Highlander Undone (Highland Bound Book 5) (27 page)

“Out ye go, pretty,” Rose cooed, earning a little nuzzle from Giddy.

Exiting the stables, she was greeted by six of her guards.

Peter, the head of her personal guard, stared down at her with a raised brow. “Now, my lady, did ye think we’d let ye go out unescorted?” he teased.

Rose rolled her eyes. “I’d not dream of it.” Nine years had passed since their castle was seized by Ross and his men. And while they’d gotten back the castle, and her son was safe, the whole of Scotland was still blanketed in unrest. Battles and ambushes from the English were not uncommon. Though, she hoped this far north, the brunt of it would stay clear of them. Still, she was grateful for the warriors who guarded her son, too young yet at only nine years of age, to lead his people alone.

“Will ye be needing a hand?” Peter offered.

Rose shook her head, took hold of the saddle and hoisted herself in place. She settled astride, hating the more proper way to ride sidesaddle. If she wanted to feel the air in her hair and smell the blooms of heather through the fields, then she was going to bloody well enjoy it!

Rose urged Giddy through the gate, her guards in tow. Her mount pranced and whinnied, gnashing at the bit, but as soon as they’d crossed over the bridge covering the moat, and the gentle breeze ruffled her mane, the horse leapt into gallop. Rose’s smile broadened and she sucked in the crisp spring air. Though the sun shone down on her, there was still a bite to the air that sent a shiver of a thrill over her skin.

Soon, she could have a husband at her side for these rides. Myra, her sister-by-marriage, and her husband, Laird Daniel Murray, had helped Rose to arrange a new marriage, and to ally that could be trusted to help raise her son into being the laird he ought to be. Though she’d tried her best over the past nine years, even going so far as to send young Byron to stay with Daniel and Myra for months at a time, it wasn’t the same as having a laird he could look up to at home.

Cathal MacKenzie.

He was an older man, fifteen years her senior, but he was a laird with experience, and his lands bordered hers on two sides. Munro lands accessed the Firth leading out to the North Sea, and with only a boy as their chief, they were vulnerable to attack, though they’d been lucky the last nine years to avoid it. She was grateful to the men Myra’s husband kept stationed on Munro lands to guard the North Sea, since any enemy could have access to the Highlands through Rose’s lands. But that couldn’t last. Marriage to Cathal was not only a strategic move, bringing peace to her people, but also for added protection. She wasn’t in love with him, she she didn’t even know him well enough to say whether or not she liked him, but she had agreed to marry him for the sake of her clan.

The previous year, William Wallace was arrested and executed by the English. If their great guardian could come to such a fate, what would happen to the rest of them? Daniel had been close to Wallace, and had mourned the loss greatly. But he’d also been warned of impending sieges from the English, a renewed attempt on the part of their vicious king to control the Highlands. Truth was, the Munros needed the support of the MacKenzies against the English, even if it did mean the likelihood that she’d leave her life as a Munro behind and so would her son, at least until he could take possession of his position by birthright.

Part of the contract that Daniel had helped to formulate stipulated that upon his eighteenth birthday, her son Byron, would take his place as Chief Munro, but until that time, her husband would be his guardian, a prospect that was a little daunting.

Rose closed her eyes for a brief second, sucking in the chill spring air and letting go, just for this moment, the stress of her impending marriage. She’d loved her first husband fiercely, and she knew that such emotions could not be recreated. This marriage was simply a convenience and to ally their clans.

A thunking sound in the road ahead, and a shout of warning from her men, had Rose’s eyes popping open and she twisted in the saddle to see what her men were worried about. A breeze blew against the leaves of the trees, rustling them ominously. The road appeared clear. At least at first, she saw nothing, then she spotted it—an arrow in the center of the road with a red strip of fabric tied to its shaft and blowing with the wind.

“What is happening?” she asked. She shouldn’t have closed her eyes. That must have been when the arrow was shot.

“Stay back, my lady,” Peter shouted. He rushed to stand before her and the other five guards followed suit, forming a circle in front of her.

They reined in their horses, their swords drawn and held out, waiting for whoever it was that had shot the warning arrow.

They didn’t have to wait long.

From the trees, perhaps twenty yards away, the muzzle of a massive black warhorse appeared, covered in shining armor that reached to his ears, which were held back in warning. A reflection on his master. Massive hooves clomped slowly on the ground, like a demon sent from the underworld to take her. His master was equally impressive. Tall and thick, he sat the horse with expert ease, but the sheer size of him alone sent her heart into palpitations. Over a linen shirt, he wore a plaid she didn’t recognize, colors as green as the grass and blue as the sky. A thick iron brooch in the shape of a dragon. Leather boots covered his muscled calves to his knees, and a gleaming silver sword was held in one hand. Hair she thought at first to be brown, gleamed red in the light of the sun. His face was painted in lines and swirls of blue. Dark, fathomless eyes fixed on her.

Rose shook in the saddle, causing her own horse to shift restlessly beneath her. She dragged in a ragged breath, and bit her lip to keep her teeth from chattering.

“Dear God, save us,” one of her men muttered under his breath.

The warrior stared them down with an intensity that could have melted iron. His eyes met hers, locking her in, making her limbs go weak and numb. They were the color of storm clouds, and she swore if he looked up at the sky, he could command lightning to strike.

“Do not engage him,” she whispered. “Negotiate.”

“I dinna think the man has negotiating in mind,” Peter said.

Rose’s belly twisted into knots. She didn’t want her men to lose their lives, not in protecting her. They were low on men as it was. However, Peter was right. One look at the fierce warrior and she could glean that he never negotiated.

“Then we should turn and run now. We might be able to beat them back to the castle,” she urged, trying to save her men.

“Aye, my lady, I think ye’re right.” Peter nodded to the men and as one they whipped their horses around and kicked their flanks, Rose doing the same, until their horses fairly flew across the moors.

From behind she could hear the pounding of the warhorse accompanied by even more. How many had he brought with him? They made no vocal sounds as they advanced, only the thunder of their horses, and with every passing second, Rose grew more fearful. The castle was still a good distance away. They’d not make it through the gates to safety in time.

Was this to be her fate? Having survived a brutal attack at the hands of her enemies nine years before, only to die by a demon warrior in the middle of the moors, buried forever in a bog?

“Hurry!” Peter bellowed.

But his urging was all for naught. Behind her, she heard the painful cry of one of her men, and turning slightly in her saddle, she watched as the man was hit on top of the head with the hilt of a sword by one of the painted demons accompanying the warrior.

He
didn’t stop.

He
kept coming.

His eyes on her and her alone.

A shiver raced over her spine. Pure, blinding terror. A sound, guttural and feral, fell from her lips.

He was going to kill her. Possibly roast her and eat her, picking her flesh from his teeth with her bones.

“God’s bones… I am lost,” she said, teeth chattering.

“Rose!” Peter shouted. “Come on!”

She turned back to the front, intent on their course, leaning over the withers of her horse. “Go, Giddy! Please!” she begged.

If the mellow horse would only push herself as her father Coney had all those years before. Giddy seemed to sense her urgency, picking up speed, but with each step forward, Rose heard the thunder of the warrior growing closer. And then another of her men was picked off by the demon’s minions.

“We’ll not make it. We have to engage,” Peter ground out. He reined in his horse and the men followed, turning around to combat the warriors who’d ambushed them. “Go, Rose! We’ll try to hold them off.”

For a brief second she thought to argue, but there was no way she could save her men, not with the tiny blade strapped at her waist. The best thing she could do was get out of their way and warn her people to get within the walls, safeguarding them against what could very well be an attack on the castle itself.

The clashing of swords sounded behind her as her men fought the enemy. Shouts of pain and bellows of anger pounded through her head.

“Nay, nay, nay,” Rose muttered, tears stinging her eyes.

How naïve she’d been to think that after nine years she’d be safe. Who were these men that had attacked? Not Mackenzies. And it would seem even a contract between the two of them hadn’t kept her safe, though she’d yet to wed Cathal.

She didn’t recognize any of the men who’d ambushed them, nor the colors of their plaid. They were strangers. But they’d come with a purpose. They didn’t look rough enough to be outlaws, but what did Rose truly know about the ways of outlaws? They could be anyone. From anywhere.

The pounding grew closer to her and a peek over her shoulder showed that while her men fought for their lives behind her, the leader of the attackers had not stopped. He was only a few feet away!

Rose screamed as he closed the distance. He reached for her, wrapping strong, gloved hands around her waist and yanking her from her saddle. The warrior tossed her over his lap, while Giddy continued on the path toward the castle without Rose. His thighs were hard against her belly, her legs dangling on one side of the horse, her head and arms on the other. The cur didn’t slow down, but made a wide circle back toward the fray.

“Don’t touch me! Put me down!” Rose cried, tears of fear turning to tears of anger. She pounded at his calf with her fists and bucked and kicked, but he smacked her rear and pressed hard on her spine.

A flash of metal flickered before her face. He held a ruby-hilted dagger to her throat. “Be still, or I won’t hesitate to bind ye.” His voice was deep and rough and sent her fear into overdrive.

“Ye’ll have to kill me first!” Rose wasn’t going to give in. She bucked harder at the injustice of her position.

“Ye may wish for death, my lady, but ’tis a gift I’ll not be giving ye.” And with that, the dagger was gone, and he was still riding away with her.

Chapter Two

The lass was warm and her curves were soft.

Malcolm Montgomery gritted his teeth against the flailing woman, her plump breasts pressed into his thigh, and the curve of her bottom still burned to the flat of his palm. The ruby dagger in his grip was a lovely gift, an ancient relic that Robert the Bruce, newly crowned King of Scotland, cherished and had given to Malcolm for his service to the Scottish Royal Council.

The King Richard Dagger.

Except it wasn’t truly a gift for Malcolm. It was only the beginning of payment for the task at hand.

Malcolm had been charged with stealing the bride of Cathal Mackenzie—currently under suspicion of treason to the Scottish people and the Bruce himself.

Mackenzie, bastard that he was, had somehow finagled his way into the good graces of the Murrays, cousins to William Wallace, and garnered himself a prime bride—and full control of the Moray and Cromarty Firths that led straight into the North Sea.

A letter intercepted by one of the Bruce’s spies confirmed that Mackenzie planned to take over those ports and allow the English Navy to moor their ships and march their troops straight into the heart of the Highlands.

But without a bride to wed, the man would have a much harder time gaining control. He’d have to take it forcibly, which would be hard to do, considering Malcolm had already sent another flank of his own men ahead to the castle.

“Put me down!” the wench wrestled against his lap.

His groin tightened at her movements and how her warm breasts rubbed over his thigh. Damnation, now was not the time to be thinking lusty thoughts, and if she wasn’t careful, her ribs were about to find out just what was going through his head. Thank the saints for his second-in-command and childhood mate, Kavan. Malcolm could concentrate on the feisty wench, while Kavan kept the men in line and the scouts reporting.

“I’ll not be putting ye down, lass. Calm yourself, else ye end up hurt.”

“Please, I beg ye.”

“Ye can beg until ye’re out of breath, but I canna let ye go, Lady Munro.”

“Who are ye?” she asked, turning to stare up at him, her creamy cheeks tinged rosy and her lips pulled back in a snarl. Locks of burnished gold hung in wild curls around her face. Green eyes filled with tears and burned with fury. “What kind of monster are ye?”

“I’m not a monster, even if ye think it.”