Highlander Unmasked (2 page)

“Besides, I’ll not have you marry a man you do not love,” her mother finished, anticipating the apology Meg had been about to make.

Meg shook her head. Rosalind Mackinnon was a hopeless romantic. But love was not the reason Meg had refused the offer of marriage from her father’s chieftain. The offer that, had she accepted it, would have dispensed with the need for this trip.

But Meg’s choice of a husband was dictated by unusual circumstances, and Thomas Mackinnon was not the right man for her. He was an able warrior, yes, but a hotheaded one. A man who reached for his sword first and thought later. Meg sought a strong warrior, but a controlled one. Equally important, she needed a clever negotiator to appease a king with growing authority over his recalcitrant Highland subjects. Tensions between the two ran high. The time of unfettered authority by the chiefs was waning. She must find a husband who could help lead her clan into the future.

But lack of political acumen was not the only reason she’d refused Thomas. She also sensed too much ambition in him. Ambition that would put her brother’s position as the next chief in jeopardy.

Above all, she needed a fiercely loyal man. A man she could trust.

Love was not part of the bargain. Meg was a realist. She admired the deep affection between her parents, perhaps even envied it, but recognized that such was not for her. Her duty was clear. Finding the right man for her clan came first. And second.

“I don’t expect to be as fortunate in marriage as you, Mother,” Meg said. “What you and Father have is rare.”

“And wonderful,” Rosalind finished. “Which is why I want it for you. Though just because I love your father does not mean I always agree with him. In this, he asks too much of you,” she said with a stubborn set to her pointed chin. As Meg had never heard her mother speak against her father, it took a moment to register what she was saying. Her mother shook her head. “You already spend far too much time with your nose in the books.”

“I enjoy my duties, Mother,” Meg said patiently.

But her mother continued on as if she hadn’t heard. Scrunching up her tiny nose, she shivered dramatically. “All those numbers. It makes my head swim just thinking about it.”

Meg covered her smile. Now that sounded more like her mother. She never could understand Meg’s fascination with mathematics or scholarly pursuits in general. Meg derived great pleasure from working with numbers. There was something satisfying in knowing there was only one right solution. And learning had always come easily for her. Unlike it was for her brother, she thought with a sharp pinch in her chest.

“And now he expects you to sacrifice your future happiness,” her mother lamented, as if a daughter marrying for the good of the clan were anything out of the ordinary. When, in fact, Meg choosing her own husband—albeit one who met certain criteria—was the oddity.

“Truly, Mother, it is no sacrifice. Father asks nothing of me that I don’t want myself. When I find the right man to stand beside Ian, he will be the right man for me.”

“If only it were that easy. But you cannot force your heart to follow your head.”

Maybe not, but she could try.

As if she knew what Meg was thinking, Rosalind said dismissively, “Don’t worry. Just leave it to me.”

Warning bells clanged. “Mother…you promised not to interfere.”

Her mother stared straight ahead with a far too innocent look on her face. “I don’t know what you are talking about, Margaret Mackinnon.”

Meg’s eyes narrowed; she was not fooled one bit. “You know exactly—”

But her words were lost in the violent crash of thunder as a deluge of rain poured from the skies. The ground seemed to shake with the sudden fury of the storm.

Her mother’s terrified scream, however, alerted Meg to the fact that the shaking was from more than just a storm.

Still, it took her a moment to comprehend what was happening, so suddenly had it begun. One minute she’d been about to take her mother to task for her matchmaking ways, the next she was in the midst of a nightmare.

Out of the shadows, like demon riders on the storm, the band of ruffians attacked. Huge, savage-looking men in filthy shirts and tattered plaids, wielding deadly claymores with ruthless intent. They seemed to fly from the trees, surrounding Meg’s party in all directions.

Her cry froze in her throat, terror temporarily rendering her mute. For a minute, she couldn’t think. Watching helplessly as the dozen clansmen her father sent along to protect them were locked in a battle of untempered ferocity against at least a score of brigands.

Her blood ran cold.

There were too many of them.

Dear God, her father’s men had no chance.
The Mackinnon clansmen had immediately moved to protect Meg and her mother, circling them as best they could in the confined area. And one by one, they were cut down in front of her.

Meg gazed in rapt horror as Ruadh, one of her father’s chieftains, a man she’d known her entire life, a man who’d bounced her on his knee and sung her songs of the clan’s illustrious past, was unable to block the deadly strike of a claymore that slid across his belly, cutting him nearly in two. Tears sprang to her eyes as she watched the light slowly fade from his gaze.

Her mother’s scream sliced through the terror, jolting Meg from her stupor. The moment of panic dissolved in a sudden burst of clarity. She gathered her courage, with only one thought: protecting her mother.

Heart pounding, Meg leapt down from her horse and grabbed the dirk from Ruadh’s lifeless hand, his fingers still clenched around the bloody hilt. The weapon felt so heavy and clumsy in her hand. For the first time in her life, she wished she hadn’t lingered so long indoors with her books. She had no experience with weaponry of any sort. She shook off the bout of uncertainty. It didn’t matter. What she lacked in skill she would make up for in raw determination. Clasping the dirk more firmly, she moved to stand before her mother, ready to defend her.

They’ll have to kill me first,
she vowed silently.

But a bit of her bravado faltered when another of her father’s men fell at her feet. The way it was going, it might not be long before they did. Only six of her father’s men remained.

The
arisaidh
had slid from her head, and rain streamed down her face, blurring her vision. The pins holding back her hair were long gone, and the wavy tendrils tangled in her lashes, but Meg hardly noticed, focused as she was on the battle. The battle that was tightening like a noose around them, as their circle of protectors quickly diminished.

She bit back the fear that crept up the back of her throat. Never had she been more terrified. But she had to stay strong. For her mother. If they were to have a chance to survive.

Meg’s action seemed to snap her mother from her trance, and she stopped screaming. Following Meg’s lead, she slipped down from her horse. Meg could see her hands shaking as she pulled Ruadh’s eating knife from his belt.

Meg turned, and her chest squeezed to see the resolve on her mother’s face. To see the direness of their circumstance reflected in her gaze. Even drenched, her hair and clothes a sodden mess, Rosalind Mackinnon looked like an angel—albeit an avenging angel. Though she was forty, her beauty was undiminished by age.
Dear God,

what would these vicious brutes do to her?
Meg swallowed.
To them both?

Though Meg knew her mother must be thinking the same thing, her voice was strangely calm. “If you see an opening between them, run,” she whispered.

“But I can’t leave you—”

Her mother cut off her protest. “You will do as I say, Margaret.” Meg was so shocked by the steel in her dulcet tone that she simply nodded. “If you need to use the knife, strike hard and do not hesitate.”

Meg felt an unexpected swell of pride. Her sweet, gentle mother looked as fierce as a lioness protecting her cub. There was far more to Rosalind Mackinnon than Meg had ever realized.

“I won’t,” she said, feigning courage. But what chance did two women, and two particularly diminutive ones at that, have against such strength and numbers?

A filthy, hulking ruffian lurched for her mother. Without thinking, Meg stabbed his arm. It was a good effort. At least three of the ten inches sank deep in his skin, opening a wide gash in his forearm. He roared in pain and backhanded her across the face. Stunned by the blow, she lost her grip on the dirk and it dropped to the ground, where he promptly kicked it out of her reach.

Meg’s hand instinctively covered her wet cheek, soothing the hot sting.

“Bitch,” he spat. “You’ll die for that.” He turned, lifting his claymore in a deadly arc above her head. Her mother moved to defend her, slicing his shoulder with the eating knife. Easily blocking the blow with his forearm, he shoved her mother harshly to the ground. Meg watched in horror as her head landed squarely on a rock, connecting with a dull thud.

Horror rose in her throat. “Mother!” she screamed, rushing to her side. Meg shook her listless body, but her eyes wouldn’t open.
Dear God, no!

She sensed him, or rather smelled his rank stench, approaching behind her. Anger unlike anything she’d ever experienced flooded her with rage. He’d hurt her mother. Grabbing the knife that her mother had dropped, Meg turned on him, surprising him for a moment. She stabbed him again, this time aiming for his neck. But he was too tall, and without leverage, she managed only to nick him.

She’d lost her advantage.

A vile expletive ripped from his mouth. She felt his enormous dirty hands on her as he grabbed her and tossed her to the ground. His hard black eyes fixed on her. A sneer curled his lip, revealing coarse brown teeth. Shivering with revulsion, she huddled in a ball as he started toward her.

“I’m going to enjoy this, you little hellcat.”

Meg scooted back in the mud, but he kept coming. Laughing. She could feel the heavy pounding of her heart in her chest. She glanced around, but there was no one to come to her aid. Those who remained of father’s men were locked in their own battles. She grabbed fistfuls of mud in her hands and tried tossing them in his eyes, but this only made him more furious.

They couldn’t die. What would happen to Ian? She felt the hot prickle of tears in her eyes. Without Meg and her mother, there was no one to protect him.
Think,
she told herself.
Use your head.
But the logic and reasoning she’d always relied on failed her. There was no escape.

In the black glint of his merciless eyes, Meg saw only death.

Please,
she breathed.

And in the skip of two long heartbeats, the answer to her prayer exploded through the trees on a fearsome black warhorse.

A knight. Nay, a warrior. Not in shining armor, but in the yellow cotun dotted with bits of mail that identified him as a chieftain—though his size alone would have set him apart. Even without his padded war coat, Meg knew he would be one of the largest men she’d ever seen. Tall and muscular, with a chest like a broad shield. As if forged from steel, every inch of him looked hard and forbidding.

And dangerous.

A trickle of fear slid down her spine. For a moment, Meg wondered whether she’d merely exchanged one villain for another.

Their eyes met and held. She gasped, startled by the most crystalline blue eyes she’d ever beheld, set in a face of rugged masculinity partially hidden beneath the heavy stubble of a week-old beard.

The entire exchange lasted only an instant, but she quickly read the absolute command in his gaze. A look that was oddly reassuring despite his ferocity.

For the first time, she noticed that he was not alone; perhaps half a dozen men had ridden in behind him. A more fearsome band of warriors she could not imagine. To a one they were strong, well muscled, and utterly ruthless looking.
Broken men,
she knew with an instinctive certainty. Men without land or a clan who roamed the Highlands as outlaws. Yet for some reason, they did not inspire her fear. Her eyes returned to the warrior. Because of their leader? she wondered.

With no more than a tilt of his head and the dart of his eyes, the warrior issued his orders. His men moved as a unit, swiftly taking their positions with the discipline of Roman centurions and an ease that certainly belied their rough appearance.

Despite their lesser numbers, Meg knew without a doubt that the tide of battle had just turned. This man would not be defeated. Only a fool would challenge him.

With his men in position, the warrior headed directly for her. Finally realizing that something was wrong, her attacker glanced over his shoulder. The horrible laughing stopped. Taking advantage of the distraction, Meg ran to her mother’s side, gently dragging her back toward the trees, nearly sobbing with relief to see that the color had returned to her cheeks and her eyes had begun to flutter. All the while, she kept her eye on the man who was their savior.

He reached over his shoulder with one hand and drew an enormous claymore from the baldric slung across his back as if it weighed no more than a feather, though the blade alone would have reached to her chin. Still using only one hand, he raised it high above his head, wielding the weapon with remarkable ease, and landed a heavy blow to the ribs of her attacker. Meg heard the crunch of bone as the villain crumpled to the ground.

The warrior leapt off his mount, then pulled a dirk from the scabbard at his waist and unhesitatingly drew his blade across her tormentor’s throat. Relief washed over her. She should regret the loss of life, but she could not. Their eyes met, and she felt a connection so strong that it startled her.

“Thank you,” she mouthed, too shaken to sound the words.

He acknowledged her gratitude with a nod. Then, with a fierce war cry—the words in Erse, which she could not make out—he raised his sword and charged headlong into the fury of the battle, wielding the blade with deadly finesse and accuracy, cutting down all who stood in his path. Her stunned clansmen rallied behind him.

As she attended to her mother as best she could, Meg’s gaze flicked back and forth to the battle taking place all around them.