CONTENTS
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Part One
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
Part Two
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Historical Note
Previews of Highlander Unchained
Alex took Meg’s arm and whipped…
Also by Monica McCarty
Copyright
To my mom, for all those trips to the library, and for the bags of books from garage sales and flea markets; and to my dad, for the countless chair-lift spelling tests and for the early lessons in editing. Do you still have that red pen? And to both of you, for the gift that keeps on giving…a top-notch education.
To Maxine and Reid, who may not always understand why Mommy is busy and can’t play, I love you both very much. (But you better be reading this twenty years from now. If not, put the book down. On second thought, that goes for you, too, Dad.)
A cknowledgments
I’ve been very fortunate to have some wonderful and extremely talented people around me. I’d like to thank them.
First to my editor, Charlotte Herscher, who saw the real Alex even before I did. You were right. Thank you for showing me the light.
Thanks to the team at Wax Creative, especially Emily Cotler and Claire Anderson, for designing my beautiful website at www.MonicaMcCarty.com. (With a special thanks to Julie for the referral.)
Thanks to Jami and Nyree, who, as with the first book, read many, many versions of this story. You guys are the best. What would I do without you? And to Tracy, for helping me work through the revisions. It still amazes me that one of my favorite authors has become such a good friend.
Finally, thanks to my husband, Dave, for cooking all those dinners while I was under a deadline—and to Reid and Maxine for eating them. I love you all.
Chapter 1
Lochalsh, Inverness-shire, June 1605
He was going home.
Alex MacLeod urged his mount faster down the narrow path. The powerful black destrier responded with a sudden burst of speed through the densely wooded forest, as if this were the first mile and not the hundredth. The grueling pace Alex set three days ago had only intensified as they neared their final destination. He knew that he was pushing his men, but they were accustomed to—nay, thrived on—such rigor. They had not become the most feared band of warriors across the Highlands by suffering complacency. His brother, Rory MacLeod, Chief of MacLeod, had summoned Alex home for an important mission. His chief needed him, and Alex would not delay.
Rory’s message was circumspect and brief, but Alex knew well what it meant. The opportunity he’d been waiting for loomed. And Alex was ready. Battle-hardened, honed as sharp as the edge of his claymore, and primed for whatever task his brother sought to impart upon him.
Nearly three years had passed since he’d last set eyes upon the jagged, rocky shorelines of Skye and the forbidding stone walls of Dunvegan Castle—the stronghold of the MacLeods for nearly four hundred years. He hadn’t intended to be gone for so long. But in the most brutal and primitive of conditions, living the life of an outlaw, Alex had found his calling.
He was at his best on the battlefield. It was the only place where he could quiet the demons, the restlessness that drove him. But the years of constant battle could not dull the fire that burned inside him. If anything, the flame burned even hotter.
For now the battle had moved close to home.
Home. A wave of something akin to wistfulness washed over him. Alex rarely allowed himself to think about all that he’d left behind. His family. Peace. Security. Such things were not for him. His destiny, he knew, lay in a different direction.
Charging into a clearing, he slowed, giving his men time to catch up. His squire, Robbie, pulled up beside him. Not yet ten and seven, the lad was already on his way to becoming a skilled warrior. Living by the sword did not leave much margin for error. Boys quickly became either men…or corpses.
Robbie was breathing heavily, and sweat poured down his face, but Alex knew the lad would rather take a dirk in his gut than admit he was tired.
“Will we make it, do you think?” Robbie asked.
Alex caught the direction of his gaze. “Before the rain?”
The lad nodded.
Alex looked up through the curtain of trees at the darkening skies. A storm was brewing, and if the thickened air and dense black clouds were any indication, it was going to be a fierce one. He shook his head. “Nay, lad. I fear we’ll get a good soaking.” Wiping the sweat from his own brow, he added, “One that we all could use.”
The boy made a face, and Alex felt a rare tug of amusement. There had been precious little to laugh about lately. It would not be the first time they’d traveled in treacherous weather. And at least this time they were not dodging the king’s henchmen.
They rode for perhaps another mile before Alex’s ears pricked at a faint sound. He hadn’t kept the Reaper at bay the past three years only by his skill with a claymore; he’d learned to trust his instincts. And right now those instincts flared.
Reining in his mount, he raised his fist in a silent command for his men to follow suit. The band of warriors immediately ground to a halt behind him.
A soft breeze pushed the stray leaves scattered across the forest floor in a gentle rustle, and with it carried the almost imperceptible sounds of a cry.
Alex met the hard stare of his chief guardsman. “An animal?” Patrick asked.
Alex shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He held perfectly still, listening again. He knew he should just move on; he had a job to do. But before he could order his men on their way, he heard another cry.
This one more distinct.
More distinctly feminine.
Damn. He couldn’t ignore it now. His brother’s words flashed in his head: Keep your identity hidden.
Alex shook off the reminder. Not many would recognize him after so many years. He’d changed. War had hardened him, and not just in spirit.
Do not delay….
There would be no delay.
This wouldn’t take long.
Feeling the familiar surge of blood rush through his veins as his body anticipated the coming battle, he swung his destrier around to the south and plunged into the trees, leading his men in the direction of the screams.
Right before the sky broke open, unleashing its torrential fury.
It was going to rain. Perfect. Meg Mackinnon pulled the wool arisaidh, the full-length plaid she’d wrapped around her for protection from the elements, more firmly around her head and once again cursed the necessity for this journey. They’d only just begun, and already she was dreading long days on horseback, navigating the treacherous tracks of the drovers. Even had her father been able to arrange one, a carriage would have been useless along these paths. The “road” from the Isle of Skye to Edinburgh was barely wide enough to ride two abreast. The cart that carried their belongings had proved to be enough of a burden on this rugged terrain.
Meg had at least a week of discomfort left before her. It would take them that long to reach Edinburgh, where
she must begin in earnest her search for a husband.
She felt the familiar flutter of anxiety when she thought of all that was ahead of her. Her father had entrusted her to find the right man for her clan; she would not let him down. But the responsibility inherent in her decision weighed heavily on her. The pressure at times could be stifling. A wry smile touched the edges of her mouth. Perhaps a week of travel wasn’t long enough.
Yet part of her couldn’t wait until it was all over. It would be a relief to have the decision made and behind her. Of course, then she would be married. And that brought a whole new bundle of anxieties.
Meg sighed deeply, knowing she couldn’t have put off the trip to court any longer. Her father’s recent illness had made that very clear. Without her help, her brother’s place as chief would be challenged. The corbies had begun to circle the minute her father had taken to bed with a mysterious wasting ailment. Her once hale and hearty father, the powerful Chief of Mackinnon, had lost nearly two stone and was still too weak to travel.
Meg glanced over at her mother riding beside her and felt a pang of guilt for dragging her so far from home. It was difficult enough for Meg to leave her father and brother; she couldn’t imagine how her mother must feel.
“I’m sorry, Mother.”
Rosalind Mackinnon met her daughter’s gaze with puzzlement. “Whatever for, child?”
“For taking you away from Father at a time like this.” Meg bit her lip, feeling the need to explain. “I just couldn’t bring myself to accept—”
“Nonsense.” Her mother cut her off, a rare frown marring her beautiful face. “Your father is much better. A trip to court is exactly what I need. You know how I love all the latest fashions, the latest hairstyles,”—she smiled conspiratorially—“and all the latest gossip.”
Meg returned the smile. She knew her mother was only trying to make her feel better, though she did love going to court. Meg, on the other hand, hated it. She never fit in the way her mother did. Partially, it was her own fault. She did not share her mother’s enjoyment of frippery and gossip and was not very good at pretending otherwise. But this time, she swore she would try. For her mother’s sake, if not for her own.
“Besides, I’ll not have you marry a man you do not love,” her mother finished, anticipating the apology Meg had been about to make.
Meg shook her head. Rosalind Mackinnon was a hopeless romantic. But love was not the reason Meg had refused the offer of marriage from her father’s chieftain. The offer that, had she accepted it, would have dispensed with the need for this trip.
But Meg’s choice of a husband was dictated by unusual circumstances, and Thomas Mackinnon was not the right man for her. He was an able warrior, yes, but a hotheaded one. A man who reached for his sword first and thought later. Meg sought a strong warrior, but a controlled one. Equally important, she needed a clever negotiator to appease a king with growing authority over his recalcitrant Highland subjects. Tensions between the two ran high. The time of unfettered authority by the chiefs was waning. She must find a husband who could help lead her clan into the future.
But lack of political acumen was not the only reason she’d refused Thomas. She also sensed too much ambition in him. Ambition that would put her brother’s position as the next chief in jeopardy.
Above all, she needed a fiercely loyal man. A man she could trust.
Love was not part of the bargain. Meg was a realist. She admired the deep affection between her parents, perhaps even envied it, but recognized that such was not for her. Her duty was clear. Finding the right man for her clan came first. And second.
“I don’t expect to be as fortunate in marriage as you, Mother,” Meg said. “What you and Father have is rare.”
“And wonderful,” Rosalind finished. “Which is why I want it for you. Though just because I love your father does not mean I always agree with him. In this, he asks too much of you,” she said with a stubborn set to her pointed chin. As Meg had never heard her mother speak against her father, it took a moment to register what she was saying. Her mother shook her head. “You already spend far too much time with your nose in the books.”
“I enjoy my duties, Mother,” Meg said patiently.
But her mother continued on as if she hadn’t heard. Scrunching up her tiny nose, she shivered dramatically. “All those numbers. It makes my head swim just thinking about it.”
Meg covered her smile. Now that sounded more like her mother. She never could understand Meg’s fascination with mathematics or scholarly pursuits in general. Meg derived great pleasure from working with numbers. There was something satisfying in knowing there was only one right solution. And learning had always come easily for her. Unlike it was for her brother, she thought with a sharp pinch in her chest.
“And now he expects you to sacrifice your future happiness,” her mother lamented, as if a daughter marrying for the good of the clan were anything out of the ordinary. When, in fact, Meg choosing her own husband—albeit one who met certain criteria—was the oddity.
“Truly, Mother, it is no sacrifice. Father asks nothing of me that I don’t want myself. When I find the right man to stand beside Ian, he will be the right man for me.”
“If only it were that easy. But you cannot force your heart to follow your head.”
Maybe not, but she could try.
As if she knew what Meg was thinking, Rosalind said dismissively, “Don’t worry. Just leave it to me.”
Warning bells clanged. “Mother…you promised not to interfere.”
Her mother stared straight ahead with a far too innocent look on her face. “I don’t know what you are talking about, Margaret Mackinnon.”
Meg’s eyes narrowed; she was not fooled one bit. “You know exactly—”
But her words were lost in the violent crash of thunder as a deluge of rain poured from the skies. The ground seemed to shake with the sudden fury of the storm.
Her mother’s terrified scream, however, alerted Meg to the fact that the shaking was from more than just a storm.
Still, it took her a moment to comprehend what was happening, so suddenly had it begun. One minute she’d been about to take her mother to task for her matchmaking ways, the next she was in the midst of a nightmare.
Out of the shadows, like demon riders on the storm, the band of ruffians attacked. Huge, savage-looking men in filthy shirts and tattered plaids, wielding deadly claymores with ruthless intent. They seemed to fly from the trees, surrounding Meg’s party in all directions.
Her cry froze in her throat, terror temporarily rendering her mute. For a minute, she couldn’t think. Watching helplessly as the dozen clansmen her father sent along to protect them were locked in a battle of untempered ferocity against at least a score of brigands.
Her blood ran cold.
There were too many of them.
Dear God, her father’s men had no chance. The Mackinnon clansmen had immediately moved to protect Meg and her mother, circling them as best they could in the confined area. And one by one, they were cut down in front of her.
Meg gazed in rapt horror as Ruadh, one of her father’s chieftains, a man she’d known her entire life, a man who’d bounced her on his knee and sung her songs of the clan’s illustrious past, was unable to block the deadly strike of a claymore that slid across his belly, cutting him nearly in two. Tears sprang to her eyes as she watched the light slowly fade from his gaze.
Her mother’s scream sliced through the terror, jolting Meg from her stupor. The moment of panic dissolved in a sudden burst of clarity. She gathered her courage, with only one thought: protecting her mother.
Heart pounding, Meg leapt down from her horse and grabbed the dirk from Ruadh’s lifeless hand, his fingers still clenched around the bloody hilt. The weapon felt so heavy and clumsy in her hand. For the first time in her life, she wished she hadn’t lingered so long indoors with her books. She had no experience with weaponry of any sort. She shook off the bout of uncertainty. It didn’t matter. Wha
t she lacked in skill she would make up for in raw determination. Clasping the dirk more firmly, she moved to stand before her mother, ready to defend her.
They’ll have to kill me first, she vowed silently.
But a bit of her bravado faltered when another of her father’s men fell at her feet. The way it was going, it might not be long before they did. Only six of her father’s men remained.
The arisaidh had slid from her head, and rain streamed down her face, blurring her vision. The pins holding back her hair were long gone, and the wavy tendrils tangled in her lashes, but Meg hardly noticed, focused as she was on the battle. The battle that was tightening like a noose around them, as their circle of protectors quickly diminished.
She bit back the fear that crept up the back of her throat. Never had she been more terrified. But she had to stay strong. For her mother. If they were to have a chance to survive.
Meg’s action seemed to snap her mother from her trance, and she stopped screaming. Following Meg’s lead, she slipped down from her horse. Meg could see her hands shaking as she pulled Ruadh’s eating knife from his belt.
Meg turned, and her chest squeezed to see the resolve on her mother’s face. To see the direness of their circumstance reflected in her gaze. Even drenched, her hair and clothes a sodden mess, Rosalind Mackinnon looked like an angel—albeit an avenging angel. Though she was forty, her beauty was undiminished by age. Dear God,
what would these vicious brutes do to her? Meg swallowed. To them both?
Though Meg knew her mother must be thinking the same thing, her voice was strangely calm. “If you see an opening between them, run,” she whispered.
“But I can’t leave you—”
Her mother cut off her protest. “You will do as I say, Margaret.” Meg was so shocked by the steel in her dulcet tone that she simply nodded. “If you need to use the knife, strike hard and do not hesitate.”
Meg felt an unexpected swell of pride. Her sweet, gentle mother looked as fierce as a lioness protecting her cub. There was far more to Rosalind Mackinnon than Meg had ever realized.
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