Highland Rebel Page 5

  Alistair came home when he was six. She’d tried to befriend him, but he was another who objected to her behavior, and he pushed her resolutely away. Even as a child, he was ascetic and disapproving, bookish and severe. Jerrod had taken to calling him the little Presbyterian. Little had they known. Slight of stature and far from robust, he was as strong-willed and brave as any Drummond, but he was prone to fits of temper and seldom stopped to think before he acted. Within a year of his coming, her father had pulled her aside.

  “A man can’t live forever, Cat, though I intend to do my best. But it’s my duty to think of who’s to succeed me as chieftain.”

  Her heart had quickened and swelled with pride. She’d struggled all her life to make him proud, to live up to his name and her heritage.

  “Alistair’s my only son, by rights it should be him, but the clan regard him as a foreigner, he does nae seem suited in body or mind, and between you and I, I’m far from certain his blood is mine. He’s young yet. He may grow stronger and wiser with time, but I fear he shares his mother’s unsettled nature. Donald wants it badly. He’s a fine warrior, well liked, too, but he’s rash, hotheaded, and stubborn. It’s you who’s shown the most promise, girl. It breaks my heart you’re a woman.”

  She’d blinked, stricken, and an empty chill had seized her that was with her to this day. It had only gotten worse.

  “Our people love you, Catherine, as I do. They trust and respect you, but they won’t take their orders from a woman. Not so long as there’s any other choice. But if we find you the right husband, someone with the wit to recognize your skills and abilities, rely on your experience and counsel…”

  He’d continued on like that for some time, but she was frozen inside, and she’d barely heard a word. He sent her to France shortly after, to stay with Liselle and be schooled as a lady. She went to Paris and Versailles, polished her dancing and her manners, and was presented at the court of Louis XIV. She was courted, feted, and pronounced a great success, but the whole time she felt like an imposter—awkward, indelicate, and overlarge. She’d returned home two years later with a new hairstyle, a new wardrobe, and a fashionable new cynicism, and watched while her beloved father tried to sell her… for the good of the clan.

  Her suitors pricked with interest when they saw her. She didn’t account herself a great beauty, but she knew she was comely enough when you added her inheritance and the prospect of becoming chieftain of a powerful and prosperous clan. She’d turned them down, one by one. It took but a moment to see in their eyes: this one would rule her, this one ignore her, and this one was naught but a peevish child. She’d struggled against it for nearly four years, joining the men on hunting trips and raids, then returning to her solar to be coiffed, dressed, and marched out on sullen display.

  In the end, her father lost patience, telling her to choose or he’d choose for her. She’d felt hurt and betrayed, and at Michaelmas a year past, she’d told him she hated him. She’d seen the hurt in his eyes and felt a stab of remorse, but she’d refused to take it back. Ten days later, he’d keeled over across the dinner table, sending overturned goblets and red wine running the length of the cloth, clutching at his arm ashen-faced, wheezing for breath and struggling to speak before crashing to the ground. She’d watched, horrified, as his hand slowly opened, releasing his goblet, and red wine pooled like blood on the f loor.

  Catherine jerked upright in the saddle, looking around her and wiping her eyes with her sleeve. The wild, snow-peaked Cairngorm Mountains were behind them, and before them the landscape dropped to low hills, crisscrossed with cattle and whiskey trails. Far in the distance, the sun glinted bright off steel-blue water and crests of white foam, and she could see and smell the smoke that drifted from the fishing villages dotting the coast. They were nearly home.

  Her father’s death had changed things irrevocably, laying open rivalries and fault lines that had lain dormant under his skillful rule. Rory, her uncle Jerrod, their men, and several others, stepped forward immediately offering their allegiance, but more had looked to Alistair and Donald. Sick with grief, she understood it was this her father had hoped to avoid. Donald stepped forward, Alistair stepped back, and she’d stepped aside, leaving it to the council to decide.

  They’d chosen Donald, but her father had left the bulk of his lands and fortune in Scotland to her. It hadn’t taken long for Donald and Alistair to try and control her, Alistair as her guardian and Donald as her chief. She snorted in disgust, startling her mount. Donald resented that she was invited to council, resented that she spoke her mind, and resented that when he spoke, they looked to her to see her reaction. He considered her a rival and he wanted her gone. It galled her to listen to his impassioned ranting and her brother’s pretentious and uninformed opinions, and it worried her to listen to their dangerous and ill-conceived plans. She knew her father would expect her to speak up, but each time she did, they became more determined to set her on the path of proper womanhood and put her in her place.

  They’d made it a priority to find her a husband, and in the end, despite her objections, they’d affianced her to Cormac O’Connor, a friend and boon companion from Donald’s youth. They offered an alliance and a sizable dowry, and all he had to do for it was take her away. Large and rough, a brash and arrogant man who was quick to anger and slow to forgive, Cormac would seek to rule her. She knew the type. He was a simple man with an overabundance of pride, not unlike many of her father’s warriors. She’d learned how to manage them long ago. She’d be able to manage Cormac. It rankled though… to be usurped, to be cast from the land and people she’d been trained to fight for, care for, and protect. It hurt like hell. Nevertheless, when Alistair journeyed to Edinburgh and landed in trouble with the Covenanters, she had organized the raid to retrieve him.

  He’d stumbled onto a meeting and quickly found himself enamored. It didn’t surprise her. Presbyterianism as practiced by the lowland Scots was a hard, unyielding faith. It abhorred graven images, didn’t recognize Easter, and looked on Christmas with suspicion and distaste. The Covenanter’s refused to accept the royal decree that the king was head of the church and signed a covenant stating only Jesus Christ could command that position. They might as well have signed their own death warrants. The combination of severity and courageous defiance, romanticized into a struggle for faith and independence against a tyrannical and too-English king, must have appealed immensely to Alistair’s rigid nature and his youthful need to rebel. Still, Covenanters were no friends to the Drummonds, and Alistair’s misguided folly teetered perilously close to a betrayal of his clan.

  When word came that he’d joined an assembly on the River Clyde near Hamilton, and a paid company of king’s men was descending upon them, she’d argued for his rescue, reminding them that others would notice if they failed to protect their own. Donald argued that Alistair’s foolishness should not be allowed to endanger the clan. The council had looked back and forth between them, and in the end, it was decided a small force would go.

  She’d taken ship with a group of handpicked men. From Edinburgh they’d moved overland, intending a quick surgical strike, but by the time they got there, the battle was already joined. They’d watched the slaughter from the hills, silent and grim, straining to spot Alistair in the melee below. A fog had moved in, rolling over the hills and along the river, making it difficult to see. When it lifted for a moment, she’d caught a glimpse of the crimson Drummond plaid down by the bank. She’d given a whistle and waved her sword, pointing in his direction. She wasn’t supposed to have taken the field, but the f lash of her weapon drew unwanted attention, and within minutes, she’d been surrounded by a bloodthirsty mob.

  She’d tried to retreat, struggling to turn her horse around, but in the melee, she was forced down the hill and back toward the water. At one point a giant swordsman banged into her, stunning her and almost knocking her from her mount. He took a lazy pass at her with his sword and she threw herself sideways, reaching back and almost catching hi
s thigh. He’d seemed disinclined to pursue her, breaking off his attack and allowing her to retreat. She’d pressed on toward Alistair’s position, only to find she was cut off and he was already gone. She knew now who the giant had been. She’d realized it in his tent. Even without a helmet, she’d recognized his height and his sword.

  She stretched and twisted, cracking her neck, and looked back at her men. They were the best of the Highland Scots. She’d fought with them as was her duty, and she never wanted to do it again. It was nothing like the lightning-quick skirmishes and rousing night raids she’d been on with her father. One took some livestock, one laughed with one’s companions, and on occasion, some heroic fool took things a step too far and got himself killed. This had been a hacking, slashing massacre. It could have been worse, though. The Englishman had spared her on the battlefield and protected her in the camp. She owed him a great deal. She owed him her life. She grinned. Too bad she was never going to see him again to pay him back.

  Five

  They descended past tumbling rocks, peat bogs, and rolling wooded hills into a valley that come summer would ripen with barley. When malted and combined with the peaty water from the burns that f lowed down from the surrounding mountains and hills, it would capture the unique f lavor and aroma of her beloved home, becoming uisge beatha, the potent whiskey that served as medicine, comfort, and the currency upon which her family’s fortune had been made. Crossing the River Spey, she felt a bittersweet ache, remembering sunny afternoons fishing for salmon with her father. There’d been no talk of marriage, succession, or duty… only golden days, swift moving waters, and her father’s rumbling laugh.

  The castle village was a fishing harbor, nestled against a heather-covered hillside along the sandy shores of the North Sea. They were greeted with excitement, then tears, as Jerrod informed Robbie McIntyre’s wife he wasn’t coming home. Catherine took note to see her well cared for, Perry and William’s families, too.

  The castle was perched on the summit, giving it a commanding view. It backed on a forest of oak and beech and looked across the sea to Norway. She looked up as she climbed the steep path, pretending she was seeing it for the first time, and wondering if it might be her last. Standing six stories high, with soaring turrets, steep gables, and tall chimneystacks, it had always reminded her of something from a fairy tale. When she was a child, she used to pretend she was a warrior princess, sworn to defend it. Well… that dream had fallen f lat.

  Right now, it hummed with a palpable air of excitement. The courtyard was bustling with activity, the servants were scurrying to and fro, and both her brother and Donald were waiting, frowning their disapproval. She glanced back at Jerrod, fairly certain the welcome wasn’t for them. He shrugged his shoulders. Turning back, she caught Alistair’s glare as he motioned rudely for her to join them. It seemed her prodigal brother and the cousin who’d counseled leaving him to die were already reconciled. Over her, no doubt. This farce was rapidly losing its appeal, and she was rapidly losing her patience.

  Weary, grimy, stiff, and sore, she slid from her horse and passed the groomsman the reins, pausing to look at the family motto etched in stone above the entrance. Virtutem coronat honos. Honor crowns virtue. She’d spent years puzzling over what it meant. When she’d asked her father, he’d only laughed and ruff led her hair, saying “Cat, my girl, that’s for you to decide.” She knew how her brother would interpret it. She ambled over to him now, curious to know what the fuss was about, and smiling with approval at the lump still visible on his forehead.

  “Brother… cousin,” she said, looking at them both in turn, “what’s all this fuss?”

  “You look disgraceful, Catherine!” Donald snapped. “Go to your rooms and get cleaned up at once.”

  “But of course, cousin,” she said in a pleasant tone, “just as soon as I’ve seen to my horse, seen to my men, and seen to my stomach.”

  “See to your manners first, woman, and do as your chieftain tells you!” Alistair barked.

  “Are you speaking to me, pup?” she asked, rounding on him as her men snickered in the courtyard. “Because I don’t think you can be. Because I know if you were, you’d be saying thank you to me and my men for risking our lives to save you from your folly. I know you’d be telling us how sorry you are that Robbie and Matthew and Perry lie cold and dead, their wives weeping in the village, while you strut and preen and play the little lord! I know you aren’t talking to me, but I am talking to you. You deserve a sound thrashing, little brother, and if you ever… dare… to raise your voice to me that way again, I’ll take a whip to you myself!”

  Alistair stumbled back, white-faced with shock and anger.

  “That’s enough, Catherine! The boy’s been through an ordeal.”

  “He needs to be told, Donald! If you cared about him you’d do so yourself. He’s sixteen years old! He needs discipline and good counsel. You’re his chieftain, you’re his elder, and you’re his family. You should act as his father, as my father did for you.”

  Alistair clenched his fists and stalked away, calling over his shoulder, “Tell her, Donald!”

  “Had your father raised you properly, Catherine, you’d not be standing in this courtyard screeching like a scold! Your brother is too young to correct you, but Cormac O’Connor is not. He arrived here yesterday, and you’ll be married to him tomorrow. You’ll not shame us by going to your husband dressed like that. Go and get ready… Now!”

  Her lips quirked. Husband? She already had one. The dark-haired English Lucifer with the twisted sense of humor. He hadn’t appeared to mind the way she dressed, and it seemed he wasn’t done aiding her yet. In fact, he was proving to be very helpful, indeed.

  “Well, cousin,” she said softy, “there’s a slight problem with that, you see. Unless the laws have changed, and I’m allowed to have two.”

  “Don’t play with me, woman. Two what?”

  “Why, two husbands, cousin.”

  “Are you mad, girl?

  “I don’t believe so, Donald… but I am married.”

  “Damnation! How? When? I’ve made arrangements. You had no right!” Enraged, he gripped her by the arm and shook her, stopping suddenly when he felt cold steel pressed against his throat.

  “Now that’s no way to be handling the old chief’s daughter, Donny boy,” Rory said softly in his ear, as Jerrod moved to stand beside her.

  “There’s no need for that, Rory.” Catherine shrugged loose from Donald’s grasp and stepped away. “Donald is merely surprised and a little overwrought. He’ll settle down in a moment. Won’t you, Donald.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Well, I’m bloody well surprised and overwrought, too!” Jerrod said, almost shouting. “Just when did this happen, Cat?”

  “Perhaps you should explain it to the council,” Donald said. “Let them see you for the shameless hoyden you really are.”

  “Enough ya rank bastard! I’ll not have you—”

  “No, Rory. It’s a good idea. Let’s speak to the council, shall we?”

  ***

  It felt strange to be in the great hall and watch Donald take her father’s place. Power ill becomes him. It was an instrument he hadn’t the skill to use, so he used it like a bludgeon.

  “Well? What are you waiting for, girl? Tell us about this so-called marriage, or will you name the father only when you’re thick with child?”

  “I am the daughter of Ian Drummond, who was Earl of Moray, Baron Vichy, laird of this castle, and chieftain of this clan for over forty years. You’re my kin, Donald, so I’ll not require you to use my titles when you address me, but you will speak with respect!”

  There was a drumming of hands on the table and a chorus of “aye” and “well said.” Donald turned a bright red but said nothing more, motioning her to continue.

  “Very well, as most of you know by now, in our attempt to rescue my brother, three men were lost and I was captured. One of their number, an English officer, heard the cry of Drummond and d
ecided to snatch a bride. He assumed I was one of the lowland Drummonds and hoped to acquire some lands, I suppose,” she added nonchalantly.

  “Cat! You said no one had touched you!”

  “No, Uncle, I said I was unharmed.”

  “Then… ?”

  “I’m bedded and wedded, and by a priest, no less. I am married in the eyes of God.” She wasn’t lying. He had bedded her, though not in the way they assumed. Her words were met by shocked faces, shouts of anger, and murmurs of horror and dismay.

  Donald jumped to his feet. “It will be undone! You’re to marry Cormac O’Connor, not some… Sassenach! I’ve given my oath!”

  “Well, I’ve given mine too, Donald, and to a higher power than you have! What would you have me do? Would you have me live in sin, married to two men?”

  “And just who is he, this new husband?” Jerrod asked. “What’s his name? How is he known?”

  “I don’t know, Uncle.”

  “You don’t know? How can you not know?”

  “Surely to God there’s one or two of you who’ve stolen a bride before! My own father did. Did you stop and make polite introductions first? They were speaking Spanish most of the time, and frankly, Uncle, I wasn’t really paying attention. I had other things on my mind and I was rescued before I could ask.”

  “Well then,” Rory said. “It seems simple enough. We find out who he is, track him down, and make you a widow, Cat. You’ve no objections to that, I take it?”

  “Other than the fact that he’s in the center of an armed encampment amongst a host three times our size, the snow will be upon us soon, and we’ve already lost three good men? No, gentlemen, I have none, but might I suggest we use common sense. The poor weather’s with us already, and it’s not a good time for campaigning. Let’s tend to our business, make some enquiries, and deal with it come spring.”

  Donald regarded her coldly. “Why didn’t you tell your men when they might have done something?”