Taken By the Vicious Highlander (Taken by Highland Devils #5)

Chapter 4

4

G ain Clan McCallum’s trust.

Marry into the clan.

Produce an heir as soon as possible.

Strategically secure his position.

Tonight, that simple, direct, efficient plan was thrown into chaos.

Damon sat in the large armchair in his study, staring up at the ceiling, his thoughts circling like vultures over the same prey. His marriage to Lilith Flanagan wasn’t supposed to feel like this. It was a matter of duty, an arrangement to stabilize the clan and restore its shattered trust.

She was supposed to be just a means to an end, a sure thing even, but the woman with a sharp tongue and fierce loyalty to her people has proved to be more of a challenge. Making her his bride had been easy, though being her husband was proving to be harder by the second. She was beautiful, her fire undeniable. But tonight, he felt like he’d truly seen her for the first time.

Her words, her defiance—her anxiety—lingered in his mind like the sting of an arrow.

Why does she nae wish to have children? I thought that was every lassie’s dream.

It wasn’t just unusual—it was baffling.

He wore down the floorboards while mulling over what had transpired between them, all that was said.

“What does she mean she willnae have bairns? What is she hidin’?”

He tugged on the bell pull after downing two glasses of whiskey, and within moments the housekeeper, who he remembered was called Smith, appeared at the study door. Her no-nonsense demeanor was a welcome respite. Only, her presence caught him slightly off guard.

He had expected an errand boy to come up—after which he would have ordered more whiskey. But Smith’s arrival dragged him into a new conversation.

“Me Laird, many blessings on yer union. What can I do for ye?”

“Aye, thank ye, Smith.”

Smith stayed silent, patiently waiting for his instructions. She watched as Damon anxiously eyed the empty decanter of whiskey before turning back to her.

“I… Lady McCallum and I will be tourin’ the grounds after we speak with the staff first thing tomorrow morning.”

Smith didn’t bat an eye. “Aye, Me Laird. I will have the horses ready for yer departures. Is there anything else?”

“That is all. The lady and I will be in for the evening. Dinnae wake either of us unless it’s urgent.”

“As ye wish, Me Laird,” Smith said, before turning on her heel and disappearing back into the depths of the castle. Her efficiency was a small comfort in an otherwise chaotic evening.

Alone again, Damon sighed and relaxed back in his chair, his head leaning against the high back. Without any semblance of warning or easing into it, visions of Lilith flashed across his mind. He twisted his neck from side to side in a stretch that was almost painful, trying to rid himself of the thoughts, but they were relentless.

Me name on her lips… Christ.

He couldn’t fathom a woman who wouldn’t want to secure her family’s legacy, especially in a clan like theirs, where lineage and heirs were everything. The more he thought about it, the more the question gnawed at him until, finally, he pushed himself to his feet and sauntered back to his chambers.

Remembering for a moment that he had left her in there alone, his mind shifted, and a knot formed in the pit of his stomach.

Surely she left. Right?

Pushing the heavy door open, he made quick work of scanning the room. Shadows cast by the fire in the hearth played tricks on his eyes at first, but he could tell from the fading hints of citrus and vanilla alone that Lilith had gone.

He tsked. “She was right there,” he said to the empty room.

The memory of her warmth and her intoxicating smell pulled on the tendons in his neck. The way she had looked at him tonight, defiant yet vulnerable made his entire body tighten. He needed a release, and was incredibly frustrated that he hadn’t found it as anticipated.

He remembered the feel of her curves against him, the way her hazel eyes had flashed with determination as she pushed him back, telling him outright that she wouldn’t share his bed even as the taste of her lingered on his lips.

The memory of her stung his pride but also stirred something else inside him—curiosity. She had been right, things just happened for him without him ever needing to ask.

“It doesnae matter,” he muttered to himself. His deep voice barely broke the stillness of the room as he lay down on his bed and watched the shadows dance on the ceiling. “She’ll change her mind. She has to.”

Because if she didn’t, he was doomed. He’d made her a promise, one that was uncharacteristic of him—he would never touch her against her will. He would keep that vow, no matter what.

But what if she never did?

Damon growled low in frustration and rolled onto his side, trying to shut out the thoughts that wouldn’t let him rest. Sleep didn’t come easily for a man burdened with a plan as precarious as his, let alone frustrated as all get-out by the lack of a woman in his bed tonight.

As his breathing slowed, the events of the day quieted into the dark corners of his mind, he let his eyelids close, hoping for a more productive day when he woke up.

Then, he heard it—the unmistakable soft creak of his door.

His instincts flared to life instantly. His hand shot to the dagger beneath his pillow as he sat up, his muscles coiled and ready.

For a fleeting moment, he thought it was Lilith.

Could it be that she already changed her mind?

The thought brought with it a confusing mix of relief and trepidation. He turned toward the door, but instead of his fiery bride, he saw the shadow of a man stepping into the room.

The figure moved swiftly, not realizing that he had been caught, and Damon caught the faint glint of a blade in the firelight.

He reacted without hesitation.

The assassin lunged at him, the blade aimed directly at Damon’s chest. Damon rolled off the bed just in time, the knife slicing through empty air. He landed on his feet, dagger in hand, and squared off with the intruder.

“Who sent ye!” he demanded, his voice a growl of fury.

The intruder didn’t answer. He moved like a trained fighter, his attacks calculated, his silence unwavering.

Strangely, the movements were not unfamiliar to Damon. He recognized the calculated, precise strikes but couldn’t place them. He parried the blows with precision as he sought an opening.

Where have I met this fighter before?

The clash of steel filled the room, a deadly symphony that echoed off the stone walls. Damon’s mind worked as fast as his body, analyzing every move.

The assassin was skilled, but Damon knew these moves—this man wasn’t invincible. His attacks, while precise, lacked the fluid adaptability of a warrior.

“Ye arenae one of me men, or McCallum’s,” Damon said through gritted teeth, his blade clashing with the stranger’s. “Who are ye?”

Still, the assassin said nothing. His face was hidden beneath a dark hood, but his eyes gleamed with a singular focus, almost trance-like—to kill.

Damon shoved him back, using his massive weight to throw him off balance. The assassin stumbled but recovered quickly, lunging again with a feral speed. Damon ducked and countered, his dagger slicing through the assassin’s arm.

The man hissed in pain but didn’t falter. Instead, he pressed on, his attacks becoming more erratic and more desperate until finally, his blade met Damon’s side angrily.

The blow pulled a guttural growl from deep inside Damon’s torso. The cut had undoubtedly reopened the wound he received from Magnus only a fortnight ago.

The assassin’s eyes lit up excitedly, but Damon only relaxed into the pain and smiled manically, which made the stranger’s confidence falter.

“Ye arenae leavin’ this room alive. Ye might as well start talkin’.” Damon laughed, the sound cold and lethal.

But the assassin was relentless, his movements fueled by something deeper than loyalty—hatred.

Hatred?

Damon finally found his opening. He sidestepped the next attack, dropped his dagger into his other hand, and drove the blade into the man’s side right as the assassin’s blade hit his wide shoulder.

With a hiss, Damon twisted his weapon with brutal efficiency, and the assassin gasped, a guttural sound that filled the room as he crumpled to the floor.

Damon stood over him, breathing hard, his dagger dripping with blood.

“Who sent ye?” he asked again.

But the man’s lips moved without making a sound. The life left his eyes before he could offer any answers.

His face, unveiled, was still unrecognizable, and in the darkness of the night, Damon couldn’t place where he had encountered such swordsmanship or dueling tactics.

Cursing under his breath, Damon wiped his blade clean on the assassin’s cloak and called out for his guards. Within moments, a group of clansmen burst into the room, their eyes wide with alarm.

“Me Laird?” one of them asked, his brow furrowed, ready for instructions.

“Search the castle,” Damon ordered, his tone brooking no argument. “Everyone. Everywhere. If this bastard had accomplices, I want them found before dawn.”

The men nodded and hurried to obey, their footsteps echoing down the hall as they fanned out.

Damon stood alone in the room, his chest heaving as the thrill slowly ebbed.

“I must write to me braither about this. Perhaps he’ll remember where we have met such skilled fighters,” he muttered as he glanced at the lifeless body on the floor.

This was a grim reminder that his position in Clan McCallum was far from secure.

He wiped his blade once more and slipped it into its sheath before stepping over the body. He pulled the door open and stepped into the dimly lit hallway. The torches flickered, casting long, dancing shadows over the stone walls. His footsteps echoed faintly as he made his way through the castle, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts.

Who sent this assassin?

Was this a personal grudge or a threat tied to me role? And why now, so soon after the wedding?

Thoughts of Lilith sent another wave of unease through him because she was supposed to be with him in his chambers on their wedding night.

Was she safe? Had the assassin intended to harm her as well? Or worse, had she been involved?

He shook his head, dismissing the last notion almost as quickly as it surfaced.

Lilith was many things—stubborn, sharp-tongued, and fiercely independent—but he already knew that she wasn’t the treacherous type. She wouldn’t stoop to such dishonorable tactics.

He needed to see her. The probability that the assassin wasn’t working alone was too high. If the intruder knew where Damon slept, his accomplices would surely know where Lilith slept.

As he rounded a corner, lost in thought, Damon almost collided with Finley, one of Clan McCallum’s more seasoned guards and a staunch supporter of Lilith.

Finley was dressed haphazardly, his boots barely laced, his expression one of deep concern.

“Me Laird?” he hissed. “What in Christ’s name is goin’ on? I heard a commotion, and now the guards are searchin’ the castle like the devil himself was let loose.”

“There was an intruder in me chambers,” Damon said bluntly, his tone leaving no room for speculation. “He’s dead now.”

Finley’s eyes widened. “An intruder? In the castle? Who?—”

“I’ve nay answers yet,” Damon interrupted, brushing past him. “Tell yer men to stay alert. If there’s more trouble, I want to ken it before it reaches me again.”

“Aye, of course.” Finley hesitated, his eyes narrowing. “And what of Lady McCallum? Should I send someone to?—”

“Aye, ye yerself willnae leave her side,” Damon ordered. “I’ll see to her for now. Get yer men in order and return quickly.”

Finley’s eyes dropped to the growing red stains on Damon’s tunic before meeting his glare once more. Without saying a word, he gave a reluctant nod before disappearing into another corridor, leaving him alone once more.

The sting of the wounds Damon had received finally reared their heads, but he was persistent in ensuring that his bride was safe. He would visit the healer in due time. The closer he drew to Lilith’s room, the more his mind churned.

A singular thought resurfaced: Was the attack meant for me or her?

The thought sent a chill through him, though he’d never admit it. His protective instincts warred with his suspicions, each thought sharpening the edge of his determination.

If she was harmed, on our wedding night…

Reaching her door at last, Damon exhaled slowly. His hand hovered over the handle for the briefest of moments.

Inside, the room was dim, lit only by the faint glow of the pulsing embers in the hearth. His eyes scanned the space methodically, noting every corner, every shadow. He moved with deathly silence, careful not to make any noise as he had been trained to do. His hand rested on the hilt of his dagger as he approached the bed.

Lilith lay on her side, her hair a tangle of rose-colored silk against the pillow. Her breathing was slow and steady, her chest rising and falling in a peaceful rhythm. He leaned closer, his gaze lingering on her face.

Is she always such a heavy sleeper?

He resisted the urge to touch her, though the thought flitted through his mind. Instead, he straightened, reassured that she was unharmed, and quickly slipped out of the room.

Finley was crouched in the shadows across the hall, poised for attack, until their eyes met as Damon walked through the door.

“She’s safe,” Damon said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Stay here.”

Finley nodded. “I’ve let the healer ken—she’ll be expectin’ ye, Me Laird.”

“Aye. Thank ye, man.”

As Damon made his way back down the hall, the thrill from the fight completely faded away, and the weight of the night’s events settled heavily on his shoulders. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of quick footsteps.

“Damon!”

Melissa’s voice was soft yet insistent. She appeared around the corner, her dark hair unbound and her face pale with worry.

“What’s happened?” she demanded, her gaze roving over him. “The servants are whisperin’ about an intruder.”

Damon stiffened. “It’s taken care of.”

Melissa’s eyes narrowed on him. “Taken care of? Ye’re covered in blood, Damon. Is any of it yers?”

“Aye, that’s what happens when ye play with knives,” Damon said jokingly.

However, Melissa was unimpressed. “Ye cannae just dismiss this like it’s nothin’! Let me help. I can bring the healer?—”

“Nay.” His voice was firm. “This is Clan McCallum’s business, Melissa. It’s nay place for ye.”

“Then at least the healer?—”

“The healer is aware. I’ll see her when I’m done here. This isnae yer concern, Sister,” he said so sharply that Melissa stepped back from him, clearly offended.

Her lips tightened. “I’m nae a child, Damon. If someone’s threatenin’ ye, it concerns me as well.”

“For yer safety, ye need to leave,” Damon insisted, his voice softening. “I’ll send Smith up to help ye with yer things. Ye need to be at Brahanne Keep by midday.”

His tone and dark features left no room for argument.

Melissa hesitated, her frustration evident, until she recognized the resolve in his eyes.

With a resigned sigh, she nodded. “Fine, I’ll go. But Braither , ken that I do as ye ask because I am a visitor . But as yer sister , I am expectin’ a proper explanation when this is all over, as I’m sure our braither will want one as well once he’s heard.”

“I’ll send ye with a letter to give him. I’ll leave it to him to tell ye.”

Without another word, Melissa turned and walked away indignantly, her steps brisk and determined.

By the time Damon reached the grand staircase, dawn had begun to break, its light seeping through the high, stained-glass windows.

“Smith,” he said to the housekeeper, who was stationed at the bottom of the stairs.

“Me Laird?” she returned simply. Her eyes landed on the bloody spots on his tunic, almost in a confirmatory way, before meeting his again.

“Me sister will be departin’ shortly. She’ll need assistance with her things. Send three men with her. And I want the full council assembled in the war room. Now.”

“Aye, Me Laird…” she trailed off.

“What is it, Smith?”

“Mrs. Bryant is just there.” She stepped to the side to reveal the slight figure standing at attention just a few paces beyond them.

Damon’s grunt was all she needed to get on with his instructions.

As Smith left, Mrs. Bryant, the clan’s healer, made her way toward him.

“Where do ye wish to do this, Mrs. Bryant?”

“Right through here, Me Laird,” she replied, gesturing toward the door she had been standing in front of. “Better to have all me tools, just in case.”

“Aye,” he replied gruffly and followed her into the depths of the surgery.

“Now, I’ll need ye to take that off—” she directed, a commander now that she was in her domain.

Damon obliged her silently, the blood-soaked tunic hitting the floor with a loud smack.

“I will burn that, Me Laird. Give it here,” Mrs. Bryant said, holding out a long washing basket for him to place the tunic.

“Burn?”

“Aye. Unless ye wish for a holey, scarlet-colored tunic to parade around in?”

Damon chuckled. “Nay, of course nae. Thank ye.”

“Right. Now, go ahead and take a seat up here, Me Laird. I see ye have been stitched before—do ye need a stick to bite on?”

“Nay, I’m sure yer hands work more efficiently than me old war chief.”

“Och aye, I gather that he had hooves for hands, then,” she said matter-of-factly as her eyes assessed his old wounds.

“More or less, Mrs. Bryant.”

“Right, Me Laird. In I go…”

The healer busied herself with the largest wound first, cleaning, stitching, and bandaging it for what seemed like an eternity. The woman didn’t say much more than commands for Damon to give her better light or a better angle to stitch him up.

A rap at the surgery door preceded Smith’s return. She had a change of clothes hanging over one arm and a set of books in the other.