The Highlander's Captured Bride (Steamy Scottish Historical Romance)

by Eloise Madigan

  No one else was in the room and as he looked around, he realized—with relief—it was not in the depths of the castle. He could see a faint light coming through the thick drapes but nothing much was around them, just the drapes, him, Mister O’Cain, and the cold floor. His traitorous uncle was not there and he could hear noises coming through the floor.

  Are we over the great hall?

  He tried his arms again and there was little give-way in the tightness binding him to the chair. The rope’s knots were under the arms of the chair, so he began to twist his wrist, working them up from underneath. The rope was rawhide so it rubbed his skin raw but he had to get free.

  Gritting his teeth, he breathed through the pain and managed to get the tie to where he could lean over and use his teeth on it. His back stretched and strained just a little past bearable limit but he had the knot in his teeth and was working it. The light was dimming but he could not give up. If he did, he, Mister O’Cain, and Violet were as good as dead.

  His jaw ached and his back smarted but he had to keep on. When the knot loosened, he attacked the other part with fervor and got the double knot loose. Triumphant, he shook the rope off and went to loosen his other hand, when he heard steps coming towards them.

  “Damnation,” he grunted, as he tugged at the knot.

  As he plucked the rope off, the door was pushed in and his uncle stepped in—holding a knife. Light cast him as a silhouette, and Ethan met his eyes for a fleeting heartbeat before his uncle lunged, and he was twisted out of the way.

  He toppled with the chair upturned between him and his uncle, as his ankles were also tied to its legs. With his heart pounding in his ears, he shoved the chair into his uncle’s chest and was satisfied when he heard the man let out a loud distressed grunt. Then, as he dropped his legs, the wooden leg of the chair splintered in half and his leg was loose. His uncle rallied up while he was trying to untie his right leg and he was tackled to the ground. Madness was in his uncle’s eyes while Ethan grappled to stop the wicked blade from slicing through his throat.

  “Ye’re possessed,” he grunted.

  “Funny,” his uncle snarled. “Yer lady friend said the same thing. Good thing she in the dungeon. I can assure ye, I am as mad as yer faither is wise.”

  Heaving him off, Ethan, though still hobbled by the chair tied to his leg, leaped to his feet and spun, accidentally slamming the back of his chair into his uncle’s head.

  Callum folded to the floor dazed and the knife slipped from his grasp. He grabbed it and quickly cut through his bond and went to free O’Cain when the older man shook his head.

  “Leave me,” he said hoarsely while Ethan was cutting though the binds around his legs. “Go find Violet. Go, now!”

  Ethan paused and looked to make sure the man was lucid. The gleam in O’Cain’s bruised eye told him he was. Without another word, Ethan ran out of the room and darted down the stairs. He darted through the growing night to the bailey, but instead of going to the dungeons, took the spiral staircase to the top, open level where the distress horn rested on its iron stands, facing the outer lands.

  The horn was made from the remains of a majestic wild steer his great-great-grandfather had killed back when those mystic creatures roamed the ice-capped plains of the northern lands was on its iron stands. He grabbed the horn and took a precious moment to catch his breath.

  Sucking in deeply so his lungs were filled, he put his mouth on the opening and blew. The booming but long and mournful sound was in the air until his lungs burned and he pulled away to suck into another breath. As he blew again, a hand grabbed at him, he was yanked away and a fist met his jaw.

  His head snapped back as pain lanced through his face, rippling to the back of his head. Ethan tripped over his feet and slammed his head on the cold brick. His uncle was over him, delivering a barrage of blows. His military training kicked in and he reacted, finding the soft spot on his uncle’s chest and jabbing his fist there.

  Callum howled and shrunk away as his body, never honed to fight, became Ethan’s focus point. He slammed his palm on Callum’s temple, jabbed his knee into his stomach and sent him to the floor groaning. Not wasting time, Ethan ran down the stairs and took to the slender spiral down to the dungeon. Then—he ran headfirst into the door, the securely locked door.

  “Blood and thunder!” he snarled, banging on the door. “Violet! Love, I’m here. I’m coming for ye.”

  He heard scuffles and then a thump came from the other side, followed by Violet’s muffled voice, “Ethan?”

  “Aye,” he said. “Hold fast, love, I’ll be back.”

  Pausing to press a hand to his throbbing head, Ethan turned and ran back. His uncle had to have the key with him and dead or alive, Ethan was going to get it. He emerged at the top level to screaming bedlam coming from the outside. Night had descended and even that was not enough, thick fog from the loch made the war below rather ghostly.

  He saw MacTyre flash by him and realized, his men were warring with the mercenaries his uncles had brought in, the speeds of their swords silver flicks in the ethereal light. He spun to dart up the stairs only to have the door be kicked in and men sprawl into the room. Adair was holding his own against an armed brute the size of a cannon yielding a halberd.

  A fist rammed into his side gut sending him flailing sideways but, he got his balance back to dodge the next swing. Dropping low to tackle his assailant, he plowed his fists into the man’s body until his opponent lay out cold on the ground. He dashed to the stairway that was blocked by more men and more attacks.

  He bore away through the human blockade—earning himself an aching shoulder and smarting fists—to get back to the open level where the horn was to find his uncle— gone. In a flash, he knew where his uncle was and cursed himself. Darting back down the stairs, he ran to the dungeon and darted through the open door to nearly have his heart fail him.

  Callum had an arm around Violet, and a knife to her throat. She was struggling, clawing at his arms and gasping for breath. He braced his hands on the wall to gasp in air, “Let her go, ye traitorous bastard!”

  “Is that how ye talk to yer elder?” Callum sneered, “Nay wonder yer bloodline was doomed to die out.”

  “Only because ye put yer hand to it,” Ethan snarled while looking for a way to get Violet away from him. “Ye killed yer own nephew!” He roared.

  A sinister laugh came from his uncle, “I’m surprised yer maither did not birth Finley as invalid as addled she is.”

  Ethan stopped cold as suspicion sank into his gut, “…What did ye dae to me maither?”

  “I was the one who saw yer mother first, at Edina,” he spat. “But she chose to marry yer faither rather than me. So, I went to England and found a nifty little chemist who made almost undetectable poisons and such. I came back and administered a small dose to her evening tea. The next morn—” he laughed, “—she became a nervous lunatic.”

  Poisonous fury burned every drop of blood in his body and it was just the glint of the knife hovering inches away from his love’s pulsing neck that stopped him from lunging himself at the two of them.

  “Ye poisoned me maither,” he said redundantly while his body vibrated with anger. “For jealousy.”

  “Oh, I wouldnae say that,” Callum jeered. “It was for the best. If she had chosen wisely, she wouldnae have ended up a mess. Just like ye, if ye had not dragged this lovely lass into this, she wouldnae end up dead.”

  Ethan had enough, he could not sit by and hope divine intervention would change Callum’s mind but knew he could not attack directly. He lunged to Callum’s side and the man twisted enough that Violet was able to slip out of his grasp.

  Throwing himself at the man, he grappled, avoiding the knife while trying to overpower Callum. The blows he had sustained before were flaring up as he twisted on the ground, he gasped as the blow to his side jabbed a hot spike of pain through him.

  Callum jabbed the knife down and Ethan barely grabbed his arm to stop the knife from
plunging into his throat. He struggled and felt his arms about to give out when Callum was yanked off him. Ethan blinked the sweat dripping in his eyes away to see his father wrestling with his brother and forcing him into a corner.

  He scrambled to his feet, rushing to Violet and shielding her while watching with his heart in his throat for his father. His father sank a meaty fist into Callum’s stomach, who then doubled over and crumpled to the ground, not moving.

  His father braced an arm on the wall and gasped in deep breaths. Ethan inched forward to his father who was grabbing at his chest. He must have ridden the three miles to the castle with the hounds of hell on his heels to have arrived so quickly. Resting a hand on his father’s shoulder he turned him away from his brother and embraced him without a word.

  Relieved, Ethan pulled away and, in that second, saw Callum leap to his feet with the blade ready to kill. He pushed his father away and took the stab. The steel sank into his skin with an unnatural heat and fire erupted from the middle of his back and then…all he knew was black.

  Epilogue

  Sitting beside the peacefully sleeping Ethan, Violet reached out and lightly cupped his jaw that was sporting nearly a weeks-worth of soft stubble. That night in the bailey was still vivid in her mind, the salvation-moment when she had heard Ethan’s voice through the solid door trapping her in the dungeons.

  Wake up, me love.

  Violet stifled a shiver at the memory of Mister MacFerson, the now-imprisoned MacFerson, holding her against him and the knife against her neck. She remembered how Ethan had come to her rescue, like the knight she knew he was, and had fought for her life while she stood, cowering, against a wall.

  She knew Ethan had not seen it when his father had rushed in but she had and was ready to tell him all when he woke up and stayed awake for more some fleeting moments. As he was lying on his side, her thumb traced over his angular cheekbone lovingly while trying not to linger on how the knife had sunk into his back, or how she had screamed herself hoarse in terror.

  Ethan was alive and recovering in his bed after the healers had set him right. When his father had rushed him up to the healers, new ones that his brother had brought in, but still competent in healing, they had leaped into action and began to work.

  She had nearly fainted at the blood pouring out of his back, fearing the knife had destroyed an organ or artery that could not be repaired, but a healer had shouted in relief. The knife had been blocked by his shoulder blades and had done damage to his skin and muscle, but not his organs.

  They had to give him an infusion of willow tree bark to kill his pain while rosemary burnt in the corner to counter infections that might set in. She had taken it upon herself to be near him, to lay a cold rag on his forehead when he began to get feverish and help him drink whenever he woke and was parched while longing for the day when he would wake for more than a few hazy moments.

  Smoothing his eyebrow, she felt him shift under her hand but she did not move it. With hope building, she watched his eyes flutter then open to slits. Thick curtains shielded the brunt of the sunlight from coming in, so he had not to worry about being blinded.

  When he came awake fully, she saw complete consciousness resting there and smiled. “Welcome back.”

  He nuzzled into her hand, and hoarsely asked, “How long have I been asleep?”

  “Almost five days,” she said pulling away to get him some water. “But yer healing quickly.” She helped him to sit up, then held the goblet to his lips, and he drank slowly. “How are ye feeling?”

  He pulled away, “As if a herd of bulls trampled me twice over. I feel numb at some points, but somehow, I can still feel pain threatening to override the numbness.”

  “The healers gave me some of the willow-bark tree infusion if ye—”

  “Nay need,” he shook his head. “I’m nay in pain…yet.” he paused and swallowed. “What happened after…after Callum stabbed me?”

  Nibbling a corner of her lip, Violet dared ask. “Are ye sure ye want to ken what happened?”

  “Aye,” he whispered.

  Carding her fingers through his hair, she recalled what happened in the last five days, “When he…stabbed ye, yer faither yanked MacFerson off and slammed him in the wall, yanked his hand back so far it dislocated his shoulder and nearly broke his arm. Some men rushed into the room, luckily, they were our men. MacTrye and Mister Rogan and a few other soldiers. They took MacFerson out while ye faither rushed ye to the infirmary. Ye were bleeding so badly, I kent…” the words died in her throat, but she pushed through, “I kent ye would die, but they said the knife only hit yer shoulder blades and nae…nae anything so dire ye’d die.”

  His lips pressed tight, “I regret having ye see any of that.”

  Pushing her feeling aside, she continued, “MacTrye planned for a coup. He had the first fifty soldiers battle MacFerson’s men and called for the second set when they were barely hanging on. We won over them before dawn came and when it did, they had to strike a reluctant truce. The men were just tools, nae the preparator, and there was grief on either side about those who had been cut down because of one man’s madness.”

  “And what about Callum?” Ethan asked, stiffly. “Is he alive still?”

  “After all he confessed, aye, he is,” Violet replied. “Yer faither wanted to run him through with a sword, but held back because he wanted ye to pronounce his punishment. As soon as ye’re well enough, he wants ye to be yer uncle’s judge.”

  “He’s nay me uncle,” Ethan ground through grit teeth. “With all he had done, poisoning me maither, killing me brother, I can never call him me family anymore.” Violet reached over and swiped away the tear that had beaded under his eye as he continued, “He sent ye to the dungeon, then he tried to kill ye, how can I ever even ken of him as a human being, much less me kin.”

  “I understand,” Violet sighed. “His betrayal was very coldblooded and heartless, but I wonder why he did it.”

  “I daenae care,” Ethan snarled. “He deserves death.”

  Violet heard his pain though she could not feel it, and she did not want to feel it either. To have trusted someone so dearly only to end up with that person try to kill you had to be dreadful, one she hoped to never suffer under.

  He paused, “How’s yer faither?”

  Taking a chance, Violet slipped onto the bed and laid beside him. Close and in his intimate space, she dipped her voice, “Bruised but coalescing. About yer uncle, I ken it’s painful but I doubt he just woke up one morning and decided that he was going to kill his family. Something is behind it all. Before he sent me to the dungeon, he said that yer faither wasnae running the lairdship how it should be run, that there were opportunities that yer faither never took advantage of, and that he could dae them instead.”

  “That’s rich,” Ethan snorted and lifted a hand to tuck a lock behind her ear. “Faither said he never had the strength to run a lairdship, with all the book-learning he has, he doesnae have the power to make the hard decisions that running a lairdship takes.”

  “And ye will because ye still have yer faither with ye,” she added.

  “And ye,” he added, his eyes reverent. “I plan to marry ye the moment I can walk freely.”

  Her cheeks warmed, “And I look forward to the day, but there are going to be some things to fulfill before that,” she said while reaching for him and grasping his hand. “And I’ll be by yer side through it.”

  Ethan leaned forward, “Forgive me for leaving ye without a word. I wasnae even sure if I was right in kenning where yer faither and mine would be.”

  “I understand,” her lips quirked. “But daenae ye ever dae that to me again or ye will pay for it.”

  He laughed.

  * * *

  It was another six days from his five-day recovery, but Ethan was not going to let facing the man he had once called his uncle be put off anymore. his back was still aching, and he took care to not stretch the still tender scar there, but he had to get this done.
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  The descent to the dungeons, flanked by guards before and after him was done with only the stomps of boots accompanying them. When the door was pushed in, he stepped inside the dim stone room to see Callum sitting against a wall with his knees pulled up to his chin.

  He had not carried Violet with him and he did not want her within ten feet of this man. Callum looked up, barely, then dipped his head again. “Ye had to take a squadron to see me, nephew.”

  Bristling, Ethan snapped, “Ye daenae get the right to call me yer nephew any more. Right now, I’m the only thing between ye and death. Ye have one chance to explain yerself, just one and ye better nae waste it.”

  Callum’s lips pursed and his jaw ticked. Ethan was getting progressively agitated and was ready to snarl that he would face the noose the next day when he spoke.