Taming a Wild Scot: A Claimed by the Highlander Novel (2 page)

Not far behind her, someone shouted. The huntsman had spotted her trail.

A moment later, the dogs had turned in her direction, their baying even louder.

Her heart thumped madly against her ribs and her breath wheezed through parched lips, but Ana did not stop. At the fork in the path, she veered left, clutching a hand to her chest as if that could prevent it from bursting. Her legs felt as if they did not belong to her, and a sapping weariness was creeping up her body. Her tongue thickened to a crusty lump, and the appeal of stopping to take a sip from the oilskin pouch grew near unbearable.

But she kept running.

The burn was only thirty paces away. If her breathing weren’t so labored, she’d be able to hear its merry trickle by now.

A fallen branch lay in her path, but she lacked the strength to leap it, so she went around. It was time she could not afford to lose. The barking was so close now it blocked out the hammer of her heartbeat. Surely a frenzied hound would sink its teeth into her leg at any moment.

Spotting the dip in the terrain that marked the meandering route of the burn, Ana dove through a hazelnut thicket and splashed into the flow. Icy water poured into her boots and drenched her woolen skirts. The uneven bed of the burn made every step perilous, but she plowed on—through a gossamer spiderweb, over a slippery, algae-coated boulder, under a leaning fir tree. Her skirts dragged at her legs, exhausting her to the point of numbness, but she kept going.

Her boot slipped on a rock, her ankle twisted painfully, and she stumbled in the water, nearly going down. Only an instinctive jerk to the right saved her. But it came at a price—her elbow was jabbed by a broken tree branch, the sharp wood piercing her skin and robbing her of what little breath she had. Her hand went numb and she nearly dropped the knife.

The temptation to give up and fall to her knees might have won out at that moment, save for one thing—just above the gnarled fingers of the late-autumn trees, the sky was brightening. No longer black, but a deep shade of indigo. The sun was fighting its way to the horizon, desperate to see another day, and she could do no less.

Ana swept her long hair out of her face. She clutched her injured elbow, pressed the wound with her fingers to stop the bleeding, and continued her dash through the burn. Her breaths came in gusty gulps, each one burning in her throat.

Sometime after she entered the water—an eternity, it seemed—the hounds abruptly ceased their cry. The odd yelp and howl still rose into the night, but the constant voice of a pack on a clear scent died off.

Experience told Ana that the longer she remained in the burn and took care not to touch land or shrub, the better her chances were of escape. But she couldn’t stay in the water forever—it slowed her down, and a good scent hound could pick up the trail again farther downstream, especially if it caught a whiff of the blood she’d left behind on the stick. At some point, she’d need to leave the burn and make her way cross-land.

Near the waterfall, perhaps. There was a rugged trail leading down the cliff to the river.

Goal in mind, she found a new reserve of strength. Her back straightened, her knees firmed, and she splashed forward over a bed of smooth round stones. If she made it to the river, she’d be safe. Unlike most people, she knew how to swim. If she shed her long skirts and dove in, the water would carry her to freedom. She could do this.

Unfortunately, her heart proved uncooperative. As she picked up her pace, it skipped a few beats, and then began to flutter against her ribs in a wholly unsatisfying and frightening manner. A weakness stole through her limbs, making them feel twice as heavy as they’d felt only moments before. Her head swam, her breaths shortened, and a sudden dread that she would die consumed her.

Ana stopped running.

She stood in the icy stream, her arms wrapped around her body, shivering, trying to catch her breath, trying not to faint. Closing her eyes, she forced her breaths through her nose, rather than her mouth, and struggled to contain the frantic beats of her heart.

Be still, crazed heart. I will not die here. Not so close to safety.

Long moments passed like that, just breathing and shivering. Finally, to her immense relief, the pace of her heart abruptly slowed, returning to its heavy but more natural pound. She opened her eyes, ready to resume her flight.

The scowling face of a helmed Lochurkie guard stared back at her. He grabbed her uninjured elbow, his thick fingers digging into her flesh. “Got ya, ya bleedin’ wench.”

Ana reacted instinctively. The only thought spinning through her head was the fleeting promise of freedom. She slashed at the guard with the hunting knife.

The blade cut through his cotun sleeve and the flesh of his arm with almost equal ease. Blood gushed, the guard howled, and her mouth soured. She, who’d taken a solemn oath to heal and preserve life, had willingly and consciously harmed another being. But what alternative was there? He was so much larger and stronger than she. And didn’t she deserve to live? Ana swallowed tightly and fought for her freedom. Yanking her elbow free, she shoved the guard away and ran in the direction of the cliff.

The river was so close.

Just a few hundred feet and she could slide down the path.

A large bramble whipped her face as she passed, but she paid no mind to the deep scratches it left behind. Her gaze was locked on the lone gray-barked Scots fir directly ahead. It stood at the top of the path.

The guard shouted to his cohorts and gave chase. Heavy footsteps and angry assurances of retribution followed her through the brush. Her pace was much slower than his, her strength still feeble in comparison. She prayed that she would reach the edge before he caught her.

And she very nearly did.

She was but a step away from the rough dirt path leading down the cliff when a meaty hand latched onto her long, loose hair and yanked her backward. Completely exhausted by her bid for escape, she had no hope of maintaining her balance. She fell heavily, striking the ground with her hip and then her head. Her head hit something hard—a rock or a tree root—and a dizzying blur of black spots crowded her vision. The guard sprang at her, and she barely had the wits to roll to one side.

But she did roll.

Right off the edge.

She grabbed for one of the roots of the fir tree as she slid—and missed. The guard’s hand was still tangled in her hair, but his grip was not sufficient to hold her weight. Strands began to break and tear free, and suddenly Ana was falling.

Her last image was of the scowling guard clutching a handful of red hair.

Then darkness swallowed her.

Barony of Duthes
Scottish Highlands
January 1286

S
tanding under the shadowed awning of the baker’s stall, Niall MacCurran surveyed the walled manor house, from the highest stone parapet to the lowly wooden drawbridge. Six archers and nine men-at-arms paced the ramparts. Two square towers rose into the gray sky on either side of the barmekin gate, each housing at least two dozen soldiers. A pair of chain mail–clad men guarded the open portcullis—each armed with a sharp poleax.

“That’s not a manor,” murmured Niall’s half brother, Aiden. “It’s a bloody fortress.”

“Aye.”

“With steep braes on three sides and a dry moat on the fourth, we’ll not be scaling the walls.”

“Agreed,” Niall said, his breath fogging the air in front of his face.

“Bloody waste of time, this was.”

Niall’s gaze slid across the village square to the woman perusing the offerings of the vegetable vendor. Like other female marketgoers, she wore an uninspiring brown gown topped by a white apron and a linen brèid. That display of matronly modesty and the loose fit of her coarse woolen clothing did surprisingly little to shield her from the attentions of a pack of eager young lads—they passed her by with many a second glance and a few bold grins. Perhaps they were as intrigued as he was by the lock of dark red hair that had escaped her head covering.

“Not if Baron Duthes is our thief,” he said.

Hair the color of fine Burgundy wine was uncommon. He could recall seeing similarly hued tresses only once before—in the flickering torchlight of a dank prison.

“He was nowhere near Dunstoras the night the necklace was stolen,” Aiden said grimly. “According to our few remaining friends at court, he was in Edinburgh.”

Niall tugged his gaze away from the red-haired woman. His brother was examining the baker’s pasties with halfhearted interest. The guise of a simple farmer suited Aiden well, his muscular body lending veracity to his claim of a life of physical labor. Two purple smudges under his eyes were all that remained of the torture he had endured at the hands of the earl of Lochurkie. “The queen’s necklace is here, I promise you.”

“Your informant only caught a glimpse of the necklace.” His brother selected a meat tart and tossed the baker a coin. “It may not be the one we seek.”

“How many heart-shaped rubies can there be?”

Aiden shrugged. “To prove it, you’ll need to get inside the manor.”

“I’ll get in.”

“The guards at the gate challenge every unfamiliar face. I see no way past them.”

Niall’s attention returned to the woman picking through the turnips and cabbages at the vegetable stall. A few snowflakes drifted down from the January sky, but not enough to hinder his view. She was accompanied by a tabard-draped guard who was carrying her purchases. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

His brother cast a sharp look over his shoulder. “Do you know that woman?”

“Aye,” Niall said. She had fuller lips, rosier cheeks, and an unfamiliar pink scar on her lovely brow, but he trusted his memory of that dark night in November. “’Tis the lass I rescued from Lochurkie.”

“The murderess?”

In the weeks following Aiden’s escape from prison, they’d heard several rumors about the redheaded woman, including that one. “Aye.”

“Did you not say she was knocking on Death’s door?”

A familiar knot twisted in Niall’s gut. Leaving the lass behind had cost him many a sleepless night imagining her dismal fate. The hopeless look in her eyes as he bid her adieu had haunted him for days
.
“Aye.”

Aiden bestowed the meat tart upon a scrawny young lad who was eyeing his bounty with desperate longing. “Then how did she escape the castle guards?”

How indeed? Had her frail appearance that night been a ruse? If so, it had been a good one. But he couldn’t deny the uncanny coincidence of finding her
here
, in the same village that held Queen Yolande’s stolen necklace, more than sixty miles from Lochurkie. “It matters not. She has access to the manor.”

His brother dusted pastry crumbs from his hands. “Think you can sway her to our cause?”

Niall was not known for his silver tongue. He did well enough with the ladies when it suited him, but he much preferred guarding the hidden passages beneath Dunstoras over the endless small talk required to coax a smile from the fairer sex. Still, everything he valued rested on proving his brother had not stolen the necklace—Aiden’s honor,
his
honor, and the future of the entire MacCurran clan. “I’ll do whate’er is necessary.”

“I don’t doubt your commitment,” Aiden replied, “but time rides a fleet horse. The king intends to bestow Dunstoras upon a new lord when he next holds court. At best, we have a fortnight. If you fail—”

“I will not fail.”

“You cannot be certain of that.”

“I will not fail,” Niall repeated firmly.

Aiden sighed. “Were it only me, your word would be enough. But I cannot hang the fate of our clan upon your promise of success—no matter how ardently spoken. The challenge before you is too difficult. I must return to Lochurkie.”

“Are you mad? Was one stay in their dungeon not enough for you?”

His brother rubbed his bare chin. “The risk is not as great as you suggest. None will recognize me with my beard gone.”

“’Tis a fool’s errand, Aiden. Your memories of those days are scattered. You cannot even be certain there
was
a man in a black wolf cloak.”

“My wits were not as addled as you think,” Aiden insisted. “I saw him twice. Once at Dunstoras on the night the necklace was stolen, and a second time in the dungeons of Lochurkie.”

“Dunstoras was a madhouse after the murders. People crying and shouting, soldiers dashing for their swords. No one knew who to blame. The alarm was raised at every shadow.”

“I saw him before the murders, not after. In the passageway to the kitchens. Had I known then what he was about . . .” Aiden gripped the hilt of his dirk with a white-knuckled fist. “And, dear brother, let us not forget the way the night ended. The earl’s men located the missing necklace—in
my
rooms. How do you explain that, if not for the man in black?”

“I can’t,” admitted Niall with a sigh. “But returning to Lochurkie is still a fool’s errand.”

“Perhaps. But I owe it to the memory of my kith and kin to see our honor restored—any way I can.”

Niall’s lips tightened. “They were my kin, too.”

“Of course they were. I did not mean to imply otherwise. But I’m the chief. The responsibility for claiming vengeance lies with me.”

Aye, Aiden was the chief. But it was Niall who captained the Curaidhnean Dubh—the Black Warriors, the handpicked group of men tasked with keeping Dunstoras safe. If anyone was to blame for their current circumstances, it was he. Not only had he allowed a murdering thief to enter Dunstoras, he’d failed to bring the cur to justice. He’d let down his clan . . . what little clan remained. “You cannot go alone.”

“Don’t fash yourself. Leod and Duncan have agreed to accompany me.”

With Dunstoras fortress seized by the king and most of their remaining kin in hiding, there were few warriors to accompany him. And even fewer healthy ones. “Leod cannot travel with his injured leg,” Niall said. “Take Graeme instead.”

A wry smile twisted his brother’s lips. “Offering me the finest sword in your band of merry men? I should be wounded by that aspersion. Have you completely lost faith in my ability to protect myself?”

“There’s a price on your head. Every man you encounter on the way to Lochurkie will be seeking to claim it.”

“None of them are likely to be my equal with a blade.” Aiden placed a hand on Niall’s shoulder. “I’m not a half-wit, though. Since you offered, I’ll happily take Graeme.”

Niall nodded, reassured. Then he glanced back at the vegetable stall. The red-haired beauty was holding a copper coin in one hand and two fat neeps in the other, haggling with the vendor. “And whilst you gad about the highlands, I’ll go after the necklace.”

“If you find it, be sure you split a gut for wee Hugh.”

Niall’s thoughts spun back in time. Hugh, their cousin Wulf’s young lad, had been poisoned alongside his mother and the king’s courier the night the necklace disappeared. Bright as a new penny, quick to laugh, and adoring of his “uncle” Niall. Niall had dug several graves that day, but none more difficult than that one. “Rest assured. I’ll avenge him.”

“Good.” His brother squeezed his shoulder. “Send a messenger the instant you learn anything.”

Niall pulled his woolen brat over his head. “Count on it.”

•   •   •

Ana paid the vegetable vendor and handed the two turnips to her guard, satisfied with her bargain. A bland broth should be well tolerated by the baron’s wife, Elayne, providing her with some much needed sustenance. Neither ginger nor mint had soothed the woman’s belly. Even heavy with child, she was thin as a willow switch.

“Take these back to the manor and have Cook begin chopping them immediately,” she said to her young guard. “I’ll be but a moment behind you. I must purchase some cardamom.”

“Aye, Goodhealer Ana.”

As the lad scurried off, she turned toward the spice merchant’s stall—only to draw up short, confronted by a solid wall of male flesh wrapped in a thick winter brat. Unusually tall and broad of shoulder, he loomed over her, most of his face hidden by the multicolored wool pulled low over his head. Most of his face, that is, save for a long, straight nose.

Ana stiffened.

She knew that nose—or at least she thought she did—and it was not a nose she’d ever imagined seeing again. The owner knew an unfortunate detail of her past. Heart skittering, she peered into the depths of his hood. “Are we acquainted, sir?”

A low, lazy chuckle rose from his chest. “I should say so, lass.” He shoved the hood back, and Ana’s breath caught. The strong lines of his face were a perfect match for his nose—hard and masculine and beautiful. But not beautiful in an elegant way. Nay, with that mocking smile and overlong dark hair, the only word that sprang to mind was
dangerous
. And he swiftly proved her right. As she stood there, enthralled, he cupped her chin in a pair of large hands and pressed a heart-stopping kiss to her lips. A tingling promise of delight.

And then it was over.

She stared into the face of her rescuer at Lochurkie, shocked by the wave of soft heat that poured through her. Despite their mutually entwined history, this man was a stranger. Apart from the nose, only his deep voice was familiar—

The tension in her shoulders eased.

Perhaps his appeal wasn’t so surprising after all. Had not those low, rumbling tones coaxed her back from the brink of death? Inspired her to move in spite of excruciating pain? Rekindled her will to survive? Aye, they had. They had also made every nightmare she had endured since her ordeal more bearable. She might well be in love with that voice.

“’Tis I, your husband, Robbie, returned at long last from Aberdeen,” he announced, loud enough for all to hear. “Rumors of my demise on the docks were greatly exaggerated, I fear.”

She blinked.
Robbie? Her husband?

An instinctive denial bubbled to her lips, but she bit it back. All around her, villagers had stopped to listen, enthralled by an impromptu reunion. She tightened her brat around her shoulders. Attention—especially aimed at her life before arriving in the village—was the last thing she needed. If the constable caught word she was wanted in Lochurkie for murder, all would be lost. Besides, she owed this man a huge debt—how could she deny him, even if he demanded a terrible price?

She forced a smile. “Robbie. Dear Lord, I thought you were gone for good.”

“Nay, wife, never for good,” he said, dark amusement in his eyes. “Even a battle waged against insurmountable odds couldn’t keep me from your side.” He slid the sleeve of his dark green lèine up, revealing a thick scar, which ran from elbow to shoulder on his right arm. “I’d have benefited from your tender ministrations, though, sweetling.”

The scar was old, but the injury was real. He had very nearly lost that arm.

Ana met his gaze.

He shrugged off her sympathy and glanced around at their avid audience. “Let’s away home, lass. We’ve a need for a proper homecoming.”

She hesitated. This was not an opportune time to be waylaid. The turnip broth required her supervision. Cook had a habit of oversalting his soups, a heavy hand that could cause a myriad of problems for the babe. And without the cardamom, Lady Elayne might be unable to keep the soup in her belly, making the entire trip to the market pointless.

Noting her reluctance, “Robbie” tossed a heavy arm over her shoulders and tucked her close against his body. “Lead on, my love.”

Trapped—by both his arm and the debt she owed him—Ana escorted her
husband
away from the west wall of the fortified manor house and down the lane toward the tiny heather-thatched bothy she occupied at the edge of the village. The bothy was offered in soccage to the village midwife. The previous tenant, Auld Mairi, had died at Christmas, leaving Ana as the primary healer—a role she’d much rather have avoided.

She unlatched the wooden door and beckoned him inside the one-room abode.

Ducking under the lintel log, he entered. The shutters were closed against the winter chill and, without a lit candle, the room was dim. Still, he perused the space at length, from the narrow cot nestled against the far wall to the solid maple table she used for crafting her medicines, ending with a nod. “This will do.”

Never one to mince her words, Ana asked, “Do for what?”

“My purpose is not yours to know.” He closed the door, took a flint from the pouch at his belt, and bent to light the kindling stacked in the fire pit. A flame burst into life with surprising speed. “All that’s needed is for you to accept me publicly as your husband and allow me to accompany you to the manor whene’er you go.”

“And if I choose not to do so?”

Standing, he favored her with a grave stare. “Then I’ll be forced to share my knowledge of your past with the constable.”