Claimed by the Highlander (3 page)

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 pummeled her chest. She had never felt more exhilarated. It was intoxicating. She wished there was 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! You have been defeated!”

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

“All who have taken part in usurping this castle, and are in possession of lands that did not belong to them—you must forfeit them now to the clansmen from whom you 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, “you may remain, but I will have your loyalty, and you will swear allegiance to me as Laird of Kinloch!”

There was another long, drawn-out silence, until some brave soul spoke up.

“Why should we pledge loyalty to you? You are a MacDonald, and we are MacEwens!”

The Lion was quiet for a moment. He seemed to be looking deep into the eyes of every man in the bailey below. “Be it known that our two clans will unite!” He pointed his sword at Gwendolen again, and she felt the intense heat of his gaze like a fire across her body. “For I will claim this woman, who is your brave and noble leader, as my wife, and our son, one day, will be laird.”

Cheers erupted from the crowd of MacDonald warriors below, while Gwendolen digested his words with shock and disbelief. He intended to claim her as his wife?

No, it was not possible.

“There will be a feast on this night in the Great Hall,” the Lion roared, “and I will accept the pledges of all men willing to remain here and live in peace under my protection!”

Murmurs of surrender floated upward through the air and reached Gwendolen’s burning ears. She clenched her jaw and dug her fingernails into the cold rough stones of the tower. This was not happening. It could not be. Pray God, this was still the dream, and she would soon wake. But the hot morning sun on her cheeks reminded her that the dreams of a restless night had already given way to reality, and her father’s castle had been sacked and conquered by an unassailable warrior. Moreover, he intended to make her his bride and force her to bear children for him. What in God’s name was she to do?

“I do not agree to this!” she shouted, and the Lion tilted his head to the side, beholding her strangely, as if she were some sort of otherworldly creature he had never encountered before. “I wish to negotiate our terms of surrender!”

Her body began to tremble as she waited for his response. Perhaps he would simply send a man to slit her throat in front of everyone—as an example for those who were bold enough, or foolish enough, to resist. He looked ready to do it. She could feel the hot flames of his anger from where she stood, at the opposite corner of the castle.

Then the oddest thing happened. One by one, each MacEwen warrior in the bailey below turned toward her, and dropped to one knee. They all bowed their heads in silence, while the MacDonalds stood among them, observing the demonstration with some uneasiness.

For a long time Angus stood upon the North Tower saying nothing, as he watched the men deliver this unexpected defiance. A raw and brutal tension stretched ever tighter within the castle, and Gwendolen feared they would all be slaughtered.

Then, at last, the Lion turned his eyes toward her.

She lifted her chin, but his murderous contempt seemed to squeeze around her throat, and she found it difficult to breathe.

He spoke with quiet, grave authority. “Gwendolen MacEwen, I will hear your terms in the Great Hall.”

Not trusting herself to speak, she nodded and resheathed her saber, then walked with pride toward the tower stairs, while her legs, hidden beneath her skirts, shook uncontrollably and threatened to give out beneath her.

When at last she reached the top of the stairs, she paused a moment to take a breath and compose herself.

God, oh God …

She felt nauseous and light-headed.

Leaning forward and laying the flat of her hand upon the cool stones, she closed her eyes and wondered how she was ever going to negotiate with this warrior, who had already defeated her clan in a brutal and bloody campaign, and claimed her as his property. She had nothing,
nothing,
with which to bargain. But perhaps she and her mother could think of something—some other way to manage the situation, at least until her brother returned.

If only Murdoch were here now …

But no, there was no point wishing for such things. He was not here, and she had only herself to rely on. She must stand strong for her people.

She took one last look at them. Angus the Lion had quitted the rooftop and returned to his men. He was giving orders and wandering among the dead and wounded, assessing the magnitude of his triumph, no doubt.

A light breeze lifted his thick golden hair, which shimmered in the morning light. His kilt wafted lightly around his muscular legs, while he adjusted the leather strap that held the shield at his back.

Just then he glanced up and saw that she was watching him. He faced her squarely and did not look away.

Gwendolen’s breath caught in her throat. Her knees went weak, and something fluttered in her belly. Whether it was fear or fascination, she did not know. Either way, it did not bode well for her future dealings with him.

Shaken and agitated, she pushed away from the wall and quickly descended the tower stairs.

Chapter Two

Standing on blood-soaked ground, Angus watched as his enemy’s daughter disappeared into the East Tower. The instant she was gone, he cupped his shoulder with one hand and tried to roll out the pain, but realized it was worse than he thought. He grimaced, then shoved hard and fast with the heel of his palm to jostle the joint back into place. Slowly, he walked to the other side of the bailey, where he took a moment to recover.

It had been a hard battle. His clothes were stained with dirt, sweat, and blood—some of it his own—but it had all been worth it, for this was
his
home.
His
castle. The MacEwens had no right to it.

And his father was dead.

He turned and faced the carnage, and felt the renewed arousal of his fighting spirit as he recalled the courageous lass who had raised her voice and interrupted his moment of triumph. She was a dark and radiant beauty, which somehow added fuel to the fires of his antagonism. He did not want a beautiful wife, and he hadn’t even given a single passing thought to what the daughter of his enemy might look like. Her comeliness—or lack of it—was of no concern to him. She was an instrument, nothing more, which was precisely why her beauty and bold conduct had lifted the hairs on the back of his neck.

Angus rolled his shoulder again to work out the pain, and resolved to forget her, for now. He would not let her spoil this moment. He had come too far not to savor this victory.

With a passionate cry of triumph that echoed off the castle walls and roused the attention of his men, he unsheathed his sword and thrust it into the ground. Then he lowered himself to one knee and bowed his head on the shiny basket hilt.

Relief flooded through him, though it was tainted with grief. His father had been dead for two years, and Angus had not known until these past months. In the meantime, Kinloch had fallen into enemy hands, and his clan had been absorbed into another.

He had waited too long to return.

His cousin Lachlan came to stand beside him. “It doesn’t seem right,” he said, thrusting his sword into the dirt as well.

Angus looked up. “Which part?”

“The part where a man must raise an army to invade his own home.”

Angus rose to his full height and regarded the cousin and friend who had spent the better part of two years searching for him, found him on the outer fringes of the Western Isles, and helped him to raise an army and fight for what was theirs.

“Perhaps it’s destiny,” he replied, “for surely I can have no greater purpose than this. I have drawn my sword on behalf of my home, my clan, and my beloved Kinloch. Perhaps this is to be my redemption, a chance to make up for past sins.”

He turned his eyes toward the shattered castle gate, then to all the casualties that littered the ground. There had been terrible losses on both sides.

“And what of the dead?” Lachlan asked, taking in the wretched sight of the fallen warriors.

“We will honor them. The MacEwens fought bravely.” He inclined his head at Lachlan. “A testament to their leader, perhaps?”

“Aye, she was something of a fireball—and a bonnie vision, besides.” Lachlan’s dark eyes narrowed questioningly. “Think you’ll be able to manage her?”

“Do you doubt me, Lachlan?”

“You just took her home and destroyed half her clan. I doubt she’ll be overjoyed to share a bed with you.”

Angus wrenched his sword out of the dirt and slid it into his scabbard. “I don’t care how she feels.” He had no patience for emotional women, and this was certainly no love story. She knew that as well as he did. “Her father stole Kinloch from us. She will settle that debt.” He started toward the Great Hall.

Lachlan pulled a flask out of his sporran and took a drink. “I shouldn’t have to tell you to watch your back,” he said. “Her saber may have been small, but it had a sharp point.”

Angus heard the warning, but gave no reply.

*   *   *

Gwendolen entered her bedchamber and found her mother waiting anxiously at the window.

“Oh, my darling,” Onora said, “thank heavens you’re alive. I expected the worst. What has happened?”

Gwendolen shut the door behind her and spoke plainly. “The MacDonalds have broken through the main gate. There was a battle, and they have taken the castle. Angus the Lion has declared himself chief, and he means to claim me as his wife in order to produce an heir, and unite our two clans.” She was surprised by how calmly she could explain everything, when her insides were careening with dread.

Her mother stared blankly at her for a moment, then laughed aloud. “He means to
claim
you? Good God, does he not realize what century this is?”

“Clearly not.” Gwendolen paused. “You should see him, Mother. All the stories about him are true. He is exactly what they say—mighty, violent, and fearsome. I was frozen with astonishment as I watched him exchange blows with our strongest, most skilled warriors, and I could not breathe when he spoke.”

Her mother strode forward, fascinated. “So it’s true then. He is fierce, and unconquerable?”

“Very much so.”

“And he intends to take
you
as his wife?”

“Aye. I am not sure what to do.”

Onora threw her hands up. “Are you daft, Gwendolen? You will accept him, of course. What other choice is there?” She turned toward the looking glass, pinched her cheeks for color, and ran her fingers through her long, curly locks of auburn hair. For a woman of her age, she was remarkably beautiful. Her lips were full, her cheekbones finely sculpted, her figure slender and trim. “This is very good news,” she said. “I must say, I am greatly relieved.”

“Relieved? How can you possibly be relieved?”

Onora turned. “Don’t be such an idealist. There is no way out of this. The Lion has taken the castle, and we are at his mercy. He could kill us both, but he is willing to spare
you
at least, and not only that, he wants to wed you. What more could you ask? Your position here will not change. In fact, it will improve. Mine, however…” She paused and returned her attention to the looking glass. “That is yet to be determined.” She wet her lips and puckered them. “But do not worry for me. I will negotiate for my own life and position.”

Gwendolen laughed bitterly. “
Negotiate
. That is exactly what I must do a few short minutes from now. But with what, I ask you? As you said, we are at his mercy. We have no power. He has declared himself chief and has terrorized every warrior who still breathes. Those who would not surrender are dead.”

Onora faced Gwendolen with fire in her eyes. “Which is why you are going to submit to him. In every way.”

“Submit…”

“Aye.” Her mother took hold of her wrist. “You are going to do exactly what he tells you to do, Gwendolen, and if you have any sense in that pretty little head of yours, you’ll act like you enjoy it.”

Gwendolen ripped her arm away. “Why don’t
you
submit to him, Mother? If anyone knows how to please a man in bed, it’s you, not me.”

“I assure you, I would submit in an instant if I was the one he wanted. But he wants
you,
which is exactly what he shall have, or we’ll both be dead. Now listen to what I say. You must be docile and agreeable. And for heaven’s sake, make yourself more presentable. Put on a prettier gown.” She reached out to untie the laces of Gwendolen’s stays. “He has offered you a gift—a chance to preserve our status here. You must thank him, and lure him to your bed.”