The Laird's Captive Lass (Highland Foes & Fated Vows #4)

Prologue

Magnus’s eyes roamed the foyer of the family Keep, letting out a breath of disbelief as his face pulled into a sneer of contempt.

How in the world had his brother let it come to this?

Magnus had acted with the King’s permission to overthrow his brother, and now…

the snake was hiding, along with his most trusted men.

Alan had managed to ruin their good name of the Black Clan and send their people into chaos. It disgusted him to the core.

“M’Laird,” his dear friend, Angus, said from behind him.

The title was still new and odd to hear, but he supposed he should start getting used to it.

The weight of the title felt strange in his chest; it was something he never thought he would have, but all of his other duties had felt just as heavy.

Angus continued when Magnus peered back at him, “We still have nae located Alan.”

Magnus clicked his tongue with disappointment.

So, the search would have to widen. He would need to send word to the surrounding clans, to urge them to arrest his brother on sight.

It was humiliating to have not already seized his brother while he was still within clan land, and felt like he was already starting off his lairdship on a failure.

To think, all of this chaos and mismanagement was happening while Magnus was away, fighting battles for other clans at the behest of that very same brother. No doubt to get him out of the way so he could run things as he saw fit—cruelly and without care it seemed.

All the while, Magnus’s hands were red with blood, leading the Black clan warriors into battle after battle at every call for help that came; even clans they didn’t have connections with.

He had taken blades to his flesh, taken lives of enemies with his bare hands, given speeches to boost morale, orchestrated successful attacks even when they were meant to be impossible, and had always felt good in that role.

He was a fighter through and through, his place had always been on the battlefield, from the time he could hold a sword. But at what cost? The ruin of his people by the hands of his own brother?

His face twitched with annoyance. Had Alan been capable and good, he wouldn’t have had to return to this world of politics.

Banquets, meetings, and cleaning up this damn mess that Alan had left.

This wasn’t the life meant for Magnus. It wasn’t even hours into his reign as Laird and he already knew he would suffocate inside the role. His life of valor and freedom was over.

“I’ll set out with our best men in the morning to search the fields, see if he’s managed to find somewhere to hide. He’s injured after all, he couldnae have gone far,” Angus added.

“Very well,” Magnus sighed and continued walking through the halls of his family Keep.

“I think ye should rest now. There’s nothing more to be done tonight,” Angus urged.

The new Laird looked to his friend, whose green eyes were tired and whose dark blonde curls were in disarray.

He had also been awake with Magnus, staying near and helping the takeover of the Keep.

The Laird would have to stop to rest for his men to do the same.

It was bordering on selfish at this point, but Magnus couldn’t stop until his mind was at ease.

“We still need to inspect the dungeon,” Magnus said with a cold, stoic expression. God knew what atrocities waited just under their feet and it was the last place in the Keep to search for clues as to where Alan might have gone off to.

“Ye haven’t slept in two days,” Angus pressed.

“I’ll sleep after I search the dungeon,” Magnus said firmly.

He barked orders at the servants and warriors in the surrounding area, insisting that they clean up broken glass and other hazards before all else.

“Dinnae waste time wiping blood off the walls when there’s shite all around for people to hurt themselves on!

And quit standing around like eejits. Warriors, help the servants before I send ye to do worse tasks.

” The men acknowledged and got to work in an instant.

Magnus added, “It will take all of us to put this clan back together. Give it yer all. Each of ye.”

With that, Angus stopped his pursuit for rest and followed his Laird with a handful of other men.

They headed down the corridors of smashed glass, broken furniture, and blood splatters, all remnants of the takeover.

Magnus approached the door to the dungeons and took a deep breath.

Such a place was never pleasant, but in his youth, it was a place only meant for true criminals.

Violent persons, perpetual thieves, usurpers.

It made his insides go cold to think of the innocents who were likely rotting away down there, and what torments they had faced just for things as trivial as oversalting Alan’s food or rolling their eyes.

He pushed the door open and descended the stairs. The closer he got to the hall of cells, the more pronounced the scent of blood and sickness was. Angus handed him a handkerchief to cover his mouth, but he declined. Whoever was waiting in those cells deserved to be confronted face to face.

Some of the cells were empty, but most were home to men, dirtied, bloodied, and terrified.

They were escorted out of the dungeon by his men and would be housed elsewhere and taken care of until they could be justly tried.

His heart broke at the state of it all. He hadn’t any idea who was a true criminal and who was only a victim of Alan’s cruelty.

Some part of him had always known that his brother was reckless and entitled, that cruelty was second nature to him…

But he supposed he had believed that things wouldn’t get like this. What a fool he was.

Pushing open the last door, Magnus went stiff at the sight before him.

It was a woman, and by the style of her dress, she was English.

It was a fine, red fabric too with the remnants of what once was intricate embroidery.

She was a noble, discarded here like a rag.

Her pale blue eyes that were the color of robin’s eggs weren’t the only thing that caught in the light of Angus’s torch.

A scar, thick and silver, shaped like a crescent moon down her cheek, clearly already healed and permanently on her pale face.

It felt like the cruel, gray world around him stopped spinning for a moment.

This enigma of a woman, who didn’t belong there, was meeting his cold gaze with venom in her stare back at him.

And as much as Magnus wasn’t a man of superstition, he couldn’t shake the feeling that his life was never going to be the same as it was before he opened that cell door.

What in the hell is an English lass doing in the Black dungeon?