When a Laird Takes a Lady: A Claimed by the Highlander Novel (4 page)

With her head slightly bowed, she asked, “Where are you taking me?”

“Does it matter?”

Her shoulders sagged. “Perhaps not.”

Aiden frowned. She made him feel like a cad and a brute, all with a simple sigh. Yet he was the one who had been wronged; he was the one who had lost everything. She’d lost nothing thus far but a few hours.

They reached the mossy stump and swung left. Moments later, they exited the forest and came upon an overgrown circle of stones three feet high—a small broch, even older than the one that housed his clan. Useful, in that it distracted casual observers. Most never bothered to study the surrounding rocks, and none had thus far discovered
the barely discernible path snaking up into the mountain. There was a plateau above them, but it wasn’t visible from this level. Large rocks that had broken from the mountain a thousand years past hid it from view.

Aiden led the climb up. The slope was littered with shards of fallen shale, but nimble as the horses were, they gained the top of the foothill in short order. Only after he navigated the shattered shale was he rewarded with the sight he yearned for.

There, amid the snow and boulders, lay a much larger broch. A fortress, really. Compared to others Aiden had seen, it was a detailed structure—double stone walls that were in some places six feet tall. The outer wall was built into the existing rock and took advantage of large sections of mountain stone that provided a natural defense. The inner wall was a man-made oval that stretched more than sixty feet wide. A dozen roundhouses were scattered inside the enclosure, each with a new thatch roof laid by Aiden’s men.

He slipped Isabail’s blindfold from her head and signaled Duncan to do the same for her maid. Then he dismounted.

At first glance, the broch appeared deserted. But he knew better.

“Give the signal,” he said brusquely to Graeme. Niall’s men communicated via a series of clicks and whistles that resembled noises of the native wildlife. Aiden had never mastered them. As the eldest son, all his spare hours had been spent with his father, learning to manage Dunstoras and play
the political games required of a Highland chief—identifying which clans he could count on and which were his enemies. Aiden glanced at the lovely woman seated on his horse. Of course, his father would have counted the Grants among his allies.

And look how that turned out.

Graeme trilled a short series of whistles and then waited for a response. The wait was not long. No sooner had the sounds been carried away on the breeze than a man stepped out from behind a large rock, sword and targe at the ready.

He offered Aiden a deep nod of his head. “A fine sight you are, Chief.”

“Udard,” Aiden acknowledged. “Is all well?”

The guard frowned. “MacPherson’s men have been more active of late, and they’ve caused us grief. You’ll want to speak with Niall about it.”

“My brother has returned?”

Udard nodded. “Last eve. Quite the adventure he had, but I’ll let him be the one to tell you the tale.”

The guard led them forward, and as they breached the outer wall, members of his clan came out of hiding, greeting him with smiles, waves, and hailed good tidings. As pleased as he was to be home, Aiden was struck by the obvious signs of hardship and poverty. The past few weeks had not been kind to his clan—clothes were threadbare, bodies were gaunt, and faces were etched with weariness. This life as hunted outlaws was taking a cruel toll.

In the open space between the two walls, the men had set up quintains to practice their sword craft and straw targets to hone their bowmanship, while the lads maintained the horses. Inside the inner wall, women and children worked and played with the subdued enthusiasm of those in hiding. Fires were small to contain any smoke to mere wisps, and voices were low and calm. The roundhouses with rebuilt roofs served as homes, though they were primitive compared to the blackhouses built in the lee of Dunstoras castle.

A group of men were gathered in the center of the ruin, and as Aiden led his party into the close, one of the men broke away from the group and trotted toward Aiden.

Niall.

Aiden helped Isabail dismount, then turned to face his half brother. As he expected, Niall’s face was a mask of cool blandness. Reading his thoughts had always been a challenge. Yet he must have been surprised to see Aiden’s two guests.

“What news?” Niall asked, as if Isabail Grant wasn’t standing in front of him.

Equally dispassionate, Aiden responded, “Nothing yet. And you?”

“I returned from Duthes yestereve. Upon my arrival, I was informed that one of our hunting parties was lost to a MacPherson patrol. Three days ago. Hamish, Conal, and four others were taken.”

Aiden grimaced. “Were they caught with game in hand?”

“Aye.”

“He’ll see them hang for poaching.”

His brother nodded grimly. “The rest of the men are understandably unhappy. The deer are ours, in their minds. They want to fetch our kin back.”

“I’ll think on it. Udard says you’ve a tale to tell.”

Niall nodded. “The how and the wherefore are a wee complicated, but we found the queen’s necklace.”

A slow grin crept across Aiden’s face. “Truly?”

“Aye.”

“Bloody hell.” Aiden gave his brother a heartfelt pound on the back. “By God, I should never have doubted you.”

Niall threw him a grim look. “The news is not so fair as you would believe. Although I gained some sense of the path the necklace took to Duthes, I was unable to find evidence that would prove our innocence in its theft. All I know is that a traveling merchant delivered the necklace to Duthes a fortnight before Yule. Alas, without the name of the man who sold it to the merchant, we are no further ahead.”

Aiden let his hand drop. “And the merchant?”

“I’ve sent Bran and Conal in search of him.” Niall cocked his head at the woman standing beside him. “You’ve a tale of your own to tell, it would seem.”

Aiden tugged Isabail forward. “Lady Isabail Grant, my brother, Sir Niall MacCurran.”

“Lady Macintosh,” she corrected mildly. “I am
the widow of Andrew Macintosh. And I believe this man’s knighthood was stripped from him after it was ascertained that he freed you from my brother’s dungeon.”

Niall shrugged. “A knighthood is of little consequence in the Highlands. All that matters here is my clan and the strength of my sword arm.”

“Aye, I can see how honor and fealty to your king would be inconvenient qualities.”

Aiden’s brother tossed her one of his icy stares. “Our loyalty to the king is unwavering.”

“Killing his courier and his justiciar and stealing his gift to his new bride are not disloyal? My, I must have been taught a different measure of trueness.”

Aiden yanked Isabail against his chest to silence her virulent words. It annoyed him that she was so easily able to speak her mind with his brother while he was treated to terrified silences. “I’ll settle her with Beathag. Then you can tell me the whole of your complicated tale.”

* * *

Beathag turned out to be a rather formidable woman. She reminded Isabail of the wife of Lochurkie’s seneschal—same big bosom, same deep laugh, same tendency to get right to the point.

“The MacCurran tells me you’re to get no supper,” Beathag said as she led Isabail and Muirne toward one of the thatch-roofed huts. “He didn’t say you couldn’t drink, though, so I’ll make you a spot of tea. This place is as damp and drafty as a dungeon.”

Isabail studied the six-foot-high wall that surrounded the camp. “What is this place?”

“According to legend, it’s the palace of an ancient Pictish king.” She swept aside a draped boar skin and ushered them into the roundhouse. “This will be your room. Your maid will sleep here with you, of course.”

A plump straw mattress sat directly on the hard-packed dirt floor, a woolen blanket folded near the bottom. It was better than sleeping in the mud, but only just. Isabail frowned. “Where’s the pallet for my maid?”

Beathag laughed, a great booming chuckle. “You’ll share that one and be happy about it. Many here have no pallet at all.” She pointed to a bucket of water. “We’ve drawn some water for you, but from now on, you’ll need to fetch your own from the stream.”

Isabail wrinkled her nose at that notion, but said nothing. “I will need the services of the laundress. I’ve been wearing these same clothes for two days.”

The big woman laughed again. She pointed a finger at Muirne and then at Isabail. “Meet the laundresses.” Still chuckling, she ducked under the lintel beam again and disappeared.

“This is ridiculous,” Isabail said.

“Have no fear, my lady,” Muirne said. “I’ll take care of things.”

Isabail took stock of the room. There wasn’t much to look at. Windowless walls of lichen-spotted stone, a heather roof, and the mattress. No
chair, no chest, no table for a taper. Had she offered such accommodation to a guest at Lochurkie, she’d have squirmed with embarrassment.

“First things first. Let me check your ankle.” Isabail encouraged Muirne to sit on the mattress and unwrapped the linen strips that bound her maid’s foot. The flesh had turned a nasty shade of purple, but the swelling had subsided. She rewound the linen, ensured a snug fit, and sat back on her heels. “So long as you walk with care, it should be fine. MacCurran’s men gathered some of my belongings from the carriage. Go see if you can find them. And have someone fetch me a broom. I’ll not sleep under a cobweb that size, else I’ll be swallowing spiders in my dreams.”

Her ankle now neatly bound, Muirne hobbled out of the room to do as she was bade.

The blanket on the bed was actually three blankets of a good size. The weaving was of excellent quality, and the colors of the wool were vivid and bright. A weaver among the MacCurrans had a true talent.

Isabail dipped her hand into the bucket. The water was so cold, it sent a shiver up her arm, but she splashed a little on her face anyway. It felt good to wipe the grime of two days’ travel from her skin.

Muirne returned a few moments later with the broom and a bright spot of color on each cheek. “A problem, my lady.”

“What is it?”

“There’s none of your belongings to be had,” the maid said, not meeting her gaze.

“That’s not possible. I saw that man Graeme pick up several of my gowns and my tortoiseshell comb.”

Muirne sighed. “Aye, but they’ve been given to other women in the camp. MacCurran women.”

Isabail felt as if she’d been punched in the gut. “My serge blue cotehardie? And the chemise with pink lilies embroidered on the sleeves?” Two of her favorite items.

“Aye,” the other woman verified, her voice little more than a whisper.

“And what am I expected to wear?” wailed Isabail. The pale blue gown she had chosen as a travel dress had not fared well. The soft wool had wrinkled badly, especially at the elbows and underarms. Mud had stained the hem a permanent shade of brown, and a large smear of soot had sullied the cord-trimmed bodice. That was in addition to the general wear caused by her primitive travel conditions.

“Beathag says that’s what the extra blanket is for. To wear while you wait for your dress to dry.”

Isabail’s legs went numb. She sank onto the mattress, absolutely shocked. She couldn’t even imagine letting the scratchy wool touch her bare skin. Who knew where those blankets had last been? They could be home to vermin.

“What did I do to cause God to punish me so?” she asked. “I don’t think I can endure this.”

Muirne bustled into the room, sweeping the cobwebs from the corners. “Of course you can. You survived all those years with your da, didn’t you? This is not nearly as challenging.”

Isabail blinked away the tears in her eyes. She’d never spoken about her father with anyone except her brother, John. “What do you know of my father?”

Muirne stopped sweeping and met her gaze. “What everyone knew. That he was a drunken abuser of women.”

Isabail’s jaw dropped. “Who told you that?”

“We’re not fools. His drunken rages may have taken place behind closed doors, but sounds carry very well inside a castle.”

“But no one said anything.”

Muirne shrugged. “He was the earl. What was there to say?”

“Did you know—” Nay, she couldn’t ask about her mother. Not out loud. Doing so would make that horrible night a reality . . . and she preferred to pretend that it wasn’t. She’d never even shared the truth with John. He’d had suspicions and had made broad hints that he knew what their father had done, but the words were never spoken. And it was better that way. “Never mind. This is hardly the same situation.”

Muirne arched a brow. “Are we not at the mercy of an angry madman?”

That coaxed a faint smile to Isabail’s lips. “True enough.”

“Then there is no one better suited to dealing
with this MacCurran fiend than you.” Muirne pointed the twig end of the broom at Isabail. “So, how did you handle your da?”

“Well,” said Isabail dryly, “the first thing was to stay out of his way as much as possible. Unfortunately, I have little control over that here.”

“What else?”

“Ensured the castle ran as smoothly as possible, so he had less reason to be angry.” Isabail shook her head. “Plenty of things here to anger a man.”

Muirne nodded. “That’s where you begin, then.”

“This place is in shambles,” Isabel agreed. “If no one else will see to my comforts, then I suppose I’ll have to arrange it myself.”

“There’s a lass,” Muirne said encouragingly.

“Let’s start here,” Isabail said. “Give me that broom.”

A
iden strode across the inner close toward the central fire pit. Every weary face he passed tightened the knot in his gut. His people deserved better. Bringing Isabail Macintosh here was an additional risk to their welfare, and the weight of that decision sat heavily on his shoulders. He’d done his best to obscure their trail, but if luck went against him and the earl’s men succeeded in tracking her here . . . By all that was holy, why couldn’t the woman simply have given him the names?

The group gathered in front of the central fire parted to let him pass, and Aiden stopped abruptly. In their midst was a lovely redheaded woman—a woman he had last seen in the market square at Duthes. Ana Bisset. The healer who had been tried and convicted of killing John Grant, the earl of Lochurkie. Isabail’s brother.

“Bloody hell,” he said. “What is
she
doing here?”

Niall flung an arm around the woman’s shoulders and tucked her close—a protective stance
that said far more than his next words did. “Hold off, brother. She’s no more guilty of killing the justiciar than you are. We’re all victims of the same plot.”

Aiden grimaced. “By God, I never thought to see the day when you’d be gulled by a beautiful woman.”

“She aided me at great personal risk,” Niall argued.

“To prevent you from apprising the constable of her dubious history, no doubt.” How dare Niall bring a murderess home to live among his kin? “She cannot stay.”

The woman slipped out of Niall’s embrace. She smiled sadly at his brother. “I feared as much. This isn’t meant to be, Niall. I’ll find my own way.”

“You’ll go nowhere. Not without me.” Then his brother turned to him. “Do you trust me?”

“You, aye. Her, nay.”

“If you trust me, then you must trust my judgment. I know this woman through and through. She is no murderess. She stays, or I go. It’s as simple as that.”

Aiden ignored Niall’s threat. “Why are you so sure she’s not capable of murder? Beneath many a sweet lamb hide beats the heart of a wolf.”

“Because she saved my life, not once, but twice. When it would have been easier to simply let me die,” Niall said quietly. “She could have walked away, with none the wiser about her past. Instead she cured me and, in so doing, drew the attention of the constable.”

The woman met Aiden’s gaze easily, no hint of guile. Was it possible? Had she been falsely accused of killing the earl, just as he’d been falsely accused of killing the king’s courier? It seemed a stretch. Or perhaps he was just angry because she’d managed to further tarnish his honor? When Niall had rescued Aiden from Lochurkie’s dungeon, he’d rescued this woman, too. Unfortunately, in so doing, he’d linked the murder of Earl Lochurkie to Aiden. He’d been accused of masterminding all of it—the murder of the king’s courier, the theft of the queen’s necklace, and the murder of the earl.

Which, of course, led to the loss of Dunstoras and the outlawing of all MacCurrans.

Damn the man in black. If his objective had been to torment the clan MacCurran, the wretch had certainly been successful.

Aiden favored Niall with a long, hard stare. His brother could be quite stubborn when he chose. If he said he’d leave with the lass, then he’d leave. “Fine. She can stay. But any hint of trouble, and you’ll both feel the weight of my boot on your arse. Now, come. We have much to discuss.”

His half brother nodded and followed him.

As they toured the camp, inspecting the defenses, Aiden said, “Tell me the whole tale of your adventure. Leave nothing out.”

Niall proceeded to share a madcap tale involving a fire, a traitor, and a harried race for freedom. “Great mystery still surrounds the theft of the queen’s necklace, but Baron Duthes is not the man
in black. I know that much. He was unaware of the necklace’s history. I believe his seneschal knows more, but I was unable to query the man while I was there, and I cannot easily return to do so now. Our best hope lies with the merchant.”

“Then we’ll pray he is swiftly found.”

Niall nodded. “What of the Lochurkie lass? I trust you had good reason to kidnap her? The earl’s men will expend considerable effort to look for her.”

“It was a risky decision,” Aiden acknowledged “But she knows the name of the man in black, and she’ll give it to me or face my wrath.”

Niall shrugged. “Well, you’d best work quickly. MacPherson has stepped up his patrols this past sennight, reaching farther and farther up the glen. It’s only a matter of time before they find us.”

“And only a few short days before the king announces a new lord of Dunstoras.”

His brother grimaced. “I hope to God it’s not MacPherson. The man is a layabout. Not once has he been spied sharpening his skills in the lists or even walking the ramparts. He sits in the castle and eats. Nothing more. Dunstoras deserves better.”

Aiden glared at the other man. “None but a MacCurran will rule Dunstoras. If necessary, we’ll retake the keep by force.”

Niall said nothing.

Both men were well aware that they had less than three dozen trained men at their disposal, compared to MacPherson’s two hundred. The
castle had been taken while Aiden was locked in Lochurkie’s dungeon and Niall had been preparing to set him free. Numerous good men had died defending the keep, including the seneschal and the castle’s senior man-at-arms.

Taking it back would likely be a vain cause.

Still, Aiden could not let Dunstoras go without a serious fight. His father had built that castle stone by stone, some days with his own hands. Aiden had been born inside those walls, his father had died inside those walls, and his mother had—

“Where is my mother?” he asked, glancing about.

Niall grimaced. “Why ask me?”

“Because you know everything that happens in this camp,” Aiden pointed out.

“I’ve given my oath to protect all who dwell here,” Niall said, with a short nod. “But that doesn’t include putting myself in range of Lady Elisaid’s venomous barbs.”

Aiden’s mother had a longstanding grievance with Niall—he was the baseborn son of her husband, brought by him to live under her roof. Aiden’s father had also praised Niall’s prowess as a warrior to her face several times while implying that
her
son was a weak-willed incompetent. Untrue, of course, but Aiden’s father believed that strong competition would make both his sons better men.

But Niall’s troubles with Lady Elisaid would never interfere with his duty. Aiden was confident he kept tabs on his mother . . . if only to know where
not
to wander.

“Where is she?” he asked again.

“Down by the burn with Master Tam.”

* * *

Aiden left the camp enclosure, descended the rocky slope, and crossed the rock-studded field to the edge of the burn, wet snow accumulating on the toes of his boots.

His mother was enjoying a leisurely stroll in the late-afternoon sunshine. Refusing to give up any of the amenities of her station, despite their current outlawed state, she insisted on a full entourage as she walked about—Master Tam held her arm and engaged her in conversation, two maids followed behind carrying the hem of her cloak, and two young pages brought up the rear, carting a flagon of wine and some refreshments.

“Aiden,” his mother exclaimed with a smile. “You’ve returned. Have you secured the ownership of Dunstoras? May we now return to our rightful place?”

He took her proffered hand and brushed a kiss over her knuckles. “Nay. We are still outlaws.”

She pouted. “This abode is unacceptable. Your father built me a stone castle; I expect no less of you.”

“You waited years for that stone castle,” he reminded her. “You must be equally patient now. How do we fare for stores and supplies? Are we running short?”

“Why ask me?” His mother waved a hand. “The seneschal is taking care of those details.”

Aiden frowned. “The seneschal died during the
siege, Mother. You were going to appoint a new one. Have you done that?”

“No,” she said, “Nor will I, not until we are settled once more in the castle. When can we return?”

“Perhaps never,” he told her honestly. “Manage this camp like it is our true holding. If we are to survive the remains of winter, we must carefully oversee the distribution of our supplies.”

A melancholy look stole across her face, and she sighed heavily. “I miss your father.”

“You must make the best of the current situation.”

“Nonsense. If I settle for what we currently have, there’s no incentive for you to produce better. You are the chief. Reclaim our castle.”

He loved his mother dearly, but she either did not understand how dire the situation was, or she purposely chose not to acknowledge it. He was an outlaw with a price on his head. If he were caught, his head would be publicly displayed on a pike in front of the very castle she wanted him to reclaim. His priority had to be clearing their name. And keeping his people alive.

“My plans are my own,” he told her brusquely. “Do not presume to make them for me. I will see you anon.”

He nodded sharply to Master Tam and left the stream. By God, women were difficult. His life would be a good sight less complicated without them.

* * *

When Isabail was satisfied her chamber was as clean as she could make it, she went in search of
someone who could add to her comforts. A pillow or two, a small chest, and a brazier. Surely that was not too much to ask.

“Where is the seneschal?” she asked Beathag, who stood next to the cook, peering into a huge iron cauldron.

“There is no seneschal,” the big woman said without looking up. She scooped several handfuls of dried peas from the bowl in which they were soaking and tossed them into the pot. The cook stirred.

“Who is in charge of the stores, then?”

Beathag thought for a moment, her head cocked to one side, her finger tapping her chin. “Lady Elisaid, I suppose.”

“The chief’s wife?”

The other woman shook her head. “His mother. The chief has never taken a wife. He was to wed the daughter of Rory MacDonald, a chief from the western isles, but she ran off with a Campbell lad instead.”

“Oh.” Faced with wedding such a fierce man, Isabail might well have done the same. “Where will I find Lady Elisaid?”

“A fine question,” Beathag said. Taking the ladle from the cook, she sampled the steaming liquid from the pot. “When you find her, let me know. She has the key to the spice cabinet, and I’m in need of some flavoring.”

Isabail released a frustrated huff of breath. “What does she look like?”

“You’ll know her when you find her.”

Beathag was being decidedly unhelpful, but Isabail could not take her to task. She had no authority in the MacCurran’s household. “What are you cooking?”

“Venison broth.”

“May I taste?”

The big woman turned to her, a sneer curling her upper lip. “Never had a simple bree, my lady?”

“Of course I have,” Isabail said. “Many times. A well-prepared broth is a staple in the kitchen. You said you were missing some spice. I’d like to taste what you’ve prepared so far.”

The cook took no offense at her request. He ladled a small portion into a wooden cup and gave it to her. Isabail sniffed it first, inhaling the rich scent of boiled venison. Then she sipped. It was satisfactory, but as Beathag suggested, a little bland. “If you are unable to get the spice of your choice, you could consider adding some leek and parsnip.” As Beathag’s eyebrows soared, she added, “Just a suggestion, of course. Good day.”

Isabail scanned the inner close, seeking some sign of the MacCurran’s mother. He was a very large man, so surely the woman who birthed him was also large. Perhaps of a similar size to Beathag. She saw no one who might fit that description.

Marching toward the outer wall, she scanned the people assembled in the outer close. A group of men was laying siege to one another with wooden swords. She recognized the man MacCurran had hailed as Niall among them, seemingly the one in charge. But no women at all.

Down the rocky slope beyond the perimeter wall, she could see a field and, cutting through the field, an icy burn. Next to the water, she spied a party led by a small, slender woman wearing a blue serge gown and a white headdress. From this distance, Isabail could not be certain, but the gown looked painfully similar to the one she’d lost. Unable to help herself, she picked her way down the slope and then marched across the field toward the woman, determined to see if it was truly hers.

As she got closer, it became clear that the woman was at least a score of years older than Isabail. Her hair was hidden beneath a linen wimple, but her skin was thin and pale, her bones sharply defined in her face. Still, it was not her age that sapped Isabail’s anger away; it was the elegant way the woman carried herself—like she’d been born to privilege and expected no less.

“Lady Elisaid?” Isabail guessed.

The elderly woman ceased her stroll along the burn bank. “Aye?”

It was indeed Isabail’s gown draped over the other woman’s body—the size, especially in the bosom area, was a trifle large. But as Lady Elisaid’s faded blue eyes turned to her, any demand she might have uttered for its return died on her lips.

“I am Lady Macintosh, cousin to Archibald, Earl Lochurkie,” she said instead. “Your son has seized my person in hopes of ransoming me for political gain.”

Actually, she doubted he intended to ransom
her, but accusing him of more villainous goals at this moment hardly seemed polite.

“He neglected to mention your presence to me, Lady Macintosh. You are John Grant’s sister, are you not?”

“Indeed.”

The lady waved her over. She kindly said nothing about the obvious stains upon Isabail’s gown, for which Isabail was grateful—if pressed she was not sure she could refrain from pointing out the lady wore stolen clothing. “Walk with me awhile.”

Isabail gave the invitation some thought. She was fully prepared to dislike Lady Elisaid—for the simple fact that she was the MacCurran’s mother—but she was not above using any and all methods at her disposal to win her freedom. Perhaps a mother could influence the man where a sense of fair play could not.