The Outcast Highlander (3 page)

She took a breath, surprised she’d managed through it without crying. There had been too much of that lately.

“I go to Berwick now, upon the death of my father.” Duncan leaned against the black wall of the bothan and looked through the open window. “I leave my brother, Malcolm, at the helm of our household in my stead. While I am gone, if anything should happen, you can trust Mal.”

“My letter.” Kensey reached into the long sleeve of her dress. “Please see my father gets this.”

Duncan took it and slipped it into the pouch at his waist that had produced the note she’d written him. He collected the opened missive from the table and threw it into the low-burning fire. After a moment, he shifted the logs with the toe of his boot and kicked the fire out until it smoked heavily.

“Let us never discuss the contents of that letter.”

“You cannot ignore the fact I suggested it.” Kensey stood next to him, watching the fire go out.

He slipped his hand around the crook of her arm. “You grieve. I grieve. We will forget it was even mentioned.”

“Then what sort of plans should I make?”

“Meaning?” Duncan raised an eyebrow.

He was going to make her say it. Kensey balled a fist and pressed it into the side of her leg. “With my father gone and my brother so young, we are in danger of being overtaken. Colin Ross does have a brother.”

The name sent a chill through the room. Fiona’s new intended had an expansive eye, it was told. And the holdings of the Earl of Sutherland would be soon not enough.

Duncan strained his neck and dropped his head. “I’ll bring your father back with me. I promise. It is undoubtedly a mistake.”

Kensey shifted on the balls of her feet. She hadn’t come all this way to be placated. Or to be turned away.

“If anything arises, send someone for Malcolm. We are less than half a day’s ride from Assynt. I will return as quickly as possible.”

She bit the inside of her mouth to keep the retort in check. She’d practically taken her life in her hands writing the letter to begin with. It contained evidence of collusion against the English and could solidify her father’s imprisonment.

But she couldn’t stand by and do nothing. Not after Albert.

“We must all go.” Duncan sat on the rickety bench and pulled a piece of cloth from his satchel, pooling it on the table. “If only to protect our people. And I am ready to do what needs doing.” His pleading gaze rose to hers. “But I worry for Fiona. I have received no message, and no news comes from anywhere in Ross.”

A drop of compassion pooled inside. Fiona had spoken openly and warmly in her letters of her future with Duncan Sinclair, but Kensey was now getting to see Duncan’s care for what should have been his own Highland bride.

This was why he’d refused her. She recognized the signs of waiting.

“I have heard nothing.” She joined him, sitting at the table. Out the window, over his shoulder, the trees moved with the wind. Kensey thought of the ride home and winced. Her legs still ached, and getting lost hadn’t helped.

“I will send someone to check on Fiona under some pretense of being there, and if there is a worry, I will send a messenger to you in Berwick, or at St. Claire. Or I will come myself.”
      
Duncan pushed out a tight breath that verged on a sob. “I just want to ride to Balconie and take her away from there.”

Kensey brushed her fingers over his hand. “For now, you must do what your people require of you, and I will do what my friend has asked of me.”

His gold eyes shimmered and he nodded with a tight smile. “I want you to take this.” He pressed the length of multi-colored fabric into her hand. “This is a swath of plaid that is only made in Caithness by the Sinclair weavers. Anyone you show it to will know you’ve been sent by me or have my protection.”

She rolled the warm fabric around her hand until it ran out. The mere mention of Sinclair reminded her of the gold-haired stranger on the mountainside. Her heart quickened and she reached out for Duncan’s hand without thinking.

He grasped it and smiled. “Let us hope you never have need of it.”

***

Broccin entered the empty bothan to find the remains of a fire and the lingering scent of Kensey MacLeod to torment him. His brother had left the bothan, riding south, and Kensey to the west. Safely back toward her home.

According to the carter he’d questioned, the young MacLeod girl asked for protection, and for good reason. With her father gone and her brother who couldn’t yet grow a beard, let alone hold a sword, they were an easy target.

He’d seen the English King do this sort of thing in the Lowlands, as well. Strip a man of his freedom and send in an Englishman to take over the vacant home. It would be a dangerous gamble to reach up this far into the Highlands where neighboring clans could rout him without much trouble, but it wouldn’t be beyond the realm of possibility.

The remains of the fire smoked away and Broc kicked at the embers to see if it would reawaken. He would need a good fire to cook the goose he’d killed earlier that hung over Gaidel’s haunches.

His boot overturned a burned piece of parchment and he reached into the cold fire to retrieve it. Half the letter had been burned away, but what remained had such a clear, bold hand, it couldn’t be his brother’s scratched words.

But I know I have you to watch out for me, Duncan. With the strength of your family to protect us, I know we will survive. Still, with a fervency I cannot communicate in mere words, I want us to be married with all haste. My father would wish it as much as my mother does, I know. And as much as I do. I hope you are able to meet me. If you are not there, I will return each day until you are. I remain hopefully yours, Kensey MacLeod.

The raw anger that had been building since the first sentence culminated in Broc slamming his fist into the table and letting out a roar that could have cowed wild animals. He stood, his fist dug into the wood and bleeding, panting ferociously.

He told himself he’d known since childhood that she would belong to Duncan, but it did nothing to keep the building rage at bay. By rights, she should have been his. He knew from the first moment they met that he loved her. That boyhood desire hadn’t flamed out and seeing her this day had only solidified his heartbreak.

It had been a mistake to come back—one he could rectify quickly. He could stay in the bothan this night and then return to Moray after he’d done what he came for and seen his father’s grave. He would better serve his family by fighting for freedom with the brave men who helped Andrew de Moray raid the English strongholds in Scotland.

Broc picked a small log from the woodpile near the door and placed it atop the smoldering remains of Duncan’s fire. He shoved some small kindling around the base and watched as the dry twigs caught fire.

The crumpled piece of half-burned paper sat on the table and he could only stare at it. He wanted to burn it again. But perhaps in those moments when his own heart needed reminding that the flame he’d carried since boyhood should be snuffed out, he could touch the parchment and feel the realness of her words.

She loved his brother. Not him.

He’d tried once to forget her by loving another, but even the love a man could produce in his heart paled in comparison to what Kensey reignited in him. Side by side, his love for Elizabeth looked a paltry attempt at self-preservation. But perhaps that was all that remained for him.

He felt the crack inside and searched the room again for something to hit. The walls were so fragile and the table might be on its last legs. Instead, he stuffed the paper into the pouch on his belt that contained his few coins and picked up the axe that had been propped near the woodpile. He needed to damage something. Hit hard. Repeatedly. So he might as well make himself useful in the process.

Chapter Three

Kensey feared she would be lost again, and only a day after she’d been lost before. But she pulled Brid in a circle, and nothing in the valley looked familiar. Oh, it was all the same as every other valley in these blasted mountains. If only the existing roads were more direct, she wouldn’t be in this predicament.

The sun was just breaking the last of its rays on the rough faces of the southern mountains, and she knew she’d never be able to navigate without light—not that she could remember much about how to navigate when it was light, anyway. Especially not this far north. Going to the bothan had been one thing. But going all the way to Castle St. Claire was a task she had not considered much before undertaking it. She had simply received news she had to act on.

From far away, she heard hoof beats. There were no crofts up here as far as she knew, and no village for miles. The Sinclairs all lived in the keep, surely, or surrounding. So whoever approached would be on their way to the keep as well. Only they were approaching from the west, not the south. Kensey turned Brid to face the galloping horse, and was surprised to see the outcast Sinclair she’d met the day before.

The man was magnificent, and she couldn’t help but watch the deft command he held over his body and his animal. Every visible muscle rippled with regulated exertion, and she found herself wondering what it would be like to feel those muscles under her hands. With a quick blush, she shook herself and reined in her horse, which pranced nervously as the rider approached.

“What are you doing here, lass?” he yelled to her, slowing his speed as he came upon her. “It’s nearly dark, and you’re unaccompanied?” His shoulders tensed and he scanned the valley. “Do you not have an attendant or chaperone with you?” He swore an oath and came alongside her horse. “Of all the reckless, dangerous, bull-headed.”

But Kensey would have none of it. She was already on the verge of tears and his blatant disregard for her agenda brought up a bubbling frustration that threatened to loose all of her careful control.

“It is really none of your business what I’m doing out here.” She pulled at Brid’s bridle to modify their trajectory, but he was in front of her before she could bolt. She heard a faint chuckle and met his eyes in the darkening light only to find blatant amusement. Her blush returned.

“I was merely trying to be of service.” He took his reins, commandingly, and turned his magnificent horse away from her. “Very well, then, you can obviously find your own way. So I’ll leave you to your mission.”

“Wait!” She reached a hand toward him. He stopped his retreat, but kept his back to her. “I do need your help, sir, if you know these parts.”

“I know them well enough.”

“Can you show me to Castle Sinclair? I must see Malcolm right away.”

“You must see Malcolm?” He raised a long eyebrow. “What about Duncan?

“He’s gone to Berwick and told me if there was a need, I should send for Malcolm.”

“And yet you insist on coming yourself.” The gruff edge to his voice send a chill straight through her and she pulled the cloak tighter around her body, but the chill remained and trilled through her again and again as she stared at the big Highlander.

“Yes, I need to see him at once. It’s concerning… a matter of the heart.”

“Ah, I see.” He turned to face her and pulled on his hood with ceremonious caution, so she could only see the outline of his face in the setting sun.  “I’ll take you there myself.”

“I see you’ve been riding your animal too hard,” he commented as they rode on and she tried to increase the pace. “Maybe we should proceed more slowly, to save your horse.”

“If you please, sir,” she said. “I must get to Malcolm immediately, and Brid will be quite alright once we reach the keep.”

“I’m sure Duncan’s stable lad will tend her well, yes, but...”

“Please,” begged Kensey. “We must hurry. It’s a matter of life or death.”

“I’m sure you must think it is, lass,” he said, more to himself than to her, but he crept the pace up to where she could barely keep up and her heavy breath belied the difficulty.

Just as the sun set, Castle St. Claire came into view. They’d ridden back into the valley and come around an altogether different hill than she expected, then when they came up out of the valley, there it was. Rising out of the hill in the fading sun just as she remembered from her girlhood. Not far from the North Sea itself, for she could smell the cool, salty brine of the coastline.

Kensey breathed a heavy sigh of relief as they neared it. There was movement from the watch and she knew they’d been spotted. At that moment, she dropped her hood back so they could recognize her face, should they wonder at her identity. She fumbled in her bag for the swath of plaid he’d given her.

The stranger stopped his horse and Kensey did likewise, though she wondered why he’d reined in. Then she saw in the faint darkness that the gate was open, and a rider approached them, carrying a torch.

“What are you doing, sir?”

“I’m leaving you to your man. Surely he will recognize you, even from this distance.”

“But...”

“You are much welcome, and goodbye,” he shouted over his shoulder as he continued on his westerly course. His horse had such a long gait, he was practically over the hill before she could find her wits again.

“Will you not stay with me?” she called after him, her shamelessness notwithstanding. The darkness frightened her, although she would not admit as much to him. But he continued to retreat and she soon couldn’t see him anymore. The sun had set, and the high, full moon was all that lit the countryside, leaving most of the shadowed hillsides big enough to swallow a man into them fully.

She continued to ride toward the darkening keep. There was a slightly worn path, but because they were so far north, those who traveled it were few and far between. It wasn’t quite like the roads to the south, which had been worn well down to the dirt and rock beneath. Before she could get even to the walls of the keep, the rider reached her.

“Who goes there?” A man called as he approached on horseback.

She recognized the same flame-colored hair that Duncan sported and hoped this was his brother, Malcolm. She waved the plaid cloth and both the rider and the men behind him slowed.