by Trisha Telep
It was only when he heard the sound of horse’s hooves that he realized the truth.
She hadn’t needed to relieve herself at all. All along, she had planned to escape.
The border between Maxwell and Johnstone land was in sight. Jamie Johnstone, great-niece of Sir James Johnstone and one of his many namesakes – albeit, as far as she knew, the only female one – was nearly home.
Duncan Maxwell’s big black stallion bore her over the rough, rocky terrain with breathtaking speed and ease. Saddled now with the roan mare he’d given her to ride, the laird of Lochmorton would never overtake them before she reached safety. Likely, he would not even try.
Free. She was almost free.
Why, then, did she feel as though her heart was being torn to shreds and pounded into the ground with every beat of the horse’s hooves? Her throat was raw and her eyes burned, but still she rode towards the border.
This was for the best. If Duncan discovered the truth of who she was, he would hate her. He had said himself he had learned never to trust a Johnstone. Until that moment, she had held out the smallest sliver of hope that they could be happy, that perhaps he did not share in his family’s ingrained hatred towards hers. But that had always been a slim and dangerous hope, for she had known from the beginning that he had been at Dryfe Sands, that he had lost his father there. The Lockerbie lick on his cheek told the tale of his participation in the battle, even if his tongue did not. And how could a man fail to despise the people who had killed his own father?
Her people.
She slowed the horse to a walk after the crossing the border. There was no indication that she was being followed, and although the animal showed no signs of tiring, even a horse as magnificent as Curaidh could not maintain such a breakneck pace indefinitely. It would be difficult to convince her brothers to return a horse as fine as he to the Maxwell stable, but she could not in good conscience keep him.
That alone told her a lot had changed. Once upon a time, she’d had no conscience at all.
Jamie Johnstone’s days as a reiver were over.
Squinting in the darkness, Jamie closed the stall door behind Curaidh, wincing at the loud creak of the hinges. She paused for a moment, listening for any hint of a human presence, but heard only the annoyed snorts and curious whickers of horses whose nightly rest had been disturbed.
She took a deep, cleansing breath. It was ridiculous for her to be so on edge. No one would anticipate a reiver breaking into his stables to return a horse. A smile tickled her lips as she thought about Duncan’s reaction on the morrow, when he discovered his prized steed had been returned – though her brothers, ever the opportunists, had seen to it that the stallion had left a few “deposits” with several of the Johnstone mares in the months before they’d brought him back.
Of course, James and Robbie still thought this entire plan was mad and dangerous. And yet, perhaps because they felt some latent sense of guilt for her months of imprisonment in Maxwell territory – a fate they considered several orders of magnitude worse than death – they had acquiesced to her decision. And now, she was but a few steps from meeting them outside.
Not so mad or dangerous this …
“Oof!” Just feet from the door, she came to an abrupt halt against an immovable object that felt remarkably warm and strangely malleable. Rather like a human chest. And a damnably familiar one at that.
Damn and blast!
“So, reiver, we meet again.” Duncan’s voice was low and gravelly and terribly arousing. He grabbed her wrists and yanked her flush against his body. Her eyes widened. It seemed she wasn’t the only one who was aroused. “What did you come to steal this time?”
“You know as well as I that I have not stolen anything from you,” she retorted. Please, let James and Robert have got away. As long as they were safe, she could bear any indignity at Duncan Maxwell’s hands. She reckoned she deserved every one he could dish out after what she’d done.
“On the contrary,” he murmured against the top her head, “you’ve stolen my heart. I was hoping you came to return it.”
The raw, unconcealed pain in his voice took her aback.
“I – I—” she stammered. Her heart hammered like a blacksmith’s mallet against her breastbone. “I came to return Curaidh.”
“I know,” he said softly, grazing her ear with his lips as he spoke.
Gooseflesh rose on her skin, racing down her arm. She didn’t know what to make of this strange situation. It seemed rather more like seduction than detention.
“What do you want?”
“I should think that would be obvious. I want you, Jamie Johnstone.”
She gasped, incredulous. “You know my name!”
“Aye, lass.”
“But – but how?”
“You did not think I just let you escape, did you?”
She stared up at him blankly, a rather fruitless enterprise in light of the darkness. “What choice did you have? You had a slow horse and no clothes on.”
“True, and I could not have prevented you from getting away … not without shooting you, and though I’ll admit I was sorely tempted, I might have missed and shot Curaidh instead. But in any event, ’twas simple enough to track where you’d gone, runag. And once I realized you were a Johnstone, it was only a matter of making inquiries of the right people to discover the rest.”
Jamie’s mind whirled. All these months, he had known who she was, who her family was, and yet he’d made no effort to exact justice for the raid. He could have petitioned the Warden for redress, or even the king, but obviously he had not.
“Since then, I’ve been waiting for you,” he added, brushing her cheek with the back of his hand. “Not entirely patiently.”
“What? But – what on earth could have made you believe I would come back?”
He shrugged. “I know you, and I knew you would not steal from me. Not after what we shared.”
“But I ran away—”
He pressed his finger to her lips to shush her. “I did not give you much choice, did I? Telling you I’d never trust a Johnstone. That was why you asked about the scar, wasn’t it?”
“Aye,” she admitted. “I wanted to know if you still hated my family for what happened at Dryfe Sands.”
“And I did. Then, and for some time afterwards. And I was furious with you for breaking your promise.”
“I didn’t promise I would not escape. I promised not to try to,” she pointed out.
He chuckled. “Aye, I recall now you were very specific when you made the promise. Notwithstanding, I was very angry – and hurt. I considered coming after you, going to the Warden, demanding satisfaction from the king. But in the end, I realized this is the only thing that would ever bring me true satisfaction.” His mouth swooped down and captured hers.
Aye, aye, he was right. This was the only thing she wanted, the only thing that truly mattered. She would never want anything else in life if only she could have this – the pepper-sweet taste of his mouth, the warm, solid breadth of his body, and the truths they could only seem to communicate this way.
He lifted his head. “I am ready to declare an end to this branch of the Maxwell-Johnstone feud. What do you say we start a new alliance in its place?”
“I would love that, but what about my brothers? I am not so sure they’ll go along.”
“My brother, Ewan, is out there right now, negotiating a bride price for you. I think ’tis safe to say they’ll find the terms favourable.” His voice dropped an octave. “I’d even give them Curaidh in exchange for you.”
Joy blazed in her heart. “I love you, Duncan Maxwell.”
“As I love you, Reiver of my heart.”
Forever Mine
Donna Grant
One
The silence hung heavy and thick in the air. Just like the mist that swirled eerily, almost unnaturally, around the group of men lying in wait for their deadly enemy.
Braden MacAlister knew the time was right. He would
attack and kill Niall MacDougall once and for all. Order would be restored to the land again.
And maybe then Braden could plan more than ambushes.
A horse snorted in the distance, the sound carrying in the stillness of the predawn hour. His foe was right on schedule. Braden had waited for this day for two years. He had planned and plotted and planned some more. All had to go perfectly.
His men, all marked outlaws like himself, were fierce Highlanders and vicious, brutal opponents in battle. They would be the ones to set things right. They would be the ones to end the malevolence.
The pass where Niall had to travel was narrow, confining him and his men between two mountains. Most would have gone around but Niall was a man who liked to prove he couldn’t be taken.
A slow smile spread Braden’s lips. Today, things were going to change.
The soft, four-toned whistle sliced through the early morning air. It was the signal from Keith that Niall neared.
Braden had seen this moment many times in his mind. He’d thought out every possibility. Every move. Every countermove. He was as prepared as he could ever be.
He released a long breath when he caught sight of the first horse as it came around the bend. Behind the guard, Braden spotted Niall’s dark head, his hair tied in a neat queue at his neck. And with Niall was his company of twenty men.
Niall never travelled alone. He knew how much he was despised throughout Scotland. Everyone said it was just a matter of time before he was killed.
Another whistle, softer, but in the two-tone that meant trouble. Braden narrowed his gaze on his opponent. What was Niall up to?
And then Braden saw the wagon. The metal bars on the small upper windows told him all he needed to know about the occupants.
Prisoners.
Braden glanced across the road to his men. He waited for their nod of agreement to continue with their mission before he looked to the men beside and behind him.
Niall had taken from all of them in one form or another. Each warrior wanted his revenge, needed retribution for the atrocities. Each man wanted to be the one to strike the killing blow.
Braden tightened his grip on his sword and on the dagger he held in the other hand. The smirk on Niall’s all-too-perfect face was too much to bear. But before this day ended, Braden would see that smile erased.
For ever.
Niall jerked his horse to a halt almost directly across from Braden. Niall was tall and blessed with exceptional looks that made women do all sorts of things to gain his attention.
But he had a heart as evil as the devil.
Braden knew Niall couldn’t see him in the thick grass and plentiful boulders. Yet, the way Niall’s eyes searched the mountainsides, it seemed he was looking for something.
“Come out, come out wherever you are, Braden MacAlister,” Niall taunted.
Braden stiffened. There was no way Niall could have discovered his plans. Braden trusted his men explicably. None of them would have betrayed him.
Braden didn’t move. His men stayed as motionless as he. Braden didn’t have long to wait before Niall lifted a hand to one of the guards near the wagon.
The door at the back of the wagon opened, the squeak was loud but soon drowned out by a startled cry.
“They have women,” Rory whispered as he leaned next to Braden.
Braden couldn’t see who was taken from the wagon as the guard pushed the prisoner through the throng of horses and men. With a shove, the prisoner stumbled and fell to her knees in a whirl of lavender skirt, her hair as black as midnight.
Niall jumped from his mount and grabbed the woman by the hair. Her hands instantly went to his to try and lessen the pain. She hurried to climb to her feet.
“I would see you now, Braden. Show yourself or I kill the wench,” Niall bellowed.
The mist had moved away from Niall and his men, as if it knew the black depths of their hearts and wanted no part of it.
Braden had no choice but to help the woman. Too many innocents had already died. He wouldn’t have her death on his soul, wouldn’t add the weight of another blameless life to his already considerable burden.
“Be ready,” Braden murmured to Rory.
Braden sheathed his sword, but kept his dagger ready in his left hand, the blade tucked against his forearm. He leapt atop the boulder he’d been hiding behind and glared down at the man who dared to call himself a Scot, much less a Highlander.
Jean was on the tip of her toes, trying to keep her hair from being yanked from her scalp. She had known no good would come from Niall MacDougall’s visit to her clan. What she hadn’t foreseen was him taking women and children as prisoners to force her clansmen to his service.
Niall had at first managed to lure a number of women to his side with his easy smile and handsomeness. But those women had learned quickly enough that a face and body as eye-catching as Niall’s couldn’t hide his evil for long.
Jean’s gaze searched the mountainside as Niall called for Braden MacAlister. Braden’s name had been whispered about the land for over a year now. Each time his name was repeated, each time he struck out to kill Niall, belief in him grew. Swelled. Expanded.
Braden was their last hope.
Many called him a ghost because of the way he moved from one place to the next with nary a sound, leaving no trace. Jean had hoped she might get to see the mighty Highlander. But she would have preferred it not to be while the tip of a sword was pressed into the small of her back.
“He will come for you,” Niall whispered in her ear. “It’s not in him to let an innocent die.”
“Unlike you.”
It was out of her mouth before she could think better of it. Then again, she had no illusions. Niall planned to kill her no matter what Braden did or didn’t do.
He chuckled. “Aye. Not like me.”
Jean jerked against his grasp, but his fingers wouldn’t loosen their hold of her hair. Tears stung her eyes from the pain, and she bit her tongue to keep from crying out.
Blood filled her mouth, the metallic taste making her gag. She was about to kick Niall when a man suddenly appeared atop a boulder to her left.
He stood like an ancient god of old with mist swirling around him, clinging to his bare chest and legs corded with sinew. Coiled violence emanated from him.
Braden MacAlister wore no shirt, only his kilt of red, green and blue. She drank in the sight of bronze skin over sculpted muscles. His shoulders were wide and thick. His arms hung casually at his side. He stood with his legs apart, his feet encased in boots up to his knees.
But it was the blue paint on his face, neck and chest that robbed her of breath.
He had marked himself, just as the ancient Celts had done so many years ago. Seeing Braden, with his eyes fixed on Niall and his dark, wavy locks falling about his face, proved that he was the ghost whispered about over the tables of Scotland.
“Ah, Braden,” Niall said. “I told the wench you wouldna let her die.”
Jean knew she needed to get away. It didn’t take a warrior to see that a battle was brewing. And she had no desire to be caught in the middle of it.
“Let the woman go.”
Braden’s demand was softly spoken, but his words were laced with steel.
Niall merely laughed. “For a price.”
“Name it.”
“Your head.”
Jean sucked in a breath. Her life meant nothing, but the freedom of their people meant everything. “Nay,” she said.
Braden’s gaze shifted to her. Their eyes locked, and she shook her head, praying he didn’t give himself over to Niall and his men.
The blade at her back pierced her skin. It was so unexpected that she couldn’t hold back her cry.
“Say more, you stupid bitch, and I’ll see you skewered on my blade,” Niall spat.
A war cry tore from Braden’s lips and he launched himself at Niall. Men poured from the mountain, their faces covered in the same blue paint as Braden.
Chaos e
rupted. Swords were drawn and war cries deafened her ears.
Niall jerked her against him, using her body as a shield. Two of his guards moved to protect him, swords and shields at the ready.
Jean couldn’t take her gaze off Braden. It was as if time slowed as he sailed through the air. His deep-set eyes were locked on the guards who blocked him from Niall.
Braden’s left arm came up and around. She saw the blade the instant the guard on her right did. The man tried to duck, but Braden was too quick. With lightning speed he sliced the guard’s neck.
When Braden landed, he spun and unsheathed his sword in one fluid movement. His weapon was up in time to block the second guard’s attack.
The clang of swords, cries of pain – and of death – surrounded Jean. She knew she couldn’t sit back and wait to be saved. If she wanted to get away from Niall, she’d have to do it herself.
The fact he had her body pulled against his as a sort of cowardly shield only made her despise him more. The blade poking into her back didn’t help things either.
But her father had always said she was resourceful.
Jean made a fist and swung it down and back as hard as she could. She knew she connected with Niall’s groin by the way air wheezed from his lungs and the dagger dropped from his hand.
She tried to run, but he still had a handful of her hair though he was bent double now, his face red as spittle fell from his lips. He glared at her, fury and the promise of death in his blue eyes.
“Let go,” Jean demanded and she clawed at his handsome face.
The malice she saw in Niall’s stare almost gave her pause. Almost. Jean’s fingers found his eyes and she felt her nails bend backwards sickeningly. She sank her other fingers into his skin, felt the thick texture of blood as it fell from the cuts she dug.
Niall bellowed and released her to cover his eyes. His nostrils flared with anger, deadly intent in his gaze. Jean prepared herself for death.
