Stealing The Highlander's Heart (Tales 0f Blair Castle Book 2)

by Fiona Faris

  Blair Castle, Blair Atholl, Scotland

  Freya was strewn sideways atop a horse’s back as it galloped parallel to the river. The stream whispered as the only guide to enlighten Freya of where she might be. The rush of the water echoed at a more frenzied pace as the horse increased its stride.

  “She’s the bonniest one we’ve snatched from this side o’ the Highlands,” one of her captors said.

  “Aye, she is bonnie a’ right. The chief will surely take this one,” another replied.

  “O’ course he will! He keeps the fairest ones we capture an’ leaves us with the rest o’ ‘em.”

  The horse ceased its gait, and Freya was hoisted up by one of the men and tossed over their shoulder as if she was a bag of feathers. They carried her down what she assumed was a staircase and into a room.

  Her blindfold was ripped off with such swiftness that it stung her temples and snatched pieces of her hair by the roots. The gag was loosened, and she shifted her bottom jaw to spit the wretched fabric from her mouth.

  “Ye better keep quiet, oor the gag goes right back in ye trap!” said one of the men before they went back upstairs.

  Freya shimmed her still tied-up limbs like an inchworm across the dirt floor and toward a corner. She shivered as a cold draft filled the room, raising the hairs on her body.

  Thunder rolled, and flashes of lightning pierced her vision as her eyes struggled to adjust to the candlelit gloom. Drips of raindrops echoed around her, and she searched frantically for the source. She squirmed along every corner of the wretched dungeon and finally felt a drop land on the bridge of her nose. She gazed upward and water trickled from the window carved into the wall with iron bars sealed in between. The roar of the rain intensified as the frequency of drops increased. Her mouth felt as dry as a desert, and so Freya tried to catch every last drop while the thunderstorm endured.

  When another great lightning strike brightened the room, a peculiar item on the ground grabbed her attention.

  It’s a ring from oor clan! She peered at it closer. This has tae be where they brought a’ o’ oor maidens. But where are they? Why am I the only one in this dungeon?

  Muffled voices sounded from above. Freya inched her way on her belly across the floor to the other side of the dungeon which lay next to the stairs. Rocks scattered throughout her prison crunched against her bones with every movement.

  She was unable to detect the specifics of any conversation when she placed her ear along the crevice from the floor above her. Suddenly, footsteps stomped toward her. They approached quicker and became louder with each step.

  A husky middle-aged man with reddish, dark-brown hair down to his neck stood before her. Despite a slight gut that protruded along the belt of his tartan, he exhumed a muscular frame. He appeared strong but displayed an arrogance which was as foul as the odor which stemmed from his physique.

  “Ye are one o’ the fairest lassies I hae ever laid eyes on. Aye, ye shall make a fine Murray maiden. The prettiest in a’ the Highlands,” the man said, sounding prideful about his words.

  “Who the hell are ye an’ why hae ye taken me prisoner?” Freya demanded.

  “Ye are at Blair Castle, home o’ the once mighty an’ powerful Murray clan. My name is Donald Murray. I am the chief o’ this clan. Pleased tae make yer acquaintance, my little bonnie,” he replied with a wicked grin.

  “Did ye take the ither maidens from oor village?”

  “Surely, I hae nae idea whit ye are talkin’ aboot.”

  “Dae no’ play me fer a fool. We had fer maidens vanish yesterday, an’ one o’ their rings is beside me. I ken they were ‘ere.”

  Donald laughed and nonchalantly opened the door to her prison cell. He lowered himself to one knee, so he was at eye level with Freya. He clutched her jaw and stared into her deep blue eyes. His stench engulfed her, and she gagged from breathing in the foul body odor.

  “I will break it down fer ye very simply, little bosom. Oor clan was nearly wiped aff the face o’ the Earth by a horrific disease. We were once a proud clan with hundreds o’ abled body warriors an’ oor women as radiant as the full moon. Now, we are down tae oor last thirty men. Probably less than that. We jist buried three more.”

  “An’ the women?” Freya asked as she attempted to escape his grip.

  “Women? They are a’ deid! Bless their souls. Oor last lassie passed on months ago from that wretched disease. So, unless the remainin’ men o’ this clan take action, we are doomed tae go extinct. But no’ if I hae ony say in it,” Donald said, releasing her to pelt his sword against the brick wall.

  The rabid look in his eyes terrified Freya.

  “I’m sorry yer clan was stricken with a horrid disease, but that daes no’ give ye the right tae rape an’ pillage ither clans,” Freya whimpered, backing herself into a corner.

  Donald lunged for her and lifted her above his shoulders by her arisaid with one hand, his broadsword still in the other. The arm which lifted Freya pulsated, but held her with support. His mammoth strength coupled with his short temperament provided a lethal combination.

  “I will dae whitever I see fit tae repopulate this clan. If that means raidin’ ither clans an’ stealin’ their women, then sae be it. An’ only the bonniest stoaters will mither future Murray lads.”

  “Ye bastard! Where are the girls ye took from oor clan?” Freya demanded again.

  “Let’s jist say we had nae use fer ‘em. They were jist wretched Sassenachs, like ye,” Donald said, mocking the young prisoner.

  “I am no’ an English woman! Ye are sadly mistaken, ye despicable animal,” Freya replied with defiance.

  “Ay, no’ technically ye’re no’. But ye are a worthless lowlander clan compared tae the Murrays. Sae, in my book, ye’re jist as rotten as the Sassenachs. Only those from the Highlands are true Scots.”

  Freya’s face flamed as red as the leaves on fall trees. She spat into Donald’s face, and the enraged Highlander threw her across the dungeon. She landed with a heavy thud, having had no chance to break her fall given her hands and feet were still tied together.

  “Ye shall burn in hell fer this. I swear by it,” she said, blood dripping from her busted open lip.

  “Ye willnae hae the chance, lassie, an’ ye are mine. Ye will give birth tae one o’ my offspring. Ye may come from an inferior clan, but I willnae let ye beauty go tae waste withoot providin’ me a wean.”

  “Like hell I will. I would rather die than be impregnated by a monster like ye. Jist let me rot.”

  “Dae no’ say it like that. I might hae some company fer ye later. We are burnin’ that forsaken Kellie Castle tae the ground once an’ fer all. If I find ony lassies as fair as ye, they will bear a’ o’ oor warriors a son. A future generation o’ strappin’ Murray lads. We will kill the rest o’ ‘em along with a’ the men in yer clan.”

  Donald sealed the dungeon door and climbed the staircase with a malicious laugh.

  Freya laid with her knees pressed to her chest as she sobbed over the presumed fate of her clan. The chief of the Murray clan was a vicious man. He would show no mercy to the neighboring clans of the lowlands who lived a peaceful life. Freya’s clan was now at risk of complete annihilation, and she was helpless to do anything about it.

  She overheard the men of the Murray clan preparing their attack. Donald barked orders as the self-appointed chief to show no mercy on the rival clan. He clamored about their dwindled numbers and their need to secure the future of their clan by capturing the most beautiful women in all the nearby clans to give birth to their children.

  “There is nae ither way we can ensure we hae sons an’ grandsons tae carry the Murray name. If we sit ‘ere an’ dae nothin’, oor clan will be extinct. Is that whit ye a’ want?” Donald asked his warriors.

  “Nae!” the group shouted in unison.

  The Murray clan warriors all wore their green and red checkered tartan with the strap over their shoulder. Armor was also clasped over their shoulders and around their torso
for protection. Each warrior was armed with a broadsword, shield, and a dirk for close quarter combat.

  The outbreak of smallpox devastated the Murray clan for several years, as they were formerly the most powerful clan in this region of the Highlands. At the time of the outbreak, no clan dared to challenge their rule over the territory. The factions they built through marriages with members of other clans strengthened their rule and reputation.

  Everything collapsed when the first sign of the disease was discovered in neighboring villages of Blair Castle. Entire villages were wiped out as men, women, and children were stricken with illness. The tipping point was when the chief and every member of his direct family died, despite never stepping foot out of Blair Castle. Alliances died, their number of warriors decreased, their territory shrank, and eventually, the last woman connected to the Murray clan passed away.

  The strongest of the males who remained was Donald, and he was a ruthless warrior in battle. His stated purpose in life was to fight in hand-to-hand combat to defend the honor of his clan. Being the most feared warrior, he took charge after the former chief died. He vowed for the Murray clan to reemerge from the ashes for generations to come.

  Despite the majority of the remaining Murray clan members being hypnotized by Donald’s zealous sermons, there was one respected member of the clan who was not convinced of Donald’s leadership.

  Andrew Murray was alongside Donald as one of the fiercest warriors of the clan, but he did not yearn for the fight like Donald. His heart ached for the members of the clan who passed away, much like the self-appointed chief, but his conscience haunted him after their raids on neighboring villages.

  Every living member of the Murray clan, regardless of age, respected Andrew and enjoyed his company. The few elders who survived the smallpox outbreak loved him and the lads in the clan, many of whom were without a mother or father, admired him. Even Donald, whose personality was night and day compared to Andrew, commended him for his warrior expertise. Donald regarded him as one of the Murray clan’s most legendary fighters in battle, but not greater than himself, of course.

  Andrew’s valiant heroics in past battles to defend the Murray clan were legendary tales which spread throughout the regions of the Highlands. Honor, pride, and freedom were the virtues Andrew stood for each time he stepped onto the battlefield.

  The raid that the self-appointed chief bestowed upon the remaining warriors of the Murray clan left an uneasy feeling in the pit of Andrew’s stomach. A raid based on the premise of pillaging and kidnapping was the antithesis of everything he stood for. The fear of the clan’s existence being erased was firmly imprinted on his mind, however, thanks to Donald’s tirades.

  The conflicting emotions swirled through Andrew’s mind like a vicious typhoon on the open sea.

  There is nae honor in this mission, only shame. But how else will oor clan’s name survive? he thought as Donald received thunderous applause from the remainder of the Murray clan’s warriors.

  “Remember that ony fair lass ye lay yer eyes on will come back tae Blair Castle. They will provide ye with plentiful offspring, my brave Murray warriors,” Donald shouted.

  Andrew surveyed the deafening roars of his fellow clansmen, and his stomach churned.

  “An’ when we leave, we will watch the castle o’ the abhorrent lowland clan burn tae the ground!”

  Donald concluded his fiery pre-battle sermon amidst the battle cries.

  The platoon of Murray clan warriors climbed onto their horses in the dead of night. They traversed through the rolling hills which surrounded Blair Castle and down the valley, which led a path straight to the Erskine clan’s stronghold at Kellie Castle. The moonlight danced on the river which illuminated the horses’ black, silky coats.

  The impending bloodshed to welcome the rising sun of the morning weighed heavily still on Andrew’s conscience as he rode under the black sky. His broadsword had been drenched in blood too many times to count, but the ominous feeling of this battle played to the beat of a different drum for him.

  Would his clouded mind falter in battle? Would his skills with the sword suffer? Would he pay the ultimate price?

  These questions that haunted Andrew would have to be answered sooner rather than later, as two armed guards approached, oblivious to the invaders ready to pounce with the tenacity of starved lions.

  A blue twilight highlighted the surrounding region of Kellie Castle, as the Murray clan’s ambush was set to commence.

  Chapter Three

  Kellie Castle

  Donald ordered his comrades by his side to remain under the brushes for the opportune moment to draw first blood. The watchmen treaded up the hill which overlooked the castle to scan the perimeter. The whites of their knuckles pushed through the skin as they gripped their swords, anticipating their foe to appear at any moment.

  “They are expectin’ us. Wait fer my signal. If we dae no’ kill these patrolmen, then we are in fer an onslaught,” Donald whispered.

  The wind howled, causing the brushes opposite the crouched Murray warriors to tremble. The clamor aided in their desire to remain unnoticed, the castle’s guards’ backs still facing them.

  Donald relayed a hand gesture to signal the attack, and in a flash, two of his fighters sprinted across the path to deliver the first assault. In a matter of moments, the guards were strewn to the dirt with their throats slit and their bodies cast into a nearby ravine. Not one sound had broken out in the scuffle, so the element of surprise was still in the Murray clan’s favor.

  “Andrew, take some o’ the men an’ flank ‘em ‘round the ither side o’ the hill, down tae the rear o’ the castle,” Donald commanded.

  Andrew guided nearly a dozen men alongside the hill camouflaged by the brushes and tree limbs scattered amongst the gardens. They were astonished to discover the rear of the castle deserted with no trace of any adversaries.

  “Ye are no’ leadin’ us intae a trap, are ye, Andrew?” one of the warriors joked.

  Andrew surveyed the villages at the base of the hill and spotted a squadron of Erskine clan warriors positioned for battle.

  “Look at that, will ye? They expect oor attack tae come from the villages upward tae the castle,” Andrew replied.

  “Aye, that is where we snatched the stoater on the last night raid,” another man remarked.

  “This beauty will be oors in nae time. Once they see we hae the castle, their men will be scattered, an’ victory will be oors. Quickly, everyone inside!” Andrew commanded.

  A window carved into the brick provided an opening where the men catapulted each other high enough to climb inside. Once inside, they ransacked every level of the castle and chaos ensued. Each floor of the structure had men on guard, but they were no match for Andrew and his men’s skill and expertise.

  The first two Erskine clan warriors they encountered charged at Andrew simultaneously with bravado. Two attacks with the sword swung at him with full force, but the canny warrior sidestepped both attempts. With one thrust of his broadsword, Andrew laid out one of the attackers as his blade protruded through the sternum with pinpoint precision. He kicked the lifeless body off his sword onto the cold, stone floor.

  Face-to-face with the second Erskine assailant, Andrew blocked three heavy swings to avoid being decapitated. He jostled back and forth in a battle of strength with the opposing warrior. The friction between the two swords pierced a smoky whiff throughout the halls of the castle as if they were set ablaze.

  They broke their entangled grip, and Andrew rolled amidst the feet of his adversary, as a missed strike of the sword against the floor sent shockwaves down the arms of its guide. Suddenly, Andrew lifted a dagger hidden within his tartan for close quarter combat such as this and gashed the carotid artery of his opponent. The blood spurted and stained the vibrant, colorful paintings that decorated the walls.

  Further combat awaited Andrew and his comrades as they traversed to the top floor of the castle. Outnumbered nearly two to one, Andrew’s st
oic expression revealed not a shred of fear.

  “Forward men. Show nae fear,” he shouted and released a battle cry.

  The roaring war chants of the Murray warriors echoed down the valley, which signaled the battlement of Erskine fighters at the base of the hill of their arrival. Precisely as Andrew foresaw, the battalion scurried like blind rodents to rescue their allies caught amongst the fury of Murray fighters.

  The miscalculation in battle strategy proved costly for the Erskine clan as their forces inside the castle were doomed against the might and tenacity of the Murray fighters.

  Andrew guided his sword like an extension of his body and pierced his opponents one by one. His mastery of evasion, pure strength, and deadly accuracy with his broadsword made him an unbeatable force against every Erskine foe to stumble across his path.