Highland Conquest Page 29

  He heard Callum’s horse veer off toward Adaira and urged his own ride faster toward the cottage. At the last minute, he jumped off, sword in hand, blood pumping through his body. The door was open, and as he charged over the sill, he saw Amber lying facedown on the floor with Murray on top of her, pulling her head back with one hand and raising a dagger in his other. Lachlan’s eyes met Amber’s for an instant before he hurled his sword at Murray. It clipped his knife on the downward sweep toward Amber’s neck and knocked Murray back. Lachlan grabbed Amber, dragged her out from under Murray in one giant heave, and shoved her behind him. Then he landed on Murray, who was covered in blood. His face was torn apart, one eye swollen shut, a knife sticking out of his shoulder and another one in his side. Lachlan pinned him to the ground.

  “I’ve got her,” he heard Callum yell.

  “Let me go!” she screamed.

  “Nay, Amber. Let Lachlan do his job.”

  He heard her sob. Then Callum said softly, “Watch him, Amber. See him avenge Adaira and his brother. See him avenge you. See him keep his people safe.”

  Lachlan stared at Murray, felt the monster’s strength fade, his mind fogged with shock, pain, and loss of blood. A man who could have done so much good in the Highlands, could have helped so many people with his drive, intelligence, and skill. Instead, he’d been bent on destruction.

  He leaned closer to Murray, saw a beaten man. “My family did this to you. My wife, my cousin—a woman, a young lass. They took your sight, ravaged your face. My wife’s knives are in your body. She caught you, and now I’ll kill you.”

  Murray tried to speak, but too much blood poured from the wound in his face and down his throat. Possibly into his lungs, drowning him. ’Twas best that way. Naught more needed to be said.

  Lachlan leaned both knees on Murray’s arms and picked up his sword, laid it across Murray’s throat till the blade cut in.

  “Machar Murray, I sentence you to death for the murder of my brother, Donald MacKay, his wife, Rose MacKay, Father Odhran Scott, Laird Sòlas MacPherson of Clan MacPherson, and his second-in-command and father of my wife, Ivar MacPherson. I sentence you to death for the attempted murder and abduction of my wife, Amber MacKay, the attempted murder of myself, Lachlan MacKay, and the abduction of my cousin, Adaira MacKay. And for crimes unspoken.” He shifted his plaid over the blade of his sword in order to protect his hands, and said, “Today is a good day to see peace and justice reign in the Highlands.”

  A chorus of “ayes” resounded behind him, his brothers and Gregor agreeing to the judgment. Lachlan pushed down on the edge of his sword, through skin, muscle, and cartilage, the warm blood pouring over his hands. Murray’s eyes widened and his legs kicked before Lachlan hit bone.

  He felt no joy at Murray’s death, just relief that the threat to Amber had passed. No sense of achievement and fulfillment after a five-year hunt, just a heart full of gratitude that his wife was safe.

  Rising and turning, he saw his brothers and Gregor. They stood side by side in an arc behind Amber, who was supported by Callum, looking bloodied, scratched, and bruised.

  And alive.

  He strode toward her. Callum released her, and she hobbled toward him. He rushed to scoop her up. Her arms squeezed his neck, her sobs shook her body as he pulled her close. In the background, his brothers and Gregor filed out of the cottage.

  “You’re hurt,” he said.

  “’Tis naught. We’re alive. That’s all that matters.”

  “And Murray is dead.”

  “Aye, justice prevailed.”

  “Nay, Amber. Love prevailed. Your love for everyone through it all.”

  She cupped her hands on his cheeks. “Most importantly, my love for you, Lachlan MacKay. I know I said it before, but I want you to hear it again. You are everything to me. You have given me a bright future filled with so much love, when I thought I had no future at all.”

  “As you have done for me. I love you forever, sweetling. But can we agree you’ll ne’er get hurt again? Ne’er have evil men plot against you or shoot arrows at you? Ne’er escape castles through dangerous tunnels in order to survive?”

  “Ne’er dress like a boy and cut my hair again?”

  “Nay, I love your hair. Please cut it as often as you wish.”

  “And if I wish to grow it long?”

  “Then I’ll wrap my hand around it and tilt your head to the side so I can do this.” He lowered his head and nuzzled the side of her neck, kissing toward her nape.

  She sighed. “’Tis a good thing I only have flesh wounds.”

  He quickly lifted his head. “Where?”

  “Well…on my face obviously. He punched me.”

  She was obfuscating, and he frowned. “Where else?” He squeezed his hand over the back of her skirt, and she tried not to wince. “Your arisaid is wet.”

  “He sliced my arse with one of my knives. ’Tis not as bad as you think. And I may have a scratch on my thigh as well. He was searching me for weapons, Lachlan. Naught else.”

  He wanted to kill Murray all over again. Instead, he squeezed her close and shuddered. “Thank God your father had the sense to teach you how to fight.”

  “Aye ’tis something we shall teach our own lasses.” When he lifted his head, slowly this time, she blushed. “If I decide—we decide—we want bairns, that is. And if we have lads, we’ll teach them to treat women as they would themselves.”

  He half laughed, half groaned. “Trust me, you doona want our lads treating our lasses the way my brothers and I treated one another.”

  “Our lads?”

  ’Twas his turn to blush, but he did it with a grin as he spun them in a circle. “Aye. If we decide. And right now I’m just happy to have you to myself.”

  “Me too.”

  He kissed her again, capturing her lips this time, gentle but still demanding. She opened beneath him and sighed happily into his mouth. Then he kissed each eye and the tip of her nose before pulling back. “Let’s go back to the castle and have Mary take a look at you. It’ll give us a reason to have three more days in bed. Four if your injuries need it.”

  “Aye, definitely four. Maybe a week. But I warn you now, you’ll have to be inventive—you canna put me on my back, and you canna bang against me from behind.”

  “Och, I’m not such an amateur, Wife. And I doona ‘bang’ against you. ‘Inventive’ willna be a problem—as long as it doesn’t involve you figuring out ways to escape a castle.”

  “Well, that’s another thing we’ll teach our daughters, although they’ll have to wear pants. ’Twas most unnerving knowing my bare arse hung out the window.”

  He stopped, the blood pounding again in his veins and his temperature rising. “You went through the window? On a ladder?” He couldn’t imagine any ladder being tall enough to reach their bedroom window. And how would she have escaped the bailey undetected after that?

  “Nay, not a ladder, are you addled? Ian and I went down a rope from Murray’s old bedroom. Once my skirts fell back into place, and I was safe on the ground, ’twas most exhilarating.”

  He stared at her, jaw clenched as he imagined her falling.

  She reached up, kissed the twitch in his jaw, and whispered in his ear, “We’re alive, Lachlan, Murray is dead, and we have days ahead, loving one another. Life couldnae be better, Husband.”

  He sighed, releasing his fear, and hugged her back. “Aye, Wife. Life couldnae be better.”

  Order Alyson McLayne’s next book in

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  HIGHLAND BETRAYAL

  BOOK #3 IN THE SONS OF GREGOR MACLEOD SERIES

  by Alyson McLayne

  MacDonnell Castle, The Highlands, Scotland, 1452

  Maggie MacD
onnell crouched in the dark, cramped tunnel—her candle by her side—and slowly, silently, slid aside the stone 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, and tried to figure out who was in the chamber. Someone sat in the chair—a pair of men’s feet, shod in dirty shoes, rested on the floor in front of her—and from across the room she heard the sound of a quill scratching on parchment at the desk.

  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 wide enough for her to eavesdrop, she picked up her own quill and parchment—ready to write down whatever was said. Although why she had to resort to spying when she was the laird’s sister and her cousin was the scheming blackheart attempting to steal her clan and castle, was beyond her.

  The sound of sand being scattered on parchment reached her ears, followed by an expelled breath as Irvin blew the excess ink and sand away.

  “He’s at Clan MacPherson.”

  Aye, that was her cousin’s nasal tone, and she scowled. After dipping her pen in ink, she wrote “Clan MacPherson” on the parchment.

  “Lachlan MacKay killed the laird there and then married a MacPherson lass. I hear the rest of the lairds, including Gregor MacLeod, came for the wedding but are leaving soon. I doona know how long MacLean will stay, 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 back a gasp. Was Irvin talking about Callum MacLean? Were they somehow working together?

  Betrayal and hurt raged through her at the thought, and she clenched her hands into fists, smearing the ink

  “Aye, Laird,” the man sitting in the chair responded, and she knew it was 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.”

  Maggie had learned a lot about Irvin’s plans since she’d started spying on him, but she had a hard time piecing the information together. It wasn’t in her nature to plot or deceive—she tended to be as direct and sharp as her daggers—and she couldn’t always figure out which scheme he was talking about and how the different threads weaved together.

  Unfortunately, she had few people she could turn to for help—his treachery ran deep in the clan—and no one remained who could bring Irvin to justice. She’d tried speaking to Ross about him, but nothing she said got through the haze of grief and drink that had muddled his brain and slowed his wits, and John had been out of touch ever since he’d left the clan four years ago—the day after Ross’s wedding to Eleanor.

  Maggie often wondered if John even knew Eleanor and her bairn were dead.

  She pressed her hand to her mouth and closed her eyes as unexpected emotion welled within. The once proud and happy MacDonnell family had been reduced to her—a disagreeable, dagger-throwing spinster crouched in a dark, dank tunnel trying to thwart her cousin’s next move.

  “And Ross. What do ye want me to do about him, Laird?”

  Maggie’s eyes slowly opened as she listened. Normally she would have been irate at Blàr calling Irvin laird, but this time she ignored it.

  What did they intend for her brother 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. ’Tis the other two we have to plan for.”

  “So you’ll kill Maggie, then?” Blàr asked from right above her.

  “Nay, I willna kill her. She has value. I’ll take her bairn instead.”

  Her brow creased in confusion. Her bairn? Was 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 sighed. “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 dropped her hand and fingered her daggers hanging from her belt. Four 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 coming through the passageway. 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 released a silent sigh. 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.

  ’Twas a grim imagining, and she shuddered.

  A chair scraped back at the desk.

  Blàr quickly stood and stepped forward. “Shall 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 about my goings-on—and she’s been trying to interfere with Ross’s drinking. We canna have that.”

  “Nay, Laird. But I doona 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 back. ’Tis a shame she had to choose just one.”

  Irvin made grunting sounds followed by high squeals, simulating sex, and they laughed in a lewd manner. Maggie could imagine him gyrating his hips, and she swallowed back 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 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 doona e’er shove, Blàr. I nudge.”

  The solar door opened and their footsteps faded before the door closed and was locked from the outside. Maggie pressed her palm to her forehead 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—or worse.

  Lifting the stone, she pushed it to the side so it lay on the solar floor before moving the chair out of the way. When she stood, the floor came to her waist and she climbed out, taking her candle and parchment with her.

  The room was dimly lit by a dying fire, but Maggie knew the room’s layout by heart, having played in here with her brothers when her father was laird.

  Crossing the room, she placed her candle on the desk and searched until she found the letter that had recently been sealed, the wax with the imprint of her brother’s ring still warm. She carefully peeled off the seal and placed it to the side.

  She paused then, dread that Callum may be in league with her cousin filling her stomach. She didn’t know why it would hurt so much. Callum had betrayed her long before now—three years ago in the spring, to be exact, and every spring after that when he’d failed to keep his promise.

  So why was she so affected?

  With a scowl, she opened the folded parchment and read her cousin’s small, perfect script. It barely filled the page. She clenched her teeth to contain herself as 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 she wanted to be the one
to tell Callum that. Not her lying, scheming cousin.

  She read the words again—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 arranged the marriage, were dead, the contract had been withdrawn.

  Maggie stood there for several minutes, emotions she thought long dead cascading through her—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, haunted her dreams long after his betrayal.

  A betrayal she would never forgive.

  She huffed out an exasperated breath. Should she write a note to Callum explaining the situation at Clan MacDonnell, and ask for his help? She was sure Irvin had blocked the other letters she’d tried to send—to her brother John, to her father’s best friend, who had the ear of the King, and to her mother’s family. It would please her to finally get a message out, tucked inside Irvin’s own sealed letter.

  Or should she simply let the letter stand, let their betrothal officially end? It had already been over in her mind for years.

  For all she knew, Callum would be happy to receive the news. Maybe his whispered words of affection three years ago had all been a lie—the same as his pledge to come back for her.

  And if he did come to fight for her hand, insist the contract was still valid, what would happen? He’d have no idea of the danger he’d ride into. Irvin mentioned having a man inside Clan MacLean, so he would know Callum was coming, and she had no doubt he’d plan something.

  Aye, Irvin would not let Laird MacLean upset his plans.

  Her chest tightened as she imagined a dagger or arrow piercing Callum’s heart, and she dismissed the idea of asking for help. ’Twould be best if he carried on with his life not knowing of her plight. She was a strong Highland lass. She didn’t need saving.