Page 1 of Draped in Plaid
Chapter One
Moira
Dunleod Castle
Scottish Highlands
Late July 1544
To say the clan was in a fearful uproar would be a devastating understatement. In fact, it would be safer to say that I wouldn’t be surprised to see the entire place burst into flames within a blink of an eye.
I reined my horse to a stop, eyes wide, and mouth agape at the destruction I saw before me. The guards on horseback behind me muttered their astonishment.
Children clung to their mother’s skirts; women clung to each other, men argued. ’Twas as if in the few short weeks we’d been gone, all hell had broken loose—literally. Considering we’d returned with all haste because a hellion had actually escaped, that made complete sense.
Though the castle still stood tall and proud at Dunleod, the walls intact, the rest of the place looked as though a sizeable earthquake had hit, and yet there’d been none. I crossed myself.
Even Nature herself cast a dark shadow in front of the sun, and sent a chilly wind to swirl my skirts. I shivered.
This was the work of Ranulf MacLeod, wayward son to my husband, Laird Rory MacLeod. And wayward was a nice way for me to say, utterly batshit crazy with a healthy dose of rage to make it nice and messy.
Wagons were upended. Lonely vegetables rotted in corners and piles where they’d been dumped and forgotten about. Rubbish remained where it had been dropped, and in the warmth of the summer sun, created a stench that was overpowering in its offense.
I wrinkled my nose, wanting desperately to pinch it closed, but not wanting to offend our people who’d been dealing with this for at least a week.
“What in bloody hell happened?” Rory’s long dark hair whipped furiously in the wind.
He always reminded me of a warrior god. Tall, broad, thick with muscle and hair that I wanted grab onto whenever he kissed me. But right now, was not the time for kissing, or thinking of kissing. Rory’s dark chocolate eyes blazed with fury, and since the gods had not struck their fires on the castle, I worried that Rory just might.
“Where is Ranulf?” my husband bellowed.
I stiffened on my horse. My husband’s anger, pain of betrayal, was palpable. We’d not been gone long, a few weeks at most, and in that time, his angry, traitorous son had somehow managed to escape the confines of the dungeon and every guard who watched him. For a short time, he’d taken control of the castle, but from the looks of things, he’d not been able to keep it, else he would have greeted us at the gate with a sword to our throats.
I looked around, sizing up the people, the spaces, waiting for them to turn on is. Praying none had suffered too much at the hands of Ranulf, though I knew it was undoubtedly the case. How had he escaped? I searched the faces of those standing. Could one of them have helped the little bastard out?
Traitors amongst those who claimed to be loyal.
Several shifted their eyes away, too ashamed to look at us.
These were not allourpeople.
Some amongst them must have pledged to Ranulf, the rebellious lad of twenty who didn’t think his father deserved to be laird. Oh, the tantrums he’d thrown when he’d found out the truth.
Ranulf had grown up his entire life believing he was the son of Old Laird MacLeod and his lady wife, only to find out that Rory was his actual father. Rory was the nephew of the old laird, and had fallen in love with the laird’s bonny bride. When they conceived a child, the laird forgave them both, even intimating that he’d set the whole thing up because he could not have children. Rory had renounced his claim to the lairdship early in life, and given that the laird could not seem to get a bairn on his wife, he’d hoped the two young people would fall far each other, and keep their line going. After the child was born, a siege was laid on the castle by an enemy clan. The laird and his wife were taken, murdered on the field of battle right before Rory’s eyes.
Rory was also badly injured in that raid, but rather than face his people with his failure, the truth of their tragic deaths, he abandoned the clan. Though his injuries were near fatal, he managed to drag himself away to the forest where he found an abandoned cottage. On that same day, Shona time traveled, ending up there as well. Her skills saved him, and they lived together as brother and sister until very recently.
To this day, he still blamed himself for the death of his father and lover.
Somehow, Ranulf had found out the truth of his parentage, and blamed Rory for the deaths of the laird and his mother. He believed that Rory had dishonored the poor lady, and the only way to truly claim the lairdship for himself was through the death of Rory—a feat that he was failing at miserably, thank heavens.
I glanced at Rory, wishing to touch his arm, to calm his ire, but knowing I had to remain stiff and cold in front of the people. To show our displeasure. To ferret out our enemies and find Ranulf before any more damage could be done.
Several guards rushed forward, bending down on their knees in the muck, their hands over their hearts, pleading in their eyes. Dark circles were carved beneath their eyes, and they looked as though they’d not left their posts for days.
“My laird… Ranulf… He escaped. Mounted an attack on the castle. They managed to hold it for nearly a week but just this morning, we overtook him.”
“Who helped him?” Rory spoke through gritted teeth, his fingers on the reins tightening enough that I could hear the press of the leather against his palms.
