Highland Heart

by Heather McCollum

  Alec leaned forward, his gaze on her mouth as if following the path of the sweet fruit. He splayed his hands against the wall on either side of Rachel, trapping her close enough that she could feel the heat from his body. She inhaled and was assailed by his clean, masculine scent. His dark eyes watched her chew. She swallowed the sweet treat. His face moved closer and Rachel felt her heart beat a rapid song. She held her breath as the rough pad of his thumb traced her full bottom lip.

  “Ye’re welcome,” he murmured. The silence stretched as if he waited, but all the clever quips flew from her head as she memorized the pressure of his thumb that moved against her cheek. “Good eve.” Alec pulled away and clipped down the hall, leaving Rachel inhaling deeply over the wooden bowl of sugared raspberries.

  …

  “Why the hell is he riding here?” Alec grumbled. The last thing he needed was the priest’s suspicions and hell-burning sermons.

  “Father Daughtry rides with Colin Macleod of Lewis,” Phillip supplied with a shrug. “I think he was visiting the Macbains for a baptism.”

  “Let him know we are without any bairns to bless,” Alec said as he watched the stairs. It was well past dawn and Rachel still hadn’t emerged from her chamber. Would the lass hide away from him all day? “Phillip, have Fiona check on our lady guests and encourage them to come break their fast.”

  “Ask her yerself. I’ve a priest to thwart.” Phillip slapped Alec on his shoulder and trudged out the door.

  “I’ll run up,” Fiona called from the corridor near the stairwell.

  “Thank ye,” Alec said and drank some clear spring water as he contemplated exactly what to demand from William Brindle. The man had seemed more eager to leave behind a daughter than to pay the shillings he owed. Alec frowned over his tankard until the sound of slippers on the stairs pulled his gaze.

  Rachel wore a pale blue dress that sculpted against her lush figure, displaying all those ripe curves, just perfect for a man’s hand. The dress stood in lovely contrast to the dark curls shrouding her slim shoulders. She was petite but her stance was strong, making her seem taller, sturdy. Her long lashes were as dark as her hair and lay against her moonlight pale skin. She smiled in greeting.

  He stood, inhaling fully. “Good morn.” His gaze flicked to Isabelle and he bowed his head to her as well.

  “And good morn to ye, old friend,” came a booming voice from the doorway. Alec’s smile tightened and froze. He pivoted on one heel to face Colin Macleod. Tall and considered handsome by the lasses of Lewis and beyond, the man exuded a gentle strength that he usually held in reserve. Father Daughtry stood beside him, glancing around the hall. The ordained man was not much more than a score and ten years but had already started to develop the paunch of a well-fed clergyman. He’d recently fled the manic climate in England.

  Someone clomped from another corridor. “Good morning, Father,” Rachel called.

  “And to you,” William Brindle replied as he sat down at the table and began to devour a small loaf of oat bread.

  “And good morning to you, Father,” Isabelle called to the priest.

  Two fathers, neither of them wanted. Alec’s mood soured. Phillip came in behind them and Alec whipped a glare his way. Phillip shrugged and indicated a letter that Colin held.

  “Which one is Rachel?” Father Daughtry asked, his gaze perusing the rolls on the table.

  Rachel stepped closer, but Alec held up his hand. She actually stopped. He almost smiled. “What do ye want with Rachel Brindle?”

  Colin passed him the missive with the Macbain seal. “The Macbain is looking for her.”

  Alec unfolded the paper. “I know that. He sent a man last night and I replied.”

  The priest frowned. “Your reply is the problem.” His gaze fastened on Rachel. “You need to give her back.”

  Back? Alec’s jaw ached and he rubbed it. His chest tightened. “And why would I do that?”

  “Because,” Father Daughtry reprimanded, “she’s handfasted to Angus Riley.”

  “What?” Rachel exploded.

  Colin pulled his gaze from Isabelle to look at Rachel. “Ye’re married to Angus, lass, at least for a year and a day.”

  Chapter Six

  “But I barely spoke to the man,” Rachel fumed where she paced by the empty hearth.

  “You spent the night on Macbain land,” Father Daughtry replied and took a sip of ale.

  “In a cave on the mountain,” Rachel nearly yelled, but reined in her outrage when Isabelle touched her arm. “Without Angus Riley,” she added in a firm but softer tone.

  “You are but a woman,” the priest continued, and Rachel clamped her teeth shut. “A man must have been with you. How else did you escape Druim?”

  “I escaped by using my brain,” she responded evenly.

  “Rachel was with me.” Alec’s granite words filled the room. It was a simple statement but easily misinterpreted. Phillip smiled roguishly. Colin merely glanced at her from where he sat staring at Isabelle, who tried to pretend she wasn’t staring at him. Father Daughtry’s eyes gleamed with recrimination.

  “Whore,” her father hissed low, condemnation in his wild stare.

  The twang of steel sliding free broke through William’s sputtering. “Shut yer thieving, lying mouth else I cut yer tongue from it,” Alec growled, his sword a natural extension of his arm as he moved into a battle stance.

  Rachel stood rooted to the stone floor. Concern for her father’s life warred with fury that he’d judged her without any evidence or defense.

  “Rachel Brindle is as intact as when I found her on the mountain outside Druim,” Alec gritted out, his stare taking in the audience to her humiliation. “And if she says she was untouched at Druim, she was untouched. Angus Riley lies.” He held his sword until Father Daughtry finally nodded.

  “He comes here to claim her from ye,” Colin said. “Noon, Elspet’s meadow.”

  “That’s the best news I’ve heard today,” Alec said and sheathed his sword. “We’ll finish this.”

  “No,” Rachel said, exhaling. “I will not have blood spilled over me.”

  Alec’s eyes turned to her. They still held fury, but their blue depths softened. “It’s our way, lass.” He waved toward the large tapestry hanging on the wall, depicting the death scene that had started the feud a hundred years ago. “I will not have ye slandered, and I will not give ye up to those lying bastards.”

  She stepped closer to him, trying to make her eyes and face as hard as his. “Then I’m coming.” Her voice dropped. “To clean up whatever mess you all make.”

  If she couldn’t stop them from fighting, she could stop them from dying.

  …

  Rachel inhaled the light fragrance of heather and gorse on the summer breeze. The sun beat hard against the low clouds, breaking through to touch the bright green field. Elspet’s meadow, the place where Macbain and Munro would battle for a woman.

  Blasted dramatic Highlanders.

  Rachel frowned at the thick man who slid from his horse. Angus’s gaze sought her and his easy smile faltered when he found her. Did the man honestly think she welcomed his slander?

  “Are ye well?” Angus called across the space, where wildflowers danced in a swirling frenzy.

  Rachel tucked an errant curl back behind her ear. “I did not handfast with you, Angus Riley. I don’t even know you. Withdraw your ridiculous claim and walk away from this cursed field.”

  Another man, taller and broader, dismounted. He held the conceited look of authority. The Macbain. “Whether ye are aware or not, Angus Riley claimed ye when he brought ye to my castle. He took ye without force. Ye went along willingly.”

  Rachel snorted. “I was unconscious.”

  “When ye woke, ye did not ask to turn around.”

  She threw up her hands. “I did!”

  Isabelle placed a comforting arm around her shoulders. It was his word against hers.

  Alec stepped before her, sword in hand. Angus’s sword sang
out as he strode forward. A ray of sun broke through the clouds to shine down between the enemies, as if Elspet herself tried to bar them from making the same mistake they had a century ago. Rachel’s fingers dug into the back of Alec’s shirt. He turned toward her and lowered his sword. Angus lunged.

  “No!” Rachel screamed and twisted to block Alec. But Angus’s momentum was too great. The point of his sword lowered from his strike, but he couldn’t stop the thrust in time. Rachel gasped as hot pain ripped through her middle, piercing her intestines, slicing skin, veins, and muscles. The solid blade tore back out of her as he withdrew.

  “Nay!” Alec roared and caught her wilting body, cushioning it as she crumpled to the sunlit wildflowers. “Rachel! Nay!” His exhalations were fierce pants. “Do not leave me.”

  Alec’s words swam in her head, mixed with the clenching pain and spreading numbness. The tang of blood and bile covered the subtle aroma of summer. Rachel gasped, straining for air, and shivered.

  On the next ragged inhale she felt warmth. Heat wrapped around her middle and she blinked open. Alec stared down into her eyes. Deep emotion turned the blue darker, more intense. A brilliant array of lighter blue shot out from his large pupils. She reached a blood-streaked hand to his face.

  “Beautiful,” she whispered.

  “Hold on, Rachel,” he pleaded, and rubbed her hand along his warm cheek.

  Pain ebbed as the warmth of magic woke Rachel’s senses.

  A startled gasp came from Father Daughtry and several others gathered around. “She’s glowing.”

  Rachel assessed her body. Isabelle rested her hands near the wound. Her sister’s eyes were closed in concentration as she fed her magic into Rachel.

  “Isabelle?” William choked.

  Rachel reached for Isabelle’s hands at the same time she fed her own magic, now revived with the knitting of her worst wounds, throughout her body.

  “No, Father. It is me,” Rachel said.

  Isabelle met her eyes as Rachel nodded, a smile touching her lips. Isabelle removed her hands but the glow continued.

  “Witchery!” Father Daughtry clutched his heavy crucifix.

  Rachel heard murmurs around them, but Alec’s face blocked their view. “I’m sorry I distracted you again,” she whispered to him.

  He rolled his eyes and exhaled in a gust. With a full breath, his worry relaxed into a broad smile. “Bloody hell, thank ye Lord for magic.”

  Rachel smiled.

  His eyes closed for a brief moment as he shook his head, his smile turning grim. “I promise, Rachel, I’ll never let ye near danger again,” Alec swore and lifted her into his arms. She glanced at Isabelle—who leaned against Colin—and Colin nodded to Rachel, subtle appreciation and respect in his gaze.

  “We shall not suffer a witch to live,” Father Daughtry recited and clenched his rosary.

  “I would keep yer name calling to yerself,” Colin advised.

  Alec’s hard stare shot across the distance to pierce the cleric. Rachel glanced over Alec’s shoulder at the flabbergasted Macbains. Angus’s sword sagged, its blade dark with her blood, the tip lost in the green grass.

  “Go home, Macbains,” Alec growled without turning. “No one believes yer lies.” He paused, turning to stare hard at Angus. “Rachel Brindle is mine.”

  Rachel’s healed stomach fluttered, and she found it difficult to inhale fully. She could easily read the energy surging through Alec, muscles contracting with power, heart thudding in time with his footfalls. None of the telltale signs of falsehood—sweating, increased blinking, jump in heart rate—surfaced at his declaration.

  Her pulse quickened as she replayed his words: Rachel Brindle is mine. Did that make Alec Munro hers? Her hands slid to his well-muscled biceps.

  “Ye are well?” He spoke low.

  She nodded.

  They rode back to the keep in silence. Rachel leaned her head against his chest the entire way, listening to the steady thrum of his heart. Alec’s essence enveloped her: his clean masculine smell, his heat, his corded arms pulling her close into the shelter of his chest. Even his legs braced around her, supporting her easily without complaint.

  He lowered her gently to the ground in the bailey, as if she were still injured. She smiled at him. “I am well.”

  “Covered with yer own blood.”

  She laid her hand on his arm. “Truly, I am whole and well.” He nodded but his frown remained.

  Rachel insisted on returning to the great hall after changing another ruined gown. Between Father Daughtry’s condemnation and her father’s spluttering, she wasn’t about to sit above while they slandered her.

  “Never seen anything like it.” Father Daughtry shook his head. “Must be from the Devil.”

  “She prays.” Alec’s voice sounded annoyed. “’Tis a blessing from God. She saved my own life that day Angus stole her.”

  Rachel and Isabelle stepped into the great hall. Father Daughtry stared directly at her, his cross held tightly. “Have you fornicated with the Devil?”

  “I am a maid,” she replied, eyes wide.

  “With healing magic you could remake yourself a maid every day,” her father said, and Rachel gasped at his crudeness.

  Alec’s sword rang with promise as he leveled it with William’s throat. “The only reason yer heart does not bleed itself dry on the end of this blade is because it would distress yer daughter.”

  William’s eyes widened and he backed away.

  Alec brought his sword around to point at Father Daughtry. “She is not a witch and the only devil she will be consorting with is me.”

  Rachel opened her mouth then shut it. At least he hadn’t said fornicating.

  “The church may want to investigate this further,” Father Daughtry mumbled.

  “The church will need to go through me,” Alec said, his scowl so murderous the priest crossed himself.

  Phillip stepped beside Alec, and in front of Rachel. “And every warrior belonging to Clan Munro.”

  Colin stepped to the other side of Alec. “And Clan Macleod.”

  Rachel blinked several times. Never before had anyone defended her besides her sister. And now it seemed she had the protection of two Highland clans.

  After a battle of stares, Father Daughtry nodded and kissed his cross. “What, then, would you have me do? It is my duty to fight for your souls in this heathen land.”

  “Then bless us,” Alec said. “Our union.”

  Rachel turned to stone. Indignation warred with hope. Marriage? She barely knew Alec Munro. She’d dreamt of the handsome boy from the festival as she’d grown, making him into a gallant knight in her musings. But this was no dream, and real men were not gallant, knight or not. All the reasons she should be furious and appalled tumbled through her head.

  But…the thought of Alec, his warmth, his strength, his easy acceptance of her powers, warmed Rachel’s stomach and squeezed her heart.

  “What?” Her father’s face flushed.

  Alec sheathed his sword and pointed at him. “Ye, William Brindle, will give yer daughter, Rachel, to me.” He turned his sword to Phillip and Colin. “Ye two will witness.” He swiveled back around to Father Daughtry. “And ye will sanctify our marriage with yer bloody blessing.” For another long moment it seemed everyone else had turned to stone, until Phillip slapped Alec on the back, a smile on his roguish face.

  “And what would you have me do?” Rachel’s voice seemed small compared to Alec’s mighty roar—small but strong. She held her gaze steady as he turned to her.

  His face was still chiseled, jaw tight, eyes sparking. But his voice was gentler. “Ye will say ‘I do.’”

  Rachel met him with her own spark. “I haven’t heard a question.” With that she walked through the maze of statues to the doors and stepped into the summer breeze.

  She found the stables and entered the building’s warmth, breathing in the pungent smell of fresh hay. The large lashed eyes of several mares turned her way as they munched, tails
swishing. She leaned against the wooden wall. She barely had time to think before she heard his footfalls grinding into the pebbles of the bailey. She closed her eyes.

  The light crunching paused before her and she inhaled the clean masculine scent that was all Alec. “Rachel.” His voice started a shiver that catapulted through her body.

  She slowly opened her eyes and stared up at the massive Highland warrior.

  “Life flashes by too fast up here to waste time courting.”

  Rachel’s eyebrows rose. “Too fast for a simple question?” She propped hands on hips. “Let me teach you a little something about women, Alec Munro.” She leaned forward to stare up into his face. “You men may dream about your first battle, mentally preparing for it the moment you can walk. Well women dream about…” She suddenly felt foolish. Her hands slipped from her hips.

  Alec caught her chin. “What, Rachel, what have ye dreamed about since ye were a wee lass?”

  She pursed her lips and ignored the sting of moisture in her eyes. “The bloody question, delivered reverently by a gallant knight.”

  Alec ran his thumb over her cheekbone and grinned. “I’ll never be a gallant knight, Rachel.”

  “Agreed,” she sniffed, her eyes looking up to the ceiling for a moment before meeting his again. “Delivered, then, by a stubborn, domineering, overbearing mountain of a man.”

  His grin increased. “And here I was afraid ye would say ye didn’t even know me.”

  She glanced down. “I don’t.”

  His voice softened and he ran a finger over the scar. “I think ye do.” He paused. “And I know a lot about ye.” He ran fingers through her curls, encouraging that shiver to the tips of her toes. She braced her trembling legs against the wall. Alec’s dark blue eyes focused on hers. “I know ye are the bravest woman I have ever met.” He closed the scant distance between them. “I know ye trust me.”