To Steal a Highlander’s Heart
Samantha Holt
Copyright 2012 ©Samantha Holt
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organisations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Acknowledgements
A big thank you to Eileen for ensuring I stayed true to her Scottish heritage and answering all my silly questions. I must also thank Joy who has helped me out with countless books and continues to tolerate endless emails of nonsense as I work things out. I also owe Sue lots of love and thank yous. You’ve been a huge support to me and I will always be grateful that I ‘met’ you. I will love you always.
Prologue
Moray, Scotland 1231
Morgann grimaced as floorboards creaked and he paused and listened. He swallowed, the sound loud in his ears but he heard no one approach, no heavy footsteps pounding up the stairs. Beneath him, the feast continued. Raucous shouts and laughter rang out. He slipped across the solar, skirted the wide blue bed and paused in front of a carved chest. It had to be in here. He'd snuck into the laird's chambers with Alana enough times and they both knew her father kept his most precious belongings in there.
Crouching, he lifted the lid, gently resting it back. Furs and blankets hid the box but he managed to find it even in the dim moonlight. He freed the small silver box, stood and held it up to the window. Damnation. It was locked. He tried to pry it apart with his fingers but it refused to open.
He glanced around and sighed. Alana would probably come looking for him soon and he really didn’t want to her to find out what he was doing. Having her think him a thief would be bad enough but he could not let her know the truth about her father. The lass loved him dearly.
Morgann shook his head. He wished Alana wasn’t so trusting and sweet sometimes. Too often, she sought to see the best in people. Even him. And she forgave him far too readily for his flaws. She tolerated too much nonsense from him. Ach, what foolish talk. Alana was perfect. Sweet, understanding, funny and tolerant. Perfect wifely material.
He shook his head again and turned his attention back to the box. When a large burst of laughter sounded, he smashed the edge against the stone window ledge. The metal crumpled but refused to give way. He tried again and again. Finally the lid split from the base and he prized it apart. He grinned in triumph as he spotted what he'd been searching for.
His mother’s ring.
Folding it into his fist, he felt the reassuring weight and considered with grim satisfaction what would happen to his stepmother now he’d found the ring that had supposedly been stolen. How would she explain how it happened to end up in Laird Dougall Campbell’s hands?
Before he made his escape, a hand came upon his shoulder. He leaped around, fists ready but several men surrounded him. Two pinned his arms behind him, stealing his chance at a fair fight and one plunged a fist into his stomach, forcing him to double over. He coughed and pulled himself up straight, straining against the hands that held him captive.
Laird Dougall pushed through the men and ran his gaze over him. Morgann cursed aloud as his hands were shackled behind him even as he fought to get free.
The grey-haired man loomed over him. “What are ye doing here, Morgann?”
“Getting what’s mine,” he snarled, unintimidated by Dougall’s superior height. Though the man was one of the tallest Highlanders he knew, he was still aged and Morgann could take him in a fair fight.
“I knew ye were up to something. I could tell. Ye cannae fool me, MacRae. Ye’ve been looking at me like yer ready to slice my head off all eve.”
A warrior pulled the ring from Morgann’s palm and handed it over to Dougall. He lifted it and eyed it with a tight smile. “Been thieving have we?”
“That’s my mothers and ye know it.”
“But ‘twas given to me. A gift.”
Morgann clenched his jaw. “From a woman who has no rights over it. ‘Twas a promise ring between my father and my mother. My stepmother should never have given it to ye.”
Dougall laughed. “Yer stepmother gives me many things. Quite a woman that one. I'll look forward to the day when she's mine.”
“Yer welcome to her, but ye'll never get yer hands on MacRae lands too.”
The older man’s smile expanded as he clenched the ring. “So ye have me figured do ye? Yer a smart lad, Morgann. Too smart really. Ye’d have been better off just letting things run their course.”
“And what happens when Alana finds out just what yer up to?”
Dougall’s eyes narrowed. “My daughter is none of yer concern. Ye’ve always paid too much attention to her. Ach, I was even considering giving her to ye. Once I've married yer stepmother and taken yer lands, it seemed only right that ye at least have something.”
“Alana will be heartbroken when she finds out what yer up to.”
“As I told ye,” Dougall ground out. “‘Tis none of yer concern. I dinnae do this to hurt her. ‘Tis the way of the world, lad. Surely ye can see that? If I want to be sure of providing her with all I can and the only way I can do that is by holding onto power. Ye wouldnae want to see her penniless now would ye?”
“That would never happen, Dougall. I wouldnae allow it.”
“And I willnae allow ye to see her again. I'll no’ have ye poisoning her against me. Yer banished from Dunleith. Ye and all the MacRaes.” He stepped closer. “I love my daughter and I’ll do all I can to protect her. Including keeping ye away from her. Ye step foot on my land again and ye'll be dead, understand?”
Releasing a growl, Morgann yanked at his restraints. His captors held him tight as he fought against their hold. Ach, but he’d failed. Failed to get the proof he needed and now he’d never get another chance. His gut burned with frustration.
“I'll no’ let ye take the MacRae lands, Dougall.” He yanked forward, throwing all his weight into the movement and the men’s grip loosened enough for him to smash his head into Dougall's face. The man dropped to the floor, eyes wide as he clutched at a bloody nose.
Morgann’s head pounded and he briefly saw stars but the men were upon him again, holding him tight. Dougall clambered to his feet and Morgann released a grin at the sight of blood streaming down his face.
“I tried to make it easy on ye, lad,” Dougall pressed through gritted teeth. “Ye’ve only yerself to blame. Take him to the blacksmith’s to be branded. He's a thief. He should be punished accordingly.”
“A mheapain!” Morgann spat as the warriors dragged him across the room. Morgann was strong but no match for two fully grown men. He forced down the bile rising in his throat. He’d seen animals branded. The press of hot metal on skin would be excruciating.
To his shame they hauled him down the stairs and past the revellers, including some of his kin. He only hoped they were sent away peacefully and none decided to fight. They were sorely outnumbered. Alana rose from the table, a hand to her mouth as she watched them pass.
Morgann sagged into his captors’ hold when they stepped out into the bailey. Little use fighting now. A feminine voice sounded behind him and they all paused.
“What are ye doing, Da?” Alana hurried across the mud, skirts in hand. “Why do ye hold Morgann prisoner? The MacRaes are baying for yer blood. I’ve told them Morgann must have been playing tricks again.”
Dougall crossed his arms over his chest. “‘Tis n
aught to do with ye, Alana. Go back inside. I’ll deal with the MacRaes when I return.”
She turned her gaze to Morgann. “Morgann?”
He swallowed. Funny, he’d never realised how pretty the lass was. Aye, she’d had her fair share of interest from suitors but there was something about her pale hair in the moonlight and the hint of womanly curves under her gown. And now her wide gaze latched onto his, begging for the truth.
He sighed. “Naught, Alana. ‘Tis between us men. Go inside. I’ll speak with ye soon and explain.”
She nodded slowly, her brow still furrowed. “Aye, as ye will.”
“Go now,” her father commanded sharply.
Darting a look between both of them, Alana snatched her skirts once more. “Come to me later, Morgann.”
A faint growl came from Dougall but the man clearly didn’t want to upset his daughter so allowed Morgann to respond quietly, “Aye, later, lass.”
As he was dragged to the blacksmith for his punishment, all hope fled and his heart sank. He doubted very much he’d ever see Alana again. And the future of his clan looked bleak indeed.
Chapter One
‘Tis time the sidhe repay their debt, the faerie thought as she cracked open a shutter and peered at the sleeping woman. Aye, she was a pretty one. Not like herself, but beautiful enough. A plan had been hatched long ago but now was the time to put it into motion. Both were ready for it and if she did not take action soon, then there would be no going back. The fate of many souls rested in Tèile’s hands. She smiled to herself as she flew up above the keep. The sleeping spell was ready. The woman’s clan would not have the slightest clue what had happened. Her grin widened. She so enjoyed toying with humans.
***
Wisps of mist rose from the ground and swirled around Alana’s ankles. She thrust out a foot to watch the white haze dance about her before glancing over her shoulder at the keep in the distance. Tucked against the mountain and cut off by a shallow river, the tall stone castle seemed almost insignificant. She blew out a long breath and watched as it too misted.
Though pleased to be free from the keep, and her father’s watchful eye, a sense of foreboding struck her. Alana frowned as she tried to recall why she had come out onto the moors. In truth, she barely remembered getting dressed yet here she was, in her pale blue plaid, hair braided, drawing in the early morning air. Only the foggy remnants of a dream remained, something that beckoned for her to come here.
And how was it there were no men to stop her from leaving?
A strange occurrence indeed, for her father never left the castle walls unattended. It had been deathly quiet. A morbid thought occurred to her and she wondered why she did not check that all was well. Had they been attacked overnight? Were her kinsmen dead? Nay, surely not, for there would be triumphant victors crowding the halls of Dunleith Keep by now and she would either be killed or captured.
The whole morning had been strange. Her first clear memory was standing in the moors and staring off into the distance as if awaiting something. A prickle danced over her skin and she spun wildly, feeling as though fingers had tickled down her spine. Ach, either someone played games with her or her mind was addled. She huffed. Too much time spent cloistered away.
Specks of orange sunlight filtered across the mountains, dancing between the cracks and valleys and Alana tilted her head. The urge to keep going, to see what lay over the other side warred within her. She so missed being outside, missed her freedom.
Da would have a fit.
With a sigh, she turned back to the castle, the stone tower seeming more grey and oppressive than ever before. Hitching up her skirts, she strolled leisurely back, taking her time to admire each wild flower as she went. She ought to walk quickly. Should her father discover her absence, he would no doubt lecture her on the dangers of her actions and would certainly remind her their enemies were everywhere. Ach, she saw no—
She spun wildly as the heavy thud of hooves sounded. A brown horse bore down upon her, barely a few paces away. Alana squeaked in surprise as the rider snatched her plaid and hauled her into the saddle in front of him, not even slowing the mount as he positioned her firmly in his arms. She scarcely comprehended how it had happened. One moment there had been no one and then suddenly… A ghost mayhap?
She tried to wriggle in his hold but a strong arm pinned her to his chest. “Release me, ye fool.”
“I think not, my lady.”
Alana scowled as the deep timbre of his voice singed through her, setting her senses on fire. There was something wildly disturbing yet familiar about it. Her heart hammered heavily as fear penetrated her surprise at being caught unawares. If he were an outlaw or an enemy clansmen she was as good as dead.
“Ye cannae kidnap me on my own lands!” she protested. “My da will have yer head, just ye see.” Alana tried to keep her voice strong but even she heard the wobble in it.
“Be still,” her captor commanded as she fought against his hold, the growing distance between her and the castle stealing her determination. “Ach, I told ye—”
The press against her chest loosened marginally and the world rushed past as she dropped to the ground. Dirt scraped across her face and hands as she tumbled along and a sharp pain slammed up her wrist as it jarred in an attempt to brace herself. The back of her head crashed into the ground and her vision clouded as she skidded to a stop.
Sweet Lord, was she dead? She ached everywhere. Alana blinked but the world remained out of focus. A shadow came across her and a jolt of panic flew through her. She attempted to turn onto her side but she could not. Her body refused to move.
“Alana?”
She blinked again, drawing in harsh, raspy breaths.
“Ye daft lass, ye could’ve killed yerself.”
Who was this man and why was he lecturing her? What did he expect would happen when he tried to kidnap her? That she’d sit there like a mild and meek woman and play captive? And how did he know her name?
Vision clearing, she squinted up at the Highland warrior towering over her. Broad shouldered and thick through the chest, he peered at her down a long, hawk-like nose. Set in a strong jaw surrounded by too much dark stubble were firm lips, currently pulled into a twisted smile. Thick, black hair—too much of that too—curled at his neck, slightly shorter at the front.
Alana’s jaw dropped. “Morgann MacRae.”
He knelt, plaid stretching with the movement of his muscles, and touched a callused finger to her forehead. Heat pulsed through her skin and she flinched, the ache in her head pounding in response and making her wince.
“So ye do remember me.”
“What are ye trying to do? Kill me?”
“Nay, ‘twas not my intention. But yer the one who threw herself from a perfectly good horse.”
She groaned as she attempted to sit and he flattened a hand to the back of her head, cradling it in his huge palm.
“I wouldnae jumped had ye no’ snatched me. What are ye playing at, ye great fool? I’ve no time for games, Morgann.”
“Ach, ‘tis no game I play, no’ like when we were bairns. Anyway ye looked like ye had all the time in the world.”
Aye, he was certainly no lad. Not anymore. The sweet lad she from some eight summers ago was gone, replaced with a flesh and blood man. A raw, rough, handsome man. Her body pulsed in response to the predatory glimmer in his dark gaze.
“My da will be missing me,” she said weakly, wincing as he pulled her to sitting.
He ignored her and thrust his thick fingers into her hair, probing her skull. She whimpered as he found a tender spot at the back of her head.
“Ye’ve a nasty bump. Are ye hurt anywhere else?”
Alana forgot to respond. That rough jaw sat a mere breath away as he knelt beside her and pressed his hands over her arms, checking for injuries. Morgann MacRae? She had not seen him in so long, not since…
“Ow!”
He released her wrist and cradled it carefully in his palm. “Forgive me. Y
er wrist is swollen, can ye move it?”
I should swing it at his head, she thought, pleased to note some of her spirit had returned. Instead of voicing her discontent, she twisted her wrist and released a sharp hiss as throbbing pain ran through her arm.
“‘Tis nae broken,” Morgann concluded.
“How would ye know? Yer no healer.”
His dark eyes clashed with hers, surrounded by thick black lashes. His gaze was intense and powerful and made her suddenly breathless. “I’ve seen enough injuries.”
“Have ye?”
“Aye.” He looked down but not before Alana noted the flicker of something painful in his eyes.
He drew his fingers down her side, prodding at her ribs. The shock of his touch through her clothing sent her rigid and dumb even though she knew she should be fighting him off or at least scolding him for such familiarity. It was the fall. Aye, that was it. It had stolen all sense from her.
“We must get ye aid, ye’ve taken a nasty tumble and I think yer a wee addled.”
“I am not addled!”
His lips quirked. “Well yer no docile lass, I’ll give ye that.”
Before she could protest, he’d scooped her into his arms and lifted her over to his waiting mount. His solid chest pressed to hers, the rough fabric of his plaid rubbing under her palm and the undulation of muscles made her head swim. Eyes wide, she gaped up at the man who stood in the place of her childhood friend. Ach, mayhap she was addled
***
Morgann tensed his jaw as Alana’s soft body chafed against him and that doe-eyed green gaze settled on his face. Hell fire, she had taken him by surprise. Aye, she’d been a bonny lass but he’d never thought just eight years would have her growing into such a fine creature. A willowy figure, glossy golden hair the colour of the sunset and a delicate face with a stubborn pointed chin. Aye, very bonny. He flicked his gaze to her lips and the rest of his body tensed too. Those lips were currently pursed into a pout of dissatisfaction but it did not disguise their succulence.
Hell fire.
To Steal a Highlander's Heart Page 1