The Highlander's Kiss (Highland Legacy Book 2)

by D. K. Combs

  How could she have left after that single argument?

  And how…could he have not caught on?

  Alec’s forehead rested against the table as another groan escaped him. Instead of frustration, though, this one was laced with pain.

  Even without how perfect they were together, how much their coupling made sense in his socially skewed, calculative mind…their flame for life, for each other, was equal. Nay, not equal. Never would his flame be equal to hers.

  She was brighter, hotter, more passionate than anything he could ever hope to combat with—but that was fine by him. He preferred the shadows and the silence. He preferred watching from the sideline.

  Even if she preferred being involved, carefree, a force to be reckoned with…he had no qualms over sitting in the shadows and enjoying her strength.

  Alec scrubbed a hand down his face. He had never thought her one to run from a problem. If that made him the problem, so be it. Waking up to the words, “she’s gone,” were words he hadn’t realized he never wanted to hear. If he had known that he was too insistent on marriage with her…he would have stopped.

  But hadn’t their banter been—mostly—fun and games?

  Hadn’t that been what she wanted? To see the sides of him that were truest of all?

  His throat closed up and his eyes stung. He had gone through the hardship of revealing himself to her, of making her understand his duties in his clan that far exceeded anything he’d ever shown to anyone else.

  Alec had let his guard down for her...

  And he was foolish indeed because of it. She had not ever asked for that, had not ever opened herself up to him in that way. He had done this to himself, by pushing her boundaries. In doing so, he had pushed her away—and now he sat there with his head pounding and ale brewing in his stomach.

  Not only that, but he was bitter. Bitter to the point of hating himself, hating the part of himself that no one understood, not even himself. He was too much of an arse to see that he was pushing away the one woman he was ever going to care for, and now…it was too late.

  She was gone, and it was all his fault.

  “Misses, ye’ can’t just barge into the hall like—“

  He pressed his face into the arm resting on the table. The sun was bright enough, and coupled with the angry shouting coming from outside the entry, it was the perfect mixture for pain.

  “I have to speak to Lord McGregor! He needs to know—“

  “It does no’ matter, ye’ canna just—“

  “Oh, gods,” he grated, lifting his head just as the bickering voices rounded the corner. “Would ye’ two just shut up?”

  He dropped his head back into his arm, debating whether another gulp of ale was really worth it. The image of his lost lady appeared in his eye at the thought…and he decided aye, another chug was definitely worth it if he could only forget his own screw ups.

  By now, she was back at her father’s. He could only imagine what Kane Shaw would do to him if he showed up, sprouting that he wanted his daughter’s hand in marriage. Blayne had probably already told her father, or at least her mother, about the two of them. How he had so rudely stolen a kiss from her and nearly traumatized her. How he had then stripped her bare, only to penetrate her sweet, willing, luscious body…

  He slammed his fist into the table.

  Vaguely, he realized the voices in the back of his mind had stopped talking. Of course, that was only because the two people in front of him had stopped…which begged the question of why they were still in front of him.

  “Why are you still here?” he grated, just barely lifting his head to finally give the two of them a glance. Thomas and—and Gertrude? She had reportedly left with Blayne, so why was she standing in front of him now?

  He pushed himself up in the chair. Mayhap this was all a bad dream—mayhap Lady Blayne had not left him as he had originally thought.

  “She’s been betrayed,” Gertrude said quickly, flinging herself forward and away from Thomas. “Lady Blayne has been captured--

  He laughed, even though the sound created an ache between his ears.

  “If this is another one of her little games, I want no part of it,” he said, lowering his head back down. In Blayne’s mind, she was probably trying to do something nice for him, a favor of sorts by sending Gertrude to give some otherworldly excuse as to why she had to run away.

  Hell, the woman had put a pond in his chambers. What more was there to say she wouldn’t concoct an “easy way out” in the form of a game or such. Did she not realize this was cruel of her? Did she not realize how affected by her departure he was?

  “Ye’ need to listen to me, my lord, please! She is in true danger!”

  He lifted his head, intending to look her straight in the eye and leave. Instead, his gaze strayed to the shadow that was lurking behind one of the columns of the hall. There, creeping so slowly and close to the darkness, the cloaked figure was almost indiscernible—but Alec saw him.

  Somehow, in his near drunken, bitter stupor, he saw the cloaked figure as the thick cloth moved to reveal a hand, a bow, and…an arrow.

  An arrow that pointed straight for Gertrude.

  Quicker than Alec could shout a warning for, the archer drew the bow and took aim. The table separating them and his ale addled brain prevented him from moving quick enough to jump over it.

  Even with the warning shout, no one took notice of the archer and his released arrow until it was too late.

  The arrow struck the target—Gertrude. Square in the chest.

  Right in the heart.

  Cursing, he threw himself back from the table and started off in the direction of the cloaked archer. Thomas began shouting for someone to catch the murderer. Alec would have continued the chase, but the weak call from the ground had him pausing.

  The archer didn’t make it past the exit of the kitchen before he was caught.

  “Don’t kill him,” Alec shouted, holding a hand up for them to stay where they were. He went to Gertrude, who reached for him, her face waxen and her eyes already glazed from the pain. He ground his teeth, regret coursing through him.

  He might not have known or trusted the woman, but he now realized the sacrifice she had made.

  “Callahans—have turned on her. She needs you,” Gertrude whispered, her breathing labored.

  He cursed, grabbing the arrow with both hands and snapping the end closer to her body. He would pull the end out of her, but without anything to aid in lessening the flow of blood, she would soon die, too soon to tell him what she knew.

  He pounded his fist into the ground, but that didn’t help.

  No, as she stared up at him, a delicate smile spread across her face.

  She opened her mouth as if to say one more word, but all that came out was a trickle of blood and her final sigh.

  He stared down at her for a moment, then lifted his head to meet Thomas’s eyes.

  “My lord, I—“

  “Detain the archer,” he snarled, slowly rising to his feet. “Lock him in the dungeon.”

  “Ye—yes, my lord,” Thomas said, obviously shaken. His squire swiped a hand down his face, wiping away a hefty amount of sweat. “And—and what will we be doing about Miss Lady Blayne, assuming this wasn’t a trap?”

  “Trap or not,” Alec murmured, a dark laugh breaking through his lips. He swiped his hands on his plaid, rolling his shoulders. In the distance, he could hear the archer’s screams echoing down the hall as he was dragged away. The remaining men surrounded him, waiting.

  The smile that came over his face was one that hadn’t graced him in a while. That calculative side of him shifted, became something more, darker. Blood-thirsty.

  “The Callahan bastard’s head will roll across his hall tonight.”

  “There are many things we come to regret in life,” she called out sardonically, grabbing the wrought iron gate bars and shaking it. “Your mother ever giving you the breath of life shall be one of them! Do you hear me? You’ll regret
this, you sniveling, rat-faced, goony bastard!”

  There was no reply, not that she was surprised. The men had been avoiding her for the past several hours. While she would like to think it was her terrifying threats that encouraged that, she knew better. They hadn’t heard back from whoever had ordered her to be kidnapped.

  This was not how the plan was supposed to unfold, and she didn’t know who to be furious with. Herself? Gertrude? The Callahan?

  It couldn’t possibly be The Callahan. He was too smart a man! Kidnapping the daughter of the Lion? Foolish. Simply foolish.

  And yet, they had been the one to threaten war with The McGregors, which was nearly an even greater offense…

  It had to be him. Gertrude wouldn’t have betrayed her trust like this. She wouldn’t have staged something like this with the intent to bring her directly into an ambush. Right? She shook the thought out of her head. That was impossible.

  “Don’t ye forget who I am,” she yelled, brogue becoming thick in her anger, voice bouncing off the damp, cold walls. This reminded her much of the dungeon her own father had. What was it with men and their dungeons being an unkempt, cold, and unforgiving mess?

  Lord, there was a dead rat not even ten feet away from her—and God, did it reek.

  “Don’t forget what I can do,” she hissed. Even that echoed through the walls. She hoped it was a terrifying sound. Like a snake, creeping around the hairs at the back of their shoulders. Yes, hissing was quite terrifying. “I set fire to a whole forest, ye’ ken! Killed a whole lot of men, as well. Do yiu really want to infuriate me any more than ye’ already have? Ye’ might find yer whole village aflame, and the Devil will be there to greet ye’!”

  She pulled back her foot, prepared to drive it into the rusty, iron gate one last time. So focused on putting in the force behind the kick, she didn’t notice the man that was already unlocking it until her foot kicked nothing but air and a hand reached for her shoulder.

  “Yer coming with me, wench,” he snarled, jerking her with a bruising grip. She gasped, finding her balance, but he’d already shoved her forward.

  “I will end you,” she warned.

  “Good luck with that, ye’ batshit woman.”

  She gritted her teeth. A reply was not worth the breath it would take. No, she had to take in her surroundings, had to find a way out of this to at least escape the compound.

  Escape…

  Gertrude. Lord, Blayne prayed the woman had made it out alive. If only to tell someone, to warn them of the ambush.

  The thought was likely a lost hope. One woman against a slew of warriors trained in tracking, hunting, and killing?

  No, there would be no aid for Blayne tonight, and she was not going to let her final moments with Alec be of anger and uncertainty. No, she had to make it out alive.

  And when she came back to this God forsaken clan to exact her vengeance? She was bringing the wrath of the dead with her—because no one would make it out alive.

  The man urged her forward, but not after one last look at him. He was tall and fair haired. A roll of rope hung from his hip, but he didn’t reach for it. No, he kept urging her along, as if the rope wasn’t there.

  Fine.

  The more freedom she had, the better.

  Blayne was taken through the dungeon and up the long staircase that led to the first floor. She didn’t remember any of this, but that was to be expected. The cowards had knocked her out. In silence, she was lead out of the stairway and through the doors of the armory.

  Aye, this would be a good thing to remember, she thought to herself. Not only that, but on her way to through another set of doors, she saw what she could only assume was the grand hall—and at the end of it, a large set of wooden doors with The Callahan emblem carved in the old oak. An eagle carrying an axe.

  She nearly rolled her eyes. Trying to be majestic, were they?

  Well, they failed. The rushes were old and tattered, and the tables looked to be needing a good wash and wax. There were even old cutlery and tankards laying around!

  The tall brute led her through the opposite set of doors to the ones that led to freedom—deeper into the keep, and the room that was presented before her was nothing short of false grandeur. Try as she might to remain furious, she couldn’t help but draw up short at the audience.

  In the large room, with the hearth roaring to life and the throne made of old wood that looked to be the same as her escape door, were only two men, three if she counted the one that had led her in there.

  The Callahan and a cloaked figure.

  Angus Callahan was not an unattractive man. He was no where near as striking as Alec, but he was a handsome man—even if he was a traitor. His long black hair was graying at the hairline, with strands of silver flowing through several braids earned from battle. One of those braids had been from a battle he had fought alongside her father, she was sure.

  He aged gracefully. His body was not portly or slumping. Rather, he was lean and tall, broad shouldered and confident in his leisurely position. He sat in the throne with his legs splayed in front of him, one hand resting regally on the armrest to hold his head up as he gazed at her with a bemused look. He wore nothing but his plaid and leather vambraces, and his sword was displayed proudly at his side.

  She narrowed her eyes on the man in the throne, but apparently it wasn’t her turn to speak. The cloaked figure, something she had completely forgotten about in all of her assessments of Angus Callahan, stepped out from the shadows and waved his arm.

  “Tie her up, then leave,” he hissed. His voice was like a crackle in the fire—hot, pained, and furious. He sounded like a demon from hell.

  In the middle of her horror, realization dawned on her. They were going to tie her up! It would make it that much harder to escape.

  She jerked away from the man behind her.

  “Ye’ll not tie me with that like some pig—“

  “I’ll do as I verra well please, wench. Now silence, before he kills us both dead,” the man hissed. Only because of his apparent fear of the cloaked figure standing in front of her did she listen. So much for freedom, she thought angrily, glaring at the figure who took slow, stiff steps toward her.

  The man finished tying her up, then backed away, leaving her with the truth of the situation—there was no escape.

  He had tied not only her wrists, but her ankles as well. As an added measure, he’d also taken the initiative to wrap the rope around her arms—effectively preventing her from making any movement that would allow for her escape.

  The reality of what was happening had her heart beat quickened—but not with fear. No, these weak men would never see fear from her. She was more than the daughter of the Lion—she was Blayne; a fearless, strong woman with the blood of warriors coursing through her.

  If she was to die tonight, she was going to die fighting.

  She might be tied up, and that might make things slightly impossible, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to at least try.

  “So,” the figure said, coming toward her at a pace quick enough to be a crawl. Lord, but his voice gave her the same feeling as rocks grinding together. “I finally get to see you face-to-face like this… You’ll finally see what you created.”

  He leaned in close, and the smell of something rancid singed her nose. She recoiled—as much as she could, with her ankles being bound.

  “Oh, you don’t like that smell, lass?” He laughed cruelly, then reached for the hood. The movement was cautious, as if the smallest muscle flexing was too much for him to bare. When he gripped the hood, she saw the fingers peak from under the long sleeve of the cloak, first.

  They were brittle and black. Like a piece of meat that had been burned from cooking on the fire too long. Like the burned pieces of the flesh were peeling, flaking off to reveal the pink meat underneath.

  Bile rose in her throat, but that wasn’t what had her kneeling, gasping. The fingers weren’t the cause of her revulsion. No, it was the creature that was
hiding underneath the hood that had her choking back a scream of horror.

  If the fingers had been any indication of the monster that was hidden, it wouldn’t have done the full creature justice.

  There was nothing but charred skin. Singed, flaking, peeling and blistering, untreated wounds oozing pus and blood. Even the expression on his black face was one of eternal pain.

  “Yer…Yer Harold,” she gasped, turning her head to the side to suck in a harsh, deep breath. Everything about him screamed agony—and that was surely what was in store for her if this was the man she suspected he was.

  “I’m more than that, lass.” His trembling hand reached for her chin, the black skin just barely reaching her field of vision. When their skin touched, she felt the bile rise with a fury, and this time, it nearly spilled.

  Hot yet cold. Like a demon sent from the pits of hell to touch a snow flake, the sensation of even more fingers crawling under her jaw until he was holding her face was something she couldn’t even begin to describe.

  Parts of his grip was smooth, hard. Others were moist and sticky. Seared flesh versus the open wounds.

  “How are you alive?” she whispered, forced to stare at him, forced to take in the full force of what she had done by lighting the fire.

  “My need for revenge,” he said simply, as if that was the only answer in the world that made sense. “My need for revenge, and for you to feel the same pain I felt as I lay in the forest you set ablaze. I want you to hear the same screams of agony and destruction that I heard. People you love, trusted…all gone, while you alone suffered and somehow survived.”

  “You took me captive,” she hissed, hating that tears threatened to well in her eyes. The thought of being put through what he described was heart numbing—but that didn’t stop the facts from being there. That didn’t stop the fact that she had feared for her life after being kidnapped by him.

  “Oh, aye—and you would have lived to tell the tale, had you not killed all of my men and turned me into a demonic creature sent straight from my daughter’s nightmares!” he roared. The sound echoed around the room. In the background, Callahan watched the show with a bemused front, not a muscle having moved or twitched.