When a Laird Takes a Lady: A Claimed by the Highlander Novel (20 page)

He intended to gut her.

Praying that Aiden would reach them before Daniel slid the blade between her ribs, Isabail slowly retreated. The cliff was behind her, some twenty paces away. Plenty of space for Aiden to make his move.

“It seems that when your mouth opens, only
lies come out,” she said. “Since justice for John was clearly not what you sought, why take the necklace? Why risk all this for a pretty bauble?”

He said nothing, just continued toward her, one relentless step after another.

“Tell me why my brother died, Daniel.”

That sank through his icy facade. He paused. “I told you. It was an accident. But in the end, he died for a good cause—the triumph of right over wrong. Justice has been a long time coming, but it
will
see the light of day.”

His response was too vague and unsatisfying. Isabail needed more. When she had believed John the victim of a thief and a traitor, his death had been understandable. Not easy to accept, but understandable. Now that Daniel had confessed to the crime, there was only confusion and a horrible sense of waste. “How do you accidentally poison someone, Daniel?”

But the answers she sought were not to be had. His brief moment of introspection passed like a cloud over the moon. Lips clamped tight, his purposeful stride resumed. With his eyes locked on her chest as if he was imagining just where he would place the tip of his blade, he came at her.

* * *

Aiden jogged into the trees, his fist tight around the hilt of his sword. He’d nearly lost Isabail once to de Lourdes’s blade; he wouldn’t allow it to happen again. The wretch would die before harming her. He scanned the trees for some sign of Isabail. The bright winter moon filtered down through the
barren branches, creating a patchwork of dark and light. He caught a glimpse of pale blue gown, and his heart leapt. She was alive. De Lourdes was harder to see, but Aiden eventually spotted his outline in the dimness. The miserable cur was relentlessly pressing her toward the cliffs.

Slipping silently through the trees, Aiden drew closer.

As he listened to the strange conversation between the two, he frowned.

Until the moment the necklace was mentioned, Aiden had assumed de Lourdes was a thief of opportunity—that he’d stolen the necklace and the crown because he could. Not because that had been his aim all long. Which spoke volumes about how disturbed Aiden had been by Isabail’s near death—he had not thought to question the cur’s goal.

But de Lourdes hadn’t entered the MacCurran camp to rescue Isabail—he’d come for the necklace. The same necklace that lay at the root of all Aiden’s recent troubles, the same necklace that eventually led back to the man in black.

By God.

De Lourdes knew the identity of the man in black. He had to. If Aiden but questioned him, he would have all the answers he sought. Dunstoras would be saved, and his clan could return to their home. All he had to do was wring the truth from de Lourdes’s lips.

Right after he rescued Isabail.

With his gaze locked on de Lourdes, he stepped around a patch of winter-dried bilberry—and
very nearly trod upon a sleeping black grouse. The startled bird took flight, veering west in a madly beating flurry of wings. Aiden recovered quickly and raced for Isabail. But he was a moment too late.

De Lourdes reached her first. He wrapped an arm around her throat and swiveled. His sword flashed in the moonlight, now accurately pointed at Aiden. “Step any closer and I’ll kill her.”

Aiden continued forward, closing the gap to ten paces. To have a hope of disarming the cur, he had to be within striking distance.

De Lourdes shuffled back, dragging Isabail with him. “Stay back, I say.”

The sword was pointed at Aiden and not Isabail, so Aiden ignored him. Eight paces. “Harm her and you’ll die a very painful death.”

De Lourdes retreated farther, a scowl upon his face.

Aiden followed. The edge of the cliff was only a few feet behind them. Was de Lourdes aware? “Let her go and you can live.”

Isabail was clawing at her captor’s arm, but her efforts did not register on de Lourdes’s face. The man’s attention was completely focused on Aiden. He waved his sword. “Do you think me a fool? The only way you’d allow me to live would be if I betrayed the one I live for.”

De Lourdes took another step back.

Aiden’s heart thumped heavily in his chest. “Let her go and we’ll talk, nothing more.”

“There’s naught to be said,” the other man said,
taking a firm step back. His voice was dark and crisp, the sound of utter conviction. The edge of the cliff lay immediately behind him, and his purpose suddenly became clear.

He intended to jump—and to take Isabail with him.

Aiden’s blood pumped slowly through his veins, and a cool clarity dropped over him. He knew exactly what he had to do—stop de Lourdes before he could leap. There was no time to think twice or doubt the plan of action that sprang to mind. He simply dropped his sword and darted forward, eyes on his target.

Daniel didn’t hesitate. He saw Aiden move and immediately leapt backward.

Isabail screamed.

As the two of them began to fall, Aiden’s priority shifted—one hand had been grabbing for each of them, but now he dove for Isabail with both. He grasped for her wrist, but caught only the tips of her fingers as her slim hand slipped through his desperate fingers. The other hand had more luck—he latched onto the fluttering folds of her gown, gaining a fistful of material.

Aiden landed on his belly in the snow, partly hanging over the cliff. An instant later, as the full weight of Isabail’s body dropped, the strength of his grip was tested. He vaguely saw de Lourdes pitch headfirst toward the water, but his gaze was locked on Isabail. She hung from his right hand, her death prevented by only a handful of finely woven wool.

Thankfully, she did not squirm.

Wide blue eyes met his, terror evident in the pallor of her face.

Aiden’s balance was not secure—he was too far over the edge—and Isabail’s weight, though not excessive, was enough to rock him. Heart pounding, he planted his left hand in the snow to keep him steady.

“I’ve got you, lass,” he said reassuringly.

Digging his boots into the frozen ground as best he could, he tried to wriggle back. The sound of material ripping froze his movements. The delicate seam stitches at Isabail’s waist were giving way.

She said nothing, but the stark look in her eyes begged him to do something.

There was only one option.

Aiden lifted his left hand and reached for Isabail. If they fell, at least they would fall together. “Grab my hand, lass.”

Isabail reached for him, trembling badly. A foot of space separated their fingers.

Aiden extended his arm farther, but his body tipped and he had to pull back. “Stretch,” he urged. “Safety is only a few inches away.”

She did as he bade. Reaching. Grasping. Their fingers touched, but the melted snow on his hand proved too slippery and she fell back. The seam ripped further, and she let out a short shriek.

Aiden swallowed, his mouth dry as dust. The seam was half-gone now; a huge hole had opened
up, one that Isabail could easily fall through. If she tilted too far to one side, or the rest of the seam gave way, he would lose her. “Try again,” he told her.

She did. This time their fingers locked briefly before she slipped from his grasp. As she fell back, the seam ripped wide, leaving only a bare few inches of attached material . . . and the threads continued to give. Aiden knew he had only seconds to save Isabail.

“Again,” he urged firmly, opening his hand and offering her the broadest grip possible. “Quickly now; there’s a lass.”

Desperation drove the next attempt. With a slight catch of her breath, she launched herself at his hand. The dress ripped again, completely parting. His right hand now held nothing but a swath of fabric. Luckily, Isabail had latched firmly to his left.

He dropped the fabric and grabbed Isabail with both hands. Slowly, but with increasingly sure movements, he withdrew from the edge of the cliff. When his balance was firm, he yanked her up over the edge. Giving in to a primal need, he clasped her tightly to his chest and pressed his lips into the soft hair on her head.

They lay there in the snow, breathing heavily and doing little else but listening to their heartbeats for several minutes.

“What of Jamie?” Isabail asked hoarsely. “Did you see him?”

“Aye. He’s with his da.”

Her hand, still clutching his, tightened. “His
da
?”

“All that will sort itself out,” Aiden said. “Did de Lourdes hurt you? Are you well?”

“I’m fine.”

He released her, rolled to his feet, then offered her a hand. When she was standing and he could see for himself that all was well, he pulled her again to his chest. “I love you, Isabail Macintosh.”

“I know,” she said with a faint smile.

“I’ve nothing to offer you, not a home nor a good name,” he said. “Just myself. But I was earnest about a wedding.”

“You are a meager prize, to be sure,” she said, pressing a cold kiss against his lips. “But fear not. I have something to offer you.”

“Oh?”

“I’ll give you the names of the guests at Lochurkie that night”—she wagged a finger at him—“on one condition.”

He frowned. “And what is that?”

“You must promise not to kill any of them.”

Staring at her beautiful face in the moonlight, Aiden knew he could never deny her anything. But he still protested. “One of them cost me everything. Harmed my kin in unspeakable ways, dishonored my name before the king, and put a barrier called the law between you and I,” he said. “Yet you expect me to spare him?”

“I simply ask that you let justice take its due
course. Prove without doubt that this man is guilty. We both know that innocent people can be accused of crimes they did not commit.”

He kissed the top of her head.

“I will do everything in my power to honor your request. More than that I cannot promise.”

She nuzzled the skin at his neck, her nose cool against his throat. “That will do.”

T
he corridor was ablaze with lit tapers, every nook and hollow illuminated, every colorful pennant and silken tapestry artfully displayed. Isabail resisted the urge to smooth imaginary wrinkles from her burgundy gown. She had walked these very halls of Edinburgh Castle once before—the year she’d been presented as Andrew Macintosh’s bride—but the circumstances today were much more challenging. Today, she had one chance to make everything right. Her words must be firm and persuasive, passionate and incontrovertible.

She must convince the king to pardon Aiden and return Dunstoras to the MacCurrans.

Not an easy task.

She paused before the iron-studded doors to the king’s receiving room. The guards on either side, aware that she was expected, stared straight ahead, expressionless.

“You’ll do fine, my lady,” whispered Cormac encouragingly. He stood several paces behind her,
attired in an uncharacteristic velvet tunic. Green, of course. The bowman’s presence was comforting, but Isabail would have given anything to lean against Aiden’s strength at this moment, to lose her fears in the solid warmth of his embrace. An impossible wish, of course. He still had a price on his head.

Palms damp with sweat, Isabail adjusted the parchment in her hands.

With the help of her cousin Archibald, she had documented Daniel’s confession to killing John Grant. The words had seemed so perfect when she’d read them a few minutes ago, but now her belly quivered with uncertainty.

Footsteps echoed on the granite tiles behind the doors, and a moment later, the heavy oak panels swung inward. With a stately bow, the king’s hostarius
ushered her inside, the wave of his hand guiding her across the room to a rather simple wooden throne, upon which sat King Alexander. He wasn’t alone. At his right side stood Earl Buchan, the justiciar of Scotia, and next to him, the king’s bastard half brother, William Dunkeld. To the king’s left stood James Stewart, the high steward. None of them were smiling.

An intimidating group, to say the least.

Isabail crossed the room. She focused her gaze on the bearded face of King Alexander, telling herself the look in his brown eyes was kindly and welcoming. Her brother had been one of his favorite nobles; she had nothing to fear. Except failure.

As she neared, the king rose to his feet and stepped off the dais.

“Lady Isabail,” he greeted, grasping her hand in two of his and giving her a gentle squeeze. While not particularly tall, he had the quiet strength and easy confidence that only a man of royal birth possessed. “My condolences on the passing of your brother. He will be sorely missed.”

Isabail curtsied. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“Lochurkie has informed me that you have a petition.”

Isabail nodded. “I do. But before I make any claim, my honor dictates you be informed of all that transpired in the past sennight.” She held out the parchment. “I was witness to a confession that may inform your decision against Laird MacCurran.”

The king took the letter, unfolded it, and began to read. When he was finished, he handed the parchment to the justiciar and turned back to her with a faint frown. “Based on this confession, I would willingly pardon the healer . . .”

“Ana Bisset,” offered the justiciar.

“Ana Bisset,” the king continued. “It would seem she was unfairly accused of murdering your brother.”

“Indeed, Your Grace.” Buoyed by that victory, Isabail waved Cormac forward. “There is something more. When we searched the keep where de Lourdes was hiding, we found this.”

The high steward accepted the velvet bag from Cormac and peered inside. “The ruby necklace, Your Grace. The one commissioned for Queen Yolande.”

A smile spread over King Alexander’s face. “How excellent.”

“De Lourdes was likely responsible for the necklace’s original theft,” Isabail said.

“There’s no proof of that,” said the king. “Your brother found the necklace in MacCurran’s rooms. And there’s still the matter of de Coleville’s death.De Lourdes took credit for slaying your brother, but not my courier. And even if he had, de Lourdes failed to name his liege lord, so my judgment against Laird MacCurran must stand. His lands remain forfeit.”

Isabail’s shoulders drooped. She had failed. Aiden was still a wanted man.

“What of your petition, Lady Isabail?” the king asked.

She drew in a slow, deep breath. All was not lost. The fate of Dunstoras still hung in the balance. A rousing petition might yet change the future—a petition that would be a great deal easier to make if Earl Buchan were not standing a mere twelve paces away. The Comyns were her rivals for Dunstoras, insisting the land rightfully belonged to them due to some ancient description of their border.

Keeping her gaze locked on the royal seal hanging about the king’s neck, she said, “I wish to formally claim Dunstoras.”

“Your Grace—” began Earl Buchan.

“Not for Earl Lochurkie,” Isabail added quickly, “but for myself, in recompense for the death of my brother. John served you faithfully, Your Grace,
and for that, he was felled in his prime. Murdered in his bed. The person responsible remains at large, and I beg for some measure of justice, sire. Grant me Dunstoras.”

“Our claim to the land dates back three hundred years,” Buchan said.

Isabail pictured Aiden’s face and the weary faces of his clan. She straightened, facing her detractor squarely. “Lochurkie borders Dunstoras directly to the northeast. Were the lands granted to me, I would have easy support from the earl and could provide warriors to him in times of strife. The Comyns are separated from Dunstoras by the Red Mountains. I believe fulfilling my petition is best for Dunstoras and best for Scotland.”

“Strong words, Lady Isabail,” the king said.

“My love for my late brother lends me strength, Your Grace.”

Buchan’s lips twisted sourly. “Majesty, this request has less to do with love than greed. Justice would favor the Comyn claim.”

“Lord Buchan,” Isabail said firmly. “Surely, the need for peace is paramount. What message do we send to the people of Scotland if we fail to end a bitter clan dispute when the opportunity is within our grasp?”

The king nodded. “What message indeed?”

“How can granting MacCurran’s lands to his enemy bring about peace?” demanded Buchan.

“Much easier than you suspect,” Isabail said quietly. “I will repair the castle and rebuild the village. I will welcome any MacCurran cottar who
pledges his oath to me. And I will bring prosperity to a glen that has seen too much of strife.” Lobbying so hard in favor of taking Aiden’s home made her stomach queasy. But the thought of losing Dunstoras, of seeing it fall into anyone’s hands but her own, made her feel worse.

Isabail turned to the king. “I beseech you, Your Grace. My brother is forever lost to me. Claiming Dunstoras will never make up for his passing, but seeing real justice done will ease my sorrows. Give Dunstoras to the one most committed to its redemption.”

The king met her gaze, solemn. As the length of their shared glance stretched beyond mere politeness, the corners of his mouth lifted ever so slightly and he gave her the barest of nods.

“Done.”

* * *

Isabail sank into the steaming hot tub with a groan of absolute delight. It had been longer than she cared to remember since she’d indulged in such a wonderfully frivolous moment. She leaned back against the wooden bathing tub and closed her eyes. The rose petals Muirne had tossed into the water added a sweet fragrance to the steam that filled her nose and curled the hairs at her nape.

The last fortnight had passed in a blur of travel, political intrigue, and audiences with the king. An exaggeration, that last bit. She’d had only one audience with the king. But, to be fair, it had been a most satisfactory one.

“Shall I wash your back, my lady?”

Isabail opened her eyes. Muirne stood next to the tub, a thick cotton towel in one hand and a bar of lavender soap in the other. The maid wore a broad smile that bordered on a grin.

“I take it Fearghus has finally arrived,” Isabail guessed.

“With all of my furniture,” Muirne acknowledged happily. “Including the bed, which he has already assembled in our room.”

Isabail clapped her hands over her ears. “Enough. No details, please.”

“He’s a difficult man to please, my Fearghus,” Muirne continued, draping the towel over a nearby chair and pulling a stool closer to the tub. “But he says he likes it here.”

Isabail leaned forward, giving the maid access to her back. “Dunstoras is a lovely castle.”

“I’ve only one complaint,” the maid said, lathering the soap across Isabail’s back.

“What would that be?”

“Lady Elisaid.”

“Oh, dear,” said Isabail, frowning. “What has she done now?”

“She’s torn down the tapestries we hung in the great hall yesterday. She wants those dusty old ones with the MacCurran crest put back.”

A sigh escaped Isabail’s lips. “Fine. Wash them and put them back.”

“But, my lady,” Muirne protested, “if the king were ever to visit—”

“The king is not going to visit,” Isabail said. “Not anytime soon, at any rate. And if we get
word that he’s about to descend upon us, we’ll take them down.”

Isabail leaned her forehead on her knees and let the tension flow out of her neck. The maid was doing an exquisite job of soaping her back. Strong, sure strokes that made her limp with languid pleasure. “Och, that’s lovely, Muirne. A little lower . . . Ah, perfect.”

The maid’s thumbs pressed firmly in the flesh between her shoulder blades, and Isabail gave up a little moan. She had not realized how stiff her back had become of late. “You could make your fortune with those hands, goodwife.”

“I’m afraid these hands are already spoken for,” a gruff voice whispered in her ear.

Isabail smiled. They weren’t Muirne’s hands at all. She should have guessed by the roughness of the calluses. “Are they now?”

“Only my wife benefits,” Aiden said. His hands reached up and unpinned her hair, letting the silky blond tresses fall over her shoulders. The ends fell into the water.

“Now you’ve done it,” she said. “You’ll have to wash my hair.”

Two large male feet stepped into the bath, and water sloshed over the edge as he sat behind her. He pulled her back against his chest, one arm wrapping around her waist. A familiar sight, that arm—bronzed sinews scattered with a dusting of dark hairs. Strong, powerful, and comforting.

“I can think of worse punishments,” he whispered into the hair at her temple.

Isabail relaxed against him. “You’re going to smell like roses for the rest of the day,” she warned him. “Be prepared to suffer ribald remarks from Niall and Wulf.”

“Niall, perhaps,” he agreed. “But Wulf has left the castle.”

She trailed wet fingers up his arm. “He’s still uncomfortable.”

“Aye,” Aiden acknowledged. “But it’s rough on the lad.”

“Does Wulf not spend time with him?”

“He does,” Aiden said. “But he still doesn’t remember the lad. Or Elen, or wee Hugh. They converse like strangers.”

“Give them time. They’ll find their way.”

His hands slid up her soapy body to cup her breasts. “The passage of time is greatly overvalued as a solution to life’s ills.”

She covered his big hands with hers. “Daniel
was
the man in black.”

He snorted. “I’m not so confident as you.”

“Did we not find the black wolf cloak at Tayteath? In the very same chamber as we found the necklace and the crown?”

“Aye,” he acknowledged. “But what of de Lourdes’s talk of a new lover? Of his higher calling to serve justice?”

Isabail sighed. “The man jumped to his death. He was not of right mind. And we’ve chased down every other clue. Ana’s traveling merchant bought the necklace from a man matching Daniel’s description near Lochurkie last November.”

“And what of the man I spied the night of the poisonings?”

“We’ve spoken to all five of my guests at Lochurkie that night, and none are a match to the man you saw in the corridor leading to the kitchens.”

“Someone else must have been there. Someone we’ve forgotten.”

Isabail slid her soapy hands up his arms, admiring the ropy sinews that cradled her with such tenderness. “I am as vexed as you that we’ve no proof to offer the king of your innocence. But, in time, the truth will come to light. Have faith.”

He gently squeezed her breasts, sending a wave of sweet longing through her body. Her head rolled back, giving him access to the sensitive cords of her neck—and he obliged by lowering his hot mouth to her damp skin. “For the moment, I’m willing to put aside the hunt,” he murmured. “MacPherson is gone, my people are back in their homes, and my boot steps once again echo through the passageways of Dunstoras. Thanks to the new lady of the keep.”

Isabail pressed her rump against the rigid length of her husband and gave a little wiggle. “I am, of course, pleased that the king awarded me this lovely keep,” she said, closing her eyes and imagining him sinking deep inside her. “But I welcome the day when we can publicly announce our wedding and you can take your rightful place as laird.”

He nibbled his way up the side of her neck.

“So long as we are together and the name you whisper in the throes of passion is mine, I am content.” He slipped a hand under her knees, and with one powerful push, stood up in the tub. Water splashed and dripped. Stepping over the edge and leaving a wet trail of footprints on the floor, Aiden carried her to the huge platform bed. “For now.”

As he lowered her to the sheets and then slid his wet body along hers, Isabail smiled.

He was not truly content—he was merely biding his time. Aiden MacCurran was a Highland chief, full of pride, courage, and raw determination. He would not rest until he cleared his name and redeemed the honor of his clan. Which was fine with her.

But tonight, they would forget all that . . . for a moment or two.

“Well, my dearest husband,” she said throatily. “All this talk of passion and contentment has piqued my curiosity. Perhaps you want to show me what truly happens when a laird takes a lady.”