Claimed By Her Highland Enemy (Highlands’ Lost Descendants #2)

Prologue

Life as Christopher knew it had just ended, and everyone was sitting around and talking as though it was just another day.

He could scarcely believe that, despite a few objections, Elsie was now smiling and talking with the Murrays and their allies as though everything was all right after what she had just announced.

Christopher had spent his whole life running away from the memories of his childhood, proud of how successfully he'd managed to cloak the few remembrances that he had—and yet now Elsie had torn it all into the open, exposing his darkest secret for the world to see, forcing him to acknowledge the truth.

He was Murdoch Campbell, son of Alistair, brother of Ian and Isla.

And though his memory was patchy at best, the more they spoke about it, the more he remembered.

He remembered his mother waking him in the early hours to flee; later, covered in blood, then sweat, as her infected wounds killed her slowly.

His sister, a baby in his arms, and a sworn promise to forget the past.

A promise that was now shattered forever.

The rest of the conversation was nothing but buzzing in Christopher's ears as he sat on a chair a little to the side, trying to stop the panic from rising in his breast. Kenna, his sister's friend who seemed to be both maid and healer, was tending to him, trying to comfort him or perhaps make him relax, but Christopher barely heard her.

His mind was buzzing with flashing, distorted images that came rushing at him from behind a wall that had been built for so long he hadn't even known it was there.

An older brother, throwing a ball for him to catch.

A father handing him a wooden sword when his hands were barely big enough to clutch it.

A mother, holding him close, smelling of daisies and rosewater.

"Her name was Fenella," Lady Murray said, and it was as though someone had slid a knife through Christopher's ribs, cutting him cleanly to the heart.

Another memory flashed through him—his mother telling him the story of the mythological Fionnuala, from whom her name had come, who had committed no crime but to love her father, the great Celtic god Lir.

She and her brothers had been stolen from their family and transformed into swans, doomed to nine hundred years in that form and to never see their loved ones again.

Christopher remembered his mother taking him to the loch and showing him the swans that skimmed across its surface; the sweet sadness in her voice when she'd told him that perhaps they were trapped princes and princesses just longing to go home.

Tears formed in Christopher's eyes at the memory. Had that been her plan in fleeing with them—to try to find the remnants of whatever family she had left? To raise her children in safety away from the darkness of Campbell? He'd never know.

The meeting ended with Elsie's announcement of her upcoming marriage to Rolland, but while Arran engaged in some good-natured threats to the groom-to-be and was looking after their sister, Christopher felt a million miles away.

Abruptly, he got to his feet and, with only a muttered "Excuse me" to Kenna, rushed out of the room.

He kept blindly running through the corridors, not stopping until he reached the main entrance hall and burst through the grand doors into the air outside.

As the fresh, cool wind hit him, he gasped, greedily gulping down air as his lungs burned and his heart stuttered.

A few guards and servants who passed gave him curious looks, but he ignored them, leaning forward with his hands on his thighs, trying to settle the blood that was rushing around his brain.

When he was breathing normally again, he unsteadily made his way along the path until he found a small fountain and sat down on the wall that circled it.

Little sprays of water bounced off the surface and hit against his hands and clothing, but he didn't move away, allowing the cold water to keep him alert.

Who was he? He'd spent so long as Christopher Kincaid that the revelation had shaken him to his core.

Yes, the Murrays had accepted Elsie, and by extension, him, but what would Aila and Lachlan think?

Lachlan especially—he knew how deep clan loyalty ran in the blood.

How could Christopher claim to be his ward, his son, now that he knew the truth?

"There he is. Chrissy, ye're gettin' soaked. Get away from there."

Christopher looked up at the sound of the nickname only Arran ever used for him and saw his brother approaching, concern etched over his features. Elsie, hand-in-hand with Rolland Murray, was rushing toward them, not too far behind.

Arran held out a hand, and after a second, Christopher took it, allowing Arran to pull him up to his feet. Arran patted his shoulder.

"Dinnae look so maudlin. I ken it must be a shock, but we're none of us Kincaids by birth, are we?" Arran asked. "Ye're still me brother. Ye're still Aila and Lachlan's bairn. Aila will be the first tae tell ye so, just ye wait. We're family, nae matter what."

Christopher gave him a thin smile. "Ye werenae born a Kincaid, but yer first set of parents were good people. Meanwhile, me birth father is—"

"It doesnae matter what he is," Elsie interrupted as she reached them. "Our birth mother sacrificed herself tae get us free of the Campbell name. We have our family and the Kincaid name now because she gave her life for it. We must protect what she gave us."

"Of course," Christopher replied, nodding and forcing a smile on his face. "I'm just bein' silly. I willnae think on it anymore."

He'd known when he made that promise that it wasn't one he could keep, and indeed, a week later, the conversation was still ruminating in his mind.

It wasn't that he didn't think of Aila and Lachlan as his family—he did, and when he saw them and little Cassie again on the day of Elsie's wedding, he was as happy as ever to be reunited with them—but now that he knew the truth, he couldn't get it out of his head.

As the feast after the wedding got into full swing, Christopher watched the two families come together, cobbled together from those they'd chosen to love.

Aila laughed with Sorcha and Taryn nearby, while Lachlan, James, and Oliver discussed something with Connor and Seamus.

Cassie was playfully dancing with Rory McKenzie, while Flora, Brid, and Slaine were chatting with Liam and some others from the Lost Village.

Nearby, Tavish, who had stood as Rolland's best man, was dancing with Alexandra McKenzie.

More and more guests from both sides of the family caught Christopher's eye, many of whom he knew and loved dearly, and even those who didn't were here to support his sister.

He knew that she should be happy. Instead, all Christopher could feel was detachment and dread. They were all so joyful, so loving and warm, as if war wasn't coming ever closer. As if death wasn't on its way, his own birth father at the helm—as if they didn't all have far, far too much to lose.

"Why are ye mopin' over here?"

Christopher blinked and turned to see Arran approaching with a goblet of wine in each hand. He forced a smile and accepted the drink when Arran offered it. "I'm just a wee bit tired, ‘tis all."

Arran rolled his eyes. "Aye, all right. I've seen ye in yer moods more than enough.

Are ye still goin' over what Elsie revealed in yer mind?

I thought ye'd put it away. I ken it cannae be easy, Chrissy, but ye mustnae let it bother ye so.

I already told ye, it doesnae change anythin' about who ye are or who ye will be. "

"It's nothin' tae do with any of that, I swear," Christopher lied.

The music came to an end and he nodded toward Alexandra, who was smiling and responding gracefully to Tavish's bow.

She'd been their friend since they were small, and though Christopher could see that Alexandra's expression was simply friendly, he also knew it would be distracting enough for his brother.

"She looks like she's havin' fun, does she nae?"

Arran glanced toward her and blanched as he saw her laugh at Tavish's joke. His lips tightened slightly and, unusually, uncertainty flashed across his features just for a brief moment.

"Aye, she does," Arran replied as neutrally as he could manage.

Christopher gave him a knowing look. "Why dinnae ye just go and ask her tae dance? Look, that lad is off tae chat with Kenna or Slaine, whichever one she is. Ye've got the opportunity."

"Och, I should leave her be," Arran said, rubbing the back of his head. "I'm spendin' time with ye."

"Dinnae be daft," Christopher insisted. "Alexandra's been our friend for years, and more than that, she keeps glancin' over here. Dinnae ye think ye owe her a dance?"

"She does?" Arran asked, his whole being perking up.

Christopher hid a laugh that threatened to cut through the darkness in his heart.

"Go on," Christopher encouraged. "I'll still be mopin' around when ye're done."

Arran hesitated for just a moment. "Well… all right. But go and find someone tae dance with as well, aye? Have some fun. Our wee sister is married, it's a celebration."

Christopher smiled again but didn't answer.

Arran gave him a final look, then hurried off to talk to Alexandra.

Christopher watched as his brother approached and, after a brief conversation, led Alexandra to the right place on the dance floor just in time for the next song to start.

He followed them with his eyes for a few moments, soothed a little by the enchanted expression in Arran's eyes, then scanned the room.

Elsie and Rolland were nowhere to be seen—no doubt they'd snuck off for some alone time—and both sets of parents, along with family friends, were all otherwise occupied.

If he was going to do this, now was the time.

Christopher took a deep breath and touched the engraved Kincaid symbol on the silver brooch pinned to his chest. Determined despite his shaking hands, he unpinned the brooch and held it for a moment before approaching a bookshelf at the side of the room and placing the pin on it.

With a final look at the symbol of the people who had raised him, Christopher turned his back on it and headed toward the side exit that would take him out of the party and into the darkness of the night.

The stables were empty when Christopher entered, as even the stable master and his stablehands were part of the wedding celebration.

The horses slept, and while a few opened their eyes or snorted while he passed, none of them reacted too strongly.

He passed Radiant, Elsie's shining steed, who was contentedly asleep in his stall next to Rolland's warhorse, Glory.

Christopher was good with horses; he'd trained as much as Elsie had, but he had nowhere near her skill. If he was an expert, his sister was a master. In many ways, Elsie had always been a true Kincaid. Christopher, though…

He sighed and reached the very end of the stable where his own horse, Beatha, grazed.

She was smaller than most of the Kincaid horses, a dappled brown mare who was as swift as she was temperamental.

He'd been present at her foaling, where the little creature had been born small and weak.

Though the broodmare had allowed the foal to feed for the first few days, she'd soon rejected her entirely, and the horse master had grimly predicted that the foal would soon die.

Christopher hadn't been able to bear the thought.

He'd only been fourteen then, but he had remembered what it was like to be alone, and he'd taken the horse as his own responsibility.

Lachlan and Aila had both offered help, but Christopher had been determined to do it on his own.

He'd named her Beatha, the Gaelic word for life, and hand-reared her until she was ready to be weaned, then trained her when she was ready to be ridden and raced.

As she'd grown, her temperament had grown moody, but she was fiercely loyal to the man who had raised her, and for the last nine years, she had been his closest companion.

"Are ye ready for a journey, lass?" he asked, opening her stall door and patting her neck. Beatha snorted as he led her out of the warm stall. "We're goin' a long way, and I dinnae ken when, or if, we'll return."

He paused, glancing once more at the sleeping horses, then led Beatha into the cold night air. He took a breath.

"I cannae be Christopher Kincaid anymore, Beatha. Nae even in me own mind." He closed his eyes. "I must be Murdoch now. I must claim back the name I was given the day I was born and leave Christopher behind." He swallowed. "It's the only way."

Beatha stared at him patiently with her huge, dark eyes, and Christopher—no, Murdoch—steeled himself. He adjusted Beatha's saddle and mounted, and with a final glance at the castle, he set off.

Wearing the colors of Kincaid, Murdoch Campbell raced away into the unknown.