Page 42 of The Highlander's Accidental Wife
They’d decamped on Grouse Hill, a sharp spit of land with doughty, old trees and an even older and doughtier watchtower. ‘Watchtower’ was stretching it a bit, as the pile had two stories, and the stones were worn from the cruel sea winds. But it was still standing and offered a view to the south, where Morighe peeked over the horizon, and to the north, where the wilds sprawled, with few and far settlements until one reached the edge of Galeclere at a bitterly frozen sea.
Drawing his cloak tighter, Damien stared out at the dark sea and let his thoughts sink into those depths.
Where are ye, Cousin?
As though to mock him, his man-at-arms, hisworthycousin, who had no desire to be Laird of Morighe—only to protect his wife and home—came striding up. He threw back his hood and shook out his red hair, giving Damien a tight smile.
“Nay sign of the Vipers or their Captain. Startin’ to think the bastard wanted us runnin’ in circles.”
Damien grunted and tucked his chin in, thinking hard. His cousin Lachlan, the son of the ill-fated Hector, had not shown his face in years. The only time that Damien had even crossed swords with the man was not long after taking up the mantle of Laird, when Lachlan had attempted to raid a village. He’d been unaware that Damien had set up a more robust guard, anticipating such a thing.
What Damien had not anticipated was meeting his uncle’s son, as he’d no idea the man even had a son. His cousin was a bitter and cruel man, born from a poor and lowly unnamed maid in some port where Hector had sowed his seeds.
At first, according to the stories that Damien had collected over the years, Hector had no interest in his son. Then, as the years went by, the boy showed a bloodthirsty prowess, raised among thieves and pirates. So much so that Hector had returned to that port—in Fallenworth—upon hearing stories of the Viper’s son.
Only, with it being overrun by pirates and soldiers locked in a war for Fallenworth’s soul, the lad appeared to be gone.
Except, a few months later, Lachlan somehow made his way to theViperand demanded an audience with his father. Reports varied, but Lachlan had been young. Perhaps eight or so.
And so Hector took him on, promising him that one day he’d be Laird of Morighe.
Damien glanced at Orrick, warming his capable hands by the fire.
Long and lanky, with his easy smile, Orrick was nearly the opposite of Lachlan. Except they both had red hair and were fierce with swords.
Lachlan was big, strong, and fast, his build eerily like Damien’s. His red hair was cropped short, usually hidden under a hat, and his eyes were a cruel silver. Damien could still recall, though, the way Orrick had stared at Lachlan, seeing the similarity between his Laird and the pirate.
Worse, Lachlan had been more than a match for Damien and Orrick combined. He’d only gotten away that time, too, because Orrick had fallen for his feint to go after Damien and instead found himself run through by Lachlan’s blade.
Damien had chosen to save Orrick, rather than pursue Lachlan, and he’d never regretted it. But he knew it weighed heavily on Orrick’s shoulders, in a way that so few things did.
However, since that time, they’d only seen Lachlan from a distance, usually on theViper II, sailing away from them.
Deep down, Damien suspected that his cousin was loath to try and attempt another face-to-face duel. Damien and Orrick were ten times the swordsmen they were back then, and Lachlan was canny enough to know such a thing.
No, Lachlan now operated in stealth attacks and ploys, seeking to find a way to undo Damien. He’d raided villages a few times—or tried.
A grim smile flitted over Damien’s face. His people were more than a match for pirates.
Rogues who attacked winter stores in the dead of the night, however, were still a problem. That was why Damien and his men were on Grouse Hill, seeking a black ship on the water. His people had reported seeing it, yet they’d chased it north to no avail.
Lachlan had slipped away, again.
“The village is safe, and we’ve ensured that the stores they lost are handled,” Damien said and then heaved a sigh. “I suppose we cannae ask for more.”
“Listen to ye,” Orrick said, smirking. “I almost believe it.”
Damien gave him a cold grin. “He ran, the great coward. At least he always runs.”
While Lachlan was still a fearsome swordsman by all accounts, the Vipers were not the united army of brigands they’d once been. Hector had raised Lachlan to be ruthless, but Adair—his brother and the former Laird MacCabe—had raised Damien to be a leader.
“He kens that well,”Orrick had said once, during a long and fruitless hunt. “I dinnae think he’ll ever stop bein’ a monster, but he kens that he cannae capture the hearts of the people of Galeclere. So, he will try to take Morighe with a blade in the dark, with rogue tricks and cruel ploys for power.”
“And,”he had continued, unusually serious,“it shall lead him to his bitter end—much like his damned faither.”
“Aye, I’m nae surprised,” he said now. “Still, it’s galling. Ye tracked him all last year, and a few times it seemed that we might get close.”
“Mm, I thought I had him cornered in Fallenworth, but it was just a few of his faither’s last Vipers. There cannae be many left, and I hear that the men who follow him now are loyal to their own appetites,” Damien snorted. “He keeps them fed for now, but how long can that last?”
