Claimed By The Highlander (The Highlands Warring Clan Mactaggarts Book 1)

by Anne Morrison

  "Yes," she whispered. "Yes. Yes, I love you, and I will marry you."

  A cheer went up from the men around them, and in the back of her mind, Elizabeth told herself to remember it. English or Scottish, it didn't matter. The men around her were sick of war, desperate for hope, and if Reade was right, the two of them might be able to give them the start of it.

  It was just a glimmer of hope, and with Aidan and Devon on two ends of it, both men who were determined and very used to getting their way, there was no way to see how it might end.

  It doesn't matter how it is going to end. All that matters is this moment, here with Reade, with my heart, with my love.

  He kissed her, and she knew that it was, after all, only the beginning.

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  epilogue

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  Six Months Later

  No matter how long she gazed around her, Elizabeth felt as if she could not drink in enough of the beauty of the mountains. It had started slowly, the leaves taking on a hint of orange or gold, and then like the wildfire it resembled, the color overtook the trees so fast she sometimes thought she could see it. The beauty of the forest took her breath away, and whenever there was a pause in the work, she found herself staring up at the leaves, as if there was a secret there for her to find.

  Mairi had said it was a good sign, that the leaves were turning so quickly.

  “Quick change means a quick winter for us. You'll see for yourself some year how hard the winter can be, but for your first, well, there's naught wrong with having it be a bit easier, is there?”

  She was grateful beyond words that the clan had accepted her as one of their own. Her simple marriage to Reade was a memory she knew she would treasure for the rest of her life, crowned with flowers and feeling as if the world had stopped only for her joy. She could still remember the smiles from the people who had become her family, how Maisie had shyly given her a bracelet of red wooden beads that she still wore, how Aidan had welcomed her with a kiss to the forehead, and how the dancing had gone on all night.

  And then after...

  The promise of passion between her and Reade had been borne out to the full, and when she thought of what he had done then, and what he still did to her as soon as the doors were closed for the day behind him, she would blush if she was not too busy enjoying herself. Even now, as she made her way across the field, she tucked up her woolen scarf a little to hide the love mark he had left there the night before.

  Well, at least I don't need extra clothing to hide the ones he left other places.

  She had made a displeased sound upon seeing the purple marks on her breasts and her thighs that morning, and Reade had only laughed.

  “Use them to remember me,” he said with a wink.

  She wrinkled her nose at him.

  “How often do you think I strip bare during my day?”

  “Oh, not to look at...”

  He had pulled her close suddenly, pressing his thumb against one mark, and she had gasped at the feeling of it, at how the pressure brought up the memory of his mouth there, roaming her body, moving ever lower...

  Reade is always teaching me all sorts of new things like that. I suppose it's my turn to teach him.

  Her favorite spot turned out to be a low hill shaded by old oak trees. From the rise, she could look down on the river, see the slope of Crinnan's Mountain, and the southern portion of Doone Castle. It showed her home, and she had told Reade to meet her there at sunset.

  She was gazing out over the glen when she heard a laugh behind her.

  “Well, you look delicious there by yourself. I hope you brought food, because otherwise, I'll be tempted to make a meal of you, lass.”

  “I did, so you can keep your mouth to yourself for a moment, Reade!”

  He grinned, coming down to sit next to her, and she thought that her heart would burst from all the love she felt for him.

  She had heard a great deal about duty, about honor and obedience, but when it came to Reade, all she could feel was love. They had been so many people to each other, revealed so many different faces to each other and to the people around them, and now, here in this spot, they only wanted to be their true and honest selves.

  “You didn't have to hurry all this way,” she said, handing him the waterskin.

  He drank and shot her a wry look.

  “I did. Aidan's trying to settle that dispute between Arthur and Caldwell again, the one about whose calf was dropped?”

  “Oh. That calf's a heifer by now...”

  “And no closer to a resolution. Aidan's not quite to where he wants to cut the poor thing in half and settle it that way, but he might do that to Arthur and Caldwell. I decided to stay out of it, see who's alive when the dust settles.”

  “Very brave, my love.”

  “It was, I rather thought. So, why did you bring me all this way? What have you got in your devious little mind, lass, hmm?”

  Well, there it was. She doubted she was going to get a better opportunity than that. It was nearly an invitation.

  “Not in my mind, darling, but rather in my belly.”

  For a moment, Reade only stared at her, and then her words sunk in, as did her hand cradled over her stomach protectively.

  “You’re... Lass, are you sure?”

  “Very. Three, almost four months gone now.”

  She started to say something else, but then Reade drew her into his arms, kissing her until she was dizzy.

  “My brave and lovely lass,” he crooned in her ear. “Utterly brilliant woman.”

  “You are pleased then?” She had heard of men who weren't, but she realized that when it came to Reade, she needn't have worried.

  “Very! A girl with your hair, running about like a little ray of sunshine—”

  “Or a boy with your eyes, with a taste for mischief.”

  Reade laughed.

  “And heaven help me if she likes trouble as I do and has your eyes. I could never say no to her. She would get away with murder.”

  “Are you so very weak against me?” She had meant to tease, but Reade looked at her, his eyes gleaming with all the love that was between them.

  “I would never call it weak against you, lass. You are my strength, and my reason for rising in the morning. I can only pray that I make you as happy as you make me. I love you so much I can barely stand it sometimes.”

  “I love you,” she whispered, burying her face in the crook of his neck. “Heaven above, Reade, but I love you so...”

  He held on to her, crooning to her about the adventures their child would have, how they would grow and laugh and love, and Elizabeth curled her hand protectively over her belly, Reade's hand resting on top of hers.

  She knew that no child of hers, born in the Highlands, would have a peaceful life, not now that the England and Scotland were rising to war again, but she prayed that they knew the love she had known, and the passion, and the joy. It was all that mattered.

  Doone Castle

  Aidan stared at the letter in his hand. The seal was intact, well-known to him as his own handwriting was. He glanced at the man who had delivered it to him.

  “Who gave this to you?”

  The man shrugged.

  “It were a man in Byrne. He said you would pay me well if I brought it all the way and gave it to no one but you.”

  “He already paid you, and you want to see if you can get more, more likely,” Aidan growled, but he gave the man his money, if only to make sure that he went on his way. Then he was left alone in the study with a letter whose seal he recognized all too well.

  He didn't need this. He could simply throw the letter in the fire and watch it go up in smoke. There were clan matters to attend to, reports of the English growing restless along the border, of the Blairs going raiding to the west.

  He wasn't this person anymore.

  Aidan knew deep in the heart he wasn't even sure he had any longer that he was n
ot going to throw the letter in the fire. He couldn't, any more than he could cut off his own arm. Instead, he opened it, and he felt as if the years had lifted away. He was only the laird's eldest son, newly blooded in battle, and the only thing that mattered to him was a girl with hair as deep a red as blood, with eyes as brown as whiskey.

  It was her handwriting he saw on the letter in front of him, and for a moment, he thought that the last eight years hadn't happened at all. He could be another man entirely, and he wouldn't betray everything he loved, everything he believed in, for a smile or those whiskey eyes full of unshed tears.

  She's using you. That's what she does. That's who she is. It is in her blood, and if you had the wit that Heaven gave an idiot oak tree, you would turn her away. Tear up the letter. You do not have to risk everything again for someone who will never be who you need her to be.

  Instead, Aidan read the stark words on the page.

  Aidan.

  My love.

  I have no right to ask, but I am asking you now. Please. Please. Help me. You are the only one who can. Otherwise, I am dead.

  Please.

  Help me.

  There was a smudge on her name, the name that he hadn't allowed himself to say in years, the one that he pretended he didn't speak almost every night in his dreams. He looked closer, half convinced that it was only a blotch of ink, but then he knew better. It was brown rather than black, and when he tilted it toward the candle, he could see the red, too. It was blood, and for a single mad moment, he lifted the page to his lips.

  This is wrong. This is not who I am any longer. I cannot be the man who loved her anymore.

  He knew that he was only lying to himself. She had called him.

  He would come.

  Preview of Next Book

  Thank You

  for reading my book.

  Claimed By The Highlander is Book 01 in the series.

  The next book is targeted to release on 08th March.

  While waiting…

  If you have enjoyed reading it and would love to be notified immediately when the next book (Aiden’s story) is live at Amazon, you can sign up on my mailing list by clicking on the “Find Out More” link below.

  I have included below here a sneak preview of the next book (Aiden’s story). Do take note the sneak preview is a draft of the book which have yet to go through proper editing. It is just to give you a preview for the next book.

  See below …

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  Chapter 01

  November 1302

  Maras Castle, England

  “You must know, Margaret, that you have no choice in the matter.”

  Margaret Barton was silent. The tall and willowy young woman sat as straight as a marble saint in her chair, her back ramrod straight, her chin up. Her dark hair was braided but not covered, and her pale bare hands holding her embroidery hoop and her needle lay quietly in her lap.

  Show him no fear. He expects fear, or worse, gratitude, and he will have nothing from me.

  When she made no response, a dark cloud crossed the newly-made Earl of Norwich's face. Harry Stratham was handsome, blond-haired and broad-shouldered, tanned from his time in the saddle and with a ready boyish grin that had charmed more than his share of serving girls and traders' daughters. Most of them never saw the darkness that Margaret knew lived at the heart of the young nobleman; she guessed that the ones who had glimpsed it were too afraid to speak of it. If the could speak at all afterwards.

  “I know that you are not so cold as you pretend,” he said, his tone cajoling. “With that hot Scots blood of yours, you'll find some joy in it, better than a girl of pure British blood might.”

  Margaret couldn't stop a look of surprise from crossing her face, and that made Harry grin. In the flickering light of the hearth, his face seemed to twist to something dark and devilish, something that resembled more the carved gargoyles on the abbey walls than the face of an English knight.

  “Did you think your father was rich enough to quell all of the rumors? Even he wasn't so powerful. I know, and I will not shame you for it, darling. It can be our little secret, something that perhaps we'll talk about of a long winter's evening. You can tell me about everything you've always wanted to do, everything you've been too ashamed to reveal. There's no shame with me, Margaret, I hope you know that.”

  This was the first time he had been so very blunt, Margaret realized with some unease. He had hinted before. He had insinuated, in his nasty way. He had implied, even when they lit the candles for her own father's funeral some six weeks ago.

  This was far more direct, and she was beginning to have the sneaking sensation that he would not be put off by her silence or her pretending ignorance.

  Margaret stood to her full height. She was almost as tall as he was, though far more slender, and she lifted her chin up proudly, as her father had always taught her to do. There was no trace of a Scottish accent in her voice, and she did not falter when she spoke.

  “I'm afraid, my lord, that I do not know what you are talking about. You have caught me as I was just finishing my needlework. I will bid you good night, as I am going to my bed.”

  Her tone was like the ice that gathered on the steep roof of the main hall on a cold winter's night. Her dark eyes were the howl of the wind. She bowed her head with the barest courtesy that a young woman should show to a lord, and she stepped around him.

  For a moment, Margaret thought that she had put him off for another night. She would have another day, maybe another handful of days to figure out what in the world she was going to do about this, to plot how she was going to stay out of his hands, and his bed.

  She was reaching for the door when with a deep sound that was more like a growl than anything human, he seized her hard by the shoulder and spun her around. She was caught unprepared, and he was able to pin one flailing arm and slam her back against the door. For a moment, Margaret was breathless, but before she could open her mouth to scream, Harry was kissing her, his foul mouth sealed over hers, his scent in her nostrils, his body pinning her to the wooden door.

  “Here,” he whispered into her mouth, “You like it, don't you? Of course you do, you were made for this, little half-blood. You'd let me do it in the yard if you didn't think your noble father would turn in his grave...”

  His words filled her with a kind of fury she had never felt, too hot and too raging to allow fear into her frame. She struggled against him, trying to lift her knee to drive it into his groin, but he had pressed his thigh between her legs, pinning her to where her feet were almost off the ground. When she realized that she could feel his manhood grow hard against her thigh, Margaret felt almost lightheaded with disgust. E

  “Can you feel what you do to me? By Heaven, I swear you are the devil's witch to enchant me so.”

  His mouth slobbered its way down to her ear, making a full-body shudder run through her. She knew too well how this night was going to end if she didn't do something, and she knew it would only be the start. She had to get away from him, and she had to do it now.

  Think. It is the only advantage you have over this lust-addled monster right now. Think, think!

  She realized that while one hand was pinned above her head, somehow the other was still free. She had been beating at him ineffectually with her embroidery hoop, but dangling from that hoop was still her steel needle. She went still, working the needle from the thread into her fingers.

  Harry must have thought that that meant she had given in, because his free hand came down to close on her breast, so hard that she cried out.

  “You like that, I knew you would...”

  She didn't pay any attention to his foul words. Instead, She had the needle, steel and as long as her little finger, in place. She knew getting to Harry's eye was unlikely, so she went for the hand that was holding her wrist instead, taking a hard grip on the needle's shaft and driving up as hard as she could without looking.

  The response was sudd
en and gratifying. Harry let go of her immediately, and when he pulled away, he took the needle with him. She saw with some pleasure that she had driven it squarely under the nail of his thumb somehow, and dark beads of blood were welling up around it.

  He was shouting her name, shouting all kinds of foul threats, but it didn't matter. She was out of his arms, away from him, and she lifted her skirts and ran out of the room.

  Maras Castle had stopped feeling like home after her father died. Now the long halls and grave tapestries felt more like a trap than anything else, and she thought that if she didn't get out, get some honest wind on her face, she would go insane.

  She didn't bother to go for her cloak or her heavy boots. Instead she ran from the main keep into the courtyard. The cold rain sleeting down was like a hard slap, but it meant she was no longer in Harry's arms, and that was all she could want, all she needed. For a moment, she let the water strike her bare head, but then she turned towards the humble chapel in the west yard.

  The chapel was a beautiful little building, the work of her father's wife, whom she had never met. It had stood empty for almost two years now, since kindly Father Roland had died, and she and her father had taken their service in the village. The local abbey had not found a replacement that it and her father had agreed upon, and then of course, it was too late.

  Margaret was too distraught to question the fact that there was already a candle lit at the alter. Instead, she stumbled into the holy shelter with a murmur of bone-deep gratitude. Out of instinct and long habit, she made her way to the front of the chapel, where she and her father had sat every Sunday.

  She sat on the hard wooden bench, her hands clasped in front of her. She didn't know what was going to happen next, but the only important thing was that she was no longer with Harry, no longer suffering his hands on her, listening to his terrible words.

  “You make a pretty picture there, your hair all aglow in the candlelight, but perhaps you already know it.”