Forever Mine
Donna Grant
One
The silence hung heavy and thick in the air. Just like the mist that swirled eerily, almost unnaturally, around the group of men lying in wait for their deadly enemy.
Braden MacAlister knew the time was right. He would attack and kill Niall MacDougall once and for all. Order would be restored to the land again.
And maybe then Braden could plan more than ambushes.
A horse snorted in the distance, the sound carrying in the stillness of the predawn hour. His foe was right on schedule. Braden had waited for this day for two years. He had planned and plotted and planned some more. All had to go perfectly.
His men, all marked outlaws like himself, were fierce Highlanders and vicious, brutal opponents in battle. They would be the ones to set things right. They would be the ones to end the malevolence.
The pass where Niall had to travel was narrow, confining him and his men between two mountains. Most would have gone around but Niall was a man who liked to prove he couldn’t be taken.
A slow smile spread Braden’s lips. Today, things were going to change.
The soft, four-toned whistle sliced through the early morning air. It was the signal from Keith that Niall neared.
Braden had seen this moment many times in his mind. He’d thought out every possibility. Every move. Every countermove. He was as prepared as he could ever be.
He released a long breath when he caught sight of the first horse as it came around the bend. Behind the guard, Braden spotted Niall’s dark head, his hair tied in a neat queue at his neck. And with Niall was his company of twenty men.
Niall never travelled alone. He knew how much he was despised throughout Scotland. Everyone said it was just a matter of time before he was killed.
Another whistle, softer, but in the two-tone that meant trouble. Braden narrowed his gaze on his opponent. What was Niall up to?
And then Braden saw the wagon. The metal bars on the small upper windows told him all he needed to know about the occupants.
Prisoners.
Braden glanced across the road to his men. He waited for their nod of agreement to continue with their mission before he looked to the men beside and behind him.
Niall had taken from all of them in one form or another. Each warrior wanted his revenge, needed retribution for the atrocities. Each man wanted to be the one to strike the killing blow.
Braden tightened his grip on his sword and on the dagger he held in the other hand. The smirk on Niall’s all-too-perfect face was too much to bear. But before this day ended, Braden would see that smile erased.
For ever.
Niall jerked his horse to a halt almost directly across from Braden. Niall was tall and blessed with exceptional looks that made women do all sorts of things to gain his attention.
But he had a heart as evil as the devil.
Braden knew Niall couldn’t see him in the thick grass and plentiful boulders. Yet, the way Niall’s eyes searched the mountainsides, it seemed he was looking for something.
“Come out, come out wherever you are, Braden MacAlister,” Niall taunted.
Braden stiffened. There was no way Niall could have discovered his plans. Braden trusted his men explicably. None of them would have betrayed him.
Braden didn’t move. His men stayed as motionless as he. Braden didn’t have long to wait before Niall lifted a hand to one of the guards near the wagon.
The door at the back of the wagon opened, the squeak was loud but soon drowned out by a startled cry.
“They have women,” Rory whispered as he leaned next to Braden.
Braden couldn’t see who was taken from the wagon as the guard pushed the prisoner through the throng of horses and men. With a shove, the prisoner stumbled and fell to her knees in a whirl of lavender skirt, her hair as black as midnight.
Niall jumped from his mount and grabbed the woman by the hair. Her hands instantly went to his to try and lessen the pain. She hurried to climb to her feet.
“I would see you now, Braden. Show yourself or I kill the wench,” Niall bellowed.
The mist had moved away from Niall and his men, as if it knew the black depths of their hearts and wanted no part of it.
Braden had no choice but to help the woman. Too many innocents had already died. He wouldn’t have her death on his soul, wouldn’t add the weight of another blameless life to his already considerable burden.
“Be ready,” Braden murmured to Rory.
Braden sheathed his sword, but kept his dagger ready in his left hand, the blade tucked against his forearm. He leapt atop the boulder he’d been hiding behind and glared down at the man who dared to call himself a Scot, much less a Highlander.
Jean was on the tip of her toes, trying to keep her hair from being yanked from her scalp. She had known no good would come from Niall MacDougall’s visit to her clan. What she hadn’t foreseen was him taking women and children as prisoners to force her clansmen to his service.
Niall had at first managed to lure a number of women to his side with his easy smile and handsomeness. But those women had learned quickly enough that a face and body as eye-catching as Niall’s couldn’t hide his evil for long.
Jean’s gaze searched the mountainside as Niall called for Braden MacAlister. Braden’s name had been whispered about the land for over a year now. Each time his name was repeated, each time he struck out to kill Niall, belief in him grew. Swelled. Expanded.
Braden was their last hope.
Many called him a ghost because of the way he moved from one place to the next with nary a sound, leaving no trace. Jean had hoped she might get to see the mighty Highlander. But she would have preferred it not to be while the tip of a sword was pressed into the small of her back.
“He will come for you,” Niall whispered in her ear. “It’s not in him to let an innocent die.”
“Unlike you.”
It was out of her mouth before she could think better of it. Then again, she had no illusions. Niall planned to kill her no matter what Braden did or didn’t do.
He chuckled. “Aye. Not like me.”
Jean jerked against his grasp, but his fingers wouldn’t loosen their hold of her hair. Tears stung her eyes from the pain, and she bit her tongue to keep from crying out.
Blood filled her mouth, the metallic taste making her gag. She was about to kick Niall when a man suddenly appeared atop a boulder to her left.
He stood like an ancient god of old with mist swirling around him, clinging to his bare chest and legs corded with sinew. Coiled violence emanated from him.
Braden MacAlister wore no shirt, only his kilt of red, green and blue. She drank in the sight of bronze skin over sculpted muscles. His shoulders were wide and thick. His arms hung casually at his side. He stood with his legs apart, his feet encased in boots up to his knees.
But it was the blue paint on his face, neck and chest that robbed her of breath.
He had marked himself, just as the ancient Celts had done so many years ago. Seeing Braden, with his eyes fixed on Niall and his dark, wavy locks falling about his face, proved that he was the ghost whispered about over the tables of Scotland.
“Ah, Braden,” Niall said. “I told the wench you wouldna let her die.”
Jean knew she needed to get away. It didn’t take a warrior to see that a battle was brewing. And she had no desire to be caught in the middle of it.
“Let the woman go.”
Braden’s demand was softly spoken, but his words were laced with steel.
Niall merely laughed. “For a price.”
“Name it.”
“Your head.”
Jean sucked in a breath. Her life meant nothing, but the freedom of their people meant everything. “Nay,” she said.
Braden’s gaze shifted to her. Their eyes locked, and she shook her head, praying he didn’t give himself over to Niall and his men.
The blade at her back pierced her skin. It was so unexpected that she couldn’t hold back her cry.
“Say more, you stupid bitch, and I’ll see you skewered on my blade,” Niall spat.
A war cry tore from Braden’s lips and he launched himself at Niall. Men poured from the mountain, their faces covered in the same blue paint as Braden.
Chaos erupted. Swords were drawn and war cries deafened her ears.
Niall jerked her against him, using her body as a shield. Two of his guards moved to protect him, swords and shields at the ready.
Jean couldn’t take her gaze off Braden. It was as if time slowed as he sailed through the air. His deep-set eyes were locked on the guards who blocked him from Niall.
Braden’s left arm came up and around. She saw the blade the instant the guard on her right did. The man tried to duck, but Braden was too quick. With lightning speed he sliced the guard’s neck.
When Braden landed, he spun and unsheathed his sword in one fluid movement. His weapon was up in time to block the second guard’s attack.
The clang of swords, cries of pain – and of death – surrounded Jean. She knew she couldn’t sit back and wait to be saved. If she wanted to get away from Niall, she’d have to do it herself.
The fact he had her body pulled against his as a sort of cowardly shield only made her despise him more. The blade poking into her back didn’t help things either.
But her father had always said she was resourceful.
Jean made a fist and swung it down and back as hard as she could. She knew she connected with Niall’s groin by the way air wheezed from his lungs and the dagger dropped from his hand.
She tried to run, but he still had a handful of her hair though he was bent double now, his face red as spittle fell from his lips. He glared at her, fury and the promise of death in his blue eyes.
“Let go,” Jean demanded and she clawed at his handsome face.
The malice she saw in Niall’s stare almost gave her pause. Almost. Jean’s fingers found his eyes and she felt her nails bend backwards sickeningly. She sank her other fingers into his skin, felt the thick texture of blood as it fell from the cuts she dug.
Niall bellowed and released her to cover his eyes. His nostrils flared with anger, deadly intent in his gaze. Jean prepared herself for death.
“You, bitch! How dare you mark my face,” he bellowed.