When a Laird Takes a Lady: A Claimed by the Highlander Novel (17 page)

Magnus had a crazy desire to kiss her.

The two women exchanged a flurry of whispers, some of them harsh, and then the blond woman faced Morag.

“I am Isabail Macintosh, and this is my companion, Ana Bisset. We are on our way to Tayteath on the coast. A mission of some urgency, I might add, involving the rescue of a young lad.”

Whatever Morag had expected them to say, it wasn’t that. For the first time since he woke to her face, he saw her speechless. Magnus left the
shadows and stepped around Morag and into the moonlight. “Are you from the castle?”

Isabail retreated a step. “Nay.”

Her lack of explanation spoke volumes. Not aligned with the MacPhersons, it would seem. “Who is the lad of whom you speak, and why does he need rescuing?”

His question opened the floodgates. Isabail launched into a breathless tale of theft and murder and betrayal that lacked detail but not passion. On at least two occasions, she paused to wipe tears from her eyes and then doggedly returned to her story.

“So,” he said when she finally fell silent, “some scurrilous rat has stolen a necklace, kidnapped a boy, and made off to Tayteath. You, believing yourself vital to this rat’s surrender, have disobeyed your laird’s orders and set off on your own to bring him to justice. Is that a fair assessment?”

She nodded.

Magnus wanted to laugh, but the lass looked so serious and woebegone he dared not. “In my opinion,” he said gently, “it’s best to leave such matters to your menfolk. Go home and await their return.”

“Nay,” Isabail said. “I cannot. May we partake of your water? We must continue on our way with all due haste.”

Morag waved at the barrel. “By all means. I can also supply you with some dried hare and bannocks, if you’ve a need.”

Isabail smiled gratefully. “That’s most kind.”

Magnus pulled Morag aside. “You should not encourage them. This venture is sheer madness. Two women alone cannot survive the trek to the coast. Brigands and thieves abound. They will surely meet a most unwelcome fate.”

“They do not need to travel alone.”

He stared at her. “What are you suggesting?”

“That you go with them.”

To say he was surprised did not do his shock justice. Morag had repeatedly discouraged him from leaving her and the bothy. She had met his every plan with a strongly worded warning of how he would end up in the gallows. “Do you not fear what will become of me if I leave your side?”

She shrugged. “These women are not from the castle. They hold no grudge against you; nor does it seem that they have any reason to believe that you are more than a simple woodsman. Accompanying them seems like a rather safe way to test your memories.”

“What memories can I test with strangers?”

Morag crooked a finger. “Come with me.”

He followed her to the back of the hut, where she kept sheaves of dried grass for the goats. Curious, he watched her dig through the grass. When she found what she was searching for, she paused and then hauled out a four-foot-long bundle wrapped in burlap. Judging by her grunt, the item was heavy.

“Take it,” she said softly. “It’s yours.”

He relieved her of her load, recognizing the weight the instant he accepted it. “A sword.”

She nodded. “The men who left you for dead were in a terrible hurry. They did not stop to loot your body. The sword was still in your hand when I found you.”

Magnus unwrapped the weapon and admired the craftsmanship of the blade. The steel was very hard—most likely from Toledo—and the blade was honed to a razor-sharp edge. But it was the bronze hilt wrapped with tan leather that truly made the sword. Intricately patterned with hundreds of tiny Celtic knots, it snared the moonlight so well that it appeared to glow.

“It’s a bit too pretty for a man like you,” Morag said, “but I suspect that your ability to wield it makes up for it.”

“How do you know it belongs to me?” he asked. “Perhaps I stole it.”

She snorted. “I’ve seen you practicing with the wooden blade you carved. Your body flows into each position like it was made to dance with a sword. You are a warrior; of that I have no doubt.”

“You are risking two ladies’ lives on an unfounded belief. Are you sure that’s wise?”

Her eyes met his, her expression suddenly serious. “I’ve never told you this, but I saw the soldiers attack you that night. Eight of them, all wearing mail and helms, while you were attired only in a tunic. God has graced you with a true talent, Magnus. You struck half of them down before you were defeated.”

Magnus resisted the urge to shuffle his feet. Praise did not sit easily upon his shoulders, and
inwardly he scoffed at her description. And yet, as he grasped the hilt firmly in his palm, all sense of discomfort vanished. He raised the weapon high, and his muscles rose smoothly to the challenge, lifting the blade like it was simply an extension of his arm. He might not recognize the sword, but it seemed to know him.

But accepting the sword and accepting the mission to escort Isabail and her companion to Tayteath were not the same thing.

“This adventure might test my sword arm, but it will not test my memory,” he said. “I do not see how going to Tayteath will give me what I need.”

Morag’s face was a mask of blandness.

As he stared at her, the truth sank in—she did not want him to recover his memory. Not if it meant that he would leave her side. With this mission to rescue a young lad, she was hoping to tame the restlessness in his soul. To calm him enough to stay.

He should be angry, but he wasn’t.

If he were honest, he’d admit that he could have left many times over the last month. His memories were stubbornly eluding him, but his health had improved every day. He was held here by his fondness for Morag, not by anything else. But just as she made no direct plea for him to remain at her side, he was not ready to openly acknowledge his affections for her. They shared a bed each night, but had never shared a kiss.

He needed to be certain of who he was before he could stake a claim on Morag. And he might
need to sort that out without the benefit of his memories. If his knowledge of the past never returned, he would have to carve out a new identity. One of his own making.

“I will go,” he said finally.

She nodded.

“But,” he said, laying the sword upon the woodpile. “I would have a boon from you before I leave.”

“What boon?”

He cupped her face in his hands and tugged her close enough that he could count the freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose. Her eyes widened, but she did not pull away. Drawing in a breath, inhaling the same sweet fragrance that he fell asleep to each night, he lowered his lips to hers.

Kissing her was the culmination of many dreams. He had resisted the lure of her earthy, carefree loveliness for so long that the connection of their lips was like lighting a bonfire in his chest. A surge of heat and passion overwhelmed him, burning a fiery path from his lips to his groin. His hands tightened their hold on her, and he deepened the kiss.

She tasted so much sweeter than he had imagined. The urge to scoop her up and carry her into the bothy was fierce. Making mad, passionate love to her became a need he could barely resist. But resist he did. A kiss would have to do for now.

He slowly, reluctantly, withdrew.

Morag stared back at him with flushed cheeks and a smoky look in her green eyes.

“Do not do anything foolish while I am gone,” he said.

She settled back on her heels, smiling faintly. “What would constitute foolish?”

He gathered the sword and strapped the leather baldric to his chest. “Trading your cloth at the castle, taunting the soldiers when they ride past on patrol, taking a bath in the loch, climbing the tall oak in the—”

She threw up her hands. “Och. You mean I’m to have no fun at all.”

“I mean that I want you to be here, safe and sound, when I return,” he countered firmly. He caught her chin, pressed another quick kiss to her lips, and then let her go. “And I will return. I promise.”

Their eyes met and held for a long moment.

And then he left.

* * *

In the dark hour before dawn, even under a bright winter moon, it was easy to imagine the entire world was asleep. Aiden peered into the obscurity of the forest around their fire and listened to the snores of his men. They had pushed long and hard before stopping for the night. He would wake them as soon as the horizon began to glow with a new day.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something move, and he turned his head to look closer. A vague shape, low to the ground, gained detail as he stared. A head, a large body, and a tail. He stood straighter.

A large white wolf.

And where there was one wolf, there were generally others. He drew his sword. Making himself as large as possible, he advanced toward the wolf. Most wolves preyed upon the weak and the helpless. In the face of strength and purpose, they usually turned tail and ran. Not this one. The fur on its neck stood on end and a vicious snarl escaped its maw.

Aiden firmed his grip on his sword.

The wretched beast had picked a poor night to take his measure. He was angry, and it would suit him just fine to be wearing a new fur cloak come dawn.

A low growl rose up in the night. And then a second. Neither originated from the wolf in front of him—they came from the other side of the camp. The wily beasts had surrounded them.

Aiden stepped back. Without taking his eyes off the big white wolf, he kicked his brother’s sleeping form. “Niall, wake up.”

His brother threw off his blanket and surged to his feet, his sword in hand. “What is it?” he asked, his gaze darting about, his voice rough with sleep.

“Wolves. Several of them.”

Niall bent and shook Cormac’s shoulder. “Wolves,” he said to the bowman’s startled face.

In a moment, the entire camp was awake, each man staring into the woods with their weapons aloft. The big white wolf gave a deep snarl, then edged backward.

“That’s a bloody big one,” Cormac said, taking aim with his bow.

“Hold off,” ordered Aiden.

“No wolf disturbs my sleep and lives,” Cormac said, drawing hard on the bowstring.

“I said hold.” Aiden loaded the words with chilly authority. He did not enjoy repeating himself. When he gave an order, he expected it to be obeyed. Without question.

Cormac lowered his bow and his gaze. “Aye, laird.”

The white wolf stood up, shook its head, then turned and loped off into the woods. Judging by the sudden lack of snarls and growls, the rest of the pack followed its lead. Aiden was about to comment on the strangeness of the encounter when he caught another movement in the shadows, this one much taller and shaped like a man.

He kept his weapon at the ready.

As the stranger neared the fire and his facial features became visible, the tension drained from Aiden’s body and he sheathed his sword. “Bhaltair.”

A white-haired man garbed in an ankle-length lèine and a dark wool cloak strode into the camp. He carried a tall staff and sported a belly-grazing white beard. His face was heavily wrinkled, but he looked no older than when Aiden had last seen him. Some three or four years ago.

“What brings you here?” he asked the old man.

Niall added, “We thought you were long gone to the Maker.”

Bhaltair extended gnarled fingers toward the flames of the fire. “I go where I must.”

Aiden sighed. The old man was fond of speaking in riddles, no doubt due to his exalted age. He claimed to be a druid, one of the ancient holy men that once roamed the north quite freely, but Aiden had never witnessed him perform any of the so-called miracles that were attributed to such men. “Quite a coincidence, meeting you here.”

“Not a coincidence at all,” the old man said. “Do you have any tea?”

“Nay,” said Aiden, a little annoyed. “Are you suggesting you planned to meet us here?”

“Of course not,” Bhaltair said. “What about ale? I haven’t had ale in quite some time.”

Niall offered the druid his oilskin.

“Thank ye,” he said after he’d quenched his thirst. He appropriated some blankets and sat down before the fire. “I’m relieved to find you precisely where I thought you’d be. My legs are weary.”

Niall exchanged a look with Aiden. They’d told no one where they’d planned to camp for the night. Indeed, they’d chosen this spot only upon reaching it.

“How did you find us?” Aiden asked.

“The same way I find all things that I have misplaced,” he responded. “By reading the stars.”

Aiden glanced at the night sky. It was clear, and a thousand stars competed with the brilliance of the moon, but none of them pointed anywhere. Yet the man had found Aiden’s party . . . assuming he’d actually been looking for them.

“Why have you sought us out?”

Bhaltair poured more ale into his mouth. After he swallowed, he said, “There have been signs of trouble brewing. If I read them correctly, dire events are about to transpire.”

Dire events had already transpired. But what harm could there be in querying the man further? “What sort of signs?”

Bhaltair threaded his fingers through the thickly curling hairs of his beard. “I spied a two-headed squirrel the day before yesterday, and this morn a wee bird dropped from a tree branch to my feet, stone cold before it hit the ground.”

“It’s winter,” Aiden pointed out dryly. “It’s not unknown for birds to succumb to the harsh clime.”

“Indeed,” said the old man. “A bird that dies out of sight is just that—a dead bird. But a bird that dies at my feet is an augury.”

Unconvinced, Aiden asked, “And what does it foretell?”

“A death, of course.”

“Whose death?”

“That I cannot say.”

“Then your omen is pointless,” Aiden said. Turning to the other warriors, he said, “Pack up. Since sleep has eluded us, we’ll continue on our way.”

The men began to collect their belongings.

“I fear I cannot bring you with us, Bhaltair,” he told the old druid. “We travel light, on a mission of grave importance.”

Bhaltair nodded. “To rescue the lad and recover the crown.”

Aiden blinked. A bloody accurate
guess
.