A Lord for the Lass (Tartans and Titans)

by Amalie Howard; Angie Morgan

  Makenna lowered herself to her knees and turned to Julien. The shock of crimson over his horrendous waistcoat hammered the final amount of conviction into her.

  “Julien,” she whispered, her fingers shaking as she pushed his blond locks of hair, dampened by sweat, from his forehead. “Gowan and his men will get ye and Malcolm to safety. He can find ye a doctor—”

  He grasped her hand and pulled it to his lips. “Don’t give up. Never forget who you are.”

  Tears stung at the backs of her eyes, even as a cord of impatience tightened inside her body. “And who is that?”

  Julien kissed her knuckles, his lips warm, and the tension loosened. If this was to be her final moment with him, she would not waste it worrying. “A strong, courageous woman. A ferocious Highlander. A Maclaren. A Riverley,” he said, and then smirked, even through the pain. “My beautiful, lionhearted wife.”

  Makenna forced back a sob, although her eyes blurred, the tears unable to stop. “I’m so sorry, Julien.”

  He frowned. “Whatever for?”

  “For the way all of this ended,” she said, her eyes darting toward his wound while her mind leaped toward what she knew must happen with Colin. If she wanted to save Julien and Malcolm, she understood what she had to do.

  It terrified her, but losing Julien, and allowing Malcolm to be tossed like a worthless rag from the top of the keep, terrified her more. Even if she had to live in the darkest hell for the rest of her life, however short or long that may be, at least she would have a shred of light and happiness knowing the people she loved were safe.

  And she did love them. Malcolm. Julien. She wanted him more than anything, and for the briefest time she’d allowed herself to imagine a future as his wife. Her marriage to Graeme had been soulless and painful; it had stripped her down, layer after layer, until she had been nothing but a shell of the woman she’d once been. These last months with Julien, as she’d worked his land and spent time at his side, met his every challenge, and basked in his every show of kindness…slowly, she’d felt herself returning. She would never let Colin, or any man, take that away from her.

  “Makenna mine,” Julien whispered, his lips grazing her hand as he spoke, “nothing is over yet.”

  He winked at her, and Makenna sucked in a worried breath. Why in the world was he winking? He must have lost an awful lot of blood. Was he dying? Fear for him made her heart beat faster. She glanced over her shoulder to Colin, and then up to Malcolm.

  “Yer time is up,” Colin said, his voice grating. “Decide.”

  Makenna didn’t want to live with any regrets, not where Julien was concerned. She bit her lips, and bent to brush them over Julien’s, a hot tear running loose down her cheek.

  “I love ye,” she whispered.

  Those were the only three words that mattered. Her surrender, her confession, would only be hollow. Meaningless, empty words. She would never truly belong to another.

  “What say ye, Lady Makenna?” Colin sneered triumphantly, victory so very nearly in his grasp. Makenna wanted to weep in futility. “Surrender.”

  A whistle rained down from the ramparts, and then the archers started shouting warnings about men and horses. Seconds later, a close, booming voice rang out:

  “Maclarens never surrender!”

  The sound raked along Makenna’s back with all the familiarity of a bearlike hug. She dragged in a breath. It was Ronan’s voice.

  Her family had arrived.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Julien had never known relief so great as when he’d seen Ronan’s hulking form through the trees beyond the courtyard. At first, he’d thought he was delusional. But then Niall, the youngest Maclaren, had appeared at his brother’s side, and Julien had realized he hadn’t been dreaming. Max must have been successful in getting the message to them about what they were going to do. And here they were, not a bloody minute too soon. Heavily armed men garbed in Maclaren tartans poured into the courtyard.

  “It’s about sodding time,” Julien said, pushing to his feet, a palm pressed to his ribs and the other searching for Makenna’s. The blood on his wound had already started to clot, and the sight of his in-laws—his wife’s fearless family—had given him a near miraculous surge of strength.

  “Language, Lord Leclerc,” Ronan chided. “Or should I say Lord Riverley?”

  A huge claymore swung carelessly at his side, and though his eyes flicked to Julien, they settled on the Brodie laird with a chilling intensity. Julien would not want to be in the other man’s shoes. He’d experience that hard-eyed stare once before, and though he’d met many dangerous men in his lifetime, Ronan Maclaren was one of the few men who disquieted Julien. He was not a man to cross, or attempt to manipulate.

  “What are ye doing here?” Makenna breathed, gripping his hand in numb fingers as her brother paused at their side. “I thought ye were on the Continent.”

  “And it seems I arrived home just in time. Are ye well, sister?” he asked, his gaze softening marginally as it passed over her.

  “Aye, better now that ye are here.”

  Satisfied she wasn’t hurt, Ronan moved over to where Colin was standing, and Julien risked a glance over his shoulder. Maclaren plaids enclosed the entire perimeter. He saw Makenna’s other brothers, Finlay and Evan, with murder in their eyes, taking up each of the upper quadrants of the surrounding field, their bows focused on the archers atop the ramparts. And then he caught sight of Max stealthily creeping around the side into the keep, his eyes on the boy. The gratitude he felt at that moment could not be expressed. Once Max got up there, Malcolm would be safe.

  “What do ye want, Ronan?” Colin drawled, looking unperturbed by the arrival of more men than he could possibly fight. Things were about to get ugly and still he stood like a king addressing his peasants. An utterly demented king.

  Ronan’s lips curled in anger. “Lord Maclaren to ye, runt. I’ll tell ye what I want.” His voice was low, but the menace in it was palpable. “I read yer letters, ye foul piece of shite. The ones saying my sister was in mourning for her husband and wanted to remain at Brodie in peace. Then I get a visit from a man with a letter penned in my sister’s hand, telling quite a different story. One of murder, false accusations, and deceit. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Well, ye’re in time, Lord Maclaren,” Colin said. “I was about to sentence yer sister for her crimes against her former husband. She’s the one who murdered him. We have a witness. The lady’s own maid.”

  “I didnae,” Makenna said. “Tildy did it, ye ken it.”

  “Aye, ye stupid bitch!” a woman screamed, a blur rushing toward them, weapon in hand.

  Julien’s heart fell to his feet as he looked around for his fallen claymore. It was a few feet away. Releasing Makenna, he dove for it, uncaring of his wound or the pain barreling through his ribs. In the next breath, the sound of hissing steel filled the courtyard, and then the clamor of unimaginable hell broke loose.

  Gowan charged toward Gregor, his horse whinnying in pain from a blow to its flanks, rearing upward and nearly missing Julien’s head by scant inches. He rolled out of the way, his eyes searching for Makenna, who had disappeared in the crush of bodies. He couldn’t tell who was who as tartans spun and collided. Arrows thunked down into men and dirt alike.

  “Makenna!” Julien shouted, fending off a boy in a Brodie tartan. The boy looked no more than sixteen, his face full of fright, flight, and fury. Julien shoved the pommel of his claymore into the boy’s face and watched him slump unconscious to the ground. Not all of them were bad, he knew. They lived in fear of their crazed laird.

  He caught sight of Makenna’s copper-haired head through the throng of bodies, a sword raised and ready to defend against Tildy, who came at her full speed with a claymore of her own. His breath caught, but his wife’s skill was easily apparent in the way she deflected the smaller woman’s strike and continued attack. Julien almost smiled. She’d boasted that she could best him and she probably could. As he fought his wa
y closer, he could see that she parried with ease, the sword held confidently in her hand, deflecting and defending, but not attacking. She was holding back.

  “Why are ye doing this, Tildy?” she asked.

  “Ye deserve to die.”

  Makenna’s footsteps faltered at the viciously spat words. “If ye want Colin, ye can have him. I dunnae want him.”

  “For years I watched ye,” Tildy yelled. “Always too good for any of it, too good for the likes of the Brodie. Couldnae even satisfy yer own husband. I should have stabbed ye instead of him!”

  And there it was—the admission, said out loud for all to hear. Tildy had killed Graeme Brodie. Julien had heard it. Niall and Ronan, too, who stood locked in battle with half a dozen Brodies, trying to get through to where Colin stood at the entrance to the keep, watching the bloodshed.

  “Did ye put the snake in my bed?” Makenna asked, her eyes narrowing in fury.

  “Aye,” the woman growled. “And tossed that stone, and cut yer saddle. Either one of those should have bashed yer useless head. Instead, ye have the luck of the very devil. Dunnae fash, I’ll finish the job now.”

  “Ye can try.”

  Makenna gripped her claymore and renewed her attack on the woman. This time she was not holding back as she had earlier. She fought like a woman consumed, forcing the smaller woman to retreat or be cleaved in two. Julien could see the focus on Makenna’s face, a cold ruthless purpose that reminded him of her older brother. He pushed toward her, determined to take any killing out of her hands. Knowing how much she’d trusted the maid, she had to be devastated by the betrayal. But just as he caught up to them, a strike from Makenna’s sword caused Tildy’s blade to fly from her hands, and the maid turned and fled toward Colin.

  “Makenna, don’t!” he shouted, but she was already giving chase.

  He gnashed his teeth and plowed after her. The ground around him was opening up as the Maclarens superior strength and numbers overcame the Brodies. He fought off two of Colin’s men, watching as Gregor cut down a Maclaren clansmen nearby. The man needed to be stopped. Ribs aching, he half turned, caught in indecision. He didn’t want Makenna going anywhere near Colin, but he was the closest to Gregor.

  “Go to her,” Ronan shouted, shoving past him with a war cry. “I’ve got that bastard.”

  “Don’t go easy on him,” Julien said.

  Ronan’s smile was savage. “I willnae. Niall will guard yer back.”

  Gathering his strength, Julien pumped his legs and ran toward the keep. Makenna’s youngest brother, Niall, ran next to him, his claymore flashing with lethal speed.

  “Miss me?” The Highlander grinned as he tossed a man over one shoulder and struck another in the face with his elbow.

  “Like a thorn in my eye.”

  “Ye wound me,” Niall said.

  “If I could wound that giant ego of yours, I’d count it a win.”

  Niall laughed and spun his claymore like it were a toothpick, taking out two men with one precise swipe. Julien couldn’t fathom that the man only had one hand, he was so incredibly skilled. He’d seen Niall fight before, and had been duly impressed. Julien was glad to have him at his side, considering his injury. Julien knew he was on his last legs, but he didn’t care. Nothing but death would stop him from keeping Makenna safe.

  The four men guarding Colin at the keep’s entrance rushed toward them, and Niall’s grin grew wider. “Go, I’ve always wanted to teach these fools a lesson.”

  “Four on one?” Julien asked, panting.

  Niall winked. “Like a Sunday afternoon stroll to the loch.”

  A female scream drew Julien’s eyes, and his blood turned to ice in his veins. But it was only to see Tildy impaled on the end of Colin’s sword, whom she’d run to for protection. Julien despised the maid for her treachery, but the brutal callousness of her killer shook him. The man had used and discarded her in the worst way. He saw Makenna’s shocked face turn red as she charged him, her claymore held high. Colin kicked the maid off his blade and laughed in Makenna’s face.

  “I’ll kill ye,” she shouted.

  “I’ve always loved yer spirit, lass,” he said, pulling a flintlock pistol from his waistband. “Graeme wasnae enough man for ye. Now, drop that sword or I’ll shoot it from ye.”

  “Go ahead,” Makenna snarled. “Shoot. It willnae stop me.”

  In that moment, Julien wanted to remember her forever, like the fierce Valkyrie she was. It didn’t make any logical sense for him to be half aroused while another man pointed a gun at his wife, but he was. She was utterly fearless.

  Colin turned and pointed the pistol at Julien, perched at the bottom of the steps. “Nae. He’s a much better target.”

  He fired the weapon.

  “Nae!” Makenna’s scream rose above the concussion of the powder blast as Julien dove to the side, both sounds explosive in the courtyard. If he’d moved a moment later, the lead ball would have caught him square in the face. Instead, it narrowly missed nicking his ear. The moment of fear and distraction, however, had caught Makenna off guard. Julien rolled, crouching to his knees as Colin tossed the pistol aside and leaped for her, knocking her claymore loose before dragging her by her hair into the keep. She thrashed against him, fighting like a wildcat, her defiant blue eyes meeting Julien’s for one heart-stopping instant.

  I’m coming for you, his told her.

  “Save Malcolm,” she yelled, not a lick of fear in her voice.

  Julien glanced up at the ramparts. The boy was no longer there, which meant that Max had been successful. As if on cue, a body came sailing over the stones, crashing to the ground below. It was the man who’d been guarding the boy. Max appeared at the ledge soon after and gave him a short nod. Julien clenched his jaw. It was time to finish this.

  Ronan and Niall both caught up to him, and Julien met their eyes before climbing the steps. “That piece of merde is mine.”

  “Aye,” they both said.

  “We’re right behind ye,” Ronan added.

  The man was covered in blood, but he didn’t even seem winded. Julien had expected him to protest, shove him aside, and rush in after his sister. The Maclarens were a protective family. But Max must have told them that he’d married her. That she was now under his protection. There was no other reason they would acquiesce to him so easily. Either way, he was grateful.

  Julien crept slowly into the shadowy keep, staying alert and knowing that Colin could have men hiding. But no one jumped out to attack them as they made their way to the main hall. Colin stood there, standing behind Makenna, his blade across her neck. Fury filled him, but he tempered his reaction. The man was unhinged, and the wrong move could cost Julien badly. He’d already miscalculated in the courtyard. He could not put Makenna at risk any more than she already was.

  “Ready for a second round?” he asked.

  Colin bared his teeth. “Come any closer and I’ll slit her pretty throat.”

  “I thought you wanted to keep her,” Julien said in a mild voice. “Isn’t that what all of this is about? Your exhaustive search? Your concocted allegations about your cousin’s murder? You want her for yourself.”

  “Aye, but if I cannae have her, then nae one else will have her, either, least of all ye. Now, tell yer Maclaren henchmen to back off or she swallows steel.”

  He meant it, too. Julien could see it burning like a mad flame in his eyes. The obsession he held for Makenna eclipsed everything and anything. And Julien knew he’d kill her in a heartbeat, if he felt there was no way out. Glancing over his shoulder, he nodded at Niall and Ronan. Both were loathe to leave, but for now, Colin held all the cards.

  “Dunnae let my sister come to harm,” Ronan gritted through his teeth, his eyes fierce.

  Julien heard the threat in his words, but he nodded. “I’d sooner cut my own throat.”

  The moment they left, Julien put his claymore to the ground and kicked it aside. He needed to make sure that Colin felt he had all the power. In all his years neg
otiating with trade partners and merchants, nobles of other nations, and dealing with pirates, Julien had learned two things: the wisdom of biding one’s time and the power of hubris. He needed to do both here. Be patient, and let Colin’s own arrogance unseat him.

  “What do you want?” Julien asked.

  “Ye ken what I want.”

  “You hold the cards, laird.”

  His pale eyes narrowed. “I want ye to leave and take those dirty Maclarens with ye. Makenna is a Brodie. She belongs here.”

  “And the boy?”

  Colin shrugged. “Take him.”

  “He’s your heir.”

  The man leaned down, keeping his eyes locked on Julien, and licked Makenna’s cheek. “I plan to seed many more.” He grinned at her and patted her belly. “Did ye ken ’twas Graeme who couldnae sire bairns? In all his lovers, no’ one ever got with child. Ye and I will be different.”

  Julien fought back the anger that rose like a geyser inside of him, and silently, he pleaded for Makenna to stay strong. For her part, she kept her eyes on him, too, and the love and trust in them nearly drove him to his knees. God, she was so brave. And so selfless. She deserved so much more than what she’d endured in this hell. Julien intended to give it to her. He wanted to give her the freedom, the life, she was due. And he’d give up everything for her.

  “You can take my entire fleet, every shilling I have. Every property, every estate that isn’t entailed will be yours. You’ll be the most powerful man in the Highlands.”

  It was an astronomical offer, one that made Colin’s eyes narrow with greed. Makenna had said nothing would thwart Colin, but all men had their price. In this case, every hard-earned coin Julien possessed. He did not care. His financial worth was staggering, but it all meant nothing if he didn’t have Makenna. Accepting his grandfather’s title had been the start of it…the beginning of how far he would go to keep her. To protect her. To win her. Poverty didn’t have a candle on what Julien felt for the woman on the dais. Now, on death’s doorstep, he finally understood why his mother had stayed with his father through the worst. He finally got it. Money was fleeting. Love was not.