by Jarecki, Amy
“Do you have my weapons?”
“Aye, they’re still in the tent, m’lord.”
Hanging on every word, Alice followed closely behind. As soon as the top of the keep came into view, she searched the crenels for Gran—or anyone she might recognize. Merciful Father, if the Campbells were planning to bring in cannons, her clansmen would have no chance.
Chapter Eleven
Quinn sat at a table in the rear of the alehouse with Alice at his side and the wall at his back where he’d be able to act quickly and protect her if anything went awry. “Have they made any demands?”
Across, MacGregor nursed a pint of ale. “Not a bloody word.”
“That makes no sense at all. What have they been doing for the past four days, having a ceilidh?”
“Same as us. The bastards—”
“Watch your language in the presence of a lady,” Quinn growled.
The big man shrank a bit, looking like a chided mastiff. “Beg your pardon, miss.” But Glenn quickly regained the classic MacGregor scowl. “We have ladders enough to scale the walls as soon as the cannons arrive. And thus far they’ve done naught but wait and watch. One of our musketeers fires off a shot, and they shoot back.”
“Anyone injured?”
“Only you.”
“They could have killed us all at the gathering.”
Using her thumb, Alice squashed the candle wax pooling in the center of the table. “But they didn’t.”
Quinn drank his ale down and pushed the empty tankard toward his friend. “Go fetch us another round, would you?”
“Fetch your own bloody round.” MacGregor might be full of brawn, but he carried a chip on his shoulder the size of Bass Rock.
“M’lord,” Quinn added to emphasize their difference in station. He wasn’t about to bend to his friend’s irritability. “I need a word with Miss Alice.”
“He’s none too happy,” she muttered after Glenn gave her a dark, disapproving glance and strode away.
“I wouldn’t be either.”
She drove her thumbnail beneath the wax, levering it from the wood. “And he’s itching for the cannons to arrive.”
Quinn rested his palm on his sword, something he did when he was about to step in harm’s way. “That’s why I’m going inside afore they do.”
“Then I am as well.”
“Absolutely not.” He pulled her hand away from the candle and firmly placed it in her lap. “I forbid it.”
The lass shoved her chair away from the table, her eyes filled with spite and gall. “For-bid?” she asked, drawing out the word as if it were blasphemous.
“’Tis too dangerous.” Quinn slapped his palm on the table. Mayhap he’d overstepped his bounds, but he would not back down on this. “If I go inside under the flag of parley, they’ll ken I’m willing to listen to their grievances.”
“Flag of parley? I doubt my kin will trust you.”
“They’ll trust a man with no weapons. ’Tis the way of honor.” He removed his sword and dirk and clanked them across the board. “Now tell me true, is your grandmother involved?”
“Gran saved you. I do not see how she could be aside from trying to prevent more bloodshed.”
“But she was holding a musket when I was shot.”
“And then she protected you—safeguarded us both.”
“That’s what perplexes me. Why would she do such a thing? Your grandmother is the wife of…” He swiped a hand over his mouth. “Ye ken. She has more cause to hate me than anyone in all of Scotland.”
Alice levered up another glob of wax. “I’ll tell you true, I’ve thought a great deal about her motives since she spirited us out of the castle, and I cannot make sense of it either. But I ken in my heart if Gran had wanted to see you dead, her musket would have had a smoke coming from its barrel and you would be in a shallow grave.” Alice grasped his arm and squeezed. “I must go inside with you.”
MacGregor returned with three tankards frothing over. Quinn held up his palm, requesting silence. He couldn’t let the lass inside until he knew for certain she’d be safe. “Let me enter first. Once I understand their purpose, I’ll send for you.”
She pursed her lips. “I do not like it.”
The big Highlander set the ale on the table. “What do you not like, miss?”
Quinn wrapped his fingers around a handle. “I’ve decided to walk across the drawbridge of Rothesay Castle alone.”
“That hairbrained idea again? Have you lost your bleeding mind?” MacGregor planted his beefy hands on the table and leaned in. “They’ve already shot you once.”
After taking a long drink, Quinn licked the foam from his lips. “I’ve made up my mind and nary a soul can change it.”
* * *
Once he crossed the bridge alone, the Lamont guards took their time searching Quinn for weapons.
“I reckon we ought to tie his hands,” said one—a skinny whelp who looked as if lifting a Highland sword would be an effort.
Quinn held up his palms. “I came across carrying the black flag of parley. Even a Lamont would honor such a request to talk.”
“He’s right,” said another.
“Aye?” The lanky one sauntered too near and inclined his lips toward Quinn’s ear. “Not to worry. We’ll have so many muskets ready to fire, if you make one errant move, we’ll fill ye full of lead.”
Quinn’s shoulder throbbed, reminding him exactly how it felt to be shot. Still, even with his injury, he could strangle the maggot for his insolence. It would be easy to grab the dirk dangling from the man’s belt and plunge it into his belly while using his body to block an attack from the other lout.
Quinn splayed his fingers. “I’m not here to fight. But if the time comes for battle, I’ll nay forget your pimpled face.”
The coward raised his fist. “I ought to—”
“Save your ire,” barked the more reasonable of the two. “Come.”
They led Quinn to the center of the circular courtyard. He expected to meet their leader, or Alice’s grandmother, or at least someone who was waiting to talk. But he was met by two-dozen musketeers training their muskets on him from around the perimeter of the courtyard. For the better part of an hour he stood alone and, by the minute, he grew more certain of his impending death. At last with the screech of medieval hinges, a man wearing a mismatched plaid jacket and kilt marched from the tower like he owned the castle. Shaggy, obviously having gone without a shave for the duration of the siege, the black-haired varlet was flanked by twelve men, six on each side. Evidently, they weren’t taking any chances.
“I’m Rory Lamont,” he said, his voice gruff.
Looking the man in the eye, Quinn gave a nod. “I assume ye ken my name.”
“So, the heir has come for a polite conversation, has he?”
Quinn glanced beyond him. “Where’s the old woman?”
“She’s lost her nerve.”
“I need to see her.”
“Why?” asked Rory. “She’s naught but a female.”
“She’s the wife of James Lamont. If anyone has a bone to pick with me, it is she.”
The man clamped his hand atop the pommel of his sword. “I have enough grievances for the lot of us.”
“I’ll oblige you and listen once I see the woman is unharmed.”
“Oh, for the love of God, Rory, he’s right!” Alice’s grandmother hastened from the keep, her wrists bound, a gag around her neck.
The shaggy Highlander frowned. “Fergus, I thought I told you to keep her quiet.”
In the doorway, a guard spread his palms and shrugged. “You watch over her next time.”
Rory gestured to Alice’s grandmother with his thumb. “So, you see for yourself Lady Lamont is well. I demand you return the lands stolen from the Lamonts after your kin backstabbed us at Dunoon.”
The woman’s title caught him unaware for a moment, but it was right. Her husband had been a knight. Presently, titles made no difference. Quinn took note of
his odds—not good if things grew bloody. “Apologies, but my father possesses the deed, not I. He has not granted me leave to negotiate on his behalf.”
The man smirked. “Then we’ll hold you hostage until the earl arrives.”
“You would take a chance on inciting my father’s ire?”
“I don’t give a fig about your father.”
“And he mightn’t give a fig about me,” said Quinn, planting the seed of doubt.
“You lie. All Campbells are liars.”
Rory motioned to his guardsmen. “Seize him!”
Quinn ran to the far wall. Using it as a barrier, he turned and threw a fist into the first guard’s jaw while reaching for the man’s dirk. Just as his fingers brushed the hilt, a vicious strike came from behind, jarring his wounded shoulder. Bellowing in pain, he spun to face his attacker. A wooden pole slammed across his neck, dropping him to his knees.
Two men held Quinn’s arms while a third wrapped a rope around his wrists.
“Stop this!” Alice shouted, marching in from the hidden gate—blast—their only escape route revealed.
How the hell did she escape from MacGregor?
Chapter Twelve
“There is another way,” said Gran, pushing Rory and the guards aside.
The Lamont man scowled and stepped beside her. “I think—”
“You have bungled this enough.” Gran pulled Alice in front of Quinn. “I’d hoped the rose would have—”
“Cease this nonsense about the rose!” Alice shouted. It was not up to her grandmother to lead their kin. And if she didn’t act now, all would be lost…again. Taking charge, she threw up her hands and turned full circle, commanding the attention of every being in the courtyard. “I am Alice MacDonald Lamont, granddaughter of the slain James Henry Lamont. I am your clan chief and you will obey me.”
She took another turn, slower this time, eyeing every man. “Lord Quinn entered these walls in good faith and we would be as underhanded as the Campbells themselves if we do not honor his request.”
Gran took a step toward her. “But—”
“Nay!” Alice stopped her with a determined stare.
“Hear my supplication, Alice, chieftain of the Lamonts!” Gran shouted so loudly the courtyard turned eerily quiet.
Alice gave a nod. “Since you have recognized my authority, you may speak.”
“Where is the rose?”
For the love of God, why was the silly rose so important? Alice stamped her foot. “You ask about a flower when our kin have broken the protection of parley?”
“Is it still alive?”
“Aye,” Quinn said, rising to his feet. “It grows more beautiful by the day.”
Gran hobbled forward and removed his bounds. “More beautiful than my granddaughter?”
Alice gripped the woman by the shoulder. “You are speaking nonsense.”
“I will answer.” Rubbing his wrists, Quinn took Alice by the hand. “Nothing of this earth can ever surpass the kindness and beauty of Miss Lamont. She is bonny within and without. She may not think she possesses magic, but she has bewitched my heart and it belongs to this woman and only this woman.”
To the sound of her grandmother’s gasp, tingles spread throughout Alice’s entire body as she stared into the kindest, most loving eyes she’d ever beheld. “Truly?”
Quinn squeezed her hands. “Truly.”
Gran’s sigh echoed between the walls. “The rose blooms to turn enemies…”
“Into lovers,” Quinn finished. He grinned as wide as the sea. “I do not believe in the power of the rose, but I do believe in the Lamont leader standing before me.”
“In the name of the Earl of Argyll, throw down your arms!” a shout bellowed from the wall-walk.
At least a hundred Campbell men stood elbow to elbow, ready for battle.
Boom!
A cannon fired. The entire castle shook.
“Stand down!” Quinn ordered. “I have committed to a peaceable resolution.”
“Without consulting me first?” Archibald Campbell sauntered into the courtyard, wearing a courtier’s periwig and a bold plaid. “You might be my first-born son, Quinn, but I am still earl.”
“You are, but there are circumstances to which you should be aware.”
“Oh? Pray tell afore I order the execution of these miscreants.”
Quinn licked his lips, his gaze flickering between Alice and his father. “I have a question I will ask first.”
The earl gave a nod, though he looked her from head to toe with distrust in his glare.
But Quinn remained undaunted. Keeping one of her hands between his palms, he kneeled. Alice moved to pull him to his feet but stopped when he grinned. “Alice MacDonald Lamont, you have brought me back from the brink of death. You have shown me kindness when you had every right to hate. Before God and our clans, I ask you. I beg you. To be my wife.”
Gasping, a myriad of emotions swelled in her breast—bewilderment, a wee bit of fear, surprise and finally joy. Suddenly it all made sense, Gran’s rose, sending her to him in the dead of night, and helping them escape at the fête. Her eyes brimmed with tears as she smiled and nodded. “’Tis right for us to marry.” And by the warmth spreading through her entire body, she knew for her entire life she had been fated to wed this man.
Standing, Quinn faced his father. “I have chosen my bride, the future Countess of Argyll.”
The earl clutched his hand atop his chest, looking as if he’d taken an arrow to the heart. “A Lamont?”
Quinn tightened his grip on her hand. “My Grandfather—your father wronged these people. All they want is to return to their rightful lands.”
“My lands.” Argyll pointed his finger. “You cannot give away that which is not yours.”
“Perhaps, but the only wedding gift I ask for is the lands of Dunoon. If you grant me this one thing, I will see to it the fishing industry is restored and the crofts pay our coffers tenfold what they earn now.”
By the narrowing of his eyes, the earl was actually considering Quinn’s proposal. “And how do you plan to guarantee this turn of fortune?”
“If I do not return these profits within five-year’s time, I forfeit my title, but Dunoon will remain in the hands of the Lamont clan.”
“Hmm.” The earl paced for a moment before he met his son’s gaze. “This is not the alliance I would have wished for you to make, but given you are willing to put so much on the line, I agree to your terms.”
As shouts of joy rang around the courtyard, Alice pulled Quinn into an alcove. “Are you certain about this?”
“I am.”
“But we barely know each other.”
“Does it matter?”
“Did you propose merely to avoid bloodshed?”
“That was a secondary reason. And I ken my father. He would fight to the death to keep Dunoon in the family. Our marriage serves two purposes.”
“To unite Lamont and Campbell forever.”
“Aye, but there is something more important.”
Alice’s tingles returned tenfold as she smiled, encouraging him to continue.
“I’m in love with you.”
“Truly?”
Quinn cupped her cheeks and kissed her mouth like a man who knew exactly what he wanted. “I meant every word I said. I love you and I want you to be mine with every fiber of my being.”
Sliding her fingers to his waist, Alice drank him in, reading the love in his eyes. And in that moment, she knew she would never want to be parted from this braw Highlander in all her days. “I love you, too.” Throwing her head back, she laughed. “How did it happen so quickly?”
He surrounded her in an embrace and filled her with warmth. “I think it may have had to do with a damask rose and something about wisdom and the reversal of a curse.”
Alice slipped her fingers around his waist and met his gaze while happiness thrummed through her veins. “Nay, ’twas no curse that came between our kin. ’Twas the hate between t
wo men who took a clan feud too far.”
“And together we will mend our differences and our children will grow stronger, their hearts beating with the blood of Campbell and Lamont.” Quinn dipped his chin, his dark eyelashes shuttering his chestnut eyes as he captured her mouth in a slow, claiming kiss. A kiss powerful enough to douse the fires of hell. A kiss that would end hatred in their corner of the Highlands once and for all.
Also by Amy Jarecki
Highland Defender
The Valiant Highlander
The Fearless Highlander
The Highlander’s Iron Will
Highland Force:
Captured by the Pirate Laird
The Highland Henchman
Beauty and the Barbarian
Return of the Highland Laird
Guardian of Scotland
Rise of a Legend
In the Kingdom’s Name
The Time Traveler’s Christmas
Highland Dynasty
Knight in Highland Armor
A Highland Knight’s Desire
A Highland Knight to Remember
Highland Knight of Rapture
Highland Knight of Dreams
Devilish Dukes
The Duke’s Fallen Angel
The Duke’s Untamed Desire
ICE
Hunt for Evil
Body Shot
Mach One
Celtic Fire
Rescued by the Celtic Warrior
Deceived by the Celtic Spy
Lords of the Highlands series:
The Highland Duke
The Highland Commander
The Highland Guardian
The Highland Chieftain
The Highland Renegade
The Highland Earl
The Highland Rogue
The Highland Laird
The Chihuahua Affair
Virtue: A Cruise Dancer Romance
Boy Man Chief
About the Author
