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Highland Betrayal
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Books. Change. Lives.
Copyright © 2018 by Alyson McLayne
Cover and internal design © 2018 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
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, Inc.
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, Inc.
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
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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
Twenty-four
An Excerpt from Highland Promise
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
To my dad, Jim, whom I admire and respect more and more every day. You are living proof that we get better with age.
One
MacDonnell Castle—Loch Lòchaidh, Scotland, 1452
Maggie MacDonnell crouched in the dark, cramped tunnel, her candle by her side, and slowly, silently lifted the stone slab above her head until a sliver of light seeped under the edge.
She peered into the laird’s solar through the legs of a chair she’d carefully positioned over the tunnel entrance weeks ago. A pair of men’s feet, shod in dirty shoes, rested on the floor in front of her—someone sitting in the chair. From across the room, she heard the sound of a quill scratching on parchment.
That would be Irvin, of course. No one else would be so bold as to sit at her brother’s desk.
Wedging a stick between the ledge and the stone so it would stay open far enough for her to eavesdrop, she picked up her own quill and parchment, ready to write down whatever was said. She had pages of notes and had spent hours poring over them, but it wasn’t in her nature to plot or deceive, and she had a difficult time piecing the various bits of information together.
She tended to be as direct and sharp as her daggers.
The clink of the inkwell closing reached her ears, followed by the pungent perfume of melting sealing wax.
“He’s at Clan MacPherson.”
Aye, that was her cousin’s nasal tone, and she scowled.
“Lachlan MacKay killed the laird there and then married a MacPherson lass. I hear the rest of the clan lairds came for the wedding. I doona know how long MacLean will stay there, but if he heads home when the others do, you should be able to intercept him along the way.”
Maggie stopped writing and barely held in a gasp. Was Irvin talking about Callum MacLean? Were they somehow in league?
Betrayal and hurt raged through her at the thought, and she clenched her hand around the quill, smearing the wet ink from the parchment onto her skin.
“Aye, Laird,” the man sitting in the chair responded. The voice was that of Irvin’s man, Blàr. “And if I miss him?”
“Then carry on to Clan MacLean. Deliver the letter and speak to our friend inside about the other matter we discussed.”
“And Ross. What do ye want me to do about him, Laird?”
Maggie held her breath. Normally, she would have been irate at Blàr calling Irvin “laird,” but this time, she ignored it.
What do they intend for Ross—their real laird?
“Naught. He’s doing it to himself,” Irvin said. “He’s near dead already with the drink. I give him less than a year, and I can wait. ’Tis the other two we have to plan for.”
“You’ll kill Maggie, then?” Blàr asked from right above her. “Can I do it? ’Tis the way she looks at me. As if she’s stepped in something foul. I want to see her face change when I shove my dagger in.”
“Nay, I willna kill her. She has value. I’ll take her bairn instead.”
Her brow creased in confusion. Bairn? Is he addled? Then a growing horror bloomed as she realized his meaning.
Blàr’s feet danced in front of her. “She’s with child? The wee besom.”
Irvin snickered. “You havenae any imagination, Blàr. I’ll get Maggie with child—or someone else will. She’ll marry me and stay with me to protect the first bairn and the rest after that till I’m done with her. The clan will be happy to have Donnan’s beloved daughter as their lady, and ’twill seal my lairdship with rightful heirs.”
Blàr’s ankles sagged dejectedly. “Well, what about the other brother, John? Can we kill him?”
“Aye. But first we have to find him.”
Maggie grasped the hilt of one of the daggers that was tucked into a sheath on her forearm. Three of them, all perfectly balanced and as sharp as the day they were forged. She considered striking out right then, slicing first through the tendons above Blàr’s heels and then charging through the passageway like an avenging angel. But then what? Kill her cousin in cold blood? The man was a weasel. He’d never fight back.
She’d have to put a dagger in his back as he ran.
She sighed softly. Nay, she couldn’t do it, even though she might soon find herself locked up and tied to a bed for her cousin’s—or someone else’s—use.
It was a grim imagining, and she shuddered.
A chair scraped across the floor at the desk.
Blàr quickly stood and stepped forward. “Should I take the letter with me, then?”
“Nay. Pick it up at first light. Less chance of it falling into the wrong hands. Maggie’s been curious of late—asking too many questions about my business—and she’s been trying to interfere with Ross’s drinking. We canna have that.”
“Nay, Laird. But I hardly think anyone could pull Ross from his cups. He loved your sister verra much.”
Irvin laughed. “Aye, he did. John, too, the wee ablach. And my sweet, dull-witted sister loved them both. ’Tis a shame she had to choose just one.”
Irvin made grunting sounds followed by squeals, simulating sex, and they laughed raucously. Maggie swallowed the bile that rose in her throat. That he should speak so about any woman, let alone his dead sister, sickened her.
“It worked out well for ye, though,” Blàr said as
they walked toward the door. “I always wondered if ye had shoved things in the direction ye wanted them to go.”
Aye, Maggie had wondered that too. She heard what sounded like a hand clapping a shoulder, then Irvin said smugly, “I don’t e’er shove, Blàr. I nudge.”
The solar door opened, and after a moment, it closed and was locked from the outside. Maggie pressed her palm to her brow and breathed deeply to calm her anger. She had to proceed with a clear head. If they caught her snooping, she’d be locked up for sure.
Lifting the stone slab, she pushed it to the side so it lay on the solar floor, then grabbed the leg of the chair and moved it out of the way. When she stood, the floor came to her waist, and she climbed out, taking her candle with her.
She was relieved to escape the tunnel. She hated being confined—had since she’d fallen into a well as a young lass…and her mother had fallen in after her.
The dying fire cast only a dim light about the room, but Maggie knew the layout of the laird’s solar by heart. Crossing to the desk, she put down her candle. She searched the wooden surface until she found the letter that had been recently sealed, the wax with the imprint of her brother’s ring still warm. She carefully peeled up the seal and placed it in her pocket.
She paused then, dread filling her stomach like a lead ball, before opening the folded parchment and reading her cousin’s small, perfect script. It barely filled the page. Her jaw trembled at the words, and relief weakened her knees.
Callum was innocent…in this at least.
Not that it mattered. Nothing about him was of interest to her anymore. Although when the time came, she would be the one to tell him that. Not her lying, scheming cousin.
She reread the letter—informing Callum that the marriage contract between him and Maggie was broken. Since no goods or land had been exchanged and both of their fathers, who had originally arranged the marriage, were now dead, the MacDonnells were withdrawing the offer.
A cascade of emotions washed through her—ones Maggie thought long dead: anger at Irvin for presuming to end her betrothal, but also anger and hurt that Callum had never returned for her.
At one point, she’d had high hopes for their future. She’d respected him—liked him—and he’d made her laugh, which her father had always said was important in a marriage. And when Callum had kissed her, she’d more than liked him. Aye, those feelings had stayed with her for a long while.
Not anymore.
She drummed her fingers on the desk. She could write Callum, explain the situation, and ask for his help. It would please her to finally get a message out, all the more if it went tucked inside Irvin’s own sealed letter.
Or she could let the letter stand, let their betrothal officially end. For all she knew, Callum would be happy to hear that he was a free man. Maybe his whispered words of affection three years ago had all been a lie—the same as his pledge to return for her.
And if he did come to fight for her, insist the contract was still valid, what would happen? He’d have no idea of the danger he would be riding into. She imagined a dagger or arrow piercing his heart, and her chest tightened. Nay, it would be best if he carried on with his life far away from the MacDonnells and never learned of her plight.
She was a strong Highland lass. She didn’t need saving.
Lifting her hand to the silver brooch on her breast that held her arisaid together, she opened the clasp. The brooch had been a wedding present from her father to her mother on their wedding day, passed down to her upon her mother’s death thirteen years ago. She’d sobbed in her father’s arms when he’d given it to her.
He had too.
Maggie had worn the brooch every day to keep her mother close and to remind herself how quickly things could change.
She unpinned it, and her arisaid sagged. After looping the material under her arm, she wedged her nail into an almost invisible crease in the silver and tugged the top off the brooch. A small hollow appeared. Maggie fished inside and snagged another piece of parchment with her fingernail. Pulling it out, she slowly unrolled it.
Two holes pierced the center of the dirty, ragged parchment—dagger holes—and a third hole pierced up top where the parchment had been pinned to a tree. Under the two holes, Callum had scribbled a C and an M.
She remembered the look in his eyes when he’d pulled out their thrown daggers, a contest to see who had better aim. He’d written their initials on it before giving it to her. For a lass like Maggie, who preferred daggers to flowers, it was the sweetest love note she could have received. At the time, she’d carefully rolled it up and fit it into her brooch, so it would always rest next to her heart.
Now she would include it in the letter to Callum, and he would know she was done with him.
Before she could change her mind, she placed the parchment in the folds of Irvin’s letter. She resealed it with hot wax, then found her brother’s ring on the desk and pressed it into the hardening liquid.
She set the letter in its place, ignoring the melancholy feeling that rose within her. Callum MacLean was better off without her. And she was certainly better off without him.
What were the chances he would come back for her now?
Two
Callum MacLean leaned against the tree, legs stretched out on the ground in front of him, eyes closed. His mind raced. In his sporran, tucked away for safekeeping, was a letter from Maggie and her brother, Ross. It ended Maggie and Callum’s betrothal and had been handed to him by a shifty-looking man named Blàr.
Callum had been on the road for four days with his foster brother, Gavin, laird of Clan MacKinnon, Father Lundie, and ten of their men. He’d had the letter for three of those days, yet he was still no closer to making a decision about Maggie than when he’d first received it. As always, when it came to his betrothed, Callum’s heart and head were not aligned.
He heard riders approaching, and from the warning whistles of some of the watchers, he knew it was Gavin and several others who’d been out scouting after seeing wolf tracks. Callum didn’t move and continued to mull over the problem.
“Laird MacKinnon,” he heard Father Lundie whisper to Gavin. “Laird MacLean is still sleeping.”
Callum cracked an eyelid to see his foster brother bearing down on him, the priest hovering by his side.
“I don’t know what you see, Father Lundie,” Gavin said, “but I see a man stuck. Like a wee lad forced to choose between sweets.”
“Nay, Laird,” Father Lundie said. “He hasn’t risen since you left. I think he must be ill to be sleeping during the day. ’Tis unlike him to sit so still.”
“’Tis exactly like him to sit still when he’s trying to solve a puzzle. But this isna a puzzle. He just needs to get his head out of his arse.”
“Is there a problem I can help with?” Father Lundie asked. “Perhaps I can assist—”
Callum didn’t wait for the priest to finish. Instead, he kicked out his feet just as Gavin came into striking distance. Gavin jumped up just in time—expecting it, of course—but when he landed, Callum scissored his legs and knocked him to the ground.
“You wee shite,” Gavin said as he pushed himself up onto his elbows.
“Oh, were you there? I couldnae see you with my head up my arse.”
Father Lundie stared down at them, looking startled, before he hurried away.
Gavin crawled up beside Callum and leaned back against the tree next to him. “Give me the letter and the other parchment from Maggie. We’ll talk it through.”
Sighing, Callum fished out the messages from his sporran, then handed them over. “I’ve already assessed them from every angle.”
“No doubt.”
“The first is from Ross, or so it says. But ’tis not Ross’s script nor manner of speaking.”
“So someone else wrote it for him. His steward perhaps? ’Tis not uncommon.”
“You think it’s someone else’s doing then? Someone pulling his strings?”
“Aye.”
“Maggie?”
“Nay. Maggie wouldnae pull strings. She’d throw daggers.”
Gavin lifted the second parchment. “Isn’t that what this is?”
Callum ground his teeth and nodded. “I’ve no doubt Maggie sent that. And the message is clear. She’s ending our betrothal—and making a point. The day I wrote our initials on that parchment was the first day we connected as a man and a woman rather than as a lad and lass staring bemusedly at their future wife and husband. ’Twas the first day I knew she was mine. We were competing, tossing daggers. We tied on every round. I gave her that parchment and, afterward, kissed her for the first time.”
“So she kept it, and now she’s throwing it back at you.”
“Aye.”
“She’s hurt.”
“Aye.”
“And angry.”
“Aye.”
“Well, ’tis obvious you have to go and win her back. And find out what’s going on with Ross.”
When he didn’t answer, Gavin looked at him. “I said—”
“I heard you. How could I not? You bellow like a rampaging boar.” His words were sharp—sharper than if they’d just been said in jest. And they were untrue, of course, but Gavin understood the frustration behind them and didn’t take offense.
Callum sighed. “If I go there and win Maggie back, which willna be easy, what do I do then? Marry her? There’s a good reason I havenae returned for her.”
“Your father’s murder.”
“Aye. I canna in good conscience bring her to Clan MacLean and put her in danger.”
Highland Captive
Highland Thief
The Fabrizio Bride
Highland Promise
Highland Conquest
Highland Betrayal