The Highlander's Secret Son
Author
Jeanine Englert
Reads
18,6K
Chapters
30
Chapter One
‘Put your hands up, you thief,’ Brandon Campbell bellowed, staring at the young lad.
The bastard stood waist-deep in the dark waters of Loch Leven. The boy stilled. Brandon edged his stallion closer to the bank. He almost felt sorry for the wee bastard. No doubt he was daft as a rock. Why stop to bathe after thieving hens’ eggs and dried beef? He was but a half-day’s walk from disappearing into the shadowy depths of Glencoe Pass.
A shiver of warning lit up Brandon’s spine as he squinted into the glare of the sunrise. Why, indeed?
He raised his hand in the air, to signal for the two men behind him to yield. Dismounting, Brandon pulled his dagger from its sheath along his waist belt. If this was a lure, the boy would take out him alone. He’d not risk further casualty. Clan Campbell had suffered enough loss over the last year or so. The MacDonalds had seen to that.
With each step closer to the loch Brandon’s chest tightened. Scars puckered and threaded the lad’s back. The braids of raised pink skin were a testament to the fact that his flesh had been broken and healed over, only to be broken again.
Brandon paused and watched. The lad hadn’t moved. The water about his waist remained tranquil and still. His form was lean, his muscles sinewy and underdeveloped. His dark wet hair barely touched the base of his neck. Could he even be over one and twenty? Brandon doubted it.
Lord above. He didn’t want to cut down a wee boy with barely enough hair to coat his upper lip. He’d killed enough men to haunt his dreams. No need to add to that count this morn. But thieves couldn’t be allowed to go free either.
A plain grey blanket rested in the grass. The brown shells of hens’ eggs and the dark hunks of dried beef beckoned him on.
There had to be order. Consequences. Punishment if needed. As the new Laird, he now had to be the one to provide it, even if he didn’t wish to.
‘Turn,’ he ordered.
The lad didn’t move.
‘Turn, you thief. Or I shall wade in after you.’
The boy shifted and pulled his arms towards his body.
‘Ack. Not likely, lad. Put your hands to your sides, palms open, and turn. I’ll see the face of the thief stealing from me.’
Brandon thought he heard a curse from the boy, but it failed to carry across the water. The lad relaxed his arms, placed them to his sides, opened his palms, and turned.
The sight of a pair of perfectly formed breasts knocked the breath right out of Brandon.
‘Turn away!’ he growled to his men.
They obeyed his command. And as he stared at the lass a surge of loss and anger rose from his belly like bad ale. He sheathed his dagger. Of all the breasts he would have liked to see this morn, hers weren’t included.
Fiona bloody MacDonald.
‘If I believed in ghosts, I’d say you were a ghastly spirit, Fiona MacDonald.’
Brandon rolled his shoulders and shifted on his feet. Seeing her again after all this time unsettled and angered him all in the same moment. Just as it always did. He swallowed hard.
Bollocks.
Instead of covering herself, she ran her hands through her wet hair, causing her breasts to rise and fall in a very becoming way. Fiona’s green eyes shone with mischief, just as they had when she was a wee girl. Then they darkened with anger as her smile fell into a flat line.
‘I could say the same of you, my laird.’ She popped her hands on her hips.
Brandon’s body twitched at the sight of her. Ack. Her beauty was a distraction. It always had been. One he didn’t need. Not today. And now that she’d been found on Campbell land—stealing, no less, and after all the chaos and destruction she’d already caused—she’d have to be dealt with. No Campbell had any softness in his heart for any MacDonald right now—especially not this long-lost ewe.
‘Come out of the blasted water before I come in after you. I’ve more pressing things to do this day.’
‘If you insist,’ she answered, and began to stride out of the loch, taking no heed to cover...anything.
‘Stop,’ he commanded.
She paused with the water lapping just below her navel. A navel that still haunted his dreams.
Fate was a wicked temptress.
He hated this woman. She’d betrayed him, his clan, and broken his heart, but he couldn’t suppress his base need to protect her. She was still a woman, and she deserved some semblance of decency even if she was a traitor to her core.
He scanned the ground around her. Where were her clothes? Rolling his eyes, he headed over to his mount and pulled an extra Campbell plaid from its strap. She wasn’t worthy of wearing its stripes. He threw it at her anyway.
She caught it and gifted him a smile full of daggers. Brandon responded in kind.
He studied her as she exited the loch and climbed the bank. She secured a knot of plaid at the shoulder to hold it in place. The light green twinkle of mischief returned to her eyes, and Brandon fisted his hands by his side. Unease skittered along his limbs. The lass was up to something.
‘Malcolm, bind her hands,’ Brandon ordered, and the soldier turned to face him.
Sensing his man’s hesitation, Brandon stopped cold. Malcolm was new to the clan and didn’t know what she was capable of.
‘She may seem a soft woman, but you don’t know her. She could drop you where you stand, wipe the blood from her hands, and then enjoy an apple under the shade of a bough tree. Do not be fooled by her beauty. She is a warrior and a traitor. Bind her. Now.’
Fiona smirked at him.
Oh, no.
Brandon made a move towards Malcolm, but it was too late. Fiona snatched the man’s blade from its sheath, twisted around him, and slammed her foot into the back of his knee while elbowing him in the neck.
One of Brandon’s best men crumpled to the ground like a rag doll. This was the last thing he needed today. He sighed.
‘Fi!’ he shouted, irritation coating the name. ‘Do not make me wrestle you to the ground.’
‘What makes you think you can?’ She moved loosely back and forth on her bare feet, like a wolf assessing her prey. She scanned his form and frowned. ‘You seem a bit softer than I remember.’
‘My laird, would you like me—?’
‘Nay, Hugh,’ Brandon growled. ‘I’ll deal with her. It’s time we settled what has come to pass between us.’
And he meant it. Rage flooded his body and he heated with the need to punish her for what she had done to his clan, his family...to him.
But he’d not pull a blade on her.
He removed his waist belt and set it off to the side. He rolled his neck and shoulders and settled into his sparring stance.
‘Do you really refuse to use a blade?’ she asked, shaking her head.
‘Aye.’
‘Fine.’ She tossed her own blade into the grass. ‘Then I shall best you without it.’ She smiled and gazed up at him.
‘Or you could allow me to bind your hands and bring you in without this skirmish,’ he said. ‘I shall best you in a fight, as I always do.’
‘Ah. This new role as Laird has made you far more arrogant than I remember.’
‘A role you thrust me into...if you remember.’
Her steps faltered for a mere second, and he seized the advantage. Lunging at her core, he tackled her, and they tumbled to the ground in a tangle of limbs. She landed several kicks to his thighs and one blow to his nose before he had her pinned to the ground.
Panting for breath, he whispered in her ear. ‘Give up, Fi. I do not wish to hurt you.’
‘You already have,’ she answered softly, and stilled under his hold.
Gooseflesh rose along his skin, and the feel of her beneath him flooded his mind with memories of a far different kind. Of a time when he would have given anything to spar with her, in the field or otherwise.
‘And so have you hurt me,’ he bit back. He cursed under his breath, stood, and pulled her to her feet. ‘The rope,’ he commanded.
Malcolm, who stood sheepish and red-faced a few lengths away, tossed it to him.
Brandon caught it with one hand and bound her wrists in front of her. He wiped the blood streaming out of his nose on his tunic sleeve and stalked over to the wool blanket that held the thieved hens’ eggs and dried beef. Another bundle lay next to it. When he kneeled to pick it up, it squealed. He froze.
Lord above.
As he pulled back the material his footing almost gave way, but he caught himself. Running a hand down his face, he leaned back and stared into the bright blue eyes of a beautiful baby with a head of chestnut-coloured hair.
This morn was full of surprises.
Giving a delighted squeal, the wee thing smiled at him and clapped its hands together. Brandon couldn’t help but smile back.
Then he turned to face Fiona.
She lowered her eyes. ‘Brandon, meet your son. William.’
