Wicked Highland Lords: Over 1100 pages of Scottish Regency Romance

by Tarah Scott

  “Erin!” Marcus shouted, then to one of the other men, “You!” Both men broke from their party and spun toward him. “Take her back to the keep.” He jabbed his sword in Elise's direction. “Erin, you're with me.”

  In an instant, the warrior reached Elise. She shook her head.

  “Take her!” Marcus ordered, and slapped the reins across his horse's rump.

  He drove his mount, staying a nose ahead of Erin. Nell's heels unexpectedly kicked the belly of the Campbell's horse.

  Fight, lass, fight! Marcus urged.

  The Campbell's fisted hand rose and he tensed. The fist fell hard and Nell went limp. Marcus's blood froze.

  The ground softened as the shores of Loch Katrine changed from rocky sand to marsh. Marcus smiled coldly. One had to know the land well to ride this section of the shore, which the Campbell warrior did not. The man's horse faltered. He glanced over his shoulder, then flung Nell to the ground. Erin cried out. An even darker rage shot through Marcus.

  They reached Nell.

  “Take her home!” Marcus shouted without stopping.

  The Campbell's horse stumbled again, then crashed to the ground, pinning his rider's leg beneath him. The animal struggled to rise, gave a shrill whinny, then heaved his full weight onto the man's leg. The Campbell arched in pain. After an instant's heavy breathing, he craned his head in Marcus's direction. Marcus lifted his sword. In ten seconds, the warrior would be his. The man shoved frantically at the horse's back, his gaze glued on Marcus.

  Marcus tightened his grip on the sword. The man's gaze shifted to the raised weapon. He leveraged a foot on the horse's back, pushing with all his might. Marcus discerned strain in his arm muscles as, with one great heave, the man slid his leg from beneath the horse.

  The warrior scrambled to his knees, lunging for his sword as Marcus raised his weapon and cried, “Buadhaich!” With one mighty swing of the claymore, Marcus sliced across the man's neck.

  Marcus wheeled his horse around and, his gaze straight ahead, tread over the body as he raced toward home.

  Chapter Eleven

  Marcus closed the door of his library with a deceptively soft click and raked his gaze across the men standing in tense silence. “We have a traitor. When I discover who that man is—” His glare halted on his father, who sat in the chair nearest the hearth. Marcus caught the glitter of Cameron's eyes in the firelight before swinging his attention to Daniel. “You have made the changes in security?”

  “Aye, laird,” Daniel said, his mouth grim.

  “Marcus,” his father began.

  “Aye?” Marcus took two paces and halted abruptly beside his desk.

  Cameron sighed.

  “The attack took place during the mid-afternoon change of guard.” Marcus's words shook with the rage of self-reproach. “I should have realized—bloody hell, my thoughts were on what awaited me at the loch, just like those men who were hurrying from their duty at the wall. 'Tis true,” he said, the reproach turned to bitterness, “logic bows to a man's cock.”

  He had always been prepared. The men who guarded the walls monitored the village to the east, the loch to the west, and the valley that stretched for miles to the south. The weight of guilt bore down in greater measure. His people depended upon him. Yet the enemy found a crack in his defenses. A shudder ran through him. Nell had very nearly been a casualty of his carelessness. Had Katie's life been forfeit because of such negligence? Aye, she still lived, her heart beat, she breathed, but her mind had ceased to work. Her spirit lay hidden in some dark corner of her being. He had failed her, as he had nearly failed—

  Marcus slammed his fist down on the desk. “Who informed the Campbells of the routine? They attacked our women before our very eyes. Why such a bold move?”

  Cameron answered in a low voice, “It doesn't seem strange to ye, lad, that we've had Campbells on our land three times in as many months?”

  Marcus's mouth hardened. “Aye. But why?”

  “Mayhap the why and who are the same?”

  Marcus stilled. “What do you mean?”

  They stared at one another for a moment before Cameron said to the men, “Lads, leave me with my son.”

  The men filed out, the last closing the door behind him.

  Cameron looked at Marcus. “You mean to say you don't know?” Marcus only looked at him and his father went on, “You know well enough the trouble began with Elise.”

  “Aye, they are using her—”

  “You are sure it's them using her?”

  Marcus started. A surge of anger rammed through him, the first genuine hostility he'd ever felt for his father. “Bloody hell, Cameron, you're saying Elise is in league with the Campbells. They nearly killed her.”

  “Nae,” Cameron replied. “In fact, the lass returned in remarkably good shape.”

  “The tracks I saw say otherwise.”

  “You are a fine tracker, but you are no master. You should have had Johnson—”

  “I did take Johnson, if you recall,” Marcus interrupted.

  “But he did not see the tracks you interpreted as her capture.”

  “I made no mistake in my interpretation. What has happened? You were in favor of my having her.”

  “Aye,” Cameron said. “And I like her. But that does not change the fact she is the most likely suspect.”

  Elise's expression when he sent John with her to the loch came to mind. She had been angry. Any woman would be angry. He had nearly imprisoned her—and why?

  “She lived here four months before I arrived with no such trouble,” Marcus insisted.

  “Mayhap the Campbells intended you to want her so they could use her against you.”

  Marcus laughed harshly. “The woman who escaped the Campbells was no collaborator. Nae, Cameron, you have no grounds for suspicion.”

  “How long have they hated us?” his father demanded with more vehemence than he'd heard in his voice since before his mother's death.

  Blood lust shot through Marcus. “I will kill every last one of them.”

  “Aye. And condemn more men to die. What of their wives—their children?”

  “We have dealt with them for years—centuries,” Marcus snapped.

  Cameron grunted. “King George is likely to tire completely of the fight and finance the MacGregor's annihilation.”

  Though King George had remained quiet, Marcus knew the king forbade any Campbell reprisal after Marcus attacked Assipatle in retaliation for Katie MacGregor's rape. His intervention had saved many lives. But the sovereign's mood swung between reality and fantasy, his mind controlled by liquor and the laudanum he kept ready at his bedside. Where his loyalties would lie tomorrow was anyone's guess.

  “If he takes that course of action, he'll regret it as long as I draw breath,” Marcus bit back.

  Cameron slumped against the chair cushion. “I dinna' want to bury my only son.” He looked directly into Marcus's eyes. “You have a son. What will be his legacy?”

  “By God, Cameron, you would have me believe Elise is a spy and, in the same breath, demand I change the course of the raging river that is the Campbells.” He strode to the door. “I will keep you apprised of my progress in discovering our traitor's identity.” He yanked open the door. “Rest assured, when I find the guilty party—no matter who they are—there will be no place for them on this earth, save the grave.”

  Minutes later, Marcus entered the kitchen and scanned the busy room. “Winnie, where's Elise?”

  Winnie turned from the counter, tray in hand, and handed it to a girl waiting nearby. “With Nell.”

  “Nell?” he demanded in a voice which quieted the bustle in the kitchen.

  “Aye.”

  “Elise dared leave the keep after today—and especially at night?”

  “So far as I know, she did not step foot outside the walls. I settled Nell in my cottage. With her mother dead and her aunt run off to wed, Elise offered to sit with her.” He winced when Winnie added, “I feared leaving her alo
ne.” Winnie grasped a pitcher of water sitting on the cabinet. “Back to work,” she ordered the women, shoving the pitcher toward a girl who took it and scurried toward the great hall. Winnie focused again on him.

  “Elise will not be here for the evening meal then?” he asked.

  “I sent their meals to my cottage.”

  Marcus gave a curt nod, then strode past the women and out the back door.

  When he arrived at the cottage, he knocked lightly. Hearing no answer, he pushed the door open to find food sitting on the table untouched and both women missing. Marcus hurried back to the castle. He looked in Elise's room. His heart rate kicked up at finding it empty. He went next to the ladies' drawing room, but even as he opened the door he sensed the silence.

  Dread coiled tight in his gut at sight of the empty room. If she wasn't inside the keep and she hadn't attempted to pass through the gates, only one answer remained: she had left through the passageway leading from the dungeons. Why go to such lengths to leave unseen? His father's words earlier returned, “…she is the most likely suspect.” He remembered her agitation when he sent John with her. She couldn't be the traitor, it simply wasn't possible. Why, his mind asked? Because you love her?

  “Yes,” he snarled, and slammed the door.

  She could be in his library. But even the warmth that wafted out to meet him as he opened the library door didn't dispel the deadly silence. He looked at the chair his father had occupied earlier—the chair he had discovered Elise curled up in on many occasions. “Mayhap the why and the who are the same,” his father had said.

  Marcus shook himself from the vise which gripped him, then closed the door on the vacant room. He considered employing more men in the search. Nae. If he found evidence of her culpability, he would deal with her before he could change his mind. He strode down the corridor, continuing through the castle until reaching the last sconce burning in that wing of the castle. He disengaged the light from the wall, then took the final steps to the staircase leading into the bowels of Brahan Seer.

  Narrow step after narrow step, Marcus wound his way down to what, during his grandfather's rule, had been dungeons where he incarcerated criminals such as the one who betrayed them that afternoon. He paused in the long corridor before one of the cells and gave the door a shove. With a grinding creak, the heavy iron swung open. The sconce's flame jumped as if gasping for breath.

  Marcus settled his gaze on the iron shackles hanging on the far wall in open defiance of time's passage. How would a woman survive chained in those irons? If Elise braved these dungeons, had even a tremor passed through her when she hurried by these rooms of torture? What sort of woman entered such a place?

  A woman with something to hide.

  He hurried past the cell to the next right turn, stopping at the sudden dead end. Squatting, Marcus lowered the sconce and slowly edged the light forward in order to examine the stone floor and discerned a single set of boot prints beneath the thin layer of dust. His heart pounded against his chest. He jerked the sconce up, searching the wall for the hairline crack recognizable only to one who knew it existed. He found the seam and depressed the spot. The panel sprang open with a squeal.

  Marcus rose and stepped inside the passageway. Sconce low, he proceeded slowly, inspecting the packed dirt floor until he reached the end of the passageway. He faced left where lay the concealed door which opened to the outside and pushed against the door. The stone slid noiselessly open and he stepped into the night.

  Ten minutes later, Marcus entered the kitchen again. “Elise is not to be found.” He stopped before Winnie.

  “Surely ye aren't worried,” she said, but Marcus had caught the flicker of surprise in her expression.

  “Who took the meal to them?”

  “Bartholomew.”

  He started for the door.

  “By now he's on duty at the wall,” she called as he disappeared into the darkness.

  Moments later, Marcus mounted the battlement stairs and found Bartholomew standing guard on the west corner of the wall. The guard straightened at his approach.

  “You delivered the food to the women in Winnie's cottage?” Marcus demanded.

  “Aye, laird.”

  “Were the women in the cottage when you arrived?”

  Bartholomew shook his head.

  Marcus narrowed his eyes. “And you thought nothing of it?”

  He swallowed. “I didn't know I should.”

  Marcus hesitated, then turned and hurried along the battlements and down the stairs. He returned to Winnie's cottage but found nothing changed.

  This time, when he entered the kitchen, Winnie halted the task of pulling scones from their baking pan and watched his approach.

  He stopped beside the table. “They weren't in the cottage when Bartholomew delivered the meal.”

  Her gaze moved past him.

  “What's wrong?” came Elise's voice at his back.

  He pivoted to face her. Nell stood alongside her. “Where the blazes have you been?”

  Elise's brow snapped into a frown.

  “Well?”

  “We were on the hill, near the storehouse,” she replied.

  Marcus looked at Nell.

  “Aye, laird, we—” she looked at Elise.

  “What is it?” he demanded.

  “We were star gazing,” Elise said in a reprimand.

  He glanced at her, then looked back at Nell. “You two have been together all evening?”

  “Aye,” she said, obviously confused.

  “By God,” he muttered, and advanced toward them. Elise blinked and Nell retreated a pace, but he continued forward. When within reach of them, he grabbed Elise's wrist and started toward the great hall. Several men stared from the doorway.

  “Be about your business,” he ordered.

  The men scattered in a hurried scuffle as he pulled Elise through the doorway and into the noisy hall. The din quieted slightly, men parting as he strode to the stairway.

  “Marcus, what—”

  “Hush,” he commanded without looking back at her.

  She didn't balk until they reached the door to her bedchamber. There, she yanked her hand free of his grasp.

  He whirled on her. “Where were you?”

  “I told you.”

  “I searched all of Brahan Seer.”

  “Clearly not all, or you would have found us. Ridiculous,” she added in a mutter. “You act as if we need worry while inside the keep.”

  “Worry?” he repeated. “The Campbells meant harm, Elise. Did you think I would let them touch you?”

  Her brow furrowed. He discerned the quick lift and fall of her breasts, the surprise—uncertainty perhaps? His body tightened. He realized the desire to take her with quick and hard actions.

  “No,” she replied.

  He jarred from the erotic picture of her against the wall, him pressed between her legs. “Seeing you”—she faltered—”seeing them…” She shook her head, ending with a quiet, “It was strange.”

  “The Highlands are far more violent than Boston,” he shot back.

  She hesitated and his blood chilled when he realized it wasn't the violence of the Highlands that had startled her, but the violence in him. He felt anew the cut of his sword through Campbell flesh. He tensed, this time in fury.

  “God damn bastards,” he whispered, “they knew exactly what they were doing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He watched her carefully. “They knew when to attack—were aware of our weakness.”

  “Weakness?”

  “Their attack coincided with the change of guard.”

  A tiny pause, then she said, “But that would mean—” She gasped. “That's not possible.”

  “Aye, 'tis not only possible, but true.”

  She shook her head vehemently. “I don't believe it.”

  The swirl of her hair, the tight-lipped determination, cut Marcus to the quick and he suddenly wished for nothing more than to hold her, to
feel her heart beat against his chest as she slept in his arms. She fastened her gaze on him and he registered the lines of strain around her eyes.

  “To bed,” he said, and opened her bedchamber door. “And don't leave your room again this night.”

  She started to protest, but he shoved her inside and closed the door behind her. Marcus still gripped the handle. God damn it, he'd allowed his father's suspicions to poison his thoughts. Elise had been with Nell all evening. She wasn't the traitor… unless she had made those boot prints in the dungeon some time before tonight.

  * * *

  The following afternoon, Marcus entered his library to find Elise sitting in the chair before a low burning fire, looking just as he prayed he'd find her the night before. She jumped, the book she was clearly not reading sliding from her lap to the carpet.

  He closed the door behind him. “You are the most unpredictable creature.”

  She bent to retrieve the book. “What have I done now?” She placed the book beside her on the chair.

  Marcus walked to her and squatted beside the chair. He ran a finger down her arm. “Nothing, love. I'm preparing to leave for London and my mind is elsewhere.” He smiled slightly. “It is my own shortcomings that plague me today. Not you.”

  Elise frowned. “Your shortcomings?”

  He rose and strode to the sideboard “Never mind.” He poured a drink. “It doesn't concern you.”

  A pause followed, then she said, “I think it does.”

  At her clipped tone, he looked over his shoulder. Her lips were pursed. Despite his mood, he smiled ruefully.

  “I am no fool, Marcus MacGregor,” she said.

  He raised a brow.

  “What shortcomings?” she demanded.

  Marcus remained silent.

  She shrugged. “I can easily find out.”

  He turned, leaving his drink untouched, and leaned against the sideboard. “How do you propose to do that?”

  Elise slid him a sidelong glance. “Milord, do you think you are the only one with powers of persuasion?”