Highland Conquest

by Alyson McLayne

  Lifting her hand to the intricately designed silver brooch on her breast that held her arisaid together, she played with the clasp. The brooch had been a wedding present from her father to her mother on their wedding day—passed down to her upon her mother’s death thirteen years ago. She’d sobbed in her father’s arms when she’d received it. He had too.

  Maggie had worn the brooch every day since to keep her mother close, and to remind herself how fast things could change.

  She unpinned it. Her arisaid sagged and she looped it under her arm, then wedged her nail into an almost invisible crease in the silver and pulled off the top of the brooch. Maggie fished inside the small hollow and snagged a piece of parchment with her fingernail. She pulled it out and slowly unrolled it.

  She’d almost forgotten the parchment was in there. She’d pushed it to the back of her mind, almost as if she hadn’t wanted to rid herself of this final piece of Callum.

  Two holes pierced the center of the dirty, ragged parchment—dagger holes—and a third hole pierced the top where the parchment had been pinned to a tree. Under the two holes, Callum had scribbled a C and an M.

  She remembered the look in his eyes when he’d pulled out their thrown daggers, a contest to see who had better aim, and written their initials on it before giving it to her. For a lass like Maggie, who preferred daggers to flowers, it was the sweetest love note she could have received. She’d carefully rolled it up and fit it into her brooch, so it would always rest next to her heart.

  Now she would include it in the letter to Callum, and he would know she was done with him.

  Before changing her mind, she placed the parchment within Irvin’s letter and re-sealed it.

  She set the letter back in place, ignoring the melancholy feeling that rose within her. Callum MacLean was better off without her. And she was certainly better off without him.

  What were the chances he would come back for her now?

  * * *

  Callum MacLean leaned against a tree, legs stretched out on the ground in front of him, eyes closed. He’d tucked the letter from Maggie and her brother Ross into his sporran a few days ago, after receiving it from a shifty-looking man named Blàr, who wore a MacDonnell plaid and claimed to be sent by Laird MacDonnell, but obviously wasn’t a MacDonnell. Obvious to Callum, at least. The man’s speech indicated he came from farther south.

  When he first received the sealed letter with the dagger-torn parchment inside, he’d read it several times before passing it without a word to his foster brother Gavin MacKinnon, laird of Clan MacKinnon, who was travelling home with him from Lachlan and Amber’s wedding.

  Gavin scanned it and looked up. “We’ll go see her, then?”

  Callum had said nothing, unable to get even one word past the mess of emotions jamming his throat. Mounting his stallion, Aristotle, he’d spurred the horse forward. Gavin quickly caught up to him on his stallion. The rest of their men, six strong MacLean and MacKinnon warriors, fell into formation around them along the forest trail. Following farther behind with the supply wagon and three more of Callum’s men, was Father Lundie.

  “Is that what you’d do?” Callum asked, reaching out to take back the letter and the parchment from Maggie—which he had no doubt came from her.

  “Nay, I’ll ne’er chase a woman again—unless she’s got my son. But that’s what you should do.”

  “Why?”

  “Because everything inside you wants to go to her no matter what the letter says.”

  He grunted and said nothing more on the matter that day. Or the next.

  When they finally reached the juncture in the trail, one path heading north toward MacDonnell land, the other heading south, he reined in his mount. Gavin took one look at his face, and told the men to make camp.

  As always, when it came to Maggie, Callum’s heart and head were not aligned.

  He’d slumped against the tree and closed his eyes while Gavin and some of the men scouted the area after seeing wolf tracks. When he heard the riders return to camp, he wasn’t any closer to a decision.

  “Laird MacKinnon,” he heard Father Lundie whisper to Gavin from nearby. “Laird MacLean is still sleeping.”

  Callum cracked an eyelid to see his foster brother bearing down on him, the priest hovering by his side.

  “I doona know what you see, Father Lundie,” Gavin said, “but I see a man stuck—like a wee lad forced to choose between sweets.”

  “Nay, Laird,” Father Lundie said. “He hasn’t moved since you left. I think he must be ill. ’Tis unlike him to sit so still.”

  “’Tis exactly like him to sit still when he’s trying to solve a puzzle. But this isna a puzzle. He just needs to get his head out of his arse, so he can see clearly.”

  Callum kicked out his feet just as Gavin came within striking distance. Gavin jumped up just in time, expecting it, of course, but when he landed, Callum scissored his legs and knocked him to the ground.

  “You wee shite,” Gavin said as he pushed up onto his elbows.

  “Oh, were you there? I didnae see you.”

  Father Lundie stared down at them, looking startled, before he hurried away.

  Gavin crawled up beside Callum and leaned with him against the tree. “Give me the letter and the other parchment. We’ll talk it through.”

  With a sigh, Callum fished the messages from his sporran, then handed them over. “I’ve already assessed them from every angle.”

  “No doubt.”

  “The first is from Ross, or so it says. But ’tis not Ross’s script nor manner of speaking.”

  “So someone else wrote it for him. His steward perhaps? ’Tis not uncommon.”

  “But what would compel Ross to cause such a breach? The marriage is a good alliance for Clan MacDonnell, and it has only gotten better since the original contract was agreed upon. My allies are his allies. If he was upset I havenae returned for Maggie, it makes sense he would demand the marriage take place, not terminate the contract. And from what I’ve heard, Ross has not been himself since he lost his wife and bairn. I was at the wedding. I saw how much he loved Eleanor.”

  “You think it’s someone else’s doing then? Someone pulling the strings?”

  “Aye.”

  “Maggie?”

  “Nay. Maggie wouldnae pull strings. She’d throw daggers.”

  Gavin lifted the second parchment. “Isn’t that what this is?”

  Callum ground his teeth and nodded. “I doona doubt Maggie sent that. And the message is clear. She’s ending our betrothal—and making a point. The day I wrote our initials on that parchment was the first day we connected as a man and a woman—rather than as a lad and lass. ’Twas the first day I knew she was mine. We were competing, tossing daggers. We tied on every round. I kissed her for the first time after I gave her that parchment.”

  “So she kept it, and now she’s throwing it back at you.”

  “Aye.”

  “She’s hurt.”

  “Aye.”

  “And angry.”

  “Aye.”

  “Well, ’tis obvious you have to go and win her back. And find out what’s going on with Ross.”

  When he didn’t answer, Gavin looked at him.

  Callum sighed. “If I go there and sort everything out, win Maggie back, which willna be easy, what do I do then? Marry her? There’s a reason I havenae gone back for her.”

  “Your father’s murder.”

  “Aye. I canna in good conscience bring her back to Clan MacLean and put her in danger.”

  “Well…marry her and then she can come home with me until you find the murderer. Although Isobel will want to learn Maggie’s skill with the dagger, and that will cause trouble.”

  The corner of Callum’s mouth twitched despite the fact that he hadn’t smiled in days. “I’d like to see that. Kerr will have
a fit.”

  “What about me? I’m her brother. She’ll be tossing knives at me every time I suggest it might be time for her to marry him.”

  Callum shook his head. Gavin and their other foster brother Kerr, had been trying to convince Isobel to marry Kerr since she’d turned eighteen. She was dead set against it even though Callum suspected she’d be devastated if he married someone else. “The two of you have it backward. Isobel likes being defiant. She canna be persuaded otherwise. She’ll stay unmarried to spite you both.”

  ’Twas Gavin’s turn to grunt. “So what do you want to do about Maggie, then? We canna stay here forever.”

  He drummed his fingers on the ground. “She wouldnae have included the parchment if she wanted me to come, so she knows the letter was sent, but the circumstances surrounding the letter are troubling.”

  “If she’s no longer your betrothed, then maybe ’tis not your problem. You can ride away with an easy conscience.”

  ’Twas a logical argument, but Callum knew his brother had only said it to push him into action, because no matter what Maggie might want him to do, he couldn’t ride away knowing something wasn’t right at Clan MacDonnell.

  What if she needed help?

  She didn’t want him to come. But he couldn’t stay away—not until he knew for sure she was safe.

  He sighed. “We’ll head north to Clan MacDonnell.”

  Gavin grinned and rose to his feet, then reached down to help Callum. “’Tis a good thing I’m here to get you moving, otherwise Father Lundie would have ended up performing Last Rites on your prone body.”

  Callum took the offered hand and was brushing the dirt from his plaid when a wolf howled in the distance, followed by several others. He straightened slowly, the hair on the back of his neck prickling, as he and the other men listened intently.

  The pack was hunting.

  Better a stag than one of his men. But then a horse screeched far off, and he heard a woman scream.

  “God’s blood,” he said, and he and Gavin ran for their horses. “MacLeans! Mount up!” he shouted as Gavin rallied his own warriors.

  His second-in-command, Drustan, a lean, hardened warrior, wheeled his mount toward him. “Should we light the torches?”

  “Aye. And leave two men with Father Lundie. Have them build a fire and stay near the trees. Tell them to hoist the priest into a tree at any sign of trouble.”

  Drustan nodded and rode away.

  It wasn’t the first time Callum had faced off against wolves, and God knew it wouldn’t be the last. Each time it was terrifying, knowing the wolves had no malice toward you, they were just hungry…and you were prey. ’Twas far worse than coming up against another man.

  Callum would do what he could to help the woman—pray he and his men weren’t too late—but he had to prepare himself for the worst.

  Another scream sounded.

  Callum’s man, Gill, tested the wind, then pointed his arm to the northeast. “She’s over there. Maybe a half mile?” Callum didn’t doubt he was right. Gill was the best sniper he had. “Should we follow the trail north and then veer east? Or go as the crow flies?”

  “I’m afraid we’ll miss her if we follow the trail.”

  “Agreed. Through the bush then,” Gill said.

  They spread out in a line, distanced far enough apart to cover as much ground as possible, but close enough to be safe, although the wolves were unlikely to attack them with their lit torches.

  When they heard another yell, they honed in, invigorated to know the woman was still alive. After what seemed like hours, but was more likely just minutes, they entered a clearing, riding hard.

  They reined in at the sight of dead and injured wolves on the ground, cut and bleeding, and a woman’s skirt torn to pieces. One of the wolves had a dirk sticking out of its ribs.

  Callum’s heart pounded as he looked at the dagger, and he slowly raised his eyes to follow the trail left behind—more blood, another dead wolf, crushed grass and flowers. And bits of plaid in the blues and greens favored by the weavers at clan MacDonnell.

  Someone had run across the glen, the wolves at their heels.

  His gaze reached the base of a lone tree where three more wolves lay dead—all with daggers in them. The pine tree didn’t look sturdy enough to sustain someone’s weight, much less the weight of wolves clawing at it, but the bark was scored high up in places, indicating the wolves had been jumping and reaching for their prey.

  The trunk was bare of branches most of the way up and would have been difficult to climb, but he caught a glimpse of bare feet and legs tucked up on the lowest bough. The rest of the woman’s body was hidden from sight by the pine needles…but he knew.

  He urged Aristotle forward, the others fanning out behind him, and tried to quell his rising panic. God, let her be all right.

  When he stopped beneath the branches of the tree and stared up at a woman barely holding onto a bough that dipped beneath her weight, relief so intense washed through him that he nearly fell from his horse. At the same time he felt jaw-dropping disbelief, for the lass glaring down at him—her auburn hair as wild as ever, her hazel eyes just as bright as he remembered—was none other than Maggie MacDonnell.

  His Maggie MacDonnell—no matter what she might think.

  “For the love of God, lass,” he roared, his temper spiraling out of control, sparked by his fear for her—for what might have happened. “What are you doing up there?”

  “I would think that was obvious, Callum MacLean. I am attempting to stay alive.”

  He ground his teeth, trying to rein in the storm of emotions barreling though him. “Are you hurt?” he asked, his words clipped and harsher than they should have been.

  If anyone other than Maggie had clung to that tree, her dress torn to pieces, her legs bare and skin cut, he would have spoken in gentle, soothing tones. As it was, he could barely stop himself from pulling her down and galloping all the way to his castle.

  Where she’d what…be safe?

  Her chin trembled, and she thrust it out belligerently “What do you care?” she asked, flipping that long, glorious hair behind her shoulder. “’Tis not like we’ve spoken in years.”

  Guilt stabbed at him and he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.

  Beside him, Gavin gasped in recognition. “Is that Maggie? Your Maggie?”

  “Nay, not his Maggie,” she said, directing her attention to Gavin. “Just Maggie.”

  “Aye, it’s her,” Callum answered, barely able to get the words past his clenched teeth. He heard a murmur pass through the men, and his tension rose another notch. She may insist she wasn’t his, but as he looked at her, noted everything from the freckles across her cheeks and nose to the dark sweep of her lashes, remembered what it felt like to be in her presence—the heightening of his senses, the quickening of his mind and body, the anticipation of touching her—he knew he would do everything possible to win her back.

  He glanced over his shoulder and tried to catch Drustan’s eye, but he was staring up at Maggie with a strange look on his face. “We’ll stay here tonight,” Callum said, and Drustan, his skin pale and lips tight, finally looked at him. “Set fires at regular intervals in case the pack returns, then go back for the others.”

  “Aye, Laird.” Drustan nodded, his voice hoarse. He signaled to the men, and they retreated.

  Callum shot Gavin a look, but his foster brother ignored him, as he was wont to do. Was it too much to ask for a private moment with Maggie, especially as she looked half dead and ready to kill him?

  Gavin rode forward and smiled up at her. “Hello, lass. It’s been a long time. Do you remember me?”

  She switched her gaze to Gavin, and her eyes widened. “Is that you, Gavin MacKinnon? What have you done to your bonny, blond hair? ’Tis even shorter than Callum’s. ’Twas the envy of every lass in the High
lands.”

  Gavin raised a hand to his bristly, ravaged scalp and sighed. “I know. ’Tis how I feel now. When I find my son, I’ll grow it back.”

  The hardness left her eyes. “Aye, I heard about your loss. I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you,” he said, then smiled. “And you, Maggie, other than being up a tree and chased down by wolves, are you well?”

  A small laugh puffed from her lips. “Well, I’m not dead, am I?”

  Callum urged Aristotle past Gavin and stopped directly beneath Maggie. “Nay, and let’s keep it that way.” He stood on his stallion’s back and reached his arms up to her. “Come down, Maggie. I’ll catch you.”

  “I doona need you to catch me.”

  “Aye, you do.”

  Her eyes flashed, and she reached for one of her daggers only to find her belt empty. Her mouth set mulishly. “You said you’d be back in the spring…four springs ago.”

  “Three.”

  “Well, that makes it all right, then.”

  He wanted to blurt out his reasons for staying away—the dangers in his clan, the threat to her life if she married him—but now was not the time.

  “Please, come down. I’ll tend to your wounds before they fester, and then I’ll see you back home.”

  Her spine stiffened, causing the bough to sway, and she slid a little closer to the edge. “You can give me a horse, naught more.”

  He tried his most conciliatory tone. “Maggie—”

  She jerked her arms in displeasure and pine needles showered down on him. “You are a lying scoundrel, Callum MacLean, and I doona need you or anyone else.”

  He brushed the needles from his hair, “And that’s why you’re stuck in a tree, half naked, with no horse and a wolf pack on your heels. How many were there, Maggie? I’m assuming they’ve run down your horse by now.”

  Her bottom lip quivered before she firmed it, and regret washed through him. He dropped his arms. “Och, lass. I’m sorry. For everything. I meant it when I said I’d be back in the spring. Things…changed. It grieves me to see you up there knowing what you went through, that you almost died. Please, come down, so I can help you.”