My Brave Highlander Page 10

  "Put that away afore you cut yourself," Dirk growled. "Keep her safe, Tulloch," he said to his horse.

  Tulloch nickered and stamped his giant hoof.

  "Have a care," Isobel said.

  Dirk drew his sword and raced back a couple hundred feet to the others, his boots slipping over the ice and snow. He didn't realize they'd moved so far ahead of Rebbie and the servants.

  His horse dancing about, Rebbie kicked out with one booted foot, knocking the gun from the outlaw's hand. The bastard then scrambled on the ground for it.

  While Rebbie dismounted, Dirk rushed in upon them.

  Rebbie and the outlaw rolled on the ground, tussling for the weapon. Dirk grabbed the man's brown cloak, secured at his throat, and yanked him away from his friend, who had the pistol in hand. The outlaw made choking sounds and clawed at the mantle's clasp. Once it was unhooked, he freed himself from the garment and fled toward a grove of bushes, his long gray hair flying out behind him. Before he reached cover, he made as if to circle around toward Isobel and Tulloch.

  "Halt!" Dirk demanded, launching into motion and sprinting toward Isobel. Bastard! Dirk would choke him if he ever got his hands on him.

  A gunshot exploded behind him. Dirk glanced back to see Rebbie with his pistol raised, still aimed at the outlaw, and a fog of black smoke being carried away by the wind. The masked man didn't go down. Instead, he changed course and bolted for the bushes again.

  "Bastard!" Dirk yelled, finally reaching Isobel.

  Tulloch snorted and pawed the ground.

  The last time he'd seen Donald McMurdo, he'd had dark hair, but that had been many years ago. That had to be him. If the women hadn't been in their party now, he'd hunt the knave down and toss him in Dunnakeil's dungeon.

  "What the devil?" Rebbie grumbled, coming up behind them and brushing the snow and debris from his clothing. "A highwayman? Out here, in the most remote country I've ever seen?"

  "Aye. They're everywhere. 'Twas likely McMurdo. Back when I was a lad, my father and his men tried to capture McMurdo but he was as elusive as a ghost. Not only is he a thief, but also a murderer. Hard to believe he's still alive after all this time."

  George led the other horse forward and Beitris, still quite pale, was perched upon it.

  Rebbie surveyed the outlaw's pistol in his hand. "If this wasn't such a piece of rubbish, I could've shot him in the arse with his own gun."

  Dirk snorted. "Let's make haste afore he returns."

  "I hope he does," Rebbie called out, making sure anyone hiding in the bushes could hear him. "I'll give him something—a lead ball betwixt his teeth."

  Observing Isobel, Dirk noted her dark eyes were wide as she scanned the edge of the copse of bushes. "Are you well?" he asked.

  "Aye." Twisting and wiggling about in her layers of clothing and blankets, she moved back onto the bedroll behind the saddle. He admired the way she took distressing events in stride without lapsing into hysterics.

  He mounted and within a quarter hour, Uncle Conall's large cottage, with its whitewashed stone walls and thatched roof, came into view on the outskirts of the village. Dirk's spirits lifted with relief to finally be at the journey's end. But as he rode forward, closer and closer to the village of his childhood, he tensed. He prayed he'd arrived in time to see his father alive.

  "Here we are," Dirk told Isobel. At the cottage, he dismounted, then glanced back to Rebbie upon his horse. "'Tis my uncle's home."

  Lifting his arms, Dirk helped Isobel dismount. The others followed suit.

  When he faced the door of the cottage, dread twisted his gut. Uncle Conall, Dirk's father's youngest brother, and his family were the only members of the clan he could trust.

  Beside him, Isobel squeezed his forearm, distracting him from the gloom for a moment. Her eyes, a touch darker than chestnut brown, softened as if she understood how he felt. The anxiety, the fear. Aye, she must. She'd seen her parents sick, then lost them. But most important of all, in that moment, he no longer felt alone. For even when he was with his friends, he often felt disconnected from them and unsure if they could truly understand him. Something told him Isobel did.

  Her hand slipped away and he could not believe how he missed that small contact.

  Drawing in a deep breath, he forced himself to move forward and knock at the weathered door.

  His aunt Effie opened it and stuck her head out. Her gaze landing on Dirk, she smiled, flung the door back and threw her arms around him. "Nephew, 'tis a blessing to lay eyes upon your face again. I'm glad you've come home." She drew back and called into the cottage. "Conall!" Facing Dirk again, she said, "He's eating his supper. You know how he is. Naught can draw him away from the table. Come in, you and your companions." She waved them forward.

  He didn't move. And though he hated to ask, it had to be done. "What news of my father?"

  "Oh, Dirk." Her face contorted into a grimace. "I forgot you'd not heard yet. I'm sorry to say he passed over a month ago."

  Her words hit him like a battering ram smashing against his stomach.

  Da was gone. Dirk would not be able to embrace him one last time nor see a look of happiness on his face.

  Dirk nodded, his throat constricting. "'Tis as I feared." Although he'd truly hoped he'd been wrong. "I came as soon as I could."

  Regret flooded him like rain inundating a bog. His father must have died even before Dirk received the missive at Draughon. He should've come back sooner, 'haps years ago. But his father thought him dead. He never knew whether it was better to stay 'dead' or proclaim his presence to the clan and the woman who would see him murdered if she could.

  "Aye?" Conall appeared in the doorway, his hair and beard now gray. His gaze focused for a moment on Dirk's face. "Dirk, lad, is that you, then?"

  "Indeed."

  "I hardly recognize you all grown up." Conall grabbed him in a fearsome hug. When he drew back, his eyes were watering. "Lad, I'm sorry your da didn't make it. A week after I sent the missive, he was gone. I sent another but I don't know if you received it."

  Dirk shook his head. "I thank you for letting me know."

  Conall glanced past him to the others who'd traveled with him. "Who have you brought with you?"

  Dirk forced himself to push his grief aside for a moment. Rebbie stood closest to him. "This is my good friend, Robert MacInnis, earl of Rebbinglen."

  "An earl? I'm pleased to meet you m'laird." He shook Rebbie's hand.

  "A pleasure."

  "And this is Lady Isobel MacKenzie and her maid," Dirk went on. "We rescued them on the trail."

  "Rescued? Well, you're a true knight and a gallant, are you not? Come in. We have enough food for everyone."

  "With the way you were shoveling it in?" Effie said.

  "Bah! I'll deal with the horses, woman. You give our guests some food." Conall waved everyone else into the cottage.

  As Isobel passed Dirk, she met his eyes with a sympathetic glance.

  He gave her a quick nod to thank her for understanding, then followed his uncle toward his small stable.

  After Conall showed George where to take the horses, Dirk asked, "Could I have a word, Uncle?"

  "Aye."

  The side of the stone byre sheltered them from the worst of the wind. "I cannot believe my father is gone. Did he suffer?" Dirk asked.

  "Nay. He did not seem in much pain. 'Twas his heart, the healer said." Conall shook his head.

  "Is Nannag still the healer?"

  "Aye. Still spunky as a pup, although her hearing is going."

  "Saints, she must be at least a hundred."

  Conall nodded with a faint grin. "Around eighty or ninety summers, I'd say. But her mind is still sharp."

  "She's trustworthy, is she not? My stepmother wouldn't have coerced her into speeding up Da's death, would she?"

  "Nay, I don't think so, lad. Maighread seemed to care for your da. It wouldn't have benefited her or their sons to murder him. Aiden is only twenty-one summers, barely old enough to be
a decent chief. Griff and Maighread both figured he'd struggle with it."

  Dirk nodded. That gave him some peace, that his stepmother wouldn't have wanted his Da dead as she did him. Apparently he was the only one she had it in for.

  "Griff was ne'er the same after he believed you died," Conall said. "You see, he wouldn't believe you had truly died for weeks because your body wasn't found washed up on shore. Finally, he accepted that you must be dead, then he blamed himself."

  Dirk felt as if a boulder crushed his chest. The last thing he'd meant to do was hurt his father. "Did you tell him who you suspected of killing Cousin Will?" Will was the son of his father's middle brother, and Dirk's best friend during his youth. They were near inseparable, until Maighread's man had shoved him from the cliff.

  "I hinted." Conall nodded. "But I couldn't outright accuse her without proof. Besides, I suspect she has several clan members working for her."

  "Well, as you ken, she tried to kill me twice before that and he never believed me." In a way, he'd felt betrayed by his father because he'd trusted his wife over his own son.

  "'Tis beyond my ken what he saw in the woman," Conall muttered. "He loved her to distraction. And though his heart wasn't in it, he had the men begin training your two younger brothers to follow in his footsteps."

  "Both of them?"

  "Aye, as you know, Aiden is the eldest but he was e'er a timid child. Your father was unsure of his ability to lead the clan. Haldane is younger but he has a much more forceful nature. 'Tis clear to me he wants to be chief despite being only nineteen summers. About half of the clan would support him if he should decide to oust Aiden, but he holds a fondness for his older brother. I don't believe he wants to hurt him. If Aiden were to relinquish the position, Haldane would take it. But you see, most of the clan elders support Aiden as the oldest son, the most canny and level-headed. And now that you are here…" His uncle shrugged.

  "Aye. Now that I'm here… I know not if they will even believe 'tis truly me."

  "How can they doubt it? Now that you're grown, I see much of your father in you."

  Dirk was glad for that. He'd always been proud that he resembled his father. But he wasn't sure what kind of reception he'd get from the clan, resemblance or no.

  "There's still a bit of time to think on it. Are you hungry?"

  "Aye." His stomach ached, though he wasn't sure whether from hunger or anxiety.

  "Let's go inside."

  Dirk preceded him into the cottage that had not changed since the last time he was here. Two of Conall's younger sons and three of his daughters greeted Dirk as he entered. Saints! They'd all been wee bairns the last time he saw them.

  "You've all grown up. Where is Keegan?" Conall's eldest son had always been a good friend to Dirk.

  "He's head of the guards at the castle."

  "I see." That was an impressive position, and Dirk was glad someone he trusted held it.

  Squeezing his large frame between Rebbie and another male cousin, he sat across from Isobel. She had removed the cowl covering her rich sable hair, which was down loose on her shoulders. Her bewitching eyes met his in the candlelight and a startling sensation shot through him from his chest to his groin.

  What in blazes was wrong with him? He lowered his gaze to the trencher heaped with food that Aunt Effie set before him. "I thank you," he mumbled.

  "Eat up. You're a growing lad and you need your strength."

  "Growing? I hope not." Only his aunt would say such a thing. Warmth filled his chest at being back amongst his family again. "I'm fair certain I've grown enough."

  Rebbie snorted. "You have the right of it."

  "No comments are needed from you," Dirk said to Rebbie, his gaze drawn to Isobel again.

  She held back a grin, humor lighting her eyes. Damnation, but she was lovely. He could scarce look away, but forced himself to concentrate on the food.

  Dirk's thoughts wandered to the task ahead, telling his brothers and the rest of the clan that he did indeed still live and that he was here to take his place as leader of the clan. He would no doubt meet a considerable amount of opposition.

  Chapter Eight

  Dirk didn't know what to expect at Castle Dunnakeil, but he thought it safest for Isobel and her maid to stay with Aunt Effie until he, Conall, and Rebbie rode to the castle and met with his brother, Aiden, and the rest of the clan.

  The wind had calmed a bit with the gloaming, but it was still far more blustery here than further south. By the time Castle Dunnakeil came into view on the horizon with the darkened bay as a backdrop, night was upon them. Torches provided enough light around the castle and inside the high stone walls of the bailey for Dirk to see the castle had changed little in the past twelve years. The three round towers of Dunnakeil had each been built in a different century by his ancestors as had the keep and the east wing.

  Although his home appeared unchanged on the outside, he knew things inside would be vastly different because his father was no longer there. Approaching Dunnakeil, he could hardly believe he would never get to see Da again. A dark, sinking feeling settled into his stomach.

  "Like I said, Keegan is over the guards," Uncle Conall said as they neared the gatehouse. "If there is any trouble he will be of great help."

  Dirk hoped and prayed there was no trouble. He didn't want to fight his own clansmen and kin.

  At the gatehouse, two obscure figures inside watched them in the torchlight.

  "Who is that with you, Conall?" one of the guards asked.

  "Dirk?" the other figure inside the small guard house asked in a shocked but familiar voice.

  "Aye," Dirk said. "Keegan, is that you?"

  "Indeed." Conall's eldest son emerged while the other guard raised the portcullis.

  They proceeded into the stone-paved bailey and toward the stables where they dismounted. Two lanky stable lads of around fifteen took the horses.

  Dirk turned toward his cousin. "Keegan, 'tis good to see you."

  His sandy-brown hair was pulled back in a queue. The boyish face Dirk remembered had matured into a man's with a strong jaw and chin. Underneath a woolen mantle, he wore metal studded leather armor with his belted plaid.

  Keegan clasped his hand and slapped his shoulder in a warrior's welcome. "I wondered if you'd ever come home." Smiling, he turned to Conall. "Why did you not send word earlier that he was here, Da?"

  "He only arrived an hour ago, and I thought you'd enjoy the surprise."

  Dirk introduced Rebbie and they shook hands.

  "Am I ever glad you're here, cousin," Keegan said.

  Dirk was glad to be here too, but he wondered what his cousin's cryptic words meant. "Why?"

  "There are murmurings that the clan will soon be divided over who will be the best chief—Aiden or Haldane."

  "I suppose I'll cause even louder murmurs then," Dirk said, looking forward to seeing the faces of those who'd thought him dead for twelve years. Some of them would be happy to see him. Others not.

  Keegan grinned. "Just what we need to stir things up a wee bit more."

  As the four of them proceeded toward the portal, both excitement and dread coalesced inside Dirk.

  When they entered the great hall with its long tables cluttered with the remains of supper, the clansmen and servants milling about stopped to stare at the newcomers. Scents of bread, venison and ale perfumed the air, taking Dirk back many years. The high table sat crosswise at the far end of the room, near the fireplace. Dirk's gaze fell upon his half-brother occupying the central chief's chair.

  Six years younger than Dirk, Aiden had only been nine when he'd last seen him. He didn't look much older than that now. Of course, he was taller, but he appeared frail and thin. Dirk frowned, hoping his brother wasn't ill. Aiden used to follow him around like a wee deerhound, and they'd always been close.

  Aiden's face blanched white as his eyes locked to Dirk's. He shoved to his feet.

  The brawny young man beside him rose as well, his hand going to rest
on his sword hilt, his glare fixed on Dirk. "Who the hell is that?" he growled.

  Could he be Haldane, Dirk's youngest half-brother? He had not seen the lad since he was seven summers old. Aye, he resembled Da and Dirk, as well, with ginger hair. Though Haldane had not yet filled out into a man, he was tall and broad-shouldered.

  "I'm Dirk MacKay," he said in a strong voice so everyone in the large room would be sure to hear. He was surprised he had to state the obvious, but a lot of time had passed and his brothers had been children when he'd left.

  Gasps echoed in the silence of the hall. Dirk quickly scanned faces in the room, most of them familiar.

  "Do you not remember your eldest brother?" Conall asked Haldane.

  "Dirk died. I remember that much," Haldane said in a harsh tone.

  "Nay, he is alive and well, as you can see," Conall said.

  Aiden remained transfixed, braced against the table, his wide-eyed gaze searching Dirk's face.

  "Aiden, 'tis good to see you again, lad." Dirk gave a slight grin, hoping to put everyone at ease.

  "Is it really you, brother?" he asked in an awed tone.

  "Aye." Dirk moved forward and extended his hand.

  His brother studied his face intently, clasped his hand, then embraced him.

  "But how can this be? We thought you dead, fallen from a cliff at Faraid Head."

  "I'm not so easy to kill." Dirk's gaze slid over Haldane, his expression clearly hostile. "Haldane, you've grown," Dirk said by way of greeting.

  His youngest brother merely glared in response.

  Both young men had the green eyes of their mother. Dirk scanned the room, wondering where the murderous hag might be and who else here was unfriendly. He expected hostilities, of course. But the person who stood to lose the most, Aiden, was the one who'd welcomed him with the greatest warmth.

  Dirk had not come to greedily take over. Hell, he did not even want the responsibility. But it was his birthright, and his father had groomed him to be the next chief from the time he was a babe.

  In their youth, Aiden had not been trained the same way. His mother had pushed him toward the training, but his father had ignored her. Nor had Aiden held any interest in fighting or leading. He was fascinated by music and took to playing the pipes early, as well as other instruments.