Kilty Pleasures (Clash of the Tartans Book 3) Page 2

  Lily sniffled back tears. “He loved this castle. Do ye think they’ll allow us to bury him here?”

  Broderick inhaled the salty air and looked up at the raucous gulls gliding overhead. “Nay. Mackie told me his head’s on a pike outside Edinburgh Castle and I dinna doot they’ve already disposed of his body.”

  “Poor Daddy,” she wailed, shivering in the stiff breeze.

  Broderick clenched his jaw, berating himself inwardly for planting such a macabre vision in the bairn’s mind. “He was aware of the punishment before he committed the crime.”

  Now he’d made matters worse.

  “But I dinna understand why he didna stay in France? Why come back?”

  It was a question Broderick had asked himself repeatedly. Trying to fathom Alasdair Maxwell’s reasons for doing anything had proven over the years to be an exercise in frustration. Imprisoned in Edinburgh for feuding with the Douglases, he’d escaped, then murdered the chief of the Lochwood Clan. He’d shot the man in the back after an argument that erupted during a prearranged peace conference, then fled to France. He justified his actions as retaliation for the death of Broderick’s grandfather at the battle of Drift Sands more than twenty years before.

  “He wasna always the most rational person,” was all he could think to say in reply.

  Lily blew her nose. “Especially when it concerned the Lochwoods,” she murmured hoarsely. “But if he’d stayed away, he’d still be alive.”

  Broderick narrowed his eyes as the setting sun turned the Solway to liquid amber. He couldn’t imagine abandoning this castle, this beloved bit of Scotland. Had Galloway been in his father’s blood too? “Perhaps he preferred death to living in France. Who can ken?”

  She snuggled closer. “Will the Lochwoods be satisfied now Daddy’s been executed?”

  Sick at heart and tired of the bloody feud that had gone on for generations, he wished he could reassure his sister. With Ranald Lochwood there might have been a chance for peace, but his son had ousted him as laird. Corbin wasn’t a man to forget old hatreds.

  “I doot it,” he replied. “Nay so long as I’m the king’s appointed Warden of the Solway.”

  Feast

  Watching the folk of Clan MacKeegan boisterously enjoying the feast thrown to mark the signing of the trade agreement, Corbin had to admit the islanders knew how to celebrate. The music was deafening, the dancing as wild and flamboyant as he’d expected.

  His expectations of Highlanders had been low, especially with regard to food. He suspected the chief’s wife had a lot to do with the excellent quality of the meals he’d enjoyed throughout his visit. She apparently hailed from Dungavin, a remote castle in North Skye he had no wish to visit, though Kyla’s tales of the Faerie Flag kept there since the Crusades were intriguing. Such a relic would be worth a small fortune.

  He’d hoped to be seated next to the tantalizing young woman but found himself wedged ’twixt his host and Lady MacKeegan. The redhead sat next to her stepmother, the chief’s four younger sons to their father’s right.

  “So Lochwoods and Maxwells have been feuding for many a year,” Darroch suddenly yelled in his ear.

  The question—if indeed it was a question—took Corbin off guard. “Yes,” he shouted back, wondering where the discussion was headed. He’d learned during the negotiations not to assume MacKeegan was dimwitted.

  “Like the MacKeegans and the MacRains,” Darroch said.

  Corbin had never taken much interest in the myriad feuds between Highland clans. Every Lowlander knew they were a rough-and-ready lot who relished murder and mayhem for the sake of a few livestock and tracts of land too bleak, barren and boggy to grow any sort of crop. “But isn’t your wife a MacRain?” he asked, immediately regretting the words.

  He struggled for breath when the chief slapped him heartily on the back. “Dinna pretend ye ken naught o’ how our clans reconciled,” the grinning man quipped.

  “Ye canna think everyone is aware of our history,” his wife interjected, coming to Corbin’s rescue. “Our marriage ended the feud,” she explained. “For the most part.”

  Corbin considered what he knew of the only female Maxwell of marriageable age. By all accounts, Lily was painfully thin, only eleven years old, and a simpleton. He liked women with meat on their bones, in the right places, of course, and bedding a child didn’t appeal. “There’s no prospect of that in our case,” he said.

  “We fought over land,” Darroch continued. “But that’s nay the issue with ye and the Maxwells, I understand.”

  Corbin chose his words carefully, still convinced the chief was on a fishing expedition. “No. We Lochwoods are the most influential clan in the region, so it’s only right we should serve as the king’s Wardens of the West March.”

  Darroch raised an eyebrow. “And yer family has held that high honor in the past, but it no longer exists now James rules both kingdoms.”

  “Yes, but the office changed back and forth over the decades between my family and the Maxwells, even though that despicable clan is nothing but a bunch of criminals. Indeed, the current laird is the son of the assassin who murdered my uncle, yet the Royal Court has given him the right to ward the Solway.” He stopped short of offering an outright opinion of the king’s decision. That might smack of treason, and he wasn’t among trusted friends.

  MacKeegan scraped fingernails through the stubble on his chin. “Seems a good idea to make sure vessels plying the Solway Firth are nay carrying opium and the like up to Dumfries.”

  The hackles rose on Corbin’s nape. The normally astute Highland chief had obviously missed the point. The appointment gave the Maxwells power over cargoes that entered and exited the border region. The Warden of the Solway controlled access to the lucrative English markets.

  His host chewed a piece of mutton for what seemed long minutes before he continued. “When ye say criminals, do ye mean they’re reivers still?”

  Corbin cursed inwardly. He’d walked right into the trap. He could hardly deny his own clan’s reiving history. “As I told you before, Lochwoods only stole from the English.”

  His indignant outburst coincided with a sudden lull in the music. He felt his face flush when heads turned to look at him. Blushing was something coy maidens did.

  “Commendable,” Lady MacKeegan retorted with too much sarcasm for Corbin’s liking. She smiled at Kyla who rolled her eyes and snorted.

  He deemed it advisable to make no reply. Let these backward folk think what they liked. After he’d dealt with the redhead’s mode of dress, he’d turn his attention to instilling respect for her betters. It was an arousing prospect.

  *

  Covering a yawn with the back of his hand, Laird Lochwood rose from the table. “I beg leave to retire, Lady MacKeegan,” he said, bowing slightly. “I understand my ship departs on the morrow’s early tide.”

  Isabel nodded. “Of course. A servant will light the way to yer chamber.”

  “I thank you for this sumptuous repast,” he added. “Goodnight.”

  Kyla’s father had risen and summoned a servant. He shook Lochwood’s hand. “Goodnight.”

  Once the Lowlander was safely out of earshot, Kyla scoffed. “Sumptuous repast! The mon is trying hard to deny his Scottish roots.”

  Her eldest half-brother agreed. “Stuck up.”

  Isabel glared at her son. “Stewart MacKeegan, that’s no way to speak of a guest. ’Tis past yer bedtime. Take yer brothers and say goodnight.”

  The ten-year-old lad grinned conspiratorially at Kyla, but did as he was told and the four boys went off to bed after kissing their mother.

  “We can speak freely now the young ones are gone,” Darroch said. “I would say Corbin sees the title of Warden of the Solway as a stepping stone to his ultimate ambition—a post at His Majesty’s court in London. They say the Scots there dinna speak like Scots, and ’tis evident Lochwood has striven to rid himself of his brogue. ’Tis reported King James Stewart himself sounds more like an Englishmon, and
the Gaelic is frowned upon.”

  The three sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, contemplating how the rich language spoken in the Isles for hundreds of years could be considered inferior.

  Isabel took Kyla’s hand. “Are ye sure ye want to captain the voyage?” she asked. “I ken ye’ll enjoy the adventure, but…”

  Kyla recognized she was fortunate to have a stepmother who understood her unconventional nature and had never tried to thwart it. “Aye,” she replied truthfully. “The laird’s company? Nay so much.”

  “I’ve picked a loyal crew,” her frowning father assured them. “They’ll soon dissuade him if he decides to make advances.”

  She’d known her father would do his utmost to ensure her safety, but the news was reassuring nonetheless. Lochwood was tall, fair of face and bonnie to look at, though she’d never encountered a young man with hair so gray. However, she had a feeling there was more to him than met the eye.

  Sisters

  “I sometimes chafe at the responsibility of raising a young lass,” Broderick admitted to Aiglon, “but after Mother’s death and Father’s flight to France, it fell to me to see to Lily’s upbringing.”

  Perched on his padded shoulder, the golden eagle cocked her head to one side, eyes fixed on the dead mouse in his gloved hand. She was well-trained and wouldn’t take the meat until it was offered.

  Some might think him off his head, confiding in a bird, but he usually felt more at peace after visiting the mews each day. Who else was there to share his concerns?

  “I’ve spared no expense in providing nursemaids, tutors, dressmakers, even playmates,” he continued. “But a lass needs a female influence, a mother. What can a young man of three and twenty ken about a little girl’s thoughts and fancies?”

  Aiglon accepted the dainty morsel, devoured it and beat her wings, just for a moment. He’d raised her from the day she pecked open the shell, and named her Eaglet. He never worried she would abandon him, though she was now fully grown and probably weary of his daily ramblings.

  “I fret over what might happen to my sister if I marry. Few women want to be burdened with a bairn that isna theirs. In theory, Lily is old enough to wed, but she’s nay ready for that. Marriage to the wrong man would destroy her.”

  Aiglon preened the feathers of her breast, head bobbing as if in agreement.

  “I dinna have time to search for a bride,” he conceded ruefully, “although ’tis my duty to sire heirs. My father’s bloody reputation doesna help matters.”

  He had other duties, onerous ones placed on his shoulders by the king, and was determined to prove that James’ trust wasn’t misplaced. He would do his utmost to ensure the newly established peace on the borders wasn’t threatened by gunrunners, opium peddlers and whisky smugglers who sought to ply their trade up and down the Solway.

  As well, there was the upkeep of a large castle and servants to provide for. The king’s measures to stop reiving had at least brought a respite from the killing, thieving and kidnapping that had gone on for generations. Tenant farmers had begun to show more optimism about the future. Crops were being sown again.

  However, gone, too, was the lucrative practice of ransoming captives back to enemy clans.

  “Times are changing. We must find other sources of revenue,” he told Aiglon as she hopped back onto her perch.

  The falconer tipped his cap to Broderick when he closed and latched the grilled gate of the mews. “I heard tell Laird Lochwood is dabbling in trade to fill his coffers.”

  It was an inescapable reality that peasants and servants always knew things well before their masters. He suspected falconers in particular had some sort of network. “What do ye ken of this?” Broderick asked.

  The wily old man, who’d worked for the Maxwells for years, scratched his bald head. “Gone to the Isle of Skye to parlay with the MacKeegans. Plans to bring back woven cloth and hides to sell to the English.”

  Broderick rubbed his hands together. Odds were that Lochwood planned to unload his cargo in Annan, and to get there he’d have to sail up the Solway. He wasn’t the kind of man to deal solely in mundane goods like cloth and hides. This might be an opportunity for Broderick to catch his clan’s nemesis red-handed. A charge of smuggling would put paid to Lochwood’s aspirations to be Warden.

  *

  Kyla had spent twelve years sailing the seas of the Hebrides. Her father often boasted she was a more accomplished sailor than he was, a high compliment, indeed, and one she’d aspired to.

  The journey south would take them into previously unknown waters, but she had confidence in her skill and her crew. The navigator chosen by her father had traveled to the Solway before.

  Lochwood took his leave of her parents affably enough, and seemed unflustered by the notion of a female captaining the birlinn. Despite his outward charm, Kyla mistrusted him and didn’t like the way he looked at her as if she were a chattel he was considering purchasing.

  Once the Lanmara was underway, she inhaled the salty air and looked back at the place of her birth. She’d bidden her family farewell many times from the docks below Dun Scaith, but couldn’t rid herself this time of a premonition she would never return. Wiping away tears brought on by her stepmother’s fierce hug, she told herself it was Lochwood’s unsettling presence causing such maudlin thoughts.

  “Horrible looking place,” her passenger sneered, raising her hackles, though she’d once shared his horror of the gaunt edifice, rumored to have been built by the faeries. No human hand could have constructed such a fortification in an impossible location atop a rock sitting in the roiling surf.

  As a bairn, she’d hated Dun Scaith, thanks to her grandfather’s determination to deny the existence of an illegitimate granddaughter and cast her out. She’d even refused to utter a single word to anyone for the first seven years of her life. She regretted the torment she’d inflicted on the father who’d defied his own sire to love and protect her.

  The arrival of Isabel MacRain had changed things at Dun Scaith. She’d even managed to turn the crotchety old chief into a doting grandfather, and birthed four healthy sons.

  Kyla readily admitted to being the tomboy her father had always claimed. She loved her brothers, but sometimes wished for a sister. Isabel treated her like her own daughter and they shared many interests and confidences, but a sister…

  She shook off her melancholy and turned to Lochwood. “Did ye ken an ancient warrior queen dwelt in Dun Scaith? They say Sgathach still haunts the castle and doesna take kindly to folk who speak ill of it.”

  “Warrior queen?” Corbin’s pale-faced young valet whispered.

  Lochwood scowled at the lad. “Old wives’ tale. Be off and find me a comfortable place to sit.”

  Sorry she’d caused Adrian to become the brunt of his master’s displeasure, she gave the command to hoist the sail as they entered the sound. “Keep a southeast heading,” she shouted to her navigator.

  “Aye, Captain,” Nicolson replied.

  Mastery

  Sitting atop the cargo stacked amidships, Corbin feigned interest in the occasional pod of dolphins and the distant eastern shore. A sailor told him the names of the lands they passed, but he only half-listened and didn’t care to know anyway.

  His real attention was on the redhead. He had to grudgingly admit she was an accomplished sailor. It was as if the galley acknowledged her mastery as they made their way safely through unpredictable weather—fog banks, sudden squalls and balmy breezes that barely filled the sail. He understood now what people had told him about the birlinn. It was the perfect boat for the wild northern seas, and the folk of the Isles could maneuver the vessel in any and all conditions.

  While the sea voyage wasn’t without its dangers, he felt infinitely safer than he had traveling to the Highlands by land. That had been a harrowing journey he never wanted to repeat. His arse was still sore from weeks on horseback. Paying the surly mercenaries who’d escorted him and Adrian had emptied his coffers. The brutes had
taunted and baited the young valet, making the most of his obvious terror of them. Corbin had maintained a semblance of discipline only with the threat of non-payment upon arrival at the port of Malaig, but the entire experience had been nerve-wracking.

  Watching Kyla, he filled his lungs, anxious to be rid of the noxious memories. The long and difficult journey had been worth it in the end.

  Mistress MacKeegan never left the prow and showed no sign of fear or hesitation. While he admired her courage, the games of mastery he preferred required that his plaything feel afraid. Kyla’s spirit would only make the task of breaking her a more exciting challenge. He might let her think she was in control, but…

  “Ardnamurchan Point sighted,” the lookout shouted.

  Corbin slowly removed his hand from his swelling cock, confident no one was paying attention to him.

  Kyla glanced back over her shoulder, green eyes bright, face reddened by the wind. “Nay far to Mingary,” she told the crew. “Then southeast through the Sound of Mull on the morrow.”

  Drawing his plaid over his arousal, Corbin cheered along with the rest of the crew, but his pleasure came from replacing his hand where it would give the most satisfaction.

  *

  Kyla trusted Nicolson to steer their vessel into the sheltered bay near Ormsaigmore, where several vessels lay at anchor. It was a relief to relinquish the responsibility for a few minutes and gaze up at the imposing white walls of Mingary Castle, dappled pink by the rays of the late afternoon sun. Visible for miles, the edifice was a beacon, a declaration of power. No one passed into the Sound of Mull without Mingary’s permission.

  This was familiar territory. She and her father were known here. Sailing the Sound would be a new adventure.

  She intended to leave a skeleton crew to guard their cargo overnight, though the MacIans kept a small fleet of patrol vessels along the shore on either side of the castle, in case a passing boat needed to be intercepted.