A Lord for the Lass (Tartans and Titans)

by Amalie Howard; Angie Morgan

  Julien found Makenna in place beside Gowan, relief written all over her. Grateful that she was safe, he half turned. Makenna’s eyes widened as they lifted to a flicker of movement behind him. He lifted his sword to defend against whatever was coming, but it was too late. A hot piercing pain bit into his side as a small blade slid between his ribs.

  Colin’s hand drove it in to the jeweled hilt, his eyes glittering with malice and triumph. He twisted it and backed away. Julien’s claymore slid from his hand as he dropped to his knees, a cloud of agony descending on him.

  “Ye yielded fairly, ye bastard!” Makenna screamed, rushing forward to crouch at Julien’s side, her hands on his bleeding torso.

  “No, stay with Gowan,” Julien gasped. “Gowan, get her!”

  The other man moved, but was immediately stalled by a hard-faced Gregor and another of Colin’s men. A whistle broke through the noise. “Nae one move,” Colin said. “Or the boy dies.”

  At the same time as Makenna’s, Julien’s eyes lifted, his vision slightly blurred. She clutched at him, a terrified scream leaving her lips. Julien blinked, squinting. A man held a pale Malcolm by the scruff of his neck on the highest rampart of the keep.

  Colin grinned at Julien. “Yield, and the boy lives.”

  “He’s yer son, ye filthy cur,” Makenna shouted. “Ye ken it.”

  Surprised murmurs rolled through the gathered crowd. Julien doubted any of them would have known the truth of Malcolm’s parentage, not if his mother had gone through such effort to keep it a secret. Which she had for so many years.

  “Is he?” Colin replied in a sly voice.

  “Arabel told me the truth before she died,” Makenna said. “She said she was yer wife, and that Malcolm was yers. No’ Graeme’s.”

  “Aye, I married the bitch, and then my filthy cousin decided he wanted her for himself.” He laughed, the sound cold. “He always took what he wanted, even if it wasnae his. The lad, too. He couldnae get anyone with child, ye ken. And so I let him believe what he wanted to believe.” His face contorted. “That runt means nothing to me.”

  “He’s yer son.”

  “So what?” His ugly grin widened. “Clearly, he means more to ye than he does to me, so what will ye give me, dearest Makenna, in return for his life?”

  Julien felt the fight leave her body even before she opened her mouth. She would do anything to keep the boy safe. But he had a plan. Gowan would take them out of here, and they would live to fight another day. Colin would not harm the boy because of his value to Makenna. The pain was making him groggy.

  “No,” he whispered so only she could hear. “We’ll come back stronger.”

  Wild blue eyes met his. “I cannae leave him.” Her eyes fell to the wound that was still pooling sticky blood beneath his clothing. “And ye need a doctor. Ye have to get back to Duncraigh. It’s the only way, Julien.”

  “No, Makenna.”

  She stood, mouth set and hands shaking, and turned toward Colin. “Very well, I’ll stay, but ye have to let Malcolm and Tildy go with Lord Riverley. He’s an English peer, Colin. Be cautious about this. He’s wounded. If he dies on Brodie lands, the crown will come looking. Ye will no’ be able to protect yer people from that.”

  “Nae one will come,” he said.

  “Are ye sure about that?” she asked. “He’s no’ just some nameless French gentleman. He’s a peer now. A marquess. His grandfather had many connections. Think, Colin. Do ye want that kind of trouble on yer hands?”

  Even Julien could hear the underlying desperation in Makenna’s voice. But he knew that nothing would get through to that man, not pleas and not threats. Colin was drunk on his own power, and victory was too close for him to let it go and be prudent. He thought they were far enough removed and too insulated in their hole in the Highlands to be affected by the power of the English king. Julien ground his teeth together. He’d miscalculated. Badly. This man was unlike any other man he’d dealt with before.

  “Please, Colin,” she begged. “Ye have me. Isnae this what ye wanted? Well, I’m here. The marriage with Lord Riverley can be annulled.”

  “Makenna,” Julien said, his ribs starting to ache fiercely. He wasn’t sure if the pain was from outside or inside. He was losing her. He would lose her.

  Colin’s eyes popped, as an incredulous laugh burst from his lips. “Ye havenae…?”

  “Nae. No’ after the marriage rites.” She moved toward him, reaching out her hand in supplication. “Let Malcolm go with the marquess and his men. Tildy, too.”

  One of the Brodie men cleared his throat. “Mayhap, we should do as the lass says, laird. If the lord dies and his people come looking, we will face scrutiny.”

  “I dunnae want to go to prison, laird,” another man said. Several surrounding clansmen were nodding their heads. They understood the might of the English king, even if their laird did not. “I’ll have nae part in this.”

  Others agreed. “Me, either.”

  The handful of men moved to leave but were stalled by Gregor and a few of his soldiers. At a nod from Colin, guns discharged and knives flew. All five of the men who’d spoken up dropped to their feet, killed where they stood.

  “Anyone else?” Gregor asked, blood discoloring his tartan, his eyes sweeping the remaining, cowering Brodie.

  A sob broke from Makenna as she made one last effort. “Be smart, Colin. Ye cannae kill everyone. Please. Let them leave.”

  Indecision flickered across the laird’s face for the briefest of instants before it was crushed by resolve. Colin’s eyes flicked to Julien, embittered fury boiling in them. They’d pushed him too far, it seemed. Now, he only wanted revenge.

  “None of ye are leaving.” He nodded to Gregor. “Secure the prisoners.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Gregor started for Makenna, an eager glint in his eyes, and her body nearly went numb with panic. Her pulse was already thrashing, blood rushing madly through her ears as the nightmare around her continued to unfold. She’d been such a fool! Blinded by hope and grasping at arbitrary possibilities, she’d done the one thing she’d swore to herself that she’d never do: let down her guard. How could she have actually allowed herself to believe that she and Julien could ride onto Brodie lands with nothing but an English title to shield them from Colin’s demented wrath, his cunning, and his skill at deceit? Julien had bested him in the duel physically, but, as an honorable man, he had let him live.

  She had seen his overestimation the moment he’d lowered his sword and started toward her, relief and triumph glittering in his eyes. And when Colin had pulled his dirk and thrust it into Julien’s side, Makenna had felt the agony ripping through her, as real as any dagger, piercing her heart. She felt it still, every tender heartbeat fixing the reality of the moment.

  Colin had won.

  Gowan, who had retrieved his horse at the first sign of trouble, edged his mount forward to block Gregor from reaching Makenna. A few other clansmen had started to advance, as Gregor had, but they were hesitant, their faces either pale with fear or ruddy with some other emotion. She wanted to believe it was fury—five of their men lay dead on the ground because they had dared speak up against Colin’s decision to put the whole clan in danger. They, at least, had had the sensibility to be afraid of a retaliatory push from the English king.

  Weapons were still drawn, and the archers above on the ramparts were still taking aim with their bows and arrows. Makenna wanted to rail in rage at the sight of Malcolm, bound and gagged, his figure so small, so fragile next to the muscled Highlander holding him close to the parapet. She didn’t want to believe the man would send a boy to his death, but she would not be taking any more chances. She’d already risked everything—and she’d lost.

  “Ye’ve got what ye want, Colin. Now let the lad come to safety,” she said, a sob still stopping up her throat, making her sound weak. It was no less than how she felt—just like all those years she’d spent as a prisoner inside these same walls. How pathetic she’d been, b
elieving that she could actually escape. That she could finally be happy and free.

  Now, she felt as if she were slowly suffocating. Dying.

  “I dunnae have what I want, no’ yet. Ye’ve penance to pay, Makenna Brodie, for all yer lies and sins. Confess,” he said, ignoring her new name and retrieving his dropped sword with his uninjured arm. He pointed it at Julien. “And I’ll let both him and the lad live.”

  She felt like she were being torn apart, but there was one thread that wouldn’t break, no matter how hard Colin tugged at it. She shook her head and ground her molars. “I’ve already told ye—I didnae kill Graeme. What does it matter to ye anyhow? Ye’ve already won. I’ll stay. Ye can bloody have me.”

  Julien groaned and from where he lay upon the grass, one elbow attempting to prop him up while his other arm attempted to staunch his bleeding torso. “No, Makenna…” He winced and his elbow went out from underneath him. She wanted to drop to her knees and cradle his head in her lap, but she dared not move.

  “Oh, I will, aye,” Colin said with a huff of laughter that made her skin crawl. “But my punishment will be complete. There’s nae use denying it, no’ when there’s a witness to yer deed.”

  A witness? He’d never mentioned a witness before now. Makenna blinked in confusion. Was she to stand trial now? Colin turned his head and whistled. If possible, the courtyard fell even more silent. She could hear Julien’s labored breathing beside her. And then came motion at one of the arched entrances, the corner of the keep reserved for servants. Makenna’s eyes widened as Tildy walked into the courtyard, moving swiftly between armed clansmen and toward Colin. Her expression was grim, her eyes troubled, and as Makenna inspected her maid for any visible injuries, she noted the stern set of her chin and shoulders. Her hands were clenched into white-knuckled fists, and she held Makenna’s gaze without blinking.

  “Tildy?”

  “Aye. Do as the laird says. Ye dunnae need to keep lying. I’ve already told them everything. How I saw ye washing yer bloody hands and burning yer bloody night rail after ye killed Laird Graeme.”

  Makenna gaped in shock as Tildy stopped just beside Colin, struck by the sudden, cold ferocity of the maid’s glare. She had never before looked at Makenna this way, resolute and hard. It was as though a different woman stood there, staring at her, the lies falling from her lips convincing and sure. Her stomach sinking, Makenna took a fast glance toward the ramparts where Malcolm was still being held. Her maid had to have been forced to say these things, perhaps to help protect the boy’s life. Colin could have manipulated her into an agreement of some sort. Though, Makenna struggled to see how saying she had killed Graeme would protect Malcolm. She frowned at the maid.

  “What do ye mean? Tildy, stop. What ye’re saying is madness.”

  “Ye’re the mad one!” Tildy shouted, her shrill voice echoing off the keep’s walls and scratching at Makenna’s ears. Gowan’s horse, still acting as a barrier between her and Gregor, shifted uneasily.

  “Tildy, stop and think! I dunnae ken what Colin’s convinced ye to do or say, but—”

  “He didnae need to convince me of anything! Ye’re a spoiled, selfish brat, and I’m done pretending.”

  Pretending? What felt like a slab of rock landed in the pit of Makenna’s stomach. It weighed her down and nearly made her knees buckle. She gaped at Tildy, the same woman who’d taken such care of Makenna for years, who’d helped her hide from her husband’s abuse, stood by her all these months at Duncraigh, and by Malcolm as well, and yet…she was entirely different now. The hatred in her eyes, and buried in the tight press of her lips, was stark. Makenna did not recognize her.

  “What is this, Tildy?” she whispered, reeling. “What have ye done?”

  “Only what ye deserve,” she spit, then, in a syrupy and mocking voice, “Poor, pitiful Lady Makenna. My god, how tiresome ye were! Moaning and complaining about being the laird’s wife, suffering his attentions and inciting his temper, when any true Brodie woman would have given anything to be in yer place. No wonder he hated ye, ye cold, ungrateful fish!”

  “Ye…” Makenna’s mind spun, seeking answers to impossible questions. “Ye wanted to be his wife?”

  Tildy’s contemptuous expression twisted even further. “Graeme’s wife? Of course no’.”

  Colin’s laughter cut Tildy off from saying more. The bloody sleeve of his injured arm and the sheen of sweat upon his face from the sword fight with Julien made his jeering laughter sound all the more raving. Everyone in the entire world had gone barking mad, it seemed.

  “Yer dear maid saw the truth before anyone else,” he said.

  “She saw nothing,” Makenna said, shock turning to anger. “I dunnae ken why she’s lying, but she is.”

  Makenna couldn’t understand why. This was no act. Tildy was genuinely seething from where she stood, so close to Colin that their arms nearly touched. It sounded as though she’d hated Makenna for a length of time, and yet she’d still gone with her to Duncraigh. Been willing to leave with her and Malcolm for France.

  Hadn’t she?

  Then again, they’d both been kidnapped just before they were to board the ship. Conveniently so? But Makenna couldn’t understand why…if Tildy despised her so much, why remain her lady’s maid? How could she have been so convincing? How could she, Makenna, have fallen for such an intricate ruse so completely? It would take an extraordinary actress to have pulled that off…and yet, Tildy had. Tildy.

  It was then that Makenna saw it. On a second glance, she watched Tildy’s arm brush against Colin’s and this time, there was something unmistakably possessive in the touch. She’d said any true Brodie woman would want to be the laird’s wife, though she’d balked at the question of if she’d wanted to be married to Graeme. Even Gregor had hinted at it in the Brodie inn when Makenna had been in disguise. It all came back now. He’d said that Tildy had had Colin’s favor.

  Good God. “Ye’re Colin’s mistress.”

  The way Tildy had behaved whenever Makenna had brought up Colin’s name, she’d thought Colin had mistreated her, perhaps made unwanted advances. But this? Tildy kept her lips sealed, her chin high as Makenna held her gaze, scores of memories and thoughts whirling through her mind, making her dizzy, yet also falling perfectly into place. Hell, she’d been so bloody blind. So lost in her own misery that she hadn’t seen what had been right in front of her nose all along.

  “The jeweled dirk, the one taken from my rooms and used against Graeme,” she said. “That was ye.”

  The maid didn’t deny it.

  And the letters sent from Duncraigh and intercepted by Celia, informing Colin of where Makenna had run off to—if Tildy was Colin’s mistress, she would have wanted to help him capture the woman accused of Graeme’s murder. She had penned them?

  “Dear Lord, Tildy. Ye’re the spy.”

  Makenna blinked back stunned tears, her cheeks hot with bewilderment. The memories kept unraveling—the coiled adder under her bedsheets, the errant stone falling from the peaks of Duncraigh castle, the severed saddle strap. If Tildy was the spy, did that mean she had also been behind the attempts to harm Makenna?

  No, not just to harm, but to kill.

  Makenna shook her head, not feeling steady on her feet as she circled back to the circumspect timing of the kidnapping. “Did Gregor even come to Duncraigh? Or was it ye who took Malcolm and yerself back here?” Another realization slapped at her like the palm of a hand. “Did ye kill Douglas? Yer own lover?”

  “Dunnae act as if ye gave a farthing for him,” Tildy said, her expression remaining wooden. “And I would never have married a clanless nobody. I’m a Brodie. A Brodie…as if ye would even ken what that means. Ye dunnae deserve to be one.”

  “Ye murdered an innocent man,” Makenna said, the truth coming to a solid stop in her mind. “Ye tried to kill me.”

  “No’ well enough!” Tildy shouted.

  Colin growled, slashing his sword out and nearly shoving Tildy down in the process. “Stop!
” He pinned Tildy with a suspicious, venom-filled glance before pointing the tip of his sword toward Makenna. “Make yer choice. I’ll give ye one last chance to save the fop and the lad.”

  Makenna looked back at Julien, still conscious and observing all that had transpired. He’d been uncharacteristically quiet, though that might only have been because of his wound. His cheeks were pale, but his eyes were alert as always. But for how long? He was bleeding profusely. And Malcolm, he had to be terrified up on the rampart, awaiting his fate, to see if he would be flung from it or not.

  “Ye want my confession?” Makenna asked.

  “And ye to take yer place as my wife,” he replied smoothly.

  She heard a strangled gasp squeeze itself from Tildy’s throat. “What? Ye said she was meant for the noose. That I was to be yer wife.”

  “No’ now,” Colin warned her, his annoyance plain.

  Makenna glanced over her shoulder to see her maid’s bulging eyes, her searching, almost innocent, stare. “But…I did everything for ye. Ye cannae marry her! She doesnae deserve to be a Brodie. To be with ye.”

  “I said shut it!” Colin pierced the earth with the sword at Tildy’s feet. She stumbled back, looking a fool and clearly having been made one by Colin and whatever empty promises he’d made her. For the briefest moment, Makenna almost felt sorry for her. But then she remembered what the maid had done and the trouble she’d wrought. Those things were on her hands, no one else’s. Tildy had murdered an innocent man. Tried to hurt her own mistress.

  Colin’s eyes slammed back into Makenna’s. “Yer confession. Now.”

  He wanted to punish her, if not just for his own twisted pleasure, but also so that he could stand up before the Brodies as a laird never to be crossed. Five mutinous men, scattered dead in the courtyard, and the accused murderess of the old laird, begging for mercy and a place in the new laird’s bed. The control, the power, the fear that would strike into the hearts of the clansmen and women would be long lasting. And her confession would allow him to do whatever he pleased as punishment. Marriage to a man like him would be a lifelong prison, worse than it had ever been with Graeme, she had no doubt of it. But a boy’s life—and a man’s life—hung in the balance. Hers was nothing to offer for theirs. She’d endured life with one abuser. What was one more?