Page 3 of The Return of the Heir

Chapter One

The Isle of Skye, Scotland

September 10th, 1742

The Scottish skies overhead were grey and tumultuous as Alastair MacLeod reined his horse to a halt, forcing everyone in his company to do the same.

“Why are we stopping when we are so near our goal?” Graeme Duff, the captain of his guard, asked.

“It has been five long years since I’ve seen the golden stone of Dunvegan Castle.”

“Are you having second thoughts about returning?” Graeme asked.

“Nay. I’m ready for this challenge. Four years of studying diplomacy at Edinburgh University and a year abroad in the foreign service have forged me into the man I am today. Those skills will serve me well as clan chief.”

“Then why the sudden hesitation?” Graeme asked.

“I am ready to lead my people. That is not the issue.”

Graeme frowned. “Then what is?”

“Memories. Memories of my mother’s death, my father’s dominance over us all, and—” Alastair cut off his words. He hadn’t spoken Gwendolyn’s name aloud since the night she vanished.

Graeme nodded in understanding. He had been at Alastair’s side that fateful day. “That was five years ago. You have moved on with your life.”

“Aye, in some areas,” Alastair agreed as he continued to stare into the distance. “But not in all. I can no longer pretend I didn’t run away from my duty five years ago.”

Graeme’s frown increased. “It wasn’t just you who ran away. Tormod and Orrick left as well, and for similar reasons to your own. The three of you came into this world together, but of the three, you are the one who will lead all of the MacLeods into the future. You made the best of a bad situation for your siblings. Before you left, you made certain Callum and Rowena were safely tucked away at school until your father died a year ago.”

Aye. He’d made sure his siblings were nowhere near their father. But since his father’s death, Callum, the youngest of the five siblings, had come home to run Dunvegan. He had pleaded with Alastair many times to return from his diplomatic post in France. He’d gone there to try and determine if the heir to the Scottish throne had enough backing to risk the Jacobites starting a war with England.

Alastair stared at the hulking four-storied mass of golden-brown stones, which his mother, Janet, had always hated. His father had merely laughed and said all great men lived in such places. It had been the seat of his father’s power and his uncontrollable rage. For his mother, Dunvegan Castle had become a prison she had never been able to escape. The pain of loss pierced Alastair’s chest, mixing with the anger at his father that never seemed to abate. Dunvegan was the heart of the MacLeod clan, no matter what horrors had happened within its walls.

In the distance, Alastair could see the gate at the drawbridge opening. Callum had obviously seen their approach.

“Your brother seems eager for your return,” Graeme said cheerfully. “What did that final missive say that finally called you home?”

Callum had not called Alastair out for what had happened in the past, but as the man responsible for the perils to come. “‘The Isles and her people are in danger. If you do not step up to this moment, then all shall be lost,’” Alastair recited as he turned his gaze on the man beside him. “Regardless of what Callum said, you and I both know war is brewing. The most urgent threat is a war amongst the clans. The MacDonalds are gathering power and the allegiance of many of the smaller clans on the Inner Hebridean isles. Soon, they will rise up against the MacLeods. We must be ready when that time comes.”

“Agreed.” Graeme cast his gaze over the men behind them. “The men are ready.”

Alastair tightened his lips. It was time to put aside all the bad memories and his broken heart and do what was right, for his kin and all of the innocents who would be caught up in the coming conflict. It was time to take his rightful place not only as clan chief but also as a Guardian of the Isles.

“Whether you want to acknowledge it or not, the time away has been good for you. You are a different man now, one who will be embraced upon his return.”

The thought of being welcomed at his home brought a bittersweet feeling to his chest. Alastair glanced back at the castle in the distance. He had come back to Dunvegan to accept the role of laird, but he was also determined to strengthen his clan, to prepare the men for a coming war of the clans, if his plans to find a diplomatic solution failed. One way or another, he would revive the strength of the MacLeod clan.

“Let’s proceed,” he said to Graeme as he signalled his men. “I’m coming home to change the future of our clan. From this day forth, we shall be known as both warriors and diplomats.” Alastair flicked the reins, setting his horse in motion once more. His men followed. The silence of the next several minutes was broken only by the clop of the horses’ hooves on the hard, rocky surface of the trail. As they neared the gates, Alastair could smell the tang of the sea beyond the cliffs. He’d missed the smell of the sea. The scent filled him with memories of a happier time before his father had taken that blow to the head that seemingly overnight had changed him from a strong leader to a man filled with rage and suspicion.

A few years later, he and his brothers had only been nine at the time, and unable to do much to help their mother when their father tossed her in the dungeon and left her there to die. Alastair’s hand drifted to the dent in his skull given to him by his father when he’d tried to free his mother. His father had left him unconscious for days and by the time he’d regained his senses, his mother had died. The pain of her loss had dulled over time, but the anger over his father’s cruelty remained.

Alastair’s gaze shifted to the Fairy Tower on the south wing of the castle. The tower was named such because the clan used to keep the Fairy Flag there before the new keep was built. Since the time of her death, his mother’s spirit had haunted that place: The Grey Lady, the castle residents called her for the grey gown that floated around her as she moved amongst the empty spaces in the tower chambers. No one in the castle went to the Fairy Tower anymore.

It was no wonder his mother’s spirit still remained with them. Alastair had always wondered if it was to watch over the children she’d left behind, or to further irritate their father. The man had been enraged the first time he’d seen her floating around the tower. He’d bolted the doors to the Fairy Tower shut and forbad anyone in the castle from going there.

Alastair shook off the memory. The rest of the castle residents were waiting for the eldest son’s return so they might flourish once more as they had before his father’s accident. He tightened his fists around the reins in his hands. As the first-born triplet, it was his duty to bring harmony back to their troubled corner of the world and lead his clan into the future.

As Alastair and his party crossed over the land bridge leading to the entrance of the castle, he turned his gaze once more to the Fairy Tower. The sole, usually shuttered, window in the tower was open, and in the empty space a ghostly face he’d thought he’d never see again appeared for only a heartbeat.