Captured by the Highlander (34 page)

She felt completely besotted. “I promise I never
will
. I’d have to be a fool.”

He held her tenderly in his arms. “And I promise to be the gentleman you’ve always desired. That
will
be my vow to you, from this day forward.”

She smirked and shook her head at him. “I don’t want to marry a gentleman,” she said. “I want to marry a Highland warrior. It’s what I’ve always wanted. I just didn’t know it.”

«Well
, perhaps I can be both, just to be safe.”

“You are already both of those things,” she told him. “And what sacrifice do you want from me, Duncan MacLean? Can I be your English wife? Or should I adopt a Scottish brogue?”

He smiled. “You can be whatever you like, lass, as long as you continue to be lusty.”

“So is it safe for me to be happy now?”

He thought about it. “Mm … not quite yet, but very soon.”

“How soon?”

He kissed her on the mouth while he unhooked her bodice. “When you’re naked and on your back right here in the grass, crying out my name, begging for more.”

She laughed. “Then I suspect I
shall
be happy in a few short minutes from now.”

He inclined his head. “Surely you know me better than that, lass. It’ll be more than ‘a few short minutes.’ ”

She slid her hands up under his kilt and was very pleased to discover just how ardently and enormously this handsome Highlander loved her. And true to his word, a short time later

—but not
too
short a time—he was sliding into her with great strength and
skill
and she was trembling
all
over with rapture.

Scotland, in 1715, was in the throes of rebel ion over the English succession. Queen Anne had died without an heir, so the Crown passed to a German prince, George of Hanover. Scottish Jacobites (
Jacob
is Latin for “James”) believed the rightful king was Prince James Edward Stuart, whose father, James I , had been removed from the throne in 1688 because he was Catholic.

The history books show that the MacLeans, under Sir John MacLean of Duart Castle, were among those who ral ied support for the Jacobite uprising in 1715. The MacDonalds joined in as
well
, along with the MacGregors, Camerons, and MacLachlans, among others. Under the leadership of the Earl of Mar, an army of twelve thousand clansmen set out to fight for the cause. By September, Mar had taken Perth, but the English stronghold at Stirling, under the command of the second Duke of Argyl ,
still
stood between the Scottish Jacobites and the English border.

Mar’s military expertise was no match for Argyl
l
’s, and his hesitation in marching forward cost the Scots their victory.

Meanwhile, the MacLeans, Camerons, and MacDonalds marched unsuccessful y on Inveraray, and in November joined Mar at the Battle of Sherrifmuir, where they suffered terrible losses and failed to restore a Stuart monarch to the throne.

These battles provided the turbulent political background for
Captured by the Highlander
and set the characters in motion, pitting Highlanders and Englishmen against each other in acts of vengeance and quests for justice.

Al the main characters in the book—including Duncan MacLean, the “Butcher of the Highlands”—are fictional, though many of the events surrounding them are true, including the fact that the London government took drastic measures against the Scots who took part in the rebel ion.

Some were spared, by pledging
all
egiance to England, but others were executed or sent to America, and many peerages and estates were forfeited to the Crown.

True also is the fact that individuals took vengeance on one another. One Scottish Whig—a Campbel of Ardkinglas—tracked and
followed
a MacLachlan for five years until he shot him dead in 1720.

The ancestor of my hero was also a real person: Gil eain na Tuaighe,
Gillean
of the Battle-axe, who fought ferociously at the Battle of Langs in 1263 and defeated a fleet of invading Vikings. I was inspired by his story, along with the notion that the MacLeans were sometimes known as “the Spartans of the North.” This stirred my imagination in regards to Duncan’s childhood and upbringing.

As far as my red-coated vil
l
ain is concerned, he, too, is pure fiction, though loosely based on a real British soldier, Lieutenant-Colonel. Banastre Tarleton, who, interestingly enough, was known as “The Butcher.” He was famous for his violence and brutality during the American Revolution.

Castle Moncrieffe is fictional but modeled loosely after Leeds Castle in England—post the additions of 1822 and even some twentieth-century renovations—though I took some artistic liberties with a few decorative and architectural details.

Duart Castle is the true MacLean stronghold. It
still
stands today and is located on the Isle of Mul . Similarly, Fort
William
was a real English garrison, and its ruins are visible not far from Inverlochy Castle in the Highlands of Scotland.

If you enjoyed Duncan’s story, I hope you
will
look for Angus MacDonald’s story,
Claimed by the Highlander,
coming next month.

I invite you also to visit my Web site at
www.juliannemaclean.com to learn more about my books and writing life. I enjoy hearing from readers, and you can contact me via e-mail through my Web site.

Read on for an excerpt from

JULIANNE MACLEAN’S
next book

Claimed by
the Highlander

Coming soon from St. Martin’s Paperbacks

By the time Gwendolen reached the battlements and took aim at the invaders on the drawbridge below, the iron-tipped battering ram was smashing the thick oak door to bits and pieces. The castle
wall
s shuddered beneath her feet, and she was forced to stop and take a moment to absorb what was happening.

The frightful reality of battle struck her, and
all
at once, she felt dazed, as if she were staring into a churning abyss of noise and confusion. She couldn’t move. Her
fell
ow clansmen were shouting gruffly at each other. Smoke and the smell of gunpowder burned in her lungs and stung her eyes.

One kilted warrior had dropped
all
his weapons beside her and was crouching by the
wall
, overcome by a fit of weeping.

She stared down at him for a hazy moment, feeling nauseated and light-headed, as cracks of musket fire exploded
all
around her.

“
Get up!
” she shouted, reaching down and hooking her arm under his. She hauled him roughly to his feet. “Reload your weapon, and fight like a Highlander!”

The young clansman stared at her blankly for a moment, then snapped out of his stupor and fumbled for his powder.

Gwendolen leaned out over the battlements to see below.

The MacDonalds were swarming through the broken gate, crawling like insects over the wooden ram. She quickly took aim and fired at one of them, but missed.

“To the bailey!” she shouted, and the sound of dozens of swords scraping out of scabbards fueled her resolve. With steady hands and unwavering spirit, she reloaded her musket. There was shouting and screaming, men running everywhere, flocking to the stairs …

“Gwendolen!” Douglas
called
out, stopping beside her.

“You should not be here! You must go below to your chamber and lock yerself in! Leave the fighting to the men!”

“Nay, Douglas, I
will
fight and die for Kinloch if I must.”

He regarded her with both admiration and regret, and spoke in a gentler voice. “At least do your fighting from the rooftop, lassie. The clan
will
not survive the loss of ye.”

His meaning was clear, and she knew he was right. She was the daughter of the MacEwen chief. She must remain alive to negotiate terms of surrender, if it came to that.

Gwendolen nodded. “Be gone, Douglas. Leave me here to reload my weapon. This is a good spot. I
will
do what I can from here.”

He kissed her on the cheek, wished her luck, and bolted for the stairs.

Hand-to-hand combat began immediately in the bailey below. There was a dreadful roar—close to four hundred men
all
shouting at once—and the deafening clang of steel against steel rang in her ears as she fired and reloaded her musket, over and over. Before long, she had to stop, for the two clans had merged into one screaming cataclysm of carnage, and she could not risk shooting any of her own men.

The chapel bel tol ed,
calling
to the vil agers to come quickly and assist in the fight, but even if every able-bodied man arrived at that moment, it would not be enough. These MacDonald warriors were rough and battle-seasoned, armed with spears, muskets, axes, bows and arrows. They were quickly seizing control, and she could do nothing from where she stood, for if she went below, it would be suicide, and she had to live for her clan.

Then she spotted him. Their leader. Angus the Lion, fighting in the center of it
all
.

She quickly loaded her musket and aimed, but he moved too quickly. She could not get a clear shot.

A scorching
ball
of terror shot into her
belly
as she lowered her weapon. No wonder they
called
him the Lion. His hair was a thick, tawny mane that reached past his broad shoulders, and he roared with every deadly swing of his claymore, which sliced effortlessly through the air before it cut down foe, after foe, after foe.

Gwendolen stood transfixed, unable to tear her eyes away from the sheer muscled brawn of his arms, chest and legs, thick as tree trunks—just like the battering ram on the bridge.

There was a perfect, lethal symmetry and balance to his movements as he lunged and kill ed, then flicked the sweat-drenched hair from his eyes, spun around, and
killed
again.

Her heart pounded with fascination and awe. He was a powerful beast of a man, a superb warrior, magnificent in every way, and the mere sight of him in battle, in
all
his legendary glory, nearly brought her to her knees. He deflected every blow with his sturdy black shield, and swung the claymore with exquisite grace. She had never encountered such a man before, nor imagined such strength was possible in the human form.

She realized suddenly that her mother had been correct in her predictions. There was no possibility of defeating this man. They were
all
doomed. Without a doubt, the castle would
fall
to these invaders and there would be no mercy. It was pointless to hope otherwise.

She moved across the rooftop to the corner tower where her bedchamber was housed, and looked down at the hopeless struggle.

This had been far too easy a charge for the MacDonalds.

To watch it any longer was pure agony, and she was ashamed when she had to close her eyes and turn her face away. She had wanted so desperately to triumph over these attackers, but she had never witnessed a battle such as this in
all
her twenty-one years. She’d heard tales, of course, and imagined the evils of war, but she’d had no idea how truly violent and grisly it would be.

Soon the battle cries grew sparse, and only a handful of
will
full
warriors continued to fight to the death. Other MacEwen clansmen, with swords pointed at their throats, accepted their fate. They laid down their weapons and dropped to their knees. Those who surrendered were being assembled into a line at the far
wall
.

Gwendolen, who had been watching the great Lion throughout the battle, noticed suddenly that he was gone, vanished like a phantom into the gunsmoke. Panic shot to her core, and she gazed
frantically
from one corner of the bailey to the other, searching
all
the faces for those gleaming, devilish eyes. Where was he? Had someone
killed
him? Or had he penetrated the chapel to ravage the women and children, too?

She spotted him, at last, on the rooftop, clear across the distance, standing on the opposite corner tower. His broadsword was sheathed at his side, and his shield was strapped to his back. He raised his arms out to his sides and shouted to the clansmen below.

“I am Angus Bradach MacDonald! Son of the
fall
en Laird MacDonald, true master of Kinloch Castle!” His voice was deep and thunderous. It rumbled mightily inside his chest.

“Kinloch belongs to me by right of birth! I hereby declare myself laird and chief!”

“Kinloch belongs to the MacEwens now!” someone shouted from below. “By Letters of Fire and Sword, issued by King George of Great Britain!”

“If ye want it back,” Angus growled, stepping forward to the edge of the rooftop, “then raise your sword and fight me!”

His
challenge
was met with silence, until Gwendolen was overcome by a blast of anger so hot, she could not control or contain it.

“Angus Bradach MacDonald!” she shouted from the dark, outraged depths of her soul. “Hear me now! I am Gwendolen MacEwen, daughter of the MacEwen chief who won this castle by fair and lawful means! I am leader here, and
I
will
fight you!”

It was not until that moment that she realized she had marched to the edge of the rooftop and drawn her saber, which she was now pointing at him from across the distance.

Her heart pummel ed her chest. She had never felt more exhilarated. It was intoxicating. She wished there were not this expanse of separation between them. If there were a bridge from one tower to the other, she would dash across it and fight him to the death.

“Gwendolen MacEwen!” he shouted in reply. “Daughter of my enemy! Ye have been defeated!”

And just like that, he dismissed her
challenge
and addressed the clansmen in the bailey below.

“Al who have taken part in usurping this castle and are in possession of lands that did not belong to you—you must forfeit them now to the clansmen from whom ye took them!”

Gwendolen’s anger rose up again, more fiercely than before. “The MacEwens refuse!” she answered.

He immediately pointed his sword at her in a forceful show of warning, then lowered it and continued, as if she had not spoken.

“If that clansman is dead or absent today,” he declared,