Her Wicked Highlander: A Highland Knights Novella Read online

  As she shivered beside him, Sutherland waxed on and on about the evils of the English and how they’d subjugated the Scots for hundreds of years, how they all deserved to die fiery deaths and suffer in hell for what they’d done. How, once given the strength of the dagger, he would raise the strongest army Scotland had ever seen and defeat the damnable English once and for all.

  A misty dawn had greyed the sky when they arrived at Aila’s cottage hours later. Sutherland parked the cart among the few chickens pecking around her possessions strewn about the front yard. The terrible man had definitely already been here. She clamped her teeth together, her fists clenching and unclenching in front of her, and tried to contain her boiling fury. Max had once told her that her tongue would get her into trouble someday. She’d no interest in proving him right.

  Sutherland jumped off and loped around on long legs to her side, where he untied her from the cart but left her wrists tied together. He grabbed the rope between her wrists and yanked her from the cart. She stumbled, falling to her knees, and gasped as she felt something slice straight through her dress and into her kneecap.

  Sutherland didn’t care. “Stand up, you clumsy bitch,” he grumbled, tugging on the rope. She stood on wobbly legs that hadn’t been given an opportunity to move in hours. A warm stream of blood soaked through her stocking.

  He shoved her toward her cottage door. She stumbled, but this time managed not to fall. “Wait…”

  “What d’you want?”

  “I… must relieve my bladder,” she said, trying to think.

  His lips curled in distaste. “I’ll come with you.”

  “You dinna need to—”

  “I’m not stupid, Aila MacKerrick. You’d best to remember it.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll be keeping you in my sight till I’ve got what I want from you.”

  And then? she wanted to ask. But she remembered Gin and what had happened to her after Sutherland was done with her, and she kept her mouth shut.

  She needed to get away. She knew Max would come as soon as he could, but a terrible thought had begun to fester in her mind during the hours of travel from Beauly Castle. Shouldn’t he have already caught up with them? Sutherland hadn’t seemed to be rushing. What if Sutherland had hurt him?

  If Sutherland wouldn’t let her out of his sight, she’d never be able to slip away. She knew these woods down to the location of every tree and bush, but how could she escape from him if her hands were tied and he kept that blasted gun pointed at her?

  She’d need to incapacitate him somehow. Hurt him.

  She just needed to find the right time.

  He didn’t let go of her all the way to the privy. She used it—awkwardly, given the trussed state of her wrists—staring defiantly at him the whole time. At least let him think she was being honest about needing to go, that she wasn’t buying time to devise a plan of escape.

  She finished, and he grabbed her wrists again, yanking her along with him back to the house. He opened the door to her cottage before pushing her inside. She nearly stumbled yet again, because inside the cottage was utter chaos—clothes and furniture everywhere. A mattress and her pillows had been cut open in the main room, and straw and feathers were strewn across the floor. Dishes and crockery had been thrown from shelves and lay in scattered pieces everywhere.

  Aila choked on a sob. This was her home—it contained all her possessions, everything her parents had spent their lives working for. And this crazy zealot had come in and torn it all to pieces with no regard for any of it.

  “Shut up.” Sutherland glanced around as if seeing the place for the first time, then kicked an iron pan on the floor. “Bloody hell,” he squealed, grimacing in pain.

  She couldn’t hold her tongue a second longer. “That’s your fault,” she snapped.

  Sutherland’s lips curled up in a snarl, and his sandy brows snapped together so there was no space between them. He drew back his hand and slapped her across the face. Her head whipped to the side.

  “You wilna be speaking to me like that, Aila MacKerrick, do you understand? I’m to be your laird, and you’ll be treating me with the respect due your liege lord.”

  What the hell? He was a true and thorough madman.

  Her cheek throbbed, and she tasted blood again—the cut inside her cheek reopening. She battled successfully against the very strong urge to spit at him, but she couldn’t stop the glare she threw in his direction.

  Why hadn’t Max come?

  If she thought too hard on that, she’d despair. She couldn’t think that way. He was all right—he had to be.

  “Come now.” Sutherland grabbed the knot between her wrists and dragged her into the kitchen, where he shoved her into one of the chairs at the old oak table. She thought he might feed them—or at least himself—but he ignored the pantry. Instead, he simply sat across from her.

  “Now, where is it?” he asked, placing his forearms on the table and leaning forward.

  “Where’s what?”

  He gave a long-suffering sigh. “Dinna play the simpleton, woman. The King Richard Dagger. I’ve torn this hovel apart, and ’tis nowhere to be found, but you ken where it is, don’t you?”

  She’d had plenty of time to think about this. The dagger was a family heirloom, and, yes, it was valuable—something she’d always known she could sell if she truly needed the money. She’d never intended to, though, unless something catastrophic happened.

  Like her father, Aila had always felt a special connection to the King Richard Dagger. It was almost a thousand years old, and legend said it had passed from Richard the Lionheart to an Irish mercenary, and then it had mysteriously come to Scotland, eventually landing in the hands of the MacKerrick laird hundreds of years ago.

  The dagger had been passed down, son to son, for generations. Her father had no sons, only her, but that had never seemed to bother him. He had been happy that it would be in her hands someday. He’d only asked her to make him two promises. First, that she’d sell it if she ever truly needed to, and second that if she ever had a son, she’d show him its location and tell him its history before she died.

  Now, it was all she had left of her parents—indeed, of the entire MacKerrick family.

  But she wasn’t stupid. Sutherland would kill for the dagger, and she wouldn’t risk death for it. Her da wouldn’t want her to go that far.

  And yet, once Sutherland had the dagger in his hands, he’d probably kill her anyhow.

  “If I tell you where it is, what’s to stop you from hurting me?”

  His smile was completely false. “If you help me, why would I have reason to hurt you?”

  She leaned forward and lied to his face. “Do you think I dinna wish for an independent Scotland? Well, I do. I dinna care about the dagger—it is nothing to me. An ornament to admire. But if you can bring greatness back to Scotland with its help, then it is all yours.”

  She could tell he was having a difficult time not rubbing his hands together greedily.

  “Where is it?”

  She sat back, staring at him. She loathed every bit of him. Every inch of his pasty face, of his long-limbed body.

  “I’ll be requiring some assurances first.”

  He scowled. “I owe you nothing.”

  “’Tis my dagger,” she pointed out. “It’s been in my family for centuries.”

  “But only for safekeeping. It belongs to the man who is to liberate Scotland.”

  She sighed. “I will tell you where it is—and it isna here, by the way—and you will go retrieve it while I go my own way… in the opposite direction.”

  His lips twisted. “You’ll lie to me. You’ll send me on a fool’s errand, then disappear.”

  There was an edge to his voice, and she sensed the growing rage in him. The crazy fool was quick to anger. She needed to tread carefully.

  “I canna tell you where it is unless you guarantee my safety,” she said quietly.
“I’m sorry.”

  “I’ll let you go when it’s in my hands. I swear it.”

  She shook her head. “How do I ken whether you’re lying?”

  He straightened, growing several inches taller in height. “Do you imply I am a liar?”

  “Nay. But how can I ken it for certain?”

  His lips grew thin. “I am to be your laird, Aila MacKerrick. A laird doesna lie to his beloved people.”

  She considered this, watching him closely. Finally, she shook her head. “Nay. You need to let me go first.”

  He regarded her for a long moment, the look in his dead eyes sending skitters of alarm down her spine. “You’ll be regretting that decision,” he said. Then he reached across the table and grabbed her forearm, so tightly she was sure her bones would snap. She cried out in pain.

  “This is just the beginning.” He leaned forward, pinning her arm to the table and looming over it until his face was mere inches from hers. “Take me to the dagger, woman. I’ll let you go when it’s in my hands, and not a second sooner.”

  She hesitated. He slapped her, and then again, backhanding her. Her face whipped in one direction then the other. The now-familiar taste of blood filled her mouth.

  “Tell me where it is.”

  He backhanded her again. Tears gathered in her eyes. There was no way out of this, no way she could think to ensure he’d let her go.

  She had no choice. “It isna far,” she whispered.

  “Where?” he demanded.

  “I’ll take you to it.”

  He released her arm abruptly. “No tricks.”

  “Nay.”

  “How far?”

  “Just a half mile or so.”

  He rose, the chair scraping against the floor. “Let us go, then.”

  She stood. Suddenly her limbs felt terribly heavy. The dagger was in a place even farther away from her neighbors than her house was. If he struck her down, she’d rot there.

  At least she’d be at her parents’ side.

  She left the house and turned to enter the forest behind it.

  “Wait,” Sutherland said, grabbing her arm again and making her wince in pain.

  He tugged her around the cottage to the cart, where he retrieved some of the rope he’d used to truss her last night. He deftly tied one end of it to her ankle and wrapped the other end around his left hand.

  He unfolded his long body and tugged on the rope experimentally, yanking her leg out from under her. She stumbled, limbs flailing awkwardly, but he released tension in time for her to regain her balance. “In case you decide to run,” he said with a grim smile. He made a gallant gesture toward the forest. “Proceed.”

  She entered the forest, stepping onto the path that led over a hill and then to the far edge of the property. The path was muddy from the recently melted snow, but it was well traveled, for she walked it at least two or three times a week.

  Sutherland remained close beside her, silent. Their breaths made white puffs in the morning air. Aila realized she should be cold—for she was only wearing her dress. But she didn’t feel the cold. She didn’t feel much of anything.

  It took about ten minutes for them to reach the plot at the edge of her land that had been used as a cemetery for the last two generations. Her grandparents were buried here, as were her stillborn sisters. And her parents.

  She walked straight to the grave where her Grandfather MacKerrick had been buried. There was a huge flat sandstone tombstone laid over the grave.

  Dohmnall MacKerrick

  Departed this Life the 26th March, 1792

  In the 62nd Year of His Age

  Above the lettering, the sandstone was carved to look like a dagger in relief atop Dohmnall’s name.

  Aila stared at the stone. Beside her, Sutherland did the same. Then, he groaned. “Dinna tell me you buried it with your ancestors. I’m in no mood to be unearthing corpses this day.”

  “Well, it’s buried, but not with my ancestors.”

  “Where, then?”

  “There.” She pointed at the tombstone—specifically at the dagger carved into the top of it.

  Sutherland sighed irritably. “Dinna toy with me. Explain.”

  “’Tis in the tombstone. The dagger relief—it’s not just a relief. The stone is layered, and the real dagger lies between the layers, beneath the carving.”

  They both gazed at the relief. The blade was long and curving. The hilt was carved in intricate detail, with the contour of a large gem—the ruby—set in its center. Aila’s da had told her that it was carved in the exact likeness of the actual dagger beneath.

  Sutherland scowled. “Do you possess a hammer?”

  “I’ve a mallet and chisel back at the cottage.”

  “You should have thought to bring it,” he said crossly.

  She bit back the retort on her tongue—that she had been too busy thinking about the danger to her life to worry about chipping tools.

  They walked back to the house while Sutherland rattled on about his plans to raise an army in Inverness, and Aila fetched the tools as her stomach growled loudly. She gave a sidelong look at Sutherland, who ignored her clear signs of hunger. It seemed Sutherland didn’t eat—or didn’t much care to. She hadn’t seen him so much as partake of a sip of water. That was probably why he was so rangy and thin—he thought too much about his warped notion of becoming a great Scottish leader and not enough about sustenance.

  They returned to the gravesite. At the edge of Aila’s grandfather’s grave, Sutherland handed her the mallet. “Go ahead, then. Get started.”

  She quirked a brow but took the mallet. It seemed manual labor was beneath her future liege lord.

  “But dinna come near me with it, mind.” He withdrew his pistol and pointed it at her. “In case you’ve thoughts of smashing my head in.”

  Holding the mallet with her two bound hands, she stared at her grandfather’s stone. He had died before she was born, but her father had told her what a good, honorable man he’d been. Her father had carved the tombstone himself, telling Aila about the dagger’s location when she was a wee lass.

  “Sorry, grand-da,” she murmured. Then she aimed the mallet at the sandstone and brought it down as hard as she could.

  Pain radiated through her injured left arm, but the surface of the sandstone crumbled under the blow.

  This might not be so difficult.

  She regretted that initial optimism twenty minutes later when her shoulders were screaming, sweat had begun to run down her temples, and she’d hardly made any progress at all. Her injured arm sparked with pain every time she brought the mallet down.

  She looked imploringly at Sutherland, who sat serenely on the bottom edge of the stone, watching her. “At least untie my hands. I dinna think I’ll be able to finish this otherwise.”

  He considered her for a moment, then nodded. He took the mallet from her, laid down his pistol, and untied her hands.

  She thought frantically of escape. But his legs were twice as long as hers, and he’d catch her for certain… if he didn’t shoot her first.

  Swiping the back of her arm over her forehead, she gripped the mallet handle in her right hand and began to hammer on her grandfather’s tombstone again.

  After another fifteen minutes passed, she landed a blow on the rock, then chipped it away with the chisel, revealing a bit of metal.

  “Dear God in heaven,” Sutherland murmured in disbelief. “There it is.”

  “I told you ’twas there, didn’t I?” she muttered.

  “Continue, continue.” He waved his hand wildly, excitement widening his eyes.

  Almost an hour later, she’d chipped away the stone all around the dagger, revealing it inch by dusty inch. Curved steel blade, untouched by rust. Silver pommel, and the giant ruby, its facets dulled by the dust of the sandstone.

  She reached out to pull it away from the broken stone, but Sutherland stayed her hand.

 
“Nay. I’ll do it.”

  He took the chisel and mallet from her, laid them down out of her reach, then began to retie her hands. She jerked her arms back, but he gripped both her hands firmly in one of his huge ones. The other one reached for his gun. Damn him. “You said you’d be letting me go,” she gritted out.

  “Not yet.” He tied the twine tighter than last time, and it dug into the already sore skin of her wrist.

  He pressed the chisel to the edge of the pommel and tapped it with the mallet. The dagger came free almost immediately, and he tossed the tools away. They landed—far out of reach—over Aila’s mother’s grave.

  On his knees as if praying, Sutherland reached forward, grasping the pommel and lifting the dagger, then holding it up and out before him, a look of such utter bliss on his face, Aila’s stomach roiled in disgust.

  The seconds ticked by, turning into minutes as he stared at his beloved new possession. Aila waited impatiently, but finally she couldn’t stand another second. “Let me go now,” she ordered him.

  He ignored her.

  “Did you hear me? I said, let me go. You agreed to let me go once you held my dagger in your hands. You promised, damn you.”

  He turned to her, his gaze registering her without recognition, as if it were the first time he’d ever laid eyes on her.

  Then he squinted at her. “I agreed to no such thing.”

  “You did!”

  He stroked the blade of the dagger, his blue eyes flat and emotionless. “We’ll go back to your cottage, then.” He pointed the dagger at her. “It’d be poetic justice for the last MacKerrick to die by the blade of the King Richard Dagger, methinks.”

  She stepped back as far as the rope tied to her ankle would allow. “You promised not to hurt me.”

  Shaking his head, he lowered the dagger. “Too bad it hasna been sharpened. It would be an untidy death, and I canna countenance untidiness.”

  They walked back to the cottage, Aila’s mind roiling. There was no way to tell what Sutherland was planning to do to her at her cottage, but she had a terrible feeling it couldn’t be anything good. She had to get away. God knew, though, that she’d kept alert to any opening, any chance to escape, but he hadn’t given her any.