A Hellion for the Highlander: A Steamy Scottish Historical Romance Novel

by Lydia Kendall

  He’d have to find something to do with the children. Ideally, he could just dispose of them, but he didn’t imagine his bride-to-be would appreciate that much. Perhaps he would simply send them on to whoever acquired the accursed farm when he put it to sale.

  I’ll nae have those wild bairns thinkin’ that livin’ in me Castle gives them status.

  He knew Cicilia was in the Castle now, too. He’d seen her enter. While his men and those foolish simpletons from the village fought with Alexander and Nathair’s pitiful rallied guards downstairs, he’d act. He’d take her some place and keep her locked away until she had her loyalties and priorities in order.

  Getting into the residential wing and past the tripled guard was as easy as nodding his head. They had been instructed not to let in anyone who did not belong—but he, Thomaes, lived at this Castle. He was the Laird’s trusted accomptant and friend, just as he had been such to the previous Laird.

  He’d worked hard to cultivate that image. It had been vital in his plan the whole time.

  Thomaes located Cicilia’s bedroom quickly. The four guards posted outside stood to attention as soon as he approached. “Relax, lads,” he said in a friendly tone. “Gallagher sent me to check on the lassie an’ the bairns. They’re still inside?”

  “Aye,” one of the men said with a firm nod. “They’ve been quiet. Nae body else has been in or out, sir.”

  Thomaes nodded. “Good. Ye four are needed downstairs. I’ll stay up here to protect them. Gallagher’s orders.”

  That was all it took to send the idiots away. They even nodded courteously at him before leaving.

  There was no rush now. He could take his time. Alexander would die in the fighting, or he would be captured, and his title stripped from him. His loyalists would be injured, killed, or turned. And Thomaes, who knew the people, the Castle, and the clan, would take his place.

  Perhaps that was why he was so confident when he knocked on the door and said, “Miss O’Donnel, let me in.”

  There was silence from inside.

  “Miss O’Donnel,” he said again, a little more firmly. “I ken ye’re in there. The guards just told me. Alexander has sent me to—”

  “Alexander’s sent ye for naught,” Cicilia’s muffled voice echoed out. “Dinnae ye lie to me. I ken what ye’re up to. I ken ye’re behind all o’ this. Ye’re a villain!”

  Thomaes blinked. “A villain?” he called back. “Ye think I’m a villain? Och, Cicilia, nay. I’m a hero to the clan, even if they dinnae ken it yet. I’ve dedicated the last thirteen years o’ me life makin’ sure everybody got to this position. I’m here to save Clan Gallagher from the MacKinnons an’ their foolishness for good.”

  “Thirteen years?” Cicilia asked back through the door. “Ye—that’s before Alexander even became Laird. What are ye talkin’ about?”

  “Alexander is nae the first feckless MacKinnon Laird I’ve had the misfortune o’ servin’,” Thomaes snapped. “He’s nae the first one I’ve had to pretend to listen to while I’m solvin’ all the problems in the background. He’s nae the first stuck-up lad who thinks he kens better than me!”

  There was more silence, then Cicilia’s voice came through, much quieter and more broken. “His faither. His mither. It was nae an accident, was it?”

  That’s what I like to see. Me future wife should be a lass who can solve a puzzle without needin’ to be led by the hand. When she rules by me side, she’ll be a real boon.

  “I planted men in the Sinclair Clan a year before,” he explained. It was actually quite a relief to tell it all now when he’d had to keep it to himself for so long. “When the Laird an’ his wife traveled off to see their spoiled lassie, I kent the opportunity was perfect. One o’ me men loosened the wheels while another scared the horses at precisely the right time.”

  “Ye killed them,” Cicilia said. She was barely audible through the door.

  “Technically, the water killed them,” Thomaes replied with a shrug. “The sister was supposed to be in the carriage as well for good measure, but thankfully she only ever had one lad, so her bairns were nae threat to me control o’ these lands. I’m nae a sadistic man, Cicilia. I dinnae do it to be cruel. I just needed them out o’ the way.”

  He tried to open the door, but something was barricading it. He twisted the handle over and over, but to no avail.

  “An’ Alexander?” Cicilia asked at last.

  Thomaes’s tone was entreating. He had to make her understand. He needed her to understand. “I meant to help him at first. To shape him into a man that understood the value o’ coin over a few peasant’s lives. But he was too old already, an’ he had too much o’ his faither in his blood. Even while he followed me austerity about celebrations an’ taxes, he fettered away his money—our money—on useless trinkets for the people.”

  “An’ then ye turned those very same people against him,” Cicilia replied. “An’ ye think I’ll be on yer side? Ye’re a menace. What is yer plan here?”

  Anger flared through him. So, she would accuse him, would she? She’d throw his honesty back in his face like this? “I came here wi’ an offer for ye, Miss O’Donnel, an’ I’m still willin’ to do it despite yer rudeness. Ye’re a fine lass, an’ when I’m Laird, I’ll be in need o’ a wife.”

  “Ye’re delusional,” Cicilia replied bluntly. “Ye think I’d wed ye?”

  “I do,” Thomaes told her politely. “Just like I think ye’re gonnae open the door an’ let me in right now. Just like how I think ye’re gonnae be a good lass an’ do what yer told as soon as I walk in the room.”

  “An’ what makes ye think that?” Cicilia asked. “Ye cannae threaten me. We’re barricaded in, an’ all I have to do is scream an’ the guards will come runnin’.”

  “Ye’ll let me in,” Thomaes told her softly. “Because if ye dinnae, I’ll make sure that yer precious Alexander survives the battle. An’ I’ll make his execution as public an’ as painful as I possibly can.”

  Triumph echoed through his heart as, without another word, the door slowly began to open.

  Chapter 26

  Gaudia Certaminis

  The Joys of Battle

  Alexander had heard Cicilia’s call on his way out of the room, and while he’d like to claim he jumped to action immediately, he could not. He tried to convince himself that he’d misheard, or that Cicilia had misspoken, but no way he thought about it made sense.

  Thomaes has been me loyal man, me faither’s faithful man before I was born. How can she claim he’s behind all o’ this? How can I believe her?

  Because genuinely, in his heart of hearts, he did. He’d never trusted anyone the way he trusted Cicilia. She could have told him that his own sister was behind this whole thing, and he would have known he had to investigate her.

  An’ if she’s wrong, it’s from a good place. I’ll capture him an’ question him, an’ we’ll get to the bottom o’ it a’ one way or the other.

  Of course, to do that, he’d have to find Thomaes first. After twelve years of the man being available if Alexander so much as thought his name, however, he seemed to have vanished entirely.

  It didn’t help that there was a full-on battle going on both inside and outside of the castle. Swords were clashing, blood was splashing, men were screaming and roaring in fury and pain. Alexander spied Nathair, fighting three of the attackers at once with only a Leith ax and a bare hand.

  It was a formidable weapon, long shafted with a curved blade down the top quarter of its length. It was a weapon to wound, thin-bladed so as to efficiently slide between the smallest gaps, and Nathair swung it expertly.

  “Nathair!” he cried as the big Man-at-arms swung his weapon and knocked two men aside at once.

  He simply punched the other in the head, causing him to crumple to the ground, before grunting and turning to Alexander. “Aboot time ye joined the fray.”

  Alexander was holding his bastard sword tight in one hand as he approached. It was shorter than a traditional sword,
yes, but much easier to wield with one hand, offering the dexterity he preferred. He swung it to the side almost without thinking, defending himself from an attack he heard rather than saw. “Have ye seen Thomaes?” he called.

  Nathair spun behind him, and the Laird and the Man-at-arms stood back to back in a practiced motion, working together to fend off the chaos. When their attackers were down, Nathair asked, “Thomaes? Cunningham? Did ye really think that wraith would be out here in the midst o’ battle?”

  “Nathair—” Alexander started.

  “Och, I ken,” Nathair interrupted, rolling his eyes as he ducked another attack and returned it with his ax to the back of the man’s knees. “I ken. Ye want me to leave yer precious accomptant alone. But—”

  “Nathair,” Alexander said again, more urgently. “Nathair, he’s behind all o’ this. Everythin’.”

  Nathair’s expression would have been comical in any other situation as it wheeled through a hundred emotions at once. It paled from shock, then blazed with anger, and a hundred expressions in between. There was even some glee in there, brought on, no doubt, by the victory of knowing his distaste towards Thomaes had been justified all this time.

  The Man-at-arms swore. “Ye’re sure?”

  Ye’ve got nae proof. Just Cicilia’s words, nothin’ else. Ye have nae even kent her for so long.

  He thought about this for a moment, then nodded. “Aye. Aye, I’m sure as a man can be o’ anythin’.”

  Nathair swore. “Then ye should ken I just saw him nae so long ago headin’ up the main stairway towards the residential wing.”

  Alexander cursed loudly. “How long ago?”

  “I dinnae ken,” Nathair admitted. He tightened his hold on his Leith ax, preparing for the next wave. “But I can handle things here. Go. Now.”

  Alexander nodded, gratitude shining in his eyes, and began to run. He hoped, more than he’d ever hoped for anything in his life, that he wasn’t too late.

  Once Alexander had run off, Nathair’s entire world became the battle. He assumed a personality he only ever found on the battlefield. The kind, easy-going friend of the Laird vanished, replaced entirely by Leòmhann, the Lion of Gallagher.

  He roared as he fought, and his men rallied around him as they always did when Leòmhann called for aid. His favored ax flashed as it swung through the air, the light of the wall candles reflecting off it like it was on fire.

  In this mode, his mind was capable of detaching almost entirely from his body. It was as though he watched himself fight while his brain worked, the muscle-bound warrior separated from the man who considered the information he’d just gotten from the Laird.

  So Thomaes did this, did he? Well, I cannae claim to be unduly shocked. Wily bampot has been plannin’ somethin’ as long as I’ve kent him.

  He knew that Alexander wouldn’t want to believe it, but Alexander was an intelligent man. Whatever evidence he had, Nathair knew it was solid in his heart.

  And besides all that, it made sense. Alexander may have his sentimentality about the man, but Nathair could see him through the cold, logical eyes of an army commander. Thomaes had never been shy or apologetic about his belief in the power of the Lairdship. He counted coins like a shepherd counted sheep, and not even Alexander was as aware of the clan’s financial situation as much as the accomptant was.

  An’ he’s kent by the people. A familiar face when things get scary.

  Because wasn’t that how these whispers started? The claims that Alexander’s financial skills were too low to responsibly run a clan. The insinuations that he was hardhearted and uncaring—but who had shaped him to be such in his vulnerability and grief after the death of the previous Laird?

  If I can work it all out, Alexander can. Probably he’s got even more evidence swimmin’ around his brain than I do. That’s why he ran off like that.

  And where had he gone? The residential quarters. Where he was protecting the thing—the person—the people most precious to him. Suddenly, another piece of the puzzle made sense to Nathair.

  This all sparked again after Cicilia arrived. The rumors have been debasin’ her, castin’ aspersions on her honor, usin’ her faither’s death against her. Who kens enough to spread the truth mixed in wi’ the lies?

  Thomaes. Only Thomaes.

  Someone lunged at Nathair, and he moved to the side, fury filling his gut. He had let this pass by unnoticed, left Alexander unprotected. If anything happened, if any permanent damage occurred, then he would be the one at fault.

  He had enough. He stormed the doors, batting combatants from both sides out of the way until he was in the passageway leading up to the balcony that overlooked the entrance hall. He rushed up the thin spiral staircase, then to the edge of the balcony overlooking the riot below.

  Nathair cupped his hands over his mouth and authoritatively growled, “Stop!”

  The sound echoed around the chamber, magnified by the stone walls, distracting those inside enough that the clashing metallic sounds stopped. Many of them looked wildly around the place, while a few of the more intelligent looked up to the source of the noise.

  “Ye’re bein’ deceived, ye great pillocks,” Nathair shouted down. “An’ me. We ken who was behind this now, all o’ it. He’s manipulated us all. Look at ye! Ye’re fightin’ brother against brother, an’ for what? Gallagher is better than this, both the man an’ the clan as a whole!”

  Muttering broke out, then one of the rebels called out, “Where’s yer precious Laird now, Nathair Barcley? If he’s so much better than all o’ this, if he cares so much for his castle an’ his people, why’s he cowerin’ away somewhere while we spill blood?”

  The angry agreement started to swell, but Nathair quelled it with a loud reply. “No! Alexander is, at this moment, tryin’ to save the lives o’ an innocent lass an’ a couple o’ bairns from the man who has tricked ye into thinkin’ he could be a Laird. Yer Laird. Thomaes Cunningham cares naught for ye, an’ I can prove it.”

  Now Nathair’s own men were whispering loudly, unable to believe he’d just pointed the finger at the Laird’s trusted accomptant.

  “What are ye tryin’ to pull, Barcley?” one of the men called, though he couldn’t tell for which side he fought.

  “I’m nae tryin’—look. Call a truce, just temporary-like. Stop the bloodshed until we all agree it’s necessary, aye?” Nathair suggested.

  “An’ how do ye suggest we do that?” demanded the first rebel who had spoken. Squinting down, Nathair could just about make out Ron Jacobs, the baker. He seemed to have taken some sort of leadership role, for the men were rallying around him. Ron snorted, glancing around at his fellows, and said, “Barcley sounds like me wife! I thought ye were supposed to be a Man-at-arms?”

  Strange times, indeed, for men to be followin’ that lump o’ puddin’ dough. His poor wife.

  He surveyed the laughing men with distaste. “I suggest a puttin’ down o’ arms,” Nathair said again, as calmly as he could. “An’ that ye send three o’ yer best men wi’ me, an’ we can head on up yonder stairs an’ see if we cannae work out exactly what’s goin’ on.”

  The murmurs swelled again, then another rebel called, “An’ if we are nae satisfied wi’ whatever pish-poor excuse yer Laird has waitin’ for us?”

  Nathair struggled not to roll his eyes. “Well, assumin’ Alexander an’ the lass an’ the bairns are nae already deid, ye’re welcome to run me through wi’ yer sword. Or try to, at least. Now, are we in agreement or nay?”

  Alexander saw all four of the guards he’d posted outside Cicilia’s room, and he could not believe his eyes. They were joking, laughing, and currently coming down the main staircase towards him—as far from the residential wing as they could be while still being in range.

  “What in the name o’ the Sidhe devils are ye doin’?” he snapped, and all four of the men stood upright, looking terrified.

  “Wha—What are ye talkin’ about, Laird?” one, braver than the other, asked him. “Mr. Cunningha
m said—”

  “Ye saw Thomaes?” Alexander demanded. “Doin’ what? Where?”

  The guards all looked at each other before another replied. “Outside the room where we were posted, Laird. The accomptant informed us that ye needed us down at the battle.”

  It’s a good thing I dinnae, the jocular way ye’re movin’ an’ laughin’!

  “An’ what o’ the task I set for ye?” Alexander demanded impatiently, trying hard not to lose his patience. “Eh? What about the woman an’ the bairns?”

  The third guard gulped and went pale. He was young, five-and-ten or so, and Alexander would feel sorry for him if his mind was not otherwise occupied at the moment.