Ensnared by the Laird (Four Horsemen of the Highlands, Book 1)

by Emma Prince

  “I understand,” he interrupted gently. “He is yer brother, yer family. Ye need to be certain that I speak the truth.”

  With deliberate slowness, he reached into his boot and slid the dagger free. When she tensed, he quickly flipped the blade around and extended the hilt toward her. “Tell me what ye see.”

  Carefully, she took the proffered dagger. Just as he had done so many times, she traced the pad of her thumb over the hilt’s crossguard.

  He knew when she sucked in a breath and nearly dropped the blade that she had seen it.

  “This…this is my family’s crest,” she whispered, running a shaky finger over the engraving in the hilt’s center. “And this…” She paused over the initials etched on top of the crest.

  AM.

  “Andrew Murray,” he supplied quietly.

  Domnall watched as disbelief, followed by pain and desolation, flickered across her delicate features. The fact that her initials were the same as her brother’s must have been all the more agonizing for her, a reminder of her shared blood with the bastard.

  “H-how did you come by this?”

  Domnall fought to keep his voice gentle, but the memory sent a fresh wave of searing hatred through him. “I found it buried in my horse’s neck.”

  Ailsa’s gaze flew to the cave mouth. Though the heavy rain blocked any view of the animal hunkered under the trees outside, he knew what she sought.

  “No’ that Satan’s spawn,” he grunted. “He is merely the beast on which I managed to escape. Nay, the horse I speak of was the finest animal I’ve ever kenned.”

  He worked his jaw for a moment, letting his mind return to happier times. “His name was Bhaltair. Leader of Armies. My father gifted him to me when I was a hot-headed youth of twenty summers. His sire was my father’s own warhorse.”

  “He must have meant a great deal to you, then.”

  Domnall smiled faintly. “Well, eventually, but no’ at first. Ye see, I had wanted to go dashing off to join the Bruce’s army. I was practically overflowing with patriotic fervor and a thirst for action. The MacAyres are a small clan, tucked away in a remote corner of the Highlands. For a young, vigorous lad, things were rather…dull.”

  A whisper of mirth passed his lips. “I was bored nigh to tears, truth be told. I wanted to defend my country and King, and fight in a real battle, no’ just the wee clan skirmishes we had from time to time. But my father refused to let me go.”

  Ailsa tilted her honey-blonde head at him. “Why?”

  “At the time, I didnae have the sense to understand, but now I do. I was the sole heir to the MacAyre Lairdship. While I could only think as far as the possibility of fighting in a battle, he could see the greater risks. He was growing enfeebled with an ailment of the bones. If I fell in one of the Bruce’s wars, the clan would have no leader. So he devised a clever way to delay me, and to occupy all my excess energy.”

  Understanding softened her concentrated frown. “By gifting you the horse.”

  “Aye. He told me that no man could become a great warrior without a great warhorse. He’d used his own horse, who was a sight to behold, to sire Bhaltair, then tasked me with raising and training him. He promised that he would let me join the Bruce’s army once Bhaltair had been molded into a proper warhorse.”

  Not for the first time, Domnall paused to silently admire his father’s wisdom, not only as a Laird but as a father.

  “It took me four years to train Bhaltair. In that time, he learned how to face foot soldiers and mounted men alike. How to attack uphill and downhill and in the mud and rain and snow. He could remain calm in the chaos of battle, but alert enough to signal when aught was amiss. He was as gentle as a lamb with bairns, yet with one signal from me, he could unseat and trample even the most skilled of horsemen.”

  He released a breath, letting the fond memories warm him for a moment.

  “Of course, he wasnae the only one who’d been in training those four years. In teaching him, I learned to control my emotions, take care of another, apply myself to a worthy task, and gain an appreciation for hard work. But most importantly, I came to understand responsibility—mine toward Bhaltair, aye, but also to my clan. I saw then what it would have done to my people if I had charged off to battle, leaving them without a leader.”

  A familiar sadness settled in his chest. “It was a much-needed lesson, for no’ long after I declared Bhaltair one of the finest warhorses in all of Scotland, my father passed. But I was ready for the responsibilities of the Lairdship, thanks to my father—and Bhaltair.”

  “That is…beautiful,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. “How long ago was your father’s passing?”

  “Six years ago,” he replied. “Though we did send willing warriors to fight for the Bruce’s cause, I remained with the clan—until Balliol threatened to usurp the crown from the Bruce’s rightful heir. Then I couldnae stand back any longer. So I led several other clansmen to take up arms against him.”

  He stood slowly and moved to the fire, taking his time to feed several more logs into the blaze. It gave him an excuse to find his words through the swell of aching emotion.

  “That night, when Balliol forded the river and attacked, I’d tied Bhaltair at the edge of our camp—no’ far from where Murray planted his stake to mark Balliol’s crossing.”

  Ailsa must have sensed what was coming, for she pressed her lips together, her dark, gentle eyes shimmering in the firelight.

  “I assume he made a noise, mayhap even began to raise an alarm when the army approached our sleeping forms. He was well-trained enough to do such a thing. Murray must have feared his treachery would be uncovered before Balliol’s men could set upon us. So he slashed Bhaltair’s throat with that.”

  Domnall nodded toward the dagger she still held. As if it had burned her, she dropped it onto the ground. It clattered sharply against the cave’s stone floor.

  “When pandemonium broke out in the loyalist camp, I was among those who had time to take up a weapon and fight back. A handful of men and I managed to make our way to where Balliol’s men were crossing. We’d hoped to stem the tide of men surrounding us. I found Bhaltair on the ground in a pool of his own blood. But he wasnae—he wasnae yet—”

  He shook his head as if doing so would clear away the nightmare. But the images lodged there weren’t some conjuring to be swept away. They were real, and buried so deep into his mind that he could never extract them.

  “He was suffering,” he said, his voice like an unsheathed blade. “So I had to be the one to release him.”

  Domnall squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, willing away the darkness that threatened to overtake him. When he opened them again, his gaze locked on Ailsa.

  Tears rolled down her cheeks, glistening in the dancing light. She had her lower lip pinned between her teeth to hold back the sobs that made her shoulders tremble in silent quakes.

  “After I’d ended Bhaltair’s suffering, I saw Murray standing next to the flag he’d planted, ushering Balliol’s men over to murder us. I didnae ken him well, but I vaguely remembered his name and recognized him as one of our own. It wasnae until later, in Scone’s dungeon, when I had many hours to study the dagger I’d extracted from Bhaltair’s neck, that I comprehended Murray for what he was—no’ only a traitor, but Bhaltair’s killer as well.”

  Domnall felt himself turn cold inside once more. Aye, this was what he needed—to remember exactly why Murray deserved every drop of pain and suffering Domnall could mete out before ending him once and for all.

  “His betrayal led to the deaths of thousands of loyal Scots,” he ground out, holding Ailsa with a hard stare. “That alone warrants the traitor’s death I intend to give him. But for what he did to Bhaltair…I mean for him to suffer, as he made Bhaltair suffer. Naught is too brutal, too cruel for him.”

  “Including using his sister against him,” she breathed.

  For the first time since the night he’d held her brother’s dagger to her throat, he saw
real fear in her eyes. But there was something more there now—an unfathomable sadness, though Domnall couldn’t be sure if it was for her brother, or for him.

  “I meant what I told ye before,” he murmured. “I willnae harm ye. Ever. Once Murray is mine, I will release ye, ensure that ye get someplace safe.”

  “Still, you will use the fact that I am your captive to torture him between now and when you meet him.”

  He refused to flinch or back down from the truth of the matter. “Aye.”

  Ailsa, on the other hand, was clearly struggling. She clasped her hands together so tight that her slim fingers blanched. Her emotions battled openly on her face, sympathy warring with condemnation.

  “I cannot defend my brother,” she said, dropping her gaze to the ground between them. “But nor can I condone your course of action, either. You will lose yourself in this quest for vengeance, Domnall.”

  He was stunned speechless for a long moment. The sound of his given name on her tongue enthralled him, but the meaning behind her words practically knocked the air from his lungs.

  She disapproved of his actions, but not because she was protecting her brother? Nay, it almost seemed as if she were trying to protect him.

  Impossible. There was no reason for her to care about him…was there?

  Nay, Ailsa was simply a kind soul, guileless and good-hearted at her core. That was the only reason her gaze lingered on him, her eyes soft as a doe’s, too innocent to see that a wolf stared back at her.

  “Rest now,” he said, gruffer than he’d intended. “We continue east on the morrow.”

  Reluctantly, she sank down in front of the fire, pulling her cloak tight around her.

  He busied himself by retrieving Murray’s dagger and tucking it carefully back into his boot. Then he rummaged through his saddlebags for a plaid with which to wrap himself.

  But when he turned back to the fire, he saw that her shoulders shook beneath her cloak. Was it simply from the cold? Or had all he’d told her this night left her unsettled and afraid?

  He watched her in silence for a moment, hoping the mercy of sleep would take her. Yet she continued to tremble like a leaf in high wind.

  Muttering a curse, Domnall lowered himself behind her, draping his plaid over both of them. She stiffened, but when he lay down and drew her back against his chest, a muffled sigh escaped her and she seemed to melt into him.

  Bloody hell. He liked the feel of her against him.

  Too much.

  He fought to remain still when she nestled even closer into him, her bottom wedging perfectly against his groin and her golden head tucking under his chin. The honeyed scent of her hair filled his nostrils, nearly causing him to groan with pleasure.

  He listened to her breaths lengthen and deepen. All too soon, he felt her slim body go slack as she dipped into sleep.

  He, on the other hand, was pulled tighter than a bow string. If he moved even a hair, he feared the need burning inside him would turn him to ash.

  So he lay motionless, barely even breathing to avoid bringing more unfulfilled agony upon himself.

  This was going to be a long night.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Ailsa was surrounded by stone.

  The hard rock under her hip and shoulder was cold, leeching the heat from her even through her cloak and gown.

  But the stone at her back felt as though it had been placed in the fire to heat. Somehow it molded to the contours of her body, encasing the backs of her legs, her bottom, her shoulder blades, even the top of her head, where warm air rustled her hair in slow, rhythmic—

  Realization slammed into her. She tried to bolt upright, but a heavy arm as thick as an oak branch was slung over her waist.

  “Morning.”

  Domnall’s voice was a deep rumble behind her, which she felt all the way from her skull to her tailbone. His speech was surprisingly free of drowse or fogginess, implying that he had been alert for some time.

  God, how long had she slept like that? And how long had he been awake?

  She vaguely remembered him covering her with his plaid the night before. He’d been surprisingly tender when he’d drawn her against his chest, providing warmth and silent comfort.

  She’d needed both after everything she’d heard. As the memories of all Domnall had told her came back, she had to draw a fortifying breath. The things her brother had done…

  Nay, she could not get lost in the horror of it once again. It was all too abhorrent to comprehend. Yet deep in her chest, the most abiding emotion was sorrow—for Domnall. All he’d suffered, all he’d lost…

  But the worst was what he was doing now.

  Even her gentle heart couldn’t be sure if Andrew deserved mercy. Domnall did, though. Yet he risked blackening his soul irreparably in his hunt for her brother. He ought to seek healing for all he’d endured, not vengeance.

  Had her warning to him last night had any effect? She needed to see his eyes, to read the truth in them.

  She peered over her shoulder at him. He had propped himself on his elbow so that he gazed down at her. A copper lock of hair fell over his forehead. Shadows of sleeplessness lurked under his eyes. Yet his stare was just as clear and sharp as ever, like the crystalline waters of a mountain loch.

  But nay, while a loch would be icy-cold, his eyes blazed with blue fire. She could practically feel the heat of his gaze as he slowly traced her features, settling on her lips.

  Her breath hitched as she realized what was about to happen a moment before it did.

  His eyes remained locked on her mouth, yet he stayed frozen as if waiting for some sign from her.

  Uncertainty knotted her stomach, but not over the kiss she knew they were about to share. Nay, she wanted to taste him again, to be swept away by the heat and intensity of his touch. But her inexperience left her wondering what to do next to show him she wanted this as badly as he did.

  Nervously, she flicked her tongue over her lips to moisten them. A low, pained sound rolled in his throat. In the heartbeat before his mouth descended on hers, she realized that small, unconscious action had broken the dam of his restraint.

  When their lips met, warmth that had naught to do with their shared plaid bloomed over her skin. The soft press of his mouth was no longer completely foreign. Yet just like the first time, awareness shot through her like a thousand little bolts of lightning.

  With the first flick of his velvety tongue, she knew how to respond. She opened to him and was immediately rewarded with a hot caress. He explored slowly, expertly drawing her deeper into the kiss.

  Shyly, she began meeting his strokes with her own. That earned her a groan of encouragement. Soon enough, they were each giving and taking in a provocative interplay of tongues and lips.

  Their mouths fused, he rotated slightly so that she tilted onto her back. He propped himself on his elbows over her, his powerful arms caging her on either side. She felt completely surrounded by him. His clean, masculine scent, the heat of his large frame, the weight of his chest where it rested lightly against hers, all threatened to overwhelm her senses and sweep away the last of her wits.

  Or mayhap she’d already crossed that line. She inhaled, longing to take more of him in. That lifted her breasts into him, sending a new jolt of sensation through her. She arched even more, exploring the feel of their bodies rubbing together.

  He hissed a curse, ripping his mouth away. But less than a heartbeat later, his lips dropped to her ear.

  The merest flick of his tongue against her ear sent a forceful wave of pleasure through her. He traced the delicate contours there, then nipped her soft lobe, drawing a ragged breath from her.

  He moved lower, dragging his mouth across her wildly beating pulse. He kissed and licked down the column of her neck, then worked his way back up to her other ear.

  When her fingers dug into his upper arms, she realized they had drifted there of their own volition. She let them skim over the hard muscle to his corded shoulders. That earned her a
bite to the sensitive skin of her neck. Shivers raced over her in a delicious shudder.

  With a grunt of frustration, he began tugging on her cloak, which was a tangled mess around her.

  Now that she was aware of it, she longed to be rid of it too, for it was a barrier between their bodies. Her gown suddenly felt too tight as well. If only she could be free of all restrictions, left with naught but her body and Domnall’s, and the pleasure that crackled like a bonfire between them.

  He shoved the cloak aside with impatient hands, then suddenly he was touching her everywhere. One hand skimmed along the side of her waist, shaping to her ribs and the flare of her hip. The other moved under the curve of one breast in a slow, reverent discovery.

  Once he’d traced the curvature of her breast through her gown, he cupped it fully in one big palm. The simple brushing pressure had her moaning a breath. She arched into his touch shamelessly like an attention-starved cat. Her nipple ached with need—need which he satisfied with the swish of his thumb.

  He caught her next gasp with his lips, fusing their mouths together in another searing kiss.

  It was too much—too much sensation, too much pleasure threatening to break over her. She writhed beneath him, simultaneously seeking relief from the mounting need and longing for more of the sweet torture.

  He made a strangled sound, and she wondered if he felt the same—nigh possessed by the burning desire for more. In a wordless answer, the hand on her waist slid lower. His fingers tightened on her thigh, hitching it over his hip so that he could settle partway between her legs.

  He was heavy and taut over her—all of him. Distantly, she became aware of a particularly rigid column of flesh straining against the front of his trews. It notched perfectly at the crux of her legs.

  A whisper of reality intruded on the heady lust that enveloped them like a fog. They were approaching something far deeper than a mere kiss—and far more dangerous. What would it mean to cross such a line with Domnall? What did it mean to have already shared two kisses?