Sins of the Highlander (A Highland Erotic Romance)

by Dawn Halliday

  He went down on one knee and bowed his head, all the while laughing inside at the perverse hilarity of this entire scenario. “I humble myself before you, my lady. I was wrong to disparage your virtue. Of course, you are in mourning and would never disgrace your late husband in such an ungodly, sinful fashion. Forgive me.”

  She fumed. He imagined tendrils of smoke curling from her ears. Oh, how she despised him.

  He rose and turned to the laird. “Forgive me, Your Grace. My words were rash.”

  Keeping his head bowed, Gilbert raised his eyes. The laird cocked his head in acknowledgement, but Gilbert saw a new glint in those blue eyes—a glint of distrust he didn’t like. He released what he hoped sounded like a long-suffering sigh.

  “Well, then. I shall raise Walter’s son as if he shared my own blood. I shall raise him to be the worthiest of masters of Dornoch. If it is a daughter, I shall raise her to be virtuous and honorable, and I shall join with you, John Mackenzie, to one day seek the worthiest man to be the husband of the heiress of Dornoch.”

  The laird’s eyes widened a fraction. “Does this mean you still wish to honor our contract?”

  “Of course.” Gilbert sighed again. “Dornoch is a great loss to me, of course. But I shall take consolation in the soft, lovely flesh of my beautiful new bride.”

  Aileen shuddered and he hid his smile behind his hand as he feigned a cough. Oh, this was going to be fun.

  Actually it was better news that he could have hoped for. Aileen Munro wasn’t barren, as was widely believed. He couldn’t wait to impregnate her himself, to have a bevy of legitimate sons join his household of bastards.

  And as for the babe she allegedly carried, well, it wouldn’t be a problem. Infants were so very fragile.

  ***

  Niall rode alone. A cold drizzle fell over his shoulders in the waning afternoon light. The reins automatically guided his horse in the southeasterly direction of Edinburgh, but he scarcely noticed.

  He had done the right thing, the strong thing. For honor and integrity, he had sacrificed a forbidden love and walked away from their sin.

  Why, then, did it feel so wrong?

  In his heart, Niall knew that despite his loyalty to the laird, despite standing beside the Mackenzie through every battle of the Four Years’ War, he had done nothing for the laird compared to the feat Gilbert Dunbar had accomplished. Dunbar had bound the laird to a powerful Lowland earl. That action surely earned Dunbar the prize of Aileen and Dornoch.

  That was what it boiled down to in the end. Niall didn’t deserve her.

  In the increasing downpour, he pulled his plaid more tightly about him. Since he had left Aileen, warmth had escaped him. From his experience traveling on this road, he knew that the next town was no more than five miles away, but at the pace he was traveling it would be well after dark by the time he reached it.

  It didn’t matter.

  He had sacrificed Aileen’s happiness for his honor. But what was honor if it emptied his soul?

  Suddenly, the silvery ears of his battle-seasoned mount pricked forward. Listening intently, Niall heard it too. Faint, far off in the distance, men shouted, and then came the unmistakable sound of clanking weapons. Swords clashing.

  Battle.

  Niall spurred his horse. The animal was more than willing to comply, eager to join the fray.

  As the sounds of battle grew louder, Niall wondered who was attacking whom, and why? Most likely it was highwaymen, attacking some unsuspecting group of travelers.

  The scene came into focus like the fog-tinged vision of a dream. It was late in the battle—only a few men still stood. A rich caravan with what appeared to be a black-lacquered covered wagon in the center glistened in the downpour. A crest on its side shone gold. Fallen men, their bodies spackled with mud and blood, littered the scene. They’d fought to the death for whatever that wagon held.

  Panicked horses reared against their tethers. Screams of pain from men and animals. Bedraggled, unarmored men fighting from hacks rather than trained warhorses like his own. They would not have been accompanying such a fine conveyance. They were the enemy.

  As with anyone hardened by a lifetime of violence, the transition from man to warrior happened seamlessly. With a hiss, his claymore slid from its sheath. As one, Niall and his mount threw themselves into the fight.

  A stream of mud dribbled down a fallen man’s mail shirt. Though half-hidden in the mud, the shape of the man’s jaw was familiar.

  There was no time to think of that now. Gritting his teeth, Niall spurred his horse and took the first robber by surprise, slicing off his arm before the man knew what hit him. The thief fell from his horse, screaming.

  Men came at him from all sides. Niall’s senses flared, perceiving everything around him—smells of blood and mud and rain, screams and shouts, the sound of the horses’ hooves, the clashing of weapons. Though not as well-equipped as their prey, these thieves were competent. A club smacked his rib. Red edged his vision, but his finely tuned senses didn’t fail him. As smooth and fluid as water streaming from a bottomless goblet, Niall stabbed and sliced, dodged and parried.

  He wanted to live. If he died today, he would never have the opportunity to see Aileen again. Hold her. Make love to her. Make things right by her.

  The blood of a warrior filled Niall’s veins. He was a fighter. A soldier. A man of honor. Why hadn’t he fought for her?

  He was a bloody fool.

  A man came at him, shouting in rage. Face twisted with effort, he swung his sword at Niall’s head. Deftly, Niall ducked the blow and thrust his claymore into the man’s gut. As that one collapsed, screaming, another approached from behind.

  For Aileen.

  Almost magically, Niall heard every hoofbeat of the horse whose rider was intent on killing him. Niall’s horse sidestepped and veered, giving him the perfect angle to swing a deathblow to the man’s neck.

  And so it went.

  Then, through the battle haze in his brain, Niall heard a distant shout.

  “Go! Fall back! Retreat!”

  Hooves pounded as the few remaining criminals scattered to the four winds. Niall chased one of them, but turned back when the man’s horse disappeared into the brush. Better to stay close to the scene to help anyone who remained.

  It was over. Silence, except the wild snorting noises his mount made. Pressing his hand to his aching ribs, Niall turned in a circle, scanning the carnage. Everywhere around him, bodies lay in the mud. Horses shuffled and whickered, some streaked with the blood of their riders.

  Surely the thieves hadn’t killed everyone. Surely he couldn’t be the only one still standing.

  But he was. In growing panic, he searched the scene. Everything was still. How could it be?

  Clenching his teeth against the pain in his side, he dismounted and tethered his horse. Only now did he notice the gilded coat of arms on the wagon. The Mackenzie crest. These men had belonged to the laird.

  One by one, he searched the bodies, turning them in the mud. Unbelievably, all the men on the ground, even the fallen highwaymen, were dead. A sinister premonition shuddered down Niall’s spine. He had never been in a battle like this one. Always there were injured men. Survivors. But not here, not today.

  He clenched his fists. How had he survived and they all died?

  Niall turned away from the last victim, a young man he had seen often at Ellandonan. Earlier, he had found two women. Anger twisted his gut into a knot.

  Damned cutthroat thieves. He was sick to the marrow of his bones. Furious that men could be so cruel.

  The laird would be enraged.

  The rain had finally abated, and now a thick, damp mist shrouded the scene.

  Through the fog, the black lacquer of the wagon shone. What could it contain? Jewels? Gold? What business was the Mackenzie conducting with the Lowlands?

  Whatever it was, Niall was honor bound to return it before he went on his way. Further, he must alert the closest town of this massacre and ens
ure the fallen men were returned home for proper burials.

  He walked toward the wagon but stopped short when he heard a scuffing sound inside.

  Slowly, he drew aside the heavily oiled curtain that sheltered the contents of the wagon from the rain.

  Beyond a pile of rich cushions, the laird’s daughter Margaret cowered in the corner, shuddering visibly, staring up at him with pale blue eyes as round as saucers.

  Good God. So focused on his loss of Aileen, he had forgotten Margaret Mackenzie was traveling on the same road as him. Her caravan had departed from Ellandonan two days before he had. On his own, he had traveled much faster and caught up with them.

  He reached for her, but she shrieked, pressing her back against the wall. Niall looked down. Blood dripped from his fingertips. The poor girl must think he was one of the cutthroats.

  Snatching back his hand and wiping it surreptitiously on his plaid, he bowed. “Lady Margaret. It is I, Niall MacRae. I am one of your father’s guardsmen.”

  She wrapped her arms around her body, shaking her head.

  “Remember, lass? I saw you in Lady Aileen’s chamber just a few days ago.”

  “I remember your eyes,” she whispered. But she still didn’t move. “Such deep, deep blue.”

  He tried to smile. “I remember your eyes too. Pale blue, like a clear winter’s sky.”

  Slowly, so she would know he meant her no harm, he climbed into the back of the wagon.

  “They killed everyone, didn’t they?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “Aislett?”

  This must be one of her ladies. He met her eyes. “Aye, lass. I’m sorry.”

  With a great, heaving sob, she flung her arms around him.

  Taken aback, he held her, patting her back, mumbling soothing words to her in their native Gaelic. When she had calmed a little, he said, “I’m taking you home, lass. Home to your da. Home to Ellandonan.”

  Home to Aileen. The clarity he’d experienced during the battle hadn’t faded at its end. He’d never been more foolish than when he’d left her.

  He loved Aileen. He would fight for her. To the death, if necessary.

  “We are going home,” he murmured.

  Chapter Twelve

  A second summons from the laird saw Gilbert striding down the corridor angrily. This time had been even more annoying than the last—he was in the middle of a particularly pleasant interlude with one woman licking his ballocks while the other sucked his cock.

  It was a pity the church condemned polygamy. Chuckling, he imagined what it would take to get that ice bitch Aileen to agree to such an arrangement.

  She wouldn’t be an ice bitch for long. He’d crack that brittle façade somehow.

  No matter. He could still keep as many women as he liked while he was married to her. If she thought she could stop him from fucking whomever he liked, she was not only an ice bitch, she was stupid.

  He let the images of breaking her ice carry him into the anteroom of the laird’s bedchamber where a servant announced him to the laird. When summoned forward, he quickly scanned the room, noting that Aileen was nowhere in sight—in fact, only two of the laird’s closest advisors were present.

  Hardly managing to bite back a sarcastic comment, Gilbert bowed to the laird, who looked especially tired tonight, with dark, swollen circles beneath his eyes.

  “You asked to see me?”

  “I did.”

  Gilbert frowned. He didn’t like the hard edge in the laird’s voice or the stillness in his eyes.

  “Can I offer you my assistance in any way?” he asked smoothly. But he was on guard, all his senses tingling. Something was wrong.

  “Aye. You can.” Imperiously, the laird thrust out his arm. A written document was instantly placed into his hand.

  Gilbert watched, schooling his face to be dispassionate.

  John held up the document. Gilbert recognized it at once by the two seals at the bottom—the laird’s and his own. It was the contract betrothing him to Aileen. John held it by its edges and slowly, deliberately, tore it in two.

  “Nay!” Gilbert leapt forward and snatched the pieces of parchment from the laird’s hands. “You cannot do that! We had an agreement! I helped you secure your stupid slut’s marriage, I—”

  Mackenzie sighed. “I’m afraid I can do it, Dunbar.”

  Gilbert held the two sheets together. “It’s still valid. See?”

  “Nay. I’ve taken something new under consideration, and I’m afraid it precludes you marrying my sister—or any lady in my household.” Mackenzie shrugged.

  Gilbert stared at the bastard, thinking his eyes might pop from his head. It took every ounce of discipline he could muster to keep himself from launching at the laird and pounding that smug, arrogant face into a pulp. How dare he renege on his promise after all Gilbert had done for him.

  Gilbert would kill him for that…if he could. He flicked a glance at the two enormous Highlanders flanking the laird, then turned his attention back to their master.

  “Why?” His voice was calm and cold as ice.

  John answered, equally calm. “I don’t like how you speak to my sister. I don’t like how you look at her.”

  Gilbert’s lips froze, but he forced the words out. “I have the utmost respect for your sister.”

  The laird cocked his head, retaining that unnerving, emotionless expression on his face. “Nay. I have given this matter a great deal of thought. You must agree that without Dornoch, she is of little value to you—or to me, for that matter. I am indebted to you for your service to me, Dunbar. Surely you cannot be too upset by this turn of events. Surely you know I can offer you something superior to a pregnant widow.”

  Despite the protests roaring in his brain, despite his level of fury, Gilbert sure as hell wouldn’t pass up an opportunity for advancement in the world. So he took the proffered chair and sat with the laird to haggle over property and money.

  But his mind seethed. He would have Aileen. His life’s goal would be fulfilled. No barbarian Highlander would stop him, powerful laird or not. Gilbert would have her. He would marry her. He would possess her.

  Once he and the laird had finished their negotiations, he headed toward his quarters with a determined stride. John could go to hell. Gilbert was taking Aileen.

  Tonight.

  ***

  A scratch at the door woke Aileen from a fitful sleep. Niall had appeared in her dreams. He’d been in trouble—possibly fighting—and he’d fallen, clutching his side, calling her name. Even now, the timbre of his call resonated through her, making the tiny hairs on her arms stand on end.

  Jannet shifted on her pallet nearby.

  With great effort, Aileen raised her hand to rub her eyes. Her limbs were spent—shaken and weak—as if she’d been the one in battle. As if she’d been the one who’d fallen.

  What a horrible dream. She shuddered.

  A woman’s sharp voice sounded beyond the door. “Lady Aileen!”

  Aileen struggled to sit up, her senses suddenly on high alert. Her room was as dark as pitch. Who on earth would wake her at this hour, and for what reason?

  “Lady, please come quickly! It’s the laird!”

  “The laird?” Had John taken ill?

  “Lady Aileen!” came the cry again. The door handle rattled, but Aileen had bolted it before she and Jannet had gone to bed.

  “Please come quickly!”

  Her heart in her throat, Aileen found her plaid and slung it over her shoulders, then slid her hand down the crack between her bed and the wall to find her dirk. She dropped it into a narrow pocket sewn in the inside seam. Just in case.

  “Lady Aileen, who is that?” asked Jannet sleepily, finally roused by all the noise.

  “Don’t worry, Jannet. I’ll see to it.”

  In the dark, Aileen felt her way to the door. As soon as she unbolted it, someone from outside flung it open. Her legs still weak from the dream, Aileen stumbled backward, but as she fell, a man grab
bed her arm and hauled her against his chest. His arms encircled her torso like steel bands, pressing her arms against her sides so she couldn’t move.

  Even if she could move, it would be hopeless. More dark shadows surrounded her. Big shadows. Men. The woman who had called to her was gone—Aileen caught a fleeting glimpse of a skirt as she sprinted away down the passageway.

  Aileen opened her mouth to scream, but one of the bulky figures shoved a wad of wool into her mouth.

  Jannet cried out. “My lady?” But the men surrounded her too, and all Aileen heard were the sounds of a muffled struggle.

  She twisted out of the man’s grasp and dove toward the dim light of the doorway. But another shadow appeared there like an apparition and grabbed her shoulders. He shoved her inside the room, stepped in and shut the door securely behind him before bolting it.

  Aileen desperately looked for a way to escape, a way out. But there was nowhere to go. She was trapped.

  Still, she was no goose. She’d never give in without a battle. She kicked and scratched, spitting against the gag. She elbowed a man in the gut, taking some pleasure in his groan of pain and subsequent gasps for air.

  But she was no match for these men. She counted five of them—at least five, assigned to her alone. She could not see how many held Jannet.

  One of the men wrenched her arms behind her back and bound them tightly so the rough ropes dug into the tender skin of her wrists.

  Another man loomed over her. Instantly the men holding her slackened their grips, and she dodged once again for the door.

  But the man above her was faster. As she tried to dodge around him, he caught her by the waist and pushed her, hard. She went reeling backward, straight into the arms of one of the original captors.

  Though she couldn’t discern his features, the sickening mint smell washed over her.

  Gilbert Dunbar.

  “This ’un’s a wildcat, milord,” one of the men said.

  “Indeed,” Gilbert said in his haughty way. He moved aside, gesturing politely at the door. “Well then, shall we?”