Page 20 of When a Highlander Weds a Hellion
Broch frowned as Blackswell moved slowly toward him, the clanspeople gathered there parting in their laird’s wake. “It kinnae be,” the man said gruffly and brought his hand to Broch’s shoulder. He reached out and touched the branding there. “God’s teeth,” Blackswell said, his voice nearly a whisper. He looked to Broch with shock-filled eyes. “Do ye ken what this is?”
Broch shook his head. “Nay. I’ve had it since I was a bairn. My mother—”
Blackswell gripped Broch by the shoulders. “Whereis yer mother?”
Something in the man’s voice made Broch still. “Did ye ken my mother?”
“Come with me,” Blackswell said and motioned to Brodee, as well. As they made their way from the great hall, Blackswell and Brodee paused as Blackswell said something to one of his guards and the man nodded.
When Broch exited the great hall, he heard the guard call for dancing and music. Blackswell moved in front of Broch and motioned Broch to follow him as Brodee fell behind them. Broch strode behind Blackswell down a long passage filled with bustling servants and up a flight of wooden stairs to what appeared to be the laird’s private solar. There were two rooms. In the room where they entered, glazed windows overlooked the courtyard. Rich tapestries depicting battle and hunting scenes hung on the walls, and there was a table and two wooden chairs with plush cushions. Broch gazed beyond the room and into the second one, which was larger and contained an enormous bed. This was definitely the laird’s chamber.
He turned at the click of the door behind him and assessed Brodee.
By the frown on Brodee’s face, Broch knew the man was as confused as he was. “Father, what’s this about?”
Blackswell barely spared a glance for Brodee but kept his gaze mostly on Broch. “Yer mother,” the man said, his voice holding an odd quiver. “Is she well?”
“She’s dead.” The words, though he’d spoken them often, caught in his throat as they always did. He’d not known his mother, and he was assuming the woman who had left him at Dunvegan was, indeed, his mother. But either way, she was long gone, and the knowledge always left him saddened. When Blackswell looked pained and gave him a questioning look, Broch added, “She died when I was a bairn. I dunnae remember her. I was raised by my uncle Neil.”
“Yer uncle was a MacLeod?” Blackswell asked, a shadow of annoyance passing over his face. “A MacLeod!” he suddenly roared. “Of course! It all makes sense now!” The man brushed past Broch and Brodee, slung open the door, and strode out of the room, leaving Broch standing there with Brodee. The two men looked at each other but said nothing.
In moments, Blackswell returned with a MacLeod plaid in hand. He held it out to Broch. “This was yer mother’s—my wife’s.”
“Yer wife?” Shock nearly knocked the breath from Broch. “If she was yer wife, then are ye—” He could not form the words. For so long he’d wondered who his father was. It was impossible that he would find the man here and now, in such a remote place and when—Devil take it, he was trying to discover if Blackswell and his son were dishonorable at best, murderers at worst!
Blackswell grasped Broch by the shoulders, and a grin slowly spread across the man’s face. “I’m yer father,” he said, the happiness in his voice penetrating the haze that had descended on Broch.
“Father, ye kinnae ken that for certain,” Brodee said. “Ye—”
“I ken it,” Blackswell said, glaring at his son.
His son. The thought echoed in Broch’s mind.His son.
Broch moved his gaze from Blackswell to Brodee, who scowled openly at him.
He is my brother? My brother, the murderer? My brother, the innocent?
There would be time enough for questions to which the answers might be painful. He flicked his attention back to Blackswell and assessed the man. He was tall, as tall as Broch. Much wider. Soft in the middle. But the eyes… God’s teeth, the blue of those eyes was familiar—too familiar.
“I ken yer my son because of yer branding,” Blackswell said, answering the unspoken question in Broch’s mind. “I gave ye and yer brother Brodee that mark when ye were born. Ye were born on the same day with only a breath and a scream between yer births.”
“What was the branding for?” Broch heard himself ask through the rushing blood in his ears. A violent storm of disbelief, gratitude, and wariness raged within him.
“The circle with the single sword through it is the symbol all future lairds of Clan Blackswell are marked with.” Blackswell yanked off his plaid and pointed to his own shoulder where there was an identical branding. Broch’s chest squeezed with the knowledge that what the man said was true.
“Ye are my firstborn son,” Blackswell continued. “I gave ye that mark myself, just as I gave yer brother his, which shows him as the lesser son.”
Broch felt his brow crease at the cold words, and his spine stiffened. He saw Brodee flinch as if he had been hit by his—no,their—father. Blackswell went on, oblivious. He pointed to Brodee’s right shoulder. “He bears the circle but nae with the laird’s sword through it. His is the dagger, the weapon that does nae hold the same weight as a sword. A sword is the weapon any warrior would always draw first.”
“But a dagger,” Broch said, feeling sorry for Brodee, who had turned red in the face—whether with fury or shame, Broch did not know. “A dagger is a weapon that can save yer life when a sword is too cumbersome to draw.”
“A legendary fighter and a logical man!” Blackswell boomed as he slung his arm over Broch’s shoulder. “Yeare a son I can be proud of.”
God’s blood! How many sleepless nights had he thought of one day meeting his father and hearing those words? But not like this, never like this. Not at the expense of his brother, whose face had drained of all color, and not without knowing for certain if his father was the man Broch had long hoped or if he was the man Katreine claimed him to be.
Christ, Katreine! She was to wed the eldest son of Blackswell, and that was now him. He highly doubted the lass would be any happier to wed him now that he was a Blackswell than she had been to wed Brodee. And how the devil could he be impartial about his own family? He glanced at Brodee and Blackswell, who were both staring at him. Brodee wore a look of hatred, which Broch could well understand given that Blackswell had basically said he was not proud of Brodee. And Blackswell wore a look of expectancy, as if—
Broch cleared his throat, realizing the man was waiting for him to say something. What to say? It all seemed unreal. He struggled to order his thoughts, then settled on one. “I think perhaps if ye could start from when ye met my mother—”
