Page 45 of The Return of the Heir

Chapter Thirteen

The morning had been a whirlwind of activity as the clan leaders and their entourages arrived at Dunvegan Castle. Gwendolyn had watched from afar until Alastair came to escort her into the great hall. Clusters of men gathered around the long Birnam oak table in the center of the chamber, talking. At her entrance, the conversation stopped and the other men in the chamber took their seats around the council table. Alastair led her to a chair beside him. As she nervously took her seat, she noted that Graeme and Callum stood near the doors of the chamber, ready to assist if needed but not truly part of the assembly.

Then her gaze shifted to the opposite side of the chamber to note that Beatrice and her father had been amongst the clusters of men. They took two seats along the west wall of the chamber. Not participating, but observing the proceedings. It was unusual for any woman to be a part of such discussions, and yet Alastair had invited both her and Beatrice.

For the next half an hour, Gwendolyn sat quietly while the men around the table argued and shouted at one another. An unbearable tension filled the chamber as talk of war prevailed.

The six main clans occupying the Hebridean Isles were all there: the MacLeods, MacDonalds, MacQueens, Nicolsons, MacKinnons, and MacAskills. The Guardians of the Isles. Laird MacAskill was the oldest of the council members. The seriousness of his expression was only emphasised by his greying hair and beard. The lairds MacDonald, MacQueen, and MacKinnon were in their late forties, probably the same age Alastair’s father would have been if he were still alive. Laird Nicolson was in his midthirties, making Alastair the youngest of the six.

Gwendolyn frowned as her gaze moved back to Alastair. Would these men see him as their equal? Or would he have to prove himself to them over and over as he had to his father?

At a shout from Laird MacDonald, her thoughts focused once more on the matter at hand—her kidnapping and imprisonment at the hands of Garrick MacDonald.

“Lies, nothing but lies. Garrick has been amongst us for the past five years. How is a man supposed to be in two places at once? And if he had stolen the Fairy Flag, would we have not already used it? Clan Donald is fractured across Scotland. In small segments, we are far less powerful than if we joined together once more. But have we done such a thing? Nay!” He pounded his fist on the table.

“If Garrick has been amongst you, then why did you not bring him here today as proof?” Alastair’s tone was laced with accusation.

Alexander MacDonald responded with a blistering glare. “He did not wish to come to this den of vipers.”

Alastair did not react. Instead he continued to survey the laird over his steepled fingers. “You did not bring him here today, because he is not with you or your clan. He escaped my dungeon with help from someone to whom I will show no mercy once I find them. And I have it on excellent authority that Garrick did steal the Fairy Flag. He gave it to you, Laird MacDonald, and I have a witness who will testify to that fact.”

“Then bring this witness forward so that we can dispute this lie,” Laird MacDonald clipped angrily.

Alastair turned to the woman beside him. “Gentlemen, I give you Gwendolyn Harris.”

“Gwendolyn Harris?” Laird MacAskill’s face paled at the sight of her. “You’re alive?”

“Alive, but with a tale to tell,” Alastair said.

Tension seemed to scream through the large chamber. The other five men at the table leaned forward in their seats. Gwendolyn looked around the table at the grim-faced men.

“In your own words, Gwendolyn, tell these men what has happened to you during the past five years,” Alastair said in an encouraging tone.

Clutching the wooden edge of the table for support, Gwendolyn explained to the council what had transpired from the time of her abduction until she had been freed two days ago. The only time she faltered was when she had to confess to stealing the Fairy Flag and giving it to Garrick MacDonald.

“That’s a lie.” Laird MacDonald surged to his feet. “The girl has concocted the entire story.” Despite his protest, Laird MacDonald’s expression held a hint of satisfaction. “Why have you wasted our time with this outrageous tale that was no doubt invented by the MacLeod himself in order to push the clans to the brink of war?”

A deafening silence followed Laird MacDonald’s statement as the men at the table all stared at her, as though waiting for some type of proof. But what proof did she have? She dropped her gaze to her hands as icy fear started to quake through her. It was then that she saw the bruises that still remained.

She lifted her hands and bared her wrists for those gathered around the table. “’Tis no tale I have spun, but the truth as evidenced by the deep bruises around my wrists from being bound with a rope. Similar wounds exist around my ankle from the shackle I wore for five years. If you demand to see my ankle, I will reveal that to you, in spite of my modesty.”

“You could have injured yourself.” Laird MacDonald narrowed his gaze, his face now filled with disgust.

“I did no such thing. I promise you.” Gwendolyn’s gaze raced over the male faces around the table. She could see not one that looked anything but either dubious or contemptuous of the truths she had told. For Alastair and his clan’s safety, she had to convince them, but how?

Madly, she tried to think of something, anything that might help his cause when all of a sudden the door to the chamber flew open and an icy breeze swept through. Gwendolyn stiffened knowing what was to come. A heartbeat later, the Grey Lady drifted into the great hall in a sea of mist.

As though moving in unison, the men at the table leapt to their feet. Beatrice screamed as she sank to the floor in a dead faint. Her father did nothing to assist her as he stood frozen with fear. His words were slurred as he exclaimed, “Good God, what kind of horror is this?”

Laird MacQueen’s face drained of all colour. “I’ve heard tales of the Grey Lady.”

“’Tis a ghost!” Laird Nicolson took shelter behind his chair.

“An evil spirit!” Laird MacAskill drew his sword, as did Laird MacKinnon.

“The lady is my mother.” Alastair left Gwendolyn’s side to approach the apparition. “Thank you for your support, Mother. But ’tis best if you leave this matter to Gwendolyn and me.”

I’ll not let anyone else hurt her.