Captured By the Vicious Highlander

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Leaving his horse with his clansman, Arran walked down the rutted path through the small village of Braewall. Not a soul was in sight.

Where is everyone?

Three months ago, Grayson Blackwell, Laird McKeith, had promised Arran that he could earn back the kirk and other clan McArthur lands that his father had gambled away.

Arran’s father, James, had been just a trifle too fond of drink and gambling.

One night, he’d gotten in a bit too deep and had been tricked into wagering the kirk.

The price of buying back the land was to capture two women: Helena Blackwell, and her daughter Skye.

His pay was to be the return of his ancestral lands.

To make the situation just a trifle more dire, his father had written in his will that in order for Arran to retain his title, he needed to get those few acres back into the family estate.

But everywhere Arran went, the story was the same. No one had seen the women. No one had even heard of them. It was as if they had vanished into thin air or had never existed.

Arran walked on down the deserted village street. The silence was eerie, as if someone or something had cast a spell over the ramshackle assemblage of huts. It gave him an ugly feeling, as if his quest was cursed – if one believed in such things.

All the same, he’d begun to feel uneasy about it. Grayson Blackwell had a reputation as a hard man. But surely no harm would come from returning his wife and step-daughter to him? Surely he would not be in such a radge as to harm them.

He turned a corner and saw a small old man lounging on a bench, whittling at a scrap of wood.

The man nodded in his direction and then called out, “Everyone’s down by the stable. Some younger lads are makin’ a spectacle of themselves, and the whole town is up there gawkin’.”

In a few more steps, he could hear the commotion.

“Get him, Johnny-boy! Watch the left hook, Cam! Daenae let him best ye now!” the men shouted, and Arran figured a few bets had been placed on this fight.

The old man was right. The whole town was enjoying the fight. Well, if everyone was here, he might as well ask some questions while most folks were too distracted to pay attention to him.

He tapped the meaty shoulder of a large man with pitch-black hair laced with a few strands of gray.

“I am lookin’ for a young woman with red hair—said to be beautiful.

She travels with her maither. The maither has a scar, here on her forehead,” he said, pointing to his brow. “Have ye seen either of them?”

The man glanced at him but gave no answer. He turned his attention back to the fight when the crowd roared again, evidently in approval of the last punch.

Perturbed, Arran moved through the crowd and described the two women he was looking for, this time to a portly woman with a red nose.

She wore an apron with some blood smeared down the front and a cleaver in the front pocket.

Her reply was to simply push past him so that she could get a better view of the afternoon entertainment.

“Get out of me way,” she said. “I got a shillin’ that says Cam will win this. ”

The anger and frustration of endlessly searching for Helena Blackwell and her daughter Skye Pressly welled up inside of him.

I daenae have time for this!

Arran pushed past three men who stood between him and the two men who now rolled on the ground, punching each other and grunting.

He grabbed the first, hauled him to his feet, and pushed him to the side.

The second man sat up, but a steady stream of blood trickled from the corner of his right eye, and he seemed dazed.

The crowd grumbled and then started to protest loudly and angrily.

“What the hell, lad? Me Johnny was winnin’ there!”

“Ye’re nae from around here! What do ye want?”

But Arran cut them off. “I am Arran Gilroy, Laird MacArthur. Listen now and hear me words!” he commanded.

At the word, “laird” the crowd quieted. People looked at each other uneasily. Lairds rarely came among them to bring good news.

“I am searchin’ for two women—Helena Blackwell, wife of Laird MacKeith, and her daughter, Skye Pressly. They may be travelin’ together.”

The villagers looked at Arran and then each other and mumbled amongst themselves.

As he waited, a woman pushed her way through the crowd.

“So there ye are!” she exclaimed. “Grandfaither Beasley said I’d find the lot of ye down here, gawkin’ at two lads fightin’ over a woman.

Good God! Is that Cam there on the ground?

” She hastened to the fallen man’s side, pulling a white kerchief from her pocket as she went.

Another woman followed after her. “How is he, Sorcha?”

“Going to have an impressive shiner tomorrow,” Sorcha replied, gently wiping the blood way from the eye. “The bleedin’ is from a cut in ‘is eyebrow, so he’s in no danger o’ goin’ blind, Ava. Do ye have any on that wound-heal we made up about ye?”

Both the young women were beautiful. But the first had brown hair, and the second was a tall, willowy blond.

Neither seemed likely to be the women he sought. But if they were healers, perhaps they would know something.

The first was on her knees, arched over the fallen man to hold the cloth to his eye. “Easy there, Cam. Daenae try and get up. We need to stop the bleeding,”

Arran found his eyes wandering down her back to a trim waist that flared out into a rounded bottom, just now suggestively hoisted into the air as she tended to her work. He inwardly scolded himself for having such thoughts about a woman who had no intent toward him.

The second woman, Ava turned from where she was examining the second contestant. “Cam, what were ye thinkin’? Ye ken ye couldnae win. Rory took the blue ribbon prize fightin’ at the cattle fair. And over a silly lass, too!”

Sorcha looked up at Ava. “Was it Ruth? She’s betrothed to the miller, and shouldnae mean nought to either of these two.”

Ava put her hands on her hips. “Och, ye’ve the right of it.

Yet here they are, battlin’ it out like a pair of stags as they are said to do at Sharky’s in Lunnen.

” She glared around at the crowd. “And as for the lot of ye! Eggin’ them on!

It’s a wonder the biggest hurt is a black eye and a split lip. ”

Arran scarcely heard Ava’s scolding. His attention was all for the woman who was crouched on the ground.

Her complexion was flawless, her eyes were a brilliant blue, like summer sky on a clear day.

Tendrils of brown hair escaped her kirtle, curling about flushed cheeks, and her firm little chin telegraphed her irritation with the two men.

Arran was in Braewall for a reason, and bedding a woman was not it. He was looking for one specific woman, one with red hair.

Get a hold of yerself, Arran! Pay attention to business.

The women finished tending to the fighters’ wounds, and began collecting their supplies back into bags with economical motions.

Arran took a step toward them. “So, do ye ken of the women I’m searchin’ for?”

Ava asked without hesitation, “Why do ye want to ken? Are they of yer clan? Are they in some kind of trouble?”

Arran was surprised that she answered him with questions of her own, and with boldness at that. As Laird, he never tolerated insolence, but he was spellbound.

He worried his body would betray him before he could reply, but thankfully he managed to form a coherent sentence. “Lass, me reasons for lookin’ for these two are me own and none of yer concern—or anyone else’s, for that matter.”

The woman’s gaze remained locked on his, and for a moment, it seemed it was a battle of wills, of who would look away first. “Then I suspect our answers will be our own, an none others,” Ava snapped. “Are ye finished there, Sorcha?”

“Aye,” she replied, rising from where she was. “Best we get back to Mrs. Smith, before her twins arrive without us.”

Ava laughed. “Small chance of that. Them bein’ her first and all.” The two women picked up their bags. The crowd parted for them, then flowed back together as the Red Sea must have parted for Moses then flowed back to impede the pharaoh’s men.

Muttering curses to himself, he stepped back toward the remaining villagers. “Who was that woman?” he asked the closest man to him. “The one who tended to the injured man? Was she his sister?”

The man lowered his eyes respectfully and answered quietly, “Nay, Laird MacArthur. That was Sorcha. She’s a healer here. She is very kind and helps anyone who is in need.”

He rambled on, obviously afraid that Arran might take out his frustration on Sorcha, or even worse, squirrel her away back to his village, as good healers were hard to come by.

“She has been a blessin’ to our village. Ava took her in and helped her hone her skills. So now Ava is the midwife here in and the surroundin’ villages, and Sorcha tends to us. Aye, we are fortunate to have her.”

“And this woman, yer healer, who is her husband?”

“Sorcha isnae married, me Laird. She lives with her maither. Several men have asked for her hand, but she’s refused them all.”

Arran raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. “And her faither? What does he say about this?”

“There’s nay faither. She and her maither live alone. Her maither is bedridden, ye see. She takes care of her and claims she cannae marry because her maither’s care would be a burden on a husband—and worse, she wouldnae be able to raise a bairn properly,” the man answered.

Arran thought for a moment before he continued his questioning. “And her maither, what does she look like?”

“Eh, I cannae say. She’s never been to the village, me Laird.” The man leaned to the left and nudged the villager next to him. “Have ye ever seen Sorcha’s maither, John?”

John shook his head no, but then added, “She’s never been to town, but Sorcha always buys two of everything when she’s here. She’s a good lass, she is. She provides for her maither as best she can and spends most of what she earns on her care.”

“We’re right glad to have her here,” a stout housewife spoke up. “When me Maisie got her hand caught in the mangle, she set the bones, an’ plastered the hand up wi’ clay to hold it still until it healed.”

“Aye, and she made a tea that took little Sukey’s fever right away.”

“An made a syrup that soothed ole Herb’s cough.”

Soon there was almost as much din as there had been during the fight as various villagers chimed in to point out how one or the other of the lady healers had helped their ills.

“Yes, yes,” Arran interrupted. “The ladies are miracle workers. Do ye ken if either of them have seen a red-haired lassie of surpassin’ beauty travelin’ with an old beldame with a bad scar on her forehead?”

The villagers looked at one another. “Nay, and I couldnae say,” one lady spoke up.

“Guess ye could ask after Mrs. Smith’s bairns are safe delivered into this world,” said another. “Ava’s a miracle worker with those difficult births. And she’s trainin’ Sorcha to be just as good.”

Arran only had one more question. “And when did Sorcha and her maither arrive here?”

The two men who’d first answered his questions looked at each other, and then the man named John answered, “About two years now. Aye, that’s right. She helped me wife birth me youngest, and she’d just arrived here about that time. Me wee laddie is just two now, so that’s right, it is.”

Arran couldn’t be completely sure, but he smiled for the first time in weeks.

The timing was right. Brown hair was a good way to cover up red.

But tall, willowy Ava was definitely not the scarred mother.

Could the woman be ill? Or maybe she didn’t exist at all, and Sorcha was merely protecting her reputation.

Still, it was the best lead he’d had in weeks. And it would give him an excuse to speak to the beautiful young woman again. Even if she was not his quarry, that alone was reason enough to question her after Mrs. Smith’s infants made their appearance in the world.

“Does the inn rent out rooms?” he asked.