“Aye, I will marry you. Will you marry me as well, Gwyneth?”
“Aye, that I will, lad,” she mimicked his Scottish burr and laughed, joy infusing her, head to toe, as it never had in her lifetime.
He chuckled. Then kissed her fierce and deep. The way he kissed her in memories and dreams. A kiss that possessed her mouth as his body would possess hers, with sensual power and driving force.
***
Donald MacIrwin couldn’t believe his and his clansmen’s cell door had just swung open, with a soft but ominous screech, in the middle of the night. It could not be morn for he had slept none, and only a few hours had passed. He arose from the filthy, damp, packed-earth floor. Were they to be hanged tonight? Icy fear washed over him, and his empty stomach ached. He turned and glanced through the dimness at his eldest son, in his mid-twenties, young, strong and fit. Donald was proud of the fearsome young man, cut from the same fabric as his da. If he couldn’t escape the hangman’s noose, he hoped John could. Though Donald had other sons, John was his favorite and would make the strongest leader for the clan.
“MacIrwins, come,” the guard whispered, holding a lantern aloft.
“What’s happening?” Donald asked. And why would the guard whisper?
“’Tis your lucky night. Someone has paid for your freedom. Keep your mouths shut,” he warned. “Or ’twill be declared a prison break, and you’ll be killed on sight.”
Someone paid their way out? How and who? Someone must have bribed the guards with a goodly amount of coin. Well, he wasn’t going to turn down such a generous offer.
“Come,” Donald whispered to his men, then crept from the cell. His clansmen silently followed him along the dank prison passageways and down stone steps. Finally, they arrived at a metal gate with bars. Another guard swung it open, and the MacIrwins stepped out into the cloudy night. A mist of rain hissed through the air, but the cool air smelled of freedom. He could barely contain his joy.
Southwick—or rather, the dispossessed Maxwell Huntley—stood nearby, holding a lantern.
“I thought you were in the tower, in London,” Donald said, approaching him. The Englishman did not appear as arrogant and flamboyant as he had on their first meeting. Now, his clothing was little more than grimy rags.
“Indeed, but my good friends helped me escape, just as they’ve helped you. In case you didn’t know, money will buy anything.”
Donald grunted. “Well, I must thank you for saving our lives.”
“Not yet. You are to earn it. I want my son back.”
Was the man a complete lunatic? “Why? You have no title or property.”
“I don’t give a damn. He is my son, and I will have him back.”
“You’re an outlaw, just as we are.”
“I want revenge.” Huntley said through clenched teeth. “I want that whorish Gwyneth dead, and her damned lover, Alasdair MacGrath. They have destroyed my life.”
“I’m in agreement on that.” Rage seethed through Donald’s veins when he thought of the two of them. “Revenge would be sweet right now.” Because of MacGrath, Donald had lost everything, and soon stood to lose his life, as did his oldest son.
“I know which inn they are staying at,” Huntley said. “We’ll slip in, kill them, grab the boy and leave. I’ll take you all to the continent with me. I have friends there who will help us.”
Sounded like a right pleasant alternative to being hanged in the morn. “Very well, my good man. Point the way.”
***
Gwyneth lay wrapped in Alasdair’s arms, dreaming of fairytales and happily-ever-after when something woke her. A sound that prodded her to full alert. The candle on the bedside table flickered low. She tried to sit up but Alasdair’s heavy arm prevented it.
“What was that?” she asked.
He shifted. “What?”
“I’m sure I heard something. Rory.” Icy fear poured down from her head to her ankles. “Rory called my name!” She struggled naked toward the edge of the bed and shoved her arms into her smock.
Alasdair yanked on a pair of trews. Bare-chested, he unsheathed his sword and strode toward the door. Hands trembling, Gwyneth snatched the sgain dubh from her corset lying on the floor and followed. Oh dear heaven, please let Rory be well. She never should’ve left him with the maid in a room down the hall.
“Stay behind me,” Alasdair whispered.
“Yes. Hurry.”
A pistol fired and a section of door around the lock splintered. They jerked back. The surge of fear near chocked her.
“Get down!” Alasdair urged her backward. “Stay in the corner.”
Who was that, and what was going on? With her back against the wall, she gripped the knife, her pulse roaring in her ears.
The door swung back. Her distant cousin John MacIrwin stood in the opening, sword raised. Good lord, he’s escaped! He was supposed to go on trial tomorrow, along with Donald—his father—and several other clan members. Where was Donald? Please God, don’t let him hurt Rory.
John’s wild blue gaze lit on Gwyneth. “Da! The whore is in here!”
Alasdair darted forward and knocked the broadsword from John’s hand, then bashed his hilt against John’s head. He crashed against the wall and slid to the floor. Another kilted MacIrwin leapt into the room and engaged Alasdair in swordplay. Steal clashed and tinged, deafening in the close space.
Alasdair faked out his opponent and stabbed his blade into the MacIrwin clansmen’s gut. “Omach!” The man doubled forward, and pitched to the floor, howling.
John finally recovered his sword, pushed to his feet and launched an attack against Alasdair. The whacking blades smashed into each other by the second as the two men thrust and blocked.
John’s blade nicked Alasdair’s forearm and blood ran forth. Clearly, it was more than a nick.
No! God, I beg of You, protect Alasdair. Near frozen in place, Gwyneth bit into her fist.
John’s foot bumped into his dying comrade on the floor and he wavered, almost losing his balance. Alasdair took advantage of this weakness and sliced his blade across John’s throat. Gwyneth closed her eyes against the spurting blood.
Swords clanged out in the corridor, amid a din of shouting, cursing and crashes.
“Stay here!” Alasdair leapt over the two dying men and charged into the corridor.
Had he gone mad? Rory needed her. She jumped over the MacIrwins lying in pools of their own blood and chased after Alasdair.
“Ma!” Her son’s cry sounded as if it came from the same room where she’d left him with the maid earlier. She prayed no one had gotten to him.
“Rory?” She tried to dash past Alasdair.
He flung his arm out and held her back. “Wait!” He darted a quick glare of warning her way, then faced the enemies again.
In the dim corridor before them, lit only by two near burned-out candles in wall sconces, Padraig fought a MacIrwin she’d seen but didn’t know. Further along, Angus rained a flurry of sword strikes against Donald’s blade.
She had to move past them to reach Rory.
“MacIrwin!” Alasdair yelled in a dangerous tone of challenge.
The enemy closest to them faltered and cast a glower at Alasdair. In that instant of distraction, Padraig’s blade struck the man’s chest. Blood spread through the white linen of his shirt.
Cursing, he attempted to block Padraig’s next blow, but the move was useless. Padraig’s sword shoved through muscle and ribs with the sickening sound of bone breaking. The man screamed out and slid to the floor.
Gwyneth covered her ears, hating violence as much as she always had. “I must get to Rory!” she told Alasdair. “Will you help me?”
“Out of our way, MacIrwin.” Alasdair advanced.
“Go to hell! And take that traitorous whore with you!”
Alasdair raised his sword and drew a small but threatening circle in the air. Donald’s eyes widened when he realized he was blocked, with Angus behind him and Alasdair in front.
“’Tis not a good time to be insulting my future wife. Would you rather hang tomorrow or die by the sword tonight?”
Madness entered Donald’s eyes. He rushed Alasdair, shoving his sword upward and knocking Alasdair’s blade aside at the last moment, though he retained his grip on it.
Gwyneth flattened herself against the wall. Donald lumbered past her. Alasdair switched places with her, and faced Donald again.
Seeing her chance, she darted along the passage. “I’m going to Rory.”
“Let me finish him, lad.” Angus stalked forward. “I’ve wanted to do this for your father since the day the MacIrwins murdered him. And I owe this pile of cac for the death of my son.”
“Aye, me, too,” Padraig seethed, his arm and chest bleeding.
“See that you do the job well.” Alasdair’s footsteps thumped behind Gwyneth as she dashed along the corridor.
Rory’s shrill cry sounded behind the door where she’d left him earlier with the maid watching over him. Terrified of what she’d find inside, Gwyneth paused outside the door and grasped the knob.
Alasdair nudged Gwyneth aside and, shielding her with his body, flung the door open.
A dagger’s blade glinted at her son’s throat. And Maxwell Huntley, the former marquess of Southwick, held it there in a gloved hand. How could he? That was his son.
Paralysis gripped her, forcing all the breath from her lungs. Darkness threatened.
Alasdair grabbed onto her and brought her to her senses.
Rory is not hurt yet. I must get him away from that devil.
“Ma! He killed Anna!” Rory pointed toward the bed in the far corner and the still form covered in a blanket.
Their maid. “God help us,” Gwyneth whispered.
“What do you want?” Alasdair demanded of the knave.
“Your black heart on a golden platter,” Huntley sneered.
“Let the wee lad go and I’ll fight you, man to man.”
“First, I want her dead.” He sent a poison glare at Gwyneth. “You steal everything I have and give it to her.”
“Nay, the king gave the estate to your son, as you wanted.”
“It is not what I wanted now! Fifty years down the road, yes. He’s still a sniveling child. Besides, my title that I wanted him to have is forfeit. And her… What a whore you are, my lady.”
“Unhand Rory this instant! He’s an innocent child.”
“But you are not—innocent, that is. You have just come from swiving the filthy Scot.”
Rory slammed his foot hard against Huntley’s toes.
“Ouch! You little shit!”
Alasdair rushed forward. He grabbed Huntley’s knife hand and shoved him against the wall.
Rory tumbled forward into Gwyneth’s arms. Oh, thank God. She dragged him away.
Alasdair’s sword clattered to the floor as the two men fell.
She glanced up to find them rolling on the floor, grappling for the dagger in Huntley’s hand.
“Heavens!” She pushed Rory into the corner beside a chest. “Stay there.”
Refusing to let Huntley have the upper hand, and with Alasdair’s arm injured besides, she gripped her sgain dubh and moved Alasdair’s sword from her pathway. She had saved his life once; she would do it again.
Rolling on top, Huntley squalled and sliced his dagger at Alasdair’s throat. Alasdair held him off. Their hands on the knife bobbed in the air.
Gwyneth leapt onto Huntley’s back and sliced her knife across his arm. “Turn him loose!”
With an elbow, he flung her off him. “Bitch! I’ll kill you for that!”
She stumbled backward, realizing her knife wasn’t big enough. She threw it down and picked up Alasdair’s basket-hilted, bloodied broadsword. Heaven help me. Can I use one of these? It was heavier than she’d expected.
Alasdair shoved his knee upward and threw Huntley off. At the last moment, he dragged his blade across Alasdair’s bare chest. Blood poured from the fresh cut. Alasdair kicked the knife from his hand.
Huntley pulled a pistol from his doublet. No! Gwyneth charged him with the sword. The blade pierced through Huntley’s belly and drove into the wall behind him.
He screamed.
Alasdair snatched the pistol from Huntley’s hand before he could use it.
Gwyneth released the sword and backed away. What have I done? I have killed a man.
Huntley crumpled to the floor cursing, writhing and trying to pull the blade from his belly. Blood gushed from his wound and his hands.
A sob clogged in her throat. Not because Huntley was dying. But because she had been forced to kill a person. “I had to,” she told Alasdair. She’d had to protect the man she loved. And her son.
“Aye, you did good, my wee warrior.” Alasdair gathered her to him and pressed her face to his shoulder. But his wound was bleeding badly.
“Your chest,” she gasped. “And your arm.”
“Don’t worry. I’m well.”
Angus barged into the room. “Donald MacIrwin is dead!”
Alasdair turned. “I thank you, Angus. ’Twas an act of justice. My father will no doubt rest in peace now.”
Gwyneth whispered a prayer of gratitude that they were safe at last.
Rory tugged at their arms and Alasdair picked him up.
Tears of happiness, gratitude and a hundred other emotions burned Gwyneth’s eyes.
“I knew you would come,” Rory said. “I knew you would!” He buried his face against Alasdair’s neck and hugged him tight.
“Och, lad. You are like a son to me.” He drew Gwyneth against him once again. “My family has been returned to me.”
***
Four days later, Gwyneth rode pillion behind Alasdair, her arm around his waist. The thick cushion beneath her derriere made the ride quite comfortable.
The blueness of the sky hurt her eyes, and the crisp, hay-scented air soothed her senses. To the north, ridges and hills foretold of the majestic Highlands to come. Indeed, she was going home with the man she loved.
Home with my fierce Highlander.
When she could not contain her joy, a chuckle escaped. I am the luckiest woman on earth to be blessed with such a man. She slipped her fingers between the buttons of Alasdair’s doublet and, below his healing wound, gently stroked his chest through the linen shirt. She could scarce go five minutes without touching him to reassure herself he was truly here with her.
He cast a sly glance back at her. “You’re a naughty lass,” he murmured too low for the others to hear.
A thrill shot through her. “Maybe so, but you taught me to be that way.”
He chuckled.
She turned to see if anyone was watching. Rory rode with Angus. And the rest of the clansmen traveled along with them, too, some in front and some further back. She’d also brought a governess and a tutor for Rory. Losing her maid had been a terrible blow. She was a sweet woman who had been so good with Rory. When Maxwell Huntley had broken into their darkened room, he’d probably thought Anna was Gwyneth and slit the maid’s throat.
With these dark thoughts, Gwyneth fought back the fear that gripped her and reminded herself it was over. Huntley could no longer hurt any of them. Nor could Donald.
It had taken four days to deal with the authorities and the dead bodies, a funeral and proper burial for Anna. None of the MacGrath clansmen had been killed, thank God, though she’d had to see to their many wounds.
Two of her MacIrwin cousins had survived the skirmish in the inn. Before they’d been hanged, they confessed that Maxwell Huntley had known Gwyneth was traveling to Edinburgh to testify against Donald MacIrwin. He knew Alasdair would be there and that this was his last chance for revenge before he planned to flee to Spain with Rory. Huntley’s wealthy friends in London had helped him escape the Tower. He’d sailed north and bribed the guards to free the MacIrwins.
“And where is Lachlan?” Gwyneth asked Alasdair.
“You haven’t heard?” He laughed. “You won’t believe wh
at a tangle Lachlan has gotten himself into.”
“Tell me.”
“Och! ’Twould take all day.”
“You can tell me tonight, then, in our tent.”
“I will be too busy to speak of Lachlan tonight.” He winked.
She pinched him. “Are you certain? Mayhap I will be too sore from riding to move tonight.”
He sent her a wicked grin. “I ken well how to soothe your aches, m’lady.”
***
Look for My Wild Highlander, (Lachlan’s story) next in the series.
Lady Angelique Drummagan, a half-Scottish, half-French countess, has suffered much pain and betrayal in her past. She wants nothing to do with the sensual Scottish warrior that the king has ordered her to marry because the rogue could never be a faithful husband, but she has little choice in the matter. Dangerous, greedy enemies threaten her from all sides and she’s in dire need of his protection.
Sir Lachlan MacGrath, known as Seducer of the Highlands, possesses a charming wickedness and canny wit which has earned him much popularity. After the king decrees that he wed the fiery hellion, Lachlan discovers there is one woman who can resist him—Angelique. Can he break through her icy façade and melt her heart, or will the dark secrets lurking in her past not only cost them their future together, but their very lives?
The Highland Adventure Series by Vonda Sinclair
My Fierce Highlander
My Wild Highlander
My Brave Highlander
My Daring Highlander
***
About the author: Vonda Sinclair’s favorite indulgent pastime is exploring Scotland, from Edinburgh to the untamed and windblown north coast. She also enjoys creating hot, Highland heroes and spirited lasses to drive them mad. She is an EPIC Award winner, a past Golden Heart finalist and Laurie award winner. She lives with her amazing and supportive husband in the mountains of North Carolina where she is no doubt creating another Scottish story. Please visit her website to learn more.
www.vondasinclair.com
My Fierce Highlander Page 29