Highland Captive Read online

  His gut twisted as a vision flitted through his mind's eye of Alera being torn to pieces by a pack of hungry wolves. She would be naught but chomped bones by the time he caught up to her.

  Why in perdition should that upset him? He didn't want to care one way or the other about her. But damn it all, he did.

  He crossed his arms over his chest, fisted his hands, and glowered down at her.

  Alera opened her eyes. Duncan towered over her, piercing her with his glare. She averted her gaze and sat up, self-consciously wiping her fingers across her burning cheek.

  Why did he appear so angry? She was the one caught. She cleared her throat and let a note of defiance enter her tone. “If you did not like it, then you have only yourself to blame."

  "Get dressed. We need to start back."

  His curt tone cut through her like a well-honed blade. Being naked

  didn't help, either.

  Without looking at him, she pulled the shift over her head, then donned a dry gown from the pouch. She wasn't about to cooperate with the lout. She tossed her belongings into the pouch and tied the bundle around her waist. Then she picked up the pelt and wrapped the fur around her shoulders. Turning toward the woods, she hobbled toward Laidirkin as rigid as a queen at a coronation.

  Duncan sighed. The little vixen was set to thwart him. “Get back here. You are riding with me."

  She lifted her dainty nose in the air and kept limping. “Slaves walk."

  Duncan caught up with her and jerked her around. “Damn it, Alera, you are not a slave."

  She snorted and balled her hands into fists. “Lemans are lovers, Duncan. Are you in love with me?"

  The muscle flexed in his cheek. “Love is not necessary."

  "For me it is. ‘Tis one of the reasons I have yet to pick a husband and lord for Arundrydge.” She planted her hands on her hips. “You keep me against my will. You dictate to me. You have not married me. Nor do you love me. That makes me a slave."

  "And what could you possibly think marriage has to do with love?"

  She raised her chin a notch. “My parents loved each other."

  He raised a sardonic brow and crossed his arms in front of him. “And you would not consider yourself a slave if you were married to me?"

  Alera cocked her head and stared at him then nodded once. “I stand corrected. All unions are not as my parents’ was. Marriage is simply your gender's way to bind a woman to you so she can tend to your lusts and other comforts. So a wife is a slave if the man and woman do not love each other. Since I detest you, I would still be a slave. And ‘tis a slave's duty to escape bondage."

  Damn it all, she argued with woman's logic. No warrior in his right mind would take up arms against such faulty thinking. “Slaves follow orders. Get on the horse."

  "What if I refuse, Duncan? Will you do me the favor of beating me to death and save me the trouble of killing myself for sleeping with the enemy?"

  Alera didn't know what dam she'd broken but took a step back as his face flushed with color and contorted with rage.

  He gripped her upper arms. Fury glittered in his eyes. “You'll not attempt such a thing. I'll bar you naked in a chamber without a window, pelt nor weapon and you will never see the light of day again."

  Alera swallowed convulsively then clenched her jaw. She wouldn't let the barbarian know how his threat frightened her. Confinement was her greatest fear, and she couldn't allow him any more power. She raised a mocking brow. “Do not worry, Duncan. I have not the courage to kill myself. Besides, I want to escape and see you suffer a slow painful death before I die."

  Duncan growled. He abruptly released her and whistled for Rufus. “My patience is gone, Alera. Do not goad me further."

  The glint in his eyes dazed her, and she averted her gaze. He had superior strength. He had won this one. But she would escape again.

  He had taught her an important lesson, though. No matter how angry she might make him, he would never strike her in his rage. Aye, she was learning the truth about Duncan. Why did he have to be so much like Papa?

  Rufus arrived. Duncan tossed her none too gently on the horse's back. He mounted and settled her on his lap. As they set out for Laidirkin, his scent filled her with a sweet intoxication, drawing her, soothing her. Fatigue settled in her bones from her half-day hike. She snuggled up against his chest and rubbed her cheek against the soft hairs. “You smell good, Duncan."

  Damn it all, she smelled good, too. He clenched his jaw as he remembered her taunt about killing herself. At that instant, some force had clutched at his heart. The truth crashed upon him with such a power he couldn't deny it. God help him, his father had told him what it would mean when the thought of losing a woman caused such dread that the bottom seemed to fall out of his chest.

  Fate had brought her to him. Alera was his soul mate—destined from all eternity to be his own.

  And he would be marrying the lass—whether she liked the notion or not.

  He looked down at the top of her head, nestled against him as she slept. He released an aggravated sigh. “Damn it, lass. Why do you have to be English?"

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  Six

  "Wake up, lassie. We're home."

  Alera sluggishly opened her eyes and blinked a few times. Her eyelids drifted shut. She rubbed her cheek against Duncan's fuzzy chest, inhaling his spicy-woods scent. She smiled and patted his back. “Later...sleepy."

  The barbarian chuckled in her ear. His warm breath sent tingles shimmying down her spine. “Are you wanting to go straight to bed, lass? I'll be glad to carry you through the keep."

  Every muscle in her body tensed. Henry, help her! She was snuggled up in Duncan's lap, her arms embracing him. Drool dripped down her chin onto his chest. She let go and jerked away, realizing too late that they were on horseback.

  Rufus reared, turned and pranced. Duncan reined in his steed and caught her before she tumbled from his lap. “Damn it, Alera, are you daft?"

  "Forgive me.” She clutched at his shoulder drape. “I was half-asleep."

  "Well, laird,” Struan wheezed out from the landing. “I see you found your English whore."

  Alera stiffened. Several warriors stood about the landing and eyed her as if she'd come to steal their ale. Others glared at her outright. If she were at court, she would land them all on their backsides with a haughty sneer. But after her body's latest betrayal, she couldn't dredge up enough pride to face them. She bowed her head. “Please let me down."

  Duncan tossed his reins to the Ranald's brawny stable master, Auggie, and dismounted. Guilt stabbed at him. Struan would have to be his perverse self and speak his insult in English. Damn it all, the lass should have gotten riled. He wouldn't forgive himself if she lost her spirit.

  "Her name is Lady Alera, Struan. Use it,” Duncan ordered in an iron voice. He reached up and grasped hold of Alera's midriff. She sucked in a quick breath and her confused gaze met his. He lifted her to the ground and took her arm, softening his expression. “Come, lass. ‘Tis time to dine."

  She turned and walked docilely beside him up the steps.

  "You cannot be meaning to have Lady Alera dine with us in the hall, laird. Father Cunningham is going to be there."

  She skidded to a halt. Sharp fingernails dug into his forearm as Struan's insult sent another jab at her pride. Her head dipped lower and a hot tear hit Duncan's arm.

  The muscle in his cheek flexed. “Not another insult, Struan, or you'll not be welcome at my table."

  Alera gasped and placed a hand on his chest. “Nay, Duncan, he is your clansman. You cannot favor me over him. Please let me go upstairs."

  Her throaty whisper sounded wounded. He wouldn't allow her to feel so mortified. She was his, and she needed to learn her place. Right now he would give her time to gather her composure while he instructed his clansmen. “You can have a few moments in our chamber to tend your needs. We'll wait dinner on your return."

  Struan released a fractious snort. “Gu
ess I'll be getting me a trencher and eat out here.” He turned toward the door. “'Tis a shame the laird did not want revenge against the Norse. A Viking woman would not let you catch her a second time. Or a Highland woman—a good Highland lassie would not let you catch her the first—"

  "Wheesht, Struan!” Duncan bellowed.

  Alera snarled and flashed irate eyes at Duncan. “You are keeping me for revenge because I am English, but if I was Highlander, you would let me go?"

  "Nay, lassie. English or Highlander—I'm keeping you because I want you.” He grinned at the fire glittering in her eyes. His woman had her boldness back. He couldn't help goading her. “If you had a drop of Highland blood, I'd call on your laird to speak for you before a priest and wed you, too."

  She paled and averted her gaze, but not before he saw a glimmer of fear. “Have you a nothing else on your mind but ruining my life?"

  Before he could figure out her strange reaction, Struan distracted him.

  "What is this about wanting, laird? I thought ‘twas for revenge.” The elder perused Alera's assets. “Though I'll be granting I can see enough to fire your groin. And she is a fine pick if she were not English."

  Alera shoved away from Duncan and faced the elder, her fisted hands at her sides. “Revenge against who?"

  "The English—for killing off half the clan and his family,” Struan hoarsely said before breaking into a coughing fit.

  "Why, you wheezing old grump! Do you mean you hate all the English for the crimes of a few?” she shouted, advancing on the afflicted man.

  "Aye.” Struan tried to suck in air and back away from the fury she hurled at him.

  "Then how do you tolerate your own King Alexander?” Alera bellowed, poking his chest and giving no quarter. “His mother was English. He grew up in William and Henry's courts, for heaven's sake. Why, the man is married to King Henry's daughter, Sybil, and King Henry married Maud. That makes your precious king son-in-law and brother-in-law to the King of England."

  Duncan spun Alera around to get her away from Struan, who didn't seem able to get over his coughing fit and endure her verbal sparring at the same time. “Scot blood always takes over, lass. The man is a Scot."

  She flushed angry red. “So if I was half-Scot you would let me go and not seek revenge upon me for an entire nation?"

  "Nay, lass. ‘Tis like I said. If you were half-Scot, I would marry you, too."

  Did he have gall? Aye. He winked at her.

  Alera fumed. These were the most judgmental people she had ever met. She shook her fist under his nose. “I wish Mama was here, so she could give you a lesson, Laird Duncan Ranald. You are...you are...you are a mean-hearted pig."

  Picking up her hem, she kicked his shin. Then she hobbled across the landing. She needed to think. With her luck, Duncan was bound to find out who Mama was. Then the no-good barbarian would probably force marriage on her and she would never get away to kill Uncle Mortimer and find Papa.

  "Alera, come back here and apologize to your laird,” Duncan ordered.

  "I am sorry you are a mean-hearted pig.” She slammed the door behind her—right in his face. She walked toward the stairs and stopped at the sight that greeted her.

  A dirty young girl with matted hair and tattered clothing sat on the bottom step. She tenderly cradled a soiled rag doll in her arms and hummed an old Norman lullaby that Alera remembered her papa singing to her. The child appeared oblivious to her surroundings, as if locked away in a private world, yet a haunted aura encompassed her. Waves of pain drifted from the tiny form.

  A faded memory of a young Daryl coming to live with Alera's family came to mind. He'd had the same isolated and guarded air. Could this small girl have suffered as Daryl had? She studied the child and saw no bruises through the filth on her arms.

  Tears welled up in Alera's eyes. She wanted to seek out the truth and heal this child's torment. She sensed Duncan's presence beside her and knew he measured her reaction to the girl.

  "Who is she?” Alera whispered.

  "Megan is my daughter,” he replied quietly.

  At the sound of his voice, the little girl jerked and raised frightened eyes. Releasing a high-pitched squeal, she ran across the hall and crouched

  by the hearth.

  Stunned, Alera turned to study the child. Duncan's tone had held a wistful note. She couldn't say why, but she knew in her heart he would never harm his daughter. Given his disposition, he would probably kill anyone who said boogie to the child. “What happened to her?"

  He released a weary sigh. “Her mother died last spring. Megan has been mute and...distracted since."

  Waves of the child's agony continued to torment Alera and her gut churned. Her heart ached to reach out, to touch Megan and release her from whatever caused her torment. Would Duncan allow her to help his daughter? Or would he brand her a witch if she revealed her gift? She had best proceed with caution and search for the truth here. “Why do you let her run around so unkempt?"

  "She'll let no one near except her grandmother and rarely cooperates with her."

  No matter what Duncan had done to her, she couldn't allow his daughter to continue suffering. “Your daughter is in great pain. I would like your permission to help her. She needs—"

  "The child has an evil demon inside her and should be bled,” a nasty female voice called from the stairs.

  "Shut your damn mouth, Isobel,” Duncan ordered, releasing his fury on a deserving bitch. “I'll not tolerate such talk about Megan."

  Alera pulled her gaze from the youngster and turned around to face the malicious intruder. She wouldn't have been more surprised to see hell's demons. Nay, she was seeing one of hell's worst harpies. Uncle Mortimer's whore was the last person she expected to encounter in this savage setting. The woman was too keen upon her comforts.

  Isobel's eyes widened. Then she laughed, a grating, crackling sound, and sauntered toward Alera. “Fie, this is amusing. The haughty and lofty Lady Alera of Arundrydge brought down to the level of a common slut, and for a Highlander, no less."

  Alera had endured enough insults for one day. She wasn't about to take any from this harlot. Drawing her shoulders back, Alera lifted her chin. “Mayhap so, but at least I was not banished from Henry's court and my husband's home."

  "You arrogant bitch!” Isobel seethed.

  Alera folded her arms across her chest. “Of course, I heard King Henry say he regrets your absence. If you were there, he could send you to Normandy. I am sure all the angels and saints in Heaven must agree that if you were there, Henry would not have to worry about the French trying to take that paltry piece of land anymore. Nay, they would run from your vile presence."

  She raised her chin another notch. “I apologize for calling you a mean-hearted pig, Laird Ranald. With her around, you have good cause to

  hate the English."

  Duncan's jaw dropped before he caught himself. Alera couldn't blame him. She was probably the last person in the world he expected to hear an apology from.

  Isobel's nostrils flared. “You no-good bitch! You probably enjoy whoring for him. You are no better than your barbaric mother. ‘Twas rumored that she was well used when Robert—"

  The demon escaped.

  Alera's balled fist slammed into Isobel's jaw without warning, and the woman fell to the floor—knocked out cold.

  Praise be to Almighty God and all His angels and all His saints, she still had her rage! Why wouldn't her fury unleash against Duncan? Oh Lord, she couldn't let anyone know. They would want a priest to scourge the demon from her.

  Alera bowed her head to hide her fury. She flexed and extended her fingers a few times, taking deep breaths, while clenching her jaw and mastering the tides of wrath that raged through her. Regaining control, she became aware of Duncan and the other clansmen, a priest among them, for heaven's sake. They stood about the hall and stared at her as if she were a three-headed kelpie.

  Welladay! Here she was acting more like a savage than a lady. She could fe
el the singe in her cheeks. She would just have to draw upon Mama's lesson and act serene and gracious. She assumed her most regal posture. “I apologize for my violent and unladylike display. Rather, I am not sorry for my actions, but that you were forced to witness them."

  "Damn it, Alera, Isobel called your mother barbaric, and she reserves that insult for Scots and Vikings."

  Ignoring Duncan, Alera lifted her hem and stepped over Isobel's prone body. She proceeded toward the stairs as if she ruled the keep.

  "Who was your mother, Alera?” Duncan demanded in a tone not to be defied.

  She halted, then faced him with her chin held high. “My mother was the bastard daughter of a noble warrior who did not know of her existence until she was twelve. She was a great lady who taught me the value of love, truth, loyalty, and honor. When she was sixteen, slavers stole her. My father bought her and married her.” Alera gritted her teeth. “I do not care what Isobel says about me, but I will kill her if she insults Mama again."

  Struan walked over to Isobel and nudged her with his toe. The old crone didn't move. A chuckle led to a wheezing cough. Then Struan raised twinkling eyes to Alera. “I do not care if you are English. By Saint Ninian, you just made my day. Welcome to Laidirkin, lass."

  Alera studied the elder, taking in his ashen complexion and jaundiced eyes. Her belly ached with his pain. She slowly walked over and stood in front of him. “May I see your hands?"

  Without waiting for a reply, she reached out and took one of his large callused hands in her own. She studied the graying nail beds and drawn fingers. “When I was eleven, Mama said, ‘You are a young lady, Alera. Put your bow away and quit acting like your aunt. ‘Tis time you learn the ways of healing, for all at Arundrydge will depend on you when I am gone.’ When did the wheezing begin, Struan?"

  The elder snatched back his hand. “'Tis none of your concern."