Taken by the Highlander

by Julianne MacLean

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  TAKEN BY THE HIGHLANDER

  First edition. December 26, 2015.

  Copyright © 2015 Julianne MacLean.

  ISBN: 978-1927675298

  Written by Julianne MacLean.

  Taken by the Highlander

  Julianne MacLean

  Taken by the Highlander

  Copyright © 2015 Julianne MacLean

  ISBN 13: 978-1-927675-29-8

  Excerpt from Taken by the Cowboy

  Copyright © 2011 Julianne MacLean

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or a portion thereof, in any form. This book may not be resold or uploaded for distribution to others.

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design: The Killion Group, Inc.

  Editor: Patricia Thomas

  Formatting: Author E.M.S.

  Part One:

  THE RESCUE

  Chapter One

  The full moon shone high in the inky sky as Logan Campbell emerged out of the forest onto a wide river valley. The pain in his broken arm was so severe, he passed out for a few seconds and didn’t realize he’d toppled off his horse.

  Landing with a heavy thud on the grass, he immediately regained consciousness, curled up in agony, and clutched his broken arm close to his ribs.

  God help him. If he didn’t set the bone in place soon, the swelling would make it impossible to do so, and it might never heal properly. This was his sword arm and he couldn’t afford to lose it.

  He was kicking himself now. He shouldn’t have ridden away from the camp in such a fury. He should have at least remained long enough to allow his brother Darach to tend to the bone, but Logan’s pride hadn’t allowed it—not when Darach had been the one to break his arm in the first place.

  Logan supposed he’d had it coming. As usual, he’d started the fight. Over a woman, of course. He had been the first one to draw a blade.

  Ach! The pain was insufferable. He couldn’t put it off any longer.

  Sitting up carefully on the grass, Logan reached into his boot for his knife and placed the well-worn, wooden grip between his teeth. He then felt along the length of his forearm, pressing as gently as possible with his thumb to locate the break, but he couldn’t find it through the rigid swelling of his flesh. He had to press more firmly. Suddenly, an acute pain exploded just above his wrist and he knew he’d found the spot.

  Bloody hell, what he wouldn’t give for a bottle of whisky…

  Biting down hard on the handle of the knife, he rammed all his grip-strength into resetting the bone.

  Snap!

  Pain shot through his body like a massive cannon ball, from his wrist straight up to his brain where it reverberated against his skull. His thunderous, agonized roar echoed from one side of the glen to the other, then he collapsed onto his back where he lay for a long time, gazing up at the stars. Waiting wretchedly for the agony to subside, he wondered what he would use to bind his arm in place—if he ever found the strength and fortitude to rise to his feet.

  What was his brother doing now? Logan wondered in a daze.

  Darach had probably packed up the camp and taken their hostage somewhere safe. A place where Logan couldn’t find her or use her as a pawn to gain entry into Leathan Castle—the Campbell stronghold that had once been Logan’s home. Their home, as brothers, many years back.

  That’s what had been at the root of their quarrel a few short hours ago. Darach hadn’t wanted to use the Campbell lass for their own purposes. He’d simply wanted to deliver her through the gates of Leathan and be done with it, for that had been their mission from the outset. It was what the MacDonald Chief had commanded them to do: Escort Larena Campbell home, for she is the chief’s daughter…

  But Logan had made the mistake of entertaining other plans for the lass—for he wanted to kill her father, that murderous Highlander who never had the right to become chief in the first place. That right belonged to Logan’s own father, or now that he was dead, the position of chief should have passed to Logan’s older brother, Darach.

  But Darach had no interest in leading the Campbells of Leathan. He had laid their heritage to rest a long time ago. Buried it good and deep in the ground, far away—in MacDonald territory.

  For what seemed like an eternity, Logan listened to the crickets chirping in the grass all around him. The creatures of the night kept a steady rhythm, which seemed to match the throbbing sensation in his arm, although the pain grew hazier with every moment that passed.

  Or perhaps it was his thoughts that were growing hazy as he fell into a deep slumber, where all of this was naught but a bad dream.

  * * *

  It was the sound of the man’s agonized cry that woke Mairi Campbell from sleep. At least that’s what she thought it was as she sat up in bed with a racing heart, searching through the darkness with wide eyes. The fire in the hearth was long dead, so she reasoned it was well past midnight—an odd time to hear a man bellowing in the glen.

  But of course, she had been dreaming. It wasn’t the first time she’d dreamed of a man’s agonized cries—perhaps as a mallet came down on his hand or as he was pushed over the side of a steep cliff. But those days were over. She was no longer a woman who imagined such vengeful things.

  Tossing the covers aside and rising from her small bed, she went to check on her son, Hamish. He had fallen asleep in her mother’s bed earlier that evening after a special treat of sweet custard and raspberries in celebration of his fifth birthday.

  Watching over him, as he slept close to his grandmother in a loving embrace, Mairi marveled at how quickly the years had flown by. It seemed only yesterday that Hamish spoke his first words or took his first wobbly steps outside in the stable yard.

  Today he was five, which meant the time had come to be more diligent in teaching him to read. Mairi wanted that for him more than anything, so he would have options in life. Perhaps there was a chance he would not choose to live by the sword. If she had her druthers, Hamish would grow up to be an educated crofter like his grandfather, and live in peace.

  Backing out of her mother’s room, Mairi padded across the plank floor to the kitchen, lit a candle and poured herself a small cup of wine, for she couldn’t seem to purge the disturbing dream from her mind. She kept hearing the intensity of the man’s pain, over and over, as if someone were holding him over the scorching flames of hell.

  She shuddered at the thought, and yet a part of her felt shame at the recollection of how she’d imagined similar images countless times—but it was no faceless man who had suffered in her imaginings.

  It was Captain Joseph Kearney. English officer, handsome enough to get away with murder. And other despicable things.

  But that was a long time ago. In another life. She should not think of it now, for she was the luckiest woman in the world to have Hamish as her son. That was all that mattered—the present and the future—not the past.

  As she raised the cup to her lips, she smiled at the thought of Hamish’s excitement earlier that day when their neighbor and friend, Tomas Campbell, had ridden into the yard and presented him with a small toy horse he’d carved himself. She had never heard Hamish squeal with such delight before.

  With a calmer heart, Mairi sat down at the table. She had just taken a second sip of wine when the sound of a horse ni
ckering in the field behind the cottage caused her to rise to her feet again. At first she thought she might have imagined it, even dreamed it, but there it was again.

  There could be no mistaking it. This was no midnight dream. Someone was outside in the darkness.

  Setting down her cup, she hastened to her bed, donned a skirt and bodice over her shift, pulled on her boots, and sheathed her dirk in the leather uppers. Then she fetched her father’s pistol from the box under the bed—her pistol now. She loaded it quickly and expertly, and tiptoed through the cottage to the front door.

  Lifting the latch, she pulled the door open a mere crack to peer around the moonlit yard. Seeing no one about, she exited the house and sidled along the stone wall to move around to the back.

  Sure enough, when she peered around the corner, she saw something—a riderless, bare-backed horse, beneath the luminescent glow of the moon, nibbling grass.

  Mairi took a breath and glanced around in all directions, listening keenly for any sounds or movements. Seeing or hearing none, she cautiously approached the animal.

  “Do not be afraid,” she whispered. “I will not hurt you.”

  He lifted his head, watched her for a moment, then strode closer to meet her.

  “Who do you belong to?” she asked as she stroked the firm muscles at his neck. “Are you lost?”

  He tossed his head and nickered.

  Recalling yet again the distressing sound of a man’s cry that woke her from her sleep, she felt a shiver move up her spine.

  Perhaps someone needed help—in which case she had a moral duty to investigate and offer assistance. If there was some other explanation for the agonizing sound in the night and it involved foul play, she would not be afraid to use her weapon. She had made it her mission five years ago to learn how to protect herself—swearing never to be anyone’s victim again. And now she had a son to protect.

  Keeping her wits about her, she led the horse into the yard, placed him in their stable and closed the door. Then cautiously, she returned to the field to search the surrounding area.

  * * *

  Logan’s eyes flew open at the sound of a pistol cocking.

  It was the second time that night he’d been approached by someone with a gun. Last time, it had been his brother and all hell had broken loose.

  Pray God, this would yield different results, for Logan was in no mood—or condition—for another round of fisticuffs. He was in such pain, he didn’t even try to get up. In that moment he’d almost prefer to take the pistol ball straight between the eyes.

  Still lying flat on his back, he craned his neck to look up and found himself gazing at a woman—a comely looking woman with dark hair and ivory skin that gleamed in the silvery light of the moon.

  “I see you’re a MacDonald,” she said, taking in the colors of his tartan and the polished brooch he wore.

  Nay, he was not a MacDonald. He was a Campbell by blood, but if anyone ever discovered his true identity, there would be a price on his head for sure.

  So he did what he always did. He lied.

  “Aye,” he replied. “I come from Kinloch Castle. I’m a scout for Angus the Lion.” That part was true, at least.

  She scowled at him. “The Great Lion of Kinloch? What the devil are you doing in Campbell territory, looking like you’ve been beaten to a pulp? Or perhaps I should be asking another question. Why were you shouting so foolishly in the middle of the night, giving away your location?”

  “My arm is broken,” he explained, feeling wretched, weary and sick. All the fight had gone out of him. “I had to set the bone. It smarted.”

  The lass glanced down at his bruised and swollen forearm, which he held close to his chest. “No doubt. Are you alone?”

  “Aye.”

  She quickly surveyed the area. “How did you break it?”

  Since he knew nothing about this woman or from where she came, he decided another lie was in order. “I fell asleep and toppled off my horse.”

  For a long moment she kept her weapon trained on his head—as if she were scrutinizing the cuts and bruises on his face where Darach had punched him repeatedly. Then she moved around him to stand at his feet, where the moon illuminated her face and he could see her better.

  Lord help him. Now that he was awarded a better view, his body stirred with sexual awareness, for she was far more beautiful than he’d first realized—one of the most striking women he’d ever encountered. She had a shiny mane of thick dark hair that fell in long, tousled waves over her shoulders to frame a captivating heart-shaped face. Her chocolate-brown eyes were enormous and penetrating. And by God, those lips…like sweet, juicy cherries, full and ripe, were perfect for kissing. It caused his mouth to water.

  Perhaps he should have had more sense under the circumstances, but his body was in such upheaval—trying to process both pain and desire—that he forgot himself. His gaze dipped to her lush bosom, where he spent a considerable number of seconds admiring her sensual feminine endowments. Then he glanced lower still, to her tiny waist and delectably curvy hips.

  The lass took a purposeful step forward, aimed the pistol between his eyes, and spoke through gritted teeth. “I’m warning you…”

  Wrenched violently from his reverie, Logan’s thoughts returned to the acute throbbing in his arm. He blinked a few times and swallowed. “Apologies. I meant no disrespect and I pose no threat to you. I swear I’m in no condition to cause trouble.”

  “Give me one good reason why I should believe anything you say,” she argued. “What about tomorrow when you’re feeling better?”

  He sighed heavily. “I suspect this arm won’t be much good to me for quite some time.”

  “Is it your fighting arm?” she asked, matter-of-factly.

  “Aye.”

  A tense moment of indecision ensued while she considered her options. At long last, she released the pistol’s hammer and lowered it to her side. “You’ll need a splint.”

  “Aye.”

  “I can help you,” she said, “but only if you answer my question. What’s a MacDonald scout doing on Campbell lands? Our two clans are not exactly on friendly terms, as you well know. More importantly, what are you doing on my father’s property?”

  “Who’s your father?” Logan asked hazily, doubting he could even process her reply, whatever it might be.

  “No one important, and I’ll be the one asking the questions.”

  Letting his eyes fall closed, Logan nodded. “Whatever you wish, lass. I’ve not the strength or inclination to argue with you. I just want the pain to go away.”

  * * *

  Mairi stood with a pounding heart, watching the MacDonald scout wince as he tried to sit up. Part of her was thankful he was injured, for he was a powerful-looking man—tall and broad shouldered with thick, solid muscles and an unsettlingly self-assured air about him, considering the situation.

  Perhaps it was his looks that had instilled such confidence in him. Aside from the fact that he had a fat lip and a few scrapes across his cheek, he was compellingly handsome with golden hair, chiseled features, and green eyes that blinked up at her with a boyish charm—the type of charm that could easily melt a woman’s defenses.

  A dangerous attribute, to be sure, for if he was a scout for Angus the Lion, he was also, no doubt, a strong man and a highly skilled warrior. Judging by the way he had taken such liberties with his eyes just now—admiring her body, her bosom especially—he was definitely not the sort of man with whom she should let down her guard.

  She knew better than most what could come of such imprudence.

  Nevertheless, she could not turn her back on the injured Highlander, for she remembered something her father had said to her once—that Scots had to stick together if they ever hoped to triumph over the English. She had made a promise to him that she would never turn a fellow Scot away from her door if he meant her no harm.

  “Your color’s not good,” she informed the stranger in her field. “You look pasty.”
>
  Sitting up, with his legs stretched out in front of him, still hugging his arm close to his chest, he lifted those magnetic green eyes and inclined his head apologetically. “I’m afraid I’m not at my best to make your acquaintance, lass. May I ask your name?”

  “It’s Mairi. Mairi Campbell.”

  He regarded her intently. “I’m Logan. I would bow upon making your acquaintance, but…” He shrugged and lowered his gaze again.

  “This is hardly the time for formalities,” she said flatly. “Please, allow me to help you up.”

  “I can do it,” he insisted as he struggled to his feet. Once he found his balance, he paused a moment, then swayed slightly.

  Mairi holstered her pistol in the waistband of her skirt but stood ready to catch him if he toppled.

  “Aye. Just a bit light-headed,” he explained.

  “Can you walk? I don’t live far from here. It’s just over that rise.” She pointed in the direction of her home.

  Logan squinted into the distance and grimaced slightly. “Aye.”

  Slowly, she led the way, keeping a close eye on him in case he should lose consciousness and collapse.

  Or try to force himself on her.

  They walked slowly, side by side. Logan was quiet—focused on managing his pain, no doubt.

  After a time, Mairi ventured to ask, “Are you certain you were successful in setting the bone?”

  “Aye, I felt it snap into place.” He scanned the horizon from left to right. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen my horse? He seems to have abandoned me.”

  He didn’t abandon you,” she replied. “You owe him a great debt, in fact. I would never have known to come looking for you if he hadn’t strolled into my back field and made his presence known. I put him in the stable, so he’s safe for the time being.”

  Logan let it out a breath. “I believe you are the person I owe a debt to, Mairi.”

  “I haven’t done anything yet,” she replied curtly.