Sins of a Highland Devil: Highland Warriors Book 1

by Welfonder Sue-Ellen

  Only Catriona seemed determined to grind his nerves.

  It wouldn’t surprise him if she’d secreted herself in some hidey-hole in the thickness of the walling and now peered through a squint, watching him pace and fume.

  And fume he did, for he wasn’t a patient man.

  But he was a prudent one – most times, anyway – and he wasn’t going to shock Alasdair by professing his desire to wed Catriona until he’d seen her face to face. Only then could he assure himself that she’d greet such a union.

  So he held his tongue and bided his time, content – or trying to be – that he’d had other important tidings to share with her brother.

  Alasdair turned back to him then, dusting his hands, for he’d just thrown another log on the fire. “You’re certain about this?” His face didn’t show a muscle twitch of doubt, but his words were insulting. “I didn’t see any MacNaughtons watching the battle.”

  “Then I vow you weren’t looking in their direction.” James stopped pacing to stand before the brightly painted mural of the sea god, Manannan Mac Lir, flying across the foam in Wave Sweeper, the blue-robed deity’s self-sailing boat.

  He glanced at Manannan’s flowing beard, half wondering if he’d sprout such long whiskers before Alasdair believed what James had told him.

  “They were there.” James spoke as patiently as he could. “They stood near the royal loge one moment and” – he lifted a hand, snapping his fingers – “they were gone the next. Vanished, as if I’d imagined them.”

  “Perhaps you did?” Alasdair looked at him, his reasonable tone more than irksome.

  “I’ll own that’s possible, given the day.” The admission cost James. “Men do see strange things on a field of battle. But” – he started pacing again, careful not to stride too near the table where Catriona’s necklace lay in a shaft of pale morning sunlight – “even if I only thought I saw the buggers at the field, their missing plaids bode ill.

  “I ne’er thought I’d defend a MacNaughton, but I’m leaning towards taking their chief on his word.” James rubbed the back of neck as he circled the room. “He swears none of his men were at the battle. He told my cousin six of their plaids had gone missing.”

  Alasdair frowned. “Your cousin believed him?”

  “He did.”

  “Mundy MacNaughton is a known weasel.” Alasdair poured himself a cup of morning ale, his calm grating. “He bends the truth every which way. I’d sooner have heard your own opinion of his words than-”

  “I sent Colin to question Mundy because even when the lies reek worse than a week-old barrel of fish, Colin can find the truth better than any.”

  “Your cousin strikes me as man too intent on his pleasures to spend time pressing truths from a wriggly scoundrel like Mundy.”

  Alasdair took a swig of his ale. “Belike Colin spent more time tumbling MacNaughton’s serving wenches than badgering Mundy.”

  For the first time since arriving at Blackshore, James felt a grin tug at his lips. “He enjoyed three of the lasses, aye. And each one sang the same tale as Mundy, claiming a creel of soiled plaids disappeared from right beside the wash kettles. The maids were laundresses and would know. Colin has a way with women, so I’m sure they told him true.”

  “H’mmm….” Alasdair set down his ale cup. “You think the missing plaids have something to do with the tall, dark-cloaked man we’ve all seen?”

  “I do.” James was sure of it. “When I saw the MacNaughtons at the battle, I wondered if they’d come to gloat at us. Later, it struck me that they might’ve set one of their men amongst us to stir trouble. Poking holes in your galleys and shooting arrows at Kendrew Mackintosh. Because-”

  “If we’d let ourselves be riled and caused more dissent, Sir Walter would have his grounds to urge the King to cancel the trial by combat and ship us all to the Isle of Lewis.” Alasdair nodded grimly, speaking James’ mind.

  “So I thought, aye.” James shot a glance at Catriona’s ambers, her absence making him edgy. “I wondered if Sir Walter might’ve offered Mundy coin, bribing him to do his dirty work so Walter and his henchmen appeared blameless.”

  “And now?” Alasdair frowned again, blackly this time.

  “Now….” James glanced at the door, willing Catriona’s footsteps. “I cannae say. But I no longer think Mundy had a hand in any of it. No’ after hearing about the six stolen plaids.”

  “The laundresses could’ve misplaced them.” Alasdair’s reason made James head hurt.

  “I considered that.” James hadn’t, but he’d not have Alasdair think him less astute. “Until” – he looked at Alasdair directly – “I discovered several of my own spare plaids had also vanished.”

  Alasdair’s brows lifted. “God’s eyes! Someone must want to use the plaids as a guise.”

  “That could be the way of it.” The thought chilled James to the marrow. “It’s the reason I waited until now to return Catriona’s necklace. Colin only came back from Mundy’s keep late last night. I wanted to hear Colin’s account of his meeting with Mundy before I rode to speak with you.”

  He kept silent about his other reasons.

  But his heart did leap when the sound of light footsteps and a faint scratching noise came from behind the solar’s closed door.

  “Ahhh…” Alasdair glanced at him. “My long-sleeping sister has risen.”

  James didn’t tell him he’d already seen her, beaming at him from the boat strand.

  He did swallow hard, his mouth suddenly ash dry.

  When the door swung open, he’d drop to one knee, making his plea before his damty nerves left him. He’d practiced his reasons – a strengthening of the greater good in the glen, a demonstration that the King’s peace would be held, an end to long years of feuding – every mile of the way between Castle Haven and Blackshore.

  It was a good, sound speech.

  And now he couldn’t recall a single word.

  But he would tell Catriona he wanted her, even that he loved her, if it would help his cause. The saints knew he did love her, and badly. He knew he had to have her. He’d never again have any peace if he didn’t. And making her his own was worth more than his pride.

  Alasdair could laugh at him if he wished.

  James would have her and nothing else mattered to him.

  Then the door opened a crack and Maili poked her dark head into the room, her bright smile fading when her gaze lit on James and Alasdair.

  James stared at her, disappointment flooding him, hitting him like a steel-soled boot to the ribs.

  “Where’s my lady?” Maili looked to Alasdair, her pretty brow furrowed. “I came to see how things” – her gaze flickered to James – “were going?”

  “She isn’t abed?” Alasdair took a step towards the laundress.

  Maili shook her head, her dark curls bouncing. “She left her room before sunrise. She saw you” – she glanced quickly at James – “riding in with your men and said she wanted to greet you at the gate.”

  James heart stopped, all the blood draining from him. “I didn’t ride in with an escort.” He looked at Alasdair, seeing he’d blanched, too. “I came alone.”

  “But we saw you.” Maili clapped a hand to her cheek. “I was sleeping and my lady woke me. We watched you ride out onto the far shore, about six men. Then I helped Catriona dress and she hurried belowstairs.

  “I thought she’d be here” – she looked from James to Alasdair, then back at James – “she’d been waiting so long for you to come.”

  And now she was gone.

  “Damnation!” James flashed a look at Alasdair, and then hurried from the room, unsheathing his sword as he ran. “She was outside the postern gate when I crossed the causeway,” he called over his shoulder, knowing Alasdair was hard on his heels. “If she’s no’ there now….”

  He didn’t finish the sentence.

  It was too horrible.

  And when he and Alasdair raced through the great hall, then pounded across the bailey t
o the wooden door in the walling that was the postern gate, all the dread in the world descended on him when Alasdair flung the door wide and they burst out onto the empty boat strand.

  Catriona wasn’t there.

  Chapter 20

  “Spineless curs!”

  Catriona glared at her captors, six of the most savage, rough-looking men she’d ever seen. Filthy, shaggy-haired, and with wild, unkempt beards, they stank of soured ale. And her disdain only earned their wrath as they scowled back at her, though several leered. The one who’d ran at her on Blackshore’s boat strand, throwing a cloak over her head before he’d pushed her into one of Alasdair’s smaller boats, gave her a forceful shove that sent her reeling backwards, onto the cold, peaty ground.

  “You’re a worm, not a man.” She pinned him with a stare, knowing that was true.

  In the boat, he’d stuffed a wad of rank cloth into her mouth. And after they’d rowed to the loch’s far shore, he’d bound her wrists behind her back before rudely yanking her from the boat and hurrying her along the strand to where one of their men waited with horses behind a cluster of thorn trees. She’d had a brief moment of mercy when he’d swung himself into his saddle, but then he’d grunted for one of the other men to hurl her across his lap.

  He’d held her clamped face down across his thighs, gripping her so fiercely against him that she was sure her ribs were bruised.

  She knew her dignity was – not that she’d show it.

  Letting her eyes blaze, she recalled one of Alasdair’s favorite slurs. “You’re goat droppings, all of you. Though I vow your stink is worse!”

  “Call us what you will.” The man leaned close, crowding her against a large, lichen-speckled boulder. “While you still have a tongue in your head to use.”

  His comment brought hoots and sniggers from the others.

  Catriona drew up her knees, sitting as straight as she could against the rock. She also lifted her chin, icing them with her frostiest stare.

  “Goat droppings,” she repeated, not recognizing any of them.

  And if she chanced a guess, she’d say they were broken men. Outcasts who belonged to no clan and who were sworn only to roam the hills, living as they could and making trouble as it pleased them.

  Most wore a motley assortment of plaids – she recognized the MacNaughton colors – though two were clad in mail. All were Highland, a truth that offended her almost more than being abducted in the first place. Well armed, they also bristled with swords, dirks, and war axes. Shields and helmets hung from their horses’ saddles, as if they knew they wouldn’t need the like against a mere woman.

  But they had bound her hands. The scratchy piece of rope rubbed and burned her skin and she was sure her wrists would soon bleed.

  Until moments ago, her greatest ordeal had been suffering the rancid cloth they’d shoved into her mouth. And they’d kept her wrapped so tight in the damp, smelly cloak they’d thrown over her that she’d nearly suffocated.

  Now, after hours of what seemed like hard, fast riding, they’d finally halted. The same man who’d hurled her across her tormentor’s saddle, hauled her down with equal roughness, whipping the foul-reeking cloak off of her before her feet had even touched the ground.

  Or so it’d seemed.

  But – she wasn’t about to let on – they’d made a grave mistake when they removed her gag.

  Words could do as much damage as a sword if wielded with skill. So she settled herself against the rock, biding her time, assessing her options.

  They’d paused in a birch wood, choked with bracken and large, moss-covered stones. Their horses grazed beside a nearby burn and – they must believe they’d ridden far enough away from Blackshore to call a rest – for two of the men had thrown an old plaid on the ground and were setting out a repast of bannocks, cheese, and ale.

  Catriona watched them closely, then focused on a huge, red-bearded man with a powerfully broad chest and arms so thickly muscled he looked like he could uproot trees with a flick of his fingers.

  There was a tinge of dullness to the man’s eyes. A slight slackening at his jaw, hinting that his wits weren’t all too sharp.

  So she took a deep, nerve-steeling breath, and lifted her voice. “Sniveling cowards,” she taunted, “hiding beneath an upturned boat and then leaping out of the shadows to throw a bit rag over a woman’s head, rather than draw swords on men who can fight you.”

  “For cowards, we’ve plucked a ripe prize.” One of them grinned, then bit into a chunk of cheese that looked older than time.

  The others ogled her, the glints in their eyes turning lecherous.

  Her worst tormentor – the cloak-and-gag bastard – only scowled. But when he took a whetstone from a pouch at his belt and used it to sharpen a wicked-looking dirk, his eyes not leaving hers, she did know true fear.

  He had implied, after all, that they might cut out her tongue.

  Hoping they meant to ransom her rather than slice her to bits, she tore her gaze from him and speared the others with the haughtiest glare she could summon.

  “My brother will slit your gizzards.” She kept her chin raised, trying desperately to twist her hands from the bonds behind her back. “James Cameron is with him. When they come for me, he’ll do more than that. He’ll empty you so this wood runs with your blood.”

  “He may do.” The dirk-sharpener didn’t sound concerned. “Unless Erc” – he glanced at the dull-eyed giant – “breaks his sword before he can try.”

  Catriona’s breath snagged, her stomach tightening as a sick dread chilled her. They wouldn’t speak a name if they thought to release her.

  And Erc – she knew the name meant battle boar – looked more than able to have done with her, likely with the greatest pleasure. Meanness rolled off him and she could almost see his fingers twitching in eagerness. He was clearly a man who knew only brute strength and violence, killing gladly at a word from his leader.

  But he wasn’t going to touch her.

  None of them would if she could get her hands on one of their weapons.

  Hoping to try, she swallowed her pride and assumed a pained expression. “Sure of yourselves as you are, perhaps you’ll give me a few moments to myself?” She glanced at the nearest birches, squirming a bit to make her point. “It’s been hours since you took me and….”

  She didn’t need to finish, for the frowns the men exchanged showed they understood.

  But none of them spoke.

  “Please.” The word galled her. “One of you can go with me if you’re afraid I’ll steal a horse and ride away. It’s no matter to me.”

  It was, but modesty wasn’t important now.

  Not that it would come to it if her ploy worked.

  “I really must….” She tried to sound desperate.

  “Ach, let her go.” The man eating the ancient cheese made an abrupt gesture at the others. “Her whines are hurting my ears.”

  Her main tormentor looked annoyed, but jerked a nod at the giant. “Erc - take her into the trees. But dinnae lay a hand on her. I’ll have her fresh for myself afore any o’ you get a taste of her.”

  Erc stalked towards her then, his cold, expressionless face more frightening than if he’d scowled. But when he reached to haul her to her feet, Catriona summoned all her courage and leaned away from him.

  “I’ll need my hands, if you please.” She twisted round on her knees, showing them her back, the tightly bound wrists that would make her wish so awkward. “You can bind me again when I’m done.”

  She glanced over her shoulder, seeing Erc look to the others. Her heart pounded, the racing of her pulse so thunderous, she prayed they wouldn’t hear.

  No one gave any sign, much to her relief.

  Then one of the older men, a grim-faced man who hadn’t yet said much, spat on the ground. “Cut her free.” His tone was as hard as his face. “Bind her again when she’s done.”

  Erc grunted and took a dirk from his belt. Stepping closer, he leaned down to slice the
rope. But the instant the bind fell away, she thrust her hand into a slit in her skirts, seizing her own dagger and wheeling round to sweep the blade right across his ankles.

  “Whore!” Erc roared and blood sprayed, but even as he jerked, Catriona lunged. With all her strength, she drove her lady’s dirk upward, plunging the blade deep into the meaty flesh between his legs.

  “Yeeeeeeow!” Erc screamed, reeling crazily as blood poured from his groin. Howling, he fell to one knee, and then toppled to the ground, curling into a tight ball, a steaming pool of red spreading around him.

  Catriona didn’t waste a blink. Darting forward, she ignored her bloodied lady’s dagger – its hilt thrusting obscenely from his privates - and snatched Erc’s war ax. She gripped the long shaft at its middle, unprepared for its weight. But nerves gave her strength, and she whirled to face the others, swinging the ax left and right, her gaze never leaving her captors’ shocked faces.

  “Don’t think I can’t use this.” She’d never held an ax in her life. But her blood was pumping, giving her courage. “Come near me and I’ll not just stick you” – she flashed a glance at the writhing, whimpering Erc – “I’ll chop off that piece you hold dearest and stuff it down your throat!”

  It was the wrong threat to make.

  Barks of laughter, hoots, and guffaws met her challenge.

  Her boldness didn’t frighten - it amused.

  “Oh – ho! A Valkyrie!” The man with the cheese feigned astonishment. Then he started towards her, drawing his sword as he came.

  “Try and take this” – he whipped the blade free, slapping its broad side against his palm – “and I’ll give you a much better ramming than you gave Erc, by God!”

  Catriona’s first tormentor snarled at him. “Sheath your steel, she’s mine.” He knocked the cheese-eater aside, his own blade already flashing in his hand. Grinning, he strolled in Catirona’s direction, clearly not worried about her skills with an ax.

  He’d almost reached her when the thunder of fast approaching horses came from the wood, the pounding of hooves accompanied by men’s angry shouts and jeers.