One
Isle of Skye, Scotland
Dunvegan Castle
1358
The horn announcing the long-awaited return of Lachlan, his brother Iain, and the MacLeod warriors from battle resounded through the MacLeod holding, where Bridgette had been a guest for some months now. The men had gone to England to rescue Iain’s wife—and Bridgette’s dear friend—Marion, who’d been seized and taken back to England. Bridgette threw down the letter she had been writing in response to a note from her brother, which had arrived earlier that day. If it hadn’t been for the information contained within, telling her that Lachlan was alive and well, Bridgette would likely have been sick as she walked down to the arriving ship to learn Lachlan’s fate.
As it was, she rose on trembling legs, the letter from her brother fluttering out of her lap and to the ground. She reached down, picked it up, and pressed it to her heart, remembering clearly the day in the forest when Lachlan had pressed her fingertips to his chest and then let her kill the boar. It seemed a hundred years ago now, yet it had only been four. Time was a strange thing. She’d spent almost four years convinced that Lachlan would someday be hers, but one brief scrimmage had changed everything when Lachlan’s younger brother Graham had risked his life to save hers, and in so doing, sustained a permanent injury that had almost killed him. When he’d come to, Graham had told her he wanted to marry her someday, and she could not be so dishonorable or selfish as to hurt the man who had been willing to give his life for her.
Bridgette took a deep breath and shoved the note inside her gown. The stiff paper pricked her sensitive skin, but she didn’t move it. The irritation would serve to remind that though her heart had belonged to Lachlan for some time now, Graham owned her future. Somehow, she had to find the will to give her heart to him. Worry that she would throw herself at Lachlan’s feet when she saw him, announcing her yearning for him to his entire clan, strummed through her body.
She proceeded through the great hall and toward the courtyard. In the distance, she could see Graham leaning against a wall outside, still gaunt from his injury and the struggle to survive. Bridgette’s gut twisted as it did every time she saw him. She swallowed repeatedly as she strode toward him until the knot that had lodged there loosened and she thought she’d be able to speak without her voice catching.
She had revealed to him that her heart belonged to another but not that it was his brother. It didn’t matter. Lachlan had captured her heart long ago, unbeknownst to him, and it would remain her secret. Graham needed her. He’d told her he could not get well without her, and she owed him her allegiance. If not for him, she would be dead, and because of her, he was now crippled, possibly permanently.
Graham grinned as she approached him. She tried to focus and only see the tall, lanky, brown-haired, brown-eyed man before her, but Lachlan consumed her mind. She saw him there as he’d looked several months prior on the day he’d boarded the birlinn bound for England, his hair bound by twine to expose his corded neck. The beginning of a beard had shadowed his strong jaw, and when the sun had hit his face, his golden whiskers had glistened. He’d come to make his farewell to Graham and had vowed to avenge him before begging Graham to forgive him for failing him by not being there to fight with him when Graham, Bridgette, and Marion had been ambushed by the knight who’d taken Marion.
Bridgette had tried then to say farewell to Lachlan, but he’d stepped around her as if she were not there, as he’d done ever since the night of the Winter Wild Boar Feast four years prior. It had hurt no less that time than all the others before. Yet, as usual, she could have sworn that not long later, when she happened to glance Lachlan’s way, that he’d been watching her. But as always, the moment he seemed to see her looking at him, he turned away.
Those moments had driven her to arrange to be a guest at the MacLeod hold in the vain hope that he would finally rid himself of what kept him from declaring for her.
Och, she was an eedjit. He had probably never given her a passing thought since the day in the forest. But what if he had? What if he had been watching her as she had thought many times? Why had he not made his feelings known? The question would likely be unanswered forever.
She gritted her teeth as she walked. Why could she not simply put Lachlan out of her mind? She’d not seen him more than a dozen times in four years, yet he haunted her days and nights. Lachlan’s brother Iain had come for visits, but Lachlan had never returned to her home after the day he’d kissed her. When she had gotten to see him, it had been at tournaments or clan gatherings. He had been polite but never more. Still, he always asked how her hunting skills were coming and if she had ever learned to wield a sword and each time had reminded her how he had believed in her and seen her as no one ever had.
She weaved through the thick crowd gathered to greet the returning clansmen and paused by Graham’s side. “Do ye think ye can climb down the seawall stairs to greet yer family?” she asked, trying and failing not to glance at his injured leg.
Graham smiled down at her. “With yer help I can do anything.”
Biting the inside of her cheek at the weight of responsibility his words made her feel, she forced a smile, moved to his side, and slipped an arm around his waist. He was much taller than she was, but Graham had always been the leanest of his brothers, while still solid and muscled. Now she could swear she felt his ribs. Her mouth went dry.
“Lean on me,” she insisted. “I’ll help ye down.”
Graham laid his arm across her shoulder, and they slipped outside of the courtyard. She’d expected to join in at the end of the procession but Cameron—the youngest of the MacLeod brothers—stood with Angus, an old surly Scot who been stable master to Marion’s father yet had protected Marion from the evil man. Behind the two Scots were a sea of MacLeod clansmen and women staring expectantly at Graham. Bridgette realized with a start that they had been waiting on him since he was serving as laird in Iain’s absence.
“Ye took long enough,” Angus growled.
When Graham’s body stiffened, Bridgette bit her lip to keep from chuckling. She caught Angus’s gaze, hoping to convey that he should try to gentle his usual gruffness as Graham might be anxious about taking the stairs for the first time since his injury.
Angus narrowed his keen green eyes on her and then returned his gaze to Graham. “Ye are laird,” Angus said in a low voice, “until I see with my own two eyes that yer two older brothers are both alive, so ye need te act like laird. Ye dunnae make the entire clan wait te progress down te the birlinn so ye can walk with a lassie.”
Bridgette felt her lips part at Angus’s harsh but true words. He did sit on the council that advised the laird, and Iain had bid Angus to guide Graham in his absence, but Graham’s dark expression indicated he did not like it.
She looked from Graham to Angus. The older man had returned to Scotland with Marion when she’d come from England to marry Iain. He had spent many years away from his home on the Isle of Skye while fulfilling his vow to protect Marion. Angus had made the vow to Marion’s mother—who’d been a healer—when she had risked her life to save his wife and unborn child. Though she had failed, Angus had not forgotten what she had done. When her father, laird of the MacDonald clan and Lord of the Isles, had married her off to an English lord for political gain, Angus had gone with her as her protector. And she’d needed it. Her husband was a cruel man, so when Marion’s mother had died when Marion was a young girl, Angus had stayed to protect Marion.
Bridgette had never been able to see the slightest bit of an Englishman in him, despite the long years he had spent there. He was just as outspoken as she was, and in the past few months they had developed a father-daughter affection for each other like the one he had with Marion. Though she’d never told him her secret yearning for Lachlan, the way he often shook his head in dismay at her when Graham would lean on her for aid, made her suspect he might know Graham did not truly hold her heart. Did that have anything to do with his burst of anger now? Either way, she felt compelled to defend Angus if necessary.
“Ye overstep,” Graham snapped.
“I dunnae think that I do,” Angus retorted.
Bridgette opened her mouth to intercede, but Cameron stepped forward, shoving a lock of blond hair out of his eyes as he held an odd-looking wooden stick out to Graham. “The two of ye need to let each other alone until later. We must make our way down to the birlinn. This is for ye, Graham.”
Bridgette felt herself frown at the stick even as she watched Graham scowl but reach out to grasp it. “What is this?” he asked.
“It’s to help ye walk. See how the top part is carved flat?” Cameron pointed as he spoke. “Ye put that under yer arm on yer good side and bear yer weight on it.”
“That’s marvelous, Cameron!” Bridgette exclaimed and started to ease away from Graham so he could try the stick, but his fingers caught her arm. When she looked at him, he shook his head at her.
“I thank ye for making it for me, Cameron,” Graham said. “But I’ll try it later. Now we need to make haste to the ship.”
“But this will likely be easier than leaning on Bridgette,” Cameron protested.
Graham’s jaw tensed. “I’m used to Bridgette’s aid. We have it nicely worked out. Dunnae we? Or…” Graham paused as his gaze found hers. “Would ye prefer I try the stick? Are ye weary of helping me?”
His question—meant to offer her freedom, she was sure—made her feel chained by guilt instead. She shook her head, trying to ignore the vexed look Angus gave her. “Of course nae. But it may do ye good to have the stick when I’m nae around.”
Graham nodded. “I agree, and I’ll try it later. In private.”
Perchance he did not want to fumble around with everyone watching. She could understand that, and it seemed by Cameron’s nod and his reaching for the stick that he understood it, as well. Only Angus still looked irritable, but he said no more.
Bridgette and Graham moved slowly through the crowd of gathered MacLeods and led the procession down the seawall stairs. The pipers immediately started playing, and Bridgette was grateful for the musical notes that filled the air and made talking unnecessary. With every step, the anticipation of seeing Lachlan built. Behind her and Graham, Angus and Cameron carried on a lively conversation about Cameron’s latest ship he was helping to create for his brother’s fleet.
“Ye’re verra quiet,” Graham said to Bridgette.
She got a glimpse of the birlinn ahead, and her heartbeat doubled. It took a great amount of control to drag her gaze to Graham and quit staring ahead to where she knew Lachlan stood. “I suppose I’m thinking on Marion and yer family, and wondering if they’ll be verra changed after the battle they endured.”
“Perchance Marion will,” Graham mused. “Who knows what awful things she was subjected to when that English swine knight Froste seized her and had her in his control. Iain has seen great battles many times and they never change him. Though this one did involve his wife. And Lachlan”—Graham’s gaze bore into hers—“each battle he wins serves to make him more arrogant.”
“I dunnae believe he’s arrogant,” she corrected, sensing a bit of brotherly rivalry that seemed unlike Graham. “Simply confident in his abilities. A great warrior must be confident.”
When a hurt look crossed his face, she quickly added, “Take yerself. Ye’re confident because ye ken ye’re a fine warrior.”
“I was,” he said with a scowl. “And if I’d nae been injured I would have been able to finally best Lachlan in a contest.” Determination set on Graham’s face as they descended the steps in awkward, slow motions. “I will grow strong again, Bridgette. Dunnae fash yerself,” he said, leaning heavily on her as she helped him down the last step and they made their way toward the approaching birlinn.
“I’m nae,” she replied as they struggled across the rocky terrain.
Marion stood at the front of the birlinn with Iain and Rory Mac, who was like a brother to the MacLeods, though he was no relation. She looked so tiny with the giant Scots flanking her, but her friend also looked well. Bridgette grinned and waved, but her smile faltered as she searched the faces on the ship for Lachlan.
Where is he? What if something happened to him since Alex wrote me?
They had, after all, traveled through Scotland with King David for two months after they had rescued Marion in England. The king—who had recently been released from an eleven-year imprisonment by the King of England—was intent upon making his way across Scotland granting land and titles to those he deemed loyal to him while he had been absent from his throne. They had covered a great deal of Scotland with the king, and then had returned to England after parting ways with the king so that Marion could finally see to the welfare of the servants from her home she had to leave at the king’s command. And now they had finally made their way back to Dunvegan and the king was to follow soon.
Fear tightened her throat, and her lungs failed to work as she and Graham stopped and Angus and Cameron came to stand beside them. She bit her cheek hard as she scanned the faces on the birlinn.
Graham pressed his mouth close to her ear. “I’m going to become a legend, Bridgette,” he whispered.
She looked at him, confused by his sudden words. Why declare this now?
He glanced at the birlinn, then whispered, “I will become a legend as great—no, greater—than either Iain or Lachlan. I’ll nae ask ye to marry me before I achieve this. Then I ken ye’ll forget the man who has yer heart.”
“There’s Lachlan,” Cameron announced.
Bridgette jerked her gaze back to the boat where Lachlan now stood by Iain’s side. Her lungs immediately started to work again, and her heart thumped as if she’d run all the way down the seawall stairs. Her stomach roiled, and dizziness fluttered through her. She locked her knees to keep from falling.
Lachlan was speaking to his brother, and she took the moment to drink in the sight of him. His hair was longer than she remembered, and the shadow of beard he had left with was now full and lent him a wild, utterly male appearance. He wore no shirt, and a fresh red scar snaked from his muscled right shoulder down the length of his carved stomach and disappeared beneath the material of the plaid covering his hip bones. She sucked in a breath, suddenly consumed by a yearning to simply be near him that was more intense than any she’d previously experienced.
“What’s vexing ye?” Graham asked, concern filling his voice.
Her mind, so clouded by desire, could not find a suitable lie so she simply shook her head. She tensed, sure Graham would not be satisfied with her response, but Angus came to her rescue. “She’s a lass. If ye dunnae understand by now, let me explain. Lassies get all weepy when they are overjoyed. When they are weepy, they kinnae speak.”
Normally it angered her to be thought of as a weak woman, but she welcomed the notion now. She even sniffled to support the idea.
“I suppose seeing Marion well is what did it,” Graham said in a voice that sounded almost inquisitive.
She forced a nod but hated herself for the lie, so she added in a choked voice, “Seeing all of yer family returned brings me joy.”
As if the wind captured her words and carried them to the very person she was thinking of, Lachlan’s eyes finally met hers and his burning gaze held her captive. For the space of one shuddering breath, she thought she saw longing in his eyes, but then his gaze became hard as stone. A tremor ran through her body that she prayed Graham did not feel, or if he did that he’d attribute it to her being overwhelmed with happiness for everyone’s return. Lachlan moved his gaze from her, and she finally exhaled, released from the spell he cast on her without even trying.
Graham squeezed her hand. “I need ye. Dunnae leave me.”
He could have been speaking of this moment or the future, but it didn’t matter. Both times were one and the same, woven together and inseparable like the thick, twisted roots of the trees that stood near the MacLean hold. She nodded, acknowledging his words. His need. Her debt to him.
Cameron shifted beside her. “It appears as if someone brought home more than new scars from the battle in England,” he said with a snicker.
Bridgette frowned as she looked at him. “What do ye mean?”
He pointed toward the birlinn. “There, by Lachlan.”
Bridgette’s gaze flew back to Lachlan. Beside him now stood a woman with long brown hair and a silk gown that shimmered in the sun. Bridgette’s chest tightened as the woman placed a hand on Lachlan’s arm. Jealousy surged, unwelcome and unstoppable.
Who was she?