Twenty-one

The roar of the falls deafened Lachlan. He stood apart from his brothers and Gregor, staring into the darkness. His stomach roiled, and a feeling of foreboding plagued him. They’d arrived at the falls just as dusk fell and hadn’t seen any sign of Adaira or Murray. They’d called out to let him know they were here, of course, but received no response—not even a poisoned arrow or a falling tree from one of his traps.

He squinted in the darkness, trying to see more of the lay of the land, bringing it up in his mind’s eye. Why would Murray choose this place? It was familiar land to them, and if Murray was behind the falls with Adaira, he had to know Lachlan and his men would storm the caves—which didn’t lead anywhere. He’d had several men, who were trained in caving, search every inch. There was no safe way out.

So why? Murray was smarter than that. Way smarter. And he’d have to know Lachlan wouldn’t leave Amber and the castle unprotected. He wouldn’t be able to sneak in and abduct her when Lachlan was gone. But maybe he thought someone might be able to get her out?

Did he have a traitor in his clan?

He thought back to Ian and his odd behavior in the great hall earlier. Those wounds on his face and arm were definitely defensive, and at least a day old. If Adaira had been taken this morning, and Ian had fought to protect her, the wounds would still be fresh.

And now that he thought about it, Amber had been acting strangely too.

God’s blood, nothing sat right with him. No matter what may happen here, he had to return to his wife.

He strode back to the other lairds, feeling like he was running out of time. “Something’s wrong,” he shouted, trying to be heard over the rushing water. “I’m going back.”

Callum followed him through the dark toward the horses. “I’ll go with you. I feel the same.”

“He wants Amber. Not Adaira,” Lachlan said, barely able to get the words out past his clenched jaw.

“Agreed.”

“So abducting Adaira was just a way to get to Amber. But how? He knows I wouldnae leave her unprotected. I left my best men with her. I trust them with my life.”

“Aye. So assuming all the tunnels into the castle have been plugged, and he canna get in, he needs to get her out. An escape route.”

Lachlan broke into a jog despite the uneven terrain and dark skies, his heart racing and his breathing shallow. Aye, that would work. “Amber’s not stupid. She would ne’er follow anyone she…” He stopped as that nagging feeling in his chest unknotted and the pieces fell into place. Ian hadn’t delivered the message, Amber had. “…she would go herself.” Lachlan cursed and raced toward his horse.

Callum ran after him. “You think she sent us away so she could escape and go to Murray?”

“She ne’er put up a fight to come with us. Not one word. When have you e’er known Amber not to fight? She wanted us gone from the castle so she could get out. Ian’s message was for her, not us. She’s going to trade herself to Murray for Adaira.”

Callum whistled and signaled the other lairds as he ran. They were already in pursuit. “He must have sent Ian to tell Amber to come to him or he’d kill Adaira.”

“Aye.” Lachlan stumbled and caught himself against a tree. For a moment, fear for her safety overwhelmed him. “Oh, sweet Jesus, he’s going to kill her, Callum. Where would he take her?”

“Somewhere significant and within walking distance of the castle.”

“Her cottage.”

Callum nodded, and Lachlan sprinted for his horse, calculating how long ago Amber would have escaped the guards, how long it would take her to get to the cottage, and how long it would take Lachlan to ride to her rescue.

Too long.

He mounted Saint and urged him into a dangerous gallop. Lachlan might die if the stallion stepped wrong and threw him, but if he didn’t get there in time, Amber would die for sure.

And his heart would die with her.

* * *

Amber stood in front of her cottage, which Lachlan’s men had repaired weeks ago, trembling with fear. She expected to die, maybe painfully, and sorrow for herself, for Lachlan, squeezed her throat shut. They’d had such little time together, and she knew her passing would hurt him terribly.

But she was Adaira’s only hope, and just maybe God would be on her side and help her take the devil down. She wasn’t defenseless. She had her knives, she knew how to fight, and this time she was determined to kill.

And she had surprise on her side too. He wouldn’t expect her skilled attack.

The cottage was quiet. The windows shuttered with no light peeking through the cracks and no sparks or smoke coming from the chimney. Still, she knew he was inside, and she prayed he had Adaira with him.

She’d left Ian in the shelter of the trees with instructions to run with Adaira and alert the warriors as soon as the girl came out. If Ian and Adaira ran into a patrol, maybe they would get to her in time. But Murray wasn’t an idiot. He would have planned for every outcome and would either take Amber with him or kill her in the cottage and run.

And if he did kill her, she wanted the MacKay warriors to find her instead of Lachlan.

Lifting her hand before she lost her nerve, she knocked on the wood, hard and abrupt. Something sharp and pointed touched the back of her neck, and she froze.

“Open the door and step inside,” Murray said from behind her.

She did as he asked, her heart beating like it was making a break from her chest. She stumbled as she went over the sill, quickly righted herself, and scanned the room. Adaira lay before the hearth, bound and tightly gagged.

“Adaira!”

Amber ran to her as Murray checked outside one last time, closed the door, slid the bar across, and locked them in.

Amber quickly pulled a knife from her sock and cut the bonds around Adaira’s feet before Murray could stop her. She needed the lass to be able to run.

“I’m going to get you out of here,” she whispered. “Remember what I told you. Run when I say. I’ll be right behind you.”

The knife was smacked out of Amber’s hand before she could finish cutting Adaira’s wrists free. The blade flew into the ashes in the hearth below the low-burning fire and disappeared.

Adaira screamed and lunged at him, but Murray kicked her into the corner.

Amber threw herself between them. “Stop! I’m here. You said you would let her go if I came to you. Trade me for her.” She knew he wouldn’t honor his word, but she wanted to stall for as long as she could, try to figure out a plan. And she wanted him to think she was in a weakened position. One he controlled.

“Foolish woman,” he said, his bow lowered, his other hand fisted, ready to strike. “Now I have two people he cares about. I’ll hurt you both, then kill him from a distance.” He lifted his eyes, looking for the knife she’d used. “Where is it?”

She hesitated. He would search her if she denied knowing where the knife was—God’s truth, he would search her anyway—and find her other knife in her sock. Maybe he would think that was her only weapon and stop looking. Then she’d have two hidden knives, one in the ashes, and one in her hair.

“I doona know,” she said.

He punched her in the jaw and she fell facedown onto the hard-packed dirt floor. She almost blacked out, seeing stars. He landed on top of her and pinned her in place, her hands behind her head, her face pressed into the dirt so she could barely breathe.

“Let’s look, shall we?” He ripped up her skirts and shift, exposing her to her waist, and spread her legs. Then he tore off her shoes and socks—and found the knife. “Here it is. Just a wee one, but sharp. It could do a lot of damage. You lied to me, Amber. What should I do to a lass who lies?”

He lifted the knife to her left buttock and sliced down, cutting though the fleshy skin. She screamed, the pain more than she would have imagined for such a soft spot on her body, and squirmed to get away, but he’d trapped her. Then he sliced her other buttock too. Not as deep this time, as she managed to move at the last minute.

Adaira was pressed back in the corner, screaming around her gag. She’d dug her hands into the dirt floor, scraped it up with her nails.

“You doona want me to cut your arse with your knife?” he asked her. “I can tup you with it instead. But a bigger knife, aye? Like the one your husband has.” He pushed her knife in his boot and pulled out a large, wicked-looking dagger with a honed edge.

Amber sobbed when he turned her head and waved it in front of her face. “Please, Laird Murray,” she begged. “Have mercy. I’ll do anything you ask, I promise.” But she could see it in his eyes—he wanted to hurt her in this way—and she knew she was about to die. She would ne’er recover from these injuries. And even if she did, her life as Lachlan’s wife would be over, his eager lover replaced by a woman irreparably damaged.

And Murray wouldn’t stop there. If she didn’t bleed to death immediately, he would torture her in some other way.

He leaned down and placed his lips by her ear, the hand on her head gentling, his words soft and lover-like as he trailed the blade slowly up the back of her thigh. “I’m not such a monster, Amber. I do want to please you. Is this how you like it, dearling? Soft and sweet?”

She almost cried in relief at his tender hands and stupidity. “Nay, I like it rough. Like this.” Twisting her head and lunging up, she bit his cheek as hard as she could, tearing through skin and underlying tissue and chomping down. He yelled and pulled back, but she managed to get one hand free and jab a finger in his eye. He stumbled back, roaring with rage, a bloody, gaping hole in his cheek, his hand over his eye.

She scrambled back toward the hearth, spitting out the offending tissue in her mouth before she choked on it. “Run, Adaira!” She reached for the iron poker with one hand and the knife buried in the ash with her other. Murray charged her. She swung the poker. He caught it and yanked her toward him. She struck with her other hand, the small knife stabbing into his shoulder.

“God’s blood, I’m going to kill you, ye wee cunt.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw Adaira run past. Murray grabbed her by the hair at the last minute and pulled her back, but Adaira still had the dirt in her hands from the floor and threw it in his face. He let go as it hit his eyes, and she kept going. Amber tried to get by him too, but he dived for her, grabbed her ankle and pulled her down.

She looked up and saw Adaira pulling the door open. “Run, Adaira. Doona stop!”

* * *

Lachlan heard his wife yelling, heard the terror and determination in her voice a second before he saw Adaira race out of the cottage. Exultation burst through him, knowing Amber was still alive and fighting to stay that way, but at the same time he was terrified—he was so close, yet it took only seconds to kill someone.

He heard Callum’s horse veer off toward Adaira and urged his own ride faster toward the cottage. At the last minute, he jumped off, sword in hand, blood pumping through his body. The door was open, and as he charged over the sill, he saw Amber lying facedown on the floor with Murray on top of her, pulling her head back with one hand and raising a dagger in his other. Lachlan’s eyes met Amber’s for an instant before he hurled his sword at Murray. It clipped his knife on the downward sweep toward Amber’s neck and knocked Murray back. Lachlan grabbed Amber, dragged her out from under Murray in one giant heave, and shoved her behind him. Then he landed on Murray, who was covered in blood. His face was torn apart, one eye swollen shut, a knife sticking out of his shoulder and another one in his side. Lachlan pinned him to the ground.

“I’ve got her,” he heard Callum yell.

“Let me go!” she screamed.

“Nay, Amber. Let Lachlan do his job.”

He heard her sob. Then Callum said softly, “Watch him, Amber. See him avenge Adaira and his brother. See him avenge you. See him keep his people safe.”

Lachlan stared at Murray, felt the monster’s strength fade, his mind fogged with shock, pain, and loss of blood. A man who could have done so much good in the Highlands, could have helped so many people with his drive, intelligence, and skill. Instead, he’d been bent on destruction.

He leaned closer to Murray, saw a beaten man. “My family did this to you. My wife, my cousin—a woman, a young lass. They took your sight, ravaged your face. My wife’s knives are in your body. She caught you, and now I’ll kill you.”

Murray tried to speak, but too much blood poured from the wound in his face and down his throat. Possibly into his lungs, drowning him. ’Twas best that way. Naught more needed to be said.

Lachlan leaned both knees on Murray’s arms and picked up his sword, laid it across Murray’s throat till the blade cut in.

“Machar Murray, I sentence you to death for the murder of my brother, Donald MacKay, his wife, Rose MacKay, Father Odhran Scott, Laird Sòlas MacPherson of Clan MacPherson, and his second-in-command and father of my wife, Ivar MacPherson. I sentence you to death for the attempted murder and abduction of my wife, Amber MacKay, the attempted murder of myself, Lachlan MacKay, and the abduction of my cousin, Adaira MacKay. And for crimes unspoken.” He shifted his plaid over the blade of his sword in order to protect his hands, and said, “Today is a good day to see peace and justice reign in the Highlands.”

A chorus of “ayes” resounded behind him, his brothers and Gregor agreeing to the judgment. Lachlan pushed down on the edge of his sword, through skin, muscle, and cartilage, the warm blood pouring over his hands. Murray’s eyes widened and his legs kicked before Lachlan hit bone.

He felt no joy at Murray’s death, just relief that the threat to Amber had passed. No sense of achievement and fulfillment after a five-year hunt, just a heart full of gratitude that his wife was safe.

Rising and turning, he saw his brothers and Gregor. They stood side by side in an arc behind Amber, who was supported by Callum, looking bloodied, scratched, and bruised.

And alive.

He strode toward her. Callum released her, and she hobbled toward him. He rushed to scoop her up. Her arms squeezed his neck, her sobs shook her body as he pulled her close. In the background, his brothers and Gregor filed out of the cottage.

“You’re hurt,” he said.

“’Tis naught. We’re alive. That’s all that matters.”

“And Murray is dead.”

“Aye, justice prevailed.”

“Nay, Amber. Love prevailed. Your love for everyone through it all.”

She cupped her hands on his cheeks. “Most importantly, my love for you, Lachlan MacKay. I know I said it before, but I want you to hear it again. You are everything to me. You have given me a bright future filled with so much love, when I thought I had no future at all.”

“As you have done for me. I love you forever, sweetling. But can we agree you’ll ne’er get hurt again? Ne’er have evil men plot against you or shoot arrows at you? Ne’er escape castles through dangerous tunnels in order to survive?”

“Ne’er dress like a boy and cut my hair again?”

“Nay, I love your hair. Please cut it as often as you wish.”

“And if I wish to grow it long?”

“Then I’ll wrap my hand around it and tilt your head to the side so I can do this.” He lowered his head and nuzzled the side of her neck, kissing toward her nape.

She sighed. “’Tis a good thing I only have flesh wounds.”

He quickly lifted his head. “Where?”

“Well…on my face obviously. He punched me.”

She was obfuscating, and he frowned. “Where else?” He squeezed his hand over the back of her skirt, and she tried not to wince. “Your arisaid is wet.”

“He sliced my arse with one of my knives. ’Tis not as bad as you think. And I may have a scratch on my thigh as well. He was searching me for weapons, Lachlan. Naught else.”

He wanted to kill Murray all over again. Instead, he squeezed her close and shuddered. “Thank God your father had the sense to teach you how to fight.”

“Aye ’tis something we shall teach our own lasses.” When he lifted his head, slowly this time, she blushed. “If I decide—we decide—we want bairns, that is. And if we have lads, we’ll teach them to treat women as they would themselves.”

He half laughed, half groaned. “Trust me, you doona want our lads treating our lasses the way my brothers and I treated one another.”

“Our lads?”

’Twas his turn to blush, but he did it with a grin as he spun them in a circle. “Aye. If we decide. And right now I’m just happy to have you to myself.”

“Me too.”

He kissed her again, capturing her lips this time, gentle but still demanding. She opened beneath him and sighed happily into his mouth. Then he kissed each eye and the tip of her nose before pulling back. “Let’s go back to the castle and have Mary take a look at you. It’ll give us a reason to have three more days in bed. Four if your injuries need it.”

“Aye, definitely four. Maybe a week. But I warn you now, you’ll have to be inventive—you canna put me on my back, and you canna bang against me from behind.”

“Och, I’m not such an amateur, Wife. And I doona ‘bang’ against you. ‘Inventive’ willna be a problem—as long as it doesn’t involve you figuring out ways to escape a castle.”

“Well, that’s another thing we’ll teach our daughters, although they’ll have to wear pants. ’Twas most unnerving knowing my bare arse hung out the window.”

He stopped, the blood pounding again in his veins and his temperature rising. “You went through the window? On a ladder?” He couldn’t imagine any ladder being tall enough to reach their bedroom window. And how would she have escaped the bailey undetected after that?

“Nay, not a ladder, are you addled? Ian and I went down a rope from Murray’s old bedroom. Once my skirts fell back into place, and I was safe on the ground, ’twas most exhilarating.”

He stared at her, jaw clenched as he imagined her falling.

She reached up, kissed the twitch in his jaw, and whispered in his ear, “We’re alive, Lachlan, Murray is dead, and we have days ahead, loving one another. Life couldnae be better, Husband.”

He sighed, releasing his fear, and hugged her back. “Aye, Wife. Life couldnae be better.”

Order Alyson McLayne’s next book in
The Sons of Gregor MacLeod series

Highland Betrayal

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