When a Highlander Loses His Heart (Highlander Vows: Entangled Hearts Book 4)

by Julie Johnstone

  When Marsaili opened and shut her mouth as if she did not know what to say, Isobel’s uneasiness grew. “Who are these men?” she tried.

  Instead of answering, Marsaili grabbed Isobel’s arm and began to tug her along the wall. Isobel dug in her heels and yanked back, but Marsaili was a head taller and a bit heavier.

  “Marsaili!” Isobel yelled over the noise of battle. “Who are these men?” she asked again.

  Marsaili stopped at the beginning of a narrow path that led to a small door built into the wall. The passage was blocked by Lord MacLeod, who was fighting the large man who had asked if she was Isobel Campbell. A strangled cry came from Marsaili as she glanced between the path and the melee they had left behind them in the courtyard.

  Gripping Isobel hard, Marsaili stared at her. “Ye have been deceived, Isobel.”

  The desperate, pleading look on her face shocked Isobel. “By whom?” she whispered, her thoughts spinning. “Ye or someone else?”

  Tears filled Marsaili’s eyes. “By Father, by Findlay, and by Colin, when he was alive.”

  “What?” Isobel moaned, twisting her wrist to try to escape, but Marsaili held her more tightly. “Colin is dead? Our brother is dead?”

  “Aye… And by me,” Marsaili sobbed.

  Fright swept over Isobel, and she yanked her wrist away from Marsaili. “Ye killed our brother?”

  “Nay!” Marsaili cried out as tears flowed down her face. “I have deceived ye, but I vow it was to help ye. And now we are trapped.” She motioned to Lord MacLeod and the other man. “We must get around them somehow!”

  “I’m nae going anywhere with ye,” Isobel replied, scrambling backward to ensure she was out of Marsaili’s reach. But her half sister did not make a move to grab for her.

  Marsaili swiped at the tears wetting her cheeks. “I dunnae blame ye for nae trusting me, but if ye stay, ye will be married to Lord MacLeod. Do ye wish that?”

  Icy fear twisted through her. “Nay,” she whispered.

  Marsaili held out her hand. “There are enemies all around ye, Isobel, but I’m nae one of them.”

  Isobel’s stomach clenched as she looked past Marsaili to the two men blocking the path. They circled each other, and then their swords met in a wide arc over their heads. The larger man’s forearms and biceps seemed to strain against his skin as he fought Lord MacLeod. With a roar that made gooseflesh rise on Isobel’s arms, he pushed Lord MacLeod’s sword down and out of his hands, and shoved the man backward. Lord MacLeod stumbled to his knees.

  “Come!” Marsaili shouted, already moving past the men.

  Not seeing any choice but to follow, Isobel stepped forward, but the men’s plaids caught her attention and she froze. They were identical!

  But that would mean they were from the same clan…

  Her heart pounded furiously. The bigger man swung his sword down to deliver a blow to Lord MacLeod. Isobel watched in horror as Marsaili started back for her, and at the same time, Lord MacLeod sprang up and jerked Marsaili in front of him as the shining steel blade came down.

  “Nay!” Isobel shouted, and the tall, muscled warrior pulled his blade back just enough that only its tip met with Marsaili’s clothing. Her gown parted, but her skin was untouched. Before Isobel could release a breath of relief, Lord MacLeod whipped out a dagger and dug the point into Marsaili’s throat. A drop of crimson immediately appeared, dread tightening Isobel’s chest. Lord MacLeod was a bad, bad man.

  As if to prove her right and stoke the flame of her tension, he said, “Set down yer weapon, Nephew, or I’ll kill this dim-witted wench here and now.”

  Nephew! Isobel gaped at the stranger, who she could now see clearly in the light of day. He had warm, golden-brown eyes and wavy, gleaming, chestnut hair that just grazed the top of his shoulders. He wore a mask of indifference, but a vein beat a rapid pulse at his neck. She could hardly believe a man who belonged to the clan of her family’s greatest enemy would set down his weapon to save a Campbell, but his gaze flicked from his uncle to Marsaili to the dagger.

  A slow, menacing smile pulled at his lips. “Ye may take me captive if I set down my weapon, but ye will nae save the castle. It burns even as we stand here, and ye and the Campbell will nae be able to use it to provide shelter for the men ye train for evil any longer.”

  Isobel’s breath caught. Evil! Her father would never train men for evil purposes! This man was mistaken.

  “I’ll nae need it,” Lord MacLeod responded and glanced at Isobel. “Ye may congratulate me, Nephew. I’m to marry Isobel Campbell here, and her inheritance, Brigid Castle, will be mine.”

  Isobel seethed. “I’d rather be dead than married to a MacLeod,” she spat.

  Lord MacLeod narrowed his eyes upon her and gave her a look that told her he’d be all too happy to kill her once he had her castle. The other man, Lord MacLeod’s nephew, offered an amused smile.

  “Graham!” yelled a voice from a distance. “Two Campbell ships approach!”

  Hope swelled in Isobel’s chest. Perchance her father or brother was arriving!

  “We must away,” the man in the distance called. “The main keep burns steady, and the enemy has been felled. Deal quickly with our treacherous uncle. Our work here is done. I’ve sent the rest of the men on.”

  Confusion battered Isobel. The MacLeods were apparently a clan at war with itself, but Lord MacLeod seemed the evil one with his dagger still pressed to Marsaili’s neck, and the other man—this Graham—seemed to be the one with a sense of honor.

  “Dunnae listen to yer brother, my nephew, and set down yer weapon!” Lord MacLeod boomed and then ran his blade across Marsaili’s neck just hard enough to draw a line of blood. Marsaili whimpered, and Isobel had to bite hard on her lip so she would not cry out, too. Her gut told her that Graham was Marsaili’s only hope. Even if it was her father or Findlay approaching, she feared they would not reach them in time to help.

  Isobel watched in astonishment as Graham set down his sword and stood with his arms spread wide. “Release the woman, ye coward, and face me like a man.”

  “Graham!” his brother called from the distance again.

  “Go, Cameron!” Graham shouted in reply. “I’ll meet ye where we arrived, and if I dunnae and the sun is high in the sky, leave me until the bird calls once again in the night.”

  Isobel could not believe this stranger before her. Either he was mad or he had no doubt he could cut down his uncle. He had his gaze trained in the distance and, after a moment, tension seeped from Graham’s face. She suspected it was because his brother had departed safely. She inhaled a startled breath to see such a display of caring from her family’s enemy. Her father and brothers had described them as beasts, but this man was showing nothing but bravery and honor. He had bid his brother to leave him in order to ensure his safety and willingly faced his uncle without aid to protect Marsaili. Isobel could not help but admire his selflessness, but at the same time, she felt as if she was betraying her father and brother.

  She focused on Lord MacLeod just as he shoved Marsaili away from him and toward Graham, who caught her as she started to fall and drew her up to her feet. Before Isobel could discern what Lord MacLeod was conspiring to achieve, the dagger flew from his hands and straight toward Marsaili.

  Isobel screamed a warning, but there was no need. Graham pushed Marsaili out of the way, and the dagger hit him in his sword arm. He winced, then reached up and ripped the dagger from his flesh as Lord MacLeod started toward him with his own sword now in hand.

  By the burning hatred in Graham’s eyes, Isobel didn’t doubt that he would defeat Lord MacLeod, even wounded and weaponless, but suddenly shouts filled the courtyard and the ground beneath her vibrated from the thunderous sound of running men. Glancing behind her to see who was approaching, her heart leaped at the sea of men wearing her father’s plaid as they rushed toward her.

  “’Tis Findlay!” Marsaili shouted, but the absence of relief and presence of fear made Isobel frown.

&n
bsp; An almost-inhuman roar came from Graham, and he barreled past Lord MacLeod, elbowing his uncle in the face as he went, then charged full force at Findlay. But from the left and the right, her father’s men swarmed toward Graham.

  “Dunnae kill him!” Lord MacLeod shouted, his voice gurgling from the blood pouring from his nose. “He is mine to deal with!”

  Isobel’s thoughts raced and spun as she stared, stupefied and half in fear for the warrior who had saved Marsaili’s life. Even with one of her father’s men grasping his left arm now and another holding his right, Graham continued to move toward Findlay with astonishing strength, dragging her father’s men with him. Findlay, sword in hand with a shockingly cruel smile twisting his lips, strode toward Graham. “How is yer sister, MacLeod? How is my bonny bride?”

  Isobel gulped a breath of utter astonishment. Findlay was married to a MacLeod? She frowned. She did not understand. Then Marsaili’s words echoed in Isobel’s head: Ye have been deceived. Surely she could trust her brother, couldn’t she?

  Findlay sent the hilt of his sword into Graham’s forehead, and the man slumped forward, unconscious. Isobel trembled as she watched his sudden dead weight cause the men clutching him to stagger and almost fall. Graham had sacrificed himself honorably to save Marsaili, and in truth, Isobel felt numb and confused rather than relieved.

  Marsaili took Isobel’s hand. “The devil’s come home,” she whispered, her wide gaze fixed on Findlay.

  Before Isobel could question her half sister’s comment, Lord MacLeod jerked her away from Marsaili and toward him. “Time for us to marry, Isobel.”

  Isobel looked to Findlay. “Brother, surely Father dunnae wish me to marry a MacLeod?”

  The look of contempt he gave her felt like a slap across the face. “Ye dunnae ken a thing, Isobel, and ye nae ever have. Father wished it that way. Ye will do as ye’re told and marry Jamie MacLeod this night.”

  “I will nae!” she exclaimed, flinching when Findlay strode toward her, his face twisted with rage. She half expected Marsaili to abandon her grip on Isobel and move out of Findlay’s reach, but he closed the distance between them in a breath, shoved Marsaili away, and gripped Isobel hard by the arms. “Ye will do as ye’re told,” he growled again.

  “Findlay, please,” she said on a rush of fear. “Ye’re hurting me.”

  “Let her go!” Marsaili cried out, thrashing at Findlay’s arm.

  When Findlay backhanded Marsaili and she fell to her knees, Isobel flinched and tried to help her. Findlay jerked Isobel back. “Leave her,” he demanded. “She’s nae worthy of yer pity.”

  Disbelief struck Isobel momentarily mute. This was a side of her brother she had never seen. He had never been as warm to her as Father or Colin had, but he had never seemed cruel. Pity twisted inside her chest and made her eyes fill with tears as she looked at Marsaili, who was struggling to stand. When Isobel focused on Findlay once more, he smirked at her as if he understood something, but she could not imagine what.

  “It seems ye inherited yer mother’s weakness of compassion, Isobel. ’Tis a shame for ye, but a good thing for me. Listen well. Ye will marry Lord MacLeod this night, or Marsaili will suffer for it. I may nae be able to touch ye, per Father’s orders, but I will beat Marsaili to her death if ye dunnae do as I say.”

  With that, Findlay roared, “Bring the damned priest out here now!”

  Chapter Two

  Graham awoke enveloped up to his waist in ice. Or at least it felt like ice. The sound of rushing water filled his ears with an echo and hollowness that told him he was in a cave. A quick shift of his legs let him know he stood in water and that his right ankle was bound to something immovable. A boulder perchance? He did not know; he could not bend over to see. He tugged on his arms, which were tied above him, and pain shot through the shoulder that his uncle Jamie had wounded.

  He stared hard into the darkness, split only by moonlight filtering in and the occasional brilliant streak of silver lightning. When the sky brightened, it displayed a white sheet of rain. He waited patiently, counting his breaths and space between the booms of thunder. He didn’t need to question what he was doing here. His uncle was trying to kill him. If Graham remained bound, his death would come slowly as the water rose to eventually cover his head.

  Thunder resounded, and he counted once again. He needed to time his bird call in the quietest moment possible so it could be heard by his brother. Cameron would be listening. Of that, Graham did not doubt. Whether or not Cameron was anywhere close enough to hear it was another matter. Silence fell, and Graham released the call. And then he waited for what seemed forever, giving the call each time an opportunity arose.

  When the water reached his chest, his lungs tightened painfully, protesting both the cold and the straining effort of the call so that the next signal was soft. Too soft to be heard. He’d die here unless he could free himself. Gritting his teeth, he began to move his right leg back and forth as much as he could, rubbing the rope that bound him against the hard stone. He imagined the rope in his mind, the threads at first coiled together tightly. Each scrape against the rock should fray the strands until it weakened and he could snap it. The numbness from the freezing water prevented him from feeling the pain as he worked, yet he knew it would come. It was an inevitability he willingly accepted to escape and continue his revenge.

  He owed it to his sister, Lena, who his uncle and the Campbells had stolen from Graham and his family long ago. His gut ached as he thought about the years he’d thought her dead because it had been made to look as if she had drowned. And all the while, she had been alive and living with a priest, believing the lie that her family was dead, just as they had believed of her. Even now his nostrils flared remembering the years of guilt that had weighed on him. He’d thought himself to blame for Lena’s death, but he’d not been responsible because she was never dead.

  Scrape. Scrape.

  He would kill Findlay for the crimes he had committed against Lena. It was the least he could do for his sister after having long ago broken his vow to his mother to watch over her while she swam, and in doing so had left Lena alone in the loch and ripe for the taking. Of course, she would not have been in any danger if their uncle had not plotted against them.

  Scrape. He would kill his uncle, too.

  Scrape. He tugged on his right leg and smiled grimly into the darkness. The rope was loosening.

  A vision of Isobel Campbell—dark haired, light eyed, defiant, and beautiful—flashed in his mind. Not only did taking her represent retribution for Lena, but he had vowed to deliver her to the king. He had to escape and reclaim the woman. Something about her seemed different from what he had expected, though. She had an innocence about her, but he dismissed that silly notion with a snort.

  No Campbell was innocent. No Campbell was to be admired or trusted, not even Marsaili Campbell, who was the one who had sent him a secret letter that her half sister was being brought home. He did not know Marsaili’s reasons for betraying her family, but he’d not refuse her help. Still, that did not mean he trusted her. The Campbell lasses’ father was Satan, and the remaining brother—the eldest having been killed recently by the hands of Graham’s brother Lachlan—was Satan’s spawn. And from Graham’s short time around Helena Campbell—Isobel’s deceased older sister—he had seen with his own eyes how deceptive a seemingly innocent Campbell woman could be.

  Helena had pledged to marry Lachlan, though her vow was false. She and her family had merely been conspiring to get her into Dunvegan Castle as Lachlan’s future bride so that she could steal the prized MacLeod Fairy Flag. If they possessed the flag that the MacLeods believed was the heart of the clan’s honor and existence, the Campbells had thought they could destroy the MacLeods and take Dunvegan for Jamie, thereby strengthening their position to displace King David and put the king’s nephew, the Steward, on the throne.

  Graham clenched his teeth. It would serve him well to remember all this when he traveled with Isobel Campbell to deliver h
er to the king.

  He continued to work his right leg back and forth, feeling the increasing weakness of his binds, even as the water rose. With a mighty tug of his leg, he snapped the rope and fought against the sluggishness of his own body to raise his legs up out of the water and try to get them over his head. If he could wrap his feet around the ropes from which he was hanging, then he was sure he could somehow free one wrist and then the other.

  He swung his legs up once, twice, only to have them slap back down into the water. He considered the possibility that he might die as he grunted and tried to bring his legs over his head once more.

  Sister Beatrice had always said that Summer Walkers, or Ceàrdannan—travelers of the land who did not belong to a clan—had nothing useful to offer the world, but Isobel smiled grimly as she picked the lock of the cuff around her ankle as the Summer Walkers had taught her. When the iron cuff sprang open, she shook it off, and it clattered against the wood. She shoved aside the chain that had bound her to the bed and quietly made her way to the door. She opened it and peered out, looking both ways into the darkness before tiptoeing toward the stairs.

  Sister Beatrice had also said nothing good came from battles, but Sister Beatrice had been wrong about that, too. The priest had mercifully disappeared during the battle, which meant there had been no one to marry her as Findlay had commanded. Just thinking of her half brother and his betrayal made her stomach ache. She had thought she could trust him, but Findlay had finally revealed his true self. Isobel was more certain than ever that a conspiracy against her father was in the air, and Findlay, Jean, and Jamie MacLeod were all part of it. Surely that had been why Marsaili had been trying to get them away, though why her half sister had not simply been clearer, Isobel could not understand. Mayhap the woman had not thought Isobel would believe her, which Isobel had to ruefully admit was entirely possible. She never would have believed Findlay capable of such cruelty if she had not seen it with her own eyes.