Page 1 of Strachan (Hostage Brides #2)

Scottish Marches 1605

Peyton tasted blood where his cheek had been rammed into his teeth.

The next punch that landed struck the side of his face, snapping back his head.

It brought a flash of light, a ringing in the ears, but there was little pain because his rage blocked it out.

Peyton fought a momentary disorientation and swung back hard, almost breaking his knuckles on Usher Strachan’s face.

It only earned him a slight reprieve as the man staggered back.

Then Usher charged with an animal howl, landing a brutal blow to Peyton’s nose. A gush of blood entered his throat. His vision blurred.

‘Crying like a lass, Strachan?’ growled Usher.

Tears always came with a blow to the nose. A body just reacted that way, but still, it shamed Peyton that others might seize on it as a weakness.

Usher sneered, thinking he was beaten.

The oaf’s body was so broad and muscular that he could not put his arms flat to his sides, and they extended out from his torso like two fleshy hooks.

He was ridiculously thick with muscle except where it counted, between his ears.

‘You are a whore-born mongrel and no fit laird of Clan Strachan,’ growled Usher, aiming a wad of bloody spittle at Peyton’s feet.

The ringing in his ears faded, and the shouts of Strachan clansmen rushed in.

‘Kill the bastard.’

‘He’s spent. Do it, Usher.’

‘He’s nought but a usurper. Finish it.’

How often had he heard such insults since he had taken the helm of a leaderless Clan Strachan? Too many. It was time to finish it, alright.

Peyton staggered sideways, and Usher rushed in, aiming a battering ram of a fist into his stomach.

All the air left his lungs in a rush, and Peyton doubled over.

He waited until the shadow of Usher loomed over him, and then he struck, aiming a blow upwards into the bigger man’s jaw with a sickening crack.

The man flew backwards, landing flat on his back in the muck, and his supporters grew silent.

Peyton wiped away blood with the back of his hand and glared at them.

‘Any man who wants to be laird of Clan Strachan must come through me,’ he snarled, baring his teeth like a dog.

‘Well. Are any of you curs spoiling for a fight this day?’

There was a low muttering and a shaking of heads.

The crowd of onlookers dispersed, and Peyton spat to clear the metallic taste of blood from his mouth.

He could not rejoice in his victory. Usher was the last in a long line of challengers to his authority. He had no doubt that there would be more.

A slow clap had him turning.

Father Luggan stood there with a grin on his face.

The weak sun shone off his bald head. The priest travelled around the Marches ministering to the poor, needy and oftentimes, ungodly. He had plenty to occupy him at Clan Strachan.

‘What?’ snapped Peyton.

‘How many more times are you going to do that, my son?’ said Father Luggan.

‘As many times as it takes, and I am not your son.’

‘All God’s creatures are sons to me,’ said the priest.

Peyton grimaced and felt along his aching jaw. Not broken. That was something to be grateful for.

The priest put a hand on his shoulder. ‘They won’t all be as easy to beat as that dunderhead, Usher.’

‘He was not the challenger, merely the blunt instrument meant to knock me off my perch.’

‘Aye, another man stands behind Usher and this latest challenge. And as to your perch, it is not much to cling onto. Fellscarp is no grand prize.’

‘It could be, with the right man in charge, one who did not squander its bounty on useless fights and self-indulgence like old Laird Hew and his son.’

‘And you appoint yourself as that man in charge.’

‘Fate has appointed me.’

‘Death has appointed you.’ Father Luggan patted his back. ‘Had Robert Strachan not met his well-deserved end, you would still be a rank-and-file fighter and happier with that simpler life.’

‘Someone had to lead, or else we would have been overrun by the McColls and that bastard Caolan Bannerman. And I didn’t see anyone else sticking their neck out to take charge.’

‘Did one of God’s saints not say, ‘The road to hell is paved with good intentions?’

Silence hung heavy between them until Peyton said, ‘If you judge me a bad leader, why not just say it?’

‘I mean no insult to your honour, and therein lies the problem. Peyton, you have too much of it. You are ill-suited to leadership and the corruption of the soul that comes with it - the degradation of morals, the relentless, back-stabbing cruelty of it. And you are still relatively young and not much tested in life.’

‘I have been fighting to hold onto what I have since I was a lad, and I can plot with the best of them.’

‘Brawling in the mud each time someone named you a bastard is one thing. I meant tested in terms of character. You have to slither on your belly with the snakes to triumph in the politics of the Marches, my son. There is too much honour in you, Peyton, too much loyalty.’ He sighed. ‘Your cousin has no such qualities and no scruples whatsoever.’

‘Black Eaden is a villain who spends most of his life running from a noose. He cannot be a laird. His crimes against the King’s law are too grievous – thievery, ravishment and murder.’

‘Money and power can erase the gravest of sins in time – even murder. Watch your back, Peyton. I fear there is a target on it.’

‘Are you not watching it for me, Father?’ said Peyton, smiling through a throbbing jaw.

‘For now, but soon, I must journey onwards to the East March. My flock need tending, and there is snow coming. I leave this afternoon before the roads get too bad.’

Peyton’s heart sank. He enjoyed Father Luggan’s company, for the man was wise and decent. Aside from his preaching, which could be a little tiresome, he had the stoutest of hearts. He also knew his way around a barrel of ale and was a tireless drinking companion. ‘Can you not stay and settle here, where you are needed, Father?’ he said.

‘Impossible. The lawlessness of you border reivers deters many priests from ministering to the spiritual needs of the people. You know the Church fears to reach out here.’

‘Having the bishops declare us ‘heathens damned for all time to the darkest pit of hell’ does not help.’

‘If you reivers ceased your feuding, stealing and arson, it might not be so, but you will not change. And I would stay and offer my support, but there are many souls who need succour.’

‘And with a paltry allowance from the church, you get little succour in return.’

‘My flock never see me go hungry. And you, dear boy, have fattened me like a Yuletide goose these last weeks, for which I thank you. Yet I must persist in my wandering, though it can be a little exhausting.’

‘And dangerous.’

‘I have my trusty dirk always to hand.’ Father Luggan smirked. ‘I may be a man of God, but I’ll not go down without a fight.’

‘Very well. But if you must go, I will accompany you to the limit of Strachan land.’

‘And will you visit a certain young lass on the way back?’

‘No, on the way there. Your godliness might give my heathen character a bit of a shine.’

Father Luggan regarded him steadily. ‘Lorna Gilpin might be fooled by that, but her father will not.’

Peyton watched the priest walk away with a stone in his heart.

The man’s words were kindly meant, but they stung, as the truth always did.

He was not worthy of Clan Strachan or Lorna, a lass he had set his sights on for two long years.

He had no position, home or land to offer her before, but now, with the lairdship of Clan Strachan in his grasp, he could think of marriage and a woman of his own.

Lorna was the bonniest lass for miles around, from a prosperous farming family, and well-raised.

But Peyton had no good name or wealth, having spent his life fighting for his laird.

So he could not offer her much beyond his heart, and she had taken it.

With her quiet beauty and gentle manner, Lorna could rise to the challenge of becoming Lady of Fellscarp and make his world softer and kinder.

Aye, he would visit Lorna, for he had neglected her lately due to all the distractions of fighting to keep hold of his clan.

He must nurture their tentative understanding and gain her promise to be his wife.