Highland Captive Read online

  Also by Alyson McLayne

  The Sons of Gregor MacLeod

  Highland Promise

  Highland Conquest

  Highland Betrayal

  Highland Captive

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  Books. Change. Lives.

  Copyright © 2019 by Alyson McLayne

  Cover and internal design © 2019 by Sourcebooks

  Cover art by Paul Stinson

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  sourcebooks.com

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Excerpt from Highland Promise

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  To my husband, Ken, who supports his family with his whole heart—through long work hours, toy explosions, and chronic pain—and all he asks for in return is a cuddle, a coffee, and that I occasionally wash his jeans. Loving you lots and lots.

  One

  Gleann Moireasdan, Scotland, 1453

  Deirdre MacIntyre leaned back against the tent pole and tried to take ten slow, steady breaths—a trick taught to her by her old nursemaid—but nothing worked to calm the panic and dread welling up inside her.

  His eyes.

  She pressed her fist to her lips to stop their trembling and again peeked around the tent flap into the crowded market. The man she’d been watching for the last ten minutes had disappeared. She broadened her search, casting her eyes over the groups of people milling around the square. The spring gathering of the western clans brought everyone together for selling wool, livestock, and other Highland wares, like the fine plaids in the tent in which she’d taken refuge.

  Her husband had insisted she come to the gathering this year, feeling guilty, perhaps, for all the time he’d spent away from her and Ewan the past few years. She hadn’t wanted to go; her stomach had been tied in knots for weeks, imagining the crowds and the mistakes she might make—and be judged for. But worse than that, he’d also insisted she leave Ewan behind.

  Now she was glad her son had stayed home.

  She scanned the crowd, not seeing her target. He couldn’t just blend in—he was possibly the biggest man she’d ever seen. It was an unusually warm day, and he’d rolled up his linen sleeves, the tie at his neck undone. The material had hung open, revealing muscles that rippled and bulged in his arms and chest.

  Developed wielding the huge broad sword that hung down his spine, no doubt.

  The muscles weren’t what frightened her the most—nor the sword. It was the grim intensity in his face and eyes that promised retribution…eyes that were the exact same color as her son’s.

  That scared the life out of her.

  “Where are you?” she whispered, hearing the desperation in her voice, the fear that howled like a wounded animal through her body.

  “I’m right behind you, lass, and wondering why the wife of Lewis MacIntyre, son and heir of the ruthless Laird MacIntyre, almost ran me down in the middle of the market and has been unable to keep her gaze off me since. You’re a lovely lass, for sure, but you doona stare at me with lust in your eyes. ’Tis not a swiving you’re after.”

  Deirdre’s stomach clenched, and she would have run—like a mouse, never the lion she wanted to be—but his hand landed on the swell of her hip. The pressure of his palm silently ordered her to turn around.

  She did. And when she stumbled, his fingers tightened on her body and steadied her. He watched her with narrowed eyes, his gaze landing on the pulse that she could feel beating wildly in her neck and on her trembling lips. She knew that luminous stare—the bright, dazzling blue that verged on crystalline sea-green. But the eyes she’d been staring into for the past two years looked back at her lovingly, adoringly. Not with suspicion and barely hidden enmity.

  For him, she stiffened her spine. For the sake of her son.

  “Let go of me. I doona need your help.”

  The man’s gaze flicked to hers, and she saw a growing interest. Speculation. He withdrew his hand and took a step back. She stared up at him, this time trying to look past those familiar eyes and see what other similarities she could find in his frightening countenance.

  The same long, thick lashes fringed his piercing gaze; the same shallow dent marked his chin. His hair formed a downward peak in the middle of his forehead, the same as her son’s. Except Ewan’s hair was longer and lighter, almost a white-blond. This man had hacked his blond hair short, so it looked darker and stood up in ragged bristles.

  Her eyes drifted down to his mouth. He had lips like her son’s too, but while Ewan’s were soft and childlike, his had firmed with age while still keeping their full shape.

  That’s where the similarities ended. Her son’s welcoming smile was nowhere to be seen. Nay, this man looked grim and possibly cruel. It was there in the twist of his lips, the harshness of his countenance, the quickness with which he was ready to condemn her.

  He expected betrayal, and she suspected he’d even welcome it, because then he could punish whoever had crossed him.

  Aye. A cruel man, indeed.

  “Is your husband here, Lady MacIntyre?”

  “He’s here…somewhere.” Just where, she had no idea. Truth be told, she didn’t expect to see him for days yet, if not weeks. Which made his insistence that she accompany him to the festival even more surprising. “You know a great deal about me, but I am at a disadvantage. Who are you?” she blurted out.

  “I’m Gavin MacKinnon, Laird of Clan MacKinnon. Did you come here looking for me, lass? Is there something you want to tell me? Some information you want to share?”

  The last words sounded almost hopeful, eager, and that disturbed her as much as the color of his eyes. Hope implied faith and dreams. Cruel men did not dream—and she wanted him to be cruel. Aye, if he was a blackheart, she could t
urn away and never look back.

  “Nay,” she said abruptly, her panic rising again. What information was he looking for? “And you’re mistaken. I wasn’t looking at you. I was just…looking.”

  The eagerness faded from his eyes, replaced by disappointment and frustration, even bitterness. It caused an unexpected pang in her heart. She didn’t like that she’d somehow hurt him and put that bleakness back into his gaze.

  “Aye, you stared at me for a long while. Did you like what you saw? I’m a big man. Some women mistake that to mean the same as rough. Is that what you were hoping for, lass? A hard tupping? Did I misunderstand your interest?”

  His tone was harsh, the words callous.

  Shock flooded her senses. Especially as she could see he didn’t mean what he said. He was deliberately trying to hurt her. To diminish her. And it worked. As much as she tried to fight it, shame and fear invaded her body. As quick as that, she was back to being five or ten or thirteen and at the mercy of her mother and siblings.

  No one but her family had ever tried to wound her deliberately. Marrying Lewis and coming to the MacIntyres, despite her young age, had turned into a blessing. Her husband was distant but not unkind, and his clan was respectful. They’d even become friendly since she’d been given Ewan. Her son’s laughter and love had opened everyone’s hearts.

  “I doona wish that from you, sir. I doona wish anything from you other than to be left alone.”

  “Everyone wants something, Lady MacIntyre. And eventually I’ll discover what you want too.”

  He nodded once—a curt dip of his head—then moved past her into the gathering. She held her breath and closed her eyes, making herself stay still, no matter how much she wanted to turn around and watch him leave. Her throat tightened, and she felt the pressure of tears building behind her eyelids.

  She would not let them fall. She’d promised herself she’d never cry again over the hurtful words of cruel men—and women too. Aye, her mother and siblings had been experts at saying hurtful things.

  But this was different. This was about Ewan.

  God almighty, Lewis. What have you done?

  The panic she’d been trying to hold at bay rose without warning and threatened to strangle her. With a desperate sob, she darted to the back of the weaver’s tent and slipped out an opening, then ran through the crowd. She passed pens of goats and pigs, a tanner’s stall filled with sheets of leather, and a tinker’s cart covered in metal pots and pans. At any minute, she expected a hand to land on her shoulder and wrench her back, a harsh voice demand she tell him where to find Ewan. Her heart pounded in her chest, and her breath sawed through her lungs—not from exertion, but from fear.

  She couldn’t do it. Ewan was her son. Maybe her husband had lied to her, maybe Ewan was not his, but all children deserved a happy home with a loving parent—and that’s what she provided. Ewan was worthy of every happiness she could bestow upon him. Not a cruel father who would beat him down.

  She would break the chain of abuse she’d been subject to. She would teach her son to hold his head high and know he was worth everything.

  When she reached the outskirts of the gathering, she wove her way through several campsites before spotting her own. Harold, the guard who protected the camp, appeared to be sleeping, and she yelled at him as she ran past. “Bring the wagon around, Harold! We’re leaving!”

  His eyes popped open, and he staggered in alarm. Harold couldn’t protect her from a fly that had drunk its way out of a mug of ale. It was a joke she even had a guard. She might be the wife of Laird MacIntyre’s only son, but her husband stayed as far from his father as he could—and sometimes, she thought, as far away from her as he could. No one paid any attention to Deirdre or Lewis in their small keep on the edge of MacIntyre land.

  Which suited both of them just fine.

  Harold hurried after her as she darted into her tent. She didn’t wait for Magda to appear and help her pack. She opened her wooden chest with the shell inlay on the top instead and began throwing clothes inside after just a cursory folding.

  “My lady, we canna leave yet. Your husband isna back,” Harold said, his eyes wide and concerned.

  She could understand his confusion. Deirdre had never been one to raise a fuss or make important decisions unless pressed. Nor did she ever raise her voice or dart around in a panic like a bee had flown under her skirts.

  Nay, she didn’t like the attention any of that brought—especially if she made a mistake. Although the last two years with Ewan had taught her a lot about standing her ground. When it came to her son’s well-being, she’d found she could become a lion in the blink of an eye. She’d even gone against the nursemaid’s wishes when it came to how much affection she showered on him. And almost every night, Deirdre allowed him to crawl into bed with her after everyone had fallen asleep.

  Deirdre didn’t mind. She liked pulling him close for a cuddle. And it wasn’t as though Lewis ever appeared to stake his claim to her bed.

  Her mouth tightened, and she stopped to stare directly at Harold, fighting that innate need to drop her eyes. “Then why doona you tell me where he is, and I’ll go tell him we’re leaving? I’m sure he willna mind me showing up and disturbing…whate’er it is he does when he’s away from me.”

  Color washed up Harold’s cheeks, and he was the one to drop his eyes. She felt a moment of triumph but also relief that her insolence hadn’t been punished. For Ewan’s safety, she would face all the fears her family had instilled in her.

  “That willna be necessary. Did something happen at the gathering to frighten you?”

  This time she dropped her eyes. And closed them for an instant. Aye, something had happened. Her whole world had been pushed to the brink—and she was facing a great chasm filled with heartbreak and despair.

  “’Tis naught to worry you, Harold. I just wish to leave. My husband can follow on his own when he’s…done.”

  She turned away and moved to the makeshift bed in the corner, which was covered by a soft, wool blanket in the familiar colors of her old clan—the only thing she had left from her time as a MacColl. She’d become a MacIntyre at just fifteen years old, sent to marry a man she’d never met, with only her nursemaid and lady’s maid as company. Deirdre’d loved both women dearly, but they’d left her now—her nursemaid to the grave nearly five years ago, and Arline, her maid, to marry a lowlander she’d met at another gathering last summer. Deirdre had attended the wedding with Ewan, and she’d wished Arline the very best.

  She knew better than most that marriages—and families—were not always what they seemed.

  A wooden toy horse sat on her pillow, given to her by Ewan when she’d left to make sure she wouldn’t get lonely. She picked it up and squeezed it tight. Thank goodness she’d be able to return it to him soon.

  Finally, a tear did slip through. She wiped it away and breathed deeply to restore her equilibrium. She’d heard of the MacKinnon clan and Gavin MacKinnon. Everyone had. He was one of five lads fostered by the great Gregor MacLeod. The fostering had intended to bring the five boys together to become brothers and allies and bring peace to the Highlands. Although the last thing Gavin had made her feel today was peaceful.

  She was probably overreacting. She had no idea if Laird MacKinnon was Ewan’s father or not. Aye, they looked alike, which indicated some shared ancestry, but she knew that Gavin had a sister. Maybe she’d birthed Ewan out of wedlock, or one of Gavin’s cousins had done so. It wasn’t unheard of for a laird’s daughter or niece to carry a bastard.

  Still, she couldn’t imagine her quiet, unassuming husband as one to inspire Gavin’s sister, Isobel, a renowned beauty, to invite him into her bed without the benefit of marriage. Or imagine him even going to her bed at all. Deirdre did have the benefit of marriage, and he still wouldn’t come.

  “My lady?”

  Deirdre turned to see her maid, Magda,
standing at the tent’s entrance, looking worried. She dredged up a reassuring smile. “Naught has happened. I just wish to return home. I doona know why my husband insisted I come when he wouldnae be here himself. The gathering is smaller than I imagined, and I confess I feel a wee bit under the weather. I’ll help you to pack so we can be home in time to put Ewan to bed—if not tonight, then tomorrow night.”

  Magda curtsied and smiled. “I thought it might be so. I’ll finish up in here, and Harold has brought the cart around. He’s laid out the pillows and blankets for you, so you can have a rest as you travel. We’ll leave Jordy behind to wait for your husband.”

  Deirdre dipped her head. “Aye, thank you. I think I will go and crawl under the blankets.” And hide her head like the little mouse she was, so Gavin MacKinnon wouldn’t see her leaving.

  She couldn’t help darting across the campsite to the wagon instead of walking calmly, looking over her shoulder as she climbed on board. Despite the swaying of the wagon and the warm spring sunshine, she knew she wouldn’t sleep on the way home. Nay, she wouldn’t be able to sleep until they were over her drawbridge, the portcullis locked, and her bedchamber barred with her child on the inside.

  She doubted she’d sleep soundly again until she knew Gavin MacKinnon wasn’t ever coming for her son.

  * * *

  Gavin raised one disbelieving brow at the tanner trying to sell him a so-called cow’s hide that certainly was not from a cow. He ran his fingers over the leather. Aye, definitely a goat. “I didn’t know you were a magician. ’Tis an amazing feat you’ve accomplished, turning one animal into another. Can you turn water into wine too? Verily, you’ll be most welcome at my table if you can do that.”

  The tips of the tanner’s ears turned red, but other than that, he hid his emotions well. “You’re mistaken, sir. ’Tis a new breed of cow from the continent. A smaller beast with a tough hide and tanned in the Roman way. A favorite of the Italian women.”

  Gavin just resisted rolling his eyes. Did he look like a man who could be persuaded by the whims of women? As a young man, aye, but certainly not since his terrible marriage.