The Highlander's Claim (Highland Romance)

by Jessica Knight

  Moving silently and swiftly, I make my way down the corridor, following them at a distance. I duck behind another pillar as they cross an open courtyard in what I assume is the center of the castle. I watch as they disappear through a door on the far side of the courtyard, and James slams the door shut behind him. But the door doesn’t latch and springs open a couple of inches. Taking a look around, watchful for servants, I dash across the courtyard and stand beside the door, peering through the gap.

  I can see Catherine slumped in a chair; her back is to me. Sitting on the edge of a large desk is a man that looks to be about her age. I assume that is her brother. And pacing in front of the far wall, a mug of wine in one hand and a sour expression on his face is her uncle.

  “Do us all a favor and sign this confession, Catherine. If you sign, we may let you live,” her uncle says. “You will, of course, be shipped away far from here and married to whoever will have you now that you’ve been − used. But it’s better than being killed, isn’t it?”

  “Go to hell,” she spits, her voice thick.

  “Just for that, let me tell you what is going to happen whether you sign this confession or not. First, we are going to kill you in a way that leaves no doubt those bloody savages are responsible for your death,” James goes on. “We will also tell your father that you conspired with them, and they turned on you like the rabid dogs they are.”

  “He will never believe you,” Catherine says, but her voice is weak and uncertain.

  “He will once I confirm that I saw you with your lover,” her brother speaks up. “And he will be appalled that you let yourself be used by those savages.”

  My stomach drops, but my anger flares bright and hot as I listen to this all unfolding. I hear the tone of Catherine’s voice though, and it worries me because she sounds like a woman who’s given up. She sounds like she doesn’t think anybody is coming to her rescue and is resigned to her fate.

  “Why are you two doing this?” she asks weakly.

  “Because quite frankly, we are tired of you meddling in affairs that don’t concern you,” James says.

  “And because I’m tired of you being father’s favorite,” her brother chimes in. “Always so proper. Always so perfect. I’m tired of you, Sister.”

  I almost wish I had rallied the clan to storm the castle. I have no plan, but I know that once I step into the room and the fight is engaged, it is going to create a racket that will bring the garrison running. But there’s nothing for it. If I don’t go in, Catherine is as good as dead. And I can’t bear the thought of that.

  I tuck my dagger back into my belt and quietly slip the sword out of the sheath on my back. Taking a deep breath, I let it out silently as I say a quick prayer to the good Lord above. Gritting my teeth, I push the door inward and step inside, my blade held at the ready.

  Catherine’s brother is the first to notice me, and his eyes grow wide. He stumbles off the desk and falls flat on his arse, fumbling for the dagger at his waist. James, who had been standing with his back to me, turns and looks at me with nothing short of contempt. I quickly shut the door behind me and lock it − that may not hold the soldiers out for good, but it’ll slow them down some.

  Catherine turns in her chair, and the moment her eyes fall upon me, tears burst from her eyes and roll down her cheeks. Her lips tremble, and she suddenly looks terrified for me.

  “What are you doing here, Malcolm?” she stammers.

  “I came because I love you. With all of my heart, I love you Catherine,” I state boldly. “And I’m not going to sit idly by while these pricks murder you.”

  “I love you too, Malcolm,” she tells me. “And I would not see them murder you on my behalf. Get out of here, Malcolm.”

  The moment the words passed my lips, I felt a strange lightness in my chest. It’s as if admitting it, out loud, has made it real. And it is as if making it real has somehow given me something to fight for more than I already had.

  James’ mouth quirks upward in a grin. “How touching. Really, that’s very touching, but it is already too late. Nobody is going anywhere,” he says. “It will also make our fiction all the more believable when your bodies are found together. So I suppose I should thank you for that.”

  Catherine sniffs loudly. “I do not want you dying for me, Malcolm. I could not bear it.”

  I flash her a quick grin. “I swear to God, between you and Gaven, you’d think I never survived a fight before,” I say. “It might give a lesser man a complex.”

  “Believe me when I say you are a lesser man,” James says coolly. “And this is a fight you will not survive.”

  I watch James walk toward a table against the wall nearest to him. He smoothly takes a sword from a stand, the blade of it gleaming in the fire from the heart. Catherine’s brother is still sitting on his arse, staring up at me with wide eyes in a face that’s paled even more. He looks at me like I’m the incarnation of death itself. James rolls his eyes and blows out a loud breath.

  “Get up, Morgan,” he groans. “At least try to comport yourself like a man.”

  As the specter of confrontation becomes inevitable, Catherine slides out of her chair and retreats to the far corner of the room. She claps her hands over her mouth and looks at me with wide, frightened eyes. The boy − Morgan − stands on shaky legs and holds a dagger, pointing it at me with a hand that shakes as if he’s got palsy.

  “Two against one,” James reports confidently. “The odds are against you.”

  I grin and give a pointed look at the boy who is shaking so hard I’m half-convinced he’ll drop the dagger before the fight is engaged.

  “I’d say more like one and a half,” I quip.

  James holds his sword up, almost lovingly, staring down the edge of the blade. I’ve only ever seen one like it before. One of my old swordmasters had one, and it was as if it was part of him. He spoke about the spiritual connection between wielder and blade − a philosophy born in the east. A philosophy I’m sure James neither understands or adheres to. In the Orient, it is considered a great honor to carry such a blade.

  “Exquisite, isn’t it?” he says as he sees me admiring the blade. “Forged in the Orient.”

  “It’s a beautiful sword,” I nod. “But like everything else in your life, that blade is unearned. It’s just another trinket you’ve taken because you thought it was owed to you.”

  He flashes me a vicious grin. “Shall we get on with this then?” he sounds bored, as if the outcome of this fight is a foregone conclusion. “I have plans to make and a niece to execute.”

  “Uncle, maybe we should rethink −”

  “Shut up, Morgan,” James roars. “You are in this up to your neck. Now, let’s get on with it.”

  Morgan’s weakness and fear of fighting is my only advantage. Dealing with an experienced swordsman like James will be difficult enough without also having to swat at a nuisance like Morgan as well. And as Catherine’s brother begins circling to my left, I switch hands with my sword, never taking my eyes off James, who is circling around his desk to my right.

  With the large desk between James and I and Morgan’s reaction time likely to be slowed by his fear, I know I have to act. And when I move, it’s so sudden, it takes them both by surprise. Whipping my dagger out of my belt with my free hand, I throw it hard with one smooth motion. Morgan lets out a squeal like a pig being butchered as my blade sinks up to the hilt into his leg. Blood immediately begins to seep out around the edges, spilling down the leg of his breeches.

  Morgan falls onto his arse − again − his own dagger clattering to the stone floor. He clutches his wounded leg, howling like a banshee. It’s not a bad wound, but I get the sense the boy has never been blooded before − any fights he’s been in have been set up to his advantage, I’m sure. Whatever the case, I know Morgan won’t be getting up to join the fight again.

  Spinning to my right, I switch hands once again and throw the blade up just in time to catch the downward arc of James’ sword. He’s f
aster than I anticipated, and that underestimation damn near let him take my head off. The sound of clashing steel echoes around the chamber. Hard pounding issues at the door as the soldiers, obviously hearing Morgan’s wailing, came running as I expected they would.

  James wades in and slashes at me with his sword. It grazes my tunic, and I feel the sting of it biting into my flesh. A moment later, I feel the hot flow of blood flowing down my stomach. It’s not a bad cut − a scratch really − but I know I’m going to bleed like a stuck pig. Catherine, probably seeing the blood on me, screams louder than her brother, and the door to the chamber rattles on its hinges as the soldiers try to batter it down.

  James thrusts the point of the blade at me, and I sidestep it easily, driving my fist into his face. I hear the bones in his nose give with a satisfying crunch, and the blood flows out, spilling down his chin and onto his tunic. He staggers backward but is quickly on the offensive again, hacking and slashing with his sword. I parry them all, the loud ringing of steel cutting through the screams that bounce off the stone walls around us.

  Sweat stands out on my forehead, and I draw in a sharp breath, as wicked grin spreading across James’ face as his thrust slices my upper arm. I feel the blood flowing freely, and the look on James’ face tells me he thinks the fight is won. He wades in and swings, his blade coming toward my head in a murderous arc.

  I get my blade up, the impact of his sword clashing against mine ringing loudly and vibrating all the way up my arm, making the dull ache of the cut turn into a full-throated roar. He steps closer to me, driving his sword forward against mine, trying to break my defense. His face is coated in a thin sheen of sweat, and a maniacal gleam lights up his eyes.

  He doesn’t realize it just yet, but I have him right where I want him.

  I flash him a feral grin as I drive my knee upward with all the force I can muster. It connects squarely with his cock, driving the breath from his lungs with a loud ‘oomph’. He stumbles backward, alleviating the pressure on my own blade. My opening is small, but I seize it, stepping closer to him and drive my fist into his throat.

  James’ sword rings as it hits the stone floor, and he grabs at his throat, a loud choking wheeze coming from him. He falls to his knees, and I grab him by the hair, pull his head back, and deliver a punch with every ounce of strength in me. His head snaps back, and he goes limp, leaving me holding him up by the hair. I let it go and watch him slump to the floor, out cold.

  I turn to Morgan, who is still clutching the hilt of my dagger, not even having the courage to pull it out.

  “P - please don’t kill me,” he whines. “Please let me live. Mercy. Please.”

  I roll my eyes and turn to Catherine. Her eyes are still wide, and her hands are clamped over her mouth again. She is trembling from head to toe, and her cheeks shine bright with tears. She rushes over and throws her arms around the back of my neck, squeezing me tight. She buries her face in my shoulder, heaving a few shuddering sobs. I stroke her hair and whisper soothingly into her ear.

  “It’s okay, love,” I tell her. “It’s all okay now.”

  Behind us, the door crashes open in a hail of broken hinges and splintered wood. Four men come storming in, swords at the ready. Catherine stiffens and stands up straight, quickly wiping the tears from her cheeks as she puts on the cool mask of a noblewoman. She turns to the soldiers who are looking from Morgan to James to her, confusion on all of their faces. Finally, the man in command steps forward, lowering his sword and clears his throat.

  “My Lady,” he says. “What is going on here?”

  “You will take both my brother and my uncle to the cells,” she commands, her voice icy. “Send a physician to see to their wounds, but under no circumstance are they to be released.”

  “My Lady?” the man questions. “This is −”

  “I’m well aware of who they are,” she snaps. “And they are guilty of treason and conspiracy. They will be tried and punished according to the laws of my father, the Duke of Lancaster.”

  The four soldiers exchange glances, the questions still in their eyes. They reluctantly sheath their swords, and two of them move toward Morgan, who is openly weeping. He groans in pain as they lift him up, and I step over to him. The two men holding him look at me warily, so I flash them a grin as I reach down and yank the dagger from Morgan’s leg, setting him howling in agony once more. I wipe my blade off on Morgan’s tunic and then hold it up to the two soldiers.

  “This is mine,” I say and tuck it back into my belt.

  The two men quickly carry a spitting, sputtering, and howling Morgan out of the room. The commander casts a look of distaste at me before turning back to Catherine.

  “What of − him?” he asks.

  “You will treat him with the respect he has earned,” she intones. “He foiled the conspiracy and saved my life. This man is a hero, and you will show him the proper deference. Am I clear?”

  “Y - yes, M’lady.”

  He and his remaining soldier pick up the unconscious body of James and haul him out of the room, leaving me alone with Catherine. She exhales and seems to somehow grow smaller and more fragile in my eyes. Stepping toward me, she touches the slices in the tunic; her eyes fixed on the blood. She looks up at me worried, but I shake my head.

  “It’s nothing,” I assure her. “Scratches.”

  “Well, I will still have our physician attend you.”

  Raised voices echo around the castle − they sound panicked. That’s followed by the sound of heavy boots and the clinking of armor as soldiers run past the open doorway, heading for the castle gate.

  “What now?” Catherine asks. “Have we not had enough excitement for tonight?”

  “Clearly not,” I grin.

  We follow the flow of people out of the castle and down into the bailey. The soldiers are tense, their faces grim, and they load up on weapons as if they are preparing for war. I lead Catherine up the stairs to the top of the wall and then gasp when I see what stands before us. I can see why they think they’re about to go to war.

  Out in the fields before Caldryn House, there are hundreds of torches. The darkness hides the numbers of the army set before the castle, but from where we are, it looks like a vast sea of bodies. I look at the mass of torches spread out on the field and feel a swell of emotion rise up within me.

  “It appears your clan has arrived,” Catherine grins.

  “It would seem so.”

  Catherine turns and walks to the edge of the platform and looks down at her soldiers mustering in the bailey below.

  “Open the gates,” she calls out.

  All activity ceases, and the assembling troops fall silent. All eyes turn up to her, and even from where I’m standing, I can feel the questions and hostility radiating from below. A large man wearing a helmet and armor, a broad sword in his hand, turns to her.

  “Forgive me Lady Catherine,” he starts. “But did you order the gates be opened? To that?”

  Ignoring the man, Catherine turns and raises her voice to address the crowd below. “I am Catherine Seely, daughter to Charles Seely, the Duke of Lancaster, your liege lord,” her voice rings out and points to me. “This man, Malcolm Dunbarr, has uncovered a conspiracy instigated by my uncle, James Seely, and my brother, Morgan. He saved my life from those who would seek to murder me.”

  She pauses a moment to let her words sink in. The silence in the yard is profound. Nobody moves, nobody speaks, and all attention is focused on her.

  “I am taking command of this garrison until my father arrives to take control and decides what is to be done with these traitors in our midst,” she goes on. “As such, these gates will be opened to admit Malcolm’s clan who will keep the peace until my father arrives, and you will treat these men with all due respect. Should you not, you will find yourselves in a cell next to my uncle and brother, awaiting my father’s judgement.”

  I look back over the wall and see Gaven, Colban, and Patric approaching the gate, the flickering fir
elight illuminating the wide smiles on all of their faces. I turn back to Catherine, who is still leveling a frosty gaze at the men in the yard.

  “Is there anyone who can not abide by my orders?”

  She waits a beat, giving anybody who wishes to decline to enforce her will a chance to come forward. Not surprisingly, none do.

  “Very well,” she calls. “Open the gates and give these men all due deference.”

  Catherine turns back to me, and I pull her into a tight embrace and feel how badly she’s trembling. She looks up at me, and I see the fear in her eyes. She’s obviously not used to having all eyes on her like that. I would have never guessed by the way she stood up and took command.

  Taking her by the hand, I lead her down the stairs as the big gates swing open with a loud creak that fills the air. As we wait for them to fully open to admit the clan, I look down at her and smile.

  “Your father could do a lot worse than making you the Lady of this land,” I say. “A lot worse.”

  “Perhaps you should tell him that when he arrives,” she laughs.

  “I plan on it.”

  She gives me a smile as Gaven steps over to us. Colban and Patric stay at the gates, admonishing the men to behave themselves and to mind their manners. I smile, noticing there are far more torches than men − a clever bit of subterfuge. I look over at Gaven and embrace him. He laughs and thumps me on the back.

  “You’re alive,” he grins. “Looks like I owe Colban and Patric a few coppers.”

  “One of these days, you’ll learn it’s not wise to bet against me,” I laugh.

  “I bloody doubt that,” he chuckles and points to the bloody slices in my tunic. “It looks like it was a close thing this time.”