Claiming His Highland Bride. Terri Brisbin

      Somehow, when Brodie spoke those words, ones that echoed his own thoughts and vow, guilt washed over him. And he had no reason to feel that at all. He’d helped the Mackintoshes a dozen times over and would again if he could. He would not, however, betray his own clan or disobey a direct order from his own chieftain. He did stand then, pushing free of Brodie’s hand to look him in the eye.

      ‘Aye. I am loyal to the Camerons, Brodie.’ Anger built in his gut then and he wanted to rage. The strange thing was that he was not certain who his target should be.

      ‘Hold,’ Brodie said, putting his hand up between them. ‘I meant nothing more by my words. And I ken that your uncle’s actions will cause strife between us.’

      ‘My uncle’s actions?’ Arabella rose now and approached her husband. ‘What has he done now?’

      ‘Gilbert has been negotiating with Hugh MacMillan of Knap for his daughter’s hand in marriage.’ Brodie’s gaze never left his own.

      ‘Another marriage?’ Arabella gasped at this news. ‘How old is she?’ she whispered. The words lashed out at him and Alan could not help but flinch. How old?

      They’d never spoken of Gilbert’s penchant for young women openly and it should have surprised Alan to hear it from her, but somehow it did not. Arabella missed little, whether here in Drumlui Keep and village or at the home of her childhood Achnacarry. She’d learned early in life that she would be the wife of a powerful man with many under her control and supervision and had learned the skills needed to live that life. Breaking from Brodie’s stare, Alan looked at his cousin.

      ‘It matters not for The MacMillan’s daughter drowned on her way to the betrothal.’

      Arabella began to say something, but she pressed her lips together and swallowed. He could guess that her words would be close to those uttered by Magnus just a short time ago in a different chamber.

      ‘God rest her soul,’ she whispered, lifting her hand to her head, chest and shoulders in the gesture that usually accompanied such prayers. A few moments passed before she reached out to touch her husband’s arm. ‘There must be more to this if you are so concerned. Tell me the rest of it, Brodie.’

      ‘I suspect there is more to this than a simple betrothal, Bella,’ Brodie said. ‘There have been whispers for months about dissatisfaction with the treaty between our clans. But nothing more. Nothing substantial. Nothing I can prove.’

      ‘Alan, do you know of this?’ she asked him next.

      ‘In all candour, Arabella,’ he said, glancing first at Brodie, then back to her, ‘I know nothing of plans to undermine or weaken the treaty.’ He took a breath in and let it out. ‘As to the other, I know only what Brodie told you.’ He looked at Brodie once more. ‘In either of these, though, my uncle does not keep my counsel or invite me to share in his, Brodie.’

      ‘I wanted to tell you that you have a place here, Alan,’ The Mackintosh said. ‘No matter what actions your uncle carries out or treachery afoot, you are one Cameron that will always be welcomed here and in the Chattan Confederation.’

      Tears had begun trickling down Arabella’s cheeks at her husband’s words. A sick feeling flooded him for, by those words, Brodie had confirmed one thing and, at the same time, hinted at so much more.

      ‘What do you know? What treachery do you speak of?’

      ‘Brodie. Alan. Can we three not speak plainly here together? We have given ourselves into this treaty and have seen too many die before it was in place to want it weakened. We are more than allies here,’ she pleaded. Her eyes bright with tears, she touched both his and Brodie’s hands. ‘We are kin. We are family. We are friends who have protected each other and even saved each other’s lives when we needed saving.’

      Her soft words crushed his pride and the tension in Brodie eased as well. He stepped back and nodded at his wife.

      ‘You are right in this, my love.’

      Brodie walked to the pitcher and brought it to the table with another cup. Pouring a generous amount in each of the three there now, he drank deeply and Alan wondered if the news Brodie would share was so bad he needed the fortification of strong wine.

      ‘First, word came to me that The Cameron has sent and received many messages to Alastair MacDonald of Lochaber in recent months.’

      Feeling somehow responsible to defend Cameron honour, Alan was tempted to offer some sort of explanation. Instead he waited to learn more about Brodie’s suspicions and whether they were groundless. Alastair MacDonald had been behind attacks on Mackintosh holdings, and villagers, a few years back. He’d deflected his guilt on to the Camerons until Alan had discovered the truth of it. Would his uncle truly be contemplating some sort of alliance with the MacDonalds of Lochaber now?

      ‘More recently I received reports about this betrothal with The MacMillan’s daughter. His claim on Castle Sween is tenuous at best now that his wife is dead. But if his daughter married the Cameron chieftain, he might be amenable to defending her father’s claim.’

      ‘How is that trouble for the Mackintoshes or the treaty? The MacMillans are long-time allies to the Chattan Confederation. Would that not bind the Camerons more closely to your side?’ he asked Brodie.

      Brodie’s smile then was stark and devoid of mirth. Alan tried to think of all the ramifications of the match that had almost happened. There were so many bonds and feuds between this clan and that one all over Scotland that he found it impossible to see all the strands in the spider web of connections. Clearly, Brodie had been thinking about this for some time.

      ‘Hugh MacMillan is an upstart who claimed Castle Sween from the MacNeills. He would change allegiances if it benefitted him.’ Brodie crossed his arms over his chest. ‘I will be watching to see their next moves.’

      ‘If I learn anything that I can tell you, I will,’ Alan said. ‘You ken that I will, do you not?’

      He would. He could not let this honourable man face destruction or mayhem without warning, if he knew about it. There were ways to walk that narrow path between friendship and betrayal and Alan had been learning that well these last years since he first met Brodie Mackintosh.

      Alan drank down the last of his wine, realising how late it was, and bade them both farewell. As he reached the door, he needed to ask something of Brodie.

      ‘’Tis clear that your spies are effective, my Lord Mackintosh,’ he began, bowing his head in a mock salute. ‘I would ask the same of you. That you inform me of anything you believe I should know.’

      Arabella smiled then, for the first time since their earlier discussion at supper about the attractive widow Saraid MacPherson. She wanted peace between all of them, all her kith and kin, and trouble and discord tore at her heart.

      ‘And you as well, my Lady Mackintosh,’ Alan said, nodding at his cousin. He rarely used a title when addressing her. ‘I ken that some of your sp...inform...sources ken as much as your husband’s and would appreciate being told what you discover.’

      Thinking that was the end of their discussion, he lifted the latch and pulled it open. As he tugged it to close behind him, Arabella called out to him. He slowed to hear her words.

      ‘My informants have told me that the widow Saraid MacPherson plans to enter a convent on Skye when she leaves here.’

      The door was closed with some force so Alan knew there was no chance of saying anything back to her. Or asking her any questions. He walked away, listening to the laughter coming from inside the chamber—his cousin’s and Brodie’s, too. He thought about his experience with women and let out some words that would rival even Rob Mackintosh’s best, or rather worst, efforts.

      He’d searched for his cousin and found her, but got captured, too.

      He’d fallen in love with Agneis, but lost her to Gilbert.

      He’d searched for, found and lost Fia Mackintosh,