She turned quickly and stood.
Was she dreaming? Twice now had her eyes deceived her?
No, this was real. She was looking at Duncan, fierce and dangerous, sitting atop a chestnut gelding, dressed in his familiar green tartan. His thick sable hair was wild and windblown, his left hand wrapped in a splint. His eye was still blackened but less swollen. He looked almost himself again, and he was alive. He was free.
“You’re here,” he said, in that deep Scottish brogue she had come to know so well . His expression was stern.
She could not speak. Her heart was racing, for despite all the pleasures they had shared and her knowledge of his wealth and aristocratic blood, he was still a brutish and intimidating beast of a man when he wished to be.
She swallowed hard and forced words past her lips, for she was not about to let him break her. He had never managed to do it before, and he was not going to do it now.
“Yes. And you got away.”
“From the English—aye.” He tossed a leg over the back of the horse and swung himself to the ground. “I was told you played a role in the plan to break me out of there. That it was your idea to bring Father Douglas to my cell so he could lend me his robes.”
She wet her lips. “Yes. And he was happy to oblige.”
“But you shouldn’t have taken that risk, lass. If anyone finds out, there will be a price on your head. You could be charged with treason.” His eyes flashed with anger. “What were you thinking? You put yourself in harm’s way, and it makes me want to tie you up again, lass, just to keep you safe and contained.”
Amelia glowered at him. “Contained? Honestly, Duncan, you still think I am that naïve, frightened captive who needs your worldly wisdom and protection. What will it take to convince you that I am no longer that woman? I have learned a great deal about the world, and I am absolutely self-sufficient. I left you, didn’t I? I was not afraid to walk out and live my life on my own terms. So do not dare to ask me if I have stones in my head where my brain should be. I am perfectly capable of making my own decisions and doing what I think is best.”
A muscle clenched in his jaw, and his eyes narrowed.
“Woman, you make me wild. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes, and I don’t real y care. You can be as wild as you wish to be. I will not be afraid of you.”
For a long moment he stared at her as if he was deciding whether or not he should argue; then he strode to the other side of the glade.
“Your plan worked well ,” he said diffidently, and she breathed a sigh of relief, for it was a clear white flag. “Father Douglas was helpful, and he didn’t seem to mind the manacles too much.”
“And Fergus and Gawyn?” she asked, choosing not to gloat over her victory, for she knew how hard it was for Duncan to surrender this way. “Are they safe as well ?”
“Aye. They escorted me out through the main gates, and as soon as we were clear of the village we left the coach behind and each took a horse. We thought it best to separate.”
“So that you’d be harder to track.”
“Aye. But if anyone finds out about this, lass…” He turned to face her, and his eyes communicated a warning.
She smiled. “I know, I know. There will be a price on my head. Have it your way, then. If that happens, I will need protection.”
“From a very powerful man.”
Amelia laughed. “Yes.”
At last he crossed to her and took hold of her upper arms.
“I owe you a great debt, lass. You were very brave, and you saved my life.”
She laughed in tearful disbelief. “And you saved mine.”
Ecstatic, rapturous, too happy to even think, she threw herself into his arms and nearly knocked him backwards onto the grass. “I thought I’d lost you.”
He regained his footing and held her tight. “And I thought I’d never see you again, but you must ease up on my ribs, lass.”
She stepped back, and they stood in the center of the sunny glade, staring at each other for the longest time. Then at last his mouth found hers, and he kissed her hungrily. His hands roamed over her body and ignited her desires.
“I don’t want to ever let go,” she said, holding his face in her hands. “I was miserable without you. It’s why I couldn’t leave Scotland, and why I asked my uncle to remain at the fort. I dreamed of you every night, and I wasn’t sure I had done the right thing when I left you. I wanted to go back and ask if we could begin again. I wanted to talk more about what happened with Richard—but then the news of his head in a bag arrived at the fort, and everyone was talking about the ferocious Butcher of the Highlands. I was confused, and then my uncle knocked on my door, and…” She could not finish the thought.
Duncan kissed her mouth, cheeks, and forehead. “You must know,” he explained, “the reason I was there at the cave that night was to surrender my shield. I told Angus that I wouldn’t do it any longer, that I would never take another life.
The last thing you said to me was that you couldn’t love someone who took a life and felt nothing. I wanted to tell you that I do feel things. Too much, in fact. Everything I’ve done will follow me to my grave. I’ve felt wretched for a long time, but I didn’t know how to change it.”
She touched his cheek. “When I went to Moncrieffe in search of help, Iain and Josephine told me what happened between you and Angus, and I knew I had to get you out.”
She bowed her head. “I am so sorry for all of this. You would never have been captured if it weren’t for me.”
He shook his head. “Nay, lass. I’m not sorry for anything. If it hadn’t happened the way it did, I wouldn’t be here with you now, feeling worthy of your affections.”
She rose up on her toes and kissed him.
“But am I truly worthy, lass?” he asked when she withdrew from the kiss. “I broke the vow I made to you. I killed Richard Bennett.”
She looked at him with anguish in her heart. “I believe you had your reasons, Duncan, and you must somehow forgive yourself.” She spoke the words with conviction, although a part of her was still wary of him and probably always would be. He had lost control of himself and killed a man. He had killed many men.
“I did have my reasons,” he said, “but I need you to understand something, if we are going to be together.” He touched her cheek with the back of a finger, then strode to the water’s edge. “I learned something about Richard Bennett on the day I killed him,” he said, kneeling down and splashing water on his hands.
“What was that?”
He paused. “I learned that he and I were very similar, almost like mirror images of each other. The same, but opposite.”
“How so?”
“We were both warriors, both raised from birth to fight and survive and endure pain.”
She frowned. “But you are nothing like him, Duncan.
Because that man I almost married remembered his own pain, and he wanted to hurt others to make up for it, or to satisfy some dark hankering for revenge against the world.”
Duncan rose to his feet and faced her, so she continued.
“But I know now that the only thing you ever wanted was to prevent the suffering of others. You thought you wanted revenge, but what you real y wanted was to stop Bennett from doing all the bad things he wanted to do to good people.”
“Similar,” Duncan said, “but different.” He strode closer.
“But most of all , I couldn’t let him do those bad things to you, lass. I’ll never tell you the things he said before I took his life, but I did what I did to protect you.”
“You did it for me?” she asked, still feeling a small niggling of doubt, deep in her core.
“Aye.”
“But what about Muira?”
He stopped before Amelia and frowned. “What about her?”
Amelia looked away, toward a weeping will ow that dipped its branches into the water; then she slid her gaze back to Duncan’s face, marked with cuts and bruises. “When we
were together one night, you told me that you did not want me to ever speak Muira’s name. I have felt your love for her between us, Duncan, but I cannot let it keep us apart any longer. I must understand how you feel about her, and about me.”
“There is nothing to understand,” he said, bewildered. “I loved her once, but she’s gone now. I know that.”
“But do you still love her?” Amelia asked. “And will you ever care for me the way you cared for her? Because I cannot compete with a ghost.”
“Compete?” He looked at her as if she had just grown whiskers and a beard. “I don’t want you to compete, lass. I just want you, plain and simple.”
She sighed. “But that is exactly the problem, Duncan. You want me. You desire me. I’ve always known that, and I have enjoyed your passions as well as my own. There has never been any doubt that there is lust between us. But…”
“But what, lass?” He seemed genuinely confused.
She did not know how to say it, how to explain herself, how to make sense of this, or demand what she truly wanted.
Then Duncan grimaced and took her chin in his big hand and shook his head at her, as if she were completely daft. “I didn’t want to speak of Muira that night,” he said, “because I didn’t want to imagine losing you the way I lost her. I couldn’t bear the thought of it. That’s why I didn’t want to be reminded of it. But you’re the one I love now, lass, with all my heart. And if it weren’t for you, there’d be nothing left of me. At least now there’s something beating in my chest. I feel like I can final y have what I once wanted for myself—a peaceful woman for a wife, and a lusty one, too.”
“You love me?” she asked, realizing she’d not heard a single word he’d said after that little declaration.
“Aye, of course I love you, you ninny. Do you have stones in your head where your brain should be?”
She laughed out loud, but he was no longer listening. He was gathering her up into his arms, crushing her mouth to his in a fierce kiss that left her breathless with desire.
“I do love you, lass,” he said. “And I mean to keep you, too. Will you be my wife and never run from me again?”
She felt completely besotted. “I promise I never will . I’d have to be a fool.”
He held her tenderly in his arms. “And I promise to be the gentleman you’ve always desired. That will be my vow to you, from this day forward.”
She smirked and shook her head at him. “I don’t want to marry a gentleman,” she said. “I want to marry a Highland warrior. It’s what I’ve always wanted. I just didn’t know it.”
«Well, perhaps I can be both, just to be safe.”
“You are already both of those things,” she told him. “And what sacrifice do you want from me, Duncan MacLean? Can I be your English wife? Or should I adopt a Scottish brogue?”
He smiled. “You can be whatever you like, lass, as long as you continue to be lusty.”
“So is it safe for me to be happy now?”
He thought about it. “Mm … not quite yet, but very soon.”
“How soon?”
He kissed her on the mouth while he unhooked her bodice. “When you’re naked and on your back right here in the grass, crying out my name, begging for more.”
She laughed. “Then I suspect I shall be happy in a few short minutes from now.”
He inclined his head. “Surely you know me better than that, lass. It’ll be more than ‘a few short minutes.’ ”
She slid her hands up under his kilt and was very pleased to discover just how ardently and enormously this handsome Highlander loved her. And true to his word, a short time later
—but not too short a time—he was sliding into her with great strength and skill and she was trembling all over with rapture.
Author’s Note
Scotland, in 1715, was in the throes of rebel ion over the English succession. Queen Anne had died without an heir, so the Crown passed to a German prince, George of Hanover. Scottish Jacobites ( Jacob is Latin for “James”) believed the rightful king was Prince James Edward Stuart, whose father, James I , had been removed from the throne in 1688 because he was Catholic.
The history books show that the MacLeans, under Sir John MacLean of Duart Castle, were among those who ral ied support for the Jacobite uprising in 1715. The MacDonalds joined in as well , along with the MacGregors, Camerons, and MacLachlans, among others. Under the leadership of the Earl of Mar, an army of twelve thousand clansmen set out to fight for the cause. By September, Mar had taken Perth, but the English stronghold at Stirling, under the command of the second Duke of Argyl , still stood between the Scottish Jacobites and the English border.
Mar’s military expertise was no match for Argyll’s, and his hesitation in marching forward cost the Scots their victory.
Meanwhile, the MacLeans, Camerons, and MacDonalds marched unsuccessful y on Inveraray, and in November joined Mar at the Battle of Sherrifmuir, where they suffered terrible losses and failed to restore a Stuart monarch to the throne.
These battles provided the turbulent political background for Captured by the Highlander and set the characters in motion, pitting Highlanders and Englishmen against each other in acts of vengeance and quests for justice.
Al the main characters in the book—including Duncan MacLean, the “Butcher of the Highlands”—are fictional, though many of the events surrounding them are true, including the fact that the London government took drastic measures against the Scots who took part in the rebel ion.
Some were spared, by pledging allegiance to England, but others were executed or sent to America, and many peerages and estates were forfeited to the Crown.
True also is the fact that individuals took vengeance on one another. One Scottish Whig—a Campbel of Ardkinglas—tracked and followed a MacLachlan for five years until he shot him dead in 1720.
The ancestor of my hero was also a real person: Gil eain na Tuaighe, Gillean of the Battle-axe, who fought ferociously at the Battle of Langs in 1263 and defeated a fleet of invading Vikings. I was inspired by his story, along with the notion that the MacLeans were sometimes known as “the Spartans of the North.” This stirred my imagination in regards to Duncan’s childhood and upbringing.
As far as my red-coated villain is concerned, he, too, is pure fiction, though loosely based on a real British soldier, Lieutenant-Colonel. Banastre Tarleton, who, interestingly enough, was known as “The Butcher.” He was famous for his violence and brutality during the American Revolution.
Castle Moncrieffe is fictional but modeled loosely after Leeds Castle in England—post the additions of 1822 and even some twentieth-century renovations—though I took some artistic liberties with a few decorative and architectural details.
Duart Castle is the true MacLean stronghold. It still stands today and is located on the Isle of Mul . Similarly, Fort William was a real English garrison, and its ruins are visible not far from Inverlochy Castle in the Highlands of Scotland.
If you enjoyed Duncan’s story, I hope you will look for Angus MacDonald’s story, Claimed by the Highlander, coming next month.
I invite you also to visit my Web site at www.juliannemaclean.com to learn more about my books and writing life. I enjoy hearing from readers, and you can contact me via e-mail through my Web site.
Read on for an excerpt from
JULIANNE MACLEAN’S next book
Claimed by the Highlander
Coming soon from St. Martin’s Paperbacks
By the time Gwendolen reached the battlements and took aim at the invaders on the drawbridge below, the iron-tipped battering ram was smashing the thick oak door to bits and pieces. The castle wall s shuddered beneath her feet, and she was forced to stop and take a moment to absorb what was happening.
The frightful reality of battle struck her, and all at once, she felt dazed, as if she were staring into a churning abyss of noise and confusion. She couldn’t move. Her fell ow clansmen were shouting gruffly at each other. Smoke and the smell of gunpo
wder burned in her lungs and stung her eyes.
One kilted warrior had dropped all his weapons beside her and was crouching by the wall , overcome by a fit of weeping.
She stared down at him for a hazy moment, feeling nauseated and light-headed, as cracks of musket fire exploded all around her.
“Get up! ” she shouted, reaching down and hooking her arm under his. She hauled him roughly to his feet. “Reload your weapon, and fight like a Highlander!”
The young clansman stared at her blankly for a moment, then snapped out of his stupor and fumbled for his powder.
Gwendolen leaned out over the battlements to see below.
The MacDonalds were swarming through the broken gate, crawling like insects over the wooden ram. She quickly took aim and fired at one of them, but missed.
“To the bailey!” she shouted, and the sound of dozens of swords scraping out of scabbards fueled her resolve. With steady hands and unwavering spirit, she reloaded her musket. There was shouting and screaming, men running everywhere, flocking to the stairs …
“Gwendolen!” Douglas called out, stopping beside her.
“You should not be here! You must go below to your chamber and lock yerself in! Leave the fighting to the men!”
“Nay, Douglas, I will fight and die for Kinloch if I must.”
He regarded her with both admiration and regret, and spoke in a gentler voice. “At least do your fighting from the rooftop, lassie. The clan will not survive the loss of ye.”
His meaning was clear, and she knew he was right. She was the daughter of the MacEwen chief. She must remain alive to negotiate terms of surrender, if it came to that.
Gwendolen nodded. “Be gone, Douglas. Leave me here to reload my weapon. This is a good spot. I will do what I can from here.”
He kissed her on the cheek, wished her luck, and bolted for the stairs.
Hand-to-hand combat began immediately in the bailey below. There was a dreadful roar—close to four hundred men all shouting at once—and the deafening clang of steel against steel rang in her ears as she fired and reloaded her musket, over and over. Before long, she had to stop, for the two clans had merged into one screaming cataclysm of carnage, and she could not risk shooting any of her own men.
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