A Highlander Born From Chaos (Highlanders 0f Kirklinton Book 2) Read online

  His father had told him that his marriage to Isabella would bring the MacBrydes great fortune, but it seemed that it came at the price of Hamish’s own happiness. He let out a sigh, as Isabella turned away from him and the dogs stood up, following her across the parlor.

  “ time I went to my bed now,” he said, and Isabella nodded.

  “I think so, Hamish, and you must think over what it is that you have done this day. I was embarrassed to find the girl here, and it has quite disturbed me since. The men will talk, the women will question your loyalty to me, and I would not wish the alliance between our families to suffer because you have entertained an enemy of us both,” Isabella replied.

  “I daenae see the Elliotts as our enemies anymore, Isabella. The conflicts of the past bear nay weight now. Let the past remain in the past; that is what I say,” Hamish replied wearily.

  “But it is not what I say, nor what my family says, nor your father. The Elliotts are our enemies. You have heard the stories about them. Now, goodnight, Hamish,” Isabella replied, and she took up her candle and left the parlor behind.

  Hamish sighed, and the dogs whined, following him out into the passageway beyond and up the stairs towards his chambers. The house was dark, and he could hear the wind whistling in the trees outside. A single candle burned in a window outside his door, and he glanced out across the moorlands, where a crescent moon gave light to the bleak scene beyond.

  For there, Hamish could see across to the hills beyond, over the castle wall and up over the moorlands. It was from there that Evie Elliott had come, and Hamish wondered if she had returned home safely. Did her family know of her ventures across the moorlands, or had she made the journey in secret? He had heard many tales of old Alistair Elliott, the Laird, now dead and buried, and he had heard, too, of the Elliotts dealing with the Musgraves and how Fraser Elliott, for he had taken that name when he became Laird, had killed Isabella’s cousin, Howard Musgrave, after escaping from the Musgrave castle many years ago.

  But that was old history, and it hardly concerned him and Evie. For a moment, Hamish paused, looking out over the moorlands and wondering if he would see Evie again. It seemed that it was now dangerous to walk too close to the Elliott castle, as he had done before, but she held such a fascination for him that his heartfelt pulled with desire.

  Foolish lad, he thought to himself, but as he laid down to sleep that night, Hamish MacBryde’s mind was filled with thoughts of Evie and his desire to see her again.

  Chapter Eleven

  When Hamish awoke the next morning, his first thought was of Evie Elliott. He tried to dismiss it, rolling over and stretching himself out, the dogs stirring at his feet. There was a chill in the air, and he had no desire to rouse himself from the warmth of the bed, but he had duties to attend to that morning, and reluctantly, he roused himself, splashing cold water on his face and pulling on his tunic.

  Downstairs, the parlor was quiet, the last remnants of the fire smoking in the hearth. It seemed that his fellow clansmen were already about their work, and he helped himself to bread and honey for breakfast, looking out into the farmyard beyond, where several soldiers patrolled the low wall.

  What trouble will we have today, he wondered to himself as the sounds of Isabella barking orders at the maid could be heard above.

  She did not reside permanently at the MacBryde castle, for she claimed it was not befitting for a woman of her stature. The castle of the Musgraves was far grander, and Isabella’s own home across the border had all the trappings of nobility to it, found lacking in that of the MacBrydes. A moment later, she stormed into the parlor, cursing the maid and flinging herself down in a chair next to the hearth.

  “And no warmth here, I see. It is autumn now, Hamish, we must have the fires lit first thing. I do not know what the servants think they are doing,” she said, scowling at him.

  “There is nae always enough wood to keep the fires burnin’ all day, Isabella. I will stoke up the hearth here now, and ye can sit before it,” Hamish replied, not wishing to rise to the argument.

  “I wished to sit in my chambers and look out across the moorlands. But I cannot because there is such a chill there. When we are married, I simply cannot live here, not unless some serious changes are made to the domestic situation,” Isabella replied, folding her arms, “I shall speak to your father about it and to my own. Surely neither of them would wish to think that I was uncomfortable here.”

  “Aye, lass. We wouldnae wish ye to be uncomfortable now, would we?” Hamish replied, shaking his head and kneeling before the hearth.

  He blew gently upon the smoldering embers, and soon the flames were dancing up the chimney, as he added dry wood into the flames.

  “That is better,” Isabella replied, placing bread upon a toasting fork and holding it close to the flames.

  “I will see to it that yer chambers are warmed for ye. The maid can light a fire there before ye go to bed tonight,” Hamish replied, but Isabella shook her head.

  “I intend to travel home today, I have some business to attend to there, and it cannot wait a day longer. I shall have the horse saddled a little later and ride across the border,” she replied.

  Hamish nodded; he was not going to try and prevent her departure; in fact, he was quite pleased to know that for a short while, he would not be subject to her moods and whims.

  “Very well,” he replied, and not waiting for her reply, he stepped out into the farmyard.

  The castle was nothing like the other castles dotted along the borders. His grandfather had fortified a farmhouse belonging to the clan, after his own castle had been burned to the ground and Hamish knew that if it had not been for their alliance with the Musgraves that this simple dwelling place would also have been surely attacked and destroyed.

  The balance of power along the borders was precarious, and Hamish felt the weight of responsibility upon him, a responsibility he knew was soon to bear upon his shoulders. His father was dying, and he looked up at the window, behind which he knew the old Laird lay upon his bed, close to the end. Hamish did not like to see his father suffering in such a way. As a boy, he remembered him as a fine nobleman possessed of great strength and determination. He had fought many battles and always emerged victorious. It had been he who had sided with the Musgraves, an alliance made to ensure the future of the clan and the safety of them all.

  And perhaps he was a fool to dae so, Hamish thought to himself, watching as the soldiers patrolled the walls.

  He looked out over the moorlands beyond, the wind sending clouds skidding across the sky, and he pulled his cloak closely around him. The first snows of winter would come soon, and then the moorland paths would be impossible to traverse. Winter was a hard time upon the borders, a time of harsh weather and meager food, a time of illness and cold, a time not to be savored. Hamish sighed, turning back towards the farmhouse, just as Isabella emerged.

  “I am leaving now, Hamish. I shall return in several days, I will pass your good wishes to my father,” she said, striding past him, “and remember what I said, Hamish. There is to be no more dalliance with the Elliotts. do I make myself understood?”

  “Aye, lass, perfectly so,” Hamish replied, and he watched as she walked away, shaking his head and returning inside.

  She grows worse by the day, he said to himself as the dogs ran to meet him.

  He had been putting off speaking to his father for several days. A sense of guilt pervaded him, for he had no desire to see the old Laird suffering, leaving his care in the hands of the servants. But he knew that his father’s time was close and that very soon he would be called upon to take up the mantle of Laird, a title for which he had little zeal.

  Ever since he was a boy, Hamish had been preparing for his father’s death. That was the lot of any man with title to inherit, but it did not make his father’s passing any easier. As Hamish climbed the stairs towards his father’s chambers, he felt the heavy burden of responsibility upon his shoulder.

  Can I re
ally be Laird? He thought to himself as he paused outside his father’s door.

  He knocked, waiting for his father’s voice to respond, but at first, there came no reply, and he knocked once more, louder this time, listening at the door. From inside, he could hear a low moan and the sound of his father rolling over on the creaking bed.

  “What …” his father’s voice came from inside, and Hamish opened the door gently, looking tentatively around it towards his father’s bed.

  The old Laird was lying on his back, his beard flowing over his chest and with a glazed look in his eyes. His breathing was heavy and erratic, and he appeared as close to death as any man that Hamish had ever seen.

  “Father … I … I am sorry for disturbin’ ye, but … we must talk. There is somethin’ on my mind and …” Hamish began, but his father raised his hand.

  “And ye thought ye should speak to me before I am dead,” he replied.

  Hamish made no reply, for his father was always difficult and had raised him harshly rather than kindly. Hamish had always felt something of a disappointment to him, as though his father did not consider him worthy of the title that was rightfully his.

  “We need to speak, Father, because there is somethin’ that I wish to understand from ye,” Hamish replied, pulling a stool close to his father’s bedside.

  The old Laird turned painfully on his side, wincing and fixing Hamish with a hard stare.

  “What dae ye need to understand, lad? That I am dyin’ and that ye are to be Laird is that nae enough to understand?” he replied, but Hamish shook his head.

  “Nay, Father. I want to know why we hold such a grudge against the Elliotts? Why are they our enemies, and why did ye side with the Musgraves all those years ago? Surely, we are Scots, and the English are our enemies,” Hamish said, as his father took a deep and heavy breath.

  “Ye question my decision after all these years? The Musgraves have been our allies yer entire life, Hamish, and they must continue to be if this clan is to survive,” his father replied.

  “But ye made a pact with the devil, I have always thought it. Why are the Elliotts our enemies, father? Tell me,” Hamish said, but his father just shook his head.

  “Because they are, Hamish. What more reason dae ye need than that?” he replied, beginning to cough.

  “But that is nay reason, Father. ‘Tis nay reason at all. To say that a man is yer enemy with nay reason is to lose sight of sense. Perhaps in the past, we had quarrels, but what quarrels dae we have now with them? Only the fact that we side with Englishmen whose history is one of bloodshed and wickedness against our folks,” Hamish replied.

  “Ye question me? Ye question the decisions I have made for the good of us all, Hamish?” his father replied, “and why now? When I am dyin’ and lyin’ here upon this bed, a weak and feeble man. I made my choice, Hamish, and that choice was the right one. We cannae end our alliance with the English, and what of yer betrothal to Isabella? A further strengthenin’ of our alliance with the Musgraves. For yer, children will be Scotsmen and Englishmen alike, and nay one will dare oppose us then,” his father replied.

  Hamish was silent, his father had given no adequate answer to the question he posed, for how could there be an adequate answer to such foolishness. The old disputes were gone, he and Evie had surely proved that, but to explain such a thing to his father would arouse such anger in him that Hamish had no desire to continue their conversation. He bid his father good day and made his way to the door.

  “I will call to see ye again soon, father,” he said, but the old Laird simply dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

  “Daenae bother to see me, Hamish, nae if ye come with such nonsense in yer heart again. The old alliances must remain, for the old enemies are the same. Ye cannae change an Elliott, they will always be the enemy,” his father said, turning on his side away from him.

  Hamish closed the door quietly behind him and made his way back down to the parlor. The fire had gone out again, and there was a chill in the air, the door to the farmyard having been left open and a wind whistling through.

  I cannae stay here a moment longer, Hamish thought to himself and taking up his cloak he hurried out into the autumnal day, his heart now set upon seeing Evie again and making peace between the clans.

  Chapter Twelve

  Hamish hiked up onto the moorlands path above the castle and paused, turning to look back over the lands belonging to the MacBrydes. The moorlands were a desolate place, and the border country beyond seemed bare and barren on that autumn day. The trees had begun to shed their leaves, and there was the smell of winter approaching in the air, the heathers and bracken turning brown and the ground wet underfoot.

  There was a little rain in the air, and Hamish took to the path across the moorlands, the familiar way which led eventually to the waterfalls above the Armstrong castle. He was not worried about the Elliotts, nor about the possibility of capture. Hamish had walked that way many times before, often sitting in just the place where he had rescued Evie from the torrent.

  He was glad to be away from the oppressive atmosphere of the farmhouse, with his father slowly dying above and Isabella berating him below. He had had little chance ever to do what pleased him or to follow his heart. His life had been decided for him, laid out and framed by duty. That was his father’s favorite word, and Hamish cursed him for the lifetime of unkind words and mean-spirited sentiments he had subjected him to.

  Hamish walked at a pace, making for the path which led away from the Elliott castle and towards that which had once belonged to the Armstrong’s. Each was a foreboding place, at least to Hamish’s eyes, and he was careful to walk some distance from both, lest he be spotted by unfriendly eyes. It was a risk to come here, but a risk which Hamish was willing to take if only to have some escape from the oppression of the MacBryde castle and his life of duty there. How he longed to choose his own path and to make his own way in life, instead of being dictated to by an alliance that no longer held any meaning.

  We are Scots, and Scots should be on the side of Scots, he said to himself, as he clambered up the bank by the stream and came to a point where he could look out over the moorlands below and down towards the Armstrong castle.

  As a child, he had been taught to fear the Elliotts and to see them as the enemy. Alistair Elliott, he had been told, was a wicked man who subjected his people to barbaric acts and would have happily slit Hamish’s throat if given half a chance. Such tales had scared him, as naturally, they would, but over time his curiosity had gotten the better of him until eventually, he had plucked up the courage to see for himself.

  The day after his sixteenth birthday, he had made the walk, now so familiar, across the heathers, and there he had observed some women of the Elliott clan washing clothes in the stream. He had been astonished to discover that they were not the vicious, murderous barbarians which the stories of his childhood had told of. But instead, they were women just like those back home, hardly to be feared. Growing bolder, he had made the walk more often and watched the Elliotts from afar so that soon all fear had disappeared, and instead, he had been filled with curiosity to know them further.

  Hamish was now at the place where he had rescued Evie from the torrent. The water was flowing gently now, meandering its way down the hillside and quite safe to cross.

  What a difference, he thought to himself, taking up a stone and skimming it idly over the water.

  Up above, the stream wound its way through the heathers, and Hamish wondered where the source was. He had never explored that way before, content always to observe the comings and goings at the Armstrong castle below. He picked his way over the rocks at the water’s edge, beginning to climb up through heather and bracken, following the course of the stream.

  In some places, it raged as a torrent over rocks, the water white and foamy, while in other parts, it meandered gently through deep, clear, pools, which would have been inviting in the heat of a summer’s day. He paused, looking back down the course of
the stream and then up above to where it gushed forth from the rock face, a spring of water, welling up as if from nothing.

  What a beautiful place, he thought to himself, and if Evie was here, it would be even more beautiful.

  That thought caused him to pause, chastising himself for feeling in such a way. But try as he might, he could not rid himself of Evie’s image. She fascinated him, more so than any other woman he had met, and despite the fact they had barely spent any time in one another’s company, he longed to see her again. To speak with her, to sit here by this beautiful pool, where the trees hung down to the water's edge, and the ferns grew close, and spend a while in one another’s company.

  Ye are a fool, and ye know it, Hamish, he said to himself, but a fool for love is doomed to be a fool, and Hamish knew that he had to see Evie again, by any means possible, if only to lay to rest the burning desire in his heart.