Page 9 of Highlander’s Heart

And that, he couldn’t tell them, either.

“Where’s Father?” he said finally, silencing everyone.

Their faces turned somber, and a bad feeling coiled in the pit of his stomach.

“Uncle Duncan is unwell,” Craig said. “He’s resting now. ’Tis good ye came.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Ian asked. He hadn’t been able to get much information about his father’s condition in Loch Awe.

“We dinna ken. But Ellair, the healer, doesna think he has much time left.”

An iron knot formed in Ian’s throat. “Take me to him,” he said.

“Aye,” Craig said.

They walked out of the great hall and went to the biggest tower on the northwestern corner. Up the circular stairs, they came to the second floor and stopped at the entrance to the lord’s bedchamber. Craig explained, it now belonged to Kenneth MacKenzie, who was appointed castle constable because Craig had resigned from the position. He wanted to be with his pregnant wife as much as possible. She was now back in the safety of their home.

Kenneth MacKenzie had given his chamber to the dying man to make him comfortable.

“I will leave ye with him,” Craig said on the stairs. “Have yer time with him. I’ll be in the great hall.”

“Aye.”

Ian opened the door and stiffened, noting a small, thin figure lying in bed under the blankets. As long as he could remember, his father had always been a powerful man and a warrior. But his whole life, he’d grieved the loss of Ian’s mother who had died in childbirth. Ian always wondered if Father had secretly blamed him for the death of the love of his life. They’d never been close. Ian had been raised in his uncle Dougal’s house together with Craig, Marjorie, Domhnall, Lena, and Owen. They were more than cousins, more like real brothers and sisters to Ian.

With his father, there had always been this distance. And now, it seemed, they were almost out of time to change that.

On weak legs, Ian approached the bed, studying his father with wide eyes. His hair was now yellowish-white, not light red like before. Deep wrinkles covered his pale, weathered skin. Dark circles around his eyes were hollow. He looked more like a skeleton than the man Ian used to know.

Sharp pain shot through his gut, and his whole body went numb as he sank to his knees by the bed. He swallowed to relieve the aching tension in his throat.

“Father,” he said.

The man opened his eyes. The whites were yellow, the brown irises dull gray. He glanced around, then focused on Ian. He frowned a little.

“Ye look like my son,” he croaked. “Who are ye?”

Ian felt his throat work, his jaws tightening. “’Tis I, Ian. I came back.”

“Ye came back for me? Will ye take me to my Mariot with ye?”

Ian shook his head. “I’m alive, Father. I wasna dead. I could finally come home.”

Duncan exhaled softly and closed his eyes. “I thought ye were dead. I thought I’d lost everyone I loved.”

Ian’s heart weighed heavily. He’d never heard those words from his father. If Duncan knew what Ian had done to survive, he’d never repeat them again.

“What happened to ye, Ian?” Duncan asked.

Ian repeated the same story, and Father’s eyes closed mournfully.

“A slave… They didna break yer spirit, though, eh, lad?”

Ian looked down, swallowing the pain and humiliation.

“Nae,” he said. “I wouldna be yer son if they did.”

Duncan lifted his hand from under the blanket. Ian squeezed it. It was the hand of an old man—boney and covered with age spots.