Her Wicked Highlander: A Highland Knights Novella

by Jennifer Haymore

  The road stretched ahead of them, leading to a peak covered with large trees, stark and leafless in the chill of winter. Then she blinked hard, certain what she was seeing was mere illusion. But it didn’t disappear.

  A beautiful castle stood at the base of the hill, its granite towers shimmering silver in the early morning light.

  She gaped at the sight, suddenly wide awake.

  Where on earth had he brought her?

  Chapter Two

  Max wondered if the Highland Knights had really thought this through. First off, the woman was nothing like he’d expected. His orders had been to retrieve her, take her to Beauly Castle, and then await further instruction.

  He hadn’t expected the woman to be a feisty ball of fire, so proud and stubborn that he’d finally had to bind her hands and essentially throw her upon his horse.

  And he hadn’t expected Beauly Castle’s front door to simply refuse to open.

  Damn it. Frustrated, he yanked the key from the rusty lock, raised his foot, and kicked the door—hard. His charge emitted a feminine gasp as the thick wood—clearly ages old and rotted with damp—buckled under the force of the blow.

  He turned to her and shrugged, then kicked it again. The wood splintered.

  Well, he reasoned, if the door was that rotted, then the Knights would need to replace it anyhow. Major Campbell had told him to let him know what work needed to be done in the castle, so that would be at the top of his list.

  Max reached in and managed to unlock the remnants of the door from the inside.

  “Come along.” He hadn’t let go of Aila MacKerrick’s forearm since he’d lifted her from the horse, and now he towed her along as he entered the dim entry hall. The place wasn’t nearly as tidy as he’d expected—the Knights had hired a woman from nearby Beauly Village to keep the interior of the castle from falling into complete disrepair. Evidently, the woman hadn’t taken her assignment too seriously.

  Long, dust-covered tables lined the walls in the entry hall, and each of the three walls had a door placed dead in its center. Max led Aila to the back door first and found it led to the dining room, and from there a storage room, larder, and kitchen, as well as stairs leading down, presumably to a basement.

  “What is this place?” Aila asked.

  Max stiffened, and tightened his hand around her arm in warning. It’d do no good for either of them if she bolted.

  “’Tis safe here,” he said gruffly. “That’s all you need to know.”

  She huffed at that, and he managed to remain stern, though a smile played at the edges of his lips. He liked how spirited she was. The unmarried ladies he’d encountered in the past several years had been insipid and dull. Aila was a fresh blast of clean Highland air, someone he’d known right away would keep him alert and not allow him to fade to nothing out of sheer boredom, as so many of the women he’d recently associated with tended to do.

  They went back into the entry hall, then down each corridor in turn, opening doors to ballrooms, drawing rooms, salons, studies, a library, and what felt like an endless number of other spaces. At the end of each corridor was a watchtower with a winding staircase. When they saw the first one, Aila looked up at the stairs, her bonny lips twisting.

  “Are you going to lock me at the top of the tower? Like Rapunzel?”

  He gave her a sidelong look. “Are you calling me a witch?”

  “I dinna ken. Are you one?”

  He chuckled. “Nay.”

  “Hm,” she said, scowling, “you canna trust a witch.”

  “True,” he conceded.

  Finally, they mounted the grand, curving staircase leading from a room just off the entry hall. On the first floor, they found a series of bedchambers, some small, some large, all dusty and unused. The second floor was a duplicate of the first.

  “It has to have been a hundred years since anyone lived in this place,” Aila commented.

  “You’re right, I think.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Do you have permission to be here, or are you a trespasser here as you were on my lands?”

  He gazed at her for a long moment. She was a bonny lass, petite, with reddish-blond curls that extended past her narrow waist, generous hips and bosom. Her face was heart shaped and expressive, her eyes a snapping, intelligent green, her nose a shade too small, and her lips a shade too wide.

  He’d never been much of a man for big noses or thin lips.

  Looking at Aila MacKerrick reminded Max that he was a man. And that there was a certain part of his anatomy that had been in disuse for far too long.

  He cleared his throat, then glanced around. Dusty furniture, peeling wallpaper, tarnished wall sconces. He returned his gaze to Aila. “This place? It’s mine.”

  Her eyes widened in disbelief, but he hadn’t told her a lie. As a newly minted Highland Knight, he and the rest of the Knights shared ownership of Beauly Castle. This was their headquarters in the north, though it had never been used by a Highland Knight for that purpose until today.

  Aila swallowed hard, and her green eyes sparkled as she glared at him. “I dinna believe you. You’re a liar and a kidnapper. You’ll be hanged for this.”

  “I doubt that.”

  He could hear her teeth grinding together. He turned to the closest bedchamber. “This room’ll be yours.”

  “Oh, aye? Not yours as well?”

  One side of his mouth twisted up in a smile. “Would you like that?”

  Damn, he shouldn’t have said that. He was a Highland Knight now. His duty was to protect the monarchy and its citizens from those who would try to undermine them. Not to seduce those he was trying to protect. No matter how much he wanted to.

  She bristled. “Nay,” she snapped. “I would not.”

  She tore her arm from his and stomped inside the small bedchamber, slamming the door in his face before he could take a step to follow her.

  He stood at the door for a long moment, debating whether to go in. But there was much to be done, and he didn’t have the time to coddle the woman.

  Instead, he gripped the door handle with one hand. With the other, he found the ring of keys and inserted them patiently into the lock one by one as she yelled at him from the other side, asking how dare he attempt to lock her in this infernal prison, until, on the fourth key, the lock turned.

  “Fine!” she shouted. “I’ll be jumping out the window, then!”

  “Go ahead,” he said. “Least that’ll happen is you’ll break a leg. More likely you’ll be snapping your neck.”

  She growled in frustration. “I’ll knock down this door, then, like you did.”

  “Good luck.” She’d need a great deal of luck, in fact. This door was sturdy wood, not rotted like the entry door.

  “This is intolerable,” she cried. “You must tell me what this is about. I ken it’s about the King Richard Dagger somehow, but you canna just kidnap me from my house and not tell me anything!”

  Poor lass. She did sound utterly frustrated and confused. But, again, he didn’t have the time to coddle her. Not to mention the fact that his work was shrouded in secrecy, and he wasn’t sure how much he could safely tell her.

  Why couldn’t she just comply without question? In his experience, women were compliant, docile souls. Then again, he didn’t have much experience in actually talking to the fairer sex.

  He simply said, “I’ll be back later,” then he went downstairs.

  He found a room that must have been a salon or drawing room. Near the entry hall, it was in relatively good condition, with only the thinnest layer of dust on its furniture and floors, and a working fireplace. He cleaned the space until it was livable, and brought in some of the chopped firewood he found in a storage room by the kitchen. He went to his saddlebags and brought Aila the clothes and shoes he’d found in her cottage. In his own baggage, he found enough food to sustain them until tomorrow, when he’d go into Beauly for market day and fetch enough suppli
es to last them until he received further orders from the Knights.

  He located the well and drew up some water to use for washing. After cooking up a simple midday meal of bannocks and meat and leaving the prepared food on a tray in the drawing room, he went upstairs to fetch Aila.

  The window was open, and a cold draft had settled into the room. Aila was nowhere to be seen.

  Bloody hell.

  He strode to the window and looked out. She’d tied the bedclothes together as a kind of climbing rope—like Rapunzel’s hair, he supposed—and had jumped the remainder of the way. The winter landscape was sparse, and when he scanned it, he could just hardly see her, far down the road, running, her red-blonde hair flying out behind her.

  He groaned out loud, then sprinted down the stairs and out the back door to the stables, where he saddled his horse in record time.

  She was clearly inexperienced in escape, but he was an experienced tracker. It was one of the skills he possessed that had made the Highland Knights give him a second look.

  Aila’s footprints appeared and disappeared at regular intervals based on the saturation of the dirt on the road. Finally, the prints disappeared altogether, and he rounded back, knowing that she must have heard his approaching horse and tried to hide in the foliage.

  It was simple to find the broken twigs and crushed leaves where she’d left the road and gone into the forest. He dismounted and secured the horse, knowing that she could only be a few minutes ahead of him.

  She was still running hard, if the flattened bushes in her path were any indication. He ran too, easily jogging along the trail she’d created. As he grew closer, though, he stopped and then trod slowly along, careful to make minimal noise. He could hear her ahead, crashing through the forest. A second later, he saw her pushing blindly through a thick bramble of bushes.

  He surged forward and, within a few seconds, caught her, wrapping his arms around her.

  “Oh!” she gasped. “Damn it. Damn you. Leave me alone!”

  “Stubborn wench,” he muttered, holding her as steady as he could while she flailed about in his grasp.

  And then she burst into tears.

  He blinked at her, pushing her to arm’s length away from him so he could look at her. “What’s wrong?”

  She shoved at his chest, and he looked down, confused.

  “Are you stupid?” she sobbed.

  “Nay,” he said truthfully.

  “You’ve stolen me from my bed in the dead of night, trussed me like a turkey, and taken me to an abandoned castle. I dinna ken whether you intend to maul me or rape me or murder me, or all three. I dinna ken what you want from me, and why you want it. You dinna tell me a thing, just lock me into a room and expect me to sit docilely while you go… while you go collect your torture devices!”

  For the first time, Max truly considered this from the lass’s point of view. Mayhap she had a point. He’d simply been doing his duty, but perhaps he’d forgotten the feelings of the other human involved. In his defense, he’d never been tasked with the duty of protecting a belligerent female before. He had been somewhat at a loss as to how to handle the situation.

  One thing was clear now, though. It’d be far easier to simply tell her the truth rather than tie her up and hear her shrieks or have to recapture her every half hour.

  “You’re right,” he told her.

  Glassy and still brimming with tears, her eyes narrowed. “About what?”

  “I need to be telling you more. Come back with me, we’ll have a meal, and I’ll tell you why I brought you here.”

  “I dinna trust you!”

  “You need to trust me, lass,” he said solemnly. It was true—right now, Max was her best chance. The other man searching for her would have no qualms about hurting her—probably even killing her—once he got what he wanted. “If you do naught else, you need to trust me.”

  “How can I? You’re a kidnapper and a trespasser and a thief!”

  “A thief?” He frowned.

  “Well, aren’t you?”

  “I dinna think so.”

  “Verra well, then. A kidnapper and a trespasser!”

  He opened his mouth to argue, but then, realizing he couldn’t, he simply sighed. “Come back with me,” he said wearily.

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Nay.”

  “Do you intend to throw me over your shoulder again?”

  “If needs be.”

  “Please don’t.”

  “Then come willingly.”

  Swiping her eyes with the back of her hand, she straightened, standing tall and proud in the red tartan dress he’d taken from her cottage last night, a Highland woman through and through. Admiration surged through him, but he didn’t let it show.

  “Lead the way,” she said tightly.

  He reached out, and when she didn’t make a move to take his hand, he reached down and clasped hers. “Come.”

  They walked back through the forest to the road, where he lifted her onto the horse, then mounted behind her, trying not to think of the way her thighs felt against his. She was soft and sweet, and she smelled good, which after all the running and shouting came as no small surprise. But she smelled of the Highlands—of heather and hay and earth. She smelled of home.

  He turned them back toward the castle. They rode in silence, and she waited as he stabled the horse, and they walked together through the door to the kitchen. He led her to the drawing room, where their simple meal was waiting. He handed her a piece of dried meat, which she devoured. Then he handed her another one, which she ate more slowly. They both sat on the sofa, and Max settled the tray containing their food between them.

  “Well, explain yourself, then.” She took another bite of meat.

  He nodded. “Your dagger is what brought me here.”

  “My family’s dagger is no business of yours. It belongs to me.”

  “Aye, it does. But someone wishes to get his hands on it.”

  She shook her head in confusion. “Why?”

  “Because it’s valuable.”

  “Aye, well, there’s the ruby. It’s valuable, but there are many things in Scotland more so. Why are they after my dagger, and what’s your role?”

  “’Tisn’t the ruby. It isna the literal value of the dagger that has drawn him. ’Tis the political value of it.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  How could she not know any of this? This lass was truly a long distance from London. Anyone who’d laid eyes on any London newspaper in the last two months knew of the King Richard Dagger by now. “Haven’t you heard the legend?”

  “The legend?”

  “Of the dagger?”

  She made a scoffing noise. “Aye, well, they say King Richard the Lionheart had it made in Jerusalem during the Crusades. That he added the ruby from his personal treasure.”

  “Aye, well, that’s the history of the dagger. There is a new rumor about it, though. They say that whoever owns the King Richard Dagger will have the capability to restore power to the clans in Scotland.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “What?” she screeched.

  “Aye. I’ve come from London, and—”

  “London?” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You dinna sound like you’re from London.”

  “Aye, well, I’m a Scot by blood and by birth, but I joined one of the Highland Regiments when I was a lad of sixteen. After Waterloo, I remained on the Continent for a time—”

  “Doing what?”

  He sighed. “Anyhow, I’m in London for now. There’s a man named William Sutherland who has decided that he wants to be the man to bring power back to the clans. He has been spreading propaganda about how England has abused the rights of the Scottish people since the slaughter at Culloden, and how Scotland will never truly be free under English domination.”

  “Culloden was almost three-quarters of a century ago.”

  “Yet it is still in the
mind of many Highlanders. You live here. You’ve seen it.”

  “Aye, well, that’s true. But no one’s stupid enough to think that we’ve any chance of bringing the clans back to power.”

  “Sutherland is. He’s also been circulating the legend about the King Richard Dagger—that whoever controls it will be the one responsible for restoring the power to the clans.” And by doing so, Sutherland had grown dangerous indeed. People believed the propaganda the man was spreading, and once he had the dagger in his possession, the Knights feared it would be easy for him to gather followers.

  Aila frowned. “Sounds to me like he’s the one who wants to gain power.”

  Max nodded, impressed at her insightfulness. “Aye. That’s exactly what we think as well.”

  “Who’s ‘we’?”

  “Me… and my colleagues.”

  “Who are…?” she prompted.

  He sighed. “The Highland Knights.”

  “The Highland Knights,” she repeated slowly. “I dinna ken who that is.”

  “We’re a brotherhood of Scotsmen working in the interests of the Crown,” he said, radically simplifying the description of the Knights.

  “I see. And you traveled to the Highlands in order to stop Sutherland?”

  “Aye, and to ensure your safety.”

  “Why would you do that? You dinna even know me!”

  “Sutherland is dangerous,” Max said darkly. “You require protection.”

  She made a scoffing noise. “You’re the one who’s dangerous, as far as I can tell—”

  “Aye, well, let’s put it this way: Sutherland plans to find you. He plans to torture you until you tell him the location of the dagger. And then he plans to kill you.”

  Chapter Three

  Aila’s mind reeled. Did someone truly believe her family heirloom was a key to power in the Highlands? It seemed mad beyond measure!

  She gave Max a dubious look. “This canna be true.”

  “Aye, well, it is.”

  “So… you’re here to protect me.”

  “Exactly.”

  She raised her hands in exasperation. “Why did you no’ tell me that at the beginning? I’ve spent the last day thinking you were an evil witch with malicious intentions!”