Highland Betrayal

by Alyson McLayne

  “I ne’er loved you. You aren’t Abi. You could ne’er be Abi.” In one quick yank, Drustan pulled out the knife. The scaffold slowly tipped over backward as Glynis screamed. Maggie darted for the edge with an anguished cry and reached out for her, but the distance was too great. She reached farther, almost to the point of losing her balance, before an arm wrenched her back to safety. Maggie turned into a warm, hard chest. Behind her, she heard the scaffold crash to the ground.

  “Doona look, Maggie,” Callum whispered to her. “Whate’er sympathy you had for her, remember she tried to kill you.”

  “And you. I found a tunnel under the courtyard. She used it to race up to the rope that held the rocks and cut it.”

  “A tunnel? Shown to her by my father?” When Maggie nodded, he squeezed her tight. “So she killed him after all.”

  “Nay, Callum. At least she says she didn’t. But she did say she was the traitor. I tried to trap her on the—” Maggie’s voice broke.

  He squeezed her even tighter. “It doesn’t matter now, lass. ’Tis almost over. My brothers are here.”

  She looked over her shoulder to see Drustan kneeling at the edge of the precipice. Gavin and Kerr came up behind him from one side, while Gregor and Darach approached from the other. Lachlan climbed up the net.

  “I killed your father,” Drustan said to him suddenly.

  Callum tensed beneath her, and she hugged him closer.

  “Why, Drustan?” he asked. “You were his best friend.”

  “He wouldnae leave Abigail alone. He was always after her, cornering her, trying to get closer to her.” Drustan rubbed his hand over his nape. “She was running away from him in the stable. The horse kicked her in the head. Broke her neck.”

  “How do you know?” he asked. “You couldnae have been there, or you would have killed him on the spot—as I would have done had it been Maggie.”

  “Glynis told me. She said she heard him confess it to a priest. She has a way of listening through the walls.”

  “The tunnel,” Maggie said.

  Callum nodded, but she could still feel the resistance in his body. “She may have been lying. She’s a traitor to our clan.”

  “I asked him,” Drustan said. “I caught him alone up on the wall after he was done tupping some lass. He cried and said it was true, and he was sorry. He was glad I finally knew. That it felt good to get it off his chest.”

  He slumped forward, and Maggie caught her breath, fearing he would tumble over the precipice.

  “I pushed him after that,” he said tonelessly. “Why couldn’t he have left her alone? She said nay, but he didn’t listen. He was laird, and he kept after her until she was dead.”

  “Did you write the suicide note, then?” Callum asked, his voice ragged.

  “Aye. I was going to jump, but I was so angry. I wanted you to know who your father really was. I went there to tell you everything. I thought you would kill me.”

  “I still may, Drustan.”

  Drustan nodded. He pressed the heel of his hand into his forehead, rubbing it, before he wrapped his palm around the nape of his neck. “When I got there, she was still on the ground, her neck twisted, her eyes open. My wife was dead.”

  Gregor and Kerr had reached him and grasped under his arms to pull him away from the ledge. Drustan’s head dropped forward, and his body sagged.

  Callum took Maggie’s hand and led her off the scaffold onto the stone floor. He stopped in front of the broken man and laid his hand on his head. “I’m sorry for your loss, Drustan. She should have been safe. My father should have kept her safe.”

  He raised his eyes to Gregor. “Find our healer, Flora. See what can be done. And Father Lundie too.”

  Gregor nodded, and Callum walked quietly with Maggie toward their bedchamber. About halfway there, he stopped and lifted her into his arms, then kept going. “I know you doona like me carrying you. Are you all out of daggers that you havenae pressed one to my jugular?”

  “Nay. I have one left, but I plan to use it on—John!” she hollered when she saw her brother, bearded and dirty, standing in front of her and Callum’s bedchamber door. She struggled to free herself from Callum’s arms, and he lowered her slowly to the floor.

  Maggie hurtled herself at her brother, barely recognizing him. His cheeks were wet, his eyes red, and he held one of Maggie’s letters in his hands. She didn’t care how dirty he was; he was here, and he was alive. She threw her arms around him, sobbing, and he squeezed her tight, lifting her up. “Ah, Maggie. My sweet Maggie. I missed you, love.”

  “My sweet Maggie,” she heard Callum say grumpily. “And how did you all get into my castle?” She turned at his words and gasped to see four men, as dirty and bearded as John, surrounding her husband at the point of their swords and arrows.

  “John,” she shrieked, reaching for her last dagger, but it was gone. She looked up and saw her brother had it in his hands. “Are those your men?”

  “Aye.”

  She marched toward them, hands balled into fists. “Och. Now you’re in trouble,” Callum said with a wicked grin.

  John whistled, and the men backed off.

  “What is it with all the whistling?” she asked. “You canna just say ‘retreat’ or ‘come’ or ‘get out of my bloody way’?”

  “Nay,” both Callum and John said together, then scowled at each other.

  Callum turned to the men behind him. “Just so you know, I’m going to smash his bloody face in. While I was outside looking for him”—he pointed to John—“his sister was in here fighting for her life.”

  He marched toward her brother, his hands clenched just like Maggie’s had been, but now nobody was grinning. “Your wee show out there almost got her killed.”

  Maggie darted between them, but they each used one hand to push her against the wall, glaring at each other.

  “Verra well. One punch,” John said. “But I hit back after the second one.”

  “What is going on here?” a booming voice asked.

  She turned to see Gregor standing in the hallway, scowling at them. Callum’s foster brothers held the other men at the points of their swords.

  Well, isn’t this confusing?

  She looked at Callum and saw him flash a bright grin before his smile faded under Gregor’s wrath. And her brother looked cowed too. That was interesting.

  “John MacDonnell. You’re laird now, and family to us through our sister and daughter, Maggie MacLean. Take your men and find some rooms. And for God’s sake, have a bath.”

  John nodded, and Maggie almost laughed. She squeezed his hand as he walked by. “John?”

  “Aye, love?”

  “Did you see Ross before he…?”

  He squeezed her hand back. “I got there just in time.”

  She teared up again, and they embraced. “And Irvin?” she asked.

  “He’s dead, Maggie, but not by my hand. I caught the weasel trying to run and put him in the dungeon. Somebody got to him in there.”

  Gregor clapped John on the shoulder and nudged him down the hall toward the other men. Everyone had lowered their swords and were busy eyeing each other. “We’ll talk about that later. Give your sister and her husband some time alone.”

  When the others disappeared down the stairs, Maggie wrapped her arm around Callum, and he pulled her into their bedchamber. After shutting and barring the door, he lifted her again in his arms.

  He dropped his head in the crook of her neck and leaned against the door, just holding her. She felt him tremble and was awed by it.

  “Callum,” she said, cupping his face and raising it until their eyes met. She smiled at him, feeling soft and dewy, despite what had happened to Glynis and Drustan. “I love you.”

  He smiled, looking just as soft and dewy as she felt. “I love you too, Maggie. So much.”

 
She kissed him, then pointed to the bed. “Carry me there.”

  He did as she asked, his smile turning a wee bit sinful as he laid her on the quilt and stretched out beside her. “Surely you doona want to have your way with me in a bed?” he asked.

  She rolled on her side and wrapped her leg over his hip. He wedged his hand under her knee. “Nay,” she said, kissing up his neck. “I can think of several far more exciting places to tup, Husband.”

  “Like where?” he asked, sounding genuinely curious and excited.

  She groaned inside, regretting her daft pronouncement. She didn’t know enough about tupping yet to be able to list off different ways to engage in it. Although…

  “Well, ’twas quite exciting sitting pressed up against you on your horse.”

  His eyes widened, and he sat up suddenly, his cheeks tingeing pink as his arousal and other parts of him rose.

  She checked her ring on her thumb to make sure it wouldn’t come off this time. He noticed, as he always did, and kissed it. “Too loose?” he asked.

  “Aye,” she said, feeling guilty—which he didn’t seem to notice.

  He quickly shed his plaid, shirt, and shoes before starting on hers. She laughed as her arms got caught in her sleeves, then stopped laughing and groaned when he took advantage and sucked her nipple into his mouth.

  She gasped. “How exactly…is this…like…riding a horse?”

  She could feel his smile on her skin before he rolled onto his back and dragged her on top of him. Her legs slid to either side of his hips. “Consider me your horse.”

  She laughed, unable to stop herself, and dropped her head onto his chest. He rumbled with laughter too, and she suddenly understood the appeal of this position. Sitting up, she raised her hands to her hair and loosed it from her ribbon so it flowed around her shoulders.

  She loved watching the way his eyes hooded, the feel of his hands tightening on her hips. “I think I could get used to this,” she said.

  “Riding me?” he asked, bucking his hips for her so his shaft rubbed along her sensitive mound.

  “Aye, that too.” She leaned down and kissed him. Slowly. “The bed. I think I’d like to try more tupping in our bed.”

  He lifted her and slowly brought her down over him. They both sighed with satisfaction when he was rooted deep within.

  He undid her leather sheaths from both arms and placed them and her weapons on the bedside table, almost knocking everything else off. “As long as you doona bring your weapons to bed with you, Wife.”

  She unstrapped his leather sheath from his forearm and another from his calf. “As long as you doona bring yours to bed either, Husband.”

  Then she rolled her hips and groaned. “Other than that one, of course.”

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  The Sons of Gregor MacLeod series

  Highland Promise

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  Highland Promise

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  Gleann Afraig (Fraser territory)—The Highlands, Scotland

  Darach MacKenzie wanted to kill the Frasers. Slowly.

  Lying on the forest floor, he peered through the leaves as his enemy rode single file along the trail at the bottom of the ravine. Midway down the line, a woman, tied belly down over a swaybacked horse, appeared to be unconscious. Rope secured her wrists, and a gag filled her mouth. The tips of her long, brown hair dragged on the muddy ground.

  In front of her, Laird Fraser rode a white stallion that tossed its head and rubbed against the trees in an attempt to unseat him. The laird flailed his whip, cutting the stallion’s flanks in retaliation.

  To the front and behind them rode ten more men, heavily armed.

  The King had ordered the MacKenzies and Frasers to cease hostilities two years before, and much trouble would come of helping the lass, let alone killing the laird. Still, the idea of doing nothing made Darach’s bile rise.

  “You canna rescue her without being seen.”

  The whispered words caused Darach’s jaw to set in a stubborn line. He refused to look at his foster brother Lachlan, who’d spoken. “Maybe ’tis not the lass I want to rescue. Did you not see the fine mount under the Fraser filth?” Yet his gaze never left the swing of the lass’s hair, her wee hands tied together.

  “Fraser would no more appreciate you taking his horse than his woman.”

  “Bah! She’s not his woman—not by choice, I’ll wager.”

  They’d been reaving—a time-honored tradition the King had not mentioned in his command for peace—and could easily escape into the forest unseen with their goods. They’d perfected the procedure to a fine art, sneaking on and off Fraser land for years with bags of wheat, barrels of mead, sheep, and horses.

  Never before had they stolen a woman.

  He glanced at Lachlan, seeing the same anger and disgust he felt reflected in his foster brother’s eyes. “You take the stallion. The laird willna recognize you. I’ll get the lass.”

  Lachlan nodded and moved into position while Darach signaled his men with the distinctive trill of the dipper—three short bursts, high and loud pitched. The MacKenzies spread out through the heavy growth, a nearby creek muffling any sound.

  The odds for a successful attack were in their favor. Ten Fraser warriors against Darach, the laird of Clan MacKenzie; his foster brother Lachlan, the laird of Clan MacKay; and three of Darach’s men: Oslow, Brodie, and Gare. Only two to one, and they’d have the element of surprise.

  As his enemy entered the trap, Darach mounted his huge, dark-gray stallion named Loki, drew his sword, and let out a second, sharp trill. The men burst through the trees, their horses’ hooves pounding.

  Two Frasers rode near the lass. Big, dirty men. Men who might have touched her. He plunged his sword into the arm of one, almost taking it off. The man fell to the ground with a howl. The second was a better fighter but not good enough, and Darach sliced open the man’s side. Blood and guts spilled out. He keeled over, clutching his body.

  Farther ahead, Lachlan struggled to control the wild-eyed stallion. The Fraser laird lay on the ground in front of Darach, and Darach resisted the urge to stomp the devil. He would leave the laird alive, even though he burned to run his sword through the man’s black heart. Fraser’s sister’s too, if she were but alive.

  In front of Darach, the mare carrying the lass thrashed around, looking for a means of escape. The ropes that secured the girl loosened, and she began sliding down the beast’s side.

  Just as her fingers touched the ground, he leaned over and pulled her to safety. Dark, silky hair tumbled over his linen lèine. When the mare jostled them, he slapped it on the rump. The animal sprang forward, missing Fraser by inches.

  Damnation.

  Placing her limp body across his thighs, Darach used his knees to guide Loki out of the waning melee.

  Not one Fraser was left standing.

  * * *

  They rode hard to put as much distance as possible between them and the Frasers, and along game trails and creek beds to conceal their tracks as best they could. When Darach felt they were safe, he slowed Loki and shifted the unconscious woman so she sat across his lap. Her head tipped back into the crook of his arm, and he stilled when he saw her sleeping face, bruised but still lovely—like a wee dove.

  Dark lashes fanned out against fair cheeks, and a dusting of freckles crossed her nose.

  She looked soft, pure.

  God knows that meant nothing. He knew better than most a bonny face could hide a black heart.

  Slicing through the dirty gag, he hurled it to the ground. Welts had formed at the corners of her mouth, and her lips, red and plump, had cracked. After cutting her hands free, he sheathed his dagger and massaged her wrists. Her cheek was chafed
from rubbing against the side of the mare, and a large bruise marred her temple.

  His gut tightened with the same fury he’d felt earlier.

  Lachlan rode up beside him, the skittish stallion tethered behind his mount. “If you continue to stare at her, I’ll wager she’ll ne’er wake. Women are contrary creatures, doona you know?”

  Darach drew to a stop. “She sleeps too deeply, Brother. ’Tis unnatural. Do you think she’ll be all right?” Oslow, Brodie, and Gare gathered ’round. It was the first time they’d seen the lass.

  “Is she dead, do you think?” Gare asked, voice scarcely above a whisper. He was a tall, young warrior of seventeen, with the scrawny arms and legs of a lad still building up his muscle.

  Oslow, Darach’s older, gnarly lieutenant, cuffed Gare on the back of the head. “She’s breathing, isna she? Look at the rise and fall of her chest, lad.”

  “I’ll do no such thing. ’Tis not proper. She’s a lady, I’ll wager. Look at her fine clothes.”

  Lachlan snorted in amusement and picked up her hand, turning it over to run his fingers across her smooth palm. “I reckon you might be right, Gare. The lass hasn’t seen hard labor. ’Tis smooth as a bairn’s bottom.”

  Darach’s chest tightened at the sight of her wee hand in Lachlan’s. He fought the urge to snatch it back.

  “She has stirred some, cried out in her sleep. I pray to God the damage isna permanent.” Physically, at least. Emotionally, she could be scarred for life. His arm tightened around her, and she moaned.

  “Pass me some water.” Someone placed a leather flagon in his hand, and Darach wedged the opening between her lips. When he tilted the container, the water seeped down her cheek. He waited a moment and tried again. This time she swallowed, showing straight, white teeth. Her hand came up and closed over his, helping to steady the flask.

  A peculiar feeling fluttered in Darach’s chest.

  When she made a choking sound, he pulled the flask away. Her body convulsed as she coughed, and he sat her up to thump her on the back. Upon settling, he laid her back down in the crook of his arm.