by Lecia Cornwall, Sabrina York, Anna Harrington, May McGoldrick
She gave a grunt of indignation and tried to pull free again, but he held both her hands in just one of his easily. Her fingers were cold, and she was shaking with chill or fear, or from the exertions of fighting a man twice her size. She stopped struggling so suddenly, he looked at her in surprise.
“I can help,” she said.
The look in her eyes was so earnest he blinked. “Ye want to help? Then ye shouldn’t have come to Culmore.” He tied a loop of cloth around her wrists, made it tight. “Ye and your kin should have stayed on your own side of the border.” He got off of her and hauled her to her feet. “The Sutherlands have done enough harm for one night.”
“I’m not a Sutherland. My name is Cait MacLeod. My father is Donal MacLeod, Laird of the MacLeods of Glen Iolair,” she said, panting.
Alex scanned her battered face in the firelight, noted the tangled mass of russet curls that surrounded her head like a gull’s nest, the stained and ragged gown she wore. “The Fearsome MacLeod, one of the most powerful men in Scotland, is your father?” he asked in disbelief.
Her scratched and muddy chin rose. “Aye. Take me to him, he’ll tell you.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “Glen Iolair is seventy miles away.” He looked at her bedraggled state again. “And why would the daughter of the Fearsome MacLeod be here on Munro territory in the middle of the night, wrapped in a Sutherland plaid?”
“I was not wrapped in it—” she began. “I-I found it, and—” A cry of dismay went up as the roof of the second cott collapsed and the hungry flames leaped in triumph.
Anger coursed through Alex. Two cotts gone, and those responsible had slipped away into the night, leaving only this woman, this liar.
He hauled her to her feet, pushed her back against the tree, and held her in place with his body, bringing his face close to hers. He’d force the truth from her . . .
But he felt the softness of her body under his, felt her heart pounding in her breast, saw the fear in her fire-lit eyes. He could smell the feminine fragrance of her hair, something flowery and sweet, and feel her breath on his face. She was trembling again, had no cloak or plaid of her own, since she’d given hers to the child. Doubt crept in, and his belly did a slow roll. “Alex!” someone called him, needing his help. There wasn’t time now.
He raised her bound hands above her head, looped the strip of cloth over a branch, and tied it.
She didn’t try to escape—not that she could have. She stared at him, and at the devastation in the clearing. “Please let me—”
“Stay there,” he commanded, cutting through her plea as he turned away.
He grabbed a bucket and spent the rest of the night throwing water on the trampled barley crop behind Jock Munro’s cott. But in the end, it was no use.
* * *
Cait’s arms ached then grew numb as she watched the Laird of the Munros work to save what he could. His men looked to him, and he did every job they did, and offered praise and encouragement. This was how a laird should behave, how her own father led his people. He took responsibility, felt their sorrows. She read the deep worry and the anger on the Munro’s face. He was a good man.
Still, he blamed her for this, thought she’d taken part in creating such misery, such horror. She watched as the crying and bewildered children were loaded onto a cart, wrapped in blankets, and taken away. The men wanted someone to blame, someone to punish. She read the hatred, the fury in their eyes when they looked across the clearing at her, bound and helpless. Fear warred with outrage in her breast. Her cousin had done this, her almost betrothed . . .
It was nearly dawn when the fires were tamed to a petulant smolder, and everyone was soot-stained and exhausted. She wondered if Alex Munro would forget she was there, but he turned and gazed at her for a long moment with speculation in his gray eyes, his mouth firm and angry. He unsheathed his dirk and stalked across the clearing toward her with the weapon in his fist. Her heart kicked, and fear made her belly contract against her spine. She was helpless . . . Still, she held his gaze fiercely. He didn’t say a word as he raised the weapon and cut the cloth that bound her hands. Her arms fell, bloodless, numb, and useless. She was cold, but she clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. Somewhere he’d found another plaid, wore it over his long shirt. It was stained and singed, and he looked as ragged as his men. He took her elbow and led her forward, and she stumbled.
With a grunt of impatience, he picked her up, as if she weighed no more than the wee girl with bird’s bones, and carried her. His body was warm against hers, but she held herself stiffly and resisted the urge to melt against his chest and draw heat from him. Men were packing the few items they’d managed to salvage onto the garrons. She looked at the devastation as he walked past it and felt deep sorrow. An iron kettle lay in the dirt near a charred roof timber.
“Wait—the kettle,” she said, squirming in his arms.
He frowned at her, the black soot making him sinister, even as it made the gray of his eyes stand out. “What of it?”
“The woman who owned it will want it. If she can have only that, she’ll want it.” He stared at her, and she held his eyes with hers. At last he nodded.
“Take the kettle to Aggie,” he said to one of his men.
He mounted his garron and settled her on his lap and between his arms. Cait sat up straight, tried to let as little of her body touch his as possible. She’d rather shiver . . . But when she did, he wrapped a fold of his plaid around her. She felt his thighs flex under her bottom as he guided the horse with his knees. His arms nudged the undersides of her breasts, and she clutched the horse’s mane in her bound hands.
“Where are you taking me?” she said as a stormy dawn rose, cranky and gray. The rain had been no more than a brief shower, too little and far too late.
“To Culmore Castle,” he said briefly.
Culmore. She looked at the river that rushed through a gorge beside the track, at the hills and mountains beyond. Of course, even if she’d known these landmarks well, she could not find her own way home. It was seventy miles to Glen Iolair, he’d said . . . She was forced to depend on these strangers to help her. Or harm her. She stared at the torn scrap of her skirt, now bound around her wrists. The man surrounding her thought she was his enemy, that she’d steal a wee child . . .
“What do you intend to do with me?” she asked.
“You’re my prisoner. I’ll send word to the Sutherlands that I have ye and arrange a trade. You in exchange for the return of my cattle, and a fine fat ransom.”
She felt a moment’s fear rush through her. “If it’s a ransom you want, ask my father, not Baird. He—he won’t pay it.”
He laughed. “Are ye so sure? Are ye his wife, or his—” he paused, shifted under her. Cait felt her face redden.
“I’m his cousin!” she snapped.
He didn’t reply, and she twisted, trying to see his face, to judge whether or not he believed her. She met his disbelieving smirk, and his eyes, gray as the sea in winter, scanned her face and roamed over her with male interest. His eyes stopped on her mouth.
“Your cousin,” he drawled, making his disbelief clear.
She gasped and turned to face forward, her back as straight and rigid as she could make it. She felt her cheeks fill with hot blood, and the bruises and scratches throbbed. She was thirsty and hungry, and she wanted a bath.
“Baird won’t pay,” she said again. Knowing that she was a captive would only make it worse for the Munros, and give Baird an excuse to ride against these folk with all his men. No one would fault him, not even her father, for doing what he had to do to rescue his captive cousin. “Please take me to my father. I promise he’ll pay—if I’m unharmed.”
“Ye’ve a lot of demands for a captive,” he said, his tone even enough. The sun had risen through the trees at last, and it made her squint. The track climbed a hill, and when the garron reached the top, she saw what must be Culmore Castle—a square, gray, stone keep standing next to a wi
de, shallow place in the river and surrounded by green and craggy hills. It was beautiful. She felt the pride in the man behind her, the way his chest swelled and his chin rose as they paused to look at the keep.
The track wound through a small cluster of cotts in the shadow of the keep’s walls. Folk peered out of doors and windows as they passed, and asked for news. The soot-stained men shook their heads and glanced balefully at Cait. She felt the eyes of strangers on her, hard and cold and angry. Hatred hit her like a wall.
They do not even know me . . .
She didn’t realize she’d pressed herself back against the safety of Alex Munro’s broad chest until he spoke. “Not so bold now, are ye?” he said softly. His lips were right against her ear. “See the red-haired woman by the last cott? Your kin burned her out of her home—that’s her sister’s cott, and there’s scarcely room for Annag and her three bairns.” His voice turned hard. “I suppose your kin might say it’s fortunate that her husband and her oldest lad died last fall in one of the first Sutherland raids, or there’d be no room at all.”
Cait met Annag’s hard eyes as she passed. The Munro woman spit into the street.
“And the old woman there—that’s Aggie. Her granddaughter was the wee child ye tried to take. Her daughter died, left Aggie with four bairns to care for. It’s been hard for them since the Sutherlands stole her milk cow and her chickens, and slaughtered her sheep, but she was determined to stay in her cott—until last night. It was her kettle that ye saved, though she’s no fire to hang it over.”
Cait swallowed the bitterness in her throat. She silently cursed her cousin. Alex rode through the gate and up to the keep and dismounted. He lifted her off the horse, and she stood on stiff legs, looking back at the folk glaring at her. I didn’t do this, she wanted to say. I am a MacLeod and the Sutherlands aren’t my kin. But they were.
And she was the enemy.
Chapter Three
Flora came hurrying down the stairs of the keep. “Alex! What happened? Peigi’s inside her new babe, and Aggie’s wee ones are . . .”
She caught sight of the young woman standing beside Alex’s garron. “Who—”
“She says her name is Cait MacLeod,” Alex told his aunt. “She was with the raiders.”
Flora put her hand to her mouth. “Her face—did ye do that to her?”
Alex frowned at her. “Nay, of course not.”
He looked at the young woman now it was fully light. Her white face stood out amid a cloud of tangled copper curls. The bruises and scratches looked all the worse for her pallor, and there were dark rings of exhaustion under her eyes. She looked like she might snap in two from the tension in her slim body. Still, she held herself with pride, with her back straight, though her dress was stained and torn, and her hands were bound. She was doing her best to hide her fear, and he knew she was afraid—he could see the strain in her jaw, the pounding of the pulse at the base of her throat. She was swaying on her feet, and he fought the urge to put his hand on her waist to steady her. She was his enemy . . .
Hector came forward and grabbed her arm roughly and yanked her toward him. Cait MacLeod stumbled, and her eyes widened. Hazel eyes, Alex noted, soft and wide, green, gold, and bronze. “I’ll take her to the dungeon,” Hector said.
The lass blanched, but she said nothing. She lowered her gaze quickly, but not before Alex saw the fear in her eyes. He hesitated. He remembered her courage, the way she’d fought him. The dungeons were no place for a lass . . .
Hector scowled at his hesitation. “Her kin took six cows last night, Alex, and burned out two families. She tried to steal a child.” Hector grabbed her chin, lifted her face roughly, oblivious to the bruises, and stared at her. To her credit, she didn’t wince. She held Hector’s ferocious glare evenly. “She’s probably bonny when she’s cleaned up and not dressed in rags. Think of the ransom she’ll bring. Maybe Baird himself owns this one . . .”
She twisted her head out of his grip. “No one owns me!”
Hector laughed. “I see she has some spirit to her.”
“Is she so important, worth so much to the Sutherlands?” Flora asked her nephew.
“She says not,” Alex replied, folding his arms over his chest, resisting the urge to pull her away from Hector. “She says she’s a MacLeod.”
“Are ye?” Flora asked the girl.
She nodded. “My name is Cait MacLeod. My father is Laird of Glen Iolair. He’ll pay any ransom. He’ll help—”
Hector jerked her arm, silencing her. “Liar!”
“She also says Baird Sutherland is her cousin,” Alex told his aunt.
Cait MacLeod blushed a deep scarlet and dropped her gaze. To Alex, it suggested there was something she was not telling them . . . Perhaps she did belong to Baird Sutherland after all, was his woman, his leman. Alex hated the Sutherland laird even more. He looked at Hector’s fist, clamped around her arm. She’d have yet another bruise.
Flora spoke first. “Hector, let her go. Her hands are bound, and she’s surrounded by a dozen Munro warriors. She can’t escape.” She turned to her nephew. “Alex, the MacLeods are not our enemies. Whoever she is, ye can’t put a lass in the dungeons.”
Alex frowned at his aunt. “What do ye suggest? Should I offer her the best chamber, welcome her as a guest?”
Flora looked at the bedraggled lass. “That might be difficult. The, um, lasses we spoke about will begin arriving this morning. We’ve prepared all the guest chambers for them.”
Alex felt a headache starting, and he rubbed his temple.
“Alex, ye promised me ye’d follow the seanchas,” Flora murmured.
He sighed and nodded. “Aye.”
With that, Flora came forward and put her hand under Cait MacLeod’s elbow. “Now, I’ll take charge of your prisoner for the moment. She doesn’t belong among your men, or in the dungeon. I’m sure Janet can find somewhere suitable for her to sleep.”
“There’s to be a guard on her door at all times,” Alex said. He looked around at his men, every one of them exhausted and dirty. Assigning them to guard duty now would be harsh.
“Perhaps Coll can guard her,” Flora suggested.
Coll Munro had seen more than seventy winters, and most of those had been long and hard. He’d once been Alex’s grandfather’s captain of the guards, and the clan champion. He’d been a mighty oak tree of a man, clear-eyed and dangerous. Now he had only one eye left, and he was nearly toothless . . . But his men needed rest and food. There was nothing Alex could do but nod.
Flora wasted no time in leading the lass up the steps and into the keep as everyone watched. Cait MacLeod moved with an innate and fascinating grace, despite her torn gown and bedraggled condition. Alex couldn’t tear his eyes away.
“Ye’d do well to remember that she’s our enemy Alex, for all she’s bonny,” Hector said beside him. “Hold her for ransom. There’s no need to be soft with her.”
But there was. She was still a woman, and as such, she was now under his protection as much as she was his prisoner. He had no idea how she’d come to be hurt and bedraggled, or if she was telling him the truth, but there was something unusual about Cait MacLeod, something intriguing.
He heard a cry behind him before he could reply to Hector. Aggie rushed forward and took her kettle off the garron’s pack. “My kettle!” Alex was surprised by the joy in her face, the relief. She gave him a broad smile even as her tears began to fall, and she grabbed his hand and kissed it.
“Thank ye, Laird. This kettle was my mother’s. Having it back means I haven’t lost everything after all. I have one thing left, and I can start again. The Sutherlands haven’t won yet.”
He watched her hurry away, hugging her kettle, and wondered how Cait McLeod knew such a small kindness would mean so much.
Chapter Four
“I’m Flora Munro, Alex’s aunt,” Flora said as they entered the hall. Cait looked around at the ancient room, noted the weapons and banners on the walls, the beamed roof and narrow w
indows that let in scant light. A round hearth filled the center of the room, and the far end of the hall was hung with makeshift curtains. “Forgive the state of things,” Flora said. “We’ve several families living in the hall, for they’ve nowhere else to go. Alex intends to build new cotts to replace—well, you know all that, don’t ye?”
Cait blushed but said nothing. She saw the wee girl she’d found in the wood asleep on a pallet by the fire. Cait was aware of the baleful eyes of a dozen Munros upon her. Her stomach felt tight. Flora looked around as well. “I suppose it might be best if you come to my chamber for the time being.”
Flora summoned a servant. “Ask Janet to bring up a meal and some hot water.”
Cait followed her up the stairs, felt folk watching her go, blaming her, hating her. Of Alex Munro, there was no sign. She squared her aching shoulders and moved with quiet dignity. She hoped she could help to right the terrible wrongs Baird had committed. Not because she was to blame, but because it was the right thing to do. The MacLeod thing.
* * *
The servants regarded Cait curiously as they filled the tub in Flora’s chamber with steaming water, and Flora shooed them out and pulled a screen around the wooden tub to offer Cait a measure of privacy. The warm water felt heavenly, and the soap was scented with roses. Before long Cait’s eyelids drooped, and she laid her head back and dozed.
A knock at the door roused her, but she stayed very still, fearing it was Alex.
Flora rose from the tapestry frame by the window and opened the door for a servant loaded down with a tray and some clothing over her arm. “Come in Janet.”
The woman was red-faced and frowning as she looked pointedly round the screen at Cait, who kept still, peering through the screen of her lashes, pretending to be asleep