CLAIMED BY A HIGHLANDER (THE DOUGLAS LEGACY Book 2) 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

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  EPILOGUE

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  Thank You

  BOOKLIST

  EXCERPT: CAPTURED BY A LAIRD

  Excerpt: THE GUARDIAN

  Excerpt : KNIGHT OF DESIRE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  CLAIMED BY A HIGHLANDER copyright © 2016 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 © Seductive Designs

  Image: Couple © Period Images

  Image: Landscape © Shutterstock/Kanuman

  Image: Landscape © Shutterstock/Targn Pleiades

  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 (coming)

  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

  Edinburgh, Scotland

  December 1513

  Rory MacKenzie wiped the icy rain from his face and limped into yet another tavern. His injured leg was throbbing, his belly was empty, and he had no money, but these were not the worst of his problems.

  He waited for his eyes to adjust to the murky light, then swept his gaze over the occupants. Damn. No one but a serving woman and some old men who had the settled look of regular customers. Hunching over to avoid banging his head on the blackened wooden beams of the low ceiling, he crossed the room. Out of habit, he chose an empty bench where he could sit with his back to the wall and watch the door. He gritted his teeth against a hot blade of pain that shot through his leg as he eased himself onto the bench, then took a couple of slow, deep breaths.

  “Good evening to ye,” he said, speaking in Scots to the old men, who were local merchants, judging by their soft bellies and Lowlander clothes. “I’m a MacKenzie, and I’m hoping to find some of my clansmen in the city.”

  “Haven’t seen any lately,” one of the men said around the pipe clenched between his teeth, and the others shook their heads.

  Rory doubted these men could tell a MacKenzie from another Highlander, but he had already looked all over the city with no luck. He knew most of the taverns where his clansmen were likely to gather from the year he had been forced to study at the university.

  What in the hell was he going to do? He had walked for days just to get as far as Edinburgh. He needed to get home to Kintail to protect his brother.

  “Looks as if you’ve had a rough time of it, lad,” the man with the pipe said.

  “The English took me captive after Flodden,” Rory said, his thoughts skittering back to the disastrous battle. The English had kept the highborn prisoners for ransom and killed the rest. “I escaped a few days ago.”

  Rory had known better than to wait for his uncle to pay for his release.

  “Escaped?” One of the old men gave a low whistle. “Tell us your tale, and I’ll buy ye a cup of ale.”

  Rory had the full attention of everyone in the tavern now, including the serving maid, a woman of impressive size with strands of greasy hair falling out of her filthy head covering.

  “Add a bowl of stew,” he said with a grin, “and I’ll give ye a story that will curl your hair.”

  “Just looking at him is making my hair curl,” the serving woman said to the others. She gave Rory a broad wink and a nudge when she brought his stew and ale. “I like my men young.”

  Rory did not bother embellishing his tale, as would be expected at home. These old merchants had never fought themselves, so they were wide-eyed at the bare truth. They cringed and made faces when he mentioned the number of lashes he received after being caught the first time he tried to escape. A whipping was a small matter, but the damned English had taken his horse and all his weapons—his claymore, axe, and several dirks.

  “I need a horse and a blade to go home,” he said, presenting his problem to the old men. The journey would take too long on foot, and only a fool would travel in the Highlands without a weapon, and preferably several.

  “Ye can’t buy those with a tale or your good looks,” one of the old men said, and the others guffawed.

  Rory had considered stealing a horse, but the city was on edge in the wake of Flodden, fearing an attack by the English, and armed men were everywhere. He could not take the risk of getting caught and failing to get home.

  “I’m good at cards.” He had done little else while held hostage. “Do ye know of a game where I’d have a chance of winning that kind of money?”

  “Enough to buy a horse and a sword?” a baldheaded man with red cheeks asked in a high voice.

  Everyone laughed, except for the man with the pipe, who said, “Mattie, aren’t those fancy-dressed nobles having one of their games in your back room tonight?”

  “Hush!” She swatted the man with a filthy rag. “They give me good money to guarantee them privacy and clean lasses, and they don’t like to mix with us lowly folk.”

  “I’m a Highland chieftain’s son, so I’m as good as any of these Lowland nobles.” Better, in fact. When the woman still hesitated, Rory spread his arms out and g
ave her his best smile. “Come, Mattie, help a lad out.”

  “What woman could say nay to that pretty face?” she said. “All right, ye young devil.”

  Pretty face? Ach. Now he just needed something to start the game with. “If one of ye will lend me a silver coin, I’ll return it doubled.”

  When his request was met by another round of guffaws, desperation clawed at his gut. He never should have left his brother Brian this long. When he answered the king’s call to fight, Rory had not anticipated being held prisoner for two months after the battle.

  He reminded himself that his half-brother was sixteen, same as he was, and should be able to take care of himself. Although Rory was six months younger than Brian, he’d always felt older. Brian was too goodhearted. He didn’t see people for what they were, but as he wanted them to be. That was dangerous for any man, but especially for one who would soon take on the duties of clan chieftain.

  Rory was reconsidering stealing a horse when the serving maid plopped down next to him with a heavy thump and wrapped an arm as beefy as a blacksmith’s around his neck.

  “I’ll lend ye a bit of money for the game,” she said, her sour breath in his face. With her free hand, she reached inside her bodice, pulled a silver coin from between her ample breasts, and held it up between her thumb and forefinger.

  “Isn’t that the coin I gave ye, Mattie?” the red-cheeked man complained.

  “Believe me, lads,” she said, turning to the others, “I earned it.”

  “Ye won’t regret this,” Rory said over the men’s laughter. But when he tried to take the coin, she held it just out of his reach.

  “Promise, on your mother’s grave, that if ye can’t repay me in coin”—Mattie paused and grinned at him, showing her brown and broken teeth—“you’ll repay me in a manner of my choosing.”

  Rory’s stomach clutched. In addition to her many unappealing attributes, Mattie probably was not clean of the pox, like the lasses she provided the men in the back room. But he could not shake the feeling that his brother was in trouble, so he had no choice.

  “On my mother’s grave.” He jumped when Mattie reached behind him and squeezed his arse with her ham-sized hand. He closed his eyes briefly and thanked God that none of his clansmen were here to see it.

  Ignoring the throbbing in his leg, he got up and followed Mattie behind a curtain into a dark corridor. At the far end, candlelight spilled through a partially closed door.

  “Have a care, handsome. These are powerful men,” Mattie whispered as they paused outside the door. Then she poked his chest. “You’ll be no use to me dead.”

  Holding his breath against her overpowering smell, Rory leaned closer to see the men inside. There were five, all young and well-dressed, sitting around a table with cards and small piles of coins.

  “Who are they?” he asked in a whisper.

  “That one is the new Douglas chieftain, and the one next to him is his brother,” she said, pointing a thick finger at two black-haired men, neither of which looked much over twenty. “Their father was killed with the king at Flodden, and their grandfather, old Bell the Cat, died last week, making young Archibald here the earl.”

  Rory had never met Archibald Douglas, but he had once caught a glimpse of the beautiful Douglas sisters riding through Edinburgh. He smiled to himself, remembering a giggling young lass with flashing blue eyes and hair as black as a moonless night.

  “They say this young Douglas chieftain is ‘comforting’ our grieving queen,” Mattie said, drawing Rory’s attention back to the present. “I believe the other men at the table are Boyds and Drummonds, close kin of the Douglases.”

  Archibald Douglas must have heard her speak this time, for he shifted his gaze to the doorway and called out, “Who’ve ye brought us, Mattie?”

  Rory stepped into the room with no notion of how this night would change his fate.

  CHAPTER 1

  March 1522

  Kilspindie Castle,

  Twenty miles from Edinburgh

  Sybil set her sketch aside and covered her face with her freezing hands. She wished someone would come and spirit her far away, out of the queen’s reach. She was furious with her brothers for abandoning her. After sending reassurances for months and ordering her to wait for them here at her uncle’s castle, they and her uncle had escaped to France, leaving the rest of them to the queen’s mercy. As if that spiteful woman had any.

  A shadow fell over her. How did James find me out here? She had not left the warmth of her uncle’s hall to sit under this tree on the frozen ground because she wanted company. Particularly his.

  “I thought ye left, James,” she said, still keeping her hands over her eyes. “I told ye I won’t do it, so go.”

  When she did not hear James walk away, Sybil was tempted to kick him. Exasperated, she dropped her hands—and sucked in her breath.

  A huge Highland warrior stood over her. Her heart thumped wildly as she dragged her gaze from his giant sword, the tip of which rested mere inches from her foot, to the dirks and axe tucked in his belt, and then to his broad, muscular chest. She had not yet reached his face when he spoke in a deep voice that seemed to make the ground vibrate beneath her.

  “My name is MacKenzie,” he said. “I’ve come for ye.”

  Come for her? Sweat prickled under her arms. The queen had found her.

  “I’ve done nothing wrong,” she said. “What are the charges against me?”

  The Highlander merely grunted and held out his hand. She ignored it and forced herself to raise her gaze to his face. Despite the fierce green eyes that were locked on her like a wild cat who has found his prey, the wholly irrelevant thought that he was exceedingly handsome sprang into her head. He was young, with strong, masculine features, and she knew ladies at court who would kill to have that shade of auburn hair.

  “We must go,” he said, which jarred her attention back to the danger she was in.

  “Do I not merit a full escort?” she asked, attempting to put on a brave front. No matter how formidable this MacKenzie was, it was odd that the queen would send a lone man to fetch her.

  “’Tis easier to escape notice if we travel alone,” he said.

  Her jaw dropped. “Escape?”

  “Aye,” he said. “We must hurry, lass.”

  “I thought everyone had deserted us.” Tears sprang to her eyes. So many had called her friend just a few weeks ago.

  “Not everyone has,” he said, still holding out his hand.

  She was tempted to pick up her skirts and run away with this stranger, but she had learned as a young girl not to be so trusting.

  “Did James send you?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at the tall Highlander.

  “Who the hell is James?”

  She waved off the question. “Just tell me who sent you.”

  “No one sent me,” he said, sounding insulted. Then he dropped to one knee, and she received the full benefit of his face up close. He was dangerously handsome.

  “Who are you?” Her voice came out in a whisper.

  “Your husband, Rory Ian Fraser MacKenzie,” he said. “I’ve come to claim ye.”

  Alas, this Highlander had not come for her after all. “A damned shame,” she murmured to herself.

  “That’s foul language for a lady,” he snapped. “And whether ye like it or no, we have a marriage contract.”

  Since couples sometimes did not meet until their wedding, Sybil was not shocked that the Highlander did not know his bride by sight. She was sorely tempted not to reveal that he had the wrong lass until they were miles away. But when he learned the truth, he’d probably dump her by the side of the road.

  “I fear you’ve made a mistake,” she told him.

  “Most certainly,” he said in a clipped tone. “But I’m obligated all the same. A MacKenzie does not go back on his word.”

  “That is refreshing in a man,” she said. “But what I meant is that I’m not who ye think I am.”

  ***

>   What in the hell was he doing here? He should have torn the marriage contract to pieces long ago. He was only, what, sixteen when he signed it? Scottish kings renounced commitments they made in their minority all the time, so why shouldn’t he?

  Rory’s gaze drifted over the lass again. Ach, but she was bonny. From the moment he first spied her sitting under the tree, he had known it was his her, and she had taken his breath away. But then she had covered her lovely face, and he took in the jeweled fingers, delicate slippers, and rich velvet cloak. The last thing he needed was a Lowland court creature for a wife.

  No doubt the Douglas chieftain had regretted making the agreement even more than he had. Many times over the last eight years Rory had planned to make the long journey to the Douglas lands to advise Archibald that he was willing to set their agreement aside. But somehow the time had never seemed right. He had finally come to settle the matter because he needed to free himself to wed.

  And now, he could not. Damn it. This threw off all his plans.

  If only he had acted sooner. When he reached Stirling, Rory heard the news of the Douglases’ fall from grace and knew he had lost his chance. He could not desert the lass now that the men of her family had been charged with treason and fled the country.

  “Perhaps I can help,” she said, interrupting his sour thoughts. “Who is the lass you’re looking for?”

  It annoyed him that his betrothed found it so difficult to believe he had come for her. Clearly, she thought him unworthy.

  “My contracted bride is Lady Sybil Douglas,” he said, drawing her name out, “granddaughter of the famed Douglas, Bell the Cat, and sister of the present chieftain and earl, Archibald Douglas, who is also the widowed queen’s husband.”

  When she stared at him with wide eyes the color of violets, Rory’s heart seized in his chest. Their vivid color contrasted with her midnight-black hair, ivory skin, and full red lips.

  “You’re even prettier than before.” He never spoke without meaning to, and yet the words tumbled out of his mouth without passing through his head.

  “I’m certain we’ve never met,” she said in an arch tone.

  They had not met, but he had seen her once a long time ago riding through Edinburgh with her sisters. She was not that young girl anymore. Rory tried and failed to keep his gaze from drifting to her lush breasts and the round curve of her hips. She was a woman who could fill a man’s hands. The kind he liked.