Claimed by the Highland Warrior. Michelle Willingham
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Chapter One
Ballaloch, Scotland—1305
Bram MacKinloch couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten or slept. The numbness consumed him, and all he could do now was keep going. He’d been imprisoned in the darkness for so many years, he’d forgotten what the sun felt like upon his skin. It blinded him, forcing him to keep his gaze fixed upon the ground.
God’s bones, he couldn’t even remember how long he’d been running. Exhaustion had blotted away the visions until he didn’t know how many English soldiers were pursuing him or where they were now. He’d stayed clear of the valley, keeping to the hills and the fir trees that would hide him from view.
His clothing and hair were soaked, after he’d swum through a river to mask his scent from the dogs.
Had there been dogs? He couldn’t remember anymore. Shadows blurred his mind, until he didn’t know reality from the nightmares.
Keep going, he ordered himself. Don’t stop. Not now.
His footing slipped as he crossed the top of the hill and he stumbled to the ground. Before he rose, he listened hard for the sound of his pursuers.
Nothing. Silence stretched across the Highlands, with only the sound of birds and insects breaking the stillness. He grabbed at the grass, using it to regain his balance. After he stood, he turned in a slow circle in all directions. From the top of the hill, he could see no one. Only the vast expanse of craggy green mountains and the clouded sky above him.
Freedom.
He drank in the sight, savouring the open air and the land that he’d missed these past seven years. Though he was far from home, these mountains were known to him, like old friends.
Bram steadied his breathing, taking a moment to rest. He should have been grateful that he’d broken free of his prison, but guilt held him captive now. His brother Callum was still locked away in that godforsaken place.
Let him be alive, Bram prayed. Let it not be too late. If he had to sell his own soul, he’d get Callum out. Especially after the price he’d paid for his own freedom.
He started moving west, towards Ballaloch. If he kept up his pace, it was possible to reach the fortress within the hour. He hadn’t been there in years, not since he was sixteen. The MacPhersons would grant him shelter, but would they remember or even recognise him?
Cold emptiness filled him, and he rubbed at his scarred wrists. The days without any rest had taken their toll, causing his hands to shake. What he wouldn’t give for a dreamless night, one where his mind no longer tormented him.
But one dream held steady, of the woman he’d thought about each night over the past seven years.
Nairna.
Despite the nightmares of his imprisonment, he’d kept her image fixed in his mind. Her green eyes, the brown hair that fell to her waist. The way she’d smiled at him, as if he were the only man she’d ever wanted.
A restless sense of regret pulled at him, as he wondered what had happened to her over the years. Had she grown to hate him? Or had she forgotten him? She would be different now. Changed, like he was.
After so many years lost, he didn’t expect her to feel anything towards him. And though he’d never wanted to leave her behind, Fate had dragged him down another path.
He reached to finger the edge of his tunic, touching the familiar stone that he’d kept hidden within a seam. Over the years, he’d nearly worn the small stone flat. Nairna had given him the token on the night he’d left to fight against the English. So many times, he’d clenched the stone during his imprisonment, as if he could reach out to her.
Her image had kept him from falling into madness, like an angel holding him back from hellfire. She’d given him a reason to live. A reason to fight.
Regret lowered his spirits, for it was unrealistic to imagine that she’d waited for him. After seven years, likely she would have put their memories in the past.
Unless she still loved him.
The thought was a thread of hope, one that kept him moving forwards. He was close to the MacPherson stronghold now and could take shelter with them for the night.
He imagined holding Nairna in his arms, breathing in the soft scent of her skin. Tasting her lips and forcing back the painful memories. He could lose himself in her and none of the past would matter.
As he crossed down into the valley, he saw Ballaloch, nestled between the hills like a gleaming pearl. Bram sat down on the grass, staring at the stronghold.
And then, behind him, he heard the sound of horses.
He struggled to his feet, his heart pounding. When he glanced behind him, he saw the glint of chainmail armour and soldiers.
No. The thought was a vicious command to himself. He couldn’t let himself be taken captive. Not again. Not after so many years of being a slave.
He tore down the hillside, his legs shaking. But his weak body betrayed him, his knees surrendering as he fell to the ground.
The stronghold was right there. Right within his reach.
Anguish ripped through him as he fought to rise, to make his legs move.
But even when he managed to run, they overtook him with their horses, dragging him up. Gloved hands took him by the shoulders, and as he fought, they dropped a hood over his head, blinding him.
Then they struck him down, and all fell into darkness.
‘Something’s wrong, Jenny,’ Nairna MacPherson muttered to her maid, staring out her window into the inner bailey. Four horsemen had arrived through the barbican gate, their leader dressed in chainmail armour and a conical helm. ‘English soldiers are here, but I don’t know why.’
‘Probably Harkirk’s men, come to demand more silver from your father,’ Jenny answered, closing the trunk. ‘But don’t be fretting. It’s his worry, not yours.’
Nairna turned away from the window, her mind stewing. ‘He shouldn’t have to bribe them. It’s not right.’
Robert Fitzroy, the English Baron of Harkirk, had set up his garrison west of her father’s fortress, a year after the Scottish defeat at Falkirk. There were hundreds of English outposts all across the Highlands and more emerging every year.
Her father had given them both his allegiance and his coins, simply to safeguard his people from attack.
Bloodsucking leeches. It had to stop.
‘I’m going to see why they’re here.’ She started to move towards the door, but Jenny stepped in her way.
The old woman’s brown eyes softened with sympathy. ‘We’re going back home this day, Nairna. I don’t think you’re wanting to start a disagreement with Hamish before ye return.’
The arrow of disapproval struck its intended target. Her shoulders lowered, and she wished there were something she could do to help her father. They were bleeding him dry, and she loathed the thought of what he’d done for his clan’s safety.
But Ballaloch was no longer her home. Neither was Callendon, though she’d lived there for the past four years while she’d been married to the chief of the MacDonnell clan.
Iver was dead now. And though she’d had a comfortable life with him, it had been an empty marriage. Nothing at all like the love she’d known before.
A tendril of grief slipped within her heart for the man she’d lost, so many years ago. Bram MacKinloch’s death had broken her apart, and no man could ever replace him.
Now, she was mistress of nothing and mother of no