The Taming of a Highlander Read online

  With fury, Alexander had described the “cell” where they’d found him—a fine oak table and upholstered chair, blazing hearth, feather-stuffed mattress, silk bedding with plump pillows, and a china tea set.

  After dropping his unconscious cargo unceremoniously into the cart, Campbell had said nothing apart from, “Ye were right. He must die.”

  Lockhart must die. Not because Broderick wanted it with every breath in his body. Not even because the bastard deserved the punishment a thousandfold. But because if they did not put this mad predator down, everyone they loved would suffer—Annie, in particular.

  Blond hair that had remained neatly trimmed over the past two months plastered to a broad forehead. Thick lips sheened as Lockhart’s head tilted. “God, ye’re bloody hideous.” A feverish glint entered the man’s gaze, a queer sort of joy. “She’s written me, you know. Begged me to take her back.”

  “Cecilia has her reasons.”

  “Don’t you understand, you grotesque teuchter? You were a novelty.” He spat in the mud near Broderick’s boots. “She never loved you. How could she? You are nothing!”

  Calmly, Broderick slid his fingers beneath his leather patch and stripped it away. He tossed it on the bed of the cart with his coat. “If I’m nothin’, why did Cecilia take me to her bed?”

  “Do not speak her name.”

  “Ye’ve gone to a fair bit of trouble to destroy nothin’, eh?”

  Unexpectedly, the bastard’s thick lips curled upward. “Oh, but I haven’t finished.”

  Until now, Broderick had been methodical about his rage. He’d channeled it into rebuilding his strength, devising a plan to take Lockhart from the jail, arranging alibis for his brothers, who had insisted on helping him, and taking precautions to protect his family. He’d managed the pressure inside him carefully, surrounding the volatile mass with a dam constructed brick by brick. He’d chopped a ten-year reserve of firewood. He’d worked his own cattle and plowed his own fields. He’d hauled whisky casks and swum the loch. He’d hunted the last of Skene’s men and ensured they’d never harm another woman.

  All the while, he’d envisioned every minuscule detail of Lockhart’s death. Again and again as he lay in the dark, he’d pictured his hands snapping bones and gouging an eye. Maybe two. He’d felt the blade of his dirk sinking into the black bastard’s heart. He’d thought of Magdalene, Annie, his brothers, his father—everyone who had suffered for their association with him. Even Ferguson. The pot-bellied exciseman hadn’t deserved to die. None of them had deserved this.

  While he’d worked and hunted, chopped and hauled, he hadn’t controlled the scalding pressure of his hatred with thoughts of frosted heather or the scent of baking bread. Instead, he’d imagined blood.

  Lockhart’s blood.

  But as he listened to his enemy’s promise, he knew death would not be the end. The savage triumph now wreathing Lockhart’s arrogant features told him as much.

  The dam he’d built inside himself didn’t merely crack. It vanished.

  White-hot acid flooded inside. Filled his veins and organs, his muscles and mind. It drove him forward. It took its vengeance as an ordained right.

  There it was. Blood. Aye, there it was. From his enemy’s nose. From his enemy’s teeth. From his enemy’s taunting grin.

  “Kill me,” his enemy hissed from the ground. “Makes no difference. It will never stop. Your sister? That bairn in her womb? Dead.”

  Broderick’s next kick elicited a groan.

  The sound soon became a wheezing chuckle. “Yer brothers, dead. Yer father, dead.”

  Through a haze, Broderick heard roaring. It was him, but not him. The dark was red. Blood red.

  “Ye’re nothing because I’ve made sure of it. Every trace of your existence will be wiped away, MacPherson. And ye’ll watch it be taken piece by piece.” Lockhart’s swelling eyes gleamed up at him through blood, mud, and malice. “I may be dead, but ye’ll be watching … through the one eye I’ve left ye.”

  He bent and pummeled the sneering face of his enemy. Bones cracked. Blood flowed. Shapes altered. Flattened. Swelled into grotesque lumps.

  He didn’t feel it.

  His enemy slackened. Stilled.

  He didn’t feel it.

  He didn’t feel anything except white-hot pressure.

  He didn’t see anything except red.

  But just as his fist was about to swing again, he did hear a sound.

  A cry. Soft and high and distressed.

  He halted. There. Gasping. Whimpering like a wounded pup. Or a woman.

  Blinking rain from his eye, he straightened and turned toward the sound, which came from a thicket at the base of the hill. Past the trees, he glimpsed white. Oddly, the sight forced the red to recede. Breaths heaved inside his pounding chest. Inky black surrounded him once again as the sounds of rain and wind replaced the strange buzzing in his ears.

  The white moved. Scrambled backward.

  More distressed mewling.

  The white appeared to be a gown. Skin. A face, small and frightened.

  He stalked toward what he now recognized as a lass. His vision was shite outside the lantern’s reach, but he drew close enough to make out a slender figure, delicate jaw, wet curls beneath a limp bonnet, and a flash of terrified eyes before she spun and scrambled up the hill, quick as a doe fleeing a hunter. Instinctively, he started after her—whoever she was. The last thing he needed was a witness. He’d planned this too carefully.

  But he had no time for distractions. He must deal with Lockhart first.

  He cursed. Pivoted back toward where he’d left his enemy.

  And saw only mud.

  He rushed back at a dead run. Searched the perimeter for signs of the man’s footprints. Anything. Any bloody thing.

  But there was nothing. Rain had washed away every trace. He couldn’t fucking see in the dark.

  And an unknown, wayward lass had stolen the only chance he had of discovering Lockhart’s plan before his family paid with their lives.

  CHAPTER SIX

  October 10, 1826

  Glendasheen Castle, Scotland

  Kate awakened gasping. Her shift plastered her skin. Cold. Damp. Her blankets lay mangled at the foot of the bed as though she’d fought them to the death. She rolled onto her side and waited. Breathing. Giving her heart time to slow.

  He’d chased her for hours this time, but he’d only caught her once. That had been enough to make her never want to close her eyes again. Because the monster hadn’t hurt her. He’d simply reached for her throat, gripped with a near-sensual caress, and growled like the animal he was. Then, the strangest thing happened. He’d drawn her against him.

  And he’d been … warm.

  She’d dreamt the same dream for three nights. Details changed—he’d worn black in some dreams, a kilt in others; a few dreams had taken place in that wooded clearing, others beside a moonlit loch, and last night’s inside the darkened corridors of the castle—but never had he caught her before. Never had she imagined his hand circling her throat with more gentleness than threat. Never had she thought of him as warm.

  Swiping a hand over her face, she shoved up from the bed and stripped off her damp shift. At the washstand, she rinsed away sweat with soap and water until her scent was once again tuberose and jasmine, clary sage and bergamot. Then, she dressed while distracting herself by singing her plans for the day.

  “I shall begin with breakfast,” she sang as she donned a fresh shift and summoned a maid. “For, sweet Annie’s bread is divine. I’ll add butter and jam and a good bit of ham, so long as my stomach doesn’t mind.”

  She sat at her dressing table and brushed tangles from her hair. “Next, I’ll go for a ride, for it’s been far too many days, and Ophelia must be going mad. Is it wise to mount a horse that’s crazed?” She sorted through her box of pins and combs, searching for her tartan hair ribbon. It wasn’t there. “Then, I shall visit the haberdas
hery, for I must have a ribbon to ride. And nothing rhymes with haberdashery, but my restlessness cannot be denied. Later, I’ll return to the castle, and then …”

  Her voice thinned to a trickle.

  She paused. Glanced at her reflection.

  And then what, Katherine Ann Huxley? She couldn’t go outside the castle, for pity’s sake. What if Sergeant Munro was waiting for her? As John had predicted, he’d come to the castle two days in a row asking to speak to her. She’d avoided him, but that would be hard to do if he caught her on the road. What if he questioned her and accused her of lying? Could he arrest her? Could she be jailed?

  No, she must remain here. Again. Wistfully, she gazed out the window. Perhaps she should return to England. She would be safer. Annie’s brother would be safer. Her muse would suffer, to be sure, but was that the worst thing? Her desire to pen a grand Scottish adventure could not be more important than a man’s freedom, especially if everything Annie had told her about Broderick MacPherson was true.

  Besides, she thought as she strummed the loose papers protruding from her sketchbook, she suspected her talent for storytelling approximated her talent for lying.

  Her heart ached and twisted. She swallowed a lump.

  Perhaps she wasn’t meant to be an author, just as she wasn’t meant to sing operatic arias or play Lady Macbeth at Drury Lane. Loving something did not make one good at it. Perhaps being a prolific breeder of future aristocrats was her singular talent, and she was a feather-headed ninny for thinking otherwise.

  The maid, a buoyant young lass with sandy hair, entered and curtsied before crossing to the wardrobe near the fireplace. “Good mornin’, m’lady.”

  “Good morning, Janet.” Kate attempted a smile. “How did your conversation with young Stuart go?”

  The maid grinned over her shoulder and bounced on her toes as she threw open the wardrobe doors. “Just as ye said it might. He wants to dance with me at the cèilidh on Halloween. I dinnae ken how ye sensed he fancied me, m’lady, for he’s never so much as spoken my name. But I’m grateful ye pressed me to speak to him. He’s a shy one, that Stuart.”

  Nodding, Kate watched a bird land on a branch outside her window. The bird was small and green. Another landed beside it, red and brilliant. They were different, yet clearly belonged together. “I’m pleased it went well.”

  “Oh, it did. He promised to teach me a new reel.” Janet giggled and sighed. “I pretended I havenae been dancin’ the reel since I was a bairn. Wouldnae wish to disappoint him.” She winked and began sorting through the wardrobe. “Now, then, will it be yer blue riding habit this mornin’?”

  Kate glanced down at the sketchbook and tattered stack of notes strewn across her dressing table. “No,” she said, pushing them aside. “The green muslin with the long sleeves, I think. I shall remain at the castle today.”

  Hours later, Kate had just finished penning morose letters to her dearest friends, Francis and Clarissa, lamenting the woeful tides of fate when Janet informed her that John and Annie required her presence in the drawing room.

  “At once?” Kate frowned, her pen poised above the paper. “That is what they said?”

  “Aye, m’lady.” The maid glanced behind her then whispered, “A family meetin’, I reckon. I was told to serve cider. And whisky.”

  How odd. Had Angus or Rannoch come for a visit?

  The answer came as she approached the drawing room doors—and heard the distorted growl from her nightmares.

  Her skin flashed hot then cold. Shivers struck. Her breath quickened until her head felt light.

  “… dinnae give a damn what some bluidy constable does,” the monster was saying. “Tell him he can kiss my hairy ballocks—”

  “I’ll tell him nothin’ of the sort, ye great crabbit beastie!” That was Annie. She sounded enraged.

  For some reason, her sister-in-law’s bold ire made Kate’s palms stop sweating and her heart calm a little.

  “And ye’ll be doin’ likewise if ye dinnae want to return to the hell we pulled ye from!”

  John spoke next, though his volume was lower. “We must deal with this. There is no choice.” Calm and steady. That was her brother.

  The tension in her stomach eased a bit more.

  “’Tis mine to deal with, Huxley,” grated the monster. “Not yers.”

  “The moment my sister witnessed what you’d done, it bloody well became mine. She is innocent, Broderick. Whatever I must do, she will not take damage for this. I trust I’m clear.”

  Silence fell.

  Even through the door, she felt the tension inside the room. For a moment, she considered fleeing. She didn’t want to meet the monster. She didn’t want to look upon him or hear his voice or remember what he’d done.

  But John could not flee. Annie could not flee. Their child could not flee. They were her family, and long after she returned to England, they must contend with everything Broderick had done and everything that had been done to him.

  The least she could do was walk in there and speak to them. To him.

  So, she inhaled as though preparing to sing a high note then entered the drawing room. The first person she saw was a bald, bespectacled man with a long nose and waxy pallor. He sat on a green damask settee to the right of the fireplace.

  John stood in the center of the room, hazel eyes sharp and flashing with hard resolve. His hands rested on Annie’s shoulders. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes brilliant with outrage. Both of them shifted to look at Kate.

  Kate clasped her hands at her waist and kept her eyes trained on her brother. John crossed to greet her, and she took his arm. Steady, she told herself. Screw your courage to the sticking-place. But Shakespearean wisdom wasn’t helping. She repeated the phrase over and over as John drew her toward the corner of the room where she sensed a dark, volatile presence waiting.

  Inside, she shook hard enough to rattle her bones.

  John covered her hand where it rested on her arm. “Lady Katherine Huxley, may I present Mr. Broderick MacPherson.”

  She should lift her eyes. Stop staring at his boots, you ninny. But God, they were so dreadfully large.

  “Broderick, this my youngest sister, Lady Katherine.”

  Silence.

  Her lungs wouldn’t work. Her eyes refused to budge. “Screw your courage,” she whispered to herself. “Screw your courage.”

  His ankles were crossed, she noticed. As though he leaned against something and couldn’t be bothered to stand upright. She blinked and noticed his knees. Did monsters have knees? They seemed such an ordinary part. Not frightening at all, really. He wore breeches. Slightly dusty. Buckskin, she thought. His thighs were the thickest, most muscular thighs she’d ever seen, so she forced her gaze to race past them. Then came his waist, surprisingly trim given the overall size of him.

  “Screw your courage,” she whispered. “To the sticking-place.”

  His shirt was white. Clean. His waistcoat and riding coat were brown wool. Not particularly fine. Not particularly humble.

  His arms were massive. Crossed across a massive chest and attached to even more massive shoulders.

  “Screw your courage to the sticking-place. Screw your—”

  “Calm yerself, lass.”

  Her heart hammered so loudly, she thought for a moment she’d imagined that deep, damaged rumble. Before she could stop herself, she looked at his face. Ah, God. It was … her nightmare.

  “Screw your courage.”

  Her nightmare. Dear God. Her nightmare had come to life. Only it was worse because in daylight, she saw everything: The slashing wounds that had healed jagged. The flattened, crooked nose. The empty eye socket mercifully covered by a leather patch. He was a monster, massive and mean, leaning casually against a bookcase and looking for all the world like a predator examining an unwary rabbit.

  Her fingers dug into John’s arm. “S-screw your courage—”

  “Aye. Screw that courage all t
he way to the sticking-place.” His tone was wry. That single, dark eye flashed, and the scars along his jaw and the corner of his mouth tightened. “I only devour wee, frightened lasses on Sundays.”

  “Broderick,” Annie snapped. “Ye owe her better.”

  He held Kate’s eyes. “Do I?” His jaw flexed as he examined her from head to toe. “What do ye think, Lady Katherine? Or are ye only capable of quotin’ Shakespeare?”

  She blinked. He knew Shakespeare?

  “That’s quite enough,” John said quietly. “We are here to settle the legal troubles you’ve caused. Now, I suggest we all take our seats and hear what Mr. Thomson has to say on the matter.”

  The bespectacled man cleared his throat behind them. John led Kate to the blue sofa before he and Annie took their seats. Broderick, she noticed, wore a ferocious scowl that deepened the scars slashing his brow and disappearing beneath his patch. He straightened from his position against the bookcase. His full height stole her breath.

  He was coming toward her. Slowly. With a slight hitch in his gait. Then, he lowered his enormous frame into the largest of the three chairs, the one directly across from her.

  She frowned. One of his knees didn’t bend quite right. A faint shudder worked through his shoulders, a faint wince narrowing his eye. For some reason, sympathy squeezed her heart.

  “My lord,” Mr. Thomson began, “I have made the inquiries you requested.”

  “And?” John prompted.

  “I regret to say our options are few.”

  From that point on, the conversation grew more distressing. Mr. Thomson explained that, even if Kate returned to England, she could still be summoned to testify against Broderick.

  “It would be a simple matter for the court to request the notice be served at her home in Nottinghamshire.”

  “And for her to defy the court would be considered—”

  “Contempt, my lord. She could be fined or jailed. Commonly the latter.”

  John cursed. “Humiliated, too, no doubt. An English aristocrat defying a Scottish court.”

  “Indeed.”

  They discussed alternatives ranging from having her declared mad to sending her on a lengthy tour of the Continent. In the end, Mr. Thomson shook his head and adjusted his spectacles. “She is one-and-twenty, certainly of age to be considered competent.”