Captured Hearts and Stolen Kisses

by Ceci Giltenan et al.

  ~ * ~

  Fiona sat on the floor of the empty solar, straining to free her wrists from the tight bindings. Breathless, she leaned against the wall, resting her head against the cool stones, taking a break from her efforts. Her eyes darted to each of the doors around the perimeter of the room. Ever watchful, she feared when one would open, inviting in new danger.

  Taking a deep breath, she held her wrists to her mouth and chomped down on one of the loose ends of rope and tugged hard. She screeched in frustration as the bindings only tightened. A moment later, the door that led to the battlements opened. She glimpsed Ranulf, his back to her as he looked over the parapet, but it was Thomas, or rather Fergus, who entered the room, closing the door behind him.

  “My father has requested yer company,” he said, gently taking her by the arm and helping her to her feet.

  “Was it all a lie, Thomas?” Fiona asked.

  The young man’s gaze darted to the floor. “My name is Fergus,” he said simply.

  “Or is yer name Bastard?” she snapped. “Because I’ve heard yer father call ye both?”

  Fergus’s eyes flashed with anger. “Be careful, my lady. I do not take kindly to being insulted.”

  “It was not I who did the insulting, but rather yer father. He does not love ye, Thomas, not like Abby does.”

  Fergus hesitated. “She loves me?”

  “With her whole heart,” Fiona answered.

  His face softened. He seemed to consider her words, but then he shook his head. “She loves Thomas, the legitimate son of cottars. If she knew I was a bastard she would never love me.” His eyes grew distant and hard. “No one could ever love a bastard.”

  “That’s yer father speaking,” she argued. “He could never love ye. His heart is not capable of love. But Thomas—ye have spent time with my clan. Ye have now experienced the love kin are meant to have for each other. Do ye not see that there is more to ye than a young man willing to do anything for his father’s love.”

  “Enough,” he snapped.

  “Thomas, please—”

  He jerked her toward the door that led out to the battlements. “My name is Fergus.”

  Chapter 32

  Ranulf stood on the battlements, watching the army approach. He licked his lips and gripped the wall as a frenzy of excitement shot through him. Without even a drop yet spilled, he could smell the blood about to be shed. He inhaled deeply, imagining the iron taste in his mouth. Soon, agonizing cries of the dying would rend the air, the sound mingling with the roar of the victor. He relished the anticipation coursing through his veins. He was close to achieving his longstanding dream of dominance. His reign would be vast, and all would bow to him.

  “Let them come,” he shouted as the enemy marched across the green and curved around the moat. Hundreds of Highland warriors, clad in the MacDonnell and MacLeod plaids stood just beyond the outer wall, and yet, Ranulf knew no fear in his heart.

  The wealth of Clan MacKenzie was great even before Ranulf added the spoils of his own hard-earned coin to the coffers. His keep was strong and well-defended. He did not doubt that he could squash any attack, especially when the wife of the commander was his captive.

  “Yer husband should have stayed home and found a new wench to warm his bed. Now, many of these men will die. ‘Tis a pity, really. I would have given yer warriors a chance to join our ranks.”

  He relished the raw emotion passing over the lady’s beautiful face.

  His words made her eyes narrow. “They would rather die than swear fealty to a murderer like yerself,” she spat.

  He crushed her to his chest and kissed her lips hard. The more she struggled in his arms, the more aroused he became. He turned her around and pressed her up against the wall, so that she faced outward. He gripped her head with his hand. “Now, watch as yer warriors fail.”

  He gazed out upon the vast army, waiting for the glorious sound of metal slicing the air as they unsheathed their blades. But they did not draw their swords, nor were they positioning a battering ram. They stood, silent, unmoving. Suddenly, from the lips of a single warrior, the battle cry of the MacDonnell rent the air. The entire army repeated the cry. The same warrior sounded the call of the MacLeod. Once again, the entire army thundered the words across the battlements.

  Ranulf sneered. “Those words will be their last.”

  And then the warrior unsheathed his blade and raised his sword high and shouted the battle cry of the MacKenzie—Ranulf’s own call—the cry of his people. His hands gripped the battlements in confusion as the entire army sounded the battle cry of the MacKenzie.

  In a flash, MacKenzie warriors positioned on the outer wall turned and aimed their crossbows into the bailey and fired on his men. Warriors, wearing his crest, crumpled to the ground. And then a rush of MacKenzie warriors surged from the stable and attacked his men at the gate.

  “What are they doing!” he cried, shoving Fiona aside. Then he turned to Kenric. “Get down there. Kill the rebels. Kill them all!”

  Ranulf stared in horror as more of his men fell. And then the grating of the gate wheel blasted his ears. “Stop them,” he shouted to Gregor who was now fighting his own kin, MacKenzie fighting MacKenzie. Ranulf leaned over the wall. “They are lowering the gate,” he screamed.

  “Ye there,” he shouted to a cluster of farmers pressing against the wall to keep away from the fray. “Pick up a bloody pitchfork and kill those men.”

  The farmers looked at each other, and then they sprang into action. But they did not heed Ranulf’s order. Some of the them rushed to the wheel to help open the gate while others did, indeed, take up pitchforks and sickles, but they trained their weapons only at the men wearing black, leather jerkins.

  “Fergus, ye bastard, what is happening?” Ranulf shouted. His son’s eyes were wide. His hands gripped his hair.

  “I do not know, Father,” he cried.

  “Stop it,” he shouted down at a dozen or more cottars who had Gregor surrounded. “Nay,” Ranulf shouted as the mob cut Gregor down.

  Ranulf’s heart pounded. He spied Kenric swinging his sword, cutting down the treacherous farmers and MacKenzie warriors who dared defy him. “Get them, Kenric!”

  The drawbridge touched down. A surge of MacLeod and MacDonnell warriors thundered into the bailey with a massive swordsman in the lead.

  “Jamie!” Lady Fiona cried out beside him.

  “Shut up,” he snarled and brought the back of his hand against her cheek. She stumbled back, falling on her side.

  He looked back to the battle below, grinning when he saw that Kenric was even larger than the infamous Laird MacLeod. With greedy eyes, he relished each blow of Kenric’s sword as he forced Jamie to retreat.

  He reached down and yanked the lady to her feet. “Watch while yer beloved falls beneath the might of a true swordfighter.” Then he shouted. “Give no quarter. Take no prisoners!”

  Kenric swung his sword. Ranulf held his breath, but the MacLeod ducked. Again, Kenric lashed out, his blade glinting in the sun. This time Jamie blocked the blow. Still, Kenric trudged forward, using his greater strength to push his opponent back. Jamie’s feet slipped. He fell forward, but rolled quickly, avoiding Kenric’s sword that plunged down, driving into the earth rather than the MacLeod’s body. Jamie spun, swinging his blade. Kenric yanked at his sword, freeing it from the ground just as Jamie’s sword sliced through his neck.

  “Nay!” Ranulf shouted as Kenric’s head fell to the ground, his body crumpling moments after.

  Ranulf whirled around. “Ye,” he snarled at the lady.

  Her eyes glinted, and a smile curved her lips.

  “What have ye done?” he gritted, his fingers biting into her shoulders.

  “Ye’ve lost,” she said, her voice deadly soft.

  He growled, hearing the thunder of footsteps charging through the keep. He swung her back around, dragged her into the solar, then flung her to the ground. She struggled to sit up. Her hair fell in messy waves, obscuring her
face. But she flung her head back, her hair cascading behind her, her chin raised with defiance.

  “The people have taken their clan back,” she declared.

  Rage coursed through him. “Shut up,” he shouted as he grabbed her. Lifting her feet off the ground, he threw her back, slamming her against the hearth. She cried out in pain. For a moment, she lay unmoving. Anger pulsed through him. He glowered at her and unsheathed the blade strapped to his back. She lifted her head. Her eyes widened. A thrill of desire shot through him. He wanted her blood. She fought to sit up, to scramble away, but her hands were tied. She no longer smiled at him. The arrogant glint in her eyes had vanished. Blood trickled down her temple, and she stared at him with wide, fearful eyes.

  “Aye, that’s right. Be afraid,” he said. He slowly raised his blade above his head. Her weakened body squirmed. “If I lose, then so do ye,” he cried, swinging his sword, but the clash of metal rang out. He jerked his head around to see who parried his blow.

  “Fergus,” he snarled.

  “She is an unarmed woman,” his son gasped.

  Ranulf sneered. “Give no quarter. Take no prisoners. Remember, ye bastard.”

  Fergus lowered his blade. “We’ve lost, Father. ‘Tis not she who must now ask for mercy. ‘Tis ye.”

  Ranulf seethed, but he lowered his blade and offered his son his hand. Fergus eyed him for a moment, then tentatively reached out, accepting his father’s hand.

  “Ye’re right, son,” Ranulf said. “’Tis not Lady Fiona who must beg for mercy.” He thrust his sword, catching Fergus beneath his ribs. “’Tis ye,” he growled.

  “Nay!” Fiona screamed.

  Fergus’s eyes widened. He sputtered, pressing his hands to his wound. “Father,” he gasped before he fell forward, his body sprawled on the floor.

  “Ye always were weak,” Ranulf growled. “Now, ye’re dead.”

  Turning back to take care of the MacLeod wench, he growled. She was gone. He turned about, not knowing by which door she had left. He charged for the closest door and threw it open just as a throng of servants, armed with pitchforks and spades, came rushing down the hall at him. He scurried back and slammed the door before scrambling across the room to the next door, which he swung wide. Lady Fiona held a sword at the ready. Behind her a dozen warriors bared their teeth at him.

  She glared at him. “Ye’re finished, Ranulf.”

  Ringing filled his ears. His heart pounded as he stumbled back. Climbing to his feet, he charged for the final door, but it swung wide before he could reach it. Jamie MacLeod filled the doorframe and took aim at Ranulf with a crossbow. Before Ranulf could duck, an arrow lodged in his shoulder. He turned away from the fierce Highland chieftain right into Fiona’s blade. Turning back around, he growled at Jamie. “Aren’t ye going to finish me?”

  ~ * ~

  Jamie reloaded his weapon, wanting nothing more than to put an arrow through Ranulf’s skull.

  “Are ye too soft?” Ranulf taunted, his eyes wild and desperate. “What if I told ye, I took her over that table.” He cupped his manhood. “I rode her good and hard.” He smelled his fingers. “I still have her juices on my hands.”

  Fury ripped through Jamie. He raised the crossbow.

  “He’s lying,” Fiona shouted.

  “Finish me,” Ranulf snarled. “Give no quarter. Take no prisoners!”

  Jamie stormed toward the villain and pressed the crossbow into his skull. He wanted to end him, then and there. He wanted the satisfaction of being the one to send Ranulf MacKenzie back to Hell.

  His hands shook with rage. He slowly lowered his weapon. “Ye do not deserve a quick death,” he spat. Jamie backed away, fighting every instinct in his body, which longed to spill the enemy’s blood. He took a deep breath. “Take him,” he told Alasdair who seized Ranulf’s arms from behind, placing him in shackles.

  “Ye will stand before the council of the Clan MacKenzie.” Jamie circled around, meeting the gaze of every MacKenzie farmer and warrior filling the room. “These people, who ye have robbed of their laird and his heir, they will be yer judge.” Then he turned back and locked eyes with Ranulf. “Ye’ve lost, but do not worry—I am certain yer kin will show ye the same courtesy ye’ve shown them.”

  “No quarter,” Ranulf cried, his eyes wide and ablaze with desperate fury. “No quarter!” Alasdair dragged Ranulf from the room, his screams of rage fading down the hallway.

  Jamie turned away, locking eyes with Fiona. She rushed into his arms. He crushed her against himself, savoring the feel of her soft curves and the smell of her hair. A knot gripped his throat. He had kept his fear at bay, giving himself over to the battle, knowing only victory could save the woman he loved.

  And how he loved her.

  He drew back to see her face. He cupped her cheeks. “Are ye all right?”

  She threw her arms around his neck. “I’m in heaven.” She held him close. After a few minutes, she pulled away and met his gaze, her eyes bright with excitement. “It worked,” she cried. “Our plan worked!”

  He looked at her sternly. “Aye, it did, although ye surrendering yerself as a guarantee was not a part of our plan.”

  “I had to, Jamie. Captain Tormod thought we had attacked him. He thought we were the enemy. He never would have trusted us had I not offered myself as collateral.”

  He cupped her cheeks. “Never again. Ye must promise that ye will never sacrifice yerself again—no matter the cause.”

  “But Jamie, I am lady to our people—I must do what is right to care for them.”

  “Nay, ye must listen to yer husband—ye owe me yer allegiance and yer obedience.” He pulled her close. “Please,” he whispered in her ear. “I thought I had lost ye, and it near killed me.” He drew back and cupped her cheek. “Have faith that I will always find another way. I need ye to be safe, Fiona. Promise me.”

  She wrapped her arms around his neck. “I promise that I will never offer myself as collateral to another clan again.” She kissed him hard on the lips. “And I promise to love ye and never stop as long as my body draws breath.”

  “Breathe always.” He kissed her cheek. “Love me always.” His lips grazed her forehead. “And know I will always love ye.” Then his lips claimed hers, and he kissed her with all his love. He scooped her into his arms and carried her from the room. He had no intention of putting her down until he could lay her on his bed and show her how much his soul burned for hers.

  Epilogue

  Fiona sat near the hearth with only the demons to keep her company. She held up a long piece of gauzy lace, which lay across her lap and puddled at her feet. She was stitching small, yellow flowers around the top edge that were sure to bring out the brightness of Esme’s flaxen hair.

  “Ye ken Esme and Sebastian’s wedding is still weeks away,” Jamie said, coming up behind her.

  Fiona smiled at him. “Ye’re back!”

  She set her wedding present to Esme aside and stood, throwing herself into his arms. His lips descended, stealing her breath with the passion of his kiss.

  “I missed ye,” he breathed.

  “I missed ye with my whole heart,” she beamed.

  He sat down and pulled her onto his lap.

  “How was Tormod?” she asked.

  “His wounds are healing. He is moving around now, although it will be some time before he can ride and take on his usual duties, or, rather I should say, his new duties.”

  She grabbed his arm. “Ye mean the MacKenzie council voted?”

  He smiled. “Aye, they did.”

  “And Tormod is their new laird?”

  “Aye, he is!”

  She squealed with delight and threw her arms around his neck. “’Tis happening, Jamie. Peace has come to us, just as we dreamed.”

  “Hard lessons had to be learned, but I think ye’re right. Speaking of hard lessons, how does Abby fare?”

  Fiona’s chest tightened, thinking about her dear maid. “’Tis hard. Every day is a struggle. But I tell her not to
give up hope. Thomas is young and strong. I believe he will yet recover from his wounds.”

  Jamie nodded. “I pray that he does.”

  She raised a brow at him. “Does that mean ye’ve forgiven him.”

  “Nay, but I pray to God for help on that matter as well.”

  “He saved my life, Jamie,” she said pointedly.

  “Aye, I ken, but he’s also the reason ye were in danger to begin with.”

  She clasped his hands. “I feel in my heart that his soul is good.”

  He smiled sadly. “I ken, but I don’t know if I will ever be able to trust him as I once did.”

  She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Trust is earned. Ye just need to open yer heart to the possibility.”

  He gazed into her eyes. “Ye walk through life with love in yer heart, Fiona MacLeod. It radiates from ye.” He chuckled. “’Tis contagious, I swear.”

  She laughed. “Next ye’re going to claim that I’ve made ye love sick, and that’s why ye can’t keep yer hands off me.”

  He stood up, cradling her in his arms. “I definitely feel like I’m coming down with a fever.”

  She kissed his lips. “Aye, are ye feeling warm?”

  “Hot.” He laid her on the bed, covering her with his hard, strong body. “I’m burning up.”

  She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Lucky for ye, I am a very talented…healer.”

  He threw his head back, laughing. “Fiona MacLeod, ye’re the love of my life. My own bright star. I pray yer light never fades.”

  She cupped his cheek. “Love me and it never will.”

  The End

  About Lily Baldwin

  "If the cover was blank but for the name 'Lily Baldwin' I'd buy it. Lily Baldwin is the master of the series. Everything this lady writes is riveting and emotionally gripping." ~ Reader Review

  I've always been a hopeful romantic and completely enamored with romance novels, especially ones involving a protective, rebellious Hero fighting the good fight. I started writing my first story when my daughter was born. I remember holding her new little body in my arms, promising her that if she worked hard, she could achieve anything. I realized how hollow my promise sounded when I had not accomplished my own dream of becoming an author. And so my journey began. I started to write my first book so that I could look my daughter in the eye when I encouraged her to strive. And now, nearly ten years later, I'm humbled to be able to say that hundreds of thousands of people have read my books. With gratitude, I wish you happy reading!