CHAPTER ONE
THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND
1982
“I don’t like this. Abigail, I don’t like it.”
“It will be fine. You’ll see.”
“The doctors say it is a risk for you to carry a child. Why would you do this?”
“I want your child.”
“But we discussed it. Your life is more important. We were considering adoption.”
“It’s not the same.”
“So you tricked me. You got pregnant knowing the risks,” he roared.
“I knew you wouldn’t allow it, but I want this even with the risks. Please don’t be upset. All will be well. You’ll see.”
“You deceived me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I can’t look at you right now.” His anger was from fear. He couldn’t lose her, but he was angry, so fucking angry. He shouldn’t have left the house. He should have sought solace in a bottle of whisky. What he set in motion that night would destroy them all.
“Finlay.” She reached for his hand.
He grasped it tightly. “I’m here.”
“He’s coming. Our son is coming.” Nine months. She had made it, defied the odds. All would be well. He would make it so. If they could conquer this, they could overcome anything.
“One more good push, lass. I know you’re tired, but one more push and you can rest,” the doctor encouraged.
She was so tired, so very tired. She knew the doctors had been right and she felt fear for her son. Would her husband love him when she was gone? Or would he blame him? “Promise me, Finlay, that you will love our son. No matter what.”
His face went pale. “We will both love him.”
She wanted to believe that, wanted to believe she would be there for all of his birthdays, but she knew better. She was fading, but not before she saw her bairn. “Promise me!”
“Yes, I promise.”
Satisfied her husband would keep his word she gathered up the last of her strength and pushed her son into the world. She knew it was a boy even before the doctor declared him as such. She touched his black hair and looked into his pale blue eyes. A lifetime of love she bestowed on him in that single glance.
“Doctor, her stats are dropping.”
The doctor was already handing off the baby and trying to stop the bleeding. There was too much, too fast. “We need to stop this.”
Finlay, seeing all the blood coming from his beloved, had forgotten all about their child. His only concern was for his wife. “What’s happening?”
“Get him out of here,” the doctor ordered.
“Save her. Save my wife.”
The doctor worked quickly and efficiently, but his thirty years of experience told him there was too much damage to repair. When she went into asystole, he stopped working.
“What are you doing? Help her!” Finlay raged, seeing his wife lying so still.
“Get the paddles,” the doctor ordered, but he knew it was just to appease the husband.
The nurse called, “Charging…clear.”
No change.
“Again,” he ordered.
“Charging…clear.”
Another nurse touched her throat. “No pulse.”
“Again.”
“Charging…clear.”
Finlay watched in horror as his beautiful wife slipped away.
“Time of death, twelve thirty-two am.”
Finlay looked to the doctor and then to the babe crying air into his lungs before he settled on his beautiful wife and all the blood. His howls of anguish were heard on the other end of the hospital.
“Keep it away from me. I don’t want to see it or hear it.” If she hadn’t deceived him, nothing that followed would have happened.
“It’s just a bairn.”
“I want nothing to do with it.”
“You don’t mean that. Think of Abigail.”
“I didn’t want it. She tricked me and it killed her!”
He had a pang of guilt, remembering the promise his wife had made him give, but then she had broken her promise to him and in doing so she died. Bled out on the table after pushing that thing out of her. It killed her. How the hell could he love something that killed what he loved most in the world? “Out of my sight, woman!”
“Will you at least name your son?”
“You want him to have a name, you name him.” He walked away, needed to get drunk, anything to make him not feel the aching hole the loss of his wife created, or the hell he had brought onto himself.
Fenella and Finnegan had been with the McIntyre family from the beginning of Finlay and Abigail’s courtship. The tragedy of their young mistress was heartbreaking, the cruelty of the father unthinkable.
“He will come around. He is in mourning, but he will come around.”
Finnegan wasn’t so sure Fenella was right. A man turning his back on his bairn, well, to his way of thinking wasn’t much of a man.
“This babe needs a changing and some food. We’re going to need formula,” Fenella said as she cradled the wee babe in her arms.
Finnegan touched his dark hair, as soft as silk. “He’s a sweet baby. I’ve never seen eyes that color blue before, pale like the moon.”
“He is beautiful, but he’ll be crying soon enough if we don’t get him some food.”
“All right lass, I hear ye. I’m going. What are we going to call him?”
Fenella didn’t hesitate to answer; she knew what her young mistress wished to call the bairn. “Brochan.”
Finnegan smiled his approval. “After the dear sweet lass’ pa.”
“Aye.”
“And the laird?” Finnegan didn’t hide his anger at the laird and his treatment of his son.
Fenella, always the more calm of the two assured him, “He’ll come around.”
The laird did not come around. He changed after he lost Abigail. He never left his study. Drank himself to sleep every night. Brochan was a sweet little boy. He didn’t know the devastation his birth had caused. He didn’t know that his ma had given her last breath to see him born. He didn’t know that losing his wife, his father had lost himself. He didn’t know that his father blamed him for her loss.
A few months after Brochan came home, Fenella went to check on him. He was already sleeping mostly through the night. She wasn’t surprised because he was just that way, easy and sweet. She reached his room then stopped when she saw the laird standing over Brochan’s crib. Her heart leapt thinking that Finlay was past his grief and ready to be a father. He would see Abigail in his son’s features. She then noticed his hands curled into fists, so tightly the knuckles were turning white. She didn’t know what he would have done had Brochan not stirred then fussed for his bottle. Fear for the child seeded that night, fear of harm coming to him at the hand of his own father.
BROCHAN
1987
“Ma, watch me.”
“I’m not your ma, Brochan. Your mom was Abigail. We’ve talked about her.”
“Ma is in heaven.”
“Yes. You look like her. Her eyes were a darker blue, but she had the same black hair.”
“Can I go to heaven?”
“One day you will.”
“Will she know me?”
“Aye. A mother always knows her child.”
“Will she love me?”
“Of course.”
“Pa doesn’t. Is it not the same for pa’s?”
She got the look she did whenever I sneaked an extra biscuit, but it was scarier. “Your father is sad. He loved your ma very much.”
“I look like her. Maybe he’ll love me too then.”
She looked sad now. “He does love you.”
He didn’t love me. I could see it when he looked at me. I didn’t know what I had done. He never talked to me, but he hated me.
His car came up the lane and my stomach twisted in fear. He got mad at me even when I had done nothing wrong. I tried to please him, tried to make him proud, but he only ever looked at me with angry eyes. Finnegan had been teaching me to ride a bike. He said I was a quick study too, whatever that meant. I wanted to show my pa. Maybe if he saw I could ride a bike, he wouldn’t be so mad. He would be proud.
The car stopped and Pa climbed out. He was a tall man. “Fenella, get the boy dressed for dinner. I have associates coming over. He needs to look presentable.”
“Pa, look I can ride a bike! Finnegan taught me.” His blue eyes looked over and I got so excited, my legs shook then the bike shook and then I fell right off. The stones of the drive cut into my knees. I tried not to cry, but did anyway when I saw the blood running down my legs.
“Shut him up or I will. And clean him up.” Pa turned and walked inside without even asking if I was okay.
Fenella and Finnegan ran over. “You’re okay, Brochan. We’ll clean these cuts and maybe I’ll give you a biscuit.”
“Before dinner?”
“Aye.”
I wanted a biscuit, so I tried hard to stop crying.
Finnegan’s big hand came down on my shoulder and he squeezed in a way that made me feel loved, protected. “I bet that hurts, little man, but you’ll be okay.”
I wiped at my eyes and tried to keep the snot from running down my face. “Why does Pa hate me?”
“People grieve in different ways.” Fenella’s face went soft; it did when she was really sad. I didn’t like seeing her sad, so I stood and bit my tongue so I didn’t cry. My knees really hurt. “Maybe I could have two biscuits before dinner.”
She smiled. “Maybe.”
1989
“Ouch!” Pa pulled me from sleep when he yanked me out of bed by my hair. I smelled the whisky on his breath.
“You’re evil. Before you even took your first breath you killed your mother. You’re nothing but a monster.”
He dragged me down the hall. “Please, Pa.”
“Shut up.”
“I’ll be better.”
“Your soul is dark. Nothing for you to do about it.”
“I will be better. I will. I can be more quiet.” I tried to walk and pull myself free, but his strides were long. I lost my footing on the stairs; my back and butt took the hit as he continued to pull me down them. He reached the front door. Fenella and Finnegan came running from the servant’s hall, both dressed in their nightclothes.
“Laird, what are you doing?” Fenella demanded.
“You work for me. Remember that,” he roared. “Anyone lets him in can pack and get the fuck out.”
He opened the door; a blast of winter cold air hit me in the face. “You’re nothing but an animal and animals live outside.”
The heavy wooden door slammed closed in my face. I pounded on it, the bite of the cold going right through my pajamas. “Pa, please let me in. Please, Pa. It’s cold. Please, please.” My hands stung as I pounded on the heavy wood. I pounded for so long, my hands went numb and my shoulders ached. I curled up against the door and tried to convince myself I felt the warmth from inside coming through it. He would pass out and Fenella and Finnegan would let me back in.
I was frozen through when the door opened. My body so numb I didn’t feel Finnegan’s hands on me when he lifted me into his arms.
“He’s like ice.”
“He could have died,” Fenella hissed.
“I think that was the plan.” Finnegan was mad. I’d never heard him sound so frightening.
“When he learns you knocked him on the head,” Fenella warned.
“He won’t remember.”
“We can’t afford to get fired. Someone has to look out for Brochan.”
“Aye. But if he ever does that to him again, I’ll give him a taste of his own medicine.”
“I’ll hold your coat.”
1990
Fenella wasn’t feeling well. I sat with her and held her icy cold hand. She was sleeping now, but when she was awake she coughed so hard and so long it scared me. Finnegan was off getting her more medicine. I went to the kitchen to fill up her pitcher with water in case she woke and was thirsty. I didn’t know my pa was home until I heard his heavy footsteps coming from down the hall. He stepped into the kitchen; his eyes were rimmed with red. He’d been drinking again. He studied the pitcher I held. I recognized the look. He moved fast, reached me in a few strides. Fisting my hair, he yanked me from the kitchen.
“You need to repent.”
“For what?”
“Your sins.”
“What sins?”
“You lived.”
He dragged me to the small pond on the property, then into the pond until the water came up to his waist and my neck. Before I could gather breath, he held my head under. I flailed, trying to break free, even as my lungs burned for air. He didn’t release me, he didn’t let me up; he held me down so long the edges of my vision started going black. A sharp tug and sweet air filled my lungs; I inhaled greedily as I battled nausea. It didn’t last long before I was thrust back into the murky darkness. He called it baptism. Over the next year, I would be baptized every week. He wasn’t cleansing me of my sins. He was trying to kill me. Fenella wanted to report him to the authorities, had even risked telling her friend, Seamus, the local police, but he didn’t believe her nor did the town; Finlay was such a good, kind man and not capable of the cruelties he was accused of. It was more believable that I was a troubled child. Fenella knew if Seamus came out to the estate to question Finlay, my father would fire her and Finnegan and I would be left alone in my nightmare. Every time I survived his abuse, stumbled to my room weak and exhausted, another little piece of my soul died.
1995
My father was away on business. How the man conducted business when he was insane, I didn’t know. With him gone, it gave Fenella and Finnegan a chance to drive into Edinburgh to see a friend who wasn’t well. I was in the kitchen working on homework when I heard the noise. It was faint, but it was coming from the lower level. On a few occasions, we had rodents getting into the stockroom. The last time I swear Fenella jumped twenty feet in the air. It was hilarious, but rodents could devour a pantry faster than Finnegan could kick back a pint. I grabbed a flashlight and headed down into the lower part of the castle. It was dark and cold and every time I got a chill, but not from the temperature. The dungeons were down here—small, stone cells with old iron gates and locks. People had actually been kept in those cells back in the time of my ancestors. Many left to die. I didn’t know what was worse, starving to death or being feasted on by the rodents and insects.
I reached the stockroom, but I didn’t see any rodents and nothing looked out of place. Pain exploded in my head. Disoriented and confused because no one was home, I didn’t resist the pulling as someone manhandled me. It was only when I heard the distinct sound of a gate click close that my situation penetrated and with that came panic. I ran to the gates to see my father on the other side of them. He looked deranged. He had lied about his business trip. He’d planned this.
“Pa, let me out.”
He laughed, a horribly twisted laugh.
“Don’t do this.” The baptisms were one thing, but this. He was completely mad.
“Let me out. Please, let me out!”
“Rot,” he snarled then snatched up the flashlight I had dropped and walked away. The beam grew smaller and smaller until I was surrounded by nothing but darkness.
I pulled at the gates and clawed at the stone walls until my fingers bled. It was so cold, made even more so because of how damp it was. Then I heard the distinct sound of rodents, the scratching of their nails on the stone floors. At first I fought them off, but I was trapped in that cell for three days before a horrified Finnegan found me. I don’t remember when it was I stopped feeling the rats on me, when I stopped feeling at all.
1998
“Brochan, stop! You’re going to kill him.”
My blood burned hot as it rushed through my veins. My hand cramped, my knuckles ached and still I didn’t stop. There was a rhythm, a kind of beauty, as my fist made contact with flesh and bone.
Strong hands pulled me off Tomas. He would be eating out of a straw for a while. I grinned.
“Brochan!”
The teacher hurried over. She was new, not to the area, but she’d been away for a while studying and traveling. “You could have really hurt him.”
“I did really hurt him.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“I know you think that, really believe that you acted without cause, but something fueled that outburst. What?”
“He’s a bawbag.”
“Language. Why?”
“Look at him.”
“Brochan. They’re going to suspend you.”
“I don’t give a shit. I didn’t ask to be here.”
The big dude curled his fingers into my shoulder. “Don’t talk to her like that. She’s the only one who gives a shit about you.”
“Fergus, language,” Brianna chided then added, “Tell me, Brochan.” It was her eyes. They were the windows to the soul; at least that’s what that dick my pa always said. If that were true, my pa was fucked. The teacher’s eyes were warm, kind…safe.
There had been a reason I pounded on the numpty; he had taken my St. Margaret medallion. The only thing I had of my ma’s. Fenella gave it to me on my birthday. I uncurled my hand to show her.
She touched my hand and I wanted to recoil. Her hands were soft and warm as she curled her own under mine. Her eyes were bright, the green the same color of the hills that cradled our village. “I’m sorry he took that.”
“Whatever.”
A few days after I taught Tomas a lesson, I was in the kitchen with Fenella when we heard raised voices coming from the great hall. Finnegan appeared. “We have a problem.”
We entered the living room to see my pretty, and seemingly sweet, teacher going toe to toe with Finlay McIntyre. “I’ve seen the bruises. It stops or I go to the authorities.”
“Are you threatening me in my own home?”
“Yes. I’ve heard the rumors; the ones people insist aren’t true, just the wild imagination of a troubled kid. They’re true, every horrible detail. You will stop.”
“Or what?”
“I’ll make you. You don’t scare me. You suffered a great loss, but what you’re doing to your son is wrong. What would your wife say?”
His hand lifted. I ran into the room and stepped between them. For the first time his ire wasn’t directed at me. “How dare you speak of my wife.”
“You’ve done heinous things all in the name of your wife. She’s rolling in her grave seeing how you’re treating her child.”
My father looked almost rabid, the spittle flying from his snarled lips. “You know nothing.”
“I know she gave her life for her child and instead of holding onto that last piece of her, loving him like you did her, you’ve made his life hell. How you’ve gotten away with it for as long as you have I don’t know, but I promise you it stops or I’ll see your ass behind bars.”
“He is a monster. He killed my wife,” he roared.
“No. You are the monster.”
Hearing someone say the words I felt distracted me so I didn’t see Finlay curl his hand into a fist, wasn’t fast enough when Finnegan shouted the warning. My father punched her in the face. Her head jerked back, her lip split before she crumpled to the floor. Every one had their limit; I had reached mine. I nailed him with a punch to the gut. But I didn’t stop at one. I beat on him so hard and so long, he wasn’t breathing when Finnegan finally pulled me off him.
That same night, the McIntyre ancestral home, my hell, burned to the ground.