Once Upon a Highland Moon (The Highland Moon Series)

by Gwyn Brodie

"Stay here," she whispered, "whilst I make certain 'tis clear." She disappeared, then quickly returned and beckoned them forward.

  "That is the bedchamber you seek," she whispered, pointing to the fourth door on the left. "The adjoining room is never occupied as she prefers to join her husband at night."

  Archibald smiled to himself. Her hate for Sorcha was evident. He and this woman were no different. They knew what they wanted and let naught stand in their way of getting it.

  "Earlier, while they were at supper, I made certain her door was unlocked, as well as the one separating the two bedchambers." She turned to leave, then stopped. "Remember what we agreed upon. Take her and do what you will, but leave Galen unharmed."

  He nodded. Aye, he'd take her, but not before ridding himself of MacKinnon for good.

  She descended the stairs, leaving Archibald and his guard alone in the empty corridor.

  Brom readied his broadsword and Archibald's hand settled on the dirk at his side. They stepped into the empty bedchamber and closed the door behind them. The moonlight lit the room so they had no trouble locating the door leading to the adjoining chamber.

  Archibald slowly turned the latch. His heart pounded as he pushed it open just enough to see inside. With that bedchamber also illuminated by the full moon, he could clearly see the bed and its occupants.

  MacKinnon lay on his back, his arm beneath Sorcha's head, while she lay curled against his side, her arm draped low across his belly. Though he trembled with rage, Archibald managed to hold it at bay. He must keep his wits about him, if he had any chance of succeeding at what he had set out to do.

  "Be ready to grab her, and keep her quiet," he whispered to Brom, then pushed open the door and stepped inside the bedchamber. The two lovers were deep in sleep. Good. He quietly slid his dirk from its sheath, then crept to the head of the bed, his heart hammering against his ribcage. He wrapped both hands around the hilt of the dirk and raised it above MacKinnon's heart.

  ***

  A board creaked and Galen opened his eyes. Campbell! He reached for his broadsword, but it was too late. Moonlight flashed off of steel as the dirk came toward him. He tried to roll from beneath it, but the blade sank into his chest. Agonizing pain radiated through his body, made even worse when Campbell withdrew his weapon.

  Galen gasped and grabbed his chest, feeling his life's blood seep between his fingers. "Damn you, Campbell," he said, fighting the excruciating pain. He'd kill the bastard if 'twas the last thing he did.

  Campbell grinned, his teeth stark in the pale moonlight, then moved around to the other side of the bed.

  Sorcha let out a shriek, then went quiet. She was no longer on the bed beside him.

  He had to get her away from Campbell. Blood flowed freely from Galen's wound and quickly spread. Clenching his teeth against the pain, he rolled over and reached for his broadsword beside the bed. As his fingers touched the hilt, Campbell kicked it away.

  "There'll be none of that, MacKinnon," he whispered. "You'll be dead soon enough, then she'll be sleeping in my bed. I could have cut your throat, and ended your life quickly, but I wanted to make you suffer. I wanted you to watch me take her from you, the same way I watched you take her from me."

  Rage burned through Galen's veins like a wildfire. He growled, and leapt to his feet, grabbing Campbell by the throat, digging his fingers into his windpipe. He'd kill the whoreson.

  Campbell choked and fought for air, as he tried desperately to loosen Galen's grip.

  His accomplice appeared out of nowhere, punching Galen in the jaw and knocking him to the floor.

  Holding his throat, Campbell disappeared from his view.

  Galen brought himself to a sitting position. "Sorcha!" he called out. No answer. He could hear movement, but couldn't see her. Where was she? Icy fingers of panic squeezed his heart, threatening to consume him. He wouldn't let it. He had to keep his wits about him.

  Sorcha suddenly came within his sight, as Campbell's cohort yanked her from the floor and dragged her around the bed. Her hands were bound and a strip of fabric covered her mouth to stifle her cries. She looked at Galen, her gaze falling on his bloody chest. She screamed, but it was quieted by the material.

  Galen crawled to his knees and lunged at the man's legs. He wouldn't let him take her from him. She was his life.

  A boot caught him in the shoulder, sending him sprawling backward across the floor. As Galen fought to stand, his blood slicked the floorboards beneath him. Fighting the dizziness in his head, he made it to his feet.

  Sorcha kicked and fought against her captor, until he tossed her over his shoulder and followed Campbell through the open doorway of the adjoining chamber.

  Fear clawed at Galen like the sharp talons of an eagle. He had to go after them. He had to stop Campbell. With all the strength he could gather, he picked up his sword and went after them. But the room spun like a wooden top, forcing him to his knees. Nay, not now. He grabbed a chair, and pulled himself to his feet. But the floor fell from beneath Galen, sending him to the bottom of a deep, dark well of unconsciousness.

  ***

  The guard carried Sorcha out into the night, farther and farther away from Galen. If she didn't help him, he'd bleed to death. She screamed over and over, trying to make herself heard through the fabric. But no one came to her aid.

  As they neared the shore, Sorcha saw another Campbell guard standing beside a small vessel.

  She was shoved into the bottom of the boat.

  "Start rowing," Archibald said, jumping in.

  Sorcha tried to throw herself over the side, but Archibald dragged her back.

  "You'll do well to behave yourself, Sorcha. Need I remind you of the pain I can cause you?"

  She looked away. The sight of him sickened her. She looked back at Moorloch Castle, where Galen lay dead or dying. A sudden movement caught her eye. Someone was there, near the postern gate, watching them go. She squinted against the dim light, wondering who it could be, then the moonlight made them known. Darcy! As the realization of her betrayal became clear, sobs racked Sorcha's body. She'd known all along, the blasted woman wanted Galen, but would never have believed she'd have gone to such lengths. But she wouldn't have wanted Galen hurt, only that his wife be out of her way. That had been Archibald's doing.

  Please God, let him live. Never had Sorcha felt such agonizing heartache. She buried her face in her hands, and wept until the cloth binding her wrists was wet with her tears.

  The small boat creaked and groaned as it rocked back and forth on the waves. Sorcha had only her shift and a cloak belonging to one of the Campbell guards to protect her against the elements. The cold wind—along with the sea sprays—chilled her to the bone, but she didn't care. She stared into the waning night, numb, not wanting to believe Galen was dead. She prayed with all her heart he still lived, but how could he? She'd seen how quickly his life's blood had drained, as it spread across his skin and dripped to the floor.

  She closed her eyes and more tears joined the thousands she'd already shed. How will I live without you? She thought about throwing herself into the sea, then remembered the wee bairn she carried—Galen's bairn. She pressed her hand to her still flat belly. Sorcha was determined to protect their precious child no matter the cost.

  Archibald's back was toward her and he whispered to the guard who took over the rowing. Since tossing her into the boat, he'd said naught to her. Nor had he explained his actions or intentions. Not that she cared. Naught he could do to her would be more painful than what she'd witnessed.

  The first rays of the morning sun warmed her back as they neared the village of Oban. Boats loaded with empty lobster traps and fishing nets sailed past them on their way out to sea.

  Archibald took out his dirk, the one she was sure he'd used on Galen, and cut away the binding on her hands, then untied the cloth around her mouth. "Keep quiet," he said, then looked toward the village.

  When they came ashore, Archibald jumped out and reached for her.


  She recoiled from his touch.

  He snarled and grabbed her arm so hard she winced. After dragging her over the side of the boat, he set her on her feet. "See that all has been readied," he snapped to the guard, the one he'd called Dooly.

  "Aye, m'laird," Dooly said, then quickly disappeared into the village.

  Archibald turned his attention back to Sorcha. "We wait here for his return." Archibald never loosened his painful grip on her arm, as he looked out over the sea. Was he afraid? Were they being followed? Did those at Moorloch ken who carried out the terrible deed?

  She glared at him. "You're a murderer, Archibald, and I'll let it be known as soon as I have the chance."

  He chuckled and an icy hand squeezed her throat. "You've seen firsthand what I'm capable of doing, Sorcha. You'll keep that pretty mouth shut or your brother will suffer the same fate as your husband."

  Sorcha gasped. Archibald had murdered Galen and she couldn't say a word to anyone without putting Alex's life in danger. But she would find a way—if it took the rest of her life—she would find a way. She would see him hanged for what he'd done to the one and only man she'd ever love.

  After a few minutes, the guard returned from the village. "All is readied, m'laird. The minister awaits you."

  A wave of nausea washed over her. "Minister? What is it you intend to do?"

  An evil sneer curved his mouth."We're to be wed this morn," he said, tightening his grip and forcing her to go with him or else be dragged along the street.

  Sorcha tried desperately to make some sort of sense of it all. "You murdered Galen for my dowry," she accused, her voice much higher than was normal.

  "Aye, and for taking what was mine—you."

  She shook her head in disbelief. "I would have given you the dowry, had I known you intended to murder my husband for it."

  He snorted. "You ken as well as I, MacKinnon would never have allowed such a thing."

  Sorcha's bare feet were numb from the cold and her teeth chattered. She drew the cloak tightly around her.

  At the end of the street stood a small stone church, which turned out to be their destination. When they entered, the elderly minister—who had been on his knees praying before the altar—slowly pulled himself to his feet. He turned to them and smiled. Apparently, he wasn't aware of the dire circumstances surrounding the ceremony he'd been called upon to perform. Sorcha wondered what lies he'd been told.

  This man just murdered my husband, screamed in her head, begging to be said out loud. But she would keep them inside—for now—for doing so would keep her brother alive. She would find a way to avenge Galen's death. Everyone would ken that Archibald Campbell was naught more than a cold-blooded murderer.

  "This be the bride then?" the minister said, taking Sorcha's hand between his own. His hands were calloused and rough, but his eyes were soft and gentle.

  "We've a long way to travel, minister, so get on with the ceremony," Archibald said, narrowing his eyes at Sorcha.

  "Aye, of course. Follow me," the minister said, then headed toward the altar.

  Sorcha refused to move, but Archibald yanked her forward with such force she nearly fell.

  The minister turned around, his gaze meeting Sorcha's. "Are you ill, lass? Or but anxious about getting wed?"

  Did she dare tell this man of God the truth? If she did, would Archibald also murder him—or have one of the guard outside do it? Sorcha couldn't take that chance. She didn't want this dear man's death on her conscience. She glanced at Archibald. The look in his eyes dared her to speak against him. She looked back at the minister. "Nay, I am well."

  Grief and pain consumed Sorcha, and an empty hole now lay where her heart had been. How could she stand idly by and allow herself to be wed to the man who had stolen her very life and soul from her?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Galen slowly opened his eyes. Moonlight streamed through the window of his bedchamber. He couldn't have been out more than a few minutes. The blood on the floor beneath him was still wet. He moved, sending a searing pain through his chest. Sorcha! He had to get to her. Groaning, he lifted his hand to his wound. The bleeding had stopped—most likely the only reason he wasn't dead. He dragged himself along the floor until he reached his bed, then grabbed the sideboard and pulled himself up to a sitting position.

  The pain was excruciating. He clenched his teeth and prayed for it to ease. Using the bedpost for support, he brought himself to his feet. Blood suddenly blazed a trail down his side. Galen cursed. He'd reopened the wound. Trembling, he held on, afraid he would crash to the floor if he let go. The extreme pain, with the exertion of getting to his feet, caused sweat to dampen his body. He closed his eyes and dropped his head against the post. God, please give me the strength to find her.

  Duncan's laughter echoed along the corridor, followed by Cinead's familiar voice. Their heavy footsteps drew closer. They would be returning from the village, headed for their beds. They would soon pass by Galen's bedchamber door.

  "Cin, Duncan," he called out hoarsely, as loudly as the wound in his chest would allow. Please hear me.

  Their footsteps stopped outside his door. "Galen, is something amiss?" Cinead called through the bolted door.

  "Aye, hurry. Enter through Sorcha's room. 'Tis unlocked." Galen still held onto the bedpost when they came through the door with their weapons drawn.

  "Saints above!" Duncan said, his gaze going from Galen's blood-stained chest to the blood-soaked bed and floor.

  They sheathed their dirks and hurried to him.

  "What the devil happened, Galen?" Duncan asked, his gaze scanning the room.

  "Campbell took Sorcha. We have to go after them."

  Cinead frowned. "You need to lie down, Galen. You've lost more blood than most men own, and you're still bleeding. His gaze settled on the deep gash in Galen's chest, as he and Duncan helped him onto the bed.

  Lighting a candle in the fireplace, Cinead carried it back to Galen's bedside. "You're pale and your skin is cold. 'Tis the blood loss," Cinead said, covering Galen up to his chin with a wool blanket.

  "I'll go after the healer." Duncan raced out the door.

  "Cin, help me with my plaid." Clenching his teeth, Galen tossed back the blanket.

  Once Galen wore his belted plaid, Cinead again covered him. "You say Campbell took Sorcha?" he asked, concern clear on his face.

  "Aye, he did." Galen winced as another sharp pain grabbed his chest. "When I opened my eyes, he stood over me with his dirk, ready to end my life, which was his first intention. His second was to take my wife. There was someone with him who saw to Sorcha. Her hands were bound, and a cloth tied over her mouth to keep her quiet."

  Cinead shook his head. "Why the devil would he go to such trouble? She's married to you. What do you think he intends to do with her?"

  Galen snorted. "Marry her, of course."

  "Surely you don't think he's still after the dowry."

  "Aye, that's exactly what I think. If I'm dead, which he more than likely believes I am, then he would be free to marry Sorcha and claim her dowry."

  His father and Ewan hurried into the bedchamber, followed by Duncan and the healer, Elis, with her two apprentices.

  Galen's gaze fell on his father's ashen face. "Don't fash yourself, Father. The blade missed my heart."

  Elis snorted. "Not by much it didn't," she said, then looked up at his father. "He'll live, m'laird. The wound is clean and appears to have missed anything of import. I'll clean it properly and prepare a poultice to aid in the healing, then I'll stitch him up." She turned to her helpers and gave them detailed instructions of what she needed.

  Galen's father breathed a sigh of relief. "When I saw all the blood, I thought—otherwise."

  Ewan came to his bedside, his young brow furrowed with worry. "I'm glad you're not going to die, Galen. I need my big brother."

  Galen forced a grin. "What for? To get your arse out of trouble?"

  Ewan smiled sheepishly.

  Darcy appea
red in the open doorway. When her gaze fell on Galen's bloody chest, she screamed, then shoved past Cinead and fell to her knees beside his bed. "This is my fault, Galen," she cried. "He promised he'd not harm you."

  They all stared at Darcy in disbelief. "You're responsible for this?" Galen snapped, his voice trembling with rage. "You helped Campbell take Sorcha from Moorloch?"

  Still sobbing, she nodded. "He was only to take her, not harm you."

  Anger pulsed though Galen's veins. If she'd been a man, he'd have killed her. "What does he plan to do with Sorcha?"

  Darcy shook her head.

  "Tell me!" he demanded through clenched teeth.

  She shook her head. "I don't ken, he didn't say," she sobbed.

  Galen's body shook with fury. "And you didn't care, did you, Darcy, as long as she wasn't here?" he shouted, then looked up at Cinead. "Get her out of my sight."

  Cinead nodded, his eyes narrowed, as he forced the crying woman to her feet and into the corridor. He quickly returned and closed the door behind him.

  His father growled. "I'll deal with Darcy later. At the moment, we have more urgent matters to attend."

  Elis cleaned, then carefully stitched up Galen's wound. While she applied a foul smelling poultice to his chest, the others stood in a corner of the bedchamber, talking quietly. Galen guessed Cin was catching the others up on what had happened.

  His father looked at him. "So 'twas this Campbell you told me about who took your wife and near killed you?"

  "'Twas he, laird," Cinead offered, before Galen could speak. "Duncan and I are ready to go after him."

  "You can be sure my garrison and I will be with you. Ewan, tell the men I'll need half ready to go with me, immediately."

  "Aye." Ewan squeezed Galen's hand and hurried off to do their father's bidding.

  The muscles of his father's jaws tightened as he clenched his teeth in anger. His brows were drawn tight and his blue eyes were the color of an angry sea.

  Galen had seen that look on his father's face many times. He was ready to do battle. "I'll be coming with you," Galen said, then slowly sat up. They all watched, as he carefully moved his legs over the side of the bed. His chest hurt like hell, but he refused to allow them to ken it.