When a Laird Takes a Lady: A Claimed by the Highlander Novel (13 page)

* * *

Gorm whined from his blanket by the fire.

Isabail stopped staring at the spot where MacCurran had stood and favored the dog with a wry smile. “Aye, he’s a difficult man. You’ve got that right. Saving you from a horrible death one minute, shaking the life from you the next.”

She scooped some water from the bucket by the door and brought it to the deerhound.

“I’ve no meat for you, lad. Until you’re well enough to try your hand at bringing home a fat
hare, you’ll have to eat what the rest of us eat—bread, cheese, and turnips.”

He drank the water, then downed a stale crust of bread in a few hearty crunches.

“There’s a lad,” she said encouragingly. “Since you appear to be faring well, I’ll bring you a bone after the evening meal.”

As she stood, she heard several loud shouts outside and then the pound of numerous boots in the snow. Isabail raced to the door. The inner close was a jumble of men snatching weapons and running for the walls. The women doused the cooking fires, gathered the children and their belongings, and scurried for the tunnels. With surprising speed and economy of movement, each person headed for their designated spot.

“What’s going on?” Isabail asked a boy who was darting for cover.

“Soldiers,” he tossed as he tore past. “Headed this way.”

Soldiers? MacPherson’s men? Isabail chewed her lip. She was supposed to follow the other women into the tunnels, but the promise of rescue was a sweet ache in her chest. What she wouldn’t give to sleep in her own bed, to visit the graves of her mother and brother, and to wear clean clothes. If only there were some way to reach Tormod MacPherson without revealing the existence of the hill fort. She wanted to be rescued, but not at the expense of the people in the camp.

MacCurran’s fierce form appeared out of the
crowd of warriors in the close. “Get in the hut and stay there until I tell you it’s safe to come out.”

Isabail hesitated.

His hand cupped her chin with surprising gentleness. “Please.”

She retreated into the dim hut.
Wretch
. How dare he be kind to her when she was anticipating harshly worded threats. Sliding to the floor just inside the door, she leaned against the wall and listened. There were few sounds with which to re-create the events occurring outside—after the first shouts, no one spoke.

Silence reigned.

Isabail closed her eyes and listened intently. Were MacPherson’s men advancing up the slope to their position? Was mayhem about to ensue? Over the past few days, she’d come to know a great number of the MacCurrans who called this old ruin home. Whether the MacCurran had stolen Queen Yolande’s necklace or not, these people did not deserve to die.

She crossed her chest, bowed her head, and prayed.

* * *

MacPherson’s men crept from the trees to the protection of a scattering of boulders.

Aiden watched their progress from his position farther up the slope. The rugged path leading up to the hill fort was not an obvious one, especially with the extra rocks they’d moved into place. It would take a very determined man to find them,
but he feared today might be that day. MacPherson must be livid that Aiden had freed his men right under his nose. He would not accept that loss with grace.

Twelve soldiers inched toward the ruined broch below.

Once they were within striking distance, the leader of the men gave a hand signal, and together they charged toward the ruin with an aggressive roar. Only to find the broch empty. Clearly disappointed and muttering with undisguised frustration, the men searched the ruin. They turned over rocks, kicked apart portions of the walls, and examined every piece of loose rubble for clues. When that got them nowhere, they expanded the search, slowly but inexorably advancing up the slope.

Aiden’s men tensed. He had seven archers deployed among the rocks, two of which were exceptional and the others decent. More than enough to turn away this group. Their ability to defend the hilltop fort was, however, limited by supplies. Fifty-seven arrows would not last long. In an extended battle, they would be at a severe disadvantage.

Two MacPherson spearmen climbed over some rocks and gained another few feet of path.

Giving the order to shoot them would bring an end to their hiding, and Aiden’s thoughts went to the women and children currently under his protection. He couldn’t risk their lives. As satisfying as it would be to engage MacPherson’s men, he had to maintain their secrecy for as long as possible.

“I found a boot print!” cried one of the two spearmen, tossing aside a small chunk of shale.

Instantly, twelve pairs of eyes tipped upward, peering into the rocks with renewed eagerness.

“Are you certain?” the sergeant asked with a skeptical frown. In spite of his doubt, he left the wall he was exploring and headed for the path.

“Aye, ‘tis definitely the mark of a bootheel frozen in the mud.”

Aiden drew a long, deep breath. His hand tightened around the leather-wrapped hilt of his sword, but he still did not give the signal to shoot.

A half dozen soldiers joined the spearmen and began to clear the rocks. The farther they advanced up the slope, the easier the path became. They were about to discover the hill fort, to run amok and possibly slay his kin. Aiden was out of options. He glanced down the line of archers, his face grim. With a silent wave of his hand, he ordered his men to shoot.

The sergeant and the two spearmen were downed in the first volley of arrows. Two other soldiers farther down the slope also dropped. The remaining soldiers raised their targes and drove up the hill with an aggressive roar.

They swiftly reached level ground, and the battle switched to a duel of sword and spear.

Aiden dove out from behind a boulder and took on a broad-shouldered swordsman in chain mail. The fellow was talented, and their swords collided again and again with neither gaining the advantage. They circled each other, testing strength
and speed, pushing footing and grip to the limit. In the end, it was the soldier’s armor that did him in. He tired quicker than Aiden, and after nimbly parrying a swift thrust, he made his first error—he left his leg exposed. Fighting for the lives of his clan, Aiden didn’t hesitate—he drove his sword into the man’s thigh and brought him swiftly to the ground.

Unfortunately for the men of MacPherson’s patrol, they were outmaneuvered and outnumbered. Trapped between the two walls that surrounded the fort, they fought fiercely and with the seasoned skill of arms for hire, but circumstances played against them.

None of MacPherson’s men ceded defeat easily. Only three of them survived the melee—including Aiden’s opponent. The MacCurran injuries, by comparison, were minor. A few sliced chests and legs, but no deaths.

Aiden lowered his sword.

The camp was safe—for the moment. But that moment would be short-lived. MacPherson would send another patrol in search of the first, and when he did . . .

Wiping his blade on his sleeve, he ordered Niall, “Gather the arrows. Have the men round everyone up. We’ve a need to find a new camp.”

“Surely we can simply bury the bodies?”

“MacPherson will not yield so easily. He’ll comb this area until he finds the bodies . . . and then he’ll wreak vengeance upon us.”

Aiden left Niall to direct the men and strode
across the inner close to the roundhouse. He almost missed Isabail when he entered. She was seated on the floor with her back against the wall.

When she spied him, she released a sigh. “You’re safe.”

“Gather your things. We must move.”

Isabail gained her feet and did her best to brush the dirt from her skirts. “Move? Move where?”

A very good question. Aiden had given thought to that question many times over the past few months as he planned for the future. Nowhere in the glen would he benefit from stone walls, good storage, and a highly defensible position. But with almost sixty souls under his care, secrecy was better than defensibility. “There’s a thickly wooded area farther west. We’ll head there.”

“Why? Why not remain here?”

Aiden laid the blanket on the floor and began piling items in the middle of it: his clothes, his spare pair of boots and some personal items. “Tormod MacPherson believes his mission is to destroy the MacCurran clan. He’ll soon learn that we are camped here, and when he does, he’ll attack in full force. I cannot defend my clan against the strength of his army with little or no supplies.”

Isabail was silent for a long moment. “You fear that he’ll come looking for his missing men.”

Aiden didn’t bother to answer. He tied the corners of the blanket and swung it over his shoulder. Holding out a hand, he said, “Come.”

She did not take his hand. “What if there were no men to be found?”

“It wouldn’t matter; he will continue to hunt until he finds us.”

“Unless he believed the men were elsewhere when they died.”

He stared at her, slowly lowering his hand. “Are you suggesting we move the bodies?”

Isabail blushed. “I’ve no idea what I’m suggesting. Just thinking aloud. Is it possible to move the bodies?”

“Aye,” he said. A thoughtful frown settled on his brow. “It’s possible. Moving his men from one spot to another won’t be enough to deceive MacPherson, however. To be successful, we’ll need a wee bit of cunning.”

He dropped the blanket bundle onto the mattress. Then he grabbed Isabail by the shoulders and gave her a quick, hard kiss. “Stay here. I’ll be back anon.”

“W
hat age are you, Morag?” Magnus asked as they sat down to sup on the hare he’d snared that afternoon. He was very curious about the woman who’d nursed him back to health, and up to this point, she’d been very vague about her history.

But he was done with mystery and incertitude.

She lifted her gaze from her meal. As their gazes collided, he could see the swirl of thoughts in her green eyes. Perhaps she read the resolve in his own, because for once she did not attempt to fob him off with some whimsical retort. “I am four and twenty.”

“And where are your kin?”

She tore the meat off a leg bone with her fine white teeth and chewed. “I am shunned. I have no kin.”

Her answer wasn’t entirely surprising. After all, few women of a marriageable age lived alone in a bothy in the woods. Still, it made him wonder. “Why?”

“What did I do that warranted a shunning?”

He nodded.

“I lay with three men, two of whom were brothers.”

She said it calmly, without heat or embarrassment. There was no attempt to excuse her behavior or apologize for it. She simply stated it as fact. As beautiful as she was, he had no trouble imagining men fighting to have her. Even brothers.

He arched a brow. “At the same time?”

A faint smile rose to her lips. “Nay. One at a time. But the second brother was not pleased to find he’d shared my body with his younger kin.”

“So he involved the friar?”

“Aye.”

It was more information than she’d given him in three months of sharing an abode. Magnus was loath to cease asking her questions while she was in so generous a mood. “Did you live at the castle?”

A shadow fell over her face. “I did.”

Aware that he was stirring unpleasant memories but unable to help himself, he said, “Then you would know whether I made my home there.”

Her lips tightened. “What I knew then and what I know now are two different things.”

“That is not an answer,” he growled, pushing his bowl away. “Just tell me the truth, woman. I’m man enough to handle it, no matter how unpalatable it might be.”

“You are not ready,” she said. “Your leg is still weak and you suffer great headaches.”

He stood up. “You call up the same excuses no matter how much time passes. I do not even know my true name,” he said. “Do not deny me answers.”

“The truth will only harm you.”

“Better that swift fate than to slowly waste away in ignorance here,” he bit out. “Did I live at the castle or no?”

She sighed heavily. “Aye, you did.”

Rage seared through him like fire in his veins. “All this time I’ve been but a stone’s throw from the truth.” He pivoted and began to pack a bag.

“But you are no longer welcome at the castle. You are outlawed now.”

He paused. Outlawed? “For what crime?”

“Murder, theft, and treason against the king.” She, too, pushed away her bowl. “You were run through by the king’s men. I saw it with my own eyes.”

“And yet you took me in and healed me,” he said, frowning. “Why?”

She shrugged. “We are all more than the sum of our crimes. I am not simply a harlot, and I do not believe you are simply a murderer and a thief.”

“Given the charges against me, you took a considerable risk,” he pointed out. “Would you do that for everyone?”

Morag shook her head. “I have much cause to be wary of men.”

“Then why help me?”

“You were kind to me,” she said. “On the day I was cast out, you braved the disapproval of the friar and stopped to carry my satchel.”

Magnus leaned back against the wall of the hut. That story rang true; it felt like something he would do. The accusations of murder and treason did not sit as easily. “You know my real name? Why did you not tell me when I awoke?”

“In the early days after I rescued you, several patrols from the castle passed us by. Based on what I witnessed, it seemed unwise to call you by your true name.” She played with the tip of her long black braid. “And you were too confused by the injury to your head to grasp two names and keep them straight.”

“I am not confused any longer.”

She met his gaze. Her smile was rueful. “Indeed not.”

“So tell me.” He pulled away from the wall, waiting.

“Your name is Wulf.”

Disappointment cinched his chest tight. Damn. How was that possible? The name meant nothing to him. It did not bring to mind a single memory of his past or clue to his identity. Nor did it give cause to the nagging sense that he ought to be elsewhere.

“Wulf,” he repeated. The name was even strange on his tongue. It did not seem to suit him like Magnus did. He was a large man, so Magnus fit his physical form. He’d chosen that name for himself after three weeks had passed without memory. Now it seemed familiar. Wulf did not.

“Do I have kin?”

Morag shook her head. “That I cannot answer. Many at the castle perished or were driven from
the land. Others were imprisoned. I visit the castle only on faire days, so I’ve no sense of who lived and who died.”

Magnus couldn’t be certain she told the truth. She avoided his gaze, which suggested at least some part of her tale was a lie.

“Are you and I kin?”

She choked out a laugh. “You and I? Nay. I am naught but a weaver. You lived in the castle proper. Save for the day I departed, we never exchanged words.”

That did not fit with Magnus’s beliefs about himself. Well, not entirely, anyway. He knew from the calluses on his right hand that he was familiar with a blade, so the notion of not being a common laborer felt real enough. But holding himself above those who were of lesser status? He couldn’t imagine possessing such a surfeit of pride.

“I need to strengthen this leg,” he said, lightly pounding his lame leg with his fist. “I cannot remain here forever. I must seek out those who know me.”

Morag tightened the woolen shawl about her shoulders. “Take to the hills, then. Climbing will strengthen the leg. Just be wary of soldiers. They seem to be venturing into the woods with more frequency of late.”

Magnus crossed the hut to stand before her. He lifted her chin with his hand and peered into her pretty green eyes. “I’ll forever be grateful for the aid you’ve given me. Be assured of that. If I can ever repay you, I will.”

She flushed and stepped back, forcing him to release her. “Just chop me a good supply of wood before you go, and I’ll be rewarded enough.”

He let her walk away.

The woman was too proud by half. Her supplies were limited—purchased from the castle in exchange for the fine cloth she wove on her loom—and yet she had shared them unsparingly as he healed. Once he was able to hunt, he had supplemented her food with the odd hare, but he had a hearty appetite, so her pot on the fire was forever in need of new ingredients.

He would pay her back.

He just wasn’t sure how or when.

Just as he wasn’t sure when he would leave. It bothered him immensely to imagine her alone here, fending for herself. She was young and beautiful. She ought to be some man’s wife, not chopping her own wood and risking her very life traveling to the castle to trade her wares. He’d accompanied her the last few times. He’d seen the harassment she had endured at the hands of the soldiers at the gate and clenched his fists.

“We’ll never be even,” he said softly. “I’ll forever be in your debt.”

“I don’t want your debt,” she retorted.

“You have it anyway.”

His words annoyed her—he could see it in her sharply angled eyebrows. She did not want anything from him except for him to stay. But what she wanted was impossible. Not because of who he was, but because of who he had once been.
Until he knew his past, he could not settle with a woman. For all he knew, he was already wed.

He studied her elegant profile. He only prayed that he wasn’t. Otherwise, the thoughts he had about Morag would surely see him in hell.

* * *

The MacCurran returned to the hill fort as the light was fading. Isabail spied him at the entrance of the inner close, looking like some barbarian warrior of old—his hair a tangled mess and his lèine spattered with bloodstains.

He was as far from a gentleman lord as she could imagine, and yet her heart did a funny dance in her chest as he marched through the gate. Perhaps it was the purposeful look that took control of his face when he caught sight of her, or perhaps it was the rippling muscles of his thighs and calves as he strode toward her. Whatever it was, her body reacted instinctively, flooding her with heat and eager anticipation.

He grabbed her hand and led her away from the central fire and toward the hut he had claimed as his own.

“Where are we going?” she asked breathlessly.

“I owe you a proper thanks,” he answered, pulling her into the hut. He shut the door, then released her briefly to change his lèine and splash his face with water. Then he advanced toward her with a wolfish grin, slowly backing her against the wall. “Your idea to move the bodies was inspired. We built a fire pit half a league from here and left several of our broken tools there, along with some
furniture and the bodies. MacPherson will believe his men found us camped there and were ambushed.”

Isabail heard everything MacCurran said, but she had difficulty concentrating. His hands were wandering places they had no right to be. A proper noblewoman would take him to task. But as his fingers swept down her back and over her rump, she relaxed against the wall and let him have his way. It felt so good to have a strong man offer her such exquisite moments of pleasure.

Her softened stance encouraged him to go further. The words stopped, and his lips found more adventurous tasks to perform. Like nibbling the skin along her collarbone and tracing a red-hot path to her earlobe. The heat of his kisses sent a tremble of need through every nerve in her body.

She should despise this man for all he’d done, even though he denied it. Yet she found she could not. All she could remember as his lips made merry on her flesh was the gentle hold he’d kept on her for two days in the saddle, the care he’d shown her and Muirne when they were snowbound, and the fierce desire that leapt into his eyes each time he looked at her.

Logic said that he had done all that Daniel insisted he had done, but her heart disagreed.

When he scooped her up and carried her to the mattress, Isabail did not protest. She thrust her darker thoughts to the back of her mind and faced the man lowering himself next to her with a steady stare. She was a wee bit nervous, but there was no doubt in her heart that she wanted him to kiss her.

He lowered his mouth to hers, and she met his kiss eagerly. Opening to his press, her lips parted with a soft sigh of contentment. None of his kisses were gentle. They had the potent force of a man whose ardor was barely held in check—and that filled Isabail with a weak-kneed pleasure. He wanted her, badly, but he restrained himself as best he could. For her.

“You are a rare beauty,” he murmured against her throat. “As lovely as a snow-white lily.”

Isabail melted a little beneath him, surprised by the compliment. He did not seem the sort to offer a woman unnecessary praise. And she knew that the desire he felt for her conflicted with his anger over what had been dealt to his honor and his kin. Much as her desire conflicted with her need to see justice done for her brother. What a pair they were.

His hand tugged at her skirts, lifting them and baring a thigh. As his broad hand found her warm flesh, he groaned, a deep, primal response that made Isabail’s heart beat faster. To be wanted so clearly, so freely, was new to her. Andrew had always been admiring but reserved. In the bedroom, there had been few words and ever fewer spontaneous groans of delight. MacCurran was a much more earthy man, and for some reason that pleased her.

As did the rough caress of his callused hand over her bare thigh. It was a delightful friction that made her breath catch in her throat.

Tentatively, a little unsure of how to behave, Isabail lifted a hand to MacCurran’s face and allowed herself to explore the raw masculine beauty
of his face. The hard line of his jaw, with its late-day stubble of beard, the high arch of his cheekbone and the curve of his ear. He seemed to approve of her wandering, leaning in to her hand and kissing her with deeper intent.

Isabail’s fingers slid into the damp waves of his hair, lost in a wondrous explosion of sensations—the rasp of his lips on hers, the duel of their tongues, and the thrill of his daring touch on her inner thigh. Sparks of exquisite awareness built in her belly, making her restless with anticipation. She wanted more.

She lifted her hips against his and felt the telltale evidence of his desire. A throaty mewl escaped her lips as she struggled to convey her growing sense of need.

He raked her skirt higher and laid a gentle hand over her mons. Isabail’s knees fell open, giving him wider access, and she closed her eyes. As his thumb began to tease her most intimate flesh, she gave herself up to the full gambit of pleasurable sensations. MacCurran knew precisely how to touch her to cultivate the stormiest responses. A finger entered her, and then two. His strokes were a perfect rhythm, and the tension inside her built to a near unbearable level. Just when she thought she would burst, he eased down her body and replaced his hand with his lips.

Isabail was scandalized. But only for the briefest of moments.

When he suckled her gently and played the instrument of her desire with his tongue, she forgot
about her ideas of what was proper and let the MacCurran take control. He took her places she’d never been, and only moments after his mouth touched her, she was rocked with the sweet shudders of release.

“Oh, my Lord.”

MacCurran kissed his way back up her body to her lips. “I promised you a proper thank-you.”

Still relishing the gentle trembles that rippled through her body, Isabail did not open her eyes. To be honest, she wasn’t sure she could look him in the eyes. Andrew had never done that. Never kissed her
there
. “That was a unique expression of gratitude.”

He chuckled and pulled her against his chest. Placing her cheek next to his strong and steady heartbeat, she snuggled deeper into his embrace. Her hand slipped beneath the soft linen of his tunic and flattened against the chiseled plane of his chest. Warm and solid.