Highlander’s Wrath by Adamina Young
Arrival at Barclay Castle
Coira had spent a wretched night trying to sleep on the truckle bed with Miriam. Her maid, although competent enough when it came to dressing her hair and tying her stockings, was a heavy sleeper who snored fit to burst the rafters. And when the maid’s snores had finally grown quieter, Coira found the banging of tankards and shouting of drunken men coming up from the taproom was just as repugnant.
When she heard the church bell tolling four hours past midnight, Coira gave up on sleep and decided to venture down to the alehouse kitchen to see if there was any bread or milk left out. The innkeeper and his wife had been kept so busy with arrivals last night, the only food served had been reserved for patrons of the taproom.
After she pushed the folding screen back against the landing wall and slipped her stockinged feet into her shoes and tightened her stays, she lighted her candle to show her the way downstairs; the sleet-weighted clouds had made the inn as dark as pitch.
The sound of slumbering travelers greeted her when she stepped into the hallway. Many men had been caught unawares by the sudden cold weather, and their damp cloaks and battered saddlebags littered the entrance.
“Did our genial host also forget to bring ye soup last night?” a deep voice said behind her in an amused tone.
Coira whirled around, but she was not frightened. She recognized that voice. It had been her constant companion every evening for the last sennight.
“Laird Barclay! What are you doing down here so early in the morn?”
“Is it early?” he responded with a small laugh. “I thought it was rather late. I have no’ been to sleep yet, ye ken.”
Hamish moved out from the dark shadows where he had been keeping watch on who went up the stairs toward the landing. He did not trust the light screen the innkeeper’s wife had placed in front of the truckle bed last night to keep Coira safe.
“Why did you not sleep with your men in the stables?” Coira inquired. “The innkeeper’s wife assured me last night that a considerable amount of warmth and comfort could be found in the hay.”
Laird Barclay did not have the heart to tell her he had stood guard at the stairs to watch over her. He replied lightly, “Never ye mind that. I ken where the kitchen is. Follow me down there and let’s see what food lies unattended.”
The previous evening, Laird Barclay had been asked by every kitchen maid and serving wench if he wished to spend time in one of their beds, each one telling him that he was so handsome, he would not even have to give them a shilling if he so chose not to; his charming face lying beside them on the pillow was all the reward a woman could desire.
But Hamish had steadfastly refused every offer the women made to him, and his black looks and scowls soon made the servants leave him alone. His blood was still boiling after his outbreak of rage earlier on in the day, and he found it easier to let his bad mood play out when he was alone. When Hamish had held his hand out in front of him after the skirmish with Laird MacDougal’s soldiers, he found it was still shaking from the action he had been forced to suppress. As negligent as his father had been, the man had still made sure to teach his son to never sheath his sword until his enemy lay dead at his feet. However, yesterday Laird Barclay had managed to hold on to his sanity long enough to understand that harming Laird MacDougal’s men on the man’s own land would be a sure way to start a clan war. Even so, his body had found his mind’s decision to throw down his sword a hard one to bear, and his muscles had flexed and strained from enforced restraint for a long time afterward.
The dawning of the new day had brought a better mood with it. Hamish lifted the lantern the innkeeper had left with him in the early hours of the morning and escorted Coira to the kitchens. There they sat in companionable silence together—his lairdship supping ale and Coira dipping slices of stale bread into milk to eat—until they heard the rooster’s crow and servants began to enter the kitchens to light fires and boil water.
Laird Barclay got up and stretched.
“Hey ho, ‘tis time for me to mount Lancer one more time,” He went to the window shutters and opened one side. “The clouds are breaking red in the sky. That means the sun will show itself today. Let’s hope it’s in time for me hands no’ to freeze themselves to the harness.”
Coira made up her mind then and there.
“Tush! Sir, you must travel the last stage of our journey with me in the coach. I won’t have it being said that I was so selfish as to have my new guardian chilled to the bone. We will not bother one another. We can sleep.”
Laird Barclay was not shy to take her up on her offer. He knew he would be no good if he arrived at the castle too tired to think straight. And when Miriam the maid rolled down the stairs later on that morning, she looked so well rested that neither Coira nor Hamish felt the least guilt at ordering her to ride up on top of the coach for the last stage of the journey.
“But..but, your virtue, my lady!” the maid had whispered urgently to her mistress. “You cannot sleep with a man in a closed coach!”
Coira had laughed at this. “Oh, so it’s all right for me to play chess and cards with him, but not acceptable for us to sleep together! Really, Miriam, show more sense.”
Laird Barclay gave the maid his blandest smile when he helped her mount onto the perch next to the coachman, saying in the thickest Highland brogue he knew, “Dinnae fash, wummin. I’ll try to restrain meself. And I’ll have ye ken that a bouncin’ coach is the very divil of a place to set up a ravishin’—I ken from experience, of course.”
“What did he just say?” the maid asked the coachman when Laird Barclay had mounted the steps leading up to the coach, but the man had simply grinned and whipped up the horses into a fast trot.
Coira was relieved to see the inn disappear into the distance. She was beginning to suspect that Laird Barclay was not the most even-tempered of gentlemen, and she wanted him as far away as possible from the local laird’s soldiers before they woke up and he could cause more trouble with them.
Laird Barclay hid his mouth behind his hand to stifle his yawns. He looked at her with drooping eyelids, his mouth turned up in a lopsided smile at Coira’s straight-backed posture.
“If it’s all the same to ye, lass, I’ll prop meself up against this cushion and sleep. I suggest ye do the same. Colban is likely to be jumpin’ around like a flea on an angry bull when we get back to the castle. Take yer rest whilst ye’re able.”
Coira nodded and returned his smile but did not immediately take his advice. After staring at the changing scenery outside for a few moments, she turned her attention inside. His lairdship was already peacefully asleep, his eyelids showing faintly mauve with fatigue. As she watched, Coira noticed the man’s expression lighten and grow more content. Even when his eyes were closed and his mind slumbering, it seemed as though the laird could feel the home of his ancestors getting closer.
The coach wheel foundered in a pothole for one perilous moment, and when the coach lurched from side to side, his eyebrows drew together into a black, frowning line as his brow creased. It seemed for a while as if he would wake up, but when the coach wheels righted themselves again, he fell even deeper into dreaming.
Coira looked at Laird Hamish Barclay’s face as he slept leaning back on the cushion. The face held a dark beauty, symmetrical enough to please the harshest critic, the even features brought into stronger contrast by the high-bridged nose, chiseled cheekbones, and firm mouth. His chin and jawline were slightly masked by the week’s growth of stubble darkening the skin underneath it, but the craggy appearance it gave him only enhanced his masculine charms. As he turned slightly in sleep, the forelock that usually fell over his forehead lifted up to display a bone-white scar. It ran from the side of his temple, above the eyebrow, and up into his hairline.
She spent a few miles imagining what had caused that scar. A fight? A fall? A wound? Now that she knew Laird Barclay a bit better, Coira had no compunction in ascribing the scar to any one of those causes. He was pugnacious enough to warrant him gaining the scar in battle or in combat. She wondered if he had been an adventurous boy who had maybe fallen out of an apple tree after trying to reach a branch too far.
Will it be a case of the son being like the father? Or will wee Colban be more lighthearted? To describe him like that must mean I think Laird Barclay to be heavyhearted, but he does not seem to be of a melancholy nature. He is prone to becoming incensed at the drop of a hat, though. But if he has plans to vent his spleen on me or the boy in the future, he must be disabused of that notion with all speed. I will not stand to be screamed at as though I’m some servant. I’m the daughter of Laird James McDonald, and he better never forget that!
And on those encouraging words, Coira fell asleep. The last thing she saw was Laird Barclay’s handsome face sleeping across from her.
The coachman’s voice shouting, “Whoa!” woke up the occupants inside the coach.
Laird Barclay gazed at Coira through sleepy eyes. They held an amused gleam.
After rubbing her eyes, Coira asked, “Do I amuse you, sir? I see no cause for merriment other than the great rejoicing my heart feels at this horrid journey finally finishing.”
Not bothering to move from his comfortable position against the cushions, Hamish replied, “Yer bonnet’s askew.”
When Coira’s hands flew up to the pretty confection Miriam had placed on her head earlier that day, his lairdship’s words proved true; her bonnet had sunk to one side of her head and her curls were decidedly flat. What a figure of fun she must appear!
She set about trying to fix it, pulling the bonnet up and searching for pins to hold it there.
“Never ye mind that. Ye’ll find the longer ye stay in the Highlands, the less important all yer female finery will be,” Laird Barclay said. “Come and meet me son.”
It never failed to surprise her how he could change from repose to action in such a short frame of time. One moment he was leaning back against the squabs of the coach, and the next, he was jumping out of the door before the footman had even had time to let down the steps.
He stopped to turn around and offer her his hand to help her down.
“If you think I’m going to jump down in such harum-scarum fashion, you are sorely mistaken,” Coira told him.
Laughing, he bent to fix the steps close to the ground. Thus it was that Coira was granted her first look at Barclay Castle after she descended into the stable courtyard.
All of her fantasies about gothic Highland strongholds and towering grey-stoned citadels overlooking a picturesque blue sea withered as she glanced around her.
Barclay Castle was a dreary place, even when the skies were clear. But with darkening clouds overhead and the cries of seagulls wheeling in the sky, it seemed to resemble a prison far more than it did a structure where someone would choose to live voluntarily.
“Magnificent, is it nae?” Laird Barclay asked her, inhaling deeply as though he had been holding his breath since he had left. Coira had to admit the high stone towers, jutting turrets, and menacingly tall walls could be called magnificent if a proud owner was inclined to do so.
She smiled up at him. “Yes, yes, I suppose it is. You must tell me the history of the place when we have time.”
He held her hand in his own until she had mounted the wide stairs up to the great hall. Coira was aware of how warm his skin felt against her own; the heat she felt seemed to seer away the damp air inside the castle.
“Faither!”
A small dark-haired boy was belting across the great entrance hall toward them. When he reached them, he launched himself up into his father’s arms. Coira observed the joy in both father and son’s faces and was content. There was no withholding of affection as far as she could see.
Laird Hamish placed his son back down on the floor and turned to her. “Miss Coira McDonald, please meet my son and heir, Master Colban Barclay.”
Coira bent down so as to be face-to-face with the child. “Pleased to meet you, Colban. I am your new teacher and nurse.”
“Hoots, Faither, the bonny hen prates bowfin oot her geggie, nay?”
And so unfolded Coira’s first introduction to the Barclay heir.