Claiming His Highland Bride

There were no pleasantries spoken between them. No greetings exchanged or signs of familiarity or friendship. His uncle matched the man’s stance, feet spread wide and arms crossed over his chest, and they spoke in tones so low no one could hear. Tension rippled in the air around them as the two chieftains spoke for some time, each one’s voice getting more strident as the conversation continued. Alan studied the two men and realised that, of the two, his uncle was more at ease. Calmer. More focused. The MacMillan, who it surely must be, was agitated. Angry. Worried.

‘Alan!’

He threw his leg over the horse’s back and dropped to the ground. Well, if nothing else, he would now discover what had happened and his part to play. He strode to the two and bowed. ‘Uncle. My lord.’

‘It appears that there is a problem with The MacMillan’s daughter,’ his uncle said. Alan remained silent, for his uncle wanted to control how he spoke of this problem. And he had no doubt at all that whatever had happened was no surprise to Gilbert Cameron. So he waited. ‘She has disappeared.’

Of all the things he could have dreamt of hearing that was not one of them. Alan glanced first at his uncle and then Lord MacMillan and knew one thing. His uncle was not surprised by this news. That played into the reason for his summons, Alan knew.

‘How can I help?’ he asked, carrying out the role he was meant to have.

‘Your uncle speaks highly of your skills in finding those lost. She has been missing for nearly three days.’

There were many questions he wished to ask, all of them would be deemed impertinent or too personal, so he asked for that which he needed to begin his task.

‘When did she go missing? Where was she?’ Alan looked back at the encampment. They’d chosen a place by the river, on high enough ground to stay dry.

‘She was seen last after we had our evening meal, three nights ago. She retired to her tent and her servant saw to her. The next morning, when she was called to break her fast, the tent was empty.’

Alan nodded. ‘Take me there.’ At the surprise on the chieftain’s face at being given an order, Alan added, ‘If you please, my lord.’

With a huff, the MacMillan laird turned and walked towards the tents and the river. They passed by several larger ones, reaching the last one that lay closest to the river. The noise of the rushing river grew as they approached it. How had the lady slept with this much noise? ‘This one?’ he asked in a near shout. ‘Has anyone touched or moved anything? You have searched the area?’ he asked, believing that the laird would have done that first.

‘Aye, my men searched along the river and back to the last village. No sign of her.’ As Alan lifted the edge of the tent’s flap, the laird continued. ‘Her maid said nothing is missing from her belongings and nothing seemed awry when my daughter retired for the night.’

‘And no one else went missing at the same time? Could your daughter have gone off with one of your kin or other servants?’ Alan asked.

He paused and stood blocking the entrance for he did not wish the laird to follow him inside. He wanted a chance to search for himself. A chieftain’s daughter, a wealthy heiress, did not simply walk away from her father. There was every possibility that she had been kidnapped.

‘Have you received any demands for her return?’

‘You think she was taken?’ his uncle asked before the other could. ‘Who would do that?’

From his uncle’s expression, he’d not thought of that possibility. Why not? The MacMillan’s daughter stood as his only heir and would be worth a huge ransom. Alan narrowed his gaze, watching his uncle’s eyes. His stomach clenched then, making him certain his uncle both knew more and was more involved than the woman’s father might be.

Though he wanted to understand his uncle’s part in this, right now he needed to look for signs so he could track the woman. Good God, he did not even know her name!

‘My lord, what is she called? Your daughter? How many years has she?’ he rattled off the questions quickly. He needed to know certain things now. ‘How tall is she? Her hair and eyes—what colour are they?’

‘Her name is Sorcha,’ Hugh MacMillan said. There was no hint of affection or concern in his voice. ‘She has ten and nine years and stands to my chest.’ The chieftain marked her height on his chest then. ‘Her hair is dark brown and her eyes are blue mostly.’

‘I need some time to examine her belongings. How far downriver have your men searched?’

‘Storms raged until late last night, so not far yet.’

‘There were storms the night she disappeared?’ Alan glanced at the swollen, raging river and suspected something other than kidnap then.

‘Aye. Heavy rains, lightning.’ The laird pointed over towards the river. ‘A bridge upstream washed out yesterday. Some farmers said they’d never seen such storms or such a flow as it is now.’

Alan was filled with a strange sadness then, for he suspected the lass was not just missing but was, indeed, dead. If she left her tent for any reason and lost her way or her footing, she would have been washed away in a moment.

‘I want to search her things,’ he said. ‘If you will gather the searchers, I would speak to them as well, my lord.’

* * *

Alan spent the next hours examining the woman’s belongings, questioning her maid and the men who’d gone off searching for her and walking the course of the river for several miles himself. His uncle stood with a knowing look in his eyes and The MacMillan glared at him the entire time, giving no hint of warmth or true concern over his daughter’s loss.

From the few bits of conversation he’d overheard between the two chieftains, Alan wondered which one was the more ruthless man. He also came to realise that the lass mattered not to either of them, but the marriage and the alliance did. That was all that seemed of importance to them.

* * *

By nightfall, Alan had finished his work and stood before the chieftains and their men to tell them what he’d discovered. The conclusion was not difficult—Sorcha MacMillan was dead. Something bothered him about it though. Though the others had missed the signs, he’d found them easily. Torn scraps of the gown she’d worn to bed. Bits of ribbons she used to tie her hair in braids. He’d even discovered one small braid of her hair entangled in the bushes near the river. Almost as though a path had been laid out before him there, leading him to one conclusion.

As his uncle and her father stood waiting on his words, Alan understood that less experienced searchers might not consider the signs he’d seen as easily found. Even without finding her body, for the strength and flow of the river might have carried that miles and miles down through the glen, he was certain of his findings.

‘My Lord MacMillan,’ he said quietly, holding out the ribbon he’d found, ‘I fear that your daughter is dead.’

If Alan had expectations of an emotional display or even a few kind words expressed over the loss of a beloved daughter, they did not come to fruition. If anything, the hard man turned harder still with an iciness in his gaze that had nothing to do with the chill weather around them. At his uncle’s nod, the chieftain followed him away from their gathered men to a place a short distance from the tents. Although they turned and left quickly, it was not so quick that Alan missed the knowing smile on his uncle’s face.

Gilbert Cameron was not displeased by this death.

Once more it would seem that his uncle would be the one benefitting by a young woman’s death. As he waited on his uncle’s orders, he offered up a quick prayer that this lass, like the ones before her, was in a better place than she would be as Gilbert’s wife.

Chapter Two

Two weeks later—near Glenfinnan

Weariness and cold unlike anything she’d ever experienced sank into her bones and her soul. She’d followed Padruig for days and days, into the dark storm and away from her father. She had followed him across lochs and around them. Followed his unrelenting steps towards freedom.

And now she watched as some villagers buried him in the ground.

Sorcha had held on to hope, even in the terrible days after her mother’s passing. Even when her father had forced her to accept the betrothal to the ruthless and brutal Cameron chieftain. Her mother had sworn there was a way to escape it, but now, at her weakest moment in the last two months, Sorcha was not able to find the strength to cling to that hope.

Tears she’d held in for so long threatened to spill and yet she could not allow the weakness to gain control over her. Sorcha knew that holding in her fears until she was safely at her destination was the only way she would survive. The burial completed, she nodded to those watching. They thought he was her father. She would not cry over her father, but they did not know that.

‘What will ye do now, lass?’ the miller’s wife asked as she stood by the grave. ‘Do ye hiv kith or kin nearby?’

‘Nay,’ she whispered as she shook her head. ‘My mother’s kin is out on Skye.’ Padruig had revealed her mother’s plan to her within hours of their escape from Ballachulish and it included fleeing to her mother’s sister on Skye—and life in a convent. But she must not reveal that to anyone.

‘Is that where ye were journeying to when he passed, then?’ the woman asked. The concern lacing her tone and words removed some of the chill on Sorcha’s heart. Coming from a stranger, it surprised her.

‘Aye.’

‘This road is the way there, so if ye bide awhile ye might find someone travelling there and go wi’ them.’ The woman, Coira, nodded and smiled. ‘Ye wouldna want to travel on alone, lass.’

Sorcha shook her head and shrugged. She must decide how to proceed, but right now, it seemed any decision was not within her power to make. She needed to rest and clear her thoughts before taking another step towards...anywhere.

‘Is there a place where I could stay here? Or nearby? I have some coins and could pay.’ That did not include the fortune sewn into the hem and lining of her gown. She knew better than to reveal that kind of wealth to anyone, be they beneficent strangers or kin.

‘Och!’ Coira said, sliding her arm under and around Sorcha’s then. ‘Ye can stay wi’ us, lass. There’s always a place to sleep and a crust of bread to share with someone in need.’

‘Your husband will not mind?’ she asked. That husband had helped bury Padruig when Sorcha had discovered him dead this morn. ‘He and the others have helped so much already.’

‘Nay, Darach is kind-hearted under that gruff manner. Something about ye touched him, lass. Our first daughter would have been yer age now and I think he sees her in ye,’ Coira admitted. So many bairns died too soon and theirs had been one. Her own mother had lost six bairns during carrying and their first years, so Sorcha understood the loss.

Sorcha followed the woman away from the graveyard to a small cottage that sat next to the millhouse there on the stream. Coira opened the door and bade her enter. Peat burned there in a hearth built into the one wall and she appreciated the warmth it gave off. Too many days on the road, exposed to the Highland winds and rain, had left her cold and damp. She moved to stand nearer to it and watched as the woman retrieved a pot from over the fire and poured some of its contents into a cup.

‘Here now, lass,’ she said. ‘This will warm ye. Have ye eaten yet?’

‘My thanks.’ Sorcha accepted the cup and sipped the warm brew within. It was hot enough to spread the warmth through her and sweet, too. ‘I did eat something.’ She put the cup on the table there. ‘I should get my bags and bring the horses here.’

As she turned, she lost her balance and swayed. Coira grabbed hold of her and guided her to a stool. Pushing her hair from her face, Sorcha fell hard on to it.

‘Dinna fash, lass,’ Coira said, bringing the cup to her. ‘Drink and take a bit to rest.’ The woman walked to the door and called out to someone. ‘Kennan! Fetch the lass’s horse and bags. See to them!’

‘Kennan?’ she asked, drinking down the last of the cup.

‘Our son, the youngest,’ Coira said, never pausing in her work as she moved from one task to another in the cottage. Folding this, pouring that, and so on. ‘So, was yer father ailing for long?’

For a moment, Sorcha was confused, thinking of her true father instead of the man who’d been her mother’s servant for decades. Then she shook her head. ‘Nay, not ailing at all.’

She thought on the last days of their journey and realised Padruig had been tired. He’d complained of his arm and shoulder paining him yesterday and laughed about being an old man to ease her concern. Then last night before they slept, he mentioned that his stomach was unsettled. But those things could have been anything and she’d not connected them with an illness. The journey had been long and filled with tension and fear over being found and returned to her father. Her own stomach had been unsettled for days. Her arms ached from hours of controlling her horse on unfamiliar paths.

‘Well, lass, sometimes the Almighty is being merciful to take someone quickly. ’Tis still quite a shock.’

Sorcha murmured some reply, unable to think of what to tell this woman who clearly only wanted to help her and offer her some measure of comfort over losing her father.

* * *

As the next hours passed, Sorcha realised that she’d never spent this much time with the common people who lived their lives outside her world of comfort and wealth.

Other than those who served them within Castle Sween, Sorcha never had much to do with people who did not live in the keep. Nor had she seen how they lived. Oh, she’d seen and passed cottages in the village before, but had not spent any real time there, observing their tasks and speaking like this. Her father had forbidden all but the most casual of conversations or visits, deeming them beneath the dignity of his daughter.

She watched as the others in the family arrived back after their chores and duties and greeted each other warmly. Though she’d done nothing to help, their hospitality was freely offered and gladly accepted. Coira brushed off any gratitude she tried to express. Soon, it was the darkest part of the night and Sorcha lay awake, considering her plight and the possibilities before her.

* * *

The next dawn found her still awake and with no firm plan of what to do. For now, she could remain here but that could not last for long. It would not take long before her inexperience at working or seeing to herself became apparent even to those people who were not looking too closely.

Sorcha walked along the river, trying to sort out her thoughts when the question occurred to her. When Coira came out to hang wet garments to dry, she approached and tried to help, following the woman’s example. After twisting and then shaking out a few pieces of clothing, she asked her questions.

‘How far are we from Skye?’ she began. ‘How many days to reach there?’

Coira paused in her work, placing her hands on her hips and staring off to the west as though she could see it from where she stood now.

‘’Twould take about three days to reach the shore. Then, across to the island and to your destination.’ She turned and looked at Sorcha. ‘Where on Skye do ye go?’

‘Nigh to Portree.’

‘Then add another day, and two if a storm blows in off the sea.’

Sorcha then thought on her other choice. Rather than rushing to the refuge of a convent, her mother had mentioned another cousin who’d married into the Mackintoshes. Mayhap she should go there and seek counsel about her choices?

‘Do you know far it is to the village of the Mackintosh clan?’

‘In Glenlui? Near Loch Arkaig?’ Sorcha nodded. There were other Mackintoshes further north, for they were a large clan with many septs, but that was the one she needed to find. ‘Not too far. Two days up the glen. Longer if ye go back out the way ye came in.’

She could not go back the other way. Padruig had explained that the Cameron lands sat between them and both the MacPhersons to the northeast and the Mackintoshes to the northwest. They had quickly, and with care, made their way around the Cameron lands to avoid any chance of her capture. Disguised as a merchant travelling with his daughter had shielded her from much scrutiny. The other factor that protected her was that no one knew The MacMillan’s daughter or, if they did, they did not expect to see her here or now.

‘Does anyone travel there?’ she asked. ‘My mother always spoke of her cousin who married a Mackintosh of Glenlui.’ She needed an escort, for truly there was no way for her to make it there alone. Although Sorcha might be tired and heartbroken and losing hope, she was not so lacking in wits to try such a thing. ‘I could hire them. Or exchange their escort for my father’s horse.’

She saw the interest spark in Coira’s gaze. Sorcha knew the importance of a horse, even if this one was a bit old and worn.

‘Aye, I may ken someone,’ Coira said.

* * *

Someone, indeed, for three days later, Sorcha bid farewell to the helpful people here and to Coira and rode north following Coira and Darach’s eldest son Tomas. The woman had promised to have the priest say prayers over Padruig when next he passed through the village and that gave Sorcha some comfort knowing his soul would be blessed even if he’d not been shriven before his death. He’d been a good man, a faithful servant to her mother and a brave friend to help her escape, knowing his fate if they’d been captured.

* * *

Just over a week after Padruig’s death, two months after her mother’s and three weeks after her own, Sorcha arrived in Glenlui and stood before the cottage of her mother’s cousin, Clara MacPherson, wife to James Mackintosh. After watching Tomas ride out of the village towards the glen, Sorcha knocked on the door and found Clara tending to her bairns inside.

At first, before Sorcha even had a chance to speak, Clara stared and blinked at her. Then she shook her head and examined her from head to toes before canting her head and shaking it once more.

‘For a moment, I thought ’twas my mother’s cousin Erca standing before me.’ Clara studied her closely and laughed. ‘You have her hair colouring and the shape of her face, but that chin is certainly not hers. Those eyes are a bit of both, are they not?’ It took but a moment more for her expression to grow guarded. ‘Why are you here, lass? Where is your mother?’

So, word had not spread yet? Out through the MacMillans to the MacNeills and MacPhersons? The Camerons surely knew it. Sorcha drew in a breath and tried to speak, but the words came not. The tears she’d somehow managed to control did though, breaking free and pouring down her face. Clara, bless her, did not need the words to understand. She drew Sorcha into her embrace and rocked with her, all the time murmuring words of sympathy and comfort.

‘Come inside,’ she said. ‘We can speak of her and the reason why you are standing at my door.’

It took some time to calm the torrent of tears once it had begun. Sorcha sat in a chair in the corner while Clara made some tea and tended her three bairns. Wee Jamie, Wee Clara and Robbie clung to their mother’s skirts, peeping at her from time to time as Clara gathered them together and led them into the chamber off this one for a nap.

This cottage was bigger than Coira’s, having three rooms that Sorcha could see. Clara’d taken the bairns into one of those and Sorcha listened to the soft words of love and comfort between Clara and her children as they went off to sleep. Memories of her mother’s voice, soothing and loving, echoed over her then. As her words did in that moment.

Honour. Loyalty. Courage.

Sorcha swallowed against the sense of loss and emptiness and searched for the courage she’d always sworn to her mother she would demonstrate. Sipping the fragrant brew, she let the warmth wash over and through her. She’d survived her father. She’d survived her mad flight into the night and the journey to this place. With several deep breaths in and released, Sorcha gained control over herself then and by the time Clara joined her there, she was ready to speak about her mother and her own future.

‘When did she pass?’ Clara asked. ‘I have not seen her since I was a lass, when she lived at Cluny Castle.’

‘She passed two months ago,’ Sorcha said. ‘She had been ill for some time.’ Sorcha frowned then. ‘So my mother was your mother’s cousin? I thought she was yours.’ Her mother had spoken of Clara in the last weeks of her life and Sorcha had thought their connection was closer.

‘Aye, our mothers were cousins and your mother stood as godmother to me,’ Clara explained. ‘Though your mother often spoke of you in her letters to mine, we never had the chance to meet you.’ Clara stood then and brought the pot of tea closer to fill her cup once more.

‘And your mother? Does she yet live?’ Sorcha asked. She had too little knowledge of her distant kin and needed to know it.

‘Nay,’ Clara said with a slight shake of her head. ‘She passed some years ago. Just after I married James and moved here.’ Clara smiled then. ‘I came to visit my brother here and met James. I never left.’

‘Ah, so your brother lives here as well?’ Sorcha asked. She’d had so few kin in Knap, mostly her father’s, and no siblings to call her own. How might it have been if she’d had brothers or sisters?

‘There was trouble here—the clan split in two as Brodie battled his cousin,’ Clara explained. ‘Conall died in the fighting. But his widow still lives here.’ Clara drank down the rest of her tea and put the cup down on the table. ‘I could spend hours telling you the Mackintosh and MacPherson clan histories and lay out all our relatives on either side,’ she began. ‘But that would simply give you more time to avoid telling me the truth, lass. How did you come to be standing at my door, more than a hundred miles away from your home?’

Sorcha saw the strength of will in Clara’s gaze. There was no way to avoid it any longer. Truth be told, the sooner she had things arranged, the better she would feel. On the last part of this journey, she had accepted that the convent on Skye would be the best place for her. Other than embroidery and prayer, she had few skills to offer as a man’s wife. The jewellery and coins she carried would make the perfect offering to allow her entrance—no one would recognise them or her.

‘I am journeying to a convent on Skye to seek refuge there.’ It sounded reasonable when spoken calmly in spite of the pounding beat of her heart and the tightness in her throat. She clasped her hands together on her lap to keep them from trembling as she revealed the next bit. ‘My father believes me dead, so he will not be an impediment.’

Her words met sheer and utter silence. Clara’s gaze did not falter even then and Sorcha thought she might have stopped breathing. Then her cousin’s lips moved but no sounds came forth.

‘’Twas my mother’s plan, truly,’ Sorcha added. ‘To protect me from him.’ She shrugged. ‘And I have no skills or talents to offer for my keep anywhere else.’ Just the few days spent with Coira and Darach proved how ill prepared she was for a life outside that of a noblewoman.

Clara shook herself free from the hold that the shocking news had caused and stood. After checking on the bairns in the other room and pulling the door closed, she crossed her arms over her chest and nodded. Her intense stare worried Sorcha.

‘Tell me the rest of it, Sorcha. We must have our plan in place before the bairns wake and James comes home.’ Now it was Sorcha’s turn to be surprised. ‘I think that Saraid fits you well as a name. Saraid MacPherson, my cousin whose betrothed died and who has come to visit with me for a wee while.’

Whatever she had expected, this was not it. Her cousin listened to her explanation and did not take long to come up with a story, a whole life in truth, and all before the three children woke. By the time James, the village blacksmith, arrived at the cottage, Sorcha allowed herself to hope that she was on the right path.