Part 1 (1/2)
Highland Barbarian.
By: Ruth Langan.
Chapter One
Scotland 15611 he line of mourners stretched as far as the eye could see. The men, women and children of the MacAlpin clan waited patiently to pay their respects to their fallen laird, Alastair MacAlpin. Dressed in simple peasant garments of rough wool, their hands callused from lifetimes of hard labor, they had left their fields and herds and trudged for miles to the manor house of their chief.
Seventeen-year-old Meredith, his eldest daughter, sat beside his body to greet her people. Her thick dark hair, the color of mahogany, had been brushed into silken waves that fell to her waist. Her green eyes occasionally misted with tears that were quickly blinked away.
Beside her sat the younger ones, sixteen-year-old Brenna, with hair the color of a raven's wing and eyes that rivaled the heather that bloomed on the hill, and fourteen-year-old Megan, whose copper hair and gold-flecked eyes gave her a glowing radiance that shamed even the sun.
Though it was Brenna's nature to be serene in the eye of the storm, it was the first time Meredith had ever known her youngest sister, Megan, to be so subdued.
One by one the people paused to offer their condolences and to pledge their loyalty to Meredith, the new clan chieftain.
”You had a fine teacher, la.s.s.” The gnarled old man, Duncan MacAlpin, wiped a tear from the corner of his eye and placed a bony hand on the girl's shoulder.
”You've learned your lessons well. You'll do the MacAlpin proud.”
”Thank you, Duncan.” Meredith steeled herself against the pain. There would be no public display of weakness. What her people, and especially her younger sisters, needed to see now was strength, dignity, hope. Later, when she was alone with her grief, she would give in to the overwhelming need to weep.
The clatter of horses' hooves sent the chickens squawking and clucking in the courtyard. The door to the manor house was opened to admit Gareth MacKenzie and a dozen of his men. The MacKenzie land adjoined the MacAlpin land to the north, then stretched for miles until it met the river Tweed.
”My condolences. Lady Meredith.” Gareth MacKenzie bent low over her hand, then turned to study the still form of the MacAlpin.
”You know, of course, who murdered your father?”
”Aye. Cowards. Highwaymen who struck under cover of darkness and hid behind masks. Duncan here said there were more than a dozen.”
”You saw them?” Gareth turned a piercing gaze on the withered old man.
”I was bringing Mary back from a birthing at our nephew's farm. By the time I realized what was happening, they were gone. And the MacAlpin was drenched in his own blood.” The old man choked back a sob before adding,
”Mary and I brought him here in our wagon. But even my Mary's medicines could not save him.”
”Did you get a good look at any of their horses?” Gareth hand hovered inches above his sword, and Meredith was touched by the vehemence in his tone. Though their lands had been adjoining for generations, she had never before been witness to Gareth's concern for her father's welfare.
”Nay.” The old man's voice broke.
”It was too dark, and my eyes are growing dim. But my arms are still strong enough to wield a broadsword with the best of them. A few minutes sooner and the MacAlpin would still be alive.” He touched a hand to Meredith's shoulder and added softly, ”Or I'd have died alongside him where I've always been.”
”Don't dwell on it, Duncan.” Meredith stood and wrapped her arms around the man who had been her father's right hand since they were lads.
”You and Mary did all you could.”
”Those were no highwaymen,” Gareth said in a voice loud enough for all to hear.
A murmur went up among the crowd.
”What are you saying?” Meredith turned to study him while keeping an arm around Duncan's shoulders.