Page 1 of Married to the Cruel Highlander (Unwanted Highland Wives #5)

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“H el—”

The morning sun had barely risen above the bramble when Ersie Barcley could have sworn she heard a cry for help.

She swung her leg over her horse, breath still sharp from her early training session. The sky was silver and soft, and the morning birdsong echoed through the gardens and wooded backdrop.

What was that?

Ersie pressed up on the stirrups to stand above her mare, whispering softly to her, “Did ye hear that, Fanella?”

Both of their heads twisted in the same direction, searching for the person in need. The morning chill nipped her cheeks as their heated breaths clouded the air.

With a dissatisfied grunt, she rested back into the saddle and nudged the mare into a gallop, the hooves thudding against the dew-soaked earth as she rode toward the falls.

The waterfall had always been her haven, where the burdens of legacy, war, and rank dissolved. Her muscles still hummed from the morning sparring session with two of the newer guards, and the bruise on her upper arm throbbed slightly. After the weight of steel, the clash of swords, and the barked orders of drills, the cool rush of water calmed her in a way nothing else could.

She had taken to it while she trained in the MacGordon camp for the recovery benefits and had kept it a habit ever since she became her brother’s second-in-command. The MacGordon lands stretched toward the ocean, and the waterfall ran along the cliffs. It was vastly different from the falls in her homeland, but the Highland falls had almost no rival.

The trees that surrounded the pool created a secret sort of cove, a hidden glen where the rest of the world couldn’t reach her. It was where she could truly breathe freely and felt closest to her mother.

Ersie tied Fanella to a tree near the clearing, brushing her dark braid behind her shoulder. The air was crisp and filled with the buzzing of waking creatures—until an unmistakable scream cleaved through it like a blade.

“Someone help me, please! He’s got me! The Mad One! Help!”

Her instincts flared like a drawn bowstring, and a grin spread across her face.

I kenned it.

A hand flew to the hilt of her sword. Without hesitation, Ersie moved. She darted into the trees, her boots silent against the moss and stone. The stranger’s cries grew louder, more ragged, and more desperate with each bounding step.

The Mad One? Did he say The Mad One?

Ersie burst through a thicket and skidded to a halt.

A man was on his knees, blood trickling from his broken nose, his hands bound behind his back. Another man—taller, broader, cloaked in shadows and quiet menace—stood before him, sharpening a wicked knife on a whetstone.

“Speak or die in silence,” the larger man said, his voice deep enough to make the earth shudder.

“It was what he told us,” the other man whimpered.

“Who?” the larger man asked, his blade pressing deeper into the man’s throat.

“Red Hugh!”

Ersie’s feet were rooted to the spot. Her breath caught mid-chest.

Red Hugh and the Mad One. What is he on about? Shite ? —

The larger man’s head twisted almost imperceptibly, and her hair stood on end—he knew she was there.

She stepped into the clearing, tossing back her hood and letting her braid fall loose. Let him see who he was dealing with.

The Mad One turned. Those eyes landed on her like a brand, raking her from boot to brow. The weight of his stare almost made her shift her stance. Almost.

He was massive.

Towering.

Bigger than any soldier she’d ever fought beside or against. His long dark hair brushed his broad shoulders, the ends curled slightly from damp or sweat. His face was carved from granite—stoic, unflinching. And his eyes—emerald, glinting cold fire—held no softness, no doubt.

He was handsome. Damned if he wasn’t. Handsome in a way that hit her square in the gut.

Not that she gave a damn about looks. Alright, maybe just a little.

The Mad Laird hadn’t yet said a word. He just watched her.

Of course, she knew who he was. Not from meeting him, but from his reputation—and, of course, the rumors.

Keith Dunn, Laird MacAuley. The man who had once, in a fit of grief and fury, executed his entire inner circle in the wake of his son’s murder. His rage had known no bounds, they said. He had become a legend in shadow, his ruthlessness branded into stories mothers told their weans to keep them from misbehaving.

But seeing him in the flesh…

Nothing about him screamed madness. No lunacy. No wild-eyed frenzy.

He was composed. Cold. Impossibly menacing.

“Help! Sir, dinnae let the Mad One kill me!” the bleeding man sobbed, his voice cracking.

Sir…

Ersie snorted under her breath.

Typical.

“What did he do to ye?” she demanded.

His eyes landed on her like a blade pressed just shy of skin. A warning. A test.

“None of yer business. Leave, lass.”

“Please, dinnae leave me here to die!” the man wailed again.

In all of her training, especially in dealing with hostages, Ersie knew that a guilty man was more desperate to live than an innocent one. It always seemed to hold true—something about men .

Silence followed the innocent. Silence and compliance. This man, beaten and bloodied, was certainly guilty of something. But of what, Ersie was most curious to find out.

Her grip tightened on her sword. “I cannae let a seemingly unarmed man die on land that I’ve sworn to protect. Nae without an explanation.”

The Mad One sighed—it was a low, deliberate sound of annoyance. He didn’t speak. He moved .

One moment he was standing by the kneeling man, the next he was in front of her. He grabbed her blade with one bare hand.

“What the?—!”

He pulled.

Her feet scrambled for balance as he dragged her forward by her own blade, which inconveniently slipped from her grasp. The man’s blood trickled down the metal, droplets falling to the forest floor, but he didn’t so much as flinch as he dropped the blade between them.

“I dinnae wish to kill ye, lassie, but I certainly will if I have to.”

It wasn’t a boast.

It was a promise.

A treacherous thrill shot through her. Danger. Real danger. She’d flirted with it before, danced along its edges during battle, but this was different. This was a man who would follow through on his threat. A man whose soul whispered violence. And still… her body didn’t back down. Her jaw closed the distance between their faces.

“Ye’d have to beat me in order to do that,” she said. The words left her lips cool and even.

There was a flicker—a shadow of a smile, maybe. A twitch in the corner of his mouth that made her heart skip a beat. Then, nothing. Blank slate once again.

“Ye have a death wish, lass?” he asked, his deep gravelly voice curling over her skin like smoke. “Or are ye just daft enough to think ye could best me?”

Ersie didn’t flinch. She was used to men underestimating her. “I dinnae need to best ye. I just needed to stop ye.”

He leaned in close enough that she could feel the heat of him, and his dark scent—mixed leather and steel—drew her in.

“Stop me from what? Doin’ what needs to be done?”

“Looks more like blind vengeance than justice to me.”

His eyes flicked over her face. “And what would ye ken about either?”

“More than ye think,” she said, her jaw firm.

He tilted his head. “A lass playin’ soldier, throwin’ blades about, and thinkin’ herself a savior. Amusin’, truly.”

Ersie closed the distance between them, her chest brushing his. “And a man who hides behind his reputation, lettin’ fear do all the talkin’ for him. I expected more from the Mad One .” Her tone was bold as she held his impossible stare.

Her challenge gave him pause. She’d struck something, though she wasn’t sure what exactly.

“I dinnae hide, lass,” he said, his voice quiet now. “The reputation was earned .”

The last word closed around her neck in a vice-like grip. Her skin pebbled traitorously, and a breath escaped her before she clamped her teeth down on her lip—an act that was in no way missed by this dark stranger.

They stood too close, heat blooming between them. Her sword lay useless at their feet, her breathing shallow, and her heart slamming against her ribs.

She watched the sinews of muscle in his neck twist under his skin deliciously as he tilted his head to glance down, his eyes tracing the collar of her tunic. “Ye’re nae a lad. Why are ye dressed as one, then?”

“I prefer war. Skirts get in the way.”

The kneeling man shifted in the periphery of their vision as if to run. The Mad One didn’t even look. His boot shot out, catching the man square in the gut and sending him sprawling with a winded grunt.

As if knowing exactly what would happen, the Mad One then stepped away from Ersie and hovered over the writhing man, his blade pressed into the man’s side, point buried just past the skin.

Ersie dropped to the ground and snatched up her sword, repositioning near them for a more advantageous angle of attack.

“Dinnae even think about it,” the Mad One hissed, pressing the blade further into the man’s side, eliciting a whimper, but his eyes landed on her once more.

“Me?” Ersie inquired, but she already knew his answer.

The Mad One’s darkening features confirmed it.

Aye, me.

“He’s obviously talking to me , woman,” the kneeling man spat out.

“Apparently nae, man ,” Ersie retorted quickly, continuing to move into position.

“Stay still,” the Mad One growled.

The man whimpered but didn’t move again.

The dark stranger turned back to face Ersie. “Still think I’m mad?”

She tilted her head as she watched him assess her movements. “I dinnae think ye are mad. I think ye are dangerous. And I’d like to ken why ye are prowling MacAitken land, threatening folk on their knees.”

His eyes narrowed. “That’s a question a commander might ask. Nae a passing rider in pants.”

“Maybe I’m both,” she said coolly. “Or maybe I just dinnae like seein’ folk bleed without reason.”

“Folk like him?” He jerked his head toward the man behind them. “He deserves far worse.”

“Does he now?” Ersie’s voice sharpened. “And who decided that? Ye?”

The Mad One gave her a look so sharp that it pinned her in place. “I judge those who prey on the weak. The ones who hide behind fine words and lies. This one—he mocks those who have experienced the darkness of loss.”

Ersie flinched—just slightly—but he saw it.

Images flashed across her mind. Her mother’s face and the fire that took her. Her father abandoning them. Ciaran and his wife, Laura, and their joy as they announced her pregnancy. Her nephew, Fraser. The night she had almost lost them all too.

“Ach, another comrade of pain,” he observed, his voice much quieter.

Her eyes flickered, but her jaw tensed, and she remained silent.

What gave me away?

He answered her unasked question anyway, using his blade to point at her. “It’s the way ye stand, lass. Ye carry yerself like someone with ghosts.”

“Most folk these days have ghosts. I’m nae special.”

“So, what does a ghost-ridden warrior do on a morning like this? Ye arenae on patrol. Ye are alone .”

I am alone.

She had told no one about going to the waterfall by design. There were several quiet hours between training and when she was needed again. Several hours.

“Swimming,” was all she managed to say.

He huffed. “Do ye always chase screams when ye… swim?”

“Only when the scream sounds like a plea for rescue.”

“Careful.” He pointed his blade at her mouth. “That tongue of yers might get ye in trouble.”

“Trouble? With whom? With ye ?” Her question was accompanied by a laugh that she hadn’t been able to control.

The guilty man used her loud laughter and the distraction of their conversation to disappear into the shadows of the forest.

The Mad One’s eyes flashed, following Ersie’s gaze as it tracked the fleeing man’s movements. He moved to go after him, but for reasons not fully known to her, Ersie stepped into his path.

“Let him go. He was unarmed.”

He stared at her. Silent. Calculating. Inches away.

Ersie switched the blade to her other hand, a move that caught him off guard, and yet a hint of amusement flickered in his eyes.

“Ye are right,” he said simply, his irises dancing.

She blinked. “I am? Aye. About what?”

His hand shot out again.

In one swift motion, he yanked her blade clean from her grip and dropped it on the ground between them. The sound of metal against stone rang through the trees.

“I dinnae need some pathetic nobody,” he declared, his voice a low rumble, “when I have ye .”

Ersie’s stomach flipped. Not from fear, because she strangely felt safe from any real danger.

No, her stomach flipped because of something else entirely. Something completely foreign to her.

What?

She narrowed her eyes in challenge.

Neither of them spoke.

Ersie found herself fighting a very stupid urge to reach for her blade again, just to feel something solid between them.

But she didn’t.

She didn’t because she wanted to hear what came next.

Because she wanted to know why her heart was racing.

And why, against all reason, she was still standing there, hoping he’d speak again.

And Christ help her… hoping he wouldn’t walk away.