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

by Rowan Keats

  His silence prompted a further reply, “All right. If you must know, I found my accommodations unsatisfactory. By right I should be treated like a noble guest, not a servant. A straw pallet and threadbare blanket are hardly appropriate. I merely sought some additional comforts.”

  His eyebrow lifted. “And how does knowing how many sacks of flour I possess enhance your comfort?”

  Even in the dim light, he saw her cheeks redden. The disadvantage of possessing such fair and flawless skin. “Mistress Beathag and the cook suggested that while I was down here, and since I had the keys, they would benefit from knowing exactly what they had at their disposal.” Her gaze dropped to her feet. “You really ought to appoint a new seneschal.”

  “How did you acquire the keys?”

  Another flush, this one accompanied by a straightening of her spine and a fisting of her hand around the charcoal. “Your mother made them available to me.”

  “You mean you coerced her.”

  “I had no need. She is a woman. She sympathized with my plight.”

  Incredible. She’d been in the camp for only a few hours and she’d already befriended his mother, unearthed their biggest secret, and begun an assessment of his belongings. A very talented spy. “Cease what you are doing and return to your chamber immediately. You are not to be wandering the camp on your own. You are not a guest; you are a prisoner. Any comforts you receive will be those I choose to offer, not those you claim for yourself.”

  “And what am I to do in my empty chamber? Count cobwebs?” She stood there for a long moment, mutiny in the stiff cant of her shoulders.

  “Dwell on the names of those men who visited Lochurkie last autumn. Revealing them is your only path to freedom.” Aiden pointed down the tunnel. “Go.”

  She stood her ground, but with less surety.

  “Now!” he barked.

  Isabail took off at a run, the parchment flying into the air, the charcoal rolling across the dirt floor. Muirne hesitated only a moment before scurrying off after her lady.

  Aiden eyed Brother Orick. “Find a few more helpers and finish what she started.”

  Chapter 5

  Magnus chopped wood until every muscle in his arms ached with the effort. A cool winter wind swept across the loch and snatched away his breath, but no matter how hard he worked, nothing could rid him of the nagging sense that he should be somewhere else.

  When the wood was split and neatly piled shoulder high behind the bothy, he paused.

  Only then did Morag approach him. “Remain angry if you wish,” she said, “but accept this water. Spiting your body to get back at me is childish.”

  He faced her squarely. “Tell me the truth, and we’ll have no more quarrel.”

  “Nay,” she said, her long black hair floating loosely on the breeze. “You are not completely healed. I will not risk your life by sending you back into danger unprepared.”

  “My memory has not returned in three long months. More rest is not the answer. I must seek out those who might know me.”

  She laid a gentle hand on his left side, just below the ribs. “You were nigh on dead when I found you, and your injury was caused by a sword. If you leave now, while your body is not fully mended, you’ll meet an unfortunate fate.”

  Magnus brushed aside her hand. The wound she spoke of had healed. It was his leg—and his lost memories—that still troubled him. “My injuries may never heal completely. I cannot hide forever.”

  She said nothing, her silence an answer of its own.

  “If you will not tell me what you witnessed the day you found me, then we’ve nothing more to say.” Magnus snatched up his bow and a quiver of arrows and limped toward the edge of the forest. “I’ll fetch something to eat for supper.”

  She watched him until he disappeared into the depths of the trees—as she always did. Most days, he enjoyed the feel of her eyes upon him, but today it only fueled his frustration. Being coddled like a bairn did not sit well with him. He was no longer badly injured. He was as healthy as he might ever be. It was time for him to go, to seek out his past—no matter how ugly that past might be.

  And it might indeed be ugly. Only nobles and soldiers carried swords. If he’d been injured by a blade, he had almost assuredly stood on the wrong side of the law. A worry that was upheld by Morag’s fear for his safety. Although she refused to reveal the details of that night, the pallor of her face when she spoke of it suggested she had witnessed the attack, not simply found him lying in a pool of blood.

  Magnus lifted his gaze to the stone tower in the distance.

  Castle guards had felled him, most likely. Which made him at best a thief, a spy, or a poacher. At worst, a murderer and a knave.

  Not that he wanted to believe he was any of those. His gut insisted he was an honorable man with a fine purpose. But with no memories of his past, how could he be certain? His only clues were the vague feelings that assailed him—like the one that insisted that somewhere, in some place he couldn’t envision, someone was waiting for him to come home. Or the bone-chilling sense of dread that always followed his attempts to recall who that someone might be.

  Magnus slipped behind the wide trunk of an ancient oak tree. Up ahead, through the thin winter brush, he could see the telltale dark brown coat of a hind. His mouth watered at the thought of eating venison, but Magnus did not lift his bow. Downing a deer would set the castle huntsman on his tail—deer were reserved for the nobles. In truth, all the animals of the forest belonged to the laird, but hiding the carcass of a dead rabbit was a great deal easier than hiding a deer.

  A branch cracked to his right.

  The hind took fright and bolted into the trees. Magnus flattened himself against the trunk of the oak and slowed his breaths to a silent draw of air. Deep and even. From the corner of his eye, he spotted a flash of movement. A solitary man. Someone on foot, accompanied by a large hound.

  Magnus stared as the stranger and his dog made their way through the forest. Quite possibly, it was someone from the castle. Not a huntsman—his trek through the brush was far too noisy and untrained for that. A noble, then.

  A person who might recognize Magnus.

  He glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the bothy. This was an opportunity that carried little risk. He could easily overpower one man and a dog, if it came to that. And if the man could name him, he’d learn much about the life he’d led before he had awakened in Morag’s bed.

  But it might also lead to trouble for Morag. Although she traded with the castle, selling her colorful weaves to the inhabitants on market day, she was an admitted outcast. The moment he explained where he had been living for the last three months, she would be subjected to unwelcome scrutiny. Possibly even sanctions. And after all she had done for him, he couldn’t allow that. Even if she drove him to the brink of madness with her refusal to tell him what she knew, he could never betray her.

  Magnus stood silent and still and watched the man and his hound march out of sight.

  * * *

  “You found her in the cave?” Niall asked with a frown, as he accepted a tankard of ale from the alewife. Snowflakes drifted down from the open sky above their heads, but the walls of the ruin kept the winter breeze at bay. “Did she see the other tunnel?”

  “I can’t be certain.” Aiden took a sip of ale, washing down the rather tasteless oatcake that accompanied his venison broth. At least the soup had been tasty. “But that’s hardly the point. The woman has gained a troubling knowledge of our encampment in a very short period of time. And at some point I’ll be forced to let her go.”

  “If she shares the dismal state of our affairs with MacPherson, he’ll be even more inclined to root us out.”

  “Indeed.”

  His brother shrugged. “So, don’t let her go.”

  “I’ve given her my word,” Aiden said. “If she tells me the nam
es, she can leave.”

  “Then you’ve no choice. You need to sway her to our cause.”

  “Easier said than done,” Aiden said dryly. “She believes I murdered her brother, and she’s terrified of me.”

  “Aye, well, you have acquired a rather angry mien of late.” Niall stood up as Ana Bisset joined them at the table. He gave her a slow smile that was easy to interpret. “Rightly so, of course. But sharing your ill humor with Lady Isabail will not gain you her trust.”

  Aiden didn’t begrudge Niall his happiness—his brother’s trials had been near as difficult as his—but it underscored the emptiness of his own life, and at this moment it was more than he could endure. He grunted a noncommittal response and pushed away from the table.

  His time was better spent charming the lady. Or at least attempting to. Pocketing an oatcake, he left the great hall in search of her. Not that her location was any great mystery—he’d confined her to her hut. And even if he hadn’t already known which house was hers, the flicker of candles and the sound of voices raised in lively discussion would have led him there unerringly.

  He entered without knocking.

  Inside, the cook, the friar, and Beathag had gathered around Isabail. She held court on a small wooden stool used for milking goats. Anyone else would have looked ridiculous seated a few inches from the floor. Isabail looked quite the opposite. Wearing only a multihued blanket atop her white chemise, her back straight and tall, she managed to look positively regal. The frothy white folds of her diaphanous shift floated about her feet, and a tiny hint of it peeked from beneath the heavy wool at her neck—just enough to draw his attention to the pale pink flesh beneath her chin. A tantalizing glimpse that for a brief moment sent his imagination spinning into inappropriate realms.

  The group was discussing the menu for the next day’s meals. Cook was reciting the dishes he knew how to make, the friar was interspersing that list with an account of the ingredients they had available, while Beathag reminded everyone how many mouths they had to feed. A very needful conversation—but naught to do with the task he’d set for Isabail.

  There was no effort being made to detail the visitors to Lochurkie. Time was passing, and he was no closer to finding the man in black. He’d given very explicit instructions and had left her alone to perform the task. He’d even renewed his promise to free her should she give him the names.

  Aiden surged across the wooden planking. “Out,” he barked.

  Her entourage took one look at his face and scattered into the night.

  Isabail scrambled to her feet, knocking the three-legged stool to its side. “I did not seek them out; they sought me.”

  “Why?”

  She backed up several steps. “Th-they lack guidance.”

  The tremble in her voice registered, and he bit back the snarled response that leapt to his lips. He had no idea what expression lay on his face, but clearly it frightened her. Mindful of his brother’s advice, he attempted to soften his features. Her gaze darted away, and he had the distinct impression his efforts hadn’t entirely been successful.

  Still, she persevered. “Guidance that is typically given by the lady of the keep.”

  “My mother is grieving. Her attention is justly scattered.”

  Isabail nodded. “I understand. But a castle runs more smoothly when all within are assigned specific duties and are held accountable.”

  He frowned. “My people have served the clan for many a year. They know their tasks.”

  “Would your soldiers be well organized if their captain had been slain in battle?”

  “A new captain would be appointed.”

  She smiled tremulously. “Exactly. The seneschal is the captain of the household. Without him, even your seasoned staff feel lost and at cross-purpose.”

  “It’s my mother’s duty to appoint a new seneschal.” He shrugged. “She’ll take care of it in due time.”

  “And while she grieves, your caretakers struggle to work together and keep food on the table.”

  The note of disapproval in her voice did not sit well. “We are surviving,” he said coldly.

  “Aye,” she said, “and you will continue to survive . . . until you do not. But how much longer do you have? A week? A month? Without someone regularly counting the supplies and visiting the menus, how can you know?”

  Aiden crossed his arms over his chest. Her words were an echo of his own concerns. And the conversation he’d just had with his men had only heightened those concerns: Food was becoming a problem. According to Udard, the reason the hunting party had been captured by MacPherson was that they were venturing farther north in search of game. The forest around the hill fort had been hunted out. Still, Aiden wasn’t willing to cede the point. Not to Lady Isabail. “My household is none of your concern.”

  “Of course it is,” she insisted. “I am your prisoner. My safety is at stake. A brave warrior can hold off an attacking army indefinitely. A starving warrior has only days before he must bow in defeat.”

  Her brazen challenge drew Aiden forward. “Now you impugn my ability to keep you safe? By God, woman, you are too much.”

  She took a hasty step back, a rapid pulse fluttering in her long, elegant neck.

  A very obvious sign of fear, which twisted his guts. She believed he would harm her. Good sense told him to back away, to let her run. But he did not. Instead, he gave in to impulse and closed the gap between them to mere inches. Her eyes widened, and one trembling hand flew to her throat.

  Aiden grasped that hand in his.

  It was cool and delightfully soft-skinned. The temptation to press a kiss to her knuckles came and went as he stared into her eyes. This was not the time for such an indulgence. He placed her hand on his chest, just above his heart. “Know this. Never, no matter how angry my words or how furious my stance, will I do harm to a woman,” he said. “If ever you need to know that you are safe in my presence, simply place your hand here and push. You have my word that I will back away.”

  He let his hand drop. Hers remained on his chest.

  With their gazes locked, he pressed lightly forward, encouraging her to test his vow.

  And she did. She pushed.

  Aiden stepped back. “I am a passionate man, lass. I’ve been known to shake the rafters with the sounds of my fury. But I’ve never lifted a hand to a woman, and I’ll not start now. You possess information that I am determined to get, but I can assure you that my methods will never include beating it out of you. Understand?”

  She nodded, her eyes meeting his more easily.

  With her fear contained and her trembles calmed, Isabail’s pale face regained its ethereal beauty. Smooth skin the color of milk, long-lashed eyes that rivaled the woodland bluebell, and rosy lips that begged to be kissed. What was not to admire? The desire that sang through his veins came as natural as breathing.

  He took her chin lightly in hand, rubbing his thumb over the silky softness of her flesh.

  “Lovely,” he said.

  She flushed but did not draw back. Nor did she attempt to push him away.

  “I’ve traveled the length and breadth of Scotland and met many a lass, but none as bonny as you,” he admitted. One or two had come close, including his once-betrothed, Fiona MacDonald. But Isabail’s silvery blond hair and blue eyes charmed him in a way none of the others had. Of course, those other lasses had not given him near as much trouble, either.

  He shifted the path of his thumb upward, across the velvet texture of her lips.

  As he tugged on her bottom lip, a gentle sigh escaped her mouth. The sound made his pulse pound and his head spin. Up until that moment, he’d fully intended to pull away, to let the tension between them ebb and the passage of time add strength to her trust in him. But that sigh was so full of promise, so sweetly encouraging, he could only bow to it.

  With excruciating slowne
ss, giving her every opportunity to halt him, he lowered his mouth toward hers. A hairbreadth away, he stopped, needing to be certain. Breathing deep of her sweetly feminine scent, he found her hand and placed it upon his chest once more. One push and he would be gone. She had to know that.

  To his relief, she did not push. Her hand slipped up and around his neck. It was an invitation he could not refuse—on an indrawn breath, he captured the petal-soft curve of her lips.

  Sweet. So unbelievably sweet.

  A deep groan rose in his throat as he leaned in to her body. Soft flesh met his hard grind, and it was enough to send his blood searing through his veins in a glorious burn of desire. After all the hours she’d spent in his arms on the long journey to Dunstoras, there was a sense of familiarity—of rightness—that came over him as he gathered her close.

  She responded by tipping her head to accept his kisses.

  And as swiftly as that, all resentment toward her died. What her brother had done to him was not Isabail’s doing. She might be a tad arrogant and finer than an Englishwoman in her linen smallclothes, but she was also intelligent, persevering, and loyal. Despite all the challenges he’d thrown her way, she’d proven herself a stalwart champion of her maid, her brother, and even herself. She was incredible.

  He deepened the kiss, burying his fingers in the silken strands of her blond hair and taking all that she had to offer.

  For the moment, the lady was his.

  Chapter 6

  His kisses were neither sweet nor gentle. They were a fierce attack on Isabail’s senses. Every press of his body against hers sent a thousand tiny tremors racing through her. The fear she’d felt only moments ago was gone—banished by the knowledge that he would stop if she but commanded. In its place lay excitement. And anticipation. And delightful ripples of pleasure.

  His hands, which she had once envisioned as brutal, began to wander the curves of her body with the experience of a man born to sin. Kneading, mapping, caressing. Her mind was not so easily won as her body, and for a moment, two images of him warred within her thoughts—one, the dark warrior who had attacked her caravan, brimming with wrath and vengeance; the other, the purposeful leader, warming her toes against his bared chest and greeting his kin with subdued but obvious joy.