Page 2 of A Highland Rogue to Ruin

The dark chamber came to life, distorted by flickering shadows. Bolts of linen, silks, and flaxen burlap were stacked on a shelf. More baskets of accessories, though as Brighde sifted through these, they looked dusty and unused. Hmm. There wasn’t much else…nay, in the shadows sat a trunk, covered in a drop cloth.

She pushed back the cloth, when a carved M in a distinctive script caught her eye.

Marjorie…

Her heart stopped. Then thudded. A smile flitted across her lips.

Her late sister Marjorie’s things! Brighde had always wondered what had happened to them. James had ordered them removed upon her death, for they were reminders of the sister he’d vowed to protect. Everything had been down here all along! Hidden from the world, forgotten. Memories of Marjorie were painful. Her big sister had been her best friend, and a mother figure to James, who was born upon their sire’s leman and had always been disdained and punished by hers and Marjorie’s mother, the rightful wife of the laird. It had been Brighde and Marjorie who’d looked out for wee James as a lad, and James had always been loyal to his sisters because of it.

She skimmed her fingers along the lid, finding purchase, and hoisted it up, setting the candle aside.

Linens were folded over the contents, enshrouding them like a revered burial.

Brighde drew them back. Soft pinks, deep burgundies, and blues. Marjorie’s gowns lay in neat stacks. Ribbons. Bobbles and adornments for ears and plaits. Where Brighde’s brother found great pain in remembering Marjorie, Brighde found great joy. To discover the chest with her belongings in it was like finding a treasure trove, and to feel connection again to her sister was priceless.

She lifted aside the gowns. Marjorie’s death had never felt right, or honest. Secrets lurked in the shadows unanswered, but James refused to let her talk about it. Marjorie’s husband, the late Owen MacLeod, had supposedly beaten her before returning her to Tioram, displeased with her barrenness, but Marjorie had always written to Brighde about Owen as if she were a lovestruck lass, head over heels for her handsome husband.

Brighde pulled out shawls and mantles when her hand knocked against the wooden bottom. Her brow crinkled. Nay, it wasn’t the bottom of the chest. It sounded hollow when she knocked it. A false bottom?

She felt around the edges and lifted a lid. Bringing the candle close, she peered within the flat case. Would she find old letters Marjorie had kept? Her sister’s unfinished needlepoints?

Parchments greeted her. “Ach, they’re only letters…” Casting them aside, a royal seal caught her eye. She lifted them again. They weren’t just letters. They were…documents?

She pulled them out and laid them upon the floor, flopping down and leaning forward on her elbows, bringing the candle with her.

“On this day of the fifteenth of July, in the year of our lord, 1539, Owen MacLeod agrees to wed Marjorie MacDonald, to bring about a union, and, The Great Peace. When this is accomplished and an heir produced, their issue will fulfil the obligations, and will be bestowed with the Earldom of Stornoway, uniting the Hebrides…”

“The Earldom of what?”

Brighde’s head popped up. She raised the marriage contract that had doomed her sister to a life of misery with their enemies before she’d been dumped unceremoniously by an entourage of men clad in MacLeod tartan, her cowardly husband nowhere to be found among them. Brighde had watched her waste away, and she’d died shortly afterward.

“He’s innocent…at Stornoway…must protect…must find…James will nay understand… Owen…” Marjorie had murmured feverishly, head lolling.

“Rest easy. The physician has just bled ye. Ye must sleep, sweet Margie, and gain yer strength,” Brighde had placated as she’d curled beside her sister on the bed, holding her, refusing to cry.

“My love…my love…help him…’twill be forfeit…”

Marjorie’s words hadn’t made sense, semiconscious ramblings a breath away from death. Her sister hadn’t said a word after that. Had spoken only to her. Brighde set aside the contract and pulled out the next document, bearing the royal seal.

“Does my brother ken these are here?” she whispered, eyes widening. No, she’d been there when the maids had packed everything under James’s stony command. He hadn’t looked at a thing. Had only turned away. Then he’d proceeded to drink away his grief and take out his anger by tilting on the quintain in the training field until he’d lanced it so hard, it snapped, while scheming how he’d carve out Owen MacLeod’s heart.

Her eyes roved over the lettering: a declaration to bestow the title of Earldom of Stornoway, once the child’s baptism was documented by the crown.

She toyed with the locket at her neck, twisting the silver pendant around her finger while she read. What on earth did it mean? It was signed and dated with the royal insignia to the year of Marjorie and Owen MacLeod’s marriage.

“The Earldom of Stornoway…Stornoway… It doesna’ ring a bell.” But it would make sense for it to be bestowed on a MacLeod, for they’d been the long-time stewards of Stornoway Castle on the Isle of Lewis, where the Demon of the Seas presided as chief of all MacLeod septs.

Did this title have a history of issues? Or would this have been a newly created peer?

She folded the documents and…tucked them into her skirt pocket, returning the gowns to the chest and sealing it, throwing the sheet back over it. Mayhap, on their journey, she’d meet a bookseller with clan histories for sale, or talk to other clans to learn about it. The faire was near Inverness, and all knew St. Bartholomew’s boc-hord was open to anyone willing to tithe. She planned to make the most of this faire. For one whole sennight, she’d finally have a breath of freedom.

Chapter One

Day One – Lughnasadh Harvest Festival 1547. The Fire Dance.

Tormund MacLeod gripped the wench’s waist as she straddled him. The din beneath the tavern awning against the walls of Kilravock Castle clanked. The music around the bonfire surrounded by meadow and trees played so loudly, one couldn’t tell where one sound ended and another began. She toyed with the edge of his mask to pry it—

His hand shot up and gripped hers. “Nay.”