Page 4 of Highlander’s Haunted Past

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Rob Fraser loathed spending his days indoors. Though the sky was full of dark gray clouds, surely about to unleash a downfall of cold and heavy rain, he would have much preferred a day out riding or practicing in the yard with his men than sitting through a wedding feast. Especially this wedding feast.

The week had started so well. His father had rallied him for a fight, and he had practically skipped to Inverness Castle in eagerness. But the fight had been nonexistent, and now he found himself about to be wed to the daughter of a man who couldn’t even host a proper siege.

At least his men were pleased. They were having a right fine time with all of this, which had been made perfectly clear that morning when they had found him in his tent and swept him up into their drunken march to the chapel. Some had even prepared little performances, lewdly explaining to him how to bed a woman. As if he didn’t already know.

A few stragglers from his own clan and Clan Munro slowly filled the chapel behind him, each stumbling a little worse than the last. The Queen’s entire camp had been practically swimming in liquor since Alexander Gordon had surrendered. He may not have been able to defend a castle, but the man had certainly known a thing or two about stocking the wine and ale stores. The invaders had been drinking away the plunders from dawn till dusk, determined to leave the castle dry when the Queen set them on the road to Aberdeen. A wedding feast was but another excuse for a top off.

The result of a group of drunken Highlanders all shoved into a chapel was pure chaos. A hundred voices were layered one on top of the other, each trying to make theirs stand out above the rest. Momentary silence was granted only upon the entrance of the Earl of Sutherland, a plump man who only lifted a sword when faced with a particularly tough cut of meat, and his father, the Chief of the Frasers of Lovat, accompanied closely by his younger brother.

His father was a good man, well deserving of the respect men bestowed upon him. Quick to laugh and even quicker to protect his clan, few people could list a single fault. Today, Rob could think of at least fifty.

“Ye look clean,” his father teased after greeting the rest of the lairds present. “I would have married ye off far sooner if it got ye to take a bath.”

Rob glowered at him. He could never be truly angry with his father, who had been a hero to him since the day he was born, but this was as close as he had ever come. His father always spoke platitudes about how his family was more important to him than the clan, but those words had fallen flat in front of the Queen. All it had taken was a hint that she might smile her favor down upon Clan Fraser and his father had agreed to sacrifice his eldest son’s beloved bachelor status at God’s altar.

“Cheer up. A wife is far cheaper than a whore.”

“Depends on the wife. And the whore.”

“Aye, well, ye know the cost of the latter better than I.”

Most of the Gordons in Inverness Castle had fled when the noose tightened around the castle’s governor, Alexander Gordon. Those who had remained now slipped into the chapel, seating themselves as far away from the invaders as possible, their eyes meekly searching for allies and foes alike.

“Hugh, perchance ye wish to be up here instead of I?” Rob asked his brother, who was standing idly to the side of the altar.

“Nay, I am afraid I canna help ye with this matter twice.”

Rob grunted, while his father and brother laughed. Roughly one year prior, he supposed it was now nearly to the day, Rob had been set to wed a young Fraser lass, a distant cousin of sorts whose father was owed a generous gift in exchange for his service to the clan. He hadn’t wanted the marriage, and it seemed she hadn’t either—at least with him. When she was found to be with child only a couple of days before the wedding was to take place, Hugh was quick to take responsibility, and the pair were wed the very next morn without a feast or celebration to mark the occasion.

His father was furious, but Rob had been so happy that he showered the couple with gifts. He thought that it was fate smiling down upon him, saving him from a life he did not wish for—but it had apparently just been biding its time, waiting for a different lass to come along.

The doors to the chapel were swiftly and suddenly thrown all the way open, and the crowd fell to a dead silence. Surrounded by guards and well-dressed ladies came the Queen, awe and reverence from each man rippling out from her wake. Rob had never seen a gown as fine as hers, and he thought to himself that it took a brave woman to carry something so expensive through hostile lands. The rich purple fabric was weighed down heavily with pearls, sapphires, and rubies, and layers upon layers of lace as white as fresh snow cascaded out from the sleeves. Her face was passive, but the glint of pride in her eyes revealed the gown’s true purpose: to remind them all just how low they were in comparison to her.

One of Alexander Gordon’s sons entered next, a young and frail girl on his arm. Bonny as she was with her dark hair and startling blue eyes, Rob couldn’t help but feel a bit disappointed. She was as thin as a blade of grass and nearly as pale as a summer cloud. He had dared to hope that the wife he was saddled with would at least be able to ride up and down the Highland hills with him, keeping him from returning to old habits, but this lass would break under the weight of his thumb.

But the Gordon boy walked the girl to a pew behind the Queen, and she sat. A younger sister, Rob understood, just as he looked up to see the second brother with a second girl on his arm come striding into the chapel. The world seemed to tilt under her feet, drawing every eye to her raven black curls and porcelain-white skin. The only mar to her features was a bruise on her cheek, which was nearly as black as the sash she wore across the faded blue dress that seemed to be one size too small, as it lewdly hugged her body, emphasizing each curve and valley. Like her sister, her blue eyes were the color of the ocean and seemed to share its depths.

Rob felt the world begin to sway and comprehended that he had been holding his breath. It caught him off guard, and he absently moved his hand to the sword on his belt, a needed weapon before such a woman. His father must have noticed, for Rob swore he heard a light chuckle coming from the old bastard.

She held tightly to her brother all the way up to the altar, but Rob swore he saw her give him a quick pinch before unceremoniously dropping his arm as soon as she could. Up close, she was even more beautiful, with cheeks rosy from sunshine and scattered with delicate freckles. They knelt together before the priest and Rob did his best to look forward instead of staring, embarrassingly, at his bride. The priest began to babble, carrying on about the importance of loyalty and obeying one’s vows during such trying times. He had to give the priest credit for knowing his audience well, but he wished the man would hurry it up. Rob wasn’t always so impatient, but he was ready to throw the lass over his shoulder and run off with her, wedding be damned. If she had met any of his sidelong glances, he might have just done it, but she sat there rigidly, staring absently ahead.

Before he knew it, he was rising and taking her hands in his. They were soft, as expected of a lady in her rank, but they were colder than the ice that spread itself across the loch at winter. She was nervous, he supposed. Perhaps that was why she wouldn’t meet his eye, even as Rob recited his vows, relishing the first time he said her name.

Kenna.

Kenna, it would seem, was not a mute. When it was her turn to speak, her voice was clear and strong, each utterance was a demonstration of her noble rank and, perhaps, a bit of an education. At least he was reassured that the Gordons hadn’t just shoved some servant lass into a lady’s old dress as some sort of joke to prompt laughter for generations to come. Though, as he watched her bite her lip as she finished her vows, he knew he wouldn’t have cared if she was a queen or a peasant; this woman would be his and his alone until death finally caught up with him.

Rob was more than happy to oblige when the priest called for a kiss to seal the marriage. He wanted to bury himself in her, memorize the feel of those full pink lips against his. However, as he leaned closer to her, a wave of a warrior’s intuition washed over him, for her fear was palpable in the air between them. For all he knew, Kenna Gordon was coming to him a perfect maid, this kiss her very first. A lass like that wouldn’t be won with eagerness, so he threw the chains down upon the urges roaring inside of him and gave her the lightest, chastest of kisses, barely more than the obligatory peck he usually gave his grandmother, who smelled like cheese left in the sun for too long. It was not a kiss worthy of her, but he had all night to tempt her into unleashing him, so he might show her what he was truly capable of.

Queen Mary greeted them first, giving them both an all-knowing smile as she spoke her congratulations, promising a lovely gift when they returned to court. At this, Kenna had stiffened beside him, and he wondered what she imagined that gift to be. A knife in the back, perhaps? Slowly but surely, they rode the wave of wedding guests to the Great Hall, where the tables were heaped with hot bread, meats, and vegetables roasted with large lumps of butter and herbs. The wine and ale flowed freely, as did the roll of laughter and merriment.

The bubble of celebration did not reach the head table, however, where the bride and groom sat in silence throughout the feast. Rob made a few small attempts to coax his bride into speaking but to little avail.

As it turned out, she was capable of carrying a conversation using only a shake of her head or a small nod and smile that she seemed to think said, “Indeed, please continue with this wonderful story,” but that Rob understood to mean, “Why will this man not leave me alone?”

He had always considered himself a handsome man. Other women had certainly never complained. Some had even actively pursued him, and they, too, had been lovely girls born into the right families. They had told him how they loved his strong jaw and bright green eyes as they ran their hands along the muscles on his stomach. But this one seemed more eager to play with the many pins in her hair than to look upon the face that she had just vowed to honor and cherish before God and the Queen. Frustration boiled hotly in his stomach, only flaming higher with each course and glass of ale. Many women drove him mad by doing too much, but this was the first who had driven him mad by doing nothing at all. A powerful wench, indeed.