Highland Promise

by Alyson McLayne

  Caitlin caressed the kitten’s wee head. “They’ll love her anyway.”

  “More than life itself.”

  They reached the keep, and he placed the kitten back on his wide shoulder. When he slid off the stallion and lifted Caitlin into his arms again, she was amazed to see the little angel keep her balance. Darach took the stairs two at a time.

  “I thought you didn’t like cats?” she asked, as he pushed through the door into the great hall. The afternoon sun streamed through the open windows that let in the warm, summer air.

  “Caitlin, like you, is impossible to resist. She also doesn’t understand the meaning of the word no.”

  Caitlin didn’t know whether to be pleased or irked by his comment, so she sniffed and said again, “You canna call her Caitlin.”

  A holler sounded from the upper level, and they looked up to see Fergus bounding down the stairs, shouting, “Laird, Laird!” He threw himself against Darach’s legs. “What took you so long? You missed the fighting, aye? They came at night, but Oslow said we were safe inside the castle. Everyone was here from the village too, and the warriors were running around. Gare was hit with an arrow, but he’s all right now, and Ness’s son was sick for a few days too, but he’s—”

  Fergus stopped abruptly as he noticed the white kitten on Darach’s shoulder. His jaw dropped and his eyes widened.

  “Her name is Angel,” Caitlin said, “and you may only touch her if your hands are clean.”

  The lad stared at the kitten, then at Caitlin, then back to the kitten. Suddenly, he turned and dashed up the stairs. Darach laughed and followed at a slower pace. By the time they reached the top, Fergus was back with clean hands. Darach crouched down and the lad gently took hold of the kitten, who purred and climbed up his arm to his shoulder.

  “Introduce her to the other kits and show her where the food and box is located,” Darach said.

  Fergus nodded and walked carefully down the corridor so Angel wouldn’t fall off, talking to her the whole time.

  Reaching their bedchamber, Darach pushed inside and leaned against the door to lock it behind them. He stared down at her, that dark look in his eyes that Caitlin loved.

  “I thought ’tis time for a wee prayer, Wife.”

  She smiled as all those interesting places in her body began to tingle. “Nay, not so wee. Surely you have many sins to confess. It may take a while.”

  Grinning, he walked across the room and lay with her on the bed, undoing her brooch and loosening her chemise. “I promise to worship at your altar for as long as ’tis necessary.”

  Caitlin giggled, then pulled his head up so she could look into his eyes. “Darach?”

  “Aye?”

  The adoration in his tone filled her to bursting. She traced her fingers along his face and remembered how she’d done the same thing the first time she’d opened her eyes and seen him looking down at her. “I love you so much.”

  He kissed her. Gently, reverently. “I love you too, lass. More and more every day.”

  “Even though I’m trouble?”

  He laughed quietly and nuzzled her ear. “You’re not trouble, Caitlin. You’re a joy—my everlasting joy.”

  She tangled her fingers in his hair. “I’ll remember you said that.”

  “I’m sure you will. Just promise me one thing.”

  “Whatever you wish.” Anything he asked, anything he desired, she would do it.

  He caressed his fingers over her cheeks, shaped her lips. Kissed each eyelid and the tip of her nose. Then he leaned down and brushed his mouth across hers with a sigh. She could feel his smile.

  “Doona give me daughters, Caitlin MacKenzie. My heart canna take it.”

  Order Alyson McLayne’s next book

  in The Sons of Gregor MacLeod series

  Highland Conquest

  On sale February 2018

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  HIGHLAND CONQUEST

  Book #2 in The Sons of Gregor MacLeod series by Alyson McLayne

  MacPherson Castle, Loch Eireachd, Scotland

  1452

  Fistfuls of hair fell to the bed like streams of molten iron. The growing pile, more orange than gold, resembled a dragon’s nest, and gleamed seductively in the firelight. Amber sighed at the sight. If only it were a real dragon’s nest and a beast could rise and smite all her enemies. One very much in particular.

  She almost smiled at the fanciful thought as she chopped off her hair. Almost. In truth, her plan was an act of desperation with little chance of success. By all that was holy, she’d need a miracle to get away this time.

  Grabbing another handful, she raised the knife and sawed off an even bigger chunk. The remaining strands sprang up to curl around her neck and ears, a light, airy feeling at odds with the heaviness in her heart.

  Laird Machar Murray would come after her, of that she had no doubt. If he found her, no amount of false hexes, or curses, or threats from the devil would deter him from destroying her this time.

  Her lost hair would grow back. Her lost spirit and soul could not.

  The heavy wooden door rattled as a key entered the lock from the outside. It pushed open. Amber spun around to face the intruder, her heart in her throat and the knife pointed outward. Niall, the old steward, shuffled in, his worn plaid sagging below his belt. She huffed in relief and went back to cutting off her hair.

  “You scared the life out of me, aye?”

  “You should be scared, lass. I doona know how you’ve lasted this long with Laird Murray breathing down your neck. He’ll turn the keep upside down to find you.”

  “I couldnae leave with Erin so sick, now could I? Her mother and father would ne’er recover if she died. And Ian needed me to speak for him or he would’ve ended up in the dungeon for who knows how long.”

  “You’ll ne’er recover if the laird gets a hold of you—although you wouldnae end up in the dungeon. Nay, he’d lock you in his bedchamber first. And no doubt Father Odhran would consider it a just punishment for all the help you’ve given the women.”

  “He’s a wee ablach, that one. The devil take him.”

  “The devil take them both.”

  Her knife cut through the last chunk of her hair and she held it in her hand, staring at it. The strands twisted and curled in long, silken waves, a last gift from her mother. Her father had loved her hair. Her grandmother had brushed it every night, singing the songs of the Highlands that Amber had so loved. Sorrow welled within her at the loss, and she squeezed her eyes shut to push it away.

  Bah! Her hair had caused her nothing but trouble. How many times had she wished herself plain when some irritating man came knocking at her door, asking for her hand? Too many to count.

  She tossed the curls down on the linen quilt, glad to be rid of them. She had no time for self-pity.

  “Did you bring the lads’ clothes?” she asked. “And the band?”

  “Aye.” He pulled some material from under his plaid.

  Amber reached for the silver brooch that held her arisaid in place over her left breast, and released it. Niall squawked as her dress fell off, and he quickly turned around. “Lord have mercy, lass, I’m an old man. My heart willna survive looking upon the pride of Clan MacPherson in such a way.”

  “Is that what they call me?” She tucked up her linen shift and shook out the tautly woven cloth Niall had tossed on the bed. “I thought ’twas ‘witch’ and ‘temptress.’ Sometimes ‘evil-doer,’ depending on who did the talking.”

  “Doona be daft. Only Laird Murray and his plague of rats say such things. The MacPhersons know the sacrifices you’ve made, the danger you’ve courted for us. We couldnae be more thankful.”

  Amber didn’t speak—couldn’t speak—as his words washed over her. Her throat tightened and she had to blink back tears. Instead, she looked down and secured the end
of the cloth over her breasts, trying to squash down the overripe mounds that had done naught but get in the way since they’d started jutting out from her chest when she was fourteen.

  “Aye, neither could I,” she said finally, her voice sounding thick. “I’ll miss you all.” She lifted the end of the band trailing on the floor and held it out to Niall. “Here, hold this tight now while I wrap it.”

  Niall grabbed it, eyes lowered, and held the cloth taut with surprising strength as she turned herself into it then knotted the band in place, flattening enough of her bust that the rest could still be concealed beneath the loose shirt. Her breath came short, her ribs compressed, but it was a strain she could bear. The bulk of the boys’ plaid should hide the slight tuck at her waist and roundness of her bottom. Her legs were long and strong, and if she muddied them they should pass for a lad’s. Her face, too—although nothing could disguise the startling color of her eyes. Those were an inheritance from her beloved grandmother, and had led to much trouble for that lady—as well as for Amber.

  Men envied uncommon things, beautiful things, and would go to great lengths to acquire them. Luckily, the MacPhersons were good people, and Amber’s grandmother an excellent healer. She’d taught Amber everything she’d known before she died, and Amber’s place with the MacPhersons had been secure. They’d cherished her and she them.

  Not so Laird Machar Murray. The conniving laird would as soon burn or drown her for a witch—as their good-for-naught priest wanted. After Murray tired of raping her.

  Amber pulled the lads’ shirt over her head, then tried to belt the plaid in place by herself. In the end, Niall had to show her how it should be done, a complicated ritual of pleating and tucking and twisting the material. He moved to a chest against the wall in the corner, and on his signal, Amber shoved the heavy piece of furniture to the side so he could crouch down and count the stones.

  “This is it,” he said, then pushed against the block while Amber waited impatiently beside him. Finally, a space appeared that was barely big enough for a woman. She grabbed a candle from the table and lit it in the fire before passing it through the dark hole in the wall.

  “Are you sure it goes all the way down?” she asked. “When was it last used? Is it safe?”

  “I doona know, lass, but anywhere is safer than here with Machar Murray.”

  She nodded reluctantly, then set down the candle and pulled Niall into a tight hug. “I’ll miss you, you old badger. You’ve been a staunch friend to me, and to my grandmother before that. Our family wouldnae have survived this long without you.”

  Niall squeezed her even tighter before pushing her away. “Go on with you, then. And doona even think of coming back. Go find a life for yourself away from the hell of this one. Marry a good man and have plenty of fine children.” He let go and lifted a bag from his shoulder. “Some food and coin until you find your new home.”

  After she took it, he knelt and pushed the candle through to the other side. Amber peered in and saw a narrow stairwell, barely big enough for her to stand. “When you get to the end, the bottom stone should push out. I’ve already loosened it from the other side. The ground is muddy. Use some dirt to darken your bare skin, especially your face. There’s no hiding you’re a woman without that, even with your hair shorn.”

  Amber knelt beside him, nodding as he talked, trying to quell that panic that had tied her stomach into knots.

  “Once you’re out of the keep, go to the east wall by the tanning hut. Look for a cart missing a wheel, with a rope attached. Throw the rope over the wall, then climb up the hay bales to the top. I’ve tethered a horse on the other side.”

  Amber squeezed his arm, afraid to speak lest she start crying again, afraid to even look at him. He moved over, and she wedged herself through the hole. Once on the other side, she couldn’t resist and glanced back over her shoulder to see Niall’s face, wet with tears, one last time.

  “Be safe,” he said, then shoved the stone back in place, leaving her with only her candle for company.

  * * *

  Lachlan MacKay, laird of Clan MacKay, lay on his belly in the scrub, staring at the pockmarked and tumbling-down walls of the once-grand MacPherson Castle. He’d counted fourteen places his men could breach the fortress, carefully noting the poorly planned circuits the guards walked on the perimeter, the easy footholds to get over the wall, the young, inexperienced men at the gate. There was a horse grazing alongside the wall, and a general air of apathy.

  Surely the crafty MacPherson laird, Machar Murray, would never be so careless, so lax in his defenses? It had taken Lachlan five years to find Murray after he’d murdered Lachlan’s older brother and tried to murder Lachlan himself—in order to take over Clan MacKay. Murray had covered his tracks well when Lachlan had searched for him, hiding behind silenced accomplices, false names, and convoluted trails.

  So why would his home be so poorly protected? It would take Lachlan less than an hour to conquer the castle as it was. It didn’t make sense.

  He turned to his foster brother, Callum MacLean, laird of Clan MacLean, who lay beside him on the slight rise. He was watching the castle as well, his perceptive green eyes bright against the dirt he’d used to muddy his face and neck. He even had mud in his short, dark hair.

  “Do you think it’s a trap?” Lachlan asked, voice barely above a whisper.

  “Maybe. I canna believe anyone would be so careless. But if it were a trap, there would only be one easy way in, two at the most. Not fifteen.”

  “Fifteen? I only saw fourteen.”

  “Aye. You always had trouble counting past ten.”

  Lachlan snorted and resisted the urge to punch his foster brother in the shoulder. Callum would have expected it, of course, and most likely jumped out of arm’s reach, if they hadn’t been intent on staying hidden.

  There were five of them who had been taught how to fight—how to lead—by the great Gregor MacLeod. Gregor had bonded the lads—all now lairds of their own clans—into a tight, cohesive unit. They did still like to provoke one another as often as they could.

  It was a time-honored tradition, and both men were good at it.

  “I doona need to count past ten; I’m not the one who left my betrothed behind tossing daggers and running wild in her castle. How many months has it been since you last saw Maggie? Almost forty? You can bet she’ll be counting every one of them. She may use those daggers on you when you finally decide to claim her. If she’ll still have you.”

  “She’ll have me,” Callum grunted.

  Satisfied, Lachlan went back to studying the castle, looking for the way in he’d missed. If Callum said another existed, then it did. His foster brother was an excellent strategist, with a sharp mind and eyes that saw everything. Except, of course, the identity of the traitor in his own clan, the reason he’d left Maggie behind for so long. He was afraid to bring her home with him while his father’s murderer was still on the loose.

  Order Alyson McLayne’s next book

  in The Sons of Gregor Macleod series

  Highland Conquest

  On sale February 2018

  Acknowledgments

  First and foremost, to my parents, Marjorie and Jim, who fostered my love of reading and encouraged me to write. And especially to Marjorie, who brought me home a book called How to Write a Romance and Get It Published when I was nineteen years old. Thank you, Mom, for encouraging me to spend my summer break writing instead of getting a “real” job.

  To my husband, Ken, who also encouraged me to write and forgo a “real” job—although I’m sure he didn’t expect me to take so long to get published! Thank you, honey, for supporting my dream.

  To all the wonderful women at Write Romance (a.k.a. The Goddesses) who were the first people to read and critique my chapters: Christyne Butler, Tina Beckett, and Abby Niles. All your hard work, comments, and smiley faces were MUCH appreciated and tr
uly helped shape the book. And I can’t forget my first beta reader and awesome friend, Eileen Cook…thank you for staying up late reading my book. Smooches.

  To all my amazing readers and fans at Wattpad who’ve left such beautiful comments about this book—my sincere and heartfelt thanks. I read them over and over.

  And to the awesome Cat Clyne…you left me speechless by offering a five-book deal on the Sons of Gregor MacLeod. That moment will stay with me forever. You have such an abundance of patience, kindness, and goodwill—not to mention killer editing! Thank you for such a great opportunity.

  And to the other creative and organizational minds at Sourcebooks—from design to publicity, contracts to editorial—thanks for having my back!

  Thanks also to my agent, Kevan Lyon, for shepherding me through the jungle. I’m glad I’ve got you in my corner.

  Lastly, to my wonderful Golden Heart class, the Mermaids. Rock stars—all of you.

  About the Author

  Alyson McLayne is a mom of twins and an award-winning writer of contemporary, historical, and paranormal romance. She’s also a dog lover and cat servant with a serious stash of dark chocolate. After getting her degree in theater at the University of Alberta, she promptly moved to the west coast of Canada, where she worked in film for several years and met her prop-master husband.

  Alyson has been nominated for several Romance Writers of America contests including the Golden Heart, the Golden Pen, the Orange Rose, Great Expectations, the Molly, and the Winter Rose.

  Her self-published works in short contemporary romance include her Sizzling, Sexy, Santa Barbara series—The Fabrizio Bride, The D’amici Mistake, and The Berrucci Rules. The Fabrizio Bride was recently nominated for the RONE Awards.

  Alyson and her family reside in Vancouver with their sweet but troublesome chocolate lab puppy named Jasper.

  Please visit her at alysonmclayne.com and look her up on Facebook (facebook.com/AlysonMcLayne) or Twitter (@AlysonMcLayne). She loves chatting to her fans!