A Highlander's Need Read online

  A Highlander’s Need

  Highland Heartbeats

  Aileen Adams

  Contents

  A Highlander’s Need

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  A Highlander’s Need

  Book Ten of the Highland Heartbeats Series!

  Some needs are forever...

  Moira accepts no man as her boss. She runs her father’s household and runs the forest when she’s not.

  Fergus is brought home from his mercenary soldier of fortune ways by his father’s trickery. He’s not remotely interested in settling down.

  She has news for him. Neither is she.

  Except both their fathers think they know what this hardheaded woman and this fierce former soldier need.

  Only it would seem no one bothered to learn what these two want.

  1

  There was nothing like a highland sunrise, of this Fergus MacDougal was convinced. Nothing like the start of a fresh, new day as the sun rose over the distant Grampians and made the peaks appear to glow.

  Even as a boy, he had enjoyed waking with the sun. Brice never had; always groaning when it came time to leave his warm bed and the dreams which it had involved. One area in which his pleasant nature had failed him.

  Fergus, meanwhile, always considered the short-tempered brother, sometimes difficult to get along with, had looked forward to performing the morning chores, for it meant breathing in the early morning air, knowing the entire world was waking up at the same time he did.

  A foolish conceit, of course, as the entire world did not wake at the same moment. He knew that now, as a man. As a boy, on the other hand, the idea had intrigued him. As had the prospect of a few minutes to himself, away from the house and from his mother’s loving but sharp tongue.

  He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with cool morning air while attending nature’s needs, relishing the pace at which he could start his day while traveling alone.

  Though he enjoyed traveling with his brother and their friends—there was nothing in life capable of replacing their camaraderie—it was no secret that he better enjoyed his space, his freedom. He need not answer to the opinions of others while alone.

  He need not listen to the prattling of his brother and friends as they discussed marriage and domestic life, either. All the better, as the topic very nearly disgusted him.

  How had everything changed so quickly?

  He did not enjoy thinking about it and often tried to avoid doing so, but that morning—with the air so still and nearly cold enough to show his breath, with light birdsong rising up from the tops of the pine trees surrounding the clearing he’d settled in for the night, with nothing demanding his attention aside from preparing for a new day’s riding—he could not help but reflect on the difference.

  It had always been the four of them, a core group which on occasion had included a handful of others who moved in and out as needs changed. His cousins, Donald and Grant, were two who would sometimes join in when Clan Campbell did not require their presence.

  In the early days, they’d had their freedom. No ties. No one to tug at their minds, since they were all they had. There’d been no one to long for or fret over.

  A man could earn quite a handsome living when there was nothing holding him back.

  Now, Fergus was the only free man left of the group.

  Rodric and Caitlin had their little girl, living in the home of Caitlin’s Aunt Sorcha while Sorcha tended the Anderson house. Although Rodric was free to come and go as he pleased—Caitlin made it a point to remind him of this—he tended to stay close to home and only accept jobs which did not require him to be away for long.

  Quinn and his bride, Ysmaine, lived in the Anderson house. Their group had taken to spending the winters there, so Quinn was no stranger to the place. Fergus suspected more than a few of the lasses who worked in the house had nursed broken hearts when the lad returned with a wife.

  Quinn had no desire to make the house his permanent home, or so he made a point of reminding anyone who would listen. A year had passed since their escape from France, after Ysmaine accidentally killed a guard of the French nobleman—more scoundrel than noble, if you asked Fergus—who’d been determined to have her for himself, and it was best for them to stay under the protection of a strong clan until there was certainty of no retribution.

  Then there was Brice, who had stayed on in the Anderson household after winter’s end—another one who swore he would not take advantage of Padraig Anderson’s generosity for longer than necessary, but the promise of a wee bairn to be born in the spring had changed his mind.

  In his heart of hearts, Fergus was glad for his brother and sister-in-law. They were evidently happy, the sort of happiness that would have made him grit his teeth if it weren’t his brother involved.

  The eyes they always insisted upon making at each other when they thought no one was the wiser; it was enough to turn one’s stomach.

  He had pledged not to stray too far from Anderson land, then, as Brice would wish to introduce his new son or daughter to their uncle when the time came.

  Fergus stroked the mane of his chestnut mount, a faithful creature who’d already seen him through quite a bit of rough going. The rains had been heavy for several straight days, causing no end of hardship as he’d navigated the Cairngorms and their uneven terrain.

  He was clear of the worst of it now—so, as tended to be the case, the weather had turned dry and sunny.

  The mountains behind him were a sight to behold, still snow-capped this close to the end of winter. They seemed to pierce the blue sky, and he often wondered what the world would look like from the peaks.

  Not that he would ever attempt such a dangerous journey, for the mountains seemed to have a climate of their own. He had learned as much from visits to his mother’s family, the Campbell Clan, while he and Brice were boys.

  There was a falling-out somewhere along the way, one which he’d been too young to understand at the time. Neither of his cousins had ever seemed to think much of it, and they’d never brought it up when riding with Fergus and Brice once all four were adults.

  It was a war waged by the older generation, one which would like as not die off once that generation did.

  “Come, now,” he announced to the horse once he’d secured its saddle and bridle. “It’s time to return to the Andersons.”

  He could not call it home, for it was nothing of the sort. He had no home.

  The thought gave him no comfort, this he could admit in the silent depths of his heart. Whereas home meant responsibility, being tied down, it also meant having somewhere to return to after a long journey. Perhaps a few smiling faces that would express delight at his safe homecoming.

  Brice would be happy, as would the others. That would have to be enough.

  It was only a few minutes’ walk to the road which ran west to east, following the path of the River Spean for quite a while before t
urning southwest. That was precisely the route Fergus wished to take, for it would lead him straight to his friends.

  Perchance he might stop at the inn before reaching the great house, in the hopes that old Murphy might be there. He was another man without a home, who seemed to float like a feather on the wind.

  Rumor had it he’d left a wife and seven children behind one day, simply packing up and leaving on the back of the nearest horse while his family slept in peaceful unawareness. That had been many years earlier, and there was no telling what had become of any of the lot.

  Murphy was none the better for the choice he’d made, at least, that was how it appeared to anyone who knew him.

  Fergus was certain that while the man had taken the coward’s choice—deserting a large family as Murphy had—he had likely done the lot of them a favor in some ways. For Murphy was a sullen fellow, of poor temperament and rather questionable morals.

  Not unlike Fergus in many ways.

  This comparison did not grant much comfort.

  He chuckled to himself upon turning the horse onto the road. The day he became the sort of man Murphy was—in his crusty tunics, with dirt caking itself into his deep wrinkles—he would gladly throw himself into the nearest body of water and allow it to take him away.

  The road was a well-traveled one, the main road connecting the red hills of the Cairngorns to much of the area west thereof, then northeast as far as Aberdeenshire. It did not always widen the way it did as Fergus rode its length that particular spring morning, as the rocky, hilly terrain at times meant it narrowed to a mere footpath for the sake of safety. There was simply not enough room for two men to ride abreast in some areas.

  And rain made it even more treacherous, as Fergus had so unhappily discovered.

  He nodded in greeting to a pair of passing tradesmen, the wagon their team of horses pulled filled with barrels of what smelled like ale—just enough of it leaked from the barrels to send the scent into the air. His mouth watered. It had been far too long since he’d enjoyed a mug of ale and a hearty meal.

  That would change soon, so long as the weather held out. It would not be more than three days to the village, perhaps four. He would wait until then in spite of anything he came across in-between, hoarding his hard-earned shillings like a miser.

  “Besides,” he muttered, patting the gelding’s withers as though it were aware of his inner thoughts, “we’ve never been the worse for a few evenings spent under the open sky, have we?”

  The beast simply trotted on, unaware of anything beyond obeying its rider’s commands.

  Fergus’s thoughts faded to the back of his mind in order that he might enjoy simply being alive and in the middle of a lovely stretch of countryside. Towering pines lined the road on both sides, and the sound of the river greeted him to his left. Men fished along its banks, visible now and again through gaps between the trees.

  Yes, a man could truly enjoy living when all was right with the world, as it was at that moment.

  Until he heard his name shouted from his right, further into the woods.

  He pulled the reins up short, keeping the horse facing the direction in which they were riding, in case of need to make a hasty retreat. He did not recognize the deep, male voice—even though it had not sounded as though the man it belonged to wished Fergus harm, there was no call to behave like a trusting fool.

  Only when his cousin Grant emerged from the cover of pine boughs did Fergus release the breath he’d been holding.

  “I was only just thinking of ye this morning!” he exclaimed, leaving the road and dismounting that he might clasp his cousin’s arms in greeting. “What the devil are ye doing out here, so far from Ben Macdui?”

  Guilt pulled at the back of his mind when he said it, for he had been no more than a half-day’s ride from Ben Macdui when the weather was worse. He might have called upon his mother’s brother to offer him shelter until it was safe to ride, but he had deliberately avoided doing so.

  Grant shook his head in wonder. “We’ve been looking for ye, lad.” Just then, Donald emerged, leading a pair of shining black horses so typical of Clan Campbell. Luthais Campbell prided himself on his horses, going so far as to breed them special for the clan. They’d become a symbol over the years.

  “Looking for me?” He turned to Donald. “Why ever for? And how did ye know where to find me?”

  The Campbell brothers exchanged a look, sharing a silent message with their gray eyes. His mother had eyes of the same color, Fergus remembered.

  It was Grant who spoke. “We rode out to Anderson territory, where we’d heard ye spent the winter. Padraig Anderson explained where we might find ye, on the road between there and the Cairngorns.”

  “Your brother was away for a day or two,” Donald explained. “Or else we’d have brought him along with us.”

  A lump formed in Fergus’s throat. “Why, though?”

  Another look between the pair of them. Grant frowned. “We’re sorry to be the ones to tell ye, lad, but your father is in grave health. When we left the manor house, the healer said it was no more than a matter of days.”

  Fergus drew a sharp breath, stunned. When the first moment of sickening surprise passed, a dozen questions fought to be voiced.

  There would be time for that when they rode.

  In an instant, he was in the saddle. “Let us make haste, then.”

  2

  Only once they were on their way and traveling at a brisk trot did Fergus have the chance to begin making sense of this sudden turn of events.

  “What was he doing there? On Ben Macdui?” he asked his cousins. His father was not a Campbell, after all, having no loyalty to any particular clan after leaving his own as a boy. The much-youngest son, sixth in line, he’d held no chance of obtaining a position within the clan after reaching manhood.

  Instead of lingering on the outside, then, he’d learned a trade and had become a shoemaker. Rather humble circumstances for a man who’d come of age in the house of Clan MacDougal.

  He had never expressed regret. But he had also never stepped foot inside the home of his brother-in-law after the great unexplained feud which had caused the rift between them.

  So, Fergus had believed, at any rate. Until now.

  “Father sent for him,” Donald explained, riding beside Fergus. “Perhaps now that the old man is at the end of his life, he feels the need to make peace with those he wronged. For it was an insult to your father which caused the distance between our families.”

  “Aye,” Grant agreed. “He admitted as much to us upon Uncle Tavis’s arrival. He still blamed your father for marrying your mother—his sister—and making it impossible for him to arrange a marriage which would benefit the clan.”

  “After so many years?” Fergus asked, perplexed.

  “Our father was never one to release a grudge,” Grant snorted.

  “My father rode to your home, then,” Fergus prompted.

  Donald grimaced. “Aye, only when he arrived, it was clear he was not well.”

  A blade of pure anguish pierced Fergus’s heart. How long had it been since he’d thought of the man? Since he had considered visiting home? Too many years, he realized, which brought him nothing but shame in hindsight.

  His father was dying, and he had not thought about the man in years.

  “How long has he been ill?” he asked, his hands tightening around the reins. He wanted so to let the horse go, to allow it to gallop. He would have run the beast into the ground if it meant reaching his father in time to say goodbye.

  The very thought of not being there to at least hold the old man’s hand as he slipped away turned his stomach and brought a cold sweat to his brow.

  “He only caught the chill while on the road to Ben Macdui,” Grant explained with yet another grimace. “Tis sorry I am to say it.”

  “He would not have become ill had it not been for your father’s invitation,” Fergus snarled. Of course, the rain had fallen so mercilessly, carrying the
last of winter’s cold with it during the night. Even a young, healthy man might have succumbed under such conditions.

  “The healer suggested he might have been slightly ill upon leaving home,” Donald said in an obvious attempt to deflect blame.

  It would not work.

  Were it not for his Uncle Luthais, the blustering blowhard, his father would be at home, safe and well, at the very worst, recovering from a minor illness, but not at the threshold of death.

  All because an old man had wished to clear his conscience and make amends with one he’d wronged. Was Tavis MacDougal truly foolish enough to believe the leader of Clan Campbell would ever sincerely apologize for the insults he’d more than likely hurled years earlier?

  Naturally, a mere sixth son who’d turned away from his position within his clan would not be considered worthy of the only daughter of Clan Campbell. Not worthy in Luthais’s shrewd eye.

  And yet Liana MacDougal had never once complained, had never flaunted her clan’s position in her husband’s face. While she’d been a sharp-tongued woman—the Campbell blood still ran hot, which explained Fergus’s temperament—she had been just as loving.

  Never had she given Fergus the impression of regret or unhappiness.

  Perhaps it might have suited her brother better if he’d believed her to be miserable. He might have rested easy in the knowledge that his sister had been a fool while he’d been correct all along about the match being a poor one.