The Highland Dynasty: The Complete Series

by Amy Jarecki

  He pulled out his dirk and ran his thumb over the flat edge as he continued along the path. The thought of Helen meeting her end tempted him. But that wouldn’t solve his problems in the short term. He needed an heir from Helen first. After she birthed a son, Aleck would be free to dispose of her as he saw fit.

  But he must visit her bed again soon. The very idea repulsed him. He’d never enjoyed swivving with his wife. She provided him no sport whatsoever. Worse, with small breasts and a tight arse, she looked more like a lad than a lass. But Mary? Aleck could bury himself in her mountainous breasts along with his cock in her...

  He moaned and rubbed his crotch. Christ, just thinking about that woman made his seed dribble in his breeks.

  He rapped on Mary’s door and entered the small cottage. It smelled of tallow candles—a scent to which he’d grown fond. It reminded him of Mary’s practicality and made him hungry for her.

  Seated at her loom, the woman glanced over her shoulder and stood with a smile. “I’m surprised to see you m’laird.”

  “Oh?” He crossed the floor and pulled her into his arms. “And why wouldn’t I visit my leman in the middle of the day, as well as after dark, or any time that suits my fancy?”

  “Leman,” she grumbled. “I hate that word.”

  “But you are.” He nuzzled into her hair. “And so much more.”

  She pushed away and strolled toward the hearth. “Tell me, why is Sir Eoin MacGregor here?”

  Aleck unfastened his sword belt and tossed his weapons on the table. “King’s orders—his royal highness thinks the bastard can help us quell the MacDonalds to the north.”

  “Aye?” Mary faced him. “I do not like the way he looks at me—or you for that matter.”

  Aleck’s gut clenched. “You don’t say? I’ve always thought that man always sported a disagreeable scowl.”

  “Mayhap, but he’s got dagger-eyes for you, m’laird.”

  Aleck was well aware Eoin was close to Helen’s brother, Duncan. He didn’t give a rat’s arse if the knight disapproved of his behavior. But Eoin could cause a stir with the Lord of Glenorchy. Not that Aleck thought anything would come of it…still, it was always better to avoid tempting potential dragons. “Perhaps it would be best if we kept our rendezvous secret whilst he’s here.”

  “But I’ve been ever so happy now it is no longer necessary to sneak around that woman’s back.” Mary groaned. “Why can you not push the wench out an upper window and marry me?”

  Chuckling, he reached for her, but she snatched her hand away. Aleck wouldn’t let her little outburst dissuade him. “We’ve been over that many times. I need Helen to produce an heir. After that...” He dipped his chin and waggled his dark eyebrows—a look that always made Mary damp between the legs. “Any matter of ills could befall her.”

  Mary took a step back, appearing more distraught than usual. “I should be your lady. You love me, not her—I cannot bear the thought of your visiting her bed to produce your heir.”

  “Och, Mary.” He grasped her hand firmly and this time she didn’t pull away. “I do not like the idea any better than you.”

  She stepped into him and twirled his shirt laces around his finger. She rubbed her mons across his crotch. “Get me with child. I’ll give you a son, I’m certain of it.”

  With Mary so close, Aleck couldn’t think straight. For years he’d fought his urge to see Mary birth his bairn. The thought tempted him. Would the king allow him to legitimize a bastard? Perhaps if Helen had an unfortunate end. Eventually. And he’d need to ensure he received credit for any battles they won against Clan MacDonald and not that sniveling maggot, Eoin MacGregor.

  Mary opened his shirt and slid her hand over his chest. “Stay away from that woman’s bed and have faith in my ability to produce an heir.”

  A sennight had passed since Eoin had comforted Lady Helen in the stone cavern. Since then, he’d hardly seen her. Even at meals, she’d rarely made an appearance. He suspected her absence was because of the bruising on her face. Even with a wimple, the purple surrounding her eye was noticeable.

  He’d tried to push thoughts of Helen from his mind and focus on the task at hand—after all, he was there on the king’s orders and quashing the MacDonald uprising was a task not to be taken lightly.

  Today he strode down a line of men, all sparring with various weapons. Each warrior was paired according to skill. Eoin stopped to watch Fergus and Grant—MacGregor’s finest against MacIain’s best, just as they’d been paired on the first day. He wouldn’t have believed it a sennight ago, but Grant looked as if he’d make a fine knight one day…until Fergus darted in with an upward strike of his battleax and the sword flew from Grant’s hand.

  The soldier groaned and grimaced, appearing as if he could slam his fist into the stone wall.

  Eoin stepped forward. “You were looking good right up until you took your eyes off Fergus’s weapon.”

  Grant opened his mouth as if he were about to deny his error, but Eoin held up his hand. “I saw you, lad.”

  Grant’s expression softened and he nodded.

  Eoin stooped to retrieve the sword. “When your opponent is coming over the top with an ax, spin away and counter with a backward thrust like this.” He demonstrated how to swivel his grip and maneuver the weapon backward while securing it with both hands rotating at his left hip to ensure a kill straight to the gut. Eoin would have stepped in and sparred with the guard, but he’d opted against wearing his hauberk this day—no sense in chancing an injury when Fergus is outfitted for a fight.

  The corner of Grant’s mouth turned up. “That’s bloody brilliant.”

  “’Tis just good swordsmanship, lad.” Eoin slapped the soldier on the shoulder and handed him the weapon. “Go on, give it a try.”

  With a few practice moves, Grant had mastered the maneuver. Perhaps I should ask him to join Clan Gregor. Eoin chuckled at the consternation such an offer would bring Aleck MacIain.

  No sooner had he thought about the braggart when Aleck strode into the courtyard. It was about time the beef-witted chieftain showed his face during the training. MacIain mostly steered clear of the daily sparing sessions. Eoin gestured to the line of sparring soldiers. “Your men are showing promise.”

  MacIain frowned, his dark eyes squinting in the sunlight. “My men were well-trained before you arrived.” He pointed to Grant. “Look there, my henchman just out-maneuvered yours.”

  A smirking blast of air trumpeted through Eoin’s nose. It would be useless to try to explain what had happened to the clueless buffoon. Instead, he opted to focus on the positive. “Now you’ve got it, Grant. Give Fergus a good run and make him earn his keep.”

  MacIain scowled. “You think you’re so bloody superior. If you put my army against yours, my men would stand together and come out the victors.”

  That stopped Eoin short. “You reckon?”

  “I don’t reckon. I ken.”

  Eoin smoothed his hand over his chin and eyed the man’s belly—it was nearly as big as the man’s bravado. Then a picture of Helen’s bruised face came to mind. “Seems to me you’d prefer to fight with the lassies than come out here with the men.” He waggled his brows. Mayhap he’d rile MacIain enough to make him take a swing.

  Aleck shoved Eoin’s shoulder with the heel of his hand. “You’d best watch your mouth, else someone might opt to cut out your flapping tongue.”

  “Aye, oh, great chieftain?” Eoin would have liked to see him try. He stepped within an inch of the braggart’s nose. “Why have you been hiding in your miserable keep—or do you let your men fight your battles for you?”

  With a growl MacIain shuffled away and drew his sword. “I’ll show you a thing or two, you bloody bastard.” The big man advanced, hacking his weapon like he was wielding a meat cleaver.

  Anticipating the assault, Eoin had snatched his sword from its scabbard. He defended the attack with swift counter moves. What Aleck lacked in finesse, he made up for in brute strength. Eoin suspect
ed the chieftain would tire quickly—he hadn’t seen MacIain lift a finger in the past sennight. No warrior could withstand a good fight without honing his stamina daily.

  Eoin darted from side to side, eluding the brutish strikes while patiently waiting for the big oaf to tire. “Tell me, how did Lady Helen end up with a blackened eye?”

  The thug bellowed as he hacked his blade with herculean thrusts. “That is none of your concern.”

  Och, but I’m making it my concern. Eoin played along with Aleck’s display of brawn, deflecting every bone-jarring blow, biding his time until the brute made a critical mistake. Deep down, Eoin wanted to match MacIain stroke for stroke—to drive him to the wall and hold his blade against Aleck’s neck and demand he never raise a hand against Lady Helen again. But first, he would wear him down.

  “Do you know what I think?” Eoin asked casually as if he were out for a noonday stroll.

  “I don’t give a rat’s arse,” Aleck growled, sucking in deep gasps of air. “You can take your thoughts and sail back to Argyllshire.”

  “That would be my pleasure,” Eoin seethed through gritted teeth. “If we didn’t have our beloved Scotland to defend.” Eoin circled, watching and waiting for Aleck to make his next move. “I think,” he said, not caring whether Aleck wanted to hear his opinion or nay. “You struck Duncan Campbell’s sister—a noblewoman, for one, and a lady who has no means to defend herself against an oaf as large as you.”

  Aleck’s toe caught on a cobblestone and he stumbled toward Eoin. Hopping aside, MacGregor let the swine crash into the wall.

  Eoin tapped his foot and waited while MacIain regained his composure. Clearly, Aleck wasn’t concerned about raising the ire of the Lord of Glenorchy. Eoin blew a scoff out the side of his mouth. “I’m surprised Lady Helen hasn’t informed her brother of your brutish behavior toward her.”

  “A man has a right to maintain order in his castle.” Bellowing, Aleck charged like an incensed bull.

  Mistake.

  Clamping an arm around MacIain’s neck, Eoin used the brute’s momentum to pull him into a stranglehold and angled his blade to the bastard’s throat. “No respectable knight would ever raise his hand against a woman,” he growled. Aleck squirmed and bared his teeth, but one errant move and he’d be a dead man.

  Eoin clamped his arm so taut, he all but crushed the man’s voice box. “If you strike the lady again, I’ll show you no quarter. Even after I’ve sailed back to Argyllshire. If I hear rumor of your brutality…one word from any source, I’ll come upon you in the dead of night and cut out your heart.”

  “Did you hear that men?” Aleck bucked against Eoin’s chest. “He threatened to murder me.”

  “Aye, I promised it—should he raise his hand against Lady Helen.” Eoin pushed the sniveling maggot into the crowd.

  Aleck scrambled for his sword and held it up in challenge. “Oh no, this isn’t over.”

  Eoin loosened the buckle of his sword belt and let it clatter to the cobblestones. “All right then. Let’s have a real fight—no weapons—man to man.” He held up his fists.

  Chuckling, MacIain passed his blade to Grant. “I’ll turn the backstabber’s face to pulp,” he gloated.

  “My coin’s on MacGregor,” someone hollered from the crowd.

  The men surrounded them in a circle, raucous shouts echoing between the bailey walls.

  Eoin studied the behemoth facing him. Looking like a Highland bull ready to charge, MacIain could have blown steam out his nose.

  Braying a battle cry, Aleck barreled toward Eoin—exactly what he anticipated. Steeling his nerves, he stood firm. One step before impact, Eoin lunged aside, too late for MacIain to change his course. The chieftain stumbled face first to the cobblestones.

  Grunting, Aleck pushed up with his palms, shaking his bulbous head. When he rose, blood streamed from his nose, his face crimson. “You’re a backstabber, you are.”

  “I think not.” Eoin raised his fists. “Come again.”

  This time, Aleck approached with more caution, ready to strike.

  Breathing deeply, Eoin waited for the cur to make the first move. Aye, rage tore at his gut, but he’d not let it control him as Aleck did. With a roar, Aleck swung his fist toward Eoin’s jaw. Ducking, Eoin slammed a punch to MacIain’s gut. The wind wheezed from the maggot’s lungs, but it wasn’t enough to stop him from jabbing his elbow into Eoin’s sternum.

  He reeled back at the bone-crunching thud. Something cracked, but he could feel no pain. Rage swelled inside his chest. Advancing with relentless pummeling of his fists, Eoin drove the bastard backward. The blood oozing from his nose turned to a stream of red. But Eoin didn’t stop. Faster and faster he threw his fists until he could scarcely make out MacIain’s face through the mass of blood.

  Shouts from the crowd grew louder, driving Eoin deeper into the frenzy of attack. A fist connected with his jaw, but he didn’t even feel it.

  Aleck stumbled and dropped to his knees.

  Eoin advanced.

  Someone caught him by the elbows.

  “Enough,” Fergus growled in his ear.

  Eoin blinked, suddenly aware of the beating he’d unleashed. Rarely did he lose control. He nodded and took in a calming breath. Fergus was right. They were allies. It was time to stop.

  Eoin held out his hand. “Shall we call it a draw, Sir Aleck?”

  MacIain eyed him, blood oozing around his teeth and from the jagged cuts on his face, then he grasped Eoin’s palm. “No one makes me look the fool,” he said with a low snarl.

  Eoin should have expected a traitorous move.

  Before he could pull away, MacIain swung at him with a dagger. Bending backward, the blade sliced across Eoin’s abdomen. Hot blood oozed down his gut. Nostrils flaring, Eoin advanced and pulled the dagger hidden in his sleeve. Hands clamped around his arms. He fought to break away, throwing his left, then right. “Release me you mongrel varmints.”

  “I’ll murder the bastard,” MacIain bellowed from across the circle. He too was being pulled away by his men.

  “He’s nay worth the king’s ire,” Fergus hissed in Eoin’s ear.

  “What is this commotion about?” Lady Helen dashed into the midst of the mayhem.

  “Get back into the keep woman,” Aleck bellowed.

  When Helen shifted her gaze to Eoin, he stopped struggling and froze. What would she think of him now that he’d started a brawl with her husband?

  7

  When Helen saw Eoin bleeding across his midsection, her heart beat so fast, it nearly hammered out of her chest. She ignored Aleck’s command to go back inside and raced toward the MacGregor Chieftain. “My God, what happened?”

  Eoin shrugged away from his men’s grasp. “’Tis a scratch.”

  Fergus shook his head. “Laird MacIain drew his knife—’twas after Sir Eoin had offered his hand.”

  Helen spun to Aleck. “Is this true?”

  He wiped his bloody nose on his sleeve. “What of it?” He gestured to the cuts on his face and rising bruises. “I swear the bastard broke my nose.”

  Helen stepped up and examined him. It wouldn’t be the first broken nose she’d seen on her husband’s roughhewn face—but there was little that could be done for it—or for the bruises she imagined Eoin had inflicted. After careful inspection, she determined Aleck’s injuries were superficial. “And so you pulled a dagger in a fair fight?” Yes, she’d seen and heard enough of the encounter from the kitchen window.

  “Wheesht, woman. I told you to return to the keep.”

  Helen turned and pointed at the MacGregor men. “Take Sir Eoin to the antechamber off the kitchen. I’ll fetch my medicine bundle and meet him momentarily.”

  She started for the keep when Aleck stepped in front of her. “You’re off to tend that miserable cur when I’m bleeding like a stuck pig?”

  She stopped and dabbed beneath his nose with her kerchief. “The bleeding’s mostly ebbed.” She rose up on her toes and inclined her lips to his ear, whisperi
ng, “Perhaps you should wander up the hill and have Mary ply it with a bit of ointment.”

  He snapped his hand back, but Grant caught his arm. “Och, m’laird. Do you not think we’ve had enough beating for one day?”

  Helen didn’t wait to hear the outcome of that interchange. Under her breath, she prayed Aleck wouldn’t start another brawl with the brave henchman. By the looks of her husband’s face, he’d certainly received his due—though his injuries were nothing compared to the quantity of blood staining Eoin’s shirt.

  It took Helen no time to retrieve the basket with her healing essences and salves—something no respectable wife would be without. She hastened to the antechamber where she’d sent Eoin. The room was close to the courtyard and had a stone floor which would be easy to clean. She would have preferred to have sent him to his chamber above stairs, but it might be seen as scandalous. She also feared Aleck would balk. As it was, he might tell her she couldn’t tend Eoin—though his wound appeared far worse.

  She bustled through the kitchen and Peter gave her a look of earnest solemnity. “The sparring got a bit serious today.”

  She shook her head. “I ken and Sir Aleck had to be in the center of it.”

  “As well as the MacGregor Chieftain.” Peter followed her across to the passage that led to the small chamber mostly used for drying herbs.

  “Whatever the cause, I wish they’d behave like grown men rather than a pack of heathens.”

  Peter scoffed. “Now that’s asking a bit much, m’lady.”

  Helen pushed into the chamber filled with men who stank as if they’d been a month or longer without a bath. She flicked her hand through the air. “Shoo, the lot of you, and go find a basin of water and a bar of soap.”

  “Bloody hell, I had a bath last year.” The cheeky lad slipped past before Helen had a chance to scold him.

  As the men cleared, she found Eoin sitting on a stool. He gave her a sheepish smile. “Apologies, m’lady. I’ll see the men take a dip in the sea. That’ll fix them up.”

  “My thanks.” She stood awkwardly. Now that the room had emptied, she realized they were alone—together alone—just like they’d been when he’d consoled her on the beach. Her palms perspired. Oh how heavenly it would be if she were able to offer him the same soothing embrace right now. But that would be improper and impertinent. Realizing she’d been staring, Helen drew in a breath and turned to set the basket on the table. “Why were you not wearing your hauberk?”