Return of the Highlander

by Julianne MacLean

  “Like my father,” she said, slicing into her meat rather violently.

  “Yes, like your father,” he replied. “I am glad you understand my position, Larena, and that you do not share his opinions.”

  “I was raised to support the Hanover succession,” she told him flatly, which was mostly true. “But I also understand that the clan has become divided in that regard.”

  She wanted only to know how Gregory intended to govern over that particular issue.

  “Only since your father took over as chief,” he agreed. “But I’ve been asking questions since I arrived, and I have come to the conclusion that most members of this clan never supported your father’s ideas. And there are rumors….”

  Gregory’s eyes bored into hers.

  “What rumors?” she asked uneasily as she picked up her glass and sipped the wine.

  “That your father had a hand in the former chief’s death.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Darach had mentioned such a thing, but it could not possibly be true.

  “So that he could take his place as laird and push his traitorous ideas on the clan,” Gregory added.

  Larena slammed down her glass. “Those are false rumors, Gregory. Ronald Campbell’s death was an accident. He fell from his horse during a hunt and there were witnesses. My father may have been disloyal to King George, but he is no murderer. He is the kindest and most loving man I’ve ever known.”

  Gregory raised a hand, as if to calm the waters of disagreement between them. “Of course, of course. I did not mean to imply….”

  By now her heart was pounding like a hammer in her chest and she wanted to leave the room immediately.

  “I am afraid the wine has made me sleepy,” she said. “You were right before. I have been through a terrible ordeal. If you don’t mind….” She removed her napkin from her lap, folded it on the table, and began to rise from her chair. Gregory stood up as well. “I must retire for the night. I fear that once I reach my bed, I may sleep for three days straight.”

  He smiled sympathetically and escorted her to the door. “Shall we dine again tomorrow evening?” he asked. “There are still so many things I wish to discuss with you and share with you. I want to know all about your life here at Leathan since I left. And I am sure you must want to know more about my life in England as well.”

  “Yes, that would be lovely,” she replied, not wanting to arouse any suspicions that she might be having second thoughts about this marriage, among other things.

  She waited for Gregory to open the door, but to her utter astonishment, his hand came up to rest on her cheek and he leaned in for a kiss.

  Larena gasped slightly in shock as his lips connected with hers—a chaste kiss, thank the Lord, which only lasted a heartbeat or two. But what would come next, after that, she wondered, as the days and nights passed and their wedding feast drew near?

  He smiled at her and drew away. “Good night, my dear. I will look forward to our dinner tomorrow evening. Perhaps we can talk more about our nuptials. We must decide upon a firm date.”

  Her eyebrows lifted as she reached for the door latch. “Yes, we must.”

  Gregory took hold of it first, however, and spoke to Lieutenant Roberts, who stood outside. “See that the lady is escorted back to her chamber.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Larena thanked Gregory one last time, then followed the guard down the stairs.

  As she moved through the arched castle corridors, then across the moonlit bailey to the South Tower where her rooms were located, her heartbeat escalated with every step, for she was secretly praying that Darach had not left the castle as she’d so foolishly asked him to do. She’d been so sure that following through with her pledge to marry Gregory was the right thing to do, but suddenly she was overcome with doubts about everything—her future happiness, her father’s survival at the Tolbooth, and the honor and integrity of her fiancé, whose words had struck more than a few bad chords in her heart as they spoke over dinner.

  It was true. He was not the gentle, intellectual boy she remembered from her childhood. There was something about him that unnerved her. She suspected he was a changed man and she was not entirely certain he would be a good chief for her clan—or the sort of husband she could love.

  Love….

  What did she even know of that? In bed with Darach, she had felt a mad desire like no other. He was a handsome Scotsman she admired, respected, and trusted, despite everything in his past that should pit her against him. She had given herself to him. She had relinquished her precious virginity, for she wanted him—and only him—to be the one.

  How could she have been so foolish as to send him away? She felt very alone now, unsure of her future and her father’s safety. She had no one on her side.

  Unless Darach had chosen to stay….

  Perhaps he knew she was making a mistake. He had tried to talk her out of it after all. Perhaps he had predicted she would come to her senses before the night was out, and he would still be there, waiting for her return.

  When at last she arrived at her door, she thanked Lieutenant Roberts, sent him on his way, and ventured inside.

  She shut the door and locked it behind her, then dashed to the bed where she crouched down to peer under it.

  There was nothing there but a dust-covered floor.

  Rising to her feet, she searched every corner of her room, including her dressing room and behind the drapes, whispering his name. “Darach, are you here?”

  He was gone.

  Not yet ready to give up—praying that he had not given up on her—she peered out into the corridor to make sure Roberts had departed, then hurried down the steps and ran outside across the bailey.

  She discovered that Leathan was a changed place. Redcoats were everywhere—standing around in groups, patrolling the battlements. She felt their curious stares as she walked quickly and impatiently to the stables.

  She found a groom who had fallen asleep on a pile of hay with his cap tugged low over his forehead. She shook him hard to wake him. “Have you been here all night, Alastair?”

  “What’s that?” he asked, jerking upright.

  “What happened to the MacDonald clansman who arrived with me earlier at dusk?” she asked. “Is his horse still here?”

  “Nay, my lady. The MacDonald rode out of here in a hurry over an hour ago. He was a bit rude about it, too. Not a very friendly man.”

  Her spirits sank. “An hour ago? Are you sure? Did you actually see him leave?”

  “Aye. They raised the gate for him and lowered it afterward. He’s long gone.”

  She turned away from the groom and covered her face with her hands. “Oh, Darach,” she whispered.

  “What’s that, my lady?” Alastair asked, following her.

  “Nothing,” she replied, lowering her hands to her sides and walking out.

  But as she climbed the tower steps to her bedchamber, she had to fight hard against tears, for her heart trembled with remorse and fear for the future. She had never felt more alone or vulnerable in her life. Or so terribly heartbroken.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  At the approximate spot on the mountainside where Darach and Larena had met up with the Redcoats earlier that day—when Darach had been placed in irons and forced to walk the final distance at gunpoint—he reined in his horse to a skidding halt and turned to look back at Leathan Castle.

  It was a mighty and spectacular sight under the star-speckled sky—a high-reaching bastion with windows that glowed like dozens of cats’ eyes staring back at him. Even from this distance he could hear the faint sounds of a fiddle playing from somewhere within the walls and the raucous singing of men. Miller pricked his ears and whinnied in the cool breezes rising up from the moonlit loch below.

  “Bloody, bloody, bloody,” Darach said, shaking his head at himself, for something was holding him back from continuing on his journey back to Kinloch. He’d be a fool to deny what it was—pure carnal lust for the sweet b
ody of the woman he’d just made love to, for he could still smell her provocative womanly fragrance on his hands.

  Or maybe it was just the memory of her smile that would be forever imprinted on his brain.

  Either way, something was calling to him. All his muscles clenched tight with an inexplicable urge to go back. He felt a burning curiosity. What was occurring in Chatham’s chambers at this very moment? What if Larena had discovered he was not the man she’d imagined him to be? What if she needed Darach?

  He had been very quick to leave when she’d asked him to. He hadn’t given her time to think it through or change her mind. What if the guard had never knocked on her door? Would they still be lying in bed, making plans to be together somehow?

  Closing his eyes and bowing his head, Darach thought about all the perfect moments when he’d held her in his arms, and how badly he wanted her, still, despite everything.

  How could he leave this place without being absolutely sure?

  There it was then. He couldn’t ride back to Kinloch just yet. He had been wrong to let his jealousy and anger eclipse everything else. At the very least, he needed to assure himself that Larena was safe and content.

  So he kicked in his heels and returned.

  This time, he would enter more discreetly.

  * * *

  Gregory Chatham had long prided himself on the supreme powers of his intellect. As a boy, he had never been the fastest, strongest or mightiest, but he’d always known he was smarter than the others. In time, he had come to realize that he could use his brains to his advantage, even learn how to build muscle, and with the right tools and the body God had given him, eventually learn to fight faster and more efficiently.

  He had his father to thank for that. The man had taken one look at him when he collected him at Leathan a decade ago and seen immediately to his physical training. All the while, he had permitted Gregory to nurture his mind as well. It had never been one pursuit at the expense of the other. Gregory spent equal hours with a sword or a book in his hand. And discipline toward either of those ends was, of course, always paramount.

  But tonight, after the table was cleared and he sat before the blazing fire with a glass of brandy in his hand, a spark alighted in his mind. He was forced to question his so-called supreme intellect, for why had he not solved this puzzle sooner?

  Rising from his chair, he strode behind the desk, then called out to Lieutenant Roberts.

  The man hurried into the room and stood at attention on the opposite side of the desk. “Yes, sir?”

  “What can you tell me about the MacDonald clansman?” Gregory asked. “Is he still here?”

  “No, sir. I was informed that he left the castle a few hours ago.”

  “You’re certain he’s gone?”

  “I believe so, sir.”

  Gregory slapped the top of the desk with his open palm. “Dammit. We should have held him here. I knew there was something suspect about him.”

  “What is it, sir?”

  “He’s not a MacDonald,” Gregory replied with a grimace of disgust. “He’s a bloody Campbell. I didn’t recognize him at first, but now I remember him, clear as day.”

  Darach Campbell. He was one of the former chief’s younger sons. They’d been a menacing pack of brutes. The worst of the lot at Leathan. A foul bunch of rotters.

  How many times had Gregory woken up in a cold sweat during his childhood, suffering from endless nightmares about their teasing, beatings, and threats?

  As far as Gregory knew, their father had never done a bloody thing about it. ‘Lads must have their fun,’ he’d probably said.

  “Send troops out to find Darach MacDonald and bring him back here in irons,” Gregory said.

  “Yes, sir.” Roberts hurried out.

  Gregory returned to stand in front of the fire and stared down at the dancing flames.

  At last…some sport to be had here at Leathan after the disappointment of learning that half the clansmen he once knew had perished at Sheriffmuir—most notably the sons of the former chief.

  Once Gregory invited Darach into his chambers, he would have a little fun with him. If Darach wound up on the floor, bleeding to death, it wouldn’t be a stretch to claim that he’d lunged at Gregory like the filthy savage that he was.

  Although a public sword fight might be more satisfying—and a fine opportunity to demonstrate to the clan how he had learned to wield a saber with deadly efficiency. He wished for them to see him as a worthy and capable laird.

  More importantly, he wished for Larena to see that. He wanted her to gaze up at him with awe. He had been dreaming of that for years.

  He wondered suddenly if she had known about Darach’s true identity all along.

  No, surely not. The man claimed to be devoted to his laird at the MacDonald stronghold. If she had known, she would have told him. Wouldn’t she?

  Unless there was some sort of secret affection between them.

  Gregory sank down onto the chair, disillusioned and forlorn at the possibility that she might be concealing secrets—or worse, improper feelings for the former chief’s son. Did they share a history?

  No, that could not be the case. Not his darling Larena. She would not do such a thing. Not after agreeing to become his wife. She couldn’t possibly know who Darach really was.

  Why, then, did he feel such a deep and harrowing ache inside his chest?

  He’d been so happy earlier when she sat down across from him at the table and asked about a possible date for their wedding. She was the most fetching creature he’d ever laid eyes on.

  Now he felt only disappointment and grief—and a debilitating fear that she might not be his in the end.

  But he had come so far. He had waited so long. Everything had fallen into place so perfectly.

  Please, Lord, let it not end badly. I’ve waited too long.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  If only one had the power to turn back the clock and do things differently, Larena thought to herself as she trudged up the tower stairs to her bedchamber. If it were possible, she would go back to the moment the guard knocked on her door and she would ask Darach to stay and wait while she dined with Colonel Chatham. She would have assured him that she only wished to buy time until they could figure out what to do. How to be together. How to save her father. Surely there were options.

  But when she entered her room and glanced at the clock on the mantle, it was still ticking steadily and showing the correct time. There would be no magic for her today.

  With a sigh of resignation, she crossed to the window and looked out at the bailey below. She tried to imagine Darach emerging from the stable and riding to the gate.

  Had he paused and entertained any second thoughts about leaving? Or had he ridden out with bitterness and hatred in his heart, without a single look back over his shoulder? Did he hate her now? Or was he in hell, like she was? Was he longing for her touch as she was longing for his?

  Burying her face in her hands, she shook her head and uttered a few quiet oaths.

  “What are you cursing about, lass?” a deep voice whispered in her ear. She whirled about in surprise.

  “Darach!”

  Was she dreaming? Or had her prayers been answered and the clock had indeed been turned back?

  She threw her arms around his neck and stepped to the side as he slid her along the wall, away from the leaded glass, out of sight of the bailey below.

  Suddenly his lips were on hers, crushing her mouth, claiming her with brutal, hungry passion. She dug her fingers into his massive upper arms, then reached up to pull him close.

  “You came back for me,” she whispered on a sigh as he pressed hot kisses down the length of her neck and thrust his body against hers, anchoring her to the wall.

  “But you were cursing just now,” he said. “Are you angry with me?”

  She pulled back to look him in the eye. “Angry with you? For what?”

  “For leaving you.”

  “No,�
� she firmly told him. “It was my fault that you left, and now that you’re here, I’m ecstatic. I’m so sorry, Darach. I was wrong to send you away. All through dinner, all I wanted to do was get up from the table and chase after you. I was a fool to think I could marry someone else.”

  “Aye, lass, you were a fool. So you want me, then?”

  “Of course I want you,” she said with a laugh. “Can’t you tell?”

  He smiled down at her with that slow, lazy, heart-stopping smile, and she knew she was done for.

  Again, he pressed his lips to hers and kissed her ravenously until she felt as if she were drowning in a sea of happiness. A shiver of need coursed through her and she knew she would never have convinced herself she could live without him. Not in a thousand years.

  He ran a hand down over her breast and moaned with desire.

  “Take me back to bed,” she whispered provocatively, wanting nothing more than to satisfy her own lust when she’d thought she’d lost him forever.

  “Nay, lass,” he replied, resting his hands on her hips and drawing back slightly.

  “Why not? Are you angry with me?”

  “Nay, it’s not that.”

  “What is it, then?”

  Had he only come back to say good-bye? Or to claim one last kiss?

  “I cannot stay here,” he said. “I’m a MacDonald now and I carry a shameful secret.”

  “I would never tell anyone,” she assured him.

  “I know that, and I would trust you with my life, but it’s only a matter of time before someone recognizes me. For that reason, I must leave here and return to Kinloch.”

  “No,” she pleaded. “Tonight I thought I’d lost you forever. Now that you’re back, I can’t let you go again.”

  “That’s not what I’m suggesting,” he said.

  She inclined her head and regarded him with curiosity. “You have another idea? One that won’t send my father to the gallows?”

  “Aye, lass, but it’s risky and it’s dangerous—and I don’t even know if it’s what you want.”

  “Tell me,” she said, pulling him toward the fire and sitting him down.