Kate Wingo - Highland Mist 01

HER SCOTTISH CAPTOR

KATE WINGO

Her Scottish Captor © 2014 Kate Wingo

All Rights Reserved

Glencova
, Scotland 

Spring, 1306

In five days time Yvette Beauchamp was to wed a man three times her age whom she utterly despised.

And there was naught she could do to stop t
he marriage from taking place.

Biting back her repulsion at the thought of sharing a marital bed with Hugh de Ogilvy, the aging Earl of Angus, Yvette
shoved the unpleasant thought to the wayside as she hurried across the bailey. This was not the first time that she’d been used as a pawn in a high stakes game of political chess. Her loveless marriage seven years earlier to Roland Beauchamp had given her father, the Earl of Lyndhurst, a sturdy English foothold in the newly conquered Wales. A maneuver that he intended to repeat in Scotland, thereby strengthening England’s ties to the Scottish nobility through a powerful marriage alliance.

As she hastened toward the postern door,
hoping to elude the castle guard before he made his return round, Yvette looped the train of her wool kirtle over her wrist. Fortunately, her exodus from Castle Airlie was abetted by the thick early morning mist that hung about the stone fortress like a gray shroud.

Upon awakening, she’d decided against
going to the great hall to break her fast. Instead, she’d donned mantle and fur-lined boots, anxious to take an early-morning walk. Being an Englishwoman, she didn’t feel welcome in her betrothed husband’s Scottish household. Moreover, she didn’t wish to endure another meal seated only an arm’s length from the earl’s nephew. Because the Earl of Angus had been called away to Edinburgh on urgent business, he’d left Yvette in the care of his nephew, Sir Galen de Ogilvy, a knight well-known on the tournament circuit as
‘Le Chevalier Noir.’ The Dark Knight.
No fool, Yvette knew that if she gave the childless earl a male heir, ‘the Dark Knight’ would lose his claim to the title. The underlying reason for the knight’s scowls and mean-spirited barbs whenever their paths crossed.

Surreptitiously glancing about to make certain no one lurked in the shadows, Yvette
slid the key that she’d bribed from the châtelaine into the postern door lock. Although she considered a gold headband an exorbitant price to pay, having the key in her possession meant the occasional respite from the smoke-filled, dank confines of Castle Airlie. A monolith of stone and mortar rising up from a flat escarpment, the earl’s stronghold was as inhospitable as the Grampian Mountains that flanked it.

Attempting to make as little noise as possible, Yvette slowly opened the heavy wooden door, the dense f
og muffling the ensuing creak.

A few moments later,
free of the imprisoning curtain wall, she stuffed the key into the embroidered silk almoner that hung from her girdle before hurrying down the hillside toward the meandering burn that wound its way through the glen below.

To her consternation,
a hidden menace lurked in the chill morning air, the grey mist seeming to vibrate with an evil malevolence. One that Yvette could feel, smell, even taste in the wild wind that soughed across the glen.

Realizing the absurdity of her thoughts,
she self-consciously laughed aloud.

Sweet Jesu
. I’m imaging all manner of dread creature where none exists.

To prove the point,
Yvette came to a sudden halt beside a clump of heather. Acting as if she didn’t have a care in the world, she plucked a purple-flowered stem and raised it to her nostrils, the sweet scent putting a smile on her lips. Satisfied that the menace was in her mind, and not hiding in the mist, she tucked the sprig of heather into the jeweled brooch that fastened her mantle before continuing on her way.

She’d taken no more than a few steps when
she suddenly came to an abrupt halt, her attention arrested by the unmistakable sound of a horse’s whinny.

God’s hear
t! A horseman lurked in the gauzy mist!

Since the earl
wasn’t expected back at Castle Airlie before week’s end, and Sir Galen was not in the habit of taking an early morning ride, it was unlikely that either of them was afoot.

Perhaps
it’s a wedding guest come several days early. Or a tradesman on his way to the castle to sell his wares
.

Determined
to master her fear, Yvette squared her shoulders and took a deep, fortifying breath.

“Show yourself!” she
commanded in as strident a voice as possible.

Within a heartbeat of uttering those ill-fated words, half a dozen plaid-swathed horsemen burst forth from where t
hey’d been hiding in the mist.

It’s
a band of Highland outlaws!

Belatedly realizing
that she’d just summoned the devil’s own, Yvette fearfully turned on her heel and took off running up the hill toward Castle Airlie. Without a thought to propriety, she held her kirtle and undertunic aloft, her mantle flowing behind her like a pair of woolen wings as she raced toward the safety of the postern door.

But the same mist that
had completely obscured the six riders also hid the stone castle from view, Yvette uncertain if she was even running in the right direction.

In
those confused and terrifying moments, the only certainty was the escalating pound of countless hooves.

Risking a quick glance over her shoulder, she shrieked at seeing one of the
Highland savages fast upon her.

Her heart fearfully beating against her breastbone, she
willed her legs to go faster. If she could break free of the mist perhaps one of the guards atop the battlements would be able to—

Without warning, a heavily muscled arm cinched around her waist,
the horseman bodily lifting her off the ground.

Yvette opened her mouth to scream, but with her face smashed against a man’s naked thigh, her cry for help amounted to little
more than a smothered whimper. Pinning her against his horse, her assailant kneed the beast into a gallop. Terrified that she would be trampled to death if the savage released his hold on her, Yvette gave no resistance. Instead she offered up a frantic prayer that the man’s brawn strength would not flag.

Mercifully, it did not.

How far they rode, Yvette could not say. All she knew was that one moment she was pressed to the side of the rider’s roan steed and the next moment she was airborne, her assailant flinging her aside as he reined his horse to a halt.

Whether by fate or design, she landed in a
tussock of thick, plush grass.

Entrapped in a tangle of wool and linen, Yvette struggled to he
r knees. Glaring at her assailant, she watched as he nimbly swung a long leg over the saddle. From her vantage point she caught an indecent glimpse of a heavily muscled thigh beneath his green and brown kilt.

Sweet Mary! T
he man is as solidly fashioned as an English oak tree.

Perhaps more so, the brown leather breastplate
that he wore beneath his draped plaid lending him an air of fearsome virility. And though his legs were bare, his feet were encased in boots that were secured to his muscular calves with crisscrossed leather thongs. From his belted waist there hung a sheathed falchion, as well as a battle axe. From yet another belt, this one strapped across his torso, a scabbard hung over his back. Her gaze widening, Yvette espied the pommel of a huge claymore protruding from behind his left shoulder blade.

While he
r assailant wore the accoutrements of war with frightening ease, his physical attributes were no less awe-inspiring. Endowed with chiseled cheekbones, a high-bridged Celtic nose, and long black hair plaited at the temples, he appeared every inch the barbarian.

They all look
like barbarians
, Yvette thought fearfully as she glanced at the group of dismounted horsemen. If not for the traditional Highland plaids, she would have mistaken them for a motley band of bloodthirsty Viking raiders, their tall, muscular physiques and flowing locks of hair reminiscent of the Norsemen of old.

“On your feet, wench!” the brute in the leather breast-plate bellowed, tersely jutting hi
s cleft chin in Yvette’s direction.

Ignoring the pain that shot up her backside, Yvette unsteadily lurched to her feet, her earlier fear instantly replaced with
an indignant fury.

Determined to hold
her ground, she forced herself not to flinch as her assailant strode toward her and stood toe-to-toe in front of her. Although it took every bit of courage she could muster, she silently glared into his deep-set blue eyes.

Yea,
he may be armed to the teeth, but I shall show this Highland savage the meaning of English mettle.

“I am Iain MacKinnon, lord of Castle Maoil and laird of Clan MacKinnon,”
the savage announced in a thickly burred accent, his warm breath hitting her full in the face.

“And I am Yvette Beauchamp, the widow of Roland Beaucham
p, the late Baron of Monmouth. However, I am now betrothed to Hugh de Ogilvy, the Earl of Angus. My father is—”

“I know full well the English bastard who sired ye,” the laird
of Clan MacKinnon interjected.

A fact
that doesn’t bode well
, Yvette conceded, staggered by the unadulterated hatred that glimmered in her abductor’s eyes.

Her father was one of King E
dward’s most trusted advisors. In his rise to power, the Earl of Lyndhurst had acquired innumerable enemies on both sides of the border, the man standing before her clearly one of them.

Hoping to appease him, Yvette said in a conciliatory tone of voice,
“I have no quarrel with you, my lord.”

“Give it time, lass.
Ye’ve only just met,” one of the brigands exclaimed loudly, to the hearty amusement of his comrades. All save for Iain MacKinnon who remained implacably stone-faced.

“
Nor do I wish to incite a quarrel,” Yvette continued, still striving for diplomacy.

“The time for su
ch wishes has long since passed.”

Unnerved by
the laird’s cryptic reply, Yvette yanked the immense gold and emerald betrothal ring off of her finger. Holding it in the palm of her open hand, she offered it to her assailant.

“Please, take it . . . it
has great value,” she informed him, hoping to bribe the man into letting her go free.

Barely
glancing at the glittering jewel, Iain MacKinnon shrugged his broad shoulders and said, “I dinna want yer ring.”

“Then perhaps my brooch,” she suggested,
gesturing to the large ruby-studded pin that fastened her fur-trimmed mantle.

“If I didna want the ring, what need would I have of the brooch?”

Bewildered –
what bandit refuses to take the victim’s valuables?
– Yvette shook her head. “What then do you want of me?”

“I want you to remove the veil that covers yer head.”

Yvette stared at the imposing Scotsman, admittedly flustered by the request. “Surely, you know that it is highly improper for a widowed woman to be seen in public without a veil and wimple?”

Moving so
quickly that she had no time to recoil from his touch, the laird snatched the white veil and green velvet fillet off of her head and brusquely tossed them aside. “When I give an order, woman, I expect it to be obeyed without argument. Now remove the rest of yer headdress.”

Her hands visibly shaking, Yvette
obediently unpinned the white linen wimple and pulled it free from her bodice.

“
Unpin yer braid.”

“Why
should I do that?” she retorted, suddenly afraid of where the unsettling confrontation would lead. The fact that there were six of the heathens only intensified her fear.

“Because I am the MacKinnon and I have ordered ye to do so.”

“You have no dominion over me.”

“Oh, but I do,”
Iain MacKinnon countered, his deep voice laced with a quiet menace. “For I am now yer lord and master.”

“You have only a sword and a gang of cutthroat
s at your disposal. While you may have used both to garner my fear, you may rest assured that you have not garnered my respect,” Yvette informed the brute as she reached behind her head to remove the pins that secured her coiled braid. As she freed the long plait of knee-length dark brown hair, she said, “And without my respect, you can
never
be my lord and master.”

“Ye have a viperous tongue, woman.”

“And you have a knave’s heart,” she shot back as she disdainfully tossed the hair pins onto the ground at his feet.

In the wake of her angry retort, a
taut silence ensued.

His blue eyes
gleaming darkly, the Highland laird reached behind Yvette and pulled the braid over her shoulder, the plait of hair lying heavy against her breast. Though she wasn’t a vain woman, she’d always considered the long swath of wavy brown hair her best feature.