Highlander’s Lost Pearl: Scottish Medieval Highlander Romance Page 7

  Then, Hendry did something that he should have never done. He pushed himself off the wall and grabbed Peigi, pressing a kiss on her lips.

  Peigi’s hands came up to hold onto his shoulders as she kissed Hendry back, rough and urgent, and Hendry responded with his hands on her hips, holding her so close to him, as though he was trying to be one with her.

  Then he pulled back. It was all a mistake, a big mistake.

  Hendry was panting, trying to catch his breath, something that seemed impossible to him at that moment. It was as though he could not take enough air in his lungs, and his fingers began to go numb as his head buzzed with the sound of a hundred bees.

  Peigi, to her credit, didn’t try to approach him, nor did she ask for an explanation. Instead, she, too, heaved for a few moments, the force of the kiss having taken her breath away, but then she simply gave a small shrug.

  “Hendry . . . Hendry, it’s alright,” she said. “I understand.”

  It wasn’t enough to stop Hendry from panicking; he didn’t think that there was anything that could manage such a thing at that moment, but it was enough to catch his attention. He turned around and looked at Peigi, a hand clutching the part of his shirt that lay over his chest tightly.

  “I understand,” Peigi repeated. “Yer a Laird, and I . . . weel, I’m nothing more than a servant. I ken why this cannae happen between us, and I ken that it should have never happened, but ye dinnae need to worry. I’ll never say anything about this, I promise. No one will ever ken.”

  Hendry looked at Peigi with a frown, and now his confusion was, in fact, enough to snap him out of his panic. He shook his head and then walked over to her, placing his hands gently over her shoulders.

  “Oh, Peigi . . . no, no, it isnae that,” he said. “I dinnae care if yer a servant. I dinnae care about anything. Yer position in the world couldnae matter to me any less. Being a servant doesnae make ye any different than any other woman in my eyes.”

  It was Peigi’s turn to be confused, and she blinked a few times, before cracking a small smile. “Then if ye dinnae care, what is the problem?” she asked, allowing herself to feel optimistic for once. “Perhaps we can—”

  “No.” Hendry stopped her quickly, not wanting to give her any false hope. “Forgive me, Peigi, but I cannae be with ye . . . not because yer not a noblewoman, but because my father, before he died, he promised me to someone else.”

  The smile that Peigi had on her face disappeared in a moment, and Hendry hated himself for being the cause of it. He wished that he could give Peigi everything that she wanted, that he could make her his wife and give her the life that she deserved, but he couldn’t; he had to do what was best for the clan.

  “What do ye mean?” Peigi asked. “Who have ye been promised to?”

  “Her name is Beitris,” Hendry said. “Her father and my father were good friends and allies, and she and I were also friends when we were children. Ye must believe me, if I could, I would call off the entire engagement, but I cannae do such a thing. My clan . . . we need strong allies, and there is nothing that can guarantee an ally like a marriage. My father kent that, and that is why he did what he did. It’s my turn to honor his plans the noo, and weel . . . everything ye saw in the courtyard, all the food, and the ale, I think it was a gift from them. I cannae turn down such an offer, so I . . . I asked her to come here to fulfill our fathers’ plans. I can only ask ye for yer forgiveness for what I have done, and to ask ye to not hate me, if ye can find it in yer heart to forgive me.”

  Peigi sighed, giving Hendry a small, sad smile, one that said more than any tears ever could. She took his hands off her shoulders and held them in hers, intertwining their fingers.

  “I understand,” she assured him. “Ye must do what is best for the clan, yer right when ye say that. And I cannae hate ye . . . I never could. There is nothing to forgive, Hendry. I wish things were different, but ye’ll do what ye must do, and I . . . I will be just fine. I’ll be alright.”

  Hendry didn’t know if those last words were for him or for Peigi to convince herself. The pain in his chest was almost unbearable, like a hand was reaching inside him and tearing out his heart, and for a moment, he considered calling the entire engagement with Beitris off, despite what he had previously said.

  He reminded himself that he had to be strong though. He couldn’t let his clan fall apart because of selfish reasons. He had already done that once, and he had sworn to himself that he would never do such a thing again.

  Soon, too soon, Peigi was pulling back from him and walking away without another word. Hendry could do nothing but stand there and watch her walk away from him, drenched in sunlight that made her look like an angel.

  A part of him wished that it would start raining. The weather had no right to be so nice when he was about to die from a broken heart.

  Once Peigi was out of sight, Hendry made his way back to the castle, trying to avoid the clansmen and women that were gathered in the courtyard as much as he could. He was in no mood for talking to them or drinking with them, so he all but snuck inside the castle and locked himself up in his room, hoping that no one would disturb him, and that they wouldn’t know where to find him if they wanted to in the first place.

  He tried to not think about Peigi, and instead began to think about Beitris again, chasing the image of Peigi away every time that it snaked its way into his thoughts.

  Chapter Nine

  The merchant cowered before the Sire, his gaze fixed on the ground right in front of his feet. It was just like the Sire liked it; one couldn’t become the leader of the Black Stags gang without inspiring some sort of fear in others, and there was not a single man in the Highlands, the Lowlands, or even the entire world who wouldn’t tremble and shake when he stood in front of him.

  “Forgive me, Sire, I dinnae ken,” the merchant, whose name was Marcas, said, voice trembling much like his hands. “If I kent, I’d tell ye, but we have business with many clans in these parts.”

  The Sire looked at the bag of coins in his hands. It was as though it was mocking him, its weight familiar in his palm.

  It was familiar because he had held that very same bag in his hands not too long ago. He had half a mind to kill Marcas right then and there, even though he knew that the man had nothing to do with the stolen bag of money. Rage bubbled up inside, boiling his blood, and the Sire was not known for his patience.

  “What is it?”

  The question came from behind his shoulder, where Bhaltair, his second-in-command, stood. Where the Sire was a big man with broad shoulders and a neck the size of a tree trunk, Bhaltair was smaller, short and thin, as though he had been malnourished ever since he was a child—and perhaps he had been, but the Sire had never asked him, as he didn’t care. What Bhaltair lacked in size though, he made up in brains, and that was why he was the Sire’s right hand; he was the only brigand in his gang who could keep up with him.

  The Sire tossed the bag of coins to Bhaltair, who opened it and pulled out a handful of gold, examining it carefully. He took a few steps forward until he was standing next to the Sire, the two of them staring at the coins as though personally offended by them.

  Bhaltair ran the pad of his finger over one of the coins. An identical dent in the same spot on each coin in that bag marked them as belonging to the Black Stags.

  The fact that the coins were in the hands of the merchants was a sign they had been stolen.

  “Peigi?” Bhaltair asked, even though both he and the Sire knew the answer. There was only one person who had ever managed to steal from them, and that had been Peigi, right before she had disappeared.

  Now, they were so close to finding her; if only the Sire could get the source of the coins out of the merchants.

  “Of course it’s Peigi,” the Sire said, as he took a few steps towards Marcas, until there was little space left between them to separate them. “I’ll ask ye once more. Where did ye get these coins?”

  Marcas stammered the sounds that came ou
t of his mouth, barely resembling words. It only served to make the Sire even angrier, his face turning bright red as the blood rushed to his head.

  “I . . . I dinnae ken, Sire!” Marcas said as he fell to his knees, pleading with the other man. “We’ve been delivering goods to the Camerons, the Douglases, and . . . and the Dunbars.”

  “The Dunbars?” The Sire cocked an eyebrow at that, as he turned to look at Bhaltair, who seemed to be thinking the exact same thing as he was.

  While the Cameron and Douglas clans had always been rather wealthy, or at least wealthy enough to be able to afford food and goods for the entire clan. Clan Dunbar was a different story, and one that the Sire knew well. He had been the one, after all, who had brought the clan to its ruin, and he knew they couldn't have so much gold unless it had been stolen.

  It was clan Dunbar then, the place where Peigi had been hiding ever since she had betrayed him, ever since she had left his keep and had stolen a big part of his treasures.

  “Aye, the Dunbars.” Marcas nodded his head fervently. “I didnae ken that this was yer coin, Sire, ye must believe me! I wouldnae have taken it if I kent. I wouldnae have sold them anything, I promise!”

  The Sire took one last look at the merchant, grimacing at his lack of spine. He had never liked men who didn’t have a hint of courage inside them.

  “Get out of my sight,” he told him before he could change his mind and have him killed just for being a nuisance. He didn’t stay long enough to watch as the merchant scrambled off the ground and onto his feet, trying to get away as fast as possible. Instead, the Sire made his way back to his keep, accompanied by Bhaltair, the two of them still looking at the bag of coins with concern.

  “We must go and find her,” the Sire said. “My own daughter, stealing from me and living amongst my own enemies! Using my own gold to buy their food, to feed that bastard.”

  Bhaltair stayed quiet, knowing that it was best to not speak when the Sire was in such a rage. He simply followed the man to his study, where he sat down and watched the Sire pace around the room restlessly.

  “Gather the men,” the Sire said. “We’ll march up to the Dunbar clan and slaughter them all.”

  “Do ye really think that is the best plan?” Bhaltair asked. If it had been anyone else, the Sire would have taken his head, but Bhaltair was like the son he never had. Even if he tended to go against his wishes more than anyone else, he trusted him enough to listen to his judgment instead of having him executed.

  “We dinnae need a plan,” the Sire said. “They are a clan of poor farmers and weak men. Their warriors are dead, and those who remain are too weak to fight men like us. We can go there and kill them all before they ken what happened.”

  “Aye, we can,” Bhaltair agreed. “But ye saw it yerself, Sire . . . Peigi has been paying for the clan’s food, and with that food comes strength. We cannae ken if the clan is still ravaged by sickness, we cannae ken if they are stronger noo than they were the last time we fought them. What good would it do, marching up to their gates and losing some of our men, when we can go inside undetected?”

  The Sire considered that for a moment. It was true, perhaps they would lose some good men if they weren’t careful, he thought, and even though he had plenty of them, their numbers were also their strength. His own rage against his daughter had blinded him enough to push him towards a mistake, and that did nothing but infuriate him even more. His hands balled up into fists at the thought of Peigi helping the Dunbar clan, and the blood that rushed to his head left him light-headed, forcing him to sit down behind his desk.

  He gazed out the window at the rolling clouds that were painting the sky a dull grey, a promise of a storm. His fingers tapped a rhythm on the desk, impatient and incessant, as he tried to think of a plan that could help them sneak inside the clan grounds undetected.

  “These merchants . . . do ye trust them?” the Sire asked.

  Bhaltair looked up for the first time from where he was cleaning his fingernails with the tip of a small knife. “No,” he said. “I dinnae trust them at all. Why would I?”

  “Do ye trust their fear?” the Sire said. “They dinnae seem like brave men to me. They seem like men who would do anything to keep themselves alive, even for one day longer.”

  Bhaltair shifted in his seat, sitting up straighter as the Sire’s words captured his attention. “Aye. It isnae hard to keep them afraid. And as long as they are afraid, they’ll do anything ye wish them to do.”

  “That is what I thought,” the Sire said, nodding in agreement. “Even if they turn out to be brave, they willnae be brave if we have their wives and their bairns. They’ll do anything to keep them safe.”

  “What are ye suggesting, then, Sire?” Bhaltair asked. “Should I tell the men to find the merchants and their families?”

  The Sire considered that for a few moments and then shook his head. It would make little sense, attacking so many families and trying to capture them all. After all, they only really needed one merchant for his plan to work.

  “No,” he said. “I want the most cowardly of them all. I want the one man who kens what it means to have his family taken by the Black Stags. I want the man who will do as I say and willnae resist for even a moment.”

  “The wine merchant,” Bhaltair said, without a second of hesitation. The man was known among the brigands for being an invertebrate, always eager to please them out of fear that something would happen to him. That was how the Black Stags always got the best wine in the region from the man who feared them more than he could fear any Laird. “He’s yer man, Sire.”

  “The wine merchant it is,” the Sire said, slapping his palm down on his desk as he made his final decision. Fate seemed to smile at him for the first time ever since Peigi’s betrayal and subsequent escape. He would get what money Peigi had left, he would kill that cursed Laird of the Dunbar clan, and as for Peigi . . . well, she would be lucky if he spared her life, even if she was his own daughter. The Sire never took kindly to being betrayed, after all, especially not when that betrayal came from his own people.

  Bhaltair stood up without another word and left the room, eager to carry out the Sire’s orders. The Sire himself stood up as well and walked to the window, gazing at the world beneath.

  He would be lying if he said that he didn’t miss his daughter. She was his own child, after all, his own flesh and blood, and even though she had never been a big part of his life, he still wished that she would be there, running around the grounds like she used to, always hurrying off somewhere.

  Perhaps he didn’t know her anymore though. When she had been a small girl, it was clear to the Sire that the only things she needed was food, a roof over her head, and time to play, but as she grew, she became someone that the Sire could not understand, let alone control.

  It was precisely that, Peigi’s reluctance to submit to his control, that the Sire needed to punish. He couldn’t kill her, he couldn’t kill the only heir he had, even though said heir was a woman, but he could punish her harshly so that she would never think about betraying him again.

  Perhaps he should marry her off to one of his men, the Sire thought. There was Aidan, a lad close to her age, and there was Diarmad, who was even younger than Peigi herself. Neither of them was the kind of handsome prince that little girls dreamed of; if anything, they were closer to being princes than to being handsome. Still, a marriage would shackle Peigi to the Black Stags, and it would also ensure an heir, someone to take over once he was dead.

  He was getting ahead of himself though. First, he would have to set his plan in motion, kill the Laird of the Dunbar clan, and then everything else would follow. Nothing was more important to the Sire than killing that man with his own hands, and nothing could stop him from doing so. Even if his plans were to be foiled somehow, he would still march up to the gates of the Dunbar clan, and he would slaughter every man, woman, and child that would cross his path, all so that he could get to the Laird himself.

  It didn’t ma
tter what the Sire would have to do, it didn’t matter who he would have to kill, and it didn’t matter if he would survive the fight, in case Bhaltair was right, and the Dunbar clansmen had found their former strength already. All that mattered was that by the end of everything, Laird Dunbar would be laying on the ground with the Sire’s sword through his heart, just like he deserved.

  Chapter Ten

  It had been days since Hendry had last seen Peigi. Their last encounter had been at the fair that he had held for the people of his clan, and ever since, it seemed to him as though Peigi was going to great lengths to avoid him.

  He couldn’t blame her though. How could he, after what he had done?

  Hendry spent his days thinking more about the kiss that they had shared than about his clan. He found himself staring into the distance, his thoughts constantly drifting back to Peigi, back to the way her lips felt against his, brushing his own. She tasted like wine and berries, and every time Hendry ran his tongue over his lips, he thought that he could still taste her, lingering there.