Highland Promise Read online

  Thank you for purchasing this eBook.

  At Sourcebooks we believe one thing:

  BOOKS CHANGE LIVES.

  We would love to invite you to receive exclusive rewards. Sign up now for VIP savings, bonus content, early access to new ideas we're developing, and sneak peeks at our hottest titles!

  Happy reading!

  SIGN UP NOW!

  Copyright © 2017 by Alyson McLayne

  Cover and internal design © 2017 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

  (630) 961-3900

  Fax: (630) 961-2168

  sourcebooks.com

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  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

  A Sneak Peek of Highland Conquest

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  For Ken, Maddie, and Cooper. I love you guys—like crazy and forever. Your hugs, laughter, and kisses fill me up.

  Prologue

  MacLeod Castle—The Isle of Skye, Scotland

  1432

  Gregor MacLeod stared down the long wooden table at the five Highland lairds seated in front of him and resisted the urge to smash his fists through the wood. Blackhearts, every one of them.

  Drawing a vicious-looking dirk from within his linen sleeve, he leaned back in his chair. His legs stretched out in front of him and his plaid fell open to reveal brawny thighs. Firelight from the hearth danced along the dagger’s blade as he slowly played with it.

  The lairds watched…waited, revealing little in their expressions.

  They expected to die.

  The thought pleased Gregor and he smiled. “’Tis my right, and the right of every member of this clan, to cleave your heads from your necks, to feed your bodies to my hounds. Though in truth, I doona think they’d have you—treachery and cowardice sours the meat.” He flipped the blade in the air, caught it, and dug the tip into the wooden table. “So I’ll take your sons instead.”

  Stunned and outraged faces stared back at him. His smile widened.

  He would foster a boy from each laird and make their sons his sons—bond them to him and to each other so they became brothers, united their clans, and kept the people safe.

  It had been his dear Kellie’s wish to her dying day.

  “You mule-loving devil. I’ll not give you my son!”

  Gregor glanced to his left, at the red-faced man who had spoken: Laird MacLean, father of Callum MacLean. A terrible laird, he had brought disorder and hardship to his clan. Still, Gregor suspected the man loved his son. For that, and only that, he commended him.

  The lad, seven years old, was the youngest of the five Gregor wanted and already showed signs of reason and intelligence—the opposite of his undisciplined father. Callum would make a good laird if his skills could be paired with honor and loyalty, traits Gregor intended to instill in all the lads.

  “I’m afraid, Laird MacLean, no is not an option. This isna a debate. You have lost and I am reaping the spoils—your sons. One from each clan who came together and dared attack me. That is the cost of your treachery.”

  MacLean swore loudly and grumbled under his breath but didn’t offer any further resistance.

  Gregor waited for the next laird to speak.

  “And if we doona comply?”

  The question, soft and measured, came from Gregor’s right. He stared at the man two seats down from him: Laird MacKenzie, father of Darach MacKenzie. A tall man, strong of mind and body, the laird was resolute and disciplined—traits Gregor had seen in Darach, the second-youngest of the lads, at eight years old.

  “If you doona comply, Laird MacKenzie, you will be hanged, and I will still foster your boy.”

  “He’d revenge me.”

  “He could try.”

  The laird nodded, still calm, but his cheek twitched before he raised a hand to cover it.

  At the end of the table, Laird MacKay roused himself. His voice was low, the words halting. He took a labored breath. “I willna give you Donald, but you can have my Lachlan. Donald will be laird by Christmas. He is needed to unite my clan. Lachlan is close to his brother, looks up to him. ’Twill be a good alliance.”

  Gregor met the laird’s eyes. They were tired, troubled. The eyes of a dying man.

  Having met both lads, Gregor suspected Donald would make a good laird, but Lachlan would be great. At nine years old, he already recognized his mother’s manipulations and duplicity, and refused to play her games.

  “Aye,” Gregor said. “I’d be happy to take Lachlan and support Donald as laird.”

  The MacKay laird closed his eyes and nodded. When he opened them, they were wet. Gregor found himself pleased to ease the man’s burden, despite being his enemy.

  He switched his gaze to Laird MacKinnon, who sat in the first seat on his right. The big, tough, blond man had crossed his arms over his chest and glowered straight ahead. Another man who loved his son.

  “You ask too much,” he said when he noticed Gregor watching him. “I canna do it.”

  Gregor waited.

  “Would I e’er see him again?” the laird asked, his voice breaking.

  “Aye. You may have the lad back at harvest, but if he’s not returned, I’ll consider it a grievous breach and act accordingly.”

  MacKinnon grunted and still scowled, but his arms relaxed. Gregor knew him to be a man with a big heart, loyal and fair. All good qualities in a laird, but he lacked the necessary discernment to use them wisely. His son, Gavin, ten years old, mirrored his father in many ways. He could be taught to look beyond the obvious and see people’s hearts, judge with his head as well as his emotions.

  “I agree,” MacKinnon said and leaned toward Gregor. “But if I e’er discover you are abusing my lad, MacLeod, I swear on my life, I will kill you.”

  Gregor nodded. “As I would you if you harmed my own.” He held out his hand to the laird. “I will teach your son well, MacKinnon.” The big man hesitated before taking Gregor’s hand. MacKinnon would consider it an oath between them until his dying day. Gregor was well pleased.

  Last, he turned to Laird MacAlister, seated two down on the left, father of Kerr MacAlister, who was the oldest boy and also ten. He suspected Kerr might be his
most difficult charge, but the most rewarding if all went well. He’d never met the lad, but Gregor had heard he stood up to his father, who was a mean, controlling bastard.

  MacAlister had instigated the attack against Gregor’s clan, persuading or threatening the other lairds to go along with it. Gregor had known in advance they were coming and had trapped his enemies. ’Twas a gamble that had paid off.

  “Naught to say, MacAlister?” he asked the last laird.

  “You’ve no sons of your own. Will you be choosing one of the lads to succeed you when you die?”

  Gregor was not surprised by the question. “You’ve already tried to kill me and failed. Doona think you’d be any more successful a second time.”

  MacAlister shrugged, his greasy, dark hair sliding forward to hide his eyes. “You misunderstand me—”

  “I understand you, all right.” Gregor pulled his dirk from the table and flung it past MacAlister’s ear. A lock of hair drifted down as the knife embedded in a wooden shield mounted on the opposite wall. “As always, you want my land. MacLeod land. You canna have it. Maybe one day your boy will have it, maybe not. I give no promises to anyone here.”

  He looked around the table at each laird, his gaze hard, unblinking. Finally, he came back to MacAlister. “You will give me your son, or you will give me your life. Choose.”

  MacAlister’s nostrils flared before he nodded.

  Gregor placed his hand palm down on the middle of the table, and the lairds followed suit one by one until five palms lay over his. MacAlister was last.

  The ache in Gregor’s heart eased just a wee bit. His Kellie would have been proud.

  One

  Gleann Afraig (Fraser territory)—The Highlands, Scotland

  Twenty Years Later

  Darach MacKenzie wanted to kill the Frasers. Slowly.

  Lying on the forest floor, he peered through the leaves as his enemy rode single file along the trail at the bottom of the ravine. Midway down the line, a woman, tied belly down over a swaybacked horse, appeared to be unconscious. Rope secured her wrists, and a gag filled her mouth. The tips of her long, brown hair dragged on the muddy ground.

  In front of her, Laird Fraser rode a white stallion that tossed its head and rubbed against the trees in an attempt to unseat him. The laird flailed his whip, cutting the stallion’s flanks in retaliation.

  To the front and behind them rode ten more men, heavily armed.

  The King had ordered the MacKenzies and Frasers to cease hostilities two years before, and much trouble would come of helping the lass, let alone killing the laird. Still, the idea of doing nothing made Darach’s bile rise.

  “You canna rescue her without being seen.”

  The whispered words caused Darach’s jaw to set in a stubborn line. He refused to look at his foster brother Lachlan, who’d spoken. “Maybe ’tis not the lass I want to rescue. Did you not see the fine mount under the Fraser filth?” Yet his gaze never left the swing of the lass’s hair, her wee hands tied together.

  “Fraser would no more appreciate you taking his horse than his woman.”

  “Bah! She’s not his woman—not by choice, I’ll wager.”

  They’d been reaving—a time-honored tradition the King had not mentioned in his command for peace—and could easily escape into the forest unseen with their goods. They’d perfected the procedure to a fine art, sneaking on and off Fraser land for years with bags of wheat, barrels of mead, sheep, and horses.

  Never before had they stolen a woman.

  He glanced at Lachlan, seeing the same anger and disgust he felt reflected in his foster brother’s eyes. “You take the stallion. The laird willna recognize you. I’ll get the lass.”

  Lachlan nodded and moved into position while Darach signaled his men with the distinctive trill of the dipper—three short bursts, high and loud pitched. The MacKenzies spread out through the heavy growth, a nearby creek muffling any sound.

  The odds for a successful attack were in their favor. Ten Fraser warriors against Darach, the laird of Clan MacKenzie; his foster brother Lachlan, the laird of Clan MacKay; and three of Darach’s men: Oslow, Brodie, and Gare. Only two to one, and they’d have the element of surprise.

  As his enemy entered the trap, Darach mounted his huge, dark-gray stallion named Loki, drew his sword, and let out a second, sharp trill. The men burst through the trees, their horses’ hooves pounding.

  Two Frasers rode near the lass. Big, dirty men. Men who might have touched her. He plunged his sword into the arm of one, almost taking it off. The man fell to the ground with a howl. The second was a better fighter but not good enough, and Darach sliced open the man’s side. Blood and guts spilled out. He keeled over, clutching his body.

  Farther ahead, Lachlan struggled to control the wild-eyed stallion. The Fraser laird lay on the ground in front of Darach, and Darach resisted the urge to stomp the devil. He would leave the laird alive, even though he burned to run his sword through the man’s black heart. Fraser’s sister’s too, if she were but alive.

  In front of Darach, the mare carrying the lass thrashed around, looking for a means of escape. The ropes that secured the girl loosened, and she began sliding down the beast’s side.

  Just as her fingers touched the ground, he leaned over and pulled her to safety. Dark, silky hair tumbled over his linen lèine. When the mare jostled them, he slapped it on the rump. The animal sprang forward, missing Fraser by inches.

  Damnation.

  Placing her limp body across his thighs, Darach used his knees to guide Loki out of the waning melee.

  Not one Fraser was left standing.

  * * *

  They rode hard to put as much distance as possible between them and the Frasers, and along game trails and creek beds to conceal their tracks as best they could. When Darach felt they were safe, he slowed Loki and shifted the unconscious woman so she sat across his lap. Her head tipped back into the crook of his arm, and he stilled when he saw her sleeping face, bruised but still lovely—like a wee dove.

  Dark lashes fanned out against fair cheeks, and a dusting of freckles crossed her nose.

  She looked soft, pure.

  God knows that meant nothing. He knew better than most a bonny face could hide a black heart.

  Slicing through the dirty gag, he hurled it to the ground. Welts had formed at the corners of her mouth, and her lips, red and plump, had cracked. After cutting her hands free, he sheathed his dagger and massaged her wrists. Her cheek was chafed from rubbing against the side of the mare, and a large bruise marred her temple.

  His gut tightened with the same fury he’d felt earlier.

  Lachlan rode up beside him, the skittish stallion tethered behind his mount. “If you continue to stare at her, I’ll wager she’ll ne’er wake. Women are contrary creatures, doona you know?”

  Darach drew to a stop. “She sleeps too deeply, Brother. ’Tis unnatural. Do you think she’ll be all right?” Oslow, Brodie, and Gare gathered ’round. It was the first time they’d seen the lass.

  “Is she dead, do you think?” Gare asked, voice scarcely above a whisper. He was a tall, young warrior of seventeen, with the scrawny arms and legs of a lad still building up his muscle.

  Oslow, Darach’s older, gnarly lieutenant, cuffed Gare on the back of the head. “She’s breathing, isna she? Look at the rise and fall of her chest, lad.”

  “I’ll do no such thing. ’Tis not proper. She’s a lady, I’ll wager. Look at her fine clothes.”

  Lachlan snorted in amusement and picked up her hand, turning it over to run his fingers across her smooth palm. “I reckon you might be right, Gare. The lass hasn’t seen hard labor. ’Tis smooth as a bairn’s bottom.”

  Darach’s chest tightened at the sight of her wee hand in Lachlan’s. He fought the urge to snatch it back.

  “She has stirred some, cried out in her sleep. I
pray to God the damage isna permanent.” Physically, at least. Emotionally, she could be scarred for life. His arm tightened around her, and she moaned.

  “Pass me some water.” Someone placed a leather flagon in his hand, and Darach wedged the opening between her lips. When he tilted the container, the water seeped down her cheek. He waited a moment and tried again. This time she swallowed, showing straight, white teeth. Her hand came up and closed over his, helping to steady the flask.

  A peculiar feeling fluttered in Darach’s chest.

  When she made a choking sound, he pulled the flask away. Her body convulsed as she coughed, and he sat her up to thump her on the back. Upon settling, he laid her back down in the crook of his arm.

  “Christ, we doona want to drown her, Darach—or knock the lungs right out of her. Maybe you should give her to one of us to hold for a while?” Lachlan’s laughing eyes told Darach his foster brother deliberately provoked him. Another time-honored tradition.

  Gare jumped in. “Oh, aye. I’ll hold the lass.”

  “You?” Brodie asked. “You canna even hold your own sword. Do you think those skinny arms will keep her safe? I’ll hold the lass.” Brodie was a few years older than Gare and had already filled out into a fine-looking man. He was a rogue with the lasses, and they all loved him for it. No way in hell would he be holding her.

  “Cease. Both of you,” said Oslow. “If anyone other than our laird holds the lass, it will be Laird MacKay. If she be a lady, she’ll not want to be held by the likes of you.”

  Darach glowered at Lachlan, who grinned.

  Then she stirred, drawing everyone’s attention. They waited as her eyelids quivered before opening. A collective gasp went up from the men, Darach included.

  He couldn’t help it, for the lass staring up at him had the eyes of an angel.

  They dominated her sweet face—big, round, innocent. And the color—Darach couldn’t get over the color. A piercing, light blue surrounded by a rim of dark blue.

  A shiver of desire, followed by unease, coursed through him. He tamped down the unwelcome feeling.

  “Sweet Mary,” Gare whispered. “She’s a faery, aye?”