Secrets Of A Highland Warrior. Nicole Locke

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      Ailsa tightened her jaw and kept her words to herself. If Hamish’s health was in further decline, more decisions would be made by her father. The issue, of course, was even at the height of Hamish’s power, her father never saw eye to eye with their Chief. In the past, there were arguments, but to keep the loyalties strong, her father always yielded to the clan Chief...as he should.

      Since Hamish didn’t have the strength for all decision making, the clan would lean more on her father, whether Hamish wanted it or not.

      There should be no others when it came to the rule of McCrieffs. Everyone should be behind her father, who was a fair man. The Tanist vote and shared ruling was unanimous. It was rare and, to keep McCrieffs strong, to everyone outside the clan it was unknown, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t the right course for her clan. Hamish couldn’t be expected to rule as he once had. However, Hamish had lived long and had spread his venom deep. There were rumours that others were loyal to only him. It incensed her. Her father had every right by blood and sword to rule the McCrieffs and rule them justly. Yet, as long as Hamish lived, Hamish still kept his power and her father was forced to keep the balance.

      And she was forced to keep Hamish alive. When Hamish died, her father would face adversity no other McCrieff had ever faced before: To mend a divided Clan. Her father was a warrior, not a negotiator.

      However, Hamish’s decreasing strength could change the stalemate—

      The outside door burst open and both swung their gaze towards the messenger who bent over his knees to catch his breath. ‘Lochmores are here,’ he panted.

      Ailsa’s entire body seized. Their enemy was on their land. How could this have happened without her father being at the forefront of the fight? ‘Father, what is—?’

      Frederick kept his gaze on the young man before him. ‘How far?’

      ‘Just outside the village.’

      ‘Again!’ Ailsa gasped and Frederick laid a hand on her arm.

      The Lochmores were on McCrieff land. It was too soon since the last time. The bodies were still raw in the graves and they were here this soon again? Never!

      Lochmores attacking again and this time their clan was divided. They were weak. Is that why they struck? While she’d been tending a dying man, already her clan were dying defending their land.

      Ailsa wrenched her arm free of her father’s restraint. ‘They’ve never returned this soon before. Why now?’

      ‘And the people?’ Frederick asked the messenger.

      ‘Holding steady.’

      For how long? As Tanist and warrior her father would want to be part of that battle. As Clan healer it would be her duty to attend those in need. ‘My pouches are full and ready, I need to only go to my room.’

      ‘No,’ her father commanded. His expression was not one she’d seen before. The warrior, the father and leader were there, but a flash of something else exposed itself to her. A look she’d never seen before and it took her aback. That vulnerability was of a man facing something far stronger than himself.

      ‘Whatever happens here today, stay hidden until I say otherwise.’

      ‘Stay hidden while people die?’ The last time there had been an attack was mere months ago and he’d let her tend the injured. Two McCrieffs had died. The time before that, she’d been a mere child. Too young to comprehend what she saw, but old enough to remember her friend, Magnus, charging towards the oncoming Lochmores. Too small to make a difference and far too inconsequential to be seen. The horse’s hooves cut his life down immediately. ‘You can’t expect me to sit still. I can’t!’

      ‘There will be no deaths today, not by my hand or decree. If it was my will, all would be spared. Except...’

      ‘Except?’ She seemed only to think and speak in questions now. Stupid. Ineffectual. Useless. Even her emotions were weak. She knew that all too well. Magnus had been all smiles and then violently nothing but blood and crushed bone. The Lochmores were no longer just some clan hated by the McCrieffs. She hated them, too. But then... Ailsa shook her thoughts away. There should be no but then... ‘There are no exceptions! If the Lochmores are here, then I am needed.’

      ‘You have twenty years, my Ailsa, my daughter, and I’m a selfish man—if I could keep you for longer I would.’

      ‘I’ll stay safe. I have and can again.’

      ‘I’ll keep you safe...until I can’t any more.’

      ‘Father?’ Did he mean to sacrifice himself? No. To sacrifice himself was one matter, but he was Tanist and he’d be sacrificing his clan, his life, the life of his ancestors.

      ‘Stay hidden, Ailsa, until I call for you. That is my only wish and desire as a father, but if that won’t do this time, I order you to. Do you understand?’

      An order. Aware the messenger was rapt with every gesture and word, Ailsa held still. She would question her father, but never the clan’s leader. When she nodded, her father swept out of the room with the messenger following.

      Exhaling the breath she held, Ailsa thought only a moment about what she would do. Quietly, she stepped into Hamish’s room. He was mostly awake, so she waved Mary over to her to whisper what was happening. Told her to stay with Hamish and care for him. Mary glanced at Hamish, but agreed.

      With that done, Ailsa left the room. She’d keep her silence in front of others, but to stay hidden wasn’t an order she’d obey from her Tanist or her father. Their enemy was on McCrieff land. Blood had or would be spilled. A true healer was neither daughter nor clan member. She would heal.

      * * *

      The battle armour Rory wore weighed heavily on him as he travelled further on to McCrieff territory. Paiden rode by his side, watching his back, and the rest of the men stayed evenly spaced behind them.

      They were as silent as a troop of Highland warriors could be. Only he, because of his armour, made sounds unlike the others. The sound and the burden chafed the further they travelled on McCrieff land. Rory rolled his shoulders, but it gave no relief in the tightness of his gambeson over his tunic, nor did it ease the weight of the chainmail of his hauberk. None of the others wore armour. Their shields and swords were enough for any true Highland battle.

      An hour, maybe two, travelling like this and he felt as tense as a burdened deer being hunted. A weighted deer was a slow one.

      What he wouldn’t give for flinging both shield and sword in the air and crying out for war. This hiding game of the McCrieffs wore thin. Mere months ago, when Edward granted McCrieff land to Lochmores there’d been a clash of swords. Small, significant...unsanctioned. The border of their land was always patrolled. Some Lochmores, gloating over what they perceived as a victory, had raced over to McCrieff land. It was a small battle unknown until too late by their Chief and the men had been well punished. More so since blood was shed. Two McCrieffs had died and one Lochmore.

      That had been nothing more or less than it’d been for generations until this very moment. His sword arm ached with the need to swing. To feel the rough reverberation of metal against metal. Instead, they rode through empty fields until they saw the village surrounding the motte and bailey with a centre keep.

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