Highland Obligation
by Lori Ann Bailey
Copyright © 2019 by Lori Ann Bailey. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Chapter One
Cairntay Castle
Isle of Skye, Scotland
July, 1643
“Nae, I willnae marry.” Isobel MacLean reached into her skirts for the dagger she kept hidden there. Upon finding nothing, she remembered her family had divested her of all her weapons before they’d reached the Isle of Skye’s rocky shores. They had claimed this was a peaceful negotiation, and she would dishonor their clan by taking her knife into the MacDonald keep.
Her father, mother, and three brothers stood between her and the only exit from the tower room where she currently found herself sequestered. She hadn’t felt this helpless since the day she and her maid had been attacked. Her heart beat so fast that it thudded in her ears.
“Aye, ye will.” Her father and laird of the MacLean clan, Duncan MacLean, stared at her with a determination she had not seen since he’d ordered her brothers to discover who was behind the raids on their lands last year. Knowing her pleas to him would go unheard, she let her gaze travel to her mother, who had given up on turning her into a lady years earlier.
Amused dark brown eyes, matching her own, stared back at her. “Dinnae look at me like that. ’Tis time ye are wed.” Her mother’s smile indicated she was pleased with Isobel’s current predicament.
Och, there would be no help from her, either.
“’Tis for the best, Isobel. He can keep ye safe.” Ross, the youngest of her older brothers, implored. He must have guessed she would have turned her pleading to him next and he was correct. He usually gave in to her wishes. Because, of all people, he knew best why she couldn’t leave her safety in the hands of someone else.
“I dinnae need anyone to protect me.” She stood taller.
Her oldest brother, Marcus, rolled his eyes and stepped sideways to block her hasty dash toward the door.
“Ye have gotten yerself in trouble, and with the MacDonald clan is the best place ye could be.” Her father’s words were a slap to her already bruised pride, but she faced him and held her chin high.
The MacLean laird fisted his hands on his hips and glared at her with the accusation he’d somehow managed to keep hidden on the journey here. She had expected to hear what plans might be in place to block the Scottish Parliament from forming an alliance with the English Parliament, which was starting a civil war with King Charles. The information would be useful to the rebel group she fought alongside. If she’d had an inkling of what they’d intended for her, she never would have accompanied them to the MacDonald stronghold on the Isle of Skye.
“And ye think to leave me here without my weapons?” Her chest ached as if the air had been stripped from her lungs.
“No one would dare attack the MacDonalds.”
Hah. Her father was mistaken. She would, if it guaranteed her freedom.
“So ’tis one of them ye expect me to honor?”
“Aye,” her father returned.
“We dinnae even ken if The MacDonald is a true Royalist.”
“Where did ye hear such nonsense? Ye ken he is.”
“Their laird kept ye captive in their dungeons only a couple of moons ago. Have ye forgotten?”
How could her father do such a thing after what the MacDonalds had put them through? Ross had nearly lost his life trying to save him.
“Nae, I ken very well what kind of man Alastair MacDonald is. And I ken he and his clan will do whatever it takes to keep one of their own safe. ’Tis why ye will become one of them.” Her father folded his arms and looked down on her with darkened eyes that said he was done with the conversation.
Balling her fists, she pinned her father with all the courage she had in her. “I willnae do it.”
“Ye will or ye will bring dishonor to our clan.”
Guilt stabbed her. Since her father had already made the arrangements, it would be true.
“I should have been consulted.”
“Ye never would have agreed.”
Precisely her point. She inhaled sharply and glared at her father with the most defiance she could muster. She felt like a cat surrounded by rabid dogs bent on her destruction, never mind that they were her family and thought they were helping her. In actuality, they were taking everything from her by forcing her into marriage, especially one that would keep her secreted away on an island, separated from the very land and people she’d been fighting to protect.
“Then why do ye expect me to do so now?”
It was Ross who stepped forward. “Because Grant MacDonald is a good man, and he will be kind to ye.”
“Grant MacDonald. Is he no’ the man who thinks there can be peace between the Royalists and Covenanters? Ye would wed me to someone who doesnae even fight for the cause?” She was so mad she could spit. She had nothing in common with a man who would seek a truce between the men who were suppressing her people.
“’Tis the best option, since it is rumored that Argyll kens who ye are. If the Covenanter leader finds ye, he will keep ye alive only to torture ye until ye can no longer take it,” Ross pleaded.
So, Ross had had a hand in this deal. He’d always felt guilty about letting her and her maid down that day. The afternoon she’d discovered the only person she could rely on was herself. The day she had changed.
True, she should have done a better job hiding her identity and her activities as second-in-command of the Royalist Resistance. The band was the only group of rebels brave enough to stand up for those repressed by the Covenanters, who supported the agreement with the English Parliament and the Puritan Roundheads. If those people got their way, Royalists like her clan, who were Catholic and supported King Charles, would be forced to convert. She’d joined their ranks to save her family from such tyranny. Now, the way of life she’d come to know was in jeopardy.
If she left now, she might be able to track down the man who had recognized her during the most recent skirmish, dispatching swift justice on him and ensuring her well-being. But before she’d been able to strike down Torsten Campbell, a massive brute of a man in the Royalist party she’d been helping protect had turned his rage on her, yelling something about her interference. Men never thought a woman could wield anything heavier than a knitting needle. She had ignored him then skirted around only to discover Torsten had escaped.
Most likely the foolish man was hunting for her instead of blabbering. He likely wouldn’t risk exposing her secret—the bounty for her capture was hefty and if someone else brought her in, he would lose the reward.
“And even if I marry the man, what is to keep me here?” she asked.
“Ye will stay with yer husband.” Her father’s words intruded.
Maybe if she pretended to be a meek, obedient wife she could sneak off and take care of the threat. There was no way out of the arrangement at this point. For now, she could go along with it until her family was gone.
A light rapping reached her ears. Ross turned and peeked through the door. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, he pulled it in to admit a bevy of maids with silks and grooming instruments.
“Och, ye cannae be serious?” Her throat tightened at the prospect of what they were about to do.
“Aye. Ye will go into this marriage looking like a proper woman.”
But she knew what her father was really saying: Yer days with the Resistance are done. But for her, it wasn’t that simple.
Meek wife, bide yer time, family will leave, she repeated to herself
“Well,” she said as her brothers and father stood waiting for her objections. “I cannae prepare if ye are in here. Please leave.”
Before doing so, Ross circled the room; she assumed to check for any weapons or means of escape, but she’d already looked everywhere. The only way in and out was the well-guarded door. They had not even brought her trunks into the room. If they had, she’d have been able to take the dagger hidden inside and cut enough fabric to scale down the tower wall.
They’d even lied to get her to this island to begin with, telling her they were going to discuss strategies for eliminating the Covenanter threats in the Highlands. It was a prospect they knew she couldn’t pass up. She should have known her family wouldn’t have included her or brought her lady mother along.
They were all opposed to her position with the Royalist Resistance. And this had been their plan to remove her from that life.
Seeming satisfied she had no means of escape, Ross nodded at the rest of her family, and they filed out of the room.
Hours later, after being fed, bathed, and forced into a dress so soft and silky it slid over her skin, tickling and leaving her feeling vulnerable, she found herself being escorted down the halls of a cold stone castle that would soon become her home. Her heart hammered. Ross threaded his arm through hers and drew her down the corridors until they stood in front of two large, ornately carved, wooden doors. They alluded to the strength and prominence of the MacDonald clan and made her want to turn and run, seek shelter where no one could find her.
The portals swung in to reveal a packed chapel. As all heads turned to face her, Ross guided her to the altar. She didn’t recognize anyone.
Anonymity. Relief washed over her until her eyes rested on the man at the front of the room, Grant MacDonald, her betrothed. Her steps faltered. Her soon-to-be husband was the man from the battle who had let Torsten Campbell get away.
…
Nae.
Grant’s hands fisted as he caught a glimpse of his new bride. His eyes must be playing tricks on him. He was supposed to be wedding the MacLean laird’s daughter, Isobel. This was the wench from the Royalist Resistance. As she moved closer, he was certain it was the woman he’d seen wielding a sword in battle, but the laird’s heir escorted her down as if she were a lady of worth. He swallowed.
The famed fighter had kept her identity hidden for years, and now he saw how. No one would suspect a cultured, refined woman to be donning men’s clothes and sneaking off with wanted criminals.
He’d already lost one wife, what would it say about him if he killed his second on their wedding night?
The lass’s gaze skidded across the crowd to land on his and shock registered in her stare just as her feet stalled and her brother tugged her along. Aye, she recognized him as well. Good, because she had a lot to answer for.
Why had he not insisted on meeting his betrothed before the ceremony? If he’d known whom he was about to marry, he’d have found a way out of it.
But the MacLeans had been delayed in getting to his home on the Isle of Skye and had insisted the wedding plans go ahead as they were. Had it been The MacLean’s strategy all along to dump his lioness of a daughter onto a man who might be able to control her? Did the man even know the extent of his daughter’s activities?
Isobel MacLean was bonny in the candlelight, dressed in white, hair pinned in place, a deceptively sedate smile plastered on her face. But even if she cleaned up nicely, he would never forget the lass he blamed for the death of his friend.
The closer she got, the surer he became that she was the only female member of the Royalist Resistance, the group who had taken it upon themselves to seek retribution against the Covenanters who spread their own vicious brand of hatred around the Highlands. Neither group was better than the other.
His stomach churned and he looked to his father, thinking one more time to beg his way out of this marriage, but the pleading he’d already done had fallen on deaf ears. His father had falsely imprisoned The MacLean, and this was their clan’s demand for reparation. Denying his bride at this point would start a war. Wedding the MacLean lass was his duty, whether she fit the mold of what he wanted or not.
He’d heard rumors about The MacLean’s only daughter, how she acted more like a man than a woman, how she never dressed for social occasions and how she shunned the traditional female role. He’d passed the tales off as gossip or jealousy because it was also said that despite her habits, she was an attractive lass.
Those rumors had been true as well. She was lovely, but he’d known that the first moment he’d seen her in the middle of a skirmish between Covenanters and the Royalist Resistance. She had been confident and her face flushed a rosy pink from exertion. An overwhelming urge to protect her had overcome him. It’s what had distracted him from his duty and led to his friend’s death. And then she’d cursed him, not even thankful for his assistance.
It only now made sense that she would be one of the Earl of Argyll’s most wanted. If the leader of the Covenanters discovered who she was, it would bring all the man’s forces down onto his people. Grant clenched his hands and tried to bring his anger in check.
She’d be his responsibility now. Her days of causing conflicts in the Highlands were over, even if he had to keep her locked away in the dungeons of Cairntay.
Ross MacLean put Isobel’s hands in his and nodded, backing away and leaving the two alone in the front of the room with the priest. Grant squeezed a little too hard and she glared at him then wiggled her fingers, trying to break free.
Leaning in, she whispered in his ear, “Ye are hurting me.”
“Ye are lucky there is a room full of witnesses and a man of God or I would be using strong language to express my feelings about your recent activities.” Still, he eased his grip.
His gaze darted to his father, who looked pleased. Maybe the man mistook their banter as acceptance of this farce of a union. He had to admit Isobel was a fine sight. But his father hadn’t seen her dressed as a man wielding a sword as if she had been bred to battle.
“I dinnae want this any more than ye do,” she retorted as she pushed at the stray golden-brown curl which bobbed down from the top of her temple.
“I doubt that.” Rage bubbled up as he studied her eyes and remembered those of his fallen friend.
“Then release me from this match,” she hissed as he caught a whiff of exotic flowers that heated his blood and stirred his loins.
“And start a war with yer clan? I think no’.”
She tried to pull free, but he tightened his grip just as the priest coughed to get their attention.
What felt like hours later, the priest instructed him to kiss his bride as cheers erupted from the room. His body heated as he glanced down into her brown eyes, ones that were now focused intently on him as her lips parted in surrender or shock. He guessed neither of them had remembered this part was coming. He felt drawn in like a ship caught in a strong current.
He dipped his head to do what was required of him, but when their lips touched, he found hers soft and pliant. Isobel inhaled as if she’d been without air for weeks. Her hand grasped onto his arm and her sweet, exotic scent flooded his nostrils. For a brief moment, he wanted to deepen the embrace but a jeer from nearby brought him back. He pulled away.
Then, he was gripping his bride’s long slender fingers as he hauled her down the middle of the chapel, out the door, and to the nearest empty room. As he pushed open the library doors, he was greeted with the familiar scents of stale papers, smoke, and strong spirits, but they did nothing to tamp down the rage that had surfaced at seeing Isobel MacLean’s—no, Isobel MacDonald’s—face. Swinging her around to let go of the viper, he turned and bolted the door.
“Ye will cease yer activities with that group right away.”
“And ye think just because I am forced to wed ye I will do what ye ask.” She was a good four or five inches shorter than him, but she straightened her shoulders, tilted her chin up, and met his stare with no fear.
“Aye. I am yer husband and ye will obey me.”
“I obey no one,” came her curt reply. She stood, hands on hips, feet spread shoulder-width apart, not in the least intimidated by his rage. She should be, because it frightened him that he could be so angry with anyone.
“Ye are now my obligation, and ye will follow my orders.”
She crossed the small space between them to stand right in front of him. The top of her head came up to his nose, but her stare made it appear as if she were looking down at him. The lass didn’t even blink. And while he’d never assaulted a woman, she had no way of knowing what kind of man he was. She must be daft.
“I will do as I please.”
His fingers clasped the fabric on her shoulders, holding firm to make his point. “Dinnae force me to keep ye locked away.” Through the thin material, he felt well-muscled arms, tense and on alert, giving away what she kept hidden. She did have some sense of preservation somewhere in that thick skull of hers. She shuddered then tilted her head higher.
But he was distracted when the pink tip of Isobel’s tongue darted out to wet her lips and she swallowed. A light pounding started in his chest; it got louder, and he realized it was a rapping on the door.
His father called out, “Grant. Ye and yer bride are wanted in the great hall for a toast.”
Closing his lids, he blocked her out for a moment and took a deep breath. He was the MacDonald heir and had a duty. Opening his eyes, his gaze was drawn to the slight curve of her neck. She had glanced away and was scanning the room, probably looking for some means of escape.
Letting his hands slide down her arms, he took one hand and pulled her toward the door. Suddenly he was afraid to let her out of his sight, like she would flee if he didn’t keep a close enough watch on her. At the movement, her focus returned to him and her eyes dilated. He wanted to believe it was with desire, but it might actually be fear, and he wondered if the instinct to run had taken over. “Ye will stay by my side until we can finish this conversation.”
Her gaze darkened as defiance returned, but she didn’t protest when he opened the door and drew her out into the hall, guiding them toward the crowd waiting to see the happy couple.
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