Page 1 of Highlander’s Quest of Desire

Prologue

Dunnottar Castle

The sun was a golden disk in the sky.

A glad wind blew over the cliffs. It set the purple heather dancing in the fields before it meandered over Dunnottar Castle and the small city of tents pitched up in the left field. It followed the raised voices of men competing at spear throwing and children’s laughter as they ran about between the tall legs of their parents.

One child stood apart from the rest. Bruce Grant tugged at the string of his kite. A red diamond against the blue sky, it buffeted against the wind, pulling against his grip. Part of him wanted to let go, let the kite fly away in abandon and be one with the sky, but the other half needed to maintain control; that was what was expected of him. As the heir to Dunnottar Castle, there were certain responsibilities and expectations from his behavior that he could not ignore. They governed his actions and the decisions he made. He could not abandon them in pursuit of his childish happiness.

“Does it hurt?” A small voice piped up by his elbow.

Bruce glanced down to see Elspeth Buchan staring up at the kite with wonder. Her green eyes squinted against the sun, but she didn’t take her eyes off the sailing kite. They were visiting for the spring festival along with a few other families. His father Laird Grant and Elspeth’s father Laird Buchan were close allies. Laird Labert completed the alliance, and it was tradition to host the spring festival alternately to encourage goodwill and recurring connection between clans. This year the Grants were hosting.

Bruce had played host for two tiring days. Now he just wanted to enjoy the solitude with his kite. It was not that he was a quiet child or preferred his own company over playing with friends; he valued both. Those who knew him knew that he would spend all day with his tutors, his friends, and practicing his sword moves in the yard. But then he needed time to absorb it all on his own, keeping his own counsel.

So, though Elspeth’s interruption dug into his solitary time, he was still a host and strove to be a good one.

“The strings?” he asked.

“Aye.”

“Just a little. Do ye want to try?”

“Can I?” she asked, her large eyes growing wider at the prospect of being handed something so precious.

“If ye promise nae to let go.”

“I promise!”

Bruce chuckled at her tiny bobbing figure. Very carefully he handed her the string making sure the buffeting wind didn’t drag away the kite and leave cuts in her fingers. As an extra precaution, he held her hands and guided her.

“Oh, it feels heavy,” she said. “Like my tomcat struggling against my kisses.”

Bruce laughed. Elspeth was much younger than he was, about six years he assumed, but she was enjoyable company. He glanced over his shoulder to see where his parents were. They were standing by the large tent with Elspeth’s parents and the Bishop of Orkney. They caught his eye and smiled indulgently.

“Where’s yer brother?” he asked.

“Domnhall is watching the men throw spears with Leo Sinclair. Did ye know Leo was half-English?”

“Aye,” Bruce nodded, his mouth pressing together in a displeased line. Leo Sinclair was his closest friend, the son of his father’s bonnet laird. People always treated him differently because his mother was English. Bruce didn’t appreciate Leo having to fight constant scrutiny of his loyalty to Scotland because he did not choose who his mother would be. “He’s my friend.”

Elspeth glanced nervously at him. He could see her good cheer evaporating. “I’m sorry. I didnae mean to say he was nae friend of yers. He’s very nice.”

Bruce eased his stern expression. “I ken ye have a good grip on it,” he said, letting go of her hand and changing the subject at the same time.

“Ach, nae!” she squealed. “Take it back!”

She thrust the string in his hand. The errant wind snatched at the opportunity to tug the kite further away, the string sizzling out of Elspeth’s hand, leaving a cut in her palm. She hissed. Bruce tried to catch it, but the string snapped out of his grasping fingers. The kite, with a merry dance and whirl, was free. It sped off with the wind, its tail waving a cheery goodbye.

Bruce looked at his kite, disappointed at its loss. Then he heard Elspeth crying softly. He looked to see her palm bleeding from the thin cut she’d received. “Ach, yer bleeding!” Bruce said. He grasped her hand and led her toward the adults.

“I’m sorry about yer kite. I didnae mean to let go. Ye must be so angry at me.”

“It’s alright,” he lied. “I should nae have let go so suddenly. It startled ye. Come, let us get ye cleaned up.”

The adults were busy, and Bruce thought it would be unwise to disrupt the afternoon’s good cheer by presenting an injured Elspeth to her parents. It might make a scene and disturb the harmony that his parents had worked for weeks to prepare for.

One person was unencumbered in this regard–John McLean, the Bishop of Orkney.