Scotland, North-Western Highlands, May 1747
Roderick MacLeod crouched at the foot of his father’s grave. His fingers clawed the damp, newly turned earth. Snatching up a handful, his fist clenched, compacting the soil.
Angus MacLeod stood beside him. ‘Ye must reconsider!’
‘No.’ The weight of his great-uncle’s worry enveloped Roderick like an ominous shroud.
‘Ye’re the son of a laird.’
‘Aye! A dead one at that.’
‘Ye speak of yersel, or yer father?
Roderick glanced up. ‘Both.’
Angus shook his head. ‘’Twas bad blood between ye, I ken, but the Laird of Clan MacLeod is an honour that befalls ye now.’
Roderick threw down the dirt and wiped his hand along his breeches. ‘I don’t desire the honour. I gladly concede that to you.’
‘Blast it! How do I make ye understand, lad? I’m naught but yer father’s uncle and a might too old and weary to head the clan. They’ll not settle for me, nor any other. Ye have nae choice about it. ’Tis already been discussed and a decision made.’
The irony of it all. Roderick rose to his full height, towering over his uncle. ‘Touching loyalty, yet a decision made in haste. I would have thought the clan sees me as a deserter, not a leader.’
‘Now that yer father is dead, they’ll think ye deserted them completely if ye dinnae assume yer rightful place as their laird.’
‘Laird.’ Roderick spoke the word as if it were worthless. ‘You mean landlord. Have you forgotten the English have stripped us of our titles?’
Angus’s frail form stiffened. ‘They’ll not strip us of Scottish pride. ’Tis the clan’s unquestionable duty to follow ye. In all matters. Despite the Sassenach and their suppressive laws, the clansmen will stand by ancient custom.’
‘Aye. And my father abused that privilege, didn’t he? Always leading them into war, not peace. Death, not life.’
‘I cannae argue with that, but during yer absence in England, the MacLeods and the MacDonalds have not quarrelled since—’
‘You needn’t remind me,’ snapped Roderick. ‘I relive that horror every day.’
‘As did yer father. I cannae count the times I found him here on his knees, weeping with head bowed. The man’s body would tremble with uncontrollable grief while he traced each letter carved in yer mother’s headstone.’
Roderick’s gaze flicked to her epitaph.
Elizabeth MacLeod 1702–1746
An English Rose, but a Scot she became
Beloved wife of Malcolm, and mother to Roderick
A blessing from heaven
An angel from God
Take flight wee lovely
Forget ye we’ll not
‘Nephew, it pains me to have watched ye, once a carefree young lad, grow into a serious man who smiles at nothing.’ After a moment’s silence, he added, ‘Ye miss yer mother sorely, dinnae ye?’
There was not one clan member among them who’d been spared the suffering and loss of a loved one. Roderick knew that of all people, his great-uncle understood the pain of facing each day without his closest kin.
The sting of anger sliced through Roderick’s sadness. ‘Aye. I miss her.’
‘We all do. She had a smile to crack the toughest nut, ye ken, and possessed the courage of a Highland warrior.’
Roderick’s chin fell to his chest. ‘That she did.’
‘She had a forgiving heart.’
‘I am not so quick to forgive.’ Roderick’s gaze slid pointedly to his father’s grave. ‘He doesn’t deserve to be buried beside her.’
‘Och, lad! Ye must consider the clan’s future. Ye’re a born leader. Ye’re sensible. Ye engage in reason before revolt. The clan recognises that. They respect ye as they did yer father, despite his once warring ways.’
Angus cleared his throat. ‘’Tis bittersweet, the timing of his death, especially since he’d recently made peace with his own demons. I admit his bloodlust cost many lives.’
‘And shattered the lives of the living. Including yours.’ Roderick nodded in the direction of four nearby graves.
Drawn to them, Angus limped his way there. He lingered behind the first headstone. Long, aged fingers reached down to caress the cold granite with a lover’s touch. ‘My wife.’ He shuffled on to the second. ‘My son.’ The third, ‘Daughter-in-law. And here,’ he stopped, one hand gripping the fourth arched headstone so tight that his knuckles looked set to tear through paper-thin skin. ‘My grandson.’
His weary eyes shut tight. ‘Clan skirmishes and warfare. Nae matter that I fight the brutal visions of their deaths, I cannae escape the horror.’
When Angus swayed, Roderick dashed to his uncle’s side to steady him.
‘Thank ye, lad. These weary joints trouble me. I feel decidedly old.’
Roderick sighed and looked down at the grave. ‘I miss Iain. He was like a brother to me.’
‘Aye. Ye and my grandson were inseparable.’ Angus laid a hand on Roderick’s arm. ‘If I can forgive and put the past behind me, so can ye. Let go of yer anger else ye’ll rot from the inside out.’
Silence fell between them, broken by the sound of water from a nearby stream. The rush of run-off incited by the warm spring days, a potent reminder of the passing of time, signalled that soon decisions must be made. An eagle soared high over moorland clothed in green. Menacing clouds chased away the day’s modicum of warmth.
Seasons bring change. So, too, the reason for Roderick’s return. ‘How exactly did my father die?’
‘His heart failed him in his sleep, but he died long ‘afore that.’ Angus paused, overcome by dark memories.
‘Go on,’ said Roderick.
‘News of Culloden destroyed yer father’s soul. Then, what with the passing of yer mother soon after, and ye leaving for England upon her death, weel, he became but a shell of a man.’
It would seem Angus had answered truthfully, yet there was something odd in his manner, in the way he shuffled his feet on the spot, opening his mouth as if to say something more, only to clamp it shut. His eyes looked everywhere but at Roderick.
‘In time,’ said Angus, staring off into the distance, ‘I hope ye’ll come to understand the full measure of yer father’s regrets. Like it or not, ye are our patriarchal laird now.’
Roderick ground a small rock into the earth with the heel of his boot. He looked skyward, closed his eyes with another deep sigh, and rolled his shoulders as if to shrug off all that troubled him.
He struggled with the past, with accepting the present and the gravity of duty and responsibility that came with the clan’s expectation that he would replace his father as Laird of Clan MacLeod.
Roderick picked his way past the headstones to stop at the edge of a rise. At twenty-five, he possessed the commanding presence and strikingly tall muscular build of his father. From his mother, he’d inherited a gentle nature together with a dormant temper and fighting spirit, roused only when reason and patience were pushed to extreme.
Too often his temper had clashed with his father’s hard-headedness. Much to his mother’s despair, father and son were fated never to reconcile their differences.
‘Nephew, I fear I must add to yer turmoil. There be something else ye should know.’
Roderick glanced over his shoulder to see Angus remove his soft woollen bonnet and wipe sweat from his brow. ‘What is it?’
‘Ye’ll remember that, like ye, the MacDonald Laird wished only for peace between our clans. To prove and honour his word, he offered his daughter’s hand in marriage just ‘afore yer father’s passing.’
Roderick kept silent. He turned to give Angus his full attention.
‘Yer father favoured peace, as did we all. The Highlands are not the same since the ‘45. Clans must look out for each other.’ Angus drew a deep breath and replaced his bonnet. ‘Yer father approved this gesture of marriage and signed the necessary papers.’
Outraged, Roderick hissed, ‘My father married her?’
Angus shook his head. ‘Nae. Not him.’
‘You’re not making sense. What kind of a man bargains his offspring’s future in the name of peace?’
‘’Tis not unheard of. Since yer father’s death, and until ye could be found, the clan looked to me for leadership. Understand we didnae ken when ye’d return, if at all.’
‘I see. ’Tis all right, Uncle. I respect your reasons for marrying the lass, yet there are other ways to secure harmony between clans other than by forced marriage. ’Tis a measure I’m none too pleased about. Still, you and your bride have my blessing.’
Angus groaned. More perspiration glinted on his brow. ‘Nae, Roderick. What I’m trying to tell ye is … ‘twas yer father’s dying wish to … weel, the papers he signed …’
Roderick narrowed his gaze.
Angus threw his hands in the air. ‘Och! There be no way around it,’ he blurted. ‘Ye have a wife! She awaits ye at the castle.’
The old man had lost his mind. ‘I have no wife.’
‘Aye. Ye do,’ came the sombre reply. ‘Ye’re father accepted MacDonald’s offer. By proxy, ye’re married.’
‘My father could force marriage upon me no more than I can command his resurrection.’ Roderick spoke with the sharp edge of a newly honed claymore. ‘I’m of age to make my own decisions and proxy marriages are no longer recognised.’
Angus wrung his hands. ‘There be dire consequences for the clan should ye not comply with yer father’s wishes.’
Roderick stormed forward and fisted the material of his uncle’s jacket. ‘I came back to pay my respects to my father, despite our differences. Not to be saddled with a wife.’ He let go of Angus. ‘I’m not having her. Send her back!’
Angus stepped back as fast as his limp allowed. ‘To reject the lass would be a serious mistake. An insult to MacDonald and yer father’s word and honour. And to yer father’s memory.’
‘Damn my father’s honour! To hell with his memory.’
‘’Tis grounds for retaliation from the MacDonald Laird,’ Angus warned.
Roderick closed a hand over the concealed blade inside his coat. ‘A man doesn’t need a wife to prove himself worthy of leading the clan. If you don’t do as I command, ’tis grounds to take my dirk to your throat and bury you there beside your wife and grandson.’
Despite the insult, Angus stood unafraid. ‘Spoken like a true laird. ’Tis settled then.’ Victory sounded in his words. ‘Ye’ll stay and accept yer lot as Laird of Clan MacLeod.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
Angus nodded, crossing his arms over his chest. ‘Aye, ye did. Along with yer threats of violence towards me. Might I remind ye that the Sassenachs have outlawed all that makes us Highlanders. Including a dirk. If found, the King’s troops will shoot ye on sight. And without a laird, where would that leave the clan? So, if indeed that be a dirk ye conceal, proud of the fact as I am, ’tis in yer best interest to hide it.’
Roderick removed his hand from the weapon. ‘I’m not my father. Nor do I condone violence. Laird of Clan MacLeod I might consider. ’Tis by far an easier feat, but I’m not having a wife as well.’
‘Indeed ye will. And I’ll tell ye something else.’ Angus took a brave limp forward. ‘Yer father kenned ye’d return from England to honour his death. That ye’d stay only if ye be tied to something. A wife. A wife be exactly what ye need. And bairns! Plenty of them. Time ye settled down and produced an heir.’
Roderick felt his jaw go slack. ‘Have you gone completely mad? If, and when, I feel the need to marry, I’ll pick the lass. Not be shackled to one of my father’s choosing. I’ll wager the poor woman had no say in the matter either.’
‘Ah, but wait ‘til ye feast yer eyes upon the lass. A fine match. Ye’ll soon be apologising to me for the way ye’re behaving now. Thanking yer father is what ye’ll be doing, every day of yer life.’
Roderick glared at Angus. ‘My father, swine that he was, must be laughing at me beneath that cold mound of dirt. Is this his way of punishing me for leaving the clan? Why didn’t you stop his foolish scheming?’
‘Believe it or not, yer father thought he was doing the right thing by ye. For all the wrong he’d done, convinced he was that this lass will make ye happy.’
‘I doubt that was his objective. Who’s to say she’ll be happy with me? For all I know she’s pining to marry one of her own clansmen.’ Anger fed his determination. ‘I’m taking her back to her father. I’m a man of peace. As such, my word should be enough.’
Roderick took a brisk walk to his horse and swung up into the saddle. His gaze shifted towards home.
‘Wait!’ Angus called. ‘Let me return to the castle ‘afore ye.’
‘Why?’
‘A fine muddle,’ he muttered. Louder, he said, ‘Ye’ve shown up without warning.’
‘Aye. If you’d not discovered me, I’d have left in the same fashion. And none the wiser, I might add, to my miserable state of affairs.’
‘I must announce yer return to Annabel.’
Roderick raised a questioning brow.
‘Yer wife,’ explained Angus. ‘She’s ordered me to forewarn her the instant ye set foot on MacLeod soil.’
‘Ordered?’
‘Aye.’
‘Did she now? I’ll tell her myself.’ He dug his heels against the horse’s flanks. Clods of dirt flew as his steed galloped towards the keep.
* * *
The outline of Castle Finvreck loomed. Its rugged pillars were crafted with intent. The hewn stone was meant to protect, to offer a meagre chance of life in this brutal land.
Roderick’s gut clenched. Instinct advised him to return to London. How easy it would be to lead a life without responsibilities other than to manage his own affairs.
He’d vowed upon his mother’s death never to return to the politics and harsh reality of Highland life, to a place with a history of violence caused by inter-clan hatred, and a father who’d lived by the strength and swing of his broadsword. Then there’d been the ‘45, and Culloden and its aftermath with unspeakable atrocities committed against kinfolk. Their crime? They needn’t have committed one. They simply were … Highlanders.
Why had his mother chosen to become one? He failed to understand her choice of isolation and hardship over a life of privilege and ease among London’s elite.
At her insistence, he’d received an Oxford education to prepare him for the life-changing decisions he now faced. He could navigate society’s circles south of the border just as easily as he could every brae, loch, burn and glen of the harshest Highlands.
She’d foreseen he would one day stand at the crossroads of life, a day he’d hoped would never come. He’d rather his father survive him than to return and relive painful memories. Fate had drawn him back and cruelly added to his burden. He had neither the drive nor inclination to head the clan, unconvinced of their utmost faith and confidence in him despite his great-uncle’s assurances.
‘Damn you, Father!’ His voice, battered with rage, echoed across the moor.
The solution to his problem should be simple enough. Find and appoint his successor, a suitable clansman to protect and uphold Finvreck. What if the clan cast their vote in favour of Roderick just as his uncle had said? He couldn’t desert them a second time.
Clansmen would gather to swear an oath of fealty to their new laird, whoever that might be. But surely their skulls were not so thick as to believe they could get away with this outlawed tradition?
Roderick shuddered. He’d seen no sign of troops when venturing into the midst of the MacLeod lands. Nonetheless, it didn’t matter that Finvreck was in a far corner of the western Highlands. Redcoats would stop at nothing to stamp out the smallest cinder of Scottish custom.
He ignored the unsettling possibility, for another pressing issue required urgent attention.
His wife. What a sham.
Ironic that even in death, his father remained at odds with him. Did the MacDonald lass consent to such a foolhardy marriage, or had they both been moved and played like pawns in a chess game? Sacrificed and traded like medieval serfs at the mercy of their kings.
His father be damned. A dead man could not rule from his grave. Roderick would undo what had been done. He would use his diplomatic skills to make the MacDonald Laird see reason.
Overhead, storm clouds gathered. He shouted into the wind sweeping the moor, ‘I’ll not be forced to take a wife!’