Highland Captive Page 35

  Kerr’s brow furrowed, then he turned his horse around and yelled, “Gregor!”

  Gavin almost punched the air in victory. Kerr was like a dog with a bone. If anyone could get them home faster, it was him.

  He closed his eyes and sent out a message to Deirdre, imagining she could hear him, see him.

  We’re coming home, love.

  Acknowledgments

  As always, I have many people to thank for helping me bring this book to life—my editor, Cat Clyne, who shepherded me through the editing and production process; Hilary Doda, who is the first eyes on the book and gives such great feedback; and a huge shout-out to Dawn Adams and the art department at Sourcebooks, who have outdone themselves yet again with such a fantastic cover.

  Smooches to all of you.

  As per usual, thanks go out to my writing tribe: Kari Cole, Melonie Johnson, and Layla Rayne, who often message back and forth with me past midnight as we’re each racing to meet our deadlines (or bemoaning the fact that we might miss them!). To my Mermaids, and all the fun times we have at conference, and to the supportive hive mind of the Golden Network—I love you guys! And new this year is all the love and support to be found at the Casablanca Authors messenger group—what a lifesaver you all have been! Thanks in particular to Sharon Wray, Diana Munoz-Stewart, and Maria Vale. Sisterhood at its best!

  And mostly, I want to acknowledge my husband, Ken, who’s been so sick this past year and just pushed through it as best he could despite pain, stress, and fatigue. You are loved, you are cherished, and I am forever grateful I get to walk through this life with you. You always make me laugh. Here’s hoping for an easier year ahead!

  Read on for an excerpt from the first Sons of Gregor MacLeod book, Highland Promise

  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 léine. 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 th
e 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?”

  All except Lachlan looked at Darach for confirmation. He cleared his throat before speaking, trying to break the spell she’d cast over him. Not a faery, but maybe a witch.

  “Nay, lad,” he replied, voice rough. “She’s naught but a bonny maid.”

  “A verra bonny maid,” Lachlan agreed.

  Her throat moved again, and Darach lifted the flask. Opening her mouth, she drank slowly, hand atop his, eyes never leaving his face. He couldn’t look away.

  When she’d had enough, she pressed his hand. He removed it, and she stared up at him, blinking slowly and licking her lips. Her pink tongue tempted him, and he quelled the urge to capture it in his mouth.

  Then she raised her hand and traced her fingers over his lips and along his nose, caressed his forehead to the scar that sliced through his brow, gently scraped her nails through the whiskers on his jaw.

  A more sensual act he’d never experienced, and shivers raced over his skin.

  Finally, she spoke. “Par l’amour de Dieu, etes-vous un ange?”

  * * *

  Caitlin stared at the beautiful creature gazing down at her. He was magnificent, with flashing brown eyes and a fierce scar. Wavy, chestnut-colored hair framed his face and glinted with red highlights in the sun, emphasizing his tough jaw and soft, touchable lips.

  For some reason, an overwhelming sense of peace spread through her. She must be in heaven, and he was a warrior angel. Maybe Michael or Gabriel, sure to wreak justice upon the men who’d abused her.

  “Non, ma petite. Je suis seulement un homme.”

  A man. Her angel said he was but a man.

  Beneath her, a horse moved, and she realized she sat on the warrior’s lap. The man’s strong arms and powerful chest cushioned her. Protected her. She felt like a child held close to his big body.

  Nay, not a child. A woman.

  He watched her quizzically, and she realized something was amiss. Where was she? Had she been taken across the sea by the man her uncle had given her to?

  She glanced at the forest above her. Afternoon sunlight poured through the leaves, but the air was still crisp. “Am I in France?” she asked. The words spilled out in her native Gaelic.

  The man looked surprised, then replied in kind. “Nay, lass. You’re in the Highlands of Scotland.”

  “But you spoke French.”

  “Only because you spoke it first.”

  “I did?”

  “Aye.”

  Why had she spoken to him in French and what had she said? She tried to remember, but her head ached. Pain radiated down her face. Oh, aye—she’d asked if he was an angel.

  “I spoke French because I couldnae remember Latin, and Gaelic seemed too coarse for an angel. English even worse. What angel in his right mind would appreciate being spoken to in English?” She stopped when she realized she was babbling.

  The man smiled, and to her delight, a dimple formed in his cheek. “What angel, indeed.”

  Then a thought occurred to her, and she frowned. “Maybe a fallen angel. He would like the English devils, now wouldnae he?”

  Another man laughed, and she realized they weren’t alone. Shifting her gaze from the warrior’s face, she found herself looking at another handsome Highlander astride a horse. Tall and broad shouldered, his light-brown hair was tied by a leather cord at the nape of his neck. Dark-blue eyes smiled at her from a finely formed face—though not nearly as fine as the man holding her.

  “Doona startle her, Lachlan. She’s still confused,” her savior said gruffly.

  “I’m all right, angel. Doona fash.”

  A young lad leaned forward on his horse, as skinny as he was tall, with a face covered in pimples. “Why’d you think him an angel, lass?”

  Two other men on horses gathered ’round. Every one of them stared at her, concern etched on their faces. For the first time since the fire, she felt safe, even though they were strangers.

  “Because he saved me. You all saved me.” She swallowed and took a deep breath. “And he’s so bonny, of course.”

  The lad went from looking proud to horrified. “Our laird isna bonny. He’s fierce and intimidating.”

  “Oh, aye, I’m sure. But he has such bonny eyes, doona you think? And his hair glints red in the sun. ’Tis verra pretty.”

  The man named Lachlan laughed again, causing her warrior’s brow to furrow. She reached up and massaged it with her fingers. “Doona glower so. ’Twill cause lines. You doona want to look fierce all the time, now do you?”

  The man’s eyes widened and the wrinkle disappeared. He appeared uncertain, an emotion she was sure he found bewildering. For some reason, it pleased her.

  “What’s your name, lass?” he finally asked.

  She hesitated, not wanting to give too much away. “Caitlin. What’s yours?”

  “Darach MacKenzie, laird of Clan MacKenzie.” He indicated his men. “This is Oslow, Gare, and Brodie. You’re safe with us.”

  The truth of his statement settled in her bones with a certainty, and the fear and anxiety she’d been living with for the past three years slipped away, leaving her almost giddy.

  She could barely contain her happiness as she waited for him to introduce the other man, the one he’d called Lachlan. A familiarity lay between them that did not extend to the others, and she wondered if they were related.

  When it became clear Darach had forgotten, she asked, “Are you his brother, then? Lachlan MacKenzie?”

  “Aye, we’re brothers. Foster brothers. Two of five reared together by the great Gregor MacLeod. But I’m not a MacKenzie. I’m Lachlan MacKay, lai
rd of Clan MacKay.” Then his eyes twinkled. “Do you want to ride with me, lass? It’s been suggested Darach may be getting tired.”

  Caitlin clutched Darach’s léine. “Am I too heavy for you, Laird MacKenzie?”

  He made a loud, dismissive sound and tightened his arms around her, telling her in no uncertain terms where she would ride.

  “I’m not your laird, Caitlin. You will call me Darach.”

  “Oh, aye. Darach.” It was a good name. Soft yet hard. Strong yet gentle. Worthy of the warrior. And the way he said her name—rough and deep—caused warmth to spread through her chest.

  “What clan are you, lass?” he asked. “We’ll make sure you get home safely. How did you come to be so abused by the dog Fraser?”

  The heat inside Caitlin turned to ice, and she stiffened. He wanted to give her back? Nay. ’Twas unthinkable. She’d just escaped.

  She closed her eyes, knowing they were the windows to her soul and allowed anyone to discern her thoughts.

  “Caitlin?” The worry in Darach’s voice compelled her to look at him. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded, lips pressed together lest she blurt out the horrible truth and they took her back to Fraser. Or her uncle.

  Her clan, her real clan, was dead. That was the truth. By all that was holy, she didn’t belong with her uncle or Fraser. She belonged…she belonged… Where did she belong? Maybe she could find her mother’s people in France?

  Surely she’d be safe there. Her uncle and Fraser wouldn’t travel so far to find her.

  “I doona rightly know,” she said, her heart skittering as she shifted her eyes downward.

  “Is it your head, lass?” Oslow asked.

  “Aye. ’Tis thumping like a rabbit’s back foot when the fox nears.”

  It was true enough, and she heaved a sigh. Surely exaggeration would not be considered a mortal sin. Besides, she could barely keep her eyes open.

  She peeped at Darach through her lashes to see he watched her skeptically. Aye, just like her da—although he didn’t feel like her father. And at times he had a look in his eye she’d never seen in her father’s eyes. It made her want to burrow into his embrace.