The Mistaken Groom, page 1
The Mistaken Groom
A Kidnapped Groom Book
by Patricia Bates
Copyright © 2022 by Patricia Bates
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. and Canadian copyright law. For permission requests, contact Patricia Bates via email at patriciabatesauthor@gmail.com.
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.
Book Cover by Romancing the Cover
Dedication
To my family - your patience and support is immeasurable. I also want to take a moment to say thank you to you, my reader. I'm so excited to share Callum and Elizabeth's story with you! If you love this book as much as I hope you will, please take a moment and leave me a review – your support warms my heart.
Chapter One
1303
Highlands of Scotland
The crackling of flames in the fireplace filled the main hall of Chieftain Duncan’s castle. Callum swept the room with a cursory glance, his fingers tapping along the scarred tabletop. Smoke stained stone pressed in around those gathered, a heavy curtain of smoke swirled above their heads. The flickering of candles reflected off the two jewel encrusted claymores hanging above the scarred mantel, crossed by a battle axe.
Several servant girls rushed about the room, carrying pitchers and cups. A slim, dark-haired girl set a cup in front of him, a pitcher in her other hand. Callum slapped a hand over the rim and shook his head. The ale did nothing to improve the current mood or situation.
Callum crossed his arms over his chest. Nine men lurked behind those at the lengthy table in the great room. Not one clung to the remainder of their youth. The years having bleached any trace of color from their hair and beards.
Shuffling from the head of the table drew Callum’s attention, and he exhaled a slow breath. The Duncan clan’s chieftain hunched in his chair. His gray hair hung down around his face, the white of his beard stark against the dark shade of his attire. Duncan steepled his fingers together and pressed them to his lips.
On his left Adhamh, his second in command peered out through bushy brows. His lips pressed into a hard line. A scar marred the left side of his face. The stump of an arm peeked from beneath the edge of his lien.
Callum shifted his attention to the other men. Three of the seven were allies of the old man. The group looked from Ducan to Callum and back. Duncan cleared his throat and stared at Callum through narrowed his eyes.
Would the old man grant him the aid Callum requested? Was he so eager to hand over their lands and their people to the English bastards in the lowlands?
“It is not for us to say, MacGreghere. The Duncan clan is not–” The thick rasp of the old man’s voice shattered the tension.
Good god, his stomach dropped, and Callum clenched his fists on the table. “Ye do not hold concern for the English cluttering up our country?” He had to have misunderstood Duncan’s words. Surely Duncan had not - would not- deny Callum the support he’d promised him.
Callum leaned closer to the table. The muscles in his jaw ticked, and he ground his teeth together. Fixing the old man with a hard glare, Callum exhaled. Manners and respect be damned. “Or are ye–”
“I’m old, McGreghere, with more years upon a battlefield than ye have seen. I wish to live out my remaining years with some semblance of peace. War with the English will be costly.” He pounded his forefinger on the table in front of him, exhaustion dripping from his voice. “Not only in coins, but in lives. Edward’s followers are in the borderlands, locked within their castles and forts. None are here in the highlands.”
“Yet, Chieftain, yet.” Callum snorted. “They are only the scourge of the lowland and borderland Scots. The English are greedy and untrustworthy. If we do nothing, they will take everything and leave us with nothing.” Was Duncan really so eager to overlook the truth? So hungry for a peace that would be doomed ot remain just out of reach It would be far more costly if the clans did not unite against Edward. Duncan’s refusal, and the refusal of his allies would ensure there was nothing left. “They hold no love for us Scots and will take every inch we give them.”
“It is not an easy decision to be made.” An old man, Callum didn’t recognize, to Duncan’s left spoke, his fingers toying with the cup of wine in front of him. “Ye have only recently taken on the position of leader among yer clan. How can ye ask what no other would ask of us?”
“So ye vote against action, Adhamh.” Anger sizzled along the threads of his voice and Callum met the old man’s gaze. He raised a brow and took a long breath.
“I will not vote without all information being presented. We must all be in agreement.” Adhamh’s voice crackled.
“What detail do ye feel is lacking? I have given ye–”
“It is not a matter to be decided without consideration of cost, young man. Ye are new to leadership. We have seen war before, many times. Ye must agree it is best to put the needs of our clans before the needs of others.”
“Aye, I do agree. It is my clan’s future which concerns me. I would see them to freedom, not slaving for some English bastard.” With a snort, Callum shoved back from the table and lurched to his feet. His seat clattered to the floor behind him.
Soldiers stood to attention, hands flying to their swords. Those gathered around the table jumped in their seats, all eyes upon him. “So, ye will not give aid then?” Ice dripped from his tone. How could they be so blind?
“I will not go to war with an enemy who has–” Duncan slapped a hand on the table.
Callum planted both hands on the table. “They are yer enemy in equal measure. Yer women, yer children will fall beneath their blades as easily as yer men.”
“Edward has yet to break his word and invade all of Scotland. I have given my word I would not stand against him until–”
His heart stuttered in his chest and Callum gaped at the older man. The fool. “Aye, I see. Yer loyalty is not to yer kinsmen, but to the bastard who–”
“I will not break my oath to aid ye, McGreghere.”
“What of yer oath to the McGreghere clan? Does it hold no weight?” Callum inhaled a deep breath. The vague hope he’d clung to faded with each passing second as the elders at the table whispered amongst themselves. The men shook their heads and stared at him. “It is a foul day when a Scotsman turns on his own.”
“I will not wage a war I cannot win. Not when it puts my people at risk. I will stand with ye, but I refuse to go to war with Edward.”
“Ye will not rise against an enemy who would see yer clan destroyed? If Edward were to march on us and attack my people ye would not join me in defending against him?”
“Edward has given–”
“So be it.” Alliances meant nothing to the old. Or was it his age they railed against. He had spent years learning the ways of leadership and now, it was for naught. His uncle would not have passed on the leadership of the clan to him if he were not able bodied and capable.
“He has not entered the highlands, McGreghere and he will not.”
“Adhamh, ye do not know the man’s mind.”
Duncan exhaled. “Whether we do or not, McGreghere, there is no reason to believe otherwise. Edward has given his word and I will not risk war.”
Heat raced through his body, his blood boiled. His palms itched and he flexed his fingers. The threat was real and one his clan would face - alone, it seemed. “We as Scots are at war. I see the truth now and how it must be. It falls to those with a desire for true freedom to defend the highlands.”
Bampots. Every one of them.
Duncan staggered to his feet. “How dare ye? Such an insolent pup. Ye are not Chieftain here, McGreghere. Ye stand within the walls of my home, a guest at my table.” His voice quivered and shook, echoing off the stone walls. “Ye are little more than a boy with a fresh title and claim in place. Yer uncle should have given the title to one with skill and experience.”
“My position as head of my clan is of no concern to ye, Duncan. I have trained under some of the most powerful leaders and while I am young, I am no fool.” Callum cast a sharp glance at the gathered men. “I have heard Wallace speak his wisdom. I have seen the treatment of those on the borderlands. Heard the cries of women who were yanked from the arms of their husbands. The very threat is enough to give any man nightmares. Ye are correct, Duncan. I am not chieftain here. A pity. Unlike some, I do not embrace the words of Edward as anything but a lie. Deceit wrapped in honey meant to keep us beneath their boots.” Ice coated each word and he lowered his voice to a rolling growl.
Weak, and tired, those elder than him had turned a blind eye to anything beyond their own desires. Their actions ensured the suffering of their clans. Callum swallowed hard and met the stare at each man. He allowed a small smirk to twist his lips. “If I were, my warriors would be prepared for any enemy lurking in the shadows.” Callum stalked across the room and took the steps in two strides. Throwing the door open he stepped out into the weak sunlight.
The damn fools.
Thunder rumbled in the distance, lightning lighting up the gathering darkness. The weather appeared to be in agreement with his mood.
God show
If the old leader did not change his mind, his clan would not survive the ever approaching English army. Duncan clan members mingled throughout the courtyard, casting short, furtive glances in his direction. Their whispers were a furious buzz around him. The muscles in his jaw spasmed, the cracking of his teeth filled his ears.
Men, women, children. They clung to the words of their chieftain in hopes he would protect them.
An old man who sought peace no matter the cost to his people.
If they were his people they would need not fear the enemy.
But they weren’t part of his clan.
The Duncan clan members parted, and he strode across the courtyard to where his horse stood dozing. Allies were growing scarce and his men would need to prepare for the coming war.
With a swift tug, he settled his brat on his shoulder. Callum gathered the trailing reins and vaulted into the saddle. The leather creaked beneath his weight and his mount sidestepped. Callum wasn’t an envoy. He was a soldier. Trying to deal with old men was a task best left to Eaun. Hell, if the high walls and crowded keep kept pressing in around him he’d suffocate.
Callum twisted in the saddle. On the steps of the castle, the old chieftain and the council members of the clan huddled, their heads bent together. A councilman turned and faced him, his narrowed eyes hidden by thick, bushy brows, and Callum gathered his reins. “The English need not wage war. At the rate the clans are going, we will destroy ourselves.”
He muttered a curse under his breath and nudged his stallion through the gates of the Duncan clan’s holding. Once clear, the stallion broke into a gallop down the trail. The walls and stench of Duncan’s holding faded with each stride, and Callum’s chest loosened.
Finally, he was clear of his allies’ clan and could breathe.
Lush green hills spread out before him, and he exhaled. “Three days wasted on a bunch of ranting old men.”
God knew the McGreghere clan were not alone in clan members falling to the enemy. It was a truth widely agreed upon by all the clans, except for the foolish Grahams. Callum ground his teeth together and exhaled sharply. But, his voice lifted the loudest against them.
Edward would not be satisfied with the borderlands, with the forts and castles he held. No, he wanted all of Scotland.
He would not yield his country to the wretched English king. If the clans did not unite, then King Edward would seize their lands.
Callum guided his trotting stallion down the trail, his jaw tight.
The old chieftain spoke of his clan’s safety, of alliances. But George Duncan was blind to the faults of the English king he was so loyal to. Damn it. Duncan was a fool, and his sons were useless. Had he forgotten Callum’s father had fallen to an English blade. His mother raped and murdered.
Aye, he knew. Heat licked at his veins, and he tightened his grip on the reins. He’d drive the bastards from Scotland if it was the last thing he did.
Kicking his stallion, he urged the animal faster.
Flames licked along the edges of his memory. Screams of pain and terror echoed through his senses. Blood spread across rough stone, dripping down the steps at his feet. His mother’s sobs, the rent of fabric and her pleas of mercy. The Englishmen’s laughter and grunts.
Until they were defeated for good, the English would rape and pillage until there was nothing left for them to conquer.
Like shadows risen from the depths of Hell, the enemy pressed in on the southern territorial barrier. Occupying castles and forts as if they were the rulers of his land. As if they owned the land they’d claimed.
Crops could be replanted, livestock replaced, but the lives of clan members were a debt to be collected upon. For every one of them who perished, he would see the enemy’s numbers dwindle.
Callum snorted. He should have called his warriors together and joined Wallace. The time for such actions was gone. Wallace’s efforts, his words had reached even those here but still they seemed to fall on deaf ears.
“Hell.” Callum tugged on the bridle, turning his stallion toward the forest. Nothing was easy in the highlands. If it were, the English would have taken control long ago.
Callum scrubbed his hand over the curve of his jaw, the rasp of his beard tickling his palm. Damn fools. Old feuds and alliances stood in the way of unity. Of freedom.
Thunder boomed above him, and he cast a scowl upward. Gray clouds rolled across the sky, the air heavy with the freshness of a coming rain. Puffs of white mist escaped his nostrils, and he shivered. It would be another hour before the rain arrived, and he still had half a day’s ride ahead of him.
A hot meal and a warm bed would serve him well.
Focus, Callum. There wasn’t anything to be done until he was safely back on his clan’s territory. Distraction led to danger.
Trees pressed in on either side of the trail, narrowing it through the brush and wide-trunked trees creating a living wall. The weak daylight filtered through the canopy casting silvery shadows on the trail.
Enemy territory snaked along the trail to his left. Hell. Prickles raced along his spine.
A sharp crack to his right shattered the silence. Every muscle hardened. His heart leapt in his chest, settling into a rapid rhythm beneath his ribs. The hair on the back of Callum’s neck stood on end.
Callum tightened his grip on the reins. His horse sidestepped and tossed his head. He pressed a hand to the horse’s neck and inhaled a slow breath. His heart settled into a slow throb. He allowed a slow smile to curve his lips, whoever slunk about would ease the burning in his veins.
A heavy stillness hung in the air. Silence stretched like a taut bowstring, the sounds of the forest muted. His blood slowed through his veins.
Through the branches and other foliage, shadows moved along the treeline. The breeze carried the faint aroma of smoke and sweat toward him, and Callum clenched his fists. Someone was there. The weight of their stare bore through him.
Aye, even if he could not see them, they were there. The cold metal of the hilt slid across Callum’s palm, a comfortable weight. He tightened his muscles and swept his gaze across the trail.
Soft thuds and the rustling of the leaves carried to him. Trees swayed as if brushed aside.
The Graham clan’s territory started at the treeline. Weak and inept, they surely weren’t daft enough to seek to capture their more powerful enemies. Only a fool would dare such a thing. The old bastard was not known for a clear head.
Several branches trembled, the leaves whispering. He pulled his sword free, the metal singing. Aye, he’d send them to their graves.
A body darted on the other side and Callum whirled his horse.
Who would dare to attack him? Had the English - nay, it had to be the Graham clan. Fools. It would be he who would come out the victor.
Eerie howls of battle cries and barked out commands rose around him.
Callum roared and whirled his stallion in a circle, sword in hand. Several men rushed at him. His mount reared, screaming a challenge. The men ducked away from the stallion’s hooves. Those that darted out of the way were replaced with more bodies, men circling ever closer.
The tension bled from his muscles and Callum slid from his mount’s back. The bay lurched forward, the crowd parting to allow him escape. On his feet, sword at his side, Callum glared.
A flash of green and brown caught Callum’s eye, and he whirled to face the threat. Men dressed in the muted shades of hunters surrounded him. Armed with spears and swords they pressed closer.
Callum flexed his fingers around the hilt of his sword and braced his weight. Young warriors, most barely old enough to stand on the battlefield. Fear soured the surrounding air. Several men stepped to one side, and an older man swaggered forward.
Do not linger. He needed to move. To get back to his clan. Callum ground his teeth together, his jaw aching. His warriors would go to war - and leave his people unprotected. It would ensure the English victory. Nay he could not surrender.
“Ye risk war?”
A nagging familiarity taunted Callum’s mind. The man before him was a seasoned warrior, one he’d met before. He straightened. A Graham. Of course.
Gravel crunched behind him. Warmth drifted across his neck and Callum glanced over his shoulder at the warriors standing behind him.
