Dangerous Pride (13 page)

“What do you say in yer defense, mon?  Or will you just stand there shakin’ in yer boots?  You have one chance to convince me I should no’ dangle yer skinny neck from a long rope.  Do no’ waste it.”

The terrified man finally met Lachlan’s gaze, drawing himself to his full height in an attempt to salvage what little was left of his dignity.  “I have nay excuse fer stealin’ yer cattle, my lord, other than tae say it be a pastime Scots have enjoyed since the beginnin’ of time.”

The reiver had chosen the wrong tact to take with the young laird.  His temper sparked anew, Lachlan furiously pulled the man closer, until there was only a brief space between them.  The reiver struggled to keep his footing as he was slammed into Lachlan’s powerful, broad chest.  “You did no’ mean to tell me that stealin’ the property of my honest clansman was sport, now did you?  And surely you did no’ mean to say the crofthouses you burned to the ground were naught but entertainment for you.”

The reiver lost what little color was left in his face as he struggled to meet Lachlan’s furious glare.  “Nay, my lord – I did no’ mean tae insult ye or yer clan.  ‘Tis just the lads got carried away when they visited yer lands.  We did no’ mean any harm – and that’s the God’s honest truth.  But after we had loosed the cattle, someone said we should do more to make our reputation with yer kinfolk.  It was wrong, but ye ken yerself how a man’s blood can get raised…”

Lachlan briefly pulled the man closer, then abruptly shoved him aside, slowly clasping and unclasping his hand as he struggled to regain his temper.  He turned his back on the reiver, walking to the edge of the room to give himself time to collect his wits.  Pausing at the window, he leaned against the ledge as he stared out into the keep.  He could hear the harsh clang of steel from the blacksmith’s shop, and the cry of merchants who worked to sell their wares.  These people – his clan, his kin – depended on him for their safety, their livelihood, their very lives.  He owed it to them to ask the question, though he dreaded hearing the inevitable answer.  “Who was it that ordered you to put a torch to the crofts?”

The reiver held his tongue until the man-at-arms pointedly put his hand on the hilt of his sword.  The threatening gesture served its purpose, and the response came in a rapid flurry of words.  “’Twas Calum Leslie, my lord, one of the warriors who makes his home at Boyne Castle.  He led a band of men on the raid.  He said ‘twas little more than sport –  that such things were commonplace between the clans.  It weren’t until yer men stopped me with the cattle that I kent it were no’ so.”

Despite the young man’s obvious fear, Lachlan knew his words rang true; that they weren’t simply uttered to gain mercy.  Calum had been leading similar raids for several months, and in recent weeks they had become increasingly violent and destructive.  Anger and hostility between the Ogilvy and Forbes clans had grown to the point where Lachlan honestly feared for the safety of his people – and questioned his own ability to keep them from lashing out in a bitter quest for revenge.

Lachlan reached to his forehead, anxious to relieve the throbbing pain that was dulling his senses, and clouding his judgment.  How else could he explain the sympathy he felt for the young man?  He was little more than a lad, and had his whole life in front of him.  Though Lachlan knew many would fault him for weakness, he could not make an example of a young man who was little more than a pawn in Leslie’s destructive games.

“What is yer name, lad?” he asked wearily, turning to face the reiver.

The young man was no longer able to stand under his own power, and was being supported on either side by two of Lachlan’s men.  He struggled to swallow, his nervousness nearly overtaking him.  “My name is Hamish MacDougall,” he said finally.  “Me mither is an Ogilvy, and we moved with her from Dundee when me da died.  I have five sisters, you ken, and I help her the best I can.”

Lachlan caught a warning glance from Rory, from where he stood across the room.  Leaning back against the cold stone wall, Rory’s demeanor was casual, but Lachlan was not fooled for a moment.  He knew that Rory’s sharp eyes would be taking in every detail of what happened in the room.  He would miss nothing – and he wouldn’t hesitate to offer his opinion on any mistake Lachlan might make.  But he would share his thoughts only when they were alone.  Rory would never show any disrespect to his laird if their men were about.

Catching Rory’s glance, Lachlan raised one thick black eyebrow in question.  Rory’s nod in response confirmed his decision.  “Well, today must be a lucky day for you, MacDougall.  I will allow you to return to yer kin, but you’ll take a message with you.”

“You are right when you say reiving has been part of our lives here for as long as Scots have called it home.  But what you do no’ realize is that it can be done with some honor.  Calum Leslie is a man who kens little of such things.  He seeks only to please himself, and to build his reputation.  Do no’ get involved with the mon, Hamish.  You and any honorable men from yer clan should no’ follow his lead, for he has no concern for aught save himself.  Mark my words.  He’ll cost yer people many lives before he is done with yer clan.”  The young man’s eyes were riveted upon Lachlan as he absorbed the laird’s stunning words.  “You can leave here under yer own power if you give me yer word you’ll ne’er again raise yer sword against the Forbes clan, or harm my people in any way.”

Hamish slumped in his captor’s arms, unable to believe his good fortune.  He searched Lachlan’s stern features for any sign of trickery, and finding none, quickly agreed to the terms.  “I thank ye for what ye’ve done, my lord.  Ye’ve me word I will no’ disappoint ye,” he blurted out, when he finally found his voice.

“See that you do no’ lad, or you will be wishing I had no’ been so merciful today.”  Lachlan motioned to the two guards at Alexander’s side, and they loosened the ropes and chains that held the young man’s hands and feet.  “My men will see you off my lands safely, but after that, yer on yer own.  And if yer smart,  MacDougall, you’ll warn yer kin I will no’ be so merciful the next time.”

Hamish nodded his gratitude, nearly tripping over his feet as he dashed from the great hall.  Several of Lachlan’s men fell in step behind him, clear in their intention that the young man would leave Forbes lands without causing any further trouble.  While their laird had shown mercy, these men would offer no such quarter.

Suddenly Lachlan was aware that he had an audience – one that had been invisible to him until that moment, given how his fury had narrowed his vision.  He was sure that no matter how long he was laird of Tolquhon, he would never get used to the constant interest in his activities.  Those clans people who could safely steal away from their duties had gathered in the corners of the great hall to hear the punishment their laird would mete out to the reiver.  Now the crowd, mostly older women and men, and young lasses with bairns, scurried out of the great hall, anxious to spread the tale amongst their friends.  Though some looked pleased at their laird’s mercy, others were clearly disappointed by Lachlan’s display of leniency.

“You do no’ have tae worry what they think.  Ye did right by that lad,” Rory offered, putting a supportive hand on his friend’s shoulder.  Older than Lachlan by several years, Rory’s face was scarred with wounds from many battles fought and won.  Though not quite as tall as Lachlan, he still reached more than six feet.  Broader across the chest than his young laird, he was an imposing figure.  His hair was cut short, close to his head, his face clean-shaven, examples of his simple, direct outlook on life.  Rory did not suffer fools gladly, and though he was a stern leader, his innate fairness inspired tremendous loyalty among the Forbes men.  Lachlan considered himself lucky to have Rory for a friend.

“A good leader does no’ rule with might alone,” Rory continued as the pair walked slowly behind the eavesdroppers who were hurriedly leaving the room.  “Good judgment an’ mercy will go as far as a sword many a time.  Besides, ye ken young Hamish was no’ responsible for the raids.  It was Leslie.  An’ before long, they will ken it, too,” he said, motioning to the kinsmen who still made their way out of the hall.

“Aye, but I do no’ want the clan to think I’m soft,” Lachlan replied, pulling his hand through his loose hair impatiently. “My father has no’ been gone for long, and they are looking to me for strength.  It will no’ do to have them believe I lack the heart to lead.  You ken yerself how quickly a clan will crumble if they have no faith in their laird.”

“Lachlan, yer a good and fair leader, and the clan kens it.  Yer forgettin’ they have kent ye since ye were a bairn.  They are no’ so blind as tae judge ye on the basis of one decision.”  Rory laughed softly under his breath.  “Ye ken as well as I that they have years of folly tae look back upon if they wish tae judge you harshly.”

Lachlan was comforted by his friend’s confidence, and the teasing tone Rory used to lighten a painful situation.  In the year since his father’s death, the weight of the mantle of leadership had been a heavy burden for him to bear.  Even now, he felt the pressure of filling his father’s shoes.

There was little doubt that Lachlan had proven himself a strong warrior – of that, at least, he was sure.  After Elizabeth’s death, his plans for the future had shattered around him.  Though he hadn’t grieved for the loss of her life, he had grieved for the life she might have had, the future that would never be.  Even though he would not have chosen to marry the lass, given a choice, he had been resigned to it.

With Elizabeth’s death came freedom from all those responsibilities, at least for a time.  It hadn’t taken Lachlan long to convince his father that it would be best if he spent some time away from Tolquhon, allowing the laird time to develop a new strategy for managing the troubles that plagued their clan.  Lachlan had left for France in the months following Elizabeth’s death, and had sold his sword to the highest bidder as the mood suited him.  He was able to indulge his thirst for travel and study, and his lust to see lands he had only read about.  In all he’s spent nearly four years traveling, fighting, womanizing and indulging his baser instincts before news of his father’s illness reached him.

Having had little word from home in his time abroad, Lachlan had been shocked to learn what had happened in the keep during his absence.  Until his return he hadn’t realized the strife between the Ogilvy and Forbes clans had worsened steadily, to the point where there was almost constant reiving, looting and fighting.  Though his father had worked for some time to gain peace between the clans, he eventually realized he would never be able to break through the bitterness and hatred that had consumed the Earl of Seafield.

Elizabeth’s father had never recovered from his daughter’s death, and the clan had slowly crumbled from his inattention.  Her brother Iain, brokenhearted by his father’s cruelty, had left the keep to work aboard one of the many ships that docked in Aberdeen.  In time, he had proven his worth to those in positions of power, and had become a prosperous merchant in his own right.  In the past year, Lachlan had seen his friend on the few occasions he had traveled to Aberdeen to see about selling the goods produced at Tolquhon.  Though their relationship had at first been strained, they had eventually been able to reestablish their close friendship.

Through Iain, Lachlan had learned how the Ogilvy family had suffered after Elizabeth’s death.  Completely ignored by her husband, Lady Ogilvy had set to bedding every available man within the keep, and beyond.  Though the story was that she had died of a broken heart in the years following her daughter’s death, Iain admitted it was more likely that the pox she’d contracted from one of her countless lovers had been the instrument of her death.

Lachlan had thought of Catriona often in the years following Elizabeth’s death.  He had not been surprised to learn that the clan had not seen hide nor hair of her since she’d made her escape.  Though Seafield seemed convinced his youngest daughter had caused Elizabeth’s death, Lachlan doubted the man’s version of events.  Though the lass was strong-willed and stubborn, he doubted she had the ability to harm her own flesh and blood.  Her feelings for him had been naught more than a girlish infatuation, and would never have led her to such a vile action.

Catriona was a healer, a woman concerned with the health of her people.  She may have been young, and she may have thought she fancied her sister’s betrothed, but that was hardly reason enough to suspect her of murder.  Iain, too, didn’t believe his sister was capable of such a crime, but in the months after Elizabeth’s death, he had been unable to prove Catriona’s innocence.  It had boiled down to the word of a respected warrior against a young, terrified lass – a battle Catriona had no chance to win.

The Earl’s frantic efforts to find Catriona and bring her to justice had cooled after several months.  Eventually, the embittered old man had given up any hope of finding his youngest daughter, instead seeking solace in his whiskey as he gradually retreated from the world around him.

Unfortunately, the hope for peace between the two clans had died with Elizabeth.  Though traditionally the strife had been little more than a harmless rivalry, the tensions between the clans had grown stronger over the years, and had reached a point that had Lachlan fearful for the future of his people.  All too often in the country’s history, Scots had wasted their energy fighting one another – Scotland was littered with the sites of battles where Scots had slaughtered one another for supremacy, for a piece of land or for lost honor.  There was little doubt that this seemingly senseless infighting had kept the Scots from prospering, from uniting and living a rich and peaceful life in their homeland.  Instead, many people went hungry as farmers took up their pitchforks to fight other farmers and peasants, when they could have turned their attention to more practical, productive matters.

The strife between the clans was all the invitation an opportunist like Calum Leslie had needed to make his mark.  When Iain had fled Boyne Castle, the Earl of Seafield had begun to depend more and more on the arrogant knight.  Gradually, Calum had ingratiated himself into the running and leadership of the clan, to the point where his words now held almost as much power as the Earl’s.  Lately, the man’s ambitious sights seemed to be set on creating as much conflict as possible.  Lachlan feared  the future between the two clans might include more violence.  And more lost lives.