The Chieftain: A Highlander's Heart and Soul Novel Read online

  The Chieftain

  A Highlander’s Heart & Soul Novel

  Maeve Greyson

  Copyright © 2019 by Maeve Greyson

  Cover art by Wicked Smart Designs

  Editing by Ink it Out - Chelly Peeler

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This book may not be sold, shared, or given away because that is an infringement of the copyright.

  This book is a work of fiction.

  The characters, names, locations, and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  To those who dare to dream with their eyes wide open.

  And to dear sweet Jasper—I miss you still.

  Also by Maeve Greyson

  Highland Protectors Series

  Sadie’s Highlander

  Joanna’s Highlander

  Katie’s Highlander

  Highland Hearts Series

  My Highland Lover

  My Highland Bride

  My Tempting Highlander

  My Seductive Highlander

  The MacKay Clan

  Beyond A Highland Whisper

  The Highlander’s Fury

  A Highlander In Her Past

  Other books by maeve Greyson

  Stone Guardian

  Eternity’s Mark

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Maeve Greyson

  Prologue

  Thirteen February 1692 - Glencoe Scotland - Clan MacDonald’s keep

  Dawn broke with blood-curdling shrieks and shouts. Gunfire fed into the chaos. Though the bitter winds of winter howled outside, scorching hot air, thick and stifling to the lungs, filled the halls of the stronghold.

  Acrid smoke, heavy with the oily scent of pitch and burned flesh, hung low across every room. Tarred brands embedded deep wherever they’d landed crackled and blazed as their black oozing fuel took hold and gained strength.

  Alexander MacCoinnich rose from his crouched position behind a bullet-riddled column, stealing a glance beyond its cover. Relief washed across him as he peered through the choking haze and located his brother. Graham hurried in his direction, was almost to him, in fact. Duncan and Sutherland, the youngest of the four MacCoinnich brothers, followed close behind.

  Thank God he found them. A bullet cut Alexander’s thankfulness short as it burrowed bone deep into his upper thigh. He staggered back against the column, struggling to remain upright. Teeth clenched, he leveled his pistol, took aim, and downed the bastard that had shot him.

  His brothers reached him. Alexander motioned toward the end of the room where the chieftain’s overturned table was consumed by fire. “Behind that table. Past the burning tapestry. A passage. We canna win this.” Another shot bored into the meat of his shoulder, almost taking him to the ground. Burning pain radiated through his body. “Move! Now! I’m feckin’ tired of getting shot!”

  “Graham, carry the great hulking beast!” Duncan flinched and glanced about for the source of closer gunfire. “Sutherland and I’ll guard your backs.”

  A man, wild-eyed and screaming Clan Campbell’s battle cry, plowed toward Duncan who, with the agility born of countless battles, side-stepped away from the man’s bayonet then took the intruder down with a single swipe of his claymore. Sword held at the ready, Duncan backed closer to his older brothers. “And ye ken Sutherland and I’ll be reminding the both of ye that from this day forward the youngest MacCoinnichs bested the eldest brothers, aye?”

  “Aye,” Sutherland said, chiming in as he ducked under the arm of another raging swordsman and plunged his dagger deep into the man’s side. He yanked the dying man’s sword out of his hand, admired the weapon, then secured it into his own belt. “Never hear the end of it if we let Alexander die. The nagging bugger would haunt us the rest of our days, ye ken?”

  “I’m no’ dead yet,” Alexander said as he shoved his pistols into his belt. Ammunition gone and pistols useless, a sense of doom tightened deep in his gut but he wouldna give it free rein. This isna the end. He drew his dagger from its sheath, wishing he had the strength to heft the weight of his claymore hanging at his side. Wishes were futile in this hell. The bullet robbing his shoulder of its strength was the reality.

  His sight dimmed for an instant and the steady high-pitched ring of blood loss hummed in his ears. Palming his dagger, he blinked hard against the suffocating fog of agony threatening to overtake him. Past battles had been worse. He’d push through this and get his brothers safe and tended to afore he relented and gave in to the darkness threatening to knock him on his arse. I’ll be damned if I pass out and let Campbell and his bloody regiment take me. He staggered to one side.

  Graham hitched himself up under Alexander’s arm and clenched him tight around the middle. “Ye can do this, damn ye. Dinna let them win.” Gunfire sounded close behind them. The smell of spent gunpowder followed as quick as thunder follows lightning. Graham grunted and jerked a step forward. He bowed his head and grimaced, pain evident in his scowl.

  Bullet-riddled columns and upended tables provided little cover. One arm clutched around Graham's shoulders, Alexander stumbled and half-crawled the remaining few feet to the blazing chieftain's table. They made their way past it, then pushed into the shallow alcove concealed behind the flaming tapestry. Duncan and Sutherland stayed close behind, then took up guard on either side of the alcove.

  Heat from the ignited tapestry threatened to sizzle his flesh and the sharp scent of burnt hair surrounded him. Alexander pushed away from the support of his brother. Roaring against the excruciating torture of his wounds, he slammed his hands against specific stones inlaid in the wall and shoved. The hidden doorway opened. Thank God. He staggered into the darkness, sagging back against the rough slab of the inner wall and pulled in a deep breath of the cool dank air. He motioned at the still open door as his brothers dashed into the tunnel with him.

  “Those stones,” he said as he struggled to remain upright. “Push the two stones at the base and it will close. The bastards willna be able to follow.” He sent up a silent prayer of thanks to MacIain, Clan MacDonald’s chief, for sharing the keep’s secrets before the attack. The hidden tunnel bettered their odds of surviving.

  Duncan and Sutherland shoved at the blocks Alexander had pointed out before they lost the light of the blazing tapestry. Stone ground and gritted against stone and inky blackness blotted out all light as the massive door settled back in place. Alexander slumped against the wall then fisted his hands so hard his knuckles popped. He’d failed. Failed in their mission to protect Clan MacDonald of Glencoe as hired to do so by Ma
cIain’s kin, the Lord of the Isles himself, the chieftain of Clan Donald of Islay.

  The bile of defeat burned the back of his throat. Alexander closed his eyes a scant moment, pulling in deep breaths and blowing them out. Now isna the time to wallow. Must move on. They had but one choice. Save themselves. Live to fight another day and perhaps, if God so willed it, avenge those murdered this day. For that was what this was: murder. Not battle. Not war. Not a skirmish between clans. This attack had been a calculated act of cold-blooded murder.

  Alexander shifted in the darkness, a darkness that played hell with a man’s equilibrium. He turned to hitch his way forward, deeper into the tunnel. “This way.” He forced himself to sound a damn sight stronger than he felt. “MacIain said the tunnel leads to the back of the keep. If the way is clear, we can make it to the trees and then to the cave.”

  “Horses?” Graham asked. His pained wheezing echoed in the dank, cool darkness.

  “Do ye truly think they left the stables untouched?” Alexander couldn’t help biting out the words. His wounds were pushing him to the edge of sanity. “The bastards probably set fire to them first. Ye ken that as well as I.”

  He dragged himself along, right shoulder scraping against the rough, grainy surface of the wall. Feet shuffling, he made a careful sweep of his boot before each step to avoid whatever surprise the darkness might hold. He was growing weaker, his injured leg heavier. He concentrated on breathing, remaining upright, and ignoring the burning stab of agonizing pain radiating from several places on his body. Three times he’d been shot. Four if ye counted the grazing across his ribs, and he’d lost track of how many wounds he’d earned courtesy of swords, bayonets, and daggers. Best talk of something to keep the pain at bay. “We best thank Almighty God and all the saints for revealing that cave to us on our way here to Glencoe. ’Twill give us shelter to rest,” he said to anyone willing to listen. “And tend to our wounds.”

  “And then?” Duncan asked from somewhere behind him in the darkness.

  “Leave ‘then’ to God,” Alexander said. “Only He kens that answer and I’m a damn sight too weary at the moment to ask Him.” One hand feeling his way, he sent up a silent prayer that his strength would hold until they reached the cave.

  Alexander blinked hard at the cold sweat running into his eyes and setting them on fire. Sight was useless in the dark tomb of the tunnel. It felt as though they’d been crawling through this clammy black hell for hours. The sounds of the attack had grown quieter—at least as far as he could tell what with the roaring of his blood pounding in his ears. He didna ken if it was because they’d made their way well past the belly of the keep or if Campbell’s troops had finished their massacre of the entire clan. Damn Robert Campbell and his men straight to hell.

  “I feel fresh air,” Sutherland called out. “Take care, brother. Who’s to say they’re no’ waiting for anyone trying to escape.”

  “Hold fast.” Alexander stopped and leaned back against the solid wall, gulping in deep breaths to rally his waning strength. He’d emerge from the tunnels first. A winged bird. An easy target in case danger lay ahead. “The lot of ye stay here until I deem it safe and call out to ye to follow, aye?”

  “Nay,” Graham argued. “I’ll go. I’ve shot left in my pistol and my wounds are no’ so bad as yours.”

  “Ye will stay here.” Alexander adopted the growling tone he’d oft used to keep his brothers in line when they were lads. Aye, his wounds pained him something severe, but he wasna dead yet and as eldest, they best remember he was still verra much in charge. “I'll no' go to my grave with your death on my conscience, ye ken?”

  “But ye’d burden me with your death on mine?” Graham took hold of Alexander’s arm and wrapped it around his shoulders for support. “We go together. The pups can stay behind.”

  “Like hell, we will,” Sutherland said. “And I’m no’ a damn pup, ye condescending bastard.”

  “We all go,” Duncan interjected. “Or none of us go, aye?”

  “God’s bones, every last one of ye pains me.” But his brothers filled him with pride. Alexander held Graham’s shoulder tighter and pushed himself forward. “Come then. Mother bore us all years apart but if we die today, we die together.”

  An icy gust of wind swooshed into the tunnel just as Alexander spotted daylight winking in the darkness up ahead. They’d made it through the keep. If what MacIain had said was true, the tunnel opened a few yards out at the mouth of a shallow ravine. He’d said a burn was nearby and ’twas sheltered by a thick stand of pines. Water from the burn would be most welcome about now. Alexander swallowed hard, his mouth dry. He’d relish one last drink before he died. If he had his druthers, whisky wouldha been his first choice, but water would have to do.

  He and Graham pushed their way through the ramshackle door. A circle of dense spiky hedging concealing the exit of the tunnel greeted them. Alexander stumbled, then cursed under his breath as the wicked gorse and its relentless spikes tore across his flesh.

  A horse snorted and grumbled just beyond the barrier of thorns.

  “Christ Almighty,” Alexander said in a strained whisper as he grabbed hold of Graham and pulled them both down into a low crouch. He hissed out a barely stifled groan with the effort. “We’re found.”

  “Ready yourselves.” Alexander lifted his dagger. Faint shuffling sounded behind him. The metallic shushing of drawn steel. The click of pistols armed to fire.

  “If ye shoot me or cut me, I’ll no’ save your sorry arses, I grant ye that.”

  Relief flooded so hard through Alexander that it staggered him to one side. He clutched at a gorse branch for support. ’Twas Magnus. His closest friend. “Magnus, ye wily bastard. When the hell did ye arrive and how in the name of all that’s holy did ye know of the tunnel?”

  “Ye can see the black smoke as far as Fort William. I got here as fast as I could.” The branches of the stubborn gorse bushes rattled as they shook then gave way as Magnus de Gray, dubbed ‘Ghost’ due to both his stealth and his looks, hacked them aside with his sword. “And never underestimate what secrets ye can discover about a keep by befriending lovely maids with a bone to pick with their former master.” Magnus grew quiet as he reached Alexander and Graham still crouching at the heart of the bushes. His mouth tightened into a grim line when he saw their wounds. “Hurry. From the looks of ye, we’ve no’ much time and rumor has it there be at least two more regiments coming to ensure there are no survivors and that no one escapes the glen from either of the passes.”

  “There’s a cave. Higher. Above the northern rise.” Alexander winced, and a groan escaped him as Magnus and Graham helped him to his feet. Ignore the pain. Must make it to the cave. Darkness whirled around him, knocking him off balance and making him stumble to one side. “Shelter in the cave. Higher. Must go higher into the mountains.”

  “Ye’ll ride my horse. The stables are nothing but smoldering ash and no’ a beast in sight. The rest of us will have to walk.” Magnus took Graham’s place under Alexander’s arm. He, Duncan, and Sutherland hefted Alexander onto the horse.

  “I owe ye a bottle of the best whisky in Scotland,” Alexander said as he sagged forward in the saddle. It felt good to sit, or at least as close to good as he could get right now through all this worrisome pain. If he could just remain upright until they reached the cave, then he’d lie down and if anyone disturbed him, he’d damn well shoot them.

  With more effort than he thought he could muster, he hitched forward in the saddle, breaking out in a cold sweat as the need to retch washed across him. He swallowed hard and pulled in deep breaths against the nauseating pain. “Put Graham behind me. He’s wounded as well and mighty Stoic can haul us both.” He leaned forward and patted the great horse’s shaggy neck. “Ye willna mind toting us both, will ye, Stoic?”

  At the sound of his name, the large black horse tossed his head and responded with a friendly grumble and a stomp of one of his great hairy feet.

  “I can walk,” Graham s
aid in an insulted growl.

  “Ye think I’m being generous but I’m not, dear brother. With your arse in the saddle behind me, ye’ll block that icy wind and keep me warm.”

  “We must go,” Magnus advised with a concerned look around. Dark smoke billowed from every orifice in the once grand castle behind them and flames licked out around the blocks of stone. Unmistakable sounds of pillaging and men on the move grew closer.

  “Verra well then.” Graham feigned a bow that ended in a flinching grab of his wounded side. With Magnus’s and Duncan’s help and a great deal of cursing, Graham pulled himself aboard the huge horse and settled in behind Alexander.

  Alexander grunted as Graham shifted behind him and wrapped the length of his kilt around them both. The slightest of moves pained him. Perhaps staying warm wasna the best idea. At least if he grew cold, he might grow numb as well. As if in answer to this thought, a sudden gust of icy wind cut across him and huge clusters of snowflakes filled the air. Snow. A double-edged sword. It could hide their tracks or grow so deep they’d founder.

  With a hard wince that stole his breath, he hunched forward in the saddle and urged the horse into a faster trot toward the cover of the dense thicket of pines. Magnus, Duncan, and Sutherland fanned out, dashing into the woods on either side of the horse.

  “God be with us,” Alexander whispered, a pained grunt escaping him and his breath fogging in the frigid air. Agony pounded through him with every jolt of the horse’s gait. He blinked hard, head swimming and vision fading in and out of focus. He peered up into the murky sky, not even bothering to blink as the heavy, wet snowflakes plopped into his eyes.