by Rowan Keats
At the very least, he owed Bhaltair an apology. The old man might never forgive him, but it would satisfy Bran’s conscience if he had the chance to make his peace.
Bran exited the alehouse, returned to the small hovel he called home, and gathered up his satchel of meager belongings.
It took him several days to make the journey from Edinburgh to Dunstoras, but they were pleasant days. There was something about the Highlands that called to him.
As soon as rolling hills of heather replaced the thicker forests of the Lowlands, his step lightened. And when he caught a glimpse of the creamy tower of Dunstoras through the glen, he smiled. It had the look of a tower that had stood for a thousand years—bold and beautiful against the pale gray sky.
But as he approached the portcullis, a ripple of trepidation ran through him.
What punishment would the laird deem appropriate for his crime?
Lashes? Days in the stockade? He took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. As long as it didn’t involve the severing of body parts, he could withstand whatever humiliation the laird had in store. The portcullis was up and Bran rode into the close with a resolute expression.
Wulf was standing on the stone steps on the donjon when Bran entered the inner close.
“About bloody time,” the big warrior said. “Did the invitation not say ‘immediately’?”
Bran dismounted. A lad with features similar to Wulf’s took his horse. His son, perhaps? “Is there reason for haste?”
“According to the Lady Isabail, aye,” Wulf said. “Come, we’ll see you properly attired.”
“Properly attired for what?”
The big warrior scowled. “You ask too many questions.”
“Or not enough,” Bran retorted. “Is there to be a public trial?”
Wulf smiled. “In a manner of speaking.”
The big warrior led Bran into the great hall, where—to his bafflement—a banquet was in progress. “What is the occasion?”
Wulf pointed to the high table. “Your wedding.”
Bran’s gaze latched onto the sweetly beguiling face of Caitrina de Montfort. He hungrily devoured every detail of her appearance, from the welcoming warmth in her eyes to the bold blue satin of her gown. “My what?”
Wulf prodded him in the ribs. “Take your seat, MacLean. The laird is about to speak.”
The chair at the center of the high table stood glaringly unoccupied, and Bran walked to it with a turbulent gut. How could this be his wedding, when he had never asked for Caitrina’s hand? And how could Laird MacCurran condone the marriage of a street thief to a lady of the court?
He dropped onto the seat next to Caitrina and offered her a weak smile.
“Are you party to this?”
“Of course,” she said. “The arrangements are mostly my doing. Isabail has provided great support, but the costs are mine to bear.”
“Are you mad?” he whispered, as Aiden took the floor.
“Kith and kin, I welcome you. We have gathered here today to bear witness to a wedding that shall take place before the door of the chapel shortly after we feast. I offer my most sincere congratulations to Lady Caitrina de Montfort and her husband, Sir Bran MacLean. Sir Bran was knighted a few short weeks before, in absentia, by the queen, for services above and beyond the call of duty.”
There was a round of raucous applause.
Bran simply stared. Knighted? By the queen?
Surely this was some sort of cruel jest.
“What does he speak of?” he whispered to Caitrina. “I refuse to live a lie.”
“’Tis not a lie,” she said. “Queen Yolande did indeed knight you. Unfortunately, the tragic circumstances surrounding the death of her son made it impossible for her to inform you.”
“That’s preposterous. I was impersonating a nobleman. Why would she knight me?”
Caitrina took his hand in hers. “Several prominent people stood in your defense. Myself, Laird MacCurran, and Lord James Stewart. The royal steward credits you with saving the life of the queen. It was he who spearheaded the call to knight you.”
Bran endured the rest of the speeches, and a rather lengthy wedding ceremony that made him thankful he had eaten beforehand. He was silent through much of it, even the dancing and drinking after the wedding. But when the pipes and lutes were finally put away, and the guests were dispersing, he sent a warning glare to the three MacCurran warriors and then swung Caitrina into his arms. He’d had no say in the making of this wedding, but he’d be damned if another man would have a say in how he bedded his wife.
He mounted the stairs two at a time, his steps sure and determined.
Only when he was alone with Caitrina in a room that had been decorated with candles and flower petals did he tug her into his arms and kiss her soundly. “You, madam, are quite incorrigible,” he said.
“Are you unhappy?”
He shook his head. “Far from it.” He untied the ribbons in her hair and slid his fingers through her long, glorious tresses. “I am utterly content.”
She encircled his neck with her arms and pulled his head down for a passionate kiss. “Laird MacCurran says he is looking for good men to take up the sword in defense of Dunstoras. Do you think we could make a life for ourselves here?”
He cupped her rump and hauled her up his body. He’d forgotten how sweet she felt in his arms. “The wretch would be lucky to have me.”
“You would need to give up the thieving,” she said, tilting her head back to give him access to her neck. “He was quite adamant about that.”
Bran rained tiny kisses up her neck and along her jaw. “Was he?”
“Will that be a challenge?”
“Nay,” he said, burying his face against her perfumed flesh. “It seems you’ve managed to get everything your heart desires.”
She smiled.
“Aye. What else could a lass possibly want?”
Favoring her with a wolfish grin, he scooped her off her feet and carried her to the bed. “Ah, sweetling, I think I might imagine a thing or two. Shall I see if I can make the rest of your dreams come true?”
He put his skilled fingers to good use, and her answer was lost to a squeal of delight.
Continue reading for an excerpt from another Claimed by the Highlander Novel,
WHEN A LAIRD TAKES A LADY
Available now from Signet Eclipse!
The Eastern Highlands
Above Lochurkie Castle
January 1286
Atop a huge black-and-white warhorse, Isabail’s view of the destruction was unimpeded. Six of her guards, including the valiant Sir Robert, lay lifeless on the moonlit trail. The others had been forced to their knees and tightly bound like cattle. A pair of chests packed with her belongings had been rifled through and the contents scattered. The reivers had gathered only a few items, mostly simple gowns and practical shoes. The more expensive items—those intended for her sojourn in the king’s court—lay in careless heaps, trampled in the snow and mud.
Isabail had no sympathy to spare her fine clothes, however. Fear for what would next befall her and her maid, Muirne, had cinched her chest so tight, there was no room for anything else.
The fur-cloaked Highland raiders who had attacked her party were small in number but large in size—a mouth-souring blur of fierce faces, broad shoulders, and brawny limbs. One of them, apparently the leader, wore a thunderous scowl so dark that her belly quailed each time she spied him.
To her amazement, the attackers numbered only three. How they had succeeded in defeating the dozen guards that accompanied her carriage, she could not fathom. But defeated them, they had. The raiders worked swiftly, their movements spare and deliberate. No pack was left unopened, no chest left unturned. They finished their looting in no time and were soon mounted and ready to depart.
Except for the leader.
He scooped a colorful selection of clothing into a pile, removed a flint from the pouch at his belt, and crouched with his back to the wind. With experienced ease, he soon had the pile in flames. Isabail had to bite her lip to stem a wail. As she watched, a sizable portion of her fine wool gowns, white linen sarks, and beaded slippers went up in a fiery pyre.
Under any other circumstance, Isabail would have burst into tears. But Muirne’s pale plump face was turned to her, her eyes a silent plea for hope and guidance. Isabail could not give in to the waves of despair pummeling her body. Not now. Not when Muirne needed her to be strong.
The leader eyed the plume of gray smoke drifting its way into the sky, then grabbed the reins of Isabail’s horse and, in a single fluid bound, leapt up behind her. A steel band of an arm encircled her waist and hauled her into his lap. A short shriek escaped her lips before she could tame it. Instinct urged her to fight for release, to wriggle free and run, but fear held her fast. The man was huge. He could kill her with a solitary blow from one of those massive fists.
Better that she wait for rescue.
Surely their intent was to ransom her? If she but braved his inappropriate touch for a short while, Cousin Archibald would pay the ransom, and she would be freed. There was no need to risk life or limb to flee.
Her captor urged the horse forward, leading his small group toward the narrow opening at the end of the ravine. Isabail glanced at the fallen bodies and bound figures of her men, and the words spilled from her lips before she could stop them.
“Surely, you don’t intend to leave them like this.”
“I do.” His terse response rumbled through his chest, vibrating against her back.
“But there are wildcats and wolves in these hills.”
He said nothing, just urged his horse into a trot and then farther up the mountain slope. Higher and higher they climbed, the horse picking its way around boulders and thick patches of heather. As they traversed a steep ledge, she got a clear view of the moonlit glen and the mist-shrouded stone castle that was her home.
The folk in the fortress were no doubt going about their usual evening chores, oblivious to the tragedy that had struck her party. How long would it be before the remaining guards were found? Helpless as they were, would they not starve to death or be torn apart by wild animals?
Isabail chewed her lip.
One of the bearded outlaws riding alongside her caught her eye. “You fret for naught,” he said. “The smoke will draw notice from the castle. Unless the earl’s soldiers are asleep at their posts, your guards will be home by morn.”
Her captor released a derisive snort.
Isabail breathed a sigh of relief, but did not relax. She was struggling to retain her dignity. The upward climb made it extremely difficult to hold herself aloof from the warrior at her back. She did her best to maintain a stiff ladylike poise, but every time the massive warhorse surged up a steep incline, she collided with her captor’s very solid chest.
It was bad enough that their hips were so intimately connected. She refused to give up any more of her self-respect than was necessary. But as the air thinned and grew colder, the steady warmth he exuded held more and more appeal. Even with her lynx cloak wrapped tightly about her shoulders, the hours in the saddle and the frigid air began to take their toll. She slipped farther and farther back in the saddle. Several times, she stiffened abruptly when she realized her body had slumped wearily toward the wall of male flesh behind her.
Fortunately, her captor did not seem to notice her lapses. His attention was focused on carving a trail through the bleak wilderness that was the Highlands in January. Perhaps fearing pursuit, he kept their pace as hard and fast as the terrain would allow.
Isabail was just beginning to wonder how far he intended to take her from her home when he drew the massive destrier to a halt and barked out an order to his men. “Make camp here.”
As he leapt down and icy air swirled around her in his absence, she took stock of his chosen campsite. She considered herself born of much hardier stock than her English cousins, but even to her seasoned Scot’s eye, the spot looked anything but hospitable. Barren rock, blanketed by a thin layer of ice and snow. The only break to the north wind was a large boulder and, in the distance, a tall standing stone erected by the ancient Picts.
But the lack of obvious comfort did not dismay his men. They helped Isabail and Muirne dismount, then immediately set about making a fire. Once the peat bricks generated some heat, they tethered the horses and passed around meager portions of bread and cheese. The meal was too late to be supper and too early to be breakfast, but it tasted wonderful just the same.
Isabail and Muirne were left alone as the men went about their tasks. Muirne’s thoughts had not eased on the long ride up the mountain. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. “They mean to rape and kill us,” she whispered.
“How can you know that?” asked Isabail. “They’ve not made any such threats.”
“You only need to look at the dark look on that one”—she pointed to the towering shape of the leader as he unsaddled the horses—“to know that we are doomed.”
Isabail’s stomach clenched. Muirne’s assessment had merit. Everything about the man was terrifying, from the daunting width of his shoulders to the grim set of his chiseled jaw. And her maid was correct—the scowl on his face did not bode well. But to admit the bend of her thoughts to Muirne would not calm the maid’s fears.
“The only reason for them to accost a noblewoman is to ransom her,” she said quietly but firmly. “They will not harm us for fear of losing their reward.”
“That may protect you, my lady, but it’ll no protect me,” muttered Muirne. “I’ll no see my Fearghus again. I can feel it in my bones.”
“You are seeing a badger where there is only a skunk,” chided Isabail. “The possibility of rescue yet remains. We are still on Grant land.”
Muirne frowned. “How can you be certain? We’ve journeyed several hours beyond sight of the castle.”
Isabail nodded toward the standing stone in the distance. It was too dark to see the Pictish symbols engraved on its surface, but the shape was very familiar. “I recognize that stone. We are but a short distance from the bothy my brother used as a respite stop during lengthier hunts.”
Her maid’s face lit up. “Och! Then we are saved. We can escape there and await the earl’s men.”
“Nay,” Isabail said sharply. “I will not risk the wrath of these men by attempting an escape. Our best option is simply to wait. They will ransom us soon enough.”
Her sharp tone drew the attention of one of the reivers. The heavyset fellow with the wiry dark beard stopped brushing the horses for a moment and stared at them. Neither woman dared to speak another word until he resumed his task.
“See?” hissed Isabail. “They watch us too closely. Escape is not possible.”
Muirne nodded and sat silent for a time, chewing on her bread and cheese. Although morn was surely only an hour or two away, the reivers laid bedrolls near the fire and offered two of them to the women. Isabail claimed her spot with trepidation. She had never passed a night under the stars without a tent overhead. It hardly seemed possible that she would be able to rest here now. Especially with the fierce face of the leader staring at her across the campfire. The flickers of the firelight added harsh shadows to an already grim countenance and left her with the distinct impression that he resented her, though heaven only knew why. She’d seen him for the first time just two days ago in the orchard. At the time, unaware that he was a villain and a cad, she had silently admired his physical form. Few men of her acquaintance sported such a blatantly muscular body, and he possessed a rather handsome visage for a heathen brute—the sort of sharply masculine features a woman does not soon forget.
He stood suddenly, and Isabail’s breath caught in her chest. By God,
he was huge. Dark and powerful, a veritable thunderstorm of a man. He tossed back one side of his fur cloak, revealing a long, lethal sword strapped to his side. Beneath the cloak, he wore a leather jerkin atop a dark lèine and rough leather boots, which hugged his calves. His clothing was common enough, but there was something decidedly uncommon about the man.
Perhaps it was the intensity of his glacial blue stare—neither of the other two held her gaze for more than a glance. Or perhaps it was the way he held himself, shoulders loose but firm, like he was a direct descendant of Kenneth MacAlpin himself. Lord of all he surveyed.
He glared at her and drew his sword.
Muirne shrieked and Isabail’s heart skipped a beat.
But the brute did not advance. With his gaze still locked on Isabail, he returned to his seat before the fire and began to clean his weapon.
It took long moments for Isabail’s heart to resume its regular rhythm. Not one word had been exchanged, but she had felt the weight of his blame as surely as if he’d unleashed a furious diatribe. In his mind, it would seem, she was the cause of his troubles.
Perhaps Muirne was right. Perhaps he had no intention of ransoming her. If his intent was vengeance for some imagined slight, he would be far more interested in extracting his pound of flesh than in keeping her safe and whole. Perhaps escape was a wiser option after all.
Isabail dove beneath the blankets provided by his men and lay on her side with her back to the fire. She could still feel the cold gaze of her captor, but she did her best to ignore it. The hunt camp was so very close. Yet how could they hope to reach it while under such intense scrutiny?
“The women are slowing us down,” one of the men muttered. “At this pace, it’ll take another full day to reach Dunstoras.”
Isabail froze. Dunstoras?
“That assumes the earl’s men don’t catch us first,” retorted another.
“You worry for naught,” said their leader crisply. “The earl’s men are a league behind us. They think we’re headed south. We’ll lose them when we turn west and descend into Strath Nethy.”