At the Highlanders' Mercy (A Scottish Historical Romance Novel Collection)

Prologue

Fergus McDougal slowly made his way up the steep and winding steps to the tower where his father kept his study.

Each footstep echoed and rang against the narrowly-spaced stone walls on either side of him, the sound doubling and tripling until it sounded as though Fergus was leading an entire army of men.

Which, God knew, he certainly had in recent days. More often than he cared to think about.

The war against the Wallace clan had gone on for years, and there was no end in sight.

It had drained both clans of their resources and resulted in casualties beyond counting on both sides.

Horses that should have been plowing fields were instead dying of arrow wounds along with the soldiers they carried.

The menfolk were rapidly disappearing from the farms and villages, leaving only grieving widows and children to till the fields and tend to the crops.

If that state of affairs continued for much longer, both clans would be ruined. The only question was which would fall first, allowing the other the brief but savage pleasure of declaring themselves the winners of a thoroughly Pyrrhic victory.

Something had to be done before that tragic outcome became a reality.

Thankfully, it seemed as though Fergus’ father had come up with a plan.

It was most likely drastic, yes, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

As the oldest son of Laird Oliver McDougal, Fergus was meant to lead someday, and he didn’t relish the prospect of watching the clan wither and die before that day arrived.

More than that, he’d seen the terrible toll the conflict had taken on his father.

The man had become old before his time, and his once-black hair had prematurely turned stark white from the constant anxiety.

Laird Oliver had taken every loss of life on the battlefield personally.

Fergus knew the man had bitterly wished that he could lead his men into battle himself, but his advisors had told him that as the clan’s leader, his life was too important to be risked.

Those same advisors had informed him that Fergus needed to be at the vanguard, so the remaining men of the clan would be inspired to fight instead of believing Laird Oliver valued his own son’s life over theirs.

Which, of course, he did. Every time Fergus came back from fighting, it seemed as though his father had aged another ten years from worry.

There were times when it felt as though Fergus was fighting more to save his father’s life than his own, for he could not bear the thought of someone returning with the news that he’d been slain, knowing how hard that would be for the man to hear.

Laird Oliver had lost two wives, and each of those deaths had been hard on him indeed.

Fergus wished to live to see a time when his father would be able to fully recover from these losses instead of having more and more of them piled on top of him relentlessly.

He fervently hoped that whatever his father’s plan was, it would grant him that wish.

When he reached the door of Laird Oliver’s study, he found it open.

His father was standing and waiting for him, along with his trusted advisors, Arran and Rory.

It was a familiar enough sight to Fergus, yet something seemed different about it this time.

There was an intensity in the eyes of these stern and bearded men that made him feel as nervous and fidgety as a young boy accused of mischief.

The men remained silent for so long that Fergus felt obliged to speak first. “I note that there are nay maps laid out on yer desk, Father, nor pieces tae indicate our forces and those of the Wallaces.”

“Indeed nae,” Laird Oliver intoned, his brow furrowing. “Why should there be?”

“Ye have summoned me with regard tae putting an end tae this war, have ye not?” Fergus asked.

“Aye.”

“Then I had assumed we would be discussin’ strategies of battle,” Fergus went on, still unnerved at the way he was being so closely scrutinized. Suddenly, his throat felt quite dry, and he fought the urge to clear it anxiously.

He’d stared down hordes of enemies on the battlefield numerous times, yet he remained uncomfortable beneath his father’s keen and appraising eye.

“Ye wish me tae lead our men tae victory, do ye nae?” Fergus added. “Nay doubt ye have some cunnin’ new approach which will allow us tae surprise them or circumvent them altogether?”

“In this case, lad,” Arran spoke up, “we have come tae the conclusion that one man might strike a far greater blow than many.”

“Have ye?” Fergus inquired, raising an eyebrow.

“Nae all of us have,” Rory grumbled under his breath. “Some among us still value our honor.”

“Do nae speak tae me of yer honor, Sir,” Oliver growled, glaring at Rory.

“I preside over a clan decimated and hangin’ in tatters.

If yer damned honor is the coin that must be paid in order fer us tae return tae peace and prosperity, I expect ye tae spend it, and happily, in the name of our people and our future! ”

“I serve at yer pleasure, Laird Oliver,” Rory said, casting his eyes downward, “and I shall do as ye command in all things. That does nae mean I must enjoy doing so or bear it without comment.”

“Your comments have been heard and noted,” Arran assured him gently. “We all share yer… distaste fer what must be done. But as our laird has observed, we do nae seem tae have any other choice in terms of extricatin’ ourselves from our plight. Unless ye have some other idea tae offer?”

Rory gritted his teeth but said nothing further.

“Fer heaven’s sake,” Fergus said, exasperated, “will the lot of ye cease speakin’ in riddles and tell me what this is all about?”

Laird Oliver took a deep breath. He looked vaguely stricken, as though he was about to confess some awful crime. “We have decided that the only definite way tae end this war is tae ransom the oldest daughter of Laird Cawley.”

Fergus could scarcely believe his ears. The words continued to ring and clang in them for several moments, like the echoes his footsteps had made upon the stairs. “Ransom her. Do ye mean tae say that ye intend tae kidnap the lass?”

“Nay, lad,” Rory interjected. “They mean tae say they intend fer ye tae kidnap her.”

Fergus searched his father’s eyes for affirmation. “Surely, Father, this cannae be yer plan! Tae ask such a thing of me—”

“Is tae ask a dreadful sacrifice of ye, aye,” Oliver finished for him, hanging his head. To Fergus, he seemed even more tired and sad than ever before. “Puttin’ aside the tremendous personal risk tae ye, it is a thoroughly vile task and one I do nae request lightly.”

“But such an action would make us little more than despicable cowards in the eyes of the other clans!” Fergus protested. “Tae target an innocent lass! Tae spirit her away from her home in the dead of night like common brigands!”

“The esteem of the other clans is the least of my concerns at the moment,” Oliver said.

“I must do what it takes tae guarantee our continued survival, even at the risk of earning the scorn of others. Besides, the other clans are already inclined against the Wallaces due tae Laird Cawley’s ties with the English.

Like it or not, they shall side with us when the time comes, as long as we dinnae involve any of them in the enterprise directly. ”

“Then why do ye ask this of me, Father?” Fergus demanded. “Why do ye send yer own son tae perform such a horrid and shameful task?”

“Because I trust ye above all others, my lad,” Oliver told him. “Ye have shown time and again on the battlefield that ye have a stout and fearless heart. Ye are clever. Ye are resourceful.”

Fergus was not used to having his father extoll his virtues so openly, and it caught him off guard. “But there must be other menfolk of our clan who share those same traits!”

“Nae nearly so many as ye might imagine,” the older man lamented. “Nae after years of unrelentin’ warfare. And of those who remain, I do nae necessarily believe I can rely upon them tae be… as gentle, perhaps, as the endeavor requires.”

“What do ye mean?”

“There is much hatred and bitterness toward the Wallaces in the hearts of our clansmen,” Oliver explained.

“I believe they might be inclined tae abuse or mistreat the captive while she is in their custody, and I cannae have that. The only way this scheme can possibly work is if she remains entirely unharmed and is treated with the utmost civility during her captivity. Otherwise, Laird Cawley might choose tae avenge such slights even after pretendin’ the matter is settled.

We must show him that lasting peace is our aim. ”

“By kidnappin’ his child,” Fergus replied, unconvinced.

“Ye must do this, Fergus,” Oliver urged. “Ye are the only one who can finally end this conflict. Ye have enacted my will upon the battlefield. I ask that ye now do so from the shadows as well.”

Fergus wanted to continue to protest, to point out that such a plan was beneath their family and clan and should be rejected at once.

But he was unaccustomed to seeing desperation in his father’s eyes.

And even he could not come up with another method that might end the war quickly and decisively. No, that might actually work. He knew they got a chance and that was the most terrible part of it all.

“I shall do this, then,” Fergus declared, “if there is nay other way.”

Oliver smiled, putting a hand on his son’s shoulder. “In that case,” he replied happily, “we may yet be saved.”