When a Laird Takes a Lady: A Claimed by the Highlander Novel

“Get ready for a rich, exciting new voice in Scottish historical romance! Rowan Keats captures all the passion and heart of the Highlands as she expertly weaves a wonderful tale of passion, intrigue, and love that you won’t want to put down. I’m already looking forward to the next book in what is sure to be a must-read series.”

—Monica McCarty,
New York Times
bestselling author of
The Hunter

“A rising star of medieval romance . . . [Keats] seamlessly weaves an unusual romance with the intrigues and power plays associated with the era, greatly enhancing the story’s emotional power.”

—
RT Book Reviews

The Claimed by the Highlander Series

Taming a Wild Scot

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First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library,

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Copyright © Rowan Keats, 2014

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ISBN 978-1-101-59116-1

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The Eastern Highlands Above Lochurkie Castle
January 1286

P
erched atop a huge black-and-white warhorse, Isabail had an unimpeded view of the destruction. Six of her guards, including the valiant Sir Robert, lay lifeless on the moonlit trail. The others had been forced to their knees and tightly bound like cattle. A pair of chests, packed with her belongings, had been rifled and the contents scattered. The men who had attacked her party had gathered only a few items, mostly simple gowns and practical shoes. The more expensive items—those intended for her sojourn in the king’s court—lay in careless heaps, trampled in the snow and mud.

Isabail had no sympathy to spare her fine clothes, however. Fear had cinched her chest so tight there was no room for anything else.

Amazingly, the attackers numbered only three.
How such a small group had succeeded in defeating the dozen guards that accompanied her carriage, she could not fathom. But defeat them, they had. What they lacked in count, they made up for in size—the fur-cloaked Highland raiders were a mouth-souring blur of towering heights, broad shoulders, and powerful limbs.

Their leader, the dark-haired warrior who had demanded her surrender, wore a scowl so thunderous that her belly quailed each time she spied him. Which was often—to her chagrin, his clean-shaven face and neatly trimmed hair drew her eyes again and again.

The raiders worked swiftly, their movements spare and deliberate. No pack was left unopened, no chest left unturned. They concluded their pillage in no time and were soon mounted and ready to depart.

Except for the leader.

He scooped a colorful selection of clothing into a pile, removed a flint from the pouch at his belt, and crouched with his back to the wind. With experienced ease, he soon had the pile in flames. Isabail’s fingers clenched in her horse’s rough mane, as a sizable portion of her fine wool gowns, white linen sarks, and beaded slippers went up in fiery pyre.

Had she been alone, she would have burst into tears. But her maid’s pale, plump face was turned to her, the older woman’s eyes a silent plea for hope and guidance. Isabail could not give in to the waves of despair pummeling her body. Not now. Not when Muirne needed her to be strong.

The leader eyed the plume of gray smoke drifting its way into the sky, then grabbed the reins of Isabail’s horse and, in a single fluid bound, leapt up behind her. His steely arm slipped around her waist and hauled her into his lap. A short shriek escaped her lips before she could tame it. Instinct urged her to fight for release, to wriggle free and run, but fear held her fast. The man was huge. He could kill her with a solitary blow from one of those massive fists.

Better that she wait for rescue.

She swallowed the lump in her throat. Surely their intent was to ransom her. To sell her back to her cousin for a hefty sum of coin. If she but braved this brute’s inappropriate touch for a short while, Cousin Archibald would pay the ransom, and she would be freed. There was no need to risk life or limb to flee.

Her captor urged the horse forward, leading his small group toward the narrow opening at the end of the ravine. Isabail glanced at the fallen bodies and bound figures of her men, and words spilled from her lips before she could stop them.

“You cannot mean to leave them like this.”

“I do.” His terse response rumbled through his chest, vibrating against her back.

“But large packs of wolves roam these hills.”

He said nothing, just urged the horse into a trot. The winding path up the mountain slope was narrow, but they took it at a relentless pace. Higher and higher they climbed, the horse picking its way around boulders and thick patches of heather.
As they traversed a steep ledge, she got a clear view of the moonlit glen and the mist-shrouded castle that was her home.

The folk in the stone fortress below were no doubt going about their usual evening chores, oblivious to the tragedy that had struck her party. How long would it be before the remaining guards were found? Helpless as they were, would they not starve to death, or be torn apart by wild animals?

Isabail chewed her lip.

One of the bearded outlaws riding alongside her caught her eye. “You fret for naught,” he said. “The smoke will draw notice from the castle. Unless the earl’s soldiers are asleep at their posts, your guards will be home by morn.”

Her captor released a derisive snort.

Isabail breathed a sigh of relief, but did not relax. She was struggling to retain her dignity. The upward climb made it extremely difficult to hold herself aloof from the warrior at her back. She did her best to maintain a stiff, ladylike poise, but every time the massive warhorse surged up a steep incline, she collided with her captor’s very solid chest.

It was bad enough that their hips were so intimately connected. She refused to give up any more of her self-respect than was necessary. But as the air thinned and grew colder, the steady warmth he exuded held more and more appeal. Determined to resist, she clutched her beaver cloak about her shoulders and buried her hands in the soft fur. Still, the hours in the saddle and the frigid air
began to take their toll. She slipped farther and farther back in the saddle. Several times, she stiffened abruptly when she realized her body had slumped wearily toward the wall of male flesh behind her.

Fortunately, her captor did not seem to notice her lapses. His attention was focused on carving a trail through the bleak wilderness that was the Highlands in January. Perhaps fearing pursuit, he kept their pace as hard and as fast as the terrain would allow.

Isabail was just beginning to wonder how far he intended to drag her from her home when he drew the massive destrier to a halt and barked out an order to his men. “Make camp here.”

As he leapt down, causing icy air to swirl around her in his absence, she took stock of his chosen campsite. She considered herself born of much hardier stock than her English cousins, but even to her seasoned Scot’s eye, the spot looked anything but hospitable. Barren rock, blanketed by a thin layer of ice and snow. The only break to the north wind was a large boulder and, in the distance, a tall standing stone erected by the ancient Picts.

But the lack of obvious comfort did not dismay his men. They helped Isabail and Muirne to dismount, then immediately set about making a fire. Once the peat bricks were generating some heat, they tethered the horses and passed around meager portions of bread and cheese. The meal was too late to be supper and too early to be breakfast, but it tasted wonderful just the same.

Isabail and Muirne were left alone as the men went about their tasks. The ground was icy beneath their boots, discouraging movement, so they simply stood and ate. Muirne’s thoughts had not eased on the long ride up the mountain. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. “They mean to rape and kill us,” she whispered.

“How can you know that?” asked Isabail. “They’ve not made any such threats.”

“You need only to look at the dark face on that one”—she pointed to the towering shape of the leader as he unsaddled the horses—“to know that we are doomed.”

Isabail’s stomach knotted. Muirne’s assessment had merit. Everything about the man was terrifying, from the daunting width of his shoulders to the grim set of his chiseled jaw. And her maid was correct—the scowl on his face did not bode well. But to admit the bend of her thoughts to Muirne would stir the maid’s fears.

“The only sane reason for them to accost a noblewoman is to ransom her,” she said firmly. “They will not harm us for fear of losing their reward.”

“That may protect you, my lady, but it’ll no protect me,” muttered Muirne. “I’ll no see my Fearghus again. I can feel it in my bones.”

“You are spying a badger where there is only a skunk,” chided Isabail. “The possibility of rescue yet remains. We are still on Grant land.”

Muirne frowned. “How can you be certain? We’ve journeyed several hours beyond sight of the castle.”

Isabail nodded toward the standing stone in the distance. It was too dark to see the Pictish symbols engraved on its surface, but the shape was very familiar. “I recognize that stone. We are but a short distance from the bothy my brother used as a respite stop during lengthier hunts.”

Her maid’s face lit up. “Och! We are saved. We can escape there and await the earl’s men.”

“Nay,” Isabail said sharply. “I will not risk the wrath of these men by attempting an escape. Our best option is simply to wait. They will ransom us soon enough.”

Her harsh tone drew the attention of one of the reivers—the heavy-set fellow with the wiry dark beard. He stopped brushing the horses for a moment and stared at them. Neither woman dared to speak another word until he resumed his task.

“See?” hissed Isabail. “They watch us too closely. Escape is not possible.”

Muirne nodded and sat silent for a time, chewing on her bread and cheese. Although morn was surely only an hour or two away, the reivers laid bedrolls near the fire and offered two of them to the women. Isabail claimed her spot with trepidation. Passing a night under the stars without a tent overhead was disturbing enough, but in the presence of three dangerous men . . . Impossible. Especially with their leader staring at her across the campfire. The flickers of the firelight added bleak shadows to an already stern countenance. His expression left her with the distinct impression that he resented her, though heaven only knew why.
She’d seen him for the first time just two days ago, in the orchard. At the time, unaware that he was a villain and a cad, she had silently admired his physical form. Few men of her acquaintance sported such a blatantly muscular body, and he possessed a rather handsome visage for a heathen brute—the sort of sharply masculine features a woman does not soon forget.

He stood suddenly, and Isabail’s breath caught in her chest. By God, he was huge. Dark and powerful, a veritable thunderstorm of a man. He tossed back one side of his fur cloak, revealing a long, lethal sword strapped to his side. Beneath the cloak, she spied a leather jerkin atop a dark lèine and rough leather boots that hugged his calves. His clothing was common enough, but there was something decidedly uncommon about the man.

Perhaps it was the intensity of his glacial blue stare—neither of the other two held her gaze for more than a glance. Or perhaps it was the way he held himself, shoulders loose but firm, like he was a direct descendant of Kenneth MacAlpin himself. Lord of all he surveyed.

He glared at her and drew his sword.

Muirne shrieked, and Isabail’s heart skipped a beat.

But the brute did not advance. With his gaze still locked on Isabail, he returned to his seat before the fire and began to clean his weapon.

It took long moments for Isabail’s heart to resume its regular rhythm. Not one word had been exchanged, but she had felt the weight of his
blame as surely as if he’d unleashed a furious diatribe. In his mind, it would seem, she was the cause of his troubles.

Perhaps Muirne was right. Perhaps he had no intention of ransoming her. Perhaps escape was a wiser option after all.

Isabail dove beneath the blankets provided by his men and lay on her side with her back to the fire. The bedroll provided little comfort—the frozen ground dug into her hip and shoulder, and the fire only warmed one side of her body. Her nose and fingers were chilled, but rolling to the other side was not an option. Her nape already tingled under the cold gaze of her captor. Facing him would be unbearable.

“The women are slowing us down,” one of the men muttered. “At this pace, it’ll take another full day to reach Dunstoras.”

Isabail froze.
Dunstoras?

“That assumes the earl’s men don’t catch us first,” retorted another.

“You worry for naught,” said their leader crisply. “The earl’s men are a league behind us. They think we’re headed south. We’ll lose them when we turn west and descend into Strath Nethy.”

Nausea rolled in Isabail’s belly. Dunstoras was home to the MacCurrans—the clan whose chief had robbed the king and murdered her brother. The same chief who had escaped Lochurkie’s dungeon and absconded to parts unknown. If the man seated across the fire was Aiden MacCurran, she was in far more dire straits than she had
thought. A murderous traitor to the Crown would hardly follow the unwritten rules of hostage taking.

She lay stiff and silent, unable to sleep.

MacCurran deserved to pay for his crimes. John had been a fine man and a good earl—far more noble and worthy than her father had been. If only she could escape, she could ensure MacCurran was brought to justice. From the standing stone, she could find her way to the hunt bothy with ease—she and John had stopped there a dozen times over the years.

The challenge was getting away from MacCurran and his men. It might be possible for one of the women to sneak away, but two? Unlikely. Yet she could hardly leave Muirne behind. No, if an escape was to be made, it would be both of them or neither of them.

Worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, Isabail reviewed her options—discarding most ideas as foolhardy. Eventually, she settled on one. She waited until MacCurran and the other guard had bedded for the night and uneven snores were rising into the dark sky. Then she nudged Muirne.

“I’ve a need to visit the privy,” she whispered.

It took a raised eyebrow and an exaggerated wink to sweep the sleepy look from her maid’s face. “Och, of course you do. Let’s away, then.”

They donned their boots and cloaks, then crossed the camp to where the eldest of the reivers stood watch—a grizzled warrior with a patch of gray hair braided at each temple. Isabail pointed
to the standing stone, which was a vague shape in the darkness. “I must see to my needs. My maid will accompany me to the privy.”

He followed her finger, frowning. “Nay, that’s too far. See to your business behind this boulder. I’ll not pry.”

Isabail straightened her shoulders and favored him with her most imperious stare. “That will not do at all. Women are not men. We do not simply open a door and piss into the wind. Privacy is an absolute requirement for a lady.”