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HIGHLAND BETRAYAL
BOOK #3 IN THE SONS OF GREGOR MACLEOD SERIES
by Alyson McLayne
MacDonnell Castle, The Highlands, Scotland, 1452
Maggie MacDonnell crouched in the dark, cramped tunnel—her candle by her side—and slowly, silently, slid aside the stone above her head until a sliver of light seeped under the edge.
She peered into the laird’s solar, through the legs of a chair she’d carefully positioned over the tunnel entrance weeks ago, and tried to figure out who was in the chamber. Someone sat in the chair—a pair of men’s feet, shod in dirty shoes, rested on the floor in front of her—and from across the room she heard the sound of a quill scratching on parchment at the desk.
That would be Irvin, of course—no one else would be so bold as to sit at her brother’s desk.
Wedging a stick between the ledge and the stone so it would stay open wide enough for her to eavesdrop, she picked up her own quill and parchment—ready to write down whatever was said. Although why she had to resort to spying when she was the laird’s sister and her cousin was the scheming blackheart attempting to steal her clan and castle, was beyond her.
The sound of sand being scattered on parchment reached her ears, followed by an expelled breath as Irvin blew the excess ink and sand away.
“He’s at Clan MacPherson.”
Aye, that was her cousin’s nasal tone, and she scowled. After dipping her pen in ink, she wrote “Clan MacPherson” on the parchment.
“Lachlan MacKay killed the laird there and then married a MacPherson lass. I hear the rest of the lairds, including Gregor MacLeod, came for the wedding but are leaving soon. I doona know how long MacLean will stay, but if he heads home when the others do, you should be able to intercept him along the way.”
Maggie stopped writing and barely held back a gasp. Was Irvin talking about Callum MacLean? Were they somehow working together?
Betrayal and hurt raged through her at the thought, and she clenched her hands into fists, smearing the ink
“Aye, Laird,” the man sitting in the chair responded, and she knew it was Irvin’s man, Blàr. “And if I miss him?”
“Then carry on to Clan MacLean. Deliver the letter and speak to our friend inside about the other matter we discussed.”
Maggie had learned a lot about Irvin’s plans since she’d started spying on him, but she had a hard time piecing the information together. It wasn’t in her nature to plot or deceive—she tended to be as direct and sharp as her daggers—and she couldn’t always figure out which scheme he was talking about and how the different threads weaved together.
Unfortunately, she had few people she could turn to for help—his treachery ran deep in the clan—and no one remained who could bring Irvin to justice. She’d tried speaking to Ross about him, but nothing she said got through the haze of grief and drink that had muddled his brain and slowed his wits, and John had been out of touch ever since he’d left the clan four years ago—the day after Ross’s wedding to Eleanor.
Maggie often wondered if John even knew Eleanor and her bairn were dead.
She pressed her hand to her mouth and closed her eyes as unexpected emotion welled within. The once proud and happy MacDonnell family had been reduced to her—a disagreeable, dagger-throwing spinster crouched in a dark, dank tunnel trying to thwart her cousin’s next move.
“And Ross. What do ye want me to do about him, Laird?”
Maggie’s eyes slowly opened as she listened. Normally she would have been irate at Blàr calling Irvin laird, but this time she ignored it.
What did they intend for her brother Ross—their real laird?
“Naught. He’s doing it to himself,” Irvin said. “He’s near dead already with the drink. I give him less than a year. ’Tis the other two we have to plan for.”
“So you’ll kill Maggie, then?” Blàr asked from right above her.
“Nay, I willna kill her. She has value. I’ll take her bairn instead.”
Her brow creased in confusion. Her bairn? Was he addled? Then a growing horror bloomed as she realized his meaning.
Blàr’s feet danced in front of her. “She’s with child? The wee besom.”
Irvin sighed. “You havenae any imagination, Blàr. I’ll get Maggie with child—or someone else will. She’ll marry me and stay with me to protect the first bairn and the rest after that till I’m done with her. The clan will be happy to have Donnan’s beloved daughter as their lady, and ’twill seal my lairdship with rightful heirs.”
Blàr’s ankles sagged dejectedly. “Well, what about the other brother, John? Can we kill him?”
“Aye. But first we have to find him.”
Maggie dropped her hand and fingered her daggers hanging from her belt. Four of them, all perfectly balanced and as sharp as the day they were forged. She considered striking out right then, slicing first through the tendons above Blàr’s heels, and then coming through the passageway. But then what? Kill her cousin in cold blood? The man was a weasel. He’d never fight back.
She’d have to put a dagger in his back as he ran.
She released a silent sigh. Nay, she couldn’t do it, even though she might soon find herself locked up and tied to a bed for her cousin’s—or someone else’s—use.
’Twas a grim imagining, and she shuddered.
A chair scraped back at the desk.
Blàr quickly stood and stepped forward. “Shall I take the letter with me, then?”
“Nay. Pick it up at first light. Less chance of it falling into the wrong hands. Maggie’s been curious of late—asking about my goings-on—and she’s been trying to interfere with Ross’s drinking. We canna have that.”
“Nay, Laird. But I doona think anyone could pull Ross from his cups. He loved your sister verra much.”
Irvin laughed. “Aye, he did. John too, the wee ablach. And my sweet, dull-witted sister loved them back. ’Tis a shame she had to choose just one.”
Irvin made grunting sounds followed by high squeals, simulating sex, and they laughed in a lewd manner. Maggie could imagine him gyrating his hips, and she swallowed back the bile that rose in her throat. That he should speak so about any woman, let alone his dead sister, sickened her.
“It worked out well for ye, though,” Blàr said as they walked toward the door. “I always wondered if ye shoved things in the direction ye wanted them to go.”
Aye, Maggie had wondered that too. She heard what sounded like a hand clapping a shoulder then Irvin said smugly, “I doona e’er shove, Blàr. I nudge.”
The solar door opened and their footsteps faded before the door closed and was locked from the outside. Maggie pressed her palm to her forehead and breathed deeply to calm her anger. She had to proceed with a clear head. If they caught her snooping, she’d be locked up for sure—or worse.
Lifting the stone, she pushed it to the side so it lay on the solar floor before moving the chair out of the way. When she stood, the floor came to her waist and she climbed out, taking her candle and parchment with her.
The room was dimly lit by a dying fire, but Maggie knew the room’s layout by heart, having played in here with her brothers when her father was laird.
Crossing the room, she placed her candle on the desk and searched until she found the letter that had recently been sealed, the wax with the imprint of her brother’s ring still warm. She carefully peeled off the seal and placed it to the side.
She paused then, dread that Callum may be in league with her cousin filling her stomach. She didn’t know why it would hurt so much. Callum had betrayed her long before now—three years ago in the spring, to be exact, and every spring after that when he’d failed to keep his promise.
So why was she so affected?
With a scowl, she opened the folded parchment and read her cousin’s small, perfect script. It barely filled the page. She clenched her teeth to contain herself as relief weakened her knees.
Callum was innocent…in this at least.
Not that it mattered. Nothing about him was of interest to her anymore. Although she wanted to be the one to tell Callum that. Not her lying, scheming cousin.
She read the words again—informing Callum that the marriage contract between him and Maggie was broken. Since no goods or land had been exchanged, and both of their fathers, who had arranged the marriage, were dead, the contract had been withdrawn.
Maggie stood there for several minutes, emotions she thought long dead cascading through her—anger at Irvin for presuming to end her betrothal, but also anger and hurt that Callum had never returned for her.
At one point, she’d had high hopes for their future. She’d respected him—liked him—and he’d made her laugh, which her father had always said was important in a marriage. And when Callum had kissed her, she’d more than liked him. Aye, those feelings had stayed with her for a long while, haunted her dreams long after his betrayal.
A betrayal she would never forgive.
She huffed out an exasperated breath. Should she write a note to Callum explaining the situation at Clan MacDonnell, and ask for his help? She was sure Irvin had blocked the other letters she’d tried to send—to her brother John, to her father’s best friend, who had the ear of the King, and to her mother’s family. It would please her to finally get a message out, tucked inside Irvin’s own sealed letter.
Or should she simply let the letter stand, let their betrothal officially end? It had already been over in her mind for years.
For all she knew, Callum would be happy to receive the news. Maybe his whispered words of affection three years ago had all been a lie—the same as his pledge to come back for her.
And if he did come to fight for her hand, insist the contract was still valid, what would happen? He’d have no idea of the danger he’d ride into. Irvin mentioned having a man inside Clan MacLean, so he would know Callum was coming, and she had no doubt he’d plan something.
Aye, Irvin would not let Laird MacLean upset his plans.
Her chest tightened as she imagined a dagger or arrow piercing Callum’s heart, and she dismissed the idea of asking for help. ’Twould be best if he carried on with his life not knowing of her plight. She was a strong Highland lass. She didn’t need saving.
Lifting her hand to the intricately designed silver brooch on her breast that held her arisaid together, she played with the clasp. The brooch had been a wedding present from her father to her mother on their wedding day—passed down to her upon her mother’s death thirteen years ago. She’d sobbed in her father’s arms when she’d received it. He had too.
Maggie had worn the brooch every day since to keep her mother close, and to remind herself how fast things could change.
She unpinned it. Her arisaid sagged and she looped it under her arm, then wedged her nail into an almost invisible crease in the silver and pulled off the top of the brooch. Maggie fished inside the small hollow and snagged a piece of parchment with her fingernail. She pulled it out and slowly unrolled it.
She’d almost forgotten the parchment was in there. She’d pushed it to the back of her mind, almost as if she hadn’t wanted to rid herself of this final piece of Callum.
Two holes pierced the center of the dirty, ragged parchment—dagger holes—and a third hole pierced the top where the parchment had been pinned to a tree. Under the two holes, Callum had scribbled a C and an M.
She remembered the look in his eyes when he’d pulled out their thrown daggers, a contest to see who had better aim, and written their initials on it before giving it to her. For a lass like Maggie, who preferred daggers to flowers, it was the sweetest love note she could have received. She’d carefully rolled it up and fit it into her brooch, so it would always rest next to her heart.
Now she would include it in the letter to Callum, and he would know she was done with him.
Before changing her mind, she placed the parchment within Irvin’s letter and re-sealed it.
She set the letter back in place, ignoring the melancholy feeling that rose within her. Callum MacLean was better off without her. And she was certainly better off without him.
What were the chances he would come back for her now?
* * *
Callum MacLean leaned against a tree, legs stretched out on the ground in front of him, eyes closed. He’d tucked the letter from Maggie and her brother Ross into his sporran a few days ago, after receiving it from a shifty-looking man named Blàr, who wore a MacDonnell plaid and claimed to be sent by Laird MacDonnell, but obviously wasn’t a MacDonnell. Obvious to Callum, at least. The man’s speech indicated he came from farther south.
When he first received the sealed letter with the dagger-torn parchment inside, he’d read it several times before passing it without a word to his foster brother Gavin MacKinnon, laird of Clan MacKinnon, who was travelling home with him from Lachlan and Amber’s wedding.
Gavin scanned it and looked up. “We’ll go see her, then?”
Callum had said nothing, unable to get even one word past the mess of emotions jamming his throat. Mounting his stallion, Aristotle, he’d spurred the horse forward. Gavin quickly caught up to him on his stallion. The rest of their men, six strong MacLean and MacKinnon warriors, fell into formation around them along the forest trail. Following farther behind with the supply wagon and three more of Callum’s men, was Father Lundie.
“Is that what you’d do?” Callum asked, reaching out to take back the letter and the parchment from Maggie—which he had no doubt came from her.
“Nay, I’ll ne’er chase a woman again—unless she’s got my son. But that’s what you should do.”
“Why?”
“Because everything inside you wants to go to her no matter what the letter says.”
He grunted and said nothing more on the matter that day. Or the next.
When they finally reached the juncture in the trail, one path heading north toward MacDonnell land, the other heading south, he reined in his mount. Gavin took one look at his face, and told the men to make camp.
As always, when it came to Maggie, Callum’s heart and head were not aligned.
He’d slumped against the tree and closed his eyes while Gavin and some of the men scouted the area after seeing wolf tracks. When he heard the riders return to camp, he wasn’t any closer to a decision.
“Laird MacKinnon,” he heard Father Lundie whisper to Gavin from nearby. “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 doona 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 moved since you left. I think he must be ill. ’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, so he can see clearly.”
Callum kicked out his feet just as Gavin came within 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 up onto his elbows.
“Oh, were you there? I didnae see you.”
Father Lundie stared down at them, looking startled, before he hurried away.
Gavin crawled up beside Callum and leaned with him against the tree. “Give me the letter and the other parchment. We’ll talk it through.”
With a sigh, Callum fished 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 has only gotten better since the original contract was agreed upon. My allies are his allies. If he was upset I havenae returned for Maggie, it makes sense he would demand the marriage take place, not terminate the contract. And from what I’ve heard, Ross has not been himself since he lost his wife and bairn. I was at the wedding. I saw how much he loved Eleanor.”
“You think it’s someone else’s doing then? Someone pulling the 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 doona 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. ’Twas the first day I knew she was mine. We were competing, tossing daggers. We tied on every round. I kissed her for the first time after I gave her that parchment.”
“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.
Callum sighed. “If I go there and sort everything out, win Maggie back, which willna be easy, what do I do then? Marry her? There’s a reason I havenae gone back for her.”
“Your father’s murder.”
“Aye. I canna in good conscience bring her back 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 corner 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 be tossing knives at me every time I suggest it might be time for her to marry him.”
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 canna be persuaded otherwise. She’ll stay unmarried to spite you both.”
’Twas Gavin’s turn to grunt. “So what do you want to do about Maggie, then? We canna stay here forever.”
He 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, 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.”
’Twas a logical argument, but Callum knew his brother had only said it to push him into action, because 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 needed help?
She didn’t want him to come. But he couldn’t stay away—not until he knew for sure she was safe.
He sighed. “We’ll head north to Clan MacDonnell.”
Gavin grinned and rose to his feet, 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.”
Callum took the offered hand and was brushing the dirt from his plaid when a wolf howled in the distance, followed by several others. He straightened slowly, the hair on the back of his neck prickling, as he and the other men listened intently.
The pack was hunting.
Better a stag than one of his men. But then a horse screeched far off, and he heard a woman scream.
“God’s blood,” he said, and he and Gavin ran for their horses. “MacLeans! Mount up!” he shouted as Gavin rallied his own warriors.
His second-in-command, Drustan, a lean, hardened warrior, 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 hoist the priest into a tree 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. Each time it was terrifying, knowing the wolves had no malice toward you, they were just hungry…and you were prey. ’Twas far worse than coming up against another man.
Callum would do what he could to help the woman—pray he and his men weren’t too late—but he had to prepare himself for the worst.
Another scream sounded.
Callum’s man, Gill, tested the wind, 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 sniper he had. “Should we follow the trail north and then veer east? Or go as the crow flies?”
“I’m afraid we’ll miss her if we follow the trail.”
“Agreed. Through the bush then,” Gill said.
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 attack them with their lit torches.
When they heard another yell, they honed in, invigorated to know the woman was still alive. After what seemed like hours, but was more likely just minutes, 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 dirk sticking out of its ribs.
Callum’s heart pounded as he looked at the dagger, and he slowly raised his eyes 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, but the bark was scored high up in places, indicating the wolves had been jumping and reaching for their prey.
The trunk was bare of branches most of the way up and would have been difficult to climb, but he caught a glimpse of bare feet and legs tucked up on the lowest bough. The rest of the woman’s body was hidden from sight by the pine needles…but he knew.
He urged Aristotle forward, the others fanning out behind him, and tried to quell his rising panic. God, let her be all right.
When he stopped beneath the branches of the tree and stared up at a woman barely holding onto a bough that dipped beneath her weight, relief so intense washed through him that he nearly fell from his horse. At the same time he felt jaw-dropping disbelief, for the lass glaring down at him—her auburn hair as wild as ever, her hazel eyes just as bright as he remembered—was none other than Maggie MacDonnell.
His Maggie MacDonnell—no matter what she might think.
“For the love of God, lass,” he roared, his temper spiraling out of control, sparked by his fear for her—for what might have happened. “What are you doing up there?”
“I would think that was obvious, Callum MacLean. I am attempting to stay alive.”
He ground his teeth, trying to rein in the storm of emotions barreling though him. “Are you hurt?” he asked, his words clipped and harsher than they should have been.
If anyone other than Maggie had clung to that tree, her dress torn to pieces, her legs bare and skin cut, he would have spoken in gentle, soothing tones. As it was, he could barely stop himself from pulling her down and galloping all the way to his castle.
Where she’d what…be safe?
Her chin trembled, and she thrust it out belligerently “What do you care?” she asked, flipping that long, glorious hair behind her shoulder. “’Tis not like we’ve spoken in years.”
Guilt stabbed at him and he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.
Beside him, Gavin gasped in recognition. “Is that Maggie? Your Maggie?”
“Nay, not his Maggie,” she said, directing her attention to Gavin. “Just Maggie.”
“Aye, it’s her,” Callum answered, barely able to get the words past his clenched teeth. He heard a murmur pass through the men, and his tension rose another notch. She may 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, remembered what it felt like to be in her presence—the heightening of his senses, the quickening of his mind and body, the anticipation of touching her—he knew he would do everything possible to win her back.
He glanced over his shoulder and tried to catch Drustan’s eye, but he was staring 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 nodded, his voice 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. Was it too much to ask for a private moment with Maggie, especially as she looked half dead and ready to kill him?
Gavin rode forward and smiled up at her. “Hello, lass. It’s been a long time. Do you remember me?”
She switched her gaze to Gavin, and her eyes widened. “Is that you, Gavin MacKinnon? What have you done to your bonny, blond hair? ’Tis even shorter than Callum’s. ’Twas the envy of every lass in the Highlands.”
Gavin raised a hand to his bristly, ravaged scalp and sighed. “I know. ’Tis how I feel now. When I find my son, I’ll grow it back.”
The hardness left her eyes. “Aye, I heard about your loss. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you,” he said, then smiled. “And you, Maggie, other than being up a tree and chased down by wolves, are you well?”
A small laugh puffed from her lips. “Well, I’m not dead, am I?”
Callum urged Aristotle past Gavin and stopped directly beneath Maggie. “Nay, and let’s keep it that way.” He stood on his stallion’s back and reached his arms up to her. “Come down, Maggie. I’ll catch you.”
“I doona need you to catch me.”
“Aye, you do.”
Her eyes flashed, and she reached for one of her daggers only to find her belt empty. Her mouth set mulishly. “You said you’d be back in the spring…four springs ago.”
“Three.”
“Well, that makes it all right, then.”
He wanted to blurt out his reasons for staying away—the dangers in his clan, the threat to her life if she married him—but now was not the time.
“Please, come down. I’ll tend to your wounds before they fester, and then I’ll see you back home.”
Her spine stiffened, causing the bough to sway, and she slid a little closer to the edge. “You can give me a horse, naught more.”
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.”
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? I’m assuming they’ve run down your horse by now.”
Her bottom lip quivered before she firmed it, and regret washed through him. 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, that you almost died. 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’d just as soon take your eye out with one of her daggers than try to catch your eye with pretty curls or a swishing walk.
They’d been betrothed since childhood and 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 alive.
Unfortunately, she no longer had the same feeling for him.
Well, he’d just have to convince her otherwise—he’d done it before, he could do it again. Of course, she’d been seventeen then, but still set against him. Against marrying anyone, really, and too used to doing whatever she pleased since her mother’s death, whether it was tossing daggers or jumping off cliffs.
“Maggie,” he said again, his tone firmer this time. He had to get her out of the tree so he could see the damage the wolves had done.
She raised a brow, and he knew he’d made a mistake.
“You want me to come down?” she asked.
“Aye.” A wariness tinged his words, and beside him he heard Gavin snort.
Maggie shrugged and moved closer to the edge of the bough, saying, “Catch.” Then she jumped from the branch and kicked out with her feet, hitting him squarely in the chest. He fell from his horse and landed hard on the grass.
He heard Gavin hoot with laughter, and looked up to see Maggie straddling Aristotle, her legs bare from mid-thigh to her toes, her skin scratched and bloodied. In one motion, she wheeled the stallion around and leaned to the side to pull her knives from the wolves—three of them. Then urged Aristotle into a gallop.
Callum jumped up and whistled, loud and shrill, and his horse came to a jarring halt, almost knocking her off this time. She rounded to stare at him, a sight to behold with her flushed cheeks and flashing eyes, her tangled hair cascading over her shoulders. Then she pulled a dagger and hurled it at him. It landed in the tree trunk just above his head. Exactly where she’d intended.
’Twas a start. And Callum smiled.
Maggie MacDonnell did not want him dead.
Coming August 2018