Highland Deception (Highland Pride) Read online

  The whoosh of a sword sounded from the left, and Lachlan sidestepped in time to escape its range. The man overshot, and Lachlan swung around in one thrust, catching him in his midsection. He fell to the ground in a bloody heap.

  Swinging his axe with full force, Nathair was on him again, and Lachlan pulled back, but not far enough. The blade grazed his arm, opening a small gash. It stung like a bee. His white shirt became red, and the coppery smell drifted up to his nostrils.

  His wound angered him more. All around him was the sound of men fighting, screaming and dying, although he barely heard it. A concentrated hum buzzed in his ears, his complete focus on Nathair.

  When the man turned to recover from the swing of his blow, Lachlan moved faster than his opponent could react and brought his sword down toward Nathair’s shoulder. The blade skimmed his chest on the way down.

  Nathair grunted. “Is that the best ye have? I expected more from ye. Conall will torture the boy before he kills him.”

  Lachlan’s blood froze as he recalled what Robbie had already been through and the myriad stories he’d heard of Conall’s cruelty. The man was telling the truth.

  Lachlan’s fingers flexed and gripped his sword. He’d never found a use for conversing during battle. It took too much energy and usually distracted him instead of his foe. Before all the words were out, he swung at Nathair’s midsection. Blood exploded from his abdomen. He looked at Lachlan, his eyes now blank and disbelieving.

  “What were ye saying?” Lachlan taunted as the man crumpled to the ground. “No one will touch the boy while I am alive to protect him.” Lachlan squared his shoulders and held his sword high while he scanned for the next man to attack.

  …

  Maggie heard taunts being exchanged but couldn’t make them out as she lay pressed against the bank. One was the voice of the well-muscled man she’d been admiring But it had changed, become coarse and dangerous. A shiver ran through her spine at the coolness in the tone.

  She was in the wrong place. Freedom had drifted a little farther down the stream, but she could not chance an attempt to reach the horse. This was supposed to be her day of liberation, and there was no way to sneak away undetected. Again, men had interfered with her plans.

  She prayed no one saw her.

  Unable to control her curiosity, she peeked over the ridge. A couple of the second band of men looked vaguely familiar, and she struggled to place where she’d seen them.

  Doing her best to blend in and not be detected, she ducked her head back beneath the embankment. She was dressed like a boy, one who did not belong to either group, and she gulped when she realized she would be cut down for sure if she was spotted.

  As she scrambled down to make herself as small as possible, her hands skidded across the muddied earth smelling of dirty water and mildew. She was a mess, but she hardly noticed, because the thud of her pounding heart drove away all other sensations as she contemplated what would happen if she were discovered.

  She cringed with each shout and grunt ringing out above her. The clang of clashing swords grated on her as curses flew through the air. A twig scraped her face, and she swatted at it, the muck from her hands smearing over her right cheek and temple.

  Shaking and clutching her bag, Maggie cowered and prayed they would leave without finding her. A thud sounding just above her head made her jump.

  Moaning came from the source. She had to look, she just had to. Whoever was there would find her anyway. When she looked over the ledge, she discovered a man lay injured and a boy leaning over him with wide, fear-filled eyes. The man on the ground was at least three years younger than she. Barely grown, and he looked so much like her brother. His eyes rolled skyward as he thrashed on the dirt. An unfamiliar pang swelled in her heart.

  Blood poured out from a wound to his midsection.

  Maggie didn’t think; she grabbed her bag, jumped up the embankment, and ran toward the fallen man. The boy’s gaze followed her as she knelt down by his friend. His eyes bored into her until something clicked, because he seemed to realize she meant no harm.

  By the time she was at the injured man’s side, he’d lost consciousness. Mayhap ’twas for the best. She pulled his shirt back to inspect the wound. Once she stilled her frayed nerves, her training kicked in. If it had been a drop higher and just a little deeper or more centered, she wouldn’t have been able to do anything.

  Hoping to find something that would be of use, she rummaged through the supplies in her bag. Her hand landed on a stray piece of embroidery work. She pulled out the thread and needle and went to work, doing her best to stanch the bleeding and sew up the injury, which was smaller than it had first appeared.

  The boy grabbed a sword that had fallen to the ground. He nodded at Maggie and stood, then took up a position to defend them if an attacker came their way. Brave one. She concentrated on the wound, her practiced fingers steady as they moved.

  She paid no attention as the fighting raged around her and was hardly aware when it fell to just a couple of weapons clanging. As she wiped at the sweat on her brow, she realized blood likely covered the side that had not been muddied earlier, but she didn’t care. Some part of her recognized she could not let this man die, and her gut clenched—he reminded her too much of her younger brother, Roland.

  When she was confident the wound was sufficiently stitched and the blood loss had stopped, she took out the small dirk she kept in her bag. She gently sliced off the edge of the sutures, then leaned back on her knees to take in her work and give it a final inspection.

  He would be all right; she would just need to get some clean water to wash the gash. Satisfied, she lifted the dirk to assess and wipe it before putting it away, because she always took care to see everything in her bag was kept as clean as possible.

  Something rushed her, and she was suddenly soaring backward through the air. The dirk fell from her hands with the force, and her head hit something with a great thud.

  Pain exploded in her skull. Blinding white light was all she saw, and then her focus returned. She was choking. Although she reached out to pull the weight off her neck, it was useless.

  Maggie stared at her attacker. It was the leader of the first group. Oddly, she noticed his dimple was missing as he throttled her with fury. If she could breathe, she’d laugh at that realization.

  His steely eyes were dilated and the most striking blue she’d ever seen, a shade or two lighter than hers. They looked like deceptively peaceful water, beautiful but dangerous. She found herself drowning in them, and then everything went dark.

  Chapter Two

  Lachlan turned from Nathair’s lifeless body to see the fighting was done. He quickly scanned the area and took stock of his men to make sure they were all standing. One was missing. Who?

  He cursed. His brother, Malcolm. Lachlan’s veins turned to ice—he never should have allowed the lad on this journey. He frantically searched the fallen and found him near a small figure, a boy, leaning over him with a dirk.

  Someone was going to kill his brother. Lachlan didn’t think, he just ran. Before the boy could bring the knife down, Lachlan had his hand around the murderer’s neck and pinned into a nearby tree.

  A loud crack reverberated as the skull made contact with the trunk. So full of bloodlust, he hardly heard his men calling out for him to stop. Two of them managed to wrestle him to the ground before he could kill the boy. Robbie stood above him and shouted something, but Lachlan couldn’t make out the words. He struggled as his men held him down.

  “Lachlan. Nae. Stop.” He heard but refused to obey.

  He tried to get up to finish what he had started, to make sure the murderer would never harm Malcolm again. “Stop,” Alan ordered. “He may have saved Malcolm. Ye have to calm down. The lad saved him.”

  As the words sank in, Lachlan stilled. Alan, Dougal, and Seamus relaxed their hold and allowed him to sit. His fury had been so fierce, it had obviously taken three of his strongest men to take him down.

&nb
sp; “This isnae a lad,” Finlay chimed in. He stood over the crumpled body.

  The well-worn hat lay discarded next to a shoulder.

  A girl. Dressed as a man.

  Long, jet-black hair had been carefully plaited and pinned up but had fallen free of the silly hat she’d used to conceal the thick braid. Long, delicate fingers and small wrists were exposed beneath the dirty white shirt she wore.

  “What do ye mean, Finlay?” Alan jumped up and cautiously ambled over to look at the crumpled figure. “Damn, you’re right.” He scratched his head then moved in for a closer look.

  “She was helping him,” Robbie explained as Dougal and Seamus finally let go of Lachlan. He stood and rushed toward his brother.

  “Lachlan, ye just tried to kill the lass that saved yer brother’s life.” He heard Alan but didn’t spare a glance in his friend’s direction, ignoring the accusation as he leaned over Malcolm to check the sutured wound.

  “Did ye hear me, Lachlan?”

  He still didn’t acknowledge Alan. Malcolm’s breathing was relaxed, and his cheeks were still rosy. Lachlan let a whoosh of air from his lungs as relief flooded through him; he would never bring the boy on another mission. Satisfied that Malcolm was still breathing and would recover with no lasting damage, Lachlan finally turned to Alan. “What happened?”

  Robbie jumped in with a reply. “Malcolm was down. She popped up from over there”—he pointed to the ditch—“then she ran over and sewed him up. He would have bled out had she not done it.”

  “I saw a dirk. The boy had a dirk,” Lachlan said defensively. He didn’t want to believe he had attacked and nearly killed someone who had saved his brother, but Malcolm had been sutured by someone.

  “The lass was cutting the sutures when ye rushed her,” Alan said.

  With one last glance at his brother to make sure he would be fine, Lachlan reluctantly made his way to the figure on the ground. All the men were gathered around and staring.

  “What the hell is she doing dressed as a lad? An English lad, at that,” Lachlan scoffed, hoping they were wrong and he had not just attacked an innocent woman.

  Damn, it was a lass. He’d never seen hair so dark, almost like a raven’s wing. She had long lashes and sinfully full lips and was smaller than most of the women of his clan. Her shirtsleeve had been pulled up to reveal a slight hand curled upward, an intricately scrolled metal bracelet circling her tiny wrist. The value of the piece led him to believe she was someone of importance. His gut twisted as guilt assailed him. From the crack of her skull against the tree, he’d not gone easy on her, and she’d be lucky if she would ever be normal again.

  “Lachlan, we have to get out of here before anyone else shows up,” Alan said.

  Glancing around, his gaze studied the open field and well-worn path serving as a road. Movement from the other side of the green and purple expanse caught his attention as a group of blackbirds alighted from the trees as if they had been spooked by something. “Aye, we do. But we cannae just leave her. She’ll have to come with us for now.” Turning back toward his men, he tilted his head toward the embankment. “Dump the bodies in the ravine. We’ll take the horses.” Guilt rode him hard—he owed it to her to find her family and see her home safely, but they didn’t have the time. “Alan, see to Malcolm. I’ll get the lass.”

  And he needed to get Robbie to safety. His hand rubbed across the leather pouch strapped to his side as he thought of the traitorous words written in Conall’s letter. The boy had been through too much already. They wouldn’t be safe until he had both back at Kentillie Castle.

  Aye, she would have to go with them. Damn. Just what he needed right now—to worry about a deceitful lass wearing English trews.

  …

  Riding through the dense, shadowed forest the rest of the afternoon had provided cover from travelers on the main road. Careful of Malcolm’s injury and watchful of whether they were followed through the lush greenery left them trotting along at a maddeningly slow pace. When his brother woke, he claimed to be tender where he had been sliced, but showed no signs of anything other than a flesh wound.

  Malcolm inspected his sutures and called out to him, “Next time a lass attempts to save me, don’t try to kill her. She did a hell of a job.”

  He flinched. “Ye ken I would never hurt a lass on purpose.” If he were being honest, though, he had to admit, “Well, as long as it’s not Aileen.”

  “Will she be all right?” Malcolm’s brows drew together.

  He looked at the bundle in his arms. Although her face was caked with blood and dirt, she was a bonny lass, even covered in filth and wearing men’s clothing. He had the strangest desire to unplait her dark hair and run his fingers through the thick mass.

  “I dinnae ken. It was a pretty hard blow.” He shook his head as he replayed the scene in his mind. “I had just taken down Nathair when I saw her looming over ye with the knife. I must have been overcome by the fight and not been in my right senses. Looking closely, anyone can tell she is a lass.” His gaze fell to the limp form. “I just thought there was a threat to ye and reacted.”

  “Glad to know ye have my back, brother. She will recover. We’ll make sure of it.” Malcolm’s optimistic tone offered little reassurance.

  “Alan was supposed to watch out for ye,” he muttered, but not loud enough for anyone to hear. It was an excuse—his friend had been fending off two men when Malcolm was stabbed. In allowing his brother to accompany their party, the blame was all his.

  He looked over his shoulder to Alan, who rode several paces behind them, Robbie at his side. The boy had picked up Malcolm’s sword and defended him and the wee lass. Where had a boy who had grown up in the care of a priest learned to wield a weapon?

  Lachlan turned his attention back to the light weight that fit easily in his arms. Never before had he hit a lass, and the guilt ate at him. She was so small and delicate, and he had not held back when he’d charged her. Even through his enraged fog, he had registered the thud of her head hitting the tree. The remembered sound made him wince.

  Damn. Why was she dressed as a man? He wanted to shake her for being so foolish. If she had been wearing proper attire, he was sure he’d not have been so rough.

  Uncertain such a small woman could recover after what he had done, he nestled the lass to him all afternoon as if his warmth alone could revive her. He had inspected her earlier and felt the bump on the back of her head where it had struck the tree. Some people were never right after a knock that severe. Her head secured up against his chest, he kept it as stable as possible, hoping to minimize any further damage.

  She hadn’t awoken, and a protective streak he didn’t know he possessed kept him holding her close. He prayed she would be whole again. If she wasn’t, how would he live with himself or ever compensate her family for their loss? His mistake could also threaten the Camerons—they were not yet back on his land, and the last thing he needed was a war with another clan.

  …

  Maggie woke on a crude pallet to a pounding head. She was staring up at dark, massive trees looming over her. Just a hint of sunlight was left in the sky. Everything was grainy and unfocused, and it took her a few motherents to figure out she wasn’t dreaming.

  She sat up quickly and wished she hadn’t. Pain screamed through her head, and nausea clawed at her belly. She rolled over and swayed a little, but before she could topple over, a strong hand wrapped around her and another stroked her back in a gesture likely meant to be comforting.

  It worked. She wanted to let them caress her until the pain went away. The tender touch was the only thing that felt good right now, the only part of her that didn’t ache.

  Hearing the constant hum of nearby water behind her, she cautiously turned to glimpse lush hues of green with the warm brown bases of towering trees, and it took her a motherent to focus. The hands holding her were connected to the man with blue eyes, a mountain of a man almost twice her size. Her hand went to her throat where his hands had strangle
d her. He had not killed her? She’d been certain he would. Eyes widening, she jerked back, trying to shrink away, but a new wave of pain assaulted her.

  Where was she, and why was this man still here? “Are ye going to kill me?”

  Her throat was scratchy and hoarse; she sounded like someone else. She shrugged out of his grasp and slowly turned to sit without help. The man had tried to kill her, and yet his hands attempted to calm and reassure her. What kind of idiot was she? She needed to distance herself until she understood what he was doing. Despite craving the soothing touch, she shrank farther away.

  “Nae. I didnae intend to harm ye, lass. I thought ye were trying to kill my brother.” He sank down beside her, and his hand rose to gently touch her neck. She would have pulled away, but the blue currents in his eyes eased her fear. “Please ken I didnae do this on purpose,” the man pleaded. His forehead crinkled slightly as a sad smile quirked his lips.

  “Who is yer brother?” she asked. Everything was fuzzy, and she was so tired. Struggling to remember the details made her head ache more. The effort it took to keep her eyes open was overwhelming, and she wanted to lie back down. Nae, she couldn’t go back to sleep. She blinked, hoping to clear the haze. It didn’t help.

  A glance around told her she was in a small clearing in a dense forest, surrounded by a group of the largest men she had ever seen. Other than the man who had tried to kill her and the lad who had guarded her with the sword, she didn’t recognize any of them.

  “Ye mended him during the skirmish. I saw ye with a dirk and thought ye were going to hurt him.” His head dipped, and he frowned. How did he manage to look so intriguing and so contrite at the same time?

  A memory dislodged of being bent over a young man as she mended the flesh where a sword had sliced his side. If this man had not known what she’d been doing, she could have appeared threatening. A long-ago image of Robert Ferguson throwing a rock at her brother’s cheek emerged. She had charged Robert, knocked him to the ground, and started swinging before her father had pulled her off the much older boy.