at old Brae Castle.”
They rode around the lake to where a rotting wooden bridge connected the small island to the mainland shore. Leaving the horses, for they deemed the bridge too chancy, Patrick Leslie and his men carefully picked their way across the rotting span to reach the island. It was a rocky place with few trees. The mists had finally lifted and were being blown away by a light breeze. A weak sun was trying to make itself seen through the leaden autumn skies.
The island was not particularly welcoming. There was no sandy shore of any kind, the shoreline being craggy. The land between the bridge and the castle was once an open field and had obviously been kept that way as a first line of defense. Now it was filled with trees. The castle itself was built of dark gray stone with several towers, both square and rounded. The peaked roof over the living quarters was of slate, and there were several chimneys. On closer inspection, the castle did not seem to be in irreclaimable condition. Still, Patrick Leslie thought, it was the lands belonging to Brae that interested him. Not this little castle.
“What the hell!” He jumped back suddenly as an arrow buried itself in the ground by his feet.
“Ye’re trespassing, sir,” a voice said. Then from the open door of the castle a young woman stepped forth, a longbow notched with another arrow at the ready in her hands.
“As are ye, I suspect,” the duke said coldly, not in the least intimidated. His green-gold eyes swept over the girl. She was the tallest female he had ever seen, unsuitably garbed in boots and breeches. She wore a white shirt with a doeskin jerkin, a red, black, and yellow plaid slung carelessly over her shoulder, and a small, blue velvet cap upon her head with an eagle’s feather jutting jauntily from it. But it was her hair that caused him and his men to stare. It was red. But a red such as he had never seen but once. Bright red-gold that tumbled about her shoulders and down her back in a great mass of curls. “Who are ye?” he finally asked her.
“Ye first, sir,” she pertly answered him.
“Patrick Leslie, Duke of Glenkirk,” he said, wondering as he spoke if her hair was soft. He made her a small bow.
“Flanna Brodie, heiress of Brae,” she responded. She did not curtsy, but rather looked him over quite boldly. “What are ye doing on my lands, my lord? Ye hae nae the right to be here.”
“And ye do?” She was an impertinent wench, he thought.
“These are my lands, my lord. I hae told ye that,” Flanna Brodie answered him implacably.
“I want to buy them,” he told her.
“Brae is nae for sale,” she said quietly.
“Yer lands abut mine, lady. They are, if I am nae mistaken, yer dowry. Unless ye wed a landless man, which I am certain yer father and brothers would nae allow, Brae will be as useless to yer husband as it was to yer da. Gold, however, makes ye a far more desirable bride. Name yer price, and I will nae niggle wi’ ye over it,” the duke told her.
She stood, legs apart, glaring furiously at him. “I hae told ye, my lord, that Brae is nae for sale! I dinna intend to marry at all. I plan to make my home here. Now, take yer men and get off my lands! Ye are nae welcome here!”
Patrick Leslie stepped toward Flanna Brodie, who moving back a pace sent a second arrow into the ground at his feet then reached back into her quiver for a third. Before she could rearm herself, however, he leapt forward, pulling the bow from her hands and tossing it aside. Then, roughly shoving the girl beneath his arm, he smacked her bottom hard several times. “Ye hae bad manners, wench!” he growled at her. “I am surprised yer father hae nae taught ye better.”
The duke’s men howled with laughter as, outraged, Flanna squirmed from his grip. “Ye arrogant bastard,” she roared, then hit him a blow that actually staggered him. “How dare ye lay yer filthy hands on me?” She hit him an even harder blow, reaching for her dirk as she took up a defensive position.
The laughter ceased. The duke’s men stared, surprised, quite uncertain what to do. Then they decided to do nothing. The duke could defend himself.
“Why ye little she-devil!” he yelped, grabbing her wrists in a single hand, while disarming her with the other. Then he held her fast.
Flanna struggled wildly. “Ye hit me first,” she yelled.
“Ye shot an arrow at me, nae once, but twice,” he countered.
“Ye’re trespassing, and ye won’t go away!” Flanna shouted.
“Enough!” the duke said, and picking the girl up threw her over his shoulder. “I’m taking ye home to yer sire, wench, and I’ll hae nae more nonsense from ye. If Brae be sold, ’tis his decision, nae yers. I’m willing to wager a gold piece he’ll sell.”
“Put me down at once, ye bastard!” She squirmed and kicked, trying to escape him, but from her very awkward position it was just about impossible. She was finally forced to remain quiet as he picked his way back across the rotting bridge. If she tumbled them into the loch, this man was apt to drown them both. His men were snickering behind him and in her clear view.
“Colly, bind her hands and her ankles,” the duke ordered his man when they had reached the horses. “I’ll carry her over my saddle before me as we go. How far is Killiecairn?”
“ ’Tis about ten miles, my lord. We hae to go through Hay Glen; then around the other side of the ben is Brodie land. Ye surely dinna mean to carry the lassie head down the whole way? Let her ride before ye, my lord. I’ll tie her ankles together beneath the horse so she canna make trouble. I dinna think old Brodie would look kindly on yer mistreating his lass.”
The duke nodded, but added, “Then, he should teach the wench better manners, Colly. I hae never known such a wild wench.”
Flanna’s wrists were bound. She was put upon the duke’s stallion. “They call her Flaming Flanna, my lord,” Colin More-Leslie said as he bent to tie the girl’s ankles underneath his master’s horse, avoiding the kick she aimed at him.
Patrick Leslie swung himself into the saddle, the girl before him. His arms went about her as he gathered his reins into his hands. She attempted to avoid the contact only to back into his chest. She then sat very still, barely breathing as he kicked his stallion into a quick walk, the Glenkirk men and their dogs following behind.
Well, here was a fine bungle she had gotten herself into, Flanna thought, very irritated with herself. When was she going to learn to curb that damned temper of hers? All this bloody duke had to do was dangle a fat purse before her father and her half brothers. Then Brae would no longer be hers. She would have nothing, for the old man was as tight-fisted as they came. How often had she said she didn’t want a husband? Now they would take her at her word and end up being richer for it. She, however, would probably end up with nothing. When the old devil finally died she would be forced to rely on her eldest brother, Aulay, for her very subsistence. Worse, there was nothing she could do about it. Even if she agreed to sell the land, her father would have to approve the sale, and he would still keep the gold.
“Why the hell do ye want my lands?” she suddenly burst out.
“I told ye,” he replied. “They abut mine.”
“Ye never wanted them before,” Flanna noted.
“Glenkirk wasna mine until my father was killed at Dunbar,” Patrick told her. “Wi’ war in England, and all the trouble about religion here in Scotland, in England, and in Ireland, I want to make certain Glenkirk is kept safe from the madness of others,” he explained. “All I want is to be left alone, lady. The best way I can think of to do that is to own as much land as I can acquire.”
“I won’t bother ye living at Brae,” Flanna said hopefully. “All I ever wanted was to be left alone and in peace, too.”
“But who knows what yer husband will want,” the duke remarked.
“I hae nae husband,” Flanna told him. “I hae nae betrothed. I want neither, my lord. I dinna