Page 5 of Echoes of a Forgotten Warrior (A Highland Ruse of Love #2)

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F inian was not in a good mood. In fact, he was furious, and his anger was compounded by the fact that he was drenched to the bone and freezing. He shivered as he dismounted from his horse and made for the nearest parlour, where he could collapse by a fireplace and warm up. He had been out all day on the borders of the Lovatt clan property searching for his missing brother, Connor, but as of yet, he had found no sign of him.

He was tired, saddle-sore and ravenously hungry too, and all these things had combined into an explosive, toxic mixture that was just about to explode in the face of the next person who spoke to him harshly. Finian sat down in front of the fire and let out a sigh of pure exhaustion, then put his head in his hands for a moment.

Above all his other negative emotions was the fear that he would never find Connor again. Where was he? Would they ever find him alive? Finian had become so desperate for an answer that he almost wished sometimes that they would find Connor’s corpse. Not that he wished for such a thing, of course; Connor was his brother and dearest friend, and Finian was prepared to go to the ends of the earth to find him. The whole situation was just so agonising that he could hardly bear it.

Finian called for a carafe of wine to be sent to him, and he sat drinking it while he stared into the fire, slowly warming up. He knew he should go and change into some dry clothes, but he did not have the energy to go upstairs. However, he was so hungry he thought he might begin to eat the carpet soon, so he reluctantly got to his feet and dragged himself upstairs.

His manservant, Frank McKnight, a short, sturdy man with a head of thick grey hair and a proprietary air about him, greeted Finian with a deep frown. Frank had been his valet for upwards of ten years and was not afraid to speak his mind. In fact, it was one of the things Finian liked about him.

“What have ye been daein’ wi’ yourself, Master?” he asked somewhat irritably. He raked his glance over Finian from head to foot, taking in his muddy boots, soaking wet and filthy cloak, and finally his wet face that was partially smeared with blood. “Did ye get intae another fight?”

“Only a wee one, Frank,” Finian answered. “And if you think I look bad, you should see the other fellow!”

“Sutherland man?” Frank asked as he stripped off Finian’s sodden clothes.

Finian nodded. “The worst thing was that he managed to get away.” He gave a low growl. “I am sure I could have got some information out of him, Frank. He was a little weakling, and he looked terrified of me, but just as I had him where I wanted him, a much bigger man came and snatched him right from under my nose. I could kick myself for letting him escape!” He growled and shook his head like a wet dog, spraying drops of water everywhere.

Frank sponged Finian down to clean the worst of the dirt off him, then dressed him in clean clothes. Just as he finished, Finian’s stomach gave an almighty rumble, and Frank threw back his head and laughed heartily.

“Away an’ eat somethin’ while ye can still stand up!” he said. “Ye can have a bath later. The chambermaid will have my guts for garters if she has tae wash your sheets because ye made ‘em a’ dirty.”

Finian gave him a mock salute. “Yes, sir!” He said smartly with a little, formal bow. Both of them were laughing as he left.

F INIAN WAS three years older than Connor, with their sister Mhairi having been born in between them. However, Mhairi was now married with a child of her own and did not live with them any more. His mother, Lady Lovatt, lived with her brother and his wife in Aberdeen, having left her husband years before. Finian missed her very much and tried to visit her as often as he could.

He had never found out the reason for their separation, but every time he mentioned it his father changed the subject, so he had stopped trying.

Now, as he ate his roast chicken with a mountain of vegetables, he thought wistfully about his brother’s birth. He had been told that he was going to have a new brother or sister very soon and had a very vague memory of being shown a tiny, screaming creature which he found totally repulsive at first glance. In fact, he had backed away from it in fear and hidden behind his nanny’s skirts.

That was as much as he could remember until he was five years old, when Finian had begun to introduce his brother into the rambunctious world of boyish play. At first, since Connor was only two years old, it had consisted of hiding behind a curtain then jumping out to startle his father, the servants, or whoever else was at hand. Gradually, however, it had evolved into more violent and devious capers, until the two brothers had acquired an extremely mischievous reputation.

Finian thought of this now, smiling as he worked his way through his food. He remembered some of the escapades they had enjoyed, like swinging from the lowest branch of the ash tree outside his father’s study window. The castle boasted a fine garden, and grew some of its own vegetables in an extensive kitchen garden, which had frequently been a target of the brothers’ mischief. They had often been reprimanded for stealing any fruit they could get their hands on from the hothouses.

Finian looked back on these days with incredible fondness, then he felt a stab of sadness as he realised that he might never see his brother again, but it kindled a fresh sense of determination. He would find Connor, or at least he would find out what happened to him.

Finian had just finished his second helping of roast chicken when his father came into the dining room cradling a half-full tumbler of whisky and looking flustered. Laird Gavin Lovatt was usually quite a calm, phlegmatic man, and the sight of him holding a glass of whisky was extremely unusual.

Finian frowned deeply. “Da, are you all right? You never drink during the day.”

“No, I am not all right!” his father snapped back. “Where have you been all day?”

Finian bristled with anger and stood up, then walked around the table to stand only a foot away from the Laird. His eyes were dark with anger as he faced his father, but he had one major advantage; height, since Laird Lovatt was a good eight inches shorter than his eldest son.

Finian took the whisky glass out of his father’s hand and put it on the table, then laid each of his hands on the Laird’s shoulders. “I was defending our lands,” he replied, in as calm a tone as he could manage. “And I was looking for my brother—your son, Da.”

The Laird shook himself free furiously. “Connor is no longer my son!” he spat. “He is the reason for all the hostility and violence we are enduring now—and by searching for him with all my men, you are making our situation worse. Why do you not just put him out of your mind and move on with your life?”

“How can you say Connor is not your son?” Finian was shocked and outraged. “I cannot believe you said such a heartless thing, Da. You sired him. He is my brother, and you are a father to both of us, and for as long as there is breath in my body I will never stop looking for him, and if you want to disown me too, then so be it!”

Finian was tempted to throw his father’s whisky into his face, but he restrained himself, then turned on his heel and marched down to the guards’ room where he found his best friend, Mitchell McDonald. He was acting Captain of the Guard while the real one, Bearnard Cunningham, was recovering from a leg wound sustained in a border clash with the Sutherlands.

He and Mitchell had been friends from the age of sixteen, when they both discovered young ladies at the same time. As the Laird’s son and heir, of course, Finian had an obvious advantage with the girls. Added to that, he was undeniably good to look at, but although Mitchell was shorter and somewhat less handsome, there was something about him that seemed to charm the young ladies.

Finian had never been able to put his finger on it, but at any one time Mitchell had half-a-dozen of them swarming around him like bees to a flower. Sometimes he was quite jealous, especially when one or two of them were girls he liked himself.

Mitchell was giving orders to some of the men who were going on night watch, and it was a few moments before he noticed Finian, who was standing watching him, and wishing he had Mitchell’s natural air of authority. This, combined with the charm he turned on when he was with the girls, made him practically irresistible to them.

When he had finished dishing out commands to the guards, Mitchell turned to Finian and smiled, then his look changed to one of concern. “Finn—are ye a’ right?” he asked anxiously. “Ye look terrible, pal.”

Mitchell was the only one in the castle who was allowed to talk to the Laird’s son so informally, at least when no one else was within earshot. Such a breach of etiquette would have scandalised the Laird.

“Come to my study,” Finian said wearily. His study, along with his bedroom, was one of the few private spaces he had, and it was strictly off limits to anyone whom he had not invited there.

Finian invited Mitchell to take a seat and poured him a small glass of brandy, a drink he knew his friend liked. They had often joked about the fact that Mitchell could not stand whisky, and Finian often called his patriotism into question, arguing that his friend could not be a true Scot if he hated his national drink. This was said in jest, of course, since Mitchell loved his country deeply.

They sat down together and Finian wiped his hands across his eyes then took a sip of his whisky.

“What ails ye, Finian?” Mitchell asked anxiously.

“I am tired of this constant battle,” Finian replied irritably. “Tired of scouring the estate looking for Connor, and tired of fighting off the Sutherlands day after day. I cannot see why we don’t just make peace with them, Mitch. Surely, there is some way of doing it?”

Mitchell squirmed awkwardly, since this was a sensitive subject. He said warily, “Finn, I willnae lie tae ye. Connor was a fine commander?—”

“Connor is a fine commander,” Finian said angrily. He was not ready to give up on his brother. He never would be.

Mitchell nodded in acknowledgement. “Sorry, Finn. Connor is a great leader an’ the men a’ love him. He inspires them, an’ I willnae deny it, an’ he is the bravest man I ever saw.” He saw Finian’s features droop in disappointment and went on, “But you keep on beatin’ yourself up because ye feel ye are a lesser man than he is. But, Finn,

you are no’ a lesser man because we are a’ different! What I mean is, we a’ have our different strengths an’ weaknesses, an’ we must accept them.”

Mitchell paused and took a sip of his brandy, then laid his hand on top of Finian’s on the table. It was a rare and tender gesture, an expression not usually shared between two strong men, and was all the more special for that.

“You are the true heir,” he pointed out, “an’ no matter what you think o’ yourself, you always will be. One day, you will be the Laird o’ the whole o’ the Lovatt estate, an’ everybody will look up tae you. An’ ye know what?”

“What?” Finian looked down at their hands, then up at Mitchell again. His troubled feelings had been softened somewhat by his friend’s kind words.

“I will follow ye.” Mitchell’s voice was earnest. “Tae the ends o’ the earth.”

Finian smiled. “You are my best friend, Mitch, and I would expect you to say something like that, but I would never ask you to give up your life for me. Thank you for your kind words, though. They mean a lot to me.”

“I have tae get back tae work,” Mitchell said, standing up. He looked at his friend with some concern. “I am aye here if ye need me for anythin’.”

“Thank you, Mitch.” Finian said, then he smiled and tried to inject a bit of levity into the conversation. “Who is your latest conquest?”

Mitchell laughed. “Louisa Campbell,” he replied.

Louisa was nineteen, the daughter of the head of the stoneworkers at the castle, and she was one of the prettiest girls Finian had ever seen. She was petite, with curly red hair, bright blue eyes, and a delectable curvy figure.

Finian looked carefully at his friend. “Mitchell McDonald,” he said in wonder, then laughed. “I do believe you are smitten!”

“Well—” Mitchell was actually blushing. “I cannae deny I find her very attractive. She is kind an’ a’, Finn. She cares a lot about everybody, and although she doesnae have much, she would give what little she does have tae anybody that needed it. She is a fine woman.”

“I never thought I would see the day!” Finian shook his head in disbelief. “How the mighty have fallen. I think I hear the sound of wedding bells already!”

“I never said that!” Mitchell looked shocked before he realised Finian was joking. He laughed as he laid his hand on the door knob. “Take care o’ yourself, big man!”

Then he left, and for a few moments, Finian forgot his worries and began to count his blessings. Despite the argument with the Laird, he had a father and mother who loved him and a good friend that he could call on any time he needed to. He had a roof over his head—and what a roof it was! He had enough to eat, servants at his command, and no financial worries. He ought not to be so ungrateful.

Then his mind turned back to Connor. He would happily give everything he had just to see his brother again. He would sacrifice all his wealth, all his comfort, all the servants at his command if he and Connor were together again. He sighed deeply and poured himself more whisky, then rose to his feet and moved restlessly to the window.

Finian had once been betrothed to a young woman called Katrina Sutherland, who was of the same social status as he was. She was perfectly respectable and eligible, reasonably attractive and everything he needed in a wife, but there was just one problem. He did not love or desire her, but was merely doing his duty as the heir to an estate in marrying a suitable young woman because of purely political reasons—to unite the fortunes of two families.

This might have been a duty he was happy to do for the sake of the Lovatt family, but there was one obstacle, and it was a major one. Finian was deeply in love with someone else, and Isla Galbraith was just as enamoured of him. However, she was only the daughter of a local horse breeder and would never make a suitable bride for him—not in his father’s eyes anyway.

Finian’s mind went back to a time when he and Isla had met in one of their favourite haunts; a disused stable at the edge of her father’s grounds. Her father had been meaning to rebuild it and make it useful again for years, but had somehow lost the will to do so.

Isla did not encourage him. The small building made a perfect place for the two of them to meet and show each other their love, and they had made it into a cosy nest by moving in a mattress, cushions and blankets. Mostly, however, they kept warm by snuggling, cuddling and kissing.

Then came the fateful day when Finian had to impart the bad news of the betrothal into which he had been forced against his will. On that day, Isla met him and threw herself into his arms, then pulled his head down for a passionate kiss. Unable to help himself, Finian responded in kind. The sight of tall, slender Isla with her mane of black hair and fierce brown eyes never ceased to inflame him. Before he knew it, he had become lost in the kiss, and had almost forgotten his news.

Everything came crashing back to him as he drew away from her, however, and as he looked into the dark eyes that he loved, he felt his heart breaking.

“I have something to tell you,” he said sadly.

Isala gazed back at him steadily. She knew what was coming—she had known it from the moment they fell in love, and had long since accepted the inevitable.

“I have to marry Katrina Sutherland,” he told her. “I am sorry, my love, but I have to do my duty to my family.”

“I know,” she replied. “Finn, I have always known. We both have, so please don’t fret about it.”

“How can I not?” he asked desperately. “Isla, you are the love of my life. Katrina is a pleasant enough young woman, but she is not you.”

Isla cupped his face in her hands and looked up into the ice blue eyes which never failed to fascinate her. She tried to feel calm, to accept that the love she so desperately desired would never be hers, but it was impossible. Finian had been the love of her life, and continued to be, but hoping that they could be together had been a pipe dream. He was the heir to a fortune, and she was a middle-class young lady who was not good enough for him in the eyes of society.

“We can still see each other,” he suggested, hopefully. “We still have this little sanctuary of ours.”

Isla shook her head. “I know you, Finn,” she said firmly. “You are not an adulterer, and I will not make you into one. When you marry, you and I will have to end our relationship, and you will have to do your duty to your wife.”

“I know,” Finian said slowly. “But until then, let us make the most of the time we have, Isla.”

“Yes,” she breathed, and kissed him, then they tumbled onto their mattress and made passionate love until the sun set and darkness covered them. Then they nestled into a warm embrace and fell asleep.

That had been months ago, but the pain in his heart was still fierce. Finian turned away from the window and poured himself another tumbler of whisky, then another, but it was no good—it would not bring back either Isla or Connor.