by Reece Butler
Highland Menage 1
Captive Bride
Gillis MacDougal, cursing at being captured and tossed into his enemy's prison pit, has a newly captured lad dropped on him. Though he can't escape, he will ensure the boy is freed. He then discovers the lad has wit, determination…and breasts.
Feisty tomboy Fiona, bastard daughter of Laird Menzies, knows what her captors will do when they discover she's not the heir worth gold. The stranger sharing her dark prison arouses her for the first time in her life. With nothing to lose, she begs him to ensure she does not die a virgin.
Fiona helps Gillis escape and they meet with his brother Angus. As they have nothing, they'd wanted to find a wealthy wife, but fall for the penniless, sensual wildcat full of determination and spirit. Gillis handfasts with Fiona to bind her to them before arriving at Inverlochy Castle. Laird Cameron, however, has other ideas as to who should marry the attractive young woman…
Genre: Historical, Ménage a Trois/Quatre
Length: 38,896 words
CAPTIVE BRIDE
Highland Menage 1
Reece Butler
MENAGE EVERLASTING
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
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A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK
IMPRINT: Ménage Everlasting
CAPTIVE BRIDE
Copyright © 2015 by Reece Butler
E-book ISBN: 978-1-63259-277-4
First E-book Publication: April 2015
Cover design by Les Byerley
All art and logo copyright © 2015 by Siren Publishing, Inc.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
PUBLISHER
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
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DEDICATION
Thank you to all those who have enjoyed my work. Your feedback and encouragement makes it a pleasure to research and create these cowboy and Highlander worlds.
A special thank you goes to those who kindly answered my many questions during my autumn 2014 research trip to Highland Scotland. Of course I visited Dunollie Castle (Dùn Ollaigh) in Oban, seat of Clan MacDougall since the 12th century. I was delighted to meet the future Laird MacDougall of MacDougall and Dunollie.
Any errors to historical figures, dates, events and such appearing in this series are mine.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
About the Author
CAPTIVE BRIDE
Highland Menage 1
REECE BUTLER
Copyright © 2015
Chapter One
“Grab the wee bastard!”
Fiona gave a boyish cry and kicked her horse with her heels. Heart pounding as fast as the hooves beneath her, she led the hounds of hell away from her half brother, the Menzies heir. She raced toward the enemy castle as if lost, hoping they’d believe the terrified heir might do the same.
She would have never been so stupid.
Her life’s purpose was as a decoy to protect Patrick of Menzies, hiding in a copse of trees. Her disguise had worked, and she had now fulfilled her duty to her sire. She wished for a quick, clean death, perhaps a broken neck falling from this very horse. Once the Campbells discovered she was not the heir, but rather a worthless female, they would do to her what men have done to captive women since time began.
So much for her dreams of arousing kisses by a handsome man.
Her horse stumbled. She tumbled off, landing and rolling as she’d been taught. She scrambled to her feet, breathless and bruised but ready to fight. Three big, dirty men surrounded her, grinning at their good fortune. She’d sworn not to cry and would not show her fear. She pulled her dirk and set her feet. They laughed, of course.
The oldest of the three dismounted. He held out his hand, palm up, and wiggled his fingers. “Give it up, laddie. ‘Twill go easier for ye if ye cooperate.”
She glared up at him through her tangled, dirty hair. Patrick would stay hidden until the Menzies guards found him. They’d return him to the castle where their father would thrash him for escaping his guards. No one would look for the bastard daughter. She was dead to them, as she hoped to be in reality before becoming entertainment for these three.
Pain and shame were inevitable, but she could choose how she faced them. She was not one to cower and beg. Though her mouth was dry, she managed to spit at the leader’s feet.
“It’s like that, is it?” He gave an amused snort. “Well, laddie, ‘tis the pit for ye now.”
* * * *
“Dinna touch me, ye dirty swine!”
The high-pitched demand jerked Gillis MacDougal out of the half sleep that had filled the hours of endless dark. He crawled to his feet, inhaling a hiss at the reminder of bruised ribs.
“Walk or be dragged, laddie. ‘Tis nay matter to me.”
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Gillis recognized the brutal voice. He wouldn’t forget those iron fists for some time.
“I am the heir, nay some laddie!”
Gillis grimaced. Heir or not, insulting your captors was not smart. He wasn’t surprised at the thud quickly followed by a gasp of pain. He hadn’t recovered from his own beating, and he was a man grown. Cold, damp, dark, and lack of food and water sapped a man’s strength.
He stood beneath the hole, blinking at the unaccustomed torchlight. A head, shown in shadow, leaned over.
“Ye still alive down there?”
“Aye, as ye can see,” he replied, sounding as forceful as possible.
“Yer clan?”
“Not yer business.”
“The laird will be back on the morrow. He’ll make ye talk.”
“Aye,” added another. “He has a fine touch with the cat.”
Gillis winced at the news. Being flayed by a cat-o’-nine-tails would be just the beginning. When they discovered he was a MacDougal they’d toss him back in the pit, shut the stone lid, and forget him. Though once powerful his clan had little coin or land and too many sons with bellies to feed. He needed to escape tonight, either by himself or with the help of his brother, who remained free.
“Get in the hole,” ordered the leader.
“Me father’ll nay pay a groat for me corpse!”
Gillis silently applauded the shrill voice. Instead of the arrogance of a moment ago he heard equal fear and bravado. Was this the lad’s true nature?
“Och, laddie, ye’ll nay die afore the morrow.”
“You in the pit! Dinna hurt the lad or ye’ll die slow. He’s worth gold.”
Gillis reached up to catch the boy, so he wouldn’t land on the stone floor. He grunted as a sharp elbow smashed his bruised chest. The toe of a boot barely missed one of his most tender parts, not that he’d have much chance to use it again unless he could escape. The lad scrambled out of his grasp as soon as his feet touched down.
“Sleep well!”
Coarse laughter followed the comment as they trooped out, leaving the trap open, thank God. The silence that had surrounded him, broken only by the rustle of vermin, was no longer absolute. The boy panted shallowly rather than breathing deep. Had they bruised his ribs as well?
“Who are ye that ye are worth gold to the Campbells?” he asked.
“Ye tell me first.”
Scared the boy may be, but he was doing his best not to show it. He had to come from nearby, unless the Campbells had slaughtered his escort.
“I willna ask yer clan, but are ye a Macintosh or Macpherson?”
“Nay.”
That was good. Though the two clans were not MacDougal rivals, they were of his foster father, Laird Cameron of Lochiel. Gillis and his older brother, Angus, were to attend Darach Cameron’s wedding, representing the MacDougals. If Gillis couldn’t escape this pit, Angus would be attending his funeral instead.
“Is yer clan allied with the Campbells?” asked Gillis. There was no quick answer this time. He waited while feet shuffled.
“If my father had been their ally, capturing the heir might change his thoughts, aye?”
The words and their phrasing showed education and maturity. It did not match the arrogant lad who’d insulted the Campbells and got swatted for it. The lad was a puzzle and Gillis had nothing else to do except doze and wish the morning would not bring torture and death.
“We have a common enemy, young friend. I be Gillis.”
The boy coughed and fidgeted. Gillis had six younger brothers. He could tell when a lad was deciding how to adjust the truth to suit the situation. He’d done it often enough.
“Call me Patrick.”
An interesting choice of words as it said nothing but his choice of name.
“Dinna fear the dark, Patrick. Ye’ll nay be here long.”
The boy gave a very adult snort of amusement. “Sitting in the dark is safer than facing a brute with a temper and a whip.”
“He’ll nay touch ye if ye’ll bring gold. Unlike me,” added Gillis ruefully.
“Nay?”
Gillis snorted sarcastically, wincing at the bruised ribs.
“A wee while back Robert the Bruce helped Campbells steal our land,” he said. “I’ll nay ask my laird to take food from my many brothers to save my hide.” He grimaced. “If I am here on the morrow, I die. So, we must escape tonight.”
“We? Ye’ll take me with ye?” The eager voice trembled.
“Ach, laddie, I’d nay leave an adder with these murderous bastards. If ye can keep up with my running we’ll take ye along. My brother is outside, lookin’ fer a way in.”
“I can run like the wind if the Campbell hounds are behind me.”
It was Gillis’s turn to shuffle his feet and fidget. He’d been there two days by his count, and his only plan for escape depended on his brother. Unfortunately, there was one brother and a castle full of Glenorchy Campbells.
“There’s one wee problem,” he admitted. “We’re at the bottom of this deep pit.”
Silence descended again. Small feet shuffled in the muck.
“‘Tis nay that deep.”
He barked a laugh. “Can ye fly, wee Patrick?”
“Nay, but ye can lift me, aye?”
The voice trembled with the hesitant question. Yes, Gillis would gladly help the boy escape even if it brought himself an even more painful death. Finding the rich prize gone, they would take their fury out on him. He’d rather not die, but if he saved the boy at least his death would have a purpose. The lad was small enough to slip through the dark hall and escape. If the lad lived to become heir he would owe his life to the MacDougals. Gillis took a deep breath and sealed his fate.
“Aye, I can help ye clamber out,” he said. “But a wee laddie such as yerself canna lift me. If ye get past the walls know that my brother, Angus, is in the woods. Tell him I vowed to care for ye and to bring ye to yer family. He’ll bring home what’s left of me after the Campbells take their vengeance.”
“I’d nay leave ye behind to be tortured!”
Gillis gave a wry chuckle at the lad’s snarl. If Patrick lived, and Gillis would do everything he could to make that happen, one day he’d be a good laird. The lad had good intentions, but Gillis was a realist. One small boy could not lift a man his size.
“Thank ye. But there’s nothing we can do until the eve, when the Campbells will drink themselves under the tables. When the laird’s away, the lads will play.”
Patrick grunted, obviously familiar with such things.
“Are ye chilled? We could share heat as we wait.” The boy didn’t answer what should be a simple question. “I’ll nay harm ye, lad,” he added. “My bond brother will keep my vow, if I canna.”
“Bond brother?”
“Sit, and I’ll tell ye the tale.”
“Aye,” Patrick finally replied. “This damp cold has a bite.”
Gillis settled on the thin pallet, his back against the cold stone wall and feet straight out. He guided the shuffling boy to sit on his thighs. The lad was shivering. He brushed his hand against the boy’s forehead, finding it hot.
“Be ye sick, Patrick?”
“Mayhaps a chill. But I’ll nay slow ye down!”
“Och, laddie, ye weigh so little Angus could carry ye all night. I’d do the same, but a few days of Campbell hospitality saps a man’s strength.”
Gillis wrapped his arms loosely around the boy. Gradually Patrick relaxed until his back leaned against Gillis’ chest. Had he gotten so used to the stench of the pit that someone who did not stink, smelled so good? It must be that the laird’s son used herbed soap, one of the many luxuries the MacDougals went without. Food was far more important.
“Few daughters are born to our clan, but the seed is potent for sons,” said Gillis. “Long ago, when we had wealth and power, there were few lassies to marry the many sons. So brothers who were close in age, and balanced in ability, bonded as one, and shared a wife.”
“Aye. ‘T’would only happen if the woman wished it, of course. It takes a strong-willed woman to do so,” he added. “It’s nay been that way for a wee while, as there were maybe six sons each generation. Then my fool of father, wishing for an army of warrior sons to take back what the clan had lost after Robert the Bruce, fathered sixteen of us, half of them bastards.”
He scowled in the dark. His father had made sure they had good instruction on fighting and strategy but cared little for other education. Living with the Camerons had opened his eyes to so much as well as ensuring he and Angus neither starved nor froze to death. Their brothers in Duncladach had come close to both a few years.
“What of the church, and of sin?”
“Only one man’s name gets written down as husband. The church says ‘tis better to marry than to burn and our ancestors weren’t struck by lightning. That means God approves, aye?”
“Are ye married?”
“None of us have found the right lass as yet. Mind ye, ‘tis a wee bit hard when ye are surrounded by fourteen brothers also wanting a lass with a good dowry.”
That was why he and Angus were eager to attend Darach’s wedding. They hoped to find a well-dowered spinster desperate for a husband who’d bring gold to Duncladach Castle. He would not be finding such a wife at the bottom of this pit. There was still a chance for Angus, though. His older brother was much quieter, and intense. Angus thought before he acted. That was why he was free and Gillis was not.
Patrick relaxed against him once more. The boy’s warmth and scent soothed him. It must be because he’d spent too many hours alone in the dark.
