To Betray a Highlander (The Runaways’ Highland Haven #5)

Chapter 1

Bloody Meat

DICKSON KEEP

In Robert Murray’s opinion, the food was thoroughly undercooked. Bloody meat sat heavily on wide, chipped serving platters, red juice spilling over the lip of the platter onto the wooden tabletop, glistening unappetizingly.

Still, it would be a mistake not to eat any.

Their host preferred his meat bloody, after all, and it was polite to eat what he’d put before them.

Sucking in a breath, Robert leaned forward, knife at the ready, and hacked off a chunk of meat.

It splattered onto his bread trencher, looking almost entirely raw. Maybe it was entirely raw.

This was, after all, one of Laird Dickson’s feasts, and it wouldn’t be unusual of him to try and sicken his guests by doing something like serving raw meat. Once, to make a point, he’d forced a misbehaving minor laird to eat an entire bowl of moldy fruit.

Robert was not going to be a misbehaving minor laird. He’d learned from the mistakes of others and weighed each step and word with great care.

The back of his neck prickled, and he glanced up almost without thinking.

Laird Dickson sat at the head of the table, only a few places away.

He was watching Robert. A shockingly small man for the amount of power he wielded, Laird Dickson was slim and neat, with pale gray eyes, a high forehead, and a pointed brown beard.

Without his Dickson tartan and his troupe of guards, he might have been a very ordinary sort of man. A fisherman, perhaps, or a farmer.

Nay, not a farmer, Robert thought, suppressing a shudder. This man could never be the sort to till the land. He’d be a butcher.

“Not eating, Rob?” Laird Dickson inquired.

As always, a hush fell over the table when their host spoke. A few of the other minor lairds eyed Robert anxiously. They had been ushered in at the last moment to fill the places left by lairds who were dead and whose heirs had turned on Laird Dickson; Grahame and Kenneth, for example.

Robert cleared his throat. “Och, aye, M’Laird. Very hungry.”

To make a point, he sawed off a chunk of the bloody meat and popped it into his mouth before he could let himself think twice.

It was cold. Cold and raw, and the texture made Robert want to gag.

But Laird Dickson was watching him, so he chewed dutifully until it was time to swallow, and then he did that, too.

“Delicious,” Robert managed.

Laird Dickson gave a roar of laughter, bringing down his fist onto the table with a thunk, making the dishes rattle. Robert flinched, and he wasn’t the only one.

“Wonderful, Rob, wonderful!” Laird Dickson laughed, shaking his head. “I imagine that ye like yer meat stewed or roasted, like a woman would, eh?”

Aye, Robert thought miserably. I do.

Aloud, he only laughed and raised a foaming glass of ale in a toast to the Laird’s health. They all dutifully drank, except for the Laird himself.

“And to my son,” Laird Dickson said, when silence had fallen. The silence became uneasy, and all of his guests exchanged worried looks.

Is he going mad? Robert thought. Has he forgotten?

“To my son,” Laird Dickson repeated, “to my traitorous spawn who murdered my captain and sided with the enemy. May my son—and my wee daughter, Kyla, for that matter—join us soon, stewed and roasted to Laird Murray’s specifications.”

There was a heartbeat of silence. Even the most ardent of Laird Dickson’s supporters needed a moment to recover after hearing their leader talk about killing, cooking, and eating his children. It was a joke, wasn’t it? It must be.

Robert swallowed and drank deeply. So did the others.

So far, nobody had risked mentioning their great loss in battle. Countless Dickson men lay dead, scattered around the Highlands, routed by Grahame and Kenneth men.

And indeed, they had been routed by Laird Dickson’s own son.

Struan, the Hammer of the Dicksons, had turned his tartan and joined his father’s enemies.

He was even said to be sharing the bed of an Alcorn woman, a remnant of a long-dead clan.

There were not many Alcorns left, but they opposed the Dicksons violently. Laird Dickson in particular.

In Robert’s opinion, the loss of Struan Dickson had driven his father to the brink of madness. What came next was anybody’s guess.

“What of yer daughter, Robert? Where is she now?” Laird Dickson asked suddenly, making him jump. “Don’t tell me that ye cannot find yer own girl.”

Heads turned his way. Robert swallowed thickly and set down his tankard.

Truthfully, he was glad of an excuse to stop drinking.

Laird Dickson served strong, fine wines and ales at his table, and already Robert’s head was fuzzing, and his tongue was growing heavy in his mouth.

It was never wise to let oneself grow drunk and foolish at one of Laird Dickson’s feasts.

“I have indeed found her, M’Laird,” Robert answered, relieved that he could at least offer good news. “It was as ye said. The Abbess of St. Deborah’s was sheltering her.”

A ripple of murmurs ran around the room. The convent had created more trouble for Laird Dickson and his allies than one could have imagined. Frankly, Robert could never get his head around the fact that a group of nuns had rallied the clans in such a way.

Why, Laird Dickson had taken his army to the convent, intending to burn it to the ground and kill all within, and had limped away the loser. He had even lost his son to the Abbess’ cunning. At least the Abbess and her flock had been scattered now. Perhaps that would weaken their influence. Perhaps.

“Of course,” Laird Dickson murmured. “I might have known. And where is she now?”

“She is sheltering at Keep Grahame,” Robert answered, feeling moderately more confident now.

He was pleased with himself at finding his daughter so quickly, within weeks of Laird Dickson requesting him to do so. She was his only child, but Robert had never felt much of a paternal tug. After all, a daughter was his property, was she not? She had no right to defy him, none at all.

He had searched furiously for her the first month after she had defied him and left home, but there had been no sign of her. Robert had assumed she was dead. After all, no woman could survive out in the wilds for long.

Once I get her back, she’ll fall in line, alright, he thought grimly. If I have to whip all the skin off her body to make her obey, I’ll do it.

Underneath the table, one of Laird Dickson’s scrawny, half-starved dogs crawled around Robert’s feet, desperately searching for scraps. Absent-mindedly, Robert’s foot shot out, connecting with the creature’s ribs and sending it flying. The dog scrabbled away, yelping piteously.

In truth, Robert would have been happy to hang his daughter from the Keep walls when he brought her back, to make an example, but that wasn’t what Laird Dickson wanted.

And Laird Dickson had given his command, and that was that.

Perhaps he wouldn’t be king of the Highlands for long, and then Robert could make his move.

But that would count for nothing unless Robert could rise in the laird’s favor.

Now, in fact, he had the chance to deliver some excellent news, something that should put a spark in Laird Dickson’s eye and raise Robert up in his estimation.

“In fact,” Robert continued, catching the Laird’s eye, “my men should be closing in on her now. She might be brought back by dawn.”

This was met with approving cheers and a few toasts to Robert’s health. Not too many, of course, not enough to make their host feel second-rate.

“Nicely done, Rob. Nicely done indeed,” Laird Dickson said at last, nodding approvingly.

“Ye have done well. Now, lads, we will punish all of our enemies in time. It’s high time we showed our children what it means to conquer the Highlands.

We must show them that a father must be as a god to his children.

We must teach them to obey. Make them wish they never betrayed us. ”

There were more cheers, more raised tankards. A few men shouted vague threats, aimed towards their distant enemies, and another round of wine went through their ranks. It was good stuff, potent, and Robert swigged his goblet back more quickly than he should.

Leaning back in his seat, head blurry, Robert allowed himself a low chuckle. He hadn’t missed his daughter, but at the same time there was a sensation of shame. After all, what sort of man couldn’t keep a grip on his own daughter? Fathers were meant to rule their families.

He thought of his daughter, focusing his mind properly upon her in a way he hadn’t in years. Beneath the self-satisfaction and ever-present fear, Robert had to admit that there was a kernel of sympathy.

Ye had better run, Senga, he thought dizzily. Ye have already tried to hide, but that didn’t work, did it? So run, lassie, run for yer life.

“More shadesflax,” Sister Abigail announced curtly. “We are nearly out of it, and shadesflax is unmatched for cleaning wounds. Senga, can ye go fetch some?”

Senga paused in her task of bandaging a bloody stump. The stump belonged to a Grahame cavalryman, and he seemed more upset about the possibility that he might never ride again than about the reality that he had lost his leg.

“Shadesflax grows on the hilltops,” Senga murmured. “It’ll take me hours to walk there and back.”

Sister Abigail tutted. She was a tall, thin woman and had been in charge of the convent’s infirmary for as long as Senga could remember.

They weren’t at the convent now, of course, but the Great Hall of Keep Grahame had been converted into an infirmary, and Sister Abigail had taken charge quite naturally.

“Not if ye ride,” she responded brusquely. “Take some guards with ye.”