Page 2 of Bride of Mist
Dougal mac Darragh had heard the rumors.
There was a price on his head.
His brother had put it there.
For weeks now, Laird Gaufrid had offered a reward to any warrior in the clan who could bring Dougal down on the sparring field.
He was sure his brother didn’t mean to have him killed. Gaufrid only meant to humiliate him. To punish Dougal for hisownlack of self-worth.
But the warrior facing Dougal now didn’t know that. He circled Dougal with murder and desperation in his eyes.
Dougal couldn’t blame him. The man needed that reward money. Maybe for his family. For his bairns. For food.
The trouble had started two years ago, when Dougal and Gaufrid’s father had died unexpectedly. By tradition, the clan had chosen the oldest son as the new laird.
But Gaufrid knew nothing of leadership. He was no more qualified to be a leader of men than a harlot was to be a nun. He couldn’t read. He couldn’t do sums. Too frequently, he found solace at the bottom of a bottle. And he was a poor judge of character, a fact made clear by the company he kept.
Gaufrid’s closest companions were the Fortanach brothers, a pair of miserable vagabonds who’d ingratiated themselves to him shortly after the laird’s death.
Dougal didn’t trust them from the beginning. Fergus and Morris Fortanach claimed no home. No history. No background. And they reeked of vice, intrigue, and mischief.
But Gaufrid had been grieving for their father. Dougal didn’t have the heart to tear away his brother’s newfound friends in his time of need.
Perhaps if he hadn’t had his hands full, holding the clan together under his brother’s neglect, Dougal might have intervened sooner. But by the time he grew aware of the changes in Gaufrid, it was too late.
The Fortanachs had already sunk their claws deep into Gaufrid’s malleable mind. Toying with his affections. Drinking with him. Whoring with him. Poisoning his soul. Using gushing flattery, free-flowing ale, and carefully chosen whispers, they bent Gaufrid to their will.
Under their influence, Gaufrid gradually replaced his father’s once loyal soldiers with brutes and mercenaries gleaned by the Fortanach brothers from God knew where.
Dougal devoted himself to protecting those harmed by his brother’s excesses and cruelty. The villagers. The servants. The crofters. But since Gaufrid was laird, Dougal had only limited power.
When the Fortanachs’ exorbitant tastes quickly drained the Darragh coffers, Gaufrid—eager to fulfill their demands and prove his own merit and power—filled them again by raising taxes on the surrounding villages.
Gaufrid’s efforts were misguided, of course. Taxing the villagers didn’t buy their respect. It made them hate him more.
What it did buy, however, was an army of bloodthirsty warriors willing to fight for the laird—to the death, if necessary—if it meant their survival.
Which was why, when the warrior’s sword swept with killing force toward Dougal’s ribs, he responded in equal measure. He thrust up his targe with enough power to both knock away the blade and send the man stumbling backward into the dust.
No sooner had one foe fallen than another came to take his place.
And another.
And another.
Dougal defeated them all.
But he felt no thrill of glory as he watched them depart from the field one by one, hanging their heads in disappointment.
He felt grateful that he’d live to fight another day for what was left of his father’s noble legacy.
He also felt the need to get away from the castle for a while. Leave the stench of hate and hopelessness behind. Fill his lungs with fresh sea breeze.
“Campbell,” he called out to the stable lad. “Saddle Urramach, will ye? I’ll stretch his legs today.”
He’d ride out from the sea cliff to the countryside. Check on the crofters. There had been a christening at Kirkoswald this morn. He’d make an appearance on behalf of the laird. Give the new parents a wee gift of coin. Look after the villagers in whom his brother took no interest.
“Congratulations, brother!”
