Claimed by the Highlander (20 page)

Gwendolen turned to look at him. “Because you betrayed your friend.” She remembered how he spoke of it at his triumphal feast. She had thought of it many times since then. “You did not approve of his choice of a wife.”

“Aye.”

“Do you believe now that you were wrong about that woman? That she was not such a bad person?”

“I never thought she was a bad person,” he told her. “I just didn’t agree with what she stood for. My friend was a loyal Scot, but she was English and betrothed to our enemy, a despicable redcoat who is burning in hell as we speak, and rightly so. I only wish I had put him there myself.”

He glanced at her and seemed to realize that he had spoken out of turn, considering where they were sitting.

Gwendolen cared little about that. This was a place for forgiveness. “Why?” she asked. “What terrible crime did that Englishman commit?”

He faced front again. “He went on a bloody rampage up and down the Great Glen, burning out innocent Scots for their mere knowledge of the Jacobite rebellion.”

“Are you referring to Lieutenant Colonel Richard Bennett?” she asked, her brows pulling together.

“You’ve heard of him?”

“Of course,” she answered. “Everyone knows of him. He was a dreadful villain, and he was defeated and killed by the Butcher of the Highlands two years ago.”

Angus stared at her for a long, tense moment, and again, she wondered if he was keeping something from her. On the night of his invasion, she had asked him if he was the infamous Scottish Butcher, but he had denied it.

“It was your friend, wasn’t it?” she said, putting two and two together, and reeling inside with this new knowledge of her husband. “The man that you betrayed—
he
was the Butcher of the Highlands.”

Angus immediately shook his head. “The Butcher is naught but a ghost and a legend. But even if I did know him, I would never say so. Not even to you, lass.”

Gwendolen gazed into her husband’s pale blue eyes and saw, for herself, the truth. She had guessed correctly—that he once rode with that famous Scottish rebel, and that he had betrayed him. She knew the story well. Someone had informed the English army about the Butcher’s whereabouts, which was why he was caught and imprisoned.

This
was why Angus was banished two years ago.
This
was why he harbored such guilt. He was the one who had revealed the Butcher’s hideout.

Angus faced the window. “But I’m beginning to see now that what existed between that Englishwoman and my friend was something I did not understand, and I had no right to judge him.”

She did not push him to confess any more than he already had, for that would only press him to betray this friend further, and she did not wish to do that.

“What has changed, to make you see that now?” she asked, believing she already knew the answer, but she wanted to hear him say it.

“Because since the first day I met you, I would have done anything to keep you safe and make you my own. I now know that what exists between us is the same as what existed between them. I was your enemy at first, and you were just a political pawn to me, but it wasn’t long before none of it mattered.” He turned his eyes toward the altar again. “It was the same for my friend.”

“But you
tried
to make it matter with us,” she said. “You are
still
trying. You don’t want to care for me, Angus. Admit it.”

“I am the son of a clan chief,” he shot back quickly. “I was raised to be a warrior, for the purpose of serving and leading the MacDonalds, who have honored me by placing themselves in my care.”

“Loving me will not change that.”

She realized too late what she had said, and dropped her gaze to her lap. She should not have used the word “love.” He did not want to love her. She knew that.

“You are a good wife,” he said. “I have no regrets.”

She felt a rush of heat in her cheeks. “Because I please you in bed?”

He leaned close and cupped her chin in his hand. “Aye, but it’s more than that, and you know it. It’s why I’ve become so irritable lately. Sometimes, I need you so bad, I just want to drop my sword in the middle of a training exercise and leave the men to their own devices, so I can take you to bed. But when I think about you coming to any harm, I want to pick up my sword again. You pull me in two directions, lass.”

She shivered inwardly. “Maybe that’s how your friend felt about you and the Englishwoman. He must have been torn between the two of you, and it was probably very difficult for him to choose her, when he knew you did not approve.”

One of the candles danced in a draft, and they both turned to look at the door. There was no one there, so they faced front again, but it took a moment for Gwendolen’s heart to slow down.

“Do you regret your lost friendship?” she asked. “And do you think it might help to contact your friend? You could send him a letter and apologize for what you did, and explain that you now understand the choice he made.”

Angus shook his head. “There is no way to apologize. What I did was beyond forgiveness.”

“Nothing is ever beyond that, not if you truly express your regret. God, at least, will be merciful.”

He gave her a questionable look. “So I should write this letter, just to secure an invitation to heaven?”

She relaxed her shoulders. “Of course not. You should do it for the right reasons—to mend your friendship and honor this man with your apology. Perhaps he regrets the loss of your friendship, as well, and besides that, I would like the opportunity to meet him.”

It was no lie. The Butcher of the Highlands was a famous Scottish hero.

Angus toyed with the hair over her ear, and the light touch of his fingers made her body tingle with gooseflesh.

“You are a wise woman, lass. I’ll be sure to consider it.”

“Will you come back to bed now?” she asked.

“Aye, after I say one more prayer.”

She stood up, but still held his hand. “Do you wish to be alone?”

“Just for a short while,” he replied. “I still need to pray for my father, so that if we meet again in the afterlife, he’ll not thrash me senseless, like he did the last time he saw me.”

Gwendolen gathered her shawl about her shoulders. “I am sure that if he is watching you from above, he is very proud. You reclaimed his castle after all.”

Angus shook his head. “How can you say that, when your own father must be rolling over in his grave, seeing you wed to me? I am the son of his enemy.”

She looked up at the cross over the altar. “I believe he would have understood why I accepted you—that I did it for my clan.”

“You made a great sacrifice, lass.”

“Perhaps. But it’s turning out to be less of one than I first imagined.” She turned to go.

“Wait for me here,” he said. “I’ll be brief, and I don’t want you wandering through the castle alone at night. Someone might kidnap you and hold you for ransom, and I’m beginning to think I’d pay any price to get you back.”

“
Any
price?” she replied, with a spark of hope.

“Aye. I’m your husband, lass. I’d die for you.”

A tremor of emotion shook her, for she was unprepared for such a strong vow of commitment from him, and she found herself wondering: was it duty? Or was it something more?

For her, it was far more than duty that kept her bound to him.

“Let us hope it never comes to that,” she said. She glanced uneasily at the pews directly across from him, then slid into one of them. “But perhaps, just to be safe, I will wait for you here and say my own prayers.”

“And what will you pray for?” he asked.

She thought about it briefly, then cupped her hands together and rested them on the back of the pew in front of her. “I’ll pray that one day, you will be reunited with your friend, and he will forgive you.” She gave him a knowing, sidelong glance. “I’m sure the Butcher of the Highlands has committed enough of his own sins to forgive you for yours.”

Her husband pointed a warning finger at her.

“Don’t worry,” she said with a mischievous grin. “I’ll carry your secret to my grave.”

*   *   *

The following day, Angus sat down at his desk, picked up his quill pen, and dipped it into the porcelain ink well:

September 13, 1718

Dear Lord Moncrieffe,

I wonder if you will even break the seal on this letter, once you recognize the Kinloch crest. Perhaps I am about to waste a quantity of ink, but I must make the effort, for I owe you that at least, and so much more.

It has been two years since we last spoke, and no doubt you learned of my banishment and my father’s death soon after. While I was exiled, Kinloch fell to the MacEwen clan, but I have recently returned and reclaimed my father’s home. I have taken a wife, the daughter of the MacEwen chief, in order to unite the two clans.

But I am certain you are well aware of my return, and the status of Kinloch. That is not why I write to you now. My only purpose is to express my heartfelt regret over what occurred when last we spoke.

Duncan—I was wrong in every way. I have spent the past two years repenting my unspeakable treachery, and will never forget, or forgive myself, for what I did to you.

My lessons are now even more deeply ingrained upon my tarnished soul, for I have found myself in a position not unlike your own, when you first encountered the woman who was to become your wife. I did not understand the complexity of your predicament, but I see the world more clearly now, and I cannot possibly express my remorse over the events of 1716.

I close in penitence and despair over my ruthless and brutal actions. I pray for you and your countess, and wish you every happiness. And let it be known that as long as I am Laird of Kinloch Castle, you will have allies here.

Yours truly,

Angus Bradach MacDonald

He took a moment to reflect upon the ache of regret that had settled in his chest two years ago, and resided there still. Especially now, as he wrote this letter.

There had once been a time when he was indifferent to the pain of others, but he had taken that callousness too far. His closest friend was the Butcher of the Highlands, and he had revealed his hideout to the English army as a punishment for taking an English bride.

He’d had two years to think on it and contemplate his shame. Two years alone on the edge of the world, pummeled by wind, rain, and ice, and the harsh, biting spray of the ocean …

But that was another life. He was home now. Everything was different.

He sprinkled sand on the letter, blew it clean, sealed it, and rose from his chair. A knock sounded at his door, but when he answered, he discovered it was not the courier he had sent for twenty minutes ago.

“Lachlan. What are you doing here?”

His friend’s cheeks were white as a sheet. “You have a visitor.”

“A visitor? Who is it?” He tucked the letter into his sporran.

“It’s that woman you kept in the Hebrides—the one who predicted your time would come, and that the MacEwens would hear your roar, and all that silly witchy babble.”

Angus felt a rush of dread in his gut. “Raonaid is here?”

God!
A sickening wave of nausea rose up inside him instantly. What was she doing here? There could be only one reason.

“Aye,” Lachlan replied. “The oracle. But you better hurry. She’s breaking all the crockery in the kitchen. The staff is scattering like rats, and the cook has locked himself in the wine cellar. It’s not a good situation.”

Angus headed for the stairs. “What the hell is she doing in the kitchen? Who took her there? You should have brought her to me straightaway.”

“She was hungry,” Lachlan explained. “And someone made the mistake of telling her you took a wife. That’s when she started breaking things.”

“Aye. That sounds like Raonaid. You better follow me, Lachlan, and stay close.” He glanced over his shoulder when he reached the bottom of the stairs. “Is she armed?”

“Damned if I know. No one could get close enough to search her.”

Chapter Seventeen

By the time Angus entered the kitchen—which was in a terrible shambles, strewn with shards of broken crockery and spilled milk—Raonaid was seated alone at a table, dipping a spoon into a bowl of steaming-hot stew.

Before he made a sound or uttered a word, her sharp eyes lifted, blue as the winter sea, and she regarded him with knowing intensity, as if she’d already sensed his coming. He felt the penetration of her gaze like a knife in the gut.