When a Laird Takes a Lady: A Claimed by the Highlander Novel (19 page)

“Why?”

“The horses make too much noise. They’ll hear us long before they see us.”

Isabail frowned. “Don’t we want them to find us?”

“Find you? Aye. Find me? Nay.”

“Do you have a grievance with the MacCurrans?”

“Possibly,” he said, leading her through the brush and showing her where to step. At the short
trill of a bird, he halted. “This is as far as I go. Head straight toward that half-fallen birch. If they’ve got their wits about them, as I suspect they do, they’ll find you within a pace or two beyond that.”

She frowned. “And where will you go?”

“I won’t be far,” he said. “If you run afoul of the MacCurrans, just yell. I’ll find you.”

Isabail lifted the hem of her dress and ripped open the seam. She removed the silver deniers sewn there and pressed them into Magnus’s hand. “Thank you. I could never have made this journey without you.”

He shoved the coins away. “Thank me after the lad is safe. Before that, there’s nothing to be rewarded for.”

He gave her a gentle push in the direction of the fallen birch, then melted into the shadows and was gone.

* * *

Niall marched across the camp to Aiden’s side. “You’ll never believe whom we found in the woods.”

Aiden glanced about. “Who?”

He followed Niall’s pointed finger and found the disheveled yet still amazingly lovely face of Isabail Macintosh. “Bloody hell.”

As she stepped out of the woods accompanied by two of his men, Aiden shook his head. “How is this possible?” he asked her. “How did you get here?”

“Never mind how,” she said. “I’m just glad I
arrived before you laid siege to the keep. I will go to the castle and demand entry. They are my men, so they’ll raise the portcullis, and we can enter without bloodshed.”

He sighed heavily. “That won’t work.”

“Of course it will.” She shot him an exasperated look. “Why is it men always want to solve problems with their swords?”

He grabbed her elbow and led her out of the earshot of Niall and the others. He was tempted to kiss her, but thought better of it. She might get the idea that he approved of her reckless race across the countryside. “It won’t work because de Lourdes has replaced all your loyal soldiers with mercenaries from France.”

“What?” She blinked at him.

“Mercenaries,” he repeated. “The villagers confirmed it.”

“Oh.”

She looked so absolutely shattered by his news that he tugged her to his chest. “I know you were attempting to aid Jamie, and your efforts are appreciated,” he said softly into her hair. “Even though I should paddle your arse for coming all this way on your own.”

“My bottom is quite sore enough,” she said, her voice muffled against his lèine. She sagged against him. “I truly believed I could help.”

“I know.” He tipped her head up and planted a firm kiss on her lips. “Now, I must ask you to stay here and wait patiently for my return.”

“Where do you go?”

“We enter the keep tonight.”

She frowned. “How?”

“Promise me you’ll make no attempt to follow.” When she nodded, he explained. “Up the cliffs.”

Her hands gripped the front of his lèine. “You’re mad. That’s a sure way to meet the Maker.”

“For lads born in the Highlands, ‘tis a simple feat,” he assured her, even though it was no such thing. “And these Lowlanders will never expect it.”

“I’ll be praying for your safety.”

“Will you?”

She looked at him, her eyes dark and serious. “Do what you must, but come back alive.”

“I’ll do my best.” He kissed her again, then let her go. “Stay out of trouble, lass.”

“What trouble can I get into here in the wood?”

He snorted. “You’ve a knack for finding it wherever you might be.” He turned to leave, but she caught his sleeve.

“I love you,” she said quietly, as if haste would somehow minimize the importance of her words.

His heart thumped heavily in his chest. He took her chin and peered into her face. It was a moment that begged for heartfelt words and promises of devotion, but saving Jamie would not wait. “I’m going to hold you to those words. When I come back, we’ll have the discussion we ought to have had some time ago.”

And then he kissed her again. Hard. “Godspeed, lass.”

* * *

When the men had departed, Isabail lit a small fire. When she was certain the wood had caught, she sat on a stump with her hands toward the flames and finally let weariness curl her shoulders. She’d raced all this way—and forced Ana to race with her—for naught.

Daniel was not at all the man she’d thought him to be. His betrayal of her was not some spontaneous thing, some madness. He’d been plotting against her for months. How else could he have replaced her soldiers? It was even possible, though it made her heart ache to contemplate it, that his love for John had been a sham, that John’s death hadn’t been the accident he insisted it had been.

She tossed another branch on the fire and watched a plume of sparks leap into the night air. What a fool she was. Now Aiden was risking his life scaling the cliffs to her castle and she was unable to do anything but wait and pray.

“I take it your plan to spare lives was not well received?”

Isabail looked up. Magnus stood just inside the circle of light cast by the fire, the black outline of trees at his back.

“It was a naive plan,” she responded dismally. Like all of her plans.

He advanced. “It was born of a genuine desire to help the lad. Who could find a fault with that?”

“Niall MacCurran for one,” she said bitterly. “I didn’t have the heart to tell him I dragged Ana along on my foolhardy quest and then left her in the woods with an old peddler.” She released a
humorless laugh. “He’d have been completely distracted as he set off to scale a cliff to the castle, and I’d have another person’s blood on my hands.”

“Ah,” he said, lowering himself to the log beside her. “Indulging in a wee bout of ‘pity me,’ are we?”

She glared at him. All of it was true. Couldn’t Magnus see that?

“You’ve never struck me as a lass given to weeping,” he said. “We are safe, Ana is safe, the MacCurran lads are about to surprise the castle guards, and your wee lad is about to be rescued. What’s there to weep about?”

“All of this could have been avoided!” she cried, leaping to her feet. “If only I’d told MacCurran from the start that Daniel was after the necklace.”

He stared at her. “Why didn’t you?”

“In the beginning, I believed MacCurran might be guilty. Later . . . I don’t know. I suppose telling MacCurran felt like I would be betraying Daniel.” She shook her head. “In the end, he betrayed me.”

“Well, ‘tis all water under the bridge now. Daniel will not escape his just dues.”

Isabail frowned. Escape. That tugged at a memory—an old memory from when she was a child. She and John had played in the empty dungeons of Tayteath, a simple game of hide-and-chase. He’d leapt out of a hidden door and sent her screaming down the corridor.

“Wait,” she said, grabbing Magnus’s sleeve. “There’s a door in the dungeons that leads to
outside. If John told Daniel, Daniel can indeed escape.”

Her hired warrior surged to his feet.

“Show me where the door leads.”

* * *

Scaling the cliffs was a slow, arduous task. Footholds were scarce and narrow and sometimes crumbly. There were few outcroppings big enough to hold a man, so rest was infrequent. By the time Aiden was halfway up, his thighs were aching and his fingers were raw. But quitting wasn’t an option, so he pushed on.

He glanced down only once, when he was a fair distance above the beach. The tide had started to come back in, and the sand had vanished. Waves beat slow and steady against the rocks, and his head swam with a dizziness that made him cling to the rock face.

Since down was not a direction he wanted to experience, he focused on up. One toehold and push at a time.

The men who followed him were equally silent and focused. Aiden heard the occasional scrape of a sword or a knife against rocks, but nothing more.

When the gray stones of the castle came into view, Aiden found renewed strength. Their goal was in reach. He felt for a grip among the rocks over his head, found purchase for his right boot, and heaved his body another three feet up the cliff.

A wide ledge was his next target—the ground on which the castle was built. Eager to plant his
feet on solid ground again, he gripped the ledge with both hands and hauled himself over the lip. He lay there for a moment, catching his breath and offering a short prayer to the gods; then he leaned over and offered his hand to Niall.

One by one the MacCurran men reached the top. Aiden could tell by the euphoric expressions on their faces that several of them had not believed they would make it.

They paused on the ledge for a short while, allowing their shaking legs to recover.

When Aiden was confident they were ready to move on, he waved Cormac forward.

The bowman swung the crossbow from his shoulder. “Any one of you could do this,” he muttered. “Don’t need a skilled man to shoot a bloody bolt thirty feet into the air.”

Aiden patted the man’s shoulder. “I need you to bury it in the stone next to the window”—he pointed above them—“deep enough to hold the weight of a man. At this angle, that requires a man with skill.”

Cormac shrugged, aimed, and fired. The bolt, with rope attached, drove into the stone with a loud
thunk
. Aiden and the others flattened themselves against the castle wall and waited for someone to peer out the window. But none came.

Aiden yanked on the rope, testing its solidity. It held firm. Then he wrapped his hands and feet around the rope and began to climb. By comparison to the cliffs, scaling the castle wall and entering through the window was easy. The room he
slipped into was dark and small—an antechamber intended to house guards on watch. But it was empty.

As the other men dropped into the room, Aiden quietly pulled on the door and peered into the larger room beyond. A bedchamber. Fortunately, the curtains on the bed were open and he was able to quickly ascertain this room was also empty.

Widening the door, he stepped inside.

The room was well appointed. Velvet draperies on the bed, an elaborate brocade coverlet, a ladies’ table replete with combs and mirrors. Just for an instant, Aiden’s thoughts went to Isabail. It was easy to imagine her here, attired in her finery, with a maid brushing her hair. Living in a ruined broch with no furniture did not suit her beauty. But this elegant castle did.

He shook the mental cobwebs away, unsheathed his sword, and peeked past the outer door to the corridor. There were four guards stationed in the corridor, and as soon as his men joined him at the door, he swung it open and leapt to the attack. With the element of surprise in his favor, he made short work of this first opponent, then moved to the next.

The clang of metal on metal soon drew other soldiers, and the battle thickened. Had they been fighting regular household guards, the fight would have ended swiftly. But these were seasoned warriors, not easily unnerved. They fought aggressively and with skill.

It took Aiden longer to dispatch his second and third opponents than he had hoped. By the time
he was free to search the other rooms for Daniel and Jamie, they were empty. The door at the end of the corridor opened into a large chamber that clearly belonged to the lord of the keep.

The bed sheets were rumpled, and Aiden noted the presence of a pallet on the floor at the foot of the bed. A manacle lay on the mattress. Anger surged through him. After all the lad had been through, he hardly deserved to be chained like a dog.

“Search the chests,” he ordered. “Find the crown.”

Then he dove for the stairwell. They couldn’t have gone far. If he was fleet of foot, he could end this now. Leaping several stairs at a time, he reached the great hall in a heartbeat. But Daniel and the boy were nowhere to be seen, Only a frightened group of gillies huddled by the fireplace.

“Where?” he demanded.

They pointed to the stairs leading to the dungeon, and he raced for the bottom.

M
oss had overgrown the secret exit door to the castle, and Isabail almost missed it.

“Here,” she said, pointing to the dark brown wooden door. Rot had blackened the door in several spots, and it blended into the rock with great effectiveness.

“No one has come through,” Magnus said. “I can enter, but I prefer you wait in the woods for me, not here on the cliffs.”

Isabail had no argument about that. She was uncomfortable on the ledge, especially in the dark, with the wind tugging at her skirts. She inched her way back toward the trees, with Magnus following immediately behind her. When they reached the end of the sloping path, he lifted her up the remaining two feet to the plateau. As she paused to regain her balance, the door burst open and three soldiers stepped out onto the ledge, swords aloft.

“Run,” Magnus urged her, as he drew his
weapon and joined her on the plateau. Added height and a sturdy footing were clear advantages.

Isabail ran into the trees, but did not go far. Outrunning an armed soldier wasn’t a future she could foresee, and leaving Magnus behind seemed not only unfair, but unwise. She hid behind the broad trunk of a Scots pine and with one hand to her madly thumping heart, watched her hired warrior battle for his—and quite possibly her—life.

Fortunately, he quickly improved his odds. He kicked his first opponent in the head and sent him catapulting over the ledge. Less fortunately, the other two learned from their compatriot’s mistake and advanced with a flurry of sword strokes that eliminated the opportunity for a kick.

Isabail sent a little prayer skyward.

She needn’t have bothered—as it turned out, Magnus was a skilled swordsman. Although she had no knowledge of swordplay and could not have named a single move he made, it was apparent that her warrior was smooth, fast, and effective. He made fighting two opponents simultaneously seem easy. Twice he broke through the flurry of steel to strike a blow that resulted in blood. His opponents were weakening, and Isabail began to believe that he would triumph. But then two more soldiers rushed onto the ledge, and Magnus was forced to give up ground. One of the new soldiers leapt up to the plateau and began to engage Magnus at an equal level. Four against one did not seem
like a remotely fair battle. Especially when the other three soldiers leapt up as well.

She had to do something. But what? Short of screaming for aid, she couldn’t imagine what that something might be. She glanced around. Fling a stick or a rock?

Spying several fallen tree branches beneath a nearby elm, she weighed her options. Too light and it would be no more distracting than a gnat, too heavy and she wouldn’t be able to toss it more than a foot. Picking up a stick, she hefted it. This one seemed about right.

Staying low, Isabail moved to the very edge of the trees, close enough to reach the nearest soldier. Then, stepping out from behind the tree, she took aim and pitched the stick with all her might.

It hit Magnus squarely on the back of the head.

Isabail gave a sharp shriek of regret and shrank back behind the tree.

To her immense relief, Magnus powered on without pause. He took down one of his opponents. A sharp jab to the leg, and the fellow was down. Magnus battled on, but took a slice on the arm in the ensuing melee. Blood darkened his lèine and dripped down to his fingers.

Fear was a sour taste in Isabail’s mouth. She had a dreadful feeling she knew how this was going to end. She hugged the tree trunk with white-knuckled intent. Her gaze was locked so tightly on Magnus’s brave attempt to triumph that she almost missed the flash of movement over by the cliff. A flaxen-haired man tossed a lean,
dark-haired lad upon the plateau, then leapt up behind him and began dragging the lad to the trees.

Daniel!

Isabail was loath to leave Magnus, but she had to see where Daniel was taking Jamie. She sent another quick prayer skyward for Magnus, then darted through the trees in the direction she’d seen the fugitive pair disappear. Running as fast as her skirts would allow, she rounded a clutch of fir saplings and came face-to-face with the man who had attempted to kill her.

* * *

The dungeons of Tayteath were dark and dank. Water dripped from the ceilings and black mold crept up the walls, signs that the rooms were very infrequently used. Aiden paused at the bottom of the stairs and listened.

De Lourdes was down here somewhere.

His hand tightened on his sword. Although he would dearly love to kill the bastard for what he’d done to Isabail, his intent was to take him alive . . . and to save young Jamie. Preferably with the same sword strike. He had no notion how skilled a duelist Daniel de Lourdes might be, and frankly, it mattered not. He’d spent eight years of his life with the MacDonalds on the Isle of Skye, a wild and beautiful land matched only by the ferocity of its warriors. He had fought all manner of opponents while fostered there. He could handle one weasel.

The rough scrape of leather boots on stone gave him a direction to travel, and Aiden jogged down the corridor toward the very back of the dungeon.

What did de Lourdes hope to accomplish down here? Was he hiding, hoping to escape the castle after Aiden’s men had come and gone? It seemed the sort of craven act a man who stabbed women and used lads as shields would do.

Peering into the dimness of the dungeon, Aiden spotted a wooden door standing open. The scent of burning pitch hung in the air, but there were no torches in view.

He approached the door cautiously. It opened into a narrow corridor, the confines of which were even darker than the dungeon. But here the smell of torch was thicker. This was the direction his rat had fled.

Ducking his head beneath the lintel, he stepped into the corridor. Blinded by darkness, he was forced to travel slowly, but he made his way with as much haste as he could manage. The corridor turned several corners, the last of which gave him sight—another door, this one swinging open with the breeze, the light of a full moon pouring in through the portal. Aiden ran to the exit and out onto a ledge on the cliffs.

The clash of metal on metal broke through the howl of the coastal wind—the familiar sound of swords engaging in combat. He dashed toward the noise, not entirely certain what would meet his eyes.

What he found was a solitary man surrounded by three soldiers, doing battle like he’d been born into it. And as the moon shone upon that grim warrior’s face, Aiden was swamped with a
gut-deep feeling that was equal parts pride, shock, and euphoria. The man wielding his sword on the plateau above him was none other than his long-missing and presumed-dead cousin, Wulf.

Aiden vaulted up the two-foot step to the plateau and attacked the soldiers from behind.

* * *

Isabail stared at Daniel in the bright moonlight, frozen in place.

Daniel paled. “Isabail? How is it possible? I ran you through.”

Her eyes went to Jamie, who looked frightened, but otherwise unharmed. Relieved, she returned her attention to Daniel. A cold trickle of sweat ran down her back. Standing this close to him, seeing the sword in his hand, she almost lost her nerve. Every detail of the sword sliding into her—all the pain and all the blood—was vivid in her mind. The desire to turn and run was so intense, her knees trembled.

But she stood her ground. For Jamie.

And as the seconds passed, the pallor of Daniel’s face and the tremble in his hand sank in.
By God
. He wondered if she were truly here. . . . He wondered if he was seeing a
ghost
. Given how he’d left her, lying in a widening pool of blood, she could completely understand his state of mind.

Drawing on an inner strength she had not known she possessed until recently, Isabail took a firm step forward. “You deserve to be punished for what you did to me.”

Daniel retreated, waving his sword in front of him. “Stay away.”

“You deserve to be punished for what you did to John,” she said, taking another step forward.

“Stay away, I say.”

“You deserve to be punished for all your sins, Daniel de Lourdes.”

He closed his eyes. “You aren’t really here. You are dead. You can’t punish anyone.”

Isabail signaled to Jamie.
Run
, she mouthed.

The lad did not need further prompting. He yanked his arm free of Daniel’s grasp and took off through the trees.

Daniel’s eyes snapped open. He stared at Isabail, examining her face in thorough detail. “Why would a specter free a living boy?” he said, firming his grip on the sword and circling around her. “There is no reason, unless you are not a ghost at all.”

He frowned. “But I most certainly pierced you with my blade. How could you be standing?”

Isabail could think of nothing to add that might not lead him to conclude that she was real flesh and blood. The last thing she wanted was to have him run her through a second time. Ana was half a day away. Surviving another stabbing was unlikely. So, she simply repeated her original statement.

“You deserve to be punished for what you did to me.”

He stared at her hard. Then he glanced up at the full moon. “Nay, you’re just the moon addling my
wits,” he said, lowering his sword. “Nothing but a brief fit of lunacy.” A sad smile touched his lips. “Guilt, perhaps, over what befell my beloved John.”

His shoulders straightened and the wild look left his eyes. “But I have a new lover now and a higher purpose that must be met. Such pangs of guilt are not to be tolerated.
Adieu
, sweet specter.”

He bowed to Isabail, then spun on his heel.

With no one else about, Isabail knew only one way to prevent his escape.

“Nay!” she cried. “I am no specter, Daniel. ‘Tis I, Isabail. The wound you gave me in the tunnel was nothing more than a scratch. I yet live to tell the world of your crimes.”

He halted.

“Your new lover will swiftly abandon you when you are tossed in the dungeon for the murder of my brother and an assault on my person. My cousin Archibald will stand beside me at your trial, and together we will see your soul rot in hell.”

Daniel spun to face her, a sneer on his handsome face.

“You forget, my dear Isabail, that a dead woman tells no tales.”

* * *

Working together, their combat styles strangely similar, Magnus and his mysterious new friend defeated the three guards handily. When the third and final man fell, Magnus was treated to a hearty thump on the back and a broad grin.

“By God, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

Wiping his blade on the churned-up snow, Magnus considered his companion. Given that he’d been the one in sore need of aid, such a comment would have been better suited to his own lips, surely? His cohort was a tall man. Beardless and sporting the well-groomed hair that Magnus associated with nobles. If Isabail had not claimed Tayteath as hers, he would have guessed this man to be the lord.

So, if not the Lord of Tayteath . . . ?

“Who are you?” he asked.

The other man’s grin fell away. “You do not know me?”

Magnus stiffened.
Ah. The fellow recognizes me.
That explained the camaraderie. “Nay, I do not,” he responded honestly.

“Wulf,” the other man said, “I am your cousin, Aiden MacCurran. Our fathers were brothers.”

Kin. This man was
kin
. A heady blend of excitement and frustration spun inside his head. But if the man was kin, why didn’t Magnus recognize him? Why did everything seem strange and unknown?

“Da!”

A slim, tousle-haired missile hit him in the gut and squeezed him tight with gangly arms.

“I knew you were alive. I
knew
it,” said the lad attached to his waist as his face pressed into the folds of Magnus’s lèine. “Oh, God, Da. I’m so glad to see you.”

He stared at the boy, rooted to the spot in shock.
It was too much to absorb, being a cousin and a da. How could he be a father and have no memory of it? Surely such a thing was impossible. Ought not the sound of the boy’s voice and the touch of his hand to stir something? Yet they did not. No fond memories, no sense of familiarity. Still, he did not have the heart to push the lad away, so he stood stiffly and allowed the boy to cling to him.

He shared a desperate look with the man who called himself Aiden, and thankfully, the man stepped into the breach.

“Jamie, lad. It’s good to see you safe. How did you escape de Lourdes?”

The boy pointed to the trees. “Isabail confronted him. He thinks her a ghost.”

“Isabail?” Both men spoke at once, their voices an echo of dismay.

“The wretch will kill her.” Magnus attempted a step, but with Jamie stuck to him as securely as a lamprey eel, it was hardly a smooth stride. “I must go.”

Aiden pointed to Magnus’s bleeding arm. “You’re wounded. Stay with Jamie. I’ll take care of de Lourdes.”

“She’s my responsibility,” he protested.

But even as the words left his mouth, he changed his mind. The lad had tightened his grip to a painful intensity, clearly fearful that having found his father, he was about to lose him again.

Lifting his gaze to Aiden, he nodded.

The other man disappeared into the trees,
leaving him alone with Jamie. Magnus gazed down at the boy’s light brown locks and placed an awkward hand upon the lad’s head. The hair beneath his fingers was fine and soft. A child’s hair.
His
child’s hair. The tension in his gut eased.

Perhaps there was a wee spot of familiarity after all.

“Help me bind my wound,” he told the boy. “And tell me everything that’s happened since I saw you last.”

* * *

Isabail saw a shadow move among the trees behind Daniel, and a calm fell over her. She knew that shadow well—the broad shoulders and impressive height had become incredibly dear to her these past few weeks. Aiden.

“You tried to kill me once and failed,” she taunted Daniel, hoping to keep his attention focused on her. “I’m not convinced you’ll do any better with repeated effort.”

He walked toward her, slow and light-footed like a Highland wildcat stalking a rabbit. The sword in his hand remained low to the ground, but Isabail wasn’t fooled. His grip on the hilt was unwavering.