Two

Callum MacLean leaned against the tree, legs stretched out on the ground in front of him, eyes closed. His mind raced. In his sporran, tucked away for safekeeping, was a letter from Maggie and her brother, Ross. It ended Maggie and Callum’s betrothal and had been handed to him by a shifty-looking man named Blàr.

Callum had been on the road for four days with his foster brother, Gavin, laird of Clan MacKinnon, Father Lundie, and ten of their men. He’d had the letter for three of those days, yet he was still no closer to making a decision about Maggie than when he’d first received it. As always, when it came to his betrothed, Callum’s heart and head were not aligned.

He heard riders approaching, and from the warning whistles of some of the watchers, he knew it was Gavin and several others who’d been out scouting after seeing wolf tracks. Callum didn’t move and continued to mull over the problem.

“Laird MacKinnon,” he heard Father Lundie whisper to Gavin. “Laird MacLean is still sleeping.”

Callum cracked an eyelid to see his foster brother bearing down on him, the priest hovering by his side.

“I don’t know what you see, Father Lundie,” Gavin said, “but I see a man stuck. Like a wee lad forced to choose between sweets.”

“Nay, Laird,” Father Lundie said. “He hasn’t risen since you left. I think he must be ill to be sleeping during the day. ’Tis unlike him to sit so still.”

“’Tis exactly like him to sit still when he’s trying to solve a puzzle. But this isna a puzzle. He just needs to get his head out of his arse.”

“Is there a problem I can help with?” Father Lundie asked. “Perhaps I can assist—”

Callum didn’t wait for the priest to finish. Instead, he kicked out his feet just as Gavin came into striking distance. Gavin jumped up just in time—expecting it, of course—but when he landed, Callum scissored his legs and knocked him to the ground.

“You wee shite,” Gavin said as he pushed himself up onto his elbows.

“Oh, were you there? I couldnae see you with my head up my arse.”

Father Lundie stared down at them, looking startled, before he hurried away.

Gavin crawled up beside Callum and leaned back against the tree next to him. “Give me the letter and the other parchment from Maggie. We’ll talk it through.”

Sighing, Callum fished out the messages from his sporran, then handed them over. “I’ve already assessed them from every angle.”

“No doubt.”

“The first is from Ross, or so it says. But ’tis not Ross’s script nor manner of speaking.”

“So someone else wrote it for him. His steward perhaps? ’Tis not uncommon.”

“But what would compel Ross to cause such a breach? The marriage is a good alliance for Clan MacDonnell, and it’s only improved since the original contract was agreed upon. My allies are his allies. If he was upset I havenae returned for Maggie, then he would demand the marriage take place, not terminate the contract. And from all that I’ve heard, Ross has not been himself since he lost his wife and bairn. I was at their wedding. I saw how much he loved Eleanor.”

“You think it’s someone else’s doing then? Someone pulling his strings?”

“Aye.”

“Maggie?”

“Nay. Maggie wouldnae pull strings. She’d throw daggers.”

Gavin lifted the second parchment. “Isn’t that what this is?”

Callum ground his teeth and nodded. “I’ve no doubt Maggie sent that. And the message is clear. She’s ending our betrothal—and making a point. The day I wrote our initials on that parchment was the first day we connected as a man and a woman rather than as a lad and lass staring bemusedly at their future wife and husband. ’Twas the first day I knew she was mine. We were competing, tossing daggers. We tied on every round. I gave her that parchment and, afterward, kissed her for the first time.”

“So she kept it, and now she’s throwing it back at you.”

“Aye.”

“She’s hurt.”

“Aye.”

“And angry.”

“Aye.”

“Well, ’tis obvious you have to go and win her back. And find out what’s going on with Ross.”

When he didn’t answer, Gavin looked at him. “I said—”

“I heard you. How could I not? You bellow like a rampaging boar.” His words were sharp—sharper than if they’d just been said in jest. And they were untrue, of course, but Gavin understood the frustration behind them and didn’t take offense.

Callum sighed. “If I go there and win Maggie back, which willna be easy, what do I do then? Marry her? There’s a good reason I havenae returned for her.”

“Your father’s murder.”

“Aye. I canna in good conscience bring her to Clan MacLean and put her in danger.”

“Well…marry her, and then she can come home with me until you find the murderer. Although Isobel will want to learn Maggie’s skill with the dagger, and that will cause trouble.”

The corners of Callum’s mouth twitched, despite the fact that he hadn’t smiled in days. “I’d like to see that. Kerr will have a fit.”

“What about me? I’m her brother. She’ll start tossing knives at me every time I suggest it might be time for them to wed.”

Callum shook his head. Gavin and their other foster brother, Kerr, had been trying to convince Isobel to marry Kerr since she’d turned eighteen. She was dead set against it, even though Callum suspected she’d be devastated if he married someone else. “The two of you have it backward. Isobel likes being defiant. She’ll stay unmarried simply to spite you both.”

Gavin made a disgruntled sound in the back of his throat. “So what do you want to do about Maggie, then? We canna stay here forever.”

Callum drummed his fingers on the ground. “She wouldnae have included the parchment if she wanted me to come. So she knows the letter was sent, and knows what was inside it, but the circumstances surrounding the letter are troubling.”

“If she’s no longer your betrothed, then maybe ’tis not your problem. You can ride away with an easy conscience.”

The argument was logical, but Callum knew his brother had said it only to push him into action. No matter what Maggie might want him to do, he couldn’t ride away knowing something wasn’t right at Clan MacDonnell.

What if she needs help?

She didn’t want him to come. But he couldn’t stay away. Not until he knew for sure she was safe.

He grimaced, scrubbed his hand through his hair. “We’ll head north to Clan MacDonnell.”

Gavin rose to his feet, grinning, then reached down to help Callum. “’Tis a good thing I’m here to get you moving; otherwise, Father Lundie would have ended up performing last rites on your prone body.”

He almost tugged his foster brother over for that, but Gavin had planted his feet in anticipation. It would end up being a tug of war.

Callum took the offered hand and, after rising, was brushing the dirt from his plaid when a wolf howled in the distance. The eerie cry was quickly followed by several others. He straightened slowly, the hair on his neck prickling, as he and the other men listened closely.

The pack was hunting.

Better a stag than one of his men. But then a horse screeched far away, and he heard a woman scream.

“God’s blood!” he shouted. “MacLeans! Mount up!” He ran for his horse as Gavin rallied his own warriors.

Callum’s second-in-command, Drustan, a lean, hardened warrior who’d been his father’s best friend before he died, wheeled his mount toward him. “Should we light the torches?”

“Aye. And leave two men with Father Lundie. Have them build a fire and stay near the trees. Tell them to push the priest onto a branch at any sign of trouble.”

Drustan nodded and rode away.

It wasn’t the first time Callum had faced off against wolves, and God knew it wouldn’t be the last. Knowing the wolves had no malice toward you—they were just hungry, and you were prey—made it terrifying. Far worse than coming up against another man.

Callum would do what he could to help their target, pray he and his men weren’t too late, but he had to prepare himself for the worst. He’d seen the carnage left behind after a wolf pack attacked a family. The images had stayed with him for months.

Another scream sounded.

Callum’s man Gill tested the wind with a single strand of his long black hair, then pointed his arm to the northeast. “She’s over there. Maybe a half mile?” Callum didn’t doubt he was right. Gill was the best marksman he had.

“We’ll go straight through the brush,” Callum said. “I’m afraid we’ll miss her if we follow the trail.”

They spread out in a line, distanced far enough apart to cover as much ground as possible but close enough to be safe, although the wolves were unlikely to approach the men as long as their torches were lit.

When they heard another yell, they homed in, invigorated to know she was still alive. After what seemed like an eternity, they entered a clearing, riding hard.

They reined in at the sight of dead and injured wolves on the ground, cut and bleeding, and a woman’s skirt torn to pieces. One of the wolves had a familiar dirk sticking out of its ribs.

Callum’s heart pounded as he looked at the dagger, and he slowly raised his head to follow the trail left behind—more blood, another dead wolf, crushed grass and flowers. And bits of plaid in the blues and greens favored by the weavers at clan MacDonnell.

Someone had run across the glen, the wolves at their heels.

His gaze reached the base of a lone tree where three more wolves lay dead—all with daggers in them. The pine tree didn’t look sturdy enough to sustain someone’s weight—much less the weight of wolves clawing at it, as indicated by the scored bark—but he caught a glimpse of bare feet and legs tucked up on the first bough. The rest of the woman’s body was hidden by pine needles…but he knew.

He urged his stallion, Aristotle, forward, the others fanning out behind him, and tried to quell his rising panic. God, let her be safe.

When he rode beneath the branches of the tree and looked up, relief washed through him so intensely, he nearly fell from his horse. A lass glared down at him—very much alive—her auburn hair as wild as he remembered and her hazel eyes just as bright.

Maggie MacDonnell—his Maggie MacDonnell.

No matter what she might think.

“For the love of God, lass,” he croaked, “what are you doing up there?”

“I would think that was obvious, Callum MacLean. I am attempting to stay alive.”

He ground his teeth together, trying to rein in the storm of emotions that blew though him. Her hands and clothes were splattered with blood. Wolves’ blood, hopefully, from when she’d stabbed them. “Are you hurt?”

The words came out harsher than he’d intended, sparked by his fear of what could have happened.

Her chin trembled, and she thrust it out belligerently. “’Tis not your concern, Laird MacLean. Nothing about me is your concern anymore.”

Beside him, Gavin gasped in recognition. “Is that Maggie? Your Maggie?”

“Nay,” she said, directing her attention to Gavin. “Just Maggie. My Maggie.”

“Aye, it’s her,” Callum answered. He heard a murmur pass through the men, and his tension rose another notch. She might insist she wasn’t his, but as he looked at her, noted everything from the freckles across her cheeks and nose to the dark sweep of her lashes, he remembered what it was like to be in her presence. The quickening of his blood and heightening of his senses. How she felt, how she smelled. How she kissed.

He glanced over his shoulder and tried to catch Drustan’s eye, but his second-in-command stared up at Maggie with a strange look on his face. “We’ll stay here tonight,” Callum said, and Drustan, his skin pale and lips tight, finally looked at him. “Set fires at regular intervals in case the pack returns, then go back for the others.”

“Aye, Laird.” Drustan’s voice was hoarse. He signaled to the men, and they retreated.

Callum shot Gavin a look, but his foster brother ignored him as he was wont to do. Instead, Gavin smiled up at Maggie gently. “Hello, lass. It’s been a long time. Do you remember me?”

She switched her gaze to him, and her eyes widened. “Is that you, Gavin MacKinnon? What have you done to your bonny blond hair? ’Tis even shorter than Callum’s.”

Gavin raised a hand to his bristly, ravaged scalp. “I know. ’Tis how I feel now. When I find my son, Ewan, I’ll let it grow.”

The hardness left her eyes. “Aye, I heard about your loss. I’m so sorry. Last year, wasn’t it? At the spring gathering?”

“Aye.” Then he smiled again, although this time, it looked forced. “And you, Maggie? Other than being up a tree and chased down by wolves, are you all right?”

A small laugh puffed from her lips. “Well, I’m not dead, am I?”

Callum’s mouth firmed, and he urged Aristotle past Gavin. He stopped directly beneath Maggie and positioned the horse sideways to the tree. Rising onto his stallion’s back, he placed one foot on the horse’s shoulders, the other on his rump. He reached his arms up to her. “Come down, Maggie. I’ll catch you.”

“I doona need your help.”

“Aye, you do. I’ll tend to your wounds before they fester, and then I’ll see you home.”

Her eyes flashed, and she reached for one of her daggers, but the leather sheath strapped to her forearm was empty. Her mouth set mulishly. “You can give me a horse, naught more. I’m going to find John.”

The last he’d heard, Maggie’s other brother was off fighting skirmishes against the English for whoever would pay his wage. Even if he still lived, it was unlikely she’d find him easily. “But what about Ross? He is Laird, aye? Doona tell me he sent you away?”

“And why should I tell you anything? ’Tis not like you’re my husband.”

Callum ground his teeth at the deliberate provocation. When they’d parted ways, Maggie had been more than eager to marry him.

He tried his most conciliatory tone. “Maggie—”

She jerked her arms in displeasure and pine needles showered down on him. “You are a lying scoundrel, Callum MacLean, and I doona need you or anyone else. I can take care of myself.”

He brushed the needles from his hair. “And that’s why you’re stuck in a tree, half-naked, with no horse and a wolf pack on your heels. How many were there, Maggie? Do you think they’ll return? I’m assuming they’ve run down your horse by now.”

Her bottom lip quivered before she firmed it. Regret washed through him, taking his anger and fear for her along with it. He dropped his arms. “Och, lass. I’m sorry. For everything. I meant it when I said I’d be back in the spring. Things…changed. It grieves me to see you up there, knowing what you went through. Please, come down so I can help you.”

Maggie stared at him, a gamut of emotions running across her face. He used to love watching her—whether she was dancing or laughing or scowling at him. Wild Maggie MacDonnell, who was more interested in daggers and arrows than pretty curls or a swishing walk.

He knew without a doubt she was meant for him. He felt it with a certainty in his bones, the same way he knew his father had been murdered, despite what everyone said. The same way Gavin knew his son was still alive.

“You want me to come down?” she asked.

“Aye.” A wariness tinged his words, and beside him, Gavin snorted.

Maggie shrugged and moved closer to the edge of the bough. “Catch,” she said, then she jumped from the branch and kicked out with her feet, hitting him squarely in the chest. He fell backward over Aristotle’s flank and landed hard on the grass.

He heard Gavin hoot with laughter and looked up to see Maggie seated on the big stallion, her legs bare from midthigh to her toes, her skin scratched and bloodied. She wheeled the stallion around and urged Aristotle into a gallop.

Callum jumped up and whistled, loud and shrill. His horse came to a jarring halt, almost knocking her off this time. She rounded to glare at him, a sight to behold with her flushed cheeks and flashing eyes, her tangled hair cascading over her shoulders.

Gavin had rushed to her aid, and she reached over and pulled a dagger from his belt, then hurled it at Callum. It landed in the tree trunk just above his head. Exactly where she’d intended.

Callum smiled. It was a start.

Maggie MacDonnell does not want me dead.

* * *

Maggie stared at Callum as he stood in front of the tree, Gavin’s dagger still vibrating in the wood above his head, a tight smile creasing his face.

She wanted to knock his smile off. Hard.

She could pull her daggers from the dead wolves around the tree and attack him again, but she didn’t think she’d succeed this time. An unprepared Callum was formidable; a Callum who anticipated her next move would be near impossible to beat.

Besides, no matter how much she wanted to hurt him, she didn’t want him dead.

Sniffing dismissively, she turned Aristotle and surveyed the glade and the soldiers setting up camp. Could she get away with stealing another horse? The warriors were quick and efficient and took care to choose defensive positions, but they wouldn’t be expecting her to break out from the inside.

Irvin would come after her, she had no doubt about that, and if he caught her now, he’d lock her away for good. Her only option was to leave her beloved Highlands.

Her chest squeezed suddenly, and she found herself blinking away ridiculous tears. It wasn’t like her to give up, but she knew when she was beat. If John could turn his back on his clan and run away—Ross too, lost in grief and darkness at the bottom of his cups—she could do the same.

They had all abandoned her, Callum included.

Movement caught her eye, and she looked down to see Callum rummaging in the leather pack that lay across his stallion’s haunches. Her breath caught as she watched him—his straight, dark hair cropped short as usual, his skin tanned and face angular. Dark eyebrows slashed above the piercing green gaze she remembered well, surrounded by thick, dark lashes. He was tall with sculpted muscles, not just mass, and while he was the leanest of his foster brothers, he was also the fastest and most agile—and just as strong.

His hands working so near her bare legs caused a tremor to run through her muscles. Other lasses might feel embarrassed to be so exposed to a man, but a part of Maggie wanted Callum to see her like this, to know what he’d given up.

She was of average height, but her legs were relatively long and supple. Callum had kissed and touched her when they were younger, squeezed her breasts, even, which she knew he’d liked—she had too—but he’d never seen her naked. Did their proximity affect him as it did her?

Not that it meant anything. Not anymore.

He pulled out a blanket and handed it to her. She hesitated before taking it. She needed the warmth, but the last plaid she wanted to be covered in was Callum’s. Those dreams were dead and buried.

“Thank you,” she said, the words sticking in her throat.

Callum nodded as he retied the pack. “I’ve imagined our reunion many times, Maggie. Not once did I think it would happen like this.”

Her brow lifted in surprise. “You thought about me?”

“Of course I did.”

“There’s no ‘of course’ about it. Why would I think otherwise, when you broke your promise?”

His hands stilled. “I wrote to you. Not as often as I should have, and not in the last six months, but… I haven’t heard from you in two years.”

She stared at him, trying to discern the truth in his gaze. Aye, she’d stopped writing, but if what he said was true, someone had withheld his letters from her—most likely her cousin.

She sighed and lifted her hand to rub her tired eyes—she hadn’t slept for a day and a half—wincing as her shoulder protested the movement. “It doesn’t matter if you wrote a hundred letters, Callum. You didn’t return like you promised, and I have other plans now. Besides, you’ll gain nothing from marrying me.”

“I’ll gain you.”

He slid his palm along the stallion’s flank and gently but firmly wrapped it around her bare calf. A shiver raced over her skin.

His gaze lifted to hers. “There is no other lass for me, Maggie. Not before, and not now.”

He released her, strode to the front of his horse, and grasped the reins. “I’ll see to your wounds by the fire.”

Maggie was too stunned to protest, and she let Callum lead her mount across the glade to the fire that had been built in the middle of the camp, stopping on the way to collect her daggers from the three dead wolves under the tree. The blanket almost tumbled from her lap, and she shook it out and placed it over her bare legs, still feeling the imprint of his hand on her skin.

He dropped the reins, saying, “Aristotle, stay,” then he clasped her hand before she could pull it back. He helped her down and led her to a stump in front of the fire, passing her the daggers.

Returning to his pack, he brought back a small bag as she cleaned her knives and reinserted them into the leather sheath. A pot had been placed over the fire, and he dropped several small cloths into the boiling water inside.

“Your stallion is named Aristotle?” she asked, searching for something to talk about as the tension between them thickened.

“Aye. It’s fitting, don’t you think?”

Maggie thought about it and found herself smiling. If Callum hadn’t been born to be a warrior and laird, he would have been a scholar. He was logical and exact in his thinking. So yes, it did fit. “Aye.”

Callum smiled too. “Lachlan named him, and it stuck.”

“I heard he recently married. I ne’er thought that day would come.”

“Neither did I. He married a MacPherson lass named Amber. She’s the clan healer and a fighter. She reminds me of you. She told me I’d been an idiot to stay away from you for so long.”

Well, she wouldn’t argue with that.

He pulled out his knife and placed the blade in the water.

“What are you doing?” she asked. “Don’t you have a salve you can give me?”

“Aye, but Amber says ’tis better to wash the wounds with boiled water before putting on the salve. She says it’ll help with the healing.”

He lifted his dagger by the leather handle, then fished out a steaming cloth.

She pulled her legs away. “You’re not putting that on my skin.”

“We’ll let it cool first.”

She didn’t know why she was allowing him to do this. If she’d learned anything over the last three years, it was to rely only on herself. But when Callum knelt in front of her and lifted her right foot onto his lap, it felt like a butterfly took wing in her chest. She couldn’t catch her breath.

He gently pulled the blanket from her leg, inspecting each cut. Most were superficial, but a puncture wound at the top of her knee looked and felt deep. She’d thrust her dagger into the neck of the wolf that had done that and another into a wolf that was tearing at her skirt before scrambling up the tree.

Her shoes and hose were gone, torn right off her feet.

“Your skirt probably saved you,” Callum said, his thoughts on track with hers.

“My daggers saved me. And my ability to climb a tree.”

“Aye, but the wolves would have clamped down on your skirt first. If you’d been a man, they’d have gone directly for your leg.”

“Well, thank the blessed virgin I’m a lass, then.”

“Aye. Thank God for that.” His tone was grave, but his eyes danced.

She felt a blush stealing up her cheeks and scowled. Nobody made her blush. Ever. Except she remembered those long days with Callum, when her cheeks seemed to be perpetually flushed, when she could hardly wait for morning to come so she could see him again—before he’d left her waiting and never returned.

Lying scoundrel.

“Do you think my horse survived?” she asked. “She was a good mount.”

“Nay, lass. Probably not.”

Maggie sighed, sad for the horse but glad to be alive. Looking over her shoulder at the skinny, lone tree she’d climbed, she considered her survival a miracle. She’d barely been able to pull herself out of range of the wolves’ snapping teeth before they’d started jumping against the tree, trying to knock her off. She’d had to squeeze her thighs and arms tight around the trunk or she’d have slid down.

She’d used her toes and fingers to dig in, to keep pushing herself upward. When she’d wrapped a hand around a bough thick enough to support her weight, she’d cried out with relief.

She hadn’t escaped the danger in her own clan only to become dinner for a pack of hungry wolves.

She reached for the warm, wet cloth hanging from Callum’s knife. “Here. I’ll do it.”

“Nay, let me…please.”

She hesitated. There was something in the way he knelt before her, the gentle way he held her foot, the soft plea in his voice…and she nodded.

Callum started at her toes and worked his way up, being meticulous in his ministrations as if to make up for the last three years. After cleaning each wound, he applied the salve and a bandage where necessary. It hurt in places, which was good; otherwise, she’d have been a quivering mess, begging him to slide his hand all the way up her leg.

“I think I should stitch this one, Maggie.”

She nodded, suspecting as much from the way the wound on the outside of her thigh throbbed and the blood still oozed.

“Three should do it. I know you’re a strong lass, but it will hurt. Do you want me to get Gavin to hold you down? ’Tis one thing to run from wolves; ’tis another to sit still while someone pokes you with a needle.”

She shook her head, staring him straight in the eye.

His lips firmed, but he nodded, then rummaged in the bag and pulled out something wrapped in lamb’s wool. The needles and thread, most likely. She looked away and squeezed her eyes shut.

Callum was quick and efficient, but by the end of it, tears streamed down her face, and she was hard-pressed not to beg him to stop. But she refused to look weak in front of him.

“I’m done,” he said, smearing salve on top and wrapping the wound with a bandage. “Let’s look at your other leg.”

He covered her right leg with the blanket and carefully exposed her left one, which wasn’t as badly scratched. This time Callum was able to dress and bandage her wounds with only one stitch.

After she was covered, he said, “What about the rest of you? You may not like it, but I should look at your—”

“Nay.”

“Maggie, to be safe, I need to—”

She whipped out her dagger and notched it under his chin. “You are not looking at my arse, Callum MacLean.”

A corner of his mouth twitched up. “Never?”

“Never.”

He wrapped his hand around her wrist and lowered her dagger from his throat. His gaze held hers. “I still intend to marry you, Maggie MacDonnell.”

She raised one brow, a spurt of anger mixing with longing. Apparently, he hadn’t received Irvin’s letter. “And I still intend to leave the Highlands.”

“Why, Maggie? Can you tell me what’s happened? What has Ross done?”

“He’s done naught. That’s the problem.”

“What do you mean? Are you in disagreement with him?” His jaw suddenly hardened, and his eyes stormed. “Does he intend to marry you to someone else? Is that it?”

“What? Nay. He doesn’t intend anything. He’s drunk, Callum. All the time. E’er since Eleanor and their bairn died.” Her voice broke at the end, and she looked away.

Callum gently turned her face back toward him. “If you need to get away, Maggie, then come with me. We doona have to decide about marrying just now—about anything. I’ll write your brother and let him know you’re with me. You canna go haring off by yourself. It’s too dangerous.”

She took the cloth and salve from him and cleansed a shallow wound on her shoulder. “Nay, staying in the Highlands at all is dangerous. You canna keep me safe at your castle.”

A strange look crossed his face, and he scrubbed a hand through his hair. “’Tis safer than a woman alone on the road to Edinburgh. Especially as you’ve no idea where to find John. Maybe your leaving will be enough to raise Ross from his cups.”

“Maybe. But I canna count on that. I canna count on anyone. You taught me that, Callum. And my brothers. I will continue on my journey tomorrow. Alone.”