes from Alasdair yet, but when she glanced at the other lad, she was surprised to see him, or her as it appeared, remove her head covering to reveal an abundance of nearly white hair that fell to her hips. The lass smiled and said, “My name is Dyna. Alasdair is my cousin.”

  She vaguely remembered seeing her in the background after she’d been attacked and met Alasdair’s group, but she hadn’t seen her with her hair down. Dyna was stunning and carried an air of power uncommon in women, something she had to admire. “I welcome both of you to MacLintock Castle. Please join me for dinner. My husband is away, so I look forward to having your company for the evening meal.” Shifting her head toward Dyna, she asked, “Would you like to freshen up in your chamber first? I have one at the ready for you.”

  “Aye,” she said, “that would please me.”

  Once inside, Emmalin showed Dyna to her chamber, then sent a maid to bring fresh water and linens for her use.

  Dyna said, “I’ll be down in an hour or so. Feel free to start dinner without me. Alasdair can speak to you of our concerns.”

  “Your concerns?” she asked, wondering what they could possibly be.

  Dyna intentionally leaned toward her and lowered her voice. “Alasdair will speak to you of it, but possibly you could arrange for a more private setting.”

  Nothing would please her more, but how appropriate would it be for a married woman to have a private meeting with a man who was not her husband? She suspected she knew all too well what Aunt Penne would say if she found out. As if reading her thoughts, Dyna whispered, “The meeting would be between two Scots, naught more. Or are you pleased to have the English in your sire’s castle? My grandsire would guess not.”

  Struck speechless by the other lass’s quick and accurate assessment, Emmalin nodded her agreement. “Your arrival pleases me more than you could know. I will do what I can.”

  She left, her curiosity more than piqued, and made her way to the kitchens to make arrangements for a private meal in her solar. The kitchen help originated from her clan, so she knew they would brook no argument. If anything, they would be immensely pleased to think she was strategizing with another Scot.

  When she returned to the great hall from the kitchens, Alasdair stood by the hearth with a goblet of ale in his hand. Some of the villagers had come inside for the evening meal, though the guards wouldn’t be in for a couple of hours.

  She fussed over her hair one last time before she approached him, wondering why this man made her feel so uncertain. It wasn’t a bad sort of uncertainty, however, but a sense of anticipation—as if something was about to happen.

  He spun around and smiled at her. His smile was arresting, the white of his teeth a lovely contrast to his bronzed skin and dark hair.

  “Your husband has left?” he asked.

  “Aye. He was called to Berwick to meet with King Edward.” She had an immediate attack of butterflies deep in her belly.

  “Pardon my bold question,” Alasdair said, drawing her focus again, “but did he share with you the reason for the visit?”

  “Nay, he did not. A sheriff came to escort him, although I know not why. If you can shed any light on the circumstances, I’d be most appreciative.”

  Alasdair’s gaze narrowed, but he didn’t say anything, instead motion
ing for her to sit in front of the hearth. He joined her once she was settled.

  “I don’t have an answer for you.” His gaze scanned the hall. “Your sire built a strong fortress.”

  “His sire had most of it built, but it doesn’t look the same as it did when he was alive.”

  “Aye,” he said softly. “It looks like you’re missing some wall hangings.”

  Of course he’d noticed. “Aye,” she said. “My grandmother’s tapestries. My sire’s weaponry. Even some of the silver has disappeared. What is next? King Edward told me I was to be a willing wife, or I would give up my land. But I’ve basically given it up anyway. As you know, whether you look to Scottish law or English, a husband’s rights rank above his wife’s.”

  “Except in primogeniture. We do allow female heirs to lead their clan.”

  “That right was taken from me. I doubt I’ll get it back.”

  “My lady…”

  “Emmalin, please.”

  “Emmalin, my grandsire sent me here because he was friends with your sire. I have some questions for you. May we talk in private?”

  She nodded, leading him into her solar off the back of the hall. How she wished he would have some good news about Scotland or at least a fond memory of her sire. Anything that would give her hope of a change in her present situation.

  Once she closed the door and sat down at the table, she motioned him to a seat opposite her.

  Alasdair sat and said, “I’ll not mince words. Your sire came to him in a dream and told him you were in trouble. Do you know why that might be?” His gaze bored into hers.

  “Because my sire knows I’m not happy? I sense his spirit. He’s not happy with the English here. He wants his land, his heritage, to be restored to Scottish control.” She folded her hands in front of her on the table simply because it would prevent her from reaching out to this man. Hearing the reason for his visit made her want to wrap her arms around him and never let go.

  “Mayhap we can come up with a way for you to be free of Hawkinge. I cannot believe such a man would be satisfied living in Scotland. Has he gone back to England often?”