Page 2 of Taken by the Ruthless Highlander (Taken by Highland Devils #6)

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G oosebumps rose all over Morgana’s skin as her thoughts lingered on the stranger.

He was ruggedly handsome, despite his icy facade. And the longer she thought about it, the more resemblance she spotted. His nose was slightly hooked, just as his father’s had been. But his almond-shaped eyes gave a sort of kindness to his glare that made Morgana wonder just what sort of man he truly was.

“Morgana, ye must listen to me very carefully,” Cohen said, his voice snapping her out of the whirlwind of her thoughts.

She exhaled sharply as he pulled her into the shadows. Her heart pounded as their hushed whispers echoed like thunder through the empty corridor.

“Ye must keep yer wits about ye. But most importantly, plead yer case to him.”

“I dinnae understand. Who is this Ryder?”

“He’s the Laird’s estranged son,” Cohen answered as he leaned closer.

Morgana watched as his eyes roamed over her, checking for any injuries that he couldn’t see before. She grabbed his hands, trying to catch his eye.

“Judgin’ from the way everyone responded to him, I take it he’s nae liked,” she noted, hoping to pry some information out of him.

The panic was evident on his brow as beads of sweat glistened under the flickering torchlight.

“I willnae pretend to ken anythin’ about the man,” Cohen murmured. He craned his neck to watch for movement in the hallway.

Morgana resisted the urge to laugh at the gesture. His paranoia was almost comical, considering they’d hear someone coming well before seeing them.

“He was cast out well before I became his faither’s man-at-arms. But there are rumors.”

“There are always rumors,” Morgana pointed out as she stepped out of the shadows and continued down the hallway. “Am I nae livin’ proof of that? Half the council wants to see me dead, thinkin’ I killed the Laird. The other half are too old to care.”

Cohen chuckled as he fell into step beside her. “Ye might be right about that last bit. But from what I’ve heard about him, he’s far crueler than his faither.”

“How can I believe that, when he just spared my life?” Morgana scoffed as the corridor opened into the foyer.

Cohen gave her a warning look as a soft, sad melody drifted through the castle.

Her chest tightened. The music consoled the weary soul, but she could not ignore the reason for such a melancholy.

“Listen to me,” Cohen hissed, drawing her attention. “Ye cannae trust him. What have I told ye from the moment ye stepped foot in this castle?”

“People always have a motive for doin’ what they do,” Morgana answered in a hushed tone.

Nodding his head, Cohen glanced around, checking for any prying eyes or ears.

“The new Laird must have a purpose for keepin’ ye alive. Nae that I’m nae grateful—I am. But ye have to assume that he’ll just as likely kill ye himself,” Cohen whispered as his eyes scanned the foyer. “Here.”

“What is this?” Morgana gasped as a sharp blade flashed before her eyes. Panic shot through her as she pushed away the weapon.

“For yer protection,” Cohen insisted. “I cannae in good conscience allow ye to be alone and unarmed with that man for even one minute.”

“Ye saw his size,” Morgana said. “What is that blade goin’ to do to him? Scratch him?”

“At least ye’ll have somethin’ to use against him, should he turn out less than a gentleman. Please, if for nay other reason than to amuse me.”

“And what of my family? They’re still in the dungeons. They dinnae ken what’s happened so far.”

“There’s nay reason to tell them, nae until after yer meetin’ with the Laird. Remember, he has the final say in whether ye live or die.” Cohen paused as he plucked a strand of her hair and studied it in the soft light of the foyer.

Morgana arched an eyebrow, keeping her eyes on him.

Cohen rolled his shoulders back and dropped the strand.

“Whatever transpires, please ken that I dinnae hold ye guilty. Ye did everythin’ ye could to keep me out of harm’s way, and I thank ye for it,” Morgana offered, flashing him a pitiful smile as she took the dirk from his hand.

The blade was heavier than she had expected, and although it was as cool as rocks in the river, it felt like a hot chunk of coal.

“Come,” Cohen urged as he led her to the hallway to the left of the grand staircase.

With each step, Morgana’s heart raced. She didn’t know what she was about to step into, and she found herself grateful for the small weapon tucked in her pocket.

What exactly she was going to do with it, she wasn’t sure. The blade was far too small to do any real damage. But she could use it to escape.

“Here,” Cohen said, stopping before a large ornate door. Morgana gasped at the intricate carvings of hounds and hills. “Dinnae touch anythin’. I’ll wait for ye under the steps.”

“And if I dinnae come out?” she asked as she stared at the swirling grooves in the dark wood. “Promise ye’ll take care of my sisters.”

“I’ll make sure that yer family is cared for,” Cohen promised as he reached for the knob and turned it.

As the door opened slowly, the old hinges let out a loud moan that reverberated ominously through Morgana’s body.

“Thank ye.”

“Dinnae thank me yet. Come out alive, and then ye can sing my praises. But this is where I must leave ye,” Cohen said, just as the sound of booted steps echoed through the hallway, alerting them of another’s presence.

Morgana swallowed thickly and stepped into the dimly lit study.

The air was musky as dust floated over the orange glow of the dying embers. Morgana wrapped her arms around herself to stave off the icy chill. Glancing at the pile of wood near the hearth, she threw a log over the embers and watched as the ashes swirled in a whirlwind.

She stepped back and watched as the embers kindled the bark of the log. Eventually, the flames rose in the grate, licking and devouring the wood, radiating heat that singed her face and eased the biting chill in the air.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the shadows shift. She jumped, her hands clutching at her chest as if she’d be able to hold in her frantically beating heart.

Intense brown eyes bored into her from the portrait hanging over the door. The late Laird McKenzie glared at her as if he, too, blamed her for his death.

“Imbeciles. The lot of them.”

Morgana whipped her head around. Her eyes widened as the same rugged stranger that saved her from certain death stormed into the study. She followed him with her eyes as he made a beeline for his desk.

The glow from the fire glanced off a glass decanter, casting a small rainbow over the wood. It was such an unexpected, marvelous sight. In the dreariness of the study, a spark of hope flashed before her very eyes.

“Laird McKenzie,” a soft voice spoke, pulling Morgana out of her stupor.

“Aye, ye can put it over there,” the stranger grumbled.

Morgana caught the maid’s eye. The girl’s round face reminded her of her twin sisters, Poppy and Eloise.

Would she ever see them again? Where was the courage and determination she had when facing the gallows? How was it that she couldn’t muster an ounce when she needed it now?

“Leave,” the Laird barked, causing the maid to freeze and nearly drop the bowl. It clattered as she placed it clumsily on the table, the water in it almost sloshing over the rim. From her expression alone, it could have been acid or poison.

“Aye, Laird McKenzie,” the maid mumbled and darted out of the room.

The panic on her face and the hastiness of her steps reflected Morgana’s nerves. She swallowed hard as she watched the ruggedly handsome man glance over his shoulder to steal a glance at her. His gaze was direct and intimidating.

Whatever excuse Morgana had thought up grew wings and abandoned her faster than the servant exiting the room.

“Laird McKenzie,” she uttered, lowering to the floor in her best curtsy.

“Enough. Am I a saint or a king? Nay, nothin’ but the Laird of this steamin’ mess,” he huffed and leaned against his desk.

He folded his arms over his chest, as if they were logs on the river, rolling over one another in the turbulent current.

Morgana’s gaze fell to the floor as fear seeped into her very bones. There was no doubt in her mind that the council had explained why she was to hang. Her defense was weak, according to their ruling. So surely this was nothing more than a mere reprieve, a means of torture before she was executed.

“Nay, but forgive me if I’m a bit confused. Why spare my life? Surely ye’ve been told why I was out there,” she said, fiddling with her fingers.

Every nerve in her body tingled. She felt as if she were walking along a sharp cliff; one wrong move and she’d fall into the abyss below.

The Laird arched a suspicious eyebrow as he pushed off the desk. His presence seemed to fill the room as he stalked toward her.

Morgana wanted to flee, to try and escape, but where could she go that he couldn’t reach? The weight of Cohen’s blade in her pocket was reassuring, in a way.

Her mind skipped and danced through one scenario after another. She wondered whether she’d even have the guts to pull out the blade if the Laird attacked her. It was bad enough that she had been blamed for his father’s death, but to actually do it…

She didn’t think she had it in her.

“Step into the light,” the Laird ordered as he moved to the table where the maid had placed the bowl.

Morgana swallowed hard and did as she was commanded. There was no point in fighting. She was going to be killed one way or another. Perhaps the Laird enjoyed doing the deed with his bare hands.

Whether I die by the noose or his hand, I still die.

“Laird McKenzie.” She closed her eyes, accepting her fate. “For what it is worth, I didnae kill yer faither. I found him on that balcony—the life had already left his eyes.”

“I dinnae care.” His voice rattled her.

She hadn’t expected him to be so close. But there was no way she was going to open her eyes, not if he intended to draw his sword and run her through. She’d rather die without seeing it.

“How can ye say such a thing? The man was yer faither, was he nae?”

“Aye, but what does that matter when the man was a monster?” he grunted.

The malice in his tone shattered Morgana’s resolve. She opened her eyes to study him.

Was he seriously unaffected by the murder of his father?

It broke her heart to wonder what horrors he must have been through. After all, what sort of father would banish his son? And what sort of relationship breeds such hatred that one would be gleeful at their parent’s passing?

Morgana’s heart ached as her thoughts drifted to her family. What would they think once she was gone? Would they blame her for their woes? Surely, they’d mourn for her.

“What are ye doin’?” she asked as she noticed the Laird squeezing the excess water from a rag.

“Ye should get yerself cleaned up,” he answered.

Morgana froze as he placed the cool cloth on her neck. The warning Cohen gave her seemed to be as hollow as the old Birch tree near the loch by her parents’ home.

“Why, if all ye’re goin’ to do is kill me?” she asked as she tossed the rag back into the bowl.

The Laird pressed his lips into a tight line and shook his head. “The way I see it, ye have three options. One, I’ll allow ye to stay here in the castle as my faither’s widow. Although, after hearin’ the council, that wouldnae be very wise. Ye’ve made enemies here, more than I ever did, so there’s that.”

“I swear I didnae kill anyone.”

“Oh, I believe ye, lass. Ye’re the size of a flea. There’s nay way someone like ye could have killed my faither. Which brings me to point number two. I’ll allow ye to go. Ye can pack yer things and never step foot on these lands again.”

“And what of my family? My braithers and sister are in the dungeons as we speak. What of them? Will ye banish them as well?” Morgana asked, trying to keep her voice from trembling.

“They’ll be permitted to stay here, under my protection. But ye’ll never be able to see them again,” the Laird answered.

Morgana turned to face the fire. The choices were too overwhelming.

Sure, she could stay there as the former Laird’s widow, but for how long? She’d have to watch her back every minute of every day. How was that a dignified life?

But she’d be able to see her family. She’d be able to at least protect them until someone killed her.

Chewing on her lower lip, she mulled over the second option. An icy finger trailed down her spine as she thought of being banished. Never stepping foot on Scottish soil again was a harsh punishment, but more so knowing that she’d never see her brothers or sisters again. She’d be out there alone, and what would stop her enemies from coming after her?

“Ye mentioned a third option,” she blurted, trying to push aside every scenario that involved her saying goodbye to her family.

“We marry.”

“What?” Morgana gasped.

“From where I stand, it’s the only way to keep ye safe. The council wants ye dead. They’re lookin’ for justice, vengeance, or maybe just blood—I really dinnae care. But they want me to marry and carry on the legacy,” the Laird explained as he moved to his desk. “I can keep ye safe here, under my protection as my wife.”

“That still doesnae answer my question. Why would ye do this? Ye dinnae ken me. I have never heard about ye, and ye want me to be yer wife? Ye do ken that I married yer faither.”

“And the night ye were supposed to consummate yer marriage, ye found him dead, is that right? So, there was nay consummation, which means ye’re free by law and rites to marry.”

“There is a mournin’ period to honor.”

The Laird’s eyes narrowed on her. “And do ye?”

“What?”

“Grieve for the man ye married? Have ye actually mourned for him?” he asked, studying her intently.

“I barely ken the man,” Morgana mumbled.

“See, there were nay feelings between ye and him,” the Laird said, jerking his head toward the portrait. “Then what’s the problem?”

“What will ye get out of this arrangement?” Morgana asked.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “Let’s just say that kennin’ that they’ll never get what they want is one satisfaction. The pleasure I’ll get in watchin’ them bow to ye as their lady will be the icin’ on the cake. So, what say ye?”

“Is that seriously yer idea of a weddin’ proposal?” Morgana scoffed, feeling a bit put out by the whole arrangement.

But what choice did she have? If she wanted to stay with her family without having to worry about her safety, being the lady of the clan was her only option.

“Is this yer way of agreein’?”

Morgana pursed her lips, racking her brain for an escape. But the Laird had backed her into a corner. Her breath hitched as the tension mounted.

“FIRE!”

The scream pierced the tension, drawing her attention to the door.

“Did ye hear that?” she whispered, wondering if she was perhaps hearing things.

The sharp cry echoed through the corridors, bouncing off the walls like a bullet aimed directly at her.

“Aye,” the Laird said as the scream came once again.

“FIRE!”