Page 126 of Claimed Highland Brides

HIGHLANDER’S BLOSSOM OF HOPE

PROLOGUE: TRAGEDY AFOOT

Barclay had been unable to sleep on the night when the raiders came. He’d gone to bed early with an upset stomach but couldn’t relax into sleep, so he was awake when he heard stealthy footsteps coming up the front stairs. It was late at night; they did not keep footmen, and so Barclay could not imagine who was walking around the manor in the pitch dark. He sat up, listening intently before shuffling off his bed. He crept to the door and opened it, his heart freezing as he saw the hulking figures creeping down the corridor.

Monsters.

That was the thought that flitted through his mind as he saw the figures moving stealthily towards his parents’ room. They were all tall hairy beasts, hulking with hunched backs. It was only much later that he would realize it was their fur coats that made them look that way.

He wanted to follow them, but he was too frozen with fear.

They disappeared into the dark and he slipped down the stairs, intent on hurrying to the soldiers’ barracks and warning them of the invasion. He’d barely reached the ground floor when he heard screams. His feet felt stuck to the floor as he was torn between rushing towards the sound and running away.

He grabbed a mace from the suit of armor that decorated the alcove next to the stairs, took a deep breath, and began to climb the stairs again, jaw clenched with determination. The screaming grew louder the closer he came to his parents’ door. He lifted the too-heavy mace and charged.

As he reached for the door handle, it flew open, and a towering creature loomed over him, a struggling bundle in its arms. Barclay swung the mace as decisively as possible, but the creature simply caught it in its huge hands and yanked it out of Barclay’s grip.

It seemed to growl, and another creature came forward and knocked Barclay on the head. It was the last thing he remembered for a while.

* * *

When Barclay came to, he was lying in his bed, a massive bump on his forehead. The housekeeper held a warm cloth to his forehead, the room filled with mint and juniper-flavored steam. Barclay coughed, tugging at the housekeeper’s apron. “Wha’ happened? Where’s Ma?”

She shook her head sadly. “Yer mam’s been tak’n by raiders. But dinnae fash, yer da’ll get her back, I reckon.”

Barclay shot upright, staring at her with wide eyes. “Wha’? Why did they take her?”

The housekeeper shrugged. “I dinnae ken. But lay back. Ye got quite the knock on th’ head yersel’. Ye need to rest.”

Barclay tried to shake his head but stopped at once because of the pain. Slowly, he lay back down, his heart pounding with anxiety for his mother. He wanted to run out and go rescue her himself but did not know where to start. Once he was allowed out of bed, he went in search of his da but found that he’d ridden off after the raiders.

Unable to rest until his parents’ return, he hung around the courtyard, watching the gate for any activity. Finally, after three days, he saw riders in the mist, looking otherworldly and riding ever so slowly, approaching the manor house.

“Is it them? he called excitedly to the housekeeper.

She came out of the kitchen to peer at the approaching riders. “Aye, likely it’s them. Come inside. Ye’ll see them soon enough.”

“No! I want to wait here!”

“But…what if it isnae them? I cannae allow ye to be in harm’s way. Yer da will ne’er forgive me. Come awa’ from there now, Barclay. Ye can see just as well from the turrets.”

Barclay sighed in annoyance but did as he was bid. He was directly above them when his father rode into the compounds, his tunic stained with red. Across the saddle in front of him lay Barclay’s mother, her body so still he had to wonder if she was dead.

“Ma!” he couldn’t help but call. His father looked up, grey eyes bleak, and then he looked away. Barclay raced down the stairs and was just in time to see his mother eased onto a stretcher and carried to her chambers.

“Wha’s wrong wi’ her?” He pulled the housekeeper’s apron, but she ignored him, too intent on her patient. He hovered by the doorway as people rushed about, his father leaning against the bed, still in his blood-spattered clothes and watching his wife.

Barclay crept closer, trying to see what was going on, but every time he was almost close enough, the housekeeper would usher him away.

“This is no place for a bairn, Barclay. Go and wait in yer chambers, and I shall come there t’ye.”

Barclay stepped back a bit but refused to leave the room. He wanted to call out to his mother but did not want to remind anyone that he was still in the room.

* * *

His mother lasted a day and a night before she gave up the ghost. She did not regain consciousness at all. His father just seemed to fade slowly afterward, his body gradually stiffening until he could not move or speak. The monk that was summoned told them it was as a result of a wound he had received and that there was no cure for it. Eventually, Hamish MacFarland could not eat or drink, wasting away before their eyes, begging for an end to his suffering. Barclay simultaneously did not want him to go and wanted to release him.

Then one day, his valet woke him with the news. “He is gone, Master Barclay. Yer father is deid.”