Captured by the Highlander

by Julianne MacLean

  “You look different in the costume of a savage. That’s why I thought you were the Butcher.”

  Duncan ignored the insult. “How did you escape?” he asked. “Who released you?”

  “One of my own men. He had a key.”

  “Where did he get it?”

  “I don’t know that. I didn’t bother to ask.” The panic in his voice slowly began to subside.

  Duncan continued to pace back and forth like a caged tiger. “You have to pay for your crimes,” he said. “You cannot get away with the murder of innocent women and children.

  You cannot escape from it.”

  “I have done nothing but my duty,” Bennett replied.

  “Your duty to whom?” Duncan could feel his impatience mounting. “Your country? Your King? What about God?”

  “God, King, country—it’s all the same.”

  “Is that a fact?” Duncan stopped and fixed his eyes on Bennett. “Tel me something. You’ve fought in battles, as have I. You’ve killed many men, as have I. You’ve even saved the life of your commander, Amelia’s father. But why do you hurt women and children? Why do you burn them out of their homes?”

  “My duty is to crush this rebel ion,” he replied. “If that means I must wipe this country clean of all Jacobites, then that is what I will do.”

  Duncan took a deep breath, searching for calm. “Do you ever regret the things you’ve done?”

  Do you wake up at night drenched in sweat, dreaming of your victims staring at you, watching you sleep? Do you see and feel the scorching flames of hell at your heels, and agonize over the blood you cannot wash off your hands?

  “Never,” Bennett replied. “As I said, it is my duty as an officer to serve the King, and I do so without hesitation. Or remorse.”

  Duncan looked away. He thought of his father’s iron fist and the pain of that punishing, unrelenting hand as it struck bone—Duncan’s own bones—in far too many lessons about discipline.

  “Have you ever been wounded?” Duncan asked, thinking for a moment that Bennett simply did not understand the pain he inflicted upon others. “Have you ever felt real physical agony? Have you been shot, or cut, or beaten? Have you ever been a victim of another man’s wrath?”

  Bennett laughed. “Why all these questions, Moncrieffe?”

  “I just need to understand.…”

  “Would you like to see my scars?” Bennett asked. “I can show them to you, if you like. You can see where I’ve been wounded on the battlefield, and how I was once flogged to within an inch of my life.”

  Duncan eyed him with mistrust. “The British army does not flog its officers.”

  “No, but a father will flog a son to make a good soldier out of him.”

  Duncan pondered this. “You were whipped by your father?”

  “Yes,” Bennett replied. “Many times. But I cannot imagine it was any worse than what you endured, Moncrieffe. Let us not forget the bishop. Your father was not a man many people would defy. I’m sure you had a very stern and rigorous education as well , and did what you were told.

  Nothing to be ashamed of. I, too, was an obedient son.”

  It was true. Duncan had been raised with a firm hand, but he had also defied his father. At the age of thirteen, Duncan had walked in on his mother being slapped around the gal ery. He had quickly sliced his father’s arm open with a broken bottle, and it was a year before the man raised a hand to Duncan’s mother again.

  When it did happen, his father came away from that beating with a black eye. After the third, more violent confrontation with a bold son of seventeen, his father gave up the abuse completely.

  “I’ll be taking you back to the castle now,” Duncan said, returning to his horse and digging through his saddlebags for a rope, “where you’ll wait for Colonel Worthington.”

  Bennett scowled. “Give me a sword, Moncrieffe, and let me fight you. It’s only fair, after you stole my fiancée—no doubt gaining her hand by force, just as I gained the upper hand with your former fiancée. What was her name again?

  Mary? Megan?”

  Duncan spoke in a low voice. “Her name was Muira.”

  «Well, Muira was a very pretty Scottish lass, and I made sure her last moments were exciting and memorable. She quite enjoyed herself, I believe. Pity you weren’t there to see it.”

  Duncan faced Bennett and palmed the handle of his axe.

  “If I’d been there, Bennett, you’d be dead.”

  “Is that right? Then why aren’t I dead now? Perhaps you don’t truly have the guts for war. From what I understand, you like to negotiate in flowery drawing rooms, using your whisky to bribe for what you want. What happened to you? Your father was a fierce warrior. He must have been very disappointed with how you turned out. I’m still not sure why Amelia has taken a fancy to you when you are nothing but a weak and cowardly Scot and, I am quite sure, a dirty Jacobite as well .”

  Duncan voiced a warning. “You should shut your mouth.”

  He thought of Angus suddenly and heard the low sound of his friend’s voice: That woman has made you weak.…

  Bennett smiled. “Why? Does the truth grate upon your delicate sensibilities? Here’s another bit of grating truth for you, Moncrieffe.” He took a step forward. “When these charges against me are dismissed—which they most certainly will be—the first thing I’m going to do is return to the Highlands. I will rape every woman along the way, burn every cottage, and then I will kill you, and every member of your household. I will take Amelia back to England with me where she belongs and make her my wife. I’ll take her straight to bed on our wedding night and show her how a real man does it. At least then she will be an English whore. You might even hear her screams from your grave—but you won’t be able to do a single bloody thing about it, because you’ll be dead.”

  Rage detonated in Duncan’s brain. There were flashes of light, an ungodly roar from somewhere over the treetops, and the next thing he knew he was staring down at Richard Bennett’s head at his feet.

  The body tipped forward and fell into him. He shoved it away, then stumbled backwards onto a tree. He dropped his axe to the ground, stared intently at the head and its headless body …

  He quickly bent over to expel the contents of his stomach.

  A few minutes later, he was standing on the other side of the clearing with his back to the red-coated corpse, looking up at the trees. He had no idea how long he stood there before Fergus and Gawyn came galloping along. He heard the vague sound of their voices, then felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “What happened here?”

  He met Gawyn’s eyes. “Bennett’s dead.”

  “Aye, we noticed.”

  Fergus was kneeling over the body. “Nice work, Duncan.

  But how’d he escape in the first place? You don’t think it was Lady Amelia who set him free?”

  Duncan pointed at Fergus from across the distance. “Say that again, Fergus, and you’ll wish you were never born.”

  “I’ll not say another word about it!” He raised his hands in surrender.

  “What are we going to do with him?” Gawyn casual y asked.

  Duncan returned to the body and looked down at it, and felt as if he were spinning into the hellish storm of his recent life—a storm that had never real y moved out. Part of him was disgusted by what he had done, but another part felt satisfied. Deeply satisfied. He was drunk with the fulfillment of his vengeance.

  What did that make him?

  Stalking to his horse, he removed the empty saddlebag and handed it to Gawyn. “Put the head in this bag and take it to Kinloch Castle. Deliver it to the Laird MacDonald with a note saying that this is the English soldier who killed his daughter. Don’t let anyone see your face.”

  “But who will I say did this?”

  Duncan stared at him and experienced a moment of great clarity.

  “The Butcher.” He scooped up his axe and swung himself into the saddle. “Get rid of the body. He cannot be found on Moncrieffe l
and.”

  With that final order, Duncan kicked in his heels and galloped deeper into the forest, in a direction that took him farther away from the castle.

  * * *

  The search for Colonel Bennett continued for the next twelve hours, though Duncan did not take part. Nor did he return to the castle. Instead, he rode alone to the banks of Loch Shiel, reined in his horse, dismounted, and waded into the frigid waters—kilt, pistol, claymore, and all . He kept walking until the water reached over his head, then dunked himself and remained there, submerged, his feet on the muddy floor of the loch, feeling utterly content to be swallowed up by the dark, bitter chill .

  When he final y noticed an urgent need to breathe, he broke the surface, sucked air deep into his lungs, then unbuckled his weapons and let everything sink to the bottom.

  He treaded water for a moment, immersed to the neck in the cold, then gave himself up to the gentle current. Without the weight of the steel, his feet lifted. His eyes closed and he floated on the swell s, dimly aware of the fact that he was drifting farther and farther away from shore.

  He thought of Amelia and knew this would bring on the inevitable disappointment he had been anticipating since the beginning. It would fall as heavy as an anvil and crush everything. He had broken his vow to her, and she might very well view it as a violation of their marriage agreement. She might even leave him and expose him as the rebel that he was.

  Strangely, however, he felt no despair, no aching regret over what he had done. all he felt currently was the cool water lapping up against his skin and the sway of his tartan, floating lightly all around him.

  Was this the peace he had been searching for? Perhaps.

  Though he did not feel triumphant, nor did he wish to celebrate. His bones were going numb. He felt almost nothing at all , as if he were not a man but a mere element of the lake. He was composed of water, and he was floating.

  Then he began to shiver and realized it was a stupid thought. He was very much a man with hot, pulsing blood in his veins—blood that was growing colder by the minute. He swam back to shore, staggered heavily out of the water, and collapsed onto his back on the pebbly beach, shivering.

  He stared up at the white sky for a while, then found himself gazing up into two round, black holes.

  Turner’s flaring nostrils …

  The great beast snorted and nudged him in the head.

  “Nay, I’ve not gone to meet my maker.” Duncan reached up and stroked the animal’s silky muzzle. “But I don’t feel alive, either. I don’t know what I am.”

  He continued to lie there, wondering how long it would take for his clothes to dry, and for his conscience to truly pass judgment on what he had done.

  * * *

  It was dark by the time Duncan returned to the castle. He crossed the bridge on foot, leading Turner behind him, then handed him off to a groom outside the stables. Duncan entered the main castle and went straight to his bedchamber but found it locked. He pounded on the door and heard Amelia shout from inside, “Who is it?”

  He had told her to lock herself in. That had been more than thirteen hours ago. He raked a hand through his hair, displeased with himself. “It’s Duncan. You can open the door now, lass.”

  Because Richard would not be coming back.

  The lock clicked, the door opened, and Amelia flew into Duncan’s arms. She wore a white dressing gown, and her tousled hair was wet, hanging loose upon her shoulders. She smelled of rose petals.

  “Thank heavens you’re all right,” she said. “No one knew where you were.”

  He reached up to pry her wrists off the back of his neck and hold them low in front of him. “I’m fine, lass.”

  She led him into the room. The fire was burning low, casting the bedchamber in a shroud of warm, golden light.

  There was a tub in front of the hearth. Her maid must have come and gone, at least.

  “Did they find Richard yet?” Amelia asked.

  Duncan had had all day to consider how he would answer that question. In the end, he knew that honesty was the only option. Richard’s head would soon arrive at Kinloch Castle—it was a mere two-day ride from here—and news of his death would spread quickly. There was no possibility of hiding what had occurred. Not from her.

  “Nay, they did not find him,” Duncan answered. “The militia is still searching, along with Worthington’s men.”

  Before Duncan had a chance to say anything more, she came toward him, slipped her arms around his waist, and laid her cheek on his chest. “Oh, Duncan, how I missed you. I was so worried. I feared you would never return.”

  He stood motionless, bewildered, as she tugged his shirt out from inside his kilt and leather belt. She lifted it to bare his chest, then took a moment to study the cut of his muscles and the markings of his scars. Soon her soft, pink lips were brushing over his skin. Her moist breath made him shiver, and he lost all interest in conversation, despite the fact that there was so very much to say.

  Her enticing wet mouth settled on a nipple, and she sucked greedily. His breathing grew heavy. She licked and teased both nipples for quite some time; then her eyes lifted and she gave him a smile of raw, sensual appeal.

  He knew he should stop her, but he couldn’t. He needed this physical sensation to bring him out of the strange, empty void he had been floating in all day.

  She slid down the front of him to her knees and slipped her hands up under his kilt. She kept her eyes fixed on his the entire time as she stroked the muscles of his thighs, then took hold of his heavy ball s. She caressed and massaged him. Final y, she lowered her ravenous gaze and disappeared under his kilt.

  Duncan closed his eyes and tipped his head back as she took him into her mouth. Erotic pleasure flooded through him.

  The chaos of his life dissolved in the wet, luxuriant heat of her mouth and the ecstasy that coursed through his veins. She licked and sucked tirelessly, until he could no longer remain standing. He took her by the shoulders, pulled her to her feet, swept her up into his arms, and carried her to the bed.

  He came down on top of her in a smooth blur of movement, needing to make love in a way he had never needed before. He kissed her deeply, thrust his eager, muscled hips into hers, then reached down and pulled her shift and his kilt out of the way.

  He leaned up on one elbow and looked down at his erection, poised and pulsing hotly between her thighs. all he had to do was touch the tip of his passions to the dark, silky center of her womanhood and in one firm stroke he would be lost inside. But something held him back.

  “Amelia…”

  “Yes?” She wiggled impatiently, cupped his buttocks in her hands, and pulled him inside. He slid in all too easily.

  Heaven melted around him, rendered him immobile, speechless, but somehow he located his resolve and pulled out again. He rose up on all fours to look down at her.

  He couldn’t do this. Not now.

  “I killed him.”

  She blinked a few times. “What do you mean?”

  “I killed Bennett. I did it this morning. In the woods.”

  Her brow furrowed with confusion. He stared down at her in the dying firelight, waiting for her to say something.

  Anything. But she did not speak.

  He rolled off her, onto his back.

  “I don’t understand,” she final y said, sitting up and pulling her shift down over her legs to cover herself. “You told me they were still searching for him.”

  “They are.”

  “But do they know he’s dead?”

  “Nay.”

  She considered this. “So no one knows you killed him?

  Your militia is scouring your lands, searching for a dead man? Why didn’t you tell me this before, Duncan? How could you let me…?” She paused, and a hint of anger found its way into her voice. “What happened? Please tell me that you were defending yourself.”

  He could not lie. What he did was an act of rage, brought on by the nature of Bennett’s threats and the horr
ors of his cruelties in the past. “Nay. He was unarmed. I had already taken his knife.”

  Duncan reached into his boot and pulled it out, then tossed it onto the floor with a noisy clang. It bounced end-over-end toward the wall .

  She clutched at the neckline of her shift, holding it tightly about her neck. “If he was unarmed, why didn’t you simply bring him back here and lock him up again?”

  “That’s what I meant to do. I had the rope in my hands, but…”

  “But what?”

  “Something came over me. I couldn’t listen to the things he said. I can’t even begin to explain it to you.”

  “Try.”

  Duncan swallowed over the bile that rose up in his throat.

  “He said vile things about you, lass, and about Muira—things I do not care to repeat. It started a fire in my head, and I lost control. I didn’t even realize what I’d done until it was over.”

  She slid off the bed and went to stand in front of the window. “How did you kill him, Duncan?”

  “I took off his head.” It was the bitter, hard truth, delivered without hesitation, and strangely he felt no shame. He even reveled in the words as he recalled the silence in the woods—when Bennett had final y stopped talking.

  For a long moment she stood without moving or speaking, and Duncan knew she was repulsed by what he had done.

  Sickened by it. As he had expected she would be.

  Amelia faced him. “How do you feel about it? Are you at all troubled by what you did?”

  He swung his legs to the floor and sat on the edge of the bed. “I wish I could tell you that I am. I wish I could say I’m drowning in guilt and remorse, and that I spent the day on my knees, praying for God’s forgiveness, but that would be a lie, lass, because I do not regret it.”

  “You feel no remorse whatsoever?”

  He looked up at her. “Nay. I’m glad I did it, and I would do it again if I found myself back there now.”

  She headed for the door, but he sprung from the bed and blocked her exit.

  “How could you do something like that and feel no regret?” she asked. Her voice quavered with shock and anguish. “You had the chance to bring him back here so that he could face Colonel Worthington’s court-martial, but you took it upon yourself to act as his judge and executioner. You killed an unarmed man in cold blood. I cannot imagine the savagery of it, not after the past few weeks, when I have seen another side of you—a side that gave me hope. I began to believe it might be possible for me to forgive everything else, and love you.”