Highland Chieftain

Bethoc gave herself over to Callum's kiss. She hated to admit it, but it was why she had come. She had missed the feel of being in his arms, of the sheer delight she got from kissing him. It was a delight that lingered in her thoughts long after she left his side.

By the time he pulled away she could barely catch her breath and she rested her head against his chest. It pleased her to hear his heart pound and his breathing was also harsh, as if he too was having difficulty.

Callum rubbed her back and Bethoc smiled. It was nice to just lie curled up beside him and be soothed. She did not really need soothing but enjoyed it too much to move....

 

Highland Destiny
Highland Honor
Highland Promise
Highland Vow
Highland Knight
Highland Bride
Highland Angel
Highland Groom
Highland Warrior
Highland Conqueror
Highland Champion
Highland Lover
Highland Barbarian
Highland Savage
Highland Wolf
Highland Sinner
Highland Protector
Highland Avenger
Highland Master
Highland Guard
Highland Chieftain

 

 

If He's Wicked
If He's Sinful
If He's Wild
If He's Dangerous
If He's Tempted
If He's Daring
If He's Noble

 

 

Highland Vampire
The Eternal Highlander
My Immortal Highlander
Highland Thirst
Nature of the Beast
Yours for Eternity
Highland Hunger
Born to Bite

 

 

Only for You
My Valiant Knight
Unconquered
Wild Roses
A Taste of Fire
A Stockingful of Joy
Highland Hearts
Reckless
Conqueror's Kiss
Beauty and the Beast
Highland Wedding
Silver Flame
Highland Fire
Highland Captive
My Lady Captor
Wild Conquest
Kentucky Bride
Compromised Hearts
Stolen Ecstasy
Highland Hero
His Bonnie Bride

 

 

H
IGHLAND
C
HIEFTAIN

H
ANNAH
H
OWELL

ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
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Table of Contents

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Copyright © 2016 by Hannah Howell

 

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ISBN: 978-1-4201-3505-3

 

eISBN-13: 978-1-4201-3506-0
eISBN-10: 1-4201-3506-6

 

Chapter One

He needed to get his head above the water. Callum struggled upward, every movement sending pain ripping through his body. His lungs were ready to burst by the time he succeeded. Despite the pain dogging him, he took a moment to catch his breath and look around.

The shore appeared to be miles away, although Callum knew that was not true, was just an illusion. He could vaguely recall the men tossing him in. Ignoring his screams, they had taken him by his arms and legs and swung him a few times before letting his body go. Callum knew he was not far from the shore but the pain throbbing in his leg told him it would be a long, hard haul to get there. The water did not ease the pain at all.

Gritting his teeth, he attempted to swim back to the shore. Pain tore through his leg and he bit back a scream, hissing out curses between his clenched teeth. He turned onto his back and let his wounded leg just hang. His arms were not in much better shape but they were not broken and he used them to propel himself along. Very slowly. Then his foot touched the ground, agony tore through his leg, and he floundered. Callum gave out a shaky curse when he settled again. The pain really was too much. He did not think he would reach the shore any longer.

“Sweet
Jesu
,” he muttered, lying in the water with a useless leg dangling beneath him.

Just a few more strokes, he told himself. Just a few more and he could collapse on solid ground and think about his next move. Each move he made would have brought a scream if he had not clamped his mouth shut. He did not know what had been done to his leg, aside from breaking it, but he was now determined to have a look. After that, once he was fully recovered from his injuries, he would make the bastards who had done this to him pay dearly.

The moment his hands could reach the bottom without his head going beneath the water, Callum turned and used them to pull himself up onto the bank. He gave up when he was half the way out of the water, his arms folding and dropping him to the ground. A soft grunt escaped him when the side of his face hit a rock but he did not, could not, move. Callum thought about checking his leg to see how bad it was but he was exhausted. He closed his eyes and, even as he wondered where he was, he passed out.

* * *

Bethoc Matheson winced and cursed as she walked along, every bruise her father had given her protesting her movements. She suspected that bringing little Margaret was not helping her but the girl needed some time away from the brutality of her father, from the pall of unhappiness that hung over the house. The man grew worse every day. Bethoc dreamed of leaving but there was the problem about where she should go.

She supposed she could hunt down her real father but had no idea of how to do that. Her mother had given her a name as she had lain dying after birthing little Margaret but the name meant nothing to Bethoc. Nor could she ask anyone since her father's demands and the care of the children kept her tied to the house. These short trips to her cave were all she could allow herself. Even now she felt some guilt about that for the boys were left on their own. She did worry about what could happen if their father came home before she did, but she needed to get away for just a little while. The walls of the house had begun to close in on her, her fears and worries growing too big for her to handle.

“Enough,” she muttered as she started up a small hill that led to her hidden cave. “Ye need to cease fretting.”

Later. She would think about it all later. What her mother had told her weighed on her, however, and as Margaret grew, requiring less constant care, the need to think grew stronger. Having to call a man Father when he was not also became a problem. She had a feeling he knew and often wondered if that was why he was so brutal, but that thought did not hold. He was brutal to all of them. She even had to protect Margaret and there was no doubt that Margaret was his.

In truth, she began to believe that Margaret was the only one who was. She had six brothers, aged sixteen down to six, yet only one of them looked anything like her father. Yet, if they were not his, how had they come to be with him? She could not recall her mother carrying any of them but knew the shapeless, ragged gown her mother always wore would have hidden it from her. It was possible her mother had borne each of them at night with only their father to help. Yet, after having aided her mother in the birth of Margaret, Bethoc doubted that. Surely her mother would have said something if the boys were not hers?

Bethoc abruptly stopped, unable to take another step as her mind was flooded by ideas, each one more bizarre than the first. Each one impossible to prove unless her father suddenly felt a need to confess. Yet she could not shake the sudden suspicion that the man she called Father had stolen those babies and brought them to her mother to care for. But why?

Six hard workers, six boys instead of the useless girls he always accused her mother of having. Bethoc stared out over the water. How would her father know her mother could only bear girls? Had there been others and, if so, where were they? Then Bethoc heard her mother's last words as clearly as if the woman stood at her side. “Watch over Margaret. Never leave her. Promise me.”

She clasped one sturdy little leg that was dangling at her side. Her mother had been so insistent, so fierce in her demand that Bethoc had sworn to do as asked. As she struggled with these new, terrifying thoughts, she caught sight of something at the water's edge. She squinted as she tried to bring it into clear view and a plump little arm stuck out from beside her head, finger pointing.

“Mon,” Margaret said. “Mon.”

Releasing Margaret's leg, Bethoc cautiously began to go down to the riverbank.
Mon
was one of the three words Margaret could say and the closer she got to the riverbank, the more certain she was that Margaret was right. The only doubt she had was whether the man was alive or dead.

It was not easy with a child strapped to her back and a bag of supplies at her side, but Bethoc hitched up her skirts, crouched down, and slowly pulled the man the rest of the way out of the water. He groaned when she turned him onto his back and she breathed a sigh of relief. Using one of Margaret's changing cloths while silently praying the child would not need it, she lightly bathed the dirt from his face. Bethoc found herself staring at a very handsome man. An instant later he opened his eyes and stared back. Those eyes were washed out, pain stealing the color from them, but she could still see a strong hint of green.

She also smelled no taint on him. She was not sure what his smell was but it was pleasant and she relaxed. It was a silly thing to be able to do, smell some unknown scent on a person, but it had served her well over the years so she just accepted it. She still wondered why her father had recoiled from it though.

“Who are ye?” he asked.

“Bethoc Matheson. And ye?”

“Sir Callum MacMillan of Whytemont. There were some men . . .” he began as he quickly looked around. Worried that he had drawn her into his trouble.

“No one is here, sir. Just me and Margaret.”

“Margaret?”

“Mon! Mon!”

Bethoc sighed and patted her sister's leg. “Aye, Margaret, 'tis a mon.”

“Ah, a bonnie wee lass. Greetings, wee Margaret.”

Bethoc sought to remain steady as Margaret bounced on her back. “Can ye be moved, sir?”

Callum struggled up until he was seated and slowly shook his head. “Leg is broken. Left one.”

She looked at his leg and silently cursed. It was bent wrong, not terribly but enough to prove his words. She cautiously moved to his side and studied it. There was no bone peeking through and she was grateful for that, but she would need to set it and bind it somehow before she could even think of moving him.

Standing up, she looked around and then moved toward a fallen tree, digging a knife out of her bag. Boards would have been better but sturdy sticks would suit for the short distance she had to move him. Picking two thick branches, she cut off the twigs and branches before returning to his side.

“This will hurt, I fear,” she said as she braced herself to do what needed to be done.

“I ken it. It cannae be helped. Do ye have anything I can bite on?”

Bethoc took the band of leather from her wrist, the only thing her mother had given her. It was thick and the designs etched on it were simply something she had found attractive. “Will this do?”

Callum studied the Celtic runes on the leather band. “My teeth will no doubt ruin this.”

“No more than Margaret's did.” She pointed out the marks her sister had left on it. “Her teeth were coming in and I had nothing but this to give her.”

“I will try nay to bite through it,” he said as he turned it and placed the barest part in his mouth then nodded at her to begin.

She ran her hand over his leg until she found the exact place it had broken; to her relief it felt to be a clear, simple break. She tore three strips of cloth from her petticoat, set them by her side, and reached for his leg. The deep moan he gave as she worked to straighten his leg nearly made her stop, but she closed her ears to his sounds of pain. The bone had to be put back together to heal. She then wrapped the leg tightly to hold the now aligned bone in place better.

Once she had the sticks tied on either side of his leg, she sat back and took a deep breath before looking at him. He was pale and sweating but still conscious. Bethoc was astonished by his stamina as he was a lean man, his muscles clear to see but not bulky. Setting his leg had caused a lot of pain, excruciating pain, yet he clung to consciousness. After a few deep, slow breaths, he appeared more at ease. She hoped it was because most of the pain had now passed.

He looked at his leg and then gave her a smile. “A fine job, Mistress Matheson.”

“I thank ye. Now, I fear there is more trouble ahead.” She rubbed her hands on her thighs. “I need to get ye somewhere ye can rest and regain your strength in safety.”

Callum tensed, not sure he could trust her. “Why would I need to be safe?”

“Sir, I ken weel the marks of a beating nor do I believe ye hurled yourself into the water. A mon who wants to die doesnae struggle as hard as ye obviously did to get to shore. Someone tossed ye in there. Someone broke your leg ere they did so, which means they planned on ye drowning.” She lightly touched the marks on his wrists and ankles made by the men holding his struggling body. “Ye dinnae need to tell me the why of it, but I
ken
I need to leave ye somewhere safe. That means a wee cave just up the hillside.” Bethoc pointed up the hill that ran down to the edge of the water.

Staring where she pointed, Callum grimaced. His leg throbbed with pain and he seriously doubted he could make it even partway up that hill with only one leg. The lass had been a great help but he doubted she could carry him.

“My horse,” he said, and looked at her. “Did ye see my horse?”

“Nay, sir, I didnae. Mayhap the ones who did this took the beast. A good horse would be tempting to steal. It could bring them a good price.”

“They wouldnae be able to hold him. Stormcloud is a hard mount to hold on to.”

“Stormcloud? A fanciful name.”

“It suits him in both look and temperament. Unless they were verra alert, the horse would get away from them, and they didnae strike me as being verra quick-witted. Brutish, aye, and good at what they do, but nay more.”

“I shall look for him but first we must get ye to the cave.”

“Ah, weel, I was thinking that would be where my horse might be of help.”

Bethoc thought a moment on having a look for his horse. She could see nothing in the area, not even the shadow of an animal. She looked back at Sir Callum and sighed.

“I cannae leave ye here as I search, sir. I doubt those who attacked ye will return but one can ne'er be certain and ye are unable to defend yourself. I think it best if we get to somewhere safe first. Aye?”

Callum hated to agree, dreading what needed to be done, but what she said made too much sense to argue with it. “Aye,” he agreed, and almost smiled over how sulky he sounded.

“I will find ye a stick to help ye walk. Ye will nay be able to set that foot down just yet.” She grimaced. “Probably nay for quite some time.”

He watched as she returned to the fallen tree. She was not a big woman but he had no doubt she was strong. She moved easily with a child on her back and whatever was in the pack she carried. What puzzled him was that she spoke well yet her clothes were those of a poor crofter, neat but subtly ragged, signs of many patches easy to see.

The other thing that puzzled him was why she was helping him at all. Most women, especially with a child to watch out for, would have fled, not wishing to risk getting caught in the middle of any trouble. She had stepped right up, dragged him out of the water, and tended his wound. Yet she had to have considered the possibility that his attackers might return. A small raven-haired woman would be no obstacle to them.

Callum used the time she was distracted to indulge in a close inspection of his rescuer. It was not easy to judge her figure when she had a child on her back but he could see that she had a small waist. The way her skirts were bunched up made it impossible to judge the curve of her hips but it did reveal strong, well-shaped legs. He smiled, thinking that few women would see that as a compliment.

It was her face that fascinated him, however. There was gentleness there, a calm that soothed him, and something that reminded him of someone else. Callum puzzled over that for a moment then decided he was too tired and in too much pain to care. He fought the urge to close his eyes and give in to his weariness, to gain some respite from his pain through sleep. She needed him to remain aware for a while longer, he thought, even as he closed his eyes.