When a Laird Takes a Lady: A Claimed by the Highlander Novel

by Rowan Keats

  Inside, he stomped his feet to rid his boots of clinging snow. Isabail was bent over her maid, binding her sprained ankle, but the moment his gaze fell upon her, she shrank against the back wall of the hut. Saints above. He’d never struck a woman in his life, and he wasn’t about to start now. He’d lost enough. He refused to give up his principles, no matter how justified his anger might be.

  The peat bricks were still burning nicely, so he stacked the wood near the flames to dry it out. Wet wood would create more smoke, and in a bothy with no chimney and a winter storm preventing open shutters, smoke was a hazard.

  All the while, Isabail hugged the daub and wattle wall, watching him warily.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  Hope brightened in her eyes for a moment, but she tempered it and then shook her head. “I don’t willingly take solace from my enemies.”

  He shrugged. “The key word there is willing, lass. If you don’t eat, you won’t be strong enough to make another attempt to escape.” He dug into his pouch and pulled out two large strips of dried venison. One, he chewed on. The other he broke in half and offered to Isabail.

  She resisted for several heartbeats.

  Then she darted forward, snatched the meat from his hands, and retreated to her corner of the hut.

  “You’ll not benefit from the fire over there,” he said, with a shake of his head.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Nay, you’re not.” The woman still wore her damp clothes. If she did not dry out, he’d be tending to two invalids, not one. Aiden crossed the room in an easy stride, grabbed her about her slender waist, and hauled her over to the fire. He forced her down onto a blanket before the flames. “Eat, then sleep.”

  Then he stepped away, seeking his own pallet.

  Isabail stared at him, her face pale. But she remained where she was, her feet almost instinctively reaching toward the fire. The room was quiet for a while, with only the crackle of the fire and the chew of dried meat.

  Then, with a hesitant voice, Isabail asked, “Is he all right? The man I hit?”

  “Graeme? Aye.”

  “I feared I might have killed him.”

  Aiden snorted. A rock wielded by a sturdy milkmaid, perhaps. But not one hefted by a will-o’-the wisp like Isabail Grant. Graeme would face a great deal of ribbing over being felled by the likes of her.

  “Sneer if you’d like,” she said quietly, “but I am not like you. I do not murder people with an easy conscience.”

  Aiden tossed her a hard look. “Be careful, lass. You know naught of what you speak.”

  “You deny you killed my brother?”

  “I do.”

  She shook her head lightly. “Do you deny slaying the king’s courier, too? My brother said they found the necklace in your chamber.” How easily those accusations spilled from her lips. Like they were an absolute truth.

  All the rage he’d contained for months suddenly poured through Aiden’s veins like molten steel, sending him to his feet. Isabail cringed, and he swiveled to avoid the fear on her face. He was too angry to be kind. “The accusations made against me are sheer madness. Why would I poison my own kin? Why would I steal from a king while his courier was feasting under my own roof? Only a fool would do such a thing, and I assure you, I am no fool.”

  Crossing the room to a wall hung with antlers from bygone hunts, he did his best to contain the fury that burned in his chest . . . and failed. He punched the wall with a heavy fist, sending antlers crashing to the floor.

  “Eight of my kin died that night, including the wife of my cousin Wulf and her wee son, Hugh. No necklace, no matter how grand, could be worth the loss of those lives.” He closed his eyes, picturing the faces of those who were lost that night, one by one. Most of the dead had been very young or very old. The healthier sorts had sickened, but survived. Except for Elen and Henry de Coleville, both very fond of eel soup—they’d consumed two bowls.

  He opened his eyes and stared at the dent his fist had left in the wattle and daub wall. “‘Twas your brother who caused their deaths.”

  “Nay,” she said vehemently. “That’s not possible. If you knew my brother, you would never say such a thing.”

  Aiden pivoted. “One of the men who accompanied Henry de Coleville to Dunstoras was also at Lochurkie the next morning. I saw him when your brother arrested me.”

  She frowned. “Of what relevance is that? All of the king’s men came to Lochurkie after the murder of de Coleville.”

  “I spied this one in the corridor leading to my chamber. He hid the necklace there.”

  Her lips thinned. “A rather far-fetched tale. Why would anyone go to such lengths?”

  “To discredit the MacCurrans.”

  Her eyebrows lifted. “Your clan is small, and your land is mostly mountains. What could they possibly gain?”

  A very good question. One Aiden had given much thought to in the months since the necklace was stolen. But he was still no closer to an answer. His father had been a staunch supporter of the king, even from the early days of his minority, and he had spent a fair amount of time at the king’s side—but more as a warrior than a political ally. Compared to the Comyns, the Balliols, and the Bruces, the MacCurrans had little influence. They were renowned for their battle skills, but these were peaceful days in Scotland—the Norse had been conquered and England had ceased to play their wicked games of control, at least for a time.

  But some sort of treachery was afoot. “You know the name of the man I seek.”

  A genuinely puzzled look stole over her face. “You cannot believe that I remember the names of all the king’s men.”

  “Not all, just this one.”

  “And why him?”

  “He was standing next to your brother when I was dragged into the great hall and accused of my crimes.”

  She adjusted her skirts, fanning the pale blue material out to dry the folds that were still wet. “I was not there, but if you describe him, perhaps I can name him.”

  “He wore black from tip to toe, including a black wolf cloak.”

  “And his face?”

  “I did not see it.”

  “The color of his hair, then?”

  Aiden said nothing. He had no more to offer. The black wolf cloak was his best clue.

  Isabail shook her head. “I cannot identify a man simply by his clothing.”

  “Surely you would remember a man who garbed himself entirely in black? A man of enough consequence to wear a wolf pelt?”

  “You ask too much. That night is several months in the past, and my brother took ill and died shortly thereafter.” A shadow passed over her face.

  He empathized with her loss. But his memories of that night were clear as spring rain, and the safety of his clan hung on her ability to remember. “Name all the men of consequence who were guests of your brother, then.”

  “And have you accuse them falsely of murder? Nay, I will not.”

  Aiden stalked across the room. This woman was his only hope of identifying the poisoner. He needed those names. “You will tell me.”

  Isabail shot to her feet and darted back to her corner of the hut, flattening herself against the wall like a tapestry of some enacted Greek tragedy.

  Aiden followed, determined. “I will have the truth.” Placing his hands on the wall on either side of her, he caged her in. Then he leaned closer, his gaze pinning hers. “Give me the names.”

  Aiden fully expected Isabail to maintain her dignified refusal, but she did something quite unexpected—she fainted. He was so surprised, he almost neglected to catch her as she fell. English ladies fainted all the time, especially when confronted with large, fierce Highlanders, but Scottish noblewomen tended to be made of sterner stuff.

  He adjusted the unconscious woman in his arms. Light as thistledown.

  Perhaps
she was overly weary, exhausted from her trek through the snow. Surely, she hadn’t collapsed due to his anger. As chatelaine of Lochurkie, she would have regularly dealt with soldiers and laborers, many of them clad much as he was. Of course, he was larger than many and built of sturdy MacCurran stock. Raised as a warrior first and a chief second.

  Aiden laid the woman gently on her pallet and covered her with a blanket. Almost without thinking, he picked up her heavy braid of hair. The strands glistened like silk, the hue so blond, it was almost white. Gazing at her this close, it was hard to imagine she was John Grant’s sister. The earl had been a large dark-haired man, perhaps a little too fond of ale and fine foods. Quite an imposing fellow, especially with a sword strapped to his side.

  Perhaps they were born of different mothers.

  The earl he knew reasonably well; John Grant had been the justiciar of Glen Avon, and as such held court for the judgments of serious crimes in the region. But all Aiden knew of his sister was that she’d been wed to the ill-fated young Macintosh heir who’d died of a festered knife wound shortly after a faire in honor of his name day.

  He stepped back, frowning.

  She was also deeply frightened of him. To her mind, he was a savage stranger who had attacked her carriage, slain her guards, and kidnapped her person. In truth, she’d been remarkably brave thus far. He doubted his mother would have endured such an attack without weeping or wailing.

  Isabail’s fear could cause him serious grief, however.

  In little more than a week, the king would grant Dunstoras to a new lord. The MacCurran keep had been reclaimed by the king when Aiden was arrested in November, and only Alexander mac Alexander’s infatuation with his new bride had seen it linger without a lord this long. Aiden had only a brief window of time to prove his innocence before the land was lost. And it wasn’t just the land he would lose. Outlawed after their chief’s disgrace and routed by soldiers, much of his clan had scattered. Only a handful of loyal kin remained, and those had withdrawn to a stone ruin deep in the forest. If Dunstoras were given to a new lord, it would not be long before those kin, too, were gone.

  Aiden’s hands fisted at his sides.

  If he gained the identity of the man in black, he might have a chance to save Dunstoras and rebuild his fractured clan. But to gain the names of John Grant’s guests, he would have to conquer Isabail’s fear and gain her trust. In less than a sennight.

  No so great a challenge, surely?

  * * *

  When Isabail woke, the bothy was dark and shuttered. The howl of the winter storm had quieted, but she had no sense how long she had been unconscious. Her last memory—the fierce face of the MacCurran swooping down upon her—was still vivid enough to make her heart pound, and she wondered if she’d taken a beating. Biting her lip in anticipation of pain, she shifted in her pallet. To her relief, there was almost none. Her hip was sore from lying in the dirt floor—the blankets beneath her couldn’t compare to the feather-stuffed mattress she was accustomed to—but save for that, she felt perfectly fine.

  Isabail looked around.

  The fire was merrily blazing, having recently received a fresh log, and she lifted her head to find the person who had fed it. Her heart stumbled. Aiden MacCurran sat on the other side of the flames, sleeves rolled up, carefully tending to his sword. He seemed unaware of her, so she watched him for a moment.

  Unlike his two henchmen, the MacCurran chief’s chin was clean-shaven, and his hair appeared to have been recently washed. Not a typical Highlander, then, despite the warring nature of his clan. His forearms rippled with sinews as he worked, the hairs on his arms golden in the firelight. Isabail was woman enough to admit she found him attractive—from a distance. Broad shoulders and tapered hips were attractive in a man, no matter who that man might be. But it was also strangely comforting to watch him hone his sword—his hands were strong and sure as they worked, displaying a level of care and control over his weapon that belied the bestiality of his large fists.

  “There’s more venison, if you’ve a hunger,” he said quietly.

  Isabel swallowed dryly and sat up. “I’ve more a need for something to wet my mouth.”

  He pointed to the door of the hut. “Fetch some snow.”

  Isabail flushed. Why hadn’t she thought of that? Of course she could eat some snow. She scrambled to her feet and headed for the door.

  “I’ve beat a good path to the woodpile,” he added. “If you must see to your needs, it’ll provide a measure of privacy.”

  Her flush deepened, though she couldn’t quite pinpoint why. A visit to the privy was a common enough event, and he was hardly giving the delicate topic excessive attention. But just the knowledge that he’d thought about her needs made her cheeks heat. Isabail escaped quickly.

  Outside the bothy, the snowfall had ceased, but the sky was still sullen with cloud. The sun was little more than a smudge of brightness above the trees, but a pair of crossbills flitting through the branches thought it was well worth chirping about. For the briefest of moments, the notion of fleeing took hold, but she couldn’t leave without Muirne. Besides, where would she go?

  Nay. As much as he frightened her, the MacCurran was her best hope of survival.

  She ate her fill of cold wet snow, completed her ablutions, and returned to the cozy warmth of the hut. MacCurran had not moved—he was still polishing the fine steel of his blade with a purposeful attention to detail. For some reason, that eased Isabail’s tremulous thoughts. Surely a man capable of such focus could keep his temper under tight rein.

  “Rouse your maid,” he said.

  She knelt beside Muirne and checked her fingers and toes—save for the woman’s right small toe, all were a healthy shade of pink.

  “We’ll set off as soon as she is ready.”

  Isabail nodded. With a gentle shake and a firm voice, she encouraged Muirne to rise. The older woman was still clearly exhausted, but she sat up when Isabail offered her food and water. “Nay, my lady. It should be I who sees to your welfare, not you to mine.”

  But she took the food and consumed it with a very unladylike haste.

  MacCurran handed her a pair of dry stockings. “Your boots are dry, but they likely won’t remain that way. If you lose feeling in your feet as we walk, let me know immediately.”

  When they were once again bundled against the winter chill, MacCurran doused the fire and led them back up the mountain. It took them half the time to return to camp as it had to find the bothy. Due in part, no doubt, to the powerful way MacCurran cut a swath through the snowdrifts, but also because the route he took was more direct.

  She caught his eye as they spied the billowing gray blankets that served as a tent for his two men. He shrugged. “You lost your way as you traversed the hill.”

  “So, it was a miracle we found the bothy?”

  He grimaced. “Aye.”

  Isabail flinched at the return of the fierce visage. He clearly thought her a fool, but could he not understand her desire to be free? Would he not have done the same in her boots?

  The other two men greeted MacCurran with subdued respect. Graeme, in particular, wore a pained expression that had nothing to do with the lump on his head. They were ashamed to have let down their chief. They packed up the camp and saddled the horses with spare movements and little chatter. By the time the sun had fully broken free of the horizon, they were plowing through the snow in a westerly direction, the white-capped cone of Ben Avon reaching into the sky to the south.

  Isabail was no happier to be sharing a mount with MacCurran this time than she was the last, but she had a new appreciation for the horse’s long-legged ability to cut through drifts. She kept as much distance from her companion as their close proximity would allow, grateful for the extra padding provided by the blankets. Making a mental note to restock the hunt bothy, she snuggled deeper into the wool.

 
MacCurran and his men kept an aggressive pace, their horses agilely navigating the rocky mountain paths. The leagues passed uneventfully. Despite the improvement in the weather, there was no sign of any soldiers from Lochurkie. Either they’d fallen significantly behind, or they had given up.

  As the sun reached its zenith in the sky, the air warmed, and Isabail’s breath no longer made a foggy exit from her lips. There was a certain monotony to the journey—the rolling gait of the horse, the thud of hooves on the frozen ground, the gentle heat on her face and at her back. And she felt remarkably secure with MacCurran’s unyielding arm wrapped around her waist. Perhaps because she could not see his grim face.

  He said nothing as they rode, leading the group over the rough terrain without a hint of uncertainty or indecision. The only sound that left his lips was an occasional series of clicks to encourage their horse when the terrain was especially challenging. Isabail actually managed to forget that she was the prisoner of a Highland barbarian . . . at least briefly.

  Exhaustion crept up on her. It grew harder and harder to keep her eyes open and her back stiff. Especially during those moments when the path led straight up the mountain. Isabail struggled against her drooping eyelids . . . and lost. The last thing she remembered as her eyes slid shut was a gruffly worded, “Sleep.”

  * * *

  Aiden felt Isabail go limp in his arms and knew she had finally succumbed to the rigor of her snowbound adventure. She surprised him with the extent of her endurance—she’d slept no more than a wink during the night. Her timing was unfortunate, though.

  He reined his horse in at the edge of the cliff and looked out over the wide glen below. Forest stretched as far as the eye could see in all directions, the trees a mix of barren winter branches and green needled firs. Approaching Dunstoras from the east always made his heart soar. Wrapped in leafless winter vines, the pale gray stones of the castle’s tower were clearly visible against the afternoon sky. They stood above the trees like a beacon calling him home.

  “Now, there’s a sight for sore eyes,” Graeme said, drawing alongside him.