To Avenge Her Highland Warrior

by Samantha Holt

  She eyed him with bemusement. Why did this man want to charm her? He seemed oddly taken with her. She lifted her skirts and glanced down to see she had managed to brush dirt across the pale blue fabric. Groaning aloud, she rubbed the muddy mark with her fingers but to no avail.

  Still, it could be no worse than being clad in only a chemise.

  As if reading her thoughts, Ronan flashed a grin. “Dinnae fear. Ye still look fine indeed. Though, I confess I found yer morning wear extremely acceptable too.”

  Her cheeks flamed. “Ronan,” she scolded. She surely did not wish to be reminded of how most of the household had seen her practically naked.

  “Forgive me. I told ye I’m no gentleman. I’m sure no one was offended by yer appearance. No man, at least.”

  “Ye shouldnae be speaking so,” she replied with as much majesty as she could manage. Choosing to ignore the man’s baffling flirtations, she set about strolling around the square plan of the gardens. The fresh air, if a little chilly, filled her lungs and revived her. Most of her fatigue had faded and the ache in her muscles eased as she walked.

  Ronan followed, slightly behind her, but ever present. She took the time to observe the busy curtain walls. Kilcree was no huge keep. Usually Gillean kept most of his men at his other domain but today, most of the men were out on the walls and heavily armed.

  “Why are there so many men?”

  “Ye must know he had been gathering his forces.” Ronan glanced around. “Kilcree’s proximity to the coast is beneficial.”

  “My brother thought Gillean intended to turn his attentions to our cousin’s lands.”

  “No doubt he does, but the laird wants more than another castle. The Norse are back on our shores and the laird has offered his men to help.”

  “The Norse intend to take the Western Isles again?”

  “Indeed.”

  Realisation dawned. “He wants the Isle of Bute, does he not? That had been his intention over a year ago.”

  He nodded.

  Lorna flattened a palm across her mouth. Gillean had not been able to secure the isle by marriage as he had hoped so now he intended to join forces with the Vikings. After the failed Norse invasion of Bute, Scotland had hoped that would be the last of the Norse threat but clearly not. And now she had found herself caught in the middle of a war.

  “Ye shall fight yer own countrymen?”

  Ronan lifted a shoulder. “We Scots have been fighting between ourselves for many years. ‘Tis in our nature, my lady.”

  “Nature is no excuse for greed.”

  “I am bound by oath to my laird and I wouldnae dishonour myself and my family by going against him.”

  “What honour is there in taking land that does not belong?”

  “That, I cannae tell ye until I have taken some.”

  Unable to resist, Lorna released a spluttered laugh at the man’s audacity. Her laughter jammed in her throat and she froze, when Logan stood in her path, arms folded, his expression like thunder. Lorna gulped.

  ***

  Tèile had to admit Ronan was better at flirtation than she had anticipated. If she had learned one thing of human males, it was that they guarded their women fiercely. And Logan might not want to admit it, but he was as connected to Lorna as Tèile was to the faery woodlands. The few little whispers she had put in Ronan’s ear about Lorna’s beauty had worked like a charm. She grinned to herself. She was getting better at this matchmaking business.

  Now Logan looked as if he wished to tear the lad apart. From her perch on Lorna’s shoulder, she had a fine view of his deadly expression. Her grin dropped. She hoped he did not do anything drastic. The fae council would not take kindly to her provoking murder.

  He appeared to take a breath before stalking forward. “Ye have been out here long enough.”

  “I have been out here mere moments,” she protested, dropping back.

  Logan stepped closer and reached out to grab her but Ronan stepped forward. “She isnae causing any trouble.”

  “Step aside, Ronan,” Logan growled.

  Tèile rolled her eyes. The man really was not himself. It was all too tempting to give him a little tap on the head and return him back to normal, but she’d already learned meddling with fate had dire consequences.

  Both men squared up to one another, chests puffed, jaws tight. Before Tèile considered intervening, Lorna stepped between them, a hand to their chests.

  “Enough,” she declared. “If ye wish to tear each other apart, mayhap ye can wait until weapon’s practice.”

  Logan glared at Ronan, then at Lorna, before backing down. “Gillean’s messenger arrived earlier. He should be arriving at Kilcree on the morrow. Why do ye no’ make yerself useful and oil the gates before the laird arrives?”

  “Ye are serious?”

  “Aye, I am serious.”

  With a huff, the man stalked away but not before dipping to Lorna and bestowing a charming smile on her. Tèile rubbed her hands together as Logan’s eyes darkened. Her plans were coming together nicely.

  Chapter Seven

  Logan turned to Lorna and gripped her arm. She winced and he relaxed his hold, drawing in a breath through his nostrils. Damn Ronan. He had no business making her laugh, or looking at her so. He had even seen him touch her as she stumbled. White hot fury still simmered in his veins and refused to abate. The lass was a prisoner, not a guest.

  Aye, that was what had angered him. Nothing to do with the fact he wanted to be touching her or making her smile.

  “Ye’ll be returning to yer chambers. Ye look well enough now.” Too well. Her increased colour had clearly drawn attention. Mayhap his rash actions that morning had not helped either. Giving a castle full of lusty men a look at a fine woman in little more than a slip of fabric had not been his cleverest idea when he thought on it.

  “Are ye sure ye trust me enough? Mayhap I shall seduce my guards or fill their ears with falsehoods.”

  Eyes narrow, he contemplated her. “Ye are right. Ye can come with me.”

  “Come where?”

  “To the village.”

  Unsure as to why he’d made such a decision, he continued to haul her across the bailey to the stables. He noted the looks all the men gave her. Admiring glances, raised brows of interest. All of them straightened slightly. Ach, did the entire population of the castle lust after her? He could not leave her here with them all looking as though they might pounce on her like hungry wolves.

  She twisted in his grip and released a sound of frustration. “Must ye drag me everywhere?”

  “Aye, lass, I must.”

  “Logan, ye are infuriating,” she declared when he hauled her into the stables and motioned to the stable hand to bring forth his horse.

  He had already asked for it to be saddled though he had not anticipated having an added burden on his journey to the village to collect tithes. The lad pressed the reins into his hand and Logan waved him away.

  “Get on then.”

  Lorna folded her arms. “Not if yer going to insist on manhandling me all o’ the time.”

  “If ye dinnae climb on, I’ll throw ye over and tie ye to the horse like a sack of grain.”

  “Ye wouldnae.”

  “Do ye wish to find out?”

  With a huff, she fought to get on his tall horse but to no avail. He bit back a sigh and clasped her waist to help her on. She slipped forward while he mounted. When he put his arms around her to grip the reins, a hint of lemon filled his senses and her hair tickled his neck. He had to admit, with it coiled into a loose braid around her head and with several curls tumbling around her neck, he could see why Ronan had found her irresistible.

  Damn that man. Damn all of them. He’d have to keep them all busy and far away from Lorna. He did not need to be worrying about something occurring between her and any of them on top of his other duties.

  Spurring the mount into a trot, he navigated them out of the eaves of the stables and to the main gate. Upon seeing them, a soldie
r ordered the gate open and hinges squealed, metal rattled while his horse shifted impatiently.

  With the gate raised, he kicked the horse’s flanks and urged her into a gallop. The village sat only three miles away but he did not wish to prolong the journey. Not when Lorna’s back jostled against his chest and her hair kept teasing him. Not when an uncomfortable dragging sensation in his gut told him his desire for her was increasing and not abating as he would have hoped.

  The skies above were heavy with clouds. They were white and thick, so he doubted they would be rained upon but he cursed his rash decision to take her with him with her health in a fragile state. The lass muddled his thoughts far too easily.

  His mount had no troubles navigating the rocky terrain with its added burden, and they made good time to the village. Logan released a long, low breath when the tops of the village huts came into view over the next hill. Sitting on a natural slope, the settlement took advantage of nature’s defences and he had to guide his horse around the large boulders that birthed from the ground. The ramshackle cottages sat in what had once been a circular shape but since the settlement had grown it had lost the arrangement somewhat. Not that it grew by much. The years were hard, he knew, even if he did not remember it, and sickness claimed many a life every season. Gillean took little pity on the villagers, his attentions now focused on preparing for war.

  He dismounted and looped the reins around an old post by the village hall, a large circular building with a straw roof and mud walls. Smoke drifted lazily from the opening in the roof, the smell strong in the air and hens pecked around his feet as he aided Lorna down. Wide-eyed, she clasped her mantle around her and stared around at the quiet village. He scowled. What disconcerted her?

  “Ye’ll be quite safe,” he muttered.

  “I dinnae fear for my safety.” She peered around again. “’Tis quiet and the homes are in disrepair.”

  He shrugged. “These are hard times. Many are likely abed with sickness.”

  “They have always been hard times, but none suffered so much under my hand.”

  Logan blinked at the fair-haired lass in front of him, her proud chin jutted out. Did she spend time with the people under her care when she was lady? He did not think Gillean had ever visited, not even to collect taxes.

  Ignoring the jab of guilt, he waited for her to adjust her skirts and lift them away from the mud before leading her into the hall. The village leader and several grimy faced men sat around the large table at the rear of the building. The smoky interior made his eyes water and the odour of unwashed bodies made his lips curl in bitter disgust. These were his beginnings, he reminded himself. Nay, they were likely more humble than this. And he would never return to them. Gillean could ensure that.

  “Lady Lorna!” the chief exclaimed when they came to a stop in front of the battered oak table. The tall but scrawny man’s face froze in shock.

  “Gordon,” she greeted, tenderness hinting her tone and making his fists curl.

  “What are ye doing here? ‘Tis nae safe.”

  She glanced at Logan, colour tingeing her cheeks. Before she could make declarations of her imprisonment, Logan stepped in. “She is safe enough with me.”

  Gordon eyed him warily but said nothing more on the matter. “Ye’ve come for the taxes I suppose.”

  “Aye.”

  “We’re short.”

  “By how much?”

  “One family couldnae pay. The widow and her children.”

  Logan nodded gravely. “I shall pay her a visit.”

  “I couldnae force her, sir. They are poor enough now big Tom is dead. We have aided them as best we can, but none of us are rich folk.”

  He saw Lorna stiffen by his side and awaited some declaration of disgust but none came. The truth was, he did not expect all the taxes to be paid but Gillean did. War was costly. He’d have a hard time explaining it to the laird.

  While Gordon counted out the taxes and they completed the ledger, Lorna spoke with one of the men and Logan realised he’d have to warn them not to send word to her family or they’d be in grave trouble with the laird.

  “I’ll be sending men to collect the grain within a sennight,” he told the chief who nodded wearily and rolled up the ledger. Logan turned to Lorna and extended an arm. “My lady.”

  To his surprise, she took his arm—an instinctive reaction mayhap.

  “I hope ye were no’ asking them to aid ye. Ye could put them in grave danger.”

  “I am no’ that selfish,” she declared. “I was inquiring after some of the families and speaking on other matters. Like that of yer lost memory,” she said pointedly.

  “And why should ye wish to speak on that matter?”

  “Because I thought it strange none had thought to avail ye as to the lies ye had been told but none knew of these. It seems a broken heart was blamed for yer change in character.”

  “I have never heard of such a tale.”

  “That is because they are afeared of ye.”

  He smirked. “I dinnae fear the opinions of others and let me assure ye, my lady, there is little truth behind my broken heart.”

  “Aye, it seems ye no longer have one.”

  He led her across the muddy ground, shoving a hen aside with his boot. “Mayhap they havenae spoke on these matters because ye tell falsehoods.”

  Lorna paused, forcing him to stop and turned on him. “Ye have changed so much, Logan. ‘Tis hard to believe ye are the same man. Yet ye are. If ye let yerself believe it, ye would see. We were once good friends and ye were once the best example of a man. Ye loved me and...” She glanced down.

  “And ye loved me?” he asked, grinning but with bitterness behind his tone.

  “I—”

  “A lowly peasant isnae good enough for yer noble blood, is that it?”

  “I never saw ye as such.”

  Before her wide blue eyes tugged at his heart any more, he turned away and stalked across the mud. He heard her hurry to catch up, saw the swish of her skirts out of the corner of his eye.

  “Why will ye no’ accept I speak the truth?”

  “Because I know lasses like ye, my lady. With yer fine looks and elegant gowns. Ye manipulate the truth to gain advantage as easily as ye breathe,” he said over his shoulder.

  He saw her posture soften as she came to his side, the slight slump of her shoulders telling her he had finally quelled her arguments.

  “I once thought ye saw me as more than a pretty face and expensive gowns, just as I always saw ye as more than a peasant.”

  “As I dinnae recall meeting ye before, I could not say what I used to see ye as; I can only say what I see now.”

  “Ye take pleasure in wounding with words, Logan?”

  “I take little pleasure in conversing with ye at the present.”

  They reached the edge of the village and the widow’s ramshackle hut. Thank the Lord. He looked forward to silencing her tongue for a while. He did, indeed, taking little pleasure in conversing with her, not when every word forced him to question himself, his past, his current existence. He had been perfectly satisfied until she had arrived at Kilcree.

  He knocked on the door and grimaced when it nearly fell from its support. A wee child, no older than six summers, he reckoned, dragged open the door and his dark eyes grew wide. He said nothing.

  “Is yer mamaidh home?”

  The child nodded and thrust a finger toward the inside of the hut. Logan ducked in to see the woman abed, huddled under thin blankets.

  She scrambled to sitting as she spied them. Several children huddled around her. He knew the widow had many offspring but he hadn’t realised it was this many.

  “Forgive me, sir, I didnae know ye were here.”

  The woman, her features disguised beneath a film of dirt and her dark hair mostly tucked under a coif, bundled the children into her as if he were some raging beast they needed protection from. He let his lips thin.

  “My lady!” she declared, when her gaze fell
on Lorna.

  “Good day, Eleanor. Are ye unwell?”

  “Nay, my lady, just a wee bit tired.” Her distraction did not last, her gaze fell fearfully on Logan. “If yer here about the taxes...”

  Logan held up a hand. “The villagers have made arrangements, dinnae fear.”

  “They have? But Gordon didnae say—”

  “I spoke with him and ye dinnae need to worry. I wished to stop by to make that clear.”

  Eleanor nodded and even in the gloom of the hut, he saw her eyes mist. “Thank ye, sir. May the Lord bless ye.”

  He nodded stiffly, an uncomfortable sensation in his chest and spun on his heel. Once more, Lorna scurried behind him and his regret that he brought her doubled. What had he been thinking bringing this inquisitive woman with him?

  Untying the reins of the horse, he stowed the coin in the saddlebag and went to aid Lorna on but she pushed his hands away.

  “Why did ye do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Help her. The chief didnae pay her taxes, ye know that well enough.”

  He lifted a shoulder, the unpleasant tightness in his chest increasing. He did not need this woman questioning his every action. “I didnae see the need in creating more work for the laird,” he said coolly.

  “And how shall ye explain the lack of payment?” Lorna gripped his arm and her fingers practically singed through his shirt.

  He glanced down at her hand and back up to her eyes. Hope shone bright in them, and he groaned inwardly. Did she think because he showed the tiniest bit of charity, he might take pity on her?

  “I shallnae have to explain it,” was all he said in response. Before she could argue, he clamped his hands around her waist and lifted her onto the horse. It was either flail and fall or grip the saddle and climb on, so she did.

  Once he was mounted behind her, she eased into his chest a little and he tightened his muscles.

  “Ye intend to pay it yerself, do ye not?” she asked smugly.

  Raising his gaze to the heavens and begging for a respite from this frustrating lass, he ignored her comment—and the accuracy of it—and prodded the horse to begin their journey back to the castle. The sooner he had her out of his arms and locked away, safe and sound, the better.