Temptation in a Kilt

by Victoria Roberts

  Declan continued to watch the scene unfold before him. The women lay upon the ground seeming completely lifeless while his nephew screamed in terror. He would be damned if they would take his own without a fight. He again pulled himself to his feet and was pummeled to his back with a massive thud. The pressure of a booted foot against the base of his throat caused him to gasp.

  “Donna even attempt, MacGregor arse,” said the man through clenched teeth. He spit in Declan’s face and applied more pressure on his neck.

  Declan was forced to watch, powerless and weak, as the men took Aisling, Rosalia, and Teàrlach before his very eyes. He was completely helpless, but a driving force kept him alert. There would be bloodshed. He would give his last breath to see every one of them pay, and there was only one payment he would accept.

  Death.

  “Strip him of his clothing,” spoke a familiar voice.

  Three men forcefully stripped him of all his clothing and kicked him to the ground. He did not even notice the chill of the air brushing against his skin. The heat of his vengeance was smoldering from within and was enough to fire his blood.

  “Bring him to his knees,” someone ordered. The men shoved him onto his knees and he hobbled over, forcing himself to raise his head. He would look his attacker in the eye.

  “Hmm… mayhap I did choose the wrong brother,” murmured Beathag in admiration.

  He glared at her and spat to the ground. “I told ye before… my brother and I donna share whores.”

  Some of the men chuckled around him, but Beathag silenced them all with a single glare. She stood directly in front of him and poured something cold and wet all over him. Leaning in close, she smiled. “Ye tell Ciaran he can come collect his ugly virgin, the MacGregor whore, and the brat from the Campbell.”

  ***

  The memory of the hurt upon Rosalia’s face swept over Ciaran like a punch in the gut. He never meant to hurt her. She did not deserve this. It killed him not to be able to offer her comfort, but maybe Aiden was right. He needed to let her cool her ire. He would speak with her later.

  He found Aiden in the kitchen soliciting Ealasaid for biscuits—again. “And what are ye going to do when Ealasaid takes her leave?” he asked, raising his brow.

  Aiden and Ealasaid jumped. “Och, my laird. Ye startled us.” Ealasaid chuckled, holding her hand over her chest. “Donna ye worry. I showed Cook how to make them so your brother will always have his fill.”

  “Ye donna need to take your leave, Ealasaid. I am sure I can change your mind to remain,” said Aiden, giving her a roguish grin.

  She swatted at him. “Cease. Cook will make ye all of the biscuits ye require or all of the biscuits Lady Aisling will allow ye to have.”

  Aiden nodded at her. “There is that,” he said, rolling his eyes.

  Ciaran smiled at her warmly. “Duncan said ye will be taking your leave. As I told him, ye may stay at Glenorchy for as long as ye wish.”

  She patted him on the arm. “Ye have my thanks, but Duncan and I have overstayed our welcome and will take our leave in a few days. We thank ye for having us.”

  “Ye and Duncan always have a home at Glenorchy,” Ciaran said sincerely, knowing they would be sorely missed.

  “Just have a care with my lassie. Ye know she has been through much. I see how light of heart she is with ye and it truly warms my heart.” She smiled at him.

  “Ye donna have to worry about Rosalia,” he reassured them. “We take our leave for Glengarry in a few days.”

  Ealasaid gave him a look of disappointment and cast her eyes downward. Was she actually clenching her teeth? She finished wrapping some of the biscuits in a cloth. “There,” she said, placing them on the corner of the table. “They are for your lady wife and our lassie when they return. Please make sure they get them and ye donna eat them,” she chided Aiden.

  She approached Duncan as Ciaran nudged Aiden. “When they return?”

  He nodded. “Aye. They went for a walk.”

  “Do ye think Rosalia speaks with Aisling?”

  His brother gave him a look of utter nonbelief. “Why would ye care if she did? Ye donna love her. Remember, Brother?”

  Ciaran scowled.

  “I donna know of what they speak. All I do know is they went for a walk and had Teàrlach with them.”

  Shouts rang out in the great hall, halting any further discussion. They rushed into the hall where Seumas was bellowing orders to Calum. “Find our laird!” he said, trying to disperse the men.

  “I am here.”

  “My laird, ye need to come to the bailey,” said Seumas, lowering his voice.

  As they strode into the bailey, the men were gathered. “’Tis Declan’s mount,” said Ciaran to Aiden. They pushed their way through the crowd. His brother swaggered before him, bare as the day he was born. He tried to disguise his annoyance in front of his men, but his patience was wearing thin. They flanked Declan as he continued to sway on his feet, the smell of ale overwhelming Ciaran’s senses. He turned his head in disgust. He was a fool to think his brother would cease his debauchery, but he would not be made the fool again. “Seumas, clear the men. Calum, take Declan’s mount to Niall,” he ordered.

  “Aye, my laird.”

  “’Tis the last time, Brother,” he said through gritted teeth. “Ye brought this upon yourself.”

  Declan stiffened at his words. “Ciaran, ’tisnae as ye think.” He raised his hand to steady his head.

  Ciaran’s face was a mask of rage. “Save your excuses, Declan. I grow tired of hearing them, and I nay longer have the patience for ye or them,” he replied sharply. Aiden and Ciaran forcefully grabbed him, leading him to the solar. When they reached the door, they shoved him inside. Declan had gone too far. He actually rode his bare, naked arse into the middle of the bailey. What the hell was he thinking? Apparently, he was not.

  Ciaran slammed the door in disgust. “I warned ye for the last time! Ye are knee deep in your cups, have nay clothing, and what… fell from your mount?” he bellowed, pointing to his bloodied head.

  “Will ye cease the lecture and listen, ye bloody fool?” said Declan sarcastically.

  Ciaran had just reached for the door to escape his brother’s latest disaster when Declan slammed into him from behind. Aiden grabbed Declan and tried to pull him off.

  “Ye will listen to me, ye bloody fools! The bloody Campbell has your women and my nephew!”

  Ciaran shoved him off. “What? What is this ye speak?”

  “Listen to me, ye bloody arse! I was knocked over the head. I am nae sure exactly how, but someone spoke to Rosalia and told her to come to me. I donna know why, but Aisling and Teàrlach were there as well,” Declan blurted out.

  Aiden punched him square in the jaw. “The bloody Campbell has my wife and my son because ye were in your cups and couldnae offer them protection! I should kill ye right now!” he bellowed. “If they are harmed in any way, I will kill ye with my bare hands!” He attempted another swing at Declan, and Ciaran shoved them apart.

  “Cease, both of ye! This doesnae help matters!”

  Declan ignored Ciaran and grabbed Aiden by the tunic. “Look at me! I am nae in my cups, Brother! I ne’er made it to the village! They knocked me out and set a trap!” he bellowed, releasing Aiden.

  Ciaran studied him intently. “If what ye speak is true, then why do ye reek of ale and where is your clothing?”

  “Ye have your bloody whore to thank for that,” Declan said through gritted teeth.

  “Beathag?” Ciaran asked as a shiver ran down his spine.

  Taking a deep breath, Declan sighed. “Aye. She stripped me of my clothing, poured ale over my head, and said ye can collect the women and Teàrlach from the bloody Campbell,” he said solemnly.

  A heavy silence fell.

  Aiden
stepped around them and opened the door.

  “Where do ye think ye are going?” asked Ciaran, placing a restraining hand upon the door.

  “I am going to get my wife and my son.”

  “And ye will get yourself and them killed as well. Think, Brother. Think how Father taught us. If ye let your anger guide ye, ye are nay help to anyone. We must think and we must plan. ’Tis the only way.” He called for a maid to bring Declan some clothing. He also called for the captain of his guard.

  Seumas arrived and they plotted their course for hours. No one would take their leave until they devised a plan that held the lowest possible risk. Ciaran refused to take even a moment to think about how Rosalia fared for it would surely be his undoing. He knew he must maintain his collectedness or he would get them all killed. He was laird. He was trained for this. He was a battle-hardened warrior. The Campbell had gone too far. No matter what plan they chose to execute, the Campbell would die. Let that be a warning to all future Campbell lairds. No one harmed his own, and no one took what was so clearly his.

  The sun settled against the horizon as Ciaran stood on the parapet. It was his favorite place with Rosalia and the closest place he could feel her right now. He briefly closed his eyes and prayed she was well. She had to persevere and know he would come for her. In the meantime, she needed to do whatever she could to survive and come back to him. There was no other recourse.

  They would execute their plan in two days. That would give the bloody Campbell enough time to hopefully lower his defenses. He knew as long as he did not take action against the Campbell, he would let them live. What he could not do however, was ensure that the Campbell treated them well. This was one time where he wished he could seek his father’s counsel.

  It was completely dark by the time Ciaran descended from the parapet. He would seek a few hours rest and then review the plan again on the morrow. He needed to have his wits about him. He hoped his brothers did the same.

  Fifteen

  “We are reaching MacGregor lands. Keep a watchful eye,” ordered Alexander MacDonell of Glengarry to his guard. Shifting in the saddle, he ran his hand through his hair. It was a lengthy journey to reach Glenorchy, but it would not be long now. He searched through the trees. Odd, it was silent. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck rose, sending a shiver of warning down his spine. Something was off and he could not quite place it.

  “Do ye feel it, Alex?” asked John, the captain of his guard. John reined in his mount beside him, his eyes darting cautiously back and forth.

  Leave it to John to sense his unease. He nodded his head, continuing to survey the surrounding landscape. “Aye. Something is amiss. We havenae been greeted by a single man, and I donna see any guards at the border. We are clearly on MacGregor lands. ’Tis too quiet. I donna like it. Make sure our men stay alert,” said Alexander.

  With a curt nod of his head, John rode ahead to speak with his men. Pensively, Alexander glanced around him. There was no trace of anyone. He could not stop himself from thinking the obvious. What daft fool would keep his borders unprotected? His father would surely not be pleased.

  When the missive arrived at Glengarry from the MacGregor, it took some time for his father to cool his ire. The MacGregor had bollocks, he would give him that. Alexander did not exactly jump at the chance to travel to Glenorchy, but he would do anything his father asked of him, knowing this was important to his father as well as his aunt.

  They traveled for some time before the smell of peat smoke billowed in the air from the village ahead. A few of the villagers looked upon them warily as they passed through. Alexander was pleased that his father bestowed this responsibility upon him. After all, his sire was reaching up there in years. If the man did not start entrusting him to do things, how would Alexander be able to prove he could act in his stead? It was so easy to lose track of how many times he had pleaded to assist with courtly matters, but ever so slowly, his father had been giving him more and more responsibility. Alexander could certainly not disappoint him now—he would not.

  Raising his hand, he stopped his men. The massive stone castle stood before him—the home of the MacGregor. Alexander stiffened his spine, sitting up straighter in the saddle. He would make his father proud.

  ***

  The men reviewed the plan again—thoroughly. Ciaran needed to ensure everyone knew their strategy well. His brothers looked like hell, but they stayed true to their course. He was confident everyone knew their role and everything would be ready as planned. As they were ready to take their leave, there was pounding on the solar door. He rose to find a pacing Calum on the other side.

  “My laird, there are riders at the gates,” he said quickly. “I donna think they are the Campbell’s men. Howbeit they insist to see Lady Rosalia and willnae leave until they do. They hold fast.”

  He paused, rubbing his brow. “How many men?”

  Calum sighed. “At least a score.”

  “A score?” he asked surprised. Who could possibly be at his gates with a score of men if it was not the Campbell? Surely it was not Dunnehl. Montgomery had seen to that. Turning to Seumas, he gestured him forward. “Prepare the men and let them into the bailey under careful watch. Have the archers readied.”

  “Aye, my laird.”

  His brothers exchanged carefully guarded looks as they followed him into the bailey. Flanking him, they watched the men ride through the gates. “Do ye know these men?” asked Aiden, studying them intently.

  “They arenae with the Campbell and I donna think they are Dunnehl’s men, but I am nae sure. ’Tis the last thing we need right now. Keep calm and let us see what they are about,” Ciaran said, placing his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  Aiden and Declan followed suit.

  A rider approached them and nodded. “Laird Ciaran MacGregor of Glenorchy?” the man asked as he dismounted.

  Ciaran did not respond.

  The man walked with an arrogant swagger and stood face to face with him. “Are ye Laird Ciaran MacGregor of Glenorchy?”

  Ciaran noticed the arrogant arse was not as old as he initially thought. He might even be younger than Declan. “Who is asking?” asked Declan sarcastically.

  Turning to Declan, the man smirked. Looking back to Ciaran, he smiled and raised his brow. “I will have your name,” he ordered.

  “Watch your tongue or I will have your head,” Ciaran countered.

  Declan and Aiden laughed when the man paled.

  “Verra well,” he relented, taking a step back. “I am Alexander MacDonell. I come on behalf of my father, Laird Dòmhnall MacDonell of Glengarry. Father’s sister is Lady Rosalia’s seanmhair. I request an audience with my cousin.”

  Ciaran studied MacDonell’s well-armed men. “How many men do ye have with ye?”

  Alexander stood to his full height. “A score,” he said confidently.

  “Can they fight?” Ciaran asked with a raised brow.

  “Of course. I have some of my father’s most skilled men. If ye attempt anything on my life, they are instructed to raise arms against ye,” he said cautiously, glancing nervously at a man Ciaran thought to be the captain of his guard.

  Ciaran gazed at his brothers with a silent understanding. They had recruitments. Adding an additional score of men would increase their chances and lessen the risk of injury to Rosalia, Aisling, and Teàrlach. He visibly relaxed and gave the man a playful slap to the shoulder. “Ye have naught to fear from me, Alexander MacDonell. Come. We have much to discuss. Tell your men they are welcome at Glenorchy.”

  It was time to revise the plan.

  ***

  Slowly opening her eyes, Rosalia blinked away the haziness. She was being pulled and dragged while the muffled voices of men echoed in the background. The sack was finally removed from her head, and she was shoved onto a stool. The light was blinding and she could n
ot see. She attempted to move her hands and realized they were not bound. Praise the saints for small favors. She pressed both hands over her eyes and tried to focus on her surroundings. Where was she?

  The last thing she remembered was Declan. What was it? Declan screaming about something, and then she… Why did her head ache so badly? She’d blacked out—well, she was knocked out. Several men were gathered around her in what seemed to be a great hall. Finely woven tapestries were displayed on the walls, and fine wood furnishings graced the hall in abundance. This was obviously the home of a man with great wealth.

  A path was cleared as another group of men entered the hall, escorting Aisling. She staggered forward, her face streaked with tears. Her muffled cries echoed through the hall as she was pushed onto a stool next to Rosalia. They clasped their hands together in a futile attempt to offer each other comfort.

  “How verra touching,” said Beathag, ambling over with a sly grin.

  Rosalia’s eyes flashed with outrage. “I suppose we have ye to thank for this,” she bit out.

  “Of course. Donna say I didnae give ye fair warning,” Beathag replied, her voice heavy with sarcasm.

  “Where are we?” Rosalia demanded.

  An older man in full Highland regalia approached them. He wore a kilt of green, black, and blue, and the light sparkled off the bejeweled rings he wore on each of his fingers. He carried himself in an arrogant manner, and something in his dark eyes chilled her to the bone. He gave an impatient shrug to Beathag. “Ye didnae tell them?”

  Beathag shook her head at him without speaking.

  “Then pray allow me to introduce myself,” he said, placing his hand over his chest and giving them a slight bow. “I am Archibald Campbell, seventh Earl of Argyll.”

  Rosalia gasped. “Och, the bloody Campbell.” She bit her lip, but it was too late.

  The Campbell smirked and Rosalia stared back at the floor.

  “Verra well done, Cousin. I didnae think your plan would work,” he simply stated.