When a Laird Takes a Lady: A Claimed by the Highlander Novel Read online

  “Take care.” He tugged open the door.

  “Wait! Where do you go?”

  He turned back to her. “It matters not. I’ll be back by morning. If you wish, Muirne can pass the night here as well.”

  Isabail rose to her feet. “Is it dangerous, this important task you must see to?”

  He met her gaze. “Not overly,” he lied.

  “So a prayer to Saint Andrew would go amiss?”

  A faint smile touched his lips. “That would depend on what you pray for, lass, but a prayer to Saint Andrew rarely goes to waste.”

  And then he left her.

  * * *

  “What are you doing?” asked Muirne, a frown upon her brow.

  Isabail wrapped the dark brat she’d pulled from MacCurran’s sack around her shoulders. It was much less bulky than the blanket, yet it still hid a great deal of her pale blue gown. “Seizing the moment.”

  If the MacCurran was leaving for the night, it surely meant a sizable portion of his warriors were leaving, too. The close should be nearly empty. There would be no better time to search the tunnels than right now.

  “But what about Gorm?”

  Isabail scurried to the door, opened it, and peered into the night. “You can tend to him.”

  “What if he doesn’t heed me?”

  “Speak firmly to him,” Isabail advised. “He’s not as strong as he was when he knocked you over at Lochurkie. He’s unlikely to even rise from his bed.”

  With that, Isabail slipped out of the door and darted for the deepest shadows. As she hoped, the courtyard was almost entirely empty—the men were gathered at the outer gate and the women of the clan were seeing them off. With one eye on the gillies who were cleaning away the last of the supper, she crept along the wall toward the far end of the close.

  One of the older bakers shuffled toward her, and she halted, hugging the wall with a pounding heart. If he looked up, he would surely see the pale blue cloth of her dress against the moonlit stones. But thankfully he did not. He picked up a platter of bread rounds, tipped it into a canvas sack, and then walked off with the sack.

  Isabail continued along the wall to the ancient storeroom. The entrance to the tunnels was hidden by a tall slab of granite. Until Beathag had shown her there was a gap between the huge granite stone and the wall, she’d not seen the entrance. Now that she knew it was there, slipping into the tunnel was a simple affair.

  The tunnel was narrow and poorly lit but not difficult to navigate. Isabail’s only fear was meeting someone else in its damp confines. She paused every few paces to listen for the footfalls of a gillie. At every stop, she examined the walls for signs of another room or vault, but saw nothing. The walls were remarkably smooth, worn down by strong, skilled hands and the passage of time.

  When the tunnel opened into the torch-lit cave, Isabail breathed a sigh of relief. She had no fear of the dark, nor of small spaces, but found the tunnel rather airless and smoky.

  Isabail spun slowly around, studying the walls. If there was a second room or an alcove of any sort, it was not immediately obvious. Of course, the cave was piled with sacks and barrels and furniture, so much of the walls were not visible. She squeezed between two barrels. A small space behind a pile of flour sacks seemed conspicuously empty. Climbing upon the sacks, she peered into the gloomy space . . . and frowned.

  A winch?

  Why would there be a winch here? With a rope that disappeared into the rock behind it? It made no sense. What purpose could it possibly have? At Lochurkie, the only winches she had seen were used to raise heavy stones into place on the walls. What did this one lift?

  There was only one way to find out.

  Carefully searching for foot- and handholds, she climbed down the sacks to the winch. The base of the winch was a carved stone etched with several Pictish symbols. It seemed unlikely the wooden shank and the rope were as old as the stone; they appeared to be freshly carved and corded.

  She grabbed the handle of the winch and applied all the force she could muster. It turned with surprising ease. Not so easy that it didn’t tax her arms, but not so challenging as to render her efforts useless, either. As she turned the handle, a low rasp of stone on stone echoed through the tunnel. After a half dozen turns of the crank, the winch locked and she could turn it no more.

  She crawled out of the space and looked around, but saw no door, nor any sign that a stone had been moved. So what had the winch done?

  A cold clamp of fear seized her throat. A vision of the granite slab at the entrance to the tunnel rose in her mind. Dear Lord. Had she just sealed herself in?

  Lifting her skirts, she ran.

  * * *

  Aiden and his men approached Dunstoras from the west. It was the side most heavily protected by the mountains. Massive shards of shale had broken away from the side of the mountain, making navigation treacherous for anyone not familiar with the terrain. As a result, MacPherson wasted few guards on the west side of the keep.

  At the crest of a narrow ridge, Aiden paused and allowed himself a brief moment. The castle stood before him in all its glory—a graceful tower reaching toward the night sky, a crenellated curtain wall, and a sturdy gatehouse with an iron portcullis. A year ago, he’d stood inside those walls and watched his father’s body lowered into the crypt beneath the kirk. Now he stood outside the walls, an outlaw.

  God surely knew how to test a man.

  The moon was high as the Black Warriors wended their way between the rocks, allowing them to avoid random slides of shale. To a man, they wore dark brats and equally dark lèines. In days of old, they would also have carried a symbolic black targe, but tonight such a weighty implement would only slow them down. Silently and swiftly they made their way to the base of the castle wall. The two visible guards on the ramparts were felled at the same time—one by Cormac with his large ash bow and the other by Niall with a crossbow.

  Duncan and Ivarr, the largest men among them, swung iron grappling hooks atop the ramparts, then retreated to the rocks. A few moments later, a second pair of guards appeared to investigate the noise. They were silenced by Cormac and Niall before they could raise the alarm.

  Aiden sheathed his sword and ran for one of the two ropes dangling from the ramparts. Niall was the first to reach the other.

  Aware that Niall considered him to be a little soft due to his role as chief, Aiden put substantial effort into the climb. He reached the top of the forty-foot wall ahead of his brother and grinned at him in the dark.

  “A sennight ago, I took an arrow in the chest,” Niall whispered with a shrug.

  “Impossible.”

  “Ask Ana.”

  Aiden took stock while he waited for the others to gain the wall. A dozen soldiers huddled around a fire pit in the close, warming themselves against the winter chill. Another six, armed with bows, stood at various spots along the wall, looking out at the forest.

  To succeed, Aiden’s men needed to reach the donjon without attracting attention. Not an easy feat, given that the only way into the tower was through the big wooden door in the close. But they had to move—it was only a matter of time before someone spotted them in the shadows.

  When all ten men were crouched on the ramparts, he waved them forward.

  “Take three men and fetch our lads,” Aiden told Niall. “I’ll create a diversion on the south wall.”

  Niall and his three men went right, keeping to the shadows. Aiden went left, his gaze firmly locked on the young archer immediately in front of him. The lad’s peripheral vision caught his movement when he was a dozen paces away, and the short but powerful bow he carried swung in Aiden’s direction.

  Aiden gave up stealth in favor of speed. The foolish fellow neglected to call the alarm as he scrambled to nock and loose an arrow. Aiden’s sword ended his effort swiftly and with little more than a gurgle. He caught the arch
er’s falling body and dropped it over the wall.

  A moment later, he entered the door to the gatehouse. To create a successful diversion, he had to pose a credible threat to the castle. As long as the portcullis was lowered, the additional men he had waiting outside the gate were little more annoying than a swarm of angry bees.

  He took the stairs to the middle level two at a time. The two soldiers on gate duty drew their swords as he reached the bottom of the stairs. Having been in the winch house numerous times, Aiden knew the layout well. He leapt from the stairs to the huge rope roll that fed the portcullis and kicked the weapon from the hand of soldier number one. Then he pivoted to parry a thrust from soldier number two.

  That’s when Aiden’s luck ran out.

  The first soldier had the sense to raise the alarm before retrieving his weapon, and the man he was dueling turned out to be a highly skilled swordsman. Aiden blocked a skillful slash. He had but moments to dispatch his opponent before the guards bunking in the first-floor garrison came thundering up the steps.

  * * *

  Isabail stared at the open entrance to the tunnel and breathed a huge sigh of relief. Her exit was unimpeded. The ancient winch had not sealed the door. Her heartbeat slowed and her panic receded. Should she give up the search and return to her bed, or go back into the tunnel?

  It was very tempting to call an end to her adventure. But this was a rare opportunity—who knew when she would enjoy this much freedom again? And the winch had moved something.

  Something important, her gut told her.

  She took a deep breath. Back into the tunnel, then.

  Returning to the cave, she began a thorough examination of the walls. She traced every crack in the stone and pushed every protruding bump in hopes of finding a hidden passage. Nothing. She stepped back into the tunnel and studied the mouth of the cave. A series of glyphs were carved in the archway, but none seemed to stand out more than any other.

  Turning slowly, she eyed the flat wall that announced the end of the tunnel some twenty paces farther along. Although the torch light barely reached that far, she could see that it, too, was covered with symbols. Strange. None of the other walls of the tunnel were marked in a similar fashion.

  She walked toward the wall, studying the symbols. Unlike other Pictish stones she’d seen, all of the markings on this slab of granite were depictions of animals: a boar, a bull, a wolf, a goose, a fish, and a snake. Nary an enigmatic circle or bent arrow to be seen.

  Curious.

  John had been fascinated by the symbols left behind by the Painted Ones and had amassed a collection of smaller stones, which he had kept in the stables. He enjoyed knowing that the land he owned had once been walked upon by an ancient people.

  Isabail traced the etched shape of a goose with her finger. Some barbaric warrior of old had painstakingly chiseled this symbol into the rock.

  Why?

  She peered through the half-light at the rock wall. The shadows in the corners were deep, and she could not make out where one wall ended and the next began. Sliding her hands along the rock, she felt for the corner . . . and found the faintest of grooves—a groove that ran all the way to the floor and was echoed on the other side.

  A thrill ran down Isabail’s spine.

  It was a door.

  Flattening both hands on the slab, she pushed with all her might, but the rock did not budge. Perhaps it required more strength than she possessed to open it.

  She stood back, hands on her hips. Or perhaps the animals were trying to tell her something. Putting her weight behind her, she pushed the salmon and then the snake. Nothing. Not willing to give up, she shoved the goose and the bull. Still nothing.

  “Open, you bloody wretched thing,” she snapped. With two hands on the boar, she vented her frustration. And it swiveled open. Not enough to let her pass, but enough to coax a euphoric shout from her throat. “Aye!”

  Isabail put all her weight behind another push on the boar. The giant slab opened farther, with an accompanying groan of stone, and Isabail stepped inside. The corridor on the other side of the slab was pitch-black, so she ran back and retrieved a torch from the cave.

  Much better.

  She could now see the floor in front of her, including a decorated pathway of stones leading around a curve in the corridor. Isabail stepped forward.

  The harsh rasp of rubbing stones immediately told her something was amiss, and she pivoted . . . just in time to see the great stone slab swivel back into place and another stone drop from the ceiling to seal it shut.

  * * *

  Aiden swung his sword with power and precision. He had only one chance to fell this soldier. He could not afford to miss. His blade collided with his opponent’s with bone-rattling force, sending a shower of sparks into the air. The soldier stumbled under the brute power of the attack and took a step back.

  It was exactly the opening Aiden had hoped for.

  Vaulting from his position on the rope roll, he gave the soldier’s exposed knee a ruthless kick. The man screamed and collapsed. His weapon dropped from his hands as he grabbed his leg. Without pausing, Aiden whipped around and stabbed the other guard in the sword arm.

  Both men now disarmed, Aiden pounced on the winch. The furious beat of boots on the steps accompanied every crank of the winch handle. He barely got four turns in before the garrison soldiers reached the top of the stairs. He threw the lock to hold the portcullis in its partially opened state and then leapt for the dark stairs to the third level.

  He counted the stairs as he climbed, and when he reached the eighteenth stair, he dove to the left. Crashing through a wooden shutter, he fell out a small window and landed on the slate roof of the stable one story below. The impact temporarily robbed him of breath, but he managed to roll off the roof to the hay piled next to the animal stalls.

  The metallic clash of swords told him the rest of the Black Warriors had entered the close through the partially opened portcullis and engaged the soldiers. He pushed to his feet and raced to join them.

  Cormac had already taken out several of the archers on the walls, but Aiden played it safe and veered left and right with erratic movements as he closed the gap between himself and his men. The moment they saw him, the Black Warriors began a strategic retreat—they ran for the three-foot opening beneath the iron spikes of the portcullis.

  A shout went up from the captain of the garrison. “Drop the portcullis! Quickly.”

  Aiden knew it would take only a well-aimed slice of a sharp blade to sever the rope and drop the portcullis to the ground. He ran. He was still ten paces away when he saw an ax swing toward his head from the doorway of the gatehouse.

  He parried the ax with his sword but felt the weight of the mighty two-handed blade vibrate up his arm, numbing his fingers. The sword slipped from his grip, flying off into the dark, and his boot slipped in the mud.

  Mourning the loss of a good weapon, he recovered his balance and resumed his run for the gate. He could only pray his delay was not costly—if he rolled under the portcullis at the wrong moment and it fell upon him . . . well, Niall would be forced to wear the mantle of chief.

  Aiden sent a prayer skyward and dove for the mud under the gate.

  * * *

  Isabail bit her lip, trying not to panic. She was trapped in a secret room in the dark of the night, with no one aware of her location. Even if Muirne came in search of her, the maid would never realize she was buried behind a huge rock.

  Isabail’s hand massaged her throat.

  Breathe, Isabail. Do not assume the worst. Perhaps there is another way out.

  Holding the torch aloft, she turned away from the door and faced the tunnel. Several feet along, it changed direction, making it impossible to see what lay ahead. Praying that none of the other tiles in the footpath were about to bring the ceiling down upon her head, she walked forward. Thankfu
lly, the only sounds she heard were the shallow draws of her breath and the soft pad of her boots on the stone floor.

  She rounded the corner and entered a small chamber. A sepulcher, it would seem, complete with a large stone burial chest. Atop the chest, a loose bolt of purple silk served as a bed for several silver items.

  Isabail stepped closer.

  One of the items lying on the silk was a sword. Half as long as the chest and clearly well maintained, the sword gleamed in the torchlight. But it wasn’t the sword that held her attention. The centerpiece of the display was a simple silver band set with the most glorious sapphire Isabail had ever seen. Perfectly cut to catch the light, it glowed with a noticeable fire under the torch.

  It was clearly a crown.

  One worn by a Pictish king, perhaps?

  Isabail wrinkled her nose and studied the markings on the burial chest. Quite likely, whoever had worn the crown lay within this stone box. Unfortunately, there were no symbols or words on the stone chest that Isabail could read.

  She stepped back.

  An unexpected treasure, but no help to her. It was neither the necklace she sought, nor the answer to her escape. There were no other exits, no other tunnels leading into the mountain.

  Her only hope for a rescue lay with the MacCurran. Had he not just marched off to do some sort of battle, that hope would have more weight. Back by morning, he’d said. But how much longer after that would it take him to realize she was missing?

  She might well starve to death before anyone came.

  Isabail licked her lips. For some reason, most probably because water was beyond reach, she had a sudden thirst. Lifting the torch high again, she explored the entirety of the small room. There was no miraculous second exit. The only way out was the way she had come in.

  Swallowing a cold lump of fear, she made her way back to the huge granite slab that held her prisoner. Surely there must be some way to open the door from this side. She tried stepping on the tile that had sealed her in, tried several other tiles, and even tiles in combination. The door and the smaller rock on the ledge above her that held it shut remained exactly where they stood.