Claiming the Highlander (2 page)

She was nothing more than brown hair, wide, brown eyes, and the pinkest lips he had ever seen. She was funny looking.

She was his wife.

He didn’t even have chest hair.

Chapter One

Sixteen years later…

Caelen rode by a cart leaving a trail of hay as it journeyed across the bridge toward his islet home, Castle MacKenzie. Years had distorted his memories. The three lochs circling the isle no longer seemed to stretch to the edge of the earth. The greenery along the shore had lost its luster from the vibrant green he swore glowed under the Scottish sky, and now appeared much like every other tree and bramble in the land. As a boy, he had battled against kelpies rising from the lochs as well as the Norsemen who sailed the waters. The curtain wall enclosed most of the craggy, horn-shaped isle. The low tide revealed more of the isle’s edge.

Three round towers peeked from atop the curtain walls. The center tower housed the family. He had sprinted every section of the structure, yet time had blurred his memories, leaving him with a sense of excitement that came from childhood. He stared up at the laird’s chamber window, his parents’ chamber. Behind the expensive glass, his father lay within those walls, fighting death.

The summons had arrived mere days ago. Caelen had been out in the fields when he was summoned to the great hall of Castle MacLean. The messenger, a MacKenzie man he didn’t recognize, informed him in four, curt words of his father’s impending death. Caelen had responded with a nod, unsure of how he felt. Surprise and disbelief left him in a haze.

“Caelen, depart this day,” MacLean said.

“Nay, I have duties to see to.” Caelen shook off his numbness.

“Nonsense, I shall handle them.” Lachlan stepped forward, determined to bear the responsibilities Caelen shared with him.

Returning to his home—he was not ready to lead the clan or face his father and the one act that changed his life. “I depart when the sun rises, not before.”

As Caelen looked upon his home, his gut twisted for not following MacLean’s advice and for more than a lack of action. At six, he had been sent to foster at Clan MacLean. His mother had stood at the castle stairs weeping. His father had stood proud, instructing him in his duties and his responsibilities to the clan. As the future laird, Caelen played a vital part of this clan’s future. He had to become a great warrior just like his father and the long line of warriors who had come before. Caelen had accepted these duties. His boney shoulders bore it. He had never forgotten the orders from his father.

Twenty-six years later, he rode under the castle arch and into the center of the courtyard. Women gathered around the well. Deer carcasses hung, waiting to be dressed. Caelen handed over his Spanish mount to the stable boy. The blond lad gawked up at him. Caelen saw his back teeth.

“Ye be the Viking Highlander. Ye cut down thirty MacDougalls by yeself. MacLean willna fight wit’out ye.”

Caelen had been deemed the Viking Highlander for his blond hair and for his great prowess at raiding. The stories stretched even beyond the border to England, where mothers warned their children about the Viking Highlander coming for their souls.

He dipped his head in greeting. “Aye, lad.”

He cut his way across the courtyard. He paused for a quick beat before entering the Great Hall. Four deerhounds barked at him but his quick command to quiet stopped them.

Not sparing a glance to his surroundings, he climbed the turret stairs. Sunlight shined from window. The torchlight blazed, flooding the small space with flickering light. With measured steps, he approached his parents’ chamber. The iron-banded door appeared smaller than he remembered. His father, Laird Kenneth MacKenzie, had always cast a shadow over him, blocking any light. As a boy, Caelen would stretch his arms and not reach his father’s chest. Father appeared like a mountain to the little boy. Caelen had sworn to become the man his father was—strong, fair, and brave.

Reaching the door, he raised his fist. His hand hovered before he knocked. He bowed his head and the door opened. His mother stood on the other side.

“Caelen.” She threw herself in to his arms. She squeezed him tightly as he returned the embrace. Her tears dampened his leine.

“Mother.” Beneath the stench of dried blood, herbs, and stale air, the scent of his mother’s faint, floral fragrance stirred up memories of her brushing back his hair.

“Your hair is quite long.” She pinched the edges between her fingers before she brushed it back. “It makes you look so fierce,” she said as if such a thing was bad.

“Aye, Mother,” he said, before she noticed something else about him. “How is Father?”

She rubbed her lips together. Caelen saw the changes to her. She was a beautiful woman, remained so even now. Her silver hair shone like a beacon around her face. The lines about her eyes had deepened, shooting off from the sides and underneath, and the brackets framing her mouth were most pronounced. Gone was the smile that graced her face as well as the bright energy that radiated from her. It had been replaced by grief that turned her lips downward. Nevertheless, she still possessed a regal air.

Her chin shook. “Come.” She ambled to the bed.

Caelen lingered at the threshold. His father was more than ill. Death hovered about him. Yet, something prevented him from moving. His mother waved him forward.

“When the laird gives you a command, you obey.” His father’s voice trembled, a weak resemblance to the booming voice Caelen remembered.

He pushed himself into the chamber and over to the massive, carved bed. In the center of the thick feather mattress, and beneath a mound of covering, his father’s head peeked out. His once muscular frame had faded to a skeleton. His skin hung from his bones. His cheekbones resembled blades jutting against his sagging skin. Gone was the robust man, hearty and strong, who had faced enemies with vigor most men half his age lacked. His father faded away and stole the memories of the man he was.

“What about when your father sends a command?” father asked.

“I expect a reprimand.”

“Sit, son. There is—” Father dry heaved. Blood swelled in his face. Caelen froze.

Mother jumped to him and rolled him on to his side. Guttural sounds spewed from him. His face reddened, darkening with each heave. His veins popped out from under his skin. Tears squeezed from his eyes.

Caelen did nothing. He didn’t know what to do.

“Caelen, leave.”

He stood rooted to the wooden floor. His arms tucked tightly to his side, afraid to move. He swallowed hard. His mother’s shouts knocked him back into himself. “Caelen! Kenneth, you need to rest.” With one hand on his thin shoulder, his mother pushed his father on his back. He went without a struggle.

“I’ll rest after.”

Mother sighed and tossed up her hands. Not bothering to hide her frustration, she said, “Come speak to your stubborn father. Maybe he’ll tire himself and rest as he ought.”

Caelen stood beside the bed. When he was a lad, his father had looked upon him resting in his bed, tucked under the sheets.

“I wish for you to see my wants to fruition. Manus must wed the Stuart lass. Don’t worry about Rowen’s marriage prospects. I haven’t found anyone worthy. As for the clan—” He made a wheezing sound like the winds rushing over the mountains. He coughed. He was too weak to raise his hand. The dry heaves racked him again.

“Enough, Caelen.”

He left. Again, he lingered outside the chamber. The rough throat scraping sound twisted his stomach. He turned back to the door. His hand hovered over the handle. He dropped his arm and turned away. The last time he had been with his father, he had told Caelen, “You return to us when you are the man our clan requires.”

What did the clan require?

* * * *

Brenna shut her chamber door. The smoke from the wall torches filled the turret stairs and stung her eyes. She waved away the cloud as she descended from the top floor. That chamber had been her own since she was seven, when the laird and lairdess first fostered her. Brenna loved the space, since Caelen once rested his head there. Being in the chamber was the closest she came to sharing a bed with her husband.

Learning her role as the future Lairdess of Clan MacKenzie, her life consisted of watching, waiting and being a help or a hindrance. Lately, she had been a help. Only that mattered to Brenna, especially after she intruded upon the Lairdess weeping in the garden. That was her place of refuge. Brenna had moved forward and then stepped back, leaving her to her sadness. What did one say when death hovered near? The truth was, Brenna wished she could make the laird survive. Brenna took pride in her healing skills and knowledge of herbs, but in this instance, those skills were meaningless, so she strived to lessen the Lairdess’ burden. This day, the duties had been split between her and Rowen.

Rowen would see to the household, the meals, the cleaning of it, and other duties. Whereas Brenna was to assist the clan and handle any issues the clanfolk faced this day. So being a crumpled mess of shattered bones at the bottom of the stairs was not part of her plan. As a child, she had sped up and down the stairs without a care that she might fall. Yet, when she returned here a sennight ago, she had fallen up the stairs and landed on her face, three steps up from the one she just tripped on.

She reached the last step and halted. The smoke must have conjured images. Caelen stood at the end of the corridor. She blinked, believing the vision would vanish into nothingness. The arched doorway framed his muscular form, which was draped in MacLean plaid. His head hung down. His long locks draped around his face and blocked him from her view. Light flickered over his Viking blond hair. She blinked a few times, waiting for him to notice her standing here. She must have moved because his head flew up. When she had lived on Grant lands, Brenna caught—stalked—a young couple sneaking to the back of the kitchens. She watched the maid nibble on the kitchen’s boy ear.

Brenna should have been ashamed.
Should have.
“Caelen.”

He faced her. A smile spread across her face and her cheeks hurt from it. She wanted to throw herself in his arms. Instead, she buried the urge. She even squeezed out a couple of tears.

Her feet skipped over the floor as she raced to him. She threw her arms around him and squeezed him tightly. She lacked the strength to hold him as she wished. Caelen was all hard muscle. He smelled of the outdoors—greenery, and of the fresh wind that whirled about him and caught in the weave of his plaid, along with a manly scent that was his own. She stroked her cheek against his plaid. The scratchy wool caused her skin to tingle.

She ran her hands over his thick arms. He had come for her. She linked her fingers with his. She leaned her head to the side to look at the shut chamber door. Last night had been a difficult one. The healers and servants had been going in and out through the night. Their muffled voices reached her chamber along with the groans of pains coming from the laird—aye, the laird would be leaving this earth soon. Her smile dimmed along with the heady delight within her. “You have finally returned.”

Caelen arched a brow, revealing his blue eyes. She loved his pure, blue hue that shined bright with shards of white, unlike her plain, brown ones. He pulled his hand away. She tucked her empty hand within the pleats of her dress. This was not the reunion she had imagined since she learned he was returning home. Caelen was supposed to grab her in his arms and swing her about. After her holding her close for a drawn-out moment, he was supposed to slide her down his body, and then kiss her. After he ravished her mouth, he was to stare deep into her eyes. He might have even whispered tenders words. Instead, he stood there, his arms at his side. The man didn’t even reach out to her.

“You look well, Brenna.” His gaze slid over her, lingering at her hips. She felt the heat of his inspection. He no longer looked at her as a little lass.

“You haven’t cleaned up from your journey.” His plaid was wrinkled and the pleats were flat. She brushed at a smear of dirt marring his leine. It was just a reason to touch him.

“Seeing my father was more important.” He peeked over his shoulder. “I should have been here earlier.”

She licked her lips. “Has the laird fallen asleep?”

“Nay, he…he started coughing.” He shook his head. The ends of his blond hair fanned out. The pale tips caught the amber light of the torches. His strong brow was more pronounced from the lowering of his brows.

“Last night was hard for him, but your arrival shall make him feel better. When I sit with him, he always speaks of you.”

When he hung his head, she wished she could take back her words.

“You sit with him often?” He pushed back his hair.

“Aye. Sometimes, we discuss you, and other times he tells me stories or curses the healers. It depends upon how he feels.”

His broad shoulders that seemed to be able to bear all of Scotland and England upon them, straightened. “I am here so I can see to the running of everything. You shall assist me.”

She rose to the tips of her toes. “Of course. I am your wife.”

* * * *

The heavy shuffle of footsteps scraped behind him. His mother touched his arm, stroking it as if he needed the comfort.

“Mother—”

“He is resting.” Her narrow shoulders slumped. “The stubborn man refuses to listen to the healers.” Her mellow voice deepened from her sharp pitch. “Brenna, have you seen to the clan?”

“I am off now.”

“Thank you, dear.”

Brenna spared a lingering glance at Caelen. She might have even embraced him if his mother hadn’t been between them. He sent a glance at his mother. Brenna started down the steps.

“She has been a help to me and this household.”

“That isn’t the reason you sent for her.” He crossed his arms.

“Caelen, she is your wife, and soon you will be leading this clan.” She kneaded her left shoulder.

“How long has he been ill? Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”