Page 7 of Highlander’s Lust

3

Better Than His Father

Charlie knew he could always depend on his friend to be found at the village tavern. Gavin MacTavish was a notorious womanizer and drunk, and not many days would pass without the two men riding into Carnachscallie Village for a few days of carousing and wenching.

They were always assured of a warm welcome from the innkeeper and his serving wenches. The bedchambers upstairs were kept in a reasonably serviceable condition, and not many hours would pass before one or the other of the two men would stagger upstairs with a giggling maidservant in tow.

This pastime suited Charlie and Gavin admirably. They did not have to dress up or play the nobleman; their slovenly attire was disregarded so long as the pockets of their coats jingled with gold.

Gavin was the son of a local landowner, Chieftain MacTavish. The two men had grown up together; playing together in the castle courtyard and attending all the important events in the castle as young boys.

With Laird Ramsay reluctant to hand over the reins of control to his son, preferring Sorley to handle all the administration running such a large estate entailed, Charlie—easily bored as always—had sought out stimulation from other quarters. In this way, he became a lethal swordsman and even deadlier shot with the bow and arrow. And, of course, his dalliances with women grew alongside his skill with weapons.

After leaving Sorley to deal with the merchant, Charlie rode into Carnachscallie. As he knew he would, he found Gavin sitting in the alehouse, drinking wine and playing a desultory game of cribbage with a serving wench.

“How now?” his friend said when he saw Charlie striding in, “I ken ye would no’ find mourning yer faither entertaining enough to keep ye up at the castle for long. What brings ye forth?”

Charlie shrugged and signaled to the serving wench to bring him ale. “Truth to tell, Gav, I’m strugglin’ to remember the auld knave with any fondness at all. He was a thrawn auld busterd at the best of times and a surly wretch at the worst. For the life o’ me, I cannae understand why he found it better to continue using his cousin, Sorley, as steward when he had his only son and heir sitting right there, pining away for something to do!”

Gavin chuckled. “Aye, he was a hard man to fathom, that’s for sure. P’raps it was his loneliness after yer mither, Lady Brisbane, passed away that forced him to pursue that path in life.” Here, Gavin raised his glass in a toast. “But for that, we must be grateful! Why complain? ‘Tis pleasant enough to spend the day in raillery and japes, no’ to mention the never-ending supply of wenches with which our fine host enjoys to keep us in.” Gavin tilted his head in the innkeeper’s direction. “I say this: keep yer cousin, Sorley, as steward for now. ‘Twill give ye time to get a feel for yer new position as laird.”

Charlie stared down at his empty glass, but his mind was many miles away. He was remembering the countless times he would come here to the tavern with his father when he was but a young lad.

Maybe Laird Ramsay had felt threatened by how closely Charlie resembled his late mother, or maybe it was because the serving girls were paying close attention to the youthful Brisbane heir. Even at the age of five and ten years old, the young Charlie Brisbane showed signs of becoming every bit as beautiful as his mother had been. He was already half a foot taller than his father, and his physique had been honed to sculpted perfection by the hours of combat training he loved to do with the Brisbane castle soldiers. Skilled in both bow and sword, Charlie was the embodiment of every father’s dream—every father except for Laird Ramsay, of course. He saw Charlie as a rival, not someone of whom he could be proud.

Ramsay had cuffed his son over the head and shouted at him, “Ye think ye can take me on at me own game then, do ye?” The old laird had beckoned the barkeeper over with one imperious hand, indicating for the man to pour his son a drink. “There! Toss that off; there’s plenty more to follow. And when ye have a bellyful of whisky inside ye, let’s see how well ye do in the bedchamber!”

And true to his word, the laird had proceeded to get his son reeling drunk and then sent him upstairs with a woman three times the boy’s age. Charlie could not remember if it were the whisky that made him violently ill or the sight of the old bawd who was trying to seduce him into undressing.

His father must have been listening behind the door because when he heard the sound of Charlie heaving and retching, he had kicked the bedchamber door open, laughing fit to burst.

“Ye’re going to have to toughen up if ye want to be a goodly laird like yer faither, boy! Ha! Ye cannae even hold yer liquor, let alone make this lovely lady happy! Begone wi’ ye downstairs and let a real man finish the work ye dinnae have the stomach for!”

“Charlie?” Gavin’s voice snapped Laird Brisbane back to the present. He gave himself a shake and smiled at his friend. “A thousand pardons, Gav, I was wool-gathering. Maybe ye’re right. I will keep Sorley as me steward for now.” Charlie suddenly remembered something Sorley said to him that was sure to make his friend laugh.

“Ye’ll never guess what Sorley screamed at me afore I had time to make me escape from all the funeral preparations. He said I should beware of followin’ in me faither’s footsteps and instead marry and settle down.”

Gavin, who had been drinking ale when Charlie said this, snorted so hard he nearly choked. After a lot of coughing and far more laughing, Gavin commented, “Ye will never find a woman to marry ye, Charles. Ye are too notorious a womanizer and drunk for any mither to let their daughter near ye!”

Laird Brisbane shrugged. “What do I care? Any woman would be lucky to have me. I’m laird, I’m rich, I’m lethal in battle, and no woman has ever turned me down. I’m just the way me faither designed me to be. And as for a wife: I will never marry any lass...no’ unless she be the most beautiful woman in all o’ Scotland. Me mither was an acknowledged beauty, and I plan on being better than my faither in every way.”

As if to emphasize his bragging, Laird Brisbane crooked his finger for one of the serving wenches to come toward him, whispered in her ear, and then followed the woman up to her bedchamber.

“Who is that?” Jean asked her father.

The banquet hall was thronged with hundreds of people. Every laird, chieftain, highborn lady, and Highland dignitary for miles around had made the journey to Brisbane Castle to attend the old laird’s wake. The assembly was a glittering one. It was seen as a chance for every person of note to show off their finery. The thickly woven plaids were adorned with bejeweled buckles, and every kirtle showed lace petticoats made of the finest French silk underneath. Lachlan had taken Lady Kirsty Macanroy up to their assigned bedchambers and suites, as the poor lady was feeling the aftereffects of traveling fifty leagues in a rocking coach over rutted tracks. But Jean felt well enough and insisted on accompanying her father to the welcome feast.

Callum, Laird Macanroy, felt his daughter clutching at his coat sleeve and looked around to see who she was indicating.

He saw a tall, rivetingly handsome man walking down between the benches. His dark head was leaning to one side, and he seemed to be laughing at something another young man beside him was saying. Hardly the conduct of someone who had gathered everyone together for a wake! And yet, the man’s insignia was proof enough of his status.

“That, dearest daughter,” Callum said grimly, “is our genial host, the new Laird Brisbane.”

He did not wait to see how Jean received this information. He pulled his daughter down onto the bench, shielding her from the man’s view. Callum had not been at Brisbane Castle for long and already he was hearing jokes about how the new Laird Brisbane planned on following in the old Laird Brisbane’s footsteps. Even though Laird Callum Macanroy would be the first man to hold up his hand to admit he was an inordinately proud and doting father, he was not so blind as to not recognize that other men found Jean undeniably fascinating.

It was her height, the set of her shoulders, skin so pale her veins tracked like blue threads through marble. When she wore her hair down, as maidens were encouraged to do in those days to prove their virginal station, men would bend to catch the silken auburn strands which wafted past them as she walked by, holding the hair within their fingers for a brief moment, hoping against hope she would turn and favor them with a loving look. But all Jean was ever apt to do was to peek at the man over her shoulder and continue walking without so much as another backward glance. All the man would be able to do was watch as the strand of hair fell out of his hand, only to continue blowing in the air, following in Jean’s wake. She was not hard-hearted, she was just totally unmoved.

Sonnets were written and delivered. Messengers would arrive bearing gifts, jewels, and declarations of ardent love and desire. But it was not enough to turn Jean’s favor toward the donor.