Belonging to a Highlander

by K. M. Patterson

  EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ®

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2016 K.M. Patterson

  ISBN: 978-1-77339-089-5

  Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

  Editor: Karyn White

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  To those who have inspired me and to those who have stayed with me from the first pages I wrote on notebook paper fourteen years ago. Without you I never would have made it this far, never would have had my dreams come true, and never would have held one of my own books in my hands. A big thank you to those and an even bigger one to those who said I would never make it, which was perhaps the best inspiration ever.

  BELONGING TO A HIGHLANDER

  K.M. Patterson

  Copyright © 2016

  Chapter One

  Hugh McCross sat atop his warhorse in silence. He watched the men standing sentry behind the parapets of McLaren's keep. Unwavering gazes and stormy expressions peered down on Hugh and his men, yet something else glimmered in the eyes of the other highlanders.

  Hatred? A sense of betrayal at his presence?

  Hugh sighed and shifted in the saddle. He liked being on this side of McLaren's walls even less than the men standing atop the high, stone ramparts liked staring down on him and the contingent of Highland warriors at his back.

  A small screech ruptured the cold, blustering Highland winds of the late-winter morn. The strangled sound stung Hugh's ears. He chuckled at the peal of resentment and turned to Alaric, his second, as the man hoisted the young woman in front of him. He pushed her through the front line of his men all the way to Hugh's side.

  Alaric's scowl said everything, and Hugh grunted in humor, his lip curled upward under his dark beard as his stare drifted to McLaren's daughter. The lass had been his most troublesome captive for the past month, traversing halfway across Scotland with him and his men, the abbey he had stolen her from far behind them now.

  The wind whipped the lass's golden-brown hair around her small frame. The loose strands lashed in havoc with each wintery gust, and the look about her twisted something in Hugh's chest. The painful urge that her gentle, silent image evoked coiled something in the region of his heart. Though, in a moment like this, he certainly questioned if he possessed such a thing at all. Years of war had hardened his heart, he supposed.

  "Och." The light sound of regret spilled from his lips. Hugh shook his head. "Damn you, McAlison."

  The eyes of McLaren's daughter danced with something other than impertinence when she met his stare this time, a thing she had never been afraid to do. She jutted her chin at him and, he thought himself deaf for a moment, but she laughed. A lass did not laugh in this situation, unless she were addled. Having dealt with this one aplenty, he knew she certainly was not addled.

  She was crafty and conniving, this wee hellcat.

  A lengthy month had passed since he had stolen her away from the nunnery in Atholl, stretched longer because of his stay with his friend and distant cousin Gabhran McBray. Indeed, this meeting with McLaren was terribly overdue. Perhaps he had stayed overlong with Gabhran simply to ignore this duty, this last debt to be paid.

  And his part in this lass's and her clan's future.

  Alas, he wished beyond measure to see the errand done with so he could return to his own home and at last lay to rest his days as a mercenary—and strike out the one, last standing debt he owed.

  Hugh grimaced at the thought of McAlison as he lifted himself and swung down from the saddle to take the lass in hand. His fingers curled around her small arm and dug a little deeper than warranted, enough to elicit a hiss of aggravation from the she-demon. His lips twitched upward at the corner, and Hugh started toward the wall for the lass's father to have a better look at her. His powerful, merciless stride caused the woman to trip and stumble in the snow. Her delicate grumbling lifted the corner of his mouth under his beard.

  Hugh jerked Tamsin McLaren in front of him and looked up at her father with the complete confidence of a man about to win a long-standing battle. The laird could have the wee hellion back and good riddance. He might feel a twinge of pity for her, but this was nothing compared to the hell she had given him since Atholl. If McAlison wished to wreak vengeance upon Laird McLaren, having the man's daughter returned to him was surely the way, for the lass caused more mischief than he had prepared for.

  "Open your gates and surrender, McLaren. I have your daughter here and if you wish her back withoot harm, you'll be giving McAlison what he wants," Hugh yelled up at the man standing above him.

  McLaren's gaze swept over Hugh and the woman as he pulled his deep-red cape tight about his shoulders. The man's dark eyes bored into them without emotion.

  Silence curled around them, thick and heady, as the emptiness snaked past Hugh and his captive. The void wound through the camp of Hugh's men. Horses and men alike stirred at the eeriness the silence provoked.

  Then, after several long moments passed, McLaren tossed back his head, the deep laughter of the laird and his men raining down on Hugh and all those at his back.

  Hugh stood motionless, watching them, a tremor of anger twitching in his cheek.

  "What in all the hell?" Alaric growled behind Hugh's back. "What trickery is this now?" he asked, stalking forward to Hugh's side.

  Hugh glanced back to see his second's eyes boring into the back of the lass's head. Alaric stood just behind the McLaren's daughter, at her shoulder, and looked poised to pluck her up and shake her at any moment. The burly highlander's hands were clenching and unclenching.

  "Indeed," Hugh said through his teeth, though only the woman before him heard as he growled against her ear and gave her a shake. "What is the meaning of this?" he whispered, his voice harsh. "Is this more of your mischief, lass?"

  She turned her head to look at him over her shoulder and lifted a brow. "Oh, I'll no tell you, Hugh. Telling you would spoil all the fun."

  Hugh growled at her before turning his attention back upward, to the men still laughing at him. "What is the meaning of this, McLaren? How can you laugh when I'm holding your verra daughter before you so?"

  The men hooted and laughed even more.

  His veins thumped madly. Hugh clamped his hands into fists until he could stand no more. "I'll have an answer," Hugh shouted, the baritone of his brogue rumbled over the walls and carried the deadly threat of his anger.

  All went quiet at the booming sound of his voice, and McLaren's humor faded. The man wiped the back of his cuff across his dark beard and his stare landed on the woman trapped in Hugh's hands. McLaren leaned over the parapet, bracing his arms on the wall.

  "Och, I would give a mite of concern," he said, and then paused as he looked the woman from head to foot. "That is, if the lass were my daughter." His chest shook with barely contained humor. "But seeing that she's no…" He looked to his men and their laughter rose. "McCross, someone has played you for a fool. Lass—" The laird turned his attention to the woman, "Whoever you are, truly, 'tis a debt I owe you."

  "Damn you," Hugh said as he whipped her about to stare down on her. He held her tightly to him in his ineffable fury, savagely searching her gaze for the truth, but alas, he only found humor there in her striking blue eyes.

  The corner of her lips quirked upward, and sh
e tilted her chin at him as she had done countless times over the last month on their sparse meetings in her tent, when he had gone to assure himself she was indeed still there.

  A tightness clamped around Hugh's gut as he continued to search for an explanation. He raked his gaze angrily over her, a feeling of incredulousness that this could be happening washed through him like a flood.

  Then realization hit him.

  Why had he not seen it before? His eyes stilled on her hair. This lass was not the daughter of any McLaren. Her hair was a bonny shade of brown with gold and red streaked through, as though she had spent day after day outside under the warm sun. Even fools knew McLarens by their fair skin and dark hair.

  Hugh cursed himself and pulled the woman around, handing her off to Alaric.

  "How did you find yourself serving at the hand of McAlison?" McLaren asked.

  Hugh's eyes traveled up the stone wall, his stare cut at the man. He glared as he gathered his hands before himself, his fingers laced together to keep from reaching back to strangle the lass Alaric held.

  "A debt owed," Hugh called up.

  McLaren slowly nodded once, all traces of humor gone. "A debt," he said. "Be wary of those. I, too, once owed McAlison a debt." His voice fell to a disparaging tone. "I regret that obligation to this day, for being beholden to McAlison claimed two sons and now I learn from you that my daughter is in danger as weel." With a pained look, McLaren started to turn his back on Hugh, but stopped. His eyes filled with a burning hate. "McCross, my son has likely paid the ultimate price for his sins. You ken McAlison has taken him prisoner." He paused on a wave of emotion and looked out over his lands before he reined in his apparent fury. "My son and heir is likely dead."

  The man sniffed back what Hugh thought might be tears before locking his stare with Hugh's. "You'll no take my daughter from me, too. Tamsin shall no pay for her brother's crime, though you and I verra weel ken there was no crime at all. So, you can freeze to death out here, but I'll no be letting you inside my keep so long as you are under orders from McAlison. No for the sake of her—" he lifted a finger to Hugh's captive, "no for anyone. McAlison will no be winning this round, and if I were you, I would find another to fight for despite any debt."

  Chapter Two

  Hugh roared into his tent, throwing aside the heavy leather flaps at the entrance and immediately fell into a stalking pace back and forth across the area in front of his bed. The stacked furs on the ground caught the fiery glow from the braziers lit around the tent, their warmth radiating throughout the small space.

  Hugh did not need any extra warmth, for inside, he was afire. He was angry. No, angry did not near accurately describe his mood with the aptness his fury deserved. He was seething, incensed, raving mad.

  He cursed long and hard just as Alaric entered behind him with the woman. His second's hands gripped her by the arms, holding her firmly in place. Hugh placed his hands on his hips and gripped at his belt to keep from plucking her—the pretender who had cost him his entire mission—out of Alaric's grasp and shaking the little hellion until she begged for mercy.

  Seeing her pert stare, his hackles rose and his fists clenched. Hugh ran a hand over his short beard in rough aggravation and then replaced his hand on his waist, stopping only to give his second a curt nod. "That will be all," he said.

  Alaric nodded in return and bent to give the lass a small glare before he retreated from the tent, the flap falling into place behind him.

  When quietness settled around them, Hugh turned to the small woman and glared down on her. "Dia, lass. Do you have any idea what you have done?" he thundered, denying that he felt any relief at all, for this only meant his debt was not yet paid and he could not yet go home. "What wee evil spirit convinced you to do this to me?"

  She flinched back at the biting sound of his voice, but just as quickly, she regarded him as though he were addled. Her blue eyes turned cool and aloof under his anger, as though, after all this time, she had long since assimilated where his limits were drawn. That he would not lay a hand to her no matter what she put him through.

  "Aye. Of course I ken what I've done," she said. She gave him a tight little smile. "And as to the wee evil spirit, I suppose that would be myself." She looked away, as though she were contemplating his question seriously, and then turned back to Hugh with a nod to reinforce her statement. "Aye, 'twas I." Her lips curved up at the corner, taunting him as usual.

  Hugh looked at her with incredulousness a moment, trying with all his might to collect his somehow dismantled self-control before discipline left him altogether. "Who are you really, lass? And I warn you, I'm no in the mood for any more of your games," he said, flicking a finger at her and started to pace again before his eyes left her to roam the tent just as his feet were.

  After a few turns, when the silence became nagging, Hugh turned his head over his shoulder as he stalked and looked down her simple garb. Her scapular twisted over the brown habit where she wore a cloth belt tied around her waist. He supposed Alaric's manhandling of her was to blame. She had worn this same, plain attire ever since he had taken her from the abbey, though now her wimple and veil were missing and her hair streamed down over her shoulders to her narrow hips. He cleared his throat and looked heavenward with a muted curse on his tongue.

  What had he done now?

  What new reason might God have to toss him into the eternal pits of hell?

  Of all the sins he could commit, he had stolen away a novice from her place of duty and devotion. Upon hearing McAlison's orders he had only thought his task could not get any more dishonorable or vexing to his conscience.

  He looked at her again with a different opinion of the young woman altogether. Though she hid well behind a façade of bravado, she shook like the last leaf in autumn under his scrutiny, but she yet obscured any answer to his question.

  This young woman had deceived him to protect a fellow sister of the cloth, though he well knew Tamsin McLaren's father had never meant the lass for the church. Not in truth. As most lasses of high standing were, the young woman was only being held there to assure her chastity until she was to be wed.

  His stomach knotted like a coiled rope. The implications of what he had done hit him hard.

  "Och, I understand, lass," Hugh said. "'Tis clear to me now what you have done and why."

  She scrunched her nose at him and cocked her head to the side. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but when nothing came out Hugh stepped closer and her lips snapped shut. Her eyes rounded at his closeness, and a look of alarm spread like wildfire across her features.

  "In truth, I'm no angry any longer," he said, offering a much improved tone to calm her. "I respect this sacrifice you’ve made."

  "You do?" she asked, a hint of reserved quietness in her tone. Her eyes searched his with an unexpected boldness.

  "Aye, 'tis an honorable thing to do for another sister. Even if your little adventure has cost me dearly."

  Her brows rose. "Oh—" She trailed off on a gasp, her pink lips pinching together as she toyed with her hands before placing them at her back out of view. She looked around the tent, anywhere but at him.

  "Dia—" The sudden thought flashing through Hugh struck like a fist to the gut. He would kill any of his men if they had laid so much as a finger on this woman. "None of my men…" He flicked a finger at her again, this time suggestively, his stare hovered a brief moment over her before he looked to the top of his tent in stark discomfiture. He was unsure how to pose such a question to a woman of faith. "None of them…"

  "Oh, good Lord!" Her cheeks reddened. She joined him in meticulously observing the top of the tent as well. "Nay."

  A rushed breath left Hugh's lips. "I feel terrible for this misunderstanding, lass. I hope this will no cost you your robes or vows. You should have told me sooner."

  A tiny laugh caught him off guard as the woman passed his shoulder, sauntering further into the tent. Hugh straightened, turning to watch her as she went. He studie
d her as she briefly cast a look down on his bed of stacked furs before turning her stare around the tent.

  The lightness of her gaze studied the rough canvas walls with aloofness before her eyes fell to the bright glow of the brazier and she shuddered, bringing her hands back to the front, and she rubbed a spot above her wrist a moment before continuing her absent search.

  She most like had surpassed a score of years already, Hugh surmised, as he watched her surveying his austere quarters. She was a bonny woman, which made him wonder why she would choose the church over a normal life. Could she be an orphan? Or perhaps, knowing her affinity for hellish behavior, she had been sent to the abbey as a last recourse. That notion suited him very well and lifted his mouth into a smile he fought to suppress.

  "To what purpose would I have told you sooner?" she asked, jarring his thoughts to the present. "So you could return for the real Tamsin McLaren? So you could use her against her own father to aid the vile Laird McAlison?" She turned on him then, again gathering her arms at her back. Shards of ire sparked from blue orbs pronouncing every bit of her disdain for what he had done. "Did you ken Tamsin was betrothed to McAlison's son?"

  Hugh watched her in stony silence a moment, now feeling a hint of her censure as she looked down her nose at him. "Aye," he said, tipping his head. "Until McLaren's son killed the younger McAlison boy."

  "Until the younger McAlison bragged of the beastly ways he would treat Tamsin in the marriage bed once she became his wife." She shook her head with hostile indignation. "The McAlison's heir only but received his due for such atrocious and vulgar ideas!" Her cheeks brightened, her blue eyes growing a shade lighter in her anger. "And you—" She ran her stare down Hugh and back up, leaving a fiery hint of her abhorrence for him in the trail of her stare. "You supported that mon?"