Chapter 2
Liam halted his horse at the top of the hill and peered down at the keep below, his chest rising and falling in relief. Nothing seemed amiss from his vantage point; the village not burned and the keep not ravaged.
It was a worry of his every time he left to go to battle, that he would return, and his home would be gone. He often dreamed of the carnage, so real that he would wake up tasting the smoke on his tongue.
But it seemed that it was exactly what he had thought, another nightmare that would plague him to the end of his days.
He could stay, Liam supposed, and not travel with his warriors to the battles any longer. After all, he was laird and was not needed unless it was a large one defending his keep.
But Liam knew that the moment he stayed behind, he would regret the decision. He wasn’t the laird that his clan needed and hadn’t been for five years. They expected a strong Scot that could give them a future.
He was nothing more than a man haunted by his demons.
Liam heard the rest of the group catching up with him and spurred his horse forward.
His men were anxious to return, most to their wives and children.
They had been gone for two months, the battle taking them further south than he had originally thought.
His men had fought through low rations and day after day of bloodied battles until they were able to drive the band of disavowed bandits back across the border.
It had been years since he fought against another clan, the eventual peace treaties that had taken place in recent years keeping everyone within their borders.
Once a year, his uncle went out and kept the peace between those that surrounded the McCullam land, something that Liam, as laird, would be doing if he had the notion to.
Instead, Liam chose to fight, rarely seen longer than a month or two at his keep. He knew that caused some discord to his clan, but he did not have to explain his actions.
He had given them everything once upon a time, and now he had no need to do so again.
Now he fought the disavowed bands that chose to attack clans, hoping to one day find themselves at the helm of a great clan.
Some of the McCullam disavowed had been in this one, which was the reason that they had attacked Liam’s warriors.
It had been difficult to kill them, but Liam knew they were no longer members of his clan.
Some had fought side by side with him and his men but had chosen the wrong path in their lives and as a result, had been banned from the clan.
As it was customary, they all wore a brand on their neck, something that could not be hidden lightly, and if they did set foot on their former homeland, the penalty was death.
For those whose crimes were murderous or vicious, the penalty was death. Liam did not take those crimes in any light but a life for a life, and many a man had lost his life because of his choices.
Reaching the village, Liam heard the remarks of those that saw him pass, the excitement of the warriors returning home yet again.
While he took a good many of the finest, he kept some here, some to protect what he could not while he was away.
The men did not like it, being idle and unable to fight, but it was necessary to ensure that the keep was safe.
Even if in his dreams, it was not.
Reaching the stable, he dismounted, handing his reins to the stable lad. “Yer home,” the lad remarked, his eyes wide as he saw Liam’s bloodstained tunic.
“Aye,” Liam said, rubbing his chest. “Make certain he gets a good rubdown and some extra hay.”
“Y-yes, my lord,” the lad stammered, bobbing his head.
Liam walked away before he could have any other interaction with the boy, not wanting to think about what he would have if things had been different in his life.
The keep was the same as he remembered, and as he pushed open the heavy door to the great hall, the smell of freshly lain rushes greeted him.
The warm interior was a welcome relief; the blustery and cold winter weather they had endured had made his body go numb, his fingers split open and cracked from wielding his sword in the freezing temperatures.
“Yer back.”
Liam turned to find his uncle seated near the fire, his stocking feet warming themselves against the flames. “Aye.”
“’Tis about time,” Uncle Sheamus answered, pulling the pipe from between his teeth. “I was beginning tae think ye had fallen upon something ye couldnae fight yer way out of.”
Liam chuckled as he joined his uncle, settling into the other chair. “Ye have little faith in mah abilities, then, Uncle.”
His uncle shook his head. “Nay, just every lad comes across trouble from time tae time. ’Tis good tae see ye in one piece.”
Liam rubbed a weary hand over his face. “Anything amiss?”
“Right as rain,” Uncle Sheamus replied as he struggled out of the chair. “Ye need a good dram of whiskey mah boy.”
That and a hot bath. As much as he hated to admit it, being in the company of his warriors had not allowed for such vices to be had. They bathed in cold streams, sometimes days without washing the blood off their skin.
Female companionship had come from one tavern in the first few weeks of their journey, then nothing at all. Liam had not partaken in the female companionship much to the riling of his men, preferring his ale to the wink of a saucy wench.
The whiskey had run out within the first week.
His uncle returned with a tankard filled to the brim with Scots whiskey. “Here,” he said, thrusting it at his nephew. “This should help.”
Liam took the tankard gratefully and allowed the fiery liquid to burn a path to his gut, numbing his insides. “Mah thanks.”
The older man waved a hand at him as he settled back into the chair, not bothering to replace his boots. “This cold weather settles in mah bones, ye know. It makes mah feel mah age.”
Liam snorted. “Ye will outlive mah.”
“Nay, I willnae,” his uncle said after a moment. “Which is why ye need tae start thinking aboot yer future, the clan’s future.”
Sighing, Liam took another swallow of the whiskey. It was the same discussion they had every time he returned from battle—how he was shirking his duties as laird, and not carrying on the family name.
“I willnae take another wife.”
It was his uncle’s turn to sigh. “Ye must provide the clan with an heir, lad. I know ye dinnae want tae talk aboot it.”
Liam cut him off by rising out of the chair, carrying his tankard with him as he moved toward the stairs. He did not want to come home after two months away to talk about what he should and should not do as a laird.
As a man.
But he knew his uncle wasn’t the only one who was starting to worry about the chieftain.
Even his warriors whispered in the dark about whether or not their laird was going to take another wife, to give the clan what was due.
They had all witnessed his grief, but in their minds, it had been five years since he buried his wife and son.
’Tis time to move on.
Instead of turning toward his former chambers, Liam climbed yet another set of stairs to the third landing, where his new chambers were. After that one fateful afternoon, he had never stepped foot back in that chamber meant for the laird and his lady.
Now his chamber was barely big enough for him to move around in freely with a bed and not much else.
Someone had already placed a copper tub in the center of the room, and Liam quickly stripped off his bloodied clothing, easing his sore body into the water.
After weeks of dipping into the cold waters of streams and lakes, the warm water was like a balm to his skin.
His uncle did not understand and neither did his clan. He would not put himself through the inability to protect his own family ever again. He could protect his clan and that should be enough.
After two days of rest, Liam made his way to the practice field, his breath easily visible in the cold air. The practice field was where his warriors kept up their skills in hand-to-hand combat and with a sword. No man, however good, was above honing his skills, and the same could be said of Liam.
The practice field also served as a place of comfort for him as well. Though he would not admit it to anyone, he knew he controlled his very livelihood on the practice fields.
His warriors were already assembled, some already sparring in an effort to stay warm on the cold morning.
Liam watched the activity as he passed, pleased with what he saw.
Each warrior went through rigorous training to become the one that protected the laird, with Liam and his second-in-command, Rhynald, the overseers of the training themselves.
Each group had a leader, and there were ten groups in all, seven of which had returned when Liam had.
More than enough to protect the clan.
Rhynald met him at the doorway to the weapons room, leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest. “I didnae expect tae see ye so soon.”
“Did ye think I was tae stay in bed longer?” Liam asked him.
“If I was ye, I would have,” Rhynald replied. “Especially if there was a warm lass next tae me.”
Considering there had not been a lass in his bed since his wife, Liam had nothing to keep him there. “Why aren’t ye in bed then?”
Rhynald pushed away from the door. “Someone has tae make certain ye dinnae hurt yerself.”
Liam laughed, and together, the men walked to the sparring field.
“I deserve tae be a lead. I wield the sword better than the laird himself!”
Liam halted, and Rhynald pressed his hand into the laird’s chest. “That be Malcolm. He’s been with us for only a year.”
“A year long enough tae know not tae run his trap,” Liam growled, flexing his fist. “Does he have skills?”
Rhynald shrugged, keeping Liam in place. “Some but not enough tae be a leader yet. He enjoys hearing himself spout off nonsense.”
Liam pushed past Rhynald and approached the small group of warriors that had yet to start their training. “Is something amiss here?”
Most of the warriors backed off immediately, averting their eyes from the laird as he came into the group.
But the one they called Malcolm just grinned, crossing his arms over his chest. “So ye do come out tae fight.”
“I come tae train,” Liam replied evenly. “Just as ye should be doing. Or is there something more important that ye are needing tae say?”
The Scot did not back down. “I think ye heard me well enough.”
“Aye,” Liam responded, pulling out his sword.
The sword had been his father’s, and his father before him.
He had hoped to one day pass it along to his son so that he could wield it proudly, but it seemed that was not in his future.
It would likely go to Rhynald’s son instead.
“The question is, are ye ready tae go a round with yer laird?”
“Liam,” Rhynald hissed, grabbing his arm, “ye dinnae need tae do this.”
He didn’t. But what he wanted to do and needed to do were two different things. He could not lose the respect of his warriors by allowing one to spout off what he deserved.
What was deserved was what was earned on the practice field. “Are ye ready?”
Malcolm eyed him. “The question is, are ye ready, laird?”
Liam was itching for a good bout. “Come then, let’s see yer worth.”
Rhyland sighed and let go of Liam’s arm, and the two men walked out into the wide circle, their swords in their hands.
There was no mistaking what would happen next.