The Laird's Right Read online

  THE LAIRD’S RIGHT

  Mageela Troche

  Historical Romance

  Sweet Cravings Publishing

  www.sweetcravingspublishing.com

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  A Sweet Cravings Publishing Book

  Mainstream Romance

  The Laird’s Right

  Copyright © 2014 Mageela Troche

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-63105-108-1

  First E-book Publication: February 2014

  Cover design by Dawné Dominique

  Edited by Susan Toth

  Proofread by Stephanie Kinne

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  Dedication

  For my brother, who has always been my hero. I love you.

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  THE LAIRD’S RIGHT

  Mageela Troche

  Copyright © 2014

  Chapter One

  Edinburgh, Scotland, 1259

  Alec hated Edinbur

  gh. He hated the castle and the machinations occurring in the walls. He’d rather pick up his sword than play courtier. He hated the long road along the crag. He hated that King Alexander III ordered the Clan Chattan from the land. He hated that Laird MacKintosh planned to feud for it. Clan Cameron would not crumble under them. His father would have machinated to get that charter. Alec had other plans to get what he wanted and increase the power of Clan Cameron.

  The journey from Lochaber to Edinburgh wasted his time. Time he could have used to war against Clan Chattan, steal their cattle, burn some cottars, and have a good fight. The land belonged to him—Laird Alec Cameron. The clan needed the land claim more now since the MacMartins, MacSovlies, and MacGillonies have added to Cameron’s numbers. That land would be plenty for the new members to sow a boll of oats and keep a cow maybe even two. Time had come to strengthen the clan.

  “Coming here was a mistake. We should have let MacKintosh come then attack him on his way home.” Alec knew Quinlan spoke of another reason for his desire to remain back with the clan and especially his wife.

  “Edinburgh stinks.” Quinlan scraped bloody muck from his soles and kicked aside a fish bone.

  “Nothing like animal blood, tanning leather and stale ale to clear the nostrils,” Hurley said, his tone relaxed, as he waved away a bread seller.

  “Don’t forget the crap.” Ronan clapped Quinlan on his back. Quinlan turned his hard gaze to him and earned an easy grin from Ronan.

  “I agree with Quinlan. I rather be home as well.” Alec wished to feel the soft spray of Loch Lochy blow across his face.

  “Laird Cameron,” a high-pitched male voice stammered behind him.

  Cameron turned away from the offender clamped in the jougs and the crowd shouting abuse at
him. A bare-faced boy stood behind him, a Ranald. The boy gulped as Cameron and his warriors circled him. The whites of his eyes drowned his brown eyes. His lips trembled before he said, “Laird Randal sends word that MacKintosh and his sept are plotting against your clan.” The boy spit out the rest of the message.

  Cameron nodded and thanked the boy. The boy vanished into the crowd. Alec shoved his way through the people. His attention was set on the castle dominating Edinburgh. “His numbers match our own.” Ronan drew closer to Alec.

  “I have no misgivings about cutting the bastard down. We will war soon.” There was a chance of losing the land he needed. As the new laird, Alec had to mend the bonds his father had destroyed.

  “Let’s learn more about this plan,” Hurley, his first in command, advised.

  “The voice of reason,” Quinlan sneered. “I say we kill him now.”

  “The king will not like that. Alec, listen to me—let’s use our heads. Besides, he’d demand something the Chattan chieftain might not be willing to give.”

  “That bastard wants the land and us dead,” his second in command, Quinlan, retorted through a snarl. “Kill him and weaken the MacKintosh.”

  “Quinlan, we shall but without the king’s ire. Alexander can ignore an attack in the highlands but here…we will have retributions.”

  “He means to test Alec as the new laird.” Ronan voiced Alec’s same thought, not a surprising one since they shared blood as cousins.

  Many in the highlands held the same belief as they tested Alec’s rule. His father was one who believed it more than most and proclaimed it to any who listened. As chieftain to the Camerons of Dessary, Ronan was his last family tie, the one person in Alec’s life who understood Alec in a way that his two commanders could never comprehend.

  When his father was alive, Alec spent many a night attacking the Chattan. That was where Alec’s talent lie—wielding a sword. Through the passing years, the Chattan lost their hold and most importantly, their numbers. Now the chieftain sought the protection of the Clan MacKintosh. This was Alec’s chance to deliver the final, deadly strike to rid himself of the pests.

  MacKintosh swore Alec was weak, an advantage for Alec. After, his brother, Connor's death, his father fretted the fate of the clan in Alec’s hand. Alec planned to use that preposterous notion to get the land. All he waited for was the right opportunity to strike.

  “A test I will not fail.”

  With his men at his side, he slipped in to the great hall. Courtiers crowded the space. Whispered discussions rumbled with the king’s voice dominating. MacKintosh was somewhere in the crowd. Alec left his spot from the fringes of the crowd and slipped in then halted. He breathed in the wood fire and its heat upped the warmth of his back, which added to the temperature of his simmering anger.

  MacKintosh spotted him at the moment Alec landed his gaze on him. The man grabbed his wife’s arm and dragged her from the hall. Alec waited then went after him.

  “The chieftain has been cozying up to the MacKintosh. He is a Comyn man,” Quinlan said.

  “Aye, but Comyn would not gather favor with Cameron only to betray him,” Hurley retorted. “He has plans to build his standing as well. He did kidnap the king already.” At his majesty’s orders.

  “Comyn is unimportant. MacKintosh wants to wipe out my clan,” Alec said on his way from the hall to learn of MacKintosh's plans.

  “Camerons are hated.” Alec smiled along with his men. No better compliment could be paid to a Highlander.

  Once free from the crowd, Alec headed to the right, away from the gathering seeking favor or scheming for favors to the corridors were plots were concocted. A gravelly scheming voice came from around the corner—MacKintosh. Just outside the candlelight’s reach, Alec took cover and leaned against the wall.

  “If the clan wishes to be under your protection then you must be the one with the power,” the female voice said with a slight burr an English accent washed away—Lairdess MacKintosh. “The chieftain can wed someone from the clan or we can have him wed my sister.”

  “Portia?” MacKintosh’s voice rose two notches, sounding both annoyed and excited.

  Portia.

  “Aye, she has a dowry. We can use the funds to rid ourselves of the Camerons. All that land. Her monies can pay for it all and increase our power. Most importantly, she’d be free of that man’s clutches.”

  “I like it but she won’t agree. She thinks her father will save her. Can you convince her to go along with these plans? She is stubborn.”

  “She is strong not stubborn. I don’t know if she will go along with this plot. She has no wish to marry. Even now, she escaped to Holyrood Abbey because of the English here.”

  Alec sickened. From one man’s clutches to another, thanks to the lairdess. Marriage was about connections. He had denied his father the chance to wed him to the MacGregor lass and Ailsa went from her father’s grip to MacLean’s. At least, his sister was happy now. However, the way these two played with this poor girl’s life, which sent her straight into his clutches…he knew what he had to do.

  * * * *

  Lady Portia de Mowbray bowed her head in prayer. She pressed her hands harder against her forehead. At one point in her life, she prayed for the silliest things—for the rain to disappear, or the mark on her chin to vanish, for her flat hair to hold a curl, for the priest not to find her dice. This day, she prayed to live.

  And another to die.

  The new Baron de Mowbray, to be exact.

  The man she once called brother, now the new baron, wished for her hand in marriage. The rotten flavor of hatred scorched her mouth, which was a good thing since she hadn’t possessed an appetite since that horrific time. Even now, here in Scotland, she needed to flee further away from England. She had fled Edinburgh castle and the English who had seen her. She should have remained at MacKintosh Castle away from prying English eyes that would bring tales back to her homeland. Arthur would find her and kill her. Slowly.

  Somehow, she had survived his attentions. Thankful for her elder sister, she knew Matilda would help her as she had throughout the years. She couldn’t endanger her sister and her clan. The people had been kind to her even when busy at their hard chores. Truth was Portia’s sluggish heart had dropped whenever a messenger arrived at the keep. She had stopped hiding whenever one arrived.

  If only she was free from the nightmares visiting her each night, to have a plan—one to save her life. Her nerves jumped and her skin still felt raw. Her nails had paid for her fear, as well as her stomach.

  Her life had not meant to be this way. She had been Baroness to a brave, honorable knight of the realm and a chatelaine to Fenwick Castle. She had been happy once, loved and safe. Her husband had loved her, sharing his plans and inquiring about her ideas and opinions. Sometime between hoping for children and talk of rebellion, the daily life she knew became a nightmare. Her life ripped away like a sliced tapestry. She foolishly wished for her husband to return for the dead but deep within her, she yearned for that one impossible thing, the one that would save her life. She was lost and worse, alone. A widow with monies faced a dangerous road.

  Let him die.

  She pressed her bowed head against her white knuckled hands as she squeezed tighter from the screaming need within her. Tears plummeted from her eyes and landed on her blue cote, absorbed by the luxurious fibers.

  As a woman, her standing was limited, better than most thanks to her position in life. With the barons rebelling against the king, she became lost in the power plays and any recourse she had diminished. Her father, the Earl of Mercia, had tried to protect her. With his knights servicing Simon de Monfront, he worried for her, sure the Baron would storm the castle, so he sent her to her sister and the highlands of Scotland. Now, she was in Edinburgh for a court visit. She shouldn’t have left her sister’s side but remaining at the castle strained her. Every sound made her jump, every English accent terrorized her until her head seemed ready to explode from it.

>   As so many, she sought refuge in the church, a place of solace, a safe place to be and perhaps the place for a higher help. How long she had been in prayer, she couldn’t say. The faithful had come and gone and the candles had burned half way down. Still she continued with her prayers, begging for salvation. She vowed to leave monies to the church or provide monies to feed the poor…devote her hours to prayers. She’d do all three. Anything—Anything to stay alive. What did one offer when praying for someone’s death?

  Her knees burrowed in to the church’s flagstones. Another litany of prayers and she waited for her bones to shatter or her prayers to be answered. The aroma of wood, wax and spicy incense wove around her and burrowed into her nose as the fragrance had burrowed into the stones and into the deep devotion.

  She raised her eyes to the cross as if there her answer would appear. A blonde man slithered from the arch’s shadows. His gaze bore in to her. He appeared ready to pounce on her. His plaid strained to cover his muscular frame. From this distance, he crowded the holy building. His square face was made up of stark, harsh features earned in battle. Flee, her mind screamed. She struggled to pull her eyes away from him. Her breath locked in her chest. She stiffened and trembled, waiting for him to pounce.

  Portia jumped to her feet and tore her eyes away from the hulking man. Turning away, she froze at the scrap of coming footsteps as another man materialized from the shadows on the opposite aisle. A broken nosed Highlander appeared from the arched anthrax. Half in shadow, he appeared rougher than the other. Red-gold hair shined like a tarnished halo earned from committing too many sins. Light danced around the planes of his face, twisting his features into a devilish mask.