Highland Revenge (Fated Hearts Book 1)

by Giltenan, Ceci

  “We meant ye no harm. We were just escorting the lady to Laird Sutherland, but we had no intention of crossing MacKay land. Tis Ross land we are on.”

  “The hell we are. Our border with Ross is well to the south of here and ye had to know that. Ye were simply trying to shorten yer journey by a few hours by cutting across my land. Who is the lady?” His question was met with silence. “I’ll ask ye again and ye’ll answer me, or I’ll simply run ye through and move on to the next.”

  “I’ve surrendered and ye have me bound. Are ye so craven?”

  “A MacNicol instructing me in the proper treatment of prisoners? That is rich. Nay, I’m not craven, but I’ve a keen taste for revenge. Bhaltair MacNicol took me captive eight years ago, threw me, gravely injured, into his dungeon and left me there to die with no sustenance.”

  “And yet, here ye stand, so he must have shown ye some quarter.”

  “It wasn’t Bhaltair’s intervention that saved me. I owe him nothing. It seems to me a quick blade through yer neck is a kinder end than what I would have met with at MacNicol hands. I am perfectly willing to dispatch yer soul to hell unless ye answer me. Who is the lady and, while ye’re at it, why are ye escorting her to Sutherland?”

  At his silence, Eoin forced the point of his sword against the man’s throat. As expected, he capitulated. “All right,” he said reluctantly. “Ye’re bound to learn her identity anyway. She is Lady Fiona MacNicol, betrothed to Bram Sutherland. Ye may have no love for the MacNicols, but likewise ye have no argument with the Sutherlands. If ye don’t wish to anger them, treat her gently.”

  “Fiona MacNicol? Bhaltair’s niece?”

  “Aye, Bhaltair’s niece, but more importantly Laird Alec’s sister.”

  “Laird Alec? Have the MacNicol’s finally made the green lad their laird?”

  “Alec is young, but he has been well trained by Laird Munro and will be returning any day now to take his place as laird.”

  “So it’s still that devil Bhaltair who will have to pay the price for yer poor sense of direction?”

  The man looked defeated. “Aye. Bhaltair still leads the clan in Alec’s name.”

  “Excellent. Revenge is truly sweet.” Eoin laughed. Bhaltair would finally rue the day he’d left Eoin to die. For years Eoin woke from nightmares in which he was once again left alone to die of thirst in the MacNicol dungeon. To this day, he always slept with water close at hand. All of his memories were not crystal clear, but he was absolutely certain of one thing. Bhaltair had wanted him dead and was willing to disgrace his own clan to see it done. Finn had told him as much. It was only that brave lad’s sense of honor that saved Eoin.

  Now he had the opportunity to repay Bhaltair MacNicol several times over. He had eight warriors and, very soon, he would have the man’s own niece. He wouldn’t leave them to die with no food and water, but he would give them no further consideration than that. He was quite sure his dungeon would be no more comfortable than Castle MacNicol’s, and he was not inclined to improve the conditions. Even Bhaltair’s niece could languish in the cells with the rest of them; it still didn’t compare to Bhaltair’s treatment of Eoin. Furthermore, unlike Bhaltair, Eoin would send a ransom demand. It might be exorbitant, but he would send it, following the dictates of honor and Highland custom.

  ~ * ~

  Although the initial surprise of her flight gave Fiona a few moments head start, she heard horses following through the woods. Knowing she couldn’t hope to outrun them, she searched desperately for a place to hide. But how could she hide her horse? Not too far ahead, just off to the right, she saw a massive tree with a low-hanging branch. She had spent half her childhood climbing trees—she could do this. She knotted the reins behind the horse’s neck and steered her to a stop under the branch. Pulling herself onto it, she released the reins and kicked the mare into a run. Fiona thought Morag wouldn’t run far without a rider, but perhaps she would be well away from the tree in which her mistress was hiding when the warriors caught up. Fiona focused her effort on getting as high up in the tree as she could, hoping to hide herself in the late spring foliage. Climbing a tree had been much easier as a child. Her dress hampered her progress now, catching on the branches. Once she had to yank it free, putting a large three-cornered tear in the fabric.

  She had barely reached a spot high enough to be out of sight when several of the attacking warriors raced past, following her now riderless mare. Her beautiful little mare must have run them on a merry wee chase, because it took much longer than she expected for them to return, leading her mare and clearly angry at having lost the rider.

  When they disappeared from view, Fiona considered her options. She could slip out of the tree and make a run for it. She couldn’t be far from either MacNicol, Ross or Sutherland land. Their route should have taken them far enough south before turning east to traverse the northern tip of Ross territory, intending to circle around MacKay land. Parlan must have made an error and turned eastward too soon, cutting across the southern portion of the MacKay holding. Just as he had told her, all she needed to do was travel due south to escape. Still, she suspected they would mount a search for her, and she had little hope of eluding so many, no matter how short the distance.

  She would have to wait. When they exhausted their search of the area, they would either move on, or set up camp and begin again in daylight. Either way, she believed her best chance was to wait until dark, climb down and head south. As long as she could get off of MacKay land, she was confident she could find her way home on foot

  Four

  Before long the men Eoin had sent to fetch the lass returned, leading her horse, but without her on it. “Where the hell is she?”

  “I don’t know, Laird. She was well ahead of us, and when we finally sighted her mount, there was no sign of the lass.”

  The guardsman to whom Eoin had addressed his questions shook his head in disgust.

  “What?” Eoin demanded.

  “That one doesn’t have the sense God gave a rock.”

  “Why do ye say that? She has managed to escape me for the moment. That seems clever enough.”

  “But at what price? She has lost her mount. I thought she was a better horsewoman than that. Now the fool lass is lost, alone and unguarded on an enemy’s land.”

  “Laird, the reins were tied. She wasn’t unhorsed by accident. She clearly wanted the horse to lead us in another direction.”

  Eoin arched an eyebrow at the MacNicol guardsman. “Possibly she is not as brainless as ye think. But ye needn’t fear for her safety. We will find her. Oh, on second thought, I suppose we’re the enemy ye’re worried about. Maybe yer fears aren’t unfounded after all.” Eoin set four of his men to guard the captives while he and his remaining men searched the surrounding area.

  Eoin’s anger and frustration grew as the afternoon drew on and there was no sign of their prey. How could one small woman have evaded them so completely? The area was forested, but not densely so. There were no caves in the vicinity and they had searched every scrap of undergrowth. Surely a scared lass running through the forest would leave some evidence of her passing, but they found no sign of a trail. Even if she had picked her way carefully to avoid leaving any trace, she couldn’t have gotten very far.

  When his commander, Marcas, returned from searching the area to the south, having found no sign of her, Eoin swore. “Where the hell can she be?”

  “I’m damned if I know. We found nothing. Maybe she’s part faery and sprouted wings.”

  “God’s blood, Marcas, quit jesting. She didn’t sprout wings. Ye know this land as well as I do. There’s no place for her to hide where we haven’t looked.”

  “Except the treetops Laird, but as ye say, she didn’t sprout wings.”

  “Ye don’t suppose…Marcas, could she have climbed a tree?”

  “I wouldn’t have thought so, but it’s the only place we haven’t looked.”

  That had to be it—it was the only explanation. “Damnation! Everyon
e spread out from here and search again. This time look up.”

  Eoin stomped off in the direction her horse had run first. The afternoon was wearing on; if they didn’t find her before the sun set, they would have to wait until morning. By all that was holy, she was probably sitting in a tree laughing at them. When he found the wench, she would regret this. It would serve her right if she had to spend the night perched in a tree.

  ~ * ~

  Fiona stayed well hidden high in her tree for several hours. She watched silently as men searched for her. As the day waned, her spirits rose. The searchers had moved on from her immediate area. She was both hungry and thirsty, but couldn’t risk climbing down just yet. Still, she believed it wouldn’t be long before she could make her escape. Then, in one moment, her hopes were dashed. She heard him before she saw him striding through the woods, looking up.

  A tall, broad-chested warrior stopped below her tree and stared up at her. She couldn’t quite see his face through the foliage. She maneuvered to one side and tilted her head to try and see him better. If it was him, if it was Eoin MacKay, she would be all right. She would climb down and tell him who she was. She felt sure he wouldn’t harm her once he knew.

  ~ * ~

  He hadn’t gone terribly far when he caught a glimpse of white halfway up a massive oak. She was well hidden. Her plaid was dark green; he wouldn’t have noticed her among the leaves if he hadn’t been specifically looking for her. He strode closer to the tree, stopping once so he could look up through the branches. There, perched in the crotch of two thick limbs was a woman so perfectly beautiful she might have been part faery. He was left momentarily speechless. Her skin was fair, with a faint pink blush to her cheek. He couldn’t see the color of her eyes, but they were ringed with sooty lashes. Something told him that, regardless of their hue, they would sparkle. Her rosy lips were full and soft—lips that were made to be kissed. The late afternoon breeze ruffled the mass of black curls around her shoulders. Her léine was torn, but otherwise she appeared none the worse for wear. She is not a faery, she is a MacNicol, he reminded himself.

  She looked down at him silently with her head cocked to one side, as if she was trying to solve some puzzle. She didn’t seem remotely frightened. That would have to change if he was to exact his revenge. “Have ye had a lovely day perched in yer tree, watching us search for ye?”

  “I suspect my day was better than yers.”

  Her impertinent answer irritated him. “Well ye’ve had yer bit of fun, but it’s over. Climb down.”

  She ignored him. “Who are ye?”

  “Yer captor, and I ordered ye to climb down. Do it now.”

  “Nay, I asked ye a perfectly reasonable question, and ye aren’t my captor if ye can’t reach me. Until I know who ye are, I think I’d just as soon stay free, even if I am up a tree.”

  “Free? Nay lass, ye’re as good as locked in my dungeon, and I promise ye will regret yer impertinence.”

  He called to one of his men. “Donald, it fair breaks my heart, but the MacNicol lass doesn’t wish to join our company.”

  “An arrow would bring her down quick enough.”

  “Aye it would, but ye heard her guardsman. This is Fiona MacNicol, Bhaltair’s niece. I wouldn’t want to harm a hair on her wee head.”

  Donald snorted. “Ye have no love for the MacNicols, and neither do I. Have ye forgotten? One of my older brothers rode with ye that night.”

  “Ye’re right, Donald. I have no love for the MacNicols, but the ransom this one will fetch will hurt Bhaltair’s greedy, black heart nearly as much as a steel blade thrust into it. Mark my words, we’ll have our revenge. We are leaving. Climb up, drag her down and bind her. She managed to evade us once and I won’t have it happen again. We have already wasted too much time on her.” He didn’t spare her another glance but called over his shoulder, “By the way, lass, I am Laird Eoin MacKay, and ye’re most assuredly my prisoner.”

  Five

  When he first spoke to her, she was stunned by the anger and bitterness in his voice. Hatred for her family, for her, practically rolled off him in waves. She would stay out of this warrior’s grasp as long as she possibly could. Could she climb higher to remain beyond their reach? She was lighter and could climb on smaller branches that would break under the weight of a warrior. Then as the angry man strode off, he said the words she had hoped to hear. I am Laird Eoin MacKay. She would tell him. It would be all right.

  As the younger Mackay started to swing up onto the low-hanging branch, she stopped him. “There is no need to risk injuring either of us. I will come down.” She made her way back through the limbs, reached the lowest branch and swung down, dropping the last few feet to the ground. Donald grabbed her roughly by the elbow. She jerked back, trying to pull out of his grip, but he held firm, yanking her close.

  “What are ye doing? Let me go.”

  “Oh nay, my lady, the laird said to bind ye, and I intend to.”

  “That won’t be necessary. I’ll go with ye. Once yer laird understands who I am, everything will be fine.”

  Donald gave a cold laugh, pulling her wrists together and binding them tightly. “He knows exactly who ye are, and I doubt that everything will be fine where ye’re concerned.”

  She didn’t argue; she felt sure that things could be sorted out. Donald grabbed her elbow again and dragged her to the clearing where the MacKay’s held her uncle’s men captive. She stumbled. Donald’s grip on her elbow didn’t keep her from falling to her knees. He yanked her up. “Laird, what do ye want me to do with this one?”

  Eoin MacKay turned around and stared for a moment. He was bigger than she remembered and although somewhat harder looking, just as handsome. His brown hair curled at his neck. “Put her on her horse. Someone can lead the reins.”

  “Laird MacKay, please unbind my wrists. Ye don’t know who I am.”

  He glared at her, his dark brown eyes flashing with anger. “Oh, well then, do enlighten me.”

  “I’m…” she hesitated. Her uncle’s men were all around. She couldn’t speak in front of them. There was no telling what her uncle would do to her if he ever found out what she had done. “Can we speak privately?” she asked very softly.

  “Nay, I know who ye are. Ye’re Fiona MacNicol and I will reap a substantial ransom because ye trespassed on my lands. That’s all I need to know.”

  “But, Laird MacKay—”

  “I said nay. I’ve wasted enough time with ye. Men, mount up.”

  Fiona’s heart fell. He wouldn’t listen to her. He would leave her bound and throw her in his dungeon.

  Donald lifted her onto Morag’s back none too gently, mounted his own horse, then took Morag’s reins, leading her. Fiona could only grip the edge of the saddle with her bound hands. She worked at her bonds, trying to loosen them, but it only served to chafe her wrists until they were raw. She tried not to panic. She hated being confined.

  After her parents died, any time she incurred her uncle’s wrath, he simply had to lock her in a small room as punishment. It took him a while to figure it out. No other punishment ever bothered her much. A whack on the hand or backside, while painful for a moment, was easily forgotten. Being forced to sit and do needlework with Aunt Sorcha for hours, rather than running free and finding trouble outdoors, was endlessly annoying, but still tolerable. The threat of a locked door, however, sent chills down her spine and filled her heart with dread. It was the only thing that eventually forced her to set aside the boyish ways of her youth and accept that she had to behave as a lady.

  Having her hands bound was bad enough. She didn’t think she could stand being locked in a dungeon. There was no denying Eoin MacKay had every reason to hate the MacNicols. What her uncle had done to him years ago was unforgivable, and she wasn’t the only member of the clan who thought so. When the prisoner had escaped, Uncle Bhaltair went into a savage rage. They had never been allies of the MacKay’s, but Fiona could not understand the unbridled hatred her uncle held for them, specific
ally for Eoin and his father. He had never learned who had helped Eoin escape. Padraig, who’d stood guard that night, had been drugged and was found unconscious. Still Uncle Bhaltair had him beaten savagely. It was perhaps the single most horrifying moment of her life, and yet there was nothing she could do. Confessing the role she had played might have gotten Padraig, and perhaps others, killed.

  All she had to do was get Eoin to listen. Maybe then he would show her some kindness and remove her bonds. Maybe he wouldn’t lock her in his dungeon. Even if she could find a way to tell him, out of earshot of her uncle’s men, would Eoin even believe her? She didn’t know, but she had to try. It was the only way to avoid being locked up.

  His horse was slightly ahead of hers. She called out to him, “Laird MacKay, may I have some water?”

  “Thirsty are ye? If ye hadn’t hidden in that tree for so long we, would be there by now and ye could have yer drink of water.”

  “Have ye never been thirsty?” She asked quietly.

  “Oh aye, I have. Did ye know yer dear uncle locked me in his dungeon with no water?”

  “Aye. I’m sorry, that was dishonorable, and my father would have been ashamed.”

  Eoin glanced over his shoulder at her, looking a bit taken aback by her answer.

  “Mind yer tongue, Fiona MacNicol,” one of her uncle’s guardsmen warned.

  Eoin regained his composure immediately. “Well, I can assure ye, my lady, thirst is a terrible thing.”

  “Ye know that and yet ye’d let another go thirsty? Did no one ever aid ye and give ye water?”

  His back stiffened and he didn’t answer. He slowed his horse until they were side by side, then thrust his costrel toward her. “Drink.”

  She took it in her bound hands and fumbled, trying to remove the cork. He made no move to assist her. Eventually she uncorked it and took a long drink. When she finished, she worked the cork back in and handed it back to him. “Thank ye.”