My Rebel Highlander Read online

  "The lad. Lady Stanbury's son." His father shook his head, looking stricken. "Is there something you neglected to tell me?"

  "Like what?" Rebbie tried for a blank, confused expression. Calla hadn't wanted his father to know, and with good reason.

  "Damnation, son, the lad is the spitting image of you at that age. How long have you known Lady Stanbury?"

  "Does it matter?"

  His father narrowed his eyes. "You're holding back on me. I want the truth."

  Rebbie glanced around to make sure no one was close enough to hear. "She doesn't want anyone else to ken. Do you vow to tell no one?"

  His father's intense dark eyes bored into his. "Of course. You have my word."

  "The lad is the Earl of Stanbury. If word gets out, the title and land will be stripped from him. His future will be ruined."

  "How the bloody hell did this happen? You knew her that long ago and while she was married?"

  "'Tis a long story, Da. And I don't wish to embarrass the lady further."

  "But he is your son?"

  "Aye. I saw the resemblance immediately, and she's confirmed it."

  His father cursed. "You cannot claim him."

  "I'm well aware."

  "I knew your wenching would get you into trouble one day."

  "I'm not the one in trouble. Calla is. Claybourne has somehow come by this information and is no doubt blackmailing her into doing whatever he wants."

  "Hell-hated whoreson."

  "I'll have to kill him for this. You know that, don't you?"

  "If you don't, I will," his father growled.

  ***

  Claybourne watched Calla as she picked at her food in his elegant dining hall. 'Twas an early supper, but he'd heard her stomach growling earlier. He didn't want her hungry and her stomach rumbling when he was having his fun. Nay, he was going to make her enjoy being under him whether she wanted to or not.

  "Have more wine." He topped off the red wine in her silver goblet.

  She gulped down a large sip and watched him warily.

  He wished she would hurry. He wanted to get started. Already his erection was straining against his trousers. He didn't know what he'd do when he stripped her naked. He had been dreaming of this for so long.

  "Finished?" he asked.

  Fear flashed in her eyes then, sending another spark of arousal through him. He loved having her at his mercy.

  "Come, m'lady." He stood and waited at the door. "I'll show you to your chamber." Well, their chamber… the one he'd had specially prepared.

  She swallowed hard and pushed herself to her feet. Her skin was pale and her lips blush-red. He would taste them in a matter of minutes.

  He held out his elbow but she ignored it. He grinned.

  As they passed through the entry hall and moved up the staircase, he glanced about at the various guards and servants he'd placed in discreet spots. He was no idiot. He knew that once that damned Highlander, Rebbinglen, learned she was here, he would try to take her. But he wouldn't be successful. Claybourne had hired additional men for his garrison, including several mercenaries who knew how to deal with barbarous Highlanders.

  At the top of the steps, Claybourne's excitement grew. He opened the last door on the corridor and invited her inside. The dark draperies were drawn closed and dozens of candles lit the room. The four-poster bed was large with ropes secured to each of the posts.

  He couldn't wait to have her naked and bound beneath him.

  ***

  Seeing the ropes on the bed, Calla felt as if all the blood drained from her body. A chilling nausea consumed her. Claybourne was going to bind her? She frowned at him. What kind of monster was he? Even Stanbury hadn't done that.

  "There's no need for you to tie me."

  "Come now, Calla. 'Twill be fun." His vile grin said he would enjoy torturing her.

  He was mad. If Rebbie tied her up, she might enjoy it. But this maniac?

  She would be trapped, unable to move, having to endure whatever perverse acts he decided to perform on her. She shuddered. "Nay, I don't wish to be tied."

  He closed the door behind them with an echoing thud. "You have little choice in the matter," he said in a harsher tone.

  "'Twas not part of the contract."

  "Nay, but you agreed to work for me for a fortnight. That implies doing whatever I want you to do."

  Her heart pounded hard as a battering-ram smashing into wood. "Are you going to hurt me?"

  He lifted a brow, his lustful, dark green eyes pinning her to the spot. "Do you enjoy pain, my sweet?"

  "Nay."

  "Well then, I'll be as gentle as I can." His roving gaze again dipped to her breasts. "Remove your clothing, leaving on only your smock."

  Oh dear God, help me. Her hands trembled as she slowly unlaced her clothing. His gaze crawled over her every movement, like a slimy slug.

  When most of her clothes lay in a heap on the elegant Turkish carpet, she crossed her arms over her chest. At least he'd allowed her to keep on her plain linen smock.

  "Lie on the bed." His breathing grew heavy.

  Her stomach rebelled and she felt like spewing all the wine she'd drunk earlier. She'd thought it would help her endure. Now, she wasn't so certain anything would help, other than a knife to stab him with. But she couldn’t do that. He'd said if anything happened to him, his steward would send the damning missive. And she didn't even ken what his steward looked like or where he was. She had his signed contract, but didn't know if 'twas worth as much as the parchment it was scribed on. She also had the deed to the Cramby Estate.

  Climbing up on the high bed, she thought of Rebbie. Aye, if she closed her eyes and imagined Rebbie, mayhap she could survive this.

  Once she lay down, Claybourne tied the rough, narrow brown ropes around her wrists and ankles, smiling like a pitiless demon the entire time.

  Oh, how she wanted to vomit. And maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing. It would disgust him and he wouldn't do the deed.

  He stood over her leering. "Lovely." He removed something from inside his doublet. A knife. The blade glinted in the candlelight.

  Her heart stopped. "Nay!" She yanked at the ropes but they didn't budge.

  "Calm yourself, my dear. I'm not going to cut you," he said in a subdued tone.

  Her pulse pounded in her ears, loud as drums. "What are you going to do?"

  "This." Lifting the hem of her smock, he sliced the blade up through the material.

  She tried to press her legs together, but the ropes held them fast.

  The blade slid clear through to the neckline of the garment. He placed the knife on the bedside table. How could she get her hands on it?

  But, nay, she couldn't, she reminded herself.

  He slowly parted the linen fabric, his evil eyes boring into her. His teeth bared and clenched, he drew in a hissing breath.

  Revulsion coursed through her.

  Taking up the knife again, he quickly slit her sleeves until she lay without a stitch on. She wanted to squeeze her eyes tightly shut so she didn't have to look at his revolting and triumphant smirk, but she forced herself to be fully aware of his every move. He tossed the knife and it landed with a clatter across the room, his eyes riveted to her. "So beautiful," he whispered with bizarre reverence. "Even better than I've imagined all these years."

  Years? Aye, she well remembered his leers from when she was sixteen summers, the first time she'd seen him.

  He placed a clammy, long-fingered hand upon her stomach. She cringed, every fiber of her being wanting to draw away from him. His cold touch was so very different from Rebbie's warm, strong hands.

  Rebbie. Where are you? I love you and I'm sorry. So very sorry. Tears slipped from her eyes and slid into her hair.

  Claybourne ran his bony, spider-like hand up her side to cup her breast.

  She recoiled. Bastard, she wanted to yell at him, bile rising in her throat.

  ***

  Please let me get to her in time, Rebbie p
rayed, riding beside Lachlan, their horses galloping along the muddy roads south of Perth.

  "'Tis there." Lachlan pointed at a new, ten-foot high stone wall and the top of a large, slate-roofed manor house within.

  Finally. Drawing up, Rebbie leapt to the ground.

  "Slip over and see if the gates are locked." Lachlan motioned to two of his men on foot. "Make haste. And don't allow their guards to see you."

  "No doubt they are locked." Rebbie eyed the long expanse of wall and the iron gates just visible beyond the bushes. "I'm certain the whoreson is expecting me." Rebbie's gaze searched for a way up and over the wall. He couldn't tell how thick the wall was, but it looked formidable.

  "Here, I brought you some armor." Lachlan tossed a gambeson to him.

  "I thank you." Rebbie yanked off his doublet, pulled on the heavy, metal-studded leather garment and buckled the front.

  The two guards returned at a run. "Aye, locked up tight and well-guarded, m'laird. We counted seven men."

  "Last time we were here, one of the men found a clever way beyond the wall." Lachlan hung a coil of rope on his shoulder.

  "Show me," Rebbie said. "We must hurry."

  "Six of you stay with the horses. The rest follow us." Lachlan turned and raced along the wall, through thick brush and weeds. Rebbie followed, along with several more.

  Lachlan stopped abruptly and looked up. "See that?" he whispered and pointed.

  Rebbie glanced up to see three life-sized, nude female statues perched atop the wall, as if dancing. "Are they attached?"

  "I think they must be. Last time, some of the men threw large rocks at them to try to knock them off. They didn't budge."

  "Thank the saints Claybourne is too daft to realize he created an opening for us."

  Lachlan formed a loop in the rope and tied a knot. "Only one way to find out if they're secured." He tossed the looped rope toward a marble statue. On the second try, he snagged it. The rope slid down. "Watch out," he warned those around him, then tugged the rope. The statue held fast.

  "I'm going over first," Rebbie said, making certain all his weapons were in place—his sword, dirk, two pistols, and a targe attached to his belt.

  Lachlan handed him the rope. "Have a care. There may be guards stationed in the garden. The rest of us will follow."

  Rebbie nodded, then climbed the rope, hand over hand, his feet walking up the wall. At the top, he hauled himself onto the crest of the stone wall and cast his gaze over the garden of vegetables, flowers and shrubs. Unless the guards were hiding behind the shrubs, no one waited here. He nodded to Lachlan and gave him the all-clear sign. After pulling the rope over, Rebbie scaled down the other side of the wall, then tossed the rope back across.

  How long had Calla been here? It near drove him mad that she hadn't waited for him. He knew 'twas his fault for taking such a long ride to clear his head and get his thoughts straight.

  After slipping his targe onto his forearm, and taking his dirk in hand, he raced through the garden, hiding behind bushes.

  Footsteps crunching on gravel stopped him cold. He hunched behind a marble statue and waited. Black boots came into his line of vision. Once the guard passed, Rebbie leapt onto his back. They fell to the ground, the guard cursing and thrashing about with his sword. Pinning him to the gravel face down, Rebbie stabbed the dirk into his sword arm. The man screeched.

  "Shut your gob," Rebbie said between clenched teeth. "Is Lady Stanbury here?"

  "Bastard! I'll kill you! I'll slit your throat, you Highland scum."

  Rebbie grabbed the man's long brown hair and yanked, pressing the dirk's blade lightly against the man's throat. "Where is the lady?"

  "Inside!"

  Rebbie leapt up, intending to bash the man on the back of the head with a stone and knock him out. But the guard twisted and hopped to his feet. He charged Rebbie, a dirk in his left hand.

  Rebbie grabbed the man's left arm and, in the ensuing scuffle, stabbed the man in the chest. He cried out, fell backward, then writhed upon the ground.

  Lachlan hastened toward him, eyeing the dying man. "You got him."

  "I didn't want to kill him." Nor would Rebbie let the man prevent him from finding Calla. He turned and hurried through the garden. Lachlan followed, then both crouched behind a short hedge.

  Guards were stationed at each corner of the large manor house, swords in hand. Two were in view.

  "How many," Alasdair whispered, slipping up behind them.

  Glad to see he'd made it over the wall, Rebbie said, "We only see two at the moment."

  "Rebbie and I will take them out. Watch our backs," Lachlan said.

  "Aye."

  All three men drew their swords and carried their dirks in their left hands behind their targes, just as they would in battle.

  Rebbie and Lachlan dispatched those two, but not silently. They'd screamed out in pain. Three more guards, who looked more like mercenaries in their black garb and chain mail, charged from the front of the mansion. Alasdair and two more of the men who'd made it over the wall ran into the fray. Blades slashed and clanged.

  Blocking the blade flying toward him with his targe, Rebbie stabbed his opponent in the throat, through the vulnerable opening in the armor, then kicked him backward. The man screamed out, and hit the ground, his blood soaking the crushed stone.

  Once those three were disabled, Rebbie and the other men charged around the front of the mansion. Two guarded the front door. Too easy, Rebbie thought, grinning like a madman. The two men's eyes widened and their jaws dropped. They screamed like lasses and fled across the courtyard toward the front gates.

  What the hell? Rebbie glanced around at the others, then realized what had scared the young guards so badly. Eight plaid-swathed Highlanders stood behind him, brandishing swords, most of them, including Rebbie, spattered with blood.

  Wasting no time, Rebbie stormed the large, carved oak front door, gave it three kicks and sent it crashing back against the wall. He raced into the marble-tiled front hall. Seeing no one, he raced up the steps toward the upper floor. Claybourne would no doubt bring her up here, to a bedchamber. The whoreson. Rebbie wanted to butcher the man.

  A muffled scream echoed from somewhere in the distance.

  "Listen," he hissed to Lachlan and Alasdair, who came up behind him. "I hear her. Check inside these rooms." Rebbie raced to the other end of the corridor.

  Another scream pierced the air, this one closer. At the last door, he kicked the latch and the door banged against a heavy piece of furniture. He shoved it back enough to get a quick glance inside the room.

  What he saw froze him to the spot.

  Claybourne held Calla before him, his dagger to her throat. She wore naught but a cut rope around each wrist. What the hell? He'd had her tied up?

  "Bastard!" Rebbie rammed his shoulder against the door, knocking the chest out of his way.

  "Stay back or I'll cut her throat!" Claybourne yelled, hunching behind Calla and using her as a shield.

  "Coward!" Outrage and bloodlust smashed into Rebbie so hard he could scarce think. He wanted to charge the bastard and lop off his head, but knew he couldn't. He had to get Calla out of his grasp first. "I swear I'm going to kill you for this, Claybourne!"

  "Not so fast, Highlander. Tell him," he said to Calla, his blade grazing her throat. Too damned close.

  Fear lashed Rebbie. "You bastard, at least let her put on some clothes." If he could get a small opening, he'd take the whoreson down.

  Claybourne laughed nervously. "What? Don't you wish anyone else to see your whore naked? Your beautiful treasure? She's mine now."

  "Release her or you'll die," Rebbie commanded.

  "Tell him, my sweet," Claybourne said near Calla's ear.

  "His steward." Her voice was unsteady, tears trailing from her eyes.

  "What about him?"

  "If you kill Claybourne…" Her voice caught. "His steward will deliver missives to parliament about… about Jamie."

  "Where is th
e steward?" Rebbie demanded.

  Claybourne cackled. "Do you think I'm daft enough to tell you that?"

  "No matter. You'll be dead, so 'twill mean naught to you."

  "If you're going to kill me, I'm taking her with me to hell." Claybourne tightened his arm around Calla's body, holding both her arms trapped to her sides. "Is that what you want?"

  Rebbie forced himself to think, listening to his own harsh breathing. His heart near beat out of his chest. He locked his eyes on Calla's, trying to make her see that he loved her and that he'd do anything for her. Anything.

  A surge of determination entering her eyes, she yanked one arm free of Claybourne's grip and shoved his knife hand away from her, at the same time twisting aside and exposing more of Claybourne's head and body.

  Seeing the opening he needed, Rebbie drew his pistol, aimed and fired. The flash near blinded him and smoke filled his nostrils. His ears rang from the report of the gun. He rushed across the floor toward Calla. Claybourne lay in a small pool of blood, a bullet hole in his forehead, his eyes staring blindly.

  "Calla!" Rebbie grabbed her to him. Thank God she was alive. But blood covered her arm. "You're hurt."

  "Aye." She clutched onto him, her hands shaking. "His blade cut my arm when he fell."

  "Hell. How bad is it?" Snagging the covers from the bed, he yanked off the counterpane and a sheet. He covered her in the counterpane and used the sheet to blot at the blood dripping down her arm.

  Sounds of a battle in the corridor reached his ears. More of Claybourne's guards must have followed them inside. He was confident Lachlan and the others could handle them.

  After ripping off a strip of the sheet, he wrapped it tightly around Calla's forearm and tied it. "'Twill stop bleeding soon. Did he hurt you in any other way?"

  She shook her head, tears dripping from her eyes. "I thank you for coming."

  "Tell me, Calla," he forced himself to say in the calmest voice possible. "Did he force himself on you?"

  "Nay. Almost, but he heard the fighting outside. Someone cried out… and blades clashed. But… his steward. As soon as he learns of Claybourne's death he will send the missives about Jamie to members of parliament. Our son's life will be ruined."

  Chapter Twenty-One