by Emma Prince
Ensnared by the Laird
Four Horsemen of the Highlands
Book 1
By
Emma Prince
Copyright
Ensnared by the Laird (Four Horsemen of the Highlands, Book 1) Copyright © 2020 by Emma Prince
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information, contact [email protected].
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. V 1.0
Table of Contents
Copyright
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Thank You!
Sneak Peek: Wager with a Warrior
Books by Emma Prince
Teasers for Emma Prince’s Books
About the Author
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Chapter One
September, 1332
Scone, Scotland
When they came to fetch him for his hanging, Domnall MacAyre was already awake.
By the time the rusted bars squealed open, the three other men in the cell were on their feet as well.
“MacAyre, MacLeod, MacNeal, MacKinnon.” The guard held up a flickering torch, revealing a cruel, gap-toothed grin. “It’s yer day to die.”
The Pretender to the Scottish throne, Edward Balliol, had only crowned himself King last eve, yet it seemed his first act as self-appointed ruler was to execute all those who had opposed him.
Including Domnall and his three cell-mates.
Domnall met the other men’s eyes, giving them each a small nod. In the fortnight since the loyalists’ loss at the Battle of Dupplin Moor, the four Highlanders had become blood brothers. Despite hailing from different clans, naught would ever break that bond.
“Remember our vow,” Artair MacKinnon murmured. “If any of us manages to survive—”
“Oh, ye willnae,” the guard said as he dropped the torch into a wall sconce and stepped into the cell.
Three others moved in behind him, each holding a length of coarse rope. None too gently, the guards began securing the Highlanders’ hands behind their backs.
“Ye disgust me,” Domnall muttered through gritted teeth as one of the guards torqued his arm backward. “Ye shouldnae call yerselves Scots. Supporting the Pretender King, an English-backed usurper and a traitor who—”
The first guard drove his fist into Domnall’s exposed stomach. Domnall doubled over with a wheeze.
“Apologies, Laird,” the man said, his voice dripping with smug condescension. “My hand must have slipped.”
“Ye are the only traitors here,” another guard snapped. “Ye could have bent the knee to King Edward, but ye rock-brained Highlanders cast yer lot in with a wee bairn instead.”
“Edward Balliol is no King, and ye Lowlanders would be lucky to kiss this Highlander’s arse,” snarled Gregor MacLeod.
That earned the giant, whom they called the Black MacLeod, a blow to the jaw, but it hardly seemed to faze him. He shook his head as if to chase away a midge, then fixed a hate-filled glare on the guards.
“Enough,” the first guard snapped. “Yer nooses await.”
The guards shoved the Highlanders out of the cell and toward the spiral stairs leading up from Scone Palace’s dungeon.
As they climbed upward, Domnall resisted the urge to reach for the dagger hidden in his boot. Now wasn’t the time to make a move. Lowlanders or nay, the guards still outnumbered him four to one, and with his compatriots’ hands bound, they could offer little help. Besides, he would need more space to fight than the narrow stairwell allowed. Yet he might run out of time before such an opportunity arose.
He’d already tried to pick the cell’s lock with the dagger, to no avail. All three of his cell-mates had advised him to wait as long as possible to use it, for it was the only play any of them had, the only glimmer of hope for escape. Domnall could only pray he would know when that moment had come, and that he’d be able to seize it when it did.
They emerged from the stairwell in a cramped corridor. The guards dragged them toward a door at the far end. The door swung open, and despite the gray, wet gloom outside, Domnall had to squint, his eyes still weak from a fortnight in the dungeon.
He and the others were pulled out into the heavy deluge in the palace courtyard. Icy rain hammered them, instantly soaking Domnall’s thin tunic and trews. Despite the downpour, the yard was filled with people, all staring in one direction.
An enormous wooden gallows had been hastily erected in the middle of the yard. More than three dozen ropes were strung from the crossbeam—each with a man standing beneath it on a wooden box.
Behind Domnall, Tavish MacNeal growled low in his throat. Gregor jerked against his bindings, which caused the guard escorting him to stagger.
“Enjoying the view?” Domnall’s guard murmured snidely over his shoulder.
The executioner took to the platform beneath the gallows, drawing a raucous cheer from those gathered. He moved to the first of the loyalist prisoners. The man, a MacLeod, Domnall thought, held his head high, his gaze locked forward.
“Long live David II, heir of King Robert the Bruce and rightful King of Scotla—”
Before he could finish, the executioner kicked away the wooden box upon which he stood. The man jerked at the end of his rope, to the wild cheers of Balliol’s supporters.
Gregor surged toward the gallows, a strangled bellow escaping his throat. It took his own guard, plus two more who came running at the commotion, to hold him back. He thrashed in their hold, but with his hands bound, the three guards just managed to restrain him.
Domnall and the others were yanked back into motion, though Gregor continued to strain toward his clansmen upon the gallows.
Now that the outburst had been contained, the executioner continued down the line.
“Long live King David!” the next man on the gallows shouted above the mob’s roar, just before he was knocked from his box.
Domnall squeezed burning eyes shut, but he could not close his ears against the strangled gurgles of his dying countrymen.
He knew this was to be their fate—they all did. All those who had been captured after Dupplin Moor would be hanged as traitors to a man who had stolen the crown from the rightful King.
Domn
all did not fear death. Nay, he’d known his end might wait for him when he’d joined the army to defend David II’s claim to the throne.
What truly galled him was the cowardice of it all, the lack of honor. Balliol and his men attacking in the dead of night. Hunting down and hanging all those who’d stood against him. And what the betrayer Murray had done to Bhaltair…
Domnall swallowed against the hot bile rising up his throat. He locked his jaw, unwilling to give his captors the satisfaction of seeing his pain in his last moments.
But to his surprise, instead of pulling him and his three cell-mates toward the gallows, the guards marched them to the double gates leading out of the yard.
The guard gripping his arm must have sensed his confusion, for he said, “Aye, ye get special treatment, Laird. Ye and yer friends.”
As they crossed through the gates, the guard pointed to a large, spreading oak a long stone’s throw away. Four nooses had already been tied along a thick branch that stretched almost parallel to the ground. The lengths of rope whipped in the sharp gales of wind.
“That is where ye will hang,” the guard said, leaning in and whispering as if sharing a treasured secret. “And where ye’ll be left to swing long after ye’re dead. Yer rotting flesh will serve as a warning to anyone who would stand against the new King. Well, at least until the ravens pick yer bones clean.”
The other guards chuckled at that.
The Highlanders were shoved forward until they stood just below the nooses. But they had been tied several feet higher than the men’s heads where they stood on the ground.
“Shite,” Domnall’s guard, who seemed to be in charge, muttered. He pointed at one of the men holding Gregor. “Fetch four horses.”
The man scurried off to do his bidding.
It seemed death was only a few moments away now. If Domnall was going to make a move with the dagger in his boot, however futile, now would be the time.
He shifted his weight and began to lean to one side. Then he lifted his foot as if to scratch his other leg with it. He strained his fingers, feeling naught but air yet. Curse his bindings!
Before he’d even brushed the outside of his boot, the guard returned with four horses in tow—along with another half-dozen men.
Damn. Domnall could add even more badly outnumbered to bound and armed only with a wee dagger on the list of impossible odds he would have to miraculously overcome before he was strung up like a Yuletide goose in the middle of this bloody storm.
Each of his cell-mates was shoved and hoisted onto an animal. The guards held tight to the reins to prevent the men from making a break for it.
Domnall was thrown onto the back of an ugly beast who looked to have survived more than one battle. He was off-white with speckles of gray and brown—or else he was covered in mud splats. One crooked tooth extended from the horse’s mouth, hooking his lip and making it appear as though he was snarling. The brute was also missing half of one ear.
The animal’s eyes turned wild as a rumble of thunder broke in the sky above. He tossed his head and snorted in displeasure. It took three guards to hold the horse steady as a fourth slipped the noose around Domnall’s neck.
Bloody hell, if Domnall was going to act, he had to act now. No longer trying to hide his movements, he lifted his boot out of the stirrup and groped blindly with his bound hands. Unfortunately, his motion caused his already-spooked horse to sidestep, stretching the rope around Domnall’s neck precariously tight.
“Damnable beast,” he hissed as he fumbled for his boot.
“Let’s send these bastards to hell where they belong,” the leader of the guards said.
He motioned with his chin for the others to move aside, except for a guard positioned behind each of the four horses. The men stood ready to slap the animals’ haunches and send them running. And drop the Highlanders into their nooses.
“On my count. One…”
An instant after a flash of lightning forked overhead, a deafening clap of thunder crashed around them. Domnall’s horse bolted even before his flank was struck.
Fecking horse.
It was his last thought before the rope around his neck snapped taut.
Chapter Two
Domnall’s neck instinctively strained against the rope. He sucked in a thin breath, probably his last. His bound hands clawed at naught but thin air behind his back. His feet kicked for purchase they’d never find.
His neck hadn’t broken outright when that idiot horse had taken off—which meant he would swing here for another minute or two before his air ran out.
He would suffer, then.
The guards were stunned motionless for a moment at the speckled horse’s abrupt departure, but then the leader motioned to the guards positioned behind the remaining horses. They each delivered a hard swat, sending the three other horses running.
Out of the corner of his blurring vision, Domnall saw his three brothers-in-arms fall toward the ground and jerk against their nooses. Artair made a hissing noise, while Gregor gave a muted grunt. Tavish was silent, yet Domnall could tell by the rigidity of his swinging legs that he lived yet. They all did, for a few more painful seconds.
Gone was all hope of reaching his dagger. Domnall’s vision grew dimmer around the edges. Or mayhap the encroaching darkness was because they seemed to be at the dead center of the breaking storm. It was probably dawn, but the sky was almost as black as midnight through the oak leaves overhead.
He strained his gaze upward, toward heaven, though he wasn’t sure that was where he’d end up. Father Julian, the MacAyre clan priest, had said animals couldn’t go there either, but Domnall wouldn’t believe that Bhaltair hadn’t earned a spot.
Suddenly, white light flashed all around, searing his eyes with an empty purity so complete that he thought his moment had come. But right on top of the blinding light was a crash so loud his very teeth seemed to rattle in his skull.
Abruptly, his world tilted sideways. Through the ringing in his ears, he heard men and horses shrieking in panic. He blinked against the white void filling his vision. As his eyes began to clear, a scene of pandemonium materialized.
The guards had scattered, along with the horses. The tree branch from which he still dangled now touched the ground at its far end. The tree itself was split down the middle, its core charred black and smoldering. A few of the leaves at the top were on fire despite the lashing rain.
Domnall’s air-starved brain struggled to comprehend what he was seeing.
Lightning. The tree must have been struck.
With the last of his strength, Domnall pawed wildly with his feet, hoping to scratch the ground. But as the closest to the trunk, he hung from the highest point on the now-diagonal branch. Naught but air swam beneath his boots.
His limbs burned for want of breath. Spots drifted before him as the resistance began to slip from his body. He couldn’t fight against his own weight any longer.
“Domnall!” Artair shouted, somewhere far off to his left. “Get to Domnall!”
Just then a hard body plowed into him. It was Gregor, who practically threw Domnall into the air to slacken the noose. Domnall sucked in a burning breath as the tension abruptly eased from his neck. Nausea slammed into him, but he couldn’t slow the gulping, ragged pulls of air.
Turning his head to the side, he watched in a stupor as the other two worked to free themselves. Gregor had been at the far end of the branch. His feet must have touched ground first. His noose now swung empty in the whipping wind.
Tavish was next. He’d managed to work his bound hands under his legs and was now yanking the rope from his neck. Once he was free, he rushed to Artair, who was balanced precariously on his tiptoes to keep his weight out of the noose.
The guards—or what was left of them—had begun to regroup. From the moans coming from the end of the fallen tree branch, at least two had been pinned beneath it. Some of the others had fled in terror at the lightning strike. Yet the original four who’d taken the Highl
anders from their cell staggered forward.
One hand still hoisting Domnall up, Gregor slipped the rope from around his neck. Domnall swayed precariously when Gregor set him on his feet, but he had the presence of mind to yank the blasted dagger from his boot at last and slide the blade along the bindings on his wrists.
Just as the remaining guards drew their swords, the Highlanders exchanged a quick look. As one, they charged forward, launching themselves at the guards.
Domnall ducked the swing of the leader’s blade, then drove his shoulder into the man, throwing him off balance. He took the opening to slash the man’s throat, cleanly ending his life.
Even weaponless and dazed from their hanging, the others made quick work of the remaining guards, leaving them unconscious in mere moments.
“The horses,” Artair said, straightening from the guard at his feet.
The animals had gathered a hundred paces away from the stricken tree, grazing unconcernedly—all except for Domnall’s hell-beast, who cantered in a tight circle around the others, tossing his head madly.
Once they’d scooped up the guards’ swords, the men ran to retrieve the horses. Domnall snagged a handful of the speckled steed’s mane as he ran past, forcing him to slow. But he didn’t have time to bring the animal fully under control. The palace gates groaned open and shouts of confusion spilled out as more guards appeared.
Domnall flung himself onto the wild beast’s back, still clutching his mane.
“Kinnoul Hill,” he rasped through a ragged throat. “Just south of here. Ye ken it?”
The others nodded. Without waiting another heartbeat, they all spurred their horses like the very Devil was on their heels.
The trees blurred as they raced away. Domnall’s horse ran with such reckless abandon that he had to cling desperately to the animal’s mane to protect the neck he’d just managed to save. As they mounted the hill, the hell-beast was forced to slow, giving Domnall a chance to grab the reins and guide the horse onward.