Stolen Vows

Stolen Vow
s

Copyright © 2013 by Stephanie Sterling.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the author except by a reviewer, who
may quote brief passages in a review.

For Kaz, who showed me real Scotland, and who let me listen to Runrig as many times as I wanted. For Cat, who did yeoman’s work on the original and for Lachlan and Muira, who started it all.

-S

Clan MacRae and Clan Cameron had been locked in a bitter feud since before Roan MacRae could remember, since before his father could remember, perhaps since before even his father’s father could remember.  It went so far down the branches of the family tree that no one alive was quite sure what had started it in the first place. 

MacRae children were brought up to despise the Camerons; to loathe them as if they were the very lowest of the low.  Fed on the sour milk of hatred from the time they were babies in arms, the prejudice quickly became ingrained.  It festered in their blood, taking so deep a hold on them and becoming such an integral part of them that it was impossible to purge.  Roan supposed the reverse was also true, which was one of the many reasons why he thought that Laird Graem MacRae’s idea was ludicrous.

Roan sighed and stared down the road ahead. He kept his bay gelding moving at an even pace.  There was no need to hurry.  He might be under strict instructions from Graem, to convey his “olive branch” but that didn’t mean, under any circumstances, that he was going to rush towards Castle Cameron. 

He passed the long, gray miles by humming a drinking song under his breath and calculating the minutes until he could turn homeward again. He did such a good job distracting himself that he was taken by surprise at the sound of a low whinny.

A dappled mare was standing on the shoulder of the path, ripping up clumps of grass and chewing them loudly.  It was holding its forepaw gingerly and looked lame, but appearances could be deceiving.  Roan put his hand on his scabbard as he noted the rope tied around the mare’s bridle.  His green eyes narrowed and followed the line to where it disappeared into the bushes.

He was not alone.

“Show yerself!” Roan demanded. He sat up straighter in the saddle, his powerful muscles instantly taut and poised to strike.

When he didn’t receive an answer, he swung down out of the saddle, sword raised. “Come out! I ken yer there.”

Once again, there was only silence.  Roan picked up a fallen branch and thrust it into the brush.

“OOCH!”

At last, the stillness was shattered.  The exclamation was followed by an impressive string of curses.  The rope on the bridle went slack and a bundle of gray wool and unruly red curls tumbled into the lane.  Roan blinked in surprise as the blur gradually resolved into the shape of a woman.

She had suffered a drenching in the last rain shower and was in something of a sorry state.  Her long auburn curls hung in a tangled mess around her shoulders and her clothes were wet and muddied, but they didn’t detract from her pretty face.  Roan’s gaze drifted over her body.  It lingered a second too long on her luscious curves and so he didn’t notice the dagger clutched in her hand until it was swinging toward him.

Luckily, his warrior instincts were stronger than his distraction. He easily deflected the blow, capturing the girl’s slender wrist between his rough fingers and pinching until she released the blade.

The renewed string of curses that flowed from her plump lips only caused him to smile.

“Whoa there, lassie!” he said, kicking the knife away before he released the woman’s hand. “I mean ye no harm.” 

The woman, apparently, felt otherwise. Robbed of her weapon, she tried to take a swing at him with her bare hand.

“Dinna come any closer!” she spat, and looked highly annoyed when Roan burst into a fit of laughter.

“Yer a feisty one, are ye nae lass?” he chuckled, taking a step towards her.  “Calm yerself,” he said in the same tone he used sooth skittish horses.  “I’m nae threat to ye.”

“Ha!  Yer wearing the MacRae tartan!” she said accusingly, wagging her finger at the plaid wrapped around Roan waist.

He glanced down absently.  “Aye,” he agreed.  “Tis true enough.”  He rubbed a hand over his short beard.  “And I assume from that reaction yer a Cameron?”

“I am,” she said, lifting her chin with an arrogance that Roan would have struck away had she been a man.  “Isla Cameron.”

“Isla Cameron?” Roan repeated softly.  “Well, Miss Isla, what is a fine lass like yerself doing out on the highroad alone.”  She inched backwards again and Roan noticed for the first time that she was limping.  “Yer nae in any trouble, are ye?”

“I’m fine,” Isla replied, unconvincingly.  “I
dinna
need help from MacRae at any rate!” she added more forcibly.

Roan frowned.  It would be easy enough to leave the troublesome wench, but he didn’t like to think who might come across her out here alone.  She certainly didn’t seem to be going anywhere on her own.  He was certain that she was favoring her right leg.  Her mount could not be ridden, and it was miles to the next cottage.

“I’ll just leave ye here to wait for yer escort then, shall I?” he said.  “Ye did have an escort, dinna ye, lass?” he pressed.  Now that he was closer he could see that her clothes were those of a lady. He couldn’t understand what she would be doing out alone.

“Aye,” Isla said after a lengthy pause.  “I rode ahead.  My horse bolted. Then it stumbled and threw me and -”

“
Do nae
” Roan interrupted harshly, “lie to me.  If ye dinna want to tell me the truth that’s yer business, but I canna abide liars.” He advanced toward her again. “Now - why are ye travelling alone?”

Her eyes were narrow and defiant. They locked onto his face.  Roan was just trying to discern their color when Isla’s voice rose in challenge. “What business is it of yers, MacRae?”

It wasn’t, really - but his damned honor wouldn’t allow him to abandon an injured female on the side of the road, Cameron or no. He didn’t fancy hearing Isla’s thoughts on the concept of MacRae “honor” though, and so he didn’t bother to explain.

“Come on,” he barked.

“Come where?” Isla replied.

“To Castle Cameron.”  Bringing her along was really the only thing that he
could
do with the woman. 

“Castle Cameron?” Isla repeated.  There was a flicker of unease in her eyes that Roan found remarkably strange. 
Surely a Cameron would want to be taken home to her Laird’s seat?
 
Where else could she be going on her own?
  “Ye canna take me to the castle, MacRae,” she said flatly. A haughty tone crept into her voice, grating on Roan’s nerves.

“I canna?”

“Yer a
MacRae
,” Isla said, as though he was a simpleton for not realizing what this meant.  “They’ll cut ye down before yer within sight of the castle.  But…” she hesitated briefly. “Ye can help me to reach the Black Bull.”

Roan’s expression blackened, “Yer a woman, and ye obviously have nae idea what’s going on between our clans, do ye?  I’m expected at the castle and I will most certainly
nae
take ye to a tavern and abandon ye there.  Ye
must
have friends at Castle Cameron.”

“Aye, of course,” Isla admitted, “I do, but -” She swallowed the end of her sentence with a grimace that looked as if she was drinking poison.  Her gaze travelled between her ankle and the dark roadway. By the time she met Roan’s gaze again, she managed a tight smile.  “Thank ye, MacRae.   I’ll be obliged for yer help.”

Roan stared at her, wrong-footed by this humble display.  “Well now, there’s nae need to be getting all soft about it,” he said gruffly. 

Suddenly eager for activity, he wandered over to Isla’s horse and picked up each of the mare’s hooves to examine them.  He cleaned out some grit and stone from under the horseshoes but the animal was too lame to bear any weight.

“They’ll be nae riding her back to the castle,” Roan said

“Aye,” she sighed.  “She stepped on a stone and threw me.  I was just sitting here catching my breath,”

“When I came along?” Roan finished, flashing Isla a wicked smile.  He chuckled at the color that rose to her cheeks. “Well, nae matter.  Ye’ll just have to ride Fiadhaich,” he shrugged.

“Who?” Isla asked. Her eyes alighted on the great bay brute of a horse that Roan had been riding.

“He’s as gentle as a kitten.  Are ye nae, Fiad?” Roan said cheerfully.  He thumped Fiadhaich soundly on the rear.  The horse gave a loud whinny and stomped at the ground.