The Scot's Betrayal (Highland Swords Book 1) Page 2

  Except for the two who’d gotten away, all of the reivers were dead.

  Although Alasdair was tempted to argue with the man, the English knights outnumbered them. Perhaps it was best to stand aside and allow the group to continue on.

  Alasdair nodded to Emmalin and said, “If you’re ever in need of assistance, my lady, please send a message to Grant land. My name is Alasdair. I’ll be glad to help you in any way I can, one Scot to another.”

  He was possessed by a sudden need to dismount and stand beside her, but he denied himself that pleasure, knowing it might inflame the baron. She was taller than most lasses, although Dyna—who still hid in the trees—stood nearly as tall as he did. Emmalin met his gaze, and they stared at each other for a long moment. A searing heat passed through him as if her gaze had just branded him.

  He interpreted it in only one way.

  Help me.

  Chapter Two

  Alasdair Grant was a name Emmalin wouldn’t soon forget.

  She stared up at the man as he spoke to her, taking in his long dark locks, his gray eyes, and his powerful shoulders. The scar across his jaw looked even more pronounced from a distance. The wound would likely have killed him had it been any lower, but it was impossible to imagine anyone besting this man. His raw power took her breath away. He seemed completely confident in his abilities as a man and a warrior.

  And yet he’d set her down from his massive stallion with more tenderness than her husband had ever shown her.

  Her sire, bless his departed soul, had often spoken of Clan Grant’s strength, for they were known as the strongest and largest clan in the Highlands, but he’d also mentioned their honor and fierce loyalty. He’d told her once that if he could ever choose a husband for her, he would arrange a match with one of the Grants, but they lived far away and had many allies.

  She knew he would never have chosen an Englishman for her.

  The Scotsmen departed, and her husband’s hands squeezed her waist a bit harsher than normal as he tossed her up onto her horse. She had to grab the beast’s mane to find her seat, but she managed. Her sire had insisted that she become an accomplished rider.

  Staring at her with blazing eyes, the baron whispered, “May I remind you that your gaze belongs on your husband, not on a stranger.”

  She had no defense, so she said nothing. She merely watched as he stalked away and mounted his own horse. Soon, they were riding again as if nothing had happened, Emmalin following her husband’s lead on the path toward her homeland in Strathblane in the Vale of Leven. The trembling began soon afterward. She’d been abducted, almost taken by a group of men who would have used her in an appalling manner.

  How could she not shiver at that thought?

  “You’re trembling,” Langley said. She had not even noticed that he’d slowed his horse to ride beside her. “Are you cold?”

  “Nay, my lord,” she said, shaking her head. “’Tis a delayed reaction to being abducted by those men. When I think of what could have been…”

  “Do not think of it in that way. You are safe, my dear. I’ll have you home in our bed by the end of the day.” He winked as he said it.

  She smiled, knowing that was what he would wish to see from her. On their wedding day six moons ago, she’d vowed to make the best of the marriage, to be obedient and cheerful.

  If he loved her, perhaps he’d become more pleasant.

  It was the best she could hope for. After her father had died suddenly, she’d had no choice but to accept the English king’s demand that she marry one of his barons, especially since the order had been delivered to her by King Edward. She’d decided it would be best for her people if she cooperated willingly. After all, everyone knew King Edward’s cavalry frequently rode into the Borderlands, and even the Lowlands, to enforce his will. She did not have enough warriors to withstand a direct attack.

  And so she’d married Baron Hawkinge.

  In her heart, Emmalin was still a proud MacLintock, a proud Scot. She wouldn’t give up her Scottish heritage for anything or anyone. Or the land that had been overseen by her family for decades. It might be the baron’s by marriage, but it was hers by blood.

  To her delight, MacLintock land came into view. How she loved the rolling hills, now green with the burst of summer, the trees full with the promise of more beauty to come in autumn. She didn’t know which season she favored more, the warmth of summer or the brilliance of autumn colors. The sight of her land always made her smile, as if a soft whisper were welcoming her home.

  Once they made it over the bridge, the stable lads rushed out to assist the group. Her steward, Gaufried, came out to greet her. He’d been acting second with her father for years. When the baron had taken over her castle, she’d insisted on retaining Gaufried, although he had become the steward of the castle instead of her second-in-command. That job had been given to one of Hawkinge’s men.

  “How was Edinburgh?” he asked.

  “Lovely. My lord purchased several new gowns for me, and we stayed at a nice inn. The trip home could have been better,” she replied as he helped her to dismount.

  Besseta came out to greet her, seeing to her satchel and the packages that were hers. “I’ll take care of everything, my lady.” Bessie had been her personal maid for as far back as she could remember. Thank goodness, the baron hadn’t argued about keeping her on. Emmalin had lost her mother before her father, and her maid was all the family she had left.

  While she and Bessie would have normally taken time to chat upon her arrival, they had learned to hold their tongues until they were alone in her chamber. Langley had chastised her for being too friendly with the servants, something he did not believe in.

  There were many things Langley didn’t believe in. The truth was the man questioned everything she said, undermining her in front of the servants, even humiliating her in front of them, yelling at her over trifles. Once he’d insisted she kneel and beg for his forgiveness after she’d allowed the cook to make a Scottish delicacy for dinner.

  “My lord, please excuse me as I see to the evening meal,” Emmalin said, turning to the baron. “’Twill nearly be upon us,” she said.

  Langley grabbed her around the waist and snuggled her neck as a tease, leaning in to whisper, “Do not forget what my favorites are, will you?”

  “Of course not,” she replied.

  “And they are?” he asked, pulling back to stare at her.

  “Boar meat, lamb, barley, and cabbage,” she recited carefully.

  “And?” He asked this question as he twisted her arm out of sight of the others. They could never accuse him of being abusive because no one ever saw what he did to her.

  She hissed through her teeth at the pain and said, “Bread. Forgive me for forgetting.”

  “That’s better, my dear. If you would just do your job, I’d never have to reprimand you. You know I don’t like to.”

  “My fault, and many thanks for your patience, my lord,” she said, each word smarting like a pulled tooth.

  He leaned over to whisper in her ear again, “Very good, my dear. When you’ve finished that task, please see me abovestairs in my chamber. I have another task for you.” He nipped her earlobe before he turned away from her.

  “Aye, my lord.”

  She dug her fingers into her palms as she walked away. She knew exactly what that task was to be. Langley had a voracious sexual appetite.

  Before she joined him, she would indulge herself by fantasizing about all the ways she could pay him back for his cruelty. She understood the way of the world, of course—fantasizing was all she could do. If she told a priest how her husband treated her, he would tell her that husbands had the right to discipline and oversee their wives. She’d be reminded that her job was to do as her husband asked, keep his castle the way he wished, and to become a quiet, obedient wife.

  Her preference would be to take her sewing needle and stick it in his eye.

  Or have someone bigger than she was do all the things
he’d done to her—the pinching, the silent twisting, the taunting.

  Bessie had told her some women enjoyed the marriage bed, but she doubted she would ever be one of them. Langley wished for her to be completely submissive to him, and everything inside her revolted at the thought.

  However, she tried her best to meet his needs, knowing it was the way to get concessions from him, such as keeping Besseta and Gaufried and other servants.

  She moved inside the keep, making her way through the great hall. It hurt too much to look at the cavernous space, which used to be warm and inviting, so she kept her eyes on the path in front of her.

  Not at the missing red and black plaid on the cushions.

  Not at the blank spot on the wall where her sire’s best swords had hung.

  Not at the missing tapestry her grandmother had made of the keep in winter.

  The space was best described as empty and cold.

  Her dear sire would have been devastated by the changes. She vowed to see all of her family’s precious things returned to their spots.

  If only she knew how.

  Chapter Three

  Elshander and Alick continued to tease him as they rode through a meadow, moving slow enough to talk. Dyna joined in occasionally, her comments always as sharp as her arrows. She’d returned to the group as soon as they were a good distance from the baron’s men.

  They’d come upon the reivers on their way home from a mission to Edinburgh. Their co-chieftains and grandsire had sent the four of them there for the latest news on Scotland’s ongoing battle for independence from England. The tidings had not been good. After his success in the Battle of Falkirk, Longshanks continued to subdue the Scottish rebellion. His men continued to push deeper and deeper into the country, encroaching on clans who’d lived there for centuries. They’d reached a truce two years ago, but Wallace remained free, his location a mystery, and many still pushed for Scottish freedom.

  The Scots would not rest until they chose their own king, something Edward would never allow. With their grandsire’s encouragement, the four cousins had decided to become active in the battle for independence.

  Alexander Grant believed in knowing your enemy, and he didn’t trust King Edward, something that had been borne out in the king’s devious actions.

  What better example than that English dandy who’d been wed to a stunning Scottish beauty?

  Dyna said, “He’s an arse.”

  Alasdair smirked and glanced over his shoulder at her. It did not surprise him that she’d guessed at his thoughts. Dyna possessed abilities no one understood or discussed, mostly because it upset her.

  The first occurrence he recalled was when they were five winters, and she’d been about three and a half. The cousins had stayed home with Grandpapa and Grandmama while their parents paid a visit to Clan Ramsay.

  The three lads had gotten into an argument at the top of the stairs. Although Alasdair could no longer remember the substance of that argument, he’d never forget the way Dyna had stared up at them from the great hall. “Don’t fight,” she’d pronounced. “You’ll be sorry.” She’d then stalked off to find their grandparents in their chamber at the end of the hall.

  The three had ignored her and continued to argue. Soon, they’d started shoving each other about, and then Els had tripped. Alick and Alasdair tried to pull him back before he fell down the stairs, except they’d gone down with him instead. Their grandparents had stepped out of their chamber just in time to see the three lads lose their footing and catapult down the steps. Grandmama had screamed, and the lads had done the same.

  Alasdair remembered seeing nothing but arms and legs and steps flying past him as the three hurtled down the staircase. Servants came running, but as soon as they landed, everyone quieted, not speaking.

  At the bottom of the staircase lay two thick cushions that had stopped them from being badly hurt. Grandmama just stared at the cushions, wondering who had moved them from their usual position by the hearth. She looked from one servant to the next, but they all shook their heads.

  Dyna strolled back into the hall and said, “I told you that you would be sorry.”

  Grandpapa knelt in front of her. “Dyna, did you put those cushions there?”

  She nodded.

  “Why?”

  “I knew they were going to fall, Grandpapa. I saw it.” Then she toddled off to the kitchens. “I’m hungry.”

  The story hadn’t been told to any of their mothers. Grandpapa had said it was to be their secret. But each of the cousins was well aware of Dyna’s abilities. The main reason she was allowed to travel with them, despite the dangers, was because of her propensity to detect danger before it happened, to assess a person’s character at a glance. Although the abilities were temperamental, they tended to be stronger when she was around her cousins. As a spy, she was invaluable—even more so because she was also a fantastic archer.

  Dyna spoke again, wrenching him free of the memory. “Something is wrong with their marriage. I could tell from the way they stood together.”

  “I won’t disagree with you,” he said. In his mind, he could see the fear in Emmalin’s eyes. “He is an arse. She should have been allowed to marry a Scot.”

  Els said, “I do believe he’s smitten.”

  Alick chuckled and said, “I was waiting for him to ride off with her. ’Twould have taken her husband a while to notice the way he was carrying on.”

  Els laughed at that, and Alasdair couldn’t help but smile, even though he was by far the most serious of the three of them. Just like your father, his grandpapa often said. People in their clan joked that each of the three Grant lads who’d been born on the same night, at the same time, carried the qualities of his sire. Alasdair tended to be more quiet and reserved than his cousins—but just like Jake Grant, he had the temper of an angry hornet if pushed. Els was a chatterbox, much like his father, Jaime, and Alick, son of Finlay, was a jester, though his red hair showed in his occasional bursts of temper.

  Their grandsire had always told them the night of their birth was the most memorable occasion in his long life, and their aunt Jennie insisted there was some special meaning behind it.

  Nineteen years later, they’d yet to learn exactly what it meant, although they all knew their bond was special—and that strange things sometimes happened when they were around one another. Although they would eventually have to meet their destiny, Alasdair wasn’t ready. The past year had been the most challenging in his life, and it had heaped a great weight on his shoulder. He needed to figure out a way to shed that weight before he could do anything of significance.

  “Nay, you have it wrong.” Els said, picking up the joke where Alick had left off. “He was ready to kidnap her, spit on the baron, and take her straight to a kirk. Well, I suppose he’d have to kill the bastard first.”

  They waited for his response, but he gave them nothing. In truth, it peeved him a bit that they’d so easily picked up on his attraction to Emmalin. It was dangerous for a warrior to let his feelings show. If he did so in battle, it could mean the end of him.

  He deliberately changed the subject to the one thing guaranteed to turn their jovial mood. “I’ve been thinking of the last battle after we joined the Forest.” Using the name the Scots used for Selkirk forest where Wallace and his men had gone into hiding, many of them residing in the forest during the worst of the battles over the last seven years. “When Brechin Castle was lost.” The Scots had fought hard, but Edward had overtaken the castle, defeating the Scots after a short battle.

  Alick’s whole demeanor changed in an instant. “I think of it every day. ’Twas just a short time ago. I’ll never forget it.”

  They’d gone to stand for the Scots at various times, but the last battle at Brechin Castle had been the most frustrating, mostly because they’d been crushed by the English. All three had survived, to everyone’s surprise. Many Scots had lost their lives that day. Even so, the confrontation had left a lasting mark on each of them. And
as Grandsire reminded them, English curs lost their lives, too.

  Although Alasdair had literally been marked in that battle, the memory of the wound he’d sustained was not what haunted him most. He’d killed a man, only to turn to find two more upon him. He’d killed one and Els had killed the other.

  Both of the bodies had landed on him.

  He’d never forget that feeling of being crushed.

  He’d sought advice from his grandsire and both of the Grant lairds, hoping they’d help him wash the memory away, but nothing had helped.

  Some nights, he woke up bathed in sweat, his sword arm swinging. A scream in his throat.

  “It takes time, so my sire says,” Els offered. “The power of the memory will remove its hold on you after a few moons, or even years.”

  He glanced at his cousin, arching his brow in question. He, Els, and Alick were as close as any cousins could be—as close as brothers, really—and it often seemed as if Dyna wasn’t the only one capable of picking up on his thoughts.

  Alick grinned. “Aye, we know what you’re thinking some days. Mama says it’s from all the days we were put in the cradle together. She said she knew what our traits would be even back then.”

  “I know, I know,” Alasdair drawled. “We’ve all heard the tale a hundred times.”

  “Aye,” Alick said. “Elshander turned back and forth to both of us, attempting to talk non-stop before he could say a word, I smiled at his babbling, and you? Well, you did you.”

  Alasdair let out a bark of laughter at his cousin’s summation. He knew his part of the story. According to his mama, he used to get frustrated at his cousins’ antics. He’d push them away until she came to lift him out of the cradle and hold him close.

  His mother, Aline, had passed on from the fever about a year ago. Losing her had left a cavern in his heart. While Els and Alick had siblings, he’d been his parents’ only bairn. It helped that he had such a big family, full of aunts and uncles and cousins, but he missed his mama something fierce.