The Highlander's Reluctant Bride

by Cathy MacRae

  “And what was the price, Manus?”

  Morgan MacEwen grinned again. “Lady Caitriona.”

  Without thinking, Ranald tightened the grip on the reins, causing Hearn to rear, his forelegs flailing the air. He felt Riona slip backward and he reached for her, catching the edge of her arisaid, holding her behind him in a precarious grip.

  Morgan MacEwen laughed aloud. “Dismount yer ill-trained horse.” He motioned for his men to advance. Refusing to leave the relative safety of their mounts, the riders backed them together, haunches touching, facing outward. Swords sang in unison as they breached their leather scabbards. Angry murmurs and steel whispering from scabbards answered from the shadows.

  “Perhaps I dinnae phrase the invitation properly,” Morgan drawled, anger glinting from his eyes. “Get down from yer horses and surrender or I will be forced to use my wee daughter to make ye see reason.”

  Riona’s gasp was loud in Ranald’s ear.

  “He willnae hurt the lass,” he murmured, holding her steady as she tried to squirm from his grasp.

  The MacEwen nodded dismissively at Riona. “Ye think not? ‘Twas simple enough to sire a brat on her. ‘Twill be easy enough to sire another. Perhaps she could be persuaded to provide me an heir this time.”

  “Ye bastard!” Riona hissed, the words exploding from her.

  “Had ye no’ declined my offer of marriage, ye would no’ have reason to know that word, milady. Siring a bastard child on ye was no’ my intent.”

  “I want my daughter!”

  Morgan bowed his head to her. “Ye have but to obey, milady. Ye will see I am an agreeable man.”

  “Bring her daughter to her and we will talk,” Ranald said.

  Morgan laughed. “Ye are surrounded. Valiantly denying it, but ye are surrounded. I can spill yer blood at a word, but armed as ye are, ye could cost me a man or two before I have yer cooperation. Surely ye see it is better this way?” He spread his hands wide in mocking supplication.

  “Seeing ye dead is the better way,” Ranald snarled, cornered and worried Riona was ready to bolt. “Ye have no right to Scaurness.”

  “Right belongs to the one in charge, do ye no’ agree?”

  “Ye will no’ be long in charge of Scaurness.”

  Morgan gestured to his men. “Seize them.”

  Chapter 25

  Finlay struggled to open his eyes. Flickering light from a torch shot through his lids and into his skull like a roaring smithy’s fire. Fresh pain washed over him. Hell, it hurt just to breathe.

  After a moment, he slowly released his breath. Sharp stabs of agony sliced through his shoulder, and he gritted his teeth until it passed. Nausea roiled through him, and he swallowed the urge to vomit. Sweat broke out on his forehead, cold and clammy. He lifted a trembling hand to wipe the moisture away, and encountered a bandage wound about his head in thick layers.

  Again he tried to open his eyes, but only one lid lifted, spilling light through the narrowed slit. Worried, he touched his face, breathing a sigh of relief as he realized the bandage covered the other eye. He lifted the edge of the torn linen, and was further relieved to see light through that eye as well, though the lids were swollen and painful.

  He released the bandage and relaxed as much as he could, taking stock of his injuries. His right arm felt as though his warhorse had stomped on it. The arm refused to move, though he could twitch his fingers, reassuring him he had not lost all function.

  His head was another matter. No matter how careful he was, the slightest movement produced agony, and a faint cry escaped his lips before he could stifle the sound. The shuffle of people around him stopped. The low murmur of voices ceased.

  A hand gripped his shoulder, warning him to silence. “Mind yer head, lad.” The slow voice was familiar, but it was several moments before Finlay placed the speaker. Ennis.

  “Wh . . .” Finlay couldn’t form the words he wanted to ask. He frowned.

  “Dinnae fash yerself, lad. Ye’re safe. For the moment, leastwise.”

  Finlay gripped the old man’s hand and tried to rise to a sitting position, but white light burst behind his eyes. Stifling a groan, he slumped back to the floor. A foul odor drifted to his nostrils, causing his stomach to churn. So, he wasn’t in the castle proper. Likely the dungeon. He wasn’t sure how the information helped, but he was satisfied to add to his knowledge.

  He took a slow, deep breath, determined to ask his questions. “What happened?”

  “Someone ambushed Manus’s guards and let him out. He apparently plotted with the MacEwen to open Scaurness to attack.” Ennis sighed wearily. “Men poured through the postern gate—I suspect he was the one who opened the gate the night ye arrived and saved the castle from attack.”

  Finlay grunted. He’d learned how ruthless Manus was only a few days earlier. It didn’t surprise him to know Manus was involved with the first assault on the castle.

  “MacEwen now possesses the castle?”

  “Aye.” The old man shifted beside him on the floor. Rotted rushes rattled softly, and the foul odor of decayed food and other, even more noxious things, rose to assault their nostrils.

  Finlay coughed, gritting his teeth against the pain.

  “Men died defending Scaurness,” Ennis added. “They followed ye, loyal to the laird. But it was hard to go against Manus and their ingrained obedience to him. In the time it took for them to decide what to do, it was too late and MacEwen soldiers flooded the bailey.”

  “Where is the laird?”

  “The MacEwen laird—”

  Finlay interrupted, “Nae. Ranald.”

  “He isnae here.”

  “Then there is hope.”

  “Aye. But only if he brings an army back with him. And preferably from the king,” Ennis declared firmly. “He’ll no’ get into Scaurness without it.”

  “He’ll get in.” Finlay felt his senses drift, unable to sustain his thoughts. “He’ll get in.”

  Ranald eyed the MacEwen, weighing the odds. Would the man harm his own daughter to gain what he wanted? There was no time to decide. Emboldened by Ranald’s momentary indecision, the MacEwen soldiers had advanced. Hearn tossed his head and tucked his chin tight against his chest, arching his thick neck. His mane flowed across Ranald’s hand, but he took little notice. Voices rose and torchlight flashed on naked steel. Scarred, grizzled faces, contorted further by the dancing shadows and light, scowled as they reached for Hearn’s bridle.

  Ranald nudged his toe against the horse’s shoulder and Hearn lashed out with a hoof, raking a soldier from shoulder to waist, the sound of breaking bone loud on the air. Stunned, the man stared dumbly at his arm dangling useless as his sword clattered to the ground.

  “Stay back!” Ranald gestured from man to man, a line of golden light darting along the deadly edge of his drawn sword.

  As more angry words erupted, another man moved to the side, wary of the lightning-fast, steel-shod hooves flashing as Hearn danced lightly in anticipation. A push of Ranald’s knee, and Hearn bunched his powerful hindquarters and rocked forward, his movements too fast to follow as he planted both rear feet in the unlucky man’s chest. His eyes bulged as he gasped for breath and dropped to the ground.

  “Cease!” Morgan MacEwen shouted, his face blackened with rage. “I will have yer surrender or the bairn dies.”

  Riona shrieked and struggled against Ranald’s grasp. Recovering from Hearn’s offensive move, Ranald lost his grip on Riona as she slipped her arisaid from her shoulders and left it dangling in his hand.

  “Riona! No!” Fear constricted his throat as she wriggled off Hearn’s rump and stumbled to her knees. Though she glared at Morgan MacEwen in defiance, Ranald could almost smell her dread.

  His broad face creased in a triumphant grin. “Come to me, milady. I’ll
give ye yer daughter back.”

  “Ree! Don’t! He willnae harm Gilda.” Ranald pleaded with her. “Ree. Dinnae do this.”

  Riona’s wide, frightened eyes didn’t meet his. “I cannae take the chance. Do ye no’ understand?” Her voice sounded tight and tremulous, scarcely above a strained whisper, and it wrung Ranald’s heart to hear her agitation.

  “Ree. Please. We will find a way. Ye know what he wants from ye. Ye cannae agree to this.”

  Her tears flashed in the torchlight, tracing dark stains down her cheeks. “She’s my daughter. I cannae risk harm to her.”

  “Dinnae do this, Ree. Dinnae let him take ye.”

  Riona’s shoulders slumped forward, and he was struck by the utter despair written in the lines of her body. The body that belonged to him, the body Morgan cared nothing for beyond slaking his lusts.

  The woman he loved more than life itself, who Morgan would use solely as a means to govern Scaurness.

  Her back straightened as she faced the MacEwen. “If I come to ye, will ye release Gilda to Ranald?”

  Her question surprised both men.

  The MacEwen lifted a brow. “She’s my daughter.”

  “Aye. But only a daughter. Ye want a son.”

  Morgan rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Ye would give her away?”

  “To Ranald.”

  “Ye know I cannae marry ye if yer husband lives.”

  Riona didn’t falter. “I will declare the marriage invalid. We are kin.”

  “The king has granted dispensation. Ye are no’ that close.”

  “I’m sure the pope will think differently.”

  “I dinnae want to wait that long.”

  “He will divorce me.”

  Morgan chuckled and looked at Ranald. “I think no’.”

  “He will.” Riona’s voice was firm. “Give him the bairn.”

  Morgan took another moment to consider her offer. He shrugged. “Ye will come to me first. Then I will release the bairn to him. Ye will bear me a son.”

  “No!” Ranald shouted, fury in every muscle of his body.

  Neither Morgan nor Riona replied. Then Riona pressed, “Ye willnae harm Gilda or Ranald?”

  “I will give them safe conduct across the firth. What happens to them after that is no’ my concern.”

  On a sharp intake of breath, Riona nodded and stepped forward.

  “Riona!”

  A sharp blow caught the back of Ranald’s head and he lurched, unconscious before he hit the ground.

  Voices rebounded off the damp stone walls and the sound of booted feet clattered down the stairs. Torchlight flared, casting its smoky glow inside the chamber. Finlay lifted his good arm to block the light, the sudden glare scrambling his senses. He opened his one good eye. The sound of metal grating on metal rang loud as the gate was unlocked, and a soldier advanced through the portal.

  The man perused the room, surveying those before him with a look of disgust. Finlay followed his gaze, noting the condition of the men imprisoned. Beside him, Ennis shifted on the rushes, his own head bandaged and his shirt, torn and bloodied, draping his shoulders. A dark stain of blood seeped slowly from a pulsating wound in his side.

  “Where is the Scott captain, Finlay?” The man in the doorway barked.

  Silence.

  In a bid to gain his feet, Finlay took a breath and tried to move his good arm beneath him, but Ennis’s hand closed over his shoulder, holding him in place.

  “I want the man called Finlay!” Again the soldier’s hard glare swept the room.

  He was met by tired, insolent stares. And no answer. “I will slay the lot of ye if he doesnae step forward.”

  Ennis pushed away from the floor, his body sluggish. “I am Finlay.”

  “No!” Finlay choked under his breath, trying his best to block the pain shooting through his body. He grasped Ennis’s ankle, forcing him to halt. “They’ll kill ye.”

  Ennis shook his head as he glanced at the bright blood staining the remnants of his shirt. “They already have.” He shuffled forward.

  The soldier grabbed his arm and dragged him from the chamber. The slam of the gate reverberated behind them.

  With a despairing moan, Finlay sank into the fetid rushes, fading from consciousness.

  A shove to his injured shoulder roused him. Finlay pushed the offending hand away, feeling the pull of darkness, reluctant to be awakened.

  “Ye surly Scott,” a voice rasped. “If I dinnae need ye, I’d leave ye here to rot.”

  Finlay opened his good eye and strove to focus on the face hovering above him. Long gray hair dangled from an untidy braid. The features were delicate, yet lined with age. The frown on the creased lips was unmistakable.

  “What do ye want, old crone?” Finaly sighed.

  “Old crone? Ye muckle heid! I’m here to save yer sorry arse. But I’m beginning to have ma doots about ye.” Tavia shoved him again.

  Pain flashed through his shoulder, and he rolled to his other side, awake now, his temper worsening.

  Tavia poked him with her foot. “Get up.”

  He grimaced. “I cannae use my right arm.”

  She surveyed him. “Aye. And ye’re fair puggled as well.” Lifting the bandage gently, she peered beneath. Then with a sudden, deft move, she shoved his chest, pushing him prone to the floor.

  At a jerk of her head, a burly man rose and ambled over. Pointing to Finlay, she ordered, “Hold him.”

  He tried to roll away, but Tavia’s cohort was too fast, and Finlay found himself pinned amid the stinking rushes. Tavia grasped his upper arm in one hand and pressed against his shoulder with the other. Pain tore through the vestiges of fog in his head and he roared in protest.

  “Wheesht, ye eedjit. Ye’ll alert the guards,” she snapped. “Yer arm is out of place, no’ broken. Hold still.”

  She twisted his arm. To Finlay’s surprise, the resulting agony began to fade. The burly man released him, and Finlay ran a hand over his shoulder. Other than a deep, aching throb, it felt normal.

  He sat up, flexing his shoulder gingerly. “I thank ye, Tavia. I feared ‘twas broken and a long time healing.”

  Tavia tapped the side of his head. “Dinnae undo my work, lad. It’ll be sore for a few days, but ye can use it.” She narrowed her eyes at him in warning. “Carefully.”

  “What of the castle? How did ye get here?”

  Tavia snorted, her dark eyes sparkling with mockery. “Men dinnae pay attention to an old crone, the fools. It dinnae take but a question or two to discover where the injured were taken.” She gave Finlay a frank stare. “I prayed ye would be here.”

  “Tell me what is happening.”

  “Quickly. I dinnae know how long before another guard comes down here. MacEwen has taken the castle. He waits for Ranald and Riona to make his claim firm.”

  “How does he plan to do that?”

  “I dinnae hear exactly, but he plans to marry Riona.”

  “He would have to kill Ranald to do that.”

  “Aye.”

  “And what of Gilda?”

  “He plans to use her to make Riona do as he commands.”

  “Where is the lass?”

  Tavia shook her head. “No one knows.”

  Chapter 26

  Riona’s stomach clenched as she saw the triumph on Morgan MacEwen’s face.

  “Riona!” Ranald’s cry ripped through her and she faltered.

  Then a thud and a faint groan had her whirling around. Ranald slumped across Hearn’s withers and pitched past his shoulder. She tried to run to him but two men blocked her path. She shoved against them in a vain attempt to get by. One grabbed her wrists, holding them in the air.

  Retaliating, Riona kicked, maki
ng hard contact with the man’s shins. With an explosive curse, he pushed her backward. Someone grabbed her from behind, pulling her away.

  She struggled, flailing wildly with her arms and legs. “Let me go!”

  Two other men approached Ranald. One drew back his boot and kicked him in the ribs. Though Ranald lay unmoving, the man kicked him again.

  “Stop it! Ranald!” Riona fought harder until arms tightened around her and she could scarcely breathe. She gasped, her vision clouding. She shoved ineffectually at the imprisoning bands of muscle and bone, but the man lifted her feet from the ground and she found she had no leverage. With a choking sound, she surrendered.

  “Put her down.” The MacEwen’s command ripped through her fading consciousness.

  The man released her and she crumpled to the ground.

  “Gently,” Morgan chided.

  Riona pushed herself up on unsteady arms, half-sprawled in the dirt, her chest heaving to pull air into her lungs. She glared at Morgan, her breath coming fast and shallow.

  “Ye bastard,” she choked. “Ye said ye wouldnae hurt him.”

  Morgan’s twisted grin mocked her. “Such language from a lady. I dinnae think the lads killed him.” He shrugged. “If they have, ‘tis a glitch in yer plan, no’ mine.”

  “I want my daughter and Ranald both alive!”

  “I’ve heard yer demands. Now listen to mine.” He pinned her with a vicious stare as he advanced. Stopping beside her, he knelt and grabbed her chin with rough fingers, tilting her head painfully back.

  “Ye will come when I beckon and serve me in any way I require. Ye will bear me a son. Perhaps more than one. And in return, I will let yer daughter and yon lad live. He will have to publicly divorce ye, however, and he will be hard to convince. I can only promise so much, lass. Dinnae cross me.”

  Morgan released her and stood, motioning to the two men on either side of her. “Take her to her room.”