A Highlander for Christmas Read online

  “I told you he was in love with you.”

  “Aye, you did,” she said, skirting around him. She laughed as Iain grasped her hand, and she followed him into the large room where the heat of the forging fire made the room bright and warm, reflecting shadow and light on the stone walls.

  A large man with a round, florid face turned and greeted them, a dangerous-looking hammer in his hand. “Are ye eager to wed, then?” He took in Iain’s tartan, gave a small bow toward him and reached out his hand.

  Iain stretched out his arm and clasped the blacksmith’s hand in a tight squeeze. “I’m the MacLeon, chief of the Clan MacLeon of the highlands.” He turned toward Juliet. “This is Lady Juliet Lindsay of Northumberland and her brother Ruck Lindsay.” Iain took a deep breath. “I’ve not the time to tell the whole tale to you, I fear. A man who thinks he is the better choice of groom will be upon us any minute. We’ve need of a fast wedding, as fast as may be, my good man.”

  “Oh, certainly.” The blacksmith grinned. “’Tis a specialty of mine, to be sure. Just over here, then.” He motioned to a large anvil that sat on a wooden block in the middle of the floor. Nearby was a prayer book, which he picked up and opened to a page that was clearly worn.

  “If you would be so kind to repeat after me, MacLeon.”

  Iain nodded and grasped Juliet’s hands in his. They faced each other and in that moment it seemed as if time—all sound and room and persons—dropped away and left only the two of them staring into each other’s eyes.

  The blacksmith began to talk in a low and lulling voice the words he was to repeat, but Iain had a hard time concentrating on them—he couldn’t take his eyes off his lovely bride’s face. Wherefore had this come about? And how was it that he was so blessed happy about it? He’d never imagined, in all his careful ways, an English rose as a bride. Some of her hair—that vibrant red—had come loose from her braid and curled in wisps around her head like an otherworldly halo. The sunlight from the window caught it just so, making it glow around her, and her creamy skin appeared dusted with a rosy flush. Her brown eyes crystallized—like dark diamonds, though he knew not of such a thing. They cut to his heart, a slow and painful thrust that he couldn’t resist, making it beat like a beast.

  He felt strong beside her, as if his body were now her shield, his efforts now multiplied, bursting with promise—the promise of her, and them together, and the family that would follow. Sons and daughters, pray God—a heart’s cry that he’d never acknowledged being fulfilled lay in those dark brown eyes.

  “MacLeon?”

  He tore his gaze away toward the blacksmith’s kind and knowing eyes. “I’ve not heard a word, I fear.”

  The blacksmith held the book toward him. “Would you like to read them, then?”

  “Aye.”

  It was a risky question, for many couldn’t read, but Iain thought that the blacksmith might have heard of his unusual education at the University in Edinburgh. He took the book with one hand, holding Juliet’s hand with the other, and began where the blacksmith pointed.

  “I take you to be my wife and I pledge to you the faith of my body, that I will be faithful to you and loyal with my body and my goods and that I will keep you in sickness and in health and in whatever condition it will please the Lord to place you, and that I shall not exchange you for better or worse until the end.”

  The blacksmith nodded, appreciation glowing from his eyes. He took the book back and said to Juliet, “Would you like to repeat after me?”

  “I will read it as well.”

  Both men paused. It was assumed Juliet could not read. A slow smile grew upon her face as she took the book. She looked at Iain and whispered, “We’ve much to learn of each other.”

  “Aye, lass. That we do,” Iain said in a voice too husky, but he didn’t care. She would be his tonight and forever after that. He couldn’t imagine anything he had ever wanted more.

  Juliet’s chin rose and her soft lips repeated the words: “I take you to be my husband and I pledge to you the faith of my body—”

  A sudden sounding of horses’ hooves and men shouting caused Juliet to start. Her gaze flew to Iain and then the blacksmith.

  “Hurry, lass.” Iain nodded his encouragement at her.

  She rushed out the rest: “That I will be faithful to you and loyal with my body and my goods and that I will keep you in sickness and in health and in whatever condition it will please the Lord to place you, and that I shall not exchange you for better or worse until the end.”

  Ruck had flown to the door and was rolling a large stone and some furniture before it.

  “There’s a lock.” The blacksmith nodded toward him. “Used many times before.”

  Ruck nodded as the blacksmith took their hands and held them up. “No rings?” he quickly asked Iain.

  “Not as yet. It will come later.”

  “Verra good.” He bowed to pray as if nothing was wrong, even though the men outside had gathered around the door and were banging on it, trying to get in.

  “Ruck.” Ian motioned with his head that he get away from the door in case some fool starting shooting at the latch.

  “Oh, aye.” Ruck rushed back over toward them, the noise growing louder, the yells more threatening and belligerent. So help him, if they harmed a hair on her head…

  He looked at the blacksmith with raised brows.

  “Ah, yes.” The blacksmith cleared his throat and loudly proclaimed, “What God has joined together let no man put asunder. I pronounce you husband and wife.” He banged on the anvil with his hammer several harsh blows, making the announcement ring around the room.

  A creaking sound and then a shattering sound and then a musket went off with a loud boom. The blacksmith yelled out and fell to the floor.

  God help them. They’d broken through.

  Chapter Eight

  Iain grasped Juliet and pulled her to the floor, half dragging her around the large anvil that had served as the pedestal for the blacksmith’s prayer book. Iain saw the man near him grasping the hammer in one of his hands and a long, wicked-looking knife in the other. “’Tis only a flesh wound,” he said, motioning his chin toward a bloody shoulder. “I can fight.”

  Iain nodded, knowing that as a Scot he would most assuredly have his back against any English lord.

  The smoke from the shot was clearing. Iain cocked and aimed his pistol toward Lord Malcolm. Oh no! He stopped, his heart dropping to his stomach.

  “No!” Juliet choked out, seeing it the same time Iain did. Malcolm was holding Ruck to his chest, his pistol pointed at the young man’s head.

  “Come out! Stand and drop your weapons or the boy dies!” Lord Malcolm jammed the gun into Ruck’s temple.

  Juliet let out a cry. Ruck visibly trembled from head to toe.

  Iain closed his eyes for a brief moment, sending up a prayer for help. He slowly stood, taking Juliet’s hand, helping her rise and looking over to the blacksmith with a nod to do as he said. He left his pistol on the stone floor.

  “Your knives and any other weapons, MacLeon,” Malcolm snarled. “Don’t test me.”

  Iain reached inside the part of his tartan that covered his chest and drew out a knife that hung by his belt. Next, he took a dagger from a band around his calf and laid it beside the other weapons. The blacksmith did the same. Taking a step closer to Juliet, he slid a small knife from his back and thrust it toward her, blocking the view of what he did with his side and shoulder. He felt Juliet take it, her hand trembling against his for a second. Malcolm’s gaze swung back to the pair, squinting at them as if suspicious.

  “Send Lady Lindsay to me and you shall have the brother. I’ve no need of him.”

  Juliet took a step toward them but Iain stopped her with his hand. “The marriage is legal, Malcolm. You’re too late.”

  “Ha!” Malcolm sneered, his upper lip curling against his hallow cheeks. “You haven’t had time to consummate it, so it’s as good as a piece of parchment burned in the fire.
I…will…have…her.” He held out his arm and made a come-hither motion to her with his fingers.

  Juliet made a sound of anguish from her throat.

  Malcolm lowered his chin and gave her a hard stare with his dark eyes.

  “The wedding is legal, my lord, I assure you. Even in English law.” The blacksmith took a step forward.

  Malcolm swung the pistol from Ruck’s temple, pointed it at the blacksmith’s head and pulled the trigger faster then any of them could have anticipated. Juliet screamed as the blacksmith fell, a large hole in the middle of his forehead beginning to burst with blood.

  Iain’s body grew tense and ready to spring at any moment. It was a madman he was dealing with.

  “Juliet! Hie yourself over to me immediately!” He had another pistol in his hand, probably from one of his men, who were all pointing weapons at them. There were more of them than Iain had first thought. Twenty or so.

  Malcolm grasped Ruck’s hair in his hand, making the young man grunt, and thrust him forward, the pistol at his back. “On the count of three, if you are not beside me, I will shoot your dearest brother.” His voice lowered to a silken purr. “But if you come willingly, I will release him and he can go as he pleases to live a life free of debt, and possibly, one day, a friend to us with many connections and advantages. I don’t think you’ve thought this through, my dear. A wild Scottish highlander may seem romantic now, but it would be a life in a frozen hell, in the wilds, working yourself to skin and bones. I…I will give you everything you could ever wish for. Money…power… You will rule every ballroom.”

  Iain saw a tear, and then two, trickle down Juliet’s cheeks. She was shaking her head, a hopeless look of terror on her face.

  Malcolm narrowed his eyes at her tears. “One,” he said in a voice laced with evil.

  Juliet let out a wail, her gaze swinging to Iain. Iain shook his head but knew they had no choice. So much pain radiated from his chest that he thought it would burst. He took a deep breath.

  “Two.” The gun at her brother’s back pressed harder, making Ruck cry out.

  “Don’t do it, Juliet.” Ruck shook his head but his eyes were full of fear.

  “Th—”

  Iain took Juliet’s arm and brought her from around him to in front of him, rasping low into her ear as she moved around his side, “Stay alive. I will come for you.”

  Juliet couldn’t feel her slipper-shod feet as she tottered toward her brother. She could hear her own whimpering, but felt like they were coming from another. A part of her detached and floated in agony toward the man who would have her at any cost.

  When she reached Ruck, she grasped him and held him to her. Malcolm reached around, grasped her upper arm in a tight squeeze that made her cry out and simultaneously pulled her toward his boney chest while pushing her brother toward Iain.

  “A wise move, MacLeon, though I was looking forward to killing you.” He tilted his head and gave Iain an eerie smile. “Perhaps another time.”

  “If you harm her in any way…” Iain narrowed his eyes and clenched his empty fists, his fingers tingling, longing for the sure grip of his sword.

  Malcolm threw back his head and laughed. “As if you have any say in my affairs. She’ll be my wife tonight, MacLeon, not yours. Go to your bed thinking about that.” He chuckled dark and deep, motioned to his men with an upraised arm and swung himself and Juliet around, his dark cloak flying out, taking his wife inside of it, taking her with him.

  Iain fell to one knee as they fled the room and mounted their horses. He dropped his head into his cupped hands and clenched his eyes closed, breathing deeply, focusing on God’s voice, knowing he couldn’t do this alone.

  After a few breaths he felt a shift inside his spirit—a turning away from the tragedy at hand and a turning toward Him. A peace slowly crept over him—not a good-will sort of peace that took away all feeling, all danger; no, this was a deeply sated calm to the depths of his being but still with a knife’s edge of fight—victory humming along its waves in a somehow strange and perfect accord.

  He looked up to see Ruck staring down at him as if he’d gone mad, breathing heavily. “Will you pray like an old woman?” he demanded with tears in his eyes. “We have to go after them.”

  Iain rose and clapped Ruck on one shoulder, his voice and eyes somber. “Aye, we will rescue her.”

  “How?” Ruck rubbed a hand over his eyes, dashing the tears away. “There’s too many of them.” His arm swept toward the blacksmith. “He shot him without provocation.” His voice trembled and Iain wondered if this was the first man he’d ever seen shot down. “He’s capable of anything.”

  Iain looked at the blacksmith and shook his head. It was as the boy said—Lord Malcolm was without a scrap of honor and would do anything to get what he wanted. They had to take care of the blacksmith first.

  “Come then, lad. Let’s find the sheriff or whatever law is in this village.”

  They hurried to the busiest establishment, a pub a few doors down the cobbled road, and were soon directed to a man sitting at one of the tables, Sherriff McKinney.

  “’Tis a pity, ’tis a pity, indeed,” he kept saying as Iain told of what happened. “Such a good mon, the blacksmith. And takin’ your new bride.” He shook his head as if it was unheard of. “Well.” He rubbed his hands together and reached for his hat and musket. “I’ll gather the lads and give instructions to Mrs. McCreedy to see to the body. Meet me out front of the blacksmith shop with fresh horses. You ken their direction, do ya now?”

  Iain nodded. “I believe he’s taking her back to Northumberland, to his home, which is a neighboring estate to the Lindsay lands. About two days’ ride if they hurry.” Iain didn’t let himself think of that final threat, but the fact that they might stop for the night… “They have about an hour’s lead.”

  The sheriff looked him in the eyes with a knowing stare, nodded a little and clapped Iain on the shoulder. “We’ll get to them in time, lad. Fear not.”

  Even though Iain was the head of the clan now, a leader and old enough to not need a father so much, the sudden feeling of fatherly support, of someone comforting him, overcame Iain and he felt a load being lifted from his shoulders. “I believe you.”

  Within another half-hour Iain and Ruck sat mounted on fresh horses and saw what looked like a troop of soldiers come around the bend in the road toward them. Iain’s heart thrummed with the sight of them—at least twelve men, and trained. What they were doing in Gretna Green he didn’t know, nor overly care. He’d needed a militia and, and praise be to God, he just got one.

  They’d stopped. She couldn’t see where, as they’d put a flour sack over her head, but she felt the sudden lack of movement and Lord Malcolm’s body sway against her. They’d forced her arms around his body and tied them together at his stomach. She’d fought it at first, not touching him nor leaning upon him, but after the first few miles knew it for a fruitless endeavor. If she were to stay atop this horse, she would have to cling to her captor.

  Stay alive. I will come for you.

  She repeated the words in her head anytime she felt the least nauseous from the swaying of the horse, the least guilty for grasping hold of her captor, in the moments of terror when she heard their plans for stopping for the night and dread for what was to come.

  Iain would come for her. Her husband would not forsake her.

  “Get her off!” Lord Malcolm barked the order to someone she couldn’t see. She felt rough hands grasp her around the waist and pull her toward the ground. She resisted the urge to kick out at him, to fight. She would save that until she really needed it. It would only anger them now.

  She felt the man stumble back as he pulled her off and heard a grunt and then her own screech as he pulled her to the ground and on top of him. The scratchy burlap was lifted off her head. She gulped the fresh air, seeing that it was dusk, and rolled off Malcolm’s man, awkward in her movements with her hands still bound together.

  “We will camp here
for the night. Prepare the tents and a small fire. You there, Reginald—untie her hands and see that she attends her needs. Watch her closely.” He glared at the man in warning. Juliet looked at the man in charge of her and was somewhat relieved to see a younger man, not much older than Ruck. It was a logical choice, she supposed. He bent to the task of untying her hands, a red flush filling his cheeks, dark hair over his eyes. As soon as her wrists were free she shook them, the feeling of pins and needles making her lean back her head and shut her eyes. “My thanks,” she muttered low to the lad.

  He couldn’t seem to look at her. No wonder, with the ribald comments among the men about what was in store for her with their lord tonight.

  Juliet took a breath and spoke low and sure to him. “If you’ll just walk with me toward that steam there…”

  She could feel Malcolm’s eyes on them as she dusted off her skirts. She did not look at him. She couldn’t. Her gaze, instead, scanned the area, seeing green hills on every side and a trickling, gentle stream just ahead. She knew this land. Northern England. They were going toward home—his home.

  She washed her face in the stream, picking up the heaviest rocks with one hand and shoving them deep in her skirt pockets. The knife! She’d forgotten Iain had given it to her when Malcolm had demanded that he lay his weapons on the ground. Did she still have it?

  With casual movements, still kneeling by the stream, she reached into her other pocket. Yes, there it was. She took a deep breath and imagined having to use it. She swallowed hard, thinking of the blood and not knowing…where did one thrust it? She clamped her teeth together in determination. She would know. She would be so desperate that she would know.

  She looked up into the shadows of a grove of trees, stood and said to the young man, “I’ll be but a minute.”

  As she neared it, another thought came to her. Dare she? It was growing dark. She had a weapon.

  Dare she try and escape?