Highlander Unchained

by Monica McCarty

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Also by Monica McCarty

  Excerpt for Highlander Unchained

  Copyright

  To Penny and Tracy, for one long afternoon of plotting. And as always to Nyree and Jami, for your encouragement, enthusiasm, and unerring brilliance.

  Acknowledgments

  Publishing a trilogy in back-to-back months is an enormous undertaking and requires a special effort on the part of everyone involved in editorial and production. My heartfelt thanks to all, especially my fabulous editor Charlotte Herscher, Signe Pike, and the copyeditor who worked on all three books.

  A special thanks to Barbara Freethy, Candice Hern, and Carol Culver who thought the story of Lady’s Rock would make a great prologue. And also to my Golden Heart finalist buddy Kalen Hughes for her invaluable costuming resources.

  None of this would have been possible without my wonderful agents Kelly Harms and Andrea Cirillo, my husband Dave, and my understanding (most of the time) kids Reid and Maxine. Thank you!

  Prologue

  “I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief,

  I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief:

  On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem;

  Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!”

  —From “Glenara,” by Thomas Campbell, 1777–1844

  The Firth of Lorn, a Rock Between Lismore and Mull

  On a cold winter’s day nearly a hundred years gone past, a curse was born….

  Lady Elizabeth Campbell Maclean wouldn’t beg. Not for his love, and not for her life. But she was scared. More scared than she’d ever been in her preciously short life. Six and twenty was far too young to die.

  With each minute that passed, Elizabeth had to fight to hold to her vow. But her pleas she knew if uttered would go unheeded. And that more than anything prevented her from dropping to her knees and begging for mercy.

  He had none.

  He wouldn’t even look at her. Lachlan Cattanach Maclean, Chief of Maclean. Her husband. The man she’d been fool enough to love. Her eyes fastened on the familiar handsome features. The rough, battle-scarred face, the piercing blue eyes, the wide mouth and hard implacable jaw. Her chest squeezed. Even now, in the face of this ultimate betrayal, she could not deny his appeal.

  Lachlan Cattanach was a fortress of masculine strength. A powerful Highland chief. And an unwavering one. The very qualities she’d once admired—his decisiveness, his steely determination, his single-minded purpose—had now conspired against her. He’d made his decision.

  She was as good as dead.

  One of her husband’s luchd-taighe guardsmen took her hand and helped her from the birlinn with a courtesy that belied his murderous task. She would have laughed at the absurdity if she didn’t fear that laughter would send her spiraling into a descent of hysteria from which she might never return.

  An involuntary shudder coursed through her as her foot touched the hard, unyielding rock. The impulse to retreat back to the safety of the boat was strong, but she knew they would only drag her back. Resolve forced one foot after the other. Her heart might be in tatters, but she would not give him the satisfaction of doing the same to her pride.

  Taking a deep breath, she allowed the guardsman to bind her wrists. With an uneasy glance that hinted of an apology, the clansman tied the other end of the rope to the buoy intended to alert passing boats to the danger posed by the rock. Mooring her to the rock was an unnecessary precaution. She couldn’t swim. There was nowhere for her to go…but under.

  Fear slid down her spine. Her senses seemed unnaturally heightened, and she felt everything with a painful raw intensity, from the tiniest droplet of icy sea spray to each prickly fiber of rope that bit into the tender skin at her wrists. But most of all, she felt the agony of her breaking heart.

  Dear God, how could he do this to her? How could he leave her to die like this? To be buried alive by the merciless rising tide? Her heart clamored in her chest as she struggled with the horrible truth.

  Her husband didn’t want her anymore. He’d already found another to take her place. But he would not risk angering the powerful Campbell clan—including her brother, the Earl of Argyll—by putting her aside. So he’d devised his barbarous plan.

  She wished he would take a blade across her neck. But he wanted it to look like an accident. A drowned wife was much easier to explain than one whose throat had been cut.

  A sharp gust of wind blew across the sea, freezing everything in its powerful wake. She had to fight to keep her footing on the slippery rock. Her teeth chattered; with only a thin cloak for added warmth, she was cold—painfully so. But it would only get worse. Much worse.

  They were almost done. The men climbed back into the boat and started to pull off. Tears ran down her cheeks as she stared at the retreating faces of the men who’d once called her their lady, and then at the man she’d loved.

  The man who’d forsaken her. Though she’d raised his two sons as her own, her doom had been in providing none of her own.

  They were almost out of view. The thought of being left all alone finally broke her. She couldn’t bear it any longer. “Please, don’t—”

  At the sound of her cry, his eyes shifted toward hers. He met her plea with stony indifference.

  —leave me, she finished silently.

  In the flat of his eyes, all hope was extinguished. He had no mercy. It was over.

  But she wouldn’t let him go so easily. By all that was holy, he would pay for the cursed deed done this day.

  Anger and terror forged a powerful weapon. Her voice shook as she called down her promise of vengeance. “A curse upon you, Lachlan Cattanach, and all who shall come after you. As you have murdered me for barrenness, so your lands shall suffer in kind. As you have tied me to this rock, so too will the fortunes of your clan be tied to a Campbell. No Maclean chief will prosper without a Campbell by his side. This will be your legacy until the wrong you’ve done is atoned and a Maclean life is given in love for a Campbell.”

  His eyes flickered. She felt a rush of satisfaction, seeing the spark of alarm.

  The power of her curse reverberated with an unmistakable ring of prophecy, conjured not from sorcery, but from injustice. A power that not even her husband could deny.

  The misty wind pelted Elizabeth like icy nails as the water covered her feet…her ankles…and then her knees. She clutched the rope that was now her lifeline as the surge of each wave tried to knock her off the quickly sinking rock.

  It was pitch black, but she could feel the water moving closer. Rising. Inch by torturous inch.

  How long would it take? She prayed it would be quick. Every nerve ending in her body poised for what would happen next. She couldn’t breathe. It was as if she were drowning already.

  Her gaze lifted to the moonless sky. Oh God, please help me!

  In cruel heavenly response, the next wave knocked her down, pulling her under. Drenched, she wiped the sodden tangle of hair from her eyes as she struggled to keep her hold on the rock.
She tried to stand, but another wave came and pushed her down again.

  She slumped forward, losing the strength to fight. Please, just let it be done.

  She started to close her eyes, intending to allow the water to take her. Her eyes flickered and then snapped open again.

  What was that? A light, she realized. The soft glow of a torch appeared out of the darkness. She held her breath and listened, hearing the unmistakable lap of water off an oar.

  Her heart soared.

  It’s him. He’s come back. He still loves me. I knew he couldn’t do it.

  Using the rope for leverage, Elizabeth found the strength to pull herself to her knees and finally to her feet.

  “Here!” she yelled. “Husband, help me, I’m here!”

  The sounds of the oars quickened as the boat headed toward her. The excited exchange of voices grew louder and louder until the small fishing boat—

  Realization struck, followed hard by crushing disappointment. It wasn’t him. Her husband had not returned.

  As her eyes scanned the shocked occupants of the boat, she realized her life had been spared by fishermen.

  “My lady?” one man asked with surprise.

  Not just any fishermen, she realized. Her fishermen. Campbells.

  She laughed then, giving in to the hysteria that had threatened in the darkness. With tears streaming down her face, she laughed until she thought her sides would tear apart. The irony was bittersweet. A life had indeed been taken tonight, but it would not be hers.

  Elizabeth Campbell—for she would never call herself a Maclean again—did not drown that day. She lived long enough to be returned to her brother’s house and to see the surprise on her husband’s face when he arrived at Inveraray Castle to break the news of her “unfortunate death” to her family. But there was precious little satisfaction in defying death on Lady’s Rock—as the place of her attempted murder became known. For it found her not long after. She died not from the rising tide, but of a broken heart. With the amulet that had been ripped from her husband’s neck as her brother took his life clutched in her hand.

  But Lady Elizabeth Campbell’s legacy lived on, passed down with the amulet from generation to generation.

  Chapter 1

  Near Falkirk, Scotland, Spring 1607

  “Second thoughts?”

  Flora MacLeod turned her gaze from the window to peer into the darkness at the man seated opposite her. She never had second thoughts, which—given that it was too late to change her mind—she supposed was a good thing. No, once she made a decision, she stuck with it. A small army couldn’t turn her from her course. In the matter of her marriage, there was no exception.

  “Don’t be silly,” she replied. “I couldn’t be happier.”

  It was clear, however, that her soon-to-be husband, William, Lord Murray, son of the newly created Earl of Tullibardine, didn’t believe her. “Happy? I haven’t seen you so subdued in months.” He paused. “It’s not too late to turn back, you know.”

  But it was. She’d made her decision the moment she’d snuck out of Holyrood House and scrambled into the waiting carriage.

  “I don’t want to turn back.” But the vehemence she’d intended was lost when her voice vibrated with the clattering carriage. A carriage that was fighting to stay upright on the uneven road. She grabbed the seat as best she could when they hit another bump and tried not to crash sidelong into the glossy, wood-paneled walls. A battle she was sure to lose before this day was done. The road leading from Edinburgh would only get worse as they neared the parish of Falkirk.

  “Maybe we would have been better off riding after all?” she ventured. It was at Lord Murray’s insistence that they’d taken the carriage—luxurious, but impractical on the road to the Highland divide.

  “No need to worry on that account. We’re perfectly safe. My coachman is an excellent driver.” William tried to hand her back her purse, which had slid off the bench beside her, but it slipped through her fingers, landing on the floor again. He laughed. “I never thought I’d see the day that Flora MacLeod was nervous.”

  Her mouth twitched, caught. “Perhaps I am a bit anxious. I’ve never done this before, you know.”

  He gave her hand a friendly pat. “I should hope not. But no need to worry, everything is all arranged. It shouldn’t be much longer now.”

  She sat back against the seat and tried to relax. If all went according to plan, in a few hours she would be Lady Murray. Lord Murray—William, she reminded herself—had found a minister willing to preside over the clandestine marriage ceremony without proclaiming the banns. Every man had his price, and for the minister of the St. Mary’s Kirk it happened to be a cask of fine claret and five hundred merks. More than enough to soften the blow of any fine that might be levied against him for performing the irregular marriage ceremony.

  An irregular marriage was Flora’s only option. She would not take a chance that one of her brothers, or her powerful cousin, would hear of her plans beforehand and try to stop her.

  If she had to marry, she thought grimly, it would be a man of her choosing.

  She cursed the fates for putting her in this position. She had no desire to marry at all. But it was her great misfortune to be half-sister to not one, but two powerful Highland chiefs. And if that weren’t enough, her cousin was the most influential Highlander in Scotland. But this “marriage prize,” as she was infuriatingly referred to, would rather avoid the state altogether. Marriage brought nothing but unhappiness.

  Her mother’s misery was all too fresh in Flora’s mind.

  But about the only thing worse than being married was being forced to marry. So rather than risk the alternative, she’d decided to take the matter of her husband in her own hands. In this case by riding at breakneck speed through the countryside to find a minister of questionable repute in an out-of-the-way parish where she would not be recognized.

  She gazed sidelong at the man seated opposite her. Even in the darkness of the carriage she could see the silvery sheen of blond hair cascading across a face that could only be described as sublime. But though he was undeniably pleasing to the eye, it was not his looks that had made her decide to accept his proposal. Nor was it his wit and intelligence, of which he also had a superfluity. It was because William had wealth, power, and position of his own—he did not need hers. She had no need to question his motives beyond what he’d stated: Their union was of friends who would seek their mutual advantage by their union.

  As an added boon, he didn’t seem particularly concerned with Highland politics. And of that subject, she’d heard her fill. The lessons of the mother had indeed been well learned by the daughter. She would sooner marry a toad than a Highlander.

  And Lord Murray was infinitely more appealing than a toad.

  “And what of you, William. Any second thoughts?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “Don’t you worry what will happen when they discover—”

  “Is that what this is about?” He took her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “You wrote the letters, did you not?”

  She nodded. One good thing about having so many relatives was that there were many places she could claim to be with none the wiser. Fortunately, the one person who might question her whereabouts—her cousin Elizabeth Campbell—was on Skye attending to the birth of Flora’s latest nephew. The second son in as many years of her half-brother Alex and his wife, Meg—a wife Flora had never met. Her mother had been too ill to travel the year they’d come to court.

  “Then there is no reason to assume they will find out,” William said confidently. “And thanks to your disguise, no one will have noticed you leaving the palace.”

  Noting the direction of his gaze, she touched the white linen cap she wore on her head. She grinned, amused by the image she must present. Flora was well-known for her propensity to find mischief at Holyrood House. But sneaking out of the palace at midnight to elope with one of the most powerful young men at court, dressed as a m
aidservant, was sure to top all that had come before. She’d outdone herself. And coming from the girl who’d once donned breeches and climbed halfway down the parapet beneath her balcony at Castle Campbell before her cousin Jamie caught her, that was saying something.

  Uncomfortably aware of the scratchy woolen dress she was wearing that poked right through the fine linen of her shift, she asked, “You were able to pick up my gown?”

  “As charmingly rustic as you look, my dear, I hardly think the future Countess of Tullibardine should be married dressed as a servant. Your gown is in the trunk, though procuring it from your dressmaker did take some explaining.”

  Flora chuckled, thinking of the dour Frenchwoman. The court’s preference for French fashion was the one lasting legacy from the reign of Mary Queen of Scots—other than her son, King James, of course. “It seemed the easiest thing to do. I could hardly sneak it out with me. Madame de Ville already thinks me horribly indecorous. I doubt anything you could say would change her opinion.” Indecorous was probably an understatement. Flora had a reputation at court for being more than a touch unruly.

  Fortunately, William had never seemed to be bothered by her reputation. If anything, her penchant for finding trouble seemed to amuse him. After news of tonight’s events spread, he was going to need that sense of humor. Their elopement was sure to cause a scandal far greater than anything she’d ever managed before.

  She bit her lip. He was taking a risk. Not much older than her four and twenty years, he’d already made a name for himself in King James’s northern court. He wielded considerable influence among the privy councillors—the men left in charge while the king wooed his recalcitrant English subjects at Whitehall. Eloping with the Earl of Argyll’s cousin, and the half-sister of Rory MacLeod and Hector Maclean, was a potentially dangerous move for a young man of ambition.

  One that might be excused by strength of affection, but Flora did not delude herself in that regard. Although attentive, her soon-to-be husband could hardly be described as besotted. As her feelings were similarly disengaged, it was actually another element in his favor. There would be no pretense on either side. They were friends, nothing more. It was far more than could be said of most marriages.