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One month earlier, Castle Dunrobin.

Aileen McAlpin shivered as she walked the halls of Dunrobin Castle. Flicking her venetian-red curls over her shoulder so that they tumbled almost to her waist, she pulled her fur-lined deep-blue velvet cloak close around her. No matter the fires that roared in the great hall and the lesser fire in her bedchamber, she was always cold in this forbidding place.

Perhaps she had not found it so cold when she first came to Laird Andrew Sutherland’s castle when she was a mere lass of sixteen. Now, ten years on, what she had once deemed welcoming grandeur was harsh and oppressive.

As for the laird? He had charmed her with his striking appearance, his lustrous dark hair, that even now only had a tinge of grey at the temples, and his sparkling brown eyes. They had now become cold and calculating. She huffed at the thought of his handsome looks and how they had seduced her. Now she only saw how they disguised a heart as black as night.

She’d quickly learned that what she’d taken for his confident manner, was in reality a terrible arrogance, a harsh certainty that he was always right, always in command and that to disagree with him would bring a swift punishment. The memory of his sharp dirk and the way he’d wielded it when she’d defied him made her tighten the gloves she wore at all times, that came above her elbows, hiding the deep scars from the slashes he’d inflicted. Every glance and every touch on her arms was a grim reminder of his repeated punishment for her defiance.

He’d meted out his punishment to her again and again, his knife slicing deep into her flesh. Some days it was a mere toss of her head that would bring his wrath. Perhaps a sigh, loud enough to send him into a rage. Or, on rare occasions when she’d had the courage to stand up against him and, with hands on hips, utter the dangerous word, “Nay!” his punishment had been especially cruel, his dirk cutting deep.

And, aye, she’d learned to hold her tongue in his presence, to keep silent in the face of his cruelty to others, and to obey the tasks he set for her without question, whether they be acts of piracy, when he wished to claim a treasure his spies had alerted him to, or merely to seek vengeance, realizing his wish to send a rival’s birlinn and all its crew to the bottom of the sea.

She sighed. Ah yes. She’d done all this and more to remain within the good favors of Laird Sutherland and avoid his rage. To do otherwise was sheer foolishness and Aileen MacAlpin was no fool. Yet the curl of shame in her belly was an insistent reminder of her ongoing servitude to the man.

After she and her father, along with her older brother, Gregory, were brought to Dunrobin she’d learned that swift punishment would inevitably follow disobedience. Her brother Gregory’s defiance had led to his death at Sutherland’s hands.

It had taken a little longer for her to learn that she’d been taken by Laird Andrew as recompense for her father’s debts. After that, the knowledge that her father’s life would be forfeit should she not carry out Sutherland’s orders to the very letter rested heavily on her shoulders.

She would meet a similar fate to Gregory’s if she failed in the onerous tasks he commanded from her and her crew.

Approaching the door of Sutherland’s solar, she flinched. If it was not for her fear for her father’s safety, she would find a way out of this hellish torment. She rapped with her gloved hand and waited for his response.

“Enter.”

His tall form stood commandingly in front of the fire and, as she walked in, he turned, looking her up and down, studying her as he proffered his hand.

“Come in, me sweet. Take a seat. I wish tae talk wi’ ye.” His voice was honey-sweet, belying his barbarous nature.

A tightness gripped her stomach. It was rare, indeed, for Andrew Sutherland to seek a formal audience. She was used to his demand that she spoke only when he wished it. He spent little time with her other than his dalliance with her in his bedchamber and she knew to keep silent in his bed. Her orders were generally conveyed to her by one of his henchmen.

Retaking his seat, he gestured toward a second chair. After seating herself, she looked up expectantly, hoping his words with her would be brief and she would soon be able to take her leave.

Staring into the fire, he steepled his hands. “I have a mission fer ye, lass.”

“Aye, me laird?” She drew in a deep, silent breath, exhaling slowly, preparing herself for his next command.

“’Tis an important task, and I trust ye, as me most able raider, tae carry it out. I cannae afford any mistakes.” His eyes took on their customary menace. “There will be a great deal of trouble tae come from this should things go awry.

“What d’ye wish of me?” She did her best to feign interest, leaning forward, looking up, meeting his gaze with her green eyes, nodding wisely as if she hung on his every word. No doubt he wished her and her crew to attack a merchant ship bursting with gold and treasure as they had done many times before. She stifled a yawn as he went on about the seriousness of the mission he was entrusting her with. Allowing him to see how much his droning words failed to excite her would earn his displeasure.

“I need ye to track a man who is causing me a great deal of irritation and costing me a fortune in the outer islands of the Hebrides. His ships have interfered with the route between the islands and the English coast.”

Aileen nodded at this. She was aware that several of Sutherland’s crews had been intercepted and their bounty taken. She understood that the island sailors were fast-moving and fierce fighters. Someone else was benefiting from the sweet trade of piracy.

She straightened her shoulders. This proposition had caught her interest. Sutherland would brook no competitor. If there was a man, or men, audacious enough to wreak havoc on his supremely profitable enterprise, then she wished to meet with such a man.

“And once I’ve tracked this man, what then?”

“Then, me dear, I wish ye tae take him prisoner and bring him tae me.”

“Where am I likely to find him?”

A sudden frown marred Sutherland’s handsome, aristocratic features. “I’ve heard that the men who are causing me so much trouble are members of Clan MacNeil of the Isle of Barra. I wish ye tae capture their laird, Everard MacNeil, and bring him tae me in chains.”

She was under no illusion as to the fate the Laird MacNeil would meet at Sutherland’s hands. Nothing less than torture and execution for daring to so openly defy the great laird.

She rose to her feet wishing for nothing other than to leave his presence. “I’ll take me leave then, me laird. Tomorrow me crew will make preparation and we shall be sail by nightfall.”

He stood and took a step towards her, running his hand down her arm, toying with her glove, the symbol of his power over her.

“Wait awhile, Aileen.” His voice was commanding. He’d brook no disagreement. “I fancy a wee moment of enjoyment wi’ ye.”

She managed to repress a shudder of revulsion as he took her in his arms and pressed a harsh kiss on her lips, his hands freely roaming her body.

She feigned desire, weaving her arms around his neck and toying with his dark locks. She accepted his tongue in her mouth, moaning a little as he took her, appearing for all the world the way she imagined a woman enamored and hopelessly lost to passion would be.

Damn him!

When she was at last granted permission to leave and return to her sparse, cold chamber, she was glad of this new assignment. It would take her far from Dunrobin Castle and the Laird Andrew Sutherland.

 

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Chapter One

November 1309

Ullapool, Scotland, near the shores of Loch Broom

Maxwell MacNeil rubbed his calloused hands together, savoring the warmth emanating from the fire blazing merrily in the smoky tavern’s hearth. Outside, the icy wind howled with the ferocity of a wolf pack, causing him to clutch his cloak a little tighter. He reached for the tankard of ale on the table in front of him and took a hearty gulp, his first sup of ale in months.

There was satisfaction in knowing his older brother, Laird Everard, would be well pleased when Maxwell relayed the success of their mission. He and his men would be homeward bound tomorrow and if Lady Luck was with them, in two days’ time they’d be dining in Barra Castle, basking in Everard’s gratitude and well rewarded for their troubles. There’d be rowdy shouts of approval from the clansmen, and fair-eyed lasses eyeing them with lust in their gaze. The ale would flow and the tales of battle would ring out through the castle’s great hall. Maxwell’s lips curled in a half smile as he turned to his cousin James Anderson, who was seated by his side.

“Aye lad. We’ll both sleep in the bedroom up the stairs. The good landlord has given us his room fer the night and found stalls for the men at the back of the stables.” He offered a grin. “I daresay they’re raising the roof with their snores by now.”

James chuckled, raising his pewter in salute. “Slàinte Mhath, lad. Tae yer good health. Ye’ve brought them all safe through the midst of battle and we have much to thank ye for. Ye’re a fine warrior and a good leader, Maxwell.”

Maxwell turned his gaze back to the fire. Such praise for simply doing his duty to his laird did not sit comfortably on his broad shoulders, yet it warmed his soul to ken he had the respect of his men. He finished his tankard and signaled to the tavern-keeper to bring him another.

Out of habit that his eyes made a sweep of the room. After all, who kent whether an enemy might be sitting too close for comfort? But there were few souls still at large and, save for one table in the corner, where a pair of men with grey hair were comfortably seated, chatting, and a noisy table of younger men who, in their worn britches and rough leather tunics, had the appearance of farmhands, there was only one other occupant.

A woman. Alone.

At once his attention was ensnared by the solo figure. She was seated at a small table near the doorway and, for all the world, was as calm as a summer’s day, quietly supping on a tankard. She suddenly turned her head and their eyes met. Perhaps she felt his eyes on her, or perhaps she had been drawn to him as he had been to her. Something shivered through him as he felt himself consumed by her green cat’s-gaze, her full lips parted in a teasing smile. He returned her smile and nodded.

If it was a challenge she was after, he was up for it. He’d had nay lassie warming his bed since they’d departed Barra all those months ago and he was more than ready to break the drought this night. His groin twitched pleasurably as he contemplated the prospect of bedding the lass.

She’d a glorious mane of red hair, liberally streaked with rose-gold, that flowed free over her shoulders, half-covering the hood of her fur cloak. His curiosity was piqued. He wanted her to rise to her feet so he could glimpse what the rest of her was like, although he was rather certain she was slim and sleek.

It was then he took heed of the gloves she wore that extended beyond her elbows. She toyed with the fabric, smoothing the green velvet along her arms, making him think of the velvet of her warm, bare skin as he ran his hands over it while she lay moaning with pleasure beneath him. There was that twitch again, stronger now.

Maxwell took his time to study the woman. She wasnae young, mayhap similar in age to himself – and he was fast approaching thirty. The softness of youth had fled and her face was clear-shaped, fine-boned, with a straight nose, dark brows and wide green eyes. Her cheeks were berry-brown, which spoke of time spent outdoors. But she’d nae the weathered look of a farm girl. Her smooth skin shone in the firelight, and he was taken by her elegant beauty.

James looked over, raising a dark brow as he caught the drift of Maxwell’s attention. “Aye lad. she’s a beauty. ‘Tis time ye enjoyed a little dalliance with a lively lass. Ye’ve thought of naught but battles long enough.” He cast Maxwell a mischievous grin. “And ye, big oaf that ye are, wi’ yer broad chest and yer ink markings covering every inch of ye, are just the very sort of lad the lassies go crazy for.”

This last was greeted with a grunt from Maxwell. “’Tis true, I’ve nae had room in me head fer any thoughts other than doing Everard’s work.” He glanced at the woman again. She had, by now, turned back to the fire. “But somehow this lass doesnae strike me as the kind who’d go crazy fer any man.”

James seized his tankard and swilled the last of his ale. “Well, there’s but one way tae find out, and that’s tae take yerself over to where she sits and bid her hello.” He rose to his feet. “I bid ye goodnight and good luck.” James gave a brief salute, turned on his heel and headed for the stairs.

Maxwell groaned. James was right, of course. It was not like him to be in the least reluctant to approach a lass in a tavern, haughty and elegant looks notwithstanding. Yet there was something about this woman that signaled she was different to any other woman he’d known. He gave his head a slight shake, dismissing his doubts. With the challenge of her smile uppermost in his thoughts, he placed his tankard on the table and stood, intending to see what possibilities the night – and the lass – had in store.

At that moment one of the young men who’d been drinking with his friends staggered to his feet and, obviously spurred on by the same thoughts as Maxwell’s, made his unsteady way toward the seated woman.

In three strides Maxwell reached her, just as the lad raised a burly arm and seized her by the shoulder. She went to twist away, but he held fast.

“Take yer hand off me.” Her voice rose in indignation at this unwanted intrusion.

“Ye heard the lady.” Maxwell gritted his teeth, his big hands curling into fists. He was used to dealing with battle-hardened warriors and this lad was a mere pup whose neck he could snap in a trice. “If ye value yer good health, I’d let her be.” His voice was quiet but well-oiled with menace.

The inebriated lad looked up into Maxwell’s gaze, his eyes suddenly fearful. The hand that had been gripping the woman’s shoulder abruptly dropped to his side. “Sorry milord, milady.” He gave a loud belch, turned and stepped back, before shuffling across to his friends.

Maxwell turned to the lass, a smile curving his lips as he anticipated her grateful response to his chivalry. But instead of a warm smile of thanks, her pretty lips turned down and he was met with a scowl.

“If ye’re expecting me to simper and thank ye for saving me from a discourteous yokel, ye’re much mistaken. I’m able to manage these foolish affronts without the assistance of a man.”

He took a step back, his eyebrows shooting up. “I beg yer pardon, lass.” He shook his head, “I intended nay dishonor to ye. I was merely offering me help before the situation took an ugly turn.”

She shrugged. “As I said, I can manage without yer so-called help.”

A rush of wickedness overtook Maxwell. So, she thinks she is too good fer me help daes she? He turned and snapped his fingers in the obnoxious lad’s direction.

“Here lad.” The churl’s head snapped up, a wary expression on his face. “I bid ye come back tae the lady. She wishes tae deal wi’ ye herself.”

She huffed loudly and cast Maxwell a snarl. “Ye’re too clever fer yer own good.”

He slanted her a sly grin. “So, after all, mayhap ye dinnae wish yer swain to return and ply ye wi’ his favors.”

“Mayhap I dinnae.”

“Nay lad.” He called, inclining his head in the woman’s direction. “The wee lass is nay interested in yer favors after all.” He chuckled. “Methinks, she prefers me company tae yers.”

She snorted, her green eyes flashing fire. “Prefer yer company? Think again fellow. I dinnae wish fer company at all.” Raising a defiant chin, she turned away from Maxwell and raised her tankard to her lips.

Unable to resist, Maxwell pulled another chair to the table and sat, signaling to the landlord to bring him another tankard.

“Ye’ll forbid me from taking a draught of ale wi’ ye then? Fer courtesy’s sake?”

She turned her gaze on him and something twinkled there, that, to Maxwell’s mind, could have been mischief. “I’d nae be discourteous to a stranger. Ye may take yer drink beside me if ye wish. But first…”

He lifted his head, his interest sparking. “First…?” he echoed.

“First I wish tae show ye how little I care fer yer pretense at chivalry. I challenge ye tae a match of skill, tae test ye against me and fer ye tae see how I am able tae better ye. ‘Tis time ye learned a lesson or two yerself.”

Maxwell rocked back on his chair.

What foolishness is this? The lass is challenging me tae physical combat!

His glance took in her form as she glowered at him. She was, as he’d imagined, slim and slight – although there were curves enough to please a lad. There was no way a lass such as this could begin to be a match for his warrior’s tempered skills.

“Well?”

He laughed. “I cannae wrestle wi’ a lass like yerself. ‘Tis nae fair tae ye.” He looked her up and down. “Why, I’m twice yer size, I would break ye like a wee twig if ye wrestled wi’ me.”

“Is that a refusal tae take on me challenge?” She pinned him with the intensity of her gaze.

He slowly shook his head. The only match with the lass that interested him was the one he envisaged taking place in a soft bed, where they both shed their clothes and lay naked. Then she could wrestle with him all she liked, rolling atop his broad nakedness, pressing her bountiful breasts to his chest—

“Why, nay.” He grinned at her.

If this is what she demands, she is welcome tae a defeat at me hands.

“Never let it be said I am a coward who refuses a challenge thrown at me. I’ll pit me strength against yers whenever ye wish.”

At that, she jumped to her feet, spilling a drop of her ale on the table. “Right. Ye’ve agreed and we shall fight.”

As he stood, Maxwell became aware that a hush had fallen over the tavern’s patrons and all eyes had suddenly turned on himself and the fiery-haired lass.

Across the room one of the old men raised a fist. “Ay! Let’s see a lass take down a big warrior.” He licked his lips, lending a salacious hint to his words.

The woman led the way through the tavern door to the cobbled yard outside. She turned to Maxwell, who followed close behind her, his mind whirling at the absurdity of the situation he found himself in.

“Here is a good space fer our bout.”

The two old men followed them out and a small crowd gathered. The rowdy lads appeared, solemn-faced now. The tavern-keeper stepped up to Maxwell.

“Milord, hand me yer weapons and yer cloak. Ye’ll nae be needing them.”

As he divested himself of his sword and dirk and handed the man his heavy, woolen cloak, he noted a young maid doing the same for the lass who was to be his opponent.

He stepped forward and the crowd grew silent. “I’ll nae partake of punches, kicks, or slaps. It wouldnae be seemly fer me tae raise a hand against a woman.”

There was a rumble of approval from the growing crowd and the woman shrugged. “I’ll nae abide by yer rules.”

Maxwell gave a short laugh. “As ye wish, milady. Me rules are fer meself. If ye are able tae land a blow, then good luck tae ye.”

The tavern keeper held up his hand. “At the count of ten, let the bout between ye begin.” He began counting and as he reached the word ‘ten’ the lass sprang toward Maxwell.

He swung his body to the side and, missing her mark, she darted past him, her jaw set in a determined line. Then, with a speed that surprised him, she swiveled and came at him again. Her booted foot was angled between his knees, catching him off balance, causing him to stumble. He raised an arm to parry a blow from her and caught it on his elbow with a grunt of pain. Before he could turn, she had twisted away from him and was crouching, her fists high, her eyes holding his.

It was then he realized the seriousness of the situation. This audacious lass was quick and fearless and intended to defeat him with both guile and strength.

“Oof.”

In the scant second it took him to gather his wits, she had darted forward and landed a blow to his solar plexus, almost winding him.

He straightened, growling and hauling in a breath. She was clearly enjoying this, her green eyes flashing with a warrior’s light. By the saints, this hell-cat was trained, as he was, and her skill was a good match for his.

If he was to spare himself the humiliation of being defeated by a mere lass, it was time he shed his chivalry and took charge. There was no denying she was skillful, but she lacked his strength and the battle-hardened ruthlessness no foe could withstand.

It was over in seconds. As she came at him again, he dodged and seized her arm, twisting it hard behind her. She moaned in pain but he tightened his grip and pushed her captive arm higher, bringing her to her knees. Bit by grinding bit, he forced her resistance to submit to his strength. Finally, in a lightning move, he had her face down on the ice-cold stones, his knee on her back, holding her there as the tavern-keeper counted to three.

Panting, Maxwell released her. “Ye fought well, lass.”

She rolled onto her back, supporting herself on one elbow. As she did so, the skirt she’d hoisted up to give herself more traction fell aside, displaying a long shapely leg and a charming glimpse of a bare thigh. Maxwell’s heart leaped at the arousing sight, but he averted his eyes, respecting her modesty, reaching a hand to assist her to her feet. As she rose, he folded her into his arms. For a long moment her body was pressed to his. Her warmth and the softness of her breasts rising and falling against his chest caused his wayward manhood to harden beneath his kilt.

He held her for a heartbeat too long, savoring the wildflower scent of her hair, the heat of her body and the indescribable, heady aroma that was her, musky and female.

Blood pounded in his temples as he held her, oblivious to the shouts of the gathered crowd. They were both panting from their exertions, their gasping breaths mingling in the icy air. Then the lass raised her head, her green eyes locked with his, and a wild spark of something hot, as sharp as a piercing blade, rushed between them, robbing what little of his breath remained.

She reached out, snaked an arm around his neck and leaned up. He dipped his head in answer to her unspoken demand and, without hesitating, her mouth took his in a kiss.

There was no restraint. The tension that had built between them in the tavern and during their physical bout, overflowed into a melding of pleasure and desire that rocked Maxwell to his core. This was a meeting of lips and tongues in fiery passion. He was oblivious to his surroundings, unaware of the jeers of the onlooking crowd, lost as he was in the wonder of her lips and the soaring, aching need to consume this wild creature, whose wiles held him captive. He tightened his embrace, pressing his hands to her well-rounded buttocks so that she rode against his hardness. He savored her answering pressure as she shifted her hips to accommodate him.

Then, all too soon, it was over.

He groaned, chest heaving in frustration, as she raised her head. Her eyes were shining dark in the lamplight as she calmly appraised him.

Damn. He could think of naught but bedding the lass but the room he shared with James was not the place to wreak his pent-up passion.

She moved out of his embrace and he groaned again. “Lass…” he began, “I’ve a sore need… fer a bed…” Pressing a finger to his lips she shook her head.

“I’ve a preference fer my own bed. Its feathers are soft and the covers are warm. Would ye care to join me there? Ye’d find it much superior to the hard straw mattress of the tavern.”

He threw his head back and laughed. “I cannae resist such a fine offer. There is aught else I desire than tae while away the hours until daylight in yer company.”

She flicked her long, unbound hair over her shoulder and straightened her skirt. Then she reached for the fur cloak being proffered by the maid. “D’ye care tae follow me?”

Maxwell shrugged on his own cloak and hastily fastened his sword and dirk in his belt. He made a courtly bow. “Milady, it would be me pleasure.”

Without another word, the woman turned on her heel and stepped into the darkness beyond the tavern.

Heart pounding, Maxwell followed. It crossed his mind that he should let James know he was venturing into the village to continue his dalliance with the lass. But surely, he would approve. As the mysterious woman’s footsteps grew fainter along the path, he threw caution to the wind and took off, quickly catching up with her as she strode purposefully through the village.

She led him along one winding laneway and turned into yet another equally tortuous path. As he followed, his footsteps keeping time with the hers, he looked around, frowning. He had no idea where he was. One or two windows showed flickering candle light, but there was little to distinguish one lane from another. While the moon lit their way with a silvery glimmer, finding his way back to the tavern come morning would prove a challenge.

A little further along, they turned a corner and, after a few more steps, emerged from the tangle of village streets onto a broad stone jetty where a birlinn, in full sail, rode at anchor.

Maxwell paused, expecting the lass to complain they’d taken a wrong turn. Instead, she strode toward the vessel.

He followed her to the foot of a rope ladder descending from the deck, where a lamp hung, casting a dim light over the hull. She placed a foot in the ladder and grasped the rope.

“Come.” She beckoned him to follow.

“Wait, lass.” As she swayed on the rope in the dim light, her cloak floating around her, she could have been a wraith or a pixie or some other supernatural creature. Was she real?

“I didnae ken ye’d bring me to a ship.” Tales of sailors lured to their doom or men captured from villages such as this and forced to row endlessly in pirate galleys sprang into his head. “I’ll wager there’s nay feather bed on board this wee boat.”

“Why, me brave warrior, are ye afraid of the sea?”

“Me concern is nae wi’ the sea lassie. ‘Tis wi’ ye. Are ye a siren intent on luring unsuspecting sailors tae a salty death?”

She gave a tinkling laugh. “Ye’ve naught tae fear. Ye’re nae a sailor and the sirens are nay danger tae a landlocked warrior.” She pshawed. “And as fer the feather bed. When we’re alone, I wager ye’ll nae care a jot whether the bed ye’re lying on is made of feather, horsehair or stones.”

With a grunt of laughter, he reached a hand for the ladder as she stepped higher.

“Aye. Ye’re right, pretty lass, I’ll care naught fer a feather bed when I have me hands on ye and ye’re writhing in me arms, squealing and crying out in yer ecstasy, begging me never tae stop.”

Chapter Two

Aileen,

I write to remind ye of our pact. If ye value yer faither’s life, I trust ye will remember yer duty tae me. I wish ye tae bring me that upstart rogue Everard MacNeil, whose presence affords me great inconvenience and substantial sums of money. He would thwart the sweet business of piracy in which both ye and I are engaged. Dinnae delay. Bring him tae me so that I may deal with him as he deserves. 

I send me regards.

The Laird Andrew Sutherland.

***

Aileen took a deep breath to steady her racing heartbeat as she glided silently across the deck. Behind her she could hear the man making his way up the rope ladder, cursing as he went. She smiled to herself.

Landlubber.

She didn’t look back. She had bewitched him, and no doubt her coquette’s talk and the promise of bed would be enough to ensure he’d follow her.

For the briefest of seconds, she allowed the possibility that it was he who might have enchanted her, with his warrior’s chivalry, deep skill, and great strength. To say naught of the piercing blue of his eyes, the raven-dark hair that fell to his shoulders, the face carved from stone like some statue of antiquity – barbaric yet beautiful – and the images she’d glimpsed inked on his neck and shoulders. An eagle’s wing, a Celtic symbol, crossed blades.

It was too bad she’d been ordered to deliver Everard MacNeil to her nemesis Andrew Sutherland. No doubt the sadistic man would soon tire of torture and Everard would be summarily executed. But fulfilling Sutherland’s demands would keep her father alive. For now, at least.

She paused briefly at the entrance to the small cabin – hardly more than a rough-built shelter in the ship’s stern – giving the lad enough time to be by her side as she took a step up into the candle-lit room. The tiny space had room for only a simple table and chairs. Resting on the table was a thick, black, ebony rod.

Casting a glance around, her companion gave a snort of laughter “Why, there’s nay bed here at all, lass.” Before she could respond he had seized her in his arms. “‘Tis of nay moment. I’ll have ye on the table, or the floor. I dinnae care. But I’ll have ye…”

She felt his manhood, hard and long, pressing against her thigh and her blood rose in response. He claimed her mouth in a continuance of the desperate passion they’d shared after their bout. For only a moment she allowed herself to succumb to desire and return the fire of his kiss.

This surge of heat coursing through her at his touch bore no resemblance to the ice in her blood when Sutherland laid his hands on her. This was compelling, demanding. She wanted his touch rather than being repelled, as she was by the man who owned her. Surely, it could do no harm to revel in the rapture of their kiss for a few seconds more?

In danger of losing herself in his arms, she steeled herself to bring a cold reserve to the present. She reminded herself how she despised arrogant men such as this, who patronized her, failing to respect her power and her own warrior’s skill. Their confidence of their power as certain as the rise and fall of the tides. She’d taught him a lesson and now she would follow her orders. There could be no respite, no dallying with pleasure and desire.

As their kiss deepened, Maxwell’s hands slid down her back, pressing her to him. She shifted, her hand, reaching slowly behind her for the ebony rod on the table. Her fingers curled around it, grasping it tight. She paused. He seemed to have no inkling of her movement, or what was to come.

With a swift move she brought up her hand clutching the heavy rod and slammed it onto the man’s head. There was a faint crunching sound as the ebony hit home, his head flew back and he uttered a harsh cry. His hands fell away from her and he crumpled to the floor at her feet.

In a flash she was kneeling beside him feeling for his pulse, his heartbeat. His heart was reacting to the blow, its rhythm a trifle unsteady. But its beat was strong and she had no doubt he would suffer little more than a ferocious ache when he regained his senses. A trickle of blood issued from the back of his head where she’d struck him and, for half a jolt of time, she felt what might have been a pang of remorse. But this was quickly displaced by the satisfaction of having accomplished what she’d set out to do.

Her mission to capture Everard MacNeil had gone even more smoothly than she could have hoped. Except for her loss of composure at the inn and her reckless challenge to the impertinent sod, her plan had worked seamlessly.

She was getting to her feet when two others, a lass and a sturdy lad, slipped into the cabin. Smiling broadly the lass hastened to her side. “Ye’ve done it. Now we have our prisoner. Well done, Captain. Everard MacNeil is an important chief and ye’re nae the only one who would make a prisoner of such a man.” Her voice softened. “Yer faither would be proud of ye.”

Aileen brushed her skirt down, still somewhat dazed by the speed and ease of her victory.

“I appreciate yer words, me dear Finn, and I thank ye fer being by me side as ye have been since me braither’s murder. I could ask fer nay more trustworthy a pair than ye and yon Séamus.”

Finn turned to Séamus and gave him a wink. “Even if dear Sea is an Irishman.”

This brought an amused grunt from Séamus, who was already on the floor beside Everard, shackling his ankles and arms with stout chains.

“He might try. But he’ll have the devil’s job escaping these chains.” He unlaced Everard’s cloak and handed it to Finn. “Here, this is a fine piece of wool plaid tae keep ye warm through this icy winter.”

He unfastened the pouch Everard wore at his waist and placed it in Finn’s waiting hand. Then he pulled Everard’s sword from its scabbard and took the dirk from his belt. “He’ll have nay need of his weapons.”

While Everard slumbered, his three captors seated themselves at the table.

Séamus took out a flagon from the locker, poured three pots of whisky and passed them around.

“Slàinte Mhath.” He raised his tankard. “Here’s to our continued good health.”

Finn glanced uneasily at their prisoner. He lay prone, his arms and ankles held fast. She gave a slight shiver. “I’m nae so certain about this one. He looks a lot like trouble to me.”

Séamus shook his head. “Dinna fash lassie. He’s nae match fer us.” He dismissed the possibility without a second thought and turned his glance up to Aileen.

“What now, Captain? Dae we forge ahead to Castle Dunrobin tae deliver the prisoner to Sutherland? Or dae we deal with those slave traders we hold below, bound and tied beside the sleeping oarsmen? Should we rid ourselves of the scum before we continue in the morning?

Aileen sipped the whisky as she pondered Séamus’s question. They’d captured the three men when they’d overtaken a larger cog carrying furs and grain from the east.

The ship was also carrying slaves. Fair-skinned women from beyond the Caucus Mountains, bound for the Ottoman harems in the city of Edirne. They had freed the slaves, who had been grateful for their sudden unexpected luck, but now Aileen had to decide the fate of their loathsome slave traders.

She considered this. They’d taken the traders’ cog and all its bounty and her men had sailed it back to Dunrobin. Now the fate of the three captives rested with her. She felt nothing for them. As far as she was concerned the slavers were beneath contempt, their cruel trade condemning innocents to a life of unspeakable hardship.

“I ken ye hate the way these men sully the innocent, nae caring a fig for the pain and suffering they cause, all in the name of money and greed.”

Aileen snapped her fingers. Finn was right. These men had no right to live. If they were released, they would find their way back and resume their evil trade. Although there were many to step into their shoes, she had the chance to rid the world of a tiny part of its wickedness.

She shook her head, an icy calm descending over her.

“Once we’re at sea, we’ll toss them over the side.” In the chill waters of the North Sea there was little chance of survival beyond a few minutes. “Theirs would be my fate should our situations be reversed. I’m under nay illusion.”

Séamus cast a sideways glance at Finn who was regarding Aileen with a concerned frown.

“’Tis nay true, Aileen. Ye’ve a heart as big as…” He spread his arms to indicate distance.

Aileen grunted. “But nae big enough to spare the cruel and the wicked.”

“Aye. As ye say. It shall be done.”

There was nothing further to be said and Finn exhaled. The moment was over. “And then?”

Aileen gestured at their captive’s slumped form. “Then we deliver our prize to Sutherland. I daresay he’ll have a smidgen of gratitude for a job well done.”

Picking up Everard’s pouch from the table, Séamus loosened the tie. A small number of coins dropped out and he scooped them up. Then he extracted a folded piece of parchment.

“Is that a letter?” Aileen said. “Pass it tae me.”

Séamus, who found reading and writing to be unnecessarily difficult and had never really bothered to learn, passed the folded piece to Aileen. She smoothed it on the table and studied the hand-written note.

As she read, she sucked in a startled breath.

Finn shot her a wary look. “Is something wrong?”

Aileen let fly a string of curses. “God’s blood!” She slammed a fist on the table. “By all the devils in hell. We’ve got ourselves the wrong man. This isnae Everard MacNeil, but his braither, Maxwell. War Chief of Clan MacNeil.”

She ground her teeth. No wonder this man had had such an easy victory over her when they had sparred. His name was known far and wide. He was a great warrior, a leader, and a man who was feared throughout the Highlands and beyond. And every one of those inked images she’d glimpsed – that no doubt covered his entire body – represented a foe he had killed in battle.

Grabbing handfuls of her hair with both hands she rocked back in her chair, her mind reeling with the potential consequences of such a grave error.

It was Finn who put into words the thoughts that were rioting in Aileen’s head. “Oh, me God. The Laird Sutherland will be on fire when he discovers this.” She raised a hand to her mouth, her eyes suddenly wide with fear. “His punishment fer this error will be harsh.”

Séamus leaped to his feet, his hand already on his dirk.

“I can end the MacNeil now, Captain, if ye wish it. There’s none will ken. We can still capture his braither.”

His words hung in the air while Aileen wrestled with the impossible dilemma she found herself in.

It was in that moment an ear-splitting sound, somewhere between a groan and a roar, drew her attention to Maxwell’s prone figure.

His eyes shot open and he grimaced as he faced her. “Jesus Christ and all the saints in heaven, lass.” He struggled into a sitting position, his eyes darting from Aileen to Finn and then to Séamus. “Did ye have to hit me so damned hard?”

Her eyes roamed over the humbled but still defiant figure, observing the contours of his broad shoulders, his burly chest, and the strong arms now held fast in shackles.

She met his ice-blue gaze, sensing his rage simmering fit to boil. A shiver ran through her, at once heating and freezing her blood. For all his helplessness, Maxwell MacNeil remained a powerful man.

At that she made up her mind.

“Nay Séamus, we will spare him. Mayhap he will prove tae be of some use tae us, after all.”

Finn drew in a sharp breath. “Captain, is that wise? This will send a message to the MacNeil whereas before this he had nay sense of danger from us.”

Aileen allowed herself a moment to mull over Finn’s warning.

“Nay, Finn.” She shook her head. “’Tis too late tae undae what’s done. Sooner or later, Everard MacNeil will come after us. When he does, we’ll be ready.”

She turned to Maxwell. “Ye’re the prisoner of Pirate Captain Aileen MacAlpin.” She grinned. “Ye’re mine now, me fine big lad, and I’ll dae with ye as I wish.”

Maxwell’s eyes were riveted on her face, studying her with an intensity that made her quiver under his gaze and look away momentarily.

He laughed. A bold, brazen sound of ridicule that rang through the cabin. How dare he laugh at me when he is me prisoner. She half-raised a hand, wishing to slap away his mirth and the merriment written on his handsome face.

Best selling books of Kenna

 

One month prior

Lucia scrunched up her nose in distaste as she took a seat across from Rory Campbell on a creaky chair that could barely hold her weight, let alone that of a grown man. She had been in much worse establishments than this tavern, of course. If anything, she had to admit that this was quite a nice place, save for the old furniture the owners seemed intent on keeping. The air still smelled like ale and wine and it was still loud in the room, dark and damp and crowded, but at least there was a large fireplace to keep the place warm and the patrons didn’t risk being poisoned by the food and drink.

It wasn’t the place Lucia didn’t like, but rather the company. She had never quite liked Rory and his men, thinking of them as fools who could hardly pull off a job, but this opportunity she had for them was simple enough that even they could do it—or at least so he hoped.

The point was, they were cheap. Lucia could hardly afford to eat those days, let alone pay someone to do her dirty work for her, but sometimes certain sacrifices were necessary.

“Miss Donnelly!” Rory all but shouted, but then fell swiftly silent when Lucia grabbed her knife and stabbed it on the table right next to his hand.

“Have ye lost yer mind?” she asked. “Keep yer voice down. An’ dinnae call me that. Ye’re nae funny.”

Looking thoroughly scolded, Rory pulled back a little, the smile dropping from his face. “Ye’re truly becomin’ a nightmare, Lucia. What is the matter with ye? Why dae ye never smile?”

Lucia stared at Rory, unimpressed, and then smiled—or rather bared her teeth at him, like an animal ready to attack. Exasperated, Rory threw his hands in the air and then took a deep breath, leaning closer over the table.

“Alright, alright… what dae ye want, then?” he asked. “Why did ye call us here?”

Lucia looked around to see that some of his men were there too, though they were not all sitting together, but were rather scattered around the room. At least they were smart about some things, she thought, as she returned her attention to Rory.

“I have a job fer ye,” she said as she subtly jingled the pouch of coins that was attached to her belt. “It pays well.”

“How well?”

“Well enough,” said Lucia. “It’s very simple.”

“It’s never simple with ye,” Rory said. “This is why we never work with ye.”

“Is that what it is?” Lucia asked, raising a curious eyebrow. “I could have sworn it was because ye’re all useless.”

Even if she needed Rory and his men, she couldn’t hold her tongue. It was one of those things that got her into trouble more often than not, but if there was one thing she knew about Rory—other than the fact that he was a fool—it was that he didn’t take offence at such things. Just as she had expected, he laughed, his entire body shaking with mirth, his cheeks turning a ruddy color.

Taking a sip from his ale, Rory gestured at the serving wench to bring two more cups to the table. Lucia could appreciate this about Rory, too; if he was drinking, then everyone was drinking—and Rory drank often.

The serving wench was quick to bring them more ale and Lucia grabbed her cup immediately, draining half of it in one big gulp. It helped steel her nerves; it helped calm her and remind her that she had been doing this for a long time. The plan was a little risky, that much was true, and it depended on the behavior of another person, which was unpredictable. But Lucia had no other choice. She needed the help, and there was only one man in that entire tavern who could help her.

It wasn’t Rory. For him, it would be a job, nothing more than that. Lucia rather needed someone who would help her out of the goodness of his heart—someone who may not be quick to trust, but who repaid any debt he owed. Someone with honor.

And that man was sitting a few tables back. Alaric MacGregor, the brother of Laird Evan MacGregor, who often went on dangerous missions as a scout for the clan. If there was one thing known about the MacGregors, it was that they always repaid those who treated them with kindness, and more so than anyone else, it seemed to be true for Alaric. He was the kind of man Lucia needed for this mission; someone who would want to repay her for her help, someone who wouldn’t hesitate to throw himself in the middle of a fight, someone who wasn’t afraid of danger.

“See that laddie over there?” Lucia said, nodding her head subtly backwards. Thankfully, Rory had the common sense to look just as subtly, but then his eyes widened just a little when he looked back at Lucia.

“What about him?”

“I need ye tae kidnap him.”

For a few long moments, silence stretched over their table. Rory didn’t react at all to Lucia’s words and she was under the impression at first that he had not heard her at all, but then he let his head fall in his hands with a groan, looking at her through the gaps in his fingers.

“I feared ye’d say somethin’ like this,” Rory said. “Why? Why would I kidnap someone who looks like that?”

Lucia had to admit it was a fair question. Alaric MacGregor looked about as gentle as a killer or perhaps a bear. With his dark hair and just as dark beard and the tattoos and scars that seemed to cover every inch of his skin, it was difficult to come up with a convincing reason for Rory other than the gold she was willing to give him.

“Because ye’ll be paid fer it,” she reminded him. “That is all ye need tae ken. I only need ye tae capture him an’ make it seem realistic. Dinnae hurt him too much, though. I need him in one piece.”

With a sigh, Rory shook his head, for a moment contemplating the bottom of his already empty cup. “What if he harms me men?”

“A very probable outcome,” Lucia admitted with a small shrug. “But if ye feared danger or yer men bein’ harmed, then ye shouldnae be in this line o’ work at all.”

“Listen, Lucia, I ken how tae pick me victims,” Rory said in a whisper as he leaned even closer, so that only she could hear him. “I ken who tae capture an’ who tae rob. That man over there? He doesnae look like someone I wish tae capture or rob.”

Lucia couldn’t help but roll her eyes at Rory. For someone who made a living hurting people, he certainly appeared very resistant to the idea now.

“I dinnae have tae convince ye,” Lucia said. “There are others who can dae it fer me.”

It was only half the truth. Certainly, there were others, but whether or not Lucia had the coin for them was debatable. Besides, she needed to move fast. For all she knew, Alaric would be heading out on a mission soon and she wanted everything to be ready for her to strike. She couldn’t waste precious time trying to find another group of brigands.

Rory hesitated, especially when Lucia jingled the bag of coin once more. She always knew how to hook him—Rory wanted the gold and there were few things he wouldn’t do for it. He simply showed some resistance for the sake of it, Lucia thought sometimes. He couldn’t help but be theatrical.

Theatrical was good. She needed someone who could play his role well.

“How much?” Rory asked.

“As I said, more than enough,” Lucia said. “Half now an’ half when ye finish the job.”

“How many men will I need?”

“Many.”

Though Alaric was not particularly known to be vicious, he was known to be capable. Once he was attacked by brigands, there was no telling how many of them he could neutralize on his own. Lucia wanted Rory to be prepared. After all, if he wasn’t, there was a chance Alaric would escape and flee before Lucia could use him.

“An’ then? What happens once we capture him?”

“Well…” Lucia said, leaning in close too, so that their noses were almost touching. “Then I come in an’ save him.”

Rory laughed, once again so amused by her response that his entire body shook. When he saw that Lucia was entirely serious, though, his laughter died and he looked at her as though she had suddenly sprung a second head.

“Why?” he asked. “How does that make any sense?”

“That doesnae concern ye,” Lucia said. “But I need him tae think he owes me a favor. Dae ye understand? All ye have tae dae is capture him an’ then let me free him.”

As she spoke, Lucia untied the pouch of gold from her belt and tossed it to Rory, who peeked inside at its contents. Though he didn’t respond immediately, Lucia knew him well. He couldn’t say no.

“Alright,” he said with a nod. “Alright… we shall help ye with yer mad plan.”

Clapping a hand over Rory’s shoulder, Lucia said, “If it wasnae mad, it wouldnae work.”

 

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Chapter One

As Alaric MacGregor sat on a rickety chair in a dark, unfamiliar, bare room, he began to think that perhaps this was a bad omen for his upcoming marriage. His wrists were bound behind his back and his mouth filled with the taste of blood whenever a grimace pulled his bottom lip open again.

An irrational thought, surely—he was certain his betrothed was a perfectly lovely woman, though he had yet to meet her, interrupted as his return home had been by the men who had captured him. When his brother, Laird Evan MacGregor, had called him back from his scouting mission to meet his future wife, Alaric had thought that even if it would be a marriage of convenience and he had little, if any, say in it, he could still try to make the most of it. He hadn’t expected that he would find himself suddenly captured and brought to a cottage in the middle of the woods for reasons he had yet to find out.

There were two things those men could want from him: information or gold, and Alaric would give them neither.

Ever since he had been thrown in that room, he had been considering his chances of escape. There were half a dozen men outside his door, at least as far as he was aware. For all he knew, there could be more and he simply had not seen them yet. There was also only one escape route—the door that was firmly locked. The room where they kept him had no windows and with his hands bound, escape seemed all the more challenging.

Someone will have tae let me loose… that is the only way.

If he could just get one of the men to untie him, he could then overpower him, steal his blade, and attempt an escape. Sooner or later, they would have to cut him loose, after all. If they wanted him alive, he would have to eat or relieve himself at some point, and it would be then that Alaric would strike.

Until then, he would bide his time. He had already tried to untie his own hands only find out to soon that his binds were too tight, giving him no room to wiggle free. The attempt had left the skin on his wrists raw and chafed, and so instead of hurting himself further or wasting his energy on something that would not work, he decided to wait for someone to come to him.

He didn’t know how much time had passed when the door opened, but it couldn’t have been too long, since light still poured into the room through the opening, drowning out the orange glow of the single torch that burned on the wall. Alaric blinked a few times as his eyes adjusted to the light, at first seeing nothing but the dark silhouette of a man. When he walked closer, he saw the details of his appearance: short yet sturdy, with dark hair and rough features, his face and forearms scarred, much like Alaric’s own.

“I dinnae suppose ye would be so inclined as tae let me go,” said Alaric, drawing a chuckle out of the man. At least he had a sense of humor, he supposed.

“Nay, I’m afraid I cannae dae that just yet,” he said. “But I have good news. We’ve sent word tae yer braither an’ if he wants ye back without any missin’ limbs, I’m sure he will pay the gold we asked soon.”

“Is that so?” Alaric said with a sigh. Of course, it was gold. More often than not, it was gold, but Alaric had to admit he was surprised, even almost impressed, at how organized those men were. For common brigands, they had done a good job trailing after him and overpowering him before he could do any real damage to any of them. The fight when they captured him had been short and brutal, but the six of them had managed to subdue him suffering only minor injuries.

Unlike them, Alaric couldn’t say he had suffered only a few injuries. There was no part of his body that didn’t ache, as the men had found it, if not necessary, then certainly amusing to beat him bloody and bruised. The only reason he was still so alert was the sheer force of his will and the fact that he had been in such situations before, so he knew how to push away the pain and focus on what truly mattered: a strategy to get out of there alive.

They could have at least had the decency tae avoid me face.

His face had taken the worst of the damage, and the headache that spanned the entirety of his skull was yet another obstacle in his search for freedom. No matter how much he tried to ignore the throbbing pain, it was persistent and ever-present, a constant fog over his mind.

“That is so,” said the man. “So, the sooner he sends it tae us, the sooner ye can leave.”

“Me braither daesnae negotiate with the likes o’ ye.”

“I dinnae wish fer him tae negotiate anythin’,” said the man. “Our demands are what they are. I only need him tae comply.”

Knowing Evan, not only would he give those men the gold if it meant saving Alaric’s life, but he would also meet them himself instead of sending some men to deliver it. Alaric couldn’t help but worry about him. He would much rather escape on his own than have this exchange between Ewan and the brigands.

Besides, the last thing he wanted was for them to get what they desired. He didn’t want them to win.

“Well, until then, perhaps ye could untie me fer a moment,” Alaric said with an impatient sigh. “Unless ye want me tae relieve meself on this chair.”

The man hesitated for a moment, perhaps considering his options. Naturally, he didn’t want to untie Alaric, but what other choice did he have?

“I think ye can wait,” said the man and Alaric looked at him in disbelief. Though he didn’t feel the need to relieve himself just yet, he didn’t understand how that man expected him to wait when he would. Was he supposed to simply wait until Evan had brought the money? For all he knew, it could take days.

“How long, precisely, dae ye expect me tae wait?” he demanded. “Ye seem like a fool but I didnae think ye would be that much o’ a fool. Even fer ye, this seems—”

His sentence was cut short by the echo of shouts that reached his ears through the wooden door. Both he and his captor whipped their heads around to face it, and as the man pulled his sword out of its sheath, Alaric desperately tried to free himself, this time uncaring of the damage he caused to his wrists.

Whatever was happening out there couldn’t possibly be good, especially since he could hear the thundering sound of boots approaching the door. The steps belonged to several men, a jumbled mess of sound that reminded him of a pack of spooked horses, and the only thought in his mind was that there was perhaps a coup of sorts, some of the brigands banding up against the rest.

Without a word, the man rushed out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him. Alaric didn’t hear the distinct sound of the lock, but even so, he didn’t dare move. Where could he go, bound as he was, when there was a fight raging outside? If he tried to escape like this, chances were that he would end up dead.

Straining his ears, Alaric listened for any signs that would give him a hint as to what was happening. Soon, the footsteps stopped and so did the shouts. Alaric waited, holding his breath with his gaze glued to the door, to see what was on the other side.

What he saw when the door opened would have never crossed his mind. A woman stood there, tall and lean, with her long, dark hair tied at the nape. In her hand, she held a sword, its blade bloody. Blood was splattered all over her clothes, too, dark stains against the brown fabric, and her knuckles and lip were bruised and swollen, but she was still grinning.

“There ye are,” she said as she stepped inside, wiping the blade on the edge of her sleeve without a care in the world for the blood she smeared there.

Alaric stared at her, wide-eyed and speechless. She looked like a warrior goddess of the old tales, like a vision rather than a real woman. Had his captors hit his head, he would have feared she was just a figment of his imagination, but now she seemed entirely real, a mythical creature brought to life.

Perhaps the most perplexing thing of all was that she seemed to know who he was.

“Have we met?” he asked rather dumbly, for lack of anything else to say as the woman crouched down before him so they were at eye level.

“Nay,” she said. “But I was there when those men took ye. I was ridin’ by an’ I saw them attack ye, so I came tae see what they were doin’.”

Alaric felt as though he was stumbling over his own thoughts as he tried to take in the situation. It didn’t help that the woman’s eyes were boring right into him, a brilliant blue that left him breathless and distracted him from the mystery of her presence.

“An’ ye… ye killed them?” he asked. “All o’ them?”

There were at least half a dozen men there, the very same ones who had captured him. How had this woman fought them all on her own? How had she bested them?

“I dinnae think I killed all o’ them,” she said. “Perhaps one or two. The rest, I simply stunned, so we must hurry an’ leave afore they wake up an’ find us.”

That was a very convincing argument for the need of a speedy escape, Alaric thought, but he still had so many questions that he didn’t even know with which one to begin. When he heard the distant sound of actual horse hooves, though, signaling the arrival of more men, he realized that none of them was as important as leaving as fast as they could.

“Aye,” he said. “Untie me an’ we shall leave.”

But at his request, the woman hesitated, sitting back on her heels. “I must be honest with ye,” she said. “I didnae come here tae save ye out o’ the goodness o’ me heart.”

Alaric sighed, letting his head fall back to stare at the ceiling. He should have known there was going to be a catch. It all sounded too good to be true.

“What is it that ye want?” he asked. “Gold? Fine. I’d rather give it tae ye than them.”

“Nay, nay… I have nae need fer gold,” the woman said. “Ye see, I heard that ye are from the MacGregor Clan, is that right?”

“Aye, that is so.”

“An’ that ye are the laird’s braither?”

Alaric gritted his teeth. “Aye. What o’ it?”

“I need yer help with somethin’,” she said. “If ye promise tae help me, I will untie ye an’ we can go.”

Alaric didn’t like the sound of that at all. Whatever the woman wanted, he doubted it would be a small favor, especially when she seemed so reluctant to tell him what it was. He couldn’t simply walk into this deal blind. After all, there was a good chance he would be dragging his entire clan into this, not only himself.

“Tell me what ye want an’ I’ll tell ye if I can help ye,” he said.

“I’ll explain everythin’ once we’re nae bein’ chased,” said the woman. “It is a long story an’ ye must hear all o’ it.”

“How can I agree tae somethin’ about which I ken naething?” Alaric asked. “I dinnae ken who ye are. I dinnae ken what ye want. I cannae agree tae yer demands afore I ken what they are.”

“Would ye rather stay here, then?”

The question gave Alaric pause. There was a chance that it was the wiser thing to do, staying there and waiting for Evan. On the other hand, perhaps this woman was not trying to fool him and by rejecting her offer, he would be damning himself.

Though he was under the pressure of time, Alaric found himself unable to make a decision, even if he was rarely indecisive. He liked to have as many facts as he could before he put himself in a dangerous situation, and as he knew nothing about whatever it was he was going to face if he allowed this woman to help him, making up his mind seemed like an impossible task.

“I’ll tell ye this,” said the woman. “It is naething disgraceful.”

“An’ yet ye dinnae wish tae tell me what it is until after I have agreed tae help ye,” Alaric pointed out. “Will it bring trouble tae me clan?”

“Nay.”

The woman seemed sincere, and Alaric figured that if it was nothing that would harm his clan and nothing that would bring him disgrace, then it was probably best to agree to help her and escape that place. Nodding, he scooted his chair a little closer to her, eager to have his hands unbound.

“I’ll help ye,” he promised. “Let us leave.”

Alaric had hardly finished his sentence when the woman grabbed a small blade that was strapped to her calf and rounded the chair, quickly sawing off the rope that held Alaric’s hands together. He couldn’t help but wonder just how many weapons she had concealed on her body. He had never met a woman like her before, someone who was clearly a skilled warrior and knew her way around weapons, and her novelty intrigued him in a way that could only be dangerous.

He could not allow his lust to get in the way of business. This was not the kind of woman with whom he should have any closer relations, as he was certain they could only lead to trouble. Besides, he still had his betrothed waiting for him back home. Kayla Sinclair was said to be a good woman from a good, if rather volatile, clan. He was reluctant to do anything that would cause the wrath of his wife or his family to crash upon him.

The moment Alaric was freed, he jumped to his feet, rubbing at his sore wrists. Before he could take a single step, the woman ushered him out of the room, pushing him down a cramped hallway, and Alaric took a moment to grab a sword from one of the fallen brigands before the two of them spilled out into the chilly afternoon.

In the distance, not too far from the cottage, he could see a group of riders fast approaching. They must be brigands, he thought, and the woman seemed to share that thought as she tugged him along towards a large horse. The woman jumped onto the saddle with practiced ease and Alaric soon joined her, the two of them rushing down the path as the brigands pursued them.

“I didnae ask ye yer name,” Alaric called, shouting so that she would hear him over the whistling wind.

“Lucia,” the woman shouted back. “Me name is Lucia.”

Chapter Two

What Lucia Donnelly had been searching for was an avenging angel, someone who could help her finally have the revenge she deserved. What she found was a man who had been beaten to an inch of his life and who, the more time passed, the more he seemed to surrender to his injuries.

When she had first found him in the cottage, Alaric had been more or less alert, following not only her steps but also the conversation with no trouble. Now that they had escaped the brigands, though, he was leaning heavily against her, his arms loose around her waist as he held onto her while she was steering the horse to the nearest town. Lucia cursed under her breath. Those men had truly done too much damage and now she would have to take care of him and make sure none of his wounds were too serious.

Ever since asking her name, Alaric hadn’t spoken again, but Lucia could feel his uneven breaths on the back of her neck and the warmth of his body as he pressed up against her. The only sounds around them were the wind and the horse’s hooves, loud and rhythmic against the soil as she rode as fast as she could down the path without running the risk of Alaric falling off. By the time they made it to the town, Alaric was barely hanging off her and keeping himself upright, and so Lucia had to help him off the horse, huffing with exertion when he put his weight on her.

All her training had built plenty of strength in her muscles, but even she was not prepared for the solid weight of Alaric’s towering figure. She took a moment to steady them both, wrapping one arm around him, and to his credit, Alaric seemed to force himself to be a little more alert now that they were walking towards the small inn.

“I thought… I was doin’ better,” Alaric said and though he struggled to speak, at least he wasn’t slurring his words. Lucia took that as a good sign, considering all the bruises and the cuts he sported on his face, which spoke of several blows being delivered directly to his head.

“Ye’re doin’ fine,” she assured him, even if it was a lie. “Ye just need tae rest.”

When she pulled him into the small, cramped inn, every person in the room turned to look at them, staring at Alaric’s slumped form. Fortunately for them both, there were only three of them—the innkeeper and two other men sitting at a low table by the fireplace.

In a small town like this, though, word would spread fast, and Alaric wasn’t exactly difficult to recognize. Not only did he resemble his brother from what Lucia had heard, but he also had tattoos covering a large portion of his body, along with countless scars underneath them. They couldn’t stay there for too long. You never know who might be watching.

Dragging Alaric over to the innkeeper behind the counter, Lucia put on the most distressed expression she could muster, her bottom lip trembling ever so slightly as she spoke.

“Could we please have a room fer the night?” she asked. “An’… an’ if possible some hot water an’ cloth.”

“What happened tae him?” the innkeeper asked, eyes narrowing suspiciously. That was the other issue, Lucia thought. Whoever didn’t know who Alaric was would surely be wary of him with the way he looked. It was no wonder the innkeeper didn’t quite trust them. Alaric looked more like a brigand than most brigands did, with his tattoos, his scars, and the dark beard that gave him a rough and rugged appearance.

“He was attacked by brigands,” Lucia said. “Please… he isnae a bad man.

The innkeeper didn’t quite seem convinced, at least not until Lucia dug into her pocket with a sigh and gave him enough coin for more than two nights.

“Just fer the night,” she said. “Please.”

That was enough to convince him and within moments, Lucia held a key in her hand and a promise that they would soon have hot water and cloths in their room. Once she managed to drag Alaric up the stairs, she made him sit on the bed and then there was a knock on the door. Lucia opened it to find a young woman there with a tray in her hand with a pitcher of steaming water, a pitcher of wine, two cups, and a cloth on it.

Upon seeing Alaric on the bed, the girl paused by the door, her gaze flitting back and forth between them.

“Me faither told me tae bring ye this,” she said, and Lucia reached for the tray, placing it on top of the small dresser.

“Thank ye,” she said and promptly shut the door in the girl’s face.

She didn’t have time for this. She had to get Alaric back in working condition and get out of there.

The room was as small as the rest of the inn, holding nothing more than a bed which dominated the space, a dresser, and a washbasin. It was more than enough for one night, Lucia had slept in worse places.

She didn’t think she would be getting any sleep anyway.

Grabbing a piece of cloth, Lucia wet it with the hot water and walked over to the bed, carefully cleaning off the wounds on Alaric’s face. Though he hissed in pain every time she rubbed the blood off his skin, he remained still, letting her work and never once flinching away from her touch.

“Will ye tell me what ye want o’ me now?” Alaric asked and Lucia looked up at him to find him staring at her, his green eyes peering into hers. “Nay one is chasin’ us. We have time.”

Lucia took a deep, shuddering breath. “Aye, ye’re right. Ye should ken the truth.”

Even after saying those words, she remained silent for a while, carefully cleaning off the more stubborn blood stains. Alaric didn’t push her. He only looked at her expectantly, waiting for her response.

“I had a braither,” she said, swallowing around the knot that formed in her throat whenever she spoke of him. “His name was Ronan an’ he… he was a good man an’ the best brother. We never had much. We never had gold or even family. All we had was each other.”

As she spoke, Lucia’s hand fell to her side, her fingers clutching the cloth tightly, until her knuckles went white. It was never easy, talking about Ronan. Though he was always on her mind, as long as she didn’t speak about him, she could shoulder the grief. It was only when she spoke his name aloud that it threatened to overwhelm her, to choke her and force the tears she held back to spill from her eyes.

“What happened tae him?” Alaric asked in a soft voice.

Lucia took a deep breath, pulling herself together. She could never allow herself to wallow in her pain and sorrow, not when there was so much work still left to be done.

“He was killed by brigands,” she said. “They murdered him. They murdered him an’ he didnae even have anythin’ valuable on him. We never had anythin’ more than a roof over our heads an’ enough food fer a few days, an’ yet they didnae hesitate tae take his life.”

Alaric listened in silence, but Lucia could tell he was more alert now. When she looked in his eyes, they were focused on her, the former haze in them gone.

“When I saw those men take ye… aye, it is true that I heard who ye are an’ I kent ye could help me, but I also couldnae bear the thought that they would harm ye. I couldnae save me braither, but I could save ye an’ so… so I did.”

Swallowing with an audible click in his throat, Alaric reached for Lucia’s hand, holding it between his palms. For a moment as she looked at him, she was mesmerized. Under the rough exterior, Alaric was a handsome man, with a piercing gaze and strong, striking features. Perhaps not many would call him that, at least not at first glance, but Lucia felt her throat dry as she stared at him, her heartbeat picking up just a little.

It was only because he was showing her a hint of tenderness, she thought. No one else had shown her any since Ronan’s death. She had no family. She refused to take a lover. Alaric was the first person to touch her like that in a very long time.

However, Lucia had no use for such sentiments. She wasn’t there to fall in love, but to avenge her brother’s death. That had been her only goal in life ever since she had found his body, ever since she had put him in the cold earth with her own two hands.

“I’m sorry fer yer braither,” Alaric said and he sounded so sincere that Lucia felt something akin to guilt—a feeling that quickly dissipated, much like everything else that wasn’t her grief and her rage. “But I dinnae see how I can help ye with this.”

“I wish tae find the men who killed him an’ bring them tae justice,” said Lucia. It was difficult to contain her rage, to pull it back so it wouldn’t frighten Alaric, but he didn’t seem frightened at all. Though he was still guarded, looking at her with some doubt, he was listening carefully to what she had to say.

He was an honorable man, Lucia had heard—the kind of man who held up his end of the bargain, and since she had saved his life, she doubted he would go back on his word and refuse to help her. After all, he had no reason to refuse. As far as he was aware, he would be doing the right thing.

“Why would the brigands attack yer braither?” Alaric asked and Lucia’s irritation spiked, to the point where she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep herself from lashing out. Naturally, none of this could be easy, because nothing in her life was easy. Alaric would not simply agree; she would have to convince him. “Was he travellin’ when they attacked? Was he alone?”

With a sigh, Lucia disentangled herself from Alaric and stood, walking over to the dresser to pour the wine in the two cups. As she did, she angled her body to hide her movements and then plucked a small vial from a hidden pocket in her dress, emptying its contents into one of them before offering it to Alaric.

“They passed through our village,” she said as she took a sip of the wine. “I dinnae ken why they killed him. Why dae brigands dae anythin’?”

Alaric considered her answer for a moment before he took a sip from his cup. Just as he lowered it from his lips, he tipped it up again and drained the whole thing, much to Lucia’s surprise—and delight.

“Dae ye ken who they are?” Alaric asked.

“Aye,” said Lucia. “I found out after the attack.”

“Did they think yer braither had somethin’ o’ value on him?”

Lucia shook her head, quickly losing her patience. “I dinnae ken. But I can assure ye he had naething o’ value.”

“Did they…”

Slowly, yet surely, Alaric’s eyelids began to fall shut and he struggled to keep himself awake. He frowned in confusion, parting his lips as if to speak but then saying nothing, and his fingers loosened around the cup.

Lucia caught it before it could hit the floor and pushed Alaric gently onto the mattress. “Rest,” she said. “Ye are tired. We can speak about this later.”

Alaric went easily, his eyes falling shut for good before his head had even hit the pillow. Almost instantly, he began to snore and Lucia took a moment to snap her fingers right about his head, making sure he was truly and deeply asleep.

“Finally,” she grumbled, taking their cups and returning them to the tray before she slipped out of the room. For a moment there, she had thought Alaric’s questions would never stop.

Once out of the inn, she rounded the building and headed to the back, where Rory was waiting for her. When he spotted her, he threw up his arms in frustration, but Lucia could only laugh at the incredulous look on his face—and the black eye she had given him.

“Did ye have tae hit me?” he asked, his voice too loud for Lucia’s liking. She shushed him sharply, giving him a stern look, but it seemed he was not yet done. “An’ ye had me waitin’ here fer half an hour! What if someone saw me?”

“It is up tae ye if someone sees ye,” Lucia pointed out as she pulled a pouch full of coins out of her pocket and handed it to him. “An’ I had tae make the attack look real. Look at this,” she said, pointing to her swollen lip. “One o’ yer men did this. They certainly didnae hold back. Why did ye hurt the MacGregor lad so badly?”

“Ye said tae make it seem real,” Rory reminded her. “We made it seem real. Besides, ye didnae tell us he could have killed us all! Have ye seen him fight? The lad’s a demon!”

“I told ye that ye would need several men,” Lucia pointed out. “An’ naething happened tae any o’ them, so stop complainin’. Here’s yer coin.”

“I dinnae owe ye, ye dinnae owe me,” said Rory with a tip of his head. “Correct?”

“Correct,” Lucia confirmed. “Go. Get out o’ here.”

Rory turned to leave, but then came to a sudden halt, looking at Lucia over his shoulder. “What will ye dae with him?”

“Join the Ravencloaks.”

Though Lucia’s tone was entirely nonchalant, Rory gaped at her, shocked. “Ye will get yerself an’ the laddie killed.”

“They killed me braither,” she reminded Rory. It didn’t matter if she died. It didn’t really matter to her if Alaric ended up dead, too. All that mattered was revenge. “An’ now I will kill the bastard who took him from me.”

Best selling books of Kenna

 

A month earlier…

“How dare he? How dare he dictate me life tae me!” Domhnall MacLeod lambasted. “Who the hell does he think he is?”

“The King of England,” Kai quipped with a smirk.

Magnus gave his brother a dark look, while Domhnall glowered at him, but Kai only shrugged, clearly not fazed by either of his brother’s reactions.

“Well, he is,” Kai pressed.

“Let me see that,” Magnus said, gesturing to the letter Domhnall had gripped in his hand.

Domhnall tossed the letter across the desk and then spun on his heel, the heightened agitation growing to a boiling point within him.

“Ye need tae calm down, Domhnall,” Magnus warned. “Ye ken ye cannae afford tae lose yer temper.”

“The hell I will. Read it,” he barked.

“Read it out,” Kai added, “so I dinnae have tae read it after ye.”

Magnus held the parchment aloft and began.

“Edward, by the grace of God, King of England, Lord of Ireland, and Duke of Aquitaine, to Laird MacLeod, I send my dearest greeting.”

“Aye, course he does,” Kai interjected.

“May the lord bless thee, and all those in your household,” Magnus continued. “I trust those under your leadership show gratitude for your righteousness and mercy. As brothers of the same island, it is with discernment that I send you good will in this letter, and purport to instruct you in an alliance that will bond our nations together. It is with the fragileness of these bonds in mind that I have arranged a union that will bind those bonds ever tighter.”

At this point, Magnus lifted his head and stared at Domhnall in astonishment. “He’s arranged yer marriage?” he blurted.

Domhnall was still storming back and forth, his fists clenching and unclenching, a mechanism he had adopted to try and control his rage, both now and at other times.

Flicking his hand at the letter, he growled, “Continue. It gets better.”

Magnus dropped his gaze back to the letter, and read some more.

“These bonds can only be strengthened if our nations unite, and thus, I am sending your betrothed to you from England.”

“What?” Kai blurted.

“Aye, nae so funny now, is it?” Domhnall spat.

“Lady de Beaumont will travel to you on the Isle of Skye,” Magnus read, “and you will marry within the month of her arrival. She is a fine lady from excellent stock, and will provide you with strong heirs.”

“What he means is, English heirs,” Magnus deduced.

“Exactly,” Domhnall declared. “He goes on about this being for the nation’s best interests, but he ends with a threat. The fact that if I dinnae comply, there will be war.”

“He said that?” Kai gasped.

“Nae in so many words, but it’s certainly inferred,” Domhnall replied. “His strategy couldnae be more obvious. The man isnae a fool. The MacLeod Clan has always been fiercely independent. Being on an island has always given us an advantage, for we are not so easily reached.”

“But why now?” Magnus said. “After all this time o’ his leaving us be, why is he so eager now?”

“Who the hell kens?” Domhnall growled, throwing his hands in the air. “He’s trying tae tie us tae the English crown through marital bonds.”

“Which will, in turn, weaken Scottish resistance and spread English half-breeds across the Highlands,” Kai said.

For a long moment, none of the brothers said another word. Kai had surmised it perfectly, and as his words echoed around Domhnall’s head, the rage continued to bubble within him.

The MacLeod Clan was indeed mighty, but they could not take on the King of England. Maybe, they could ask for help from their allies, but who, in their right mind, would go against a direct order from King Edward?

The man was evil to the core, and had already betrayed many a Scotsman with promises of peace and alliances. Those foolish enough to fall for it were often found hanging in a barn from their neck.

“What are we going tae dae?” Kai asked.

Being the youngest of the three brothers, certainly did not make Kai any less experienced. In fact, he was one of the best scouts Domhnall had, and thus, knew as much about what was going on in the lands as Domhnall himself.

“We could make a stand,” Magnus said, “but it would put the whole clan at risk.”

Domhnall stared at Magnus. “I cannae dae that, braither. These people rely on me tae keep them safe. What kind o’ laird would I be, if I knowingly put them in harm’s way? And particularly, if only tae save mesel’.” He shook his head. “Nae! I willnae dae it.”

But the more he thought about the situation, the angrier he got. The king had no right to dictate to him who he should or should not marry. More than that, marrying an English woman was nearly sacrilege. Without counting the scars of his parent’s deaths, which did little to help.

Grabbing a nearby chair, he flung it across the room, and yelled at the top of his lungs. “God damn it all tae hell.”

The chair smashed into splinters, and fell onto the stone floor with a noisy clatter.

“What the devil is going on in here?” Thora said as she tentatively walked into the room. Enya, her twin sister, directly behind her.

“Domhnall, braither,” Enya gasped, hurrying over to him. “Whatever is the matter?”

“Stay away from him, Enya,” Magnus warned.

“Och, dinnae talk such nonsense,” she whipped a reply. “Me oldest braither has never hurt me. I dinnae think he’s going tae start now.”

Placing her hand on his arm, she gazed up at him. “Tell me.”

Domhnall sat his sisters down, and, taking it in turns, their three brothers explained what the king had decreed. As expected, the lass’s faces were a picture of horror, and feeling as indignant as the men, they too were angry at such overreach.

“So, then, we havenae any choice,” Thora concluded caustically. “Tae save the people, ye have tae go through with this.”

Domhnall nodded. “Aye. I dae.”

The five siblings sat there for a long time, none of them having much to say. There wasn’t really much they could say. Edward I was a man who used many means to get his way, and none of them had any doubt he would keep to his word.

“Nay matter what happens, we must remember one thing,” Enya said, a little later on.

“What?” Kai said.

“Well, Domhnall isnae the only one being forced against his will. Whoever this Lady de Beaumont is, we can be certain she doesnae want tae be here, as much as we dinnae want her here. But, like us, she probably has nay choice.”

“So, what are ye saying?” Kai asked with a shrug.

“That we treat her decently when she arrives. She’s likely a quiet and reserved wee thing, like most English ladies.”

“Then she’ll hardly ken what’s hit her when she gets here and meets us,” Kai chuckled.

The twins laughed, Magnus smiled, but Domhnall remained solemn.

That was all he needed, a shy, English wallflower as his wife. They would be as opposite as night and day.

“Are ye all right, Domhnall?” Enya asked quietly while the others were talking amongst themselves.

He looked at his sister, the epitome of empathy, and then smiled. “I’ll be just fine,” he lied.

Tilting her head, she gave him a sad look. “I am so very sorry,” she said. “Maybe ye’ll grow tae like her, perhaps even love her.”

Clenching his jaw, he held his smile in place. “Aye,” he said tightly. “Maybe.”

A little later, when the others had left him alone, Domhnall stood at the window of his study and glared out across the gardens.

“Like her? Love her?” he spat. “She’ll be lucky if I dinnae kill her.”

Still seething at the position, he was being forced into, Domhnall knew this anger was going to sit with him for some time.

The English were coming to his island, the Isle of Skye, and there was not a damned thing he could do to stop it.

 

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