Heart of Shadows (Hearts of the Highlands Book 2), page 19
“I know where ’tis,” Nicholas told him, looking as if he were haunted by more than the death of his wife. “I spoke to her there.”
“You know the governor’s daughter?”
He nodded, looking off into the distance. “I did. I lived in Berwick Castle all my life.”
Torin’s heart sank. Oh no! He’d just found his brothers only to learn that he’d destroyed the family of one of them. Now, he didn’t want to tell Nicholas MacPherson who he was. Now, he wanted the ground to split wide and swallow him whole. “You were adopted by the Feathers?”
“No,” Nicholas said hollowly. “I was purchased by them. For a stone. I was a servant until the siege.”
He grew up a slave? Purchased for a stone? William Stone. It was the name the English had given him. Torin closed his eyes, hating the English even more for casting them on these paths. “Did Feathers treat you well?”
“No. He did not,” Torin’s youngest brother told him, making Torin glad he had killed him. “Sometimes Julianna made being alive bearable, so…thank you for saving her.”
Torin wanted to drop his head into his hands and sigh with relief that he hadn’t done something to make his brothers hate him.
“I do not remember seeing you there,” he admitted to Nicholas.
His brother shrugged. “I was not permitted into the great hall, or into any of the governor’s private rooms. I stayed mostly in the servants’ quarters or in the stables.”
Torin nodded, feeling ill, and slipped his gaze to Cain, who looked the same. Their brother had been a slave.
“What are you doing here?” Nicholas asked him, his voice hardening to a threat of warning. “In my castle? Are you here to try to kill me as you did to the governor?”
“Nicky,” Cainnech said gently. “He is Torin, our brother. He carries the bronze moth Father fashioned fer Mother.”
Torin pointed to his brooch.
“I do not remember any moth,” Nicholas sighed into his cup.
“I do,” Cainnech told him, sitting beside him. “And that is it. He is Torin, our brother. He remembers Mother and her garden.” He turned to smile at Torin and, for the hundredth time, Torin let it sink in that he had his brothers back.
“Torin?” Nicholas stood up, as if coming awake. He looked at Cain first. “You are certain? We have only your memory to go by.”
“Aye,” Cain said, “I am certain.”
Nicholas’ eyes were pools of moonlit seas spilling over his long lashes onto his cheeks. “Torin? We have been searching for you.”
Torin rose and made his way around the table and into the embrace of his brothers.
He was home. Finally. Everything he had ever dreamed of was here. Everything he ever wanted. A family…
Everything but Braya. He wanted to tell her about finding his brothers and the joy of today. It made him feel a bit guilty that he was so elated when his brother’s heart was broken. Braya would tell him that perhaps Nicholas needed a fresh, light heart in his life right now.
“Brothers, I must go see to Miss Hetherington. I promised her safety and have abandoned her.”
“Miss Hetherington?” Nicholas asked, then answered his own question. “Ah, one of the two of whom you penned me about. She is English?”
“She is,” Torin confirmed.
“An outlaw who attacked me,” Cainnech informed him with a glint of amusement in his eye. “And,” he said, folding his arms over his chest and looking at Torin. “Ye are in love with her.”
“I think so, Cainnech. I am inexperienced in matters of the heart.”
“Cain,” his older brother corrected. Then, “I wasna askin’. Ye are in love with her.”
“I am?”
“Aye.”
“How do you know?” Torin asked him.
“It doesna matter how I know, lad. It matters how ye know. Think aboot how it makes ye feel to think of her with someone else. Or if she were go—” He cast an apologetic glance at Nicky. “Either way, ye should see to her.”
Torin nodded, and then looked at them both. “She does not know I am a Scot.”
“Nicholas had already surmised that much from yer letter,” Cain told him, putting his arm around Torin’s shoulder “There is much I am curious aboot. I am sure ye and Nicholas feel the same way.”
“Aye,” Nicholas agreed. “Let us meet up later tonight when your guests have gone to sleep.”
Torin nodded then turned toward the youngest, noting that the youngest was also the tallest. “Come with us. Introduce me to my nephew, aye?”
“Aye,” Nicholas said, bringing smiles to his brothers’ faces. “Cain has a son as well. Young Tristan, and another on the way.”
Torin had nephews and a sister-in-marriage. He hoped he wasn’t still dreaming and if he was, let him stay asleep.
They walked him to the keep and met a priest on the way.
“Ye had better come quickly,” he called out before reaching them so none of them knew who he was referring to. “That wee veil of a lass ye just allowed in here has stabbed Amish in the leg!”
Chapter Twenty-One
Braya didn’t care who this castle belonged to—Englishman, Highlander, or the damned king himself! She wanted answers. Where had they taken Torin? If she and Mr. Adams were not prisoners, then why wouldn’t they take her to him?
She produced a knife she’d lifted from the table in the great hall and pointed it at them. “My friend needs a bed!” she shouted. “What kind of people are you that you cannot see when a man needs to rest?”
When the big, redheaded, scarred-faced Highlander called Amish came at her, she stabbed him. What the hell was she supposed to do? No one was helping. The priest was trying to help, but he wouldn’t give her any answers about Torin and she’d had enough.
Four men tried to grab her. Poor Mr. Adams tried to stop them. He’d been injured earlier with the other hulking Highlander who dropped out of the trees, so unfortunately he was of little help.
She wasn’t Torin, and she couldn’t fight off four men.
But she could avoid them and try to strike one at a time. She’d done it plenty of times in the games. She had never been pinned to the ground in any competition. It meant death, so she learned how to escape first, and then how to fight.
She saw an opening between the men now and ran through it. She was slight of build and light as a breath on her feet. She came around and sliced at one.
“That is enough!” a woman called out with authority.
Ah, finally, the hostess of this place. Perhaps now she would get some answers. The four oafs obeyed the woman when she ordered them to put away their swords and axes and moved out of her way. Braya wanted to see the woman who commanded such savage looking men.
She was with child, about six months in. She was breathtaking with a pale, clear complexion and a long black braid draping her shoulder. Her eyes were big and green and sharp as steel on Braya.
“Amish, go have Duncan look at you,” she commanded and, miraculously, Amish, the redheaded brute, went without quarrel.
The woman’s gaze never left Braya. “Who are you and how did you get into the castle?”
“We arrived with Sir Torin Gray. He was once in service to the Lord of Rothbury, your husband.”
“The earl is not my husband,” the woman said in a less authoritative tone. She sounded sadder. Deeply so.
Braya was sorry for whatever it was, but she wanted Torin and she wanted him now. “We were accosted on the way here by a fiendish Highlander who leaped out of the trees—”
“That one is my husband,” the woman told her with the slightest of smiles curling her lips.
“Oh.” Braya felt foolish for calling him a fiendish Highlander. “Are you a Scot?”
“Norman,” the Highlander’s wife said. “I do remember some talk about Commander Gray coming here and Lord Rothbury not wanting to see anyone after his wife—”
“Our friend, the good Mr. Adams, was injured by your husband.” She pointed to him now leaning weakly against the wall.
“—died giving birth to his son.”
Braya stopped and stared at her, stunned to hear such horrific news. Oh, she had no idea! The poor man. “We did not know,” she managed to say. “My best friend and cousin recently had a little girl. ’Twas a difficult birth. I do not know what I would have done if she had died.” Her eyes filled with tears. What would poor William have done?
The hall was quiet for a moment and then the woman spoke. “Katie, bring two men with you and get this man to a bed and then send for the physician.”
“Aye, my lady.” A mature woman with a gray braid beneath a barbet and headband stepped forward. She moved quickly, choosing two of the men to help carry Mr. Adams away.
Braya had to hope and pray they wouldn’t hurt him. But…some of them were Scots.
“Thank you.” Braya thought it more prudent to be nice than to fight. She would have no chance against so many. Where the hell was Torin? First he had disappeared, now Mr. Adams was gone. She was alone. She was no fool—besides, she didn’t want to fight with a pregnant woman. “I am very sorry about Lady Rothbury,” she said while the beautiful woman sniffed and wiped her teary eyes. “Was she a friend of yours?”
“She was my very best friend.”
Braya couldn’t imagine the horror. She wiped her eyes as well.
“I am sorry you were treated so poorly here,” the dark-haired woman said. “We have all suffered a great lose. You must forgive our terrible manners.”
“Of course.” Braya stepped forward, wanting to comfort her. “I am Miss Braya Hetherington of Carlisle.”
“Braya!” Torin’s voice tore through the great hall as he entered with the priest and two other men. One of them was the plaid-wearing Highlander, who ran to his wife to make certain she hadn’t been harmed. The other looked almost exactly like him with shorter, curlier hair and a squarer, dimpled jaw. Their eyes were the same color, deep blue and silver, with brows that dipped lower in the center and flowed naturally upward at the outer corners—much like Torin’s. He was also dressed in a plaid, but underneath he wore a blue coat and black pants with shiny boots.
The three of them were more handsome than all the men Braya had ever seen in her life. The Highlander slanted his mouth at her in a curious fashion that made her look at Torin. He smiled as well! The only one not smiling was the Highlander’s neater, less amused twin, though on closer inspection, he appeared a little younger.
Braya was so happy to see Torin she didn’t care who was smiling. She forgot everyone else and ran into his arms. “I did not know where they had taken you,” she cried, crushed against him. “I did not know if they had killed you.”
“Why would we kill him?” the brutish Highlander asked her.
“I do not know,” she retorted, lifting her head from Torin’s warm chest. “Why would you practically break my friend’s back?”
“He attacked me,” the savage defended.
“I attacked you,” Braya argued softly, “and you did not try to break my back. Although I will admit, I thought you had broken my wrist when you swept around me.”
“What is this?” the Highlander’s wife gaped at her. “You attacked him?”
Braya didn’t care if this woman was six months into pregnancy, part of her was afraid. “He attacked us first,” she defended, hoping it was enough.
The Highlander’s wife smiled at her and then turned to her husband and gave his arm a hard pinch. He writhed and glowered at his wife, then clamped his jaw to hold back his anger.
“How could you let someone who attacked you into Lismoor, unaccompanied straight through this hall, where your wife sat grieving, too unwell to even care for your own son for overlong?”
Though her voice rose from a murmured growl to a fevered snarl, her husband didn’t back down. “They were not unaccompanied. Amish and Father Timothy were with them.”
“Amish has been stabbed in the leg and Father Timothy ran to find you.” She turned to the priest. “Thank you, by the way, Father.”
The priest smiled, forgiving her instantly.
“Adams?” Torin plunged ahead, letting her go.
“I had him taken to a room to be looked after,” said the raven-haired beauty, stopping him. “I will have you taken to him after one of you tells me what is going on.”
“My beloved wife, Aleysia,” the Highlander said, back to smiling.
Torin had already backed up, taking Braya with him. Now, he tried to shove Braya behind him.
She held her ground and turned to him. “Go on. Introduce me.”
Torin laughed and suddenly reminded her of a predator that had just discovered its prey. He introduced her to the Highlander, Commander Cainnech MacPherson.
Commander MacPherson tilted his head at her and smiled. “Ye will tell me later how ye managed to stab my commander. There is only one other warrior besides me who can take down Amish, and that is my wife.” He turned and smiled at her. “I am impressed with yer skill.”
She swallowed and her eyes instinctively went to Torin. He winked at her. He understood what it meant to her to have her skill be acknowledged by a man—a warrior. He had understood from the first moment they were in the same hall together and the warden had ignored her presence. He knew what it meant to her to have her father praise her for helping to save her family against the Armstrongs.
She smiled at him then spread it to the commander. “Thank you, my lord.”
“The Earl of Rothbury,” Torin continued with the introduction. “Nicholas MacPherson, Cainnech’s brother.”
“Nicholas MacPherson?” Braya asked, confused. “I thought William Stone was the earl.”
“He is,” said Rothbury. “I am.” He smiled slightly and began to start over, but Aleysia, the Highlander’s wife, stopped him.
“Why have you intruded on this family at this difficult time?” she asked Torin matter-of-factly.
Braya looked away. None of them had known of the tragedy that had befallen the earl, or Lismoor. She felt terrible for being here and for fighting Lismoor’s men.
“I need the earl’s help with matters regarding Scotland,” Torin told Aleysia.
She stared at him, studying him, and if Torin was lying, he would have succumbed to her scrutiny, Braya was sure of it.
“These matters are so urgent that you—”
Commander MacPherson leaned in and said something low in his wife’s ear. She remained still for a moment and then, just like that, sighed and threw up her hands. “Never mind any of it. I just want to see my son. Cainnech, take me to him, please. Edith,” she called out to another maid, “take Miss Hetherington to one of the empty rooms above stairs so she can rest after her journey. Sir Torin.” She paused for just a moment, as if something caught in her throat when she looked at him. “Father Timothy will find you a room in the keep. If…you are staying, something more can be arranged. Or you may want to come to—”
“Come, my love,” he said to his now docile wife. “I think I hear Tristan cryin’.”
He ushered her away and another woman stood in Aleysia’s place. “I am Edith. Come with me.”
“I will come for you shortly,” Torin told her. “We will check on Adams after that, aye.”
“Where are you going now?” She let him go and frowned at him.
“I have a few more things to see to with the earl.” He moved in closer and dipped his mouth to her ear. “He lost his wife this morn.”
She looked toward the earl and her heart broke again for him. He had a babe now. Did he know how to be a father? “My deepest sympathy, my lord,” she offered gently. “’Tis good to spend time with a friend.”
He and Torin had known each other. Rothbury probably enjoyed seeing his old friend again. She wondered what it was exactly that Torin had done in his service. She would remember to ask Torin later. For now, she hated leaving him.
When he reached for her hand, she let him take it and watched, smiling like a dreamy fool, as he kissed her knuckles.
“I will return to you,” he promised, straightening. “You and Adams are safe here.”
She nodded. Even after she stabbed Amish? Well, time would tell. She would be ready for any kind of attack.
She watched Torin leave with the earl and the priest, then followed Edith out of the great hall through a different entrance by which she’d entered the first time. She descended three stone steps to a web of corridors and two other stone stairways. They took one that led to some smaller rooms, which were castles compared to her small corner of the hall at home. Her bed was built for a queen, with four heavy wood posters and colorful coverings atop a feather mattress as plush as clouds. She fell into it with a sigh of sheer delight. Her straw mattress wasn’t bad and it was always fresh, but this—this was heavenly.
Oh, she could sleep here for days. In fact, she could sleep here now. Edith said a few things about…she didn’t remember. She wanted to refresh herself before seeing Torin, but she couldn’t bring herself to rise from the bed—and she didn’t ask Edith for help. She hadn’t slept since she was kidnapped, and after sleeping, or trying to sleep, on the cold hard ground of the forest last night, she fell into a deep slumber, the kind a body needed to relax. She dreamed of an army of Scots thundering across the fields, breaching a castle that was neither Lismoor nor Carlisle. One turned on his horse, his curls blowing across his face, his plaid snapping behind him in the wind like a pennant. He held an axe high over his head and brought it down when he saw her. It was Torin.
Torin let a nurse hand him a wee babe swaddled in white wool with black stripes. He held his nephew, Elias MacPherson, gently while tears filled his eyes that such a tiny being didn’t have his mother. This was his family. What he’d hoped and prayed for his whole life.
“He is so small,” he remarked and smiled at his brother. “He looks like you.”
“Aye. Mattie was…was…” His voice broke on a sob and Torin waited while his brother gathered himself again. “She was very blonde. Very beautiful.”
Elias’ nurse returned and took him from Torin’s arms. Nicholas did not hold him. Torin wanted to ask him what he would do now, but it was too soon for Nicholas to know and he shouldn’t be rushed.
