Strathlachlan, Scottish Highlands, 1506
Your parents are missing.
The seneschal’s words reverberated inside Patrick’s head, louder and more insistent than the white-capped waves crashing against shingle at the foot of Castle Lachlan. Your parents are missing. He gripped the battlements’ cold stone and watched two galleys approach through the thickening haze, bows cutting through the turbulent water of Loch Fyne.
MacLachlan banners snapped.
Your parents are missing.
His stomach churned. Did his clansmen bring news?
Raw wind ripped Patrick’s hair free of its restraint. Damp from the salty spray, the strands stuck to his eyes and the sides of his face. With a growl, he pulled the thick mass back and secured it again with the leather thong.
A mighty clap of thunder echoed, and he shifted his weary gaze to the sky. Dark clouds hurled lightning bolts at distant hills. Damn the weather. He slammed a palm against stone. The imminent storm worsened his already foul humor. He’d traveled night and day in response to his father’s urgent request to return home, only to find his parents gone from the castle.
His clansmen whispered tales of strange happenings in the forest, afraid to utter the words aloud. Good Lord, he prayed the rumors about his parents proved false.
He arrived at the shore as the first galley beached. Briny air filled his nostrils. He stiffened when Donald MacLachlan lumbered over the side and strode forward. Well known for a lack of loyalty, his uncle was the last person he expected to see. Sudden apprehension crept through Patrick—the same wary readiness he felt before battle.
He wiped sweaty palms on his plaide and embraced the older man.
“’Tis good you have returned, lad.” His uncle thumped him hard on the back.
“My father’s missive stated I was to travel in all haste. What news?”
Donald’s gaze bored into him.
The eyes Patrick stared back at mirrored his own. Many folk said he and his twin brother, Archibald, resembled their father and uncle. Same chestnut hair, blue eyes and broad nose, except Archibald’s eyes held more silver than blue. They shared an identical cleft in their chins. Patrick wished his brother were home, but he traveled for King James and couldn’t return.
Donald sighed heavily. “I fear ’tis bad. You should have come sooner, before the trouble began. If only you honored the betrothal agreement and wed the Lamont lass.” He shook his head. “Now ’tis too late. Your father and his…” a scowl twisted his upper lip, “woman have gone missing.”
Patrick’s chest tightened and he clenched his fists so tightly his blunt nails cut into his palms. “My parents are missing and yet you belittle my stepmother. Have you no conscience, man? Can you not even say her name?”
“Neither she nor her Campbell kinsmen be friend to me.”
With effort, Patrick refrained from uttering further angry words at the insult to his sweet stepmother. “Tell me what happened.”
“We tracked them to the Fir-wood near the deserted hut. Three MacLachlan horses grazed there, but nary a sign of your parents. Heavier tracks made by other horses headed off to Lamont country and Toward Keep. We followed and crept as near as we dared.”
Donald tilted his head in the direction of the beach, and the two burly men working to secure the galley. “The MacEwen twins posed as Maclays to gain entry. A band of Lamont clansmen claims they chased your parents into the wood, intent on holding them for ransom. The Lamonts pursued, but when the clouds uncovered the full moon, your parents disappeared afore their eyes. They searched, but found naught. They tell all who are willing to listen Fir-wood is faerie-cursed.”
Staring across the rough seawater of the loch, Patrick struggled against soul-wrenching pain. As the eldest living son of the chief of the ancient Clan MacLachlan, he knew what the clan expected. He trained from the cradle to be a fierce warrior. Discipline demanded he show no emotion.
No fear.
But he couldn’t assuage the fear for his father and stepmother churning within him. Patrick hid his angry confusion and turned back to his uncle as an especially bright, jagged streak of lightning lit the man’s face.
Donald’s gaze wandered. He shifted from one foot to the other. “When we returned to Castle Lachlan, I believed you were still on the Continent. Not trusting the Lamont tale, I thought it best to take the galleys across the loch to Campbell country to search and seek word of the chief and his lady-wife there. Ach, lad, ’twas a waste of time.”
Patrick braced against a gust of wind, jaw tight. The tale made no sense. People didn’t disappear without a trace.
A loud scraping noise caused him and his uncle to look toward the water where the second galley beached. The rest of the lads jumped from the boats onto shore and made haste to secure the two galleys before the storm’s full rage fell upon them.
Patrick whirled and strode to the castle. He would find his parents.