Stolen by the Highlander (4 page)

* * *

The rest of the evening passed quickly and when her aunt mentioned that she seemed at ease with both of the cousins, the truth struck her. There was much more to Brodie Mackintosh than she had first thought. And the thought of marrying him no longer threatened like a dreaded outcome.

Nay, she thought as she reviewed the events of the last several days, it would not be as difficult to find herself married to him as she’d first thought. So, for the first time since her arrival there, she looked forward to their next encounter.

* * *

Brodie sat in stunned silence for a few minutes after Arabella left the seat next to him. He thought he was beginning to get a glimpse beneath the facade she wore, that damned smile and the cursed frozen expression of graciousness. He’d told himself countless times that he was only seeking out any possible dangers to his clan, but the way his body responded to her furtive whispers told him she was the danger.

No matter how many times he told himself not to engage her in the silly bantering that Caelan did, and not to let himself get too close to her, and especially not to want her for himself, he failed. And from the insistent press of hardened flesh against his trews, he’d failed terribly.

Watching as she’d dropped her hand between them and then shaped her fingers into the sign he’d used to his men had caused two things to happen. The first was shock over his complete underestimation of the lass’s intelligence and her skill in observation. Then a desire struck him as lightning in a storm, forcing aside his hard-fought indifference and leaving behind a clear, strong need to know her better. To know her at all, since he was now certain he knew little of the true Arabella Cameron.

Now the danger he felt growing was within himself. She put his sense of balance in jeopardy and the promise he’d sworn to support the next chieftain selected by the elders. Right now, as this unexpected need for her rose in his blood, Brodie was thankful that she would be gone in just two days and the elders would make their decision in a calm and reasoned manner.

And if they chose Caelan and she came to the Mackintoshes as his bride, Brodie would find a way to accept it. Now he realised, as he tried—and failed—not to stare as she danced with his cousin, it would be difficult to do.

He strode from the hall and sought out a place far from her presence, knowing his men were still on watch. The next two days promised to be two of the longest in his life.

Chapter Four

T
he flames rose higher towards the night sky as the men circling it sat and drank. Against his judgement and as his uncle had ordered, Brodie posted no guards around the gathering or on the path to this clearing. Caelan and two of his friends sat across from him and Rob. Arabella’s twin brother and two other Camerons made up the third side. In spite of the air of companionship and reverie, there was no lack of suspicion among the group.

‘You are younger than your sister?’ he asked of Malcolm Cameron. He wanted to know more about the lass, no matter how he fought the urge.

‘Aye,’ the younger Cameron replied. ‘Only by a few minutes, but she is the elder.’ Those minutes mattered not when there was a son to inherit the titles and most of the wealth.

‘You fought well today,’ Brodie said. ‘Who taught you the sword?’

‘My uncle Niall trains the young warriors. I know you held back in the yard,’ he replied. ‘Your control was well honed. Who taught you?’

Brodie got to his feet and walked over to sit nearer the young Cameron. Others talked amongst themselves and he did not wish everyone to hear his every question. ‘My uncle Grigor,’ he said, sitting down on the log there. ‘I have heard the story of Niall and Grigor meeting in battle. Mayhap fifteen years ago?’

Malcolm shrugged and shook his head. ‘Where was this?’

Malcolm held out a skin of ale and filled Brodie’s leather cup and then his own. There had been skirmishes and battles between their families for generations and, unless this treaty was successful, there would be more.

‘On the other side of the loch,’ he said. ‘’Tis said the fight lasted a day and a night.’

‘Yet both survived?’ The brother’s eyes glinted with suspicion.

‘’Twouldn’t be a good story if they died,’ he said, laughing. Raising his cup, he cheered, ‘A Mackintosh!’

‘A Cameron!’ Malcolm added his own.

The others joined in the boisterous battle cries and then drank deeply. Caelan retrieved another skin and began to pass it around. This looked more and more like a drinking challenge each minute. Mayhap that was his uncle’s intent? After things calmed, he turned his attention back to Arabella’s brother.

‘So who taught her to ride that beast?’

If he had not been watching the man’s face, he would have missed the darkness that filled his eyes and the stark pain. But Brodie saw it and a tightness filled his gut for a reason he could not explain.

‘She wasna supposed to ride it. The horse nearly died at birth, but she nursed it to health. Then, when it grew to the size it is now, my—our—father forbade her to ride it.’ Malcolm drank deeply then, as though preparing for the telling of some terrible bit. ‘He tried to train it and decided to break it when it would not come to heel. That horse threw every rider that tried, so my father ordered it destroyed.’

‘What stopped him from doing so?’ he asked, almost afraid now to hear the answer, for he knew the lass was in the middle of it.

‘Bella did. She stood in front of the horse and refused to allow it. My father bellowed and shouted and threatened her and the horse, but she would not relent.’

‘What did he do?’ The Cameron was not known to be a soft man or one that would let a defiant daughter stand in his way. Or a defiant anyone.

‘He told her the only way to save the horse was for her to mount it or he would break both of them.’

Even though Brodie knew the outcome, he found himself holding his breath. He knew Euan to be a harsh man, but this surprised even him. From the tremor in Malcolm’s voice, he must have witnessed this.

‘So, she whispered to the horse, climbed on his back and claimed him as hers.’

‘I know him well enough to know that your father would not have let her disobedience go unpunished.’ Why he said that, Brodie did not know. He just needed to know.

‘He did not. She could not move or sit for more than a week.’

Brodie reached for the skin being passed around, filled his cup and emptied it. The wine did not ease his concern but it did send a burst of warmth through his body. Damn, the lass who seemed so compliant, so gracious and always smiling and obedient had a spine of steel.

He did not pursue anything more about her with her brother, for the wine affected him more than it did usually. The other questions he had dissolved in the face of its growing effects. The flames flared and the conversation grew louder and more boisterous. Brodie tried to rise, but his legs would not follow his will. Glancing around, he noticed that Rob’s head bowed in sleep, like the Camerons sitting nearest to him and Malcolm.

He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, fighting the dizziness and the need to close his eyes. Struggling against the growing lethargy, he called out to Caelan but his vision grew dark and he felt himself falling...falling...falling.

* * *

His head pounded.

His mouth felt as though filled with sand.

His eyes would not open.

Brodie lifted his hand to his face, trying to wipe away whatever kept him from waking. But his hand was wet and it did no good. Dragging his arm, his sleeve, across his face, he could finally see...

Blood. It was everywhere. His sleeve and shirt were soaked with it.

Was it his?

Pushing up on to his knees and then to his feet, he looked in horror at the body lying there.

Malcolm Cameron was dead with Brodie’s own dagger sticking out of his chest.

‘Christ! Brodie.’ Caelan’s voice broke into the thick haze yet filling his mind. ‘Why did you kill him?’ His cousin grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him fiercely. ‘What were you thinking?’ More shouting and more voices clamoured around the clearing as Brodie tried to make sense of the scene before him.

And he failed.

He remembered nothing of the night after talking with Malcolm about Arabella and then a dark void. Looking around, he watched as the others got to their feet. Rob shrugged at him. Brodie did not remember ever getting this drunk before—and he’d had many, many nights of drinking to try.

A large group of men swarmed into the clearing, surrounding all of them with drawn swords. As he staggered forward, unable to regain his footing, his father and the Cameron chieftain dismounted and strode towards him.

‘Why?’ Euan Cameron demanded, grabbing his throat and pulling him forward. ‘Why did you kill him?’

Brodie searched for words, searched for the truth of what had happened and could not find them. His uncle pulled him free and shoved the older man back.

‘We do not know what happened, Euan. Hold until we do,’ he ordered.

The Cameron dropped to his knees next to the bloodied body of his son, staring into unseeing eyes as they all watched. Brodie wiped his hands against his trews, trying to remove the blood there as he looked around at the others there. The only ones who appeared recovered were Caelan and his two friends.

‘What happened?’ he asked, his dry throat made his voice rough. ‘How did this happen?’ He gestured to Malcolm there. Caelan and one of his men walked closer.

‘You do not remember?’ his cousin asked. ‘Truly?’

Brodie squeezed the bridge of his nose and pressed against the throbbing pain in his forehead and brow. The aching there and the queasiness in his stomach forced all rational thought aside.

‘Nay, Caelan. I remember it not. Did Malcolm attack me?’

He had killed a fair number of men, in battle or other skirmishes, but he did not kill without thought. And he had no reason to this time.

‘Attack you? Nay,’ Caelan whispered so that only he could hear. ‘You asked him about Arabella. Then you began to argue. Daggers were drawn and you struck first.’

‘Take him,’ the Cameron ordered his men. ‘He owes his life for killing my son and heir.’ The Cameron men tried to surround him.

‘Nay!’ his uncle Lachlan called out, stepping next to him. The other Mackintosh warriors formed line behind them. ‘You are on my lands and have no power here, Euan.’

‘So this is Mackintosh hospitality then,’ Euan said through clenched jaws. ‘We came under truce. We came in good faith. And yet my son lies dead at the hand of your nephew.’

His uncle crossed his arms over his massive chest and shook his head.

‘We will sort this out back at the keep, Euan. Bring your son and meet us there.’ Lachlan nodded at him. ‘Bring Brodie.’

Two of his uncle’s guards took hold of him, dragging and guiding him along the trail that led back to the keep. He turned back to look as the Cameron wrapped his son’s body in a length of plaid.

‘Caelan. Rob. I would have a word with you two.’

His uncle would want to know the truth before it was spoken in his hall, before their kith and kin.

Before he was branded a murderer.

The worst part was he could not even defend himself, for his dagger lay embedded in Malcolm’s chest and the man’s blood covered him.

* * *

Arabella heard the commotion below in the hall. The sun had not been up for long so it was not even time to break their fast yet. Her aunt came into the chamber with a haunted expression in her eyes.

‘Dress. Now.’

‘What has happened?’ Arabella asked, as she pulled a shift over her head and a loud roar sounded below. ‘Is it my father?’

With Ailean’s help, she had her tunic and gown in place and her hair pulled into a hasty braid. It would do. Her stockings and shoes were next and then she turned to face her aunt. ‘What is happening?’ she asked once more.

‘Lass,’ her aunt began. Taking Arabella’s hand in hers, she patted it gently. ‘Nay, not your father. Your brother is dead.’

The room spun before her, with tiny sparkles of light dancing in her vision. If her aunt had not wrapped her arm around her shoulders, Arabella would have fallen.

‘Malcolm is dead? How? When?’

It could not be true. Malcolm was her twin, flesh of her flesh, her first protector and friend. They’d just spoken last evening before he went off with the other young men. At her behest. She shuddered against this news, tears filling her eyes and spilling down her cheeks.

‘I know not the details. We will learn it below,’ her aunt said quietly. ‘Are you ready now? You must be strong. You are the only daughter, only child, of Euan Cameron and must be strong.’

Arabella could only nod, for no words would come.

‘Take a deep breath and we will go.’

She did as directed and soon found herself entering the hall, so lost in her thoughts and memories of Malcolm that she remembered nothing of their path there. Glancing across the large chamber, she noticed the divide immediately. Her kin stood to one side, the Mackintoshes the other. And in the middle, on a table, lay her brother.

Arabella pulled free of her aunt’s hold and ran to him. Only his face could be seen from the shroud of plaid that cocooned him. She touched his cheek and whispered his name.

He could not be dead. He was not old enough to die. He could not. She stroked his face and said his name, willing him to open his eyes and bring this farce to an end. When he did not, she lost any shred of control she thought she had.

‘Arabella,’ her father whispered to her, softer than he had ever spoken to her. ‘Child, come away,’ he said, pulling her by her shoulders from her brother’s side towards a chair in front of the dais. She did not want to leave his side, but her father’s strength forced her away. He placed her in the chair and stood in front of her, blocking her from the sight.

‘Father, how did he die?’ she pleaded for an answer.

‘Murder.’

Chaos ensued his claim, shouting and yelling, men surging and being held back, insults delivered across the ever-shrinking chasm dividing the two clans there.

‘Who would murder Malcolm?’ she asked aloud, but no one was listening. The crowd shifted then and she noticed Brodie Mackintosh standing near the dais, covered in blood.

No. It could not be him.

Not him. He knew his duty. He was known for his honour.

She was beginning to like...

Arabella shook her head but when he met her gaze and regret filled his, she began to scream. Someone, someone strong, grabbed hold of her and held her in her seat until she stopped.

‘Euan, come and let us speak of this privately,’ The Mackintosh said.

She noticed her father did not refuse. The two chieftains strode into a small chamber off the corridor and the door slammed behind them. An uncomfortable silence descended over those left waiting, pierced only by the loud, arguing voices of the two men. With each curse that echoed out of the chamber, the tension grew.

She could not help but stare across at the man accused of killing her beloved brother. The realisation of his death struck her, making her sick to her stomach. Arabella began to retch. The hands on her shoulders released her and she fell to her knees, her empty stomach heaving again and again.

Her brother was dead. She’d sent him to his death.

She turned back to look on his body and then at the man who’d struck him down. Brodie’s face might as well have been carved from stone, for there was no emotion there now. Whatever regret she thought she’d seen was gone, replaced by that empty expression. The only movement she could detect was that of his jaws as he clenched his teeth shut.

Her heart hardened against him in that moment. She would find a way to avenge her brother’s death. Finally, her father and The Mackintosh returned. Now there would be justice for her brother’s death.

‘Did you kill the Cameron’s son, Brodie?’ the Mackintosh laird asked his nephew. Part of her wanted him to deny it. The part of her that was beginning to like this man wanted him to declare it a lie. She waited.

‘I...’ He shrugged and shook his head. ‘I do not know. I do not remember.’ Those gathered groaned and shouted at his words. How could he not remember taking her brother’s life?

‘There were witnesses?’ her father asked. The Mackintoshes parted and Caelan and another man walked forward. ‘What say you?’

‘We were across the fire from them, my lord,’ Caelan said. She could hear the resistance in Caelan’s voice—he did not want to be the one who accused his cousin.

‘What did you see?’ her father demanded once more, walking closer to them both. ‘I want the truth of this!’ he shouted.