A Highlander's Captive

by Aileen Adams

  A Highlander’s Captive

  Highland Temptations

  Aileen Adams

  Contents

  A Highlander’s Captive

  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

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  A Highlander’s Captive

  Book One of the Highland Temptations Series!

  Captivity was only the beginning…

  Rufus MacIntosh wants his family’s birthright back. He’s fought wars and his own personal demons. Time to claim what is his family’s. More specifically, his brother’s. And so, bringing friends and allies, he takes back what is his family’s. The lands are theirs again. Except now, Rufus discovers his brother has abandoned the birthright, the land, all of this. He’s headed to new lands and new worlds.

  Rufus should be relieved, he’s no longer responsible for any of it. He can walk away from their ancestral lands. He’s not sure if he wants to.

  Davina MacFarland never claimed she was an angel. She certainly isn’t a common thief, even though she’s related to one, now that her brother took Rufus McIntosh’s lands. She shouldn’t have been involved. She really shouldn’t. But now there’s been a scuffle and she’s the captive of that damned Rufus MacIntosh. But she can hold her own. Or can she?

  1

  For hundreds of years, much longer than the man in the red and green tartan had been alive, the MacIntosh Clan made their home along the banks of Moray Firth. Men had been born, lived, and died there. They’d wed their women, sired their bairns, fought and laughed and even wept when the occasion called for it.

  When it was time to war, the men went without questioning the reason for it, and were brave and true to their clan and its chiefs. They fought large and small wars, wars against the crown and wars against opposing clans. No one could state with complete certainty when and where the ancient feud with the Cameron Clan had begun, truth be told, but that had been put to rest after more than three hundred years. Hundreds of years in which men had fought and died for the glory of their clan, all because their ancestors had done the same.

  The man in the red and green tartan sat astride a chestnut gelding outside the tavern in Perth. A tavern which he knew held the men he was looking for. He hadn’t seen them since they’d parted ways after the disaster that was Culloden and had leapt at the chance to join up with them again when his friend William Blackheath had suggested them for this mission.

  Good men, fearsome warriors. But then so many had been fearsome, had they not? Perhaps it was merely luck or fate which had spared him, and these men recommended by William when others were long since dead and gone.

  Not a part of his life he enjoyed looking back on. No man wanted to be on the losing side of a war. But the war was over—at least, the war between the Jacobites and the loyalists.

  His war had begun more recently, while he fought on the side of Bonnie Prince Charlie. When in the course of a single night, his family’s fortune had turned upside-down, and with no way to protect those he loved—and that which his family had devoted centuries—to without being branded a deserter.

  Men had deserted, those who’d concluded that there would be no winning. They had not been treated well.

  The row of horses and carts tied in front of the tavern in the center of Perth would have been enough to tell him how crowded it was inside without the sounds of so many male voices raised in what could only be a fight. He heaved a put-upon sigh before striding through the door.

  He immediately stepped aside as a man with a bloodied nose soared past, out into a puddle of sludge which Rufus MacIntosh had been fortunate enough to avoid. He cringed when gray water splashed out in all directions.

  Not much had changed since his last visit.

  “Come on, then!” a booming voice cried.

  Rufus looked across the large, packed room in time to see his cousin Drew waving the next challenger his way. One of his eyes had already swollen shut and his lower lip dripped blood onto his chin. The knuckles of his raised fist were bruised and stained with yet more blood—though Rufus suspected it was not his own.

  He jerked his chin upward, tossing back his head and the sweat-soaked dark hair hanging over his forehead. He’d fought more than his share already that day, it seemed.

  A man built roughly like a tree stood before Drew, his kin cheering him on from behind. Tall enough that he’d likely needed to duck when entering the tavern, and as wide as two men standing shoulder-to-shoulder, his bald head nearly touched the lanterns hanging from the ceiling. Drew was only half the man’s size and had likely drunk his weight in ale, yet he did not back down. It wasn’t in his nature.

  In fact, he urged the much larger opponent to come at him. “I haven’t all day, man!” he jeered, waving the giant on again.

  The giant charged, roaring as he did, and a cheer went up over the swaying, laughing, wagering men standing in a ring around them.

  The giant threw his arms out to the sides, intending to grab Drew up in a bear hug, but the smaller, quicker man ducked him. He then leaped straight up, throwing an arm around the giant’s thick neck and landing a series of sharp, stinging jabs to the side of his opponent’s head.

  The giant threw himself back against the wall in hopes of crushing Drew, drawing an outraged scream from old Brodric. “Och, dinna break my walls! I’ll take the mortar outta yer bones!”

  Drew held on, which was not a surprise to Rufus. His cousin had been a scrapper from birth, moments from death when he slid from his mother’s womb and into the world. As legend had it, Isla MacIntosh had reached for the slick babe between her legs, held her bairn upside down by his ankles and tapped his back until a hunk of mucus had flown out, and he’d taken his first breath before squalling his lungs out.

  He’d been fighting ever since.

  Drew locked his arms around that thick neck, squeezing until the giant’s face turned red—then, a shade of violet. He dropped to his knees, beating at the arms cutting off his air, but Rufus knew what the giant didn’t.

  He’d been at the receiving end of his cousin’s ministrations enough times to know there was no making Drew quit. Not until he was good and satisfied.

  When the man’s eyes slid shut, and he fell forward like a tree falling before the ax, a mighty cheer went up over those in the tavern who’d wagered on Drew MacIntosh’s unflagging determination. Only a fool would wager against him.

  “That’s enough, that’s enough!” Brodric shouted. “Ye have made enough of a wreck of the place for one day, Drew, and ye know it.”

  Drew stumbled to his feet, a smile stretching from ear to ear. “Ye know I’ll give ye some of my winnings, man. Quit making such a fuss. Ye remind me of my mam.”

  “Your mam woulda been smart to knock yer head against a wall twice a day to force some sense into ye.” Brodric handed Drew a mug nearly overflowing with ale.

  “She did. How do ye think I am the way I am?” Drew drank deeply, emptying the mug before dragging the back of his arm across his mouth.

  Rufus clapped his co
usin’s shoulder. “I should have known I’d find ye breaking the place up when I arrived.”

  “Och, what took ye so long, then?” Drew asked, looking him up and down. “I thought ye forgot where to find this run-down pit.”

  “A run-down pit ye all but live in,” Brodric grumbled. “Tis good enough for ye nearly every day of the week.”

  “Aye, and the thirsty men who hang about the place to watch me make a fool of myself work up a terrible thirst, do they not?” Drew slammed the mug into Brodric’s waiting hand and turned his full attention to Rufus. “So. Are ye ready to be on about your business, then?”

  “Aye. Have ye gathered the men William recommended for the job?”

  William Blackheath, commander of the guard of a great Highland laird, was unable to shirk his duties in order to assist his friend, even when the stakes were so high, but he had suggested men he was certain would provide Rufus the skill and strength he would need on his side.

  “Aye. Ye just watched one of them fight.” Drew jerked his head toward the man still coming to his senses, fighting his way to his feet after regaining consciousness. The giant.

  “Him?” Rufus gaped. “Ye canna mean it.”

  “Aye.”

  “The one ye just put to sleep? That’s your idea of fighting?”

  “Listen to me, lad. Men tend to look at the likes of Clyde McMannis and run the other way rather than come to blows. We’d have that in our favor. And not every man is as fearsome a fighter as myself, ye ken. Not every man would find it as easy to take the beast down.”

  “Och, of course.” Rufus rolled his eyes at his cousin’s boasting. “That’s all very well and good, but who else have ye?”

  “Aside from Clyde, there’s Tyrone Robertson and Alec Abernathy. Ye know them to be fine fighters.”

  “Aye,” Rufus nodded in appreciation. “Tyrone came between me and one of Cumberland’s men back at Inverness. I’d be food for the worms at this very moment if it were not for him.”

  “And he’ll likely never allow ye to forget it,” Drew grinned.

  “I intend to make certain ye all have what you’re owed when this is over, and my family’s land has been restored,” he vowed. “Ye know Kenneth is a fair man, and he’ll be even more indebted to all of ye than myself once he’s where he belongs.”

  Kenneth MacIntosh, oldest son of Elliot MacIntosh, was by rights the man entitled to the land his father and the seven men preceding him had worked and lived and died on. Their bones rested in that very earth, bones buried centuries earlier. Yet, Kenneth been driven away while his younger brother, the only other living son, had been fighting an ill-fated war.

  Drew’s face hardened from its usual lighthearted expression into one of deadly seriousness. “Ye know this means more to me than a sporran full of jingling coin,” he muttered. “This is my family’s honor at stake as much as it is yours. We’ll see that bastard MacFarland hung up by his heels and flayed alive for what he did.”

  Someone called for Drew then, and he patted Rufus’s arm before leaving him alone. Though one could never truly be alone when in a crowded tavern, jostled about, ears ringing.

  Yet he might as well have been standing in the center of a deserted glen for all they meant to him just then. His thoughts were far away, years in the past. He’d been in Glenfinnan when word had arrived of the horrors his family had endured, and not a day had passed in the year since then, that Rufus had not sworn vengeance on the man who’d destroyed everything he’d left behind.

  If there was one thing Ian MacFarland had done right, it was performing his evil deeds while Rufus was away and could not bear witness.

  “So, you’ve taken it into yer head to kill Ian MacFarland, then?” Brodric asked with a knowing jerk of his chin.

  “Aye. I have that,” Rufus confirmed for all who would hear. Best for the man to know it, if any of them took it into their heads to spread the word. He wanted Ian to know. Wanted him to look over his shoulder whenever he so much as stepped away to make water in private. “I’ll kill him if it comes to it, though what I want is my land. My family’s land. My brother’s birthright. He might not be able to fight for it himself, but then, he’s not a fighting man such as I.”

  “He took a terrible blow at MacFarland’s hand that day, from what I heard,” Brodric mused. “He might have gone the way of—”

  “Aye,” Rufus acknowledged before the man could continue. He was a full-grown man who’d seen hundreds die, perhaps thousands, yet there were things he couldn’t stand to hear. Such as the tale of his parents’ murder.

  “Aye, and what else, then?” The old man fixed him with a shrewd eye. There was no lying to him, no telling half-truths. He’d seen more than enough in his many years riding through the Highlands to know the truth of a man’s heart.

  Rufus gave a half-shrug. One that meant nothing, and gave nothing away.

  “Would that I were a younger man,” Brodric lamented as he poured a flagon of ale. “I would ride at your side straight into hell if it meant avenging Elliot MacIntosh. A finer man never lived, and that’s a fact.”

  “Aye, that it is,” Rufus agreed.

  “And your mother, rest her sainted soul. The loveliest thing I ever set eyes on when she was a girl. Most women dinna look as pleasing as the years pass, ye ken, but she was one of the exceptions. Bonnier with each passing day, and woe to the man who believed her nothing but a lovely face, for she could wield a sword, and later a pistol, as well as nearly any man.”

  “That, she could,” Rufus chuckled, his mood turning at the memory. Would that she’d wielded a weapon against Ian MacFarland and knocked his worthless, murdering, thieving head from his shoulders before he’d brought an end to her.

  Rufus could not even visit the place where his parents’ bodies were laid to rest. There was no setting foot on the land without possibly losing that foot.

  That wouldn’t keep him away forever.

  Yes, Ian MacFarland would be wise to look over his shoulder wherever he went. He could not keep Rufus from exacting the revenge his family so richly deserved, revenge he’d dreamed of every time his eyes closed.

  2

  It should not have come as such a surprise that Clyde’s horse was so very large.

  “The thing’s a monster.” Tyrone scratched his head, making his red hair stand up on end before he pulled a blue tam over it, covering him to the ears. “I didna know they made horses so… massive.”

  “He needs a larger horse than most, I suppose,” Rufus shrugged. “I’d expect to find this beast pulling a cart.”

  “Or a house,” Tyrone posed. “He could likely pull a house.”

  “Likely. Do ye know him? Clyde?”

  Tyrone shook his head. “Drew said he does not talk much. He doesn’t need to, I would imagine. He lets his size speak for him.”

  This was hardly a problem in Rufus’s eyes, as he had never cared for people whose tongues were hung in the middle and swung freely all day. They would ride together for at least a fortnight, perhaps longer, if MacFarland and his kin managed to avoid capture.

  The thought of listening to nonstop talking made his skin crawl.

  “We need to move,” he reminded Drew, who stepped out of the tavern with bags loaded over both arms.

  “Do ye fancy the notion of riding out with no food, lad? Or drink?” Drew chuckled as he hung the bags from the saddle of his gelding, whose hooves pawed impatiently at the ground.

  “Dinna pretend it’s the food ye care about,” Rufus smirked. “And it isn’t as if we canna hunt.”

  “Perhaps ye can,” Drew shrugged, swinging his compact body up onto the gelding’s back. “Ye know I was never much with a bow. And this is only a day’s worth, perhaps two. I didna see reason for us to start with nothing. A few extra minutes will not make a bit of difference.”

  Rufus bit back a sharp reply. Perhaps it meant nothing to his cousin, but he had all but counted the minutes since he’d received word of his parents’ death and his broth
er’s removal from his rightful place. Every minute more was like an eternity.

  What must it look like to Drew, and especially to the others? They were not of his blood, they had no reason outside of the gold which Rufus had promised in return for their services to endanger their lives. And their lives would indeed be in danger if Ian MacFarland had a chance to make it so.

  The pitiful excuse for a man would murder a pair of old people in their very home. He was capable of any sort of devilry.

  Yet none of them seemed concerned in the least about the possible danger. In fact, they welcomed it.

  “Come on, then.” Alec’s obsidian eyes sparkled with excitement. “I’m longing to sink my dirk into the flesh of a murderous bastard or two.”

  “Aye,” Tyrone agreed as he hauled his considerably powerful body onto the back of an equally powerful horse. Nothing compared to Clyde’s draft horse, but still impressive.

  His eyes widened when he took note of the tartan half-hidden beneath Rufus’s cloak, wrapped across his chest and torso and tucked into his kilt. The dim lighting inside the tavern accounted for his not having noticed earlier. Now, in full daylight, the sun nearly overhead, it was plain to see. “Ye believe it’s wise to wear that?” he murmured.

  Rufus looked down at the colorful sash. His family’s tartan, green on a field of red. “Aye. I do. Let any man challenge my right to do so.”

  “Ye know it’s against the law now. Unless a man’s a member of the army.”