To Avenge Her Highland Warrior

by Samantha Holt

  ***

  Excitement buzzed through Lorna’s veins, making her fidgety. Her arm ached where more bruises were likely coming up from his rough handling of her—visible proof of his change in character—yet she did not regret being dragged along. For one, she got to speak with several of the villagers whom she had not seen since she had escaped the castle and secondly, Logan’s charitable act renewed her hope that she might just reach the man he used to be.

  The men she had spoken to had all expressed dismay in Logan’s vicious temperament. Many were scared of him and had never had the courage to speak up. It seemed most believed that when she left, it broke him. Was it possible she contributed to the loss of his memory? Surely it was more likely a strike to the head that had done it. She had heard of such occurrences but never such long term memory loss.

  The temptation to beg them to help her—to hide her or try to convince Logan of the truth had been strong—but seeing the poverty stricken state of the settlement had prevented her from asking such liberties. If she hid out in the village or it became known they had aided her, Gillean would surely wreak revenge upon them.

  Drawing in a breath, she pondered the rugged horizon. Should she try to make an escape now? And how? Logan pushed the horse hard and his grip around her was firm. She doubted she had any chance of escaping him.

  She wriggled again and heard him grunt. When she shifted back, she became aware of his hard body flush against hers, his strong thighs framing her. While their night together had been brief, she was thoroughly aware of the muscled body beneath the plaid. Many times during the years together, she had seen him shirtless. Once she had even spied him bathing. The sight of firm muscles and a little crisp hair scattered across his chest lingered with her even now. Like sun melting wax she felt herself soften into him and heard his sharp intake of breath.

  Whatever had occurred between them throughout the years, she could never deny they had always been attracted to one another and in spite of the change in him, she still hungered for him.

  Regret swirled in her stomach, heavy and bitter. If she had accepted him, had not pushed him away, would things be different now? But if things had gone differently, would she still have a son? Lorna could never regret Ewan.

  She swallowed and moved in an attempt to ease the ache gathering inside. Logan deserved to know of his son but she doubted he’d believe her now. If he saw him, he would not doubt her word. The babe looked more like his father every day.

  “We are nearly there. Can ye no’ keep still for a few moments?” he snapped, breaking her thoughts.

  “I’ve been confined in irons and hauled around for the past few days. My muscles are stiff,” she grumbled.

  “Ye’ll suffer worse if ye dinnae keep still.”

  “What could be worse?” she snapped back.

  He hauled the horse to a stop and Lorna squealed when he leaped off, dragging her with him. Both hands gripping her upper arms, he pinned her in one spot and eyed her gravely from under his brow. Something echoed in the dark depths of his eyes—a flash of remembrance?

  “If ye’ll insist on rubbing yer body against me, ye can expect far worse than being held in irons.”

  The grating texture to his voice increased and she gaped up at him. Did he intend to throw her down and take her here, in the middle of the Highlands?

  Part of her longed for him to. To feel his touch again, to stroke his skin. But this was not Logan. He might have Logan’s handsome, rugged looks—that not even the large scar on his neck could vanquish—and his strong, muscular body, but there the similarities ended. Her heart grieved once again for what she had lost, but her head counselled her against such sorrow. There had to be hope he would return to her. There had to be, and Lorna refused to give up on him.

  “Logan,” she whispered—a plea.

  His grip softened on her, confusion flitted over his face. The gentle touch of the breeze around her did not cool the heat that flushed through her as he held her close, close enough so that her breasts brushed his chest and her thighs touched his.

  “Is it so hard to believe that I might speak the truth?”

  His expression hardened briefly but when his gaze fell back to her lips, a smile tugged his lips. “Yer a temptress, lass. Ye lead me to my doom. Do ye believe me such a fool to succumb to yer tricks? ”

  “I dinnae believe yer a fool. Ye’ve always been far from dim-witted, but if ye are no fool, why will ye no’ question what ye’ve been told? Why will ye no’ give me a chance?”

  He shook his head. “What chance do ye ask? Should I do what yer eyes beg me to do and lift yer skirts and take ye here? Me—a mere peasant. Am I to believe ye let me sully yer noble skin with my kisses once before.”

  She sucked in a sharp breath at his coarse words. Logan had always spoken softly to her with the exception of when she had sent him away from her after their night together. But in spite of the bitterness behind the tone, thrills shot to her lower belly.

  “If I thought it would help ye remember, I’d do as much.”

  His lips curled as if he had eaten something sour. “Like a chore mayhap? Sacrifice yerself in the hopes yer feminine wiles might persuade me to let ye loose?”

  “Ye think me some kind of whore?”

  “I think yer a canny woman, willing to do anything to be free.”

  In some way, he was correct. After Walter’s death, she had done everything in her power to maintain her independence. It wouldn’t last, she knew that. Someone would want her hand and dowry eventually, but not even the love of Logan could persuade her to give herself up willingly. What a fool she had been.

  But at present, she hardly knew what drove her. Desire? Desperation? How could she be so strongly attracted to a man who only bore resemblance to the man she loved? Bitterness had eaten into him and twisted him into an entirely different man.

  Her chest ached for the man who had vanished from her life. He might not be dead but he might as well be. Lorna lifted a hand and he jerked back but did not stop her when she brushed a hand down the side of his face. His mouth softened, the lines in his face diminished. He felt it too, the ancient connection between them, she was sure, but he refused to listen to his heart. Whatever lies Gillean had fed him were too deeply ingrained.

  “I am sorry,” she said quietly.

  “What for?”

  “For leaving ye. For being too scared.”

  “Scared of what?”

  Lorna gulped, the noose of fear knotting her throat. She had endured beatings and survived battles but nothing scared her as much as the vulnerability she had felt that came with loving Logan.

  She stroked her fingers down the rough hair covering the scar on his neck. “Scared of loving ye,” she finally admitted.

  Chapter Eight

  The laird arrived early the next morning, with several Norsemen in tow. The skies grew dark with their appearance and he hoped it wasn’t a sign. Logan dipped in greeting and waited for the three Viking men to settle themselves at the top table and tucked hungrily into the food. Not all of them spoke Gaelic it seemed. The rumble of their Norse language echoed from the rafters, punctuated by laughter.

  The noise didn’t drown out the memory of Lorna’s soft words. Loving you... How could he believe a woman like that would ever love him? Even the woman of his own ranking gave him a wide berth. The few who had shared his bed wanted nothing more than a wee bit of pleasure.

  He approached Gillean once the meal was finished. “A word, my laird.”

  The grey-haired man stood and motioned for him to follow him up to the solar. Gillean pressed open the door. Logan had stepped foot in this room many times since gaining his position as chieftain but an odd sensation toyed in his gut when he eyed the grand bed with its gold trimmed drapes and wide mattress. He had certainly never slept in such a bed so why did the plush pillows spark some kind of remembrance? A memory perhaps? He had the occasional flashes but nothing he could latch onto. Surely he’d never slept in the laird’s
bed though.

  “Logan?”

  He jerked his head away from the bed and settled his gaze on Gillean as the laird sat down behind the grand desk positioned in one corner. The carvings of beasts and flowers mimicked that of the woodwork around the castle, and Logan had concluded they must have been commissioned at the same time. Gillean’s brother had fine taste.

  “Why does it look as though there has been fire damage out there?” Gillean thrust a finger toward the door.

  “A minor incident with a torch. Dinnae concern yerself, my laird. We had it under control quickly.”

  “Good. And the men are ready? The defences strong?”

  “Aye, my laird. However—”

  “The Norse army is amassing on the coast and will join us here in no more than two sennights. Once we bring our forces together, we shall march on the surrounding lands before making our way to the coast and claiming the isles. Once I have the other clans’ allegiance, none shall be able to defeat us.”

  “Aye, my laird.”

  Logan grimaced internally. The laird was in a fine mood and he was reluctant to spoil it. Gillean’s hard temperament and single-minded nature made him a hard man to deal with at times. Logan was one of the few who bore it with ease. But what other choice did he have? He had sworn allegiance to the laird and the man had saved his life. There was no other oath as strong as one from a man who owed his life to another.

  “Ye have served me well these past months, Logan. I hope ye are ready for yer reward.”

  “I am, my laird.”

  “And...” —he stroked his beard thoughtfully—“there is no sign of yer memories returning?”

  “None at all.”

  A smile flickered on Gillean’s lips. “Ah, well, ye shall create a new life for yerself after this battle.”

  “My laird,” Logan tried again. “While ye were gone, we caught an intruder.”

  The smile dropped. “Aye?”

  There was no way to delay the truth though the tightening if his gut almost prevented him from saying her name. How would Gillean react? “Lady Lorna.”

  Gillean’s expression froze. “My brother’s wife?”

  “The very same.”

  “And has she said why she is here?”

  “Nay, my laird.”

  “She can be up to no good,” Gillean mused. “Ye have spoken with her?”

  “A little.” Logan wasn’t about to mention all the tall tales she’d been spouting.

  “Where is she now?”

  “In the guest chamber. I had her in the donjon but she ailed and I didnae wish her dead for yer return. She may be useful.”

  For some reason, it was important to Logan the laird agreed, not only because he wanted Gillean to trust his judgement but because he did not wish to see the lass dead—no matter how aggravating she was.

  “Ye put her in the donjon?” Gillean asked, both brows raised.

  “’Tis where we put criminals, is it not?”

  A slit of a smile slid across Gillean’s lips and he nodded. “It is indeed. Ye are right, she may be useful. But watch her, Logan. She is a manipulative woman. Is she still bonny?”

  “Bonny enough, aye.”

  “She took advantage of my brother. I firmly believe she led him to his death.”

  “I thought he died of old age, my laird.”

  “A weak heart. Lorna knew that. She tested him at every moment she could.”

  Logan nodded. He could well see her doing that. Lord knew, she had tried his patience every moment since her arrival.

  “I shall finish up here, then ye can bring her to the hall for an audience with the prisoner. We have much to arrange before the Norse army arrives. We cannae afford for this to fail. Should the king hear tell of our plans, we shall be killed for being traitors.”

  He nodded again. He was well aware of the precarious position they were in. Their fates hung on a knife edge, and he would not let a mere lass get in the way of that, no matter how bonny or tempting she was.

  ***

  Lorna kept her gaze cast down but had observed the Vikings well enough to know at least one was regarding her with great interest.

  “Ye are up to some mischief, returning here, is that it?” Gillean asked.

  “Nay, my laird. I wished to speak with ye about my dowry.”

  “I am to believe ye returned, risking death and capture for yer paltry dowry.”

  “I am to remarry,” she lied. She could hardly confess to wishing to kill him after all, though the temptation to dive at him and wrap her hands around his neck was strong. “But he willnae take me on the small sum my cousin offered for me.” Greed, Gillean would understand she hoped. “I didnae mean to inconvenience ye or yer men, my laird. If ye’ll let me be on my way, ye’ll no’ see me again.”

  Silence reigned and she braved lifting her head. Gillean’s eyes glinted with amusement. Did he see through her lie? Would he put her to death for plotting to kill him? What if Logan had said something? She slipped a glance at him but his expression remained stoic, unreadable. The man had no heart left, to be sure.

  “Why do ye no’ stay and enjoy my hospitality a while?” he offered, his grin expanding. “I have no’ seen ye in a fair while, sister. Things have changed, have they not?”

  He had to be referring to Logan. Had he fed him more lies? What was his reasoning behind such a move? Revenge, mayhap. He knew well of her dependence on Logan, but it was a dangerous game. Logan’s memory might return at any moment and then he would have an additional enemy in his keep.

  “My brother shall be worrying for me.” She drew her chin up. The meek, obedient act was not working. “I wouldnae wish for him to send someone to fetch me. An army, mayhap.”

  “I hope for yer brother’s sakes he doesnae send an army. I have many men at my disposal as ye can see as well as some additional support...”

  The Vikings he meant. The vicious, barbaric Norsemen. Not content with their failure to conquer the Western Isles over a year ago, they were making another attempt to take them back once more. Many Scots had lost their lives then and more would die now, whether they were successful or not. Lorna wrapped her arms around herself and tried to mask a shudder. The thought of the enemy being so close to those she loved sent a cold swirl of dread into her veins. She prayed Finn did not send an army for her.

  “Besides” —Gillean pressed a finger to his lips—“ye may make a fine bargaining prize.”

  Lorna fought the heavy sensation in her stomach and kept her gaze steady on him. If he intended to make a move on her cousin’s land, holding her for ransom would give Gillean an advantage. For the hundredth time, she cursed her impetuousness. Why had she been so thoughtless?

  The Viking to Gillean’s right—the leader she assumed—guffawed. “She is fine indeed. You would do better keeping her for yourself, Gillean.”

  Bile rose in her throat as she suffered the Norseman’s lecherous stare. He was large, as many Vikings were, with broad shoulders and was probably handsome but his grimy beard and tangled wild hair hid his features well. Lord knew, Scotsmen were not the most refined but everything about the Viking screamed barbarian.

  Beside her, Logan stiffened. Did he care at all she was being subjected to such treatment? The old Logan would never have tolerated such looks and behaviour. It only reminded her how different he was now. Even if she could persuade him of the truth, would it make any difference? At times, she feared he was entirely lost to her.

  “I have no interest in her, but it seems ye do, Ivar.”

  Ivar laughed. “Aye, I have a fondness for Scotswomen. They are small and fiery.”

  “Oh well, ye’ll like this one then. She has a sharp tongue.”

  Riled by being talked about as if she was not even there, Lorna huffed. “Are ye to release me or no’?”

  Gillean indicated to her with his hand. “See?” Laughing, he rested his chin on his hands and studied her. “Nay, I dinnae think so. I willnae have ye getting in the way of my plans a
nd as I say, ye might be useful.”

  Lorna held the air in her lungs and told herself to be grateful he hadn’t condemned her to death yet. As long as she was alive, there was hope.

  Waving a hand, the laird motioned for Logan to take her. “Lock her up somewhere.”

  “You will not deprive me of her company, will you, Gillean?” Ivar asked.

  “Ye taken with her, are ye not? Very well...” The laird pursed his lips and Lorna waited several heartbeats—ones that pounded in her ears—for his decision. “Dinnae confine her but put her to work.” His expression grew delighted. “Aye, have her work in the kitchens. I’ve always thought she was too high and mighty for her station.”

  A little hard work did not scare Lorna but that he wished to humiliate her sent fire through her veins. “Yer a twisted man,” she spat and dove for him. Logan snatched her arm before she reached the table and hauled her back. “Ye took everything from me and now ye wish for me to grovel on my knees for ye? I hate ye, Gillean. I hate ye!” She fought Logan’s hold until her muscles ached, but she might as well have been fighting the tide. He was too strong and powerful.

  Gillean’s delighted expression grew stony. “Return her to her room and have some suitable clothes sent up to her,” he said tightly to Logan. “Be grateful, Lorna, that I have no’ bestowed some other punishment on ye. Ye turned yer men against me and that makes ye a traitor. Be grateful for my leniency.”

  “Never,” she spat when Logan dragged her away. “I hate ye,” she muttered.

  Chapter Nine

  Rain pummelled the shutters, a deafening cacophony, as Logan led her into her chamber. The clouds had finally broken. A single candle remained lit, the rest likely blown out by the wind that blustered through the window coverings.

  “Ye shouldnae aggravate the laird,” he warned.

  Lorna rounded on him with a derisive snort. “I dinnae need to aggravate him. He does a fine job himself.”

  He pushed the door shut with his foot and closed the gap between them. Why did she insist on making her position more dangerous than it already was? “If ye simply behaved yerself, ye would surely be ransomed off and ye could return home to yer family. But with ye behaving as such, ye’ll be lucky if he doesnae—”