MacGregor's Daughter_A Scottish Historical Romance

by Gwyn Brodie

  Lyall drew back the branches and looked out at the ongoing battle.

  Ceana peered through the leaves, trying to catch a glimpse of Alex. At first, she had trouble locating him among the others, then she saw him, still astride Jet, his targe in one hand and his broadsword in the other. He took down a Campbell guard, and she watched in horror as another raced up behind him. Look behind you! Alex swung Jet around, blocking the guard's deadly blow with his targe, before drawing his blade across the man's throat.

  "Damn him to hell!" the Campbell chief growled. "The whoreson's killed my warlord."

  She could no longer bear to watch. It was she who had brought this trouble down upon Alex and his people, Ceana buried her face in her hands and wept. Then she realized the fighting had ceased. "What's happened?"

  He snorted. "Your lover lies dead."

  His words sliced through Ceana's heart as potently as an enemy blade, taking away her ability to breathe. Clutching at her throat, she gasped for air, forcing herself to look across the battlefield. She had to know if what Lyall Campbell said was the truth.

  Alex lay face up in the snow, with blood from a gash to his forehead running down his face and onto the frozen red-stained ground. Drostan and Leith had come to his aid and now knelt beside him. Her chest tightened, and tears spilled down her face. How could she live without Alex? Had she just found him, only to have him taken away?

  A man soaked in blood lay next to Alex, along with several other Campbells, some of which had been struck by arrows. Others were being taken prisoner by the MacPherson guards. With a heavy heart, she switched her gaze back to Alex. His left leg twitched ever so slightly, and her heart slammed against her chest. Had she only imagined he had moved because she so much wanted him to be alive? Then it happened again, and hope wrapped its warm arms around her. She had no idea how badly he had been injured, but at least for now, he was alive.

  Lyall reached for Cree's reins.

  The stallion's eyes widened, then he snorted, and backed away, keeping a wary eye on his former owner. Why did he not simply return to the stables? A sudden thought struck her. She was the reason he stayed. For Cree, more than most knew the sort of man holding her captive, and he bore the marks to prove it.

  Lyall growled. "When I move toward him, you grab his reins. If you try anything, I'll slit the ornery devil's throat with my broadsword and leave him here to bleed out. Do you hear me?"

  Ceana nodded. She had no doubt he would follow through with his threat. "Stay calm, Cree." She took hold of the horse's reins, whilst Lyall kept a tight grip on her waist, which gave her no chance of her getting onto the horse's back and escaping.

  He grabbed the reins from her and secured them to her father's saddle, then they headed deeper into the wood, and farther and farther away from the man she loved.

  She prayed someone would come for her, and she believed Drostan would, even if Alex could not. Though Drostan was a close friend of Alex, he had become a good friend to her, as well, in the time she had been at Blackstone. But for now, she was on her own, and it was up to her to find a way out of her predicament. She had to stay alert to any and every opportunity which might allow her a chance to escape. "What do you intend to do with me?"

  He chuckled, then ran his wet tongue up the side of her face.

  She shivered with disgust and scrubbed at her cheek with the back of her glove.

  "That depends."

  "Depends on what?"

  "Whether or not I enjoy bedding you." He dug his fingers into her thigh until it ached.

  Her attempts to remove his hand proved futile, and she clenched her teeth to keep from crying out.

  "And I'm certain I will," he declared, his voice much deeper.

  The thought of being bedded by the deplorable bastard who had murdered her parents was unthinkable. She would rather be dead.

  Chapter Twelve

  "Alex, can you hear me?" Drostan's voice seemed strangely distant.

  'Tis so dark.

  "Alex, wake up," Drostan demanded, shaking him.

  Ceana! He gasped, then light suddenly exploded before his eyes and he blinked.

  Drostan sighed with relief. "Thank the saints, you're alive, but blood's running down your face from a gash to your forehead, and judging from the amount of stained snow, you've lost quite a bit. We must get you to the healer immediately."

  Alex moaned, touched his head and winced. "Lyall Campbell has Ceana," he groaned, forcing himself to sit up, even though the pain in his head was nigh unbearable. He had to find her before Campbell did the unthinkable. "Help me to my feet."

  Drostan and Leith helped him to stand. "I have to go after her before it's too late."

  "You're in no shape to ride," Drostan declared. "Return to the castle with Leith. I'll find her. I promise I will."

  "I'm going, Drostan. She means everything to me." It was his fault. He should have been paying closer attention to where she was during the battle. She was there to his left, then all of a sudden Campbell had her, and was heading into the wood. Alex turned to go after them, but the Campbells kept coming at him, and he kept fighting. The sun flashing off an enemy broadsword was the last thing he remembered.

  Blood ran into his right eye, blurring his vision. He wiped it away with his cloak, only to have it blur again. "We're wasting time. I'm going after Ceana." He reached for Jet's reins.

  "You're losing blood—fast. At least allow the healer to stop the bleeding beforehand, or else, you're going to bleed-out. You'll be of no use to Ceana, if that happens."

  Alex blew out a long breath. "Very well," he said, and reluctantly followed Drostan into the castle, where the healer was already there tending to the wounded.

  She took a powder from her basket, sprinkled it liberally into his cut, and applied pressure.

  Art hurried toward them. "Where's Ceana?" he asked, concern for his niece clear in his voice.

  "Lyall Campbell has taken her, but I mean to get her back, just as soon as I leave here."

  "I'm going with you."

  "Art, I ken you're concerned, but I wish you to remain here, and help with the wounded and prisoners."

  He straightened. "I was a fair warrior in my day, and I've not forgotten how to be one."

  Alex could see he was a proud man. "I'm certain you were, and all the more reason I need you here."

  Art sighed. "Very well. Please find Ceana."

  Alex raised a brow. "I intend to."

  Soon, the bleeding began to slow, then stopped altogether. "Ye're in need of stitches, m'laird."

  Alex got to his feet. "Much thanks for stopping the bleeding, but stitches will have to wait. Willie?"

  "Aye, laird?"

  "Take forty guards and make certain there are no other Campbells lurking about on MacPherson lands. The ones who attacked us may have been part of a larger group. If you come across any others, bring them back here and wait for my return. And find out what the hell happened to the guards I had patrolling the castle perimeter."

  With a nod, the guard hurried off to carry out his orders.

  "Leith, fetch the dogs. They'll ken where to find their mistress."

  Leith whistled and the two wolfhounds came running from their favorite resting place beneath the high table.

  The horses had been brought into the bailey, and once they were mounted, the portcullis was raised, and they rode into the wood, following the tracks left in the snow by Cree and Campbell's horse. But once they were inside the thick pine forest, it was at times hard to tell in which direction he had taken her.

  The dogs whimpered, as they ran here and there with their noses to the ground.

  Alex kept a close watch on the animals. "They dinnae need to rely on sight, as we do. They're searching for her scent. And once they find it, they'll be off after her."

  It was Ross who picked up the trail first, and he headed out of the wood and across the open moor, with Duff close on his heels. "Thank the saints!" Alex said, riding after the wolfhounds, hoping it
was not a deer or wolf they were after. As they followed the animals, he prayed Ceana had not been harmed, for she had become as important to him as the very air he breathed. And if she had been? Lyall Campbell would regret the day he was born.

  AS LYALL CAMPBELL TOOK Ceana farther and farther away from Blackstone and the man she loved, she prayed she would see Alex again. She closed her eyes, imagining herself once again happy, safe and warm inside Blackstone with Alex, his arms wrapped around her, his breath warm against her cheek.

  Lyall squeezed her breast, instantly bringing her back to her present predicament.

  She knocked his hand away. "Dinnae touch me." She had been telling him the same thing over and over during the entire ride, to no avail.

  He chuckled. "You're a fiery lass, and a beauty as well. You'll make excellent bedsport. I'm taking you back to Kilchurn Castle. If you please me well, I might consider allowing you to live for a time."

  Anger, rage, hate, loathing, and disgust were only a few of the emotions that washed over Ceana. If he did somehow manage to get her into his bed, she would kill him whilst he slept.

  For the second time in less than an hour, her father's horse, Vala, stumbled, and he appeared to be having difficulty breathing. He was not a young stallion, and as far as she knew, had never carried more than one rider at a time. If he was not allowed to rest, he would perish, and her father had cared for him a great deal.

  "Get going, mangy cur," Lyall growled, slapping the end of the reins against the stallion's side.

  The horse jerked his head up, but his gait remained the same.

  "If you dinnae allow him to rest, you'll have no horse at all."

  "Useless piece of horseflesh," he muttered, then brought the horse to a halt. He dismounted and led him beneath the thick overhanging pine limbs.

  She slid off of Vala, and gently rubbed his velvety nose. His breathing was labored and the pulse in his neck hammered beneath her hand. Her father had always made certain his animals were well treated and taught Ceana to do the same. "This horse is done for today. He will need a great deal of rest before making any sort of journey, long or short."

  "Damn the whoreson! If what you say is true, then we've no choice, but to ride that devil," he said, narrowing his eyes at Cree. "He's never carried double whilst I've owned him."

  She went to check on the stallion, who whinnied softly and nuzzled her cheek. Ceana thought about running, but there was nowhere to run. Only wide-open fields lay before her, and a murderous scoundrel at her back. He would be upon before she made it ten feet. She closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around Cree's neck.

  Lyall snorted. "You've ruined the bastard. When I had him he was a warhorse, not a damn child's pet, and he will be again if I have to beat it back into him."

  Anger heated Ceana's frozen cheeks. "Dinnae you touch a hair on this horse," she shrieked. "As for beating him, you've already done that," she spat, pointing to the marks he'd left on him. "You should be hanged for treating a poor animal in such a manner."

  He chuckled. "I like a woman with spirit. You heat my blood," he said, reaching for her.

  Ceana ran, and as she had feared, he quickly caught up to her and yanked her against him. She tried to free herself, but he pinned her arms at her side and held her so tightly she could barely breathe. "Turn me loose," she managed to squeak.

  Ignoring her plea, he tried to kiss her.

  She turned her head, but he still managed to get his mouth on hers, bruising her lips and triggering a wave of nausea. Freeing her arms, she slammed her fists against his chest and sent him stumbling backwards. She spat several times, then rubbed her mouth on her cloak until her lips burned.

  He snickered. "You'll get used to that, and a lot more, before I'm finished with you." He glanced up at the sky. "We've wasted enough time here," he said, removing his pack and weapons from Vala's saddle, and securing them to Cree's, while the stallion snorted and showed the whites of his eyes. "Mind your way, black devil, or I'll be taking the flat side of my broadsword to you."

  Ceana gently patted the stallion's neck. "Dinnae fash, Cree. 'Tis only me," she said calming him, in hopes of keeping Lyall from striking him.

  He whinnied and laid his head on her shoulder.

  Lyall spat. "You've turned him into a damn dog," he said, angrily grabbing her around the waist, and tossing her into the saddle. He barely escaped Cree's snapping teeth, as he retrieved his reins from the other saddle. "Cantankerous bastard!" he growled at the horse.

  She leaned over and patted his neck. "He's a fine horse if treated well."

  With the reins in his hand, he mounted behind her.

  Ceana looked over at her father's stallion. "Surely you're not leaving Vala here to die?"

  "Hold your tongue, wench!" he said, then kicked Cree hard, causing the stallion to leap forward, before pointing him down the hill.

  Never had she understood such cruelty, but then again, a man who would slice open a woman's throat without giving it a second thought would do anything. She would do well to remember that disturbing fact. She prayed for Vala's safety, for they had come across wolf tracks several times.

  As they rode along, Ceana tried to think of a way to escape, while one of Lyall's hands gripped her tightly about the waist, the other held the reins, and touched her breasts or thighs whenever the mood struck him. Thankfully, her cloak was indeed thick. She had long ago lost count of how many times she had knocked his offensive hand away

  He ground himself against her hips and brushed his lips across her cheek. If there had been any food left on her stomach, she would have surely lost it then and there.

  "Had the weather been more fitting, I'd have had my way with you back there under that pine, but I dinnae fancy the cold snow beneath my plaid."

  She grimaced, praying she would be far away—or have killed him—before such an opportunity ever presented itself. Wisps of silvery grey smoke slowly trailed upward into the afternoon sky. In the glen, sat a small cottage, its thatched roof covered with snow. Ceana's cheeks, nose, and lips were numb from the bitter cold, and she feared her hands and feet had suffered from being out in the freezing weather for so long. She hoped they would stop there long enough for her to warm herself—especially her feet—but she also feared for whoever lived there. After all, Lyall Campbell was a ruthless and unpredictable man.

  As they rode up to the small dwelling, the mouthwatering aroma of freshly baked bread caused her stomach to growl.

  A young man, perhaps a few years older than herself, opened the cottage door and peered out. "Aye?"

  "I wondered if you might have a bite to eat for myself and the lass. It's been some time since we've eaten."

  Surprisingly, Lyall sounded almost human, but in truth, he was a deadly snake lying in wait, ready to strike at any moment without warning.

  The young man studied them, then nodded. "I'm Osgar MacPherson. Please come inside and warm yer'selves."

  Lyall frowned. "We're still on MacPherson lands?"

  Osgar nodded. "Aye. Laird MacPherson's lands are vast. In fact, they reach to the sea."

  The Campbell chief seemed none too pleased to find out the land they were on belonged to Alex.

  She entered the cottage first and was immediately wrapped in its cozy warmth, and the delicious aroma of bread.

  An attractive young woman stood near the fire, holding a wee bairn in her arms. She smiled shyly at Ceana, before placing the sleeping child into its cradle, and tucking it beneath the covers.

  "Give them what food we have, Bridget."

  His wife's eyes widened, but she said naught, as she placed bread and cheese on the worn table. "Give me yer cloak and I'll hang it near the fire to dry," she told Ceana.

  "Much thanks, Bridget," she said, handing her the snow-covered wrap. Though she was hungry, she ate sparingly, knowing it was most likely all they had for themselves, but that did not deter Lyall Campbell. He ate his fill—and more. Ceana tried to think of a way to escape, but she was afraid of
what he might do to the couple and their bairn, if she said anything about being held against her will.

  "Have you any whisky?" he asked of the man.

  "Nay, but I've some heather ale," he offered, retrieving a small crock from a shelf in the corner and handing it to Lyall.

  The chief drained its contents in a few gulps and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. Then his lustful gaze traveled over Ceana, settling first on her face, then her chest.

  Fear crawled up her back like the longs legs of a spider.

  He suddenly shoved away from the table and stood. "I've a mind to make use of your bed," he told the couple, his gaze never leaving hers.

  Invisible hands clutched at her throat, and her breath hung in her chest. The sliver of cheese fell from her hand, as she jumped up from her seat, and began to slowly back toward the door, shaking her head. "Nay. Leave me be."

  The young man looked confused. "Is something amiss?"

  "I'm not his wife. He's keeping me prisoner."

  Lyall smiled if the turn of his mouth could be called a smile. "The lass is lying. She's but angry because her da sold her to me. We've been wed for over a fortnight, and she refuses to consummate the marriage, which is my given right as her husband."

  "Nay, he's the one who lies." She swung around and yanked open the door, but he kicked it shut before she could get outside.

  "Dinnae try to run again," he ordered.

  She looked about for a weapon, but saw naught, except for the crock—if she could reach it. She had to do something, or else suffer rape, and likely death, at the hands of a madman. "He kidnapped me after his men nigh killed Laird MacPherson, whom I am to wed," she said angrily, edging her way around the table.

  Lyall chuckled. "There's no nigh about it. The bastard is dead."

  Bridget gasped.

  "Ye killed the laird?" Osgar asked in disbelief. "He's a good and fine man. He gave Bridget and myself this cottage when we wed."

  Ceana shook her head. "Nay, he's not dead, for I saw him move—more than once." The crock was almost within her reach.

  Lyall frowned. "You're a liar."