Kidnapped by a Rogue, kindle Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  BOOKS BY MARGARET MALLORY

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  EPILOGUE

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  MAP

  Dear Reader

  BOOKLIST

  EXCERPT: CAPTURED BY A LAIRD

  EXCERPT: THE GUARDIAN

  EXCERPT : KNIGHT OF DESIRE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT: ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Kidnapped by a Rogue copyright ©2018 by Margaret Mallory

  Excerpt from Captured by a Laird copyright ©2014 by Margaret Mallory

  Excerpt from The Guardian copyright ©2011 by Peggy L. Brown

  Excerpt from Knight of Desire copyright ©2009 by Peggy L. Brown

  Cover Design © Carrie Divine/Seductive DesignsPhotos: © Period Images Photo: © justdd/Depositphotos.com

  Photo: © NeonShot/Depositphotos.com Image: Celtic Brooch © depositphotos/andreyuu

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, contact: [email protected].

  BOOKS BY MARGARET MALLORY

  THE DOUGLAS LEGACY

  Captured by a Laird

  Claimed by a Highlander

  Kidnapped by a Rogue

  THE RETURN OF THE HIGHLANDERS

  The Guardian

  The Sinner

  The Warrior

  The Chieftain

  The Gift: A Highland Novella

  ALL THE KING’S MEN

  Knight of Desire

  Knight of Pleasure

  Knight of Passion

  PROLOGUE

  Drumlanrig Castle

  The Lowlands of Scotland

  1522

  Margaret’s husband, the 7th Baron of Drumlanrig, stormed into the bedchamber, banging the door against the wall, even before the maid had time to change the bloody sheets.

  “You failed again, you useless woman!” He leaned over the bed and shouted in her face, “Have­ you and your family not made me suffer enough already?”

  Margaret curled into a ball and covered her ears. Another miscarriage. Another lost babe. Her heart could not bear it.

  “For God’s sake, stop your damned weeping,” he said. “I’m speaking to you.”

  Could he not show her some mercy for once and leave her alone?

  “Nay, you’re worse than useless!” William continued his ranting as he paced back and forth beside the bed. “You’re a rope around my neck tying me to your traitorous family.”

  “Please, laird, your lady wife must rest,” the elderly maid spoke up. “She’s lost too much blood this time.”

  The poor woman’s attempt to intervene earned her a shove from William that landed her on the floor. Margaret tried to get up to help her, but she was too weak to rise from the bed. Frightening the elderly servant appeared to calm William for the moment, and he sauntered over to the side table to pour himself a whisky.

  “I was the envy of every man in Scotland when we wed. A rare beauty, they called you,” William said, raising his cup to her in mock tribute. “But what good is a beautiful wife if she’s a cold fish in bed and too weak to bear an heir?”

  Margaret made no effort to placate and soothe him as she usually did. She was too lost in grief to care what William said.

  “Of course, it wasn’t your looks that made ye such a dazzling marriage prize,” he said. “’Twas that your brother was Archibald Douglas, Earl of Angus, the sly devil who wheedled his way into our widowed queen’s bed and persuaded the lovesick cow to wed him.”

  Why was William droning on about this now? Did he feel no sorrow for the child they’d lost?

  “Your brother outmaneuvered all the other powerful magnates by becoming the stepfather of the infant heir to the Scottish throne.” William held his clenched fist inches from her face. “He had it in his grasp to rule Scotland.”

  His sour breath in her face made her uneasy stomach turn. When she tried to roll away, William pinned her arms.

  “Not one of the men who envied me would have ye now.” William’s voice was low and dangerous. “You’re nothing now that the men of your family have been charged with treason and fled to France.”

  “William, please…” She suspected she was still bleeding, judging by the growing dampness beneath her, and she just wanted him to leave.

  “In truth,” he said, nodding to himself, “’tis a blessing ye lost the child.”

  A fresh flood of tears streaked down the sides of her face. A blessing? How could he say that? For the sake of a peaceful home, she had made excuses for his behavior and forgiven him time and again, but this was too much.

  “Since there will be no child, I’m free to be rid of ye,” he said. “Even if it costs me a damned fortune in bribes, I’ll obtain an annulment from Rome.”

  A cold sweat broke out on her brow, and she felt so lightheaded she could barely follow what he was saying.

  “I’ll not risk losing my lands and title for a barren woman and her treasonous brothers.” He grasped her shoulders and shook her. “Do ye hear me? I want you out!”

  She fell back on the bed when he released her. Her head swam, and her fingers had gone numb.

  “Get her out of here,” he told the maid as he headed for the door.

  At last, he was leaving.

  “Of course, laird,” the maid said. “I’ll prepare another chamber for her right away.”

  “Nay, I want that woman gone from the castle,” William shouted. “Gone! Tonight!”

  “But Lady Margaret ought not be moved,” the maid said.

  “I’ll not allow her to endanger me another day,” he said. “Nay, not another hour.”

  “But laird,” the maid said in a hushed voice, “I fear she may not survive a journey.”

  “That would save me a good deal of trouble and expense,” he said before slamming the door behind him.

  A short time later, Margaret had the odd sensation of looking down at herself from a great distance. There she was, Lady Margaret Douglas, sister-in-law to the queen, leaving Drumlanrig Castle in the midst of a howling storm in the back of an open horse cart that smelled of hay. Her sole guard was Old Thomas, the stable master.

  Her mind drifted back to the day she arrived at the castle as a young bride, full of hope and dreams and
accompanied by two dozen warriors and several carts that carried her trunks.

  How far she and her mighty family had fallen. Not that it mattered.

  She slept in fits and starts, waking when the cart hit a bump that jostled her head against the bare boards of the cart. The wind and rain slashed at her face, but the cold seemed to come from deep inside her.

  Margaret had no notion how much time passed, whether it was days or hours, when she awoke to find Old Thomas peering down at her with a worried expression on his wrinkled face.

  “Ye must hold on, lass,” he said. “Blackadder Castle isn’t much farther. You’ll see Lady Alison soon.”

  Alison. Margaret smiled at the thought of her sister, but she could not muster the strength to speak.

  “Your sister will nurse ye back to health,” he said as he tucked the rough, wet blanket around her. “You’ll be safe at Blackadder Castle under her husband’s protection.”

  Safe from what? The worst had already happened. She had lost another babe.

  The next time she awoke, it was to the painful tingling of warmth creeping into her hands and feet.

  “Blankets! And more peat on the brazier, now! God have mercy, she’s so cold.”

  She heard her sister Alison giving instructions and people scurrying about the room.

  “Her gown is bloody,” Alison said. “Why did ye travel with her in this condition?”

  The voices faded, and Margaret’s mind drifted again until her sister squeezed her hand.

  “May William burn in everlasting hell,” Alison said. “I wish I could send him there myself.”

  When Margaret felt Alison’s tears falling on her hand, she forced her eyes open.

  “She’s awake, praise God!” Alison cried out.

  “I lost the babe,” she told her sister, her voice coming out in a whispered croak. “I wanted it so much.”

  All she had ever wanted were the ordinary things most women had. A home, a husband, children. Children most of all.

  “I’m so sorry, sweetling,” Alison said.

  “I’m glad I made it here to you,” Margaret said. “I didn’t want to die alone.”

  “You’re not going to die,” Alison said. “Ye must fight, Margaret.”

  It would be a relief to let go and join her lost babes.

  “I know what it is like to despair, to feel so beaten down ye lose hope.” Alison brushed Margaret’s hair back from her forehead as their mother used to. “One day, everything will be better. I promise.”

  How could it? She would never have the life she wanted. And she was so very tired…

  “Don’t let that whining, selfish, cowardly, poor excuse for a man take you from us,” Alison pleaded. “You mustn’t let him defeat you.”

  Margaret forced her eyes open again. It pained her to see her dear sister so distressed. She wished she could comfort her.

  “Now that you’re free of him, you’ve everything to live for,” Alison said with tears streaming down her face. “Do ye hear me, Margaret? You’re free of him!”

  Freedom seemed a poor substitute for her lost dreams.

  But it was all she had.

  CHAPTER 1

  Girnigoe Castle, Caithness

  The Scottish Highlands

  November 1524

  The Orkney men sailed right into Sinclair Bay, the brazen bastards, and tossed Finn over the side of the ship within sight of the Sinclair clan stronghold, Girnigoe Castle. Finn broke to the surface gasping and struggled to stand in the heavy surf.

  Laughing, the men on the boat tossed the bag containing the head of the Sinclair chieftain into the sea after him. As Finn lunged for it, a wave crashed over his head and slammed him against the rocks on his wounded leg. Still, he managed to catch the bag before it hit the water.

  “A' phlàigh oirbh!” A plague on you! Finn shouted and raised his fist at the Orkney men as they sailed off.

  He staggered onto the beach, then sat down to catch his breath and consider his future.

  “What would you advise, uncle?” Finn said, turning to the bloodstained bag beside him, which contained the head of his great-uncle on his mother’s side. “Will your son kill the messenger?”

  The other warriors who sailed across the strait to retake Orkney were all dead, either slaughtered on land or drowned at sea. Finn had only been spared to deliver the chieftain’s head to his family.

  He looked up at the imposing Girnigoe Castle on the cliff above him and considered the wisdom of completing that task. His Sinclair relations were a suspicious and violent lot, even by Highland standards. And George Sinclair, the dead chieftain’s son and heir, was the worst of them.

  What the hell. Finn was desperate for a drink, so he picked up the bloody bag and started for the castle. As he climbed up the steep bluff from the beach, dragging his injured leg, he reflected on lost causes—the dead chieftain’s and his own.

  The Sinclair chiefs had been the Earls of Orkney until the king of Norway gave the Orkney Islands to Scotland in the marriage contract between his daughter and the Scottish king. As part of that royal exchange, the Sinclairs were forced to trade their rich lands on Orkney for Caithness, a region with vast expanses of infertile moors in the northeast corner of Scotland, a few miles by sea from their former home.

  Though this occurred over fifty years ago, the Sinclairs had long memories, and the loss of Orkney still rankled. When the Sinclair chieftain decided to defy the Scottish king and fight to retake Orkney, his pride outweighed his common sense.

  The same could be said of Finn.

  He winced when a shot of pain ran up his leg like a hot blade, as if he needed a reminder of the consequences of his error in judgment. He had no obligation to fight for the Sinclair chieftain. Though Sinclair blood ran through his veins, it came from his mother’s side.

  Nay, he was lured to fight for his Sinclair kin by a foolish desire, a desire he did not even realize he harbored until his mother’s uncle dangled it in front of him: lands of his own if they won the battle.

  The guards at the outer gate were surly, as usual. The Sinclairs were wild and ruthless fighters, but sorely lacking in humor. Though Finn was a close kin of their chieftain, his father was a Gordon, which made Finn a Gordon and a member of an enemy clan. Marriages like his parents’, which were intended to ease the tension between the two powerful clans, had only made things worse.

  The guards sent word of his arrival ahead and let him pass through the gate into the west barbican. From there he crossed the first drawbridge, passed under the iron portcullis of the second gate, and crossed the courtyard with the guest hall and lodgings.

  Finally, he reached the sliding drawbridge. They would take him over a moat to the main part of the castle, which was built atop a long, narrow outcropping of rock that extended into the sea. It contained the tower, additional lodgings, the chapel, bakehouse, and other essential buildings surrounded by a perimeter wall.

  Finn paused to take in the sheer cliffs that fell to the sea beneath the wall. If the new Sinclair chieftain decided to make him a prisoner here at Girnigoe Castle, he’d have a hell of a time getting out.

  By the time Finn was escorted into the great hall to give his accounting of the battle to the chieftain’s family, he was unsteady on his feet from loss of blood. He was starving as well since his Orkney captors had not seen fit to feed him in the three days since the fighting. Though he was trailing blood, he did not expect the Sinclairs to ask him to sit, and they didn’t.

  The Viking blood was strong in these Sinclairs. George and his three sons were all well over six feet and looked like men who preferred to slice their meat with axes and eat it raw. Though George was nearing fifty, he was the most dangerous and least predictable of the family—except perhaps for his daughter.

  Barbara, who was George’s eldest at thirty-two, was considered a handsome woman. Like her brothers, she was tall and looked as if she could hold her own in a fight. When their eyes met, Finn had a vivid memory of ten-year-old B
arbara watching him with those same cold gray eyes while she strangled his puppy. He had seen many men die in the years since. And yet the memory of that pup’s death when he was a lad of five stuck with him like a burr.

  The dead chieftain’s wife, Mary, a petite, gray-haired woman, entered the hall then, and the weight of the bag suddenly felt heavier. She was both the reason he had climbed the hill to the castle to deliver the news instead of walking off and the reason he’d dreaded coming. Mary was a Sutherland, so Finn was somehow related to her as well, and he’d always been fond of her.

  Finding her in this family was like finding a kitten in the midst of a wolf pack.

  “Where is my husband and the others…” Mary’s voice faded as her gaze took in the state Finn was in and then fixed on the bloody bag. Her low moan tore at his heart.

  Though it was not his place, when no one else offered any comfort to the widow, Finn limped to her side and rested a hand on her shoulder.

  “Thank you for bringing us something to bury,” she said, looking up at him with watery eyes.

  She was the only Sinclair to shed a tear. George had been waiting a good twenty years for his father to die and did not bother hiding his satisfaction. With a flick of his hand, he motioned for one of his men to take the bag away, then he nodded for Finn to speak.

  Though Finn was itching to be done with this task and leave, he took his time telling the tale of the battle, as was expected. He spoke at length of the courage and fighting skills of the Sinclairs who had fallen, though in truth they had suffered a thoroughly humiliating defeat.

  “The witch prophesied that whoever’s blood was drawn first—Orkney or Sinclair—would lose the battle,” George said when Finn finished. “Did my father fail to heed her warning?”

  Finn had hoped they would not ask him about that.

  “We came across a young lad herding sheep soon after we landed,” he said. “Your father ordered him killed.”

  The murder of that innocent lad was the worst part of the whole damned ordeal. Finn knew then he’d made a grave mistake. If he’d had his own boat, he would have turned around right then.