Hearts of Highland Fire

Chapter 1

1

“As ye can see, Laird, we will need tae mark the land clearly tae keep them from fighting over it.”

James Lennox tipped his chair back onto its hind legs, balancing it carefully lest he fall on his arse. It had been a childhood game of his when he was nothing more than a wee bairn, but on a day like today, he preferred to keep his mind occupied with a silly game such as that.

Today was report day for the McGregor clan. Reports on the food storage. Reports on the land. Reports on the warriors. All sorts of reports that seemed to have no ending in sight.

“’Tis a good idea, Malcom,” their laird, Irvine, replied, nodding. “We can get ahead of the fighting before it becomes an issue.”

James watched as his father scribbled his feather across the parchment, making notes that he would then later translate into a large ledger he kept on his table for these meetings. It was dull work that didn’t excite James in the least.

No, he would rather be out in the field, riding his horse or sparring with his best friend, Matteau, until the sweat soaked his tunic and his muscles burned from the exertion.

Anything other than having to feel his ears bleed from his father’s droning voice.

“Next report is the food stores,” the laird said, causing James to suppress a loud sigh.

Truthfully, he should have been used to the weekly reporting by now. Ever since he was a young lad of ten years, his father had been bringing him to his meetings with the laird. They were good friends, and as the laird’s closest advisor, his father was responsible for ensuring that the clan flourished.

And to tell the laird when it didn’t.

But James’s presence in those meetings was because his father had already decided that James would take his place one day and therefore needed to learn firsthand what an advisor role meant.

For James, it was not his dream. His dream was to be on the battlefield, wielding his sword in the name of his laird and clan.

When he had told his father, the elder Lennox had scoffed at the idea.

“Ye are mah only son,” he had told James, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Mah only bairn. It would gut yer ma if ye did something so rash that put yerself in danger.”

James didn’t think about it being dangerous. Of course there was nothing safe about wielding a sword or running into the fray, but it was his passion. No matter how many times he had mentioned it to his father, he had brushed it off, reminding James of his duty to his family first.

That being reading dull reports, which was worse than having one’s eyes plucked out with a smoldering sword.

So James had done the unthinkable. He had started to spar in secret. Matteau had been more than happy to show James all the skills that he was learning in becoming a warrior for the clan. In the predawn hours on most days, they sparred in the forest, well away from prying eyes. There, James had learned the proper way to wield a sword as well as hand-to-hand combat and the use of an ax and shield.

He had learned everything that would keep him safe on the battlefield—everything except how to make his parents see reason in what their son enjoyed doing.

“Wot of the recent skirmish?” the laird was asking, bringing James’s attention and focus back to the conversation.

“A few warriors lost,” his father replied with a frown. “On both sides. Reports are that Wallace thinks he was victorious, but there was vera little tae gain tae begin with.”

James set his chair back on the floor gently as Irvine mulled over the information, scratching his chin as he did so. The infamous Wallace clan was their rival, one that had plagued their village, farm, and their livestock for years. Every time a warrior party was sent to handle the Wallace interference, the report seemed to be the same.

“I want our warriors tae come home,” Irvine finally said with a heavy sigh. “There is nary a reason tae continue this farce of a battle.”

“But it will look like we are retreating,” James blurted out, heedless of his father’s sudden dark glare in his direction. “Why would we go back now?”

“James,” his father warned, slapping the papers on the table before him, “’tis not for ye tae decide.”

“’Tis the truth,” James continued, well aware that his father was upset with him. “We shouldnae leave like we are dogs with our tails between our legs! We should give chase now while they think they were victorious!”

“James,” his father said, a hint of irritation in his voice, “’tis more than just a show of strength that will get us the victory. The necessary discussion will happen at the gathering.”

The gathering. It was a time for the clans to come together under the flag of peace and discuss truces. This season was to be held at the Mcdaugh clan to the north of them, and they were due to travel a few days from now.

“Discussions would have never won a battle in years past,” James said evenly, rising from his chair. “I mean nary disrespect, mah laird, but we cannae be seen as strong if we are always retreating.”

“That is enough!” his father roared, grabbing James by the scruff of his neck and escorting him out of the study, shoving him against the rough stone wall just outside. “I told ye this doesnae concern ye, James. Ye are tae be a fly on the wall, nothing more!”

“Even ye must see that this does nothing!” James replied angrily, pushing against Irvine’s hold until he released him.

“’Tis not our place or yers tae interfere!” his father shouted, his voice carrying down the long hallway that led to the keep’s main room. “The laird makes the decision, not ye and not me.”

James balled his fists at his sides, struggling to get his anger under control.

“And as ye have pointed out, ’tis yer decision tae change his mind.”

His father shook his head, clear frustration filtering through his expression.

“Go before I force ye tae apologize tae yer laird.”

“There is nothing tae apologize for, Da,” James said stiffly. “I’ve spoken mah piece. That is the role of an advisor, as ye keep telling me.”

He walked off before his father could respond, making his way through the keep until he was outside so he could breathe in some fresh air. His father was always telling him how an advisor was to sway the decisions of his laird if they were in the best interests of the clan, but he had never seen his father do such a thing.

If nothing more, all his father was right now was a report reader.

Sighing, James slumped against the stone wall of the keep, the wind ruffling his hair. It was yet another reason why he shouldn’t be an advisor.

“Did ye get kicked out again?”

James looked up to find Matteau grinning at him, dressed in his warrior garb with his sword strapped to his back.

“Aye,” he admitted. “Again.”

Matteau shook his head, laughing as he did so. “I told ye that ye are going tae have tae figure out a way tae keep yer trap shut.”

“I dinnae want tae,” James said, the fury of the discussion rising within him once more. “Mah da and the laird are wrong. We cannae stand idly by and let the Wallaces just have their way with us.”

Matteau took the place next to James, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Well, there is a reason that Irvine is our laird, James. I dinnae think he would make a rash decision like that without thinking of all the consequences tae the clan first.”

“He never makes rash decisions,” James muttered, his eyes focused on the fields beyond the keep. “’Tis part of the problem.”

He wasn’t attempting to discount what the laird had done for the clan. He was fair and impartial, and the villagers appreciated everything that he did. James appreciated everything that he did and how he had treated them as family.

But sometimes he felt as if he was a bit too cautious in his thoughts and actions, and the last thing that James wanted to hear was that their clan was seen as weak.

“Well,” Matteau finally said, pushing off the wall, “would ye like tae blow off yer anger with a bit of swords? Some of the warriors are going tae the creek tae fight in the sand.”

The thought caused some of James’s anger to dissipate. If he stuck around for too much longer, his father would likely come to give him another lecture on how he had disrespected his laird.

“Aye. It would be a welcome distraction.”

“Come on then,” Matteau said, slapping James on the back. “Let’s see just how much ye have learned.”

Later, after the sun had sunk low into the sky, James made his way to the main hall for dinner, flexing his hand as he did so. His father was already seated and barely gave James a nod as he took his own seat.

“Son.”

“Da,” James replied, clearing his throat.

“I want to explain tae ye why ye cannae say those things tae our leader,” his father said after a moment, a frown on his face. “We are tae advise him, not accuse him of not leading the clan.”

James swallowed his anger, knowing that his rage was not going to be accepted by his father or anyone else for that matter.

“If the laird cannae accept yer advice, then perhaps he doesnae need an advisor tae begin with.”

“Enough!” his father growled, hitting his fist against the scarred wooden table. “I wilnae have ye disrespecting the Scot who has put food in yer belly and a roof over yer head since yer ma birthed ye!”

“’Tis fine,” Irvine’s voice came from behind, causing both men to stand abruptly. “James is right. I should listen tae ye both.” James could still feel the angered gaze from his father as the laird placed his hand on James’s shoulder. “Trust me, James. I have the best interests of the clan in mah mind and heart. I cannae just readily have mah warriors leave the keep and our people unprotected. There is more than one way tae beat an opponent. Trust me.”

The laird dropped his hand from James’s shoulder as others from the family started to make their way to the table, giving James the opportunity to make a quick escape back outdoors, away from the tension of the room. While he appreciated Irvine’s gesture, he still couldn’t understand why the laird was choosing this path instead of the obvious one. Actions always spoke louder than any words. His own father had taught that to James at a young age, and that was what he was trying to have them see now.

Blowing out a breath, James forced himself to walk. He would take his meal at the tavern tonight instead of with his family and think about ways to change the laird’s mind because his father wasn’t going to do it.

The right answer was to go after the bastards, and if it meant doing so at the gathering, then so be it. Perhaps it was time for his parents to see that James could handle himself well, and handle a sword better than most.

After all, actions did speak louder.