Michelle Willingham - Forbidden Night With The Highlander

‘There were four horses,’ one answered. ‘So at least one raider is still out there.’

The archer, Rhys guessed. And if his horse was still here, then so was the man. ‘Spread out,’ he ordered them, in the Norman language. ‘Keep your shields raised and find that archer.’ He would not rest until they had found them all. And if Alastair MacKinnon was responsible for ordering this raid, then Rhys would see every last member of the clan driven out of Eiloch.

His men obeyed the command, leaving Rhys by the fire. He deliberately remained behind, wanting the light to guide him. He kept his shield raised, listening for the sound of the last Highlander.

‘I know you’re there,’ he called out to the man, using the Gaelic language. ‘And I know you have to hide in the shadows. Because you know that you are no match for Norman fighters.’

He sensed a ripple of motion and lifted his shield, just as an arrow struck the wood. It came from the opposite direction, but Rhys held his position.

‘Arrogant Scot,’ he jeered. ‘Was this your chief’s idea? To kill us all, before I claim his daughter as my bride?’

One man did step into the light, and he held another arrow nocked to the bow. ‘You think I would let you claim what rightfully belongs to me? I should be the leader, not you.’

‘These are my lands by birthright,’ Rhys contradicted. ‘You hold no claim to them.’ He stared at the young man, noting the overconfidence in his bearing.

‘I’m going to kill you, Norman. And your head will be displayed at our gates.’ He released another arrow, but Rhys blocked it again.

‘Your aim is poor.’ He kept his shield up, circling the man. Footsteps approached, and one by one, his men returned to join him. ‘Was it your idea to kill us in our sleep?’

‘It was,’ the man taunted. ‘And you’re still going to die. Norman bastards.’

As are you, Rhys thought. Because of this man, one of his most trusted soldiers was dead. If he lunged forward, he might be able to strike the archer’s bow away, leaving him defenceless. But he would have to lower his shield.

‘You cannot kill me,’ the archer said with a sly smile. ‘Do you know who I am?’

With that, Rhys dropped his sword and unsheathed the knife at his waist. He threw the knife at the man’s heart and saw the look of shock in the Highlander’s eyes as the blade struck true. His enemy dropped to his knees, the bow falling from his hands.

‘I know exactly who you are,’ Rhys said softly. ‘The man who killed my friend.’

* * *

Lianna heard the outcry at dawn when the Norman soldiers arrived. She hurried outside and saw them leading horses...with the bodies of Highlanders draped across the saddles. Her throat closed up with terror, her hands shaking.

Last night, she had begged her father to send men after her brother, but Alastair had refused. He’d said that Sían would listen to no man’s counsel, save his own. If he dared to attack, then that lay upon his shoulders.

And though she knew Alastair was right, her father should have tried. For now, she dreaded the worst.

The blood drained from her face, and Lianna stepped back against the outer wall of the house, trying to hold back the wave of fear. She knew, without asking, that Sían was dead. He hadn’t been hunting deer or game at all. He’d been hunting the Norman soldiers. And from the looks of it, none had survived.

Alastair hobbled from his house, his complexion grey. The grief in his bearing made her fearful of what he would do now. Without thinking, Lianna rushed forward to his side.

‘Father,’ she whispered.

But he did not answer. Instead, he walked towards one of the bodies concealed by a wool covering. He lifted the edge and revealed Sían’s face.

There came an uproar from the Highlanders gathered around, and God help her, Lianna feared they would rise up in rebellion. But they did not need more bloodshed, not now.

Her father raised his voice. ‘I did not order this raid. It was never my intent to start a war.’

His words cast silence over the clan, and he continued. ‘Lianna, make the arrangements for the burial of these men. I will meet with my council and with the Normans.’

Her eyes flooded with hot tears, and her stomach clenched. The Normans could burn in hell for all she cared. She stared at the horses bearing the bodies, and nausea twisted her stomach. Her maid Orna approached and said, ‘I will help, Lianna.’ The older woman motioned to several of the others, and she took the reins of one of the horses.

Lianna wanted to follow, but her legs would not move. With a fleeting glance towards the Normans, she wondered which one was Rhys de Laurent. All wore conical helms and chainmail armour. They appeared fully prepared for battle.

There was only one consolation that distracted her now—her father could not possibly demand that she marry the Norman. Not when these men had killed Sían. With a leaden heart, she followed Orna and reached for the reins of a second horse.

‘Hear me,’ her father called out to the clan members, and Lianna turned back to listen to him. ‘I will not risk our clan’s survival based on the lack of judgement from my son. I did not order this attack, and Sían’s defiance resulted in tragedy. No one here will raise a hand against our Norman guests—or you will be exiled from us.’ His grey eyes were the colour of iron, cold and unforgiving. He met the gazes of his men, who looked ready to engage in fighting.

Lianna saw murder brewing in the eyes of Eachann and Ross. The fierce Highlanders were among the strongest fighters remaining. They needed a means of releasing their anger, and she stepped towards them. ‘Will you help dig the graves of your kinsmen?’

They didn’t move, until Alastair said, ‘Do as my daughter bids you.’

She stepped up, facing each of them. Tension stretched thin until finally Ross muttered, ‘We will bide our time.’ Then they stepped back to fetch shovels to begin digging the graves. Lianna chose two more men to help them, and then sent for the priest.

She was grateful for the many tasks that had to be done. It occupied her time, allowing her to push back the wave of emotion threatening to drown her. Sían had been her only brother, the laughing young man who had believed himself invincible. Tears pricked at her eyes, but she could not cry now. Several women were openly weeping at the loss of their sons and husbands. Lianna busied herself with helping them, asking them to gather linen for the burial shrouds.

But as the Normans departed with her father, she could only think that her freedom had been won at a terrible cost.

She led the horse bearing her brother’s body, taking him back towards the stone kirk. There, she would prepare him for burial, and perhaps indulge in a moment of grief.

But, without warning, the hair on the back of her neck stood on end. She froze in place, wondering what had disturbed her so suddenly.

She turned and saw that one of the Normans was staring at her, his expression intent. There was a hint of familiarity around him, though she could not place it. From this distance, she could barely see his face and his hair was hidden beneath his helm.

It must be Rhys de Laurent.

Lianna lifted her chin in defiance, staring boldly back at him. Let him look. For he would never have her as his bride.

* * *

Rhys followed the clan chief into a private gathering space, accompanied by his men. Two other Scots joined them, and there was no denying the cold fury that permeated the demeanour of every man here.

He said nothing but waited for Alastair to speak. His own anger was raging, that they had come here in peace to fulfil the bargain, and the man’s own son had dared to attack.