When a Laird Takes a Lady: A Claimed by the Highlander Novel

by Rowan Keats

  Fortunately, he quickly improved his odds. He kicked his first opponent in the head and sent him catapulting over the ledge. Less fortunately, the other two learned from their compatriot’s mistake and advanced with a flurry of sword strokes that eliminated the opportunity for a kick.

  Isabail sent a little prayer skyward.

  She needn’t have bothered—as it turned out, Magnus was a skilled swordsman. Although she had no knowledge of swordplay and could not have named a single move he made, it was apparent that her warrior was smooth, fast, and effective. He made fighting two opponents simultaneously seem easy. Twice he broke through the flurry of steel to strike a blow that resulted in blood. His opponents were weakening, and Isabail began to believe that he would triumph. But then two more soldiers rushed onto the ledge, and Magnus was forced to give up ground. One of the new soldiers leapt up to the plateau and began to engage Magnus at an equal level. Four against one did not seem like a remotely fair battle. Especially when the other three soldiers leapt up as well.

  She had to do something. But what? Short of screaming for aid, she couldn’t imagine what that something might be. She glanced around. Fling a stick or a rock?

  Spying several fallen tree branches beneath a nearby elm, she weighed her options. Too light and it would be no more distracting than a gnat, too heavy and she wouldn’t be able to toss it more than a foot. Picking up a stick, she hefted it. This one seemed about right.

  Staying low, Isabail moved to the very edge of the trees, close enough to reach the nearest soldier. Then, stepping out from behind the tree, she took aim and pitched the stick with all her might.

  It hit Magnus squarely on the back of the head.

  Isabail gave a sharp shriek of regret and shrank back behind the tree.

  To her immense relief, Magnus powered on without pause. He took down one of his opponents. A sharp jab to the leg, and the fellow was down. Magnus battled on, but took a slice on the arm in the ensuing melee. Blood darkened his lèine and dripped down to his fingers.

  Fear was a sour taste in Isabail’s mouth. She had a dreadful feeling she knew how this was going to end. She hugged the tree trunk with white-knuckled intent. Her gaze was locked so tightly on Magnus’s brave attempt to triumph that she almost missed the flash of movement over by the cliff. A flaxen-haired man tossed a lean, dark-haired lad upon the plateau, then leapt up behind him and began dragging the lad to the trees.

  Daniel!

  Isabail was loath to leave Magnus, but she had to see where Daniel was taking Jamie. She sent another quick prayer skyward for Magnus, then darted through the trees in the direction she’d seen the fugitive pair disappear. Running as fast as her skirts would allow, she rounded a clutch of fir saplings and came face-to-face with the man who had attempted to kill her.

  * * *

  The dungeons of Tayteath were dark and dank. Water dripped from the ceilings and black mold crept up the walls, signs that the rooms were very infrequently used. Aiden paused at the bottom of the stairs and listened.

  De Lourdes was down here somewhere.

  His hand tightened on his sword. Although he would dearly love to kill the bastard for what he’d done to Isabail, his intent was to take him alive . . . and to save young Jamie. Preferably with the same sword strike. He had no notion how skilled a duelist Daniel de Lourdes might be, and frankly, it mattered not. He’d spent eight years of his life with the MacDonalds on the Isle of Skye, a wild and beautiful land matched only by the ferocity of its warriors. He had fought all manner of opponents while fostered there. He could handle one weasel.

  The rough scrape of leather boots on stone gave him a direction to travel, and Aiden jogged down the corridor toward the very back of the dungeon.

  What did de Lourdes hope to accomplish down here? Was he hiding, hoping to escape the castle after Aiden’s men had come and gone? It seemed the sort of craven act a man who stabbed women and used lads as shields would do.

  Peering into the dimness of the dungeon, Aiden spotted a wooden door standing open. The scent of burning pitch hung in the air, but there were no torches in view.

  He approached the door cautiously. It opened into a narrow corridor, the confines of which were even darker than the dungeon. But here the smell of torch was thicker. This was the direction his rat had fled.

  Ducking his head beneath the lintel, he stepped into the corridor. Blinded by darkness, he was forced to travel slowly, but he made his way with as much haste as he could manage. The corridor turned several corners, the last of which gave him sight—another door, this one swinging open with the breeze, the light of a full moon pouring in through the portal. Aiden ran to the exit and out onto a ledge on the cliffs.

  The clash of metal on metal broke through the howl of the coastal wind—the familiar sound of swords engaging in combat. He dashed toward the noise, not entirely certain what would meet his eyes.

  What he found was a solitary man surrounded by three soldiers, doing battle like he’d been born into it. And as the moon shone upon that grim warrior’s face, Aiden was swamped with a gut-deep feeling that was equal parts pride, shock, and euphoria. The man wielding his sword on the plateau above him was none other than his long-missing and presumed-dead cousin, Wulf.

  Aiden vaulted up the two-foot step to the plateau and attacked the soldiers from behind.

  * * *

  Isabail stared at Daniel in the bright moonlight, frozen in place.

  Daniel paled. “Isabail? How is it possible? I ran you through.”

  Her eyes went to Jamie, who looked frightened, but otherwise unharmed. Relieved, she returned her attention to Daniel. A cold trickle of sweat ran down her back. Standing this close to him, seeing the sword in his hand, she almost lost her nerve. Every detail of the sword sliding into her—all the pain and all the blood—was vivid in her mind. The desire to turn and run was so intense, her knees trembled.

  But she stood her ground. For Jamie.

  And as the seconds passed, the pallor of Daniel’s face and the tremble in his hand sank in. By God. He wondered if she were truly here. . . . He wondered if he was seeing a ghost. Given how he’d left her, lying in a widening pool of blood, she could completely understand his state of mind.

  Drawing on an inner strength she had not known she possessed until recently, Isabail took a firm step forward. “You deserve to be punished for what you did to me.”

  Daniel retreated, waving his sword in front of him. “Stay away.”

  “You deserve to be punished for what you did to John,” she said, taking another step forward.

  “Stay away, I say.”

  “You deserve to be punished for all your sins, Daniel de Lourdes.”

  He closed his eyes. “You aren’t really here. You are dead. You can’t punish anyone.”

  Isabail signaled to Jamie. Run, she mouthed.

  The lad did not need further prompting. He yanked his arm free of Daniel’s grasp and took off through the trees.

  Daniel’s eyes snapped open. He stared at Isabail, examining her face in thorough detail. “Why would a specter free a living boy?” he said, firming his grip on the sword and circling around her. “There is no reason, unless you are not a ghost at all.”

  He frowned. “But I most certainly pierced you with my blade. How could you be standing?”

  Isabail could think of nothing to add that might not lead him to conclude that she was real flesh and blood. The last thing she wanted was to have him run her through a second time. Ana was half a day away. Surviving another stabbing was unlikely. So, she simply repeated her original statement.

  “You deserve to be punished for what you did to me.”

  He stared at her hard. Then he glanced up at the full moon. “Nay, you’re just the moon addling my wits,” he said, lowering his sword. “Nothing but a brief fit of lunacy.” A sad smile touched his lips. “Guilt, perhaps, ov
er what befell my beloved John.”

  His shoulders straightened and the wild look left his eyes. “But I have a new lover now and a higher purpose that must be met. Such pangs of guilt are not to be tolerated. Adieu, sweet specter.”

  He bowed to Isabail, then spun on his heel.

  With no one else about, Isabail knew only one way to prevent his escape.

  “Nay!” she cried. “I am no specter, Daniel. ‘Tis I, Isabail. The wound you gave me in the tunnel was nothing more than a scratch. I yet live to tell the world of your crimes.”

  He halted.

  “Your new lover will swiftly abandon you when you are tossed in the dungeon for the murder of my brother and an assault on my person. My cousin Archibald will stand beside me at your trial, and together we will see your soul rot in hell.”

  Daniel spun to face her, a sneer on his handsome face.

  “You forget, my dear Isabail, that a dead woman tells no tales.”

  * * *

  Working together, their combat styles strangely similar, Magnus and his mysterious new friend defeated the three guards handily. When the third and final man fell, Magnus was treated to a hearty thump on the back and a broad grin.

  “By God, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

  Wiping his blade on the churned-up snow, Magnus considered his companion. Given that he’d been the one in sore need of aid, such a comment would have been better suited to his own lips, surely? His cohort was a tall man. Beardless and sporting the well-groomed hair that Magnus associated with nobles. If Isabail had not claimed Tayteath as hers, he would have guessed this man to be the lord.

  So, if not the Lord of Tayteath . . . ?

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  The other man’s grin fell away. “You do not know me?”

  Magnus stiffened. Ah. The fellow recognizes me. That explained the camaraderie. “Nay, I do not,” he responded honestly.

  “Wulf,” the other man said, “I am your cousin, Aiden MacCurran. Our fathers were brothers.”

  Kin. This man was kin. A heady blend of excitement and frustration spun inside his head. But if the man was kin, why didn’t Magnus recognize him? Why did everything seem strange and unknown?

  “Da!”

  A slim, tousle-haired missile hit him in the gut and squeezed him tight with gangly arms.

  “I knew you were alive. I knew it,” said the lad attached to his waist as his face pressed into the folds of Magnus’s lèine. “Oh, God, Da. I’m so glad to see you.”

  He stared at the boy, rooted to the spot in shock. It was too much to absorb, being a cousin and a da. How could he be a father and have no memory of it? Surely such a thing was impossible. Ought not the sound of the boy’s voice and the touch of his hand to stir something? Yet they did not. No fond memories, no sense of familiarity. Still, he did not have the heart to push the lad away, so he stood stiffly and allowed the boy to cling to him.

  He shared a desperate look with the man who called himself Aiden, and thankfully, the man stepped into the breach.

  “Jamie, lad. It’s good to see you safe. How did you escape de Lourdes?”

  The boy pointed to the trees. “Isabail confronted him. He thinks her a ghost.”

  “Isabail?” Both men spoke at once, their voices an echo of dismay.

  “The wretch will kill her.” Magnus attempted a step, but with Jamie stuck to him as securely as a lamprey eel, it was hardly a smooth stride. “I must go.”

  Aiden pointed to Magnus’s bleeding arm. “You’re wounded. Stay with Jamie. I’ll take care of de Lourdes.”

  “She’s my responsibility,” he protested.

  But even as the words left his mouth, he changed his mind. The lad had tightened his grip to a painful intensity, clearly fearful that having found his father, he was about to lose him again.

  Lifting his gaze to Aiden, he nodded.

  The other man disappeared into the trees, leaving him alone with Jamie. Magnus gazed down at the boy’s light brown locks and placed an awkward hand upon the lad’s head. The hair beneath his fingers was fine and soft. A child’s hair. His child’s hair. The tension in his gut eased.

  Perhaps there was a wee spot of familiarity after all.

  “Help me bind my wound,” he told the boy. “And tell me everything that’s happened since I saw you last.”

  * * *

  Isabail saw a shadow move among the trees behind Daniel, and a calm fell over her. She knew that shadow well—the broad shoulders and impressive height had become incredibly dear to her these past few weeks. Aiden.

  “You tried to kill me once and failed,” she taunted Daniel, hoping to keep his attention focused on her. “I’m not convinced you’ll do any better with repeated effort.”

  He walked toward her, slow and light-footed like a Highland wildcat stalking a rabbit. The sword in his hand remained low to the ground, but Isabail wasn’t fooled. His grip on the hilt was unwavering.

  He intended to gut her.

  Praying that Aiden would reach them before Daniel slid the blade between her ribs, Isabail slowly retreated. The cliff was behind her, some twenty paces away. Plenty of space for Aiden to make his move.

  “It seems that when your mouth opens, only lies come out,” she said. “Since justice for John was clearly not what you sought, why take the necklace? Why risk all this for a pretty bauble?”

  He said nothing, just continued toward her, one relentless step after another.

  “Tell me why my brother died, Daniel.”

  That sank through his icy facade. He paused. “I told you. It was an accident. But in the end, he died for a good cause—the triumph of right over wrong. Justice has been a long time coming, but it will see the light of day.”

  His response was too vague and unsatisfying. Isabail needed more. When she had believed John the victim of a thief and a traitor, his death had been understandable. Not easy to accept, but understandable. Now that Daniel had confessed to the crime, there was only confusion and a horrible sense of waste. “How do you accidentally poison someone, Daniel?”

  But the answers she sought were not to be had. His brief moment of introspection passed like a cloud over the moon. Lips clamped tight, his purposeful stride resumed. With his eyes locked on her chest as if he was imagining just where he would place the tip of his blade, he came at her.

  * * *

  Aiden jogged into the trees, his fist tight around the hilt of his sword. He’d nearly lost Isabail once to de Lourdes’s blade; he wouldn’t allow it to happen again. The wretch would die before harming her. He scanned the trees for some sign of Isabail. The bright winter moon filtered down through the barren branches, creating a patchwork of dark and light. He caught a glimpse of pale blue gown, and his heart leapt. She was alive. De Lourdes was harder to see, but Aiden eventually spotted his outline in the dimness. The miserable cur was relentlessly pressing her toward the cliffs.

  Slipping silently through the trees, Aiden drew closer.

  As he listened to the strange conversation between the two, he frowned.

  Until the moment the necklace was mentioned, Aiden had assumed de Lourdes was a thief of opportunity—that he’d stolen the necklace and the crown because he could. Not because that had been his aim all long. Which spoke volumes about how disturbed Aiden had been by Isabail’s near death—he had not thought to question the cur’s goal.

  But de Lourdes hadn’t entered the MacCurran camp to rescue Isabail—he’d come for the necklace. The same necklace that lay at the root of all Aiden’s recent troubles, the same necklace that eventually led back to the man in black.

  By God.

  De Lourdes knew the identity of the man in black. He had to. If Aiden but questioned him, he would have all the answers he sought. Dunstoras would be saved, and his clan could return to their home. All he had to do was wring the truth from
de Lourdes’s lips.

  Right after he rescued Isabail.

  With his gaze locked on de Lourdes, he stepped around a patch of winter-dried bilberry—and very nearly trod upon a sleeping black grouse. The startled bird took flight, veering west in a madly beating flurry of wings. Aiden recovered quickly and raced for Isabail. But he was a moment too late.

  De Lourdes reached her first. He wrapped an arm around her throat and swiveled. His sword flashed in the moonlight, now accurately pointed at Aiden. “Step any closer and I’ll kill her.”

  Aiden continued forward, closing the gap to ten paces. To have a hope of disarming the cur, he had to be within striking distance.

  De Lourdes shuffled back, dragging Isabail with him. “Stay back, I say.”

  The sword was pointed at Aiden and not Isabail, so Aiden ignored him. Eight paces. “Harm her and you’ll die a very painful death.”

  De Lourdes retreated farther, a scowl upon his face.

  Aiden followed. The edge of the cliff was only a few feet behind them. Was de Lourdes aware? “Let her go and you can live.”

  Isabail was clawing at her captor’s arm, but her efforts did not register on de Lourdes’s face. The man’s attention was completely focused on Aiden. He waved his sword. “Do you think me a fool? The only way you’d allow me to live would be if I betrayed the one I live for.”

  De Lourdes took another step back.

  Aiden’s heart thumped heavily in his chest. “Let her go and we’ll talk, nothing more.”

  “There’s naught to be said,” the other man said, taking a firm step back. His voice was dark and crisp, the sound of utter conviction. The edge of the cliff lay immediately behind him, and his purpose suddenly became clear.

  He intended to jump—and to take Isabail with him.

  Aiden’s blood pumped slowly through his veins, and a cool clarity dropped over him. He knew exactly what he had to do—stop de Lourdes before he could leap. There was no time to think twice or doubt the plan of action that sprang to mind. He simply dropped his sword and darted forward, eyes on his target.