A Lord for the Lass

by Amalie Howard

  “She’s worth that much to ye?” Colin asked.

  “More.”

  Colin kicked Makenna so hard in the backs of her legs that she stumbled to her knees, but he didn’t release his grip in her hair. The claymore lowered to his side. “You have one week to transfer the assets. She stays here until it’s done.”

  “Agreed, but one of mine, Captain Dubois, the Earl of Cranston, remains with her for her safety.”

  “Julien, nae,” she begged. “I’m no’ worth losing everything.”

  “You are,” he said, feeling lighter than he ever had in his whole life. “And if you do not know that by now, then I’ll have to remind you of it every day.”

  “He’s lying,” she said. “He willnae honor his word.”

  “If we’re done with all the claptrap—”

  His words were cut off as a ginger-haired child trudged into the hall carrying a tray. At first glance, Julien realized she wasn’t a child, but a young woman. Her hair color reminded him of Makenna’s. She was unarmed but for the silver tray with a glass of whisky on it. “Apologies, my laird. I heard ye wanted a drink.”

  “Come, Una. I’m parched.”

  The girl kept her eyes downcast. Julien saw Makenna’s eyes flick to her, recognition kindling in them, but neither woman made any move to communicate. Colin released Makenna’s hair, the point of his sword at her back, and took the glass. He drank its contents in one gulp.

  “To our agreement then,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Una bowed but did not leave the hall. Instead, she watched the laird with a hooded gaze, something like defiance and hate warring in them. Several more women entered. They varied in age, but they were all beautiful. Colin did not notice their arrival immediately, but when he did, his eyes narrowed.

  “What is this? Get out, all of ye.” They did not move, and the laird’s scowl darkened. “Are ye deaf? I said leave the fu—”

  His words turned into a shocked gurgle as his entire body went tense. Tremors wracked his body. A hacking cough left his mouth, spittle flying everywhere, and the wheezing sound of his breathing filled the hall.

  He pointed at Una, clawing at his neck. “What…did…ye…do?”

  The sword clattered out of his grip as his hands scrabbled at his throat, his eyes bulging. White foam flecked at the corners of his mouth as he staggered back, and his legs gave out from beneath him. It only took a minute, but a trickle of blood fell from his lips, his skin turning blue as whatever poison he’d ingested killed him. Makenna watched with wide eyes from where she crouched on the floor.

  Julien’s gaze swung to the girl, who was now surrounded by the women, their faces hard. The girl who had brought the drink had to be no more than fifteen. She was dressed in fine clothing that marked her as a noble, a Brodie tartan draped over her shoulder. She looked young, but the dead stare in her eyes spoke of a much older girl. They had done this on purpose. She had done this. When Colin finally stopped shuddering and his body went still, she retraced her steps.

  “Bastard,” she snarled and spit on Colin’s corpse. Julien darted forward, wondering what the girl intended and whether she meant Makenna harm, but Makenna held up a hand. The girl knelt beside her. “I dunnae ken how you bore yer burden for so many years, my lady, but I was strong because of ye. He took what was no’ freely given and ruined me. Then he killed my father.” She pointed at the silent women standing nearby. “The women and Lady Arabel all spoke of ye, and yer courage. But when we heard ye were here, that ye had come back to save Arabel’s boy, we kenned that the time had come for us to make a stand. To fight with ye and for ye.”

  “Who are you?” Julien asked.

  “The laird’s mistress.” Una swallowed. “We all are.”

  He blinked. “How old are you?”

  “I turned fourteen summers last month, my lord.”

  Julien’s hands shook with his rage and disgust. His eyes jerked to the women, some of whom were weeping. He did not want to know what they’d endured. What this child had endured. Knowledge swirled in Makenna’s eyes, however, and it nearly demolished him.

  “Thank ye, Una,” Makenna said to her before Julien gathered her into his embrace. “Thanks to all of ye.”

  He stank of blood and sweat, and he was covered in grime, but hell, he was never going to let her out of his sight or out of his arms if he could help it. Murmuring those promises to her, he scooped her up and walked toward the keep’s entrance.

  “Did he hurt you?” Julien asked.

  “Nae. But ye, Julien, yer wound—”

  “I’m going to be fine,” he assured her, kissing her temple. “In fact, I don’t know if I’ve ever felt better.”

  Ronan and Niall met them at the front, the relief in their eyes great as they took in the scene of the dead man behind Makenna and Julien. Niall’s eyes flicked to the silent group of women who followed in their footsteps, with Una close behind. “Who had the pleasure of killing him?”

  “The lass,” Makenna said, glancing back at the Brodie women gathered behind her, the pride evident in her voice. “But they planned it together. It’s because of them that he’s dead, that we’re free.”

  “Thank ye, all,” Niall said to them, squeezing his sister’s hand, and then nodded to Julien. “The rest of his men have surrendered.”

  Makenna frowned up at her older brother. “Ronan, how did ye come to be here with an army? Did Lord Cranston reach ye in time?”

  “Cranston?”

  “Max,” she said.

  Ronan laughed. “The pirate, Dubois? He was lucky he didnae get his head removed. But I’d already become suspicious that we hadnae heard from ye. We’d heard the news of the laird’s death—it’s why I returned early. We received letters that ye wanted to stay, but Aisla wouldnae believe a word of it. She wrote ye a dozen letters, and never received a response. And well, ye ken how stubborn Niall’s wife is.”

  Niall nodded. “Aisla kept insisting that we check on ye ourselves, and wouldnae rest until we sent a man to Brodie. Lo and behold, he returned with news that the new laird was searching for ye. Imagine our surprise to learn that our sweet older sister was on the run and in hiding from her own clan for murder.”

  “It wasnae as bad as all that,” Makenna said, hiding her face in Julien’s neck. “And I didnae kill Graeme.”

  “Ronan, the hothead, wanted to go to war, but I convinced him that a few dozen men would be enough and faster,” Niall explained. “Then the Earl of Cranston arrived with confirmation of what we’d heard, and so here we are.” He patted Julien on the shoulder. “Though we didnae expect to hear of yer marriage.”

  Julien tensed, waiting for the challenge to come, now that the real danger had passed. Niall had made his position more than clear about how he felt where Julien was concerned. “It was the only way I could think of to keep her safe,” he said. “As a marquess.”

  “Aye, Aisla explained the significance of what ye did to protect Makenna,” Ronan said. “We are in yer debt.”

  Julien blinked at the unspoken offer of acceptance. “I think we’re even.”

  “Where’s Malcolm?” Makenna blurted. “Is he safe?”

  At that moment, the doors to the hall crashed open and a small streak of a boy rushed toward them. Malcolm flung himself against Julien’s legs, and he had to let Makenna down to drag the lad into her arms. Julien’s heart had never felt more full as he gathered the two of them close.

  More bodies crowded the entrance. Julien recognized Sorcha Montgomery, the scarred Maclaren sister, who was married to the Duke of Glenross. The stable master turned duke followed behind his fierce duchess, a morose expression on his face as he turned to survey the courtyard behind him and the dead laird inside the hall.

  “What’s the matter, Brandt?” Sorcha asked, glancing up at him.

  Brandt shook his head. “Why do we always seem to miss all the fun?”

  Julien couldn’t help it. He laughed until tears poured down his cheeks
and his injured side began to ache. He laughed until his in-laws stared at him strangely, but Makenna watched him with empathy in her eyes as if she understood.

  Good Lord, but his life had taken on an ironic twist. He’d chosen poverty over his own security. Agreed to give away every franc of his fortune for a woman. Saddled with an English title he’d sworn never to accept. Vowed to live alone, and now, here he was surrounded by a bunch of bloodthirsty Highlanders he’d had the fortune, or misfortune, to marry into.

  Looking at the happiness on his wife’s face, Julien wouldn’t have it any other way.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The first thing to be done, after Colin was dead and the rest of the Brodie clansmen had lain down their weapons and surrendered, was to get her husband to Celia. The older woman in the village had, on occasion, tended to Makenna’s ills, and as soon as the chaos at the keep had calmed to a simmer, she called for a two-wheeled cart to be brought for Julien.

  “I can sit a horse, Makenna,” he protested as one of the Maclaren lads did as ordered and fetched a cart, half filled with straw.

  “Ye can barely stand,” she replied, even though it wasn’t true. Julien was not swaying in the least, and it looked as if the blood had stopped seeping from his rib wound. But all she could see was that dirk plunging into his body, the bright expression of shock and pain that had spread across his handsome face.

  Julien took his horse by the traces and pulled himself up into his saddle. He winced and paled, but the stubborn man still flashed a smirk, pleased to have proved her wrong. Beside her, Malcolm giggled. She sighed, but didn’t have it in her to be upset. He and Malcolm were safe, and for now, she would count her blessings.

  Ronan touched Makenna’s arm, his fingers grasping her elbow lightly. “We’ll take care of things here. Ye can leave the lad with me.”

  Her brother’s face was splattered with blood, sweat, and dirt, making him appear his usual, fierce self. It was his eyes that held a rare touch of tenderness. The color of a stormy Highland sky, Ronan’s eyes had the dual ability to make the blood of his enemy run cold, or to reassure with a steady, placid look. Right now, they made Makenna feel safe, and she knew Malcolm would be in competent hands. A surge of emotion filled her.

  “Ye came,” she said, more words than that failing her.

  Colin was dead. He was gone, and she and Malcolm and Julien were safe, because of Ronan and Niall and the rest of the Maclaren warriors.

  “Did ye expect any different?” Ronan’s eyes darkened. “Ye should have come to us, Makenna.”

  She knew she would have to explain her reasons for staying away from Maclaren while Colin searched for her, but Julien still looked pale upon his horse. Ronan nodded. “See to him. We’ll discuss it later.”

  She mounted her horse and led Julien toward the village. Ronan assigned a few Maclaren men to accompany them, but as they rode the short distance to the collection of homes and shops, they met with no trouble. Women and children had emerged from wherever they’d been taking shelter during the commotion at the keep, and they blinked and stared in awe as Makenna cantered toward the thatch-roofed hut that stood near a small garden plot.

  “Is the laird dead, my lady?” one woman asked, her hands clutching the small shoulders of a young girl.

  “Aye,” Makenna answered, warily.

  The woman closed her eyes as tension leaked out of her like water through a sieve. She released her daughter’s shoulders and wrapped her into an embrace. “All will be well now,” she said to the girl, then with a glance up at Makenna and Julien, “Thank ye, my lady. Thank ye.”

  She turned and hurried toward another handful of women while Makenna kept toward the hut.

  “None of them mourn him,” Julien observed as she came to a stop and dismounted. He stumbled a little as he did the same, and Makenna rushed to shore up his side. Feeling his weight against her was an instant reminder of everything she had nearly lost. She felt that same relief she’d just witnessed in the village woman’s face. Makenna held Julien close.

  “Neither him nor Graeme, I suspect,” she replied.

  The door to the hut opened. “Lady Makenna, is that ye?”

  Celia Brodie ushered them into her home and set to work on Julien immediately. Celia, a McClintock by blood, had come to the Brodie as a young bride, and had become Graeme’s father’s trusted healer. Whenever Celia would come to the keep to treat the injuries Graeme had inflicted upon Makenna, she would talk of the previous laird. He hadn’t been cruel, and the Brodies had thrived. They’d been a good and happy clan. Now, as she cleansed Julien’s wound, sutured it, and then applied a salve to stave off sepsis, she spoke in a trembling voice.

  “He was a cruel man, Graeme, and his cousin was all the worse, if ye could even imagine it possible. To challenge either of them was to die, and no’ in any sort of honorable way.”

  Makenna understood too well. She’d seen proof of herself in the courtyard, when Colin had ordered those five men killed for questioning him. Graeme had played games of power and manipulation as well. And there had been many, like Gregor, who’d been all too willing to join them.

  “We prayed, my lady, fer yer safe keeping once ye escaped. Lady Arabel suspected Colin had been involved in Laird Graeme’s murder, not ye, and she’d wanted to help prove it. But she was too ill, and she needed to protect her boy from Colin. I helped her as much as I could, but I’m so glad she found ye, my lady…she kenned Malcolm would be safe with ye. All those years, and ye never cowered from the laird’s treatment. Yer strength…it gave us hope…” Celia broke off, and Makenna placed a hand on the old woman’s shoulder, while Julien’s eyes clouded. It was the mention of her ill treatment. Makenna had seen that look cross his face before.

  “I couldnae reply to yer letter, the one ye sent with that Scotsman from Duncraigh. I was being watched, ye ken. They suspected ye’d had help escaping and were watching the women, especially after Arabel disappeared.”

  “Ye did what ye could,” she said to Celia. “And now it’s over.”

  The Brodie had the chance to return to what it had once been.

  The healer finished bandaging Julien’s ribs, and nodded. “Ye’ve set us free, my lady.”

  Makenna was overwhelmed. First the women in the keep, and young Una, who’d served Colin the poisoned whisky, and now the woman outside and Celia… She’d had no idea so many Brodies had secretly admired her and hoped for her well-being. The years she’d spent trapped at the keep and watched closely whenever she’d go out into the village, she’d assumed the clanspeople felt nothing but indifference for her. But she’d been wrong. She’d been wrong about so many things. Like how swiftly and decisively the Maclarens had cut down Colin and his supporters. Ronan wanted to know why she hadn’t gone to him straight off, and now she questioned her choice. She’d wanted to protect them, but perhaps she should have had more faith in them and their ability to protect themselves. Or to protect her.

  She’d lived in fear for so long—like Celia and the rest of the clanspeople here—that she’d been unable to separate herself from it. To have hope and to trust in others. Isolation had translated to safety. As Celia spoke of several honorable Brodie men who might make for a fine laird while Malcolm came of age, she felt her spirits—so high just moments before—begin to falter. If she’d gone to Maclaren instead of Duncraigh, would things have turned out better? Perhaps fewer men on both sides would have died. Tildy wouldn’t have needed to kill Douglas. Or tried to kill her. She still couldn’t comprehend her maid’s betrayal, and felt herself sinking further.

  Julien sought out her hand from where he lay on a cot before Celia’s hearth, and wove his fingers through hers. It was all she needed to feel grounded again.

  But she was also reminded that, had she gone to Maclaren instead of Duncraigh, Julien would never had needed to accept the title he so loathed, or marry her. He’d told her he loved her, and in the standoff with Colin, he’d been willing to give his entire fortune away to s
ecure her safety. But now, the commotion was over. She was no longer in danger.

  The uncertainty of what would happen next pressed in on Makenna from all sides as Julien dressed. With a disappointed sigh, he tossed his revolting waistcoat into Celia’s hearth. Makenna wanted to laugh, but it wouldn’t form. Things at Brodie were finished, for now at least, and as she and Julien and Malcolm, along with Lord Cranston, his men, and the rest of the Maclarens, including Sorcha and Brandt, rode toward Duncraigh, she grappled with the choices that lay before her.

  She was indeed Lady Riverley, however it had been a marriage of strategy. And she had not lied to Colin—an annulment was entirely possible. Would Julien, now that life was about to smooth and slow once again, begin to see the practicality of seeking one out? Was that what she wanted? Makenna certainly had not lain awake at night these last few weeks dreaming of becoming Julien’s wife. His lover, perhaps, but she had not even allowed herself to explore that freely, not when she’d been living day to day in the hopes that Colin would not find her and Malcolm.

  Now that her life was to be her own again, she had every opportunity to do…whatever it was she wanted. There was no question that she loved Julien, and that he in turn felt something for her. More than just something. He hadn’t declared it. But he’d been willing to die for her. To slide back into near poverty for her. But honor wasn’t love, and Julien had always intimated that such a sentiment wasn’t for him. Makenna knew how he felt about his father and his parents’ relationship. He would never allow himself to be that vulnerable.