Highland Thief

by Alyson McLayne

  “Return?”

  “Aye. I want to go home. Gavin will be worried.”

  He stared at her, not moving a muscle—in that predatory way that made her feel so uncomfortable. Finally, he scraped his fingers through his beard and placed his feet into the shoes that sat on the floor next to hers.

  His plaid was a rumpled mess, and it jutted upward over his loins. She lowered her eyes, feeing awkward, like he was a stranger and not the man she’d known all her life and had happily slept beside the last few nights.

  He rose, grasped his sword that leaned against the side of the bed, and walked heavily across the floor. The scrape of the bar sliding across the wood reverberated through the cabin, and the door squeaked open. Bright morning sunlight poured through the opening. She squinted when she looked over.

  “Get ready. I’ll be back shortly, and I’ll take you home.” He sounded distant, and her heart sank. Her Kerr was gone, and that other side of him, the dark side that scared the wits out of her with the raging anger buried deep within his eyes, had taken his place.

  The door slammed shut behind him, and she slumped against the table.

  A sob caught her by surprise, and she clapped her hand over her mouth. She’d been so happy. Why did he have to keep pushing her?

  She slumped into her chair and rested her head in her hands. Had she finally crossed some line? Would Kerr leave her and stay away for good this time? She didn’t want that either.

  Panic twisted her stomach, and she tried to squash it down. She wasn’t ready to say yes. Especially not like that.

  But what was the alternative?

  She rose from the table and paced back and forth in the small room, four steps across, four steps back. Her jaw clenched, and her panic slowly dissipated as a growing anger took hold of her. He’d told her what he wanted—their clans joined as one, to lead together and have children together—but nothing about his feelings for her. Had she been deluding herself all these years? She thought back on the first time he’d asked her to marry him, in the wind, on the top turret at her castle.

  He’d shown more emotion then, but she couldn’t remember him telling her how he felt then either. She stopped and slipped on her shoes, her anger at a fever pitch.

  This felt better. This was what they had between them—a storm of thunder and fire.

  She would demand he tell her his true feelings. She would demand to know if he loved her.

  She would not marry someone who didn’t think she was the sun, moon, and stars all rolled into one. She would be his only choice—as he would be hers.

  Reaching out, she grasped the handle and yanked the door open. It crashed against the inside wall with a loud bang. She didn’t bother to cover herself with the extra plaid, and she sure as hell didn’t take the time to put on her arisaid.

  She crossed the threshold and had taken only a few steps away from the cabin when a strong arm wrapped around her from behind and a hand clamped over her mouth, muffling her scream.

  Not for a second did she think it was Kerr, and terror exploded in her stomach. The man wasn’t quite tall enough or broad enough or muscled enough—although he was certainly powerful enough to contain her struggles, as she thrashed her body and kicked her feet, rendering her helpless.

  This was what Kerr had meant. A big, strong man could easily overwhelm and restrain her. She’d have but one chance to surprise him, and then she’d run for Kerr like the hounds of hell were on her heels.

  But what could she do? Kerr had said to inflict pain, but she couldn’t reach around to twist his stones, and he held her head so tightly, she couldn’t jerk back with it and smash his nose.

  She darted her eyes in every direction, looking for some way to escape. She couldn’t see the man, but she noticed something was wrong with his arm—it was twisted and scarred—and his hand and fingers were misshapen. The wounds, healed but still pink, crisscrossed his skin like the gashes on a chopping block.

  She’d seen scars like these before—on the town miller. His hand had been crushed in a terrible accident years ago. These wounds looked relatively recent.

  “Well, well. Who do we have here?” the man said into her ear, his tone triumphant. “As I looked upon thee, I saw a great Highland beauty. It seems I’ve caught not just a lass, but a lady. Tell me, dearest, where is your laird?”

  Isobel dug her nails into the man’s pink scars, tearing and scraping at the still-tender flesh.

  He cried out in pain, and his arms loosened. Without hesitation, she smashed the back of her head into his face and heard a sickening crunching sound. He stumbled and she leapt ahead, racing across the clearing toward the trail she’d taken yesterday with Kerr.

  “Bloody whore! I’m going to kill you,” the man screamed behind her. “Get her!”

  “Kerr!” she yelled. “Kerr!”

  Men appeared from out of the woods—three of them—and converged on her. She shrieked and darted toward the lean-to. She was as fast or faster than most of the men she knew; she could outrun the warriors in the forest…and hopefully find Kerr.

  She was almost there, passing the lean-to that stood at the edge of the clearing, when someone grabbed her arm and yanked her back.

  Eighteen

  Kerr shoved Isobel behind him, his claymore held in an upright position in front of him, and stepped back into the lean-to, squeezing her against the pile of wood inside. Her body heaved and shook against his spine, and when she wrapped her arms around him, he quickly removed them.

  “Wait,” he ordered, his tone sharp. He returned both hands to his sword hilt and balanced his weight on the balls of his feet.

  He was fully in warrior mode now and had men to slay—three of them coming from the woods, possibly more, plus the man at the cabin who’d put his hands on Isobel. The timing of the first kill was critical to sustain the least amount of damage to himself, keep his lass safe, and take them all out.

  Let them come to him.

  Three, two, one…he stepped forward, thrusting his sword through the first man who tore around the corner of the lean-to. A killing blow. When he pulled back his sword, blood splattered across his bare chest and arms. He lunged forward onto his left foot and arced his blade sideways, almost taking off the second warrior’s head. He died instantly, blood spurting up from the wound.

  The third warrior was upon him almost before Kerr had time to react, and he dropped to the ground and rolled as the man swung his sword. Kerr rose fluidly and struck back, the blades clashing as the men fought—once, twice, three times. His enemy was fast and skilled with his weapon, but he wasn’t strong enough against a warrior as powerful as Kerr, and on the fourth blow, Kerr knocked him off balance, and he fell into the lean-to beside Isobel. She screeched and climbed the pile as Kerr stabbed the man through the stomach and dragged his blade sideways. His intestines spilled out in a bloody mess.

  “Behind you!” Isobel yelled.

  Kerr darted sideways and heard the whistle of the other blade as it swung past his ear. Close. Too close. These were elite warriors, not huntsmen or simple travelers.

  He rose as a log flew past his shoulder from behind and hit the fourth warrior in the face. The man stumbled back, and Kerr shot forward and speared him through the heart. The last warrior fell to his knees and clutched his chest, his mouth open, his eyes wide with shock and horror.

  Kerr shoved him back with his boot, clearing the space in case more men came at him. When none appeared, he moved cautiously to the edge.

  Releasing one hand from his huge sword, he smashed his elbow into the wall beside him, creating a jagged crack in the board just big enough to see through. He scanned the cabin and surrounding trees—the glade appeared empty.

  But if a sniper were in the branches, he wouldn’t show himself until it was too late.

  His gaze fell on a bushy tree on the other side of the clearing. The
angle was perfect for the glen and the cabin, but not good for the lean-to where Kerr and Isobel were hunkered down.

  If Kerr were the sniper, and his focus was the cabin, that’s where he would hide. They hadn’t expected Isobel to escape.

  He turned and scanned the bodies before choosing the smallest warrior, who lay crumpled on the ground by the wood pile. Kerr tucked up the man’s plaid to cover the blood stains on his shirt, and then rolled him onto his side.

  “Doona look,” he said to Isobel as he straightened.

  “Why? What are you going to—”

  Lowering his sword, he carefully pierced the tip through the dead man’s neck, so it entered and exited below the ears.

  Isobel gasped and slapped her hand over her mouth.

  With a grunt, Kerr hefted the body until the warrior appeared to be standing upright. Muscles straining, he moved carefully to the front of the lean-to again, and then looked through the jagged hole. Slowly, he pushed the body out of the lean-to until the sniper, if there was one, could see it but not the blade.

  Either the archer would shoot thinking the body was an enemy and reveal his position, or he would climb down from the tree, believing his friends had won.

  Or he wouldn’t react at all, and Kerr would have failed to protect Isobel.

  Not an option.

  Every second seemed like an hour, and eventually Kerr’s arms began to shake. He whistled, a little desperate now, as if calling for the other man. Finally, he saw the leaves tremble, and he stared intently, looking for an arrow tip—anything to pinpoint the sniper’s exact position. He’d only get one shot with his dagger, but at that distance he wouldn’t be able to hit his enemy, anyway.

  How can I draw him out?

  When no one appeared, he brought the body back in, carefully swinging his sword around, so it looked like the man turned and entered the lean-to. He couldn’t keep propping the dead man up and depleting his strength—he may have to fight again.

  When the puppet was out of sight, Kerr tilted his broadsword, and the body slid off the point and hit the ground with a thud.

  Behind him he heard Isobel gag. “’Twas necessary,” he said curtly, still eyeing the tree through the hole he’d made.

  “Why did you do that? Is someone else out there?” she asked.

  “Aye.”

  “Who? I hate it when you get like this, Kerr. Tell me what’s—”

  “I want you to scream,” he said as curtly as before, his focus on the tree. “Loudly, like you’re being assaulted.” When she didn’t respond, he pointed his sword behind him in her direction, and said, “If you want to stay alive, Isobel, do as I say. Now!”

  She screamed. And cried. And screamed again. “No. Get off me! Please!”

  Movement in the trees. A man stepped into the clearing with his bow raised in their direction. He walked toward the lean-to cautiously.

  “Keep it up,” he said to Isobel, and then after she screamed and pleaded some more, he forced a loud laugh like he was Isobel’s assailant, having fun with her. It turned his stomach.

  The archer lowered his bow slightly. Good lad. A little farther.

  Kerr had just unsheathed his dagger, when another archer stepped from the tree line, his bow raised.

  “Bloody hell,” Kerr cursed under his breath.

  “What is it?” Isobel whispered from close behind him.

  “More men. Keep doing what you’re doing, it’s drawing them out.”

  She continued to cry and beg, and he laughed a few more times and whistled.

  The second archer almost ran across the clearing toward them. It didn’t take long for him to overtake the first archer and drop his bow completely.

  Kerr wasn’t worried about him; he could take him out easily. But the original archer was another story.

  The man looked angry and frustrated, and he spoke sharply to the second archer, who ignored him. He knew they could be walking into a trap.

  Pausing, he raised his bow a few more inches then began walking in a sideways arc, so he could see into the lean-to while he was still far enough away to kill someone from a distance.

  Kerr needed a shield—fast! The man could probably release two shots in the time it took Kerr to reach him…after he’d killed the other archer.

  And he was out of time. He put the dagger between his teeth again, pointed his claymore straight ahead, and braced his feet.

  “Stay low and keep back,” he whispered around the blade to Isobel.

  “Be careful,” she whispered back, and laid her hand lightly along his spine.

  Moments later, the careless archer hurried around the corner with an excited leer on his face that Kerr was more than happy to wipe off. He thrust hard into the man’s chest, so his claymore went all the way through, before lifting the body off the ground—one hand on his sword hilt, the other fisted around the man’s neck to keep him upright…and then, shielded by the body, ran straight at the other archer.

  Arrows thudded into the dead man’s back in quick succession—one, two, and then a third one flew by, grazing his scalp. But Kerr was close enough now, and with a loud grunt, he heaved the body forward, sword still protruding from the man’s back. The body hit the archer hard and knocked him backward, the tip of the claymore embedding in his thigh.

  The second archer screamed, but Kerr was on him in seconds, his dagger in hand…and he drew it across the man’s throat, from ear to ear. Warm blood gushed from the wound and over his hand.

  Standing, he yanked his sword from both bodies and glanced around the clearing, his breath sawing through his lungs. No one emerged to continue the battle. In his bones, Kerr knew the fight was done.

  But for how long?

  Six highly trained warriors had attacked them. They were here for a reason—and it wasn’t a good one.

  “Kerr!” Isobel cried out. He looked over his shoulder. She was as white as the linen of his shirt she still wore, but she was safe.

  “Are you hurt?” she asked.

  “Nay. All is well, lass.”

  He scanned the clearing again to make sure, and then walked toward the lean-to, a little wobbly as usual in the aftermath of battle. His boots squished with each step and when he looked down, he saw blood covering every inch of his body.

  None of it was his.

  Isobel had never seen him fight before, never been so close to the gore of battle before. Would she see him differently now? For the better…or for the worse?

  She was standing in front of the wood pile, her head lowered and her hand tugging on something at her side. “I canna get it out,” she said, sounding on the verge of tears.

  It was a miracle she wasn’t a sobbing heap on the ground. She’d kept it together admirably and had been an asset during their fight. Memory rose of how she’d thrown that log into the fourth warrior’s face, and pride surged in his chest.

  That was his lass. And she would soon be his wife; he’d make sure of it.

  No one will take her away from me.

  “Kerr, I canna get it out, and I doona want to tear your shirt.” Her eyes kept jumping around her to the dead bodies on the ground before darting back to her side.

  “Get what out?” He slowly drew near, finding it harder to put one foot in front of the other, his legs as heavy as boulders. “What are you pulling on?”

  “The arrow. It went through the material, and it’s stuck in the wood.”

  He came to a halt, his eyes widening in shock as horror smashed through him. She pulled her hands away, and he saw the feather end of the arrow poking out right next to her waist, so close to her body, it had pierced the linen of his shirt. A single drop of blood, a scratch at most, marred the white material.

  That arrow, meant for him, had almost killed her.

  His knees buckled beneath him, and he crashed to the ground.


  Her head jerked up. “Kerr!”

  She yanked frantically at the material, trying to get to him. Finally, it ripped, and she raced to his side and onto her knees. Grabbing his shoulders, she rubbed her hands over them and then down his chest. Blood smeared all over her as well. “Where are you hurt? Oh dear God, Kerr. Where are you hurt?”

  He grasped her arms and tried to reassure her, but he couldn’t catch his breath to speak. His heart raced so fast, it pounded in his temples and caused flashes of black in his vision.

  In trying to save her, I almost killed her.

  “Get up, Kerr! Get up!” she yelled, slipping her arm around him and trying to lift him. “I’ll take you back to the cabin. You can tell me what to do there. You must have some special herbs in your pack.”

  “Nay, I canna rise,” he puffed out. “I doona think I’ll e’er rise again. Not after that.”

  He meant it facetiously, and was referring to the arrow hitting so close to her side, but she burst into tears and threw her arms around him, sobbing.

  “What can I do? Tell me what to do! You canna die on me, not yet. We have our whole lives ahead of us.”

  “You mean that?” he asked, cupping her head and pulling it back so he could see her face. “You want to be with me?”

  “Yes! Of course I do.”

  “Then say the words.” He grasped her hands and held them between their bodies. “There is nothing I want more than to hear you commit to me right now. Say the words, Izzy. Please. Especially since…”

  “Since what? You are not dying, do you hear me, Kerr MacAlister? I will not let you die.” She glared at him so hard, her face turned pink.

  “You canna stop it, dearling. No one can. But when I do die, I want to know that you’re my wife.”

  She nodded fiercely, tears streaming down her face and her chest heaving. He knew that he was tricking her, even though he hadn’t said anything untrue. But at this point, after the way things had ended between them at the cabin earlier, he felt like he had no choice.

  He was a desperate man, and desperate men did desperate things.