When a Laird Takes a Lady: A Claimed by the Highlander Novel (3 page)

Aiden’s hands fisted at his sides.

If he gained the identity of the man in black, he might have a chance to save Dunstoras and rebuild his fractured clan. But to gain the names of John Grant’s guests, he would have to conquer
Isabail’s fear and gain her trust. In less than a sennight.

No so great a challenge, surely?

* * *

When Isabail woke, the bothy was dark and shuttered. The howl of the winter storm had quieted, but she had no sense how long she had been unconscious. Her last memory—the fierce face of the MacCurran swooping down upon her—was still vivid enough to make her heart pound, and she wondered if she’d taken a beating. Biting her lip in anticipation of pain, she shifted in her pallet. To her relief, there was almost none. Her hip was sore from lying in the dirt floor—the blankets beneath her couldn’t compare to the feather-stuffed mattress she was accustomed to—but save for that, she felt perfectly fine.

Isabail looked around.

The fire was merrily blazing, having recently received a fresh log, and she lifted her head to find the person who had fed it. Her heart stumbled. Aiden MacCurran sat on the other side of the flames, sleeves rolled up, carefully tending to his sword. He seemed unaware of her, so she watched him for a moment.

Unlike his two henchmen, the MacCurran chief’s chin was clean-shaven, and his hair appeared to have been recently washed. Not a typical Highlander, then, despite the warring nature of his clan. His forearms rippled with sinews as he worked, the hairs on his arms golden in the
firelight. Isabail was woman enough to admit she found him attractive—from a distance. Broad shoulders and tapered hips were attractive in a man, no matter who that man might be. But it was also strangely comforting to watch him hone his sword—his hands were strong and sure as they worked, displaying a level of care and control over his weapon that belied the bestiality of his large fists.

“There’s more venison, if you’ve a hunger,” he said quietly.

Isabel swallowed dryly and sat up. “I’ve more a need for something to wet my mouth.”

He pointed to the door of the hut. “Fetch some snow.”

Isabail flushed. Why hadn’t she thought of that? Of course she could eat some snow. She scrambled to her feet and headed for the door.

“I’ve beat a good path to the woodpile,” he added. “If you must see to your needs, it’ll provide a measure of privacy.”

Her flush deepened, though she couldn’t quite pinpoint why. A visit to the privy was a common enough event, and he was hardly giving the delicate topic excessive attention. But just the knowledge that he’d thought about her needs made her cheeks heat. Isabail escaped quickly.

Outside the bothy, the snowfall had ceased, but the sky was still sullen with cloud. The sun was little more than a smudge of brightness above the trees, but a pair of crossbills flitting through the branches thought it was well worth chirping
about. For the briefest of moments, the notion of fleeing took hold, but she couldn’t leave without Muirne. Besides, where would she go?

Nay. As much as he frightened her, the MacCurran was her best hope of survival.

She ate her fill of cold wet snow, completed her ablutions, and returned to the cozy warmth of the hut. MacCurran had not moved—he was still polishing the fine steel of his blade with a purposeful attention to detail. For some reason, that eased Isabail’s tremulous thoughts. Surely a man capable of such focus could keep his temper under tight rein.

“Rouse your maid,” he said.

She knelt beside Muirne and checked her fingers and toes—save for the woman’s right small toe, all were a healthy shade of pink.

“We’ll set off as soon as she is ready.”

Isabail nodded. With a gentle shake and a firm voice, she encouraged Muirne to rise. The older woman was still clearly exhausted, but she sat up when Isabail offered her food and water. “Nay, my lady. It should be I who sees to your welfare, not you to mine.”

But she took the food and consumed it with a very unladylike haste.

MacCurran handed her a pair of dry stockings. “Your boots are dry, but they likely won’t remain that way. If you lose feeling in your feet as we walk, let me know immediately.”

When they were once again bundled against the winter chill, MacCurran doused the fire and
led them back up the mountain. It took them half the time to return to camp as it had to find the bothy. Due in part, no doubt, to the powerful way MacCurran cut a swath through the snowdrifts, but also because the route he took was more direct.

She caught his eye as they spied the billowing gray blankets that served as a tent for his two men. He shrugged. “You lost your way as you traversed the hill.”

“So, it was a miracle we found the bothy?”

He grimaced. “Aye.”

Isabail flinched at the return of the fierce visage. He clearly thought her a fool, but could he not understand her desire to be free? Would he not have done the same in her boots?

The other two men greeted MacCurran with subdued respect. Graeme, in particular, wore a pained expression that had nothing to do with the lump on his head. They were ashamed to have let down their chief. They packed up the camp and saddled the horses with spare movements and little chatter. By the time the sun had fully broken free of the horizon, they were plowing through the snow in a westerly direction, the white-capped cone of Ben Avon reaching into the sky to the south.

Isabail was no happier to be sharing a mount with MacCurran this time than she was the last, but she had a new appreciation for the horse’s long-legged ability to cut through drifts. She kept as much distance from her companion as their
close proximity would allow, grateful for the extra padding provided by the blankets. Making a mental note to restock the hunt bothy, she snuggled deeper into the wool.

MacCurran and his men kept an aggressive pace, their horses agilely navigating the rocky mountain paths. The leagues passed uneventfully. Despite the improvement in the weather, there was no sign of any soldiers from Lochurkie. Either they’d fallen significantly behind, or they had given up.

As the sun reached its zenith in the sky, the air warmed, and Isabail’s breath no longer made a foggy exit from her lips. There was a certain monotony to the journey—the rolling gait of the horse, the thud of hooves on the frozen ground, the gentle heat on her face and at her back. And she felt remarkably secure with MacCurran’s unyielding arm wrapped around her waist. Perhaps because she could not see his grim face.

He said nothing as they rode, leading the group over the rough terrain without a hint of uncertainty or indecision. The only sound that left his lips was an occasional series of clicks to encourage their horse when the terrain was especially challenging. Isabail actually managed to forget that she was the prisoner of a Highland barbarian . . . at least briefly.

Exhaustion crept up on her. It grew harder and harder to keep her eyes open and her back stiff. Especially during those moments when the path led straight up the mountain. Isabail struggled against her drooping eyelids . . . and lost. The last
thing she remembered as her eyes slid shut was a gruffly worded, “Sleep.”

* * *

Aiden felt Isabail go limp in his arms and knew she had finally succumbed to the rigor of her snowbound adventure. She surprised him with the extent of her endurance—she’d slept no more than a wink during the night. Her timing was unfortunate, though.

He reined his horse in at the edge of the cliff and looked out over the wide glen below. Forest stretched as far as the eye could see in all directions, the trees a mix of barren winter branches and green needled firs. Approaching Dunstoras from the east always made his heart soar. Wrapped in leafless winter vines, the pale gray stones of the castle’s tower were clearly visible against the afternoon sky. They stood above the trees like a beacon calling him home.

“Now, there’s a sight for sore eyes,” Graeme said, drawing alongside him.

Aiden nodded, but his gaze had already moved south of the tower, settling on a rocky rise at the base of the mountains—the site of their current camp, a ruined palace built by the Picts more than five hundred years ago. Or so said the legends. For the past several months, he and his clan had camped amid the rubble, hidden from view by the harsh landscape. Using remnants of the old stone walls as a foundation, they had laid new thatch roofs and wooden floors, creating a primitive but livable abode. The stone castle designed by his
father and raised with the blood and sweat of his MacCurran kin might lie under the temporary stewardship of Tormod MacPherson, but he could still go home.

At least, for now.

Aiden turned his mount away from all that had once been his and made his way down the slope to the glen. The woman in his arms was not to blame for his plight, but he still felt the twist of a knife in his gut when he looked at her. John Grant had stolen his future. Living in the Pictish ruin was bearable only because it held the promise of returning to their true home. Once that was gone, it would be only a matter of time before all else was gone, too.

MacPherson had been ruthless in ridding the land of his outlawed kin. Many had died in the siege of the castle, but many more had simply been run off. Men, women, and even children had been dispossessed. The king’s man had shown no mercy. Those who had not made haste to leave Dunstoras land had been run through or tossed in the cramped dungeons beneath the keep.

The bitter taste of gall rose in Aiden’s throat.

He’d sworn an oath to protect his kin, and he’d failed them. The clan elders, the learned men who’d appointed him chief upon his father’s death, were all dead. Two of them had fallen victim to the poison, the remaining three to the siege and the trials of a cold winter. All he had left was a small band of skilled warriors and a solitary clue to who had wreaked havoc upon his clan.

Reaching the bottom of the hill, Aiden urged his mount into a canter. In the glen, amid the trees, the snow cover was thin and easily navigated. Proving his innocence would save his kin. He had nine days left to succeed, and by God, he would do it or die trying.

The leafless boughs of the woodland gave Aiden a sweeping view of the land as he rode. Having hunted almost every inch of the glen over the years, he was very familiar with the trail—and he knew immediately that a broken twig on a nearby hazelnut thicket was cause for alarm. A quick glance at the frozen ground confirmed his suspicions. There was almost no snow here, but in the occasional patches of white, he made out the faint curve of hoofprints. Somewhere up ahead, there were riders.

Raising a hand, he drew his party to a swift halt.

With two women among them, they were at a serious disadvantage. They could ill afford to engage any soldiers over a sharp blade, else they’d put the women at risk. He signaled to Duncan to dismount and take responsibility for the ladies. Aiden put a hand over Isabail’s mouth, then shook her awake.

Her eyes widened in alarm, and he removed the hand from her lips.

“Go with Duncan,” he told her quietly. “Do exactly as he says.” Then he lowered her gently to the ground and drew his sword.

W
atching MacCurran leap to the ground and hand off his horse, Isabail felt a surge of hope. Had the soldiers from Lochurkie finally caught them up? Was freedom only moments away?

“If you release me peacefully,” she said quickly, “my cousin will show you mercy.”

“These are not your cousin’s men. They are MacPhersons.”

Was that supposed to frighten her? If so, it failed. Tormod MacPherson was a personal acquaintance—he’d been to Lochurkie on several occasions to meet with her brother. He had been tasked with holding Dunstoras until the king pledged it to a new lord. If his patrol had chanced upon them, Dunstoras must be close.

Almost as if he read her thoughts, MacCurran tossed her a hard look. “Before you open your mouth to alert them, you should be aware that MacPherson’s men are mostly hired sword arms. They believe raping and pillaging are their just
dues. I’ve buried several women who did not survive their attentions.”

Isabail’s stomach turned.

Whether the story was real or not, it had the desired impact. Isabail lost her urge to shout into the forest. She allowed the MacCurran chief to disappear through the trees without uttering a single syllable. But she wasn’t willing to let her dream of freedom die without a fight. With their leader gone, this was her best opportunity to escape.

Her gaze turned to his men. In theory, a younger man would be less set in his beliefs and easier to sway than an older man. But Graeme’s pride had been wounded during her attempted escape. Now almost as grim faced as their leader, the tall, black-haired warrior had taken to strapping four blades to his body—a broadsword, two dirks, and a small ax—all honed to a razor’s edge. Earlier in the day, she’d seen him fell a rabbit with the ax and then gut and skin the poor creature in a matter of minutes.

Aye, Graeme was too great a risk. She’d have better luck with Duncan. The older man, a sturdy fellow with a hint of gray in his sandy beard, had a gentle eye, especially when he looked at Muirne. Even as she studied him, the burly warrior helped Muirne dismount and offered her a round of bread and some cheese. Isabail slipped down from the big black-and-white destrier and joined them, leaving Graeme with the horses. Muirne offered Isabail food, which she accepted with thanks.

Isabail spoke quickly and quietly. “Duncan, you
are a good and kind man. Anyone can see that. And it’s clear you understand the hardship this event has presented for myself and Muirne.”

The warrior stiffened, but said nothing.

She pressed on. “A woman shouldn’t be the pawn in a political game. We have a chance, right this minute, to ride off to Dunstoras and make our way to safety. Will you turn your back for just a moment and let us go free? Let us reach safety?”

His brows knitted together. “Do you know what you’re asking?”

“I’m asking you to show two innocent women some leniency.”

“Nay,” he snarled, stepping back from Muirne. “You’re asking me to betray my chief and allow the sister of John Grant to escape. The sister of the man who saw our clan outlawed and cleared from these lands. The lands that have been our home for three hundred years. Because of him, the MacCurrans were slain, arrested, or scattered hither and yon. Homeless. My brother and his wife are gone—I know not where—and I may never see them again.”

He spat in the snow at Isabail’s feet. “Aid my enemy in making an escape? I think not.”

Then he snatched the food from Isabail’s hands and stomped away.

Muirne gripped Isabail’s arm. “Och, they hate us, they do. It’s a miracle their chief didn’t murder us in our sleep at the bothy.”

Isabail shook her head. “He was more interested in information than revenge. He pestered me with questions about visitors to the keep.”

“Well, one thing’s for certain,” Muirne said. “Had you given them the information they seek, we’d be lying in the sod, not standing here shivering and hungry in the cold.”

Isabail would have disputed that assessment a few minutes ago, but the depth of Duncan’s hatred had come through in his words. He’d not even given her the chance to remind him that it was the MacCurrans’ actions that had caused their grief, not John’s. John had merely done his duty as justiciar of Glen Avon. The MacCurran had murdered his kin and stolen a necklace from the king. How did they expect John to react? His duty had been to uphold the law.

But Muirne was right. They weren’t safe here.

* * *

Aiden crouched and picked up a small rock loosened in the dirt.

The glimmer of metal flash on one surface told him the horses he was following were shod, which confirmed it was soldiers from the castle. MacPherson regularly combed the woods for souls still loyal to the MacCurrans, although it was unusual for a patrol to venture this far south. Aiden would prefer not to stir the hornet’s nest by alerting the patrol to his presence, but he could not risk the lives of his captives either—and MacPherson’s men had a tendency to choose weapons over diplomacy.

He slipped between the trees, taking care to leave the ground unturned and branches unbent. In the past few months, he had learned a great
deal about stealth from his half brother, Niall. Niall had grown to a man in these woods and could pass unnoticed through the trees in broad daylight. Aiden was not so skilled. His expertise lay in the blade.

Still, he was a far better woodsman than MacPherson’s lot. They left a trail so clear that even a bairn could follow it. Even before he spotted them, he knew they were six men mounted on bronze-shoed horses. He also heard them long before he gained sight of them. Not their voices—they were professional soldiers, not given to idle chatter—but the clink of their mail and the jingle of their horse trappings.

Cutting through the trees at an angle, he caught up to the patrol. One sergeant and five armed soldiers plodding along on sturdy Highland ponies. They scanned the barren wood left and right as they passed, hoping to spot a movement, be it man or deer.

The path leading to the old Pictish palace lay just ahead, and Aiden’s hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. Was that their destination? Were they under orders to investigate that section of the glen? Hidden among the rocks, the old broch was not easy to spot, but a determined search would almost assuredly lead to its discovery. They’d been lucky so far; soldiers who’d passed by had given the terrain only a cursory look.

He peered through the trees. Was his clan alerted to the impending danger? It was impossible to tell. Niall’s Black Warriors, the clan’s most
seasoned men, were all formidable woodsmen. If they were watching the advancing patrol, there was no sign.

The patrol moved deeper into the woods, until they were only twenty paces from the moss-covered fallen tree that marked the path to the broch. At any moment one of MacPherson’s men might spot a clue that more than fifty men, women, and children were secreted in the rocky terrain ahead.

Having been absent for several weeks, Aiden could only pray that his kin were prepared—that they had gathered the evidence of their existence and taken shelter. Else the arrival of a patrol would result in disaster—crying children, terrorized women, and slain men. A flare of anger burned in his chest. This was what John Grant had wrought with his false accusations. The torture of innocents. A life for his clansmen that had danger and fear hanging constantly over their heads.

Protecting the clan was paramount.

He was about to step out in the open and draw the patrol’s attention when the leader of the small group of soldiers tugged his reins and turned his horse west. Still eyeing the shadows between the trees with a piercing stare, the fellow led the patrol slowly and steadily away from the broch.

Aiden watched them until the beat of his heart had returned to its usual pace; then he spun on his heel and slipped back through the trees.

* * *

Isabail wrung her hands. Time was short. She had to make another bid for escape. But how? Steal a
horse? She eyed the horses. Graeme held two of them behind a large holly bush, murmuring an occasional soothing word to keep them quiet and still. His hand was loose on the reins, but his focus was entirely on the beasts. It was unlikely she’d be able to snatch one.

Graeme lifted his gaze and caught her staring at him.

Isabail flushed and lowered her eyes.

Without a horse, she’d not have a hope of outrunning Aiden MacCurran. A man who could track them through a blinding snowstorm would have no trouble locating them in a winter woodland. There wasn’t enough brush to hide behind. So, it had to be Duncan’s horse. The chestnut gelding with one white stocking. But if stealing a horse from Graeme was a challenge, taking one from Duncan was doubly difficult. He hadn’t stopped glaring at her.

Fortunately, Isabail had a secret weapon, and her name was Muirne. She turned and said, “Whatever I say, nod and look forlorn.”

The maid blinked, a little confused.

Isabail bent to Muirne’s leg, lifted her skirt a bit, and peered at her foot. “The toes are paining you, are they? It must be remnants of the severe chill you took.” She flung an arm around Muirne’s waist and pretended to take some of her weight. “We should get you off that foot. Back in the saddle, I think.”

Hobbling forward, Isabail glanced at Duncan. Sure enough, the sandy-haired warrior had exchanged his glower for a look of concern.

“Help her into the saddle,” she requested. “Then we’ll remove her boot and have a look.”

Duncan gently spanned Muirne’s waist with his hands and swung her up on the horse. “Poor wee lass,” he said as he settled her in the saddle.

“I think I saw some salve in Graeme’s bag,” Isabail said. “If you fetch it, I’ll rub some onto her toes.”

“Duncan,” came a dark voice from behind her. “If you fetch it, I’ll be embarrassed to call you kin. She’s playing you for a fool.”

At his chief’s cold words, Duncan’s scowl returned in a furious rush.

Isabail spun to face her nemesis. Although she was growing accustomed to his large size, his towering form still stole her breath away. Or was it the fierce male beauty of his face? Really, the devil must have had a hand in shaping the man—he had it all: a powerful body other men would envy, an easy grace that made the sword in his hand seem like an extension of his arm, and the face of an angel. An
avenging
angel.

She swallowed. “She complained of pain.”

“Liar.”

The faint heat in Isabail’s cheeks became a bonfire. “I beg your pardon?”

“I was watching the two of you as I approached. Your maid was not favoring her foot; nor did she wince with pain. You are a liar.”

His voice was cold and hard, not loud and angry, so Isabail was able to hold her ground, even though her instincts were clamoring at her to flee.
He could kill her with that sword. One mighty swing and her life would be over in a flash. Like her mother’s had been.

But he wouldn’t kill her.

Not until he had the information he desired. At least, she prayed that was so.

“Please,” she begged. “Release us. It was my brother with whom you had a grievance, not me.”

He stared back at her, seemingly unmoved by the tears that had sprung into her eyes. “Tell me what I need to know, and I’ll have no need to hold you.”

Isabail heard Muirne gasp at his words and knew what the other woman was thinking.
Tell him and we’re as good as dead
. There was a fair chance she was right. Especially as she suspected his clan was camped somewhere at this end of the glen—the tension in the men’s shoulders had eased in that way that suggested they were home. He would not risk releasing her and having MacPherson discover his kin.

“I do not recall any names. It is too long in the past.”

He sheathed his sword. “Then face the consequences.”

Two huge hands reached for her, and Isabail crammed her eyes shut. It was an instinctive reaction, but a woefully inadequate defense. Shutting out the world never made the punishment more bearable. Indeed, it had often made it worse—even that small rebellion had infuriated her father. But it was all she could do against the might of a man’s anger. She steeled herself for the blows.

But they never came. MacCurran simply tied something soft about her head, blinding her view. Then he grabbed her by the shoulders and prodded her forward. When her outstretched hands met the warm, silky coat of his huge steed, he thrust her unceremoniously into the saddle and leapt up behind her.

“For your lies,” he growled, “you’ll miss the evening meal. You’d best hope the pinch of hunger in your belly stirs your memories.”

* * *

Aiden wasn’t certain what made him angrier—the woman’s continued attempts to throw herself into danger or the look of frozen terror that took over her face each time he lifted a hand. What cause had she to believe he would strike her? Aye, she had annoyed him. But there was a huge leap between feeling anger and using one’s fists.

A warrior was only as good as his self-discipline, after all.

He shackled her tight to his chest with one arm and guided his mount around a huge oak with the other. Her fear was understandable, given what she knew of him. But it still rankled.

If she would simply confess the names of her brother’s guests that night, they could part ways. She would be free to seek solace from Tormod MacPherson, and he could hunt down the filthy cur who’d actually done the evil deeds he’d been accused of. Oh, to have the satisfaction of running that bastard through.

“You went off into the woods in search of
miscreants. Did you slay anyone?” Isabail asked, a note of faint disapproval in her voice.

“Not today.”

She grimaced at his response and turned her head away.

Aiden refused to feel guilty for reminding her that he’d slain several of her men the day before. He blamed her for that necessity. She had incited the head of her guard, Sir Robert, to a lovelorn devotion. He’d seen her speaking with the man in the orchard two days before, her cheeks flushed, her hand on his sleeve. The man had been given ample opportunity to surrender, but he had refused, insisting on fighting to the death. Had he surrendered, all of his men would have surrendered as well. Bloodshed could have been avoided.