The Niece of His Highland Enemy by Alisa Adams

6

The next morning, Moire awoke to mixed emotions.

Her first thoughts were of how comfortable her bed was, how clean and well-kept the castle was, and most of all, the magnificent view from the window of her guest chamber. The castle where she had lived before coming here was nowhere near as hospitable, and it suddenly occurred to her that in some ways, being brought to this unfamiliar place had felt more like coming home to her than returning to the Campbell castle would have.

It was a peculiar notion, to be sure, but the more she pondered it, the more she seemed to connect with it.

Nevertheless, she was still uncertain of what Fergus expected from her.

His handsome looks had been much on her mind the previous night as she had tried to sleep. His commanding and confident bearing had frightened her somewhat at first, but now she found herself rather intrigued.

What was this man truly like beneath his title and demeanor? Did he suffer pangs of guilt and uncertainty, having endured the crushing defeat Donella had mentioned? And did some part of him blame her for being a Campbell as well?

The more she learned of him, it seemed, the more she wanted to know.

Meanwhile, all Fergus truly wanted was to check in on Moire so that he could ask how she was doing and determine whether she had gotten a good night of rest—and, more than anything, so that he might have an excuse to be near her again, to lose himself in those emerald eyes of hers once more. He even hovered outside her chamber door for a few moments before he heard people coming down the hallway and hurriedly made himself scarce.

Because he could not do it, no matter how much he wished to.

This was the day he had resolved to earn back the trust of his kinsmen, and if they saw him swanning about outside her room—or worse, emerging from it—that trust would almost certainly be shaken further. He needed for them to believe that he was up to the task of leading them, that he had a firm plan to redeem himself and retake their stolen lands. In short, that he was not distracted by his selfish desire to win the love of some beautiful lady he’d rescued.

No, he decided, there would be time enough to speak with her later. He could invent a dozen different legitimate reasons to do so if he found that he needed to justify such a thing to Edmund or the others.

For now, though, his first priority was to gather those Brodies who were the heads of the clan’s largest farms and families, the ones who were deepest in his counsel. He had resolved to tell them of his plan so that he might gauge their collective reaction to it. If they approved of it, they would doubtless carry the news to the rest of the clan, along with their support.

And if they did not approve?

He tried to imagine what his next course of action might be if that turned out to be the case, only to find that his imagination failed him utterly. If they told him that his plan was a foolish one and that they refused to follow him in its execution, what then? How could he continue to act as their leader? Would they demand that he step down and pass the title to one who was more worthy?

If so, I won’t be able to do much about it,he thought, resigned. A laird who must hang on to his title with fight and force won’t be a laird for much longer. I would simply have to concede my position and either remain here in shame or leave for parts unknown that I might swear fealty to a different clan.

These thoughts weighed heavily on his mind as he opened the doors of the great hall and strode in, trying to conceal his anxiety. The eight men who represented the most influential families of the Brodie clan stood at their usual positions around the long table, including Edmund. He offered a small smile of encouragement as Fergus took his place at the head.

Fergus was grateful to him for that. It did not put his fluttering heart at ease, but it did make him feel less alone in facing the others.

“Thank you all for coming to hear me this morning,” Fergus began.

“I think I speak for most of the men at this table, Laird,” Old Arnott grumbled, scratching at his bushy red beard, “when I say that I had intended to come even before I was summoned, to invite you to the funeral of my son Knox, and my cousin Wiley, and my nephew Gordon. All of whom perished when ye led them to be butchered by Sinclairs.”

The others at the table murmured likewise, and Fergus heard many other names muttered, all relatives of theirs who had lost their lives in his service just the previous day.

“My friends, I had no way of knowing that the Campbells would involve themselves in our quarrel with the Sinclairs.” Fergus hated the way the words sounded coming from his mouth, as though he was mewling pitiful excuses to his elders and betters, trying to shirk the responsibility of leadership.

“Now that I am aware of their involvement,” he went on, trying to keep his voice steady, “I have devised a way to ensure that they will not take up arms against us again.”

“Oh?” Now it was Mungo Gollon who spoke up, his thick black eyebrows knitted over his ice-blue eyes in a piercing scowl. “Then ye had best speak it quickly and plainly, for all among us have suffered losses and are in mourning, and it has done nothing for our patience.”

They would never have spoken to my father in such a disrespectful tone were he alive. The thought was instantly chased away by another, darker one: If he were, he would not have lost their trust by getting so many of their kinsmen killed.

“As many of you have no doubt heard, I rescued a woman on the shore yesterday on the way back from the battle,” Fergus began.

“Aye, we heard right enough,” Arnott growled. “A fine thing indeed, to concern yerself wi’ pitching woo to some strange lass wi’ a shapely bottom while the blood of your people is still wet upon your armor.”

“To save the life of an innocent in need was the right thing to do regardless of what tragedy came before it,” Edmund spoke up. “I do not believe there is a man at this table who would not have done likewise had he found himself in the same position.”

“Of course ye would defend yer friend,” Mungo sneered.

Edmund stared the man down gravely. “I lost people to the swords and pikes of the Sinclairs as well, sir. Now our laird is proposing a course of action which will prevent more of our kinsfolks’ lives from being lost. I suggest you hear him out and without additional remark.”

Mungo’s brow furrowed deeper, and he crossed his huge arms over his barrel chest. Still, he did not seem inclined to editorialize further.

Fergus was grateful to have at least one ally in the room.

He hoped it would be enough.

“The girl is the niece of Laird Ronald Campbell,” Fergus explained. “I intend to return her to him, and in doing so, forge a peace between our clans—one which might even lead to them joining forces with us against the Sinclairs.”

Arnott raised an eyebrow. “You think he will agree to all that if you simply give his niece back?”

“Not necessarily,” Fergus admitted, “but it will at least get us a seat at his table. From there, we will be in a much better position to learn why he is currently supporting the Sinclairs and what it might take for him to aid us instead. After all, how could a union with the Sinclairs be benefitting him? They have no riches to speak of, no lands or livestock to offer. Whatever they are promising him, we can almost certainly do better…provided we know where to start.”

The other men looked around the table at each other, exchanging uncertain glances.

“It could work, aye,” Arnott conceded. “‘Tis worth the attempt at least, I suppose.”

“Campbell is not known for being an unreasonable or warlike fellow under most circumstances,” Mungo mused. “And we could make a more attractive proposal than whatever Sinclair’s put forth, I agree. But would it not be simpler to ransom her and thus force him to agree to our terms?”

Edmund shot a look at Fergus, silently reminding him that Edmund had suggested the same.

“I understand how it might seem so,” Fergus acknowledged. “But in returning his niece to him as an open gesture, we may secure an ally for generations to come. Whereas if we held her prisoner, we would gain his acceptance of our terms in the short term while creating a bitter enemy in the long term.”

The men nodded, and Fergus felt relief wash over him like a warm wave. His frenzied heartbeat began to slow, and he no longer had to force his teeth not to chatter from sheer nervousness. “Tomorrow, I shall sail with her to the Highlands so that we may pay a visit to Ronald Campbell. I vow that I will not return until our stolen lands have been retaken, and I have Campbell’s word that he will take up arms against us no more.”

“And if ye are taken prisoner?” Mungo asked. “What then?”

“Why, Mungo?” Edmund snickered. “Do you feel that if he is, lairdship over the Brodie clan should go to you in his stead?”

“Well, why not?” Mungo jutted out his lantern-shaped chin defiantly, but his face was turning bright red. “I’m as worthy as any man here, an’ more than some!”

So it’s come to that, then, and quicker even than I would have thought, Fergus thought wryly. I have not even departed yet, and already they’re hoping I do not return so that one of them might take my place as laird.

“Edmund shall lead you while I am away,” Fergus informed them.

“And now comes the part where he tells us how many more of our sons and brothers he’d have us entrust to his care for such an expedition,” Arnott commented sourly.

“Aye, I’ll tell you how many,” the young laird affirmed. “None. I intend to embark on this endeavor alone, that no more Brodies shall needlessly endanger their lives.”

At that, the men around the table raised a hearty cheer, and Fergus knew that he’d won their support.

He hoped he’d end up living long enough to enjoy it.

In a towerof the castle not far above the great hall, Moire was finishing her breakfast and allowing Donella to dress her. The maid had informed her that Fergus wished to see her in the library once she had finished her meal, and Moire wondered what Fergus wanted of her and whether she would be able to control herself while in his presence.

Especially since she was still uncertain of his motivations, or his intentions for her.

Donella took the tray back down to the kitchen, and Moire made her way down to the library apprehensively. When she got there, she found her attention drawn to a large portrait that seemed to occupy a place of honor on the far wall of the room.

She crossed the room like a woman in a trance and looked up at it.

The resemblance between the subject and Fergus was unmistakable, and it was not difficult to guess that it was his father, the clan’s previous laird. The face was about ten years older, but it had the same high brow, the same striking eyes, the same imperious cheekbones.

There was a difference other than age, though, and Moire could not quite put her finger on what it was at first. Then it dawned on her. The father’s eyes appeared so clear and focused, so steady and sure, whereas Fergus’s eyes were filled with hesitation and uncertainty. There was something raw and unguarded about them. Something vulnerable.

Could she trust him? She wanted to, but…

Suddenly, she heard a footstep behind her. She turned and saw that Fergus was standing there, watching her inscrutably as she looked upon the portrait.

“I would be honored,” he said stolidly, “if you would accompany me for a walk in the gardens.”