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

by Rowan Keats

  “Then spare him a few moments of your time.”

  Strangely, Aiden was not insulted by the request. A stable boy or young Jamie would have been better choices, but the task had been oddly rewarding.

  He nodded.

  “You did well to heal him,” he acknowledged. “I will return.”

  * * *

  The instant MacCurran stood up and showed signs of leaving, Isabail scurried away from the door to Ana Bisset’s hut. She wasn’t quite sure what to think about what she’d just seen, but one thing was certain—she did not want to be caught spying.

  Darting behind the other roundhouses, she kept to the shadows and circled the central fire to the door of MacCurran’s hut. Once inside, she tossed the blankets onto the mattress and ran a quick hand over her hair to flatten any hairs gone astray. Just in time, as it happened.

  MacCurran entered the roundhouse a moment later.

  Isabail watched him as he closed the door.

  All of the anger and bitterness she had felt upon finding Ana Bisset in his camp was gone, replaced by two emotions she wasn’t entirely comfortable with: gratitude for the healer’s efforts to save her injured dog and amazement over MacCurran’s gentle feeding of that same beast. He’d actually coaxed Gorm to eat with softly spoken words.

  The sting of impending tears forced her to turn away.

  Damn him.

  He’d done it again. Confused her. Shaken her beliefs.

  “You need not fear,” MacCurran said. “The dog will live.”

  Isabail blinked hard, banishing her silly tears. Then she turned to face him. “May I see him?”

  “In the morning,” he said. “He’s resting now.”

  Even the urge to protest had vanished. She now knew why he was keeping her from Gorm—he feared she’d be upset to discover Ana Bisset in charge of his care. And truth be told, if she hadn’t seen the dog safe and secure in the healer’s hut herself, she likely would have been just as distressed as he imagined.

  So, how could she resent his decision?

  She nodded. “I look forward to it.”

  “Are you feeling well?” he asked, frowning.

  “Aye.” As well as could be expected, given the tumultuous bend of her thoughts.

  He crossed the room to stand before her. “I thought you’d be pleased to hear the dog was well.”

  “I am,” she said. To avoid his piercing gaze, she looked at her feet. “But I was anticipating the worst and this good news has . . . disconcerted me.”

  His hand cupped her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.

  The rub of his callused palm on her skin stole her breath away. She suddenly craved a repeat of the intimate kiss they’d shared the night before. The press, the passion, the need. Oh aye, the need. She knew the facts pointed to him having a hand in her brother’s murder, but at this moment, those facts felt vague and unfounded. The man who cradled injured dogs was real.

  Excitement was a sweet taste in her mouth, and she stared into his eyes with an anticipation that was palpable. He returned her stare for a long moment, his expression still and unreadable.

  Isabail was lost in the fantasy of his lips on hers, a warmth settling into her cheeks that had nothing to do with the glowing coals in the brazier at their feet.

  Then, with the suddenness of a falcon strike, he hauled her up against his body. The rough press of his body against hers did nothing to calm the madcap beat of her heart. Every place her body was soft, his was hard. She barely resisted the urge to flatten her palms against the chiseled planes of his chest, to feel the evidence of his strength. But she held back. She did not want him to think, even for a moment, that she was resistant.

  He tilted her head and very slowly, very deliberately, lowered his lips toward hers. Just before they touched, he said, “I’m feeling rather disconcerted myself.”

  And then he kissed her.

  So deeply and stirringly that Isabail felt the ripples of pleasure reach right to her toes. It was a kiss of possession, a claim of rights that was primal in nature. It should have frightened her, or at the very least annoyed her, but all she felt was a hot pulse of tingling delight.

  She leaned in to the kiss.

  It was all the encouragement he needed. Both hands cupped her head, his fingers threading deep into her hair, and he crushed his lips against hers. The sweep of his tongue along the seam of her lips demanded her surrender. Isabail wanted to resist—knew deep down that she should—but her desire for him was shockingly potent.

  He made her feel alive . . . and beautiful. The passion he stirred in her body was like an unrestrained melody, full of thrilling notes and soaring chords that vibrated through her entire being. Why MacCurran possessed the power to stir her so deeply, she couldn’t fathom. He was as different from Andrew as two men could be. And he was her enemy. A cad, a cur, and a scurrilous knave . . . who fed soup to dogs.

  Isabail sighed and opened her mouth.

  Her hands found their way to his arms, gripping his powerful biceps with clenched fingers. She loved the contradiction—a man capable of ferocious strength but willing, on rare occasions, to cede the moment to gentleness. Like this moment.

  He sucked her bottom lip into his mouth and bit. Not hard enough to break the skin, but firmly enough to send a host of tiny sparks coursing through her body. Isabail’s knees went weak and she sagged against his chest.

  MacCurran broke off the kiss. He held her close for a long moment, his forehead touching hers, his eyes closed. Twin flags of color graced his cheeks, and his breaths were ragged. The pulse in his neck beat fast and strong. Isabail enjoyed seeing the visible evidence of his desire.

  Slowly, he regained control and opened his eyes. “Have your maid fetch your belongings,” he said. “From now on, you’ll sleep here.”

  Then he left.

  Isabail was tempted to call after him, to complain that she had no belongings to move, but she decided she’d tugged on the lion’s mane enough for one day.

  Chapter 8

  Isabail stood in the center of MacCurran’s roundhouse and slowly pivoted.

  Daniel had asked her to search the camp. She could think of no places in the old ruin where one would hide anything of value—except here. Everywhere else, the walls were crumbling or the comings and goings of people made tucking something away impossible. In truth, though, his quarters were no grander than hers. Everything was starkly simple—a pallet on the floor, a brazier, and a leather sack stuffed with his belongings. A clan prepared to run at any moment.

  Still, to be certain, she carefully searched the walls for any loose stones and searched the floor for any spot that looked recently disturbed. There was no sign of the queen’s necklace—or anything else of value.

  She returned to Daniel with the news. He was lying on the pallet covered with a blanket, while Muirne patched the holes in his lèine.

  “Muirne and I searched this room, too,” he said. “But found nothing.”

  “Beathag said they had little notice of MacPherson’s attack and that they took only the necessities when the women and children escaped Dunstoras into the night. Perhaps the necklace is still there?”

  “Nay,” Daniel said firmly. “He would not leave it behind. Not when he’s sacrificed so much to acquire it.”

  “Then there’s really only one other place to look.”

  He looked at her curiously. “Where?”

  “The caves beneath the ruin.”

  His face lit up. “Yes, I recall you mentioning a cave.”

  “It’s not a large space, but it’s where most of the items they took from the fortress are stored.”

  “That sounds like just the place.”

  Isabail shared a look with Muirne. The maid was well aware that MacCurran had forbidden her to reenter the cave. “It’s very dark, and the tunnels are carved i
nto the rock. We saw no evidence of another room or a vault of any sort when we were hunting for spices.”

  “Nonetheless,” Daniel said, sitting up, “I am certain that’s where MacCurran has hidden the necklace. How do you access the tunnels?”

  “Behind a granite slab in an old storeroom at the far end of the close.” Isabail frowned. “It will be very difficult to enter the tunnels without being seen. There’s always someone in the close.”

  “You must find a way,” Daniel urged.

  “I’m a prisoner myself,” she pointed out. “I do not have free rein.”

  “At least you can leave this room.” Daniel smiled. “You are a woman of great ability, Lady Isabail. I’ve always been amazed by your management of castle affairs. I’m sure you’ll find a way back into the tunnels.” He pointed to his shoulder. “As soon as I’m rested, I’ll start preparing for our departure. My plan is to steal several horses and ride for the swamp. We can lose any pursuers easily in there.”

  “MacCurran’s men are skilled woodsmen.”

  “Fear not,” he said. “I have a few tricks up my sleeve. We’ll make our escape without difficulty. I just need the necklace.”

  “Then Muirne and I will continue to look for it.”

  “Be as diligent as you can,” Daniel advised. “I have no confidence that MacCurran will keep me alive. I am a burden and a risk.”

  Isabail’s eyebrows rose. “Surely you don’t believe he will slay you after allowing me to tend your wounds.”

  “You forget, my lady,” he said grimly, “that he was willing to murder loyal members of his own clan to get the necklace. A number of them fell to the same poisoned stew that killed the king’s courier.”

  Muirne looked up from her darning. “If that were true, why would the clan still follow him? I’ve seen nothing but respect and loyalty displayed for him. No fear.”

  Daniel shrugged. “No doubt they believe whatever tale of blame he tells. That just makes them fools.”

  Isabail glanced away. Count her among the fools. Until Daniel had shown her the error of her thoughts, she too had swallowed the tale of the man in black. Aiden had spoken with such conviction and bitterness that she still had moments of doubt.

  “A shame that we were unable to reach Edinburgh and the king,” Daniel said. “If he awarded this land to you, justice would truly be served.”

  “Sir Robert felt that my claim was unlikely to win the day, because the king seeks more than justice—he has alliances to win and peace to maintain.” Which was why she’d been traveling to Edinburgh—in hopes of swaying the king with a personal plea.

  “The king is a man with many favors to return,” Daniel agreed.

  “If we escaped now, if we left without searching for the necklace,” Isabail said, “we might yet reach the king before he awards the land.”

  Daniel met her gaze. “Possession would certainly allow you to rout the MacCurrans and search for the necklace at your leisure.”

  “Aye,” responded Isabail eagerly.

  “But there’s no guarantee the king will give the land to you, and justice for John is dependent upon gaining the necklace. Nay. This is our best hope.” His face grew ruddy with anger. “Any other plan runs the risk that MacCurran goes free. We must stay the course. We must find the necklace.”

  Isabail sighed. She understood his desperate need for justice. Daniel was the only person who had loved John more than she. He had sobbed into her arms, quite unlike himself, for hours when John gave up his last breath.

  Isabail’s father had beaten John black-and-blue over the years, threatened him with castration, and sent him off to be toughened in regions beset by war, all in hopes of ridding John of his “unnatural interest” in other men. There were laws against such behavior, after all. But Isabail had accepted her brother’s sexual preference, seen it as just one of the many facets that composed the fine man that her brother had been.

  His love for Daniel had not made him a poor earl, as their father had feared. John had been strong, decisive, and politically astute. He had strengthened the earldom by becoming justiciar of Glen Avon and enriched it by hiring and training skilled weavers to craft their wool into fine, sought-after cloth. Daniel, too, was a learned man, fluent in Latin, French, English, and Gaelic. They had spent many an hour in heated debate over the political affairs of Scotland, England, and Europe.

  If Daniel was convinced that gaining the necklace was necessary to see justice done by John, then so be it.

  “If the necklace is here, I will find it,” Isabail vowed. “I swear it.”

  * * *

  Darkness settled over the glen, and a low mist rose off the snow. The moon was bright enough to see by, so Aiden gave the order to douse most of the torches. Firelight was visible for long distances, even between the trees. MacPherson rarely sent out evening patrols, but why take the risk?

  “Did you succeed in getting the names from Lady Macintosh?” Niall asked as he returned to the ruin after standing the evening watch.

  Aiden tossed his brother a cool stare. “After she discovered your healer in the camp? I think not.”

  “But you returned to your quarters at midday,” Niall reminded him. “The men were taking bets on how long it would take for you to coax the information from her lips.”

  “The men have more important concerns.”

  “Aye, that they do,” said Niall. “And they’re ready.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  Niall glanced at him. “It will be easier to break into Dunstoras than it was to enter Lochurkie.”

  “Don’t underestimate MacPherson.”

  The two men left the perimeter wall and made their way into the inner close, where a boar was roasting on a spit and the cook was handing out bread rounds. “He’s a sorry excuse for a garrison commander. Only a laggard fails to attend the lists.”

  “He may be lazy, but he’s also smart,” Aiden said. “I’ve met him several times, and I assure you his wits are as sharp as fine Spanish steel.”

  Niall used his dirk to slice off a piece of boar. “You’re not suggesting we leave our lads to hang for poaching, are you?”

  “Nay.” It was galling enough that his people were imprisoned inside the very keep that once protected them. Standing by and watching them swing would be impossible. “I am merely warning you not to be cocksure. The guards at Lochurkie were not expecting you to break in. MacPherson will be prepared.”

  “No one knows Dunstoras better than we do.”

  “Agreed.” Aiden didn’t bother to repeat his warning; he simply stared at his brother as he ate his meat.

  Niall acknowledged the message. “We’ll take proper care.”

  “I’ll be taking the lead.”

  Niall frowned. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

  “Are you doubting the value of my sword arm?”

  “Nay,” Niall said. “Fearing the loss of it. If I am captured, you can continue the fight. If you are captured, the fight is over.”

  Aiden shook his head. “The clan will go on as long as a single MacCurran breathes. Our lads are under MacPherson’s knife because I failed them. I’ll not sit back while you attempt to free them.”

  His brother shrugged. “If you insist.”

  “I do.”

  “When shall we leave?”

  “Gather the men. I’ll join you in a moment. Isabail has asked to see the hound.”

  One of Niall’s brows raised. “Does it yet live?”

  “Aye.” Aiden hesitated, then added, “Ana did a fine job with the beast.”

  One side of Niall’s mouth lifted. “Do you trust her now to treat the rest of the clan without Master Tam hovering nearby?”

  “Give it time,” Aiden said. “If all is well in a day or two, I’ll give her free rein.”

  “I’ll hold you to that.�
��

  Snatching his brother’s round of bread from his hands, Aiden strode across the close to Ana’s quarters. Nodding to the healer, he crossed the room and gently gathered up the dog. “I’ve found someone to care for the hound tonight. I trust you’ve no objection?”

  “Nay.” She rolled up the dog’s bedding and tucked it under Aiden’s arm. Then she gave the dog a kiss on the head. “Sleep well, Gorm.”

  Aiden crossed the camp, ignoring the broad grins he received from some of the men. Udard opened the door to his hut for him, and he stepped inside.

  Isabail was seated on her pallet while Muirne braided her white-blond hair. She turned as the door clicked closed behind him. “Gorm!”

  She scrambled to her feet and raced across the room. The dog opened its eyes to her crooning but did not stir. Aiden handed her the bedding. “Lay it beside the fire,” he instructed. When the bedding was unrolled, he lowered the dog to the blankets.

  “You told me I could not see him until morning,” Isabail said, crouching beside the dog to pet it.

  Aiden shrugged. “He’s doing much better. He has eaten and gotten to his feet, though he is still too weak to walk. And I will not be able to look in on him during the night.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’ve something important that needs my attention.” Digging through the leather bag leaning against the wall, he found a dark gray lèine and a black brat. Sneaking into Dunstoras would require extra diligence on such a bright night. He strode to the door and then paused. “If for any reason Beathag comes to you and tells you to flee into the tunnels, do not hesitate. Gather everything you see, save for the brazier, and run.”

  “Do you anticipate an attack?”

  He shrugged. “It’s possible.”

  “If someone attacks your encampment, would that not suggest my rescue is imminent?”

  Aiden favored Isabail with a flat stare. The thought of returning to a camp that did not include Isabail was disagreeable. “Do you not recall what I told you of MacPherson’s army? Mercenaries are hard men capable of heinous acts. Stay with the other women and children; you will be safer.”

  “Oh.”