When a Laird Takes a Lady: A Claimed by the Highlander Novel (5 page)

Isabail fell into a step alongside Elisaid MacCurran.

“Were you wed to young Andrew Macintosh?” the older woman asked.

“Aye.”

“An unfortunate death that was, to be felled by a wound gained at a faire. How long had you been married?”

A twinge of sadness pinched her just beneath her breast. She hadn’t thought of Andrew for several months. “A year and a month.”

“And there were no children?”

“Nay,” said Isabail softly. “We had not been blessed.”

The older woman shot her a curious look. “It upsets you to speak of him. My apologies. I assumed it was an arrangement, not a love match. Your father gained a powerful ally in the Macintoshes.”

“It was an arrangement,” Isabail confirmed, “but we were well suited.”

Although Andrew had been dead for four years, every moment of their time together was a treasured memory. The handsome, capable man had swept her off her feet, professing his love from the moment they met and treating her with an honor and respect she’d been unaccustomed to. The year she had spent with Andrew had changed her irrevocably—for the better. She’d gone into the marriage a shy, tentative girl and left it a confident, sure woman.

“You’re young to be a widow. Have you considered another marriage?”

Isabail shrugged. “I’m in no hurry to wed again. My dower estates were given to me to hold, and they more than pay for my keep. Playing chatelaine to my brother kept me busy.”

Lady Elisaid’s expression was shrewd. “Your cousin has a wife and you no longer have a household to run. Surely that suggests you are open to new arrangement.”

Isabail frowned. “Such thoughts are premature. Although I have recently put aside the colors of loss, I still mourn my brother’s passing.”

“My son needs a good wife.”

Isabail stopped short and stared at the older woman. Was she truly suggesting . . . ?
Surely not
.
“Your son stands accused of murdering my brother, Lady MacCurran.”

“A false charge.”

“Any mother would say the same,” said Isabail coolly. “But the law disagrees. You insult me to even hint of an arrangement between our families.”

“Nonsense,” the other woman dismissed. “I am merely seeking a peaceful resolution to our troubles. How can that be insulting?”

“My brother was a good man. He deserves justice, not to be forgotten the instant his memory becomes inconvenient.” Isabail felt her grief rise in her throat, nearly choking her. “Good day, madam.”

Turning on her heel, Isabail lifted her skirts and prepared to stomp off.

“Did you approach me for a particular reason, Lady Macintosh?”

She froze, her heart pounding a mournful dirge in her chest. She’d completely forgotten her mission. Pivoting slowly, she did her best to wrestle her emotions under control. “Aye. A ransom prisoner is due every courtesy while held by her captors. I wish to examine the stores for items that might ease my ordeal. I understand you hold all the keys.”

Lady Elisaid frowned. “Do I?”

The man standing just behind Lady MacCurran bent toward her and whispered in her ear. The frown eased. “Apparently, I do. Master Tam will give them to you. Take whatever you like, but I
assure you, comfort is a scarce commodity in this ancient pile of rocks.”

Master Tam, slowly and with obvious reluctance, handed Isabail a small iron ring hung with four rust-spattered keys.

Isabail nodded sharply to Lady MacCurran. “I will return them presently.”

Then she departed, her stomach knotted so tight she could barely breathe. The gall of the woman, suggesting an alliance between their families. Her fiendish son had stolen away the one true friend she had in this world, felling him in his bed. John was dead.

Tears blurred Isabail’s vision. And Lady Elisaid thought she could simply brush those horrid memories aside. Impossible.

She wiped her eyes with her sleeve and marched up to Beathag. “I have Lady Elisaid’s permission to examine the stores. Show me where they are.” Determination added weight to her demand. “Now.”

* * *

Once he was confident that the defenses of the hill fort were as strong as they could be and that Niall’s men were diligently keeping an eye out for MacPherson’s patrols, Aiden returned to the keep. Although he knew Isabail was weary from her journey, he could not afford to give her a lengthy respite. The names she held in her head were all that stood between his clan and safety.

The inner close of the ruined palace echoed with his boot steps. Crumbling stone walls and
the towering crags of the mountainside gave rise to eerie sounds.

He knocked on the lintel of the roundhouse assigned to Isabail, then ducked inside. The room was empty, save for a neatly covered pallet and a bucket of water. There was no sign of Isabail or her maid.

“Beathag,” he roared.

The large woman arrived at the door with surprising speed. “Aye?”

“Where in the bloody hell is Lady Macintosh?”

A family retainer since before he was born, Beathag simply folded her arms over her ample bosom and stared at him for a moment, waiting for him to re-collect his composure.

“Where is she?” he asked, quieter.

“In the cave.”

Aiden blinked. “Doing what?”

“Counting.”

“By the gods, woman!” The cave was their secret refuge, their last hope if MacPherson’s men discovered the hill fort. Divulging its whereabouts to their enemy, even if the lovely lady lacked a dangerous air, was a grievous mistake. “What possessed you to reveal the whereabouts of the cave?”

Beathag gulped. “Lady Elisaid gave her the keys.”

His mother had simply handed off the keys? To a stranger? Unable to wrap his thoughts around that tidbit of information and frustrated by his lack of understanding, Aiden simply
glared at the good woman. Then he headed for the cave.

* * *

The entrance to the tunnels beneath the ruin lay at the very back of the inner close, where the stone wall met the rock face. It was hidden in a small chamber that had once been a storeroom. Or so they guessed, based on the fragments of old wooden chests and shards of pottery found on the floor. He slipped behind a slab of granite that to the undiscerning eye appeared to be just the back wall, and entered. The stairs were narrow and steep, carved directly into the rock of the mountain. Aiden took them two at a time, his familiarity with the old ruin dating back to his childhood.

Torches were seated in iron wall brackets every thirty feet or so, providing scant but welcome light. At the far end of the long tunnel, the narrow confines opened into a small cave that housed the chests and sacks and bits of furniture they’d managed to remove from the castle before it was overrun by MacPhersons. Lids were open, doors swung wide, and the contents of every chest revealed—including the rather small chest that housed his coin.

In the center of the room, Isabail stood holding a torch, a sheet of parchment, and a thin piece of charcoal. Muirne and Brother Orick, the friar, were counting sacks of grain and calling numbers.

“Seven bags of wheat flour,” Orick said, dusting off his hands.

“Twelve of oats,” Muirne said.

Isabail recorded the numbers on her parchment with a heavy frown. “Are you certain? That may not be enough to last until first harvest.”

Muirne lifted her head, caught sight of Aiden, and gave a short signal of alarm.

Isabail spun around and flinched. “Oh.”

“What are you about?” he asked, annoyed at her reaction.

Isabail’s hand trembled as she held out the parchment. Aiden did not take it. Was he truly that frightening? Most women found him attractive. “Answer me, please.”

“You’ve no seneschal,” she said. “No one seems to be tracking the use of your stores.”

“And why,” he asked, “did you feel the need to do so?”

She lowered the parchment. “Only a handful of your people can count past twelve.”

Which explained her role in the inventorying, but not her need to see it done. He stared at her, waiting.

His silence prompted a further reply, “All right. If you must know, I found my accommodations unsatisfactory. By right I should be treated like a noble guest, not a servant. A straw pallet and threadbare blanket are hardly appropriate. I merely sought some additional comforts.”

His eyebrow lifted. “And how does knowing how many sacks of flour I possess enhance your comfort?”

Even in the dim light, he saw her cheeks
redden. The disadvantage of possessing such fair and flawless skin. “Mistress Beathag and the cook suggested that while I was down here, and since I had the keys, they would benefit from knowing exactly what they had at their disposal.” Her gaze dropped to her feet. “You really ought to appoint a new seneschal.”

“How did you acquire the keys?”

Another flush, this one accompanied by a straightening of her spine and a fisting of her hand around the charcoal. “Your mother made them available to me.”

“You mean you coerced her.”

“I had no need. She is a woman. She sympathized with my plight.”

Incredible. She’d been in the camp for only a few hours and she’d already befriended his mother, unearthed their biggest secret, and begun an assessment of his belongings. A very talented spy. “Cease what you are doing and return to your chamber immediately. You are not to be wandering the camp on your own. You are not a guest; you are a prisoner. Any comforts you receive will be those I choose to offer, not those you claim for yourself.”

“And what am I to do in my empty chamber? Count cobwebs?” She stood there for a long moment, mutiny in the stiff cant of her shoulders.

“Dwell on the names of those men who visited Lochurkie last autumn. Revealing them is your only path to freedom.” Aiden pointed down the tunnel. “Go.”

She stood her ground, but with less surety.

“Now!” he barked.

Isabail took off at a run, the parchment flying into the air, the charcoal rolling across the dirt floor. Muirne hesitated only a moment before scurrying off after her lady.

Aiden eyed Brother Orick. “Find a few more helpers and finish what she started.”

M
agnus chopped wood until every muscle in his arms ached with the effort. A cool winter wind swept across the loch and snatched away his breath, but no matter how hard he worked, nothing could rid him of the nagging sense that he should be somewhere else.

When the wood was split and neatly piled shoulder high behind the bothy, he paused.

Only then did Morag approach him. “Remain angry if you wish,” she said, “but accept this water. Spiting your body to get back at me is childish.”

He faced her squarely. “Tell me the truth, and we’ll have no more quarrel.”

“Nay,” she said, her long black hair floating loosely on the breeze. “You are not completely healed. I will not risk your life by sending you back into danger unprepared.”

“My memory has not returned in three long months. More rest is not the answer. I must seek out those who might know me.”

She laid a gentle hand on his left side, just below the ribs. “You were nigh on dead when I found you, and your injury was caused by a sword. If you leave now, while your body is not fully mended, you’ll meet an unfortunate fate.”

Magnus brushed aside her hand. The wound she spoke of had healed. It was his leg—and his lost memories—that still troubled him. “My injuries may never heal completely. I cannot hide forever.”

She said nothing, her silence an answer of its own.

“If you will not tell me what you witnessed the day you found me, then we’ve nothing more to say.” Magnus snatched up his bow and a quiver of arrows and limped toward the edge of the forest. “I’ll fetch something to eat for supper.”

She watched him until he disappeared into the depths of the trees—as she always did. Most days, he enjoyed the feel of her eyes upon him, but today it only fueled his frustration. Being coddled like a bairn did not sit well with him. He was no longer badly injured. He was as healthy as he might ever be. It was time for him to go, to seek out his past—no matter how ugly that past might be.

And it might indeed be ugly. Only nobles and soldiers carried swords. If he’d been injured by a blade, he had almost assuredly stood on the wrong side of the law. A worry that was upheld by Morag’s fear for his safety. Although she refused to reveal the details of that night, the pallor of her
face when she spoke of it suggested she had witnessed the attack, not simply found him lying in a pool of blood.

Magnus lifted his gaze to the stone tower in the distance.

Castle guards had felled him, most likely. Which made him at best a thief, a spy, or a poacher. At worst, a murderer and a knave.

Not that he wanted to believe he was any of those. His gut insisted he was an honorable man with a fine purpose. But with no memories of his past, how could he be certain? His only clues were the vague feelings that assailed him—like the one that insisted that somewhere, in some place he couldn’t envision, someone was waiting for him to come home. Or the bone-chilling sense of dread that always followed his attempts to recall who that someone might be.

Magnus slipped behind the wide trunk of an ancient oak tree. Up ahead, through the thin winter brush, he could see the telltale dark brown coat of a hind. His mouth watered at the thought of eating venison, but Magnus did not lift his bow. Downing a deer would set the castle huntsman on his tail—deer were reserved for the nobles. In truth, all the animals of the forest belonged to the laird, but hiding the carcass of a dead rabbit was a great deal easier than hiding a deer.

A branch cracked to his right.

The hind took fright and bolted into the trees. Magnus flattened himself against the trunk of the oak and slowed his breaths to a silent draw of air. Deep and even. From the corner of his eye, he
spotted a flash of movement. A solitary man. Someone on foot, accompanied by a large hound.

Magnus stared as the stranger and his dog made their way through the forest. Quite possibly, it was someone from the castle. Not a huntsman—his trek through the brush was far too noisy and untrained for that. A noble, then.

A person who might recognize Magnus.

He glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the bothy. This was an opportunity that carried little risk. He could easily overpower one man and a dog, if it came to that. And if the man could name him, he’d learn much about the life he’d led before he had awakened in Morag’s bed.

But it might also lead to trouble for Morag. Although she traded with the castle, selling her colorful weaves to the inhabitants on market day, she was an admitted outcast. The moment he explained where he had been living for the last three months, she would be subjected to unwelcome scrutiny. Possibly even sanctions. And after all she had done for him, he couldn’t allow that. Even if she drove him to the brink of madness with her refusal to tell him what she knew, he could never betray her.

Magnus stood silent and still and watched the man and his hound march out of sight.

* * *

“You found her in the cave?” Niall asked with a frown, as he accepted a tankard of ale from the alewife. Snowflakes drifted down from the open sky above their heads, but the walls of the ruin kept the winter breeze at bay. “Did she see the other tunnel?”

“I can’t be certain.” Aiden took a sip of ale, washing down the rather tasteless oatcake that accompanied his venison broth. At least the soup had been tasty. “But that’s hardly the point. The woman has gained a troubling knowledge of our encampment in a very short period of time. And at some point I’ll be forced to let her go.”

“If she shares the dismal state of our affairs with MacPherson, he’ll be even more inclined to root us out.”

“Indeed.”

His brother shrugged. “So, don’t let her go.”

“I’ve given her my word,” Aiden said. “If she tells me the names, she can leave.”

“Then you’ve no choice. You need to sway her to our cause.”

“Easier said than done,” Aiden said dryly. “She believes I murdered her brother, and she’s terrified of me.”

“Aye, well, you
have
acquired a rather angry mien of late.” Niall stood up as Ana Bisset joined them at the table. He gave her a slow smile that was easy to interpret. “Rightly so, of course. But sharing your ill humor with Lady Isabail will not gain you her trust.”

Aiden didn’t begrudge Niall his happiness—his brother’s trials had been near as difficult as his—but it underscored the emptiness of his own life, and at this moment it was more than he could endure. He grunted a noncommittal response and pushed away from the table.

His time was better spent charming the lady. Or
at least attempting to. Pocketing an oatcake, he left the great hall in search of her. Not that her location was any great mystery—he’d confined her to her hut. And even if he hadn’t already known which house was hers, the flicker of candles and the sound of voices raised in lively discussion would have led him there unerringly.

He entered without knocking.

Inside, the cook, the friar, and Beathag had gathered around Isabail. She held court on a small wooden stool used for milking goats. Anyone else would have looked ridiculous seated a few inches from the floor. Isabail looked quite the opposite. Wearing only a multihued blanket atop her white chemise, her back straight and tall, she managed to look positively regal. The frothy white folds of her diaphanous shift floated about her feet, and a tiny hint of it peeked from beneath the heavy wool at her neck—just enough to draw his attention to the pale pink flesh beneath her chin. A tantalizing glimpse that for a brief moment sent his imagination spinning into inappropriate realms.

The group was discussing the menu for the next day’s meals. Cook was reciting the dishes he knew how to make, the friar was interspersing that list with an account of the ingredients they had available, while Beathag reminded everyone how many mouths they had to feed. A very needful conversation—but naught to do with the task he’d set for Isabail.

There was no effort being made to detail the visitors to Lochurkie. Time was passing, and he
was no closer to finding the man in black. He’d given very explicit instructions and had left her alone to perform the task. He’d even renewed his promise to free her should she give him the names.

Aiden surged across the wooden planking. “Out,” he barked.

Her entourage took one look at his face and scattered into the night.

Isabail scrambled to her feet, knocking the three-legged stool to its side. “I did not seek them out; they sought me.”

“Why?”

She backed up several steps. “Th-they lack guidance.”

The tremble in her voice registered, and he bit back the snarled response that leapt to his lips. He had no idea what expression lay on his face, but clearly it frightened her. Mindful of his brother’s advice, he attempted to soften his features. Her gaze darted away, and he had the distinct impression his efforts hadn’t entirely been successful.

Still, she persevered. “Guidance that is typically given by the lady of the keep.”

“My mother is grieving. Her attention is justly scattered.”

Isabail nodded. “I understand. But a castle runs more smoothly when all within are assigned specific duties and are held accountable.”

He frowned. “My people have served the clan for many a year. They know their tasks.”

“Would your soldiers be well organized if their captain had been slain in battle?”

“A new captain would be appointed.”

She smiled tremulously. “Exactly. The seneschal is the captain of the household. Without him, even your seasoned staff feel lost and at cross-purpose.”

“It’s my mother’s duty to appoint a new seneschal.” He shrugged. “She’ll take care of it in due time.”

“And while she grieves, your caretakers struggle to work together and keep food on the table.”

The note of disapproval in her voice did not sit well. “We are surviving,” he said coldly.

“Aye,” she said, “and you will continue to survive . . . until you do not. But how much longer do you have? A week? A month? Without someone regularly counting the supplies and visiting the menus, how can you know?”

Aiden crossed his arms over his chest. Her words were an echo of his own concerns. And the conversation he’d just had with his men had only heightened those concerns: Food was becoming a problem. According to Udard, the reason the hunting party had been captured by MacPherson was that they were venturing farther north in search of game. The forest around the hill fort had been hunted out. Still, Aiden wasn’t willing to cede the point. Not to Lady Isabail. “My household is none of your concern.”

“Of course it is,” she insisted. “I am your prisoner. My safety is at stake. A brave warrior can hold off an attacking army indefinitely. A starving warrior has only days before he must bow in defeat.”

Her brazen challenge drew Aiden forward. “Now you impugn my ability to keep you safe? By God, woman, you are too much.”

She took a hasty step back, a rapid pulse fluttering in her long, elegant neck.

A very obvious sign of fear, which twisted his guts. She believed he would harm her. Good sense told him to back away, to let her run. But he did not. Instead, he gave in to impulse and closed the gap between them to mere inches. Her eyes widened, and one trembling hand flew to her throat.

Aiden grasped that hand in his.

It was cool and delightfully soft-skinned. The temptation to press a kiss to her knuckles came and went as he stared into her eyes. This was not the time for such an indulgence. He placed her hand on his chest, just above his heart. “Know this. Never, no matter how angry my words or how furious my stance, will I do harm to a woman,” he said. “If ever you need to know that you are safe in my presence, simply place your hand here and push. You have my word that I will back away.”

He let his hand drop. Hers remained on his chest.

With their gazes locked, he pressed lightly forward, encouraging her to test his vow.

And she did. She pushed.

Aiden stepped back. “I am a passionate man, lass. I’ve been known to shake the rafters with the sounds of my fury. But I’ve never lifted a hand to a woman, and I’ll not start now. You possess
information that I am determined to get, but I can assure you that my methods will never include beating it out of you. Understand?”

She nodded, her eyes meeting his more easily.

With her fear contained and her trembles calmed, Isabail’s pale face regained its ethereal beauty. Smooth skin the color of milk, long-lashed eyes that rivaled the woodland bluebell, and rosy lips that begged to be kissed. What was not to admire? The desire that sang through his veins came as natural as breathing.

He took her chin lightly in hand, rubbing his thumb over the silky softness of her flesh.

“Lovely,” he said.

She flushed but did not draw back. Nor did she attempt to push him away.

“I’ve traveled the length and breadth of Scotland and met many a lass, but none as bonny as you,” he admitted. One or two had come close, including his once-betrothed, Fiona MacDonald. But Isabail’s silvery blond hair and blue eyes charmed him in a way none of the others had. Of course, those other lasses had not given him near as much trouble, either.

He shifted the path of his thumb upward, across the velvet texture of her lips.

As he tugged on her bottom lip, a gentle sigh escaped her mouth. The sound made his pulse pound and his head spin. Up until that moment, he’d fully intended to pull away, to let the tension between them ebb and the passage of time add
strength to her trust in him. But that sigh was so full of promise, so sweetly encouraging, he could only bow to it.

With excruciating slowness, giving her every opportunity to halt him, he lowered his mouth toward hers. A hairbreadth away, he stopped, needing to be certain. Breathing deep of her sweetly feminine scent, he found her hand and placed it upon his chest once more. One push and he would be gone. She had to know that.

To his relief, she did not push. Her hand slipped up and around his neck. It was an invitation he could not refuse—on an indrawn breath, he captured the petal-soft curve of her lips.

Sweet
. So unbelievably sweet.