My Reckless Love Read online

  Of course, Fraser seized upon the opportunity to press him for more.

  For reasons unknown, the stubborn laird labored under the illusion that Calum was in want of a bride. The man had gone as far as bribery, dangling a bounty in front of Calum’s face, well aware the MacGregors would benefit from the vast holding. Only a lackwit would’ve refused.

  Calum snorted. Apparently, he was a lackwit because he sure as hell refused to wed anyone, much less this troublesome female. Fie, from what he’d seen thus far, he’d wager a tidy sum the lass was not quite right in the head. Nonetheless, he held Fraser at bay, vowing to give the man an answer when he returned with the woman. Not that he anticipated his answer would change.

  A flicker of movement caught his eye just before she emerged from the shadows with her beast of a mount in tow. He cast a sideways glance at his cousin crouched beside him. Even in near darkness, Liam’s huge grin shone bright.

  “Go ready the men and wait for my signal.” He grabbed Liam’s forearm. “No matter what, do not let her past the gate.”

  “As you bid, my liege.”

  “Christ, enough. Just go.” Calum rolled his eyes.

  Liam chuckled and retreated to the stretch of wall they’d scaled earlier in the night to gain entry into the bailey.

  Calum swung his gaze to the guards sprawled near the raised portcullis. With the lack of a night watch, he and his men divined something was amiss long before the female climbed from a window opening in one of the towers.

  As she skulked toward the gatehouse, he straightened to his full height and scanned the outer bailey for any errant patrols. Certain of no threat, he moved along the curtain wall, careful to hang in the shadows, out of sight. Pressed against the wall’s cool stone, he tracked her every move. Once she paused mere yards from him, torchlight presented him a clear view of her features.

  Hands propped on her shapely hips and a smile on her lips, she regarded the slumbering state of the guards. A flash of bright, red-gold hair lay plaited in a messy braid over her shoulder, while stray hairs framed her dainty face. Too far to determine the shade of her eyes, he’d bet a coffer full of gold they were green.

  Taken aback by the comely sight, Calum stood motionless and gawked as the lass whirled about to mount her ugly giant of a horse with startling ease. Her low, tinkling laugh reached his ears and he almost grinned. Damn, but she was unlike anything he’d imagined.

  Shaking off his surprise, he pushed away from the wall and strode to the middle of the raised portcullis. As soon as she nudged her mount forward, he stepped in her path, effectively blocking her escape. Gasping, she tugged on the gelding’s reins to control the animal while Calum crossed his arms and braced his legs apart.

  Heedless of the beast’s clomps near his feet, he swiveled his head toward the blackness enveloping the outer wall and let loose a faint whistle. Within moments, his mounted warriors emerged from the gloom of night and surrounding, opaque forest. Once his men spanned the gate as a solid barrier, Calum returned his gaze to the woman.

  Torchlight glimmered on a pair of the widest, brightest, emerald eyes he’d ever beheld. Amused by the sight, he gave in to the urge to grin. For a scant moment, the thought of marriage seemed far more agreeable.

  Chapter Two

  Stunned, Arabella gaped at the stranger who sprang from darkness. Dread sunk its claws deep beneath her skin and her heart skipped several beats. She sat frozen in Devlin’s saddle, ensnared in a brief stupor.

  One side of the man’s face bore a grievous mark, which carved a jagged path from temple to neck, disappearing beneath his leine and tartan mantle. A jawline of midnight whiskers did little to soften the sharp planes of his visage. His cropped, raven hair gleamed a dark-blue luster in the torchlight. Powerless to stop herself, she swept her gaze over the length of his massive body, down to his buckskin boots. When she met his stare, she barely repressed a shudder. He stood unmoving, his tight, blue gaze fastened on her. Those icy eyes of his, joined by a baleful grin, seized her.

  By the Saints, why was he smiling?

  A frantic burst of laughter almost tumbled out of her. I’ve survived the mossy wall of doom only to face down the devil.

  She glanced over the giant’s head to his twelve henchmen blocking the gate. Attired in the same cloth mantle as the man in front of her, each warrior sat astride his horse, proud and strong. Their dour features were harsh and unyielding. ’Twas evident who, or rather, what they were—Highlanders.

  Barely a fortnight had passed since she’d dispatched David, a young messenger, to Scotland with an urgent missive for her uncle. She’d no notion whether the youth reached the safety of the Fraser keep, or if he’d even made it out of England alive. Eyeing the muted colors of their mantles, she frowned at the group.

  Several Highland and Lowland clans donned the coarse, dyed fabric to announce which lands they hailed from. Her uncle’s clan was no different. But Frasers, these men were not.

  Who then? And why the devil now of all times? Reivers or bandits? ’Twas not unheard of for bands of Scots to venture south and rob English holdings. She gave up searching her weary, frayed mind for a sound reason. Naught made sense any longer.

  At the end of her wits, Arabella resisted the urge to toss up her hands in exasperation and curse the intruders for their ill-timed arrival. On the brink of grasping her freedom, she refused to retreat now. Not when she’d come this far and certainly not if she wished to survive. Grabbing on to her tottering faith, she squared her shoulders and returned her gaze to the man in front of her.

  The tall Highlander had not budged one massive muscle. With his arms crossed over his bulky chest and his mouth set in a firm line, the stern man resembled a stone carving. Despite the weight of unease, she fought the impulse to roll her eyes at his posturing stance. Instead of provoking him, she attempted an appeal in his dialect.

  “I beg of you to let me pass, sir.” The Gaelic rolled from her tongue with ease, but the shakiness in her voice surprised her. She cleared her throat and spoke in a steadier tone. “Attack the castle at your will once I’ve passed. I assure you, I shall sound no alarm.”

  The big man snorted and she flinched. His humor or incredulity—she was unsure which her statement inspired—was not the reaction she sought. She swallowed hard and sucked in a deep breath to gather her patience. One dark eyebrow hitched upward and his blue eyes speared her in place.

  “Nay, my lass. You’ll be coming with us,” he countered in Gaelic.

  The deep, rich drawl sent a shiver through her, raising gooseflesh along the skin of her arms. Alarm flared inside her as bright as the sun on a midsummer’s day. She blinked her eyes shut in an attempt to blot out her imminent defeat. But ’twas still there, along with the last memory of her brother’s teasing smile.

  Her wavering composure threatened to splinter apart into a dozen pieces. Arabella bit her bottom lip, embracing the twinge of pain, and snatched ahold of her temperance before she dissolved into a sobbing heap of despair. A flush of anger bled through her sorrow and her indignation chose to rear its stubborn head.

  One covetous fiend sought to take everything from her, including her freedom. By the Saints, she refused to submit the only thing she had left to another. Assembling every scrap of her courage, she opened her eyes and met the Highlander’s unsettling, crystalline stare. With far more confidence than she possessed, she lifted her chin in defiance.

  “I’m passing through this gate whether you allow it or not.” The man parted his lips as if to speak, but she rushed on, “’Tis a matter of life and death I leave, at once. Please stand aside, sir.”

  His inflexible countenance conveyed not a flicker of emotion. His gaze roved over her face, as if taking her measure. Bearing the scrutiny, she strove for a calm outer appearance despite the pitch and roll of her stomach.

  The howling wind, clamor from the great hall, and the drum of her own heart filled her ears. The man had not removed his eyes from her since the shadows spat him out. T
he weight of his firm stare bore through her, heightening her discomfort. Fiddling with Devlin’s reins, she shifted in the saddle, unable to sit idle another godforsaken moment.

  With a quick glimpse of the men blocking the gate, she constricted her grip on Devlin’s reins and gave a faint tug to his bridle. The beast let loose a loud, warning whiny and clomped his feet in agitation. She braced her legs tight to his flanks in anticipation.

  Devlin tossed his mane and Arabella held on for dear life. The massive gelding reared up, kicking out at the man in front of him. Surprise flashed across the Highlander’s features and he jumped aside to avoid being trampled. As soon as Devlin’s hooves hit the hard-packed earth, she clucked her tongue, urging the horse to a full gallop.

  The horse had only gained a few yards before a heavy weight vaulted in the saddle behind her, and the Highlander pried the reins from her cold, shaking hands. With a sharp tug to the bridle, he brought the gelding to a prompt halt. Devlin snorted his displeasure and the man wrapped a thick arm around her middle as the beast reared up again.

  Heart banging in her chest, Arabella was on the verge of tears.

  “Christ, woman,” he growled in her ear. “Calm yourself. Fraser sent us. I’ll explain later, but we need to move. We’ve tarried here long enough.”

  The breath she held hissed out of her in a steady stream. Why had the blasted arse not said so sooner?

  She might’ve stated the question aloud had she not almost slid from her saddle in relief. The grip of fear squeezing her chest slackened and her limbs relaxed. Too distraught and weary to care, she took him at his word and sent up a quick prayer for the boon.

  Slipping from the saddle behind her, the big man strode to a mount held by one of his men. After rifling through his saddlebag, he stalked to her side and shoved a bundle of cloth into her folded hands. Perplexed, she blinked at the tartan material then glanced at him.

  He answered her unspoken question with a harsh bite. “Put it on.”

  Arabella’s mouth dropped open at the ridiculous command. He was there to rescue her, not order her about.

  “I’m warm enough,” she snapped.

  He grunted. “Even so. Put it on.”

  A scalding reply dangled on the tip of her tongue, but the sternness of his narrow-eyed gaze warned against an objection. She sneered at the woolen cloth and handled the coarse fabric as though it were an adder ready to strike. He remained at her side with his strange, yet oddly beguiling stare fixed on her until she donned the mantle.

  As if nature agreed with the man’s demand, a miserable burst of wintry air slapped her in the face and chilled her to the bone. Her teeth chattered while her temper walked a frayed line. Once wrapped in the warm cloth, she aimed her fiercest glare at the big-headed man. She could’ve sworn his lips twitched, but he simply nodded and marched to his horse without another word. Tugging the fabric closer around her head and shoulders, she gave in to the urge and rolled her eyes at his arrogant, retreating form. He mounted his stallion in one swift move and signaled his men to move out.

  Just as suddenly, the vastness of her loss hit Arabella as though she’d taken a blow to the chest. She twisted in the saddle for one final glimpse. As soon as she passed through the front gates—her home, memories of her mother and father, her brother, Maggie and Dougal—everyone and everything she’d ever cared for would be lost to her forever. Tears slipped from her eyes, obscuring the once welcoming sight from view. A whimper slipped past her lips before she could recall the sound. Forcing herself to look away, she straightened in the saddle and wiped her eyes with the course mantle she’d scorned only moments before.

  Arabella lifted her head to find each warrior regarded her with varying degrees of sympathy and understanding. Left with little choice, she heaved a defeated sigh and nudged Devlin toward the men and the frightening, unknown path her life had suddenly taken.

  Chapter Three

  Geoffrey Longford stood at the threshold of Penswyck’s great hall—his great hall—and surveyed the spoils of his latest venture. Servants rushed to and from the kitchens providing a repast in honor of his arrival. His soldiers lounged around trestle tables, filling their bellies with food and ale. Rich tapestries hung from the walls, brightening the somber stone. Embroidered cushions adorning high-backed chairs near the hearth added a feminine touch and boasted of elegance. Panes of glass blocked the chilly autumn wind, while fresh rushes scattered across the floor left a pleasant aroma in the air. As the bastard son of a lesser lord and camp follower who stood to inherit naught of his father’s inferior legacy, he’d done rather well for himself.

  For years, he toiled and trained to earn his spurs, thereby winning a place at Court. He amassed ample wealth as a good sword arm for many rich, desperate nobles and in the beds of their ignored, pampered wives.

  But what good was a landless knight? Naught, that’s what.

  Everything he desired—nay, deserved. Everything he deserved was within reach at long last. Smiling, he nodded, pleased with his latest acquisition, or rather, his soon-to-be acquisition. Once he wed his charge, the stratagem he set in motion a year before would at last bear fruit. The vast estate of Penswyck would be his, as well as the comely Lady de Percy.

  From the first moment he’d set eyes on her, the quiet defiance reflected in her green eyes had begged him to tame her—to break her. The task should’ve been simple—wed and bed the wench—but the vexing female had spurned his attentions. She’d gone as far as to turn her brother, Iain, against him, sullying his hard work, but he was not one to recoil from a challenge.

  Quite the contrary, in fact.

  Though, his sole regret in the whole affair was the death of Lord de Percy. He’d rather admired Iain, with his quick wit, charm, and skill with a sword, but the young lord’s life had been forfeit from the start.

  Shrugging off any trace of remorse, Geoffrey quit the hall and mounted the main stairs in search of his charge. In all likelihood, she’d spent her days grieving the loss of her brother. The spirited, little dove surely needed comfort and he’d be delighted to offer it to her—for a price.

  As he moved down the passageway, two of his men posted outside her tower chamber nodded at his approach. He motioned for them to unbar the entrance and the thrum of his pulse quickened as the door swung open. He strode inside and glanced around the chamber, expecting to find her weeping miserably in front of the hearth. Instead, the long dead fire held naught but a pile of ashes.

  His gaze darted over the cold, lifeless room, noting the differences since the last time he’d stepped foot in her chamber. The bed was out of place, shifted closer to an adjacent window where the fur covering lay disturbed. As his suspicion grew, he paced the chamber, hunting for any sign of her. At a trunk in the corner, he bent forward and lifted the lid to search her belongings. Inside lay a heap of knotted bed linens and garments.

  Hair prickled at his nape and a slight tremor filed through his limbs. He raised the bundle from the trunk. A rope—the blasted wench had fashioned a rope. He might’ve laughed at the sleight had Arabella not hindered his plans, yet again.

  In truth, he should’ve foreseen such a move. Lady de Percy was unlike the other vain, empty-headed females at Court. She’d proven her cunning on more than one occasion. From demanding her old maid shadow her every step, foiling his attempts to steal a private moment with her, to dining in her chamber when he was in residence, Arabella had taken measures to distance herself from him before she’d poisoned her brother against him. The clever, irritating woman saw through his guise from the start.

  His grasp on the cloth tightened. Oh, he could guess her course. Straight to that damned heathen uncle of hers.

  Spitting out a curse, Geoffrey flung the bundle in the trunk and kicked the heavy lid shut. He spun around to face the useless soldiers who stood in the doorway warily regarding him.

  “Where is she, you dull-witted fools?” he hissed in a furious rush.

  Confusion clouded the pair’s featur
es until the meaning of his words sunk into their pea brains. Their gazes darted around the room before one mustered the courage to speak.

  “My lord, she was here. I swear it. We’ve not left our post. Not once.”

  He pointed at the entryway. “Who has passed through that door?”

  The soldier swallowed visibly. “Only her old maid, my lord.”

  Each stuttered admission fed the anger simmering inside Geoffrey. He spoke his next words with deliberate precision. “When was the last either of you have seen Lady de Percy with your own eyes?”

  “Uh…” The guard’s uneasy gaze flitted away to land on the floor.

  Their lack of words cracked open his restraint and freed a storm of fury. Their negligence had cost him. His temple pounded in accord with the swift drum of his heart. His limbs shook with rage, driving him to lash out.

  He grabbed a wooden side table and hurled it over, its contents clattering to the rush-strewn floor. Kicking out at a small stool, he sent the seat splintering against the stone wall. He snatched the jeweled dagger from a sheath along his belt and charged the soldier who’d spoken. Fisting the guard’s tunic, he jerked the gaping fool toward him and buried his blade deep in the soldier’s throat. The man’s eyes widened to expose an expanse of bloodshot white, while his mouth worked to draw breath. Geoffrey wrenched the dagger free from the guard’s flesh, unmoved by the warm splatter of blood dotting his face and surcoat, and shoved the dying body to the ground.

  He sucked in long drags of copper-scented air in a bid to calm the fire smoldering inside him. With one last fortifying breath, he faced the remaining soldier, who stared wide-eyed at his prone companion.

  “Bring me the old woman and send a troop north,” he bellowed, causing the guard to flinch. He stepped closer, narrowing his gaze at the soldier’s pale features. “Find her. Your life depends upon it.”