Page 9 of The Highlander’s Fallen Angel (Brotherhood of Solway Moss #2)

“Adversity is like a strong wind. It tears away from us all but the things that cannot be torn, so that we see ourselves as we really are.”

Arthur Golden – American Writer, 1956–

Kenan allowed the fury inside him to show on his face. The anger was more at himself for getting into this situation, letting the mystery of Tierney lower his guard enough to be abducted by two lasses and a lad. He was also angry at himself for allowing the guilt to rise within him, gnawing at his gut. He was a warrior and a clan chief, and he wouldn’t jeopardize his friendship with Cyrus nor an alliance with the Mackinnons to help this woman who lied easily enough to be the serpent in Eden’s Garden. She could definitely be a fallen angel.

Tierney’s green eyes opened the smallest bit wider. It didn’t matter that she possessed a vulnerability that made him want to protect her. He wouldn’t be forced to lie to help her.

“Asher was wrong,” she said. “You have no honor, Kenan Macdonald.”

“Grace and Cyrus Mackinnon would say I have immense honor.”

“The Mackinnon Clan is not about to be utterly destroyed.”

Kenan kept his sigh silent. He’d talk with Rory and Cyrus about the Matheson Clan, and he’d send Macdonald warriors, maybe ask for MacLeod warriors, too. Tierney was right in that they didn’t need any land-hungry clans infiltrating the Isle of Skye. He would deposit Tierney home and speak with her people about Clan Macdonald supporting them against Ranulf Matheson, but he wouldn’t say they were wed. If word got back to Cyrus, it could jeopardize everything.

More of Scorrybreac Tower was exposed as they rode closer, and soon the meadow of tall grass gave way to a village, a silent village. Kenan slowed Tierney’s horse, and they walked down a winding pebble path toward the tower in the distance. Doors and shutters were closed. No voices. No children running between cottages. Only a few gardens were plotted out behind them. No sheep in the fields. The village looked deserted.

“Where is everyone?” he asked, his voice sounding too loud in the silent town.

“Half are buried behind the chapel.” Tierney tipped her head toward a stone building on a rise with a modest bell tower over it. “Twenty-six are lost to the bogs of Solway Moss and twenty went down with the Rosemary .”

Kenan remembered the swampy mud sucking him down during that disastrous battle. Cold slid up his spine, and he could smell the dankness of mold and muck mixed with blood.

“And the rest are too frightened to show their faces,” she said. “They have no chief, no allies, and a powerful clan ready to defeat them.” Her voice lowered. “I thought I was bringing them a savior, but once again, my plan has failed.”

Guilt dissolved the armor inside his chest that he’d built out of fury. The remorse was corrosive, eating away at his resolve against playing a dangerous farce to scare away a suitor. It was one thing to know a clan had been decimated by war and disease. It was another thing to listen to the telling silence and feel the fear, sorrow, and defeat emanating from the cottages as he rode through. The heaviness of it weighed over his shoulders. There was no hope left here at Scorrybreac.

She rode straight-backed before him, hair blowing to tickle and lash his face with the increased wind off the sea, and her petticoat hitched up her shins. Bloody hell. Sometimes, he hated that he cared. His father, Walter Macdonald, had said it was Kenan’s weakness that he took after his mother that way. But Kenan would never wish to be vicious like his father. Otherwise, there’d be no hope for peace on Skye.

Up ahead, near the front of Scorrybreac, a small group was gathered. He saw the wagon with his crippled glider resting in it, but Freya wasn’t there. The young woman, Cora, and Tierney’s brother, Gabriel, stood to the side, their faces pale with what looked like fear. A handful of warriors stood with swords sheathed and an older man dressed in finer clothes who frowned.

Kenan needed to understand the players here in what looked like a theatrical tragedy.

“Oh, Tierney,” Cora called, a keening in her voice that sounded twisted with tears.

A man stepped out from a stable, holding a wee lass’s hand, and Tierney gasped, her whole body going rigid like a cat arching its back, its fur on end. The man was tall and had an untrimmed beard down his thick neck, his hair long. The lass looked about five years old and had golden hair tied back with a blue bow to match her simple dress. Her eyes were wide in a cherubic face.

“By all the saints, no,” Tierney whispered. She turned in her seat, her fingers biting into his thighs. “Please, Kenan. That’s Ranulf Matheson.”

Kenan had already figured that from the cocky expression the man wore and the fear in her people’s eyes. “And the child?” he asked.

“Maggie,” Tierney said. “My daughter.”

Tierney’s heart pounded with a need to jump down and race to her daughter, pulling Maggie into the safety of her arms. But here amongst Ranulf and his men, her arms weren’t safe enough. She needed Kenan.

Throat strained, her plea came out higher pitched but full of honest fear, not for herself but for the child that had become everything to Tierney. “Please.” The adage was horribly true. When a woman gives birth to a child, her mother’s heart forevermore lives on the outside. If anything bad happened to Maggie, Tierney would die, too.

“He will hurt her to get me to cooperate. Maggie was hidden.” She shook her head. “He must have found her.” Doris and Edith were guarding Maggie until Cora could return and get her away from Scorrybreac Tower.

Kenan searched her pleading eyes, and his gaze darkened into a look that made Tierney shiver. The kind man that hadn’t retaliated with physical strength now looked like the harbinger of death. “I will help.”

She breathed in through her nose as if her body sought air to fuel her muscles. “She’s frightened. I need to get to her. If you anger him with her in his arms, he might just kill her, snap her neck like a rag doll. The devil has no conscience.” She waited until he gave the slightest nod and turned forward, her gaze fastening on her frightened little girl as prickles of fear poked under her skin.

Kenan nudged Fleet to walk forward amongst the silent group. Behind Ranulf, six warriors she didn’t recognize stood staring at their approach. Mathesons.

“Ye don’t happen to know where my sword is, do ye?” he said near her ear.

Her gaze shifted. “It should be in the wagon bed under the glider.”

Unless a Matheson took it .

Neither of them said it, but the possibility hung in the air. Kenan steered Fleet over to the wagon behind the small group of MacNicols. Were other of her men hiding, waiting to ambush the Mathesons? There were only four young ones with swords, Jacob being the leader of the small army. He frowned hard at Kenan but didn’t say anything.

“Welcome home, Tierney, love,” Ranulf called. “Who’s our visitor, and why is he holding my betrothed against his cock?”

Kenan dismounted and reached up to lift Tierney down. His hands were tight around her waist as if trying to dissuade her from leaving his side, but when she turned, she made to lunge toward Maggie. Kenan’s grip around her wrist stopped her, her shoulders aching at the tug she made against it.

“Let go,” she said. Everyone could hear her, but she didn’t care. Her heart ached to wipe the tears from her child’s face.

“Nay,” Kenan said.

“Mama,” Maggie called, her one hand lifting as if to grab for her.

The little voice clawed at her heart. “’Twill be all right,” she said with as much confidence as she could produce.

“Lady Tierney,” Ranulf said, his mouth turning downward into a fierce frown that promised retribution. “Come to greet yer betrothed properly, and ye can hold sweet Maggie. She’s been asking for her absent mother.” He tsk ed. “I thought ye a better woman than to leave her without proper guards.”

Absent only because she was desperately trying to find help. Tierney walked stiffly next to Kenan, still tethered to him with his grip.

“I am Kenan Macdonald, chief of the Macdonald Clan of Sleat Peninsula on the Isle of Skye. Release the child so she can come to her mother.”

“Release the mother to come to her child.” The men behind him drew their swords, and Tierney heard the four MacNicols doing the same behind her. And her sweet little Maggie was right in the middle of it all. “Tierney MacNicol is soon to be my wife. Take yer hands off her,” Ranulf said.

“I never signed the betrothal contract, Sir Ranulf,” Tierney said, her voice strong despite feeling like she couldn’t breathe. She blinked against the sparks of light in her periphery and forced herself to take even breaths.

“A minor issue,” he answered, his gaze on Kenan.

“’Tis no issue at all,” Kenan said, holding up their two clasped hands, “because…we are wed, and that negates the contract.”

Cora gasped somewhere behind Tierney, and she could imagine her friend slapping two hands over her mouth as if that would pull the sound back inside. Two of the Matheson warriors cursed out loud. Kenan had done something he said he wouldn’t, but Tierney was too focused on Maggie to care.

“Tierney married the Macdonald chief?” Henry Macqueen said somewhere to the right. Tierney glanced over at her father’s old advisor and watched him draw his own sword. She’d told him her wild plan to bring Kenan Macdonald back to defend them. He’d just scoffed and rubbed his balding head like he always did when he was worried.

Ranulf’s lips pulled back in something of a snarl, yanking Maggie to stand against his legs. Before Tierney could try to pull away again, Kenan squeezed her hand, speaking at the same time.

“Release my daughter,” Kenan said, “or feel the full wrath of the Macdonald Clan of Sleat.”

“Are they hiding in the trees, Macdonald?” Ranulf asked, and his men laughed. “Because it looks like ye’re a clan of one, far away from Sleat Peninsula.”

“Let my daughter go,” Kenan repeated, “and return to the mainland, never to visit Skye again unless invited. I am Tierney’s husband and protector of Scorrybreac now.”

Ranulf’s face reddened, his gaze going to Tierney. “Ye’re a whoring bitch. Scorrybreac is mine.” He held up the missive she recognized as her father’s letter about the betrothal.

“That paper means nothing,” Tierney said. “The chief who signed it is dead. I am his rightful heir. I did not nor will I ever sign that betrothal contract.”

“The clause of her marrying someone else has made the contract void. Scorrybreac belongs to the MacNicols and who they choose to lead their clan,” Kenan said. “And Tierney belongs to me.”

“Then she’ll simply become a widow again,” Ranulf said, pulling out his sword, his other hand still clutching Maggie’s shoulder, his fingers long enough to pinch her collarbone. Maggie tried to sink under his hold, but he must have pinched harder, because she grimaced and straightened.

“The threat against the chief of a clan is a declaration of war, Matheson. Does yer brother, Chief Murdoc, know ye and yer little band here are at war with the Macdonalds of Sleat, who are able to call upon the MacLeods and Mackinnons to assist?”

While Ranulf made some remarks about his brother backing whatever he did, Kenan lowered his lips to Tierney’s ear. “Get the child out of the fray as soon as he releases her hand.” Oh, she definitely would, or if she couldn’t, she’d cover Maggie, shielding her. Tierney’s body coiled with waiting energy.

Kenan nudged Tierney to move closer to Ranulf but without leaving him. She thought he’d want to go for his sword in the wagon, but he wasn’t going in that direction. Tierney wished she had her bow, training a deadly arrowhead on Ranulf’s broad forehead. Although killing the brother of the Matheson chief could bring a war swarming over Scorrybreac. Had Kenan considered that?

“Chief Douglas MacNicol,” Ranulf said, “signed our betrothal contract for Tierney because he knew what was good for her and his clan. He—”

“I’ve heard that yer brother wants ye to fail, Ranulf Matheson.” Kenan’s voice broke into and over Ranulf’s. The man stopped speaking mid-sentence, his mouth open. He snapped it closed, and Kenan continued. “That ye two have competed since ye were scrawny lads, but that Murdoc was always better than ye and tires of having to prove it to ye. He would be glad to see ye dead.”

Ranulf’s face bloomed red, and his hand came off of Maggie’s shoulder to hold his sword with both hands. His knuckles were white as he clasped it hard. “Ye foking liar,” he said, his lips curled. Whether Kenan had the information or was just guessing, he’d poked a wasp’s nest with his words.

Kenan took several strides toward Ranulf, speaking as he stepped. “Murdoc left on campaign to aid King James before Solway Moss…” One, two, three. “The man spoke of…” Kenan’s stride was long and powerful, reaching Ranulf before his sentence was finished. Kenan’s fist shot through the air while he still spoke, catching the still fuming Ranulf by surprise.

Crack! The sound of the punch was like the crack of a pistol, and Tierney ran forward, grabbing her daughter as Ranulf flew backward and hit the ground, his sword clattering beside him.

Maggie’s little arms and legs wrapped around Tierney as she ran off to the side, Henry and Gabriel meeting her, their own weapons drawn, and they ran toward the cottages along the road. Behind her cursing and shouting flew up like birds being flushed from a bramble, but she didn’t hear the clash of swords. Several more MacNicol men came running as if they had just heard of the invaders, young and old. They held knives and pitchforks and even a scythe.

At the door of the second cottage up the lane, Doris waved them inside. “Hide in here,” she said.

“Take Maggie,” Tierney said.

“No, Mama.” Maggie’s grip was as if she’d grown a dozen more appendages and would never let go.

“Go back to the mainland,” Kenan called, making Tierney spin toward the confrontation, Maggie wrapped around her. “When he wakes, tell Ranulf not to step foot on Skye shores or the Macdonalds, MacNicols, and the MacLeods will rise against him and his clan. Let Murdoc know too.”

With a row of MacNicols standing behind Kenan, two of the Matheson warriors lifted Ranulf under his arms, carrying him between them as his head lolled. Another grabbed up the fallen betrothal contract.

“That is worthless,” Kenan said. “Void.”

“Ballocks,” the man said and spat in the dirt.

The group of MacNicols followed the six Mathesons with Ranulf back toward the shore. In the distance, a carrack ship was anchored in deeper water.

“When did they arrive?” Tierney asked Doris, who had stepped outside with her to watch the spectacle. Maggie raised her little face from Tierney’s neck and twisted to look behind her. Tierney inhaled her daughter’s scent, her heart squeezing with gratitude that she was safe in her arms.

“The ship was seen yesterday before the sun sank, and they rowed up to shore this morn. Ranulf and his men ordered the doors to the tower opened, and Henry opened them.” Doris shook her head. “Thought he could reason with them, the fool. He’s lucky to be breathing.”

“How did they find Maggie?” Tierney watched Kenan turn, his gaze moving about until they found her. He was a hero, just what she needed. Thank God she’d brought him back with her. She kissed Maggie’s golden head, tucking her snugly against her, although her usually brave little girl didn’t seem like she’d be letting go of her anytime soon.

“Went door to door,” Doris said. “Frightened Edith to within an inch of her life when they saw the doll left on her table. Tore her cottage apart and found Maggie under a bed in the back.”

“Is Edith well?” Tierney asked about the eighty-year-old woman.

“Aye,” Doris said, “although she’s ordered Gerald to make her a sword light enough she can wield it.” Perhaps Tierney should have the blacksmith make one for each woman in the village.

Kenan jogged over. “Was the lass harmed?”

Tierney looked down at her daughter. “Maggie? Are you hurt?”

Her clear, blue eyes blinked, and she glanced down at her front to see if there was anything amiss. “No, Mama.”

Doris slid a finger into the child’s neckline, exposing her pale skin where bruises from Ranulf’s hold were blooming. The woman’s lips pinched tight, and fury filled her gaze. “I’ll skewer the bastard myself as soon as Gerald makes me a sword.”

Tierney hugged Maggie against her, her gaze going to Kenan. “Bruises will heal easier than nightmares.” She certainly knew that herself.

Doris’s gaze trailed up and down Kenan, inspecting him as if he might be some useful weapon that she’d learn to work. “So you wed our Tierney?”

Holy Joan. In all the panic with freeing Maggie, the fact that Kenan had done the exact thing he said he wouldn’t hadn’t registered in Tierney’s mind. She turned, breath stuck in her chest, to look at Kenan. The man’s face was unreadable.

“’Tis not official,” Tierney said, glancing at Doris when he kept silent.

“A handfasting, then?”

“Pardon us, Mistress Doris,” she said. “I must speak with Master Henry.” She turned, striding away, hoping Kenan would know enough to follow without her tugging him because Maggie was heavy enough now to need two arms to hold.

Doris’s voice followed her. “Ye should talk to Master Henry about us older ladies helping. Our bairns are grown and out in the world. All the energy we had keeping our children safe, we can turn to protecting the clan. A slice to the jugular could be quite unexpected coming from one of us.”

Kenan strode next to her. Gabriel and a few of the MacNicol men followed them toward the tower where Henry waited, watching the Mathesons row away from shore. Jacob Tanner was one of them, and he frowned fiercely. “Ye’ve married?” he asked and looked at Kenan. “Him?” He asked it like Kenan was some weak, old man with a hump, a putrid eye, and a strange growth on the side of his neck.

Tierney knew Jacob was sweet on her. With his dark hair and long, angular nose, she’d thought she could like him back when they were young. But each time she considered it, she’d get a sick feeling as if he were her brother. Unfortunately, Jacob did not view her as a sister.

“Let’s sit down so Master Henry can fill us in on what’s occurred,” Tierney said, shifting Maggie to her other hip.

“Tier,” Jacob said, not accepting her non-answer. He grabbed her upper arm to stop her.

“She would like to sit down, lad,” Kenan said, stopping next to them to stare into Jacob’s tight face.

“I’m no lad ,” Jacob said, sounding very much like a boy trying to act the part of a man.

Without a word, Kenan slid his arm around the back of Tierney’s shoulders, guiding her and Maggie into the shade of the keep. Jacob made a sound of disgust as they walked away.

They stopped inside the Great Hall with its vaulted ceiling and dusted iron chandeliers, unlit with the daylight shining through the narrow window slits cut high up. A fire hadn’t been started despite the cold that the stone walls held inside. Tapestries depicting Norse mythology and biblical scenes covered the smooth, white plaster walls. The wooden floor was swept, but the tower held a stagnant odor like the inside of a tomb.

A single half-eaten meal sat on the long wooden table where Henry must have been interrupted that morning.

“Thank the good lord ye came when ye did,” Henry said to Kenan, offering him a tankard from the sideboard. Her father’s advisor didn’t offer her one. “A clan chief, a powerful chief with armies.” Henry looked gleeful. “Voiding Ranulf’s betrothal contract.” His face turned to Tierney. “See, yer father was right to put that clause in. He knew ye would help find us a powerful chief.”

Kenan stared at Tierney. She couldn’t read what was behind those angry eyes. He’d refused to lie for her, and then lied directly. To save Maggie? Tierney felt torn, dragged in two different directions by horses. If word got out on Skye that he’d wed her, Kenan could truly incite war with his friend. She’d be responsible for war between two large clans on Skye.

Maggie finally released her squeezing hold on Tierney enough for her to lower her daughter to sit on the tabletop, her small, booted feet on the bench. “Gabriel has a crested newt,” Maggie said. “His name is Betrim.”

Tierney brushed blond curls back from her face, the ribbon having come loose. She would keep her daughter safe even if they had to run.

“And now,” Henry said, raising his tankard high, “we have the mighty Macdonald Clan of Sleat to—”

“We are not wed,” Tierney said over his words.