The Highland Dynasty: The Complete Series

by Amy Jarecki

  An arrow hissed over his head. Meg latched her arms around his neck and crushed into him. Instinctively, he crouched over her body to shield her from being shot.

  “They’re gaining on us. Put me down. I can run.”

  “Robes…too…long.”

  “Then run faster!” she yelled.

  Easy for her to say. “Aye,” Duncan huffed. He would have liked to ask her if she preferred to use a crop to lash his backside, but hadn’t the wind for sarcasm.

  Ahead, John made quick work of the next guard. Picking up the dead man’s sword, he slipped under the protection of the barbican, waving his arms like a spectator at a finish line.

  Duncan’s thighs burned. He couldn’t keep this pace much longer. Meg might be light, but she still weighed more than his armor—which would have come in handy about now. Another arrow whooshed. The feathers brushed his shoulder.

  Only a few more paces and he’d reach the shelter of the barbican.

  Swords clashed in the dark shadows. More arrows flew past and clattered on the cobblestones. Duncan clenched his teeth and kept running.

  Sprinting under the protection of the stone archway, Duncan counted five dead Northumberland guards. Eoin held the horses on the far side.

  Duncan rushed to him and set Meg on her feet. “I can always count on you, MacGregor.” He stooped to give her a leg up. “Where are the others?”

  “At the tree line—archers poised to give us cover.”

  His men were the only thing in this world Duncan could count on. “John, ride out with Lady Meg first. Eoin and I’ll take up the rear.” Tearing off the cumbersome priest’s vestments, Duncan bellowed his war cry to alert his men.

  Defensive arrows flew from the forest.

  “Now!”

  Meg crouched over her mount’s head, racing beside John like a well-trained cavalryman. No lad could have ridden harder or more sure-seated.

  Duncan glanced at Eoin. “Ready?”

  “Aye.”

  With a roar ripping from his lungs, Duncan slammed his heels into his stallion’s barrel. A cold wind bit his face. Lady Meg and John disappeared into the shadows of the trees. Thank God they were safe. Duncan slapped his reins, arrows hissing around him. His heart hammered in his throat.

  Nearly there.

  His horse whinnied and dipped his rear. Sliding out of control, the warhorse listed, snorting in agony. Flying through the air, Duncan released the reins and readied himself for a jarring thud. As he slammed into the earth, a rumbling grunt ripped from his throat. Something sliced open his buttock.

  He craned his neck. The trees were only paces away.

  Eoin rounded his horse. “Hurry!”

  Duncan tried to stand—groused through his teeth at the sharp pain. He clenched his gut. The big horse lay on its side, snorting—no time to save him.

  Springing to his feet, Duncan grabbed Eoin’s hand and launched himself behind the warrior’s saddle.

  “You all right?” Eoin asked.

  Duncan swiped his hand over his hip. Hot blood oozed through his fingers. “Ride!”

  Together they sped through the darkness, deep into the shelter of the forest.

  Lord Percy sat by the hearth and sipped hot mulled wine. He hated winter. The castle was always miserably cold. It didn’t seem to matter how much wood the servants piled on the fire, it was still too bloody cold.

  Isaac burst into the room, his face white as the frost outside. “My lord.”

  Henry set his goblet on the side table and stood. “What the devil? How dare you barge into my rooms like a blustery north wind?”

  The guardsman spread his palms and opened his mouth, but uttered nothing but a glottal grunt.

  “What is it, man? Out with it.”

  “She’s gone.”

  The warm wine roiled in Henry’s gut. “It best not be Lady Meg to whom you are referring.”

  Isaac combed his fingers through his hair. “It is.”

  “Imbecile!” Henry stomped in a circle, smacked the goblet from the table and sent it smashing into the hearth. “I told you to guard her at all times.” He jabbed his finger forward. “This is your fault.”

  The man-at-arms blinked rapidly. “I thought she’d be safe in the chapel, blast it all. I left to eat my supper. After which I discovered the guardsman allowed a priest and a monk through the gates.”

  “It gets worse.” Percy balled his fist. He knew he shouldn’t have trusted the large priest at the chapel. He’d sensed something amiss straight away. Damn it all, the man had the look of a killer. Henry should have thrown him and that bumbling monk in the pit the moment he’d seen them. “Who were these men?”

  “We know not. Everyone who spoke to them is dead.”

  “Scottish heathens, no doubt.” Percy paced. God, he hated the Scots. “Bloody Angus sent in a pair of holy men rather than an army? The bastard is smarter than I thought.”

  “Those were no holy men. The way they took down my guards, they’re highly trained assassins. And they had help waiting on the outside. Sped away—though our arrows injured a horse.”

  “You mean to tell me two men walked into my castle, abducted my hostage, and my vast army only managed to maim a horse?”

  Isaac took a step toward the door. “Yes, my lord. My men are preparing to follow them now.”

  Lord Percy clenched his fists. “I should strip you of your rank for this.”

  A thin line formed across the soldier’s lips.

  Henry sauntered up to the miserable wretch and stared him in the eye. “Send the army after the milk-livered swine. Make sure you kill them all before they cross the border—all except Lady Meg.”

  “Straight away, my lord.” Isaac turned on his heel.

  Percy drew his dagger with a scrape of metal. “And if you do not beat them to the border…”

  The soldier stopped.

  “I do not want to see your face until you can bring me dirt. Track their leader. I want to know everything about him—where he lives, what he eats, for whom he cares.” Percy stepped in and ran his dagger along Isaac’s jaw. “Because I’m going to rain fire and brimstone upon his family. He’ll rue the day he accepted his first farthing from the Earl of Angus. And when he’s on his knees praying for mercy, he’ll lead us straight into Arthur Douglas’s lair. If we cannot lure them into a full-out war, we’ll beat them at their own game.”

  Duncan hadn’t botched a mission this badly—not ever. They were supposed to quietly walk through the gates of Alnwick Castle, mount up and ride away before Henry Percy’s guard raised the alarm. Now the enemy would be on their trail before they rode out of the shire.

  He grunted when a sharp pain in his buttock stabbed him.

  “You’re not dying, are you?” Eoin asked over his shoulder.

  “Nay.” Duncan arched his back and grimaced. “Something cut my arse when I was thrown from my horse.”

  Eoin slapped his reins, demanding more speed. “Better your arse than that bonny face of yours.”

  “Wheesht and keep pace. We’re lagging behind the others.” Duncan needed to be up ahead leading the knights, not riding double, bringing up the rear, for Christ’s sake.

  “My mount is a warhorse, but he’ll not last long carrying the both of us.”

  “We need to put some distance between us and Northumberland.” Duncan peered through the darkness and raised his voice loud enough for all to hear. “Pull up atop the outcropping ahead.”

  John and Meg were the first to arrive. She spun her mount to face them, the whites of her eyes glowing through the darkness. “Why are we stopping? They’re after us for certain. We must ride.”

  Duncan would not be taking any quip from a wee lassie. “I’ll be riding with you.”

  She was a feisty one. He’d seen it in her eyes in the chapel when she’d looked at him. He slid down from Eoin’s horse; the stabbing pain made his knees buckle. Stumbling forward, he bellowed like a bull. “Bloody oath, that hurts.”

  Meg sat ere
ct. “If you’ll be sharing my mount, I’d appreciate it if you’d curb your tongue.”

  Curb my tongue? No one besides him issued the orders, especially not a half-pint, outspoken, spoilt Lowland lass. “Let me set this straight—”

  “God’s teeth, Duncan, you’re bleeding like a stuck pig,” Archie said.

  “What happened?” Robert asked.

  “Would you all stop acting like a gaggle of old women?” Duncan straightened and strode to Meg’s mount. “Scoot forward, m’lady. I’ll return your reins as soon as we find another horse.”

  “This is untoward,” she clipped, moving forward as asked. “I’ll be requiring a fresh horse to myself at the very first opportunity.”

  “Aye, lady, that’s the plan.” Duncan mounted the gelding, grinding his teeth against his bellow this time. He reached around her and gathered the reins. “Sean, circle back and scout out what’s behind us. I want not a mob of English soldiers taking a shortcut and cutting us off.”

  “Aye, m’lord.”

  By God, Sean was a good man. Duncan could count on him for anything—count on all of them, really.

  Her teeth chattering, Meg wriggled against him. “How far are we going?”

  Duncan shoved his feet in the stirrups and cued the horse to a fast trot. “As far as we can manage until dawn—with any luck we’ll make it across the border.”

  She adjusted again. Holy Mother, her bottom settled against his cock like that of an alehouse tart begging to lose her maidenhead. Duncan grimaced and tried to push his hips further back in the saddle, only to slide forward, right between those two soft cheeks. He groaned. With a throbbing wound in his backside combined with a growing ache in his crotch, this was going to be a long night.

  Sir Duncan nearly touched her claw when he took the reins from Meg’s grasp. Thank heavens it was dark. Something about the big man unsettled her. Of course he swore like a heathen. Nearly every sentence he uttered was laced with something blasphemous.

  Yet it didn’t bother her. Not really—though she’d never admit it. Meg couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but something about his air, his powerful presence, made her trust him…and fear him. In the chapel, all it took to twist her stomach in a knot was a glance from his lignite eyes and a slight smile, which produced two boyish dimples. No, from his striking black hair framing his chiseled features, Duncan looked nothing like a lad, but if Meg must trust anyone outside her own kin, it would be he. In the blink of an eye, he’d come to her rescue and killed two men to protect her.

  When he announced he was going to share her mount, she should have put up more of a fuss. Surely it wasn’t proper. But the butterflies in her stomach were too busy flitting about as if she’d never seen a warrior before. Even if she was the smallest in their party, Meg needed to regain her senses and be assertive. Sir Duncan Campbell was a Highlander—a man bred of rugged stock, fabled to beat their wives and survive the winters chest deep in snow.

  She’d simply become overly excited at the prospect of being rescued. My stars, watching Sir Duncan and Sir John fight those men, ’tis a wonder I’ve not completely lost my faculties for the shock of it. Soon she’d be back behind the walls of Tantallon Castle. She’d be bolder with Arthur when she faced him. He’d see the need for her to take the veil. She had been kidnapped because he wouldn’t listen to her reason. Arthur would pay attention to her now, she was certain of it.

  Meg let out a long sigh. Her back accidentally pressed against Duncan’s chest. She quickly sat forward. “Pardon me.”

  “You may as well relax, lass. Besides, you’ll be a mite warmer if you do.”

  Heaven help her, the deep bass of his voice rumbled through her whole body and made her insides quaver. Meg nervously adjusted her hips. Did Duncan have a weapon hidden in his braies? Something solid rubbed between her buttocks. Oddly, it made her tingle when she moved. She did it again.

  “I meant you might want to rest against my chest, not tempt me with your taut little arse.” The devil himself could have recited those words.

  Meg jolted upright.

  “Aye, that’s what I’m talking about. You keep squirming around like that and I’ll be itching to lead you off into the glade and have my way with you.”

  She knew enough of men to realize there was no weapon lodged between her buttocks. The brute was a flesh-and-blood stallion. Her mind blanked. What should she do? There was no other horse to ride. She glanced at John. He seemed a tad more genteel. Meg tapped her pointer finger to the thumb of her claw—something she did when nervous. She’d further hold them up if she demanded to ride with another.

  Duncan placed his palm on her belly and encouraged her to rest against his chest. She fought his tug at first, but heaven help her, he was incredibly warm compared to the icy cold of the winter’s night air. She surrendered to the demands of his hand. The tension in her shoulders eased a bit.

  “That’s better, lass,” he purred. “We’ll both have a smoother ride if we settle into the horse’s motion.”

  The pressure needling her bottom eased too. “How is your wound?”

  “’Tis coming good.”

  “You should have it seen to by a healer.”

  “Aye? I’m a bit occupied at the moment.”

  She couldn’t argue with him there. Besides, she wouldn’t trust an English healer with her life, let alone anyone else’s.

  6

  Meg’s head bobbed forward as she jolted awake. She reached out and grasped Duncan’s arms.

  “Good morn, m’lady.”

  Holy fairy feathers, had his voice become even deeper through the night? She realized the pincer fingers of her claw clamped his arm, and she quickly released, hiding the crippled hand inside her long sleeve. She shivered. Bitter cold, a snowflake landed on her nose. She peered through the dense forest. “Where are we?”

  “Scotland borders—though we’ve yet to cross the River Tweed.”

  “The snow’s getting heavier,” Eoin said.

  Meg looked up. Before she could open her mouth, her face was covered. Again she shivered. “I’m freezing.”

  Duncan molded his arms around her. “We all are, lass.”

  She nestled into him—purely to stay warm. In no way would she allow herself to be allured by his masculine scent or the muscles enveloping her.

  “There’s a farm up ahead.” Archie pointed. “Mayhap they’ll let us see out the storm in the stable.”

  Duncan’s chest rumbled against Meg’s back with his hum. “We need to keep going.”

  John arched an icy brow. “Aye, but the horses must be rested.”

  “Bloody Christmas,” Duncan groused.

  Meg stifled her laugh. Was he attempting to keep his foul mouth in check?

  He tapped his heels against the horse. “All right, then,” he said, as if everyone had been arguing with him. “’Tis snowing hard enough to cover our tracks. We’ll ask the farmer for a lend of his barn.”

  Watching Duncan pound on the door, daylight was hardy discernible through the thick covering of clouds. Still wrapped in the oversized monk’s habit, Meg shivered on the horse. Her teeth chattered, her fingers numb, hidden in the folds of the wool. How cold would she be if she weren’t covered with the woolen robe? She couldn’t imagine being any colder.

  Duncan had to pound on the door three times before the crofter opened it, wearing a plaid draped over his head, clutched at the neck. That put Meg at ease—she doubted she’d see plaid on the English side of the border. He nodded and gestured toward the stable then closed the door in Duncan’s face.

  Limping, Duncan led them all inside the crude shelter. Though Meg could see her breath, it was a fair bit more comfortable than being out in the snow. She brushed the icy white fluff from her shoulders.

  Duncan reached up to help her dismount.

  She grasped the pommel and leaned back. “I can do it.”

  Those dark eyes narrowed. “I’m sure you are quite able, but I’d be no gentleman to stand aside and wat
ch.”

  So he was a gentleman now? Meg bit her bottom lip. He put a hand on her waist. Tingles skittered up her side through the top of her head. What harm was there in letting him help? She’d been pressed against his body for hours. Ensuring her sleeve covered the claw, she placed her hands on his shoulders.

  He lifted her with such ease, she completely forgot about his wound until a slight grunt escaped his lips.

  “Are you all right?”

  He drew her into his body and slid her down. “Aye.” His deep voice was barely perceptible.

  Meg’s breasts rubbed along his solid chest. Her breath caught. He held her there for a moment. She dared look at his face, and her breathing completely stopped. His dark features were both wickedly handsome and terrifying. A longing smoldered in his eyes—as if he were starved. He probably was. Meg forced a swallow. “Another inch or two and you can release me.”

  He blinked as if she’d slapped him. “A-apologies.” He set her down.

  Her sleeve dropped back and exposed the claw. She snapped it away. But Duncan’s brow furrowed. He’d seen it.

  She steeled herself for a sharp remark, but he turned to the men. “Put the horses in the stalls and heap the straw into a pile. We cannot light a fire in here, but we’ll huddle together to stay warm.”

  Meg frowned. “Having already done enough huddling, I’d prefer a fire.”

  John used a pitchfork to amass the hay. “No need to worry, Lady Meg. We’re all knights. Your virtue’s safe with us.”

  Now Duncan had seen her claw, he’d probably give her a wide berth. She doubted he’d be riding with her again. He’d most likely ask her to ride with John. The younger brother seemed quieter, better mannered and unquestionably not as devilish or handsome. “I thought no less.” She stepped forward. “I’m afraid we all haven’t been properly introduced.”

  John bowed deeply. “My brother and I are sons of the Lord of Glenorchy—hail from Glen Orchy in Argyllshire.”