Highlander Untamed

by Monica McCarty

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Preview of Highlander Unmasked

  Excerpt for Highlander Untamed

  Praise for Highlander Untamed

  Copyright

  To Jami and Nyree, who have gone well beyond the call of CP duty. I promise, this is the last time you need to read it (I think a hundred times should suffice). Long live the SSRW!

  And to my first two readers, my husband, Dave, and my sister, Nora: Your enthusiasm from the start made it all seem possible. And Dave, I’m sorry the Cover Model gig didn’t work out, but I still love you anyway.

  Acknowledgments

  The road to publication is often a long and arduous journey, with many twists and turns along the way. Mine was no exception. There are, however, many people who have eased my travels.

  First, I’d like to thank the entire team at Ballantine who made this dream a reality, especially my editor, Charlotte Herscher, whose comments are always dead-on. Thank you for your faith, enthusiasm, and hard work in making this project come to fruition.

  The Fog City Divas, especially Barbara Freethy, Candice Hern, and Carol Culver, for taking me under your generous wings and sharing your wisdom about the business of writing—you guys are terrific.

  A special thanks to Kathleen Givens; your kindness and encouragement to a newbie author (who also happened to be a huge fan) will never be forgotten.

  Thanks to Annelise Robey and Maggie Kelly, who got it all started.

  Finally, to my fabulous agents, Kelly Harms and Andrea Cirillo, who made it all possible—thank you.

  Two households, both alike in dignity,

  In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,

  From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,

  Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.

  From forth the fatal loins of these two foes

  A pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life;

  Whose misadventured piteous overthrows

  Do with their death bury their parents’ strife.

  The fearful passage of their death-mark’d love,

  And the continuance of their parents’ rage,

  Which, but their children’s end, nought could remove,

  Is now the two hours’ traffic of our stage;

  The which if you with patient ears attend,

  What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.

  —William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, Prologue

  Prologue

  Dunscaith Castle, Isle of Skye, 1599

  The ground shook with the heavy pounding of hooves as the score of warriors approached Dunscaith Castle. Their leader, Roderick MacLeod, Chief of MacLeod, urged his mount ahead, surging across the rocky crags at breakneck speed. He had to reach her before…

  Just then a great roar rose above the thunder of the horses, and with it hope shattered. Rory cursed, knowing that the jubilant cries of the crowd could mean only one thing: The warning had come too late.

  Refusing to accept what he already knew, Rory pushed the mighty destrier harder, climbing faster up the steep pathway. Finally, horse and rider crested the hill, at last giving vision to the cruel spectacle orchestrated by Rory’s most despised enemy.

  Not a furlong below them, Rory’s sister sat atop a horse, slowly winding her way through a crowd of jeering villagers. She looked so tiny, so painfully alone among the madding crowd. Her hair, a thick, glorious halo of riotous curls, shone like white gold in the mid summer sun. But neither the magnificence of her hair nor the remnants of her once fey beauty could distract the villagers from the conspicuous black patch that covered one eye.

  Even from afar, Rory could see Margaret’s pain. The rigid line of her spine, the nearly imperceptible shaking of her hands as she clenched the reins of her maimed horse, the slight flinch as the taunts pelted her pride like stones.

  He could make out only snippets of their hateful words. “Face…hideous…one-eyed…mark of the devil…”

  Rory pressed on, though the damage had already been done.

  None but the MacDonald of Sleat could be capable of sending her away with such a monstrous procession. Sleat had gone to great lengths to shame his sister, mocking her misfortune with outrageous cruelty. For Margaret, who’d badly injured an eye in a horrible riding accident only a few months after arriving at Dunscaith, sat atop a one-eyed horse. A horse that was led by a one-eyed man and followed by a one-eyed dog.

  It wasn’t enough that Sleat had decided to repudiate the handfast and send Margaret back to her kinsmen. He did so in a manner designed for one purpose only—to strike right at the heart of the MacLeod pride in a way that could only demand retribution.

  Damn Sleat, the devil’s spawn, for dragging an innocent woman into a feud among men.

  Rory’s heart wrenched as a small tear slid down Margaret’s pale cheek from behind the black patch. She wobbled, as if searching for strength. When she found none, her chin slumped forward to her chest.

  Blood pounded in Rory’s ears, rage finally quieting the cruel voices of the MacDonald clansmen. A piercing battle cry tore from his lungs as he raised his claymore to rally his clansmen. “Hold fast!” he roared the clan’s motto. “To a MacLeod!”

  Sleat would regret what he’d done. The MacLeods would be avenged.

  Chapter 1

  That mighty stronghold of the west

  In lonely grandeur reigns supreme;

  A monument of feudal power,

  And fitting haven for a king.

  —M. C. MACLEOD

  Loch Dunvegan, Isle of Skye, July 1601

  Isabel MacDonald had never thought of herself as lacking in courage, but over the past few days she’d begun to reconsider. The long hours of travel, with little to do but think, had tested her mettle. What had seemed in Edinburgh a well-conceived plan to help her clan, now, as they neared their final destination in the farthest outreaches of Scotland, felt more like a virgin being led to the sacrifice. An analogy, she feared, that was disturbingly close to the truth.

  Huddled among her MacDonald clansmen on the small birlinn, Isabel felt strangely alone. Like her, the other occupants of the boat remained both watchful and silent as they approached their enemy’s keep. Only the droning sound of the oars, plunging into the black depths beneath them, pierced the eerie quiet. Somewhere ahead of her in the loch beyond lay Castle Dunvegan, the impregnable stronghold of Clan MacLeod.

  An icy wind swept over the loch, sending a chill deep into her bones. Eilean a Cheo, she recalled the Erse name for Skye. The “Isle of Mist”—what a prodigious understatement. Cursing her inappropriate traveling attire, Isabel wrapped her fur-trimmed cloak—the only warm garment she was wearing—tighter across her body in a futile attempt to warm herself. But her garments provided such scant protection from the elements, she might as well have been sitting here in a sark.

  Given her pe
rilous task, the foul weather seemed somehow fitting.

  Isabel had been promised in handfast to the powerful MacLeod chief. Ostensibly, the handfast was a union brokered by the king to end two long and bitter years of feuding between the MacLeods and the MacDonalds. In reality, it was a ruse to gain her access to their enemy’s keep and, if all went according to plan, his heart.

  No wedding would follow this handfast. When Isabel found what she came for, she would repudiate the handfast and return to her life at court as lady-in-waiting to Queen Anne as if nothing had happened, secure in the knowledge that she had helped her clan.

  Assuming, of course, she wasn’t discovered.

  In retrospect, passing the days by thinking of the different ways a spy could be punished probably had not been the most efficient use of her time.

  Sensing Isabel’s unease, her cherished nursemaid, Bessie, reached down and gently squeezed her clenched fingers.

  “Don’t worry, poppet, it won’t be that bad. You look as if you are headed to the executioner instead of to a handfast. It’s not as if your bridegroom is England’s old King Henry.”

  He might as well be. If Isabel’s perfidy was discovered, the result could well be the same as the fate doled out to many of Henry VIII’s wives years ago. She would expect no mercy from a fierce Highland chief. She could only trust that King James, a man who’d welcomed her into his household like a daughter, would not see her tied to a vicious brute. “I’m fine,” Isabel assured her, plastering a lighthearted smile on her face. As fine as she could be, she thought, given that she was about to be handfasted to a stranger.

  It was thoughts of the man whom she must deceive that were partially responsible for her growing apprehension over the past few days. Her attempts to glean more insight into the MacLeod chief’s character had proven largely unsuccessful. The king claimed he was an amiable enough man…for a barbarian. As the king considered all Highlanders barbarians, the description did not concern her overmuch.

  Her father was equally circumspect, calling the MacLeod a “formidable enemy” with a “good sword arm.” Hardly reassuring. Her brothers had been a little more forthcoming. They described the MacLeod as a cunning chief who was well respected among his clan and a fierce warrior who was unmatched on the battlefield. But she’d learned nothing of the man.

  Too late, she realized Bessie was still watching her. “Are you sure nothing is wrong, Isabel?”

  She shook her head. “It’s only that I’m freezing and anxious to get off this boat.”

  Isabel watched with trepidation as Bessie’s graying brows gathered over the elfin nose that made her aged face appear strangely youthful for her two and forty years. God’s breath, Bessie saw too much. Those omniscient green eyes peered directly into her soul. Isabel knew that her nursemaid suspected something was afoot. From Isabel’s hasty decision to handfast a man she’d never met to the inappropriate traveling attire her uncle had insisted she wear, Bessie had not been fooled by Isabel’s vague explanations.

  Isabel met Bessie’s questioning gaze, imploring her silently not to ask what was really bothering her. The temptation to confide in the woman who’d cared for her like a mother was overpowering, but she dared not risk it. Only her father, brothers, and uncle were aware of her true purpose in agreeing to this handfast. It was safer that way.

  For once, Bessie relented and pretended that she did not know that something beyond the nerves of a soon-to-be bride were at work. She squeezed Isabel’s hand again. “I’ll call for a bath as soon as we arrive, and you’ll feel much better.”

  Isabel managed a smile. Dear Bessie thought every problem could be solved by a long soak in lavender-scented water. “That sounds divine,” she murmured. But as soothing as a warm bath would feel to her aching, travel-weary bones, Isabel knew that her problems would not be so easily solved.

  It had all seemed so straightforward a few weeks ago when her father, the MacDonald of Glengarry, had suddenly appeared at court. Her initial surprise and excitement at his unexpected visit, however, had quickly turned to wariness. Her father had never shown much interest in her before, so there had to be a catch. If he was in Edinburgh, it had to be for something important. And she had never been important.

  Until now.

  She’d been shocked but enormously pleased by his request. Her father had sought out her help! She’d been so thrilled by the prospect of his approaching her with such an important mission that she had jumped at the opportunity to help without much considering the particulars of her task.

  It was not the first time Isabel’s eagerness to impress her family had landed her into tricky situations—Bessie could attest to that. But even now, she could not regret her decision. Already her brothers were more relaxed around her, even going so far as to tease her about some silly nickname at court. Her father, too, seemed different. He actually looked at her for longer than a moment.

  Unfortunately, he was not the only one.

  The back of her neck prickled with awareness. Her uncle was watching her. Again. Since leaving Dunscaith Castle a few days ago, Isabel had often felt her uncle’s heavy stare boring into her back. He unnerved her. Whenever she turned, he was there, watching her with those hard, unblinking eyes.

  She’d tried to pretend that she didn’t notice, but his oppressive presence made it impossible. She couldn’t stand the constant staring any longer. Willing herself not to be intimidated, Isabel turned to face him.

  “How much longer, Uncle?” she asked, hearing the slight tremble in her voice. Her uncle, the MacDonald of Sleat, hadn’t missed it, either.

  He frowned and crossed his thick arms forbiddingly across his chest. A ruddy freckled countenance and graying red hair that receded determinedly from a high broad forehead gave him an older appearance than was suggested by his six and thirty years. Isabel could not help focusing on the center of his face, where one too many drams had left his tremendous nose bright red and bulbous. Overall, he presented quite an imposing figure. Sleat was a great bear of a man, his large frame heavily padded with thick muscle and blanketed with a generous layer of dark red hair. Her nose wrinkled with distaste as his strong scent floated toward her. He even reeked.

  Her eyes flickered over his heavy features, searching for a connection. It was so difficult to believe he was related to her mother. Isabel had been told that except for their like coloring, her late mother, Janet, was the very antithesis of her much younger brother. Whereas Janet had been a willowy, delicate beauty, brutish Donald Gorm Mor was far from a handsome man.

  He was, however, a powerful one. And her clan desperately needed that power if it were to have any chance of survival.

  Uncomfortable under her uncle’s heavy stare, Isabel waited, trying not to fidget, for his response. She looked to her father, but he seemed just as annoyed by her show of nerves as her uncle. She would get no relief in that direction. Her father needed her uncle, and her uncle needed Isabel.

  His next words reminded her of that fact. “Do not disappoint me, daughter.”

  Her chest twisted. That had always been the problem.

  “I thought you were made of sterner stuff, little niece,” Sleat added. “Yet here we are not yet in sight of the castle and you quiver like a scolded bairn. Make yourself ready.”

  Isabel knew what he was trying to do—shame her into being brave—but it wasn’t working. She knew what she was up against. Only a fool wouldn’t be nervous, even if only a wee bit.

  “Look, my lady, there it is now,” one of the clansmen whispered softly, momentarily dropping an oar and pointing across the loch before them.

  Isabel forced herself to follow the direction of his finger. Slowly, she lifted her gaze to the castle that was to be her new home—or, if she was caught, her dungeon.

  It wasn’t so bad, she tried to convince herself. There was nothing outwardly sinister about Dunvegan Castle, unless one considered imposing stone walls that seemed to reach clear to the menacing heavens. Perched high on the steep rocky c
liffs of the seashore, long, angled curtain walls hugged the edge of the bluff, connecting a tall square keep on the left with a smaller turreted tower on the right. And if the structure weren’t forbidding enough, the smaller tower appeared to be adorned with gargoyles.

  It was a bleak fortification built solely for the purpose of defense that bid no welcome. The castle seemed invulnerable to an attack or, more important, to a rescue. Once she entered, there was no going back.

  For a moment, Isabel imagined she heard the sound of fairies laughing through the wind as the birlinn glided toward the rocks at the foot of the sea-gate stairs. She’d heard tales of the mystical creatures who lived in the forests about the castle, and it was even rumored that the MacLeods had fairy blood. She usually dismissed such stories as the superstitious meanderings of old folk—believers in the old ways. But on a ghostly night like this, the idea did not seem quite so far-fetched.

  Shaking off her fanciful imagination, she told herself it was probably just the haunting tones of the pipers bearing her greeting to Dunvegan.

  But even so, she closed her eyes and said a quick prayer for strength.

  It never hurt to be safe.

  She drew her cloak protectively around her shoulders. The wispy hairs on her arms were sticking straight up. Every instinct clamored against this course of action, but she had no choice. The survival of her clan rested on her shoulders. Or, perhaps more accurately, on her face.

  Isabel frowned. She might have been chosen by her uncle for her beauty, but she would succeed by her wits and raw determination. She’d always considered her face a nuisance. It had not helped her win the respect of her father and brothers in the past, but maybe now it would prove valuable in that regard. If she could use her charms to disarm, to entice, to seduce, to blind her husband from seeing her true purpose, then it would all be worth it.

  Isabel sat up a little straighter on the hard wooden bench. This was her chance to prove herself. She had to take it. She forced her chin up and took a deep breath.