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

by Emma Prince

  She must have stiffened as these unwelcome thoughts wheedled into her mind, for all at once, Domnall jerked back. As if he’d been scalded, he rolled to the side. Cool air hit her. Freed from the enclosure of his arms, she suddenly felt more alone than ever before.

  “Christ,” he breathed, dragging a hand over his face.

  She blinked up at him, so dazed by the scorching passion they’d just shared that she felt as though she’d been staring into the sun. He’d wrung sensations from her that she’d never known were possible. And judging by the way her desire had built, leaving her unsatisfied and aching when he pulled away, there was even more to experience.

  And the emotions behind the passion…they were too tangled to tease out.

  Ailsa felt warmth rush to her face. She was naïve and inexperienced. Just because her heart was fluttering against her ribs didn’t mean there was aught more behind Domnall’s kisses and touches.

  Then again, there was a delicate trust growing between them. It had started with his protectiveness even when she’d fled him. Then it had deepened last night when he’d confided so much of his past and the pain he’d suffered.

  And these weren’t just an innocent girl’s hopes, she knew. She could tell he felt something, too. She saw it now in the clouded, confused depths of his ice-blue eyes.

  He must have sensed that he’d revealed some private vulnerability, for he abruptly shuttered the emotion behind his eyes.

  “We had best get going.”

  Her gaze shifted to the cave mouth. The storm from the night before had blown away. Shafts of slanting sunlight filtered through the pine boughs that stood in front of the cave. Beyond, the sky was blue except for a few white, fluffy clouds sailing by.

  “Where are we headed?” Mayhap it was foolish, but some small part of her hoped that Domnall would give up this quest to find Andrew.

  “Inverlochlarig,” he replied, rising and folding the plaid under which they’d slept—and kissed. “Yer brother was spotted at a tavern there a month past. We’ll have to skirt the uneven terrain around Ben More to get there, which means we’d best leave now to reach the town by nightfall.”

  There was her answer. He still planned to hunt her brother—and use her to lure him out.

  Blinking back the sting that rose to her eyes, Ailsa stood and smoothed her skirts. She would just have to use the sennight that remained between now and when they reached Tullibardine to convince him otherwise.

  “I am ready.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “What is your horse’s name?”

  Domnall stilled for a heartbeat, one foot on the ground and the other in the stirrup. He’d been in the midst of dismounting when Ailsa’s question caught him off-guard.

  It had been two days since they’d departed the cave after that scorching kiss. Two long, uncomfortable days, at least for Domnall. He could lie to himself and say that it was because he felt guilty about the kiss, but in truth, he didn’t regret a damn thing about it.

  Which was the problem. He shouldn’t have kissed her in the first place. But after she’d slept in his arms, all trusting and sweetly sensual in repose, he’d nigh gone daft with wanting to taste her soft mouth once again.

  It was bad enough having erred as he had, acting like a lustful lad rather than a man on a mission. But worse, he wanted to do it again. The last two days had been an agony of close encounters and intimate moments with Ailsa.

  Riding with her in his lap.

  Sleeping mere feet away from her prone form.

  Even watching her eat, her lips moist and her delicate jaw working, was its own form of torture.

  And she was making it even harder than it already was by asking all manner of probing questions.

  She’d inquired about his family, gently nudging Domnall for more than a few monosyllabic words and a grunt here and there. To his surprise, he was coaxed into speaking of his mother, who had passed a few years before his father, and the wee brother he’d never known, for he’d died only a fortnight after he’d been born.

  Then she’d asked about his clan, the character of his people, the extent and uses of his lands, and what the Highlands were like in various seasons.

  He’d answered as briefly as possible, longing to keep their interactions to a minimum, if only to save himself from the inevitable desire that sprang upon him whenever he so much as looked at her. But she either didn’t notice or didn’t mind the challenge he presented whenever he tried to dodge her questions, for she continued peppering him with gentle inquiries.

  He began to suspect that something more than curiosity underlaid her interest. Her words from two nights past nagged at him.

  You will lose yourself in this quest for vengeance, Domnall.

  If she feared he was losing his soul, mayhap all her questions about his home and people was her attempt to help him…find it again? It seemed outlandish, but then again, Ailsa was exactly the sort of kind, soft-hearted person to try to save her captor’s honor.

  And astoundingly, it might have started to work. Though he’d been terse in his answers, all this talk of the MacAyre clan, his family, and his lands had opened an aching hole in his chest—one that he’d been filling with the cold drive for vengeance until now.

  It was disconcerting, the way she’d wheedled into not only his mind, but his heart as well. And into the very fibers of his flesh, judging by the way he had begun to burn with need for more of her.

  So naturally, now she wanted to know his bloody horse’s name. Clever lass.

  “He doesnae have one,” he replied gruffly.

  Domnall transferred the reins over the horse’s head and walked him the few remaining feet to a post outside Strathyre’s tavern. Snow had begun to swirl around them an hour past. Now a thin layer of white crunched beneath his boots and the horse’s hooves.

  It was good that they’d reached the village, for a charcoal twilight had begun to fall behind the heavy slate clouds overhead. The air was sharp and thick with the promise of more snow. Mayhap they would even have to seek out the village’s inn, for he was loath to make Ailsa sleep on the ground in such a storm.

  “He doesn’t have one?” she replied, the incredulity in her voice coming through clearly even though she spoke through her cloak, which she’d drawn over the lower half of her face for warmth. “How can that be?”

  “Simple,” he said, tugging the animal to a halt and tying the reins around the post. “He belonged to the men who were going to hang me. I didnae dally to ask them what they called the beast, and I never named him myself.”

  “But what do you call him, then?”

  Domnall had to hastily jump out of the way when the horse shifted, attempting to shoulder-butt Domnall off his feet.

  “I call him Demon-spawn,” Domnall growled. “Or the Devil’s own horse. Or Infernal Hell-Beast, when I’m feeling generous.”

  He pulled her down from the saddle and settled her on her feet. To his satisfaction, she didn’t wince or shift her weight. Her ankle was almost completely healed now. Though it shouldn’t matter, he was relieved that she was no longer in pain.

  “He needs a proper name,” she commented, pulling her cloak snugly around her. “I know he is not Bhaltair, but he is still under your care.”

  When his hands tightened where they lingered on her hips, she added, “He has served you well thus far, has he not?”

  Domnall snorted as all the times the animal had nearly removed a finger with his teeth, or kicked him in the chest, or head-butted him, flitted through his mind.

  Ailsa continued without seeming to notice his dry reaction. “Infernal Hell-Beast,” she murmured thoughtfully. “A bit of a mouthful.”

  She brightened, casting him a smile that stopped his heart for a long, painful moment. “Fern!” she exclaimed. “He should be called Fern—short for Infernal Hell-Beast, of course. What do you think, Fern?”

  Turning to the animal, she looped an arm over his curved neck. The horse nuzzled her side with his n
ose like he was a damn puppy snuggling against its mother.

  “Fern?” Domnall leveled her with a withering look, but he couldn’t stop the tug at the corners of his mouth. “Ye cannae be serious. He isnae some docile pony for a wee bairn.”

  In response, the beast lifted his head toward Domnall and rotated his lopsided ears back in a sign of aggression.

  “See?” Domnall said, stepping back. “He is a mean bastard, this one. Tough as rocks and ever sour-tempered.”

  “Are you describing the horse or yourself?” Ailsa asked sweetly, lifting a honeyed eyebrow at him.

  Domnall only scowled more. “He isnae some gentle-natured creature—at least no’ with anyone but ye. He can be dangerous if he isnae handled properly, for he is far stronger than most horses. And smarter than he appears,” he said, casting a sideways glance at the unruly beast.

  “Don’t look now,” Ailsa said, her mouth threatening a grin once more, “but you seem to be describing the perfect warhorse—albeit one in need of taming. Mayhap you should train him.”

  “Come,” he muttered, placing a hand on her back. “Let us get out of the snow.”

  He guided her toward the tavern. Above the door, a wooden sign depicting a cup and a thistle swung wildly in the whipping snow.

  When he pushed inside, the familiar scents of ale, woodsmoke, and bodies hit him. The blast of cold air and snowflakes had several sets of eyes shifting to them, but after a moment, those in the tavern returned their attention to their mugs, their conversations, or their games of chance.

  The tavern wasn’t the cleanest or quietest he’d ever seen, but it was early enough that the patrons were still relatively subdued, and the floor was not yet soaked with ale, piss, and vomit.

  Mayhap they could linger after he’d asked around about Murray. Though she’d been full of grins and sass outside, he knew Ailsa would do well with a hot meal, and even this alehouse likely had a passable stew on offer. He’d hoped to push on to Loch Lubnaig this eve, but with a snow storm blowing in, it might not be wise to risk it.

  Then again, this could be a very quick stop. To his surprise, when he’d asked about Murray at the gambling hall in Inverlochlarig two days past, they’d already heard about Domnall’s challenge to Murray.

  Word was spreading. That meant Murray himself may have already caught wind of Domnall’s scheme.

  Which was a good thing, for only five days remained until Domnall was supposed to arrive at Tullibardine. He could only pray that his efforts at these alehouses and taverns would reach Murray and lure him into Domnall’s grasp.

  But first he had to ensure that every gambler in western Scotland knew Domnall was looking for Murray.

  Domnall’s gaze immediately sought out the dicers. He found them gathered around a large, round table rimmed with mugs of ale. A dozen or so men leaned over the table, coins clenched in their fists and their eyes glued to a set of bouncing dice.

  As the carved bone cubes settled, the men grumbled and cursed their disappointment, slapping their coins down on the table reluctantly.

  Domnall wove his way to them, careful to keep Ailsa close.

  “Beg pardon,” Domnall began, lifting his voice over the mutters of the game’s losers. “Have any of ye seen Andrew Murray?”

  Several of the gamblers looked up at him with curiosity.

  “Aye,” a bearded bear of a man replied with a confused frown.

  Domnall tensed in surprise, but then he realized the miscommunication. “Nay, I dinnae mean a month past. I mean since then. I have a message for him if he shows his face in the next few—”

  “Och, nay, ye misunderstand,” the bear interrupted. “He is here now.”

  Behind him, Ailsa sucked in a breath.

  His stomach plummeted, even as ice shot through his veins.

  “What?” he hissed through clenched teeth.

  “He just stepped out to piss,” another lad of no more than twenty added.

  “And he’ll be back in two shakes if he kens what’s good for him,” the bear muttered. “The man has racked up quite the debt to me this night.”

  Murray was here? Now?

  A thousand thoughts crashed through Domnall’s head. He’d never let himself hope to come across Murray like this. He’d assumed the man would be lying low, not adding to his mounting debts. Then again, the bastard couldn’t seem to stay away from a game of hazard.

  He hadn’t thought through how he would approach Murray in a chance encounter. Instead, he’d envisioned staking out Tullibardine, choosing his meeting place. He’d wanted to show the man that he had Ailsa, while also keeping her far enough away that she would be safe when Domnall squared off to kill Murray.

  Yet he was as ready as he’d ever be. He needed no special preparation. He’d imagined taking his revenge a hundred different ways—and they all ended with Murray dead. Domnall had no doubt he could best the man one-on-one. He was a Highland warrior, Laird or nay, and Murray was a Lowland nobleman’s son.

  What did it matter that he was caught off-guard by Murray’s presence? It only meant Murray would be just as unprepared—and Domnall could use that to his advantage.

  “When did he leave?” Domnall demanded of the bear.

  The man lifted one burly shoulder. “Naught but a few moments before ye arrived, I expect.”

  Domnall’s gaze flew to the door. He would have seen Murray leaving the alehouse when he and Ailsa had been bantering outside.

  “He went out the back,” the lad offered, clearly reading the direction of Domnall’s thoughts. He jerked his spot-marked chin toward a door set into the far wall. “Toward the stables.”

  Domnall hadn’t bothered to ask the tavern’s proprietor about the use of the stables for his horse, for he’d hoped this would be a short stop—no more than an hour even if they’d lingered for a hot meal.

  A new realization hit him like a punch to the gut. Murray was facing yet more debt and a disgruntled bear-man. He may have claimed to be taking a piss, but if he was headed toward the stables…

  “He’s running,” he breathed.

  “What? What does that mean?”

  Domnall didn’t bother answering the bear. Nor did he spare him another glance.

  Instead, he grabbed Ailsa’s arm and took off for the back door. Without a care for the damage he did, he shoved men and tables out of his way as he barreled across the tavern.

  “Domnall, what—”

  Ailsa’s words were cut off when a blast of frigid air heavy with falling snow hit them. Domnall didn’t slow. He charged across the cobbled alleyway and toward the dark outline of the stables.

  One of the double doors was ajar, spilling yellow light out onto the rapidly deepening snow. The hairs at the back of Domnall’s neck prickled. Aye, this was the moment he’d been waiting for.

  He threw open the door and stepped inside, pulling Ailsa in behind him. At the back of the stables, a tall, slender man with dark blond hair stood with his back to them, hastily bridling a horse.

  “Andrew Murray.” Domnall’s voice boomed through the air like a crack of thunder. “Turn and face the man who is about to send ye to the Devil.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ailsa knew it was Andrew from the second her gaze landed on him.

  She recognized his hair, the same color as hers—the same color as their mother’s. And she recognized the way his shoulders bunched at the sound of Domnall’s voice, a motion that she’d seen their father make whenever their mother caught him sneaking into the buttery for another wee dram of whisky.

  Yet she was still shocked as if with a slap to the cheek when he turned slowly, revealing eyes as dark as her own set in that familiar face.

  “Andrew.” His name rushed from her throat.

  Some part of her had wanted to believe that none of this could be real—Andrew’s gambling, his cruel and traitorous acts, or the fact that he stood here now, about to face Domnall in all his avenging wrath.

  But when his brown eyes flicked to he
r, widening with momentary surprise before returning a narrowed stare to Domnall, she saw in a flash that it was all true.

  “Do I know you?” Andrew asked, his voice disturbingly casual, almost bored. Still, Ailsa didn’t miss the faint rising of color to his cheekbones. Was he afraid? Or mayhap in his cups?

  “Nay, but I ken ye,” Domnall said, his eyes blazing on her brother. “I’ve been hunting ye across half of Scotland.”

  Andrew shifted slightly, his whole body seeming to subtly prepare for a fight.

  “Mayhap I owe you money, then?” he said in that same unconcerned tone. Nevertheless, his hand tightened on his horse’s bridle.

  “Nay,” Domnall replied, taking a slow step forward. “But ye do owe a debt—to me and to all of Scotland. I plan on collecting that now.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  His tongue shaped the words sloppily, and now Ailsa was sure he’d been drinking—drinking and gambling, apparently. And losing, according to the men inside.

  “Och, I doubt even a man as uncaring and reckless as ye could forget.” Domnall took another stalking step forward, and Ailsa was forced by the iron grip on her arm to follow. “The Battle of Dupplin Moor. Balliol’s army fording the River Earn in the dead of night. The slaughter of thousands of loyalists ye claimed to support. Ring any bells?”

  Fear, followed closely by defiance, flashed across Andrew’s dark eyes.

  “Let me guess, you are one of those loyalists. I thought almost none of you survived, and the ones that did were hanged by Balliol.”

  From the low growl that rose in Domnall’s throat, he was being taken in by Andrew’s baiting taunt.

  “That horse,” Domnall replied, his voice low and hard as steel. “The one ye maimed and left for dead just to cover yer sorry, traitorous arse. He belonged to me.”

  “Ah yes.” Andrew cocked his head. “I remember. He was a fine animal. It was a shame to put him down, but he would have woken the whole bloody camp before Balliol’s men could wipe the lot of you out.”