Page 3 of The Highlander’s Iron Hold (Kilted Kisses #4)

CHAPTER THREE

" L et me go, ye bloody savages! Ye dare tae take the daughter of Laird Alistair MacDuff, bride to Laird Colin Armstrong! I demand ye put me down this instant!"

The furious voice cut through the Highland air like a blade through silk—sharp, defiant, and speaking words that made Colin Armstrong's blood run cold. He pulled his destrier to a halt, his hand instinctively moving to his sword hilt as the meaning of those words hit him.

Bloody hell. Morag MacDuff. Me betrothed who should be on her way tae me castle right now. Someone was carrying her off.

Choosing solitude to clear his mind, Colin Armstrong had been riding the border patrol alone, checking the outer reaches of his lands for signs of Fraser incursions when that voice reached him through the trees.

The very lass he was meant to marry on the morrow was being kidnapped on the border of Armstrong lands in the small stretch of land owned by Fraser.

Colin's jaw tightened as fury swept through him like wildfire. He knew Fraser had been planning raids on Armstrong cattle, but to think that the bastard was also planning to steal his bride as well was unspeakable.

He urged his horse forward through the trees, moving as silently as his destrier's training would allow.

Through the undergrowth, he could see them now.

Three men in rough leathers, and between them, a slight figure with dark blonde hair that had come loose from its pins.

Her hands and feet were bound, but even trussed like a prisoner, she fought them every step.

"Put. Her. Down." Colin's voice rang through the clearing like the toll of a funeral bell.

The three men spun toward him, hands flying to their weapons, but they moved too slowly.

Colin was already among them, his destrier's hooves striking sparks from stone as the great horse wheeled and turned.

His sword took the first man across the chest before he could clear his blade from its sheath.

The second lunged with a dirk, but Colin's longer reach served him well. Steel met steel with a ringing clash that echoed through the trees, and then the man was falling backward with a look of surprise frozen on his face.

The third one, who'd been reaching for the lass, managed to draw his sword but never got the chance to use it. Colin's blade found the gap in his leather jerkin, sliding between ribs with the practiced ease of a man who'd been killing for a long time.

Silence fell over the clearing, broken only by the sound of his horse's breathing. Colin wiped his blade clean and sheathed it before turning to the woman on the ground. She was staring at him with wide blue eyes, her face pale beneath a streak of dried blood on her forehead.

"Saints preserve us," came Morag's breathless whisper. "Who are ye?"

He chose to ignore the question, and instead knelt beside her, his dirk making quick work of the ropes binding her wrists and ankles. The hemp fell away to reveal angry red marks where the bonds had bitten into her skin.

"Are ye hurt, lass?"

"I'm... I'll be fine," she managed, her voice steadier than he'd expected. She rubbed at her wrists, wincing slightly. "Thank ye."

But under her breathe, Colin caught the whispered words. "Cursed lands... Ma was right about this place being made of steel and sorrow..."

Colin kept his expression neutral. Clearly, his bride-to-be had already formed opinions about Armstrong territory. He extended his arm toward her, firming his grip when she swayed slightly on her feet.

"Here, lass. Take me arm—ye've had a shock."

But instead of accepting his offer, Morag took a sharp step backward, her eyes darting between him and the bodies of her captors.

"I... I thank ye fer yer help, sir, but I can manage on me own." Her voice was carefully controlled, but he caught the tremor beneath the words. "I need tae find me escorts and poor Isla."

Without warning, she bolted.

Colin watched her run with growing irritation. The lass sprinted through the trees like a deer fleeing wolves, her torn skirts hampering her stride but not slowing her determination.

So this was the biddable daughter Alistair MacDuff had praised so highly?

The sweet, gentle lass who would make an ideal wife for securing their alliance?

Her father had spoken of Morag's intelligence, her loyalty, her numerous skills which he would not speak about in details, and her potential for household management.

He'd failed to mention she was as stubborn as a Highland bull and twice as likely to bolt at the first sign of trouble.

Colin's jaw tightened as he watched her weave between the trees, clearly trying to find the road. Did the foolish chit think she could simply cover the distance between here and MacDuff lands on foot? With night falling and Fraser lurking at every territory border?

"Bloody hell, MacDuff, what manner of wife did ye send me?" he muttered, swinging up onto his destrier. The last thing he needed was to spend his evening chasing his own bride through the forest like some lovesick fool.

He caught up to her easily, the great horse's stride covering ground far faster than her desperate flight. When she finally burst through the tree line onto the road, she stopped so abruptly she nearly fell.

The carnage spread before them told its story in blood and splintered wood. Where her fine MacDuff carriage had stood, only broken wheels and scattered belongings remained. Dark stains painted the ground in patterns that spoke of violence and death.

"Me guards," she whispered, swaying on her feet, one hand pressed to her mouth.

"They're dead," Colin said from horseback, his voice cold as steel. "All of them."

For a long moment she stood frozen, staring at the remnants of her escort.

Colin found himself studying his bride's profile.

She had the look of the Highlands about her—the kind of beauty that came from wind and weather and clean mountain air.

Not soft, like the court ladies he'd met in his travels, but something strong.

Something that could survive and thrive in hard situations.

She spun toward him, but whatever she was going to say froze on her lips.

He watched the way she observed him instead, taking in his size, lingering on his hands to study the callous surface and scarred skin before her eyes finally returned back to his face.

Whatever she saw in his face made her pale, and take a step backward.

"Who are ye?" she demanded, some of the old fire back in her voice.

This Highland lass with her tangled hair and fierce blue eyes, who'd just survived Fraser raiders, stood before him bloodied but unbroken, demanding to know who he was, and possessiveness stirred in his chest.

"I'm the man who just saved ye from certain death, or a worse fate, at the hands of Fraser scum," he growled, his voice rough as granite. "I'm Colin Armstrong, and ye, troublesome as ye are, belong tae me."

His tone brooked no argument, no further flight, and no more of her Highland wildness. This was the voice that commanded armies and whose reputation alone bent clans to his will. The voice of the Iron Laird.

To his astonishment, Morag didn't flinch. She stood still, continuing to look into his eyes.

Good. Look at me, lass and ken I am nae a laird tae play with.

When she finally spoke, her eyes remained fixed on him, but her voice had turned hollow.

"I appreciate yer assistance, me laird. But as ye can see, our arrangement is nay longer suitable. If ye could perhaps point me toward... toward..." She faltered. When she looked up, her eyes were pleading. "Can ye help me get back tae me home, or at least as far as MacDuff borders?"

"Nay. Ye're bound for Armstrong Castle tae be me bride and so it will be," he barked finally.

"Now, lass. Ye have two choices. We can wait for another carriage to be sent, which I will nae advise as more Fraser men can appear any moment or.

.." He gestured toward his destrier. "Ye can ride with me, and I'll take ye back tae the castle directly. "

Colin watched the play of emotions across her face—shock, grief, and beneath it all, a growing awareness of her precarious situation. She was alone in hostile territory with a man she'd just met, her protectors dead, her transport destroyed. Any sensible woman would be terrified.

But Morag MacDuff, he was beginning to realize, was not like any sensible woman.

"So," he said, keeping his voice neutral, "what would ye like tae dae?

I can come back tae the castle with a carriage, though it would mean waiting here until morning.

Or..." He gestured toward his destrier, who stood calm as stone despite the scent of blood in the air.

"Ye can ride with me, and I'll take ye tae Armstrong Castle directly. "

Her blue eyes widened, and a flush crept up her neck. "Ride with ye? Together? On the same horse?"

"Aye."

"But... would that nae be... improper?" She worried her lower lip between her teeth. "I mean, we're nae yet... and people might think..."

Colin nearly smiled at her sudden concern for propriety. This from the lass who'd been cursing like a soldier and planning to bolt through Fraser-infested woods not five minutes ago.

"Lass," he said dryly, "given that ye've just survived an attack by Fraser raiders and yer escort is dead, I think people will be more concerned with yer safety than with the proprieties of how ye reached me castle. And, ye are me betrothed."

She stared at him for a long moment.

"Besides," he added, "it's dark. These woods are dangerous enough in daylight, and Fraser may have more men about looking tae finish what the others started. The sooner we're behind castle walls, the better."

That decided her. Whatever reservations she had about riding with a stranger, even if he'd just saved her life, were clearly outweighed by the prospect of spending a night in hostile territory.