Highland Barbarian (Highlander Series)

by Langan, Ruth Ryan

  “How did it come to pass that one Highland warrior could mean so much to me? When did I stop thinking only of myself and begin thinking of the two of us as one? When did I begin to put his well-being ahead of my own?”

  The horse whinnied in response. Despite her discomfort she smiled.

  “It had happened long before we came together in love,” she whispered.

  During her earliest days of captivity she had discovered that the man who held her hostage was not the man she had thought him to be. The cruel barbarian was a myth, created by legend and the acts of those who would besmirch his good name.

  Rain pelted her face and ran in little rivers from her eyelashes to her cheeks. She blinked as she thought of her own father, known throughout Scotland as a fair and honorable man. That thought brought a sense of pride to her. What if someone had blamed him for the acts of another, sullying his good name? Her hand tightened on the cold leather reins. She would search to the ends of the earth for those responsible, and she would give her life if necessary to clear her father’s name.

  Though she detested war, she realized that Brice had that same right. Gareth MacKenzie must be made to recant his lies and restore Brice’s good name to him. Even if it took a war to force his hand. The thought caused her to tremble.

  As horse and rider plunged deeper into the forest the tingling began anew. Someone—or something—was watching her. Although the trail was treacherous she dug in her heels and urged her horse into a trot. As the rain-shrouded branches closed in around her she pushed away all thoughts of fear. She was being foolish. How could anyone find her in this dense forest?

  ~ ~ ~

  Like any true warrior, Brice often had to face down his fears. He had always known that he had as much chance to survive as his opponent.

  This time it was different. It was not his life hanging in the balance, but Meredith’s. The thought left him terrified.

  His first moments of panic had been replaced with rage. Wild, seething rage. He tore through the castle shouting orders at Angus and the others, sending all the inhabitants of Kinloch House and the surrounding forest into a frenzy of activity.

  Within an hour the men had prepared their battle gear and were saddling their horses in the courtyard. Mistress Snow and the servants had prepared enough food to allow them to ride without stopping for several days. After that the men should be safely back in the Highlands. If not, they would be forced to hunt for their food.

  “What is our plan?” Angus worked feverishly beside Brice, saddling his mount.

  “I have none.”

  “No plan?” Angus turned to study his friend. Always Brice Campbell had been the cool warrior, prepared for any event during battle. But this was a new Brice, a Brice Campbell paralyzed by love.

  Brice’s first wild, frenzied feelings were now carefully banked. But beneath the icy calm Angus sensed a slow, simmering rage. A rage that still clouded his thinking. The man was spoiling for a fight. Woe to any enemy who crossed his path this day.

  “We ride until we find Meredith.” Brice pulled himself into the saddle and glanced around at the dozen or so men who followed suit. They were skilled warriors who had ridden at his side in countless battles. He could count on them to come through for him. And this time, more than ever, he would depend on them. “We will ride on to the Borders and rescue Meredith MacAlpin’s sisters from MacKenzie’s clutches. And we will bring them all back to the Highlands, where they will remain safe.”

  “That sounds simple enough,” Alston shouted, fighting to subdue a headstrong mount.

  “Aye.”

  As Brice led the way into the forest, his mind was awhirl. So simple that it must be flawed. But at the moment he could think of nothing except Meredith. Sweet, beautiful Meredith. Would that God keep his woman safe until she was back in his arms.

  ~ ~ ~

  Hunched inside the warm woolen cloak, Meredith searched for a familiar landmark. Though she possessed a keen sense of direction, she had ridden this trail only once. And then much of it had been traversed in the dark.

  For hours the feeling persisted that she was being followed. But though Meredith stopped often and scanned the surrounding woods, she saw no trace of another human. Had not her mother often accused her of having a vivid imagination? Though at the time it had seemed a blessing, she now realized it was a curse. She was conjuring up dangers where there were none.

  From a nearby wood a bird called, its shrill tone piercing the silence. Her hand flew to the dirk at her waist and she peered about, prepared to do battle. When the bird lifted off from the tree and soared heavenward, Meredith wiped her damp hands on her breeches and felt a wild rush of relief.

  Moments later she heard the rustle of leaves as a deer, frightened by her appearance, darted behind a boulder. For long minutes her heart pounded in her chest. She swallowed and, calling herself a timid fool, turned her mount toward a ridge of rock to the east.

  The rain had finally stopped, although the ground remained moist and spongy. Meredith allowed her mount to pick its path along the trail, trusting the animal’s instincts more than her own. Several times the horse stumbled, but each time managed to regain its footing within seconds.

  At last they reached the top of the ridge. Stiff from her long hours in the saddle, Meredith slid to the ground. Grasping the animal’s reins she led the stallion to the edge of the ravine and peered below. At the sight, she caught her breath.

  The spires of trees gently lifted their limbs to the heavens as if in prayer. But hidden beneath their soft thick canopy, she knew, the mountainous trail below her was a maze of winding rivers and steep mountain crags.

  There would be no rest if she were to reach flat land by nightfall. The trail below her was every bit as treacherous as the one she had already traveled.

  For a moment she pressed her hands to her back to ease her cramped muscles. Then, tossing the reins over the horse’s head, she wearily prepared to pull herself back into the saddle.

  A strong, muscled arm closed around her throat, pulling her off balance. As she was about to scream a hand closed over her mouth, cutting off her words.

  A voice she recognized sent a ripple of terror through her veins. The voice, unmistakably Holden Mackay’s, trembled with the excitement of the hunt.

  “So, my lady. How convenient of you to leave the safety of the Campbell’s bed and come to me. It seems we will have time after all to finish what we started at Kinloch House.”

  How could she have forgotten this most mortal of all enemies? She cursed herself for her carelessness. The concern for her sisters had erased all reasonable thought.

  She pried at his offending hands but could not budge them. With a laugh he tightened his grip on her throat until dark spots danced before her eyes.

  In desperation she gripped the hilt of the sword at her waist. With the pressure at her throat it took all of her strength to pull the sword from the scabbard. But when the blade flashed dully her attacker took a step back, releasing her.

  She sucked in several long scalding breaths before turning to face him. “Had I a sword at Kinloch House, Mackay, I would have killed you then.”

  Though he was startled, he threw back his head and laughed. “Do you think yourself a match for me, my lady?” He laughed again. “Remember, woman, I am a Highland warrior. I was born by the sword.”

  “Then prepare to die by it as well,” Meredith called, lifting the point of her sword to his heart.

  He leaped aside, surprised by her boldness. He had expected her to weep and to plead for her life. He had not expected her to fight him.

  He reached for his own sword and drew it out. As the blade danced through the air, she lunged, pressed and dodged, with all the skill of a trained swordsman.

  Holden Mackay wiped a hand across his forehead to erase the sheen of sweat. His own skill was not with the thin sword designed for thrusting, but with the heavier broadsword. It was unheard of that a woman could best a man at any warlike skill. It
was just that she had managed to catch him by surprise, he told himself.

  With his sword pointed at her heart he lunged. She stepped aside and brought her sword up, catching him in the shoulder. A scarlet stain bubbled to the surface and spilled across his cloak.

  He swore viciously and lunged again. This time he almost caught her, but at the last moment she ducked, bringing the point of her sword singing past his temple.

  His eyes narrowed. She was good. Very good. And he was being made to look a fool.

  Again he lifted his sword and again she dodged the tip of his blade and watched as the blow meant for her fell harmlessly against the branches of a low bush.

  “The forest should fear you, Mackay,” she taunted him with a laugh. “With your wild parrying you may cut down a valuable tree.”

  “It is you I will cut down to size. When I finish with you, wench, you will wish you had never been born.”

  Meredith didn’t bother to respond. With agile steps she backed him against the trunk of a gnarled old tree and brought the tip of her sword to his throat.

  “Those are the last words you will ever speak.”

  “I think not.” A smile slowly spread across his features, giving him the sinister look of a deadly snake. He pressed a hand tightly to his wounded shoulder but blood quickly oozed through his fingers, dripping onto the damp earth and staining the rocks at his feet. “You will hand over your sword to my men who stand behind you or they will cut you up in little pieces and feed you to the wild animals that roam these mountains.”

  “Do you think me foolish enough to turn away from you for even one moment? I know your little trick. You think to render me defenseless while I am distracted.”

  His smile grew. “Take the lady’s sword.”

  Meredith felt a hand at her shoulder and turned, prepared to do battle with another. Half a dozen men faced her, swords drawn. From the looks on their faces she knew that they would have no qualms about killing her where she stood.

  From behind came Holden Mackay’s evil laughter. “Drop your sword or my men will run you through.”

  He watched as her sword slipped from her fingers and dropped on the moist ground.

  “Now, my lady, I believe we have a score to settle.” To his men he shouted, “Bind her and toss her over my saddle. The lady is mine.” He leaned close. His breath was hot on her cheek as he gave a hollow laugh and added for her ears alone, “To do with as I please.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Brice and his men rode in single file along the path worn into the earth by Meredith’s mount. When it was raining it had been an easy job to trail her. Now that the rain had stopped, he prayed they would find her before the earth dried up and the trail was lost.

  None of the men spoke, and though they were weary, not one of them complained of the long hours in the saddle. They knew how much their leader loved the woman they searched for. They would travel to hell and back for Brice Campbell.

  As they topped a ridge Brice suddenly reined in his mount and slid to the ground.

  “There were men and horses here.” Brice pointed to the churned up earth. “And there was a scuffle.”

  He walked several paces before stooping. He touched a finger to the small footprint imbedded in the soil. “No man’s foot could leave so small a mark.”

  Angus swallowed, reluctant to agree.

  “Do you recognize the horses’ marks?” Though Brice studied the other prints, his gaze kept returning to the small print that he knew had been made by Meredith’s booted foot.

  Angus called to Alston, and together the two men went over every mark on the ground. While they did, Brice walked about, careful not to obliterate any of the prints.

  “They were Highlanders,” Alston called out. “Six or seven of them.”

  “They rode from a northerly direction,” Angus called. “And when they left, they headed north again.”

  “Mackays,” Alston said softly.

  Brice felt as if a dagger had been plunged into his heart. Holden Mackay. In his mind he could still see the scene in his chambers, when Mackay had nearly succeeded in taking Meredith by force. He thought of the bruises he had seen on her throat, and the fear he had read in her eyes.

  Angus swallowed, aware of the pain Brice would be enduring at this moment. All the fear, all the rage, at last had a focus. “It had to be the Mackays,” he said in a near whisper.

  They stood and began to walk to where the others waited with their horses.

  “God in heaven.”

  At Brice’s exclamation, Angus and Alston hurried to his side. Brice was kneeling near the trunk of a gnarled old tree. At the base lay a discarded sword. His sword, which had been missing along with his clothes and stallion.

  He brushed his hand over the damp earth, over the small boulders at the base of the tree.

  “Blood.”

  Angus and Alston looked at each other before Angus said softly, “Aye. ’Tis blood. But we cannot be certain it was the lass’s.”

  “And we cannot be certain it is not.” Brice pulled himself into the saddle. His face was a grim mask. “By all that is holy I swear that if Holden Mackay harms her in any way he is a dead man.”

  He turned to his men. “We ride north. To confront the devil himself.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Meredith fought back a wave of panic as she was forced to ride, hands tied, astride Mackay’s horse.

  It had been humiliating enough to be bound and lifted like a sack of grain. But to be held firmly in his arms, his hands brushing the undersides of her breasts while his horse broke into a trot, was almost more than she could bear. She had to swallow back a rush of nausea.

  She must not give in to the panic that threatened to reduce her to weeping and hysteria. It was exactly what this monster mould want. Instead, she must appear calm, no matter what he said or did.

  His men fell into line behind him, their spirits high. Their little foray into the forests this day had brought them an unexpected bonus. For weeks, since their leader had returned from Brice Campbell’s castle, he had been brooding and sullen. Now, with the discovery of this lass, he had come alive again. It was obvious that there was a simmering feud between these two. And though the men had no idea what had occurred earlier, Holden Mackay now had someone on whom he could focus his anger.

  When the skies once again opened up, Meredith hunched deep into her cloak. But the cold seemed to seep through to her very bones. It was not only because of the weather, she realized. It was because she was already replaying in her mind the scene in Brice’s chambers, when Holden Mackay had come dangerously close to taking her by force. She knew what awaited her at the end of this journey, and though she tried, she could not blot it from her mind.

  They rode for nearly three hours, often leaving well-worn paths to plunge into the dense forest. There was little said between the men now, but Meredith sensed that they passed signals among themselves. Could there be someone on their trail? Or did they take these evasive routes routinely to avoid running into anyone along the path?

  She thought about shouting for help. But who could hear her in the forest? And to invite Mackay’s wrath was to invite pain. It would probably please him to have an excuse to silence her with as much force as possible.

  With the surefooted ease of horses heading home, the animals picked their way across a swirling river. Meredith studied the depth of the water, nearly to the horses’ bellies. If she managed to break free of Holden’s grip, how far and fast could she swim before being caught? Worse, could she swim with her hands bound? Or would she risk being sucked beneath the swirling waters? At the moment, drowning seemed a better fate than the one contemplated by her captor.

  As if reading her mind Holden Mackay tightened his grip at her waist and gave a low grunt of laughter.

  “Thinking of slipping through my clutches, my lady?” He bent toward her, his voice sending chills along her spine. “My men would spear you like a fish by the time you hit the water.”


  “At least my death would be quick.”

  “Aye. But far less satisfying for me.”

  A tremor passed through her. She bit back the words that threatened to spill from her lips. Now was not the time to goad him. She would wait. And watch. And listen.

  Up ahead through the mist loomed the Mackay fortress. Though not as graceful or elegant as Brice’s, it was every bit as well fortified. Built into the side of a rocky crag, there was only one way in or out. Its massive twin doors were surrounded by a courtyard. On either side of the doors stood armed guards, their swords at the ready. They saluted their leader as the door was thrown open and servants hurried out to assist the tired men.

  The servants did not seem surprised by the presence of an unknown woman, and Meredith found herself wondering whether Holden Mackay often brought other unfortunate females to his fortress.

  A sullen-looking woman stepped forward. Her dull gaze, Meredith noted, remained downcast, as though afraid to look directly at her master. How many beatings had she endured at the hands of this man?

  “Shall I take the woman to your chambers, my lord?”

  “Nay. No one touches the female. She will go with me.”

  He lifted Meredith effortlessly from the horse and set her on her feet. And though she swayed a moment he made no effort to steady her. Catching her bound hands he led her roughly across the courtyard and up great stone steps to the upper floor. He paused outside a door and threw back a heavy timber that barred it. Opening the door he revealed a small windowless room.

  Thrusting her inside he set a taper in a sconce along the wall and growled, “You will stay here until I am ready for you.”

  She saw the smile that gave him a cruel, feral look. He withdrew a dirk from his waistband and advanced toward her, watching her eyes.

  Meredith noted the blood that still oozed from his shoulder. Did he intend to retaliate for the wound she had inflicted? She thought of the dirk at her own waistband. In close hand-to-hand combat, Mackay would have the advantage. He was twice her size and weight. And she had already tasted his strength.