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

by Rowan Keats

  Morag shook her head. “I have much cause to be wary of men.”

  “Then why help me?”

  “You were kind to me,” she said. “On the day I was cast out, you braved the disapproval of the friar and stopped to carry my satchel.”

  Magnus leaned back against the wall of the hut. That story rang true; it felt like something he would do. The accusations of murder and treason did not sit as easily. “You know my real name? Why did you not tell me when I awoke?”

  “In the early days after I rescued you, several patrols from the castle passed us by. Based on what I witnessed, it seemed unwise to call you by your true name.” She played with the tip of her long black braid. “And you were too confused by the injury to your head to grasp two names and keep them straight.”

  “I am not confused any longer.”

  She met his gaze. Her smile was rueful. “Indeed not.”

  “So tell me.” He pulled away from the wall, waiting.

  “Your name is Wulf.”

  Disappointment cinched his chest tight. Damn. How was that possible? The name meant nothing to him. It did not bring to mind a single memory of his past or clue to his identity. Nor did it give cause to the nagging sense that he ought to be elsewhere.

  “Wulf,” he repeated. The name was even strange on his tongue. It did not seem to suit him like Magnus did. He was a large man, so Magnus fit his physical form. He’d chosen that name for himself after three weeks had passed without memory. Now it seemed familiar. Wulf did not.

  “Do I have kin?”

  Morag shook her head. “That I cannot answer. Many at the castle perished or were driven from the land. Others were imprisoned. I visit the castle only on faire days, so I’ve no sense of who lived and who died.”

  Magnus couldn’t be certain she told the truth. She avoided his gaze, which suggested at least some part of her tale was a lie.

  “Are you and I kin?”

  She choked out a laugh. “You and I? Nay. I am naught but a weaver. You lived in the castle proper. Save for the day I departed, we never exchanged words.”

  That did not fit with Magnus’s beliefs about himself. Well, not entirely, anyway. He knew from the calluses on his right hand that he was familiar with a blade, so the notion of not being a common laborer felt real enough. But holding himself above those who were of lesser status? He couldn’t imagine possessing such a surfeit of pride.

  “I need to strengthen this leg,” he said, lightly pounding his lame leg with his fist. “I cannot remain here forever. I must seek out those who know me.”

  Morag tightened the woolen shawl about her shoulders. “Take to the hills, then. Climbing will strengthen the leg. Just be wary of soldiers. They seem to be venturing into the woods with more frequency of late.”

  Magnus crossed the hut to stand before her. He lifted her chin with his hand and peered into her pretty green eyes. “I’ll forever be grateful for the aid you’ve given me. Be assured of that. If I can ever repay you, I will.”

  She flushed and stepped back, forcing him to release her. “Just chop me a good supply of wood before you go, and I’ll be rewarded enough.”

  He let her walk away.

  The woman was too proud by half. Her supplies were limited—purchased from the castle in exchange for the fine cloth she wove on her loom—and yet she had shared them unsparingly as he healed. Once he was able to hunt, he had supplemented her food with the odd hare, but he had a hearty appetite, so her pot on the fire was forever in need of new ingredients.

  He would pay her back.

  He just wasn’t sure how or when.

  Just as he wasn’t sure when he would leave. It bothered him immensely to imagine her alone here, fending for herself. She was young and beautiful. She ought to be some man’s wife, not chopping her own wood and risking her very life traveling to the castle to trade her wares. He’d accompanied her the last few times. He’d seen the harassment she had endured at the hands of the soldiers at the gate and clenched his fists.

  “We’ll never be even,” he said softly. “I’ll forever be in your debt.”

  “I don’t want your debt,” she retorted.

  “You have it anyway.”

  His words annoyed her—he could see it in her sharply angled eyebrows. She did not want anything from him except for him to stay. But what she wanted was impossible. Not because of who he was, but because of who he had once been. Until he knew his past, he could not settle with a woman. For all he knew, he was already wed.

  He studied her elegant profile. He only prayed that he wasn’t. Otherwise, the thoughts he had about Morag would surely see him in hell.

  * * *

  The MacCurran returned to the hill fort as the light was fading. Isabail spied him at the entrance of the inner close, looking like some barbarian warrior of old—his hair a tangled mess and his lèine spattered with bloodstains.

  He was as far from a gentleman lord as she could imagine, and yet her heart did a funny dance in her chest as he marched through the gate. Perhaps it was the purposeful look that took control of his face when he caught sight of her, or perhaps it was the rippling muscles of his thighs and calves as he strode toward her. Whatever it was, her body reacted instinctively, flooding her with heat and eager anticipation.

  He grabbed her hand and led her away from the central fire and toward the hut he had claimed as his own.

  “Where are we going?” she asked breathlessly.

  “I owe you a proper thanks,” he answered, pulling her into the hut. He shut the door, then released her briefly to change his lèine and splash his face with water. Then he advanced toward her with a wolfish grin, slowly backing her against the wall. “Your idea to move the bodies was inspired. We built a fire pit half a league from here and left several of our broken tools there, along with some furniture and the bodies. MacPherson will believe his men found us camped there and were ambushed.”

  Isabail heard everything MacCurran said, but she had difficulty concentrating. His hands were wandering places they had no right to be. A proper noblewoman would take him to task. But as his fingers swept down her back and over her rump, she relaxed against the wall and let him have his way. It felt so good to have a strong man offer her such exquisite moments of pleasure.

  Her softened stance encouraged him to go further. The words stopped, and his lips found more adventurous tasks to perform. Like nibbling the skin along her collarbone and tracing a red-hot path to her earlobe. The heat of his kisses sent a tremble of need through every nerve in her body.

  She should despise this man for all he’d done, even though he denied it. Yet she found she could not. All she could remember as his lips made merry on her flesh was the gentle hold he’d kept on her for two days in the saddle, the care he’d shown her and Muirne when they were snowbound, and the fierce desire that leapt into his eyes each time he looked at her.

  Logic said that he had done all that Daniel insisted he had done, but her heart disagreed.

  When he scooped her up and carried her to the mattress, Isabail did not protest. She thrust her darker thoughts to the back of her mind and faced the man lowering himself next to her with a steady stare. She was a wee bit nervous, but there was no doubt in her heart that she wanted him to kiss her.

  He lowered his mouth to hers, and she met his kiss eagerly. Opening to his press, her lips parted with a soft sigh of contentment. None of his kisses were gentle. They had the potent force of a man whose ardor was barely held in check—and that filled Isabail with a weak-kneed pleasure. He wanted her, badly, but he restrained himself as best he could. For her.

  “You are a rare beauty,” he murmured against her throat. “As lovely as a snow-white lily.”

  Isabail melted a little beneath him, surprised by the compliment. He did not seem the sort to offer a woman unnecessary praise. And she knew that the desire he felt for he
r conflicted with his anger over what had been dealt to his honor and his kin. Much as her desire conflicted with her need to see justice done for her brother. What a pair they were.

  His hand tugged at her skirts, lifting them and baring a thigh. As his broad hand found her warm flesh, he groaned, a deep, primal response that made Isabail’s heart beat faster. To be wanted so clearly, so freely, was new to her. Andrew had always been admiring but reserved. In the bedroom, there had been few words and ever fewer spontaneous groans of delight. MacCurran was a much more earthy man, and for some reason that pleased her.

  As did the rough caress of his callused hand over her bare thigh. It was a delightful friction that made her breath catch in her throat.

  Tentatively, a little unsure of how to behave, Isabail lifted a hand to MacCurran’s face and allowed herself to explore the raw masculine beauty of his face. The hard line of his jaw, with its late-day stubble of beard, the high arch of his cheekbone and the curve of his ear. He seemed to approve of her wandering, leaning in to her hand and kissing her with deeper intent.

  Isabail’s fingers slid into the damp waves of his hair, lost in a wondrous explosion of sensations—the rasp of his lips on hers, the duel of their tongues, and the thrill of his daring touch on her inner thigh. Sparks of exquisite awareness built in her belly, making her restless with anticipation. She wanted more.

  She lifted her hips against his and felt the telltale evidence of his desire. A throaty mewl escaped her lips as she struggled to convey her growing sense of need.

  He raked her skirt higher and laid a gentle hand over her mons. Isabail’s knees fell open, giving him wider access, and she closed her eyes. As his thumb began to tease her most intimate flesh, she gave herself up to the full gambit of pleasurable sensations. MacCurran knew precisely how to touch her to cultivate the stormiest responses. A finger entered her, and then two. His strokes were a perfect rhythm, and the tension inside her built to a near unbearable level. Just when she thought she would burst, he eased down her body and replaced his hand with his lips.

  Isabail was scandalized. But only for the briefest of moments.

  When he suckled her gently and played the instrument of her desire with his tongue, she forgot about her ideas of what was proper and let the MacCurran take control. He took her places she’d never been, and only moments after his mouth touched her, she was rocked with the sweet shudders of release.

  “Oh, my Lord.”

  MacCurran kissed his way back up her body to her lips. “I promised you a proper thank-you.”

  Still relishing the gentle trembles that rippled through her body, Isabail did not open her eyes. To be honest, she wasn’t sure she could look him in the eyes. Andrew had never done that. Never kissed her there. “That was a unique expression of gratitude.”

  He chuckled and pulled her against his chest. Placing her cheek next to his strong and steady heartbeat, she snuggled deeper into his embrace. Her hand slipped beneath the soft linen of his tunic and flattened against the chiseled plane of his chest. Warm and solid.

  “Are you not eager for some respite yourself, MacCurran?”

  He covered her hand with his, holding it in place. “You have my leave to call me Aiden,” he said, his voice a deep rumble in her ear.

  She smiled. She’d heard others call him by his given name, but most of his kin simply addressed him as the MacCurran. The clan chief. In her mind, MacCurran was a splendid name for him—strong, fierce, and bold. “You are the chief. I’m comfortable to address you thus unless you would be offended.”

  “Not offended,” he said. “But you are entitled to a more intimate address. I call you Isabail.”

  “I am your prisoner,” she said dryly. “You may call me whatever you wish.”

  “I would dispute who is the prisoner,” he responded quietly. “I have but to look into your eyes and I am captured.”

  Isabail’s heartbeat, which had been settling into a normal pace, sped up again. He delivered the pretty words with such a perfect note of seriousness, she was tempted to believe them. Certainly, a hope she had not yet dared to give voice to sprouted to life. If he truly cared for her, and if they could find some way to prove his innocence . . . perhaps . . . just perhaps, a future was possible. But she was reluctant to dwell on the notion; it was such a tender bud.

  “Then, as my prisoner, you are commanded to complete the task you have started. Leave us both sated and replete, and I will honor you with a prize.”

  Another chuckle rumbled through his chest. “And what prize will that be? You’ve not much to offer.”

  “Och, you would be surprised.” She tilted her head and put her lips to the warm skin of his throat. “Will you do as I command?”

  With a swift movement, he rolled and pinned her to the mattress. Dark and purposeful, he swooped down to claim her lips. They were still plump and full from his previous kisses, and she opened to him as she had before. Only this time she responded with more than just her body—she offered a piece of her heart. Ah, who knew what the future might bring?

  * * *

  Aiden woke to a cold, wet press against his arm. His eyes flew open, and his hand instinctively reached for the sword that lay beside the pallet. But he halted midgrab. It was the hound. Standing next to the bed, looking down at him with its soulful brown eyes.

  As Aiden stared back, the beast tilted its head, as if curious.

  “Away with you,” he whispered to the dog. Isabail’s head lay on his chest, her limbs sweetly entwined with his, and he had no desire to see her disturbed.

  The dog did not leave. Instead, the great animal lay down and continued to stare at him. As if it expected something. Never having owned a hound, Aiden had no notion as to what that something might be.

  “Go,” he said, pointing to the door.

  The bloody beast just continued to stare.

  A very focused stare. Rather unnerving. Aiden tried to ignore it and return to sleep, but a feeling of being watched continued to haunt him. Sure enough, when he opened one eye to check, he found the creature still staring.

  “What is it you want?” he asked gruffly.

  “Breakfast,” Isabail murmured sleepily.

  “Not you,” he said, grinning into her silken hair. “It. What does it want?”

  She lifted her head and spied the dog. “Gorm!”

  To his great vexation, she pushed away from him and sat up, her face lit with happiness. “He’s on his feet. How splendid.” Grabbing up her shift, she pulled it over her head and stood.

  Aiden was not convinced anything about this event was splendid. The beast had ruined a very promising morning. He pillowed his head on his arms. “Why is it staring at me?”

  “John always took Gorm for a walk in the morn. No doubt he’s looking to you to continue that tradition.”

  Aiden frowned. “Why me? Why not you?”

  Isabail shook her head. “I’ve no idea. He must like you.”

  A dubious honor, to say the least.

  “Will you take him?”

  Aiden looked at Isabail. She was braiding her glorious blond tresses, denying them to his fingers. “Nay. If I must get up, then I’ve other business to see to about the camp. I’ve no time to gad about with a dog.”

  He rolled from his pallet and tossed the hound a pointed glare. To his mind, the morning should have started with a leisurely kiss and perhaps a bout of lovemaking. Not like this.

  “I’ll take him, then,” Isabail said, tugging her blue gown over her shift.

  “Do you not have any other gowns?” he asked. “You’ve worn that same one every day since—” He stopped there, searching for a neutral term to describe his capture of her and coming up dry.

  A flush rose up her throat and into her cheeks. “Since you attacked my party and kidnapped me? Nay, I do not have any other gowns. All my things were taken.”


  He frowned. “But we gathered some of your belongings.”

  “And gave them to the other women in the camp,” she said sharply. “Nothing was returned to me.”

  He watched her lace her boots, anger in every harsh tug on the leather cords. He’d never made it clear to his men that the clothing was to be given to Isabail, and he could see how they’d misinterpreted his request. The women in the camp had not seen new clothes for several months. Many of their gowns were threadbare from numerous washings.

  “You’ll have plenty of lovely gowns when you return to Lochurkie,” he said to reassure her.

  Unfortunately, that seemed to fuel her ire rather than dissipate it.

  “Are you reminding me that all I have to do is provide you the names of my guests and I can walk out of this camp without a backward glance?” she asked, her voice the snarl of a wildcat.

  “Aye,” he said. “Have I not said that from the beginning?”

  Her blue eyes were like chips of ice in the pale beauty of her face. “Oh yes, you made that quite clear . . . in the beginning.”

  “Then what is the source of your anger?”

  She took several deep breaths before responding, calming herself. “In the beginning, we had not lain with each other,” she said.

  He blinked. “But you are not a maid. Surely you did not have an expectation that our dalliance would lead to anything.”

  “An expectation?” she asked coolly. “Nay, I am not a woman given to expectations. Few, if any, of my expectations have borne fruit. A hope that there might be more meaning attached to our dalliance than a simple roll in the hay? Aye, that I had.”

  “In the eyes of the king, I am a thief, a murderer, and a traitor,” he said. “An outlawed laird. I have nothing to offer a woman of your ilk.”

  “Except the odd night of pleasure.”

  “Aye,” he agreed. “Save for that.”

  She nodded sharply. “We are clear now.” Turning on her heel, she headed for the door. “Come, Gorm.”

  The dog, it seemed, had other ideas. It remained precisely where it was, seated at Aiden’s feet, staring at him with unwavering eyes. Aware that Isabail sought to leave the room with an angry flounce, he nudged the dog with his foot. But the beast wouldn’t budge.