Chapter Thirteen

The Present ~ 1475

Rough Bounds, Scotland

Brus awoke with a start and a jerk. He sat up, pulse exploding as he glanced out the window, and then he exhaled as his body relaxed. His comrades still slept around him and darkness still permeated most of the sky, though he could see the day trying to break through. He scrambled out of bed, scooped up his braies, and was pulling them on as he made his way to his plaid and his weapon, his thoughts turning.

What did he need to do this morning? See Torquil about the mission he wanted him to go on to the east side of the Rough Bounds and avoid Grace at all costs. He paused as the warring emotions that had kept him up the night before returned. He'd spent half the night awake, debating whether he should try to convince Torquil to let him accompany Grace to her uncle's today, and then he'd spent the other half of the night recalling the feel of her lips on his when she'd kissed him. The kiss had been gentle and innocent, but his reaction had been a hot tide of passion and yearning. He'd kissed his share of lasses, but not once had a kiss affected him like Grace's. Just the press of her mouth to his had felt intimate in a way he'd never allowed a kiss to be. Something about her felt different, and that was why he would avoid her, and most definitely not accompany her to her uncle's.

The lass had already somehow gotten him to answer all manner of personal questions, and the last thing he needed to do was spend more time with her and have her lull him further into her enticing web, so that he forgot it was dangerous and foolish to trust her. Morning plans set and his mind settled, he finished dressing, strapped on his weapons, and made his way down the dark passageway to the spiral staircase that led to Torquil's solar.

He stopped in front of Torquil's door, which was partially open, and knocked.

He could see Torquil at his desk. He seemed to hold a missive in his hand, one that he didn't appear to have opened yet. Torquil set the missive down. "Enter."

Brus entered the room and paused in front of Torquil's desk, deciding not to mince words. He did not want to miss the departure in the courtyard, though he did have a good while, judging by the little light in the sky when he'd awoken. Torquil looked at him, his light-blue eyes piercing in their intensity.

Brus cleared his throat. "I've come to see about the mission ye've decided I'm to go on instead of accompanying Connal and the lasses to Castle Tioram."

Torquil frowned. "Who told ye that?"

"Da," Brus replied.

"Ah," Torquil said, shaking his head. "Yer da requested I make the change. 'Twas nae my idea."

"I dunnae understand," Brus said, wariness rising within him.

"I think ye need to speak with yer da, and, after ye do, if ye wish to go to Castle Tioram, ye've my permission."

Brus didn't like that his first thought was of Grace. He shook his head. "I'll nae wish it. I've nae a reason to go to Castle Tioram." His body grew stiff at his words, seeming to physically reject what he'd just stated, but he pushed on, mind over foolish desire. "Arik and Connal are perfectly capable of seeing the lasses there."

"Aye, they are, but I thought ye might have yer own interest in going—"

"Nay," Brus interrupted.

Torquil sighed. "Brus, ye and I both ken ye are nae going to take the vow."

The words surprised Brus. "I was going to tell ye," he said. "I was trying to work out exactly why."

Torquil pressed his lips together and stared at Brus for a long moment. "Ye ken why, and so do I. Ye want a wife and likely bairns."

"Aye, well—"

"Nay, aye, well," Torquil said, his tone clipped. "Ye do. And that is fine and well, but I tell ye now, ye'll nae ever have happiness even if ye get a wife and bairns if ye forever keep a wife at a distance from ye. There is nae any greater pleasure in this world than allowing a woman to really ken ye, and it is worth whatever risk ye have imagined."

"I dunnae imagine any risk," Brus growled.

"If that's the lie that gets ye by keep telling it, but just getting by is nae living, and ye have just been getting by here, which is why ye long to leave. Yer heart kens there is more, though yer head tells ye reaching for it may cause ye pain. There is nae joy without pain, son, the two go hand and hand. Ye have to have the one to fully appreciate the other. Go now," Torquil said with a wave of his hand. "Speak to yer da before the party leaves for Castle Tioram so if ye should change yer mind, ye can ride out with them."

Brus didn't know why his father had lied to him, but he suspected it had to do with Grace. His da didn't seem to care for Grace's da, and he likely didn't want Brus entangled with the lass. He needn't worry. "I'll nae be changing my mind," he said.

Torquil snorted. "If I could take back a foolish decision I'd made for every time I'd uttered those clot-heid words, I'd nae be sitting here now. I'd be in my own stronghold with a loving wife and bairns. Watch yer words lest they bite ye in the arse."

Brus nodded and turned to go, but when his hand pushed at the door, Torquil said, "Brus."

He turned and faced his leader.

"Aye?"

"Life service to the Watch was nae ever yer destiny." He walked around his desk and came to stand in front of Brus, and then he clasped him on the shoulder. "Yer da... well, his choices were out of a love for ye, so dunnae be too upset with him, and dunnae act rashly." That wary feeling in Brus turned to an ominous one. He wanted to ask Torquil what the devil he was talking about, but he knew the man would only tell him to speak with his da. "Remember," Torquil continued, "rushing into vengeance is a sure way to get yerself killed, and ye have a responsibility greater than yerself."

"I dunnae ken what ye're talking about."

"Nae now ye dunnae, but ye will. Go see yer da."

Brus nodded, the ominous feeling pressing down on him as he turned, headed out of the solar, and made his way quickly down the stairs to his da's bedchamber. He expected to have to rap on the door several times, as his da was a heavy sleeper, but just a breath after his first knock, the latch slid off and the door creaked open. His da stood there, eyes bright and not a hint of sleep showing on his face.

"Ye're awake," Brus said, surprised.

"Aye, I've been awake all night," he said, stepping out of the doorway and motioning Brus in.

"Did something keep ye up?" Brus asked, thinking of what Torquil had just told him, but hoping his father would offer truths and Brus would not have to pull them out of him.

"Aye," his da said. "Ye did. I assume ye're here to tell me ye wish to take the lass to her da."

"Why would ye assume that?" he asked. If his da had lied about Torquil saying Brus had to go to the east simply because he didn't want Brus entangled with Grace, he still didn't understand all the other things Torquil had said.

"I saw the way ye looked at her in the courtyard, and I saw the way she looked at ye, and I, likely along with all the other people in the supper hall last night, saw her kiss ye. I already told ye, though, that Torquil says—"

Brus clenched his teeth. His father was one of the few people he trusted, and to think he was breaking that trust twisted Brus's gut. "I spoke to Torquil moments ago, Da," Brus said, staring at him expectantly, willing him to prove he was as trustworthy as Brus had always believed. "I ken ye are lying to me. The question is, why?"

Mute wretchedness swept over his father's face and settled there. His shoulders sagged, and he slowly made his way to the bed. He leaned over his knees, propped his elbows on them, and rested his forehead on his fingers, not looking at Brus, but at the floor. "There was a time I dreamed of nothing but when this day would come. I thought we'd create a plan, travel out together to find the others, and then seek revenge, gain it, and set things to right."

A disquiet stirred within Brus. He wanted to go to his father, but his words, and the fact that that they seemed to reinforce the possibility that the man he trusted most in this world had betrayed him, held Brus in place, unable to move. His throat became dry, his tongue thick, and the room almost suffocatingly hot and small.

Brus tugged on his plaid to loosen it. "What are ye talking about?"

"There is nae a good way to say what I must," his da said, misery drenching each word.

The disquiet in Brus grew louder, becoming a low rumble in his ears. "Then just say it," Brus said, his voice strumming with the tension that was coursing through him.

His da looked up then, and his one eye held a thousand shadows of regret that sucked all the air from Brus's lungs. "Yer name is Ross Stewart."

The words set off a riot of confusion in Brus. "What the devil do ye mean." He smacked a palm to his chest. "I'm Brus. Ye told me I was Brus. I am Brus."

The man let out a shuddering sigh, looking utterly defeated. Normally, Brus would go to him, offer a comforting arm around his shoulder and an ear to hear his grievances, but he stayed still, rendered immobile by the possibility that a sea of lies surrounded them. It could not be. Could not.

"Yer da was Sir Gilbert Stewart, Laird Stewart, Lord of Lorn, and yer mama was Isabel."

"Nay." Brus shook his head. "I. Am. Brus." With each word he smacked his chest, the force growing stronger and louder with each hit.

His da rose and took a step toward him, but Brus shot out his arm, ready to shove him back. "Dunnae," he bit out, his vision blurring, so that he had to squint to regain focus. When he did, the misery on his father's face made Brus flinch and fear spring within him.

"Yer da was Laird Stewart. Ye are nae Brus, but Ross."

The words pelted him like rocks, each one causing him to grow more tense as if under attack. He was under attack. He didn't know what to think, what to believe. He squeezed his eyes shut once more. "Nay, I am Brus." He'd spent his whole life thinking he was a bastard who'd been abandoned. It had defined him, how he reacted, his ability to trust, and to learn now it wasn't even true. He shook his head, opened his eyes, and scrubbed a hand across his face. "Ye're a liar."

"Aye," his da—nay, Nigel, agreed. The man he'd only ever known as his father swallowed hard. "Aye," he said again.

A furious tic began to pound in Brus's temple and he pressed his fingers to it. Nigel had lied. Nigel was a liar. Nigel could not be trusted. Could anyone be trusted? Brus clenched his teeth and then forced himself to release the hold to speak. "Is yer name even Nigel?" Ross demanded.

Nigel shook his head.

Nae Nigel.

Brus clenched his teeth once more, but this time so he wouldn't shout at the man he'd loved as a father, whom he had believed unfailingly. Pain shot down the length of his jaw, and he forced himself to unclench once more. "Ye're nae Nigel, and I'm nae Brus." The room tilted, so he kneeled, one knee touching the floor, the other up for him to brace his hand on. He set his other hand to his sword pommel as he did anytime trouble stirred.

He didn't know this man. He didn't even know himself.

"My name is Bran Stewart. I was yer da's right hand. The day MacDonald and his mercenaries attacked yer home, yer da's home, yer da ordered me, Eppie—who was head of the kitchens—and Archibald Stewart, the stablemaster, to ferret ye, yer mama, yer younger brother and sister to safety."

Bile rose in Brus's throat, and he spit to rid himself of the foul taste. He had a brother? A sister? He had family he had never known. He was not Brus. Not Brus. Not. Brus. The two words echoed over and over again in his head, until he wanted to roar with fury. He should be happy to know he was not abandoned. He should be, but he couldn't feel it now. Just betrayal. Deep, dark, bitter betrayal.

"Why," he demanded as a burst of rage made it hard to speak, "did ye lie to me about who I am?" He began to shake. He curled his hand tightly around his sword. He wanted to smash things, but he knew to control the rage. Uncontrolled anger hurt no one but the man who released it.

Thoughts of Grace hit him. God's blood. Grace's father had killed his. Bile rose again, and he spit once more. "Tell me," he bit out, the two words lashing into the silence. "Tell me everything from the beginning." He knew logically that the sins of Grace's father were not hers, that the lies of Nigel were not lies she uttered, but this revelation was the ultimate reason to keep a distance from her—as if he'd needed another.

The stranger before him, Bran but not Bran, Nigel, but not Nigel, scrubbed a hand across his face. "The trouble, or rather mine and yer da's awareness of it, came when I was at MacDonald's stronghold and saw a missive on his desk as I was waiting for him in his solar. The missive accompanied a treaty between MacDonald and the King of England, but it was also witnessed, agreed to, and signed by Laird Colin Campbell and the Earl of Douglas, and there was another signature I could nae read. Campbell was to be given a large tract of land for his agreement to the treaty. As for MacDonald and Douglas, well, if Scotland was conquered by England, then the lands north of the Scottish sea would be ruled by MacDonald, while the lands south of it would be ruled by Douglas. All the men were required to do was nae take up arms to aid our king in defending himself against an invasion by the King of England."

Brus's head pounded with the information. He was no bastard. He was a laird's son. He was Ross. He tested the name in his head. It was foreign. It was not his, and yet it was. And his father, the man history labeled a traitor, wasn't a traitor at all. He stared at Bran, Nigel, whoever the devil he was, until the man paled. Brus swallowed the pain, the rage, the disbelief. "Ye let me believe my mama had abandoned me. Ye let me believe I was unwanted. A bastard! Did my da tell ye to do that?" he demanded. "Afore he was murdered, did my da tell ye to do that?"

"He told me to keep ye safe, to keep ye alive above all, and that is what I have done. MacDonald got rid of the copy I'd penned of the treaty between him and England's king, and MacDonald had the original. There was nae any proof of yer da's innocence, and once he was dead, it was MacDonald's word that was left, and he made damned sure he was believed. The queen, bless her soul, had all she could handle keeping her son alive, our king. I was to take ye and yer mama away, but yer mama would nae come. She refused."

Brus wanted to deny the words, but inside of him, his gut, his heart recognized them as truth. He was not Brus. He was not abandoned nor unwanted. He had been loved so much that his parents had given their lives to protect him and his siblings. He tried the name again. It didn't fit, and yet it was his. All his life he'd had trouble trusting, and though he'd been wrong about why, the instinct had been correct.

Bran paused then, clearly choked up, and the show of emotion cooled the anger inside Brus a bit, but not enough to make a move to comfort the stranger before him. The betrayal, even if for his safety, cut to the bone.

"I'm Ross." He could say it all he wanted, but it didn't sound right, it didn't feel like him, and yet, he'd never felt a total ease in his skin as Brus. He was adrift in a sea of turmoil. "I am Ross," he said again, willing himself to accept it. He would not deny he was the son his parents had died to keep alive.

Bran nodded. "Aye, ye are Ross."

"My mama was killed." It was not a question, but a statement he made to try to accept it, but Bran nodded.

"Aye, from what I have heard on the wind."

Ross frowned. "Ye did nae let anyone ken I was alive?" he asked, recalling now what MacLaren had said, that the Stewart children had all disappeared and were presumed dead.

Bran shook his head. "There were unmarked warriors with MacDonald that day, and I did nae ken who they were so I did nae ken whom I could trust, save Eppie and Archibald. I have tried many times over the years to find them, to find yer brother and sister, but they have vanished into the mist."

Ross swallowed the large knot that had formed in this throat. "Why do I nae recall my mama, my da? My brother—"

"Graeme," Bran said softly.

Ross, the stranger, the infiltrator, paused, straining his mind, but nothing came to him. "What is my sister's name?" Or what had it been? She could have been dead. His brother could have been dead.

"Margaret. Everyone called her Mags."

Still nothing. Ross inhaled sharply, frustrated and angry. "Why do I nae remember?"

"When we were fleeing, I was shot by an arrow, and I hit a tree. 'Tis how I lost my eye," Bran said, raising his hand to the eye patch he always wore. "I'm nae positive what happened to ye because when I came to, I was on the ground and ye were face down in the river when I found ye. I thought ye were dead. I pounded on ye, and eventually, ye hacked up water. I think ye also hit a branch. Ye had a gash on yer forehead, and ye did nae ken me. It took me days to get ye to quit screaming in fear. I made my way here, to my brother."

"Torquil?" Ross asked, the truth of it a sureness in him that matched the sureness of the rising sun each day.

Bran nodded. "Aye. He hid me and ye until we healed. Then he introduced me as Nigel, helped me make up a story, and then I eventually brought ye out of hiding and said I found ye. Ye were just a wee lad of seven summers, and ye nae ever said different. I told ye that I had found ye. That yer mama had abandoned ye. That ye were a bastard. I told ye these things—" Bran paused again, his words jerky with his emotions "—to save ye from rushing out to avenge yer family when ye were old enough. I assumed the time would come that the truth could possibly be uncovered. That MacDonald would lessen in power—"

"He may be out of favor with the king!" Ross said, jumping up.

"May be," Bran said. "Ye kinnae risk yer life by confronting him with maybe. Ye dunnae have warriors."

"I am the laird of Clan Stewart, am I nae?" Ross could hardly believe his own ears. It wasn't that he cared to be laird, but he cared for justice. He cared to come out of hiding, to claim who he was, if only to clear his father's name and find his brother and sister, if they were still alive.

"Yer uncle is acting laird of the Stewart clan, and he has been ever since yer da died. I have heard that he took to the power like a wilting flower takes to water—desperate, drinking up every drop."

"MacCoul?" Ross asked.

"Aye. Alan MacCoul. Yer mama's brother. The queen appointed him long ago to the young king's council and then gave him the lairdship since yer da did nae have heirs left to be found."

"I am found, and I am laird."

"Dunnae be foolish. If ye dunnae ken who the other betrayer was, if ye dunnae have supporters to yer claim, ye will be killed."

"By whom?" Ross demanded. "My uncle? Ye think my uncle betrayed my da and worked with MacDonald?"

"I kinnae say, and that is the problem."

"Ye have kept me in hiding for fifteen summers," Ross said, his anger heating once more. He strode to Bran who stood as Ross came toward him. Ross was a hand taller. "Fifteen summers," he bit out. "What have ye done in fifteen summers to aid me in clearing my da's name, in finding my siblings, in taking back what was wrongfully stolen from us?"

"I made ye one of the greatest fighters to ever live."

"Aye," Ross acknowledged, "but then ye tried to persuade me to take a vow to keep me here, to keep me hidden for the rest of my life." Anger sent the beat of his heart into a pounding frenzy and pushed the blood through his veins almost painfully. "Why. Have. Ye. Kept. Me. Hidden? Why?"

"Ye are my son."

"Nay," Ross responded, shoving down the mercy that wanted to rise. "I'm nae yer son."

"To me, ye are," Bran replied, pounding his balled fist against his chest. "Ye became the son I did nae ever ken I wanted. I raised ye, and ye became my reason for living, and I did nae, I dunnae, want to lose ye."

"So out of fear, ye tried to persuade me to stay here?"

"Aye," Bran replied, not hesitating to admit what he'd done. "I let fear rule me as ye do."

"As I do?" Ross demanded, astounded.

"Aye. Ye trust few men and nae any lasses."

Ross stared at Bran in stony silence until the man shifted where he stood and then turned and sat back down like a wounded dog in retreat. The picture of the man defeated washed pity over Ross, but he shoved it down. "I wonder why?" he seethed, knowing the man understood him. "Ye made me think I was abandoned, and now I learned ye lied for years. Do either of these things lend themselves to trust?"

"Nay, Ross."

Ross. Ross. Ross. He was Ross. He did not feel like Ross, and yet he was.

"But neither of those things makes every person ye encounter untrustworthy. Trust is earned. Ye dunnae give any lasses ever and few men the chance to earn it."

The words struck to the quick, but Ross said nothing for a moment. "I trusted ye completely and look how I should nae have."

"I dunnae ken if I did right or wrong," Bran said. "But I did the best I could. I have loved ye as my son, and I have done all I could to keep ye alive, and that is what yer da asked me to do."

Damned if Ross did not hear the undeniable truth in the words. He didn't want to hear it. He wanted to stay angry, and yet he was finding his anger slipping in the face of Bran's remorse, the tremble in his voice, and the shaking of his hands. Remorse clung to his every action and words. Bran's expression turned resigned. "What will ye do?"

What would he do? Ross stood there, thinking, the silence stretching. He knew what he had to do. "I kinnae stay here and remain hidden."

"If ye claim the lairdship, ye risk yer life."

"Aye, but we are all dying, Bran. Some of us just meet the dark night afore others."

Bran's eyes widened. "Yer da used to say that exact same thing."

Ross was momentarily speechless with surprise. He swallowed. "I would that I'd remember him, my mama, my siblings."

"Mayhap now that ye ken the truth, memories will come to ye. Ye pulled those words of yer da's from somewhere in yer recollections."

Ross thought on that a moment. "Aye, I suppose I did. I will get the truth from MacDonald somehow."

Bran sighed. "I figured that would be yer plan. I kinnae change yer mind?"

"Nay," Ross said without hesitation.

Bran nodded. "Then I'll do all I can to aid ye. I would give my life for ye, Ross. Each lie I told was to protect ye."

Ross nodded. He knew it to be so, and he could not cling to his anger because of the truth of that knowledge. "Ye kinnae come with me in this fight, Bran." He did not want to say the obvious, which was that Bran would be a hindrance in a fight and not a help. It wasn't just that he did not have the use of one of his eyes, but he did not move quickly anymore, and Ross would be concerned for him, which would divide his attention.

Bran—it was so strange to think of him with that name. Ross shoved a hand through his hair. It was even stranger to think his own name was not what he'd believed.

Bran offered a small smile. "I did nae intend to come with ye. I ken my limitations. What I offer now is my best advice on how to get the confession ye wish and my services in finding Margaret and Graeme."

"I thought ye said ye have tried afore to find them."

"Aye, I did, but I have nae ever left here and done so in person. I did nae want to leave ye, but that is nae longer going to be an obstacle."

"How would ye even recognize them at this point? If the kitchen wench—"

"Eppie," Bran supplied.

"And the stablemaster—"

"Archibald."

"If they are dead, ye would nae ken my brother and sister if they were standing right in front of ye."

"Nay, but if I uncover information that leads me to believe I have found them, they bear the same proof ye do of who they are."

Ross felt his gaze widen and his eyebrows rise as he looked down at his chest, at the brand he bore. Bran had told him long ago that he had no notion why he would have been marked with an L1. Ross tried not to let anger rise once more at the lie. It was a drop in the large loch of lies Bran had fed him, and it was done out of fear, out of love. Ross knew this. "They have brandings?"

"Aye. They should, if Eppie and Archibald did as ordered. Graeme will have an L2, and Margaret will possess an L3. I'll leave right after ye do. Nae any of us told the other where we were going, in case we were captured and tortured, but I ken where Eppie and Archibald were born, and I ken some of their family names."

"All right. And what is yer advice on how to get a confession from MacDonald?"

"Use the lass."

Ross frowned. "Grace?"

"Aye, Grace. One moment," Bran said, turned and went to the side of his bed that showed the indention from his sleeping body. Then he lifted the fox skins that covered the floor so his bare feet met fur every morning instead of cold hardwood, and to Ross's shock, after some grunting and tugging, Bran lifted one of the wooden boards. He rummaged around for a moment and brought out a piece of parchment that was rolled and tied with twine. He untied it as he stood and straightened the paper, which rustled with age and dropped specks of dust that floated in the daylight. He stopped in front of Ross and held it out.

Ross took it, looked down, read the writing on the discolored document, and his mouth parted in shock as his body stiffened. He looked up to find Bran staring at him. "I was betrothed to Grace?"

"Ye still are," Bran said. "Did ye read the wording?"

Ross looked down once more. A life betrothal, unbreakable unless both lairds signed a paper saying they agreed to break it, or either Grace or he was dead. "My father did nae ever—"

"Ye are holding the actual betrothal document. That document would have to be signed by both yer da and Grace's with the wording, ‘I hereby agree to break the betrothal.' Grace is yer betrothed. Wed her. And then bed her. And then use her to get the confession from her da." Bran's eyes burned bright with years of repressed rage and unclaimed vengeance. "And then ye will reclaim yer home, yer lairdship, and find and destroy those who attacked yer da with MacDonald."

"Aye," Ross agreed, his blood pumping fast and hard through his veins. "Retribution will be mine."