Taming a Wild Scot: A Claimed by the Highlander Novel

PRAISE FOR
TAMING A WILD SCOT

“Get ready for a rich, exciting new voice in Scottish historical romance! Rowan Keats captures all the passion and heart of the Highlands as she expertly weaves a wonderful tale of passion, intrigue, and love that you won’t want to put down. I’m already looking forward to the next book in what is sure to be a must-read series.”

—Monica McCarty,
New York Times
Bestselling Author of
The Hunter

SIGNET ECLIPSE

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First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library,

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Copyright © Rowan Keats, 2013

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ISBN 978-1-101-59114-7

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Seeing this book
in print is a dream come true for me. I grew up reading medieval romances, especially those of Kathleen Woodiwiss, Iris Johansen, and Julie Garwood, and hoped one day I’d tell my own romantic tales of days gone by. I’d like to extend my deepest thanks to my editor, Kerry Donovan, for giving me the opportunity to bring this story and these characters to life.

I’d also like to thank my family—in particular my daughter, Taylor—for the buckets of love and support. I couldn’t have done it without you. Really.

Lochurkie Castle
Aberdee
nshire, Scotland
November 1285

T
he foul-smelling guard trundled off to bed, taking the last torch in the windowless dungeon with him. Darkness poured into the room, swallowing every feeble mote of light. Losing sight of the desperate claw marks left in the dirt wall by her predecessors should have been a blessing. Instead, a mild sense of panic rose in Ana’s chest. The narrow space around her closed in, and the air grew thick and difficult to breathe.

Dear God.
She did not want to die in this dark hole, completely forgotten.

Yet that ending was a certainty.

Barely able to move in the confines of the primitive oubliette, she laid her forehead on the damp dirt that encircled her body, resting her tired neck muscles. Two days without water and food had weakened her. Her legs trembled with fatigue, her tongue was as dry as old leather, and her heart beat a quick, shallow pace in her chest. Some of her grief could be attributed to her location—the agonizing ache in her knees and the gritty taste of dirt in her mouth, for example—but mostly, her malaises were due to the lack of water.

Her jailers didn’t expect her to live much past the third day—indeed, they’d bet on it. Some unlucky souls endured the oubliette for as long as five, but Ana was slim of build. Her belly had long since ceased to cramp with hunger and now rolled with a vague sense of nausea. The urge to pee hadn’t nagged her in hours. She could feel the skin on her face thinning, the bones of her cheeks and jaws becoming more prominent. As a healer, she knew the signs of approaching death. It wouldn’t be much longer.

Had she been in better health before the trial, perhaps she would have lasted another day, but tending to the earl of Lochurkie for eighteen straight hours before his death had taken a toll.

She grimaced.

Calling it a trial gave the proceeding far more legitimacy than it deserved. Anyone who’d ever had a pail of milk go sour or culled a poor harvest from a field had brought witness against her. Every wound she had healed over the past year, every life she had saved, had been forgotten.
A purveyor of evil magic
, her accusers had cried.
In league with the banshees
, some said.
Witch.

Of course, the most damning evidence had come at the hands of the earl’s sister, Isabail. The woman’s concise description of how her brother had fallen ill shortly after consuming a tisane brewed by Ana had sealed her fate. The whisper in the room after that was
poison
. An assessment Ana agreed with—but she was not the poisoner.

She fisted her hands. Killing someone was the very opposite of her calling.

Exhausted by even that wee movement, she sagged against the wall, her bruised and swollen knees absorbing her weight. Protesting her innocence had gotten her nowhere. She’d been sentenced to death by pit or gallows. No one had sided with her, not even those few she considered her friends. She was going to die alone in this godforsaken hole.

Tears stung her eyes, but she willed them away.

Losing body fluids would only bring the end on faster.

Oddly, even though the end was inevitable and excruciating pain shot through her body at every turn, she wanted to postpone her last moment as long as possible. Despite everything that had happened to her, she desperately wanted to live. Even for a few minutes longer.

When she died, this thin branch of the Bisset bloodline would die, too.

And with it would go the campfire dream.

Her mother—a healer like herself—had met her Maker almost ten years past, and her father—a traveling merchant—had dropped dead at the helm of his caravan wagon last winter. But for as long as Ana could remember, their evening ritual had included a detailing of the home they’d someday possess. A real home, not a bedroll in the back of a wagon. A thatch-roofed house nestled in a deep glen, next to a winding burn . . . with a fieldstone hearth and a large garden bursting with fresh herbs.

Ana closed her eyes. A home might only ever be a dream, but she could’ve planted a garden.

A rattle of heavy iron chain and a low groan echoed through the cavern.

The only other occupant of the dungeon was a large, badly beaten man chained to the far wall of the room above. The guards had called him MacCurran, but no one in Lochurkie carried that name. He was a stranger. A stranger who was receiving regular food and water.

She tried not to resent that, but failed.

Beatings could be endured; a lack of water could not.

Another sound broke the silence of the night—a muffled grunt. It was accompanied by the slide of a leather boot on the dirt floor.

Ana opened her eyes and peered up at the mouth of the hole. Sure enough, the flickering gleam of a torch brightened the roof above her head. Someone was visiting MacCurran. At this hour? After the guard had gone to bed? A very odd occurrence.

“Hallo?” she called out. Her mouth was so dry all she managed was a croak, so she licked her lips and tried again. “Hallo?”

A terse exchange of whispers took place somewhere out of sight, then nothing.

No one responded to her call.

Chain links clinked, then fell to the packed dirt floor with a thump. More scuffled footsteps and another moan from the prisoner, this one louder. The glow of the torchlight dimmed, moving slowly but steadily away. The visitors were leaving. The thick pitch of midnight would soon clog her throat again.

A prideless plea spilled from Ana’s lips, driven by raw desperation.

“Please, don’t go.”

The circle of light on the ceiling continued to slip away.

“Please.”

The torchlight paused. Another harsh exchange of murmurs took place, ending with a short, final order. Then the circle of light grew larger. And larger and brighter still. They were coming back. Her bottom lip aquiver with gratitude, she shielded her eyes from the glare and waited to see a human face.

A hooded figure leaned over the mouth of the oubliette. A man, judging by the imposing height and broad shoulders. His face was hidden in shadow, the color of his brat lost in the murk. He stood over her for a moment, as if considering what to do, then threw down a rope.

“Tie it about your waist.”

It was a voice that brooked no refusal. Smooth and smoky like whisky, but edged with steel.

She stared at the dangling rope. Escaping her fate had not been her aim—all she had hoped for was a glimpse of another person and a brief dialogue before death claimed her. But this man was offering her freedom. A chance at a future.
Life.

Even as weak as she was, how could she not leap at it?

She grasped the rough braid of hemp and quickly pulled the rope around her waist. Tying the knot was more of a challenge—her fingers were stiff and uncooperative, and her unbound hair kept getting in the way. But after a few stumbling tries and a grunt of disapproval from her savior, she managed to get the rope knotted.

“’Tis done.”

He didn’t answer, just set the torch in a bracket on the wall and began tugging her up through the hole with surprising gentleness. Sadly, his care did little to ease the journey. As her legs stretched out and blood flowed freely once more, every inch of her skin burst into flame and a thousand tiny knives sliced into her flesh. A scream rose up her throat, but she contained it with a fierce clamp of her teeth on her bottom lip.

When she neared the top, he grabbed her arm and lifted her over the edge.

Lying facedown on the dirt floor, Ana experienced a wicked bout of nausea. Desperate not to vomit, she flung out a hand, grabbed his sleeve, and used his solid body to sit up. As weak as she was, she likely wouldn’t have achieved her objective had her savior not put his strength behind her.

“Gently now,” he said. With a firm hand at her back, he bit the cork stopper from his oilskin pouch and put the bag to her lips. He allowed a trickle of water to flow into her mouth. The cold, wet taste was heaven, and she swallowed eagerly.

The trickle wasn’t enough. Her dry, cracked lips clamored for more. But he was right to curb the flow—if she drank too quickly, it would make her ill. The slow pace of drips entering her mouth was still a heavenly reprieve. Closing her eyes, she savored each one. Her tongue felt less like a batt of cotton with each glorious drop.

She was still desperately thirsty when he put the stopper back in the bag, but she said nothing. How could she begrudge his help in any way?

“To your feet now.” His hands slid under her arms and, in one effortless movement, he hauled her upright. Sharp pain stabbed the soles of her feet, and she whimpered. She held her own for a moment, thighs trembling, and then her knees buckled.

“The pain will ease the more you move,” he said as she collapsed against his warm, steadfast chest.

“Niall!”

Her savior tossed a glance over his shoulder. “Aye?”

“We’re ready. The kitchen gillies will rise soon to start the baking. Let’s have at it.”

He turned to her once more, his long, straight nose the only feature she could properly see. The rest of his face was obscured by the hood, leaving only a vague suggestion of grim lips and a square chin. “Not one sound further, or all this will be for naught.”

Fear that she would fail him swamped her. Her aching body howled for rest and food. But she nodded.

He looped her arm around his neck, tucked her close to his side, and set off. The torch was left behind, a lone beacon in the darkness.

Ana stumbled alongside him, barely able to place one foot in front of the other. Were it not for his support, she’d not have made it three paces. His arm was strong and warm, and he lifted her with every step he took, even up the slime-coated stone stairs. The sharp pains in her legs obscured the occasional tug on her hair as they moved. They made surprisingly good time to the postern gate of Lochurkie Castle.

Half a dozen men stood waiting at the gate, two of them supporting the beaten prisoner MacCurran, whose head hung limply. All of them wore dark lèines and the same style of brat. In the inky bleakness of predawn, she could not make out the colors.

They exited the gate, closing the heavy wooden portal quietly behind them. Ducking low, they scurried through the long, dry grass of the open field to the edge of the forest.

There, they halted.

Her savior leaned her against a sapling elm. He took off his oilskin and handed it to her, along with a small chunk of bread. “This is where we must part ways.”

Ana’s grip on the narrow tree trunk tightened. His reluctance to take her farther was understandable—she was a burden. She looked back at the castle. Torches were lit now in several places, and it wouldn’t be long before their escape was discovered. Once the guards gave chase, eluding capture would be nigh on impossible, but these brief moments of freedom and the hope that stirred in her chest were more than she’d had an hour ago.

“I am deeply grateful to you for bringing me this far.”

He looked away, silent for a moment. “Just stay to the trees and keep moving.” His men turned to leave, but he hesitated. Unsheathing the dirk at his belt, he offered it to her, hilt first. “In case you’ve a need.”

She took the weapon, the stag-antler grip fitting surprisingly well in her hand. Polished steel gleamed in the moonlight. Did he mean for her to slay an attacker? Or herself if things looked too grim? She couldn’t be sure.

“Godspeed, lass.”

And then he was gone, his large shape swallowed by the dark gloom of the woods.

Ana stared at the spot where he’d disappeared, unable to move. Where was she to go? How was she to survive? She could not outrun a cadre of healthy male guards. Only moments ago, she would have met her dismal fate with nothing more than a bittersweet sadness; now she was overwhelmed with fear and dread.

A shout echoed through the night from the direction of the castle. The guards were alerted. She slipped the oilskin about her neck and tucked the bread into her sark. Things were about to get infinitely more difficult.

Run
.

She pushed herself upright, ignoring the pains that shot up her legs. Her chances were slim, to be sure. But survival was possible, with a little luck. No one knew these woods better than she. She’d combed them many times, looking for ramsons, blackthorn bark, rowan berries, and other herbs. She knew which path led to the burn, and she knew the burn was her best bet if she wanted to outsmart the hounds.

She took a trembling step forward, leaving the support of the tree behind.

Her knees wobbled alarmingly and her heart beat with the fury of a hummingbird’s wings, but she made it to the next tree before she collapsed. The rough bark scraped skin from her palms and her breath hissed between clenched teeth.
Pain means you’re alive, Ana.
How many times had her mother said that? More than she could recall.

Alive was good. Alive was worth preserving.

She stumbled over moss-covered roots to another tree, and then another. It was a challenge to spy the trunks in the dark, and she made her way as much by feel as by sight. The pain in her legs receded, whether due to her regular movements or her mulish determination to ignore it, she didn’t know. All that registered in her thoughts was the sound of baying hounds. The hunt was on.

She’d be a fool to hope that the guards would follow the trail of her mysterious benefactor and his men. They were convinced she had murdered their lord. Woman or not, she could expect no leniency. She glanced at the trio of dead birch trees to her left, recognizing them. The path to the burn lay some hundred paces ahead, and the burn itself another fifty beyond that. She was moving too slowly. Making better time was critical. She had to leave the security of the trees behind and take the travel-worn path.

Was she strong enough?

Perhaps not, but the dogs were gaining on her.

With the image of her flesh torn asunder by snapping teeth gruesomely clear in her thoughts, she shoved away from the tree and ran for the path. The pound of her feet on the leaf-covered loam seemed excessively loud, but dwelling on that served no purpose. The burn was her goal. She could afford to think of nothing else. Until she was wading in the water and her scent was swept away by the current, she had no hope of survival.