The Devil in Plaid(3)

Ranulf whirled around and smiled at Fergus before shoving the dead laird from his chair. Donald’s body thudded onto the floor. Seizing his brother’s buttered bread, Ranulf took a hearty bite. “Yer da is now laird,” he crowed, raising the dead man’s full tankard. “Long live Laird Ranulf.”

He waited for his son to echo his toast, but Fergus stood motionless, his face drawn and ghostly white.

Ranulf scowled. “Don’t just stand there looking daft, ye bastard. Go inform Kenric ‘tis time to secure the keep. If anyone resists, kill them. Then open the gates and let the rest of my men inside.”

Still, Fergus did not speak. His gaze darted between the two bodies.

Ranulf slammed his fist down. “Why are ye still here? Did ye not hear my orders?”

Fergus jerked around and dipped his head respectfully. “Forgive me, Father. I will go now.”

“No, wait!”

His son turned back around. “Aye, Father.”

“Do ye know whose face I cannot rid from my thoughts?”

Fergus shook his head. “I do not ken, father.”

“The lady we passed on the road. I’ve never seen hair so black or lips so in need of my kiss. I wonder what her name is.” He looked to where his brother lay lifeless on the ground. “If Donald were not dead, I would ask him.” He chuckled at his own jest. Then he set his tankard on the table and stood up. “Fergus, I just had a marvelous idea.”

“Aye, Father.”

“When the keep is secured, go to Castle Creagan and keep an eye on yer cousin’s bride.” He gestured to Adam’s lifeless body. “He certainly doesn’t need her now.” Then a smile stretched his face wide. “But I might.”





Chapter One


Lady Fiona MacDonnell gently rocked forward and back in her saddle, lulled by her mount’s slow and steady gait. Recent heavy rains had battered the region, making the earth soft beneath her horse’s hooves. Tilting her head back, she gazed up at the canopy of leaves overhead and admired the beams of sunlight slanting through the trees. Fiona seldom ventured far from Castle Creagan, but since her betrothal to Adam, Laird MacKenzie’s son, she had journeyed to the MacKenzie stronghold on three separate occasions. Despite the recent frequency of her travels, her inexperienced backside ached, and she longed for the quiet of home. Still, the beauty of the day provided a distraction from her weariness.

Lost in a dreamy haze, she hadn’t realized their party had stopped until her horse nickered and stomped at the ground. Now alert, she scanned the line of warriors in front of her. Then she twisted in her saddle to look back.

“Why do ye think we’ve stopped?” her maid, Esme, asked from her seat on the horse next to Fiona’s.

“I do not know,” Fiona replied. “But I’m going to find out.” She moved her mount off the road to the right, passing several warriors. Bramble from the roadside snagged at her skirts, but she could now see Alasdair, the captain of her guard, speaking with Broden, a young warrior known for his easy laughter, although neither man looked to be in good humor at the moment.

“Alasdair, why do we delay?” Fiona called out.

Alasdair looked back at her, then motioned for Broden to follow him before he nudged his horse through the throng of riders to reach her side.

“Forgive me, my lady.” Alasdair said, bowing his head. His hair fell forward, covering his face. When he straightened, she met his gaze. He was a seasoned warrior with silver hair at his temples and intelligent, brown eyes. “The bridge over the river is out,” he told her. “It must have been damaged during the recent storms.”

The Luath River, which fed Loch Luath, divided much of the MacDonnell lands on the west from the territory of the Clan MacLeod—their fierce enemy. Inwardly, Fiona groaned. She wanted nothing more than to be home, but she would never put her own comfort above the good of the clan. “It will have to be repaired,” Fiona said, straightening in her seat with resolve. “Do what ye must. Esme and I will wait.”

“The bridge shall be repaired,” Alasdair answered. “But, forgive me, my lady, I dare not lead that effort now. By yer father’s command, we’ve been charged with the task of ensuring yer safe passage home. The bridge will have to wait.”

Fiona knew Alasdair was right. If her father were present, he would insist Fiona and Esme be taken safely home first. “I trust yer judgment, Alasdair, but which road do we now take?”

“That is what Broden and I were discussing,” Alasdair answered. “I’ve suggested we head east to the pass over the Urram Hills.”

Broden nudged his horse closer to Fiona, drawing her gaze. “While I think we should take the western road.”

“I did not give ye leave to speak,” Alasdair said, looking pointedly at the young warrior.

Brows drawn, Fiona turned to the captain of her guard. “Why do ye oppose Broden’s suggestion?”

“His course will lead us onto disputed land.”

“Forgive me, Captain,” Broden blurted. “But the ownership of the land is not in dispute. The land belongs to us, either ye believe that or ye’re siding with the MacLeod.”

Alasdair’s eyes narrowed on the young warrior. “Ye ken I’m considering the well-being of our lady. We’ve not enough men to ensure her safety if we’re attacked. ‘Tis our land, make no mistake, but Jamie MacLeod doesn’t see it that way. If we were alone, I would take the western road just to anger the blackguard, but I will not encourage his wrath while Lady Fiona is in our company.”