Sweet Home Highlander

by Amalie Howard

  Had she and Makenna been captured by Dougal or the Campbells? It wasn’t a stretch of the imagination, especially after recent tensions and Ronan’s refusal to marry one of the Campbell’s daughters. Surely, Laird Campbell wouldn’t do something as barbaric as stealing a Maclaren lady. Then again, if the Campbell wished for some kind of leverage to force an alliance, an abduction would be the way to do it. Some old Scottish ways still ran rampant through the clans. The thought filled him with mind-numbing dread.

  Leclerc and a handful of other men rode behind Niall, the sounds of pounding hooves a thunder in his ears. Ahead, another foursome of riders, led by Hamish, cleared some trees and came toward them, joining their pack without so much as a question. Word must have spread, fast as fire, Niall guessed. And here his friend was, ready to help.

  “Take yer men to the loch!” Niall shouted to Hamish. “We’re to the quarry!”

  With an answering shout, his friend wove to the left, taking his men with him. If Dougal had taken Aisla, he could have taken her anywhere by now. But the mine was the first, logical place to look. And Fenella had said they’d been there.

  Niall spurred his horse to climb the forested path, his mind refusing to leap ahead to what he might find at the quarry. What if she’d put up a fight against Dougal? God, what if he’d shot her as well? He took small comfort in the fact that the man clearly desired Aisla, and perhaps, she might still be alive.

  With a burst of speed and anger, and not a little bit of fear, Niall broke through the trees and came onto the ridge. His eyes immediately found the stone mining shafts, and just as he expected, saw the place was abandoned. Sundays were always that way.

  “M’laird!” He heard a man’s shout through his own pounding pulse. Niall twisted in his saddle and followed the direction of one farmer’s outstretched arm, pointing to a pool of browning blood soaked into a patch of grass.

  “Fenella was shot here,” he said, though needlessly.

  Niall inspected the area from his saddle, hope dimming that he would find anything of use. But then he saw a glint of light near a pile of discarded rock and rubble.

  He jumped from his saddle and went to it, crouching with his breath caught in his throat. His fingers brushed the topaz hilt of Aisla’s dagger, the blade stained red. Her blood, or Dougal’s? He picked it up, knowing in his soul that she would have defended herself. She would have hit her target, without a doubt, and perhaps it had given her a chance to get away.

  He stood, wiping and pocketing the dagger.

  “Look around!” he shouted to the other men, his own panic barely contained. “Check for anything on the ground, any marks. If she was here, she couldnae have gone far.”

  Obediently, the men spread out. Niall exhaled and tried to calm himself, but it was an impossible task. His sister was missing, too, though he hadn’t yet allowed himself to think about her. Or Fenella. No, he had to stay focused on Aisla. His wife.

  “Over here!”

  He ran to join some of his men stooping near the mouth of one of the tower houses—and froze. A small powder keg lay on its side, and looked to be empty. Nearby, a line of fuse lay on the ground. It ran straight into the tower house.

  “Careful, lads,” Niall said, his heart pounding. Dougal had been setting an explosion in the tunnels, but it looked as though his plan had been cut short. Because of Aisla?

  “Look for a blood trail,” Niall said. “Aisla might have wounded him.”

  The men scattered out again while a few carefully followed the fuse line into the tower house.

  His eyes scoured the mining shafts and huts scattered over the ridge. Would she have tried to make it back to Maclaren on foot? Or Tarben Castle?

  “Laird!”

  The shout gave him a twin burst of hope and fear. He charged in the direction of the voice, and found three of his men crowded around the opening of one of the abandoned mines. The stone tower house was squat and crumbling, and it had been years since it had been in use.

  “The boards over the shaft are gone,” a man said as soon as Niall arrived. “It looks like someone broke through.”

  He shouldered by the men and peered down the shaft. In the low light, he saw a swath of blue far below. Aisla had been wearing a blue riding habit earlier.

  “Dear God in heaven,” he murmured, and then to the men behind him, “Someone get me a rope.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  It was still dark. Aisla had opened her eyes a few times, roused out of her whirling, disorderly sleep, but each time she saw a black wall of nothingness. She could smell the minerals on the air, taste the silt on her parched tongue. Each time, she intended to move her legs and arms, but they felt solid and unwieldy. Her skull pounded like it’d been clubbed with a hammer, bright spots obscuring her vision and making her queasy. And then her eyes would drift shut again, though for how long she didn’t know.

  How long had she been at the bottom of this shaft?

  Long enough for her throat to burn from wanting a cool drench of water, her tongue feeling swollen and dry in her mouth. Her head still ached, as did her ribs and stomach, but she felt the pain changing from acute to something dull and throbbing. She’d broken through some rotted boards, and fallen. Slipped and tumbled, really. It hadn’t been a straight drop down, more like a slide. Her backside was rubbed raw, and everything ached. Bones could undoubtedly be broken, which only pushed her faint pulse into a faster clip.

  Dougal. The blasted rotter.

  Oh, God, he’d shot Fenella. Aisla could only pray that the wound had not been fatal, but it would be a stretch to assume that she would be in any condition to go for help.

  She glanced around in the shadowy gloom of her prison, lit only from the meager light filtering down from above. Was this one of the cairngorm tunnels that hadn’t yielded any topaz? The tunnel smelled musty and unused, not even the scent of oil from lamps remaining behind. Her fear ratcheted a notch. Was there a reason it had been sealed? She couldn’t see in the darkness beyond where she’d landed, but the pitch black felt oppressive. Were there other tunnels that she could not see? Other holes that went deeper? She didn’t dare move for fear of falling further. The darkness pressed in on her, and she tried to calm the panic beating in her breast.

  Someone would come, wouldn’t they? They had to.

  When her brain faintly recalled what Fenella had remarked upon earlier, that it was a Sunday, and no miners were about, Aisla let her eyelids collapse once again. She’d be lucky if anyone discovered she was missing. Even Dougal, who would have seen her fall, had left her behind, likely to save his own skin. She hoped the dagger wound turned septic, the cowardly bastard. She heaved a sob, but her eyes stayed dry. How much longer could she last like this? Each time she broke out from the odd cushion of sleep, she felt weaker. Thirstier. It wouldn’t be long before she didn’t wake up at all.

  Aisla shook off the idea, even giving her head a small toss. It fired off a shock of blinding agony, but she didn’t care. Feeling pain meant she was alive. It was what she needed. Clarity. Stubborn will. She had to stay awake; the next time she opened her eyes again she would only be weaker.

  Have ye any idea how lovely ye are?

  She gasped a breath of silty, stifled air as Niall’s voice whispered in her ear. It wasn’t him, she knew. No one was here with her. She didn’t even know why she was thinking of him of all people—he’d told her to leave, after all. But lying here alone and near death, Niall was the only thing she could think of. His rumbling laugh. Those blue, blue Maclaren eyes. The feel of his arms about her…the strength of his body lodged deep within hers.

  She was his. She’d always been his.

  The thought that she could well die without seeing him again or without telling him the truth of what she felt filled her with grief. But she wasn’t dead yet. Aye, she would fight. She’d fight now, whatever it took.

  Dunnae give up, lass.

  It was just her own imagination, but the voice was so clear and close, and Aisla k
new it was exactly what he would have said to her right then. He’d want her to fight. To claw her way to freedom, even if it took every ounce of her fast-seeping strength.

  He hadn’t ever let anything defeat him. Not the loss of his hand, when he’d been but a boy. Not the loss of her, either. He’d come to Paris, wanting to bring her home. And when he’d returned to Scotland alone, he’d rebuilt his life.

  It must have felt like clawing his way to freedom, too.

  Aisla forced her eyes open and pushed up onto her elbows with a strained groan. She was already sweating from the effort, her heart racing, when she heard Niall’s voice again, calling her name.

  “I’m here, my love,” she whispered, scratching the words out of her throat. She couldn’t let it end this way.

  She waited for her pulse to slow before trying to sit up fully. It hurt, but at least the pain was real. Swinging her arm out to feel for purchase, she felt it connect with the nearest wall. Aisla groped around, and realized the wall curved down to her right and left, straight to what looked like another gaping hole. Her mind etched a mental picture of where she sat, on a narrow ledge in some kind of narrow well, and her panic soared.

  Was there even a way out, except for up? She would have to climb, but she doubted she had the strength. Already her breathing was labored, her lungs constricting painfully with every shallow breath. White spots converged on her vision again, making her eyelids feel heavy.

  Sleep would bring ease. Maybe if she just closed her eyes again…

  But then she heard Niall’s voice calling her name once again. Only this time it didn’t sound as close. It sounded distant, behind the rush of blood in her ears. Like it wasn’t coming from her own head at all. Her drooping eyes snapped open.

  “Aisla, can ye hear me, lass? I’m here.”

  No, that wasn’t just her imagination. It was her husband.

  She drew in a strangled breath of relief, and immediately choked on a few particles of dust and dirt clogged in her throat, straining to see upward. Shadows moved through the thin beam of light. Her palms dug into the hard earth where she sat, her eyes watering at last. Niall. He’d come for her.

  “Niall!” she tried to shout back, but her voice was still scratchy and dry and all that came out was a pathetic croak.

  He was here, or was her brain playing tricks on her? The light seemed strange. There one minute, and gone the next. Her brain felt fuzzy, uncooperative.

  “Niall!” she cried, but again, her throat felt like a dried husk.

  Just as her elbow collapsed out from underneath her, Aisla thought she saw a flicker of light. It brightened the rough, pitted wall beside her for an instant, and then started dimming. Retreating. Aisla tried to call out once more, but it was nothing but air.

  All fight gone, her heavy eyelids crashed down, and the darkness pulled her under.

  …

  Niall paced the length of the bedchamber at Maclaren, fury filling him. The thought of Dougal Buchanan was like a hot beacon. He took pleasure in itemizing the ways he would make the bastard bleed for what he’d done—for the woman he’d killed, and the one he’d left to die.

  His gaze returned to his unconscious wife lying in the middle of the bed. Aisla had not yet awakened, even though the family doctor had come and gone, every inch of her wounds checked and scrupulously cleaned. The blood on her person had been mostly superficial, from the deep scratches on her palms and elbows. Miraculously, she had not sustained any broken bones, though she’d scraped her chin and cheeks raw, and the flesh of her shoulders, back, and behind was one large angry-looking bruise.

  “When will she awaken?” he’d asked Doctor Stewart.

  “’Tis hard to say, m’laird. There’s a sizeable welt on the back of her head, and head injuries are notoriously difficult to predict. I’m afraid we will just have to wait and see.” He’d patted Niall’s shoulder, having known him since he was a boy. “She’s young and healthy, lad. Have faith.”

  But faith was in meager supply.

  Every time he looked over to her narrow frame, his gut folded in on itself. She’d come so close to dying. His men had lowered him down into the shaft, whereupon he’d retrieved her. It was by some miracle that she’d tumbled onto a protruding guide beam made of timber that had been built to stabilize the tunnel. If it hadn’t been there, she would have fallen to her death. Perhaps not even found.

  Niall could not categorize the rush of emotion that had filled him when he’d clasped her limp but alive body to his, and by the time they’d arrived back at Maclaren, his mother and Hamish had had to pry her out of his arms. He had not left her side in the past hour.

  The chamber door creaked open, and Ronan strode in, not stopping until he’d enfolded his brother into a bear hug. “How is the lass?”

  Niall choked back sudden tears. “Alive.”

  “That’s good.”

  “It’s no’ as easy as that,” he ground out. “She hasnae awakened. Nae broken bones, but she hit her head hard. She might no’ awaken. Ever.” His voice broke on the last word.

  “She will,” Ronan said, and took a deep breath as if he had more to say. Niall motioned for him to continue. “The Campbell laird is here, and ’tis best if ye heard what he has to say for yerself.”

  Niall’s jaw tightened. “Did they take Makenna?”

  “Nae.” He shook his head. “But I will find her, dunnae fash. I have trackers on her trail. Will ye come?”

  Niall spared Aisla one last lingering glance before following his brother out into the connecting sitting room where his mother sat with several of the women of Maclaren and Tarbendale in tearful vigil. He sucked in a ragged breath and met the duchess’s red-rimmed eyes. She had always loved Aisla from the moment she’d met her at Sorcha and Brandt’s wedding, and she’d been devastated to learn of the estrangement. On more than one occasion, she’d admonished Niall to go after his wife and bring her home, her disappointment obvious when he didn’t. He’d failed her, too.

  “Will ye sit with her?” he rasped in a hoarse voice. “So she will see a friendly face if she awakens?”

  “Of course, my darling.”

  He didn’t say any more, but traced Ronan’s steps to the hall where the Campbell laird was waiting. To Niall’s surprise, the older man was alone and without weapons. Ronan’s soldiers, however, stood guard at the entrance.

  “Laird Campbell,” Niall greeted the man, clasping his proffered hand.

  “Please, call me Gregor. How fares yer lady?” the laird asked.

  “Alive.” He gave the same answer he’d given Ronan, though with much less emotion. Even in his state, showing any weakness to another clan leader wasn’t wise, especially one as wily as Gregor Campbell. “Tell me why yer men took my sister.”

  Gregor’s face went ruddy with outrage. “We didnae take Lady Makenna.”

  “And the attacks on my mines?” Niall asked, watching him closely. “We found a strip of Campbell tartan after a deliberate collapse. Lives were lost.”

  “None of my clan would do such a thing, I swear it to ye. I want an alliance with Maclaren, but no’ one built on deceit and treachery. Ye have my word.”

  “Then tell me about Buchanan.”

  He met Niall’s eyes, his shrewd brown gaze hiding nothing. “Dougal Buchanan approached me to court my daughter a year ago. She begged me to consider it. Little did I ken that he’d been wooing her in secret for months before coming to my doorstep. But the Buchanan clan is well known, and he claimed his father was interested in an alliance with Clan Campbell.” Gregor blew out a breath. “He also claimed to have childhood ties to Lady Aisla. He said that he could mend the rift between the Maclarens and the Campbells by getting the lady to champion a match with my eldest.”

  Niall’s gaze slid to his older brother whose lips had hardened into a flat line at the mention of marriage. It was nearly comical how opposed he was to the idea. In normal circumstances, Niall would have ribbed him ruthlessly. “And ye believed him when Ronan hi
mself had told ye nae?”

  “Aye. He was very convincing. And my Rose was taken with his charm. I had nothing to lose. Either way, I would gain an alliance, with the Buchanans or the Maclarens.”

  Niall shook his head slowly. “But that’s no’ what he planned. He killed one of my clan, a woman. Shot her in the stomach. Before she died, she said that he had baited her for information about Tarbendale, my sister, and my wife. He was behind the accidents on my lands, and it’s clear now that he planted Campbell colors so it would look like ye were behind it. He wants to cause a feud, and I suspect he’s using my sister to do it.”

  “Laird Maclaren,” a breathless voice called as one of Ronan’s men, a wiry soldier named Auley, raced into the hall. “We’ve tracked them to the south border of Maclaren lands where they’ve made camp for the night in a ravine.”

  Ronan stood so quickly his chair flew back. “And my sister?”

  “Alive and kicking.”

  The words brought heavy sighs of relief from both of them. Makenna would not have gone quietly. “Gather the rest of the men. We leave immediately.” Ronan glanced at Niall with a sympathetic look. “If ye wish to stay, I’ll understand.”

  Niall scowled. “The only man laying a finger on Dougal Buchanan is me.”

  It didn’t take long to assemble the small but fierce company that included the Campbell laird, who had a few questions of his own for Dougal Buchanan, Ronan and a handful of his strongest men, Hamish, Julien, and Niall. He wasn’t too thrilled about the presence of the Frenchman, but the man had proven himself earlier and seemed oddly adamant about finding Makenna.

  Under cover of the quickly falling darkness, they followed Auley’s trail to where he’d left Buchanan’s men, and they surrounded the small encampment where a small fire glowed. Niall felt ice enter his veins and a strange sense of calm at the sight of Makenna, tied and gagged next to a tree. Ignoring Ronan’s cautionary look, he unsheathed his claymore and walked as boldly as he pleased into the center of the camp. The look of surprise on Dougal’s face as he leaped to his feet was almost worth it.