Craving the Highlander's Touch

Scotland, 1306

For Alys Fitzroy, Lady of Harkirk, her brutish husband is more of an enemy than the wild Scots she is supposed to hate. Her heart longs to help her husband's prisoners—especially Finian MacLachor, the intense Highland chief who bears the scars of his own failed uprising, both inside and out. With her help, he has a second chance to make things right for his clan—and and to show Alys the nights of unbelievable pleasure she's been missing.…

Scotland, 1306

For Alys Fitzroy, Lady of Harkirk, her brutish husband is more of an enemy than the wild Scots she is supposed to hate. Her heart longs to help her husband’s prisoners—especially Finian MacLachor, the intense Highland chief who bears the scars of his own failed uprising, both inside and out. With her help, he has a second chance to make things right for his clan—and and to show Alys the nights of unbelievable pleasure she’s been missing….

Dear Reader:

When I wrote
Seduced by Her Highland Warrior
, the character of Finian MacLachor stood out to me as a tormented hero. He made some difficult choices on his daughter’s behalf, ones that bothered him deeply. And yet, despite his mistakes, I found myself wondering whether he would have his own happy ending. I wanted him to find the redemption he sought, and when he first set eyes upon Alys Fitzroy, he found his angel of mercy.

Wedded to a man she despises, Alys feels lost and lonely. When she meets Finian, she’s drawn to his haunted strength. In him, she finds an unexpected second chance at love.

Craving the Highlander’s Touch
gave me the chance to explore the lives of the secondary characters Finian and Alys. I hope you’ll enjoy their short story and try out the full-length book
Seduced by Her Highland Warrior
that accompanies it.

You’re welcome to visit my website at www.michellewillingham.com for excerpts and behind-the-scenes details about my books. I love to hear from readers and you may e-mail me at [email protected] or via mail at P.O. Box 2242 Poquoson, VA 23662 USA.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

About the Author

Scotland, 1306

Finian MacLachor was slowly freezing to death. Stripped of his outer garments, he wore nothing but his trews, for his clothing had been taken from him. The Baron of Harkirk, Robert Fitzroy, had ordered him whipped, and now Finian was imprisoned within a storage chamber, his back raw and bloody. The heavy manacles enclosed his wrists, the thick chains impossible to escape.

At dawn, he would die.

He knew the baron would not make it a quick death. They would make an example of him, to terrify the other Scots who dared to rise up against the English garrisons.

But just as the freezing air had seeped into his skin, slowly taking away his ability to feel, his mind had settled into calm.

You don’t deserve to live. Because of you, most of the MacLachors are dead.

Including his own daughter.

Finian closed his eyes, the tight knot strangling his heart. He’d been too late to save her. His hands curled against the chains, gripping them hard as he tried to rip them from the stone wall. Had Iliana died believing he’d forgotten about her? She’d just turned ten years old.

On his knees, he uttered a prayer for her soul. He doubted he would live long enough to avenge her death, but he wasn’t going to die quietly. God willing, he would kill Harkirk before that happened.

The sound of footsteps approaching made him wonder if it was already dawn. He rose to his feet and stood, waiting. When the hooded figure emerged, he realized it was a woman. Now why would she enter a place such as this? What did she want?

Finian lowered his head, behaving as though he hadn’t seen her. It was easier to learn about an enemy if the person believed he was unaware. She was still upon the stairs, and he angled his peripheral vision to see her better.

Her light brown hair held glints of gold within it, and she seemed taken aback at the sight of him. Finian said nothing, waiting for her to speak. Her eyes rested upon his chains, and she paused with the keys in her palm for a moment, almost uncertain of what to do now. Was she planning to free him? He doubted if a stranger would show such mercy.

He waited for her to leave, for this was no place for a woman. Instead, her footsteps drew nearer, down the stone steps. Finian remained motionless, and the longer she stood before him, the more he grew conscious of his trembling. The chains shook, despite his clenched fists. Although he’d stopped bleeding, his skin throbbed with a fiery pain.

“If I release you, will you promise not to harm me?” she asked quietly.

He jerked his head up, hope flaring inside. Had she truly offered to set him free? He blinked, and saw her steady green eyes watching him. Like an ethereal angel, her presence seemed conjured from his imagination.

“Who are you?” His voice was rough, edged with cold.

“Alys Fitzroy, Lady of Harkirk.” She shivered, and in her hands she held the key to unlock his manacles. “Don’t even think of using me as a hostage. I want to leave this place, just as you do.”

Strange, to think that his angel of mercy came in the form of the devil’s wife. She wouldn’t dream of releasing him if she knew he intended to kill her husband.

But what did she mean, she wanted to leave this place? Finian stared at her, unable to understand why. But there was genuine unhappiness on her face, which he hadn’t expected.

Her hand touched his wrist, and the sensation of her fingers was warm, like a healing balm. In the darkness, her breath formed clouds, and Finian could smell a light herbal fragrance from her skin. Almost as if she’d bathed last night with petals scattered upon the water, dipping against her breasts.

Against his will, he found himself noticing her as a woman. Likely, it was only the years of celibacy—any man would respond to a beautiful woman touching him. Her features were delicate, with a small nose and lips that held a slight frown. Her hands were shaking as she struggled to unlock the first manacle.

A minute later, the heavy chain struck the ground at his feet. His wrist was raw, but he held steady, waiting for her to release his other hand.

“What is your name?” she asked, as she unfastened the second iron band.

“Finian,” he answered. “I’m the MacLachor chief. Or…I was, before this.” There were hardly any MacLachors left now. Perhaps a dozen or fewer, after they’d attempted to attack Harkirk’s fortress. So many of his men had died…and he should have been among them.

Lady Harkirk folded her hands in her skirts and retreated. “If you follow me, I’ll show you a way outside the fortress. That’s all I can do for you. You’ll have to make your own escape.”

“Why would you offer me help?” Finian asked. He struggled to make his feet move, wincing at the pain as he took one step, then another. “Surely Harkirk would be furious.”

“I’ve been his prisoner for four years now. I don’t need anyone else to endure what I have.” She swallowed hard. “If I could free the others, I would. But he keeps them locked away, nearer to his soldiers. I don’t know why he put you here.”

“Because they caught me trying to escape last night. He intends to make an example of me.” The MacKinloch chief had cut him free, but physical weakness had prevented Finian from getting very far. Even now, the fierce cold made it hard to move. His limbs felt as though they were wooden, and he couldn’t stop himself from trembling as he rested his hand against the wall.

Lady Harkirk removed her cloak and set it around his shoulders. Finian stared at her, unable to understand her kindness. They were strangers, for God’s sake. He was going to kill the man she’d pledged her life to.

But she was looking at him with uncertainty, as though she saw something good within him. As if he were someone worth saving.

She was wrong. There was nothing left of his blackened soul.

“I can’t accept this,” he said, holding out her cloak.

“You need it more than I do.” And with that, she fled. Before she could reach the exit, he caught up to her, blocking her way.

“Why me?” he demanded. “I’m the last person who deserves this.”

She didn’t speak, keeping her gaze to the floor. Her skin was pale, her hands trembling. Finian’s hand curled against the wall. She had to know that he was unworthy of her mercy. “It’s my fault. This battle…the loss of my men’s lives.” He pressed the cloak at her, as though it were on fire. “If the MacKinloch’s daughter dies, it will be on my soul.”

Alys started to speak, but held her tongue. In her eyes, he saw the quiet condemnation. Had she not already freed him, he guessed she would have left him in chains.

“Then make amends for what you did.” She touched his chest, moving away. “Or go, if that’s your wish.”

She spoke as if she expected him to walk away from his crime.

Make amends.
He doubted if there was anything he could do. His body was so cold, his limbs felt as though they were sinking in mud. If he dared to rise up against Harkirk for the sake of the young girl, he wouldn’t survive.

He raised his eyes to Lady Harkirk. “I deserve to die.”

She held out the cloak again. “That’s not for me to decide.”

Finian kept her gaze for a long moment. She’d offered him the cloak off her back. A heaviness encircled his heart, for she was right. He could make amends. He could sacrifice himself up for the sins he’d committed and try to save the MacKinloch child.

He took the cloak and wrapped it around his frigid skin. The garment held the warmth of her body and the faint scent of herbs, almost as if she were holding him in an embrace.

By God, it had been so long since his wife, Gillian, had died. He hadn’t touched a woman in years. The harsh loneliness gripped him, and he pulled the cloak tightly against his broken, bloodied body.

“If you’re truly sorry for what you did, you could help them,” Lady Harkirk said quietly. Without waiting for his reply, she led him up the staircase and showed him the chamber where her husband’s weapons were stored. Finian stared at the array of shields and blades, wondering if there was any hope at all of saving the girl. She was hardly more than a baby, not even two years of age.

Lady Harkirk turned to him, her face tight. “Will you atone for what you did? Or will you turn your back on those who are suffering?”

Hours later, Alys Fitzroy, Lady of Harkirk, fled through the back of the fortress, shivering in the cold. It wasn’t just the frigid air; it was the immense fear spreading through her. An opportunity to to escape her husband had come, and she had to go now, while he was distracted with the invaders. Behind her, dozens of Scots poured into the fortress, battle cries tearing from their throats. The clang of iron swords reverberated amidst the choking sounds of death. Smoke thickened the air, and Alys prayed she could leave without being caught. There was no time for supplies or even a horse—she could only take the clothes she was wearing.

You won’t succeed,
her mind warned.
Why even bother trying?
All Robert had to do was command his men to search for her, and her escape would end.

She retreated from the fortress, and when she reached the forest, she walked a few paces more. Over the past four years, her husband had taken countless prisoners. He’d tortured and murdered so many of the Scots. She’d hardly been able to save more than a handful—mostly children.

Alys sat down upon a large stone. Her body ached with cold, while her heart was swollen with guilt. Finian MacLachor was going to die, no matter that she’d released him. She closed her eyes, knowing that she hadn’t done enough. Not for him. Not for any of her husband’s victims.

When she’d seen him, whipped and half-freezing, the need to show mercy had overcome her. He’d appeared resigned to his death, as if he were trying to punish himself for his misdeeds. And behind his gray eyes, she’d seen the need for redemption.

What she hadn’t expected was the stirring of interest within herself. Beneath the pain of loss and punishment, she saw a man who hated himself for his sins. Finian cared nothing for his own life, and wouldn’t hesitate to sacrifice himself for those he loved.

A tendril of remorse slid over her. She might as well have sent him to his death, telling him to make amends for what he’d done. After being exposed to the freezing weather, the man wouldn’t survive long.

Alys buried her face in her hands, wondering what to do.
You can’t leave now,
came the voice of reason.
If you abandon them, you are just as responsible for their deaths.

A rustling noise caught her attention, and she spied Laren MacKinloch, mother of the young child Robert had taken captive. The fury on the woman’s face and her single-minded stride made Alys aware that Laren would venture straight into the battle, regardless of her own safety.

“Don’t,” she warned. Laren turned back, and Alys tried to make her see reason. “I know you want to go inside the fortress. But the moment you do, my husband will use your life against your husband. He’d be glad to kill both of you.”

“I won’t let anyone threaten my daughter,” she said. Terror and fury were etched in the woman’s face, and Alys understood her pain though she’d never borne a child of her own.

Laren wasn’t thinking clearly. She was ready to storm the fortress, without even knowing what she would face.

“You can’t help her if you’re already dead.” Alys took her by the hand. There was nothing she could say that would make the young woman retreat into the forest, not when her husband and child were in danger. Her mind turned over different ideas, and finally she realized that what Laren needed was to know what was occurring inside the gates. There was a way to let her in without endangering her.

“If you want to see what’s happening, I’ll take you into another guard tower,” Alys offered. “It’s empty right now because Robert ordered the men into the keep. Follow me.”

She led Laren around the outside of the fortress, bringing her to a small overlook. But before she could take the woman much further, another man blocked their way.

Within his eyes, she saw the open threat, and a black-feathered arrow was fitted to his bowstring. The Scot, whom she recognized as one of Robert’s former prisoners, spoke not a word, but stared at her. Hatred filled up his features, and when she looked closer, she saw the scars around his wrists from captivity.

He didn’t know the role she’d played in releasing him, but it was clear that he wanted vengeance against Robert. From the glint in his eyes, she realized he was protecting Lady MacKinloch. From Laren she learned that the man’s name was Callum and that he was her husband’s brother.

Though it was a risk to her own life, Alys beckoned to him. He gestured for her to lead the way, and she brought them into the guard tower, which thankfully was empty. At the top of the tower, the others knelt down to view what was happening below. Alys kept her distance, sitting down with her knees drawn up. As she’d feared, the soldiers held the baby girl as a hostage.

Laren blanched at the sight, her hand moving up to her mouth as if to stop herself from crying out. And then, from below, Alys saw a familiar dark cloak.

Finian stood against the back wall, inching his way closer to the girl. He was going to keep his word, to somehow make amends for what he’d done. A harsh ache caught in her throat. He was moving so slowly, as if every step was a labor. Though the dark cloak kept him somewhat obscured in the shadows, it wouldn’t be long before he was discovered. The morning light revealed the glint of a dagger in his hands. She watched him, praying that he could somehow get the young girl away.

And out of the corner of her eye, she spied Callum taking aim with his bow, an arrow poised to take out Finian.

“Wait,” she pleaded. “Finian MacLachor may be of use.”

Let him save her. Give him the chance for redemption.

The dark look in the MacKinloch archer’s eyes said he didn’t believe her. His arm drew back the bow, his gaze narrowing.

And Alys doubted if Finian would have his chance to save the girl.

Finian’s legs were so stiff, he could hardly move. The night he’d spent in chains had taken its pound of flesh from him, leaving him weakened. Only his mind remained sharp and focused.