Sacrificing his Highland Heart by Kenna Kendrick

Chapter One

Aindreas

Scottish Highlands

June 7, 1650

The first early morning rays of light cascaded into the room, lighting the stone floors while a gentle breeze billowed the maroon curtains inside. Aindreas groaned as the light struck him, and he rolled over before grabbing his pillow and covering his face with it. There was a light knock at his door, and he sighed while burying his face into the cushions, hoping whoever was standing outside his bedchamber door would leave at once and come back at a later hour.

“Master Aindreas,” Marcus’s deep voice called from beyond the door.

Aindreas shot up from the bed, rubbing the remnants of sleep from his eyes while trying to urge the pounding in his head away. Perhaps he shouldn’t have had that last pint before turning in the night before, but the music had played and the bonnie lasses danced. He couldn’t have left even if he tried.

He stumbled towards the door, leaning against the wall to steady himself for a moment while reaching for his crimson tartan. The cloth was striped in the MacBean clan’s green, blue, black, and white and had been left crumpled on the stone floor next to his bed. He sighed while wrapping it tightly around himself, not caring if he was naked from the waist up. Assuredly, if the maids wanted to have a look, they could.

It wasn’t like him to keep them from being entertained.

Throwing open the door, he winced when the torch flashed in front of him and frowned at the freckled and dirt-stained face of Marcus, who seemed unusually uneasy. The soldier reached into his breast pocket, pulling out a wrinkled envelope with the Cambel’s horned boar insignia.

“This came in just now,” Marcus whispered while looking around the halls.

“Well, give it here,” said Aindreas while seizing the envelope.

He turned on his heel, not caring if Marcus joined him or not. He wrote the Cambels several weeks prior. He was beginning to give up hope they would ever answer his invitation. The door creaked closed while he ripped open the envelope, quickly unfolding the letter and inhaling its words.

To the only son of Laird Duncan MacBean, the letter began,

I find it interesting that it is you writing me and not your father, laird of Castle Lachlan, about the circumstances regarding my only daughter, Sorcha. If we were living in different times, I would have burned your letter. However, I cannot deny that your men’s fighting power would aid us in the fight against the MacAlisters, and therefore, I am interested in what an arranged marriage would do for the likes of our clans. My daughter and I will come in a fortnight to meet with your father as tradition will have it. Hopefully, we will be able to come to an agreement, but bear in mind, boy, the Cambel’s do not like to be trifled with. I would hate to travel all the way there only to have my hopes deflated.

Until we meet,

Laird of the Cambel Clan, Paul Cambel.

Aindreas’s hands shook as he reread the letter while his lips lifted into a joyful smile.

“Well?” asked Marcus. “What did he say?”

Aindreas glanced over his shoulder, a broad smile on his face while he met the anxious gaze of his soldier. “He’ll be here in a fortnight.”

Marcus’s eyes widened. “He agreed to it, then?” He frowned and stepped from side to side before grabbing his hat and twisting it with a white-knuckled grip. “I don’t know, Aindreas. Yer father-“

Aindreas scoffed. “My father can’t tell the difference between his right and his left foot at this point.”

Marcus made a face. “Aye, but he is still the laird. He will be angry when he finds out that ye went around him like this.”

Aindreas rolled his eyes and padded towards the trunk at the foot of his bed. He lifted the lid and grabbed the cleanest white shirt he could find, quickly throwing it over his shoulders and tucking the ends into his tartan. “He didn’t believe I could do it, is all,” said Aindreas while searching for his thick wool socks and shoes. “Once he finds out I was successful, he will agree to it.”

Aindreas stepped towards the vanity near the window, taking a moment to splash water onto his pallid face. He gazed back at himself, frowning at the dark circles under his cerulean eyes and the way his golden-brown hairstuck to his face. He still smelled like a pub from the night before. The pipe smoke and the ale lingered on his hair and flesh, but he didn’t have time to call for a bath.

If he played his cards right, he might catch his father before he was dragged from meeting to meeting. The village speakers kept the Laird MacBean busy from dawn to dusk, and although Aindreas was not looking forward to another fight, he knew he needed his father’s aid in at least this. If the MacBeans aligned themselves with the Cambels, then not only would the clan be safe, but Aindreas’s future would be secured.

He could become laird. He would have the power to fight against the MacAlisters. Aindreas straightened himself and pressed his hands against the wrinkles in his shirt, trying to smooth them out.

“I don’t know about this, Master Aindreas.”

Aindreas smirked at his reflection before turning his attentions back to Marcus. “That’s what ye always say, Marcus. Ever since we were young boys, sword fighting in the fields.”

Marcus winced but didn’t say anything.

Aindreas stepped towards him, stopping mere inches away. He raised one finger while smiling brightly at his soldier, his friend. “And haven’t I always been right?”

Marcus scowled. “Hardly.”

Aindreas grabbed Marcus by his shoulders, spinning him around before throwing open the door. “Haven’t I always gotten us out of trouble?”

Marcus rolled his eyes. “Only because ye got us into it in the first place.”

Aindreas ignored Marcus while they strolled down the dimly lit halls of Castle Lachlan and stepped down the winding staircases. “Ye will see my friend,” said Aindreas cheerfully. “Father will eventually see it my way.” He smiled his best at a passing maid, carrying a platter of fruit from the kitchen towards the grand hall.

“Good morn, Master Aindreas,” said the maid while dipping into a short curtsy. She smiled shyly up at him, her doe brown eyes gleaming with sheer joy.

Aindreas winked at her while reaching for two apples and juggling them effortlessly in the air. “Good morn, Miss. Don’t ye look bonnie today?”

The maid giggled, her gaze fluttering up to him before dipping back to the floor. “Why, thank ye, Master Aindreas.”

Aindreas heard Marcus’s irritated sigh and glanced over his shoulder, finding his friend crossing his arms while shaking his head.

“What?” Aindreas asked with a shrug.

“What in heaven’s name are ye doing still standing out here?” he heard Cook shouting from the Grand Hall. He chuckled while watching the poor maid rush towards the entrance.

“Apologies,” the maid murmured, her head bowed low.

“Apologies will do ye no good here, lassie,” said Cook while swatting the girl’s bottom with a dirty rag. She turned her shrewd grey eyes onto Aindreas, who held a hand to his mouth in an attempt to keep himself from laughing too loud. He didn’t need Cook on his back, although the hand over his mouth did nothing to divert Cook’s attention. Her brows tented into a deep scowl as she waddled her portly body towards him.

“Master Aindreas,” she said without a bow. She crossed her arms in front of her chest and looked him over. “Good of ye to finally join us. I thought ye were going to sleep the morn away.”

Aindreas blinked innocently while pressing a hand against his chest. “Me?” he asked while glancing over his shoulder at Marcus, who was still shaking his head. “Why, I would never!”

Cook pursed her lips while peeking over his shoulder at Marcus. “And what trouble is he getting up to now, young Marcus?”

“Ye don’t want to know,” came Marcus’s reply, which sounded more like a groan to Aindreas’s ears.

“Now, isn’t that a new ring?” Aindreas grabbed Cook’s hand and brought the ring to his gaze. He squeezed Cook’s hand lightly while offering her his best charming smile. Cook’s scowl darkened, yet there was nothing she could do to hide the soft blush staining her cheeks. The gold band glimmered on her finger. “A present from yer husband, I suppose?”

“Oh, enough with ye,” said Cook while lurching her hand from his grasp. “Off with ye, now. Before I whip ye like the good old days.”

Aindreas chuckled while quickly stepping inside, barely missing the swat of Cook’s towel against his rump. He looked around the large hall, draped in the MacBean banner streaming down from the walls with the grey wildcat sewn into the cloth. The men and women of the clan gathered around the long tables, breaking their fast with a variety of pastries and dried cheeses. He searched the tables for his father, knowing he wouldn’t find him at the head, but amongst his men, probably already discussing the taxes for the next season and the harvest.

“Good morn, Master Aindreas,” came a sultry voice and a soft caress on his arm.

He turned, smiling down at a maid he knew well, yet her name escaped his mind. Her sultry red lips and big blue eyes could halt any man’s heart. Aindreas glanced over his shoulder while he shifted anxiously from foot to foot. He didn’t have time to speak with her, although their regular meetings hardly ever involved speaking, only the gentle press of lips upon lips. He barely had time for that as well.

“I missed ye the other night,” he heard her say, drawing him away from the crowd of gathering men.

He forced a smile and stroked a curl away from her cheek, hoping he seemed genuine, when deep down, all he wanted to do was find his father. “And I ye,” he said softly, so no one but she could hear. “But now is not the right time.”

He turned to leave, but her hand tightened on his arm. “Will I see ye tonight?”

Aindreas’s smile thinned, and he tilted his head in a curt nod. “Of course.” He watched the worry leave her eyes and a joyful smile grace her lips before he quickly turned and stalked towards the group of men standing in the corner.

“Father?” Aindreas called while stepping through the crowd. He frowned when the village speakers glanced his way, offering a brief greeting, yet he could not find his father amongst them. They nodded and bowed towards him, making him feel young and inferior. He turned around, wondering if his father was indeed dining with his aunt and cousin. His father’s chair was empty, and his aunt, Alisa, was watching him with sharp brown eyes.

He held his head high while he strode through the hall towards his aunt, who straightened in her long-backed chair. She was a reed-like woman, tall and lithe with pale skin that seemed never to see the daylight. If it wasn’t for her dour demeanor, Aindreas supposed she looked a bit like his mother. A fact he often tried to ignore. Her son, Daniel, was similar to his aunt and Aindreas’s mother, with brown eyes and a frail body. However, rather than having Alisa’s thick brown hair, which seemed to grow grayer by the day, his cousin had bouncing dark curls, like his father before him.

Aindreas was different. A fact that never ceased to haunt him.

He didn’t look like anyone in his family, not with his fair looks and stocky build. Nothing about him was reed or waif-like with his muscled arms and broad shoulders. It was something most men would yearn for. It was something Aindreas often gloated about unless he was thinking about his mother’s last words before her passing.

Aindreas smiled bitterly at his aunt. “Where’s Father?”

Her eyes widened, looking shocked, but Aindreas saw through her. She was mocking him. She was always mocking him. “Ye mean, he didn’t tell ye?”

“Tell me what?” Aindreas looked between Daniel and Alisa, waiting for someone to tell him what was going on.

“Uncle Duncan left last night,” said Daniel, a hint of surprise coating his tone. “He said it would be just a short trip. We expect him back later tonight or tomorrow. Did he really not say a word to ye?”

Aindreas’s mouth hung open, and he offered a short shake of his head in answer. “How can that be?” he breathed, feeling both shocked and hurt. He tried to replay the night before in his head. They had fought and exchanged words no normal father and son would say, yet Aindreas couldn’t fathom that would be the reason as to why his father wouldn’t inform him of his trip.

“I thought he told ye,” said Alisa sweetly while clasping her hands elegantly in her lap. She looked up at him as if she were queen of all, and he was nothing more than a pauper. Aindreas’s jaw clenched while he attempted to restrain himself. For all he knew, his aunt was correct in the way she treated him.

For he was nothing.

Alisa dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her handkerchief. “Whatever ye may need him for, I’m sure it can wait.”

Aindreas’s hands fisted at his sides. “No, it cannot,” he said between his clenched teeth.

His aunt looked amused. A wicked gleam glinted in her eyes while she tilted her head to the side as if she was soon to give him a lecture on proper etiquette like she once did when he was a young boy. “Well, why don’t ye speak with me? I’ll be sure to give yer father the missive.”

Aindreas smirked. “I didn’t know ye liked to play messenger, Aunt Alisa.”

Alisa’s smile dropped, and her eyes narrowed. “I am no one’s messenger, boy, but I cannot have ye yelling at yer father once more. He’s getting too old to put up with yer immaturity and selfishness.”

“I am only looking out for the clan’s best interests,” Aindreas whispered harshly while pressing his hands against the table, towering over his aunt while scowling down at her.

Alisa scoffed. “The clan’s best interests, Aindreas? Don’t ye mean yer own?”

Aindreas opened his mouth, but Daniel quickly rose from his seat before he could say a word. “Enough,” he said, his voice nearly a shout as the boy looked between Aindreas and Alisa. “Not another word from ye both. I will not have another family squabble ruining my day.” Daniel leveled his glare on Aindreas. “Uncle will be back soon. I’m sure he didn’t mean not to tell ye.”

Aindreas sighed and turned on his heel. “I’m sure he did mean to,” he murmured while striding out of the hall, trying to ignore the stares of the elders and servants while he stalked out of the room.

He didn’t stop until he was in the courtyard, watching the soldiers train and fight while grabbing a practice sword. Without saying a word, he attacked, striking his sword against a soldier’s shield before twirling around and blocking a strike from behind. If all else failed, he could fight. Fighting was the only thing that calmed him, assuaged his fears. It was the only thing that helped after his mother’s death. The only thing that allowed him to ignore his mother’s words, whispering darkly at the back of his head. The only thing that could help him get through the fact that his father had caused his mother’s death.