Torn Between Two Highlanders (Sword and Thistle 2)

“Do churchmen defend this castle?” the laird snapped. “No, I give not a fig for the that. I only care for the well-being of my clan, and the defense I owe the people. If that’s blasphemy or heresy, so be it.”

Well, that was all fine and good to say if one was the laird. But if one was a crofter’s daughter who was suspected of witchcraft…

“I’m sorry, my laird,” Arabella said. “I know no spells. But I am good with herbs, so if you have any yew berries, I could cook up your enemies another deadly rabbit stew.”

At that, the laird tilted his big head back and let out a bellow of laughter. Loud and clear. Laughter that seemed as if it was well-needed. “Mayhaps it will come to that, lass, since I suspect there is a traitor or two amongst us.”

Arabella blinked. “A traitor?”

The Macrae sighed and deigned to explain, “An army doesn’t attack a well-fortified castle with few vulnerable spots just as winter is breaking unless they have someone on the inside they believe will help them gain entrance before the worst of the snows come.”

Chapter Eleven

A traitor, Arabella thought, leaving the laird and his warriors to their battle plans. But who might it be? She supposed with all the villagers who had sought shelter within the castle walls, it might be anyone. And given how ill-disposed to the laird her own Papa was, she found herself suddenly grateful that he had fled with her younger siblings. Because he would be suspect. Even his daughters would suspect him. And the laird would surely hang him this time, just in case.

“Arabella!” someone cried.

She turned in the sunlit hall to see a very familiar face. “Conall?”

He grasped at her hands, his face creased with concern. “I heard you found your way into the castle last night. I cannot tell you how relieved I am to see you alive and well.”

“Thank you,” Arabella said, stiffly, to the man she was to marry. “I’m glad to see the same of you. I did worry that you might be waylaid.”

But she had not worried very much. She’d been too angry. Too hurt. And those emotions hadn’t faded, so she tried to slip her hands from his. But he held them fast. “You must forgive me for the way we parted, Arabella. You disobeyed me and for that you deserve discipline, not abandonment. And when I am your husband—”

“You broke our betrothal!” Arabella cried, startled at the very idea he should think he still had any claim over her. Repulsed by the idea of him as a husband now.

“But I was wrong to do it,” Conall said. “You were frightened. And you’re good-hearted. You wanted to help the injured man. I canna blame you for it. I know you’re a virtuous girl.”

“I’m not,” Arabella said. At least not in the way that he meant it.

Conall swallowed audibly. “Whatever those men did to you, we will forget. We will never speak of it…”

He thought he meant well, she realized. He thought he was being generous and kind to her. And in the way of men, she supposed he was. He was saying that he would have her, no matter how she had been dishonored by the Donald men. But it was too late for that now. “Those men did not take my maidenhead, Conall. I told you the truth and still you don’t believe me. Which is a sorry start to a marriage, I wager. But I am no sort of wife for you now. And I am no virtuous virgin girl…”

There. She had said it. And upon saying it, she breathed easier. Meanwhile, Conall’s face reddened as he tried to understand. “If you weren’t violated by your abductors then…are you saying…do you mean to say that you were never—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Arabella said, unwilling to name Davy or Malcolm as her seducer since, in truth, she believed she seduced them.

“It matters!” Conall said, giving her a shake. “You were going to make a fool of me. A cuckold.”

“No—”

His hands dug into her arms, painfully, and his face glowed with anger. “You’re a harlot, like your sister. But who did you play the whore for? Tell me.”

“You’re hurting me, Conall. Let go.”

“I’ll let you go when—”

“Do as the lady says or I will take your head off your shoulders in one stroke.” It was Malcolm. Arabella didn’t know when he had come into the passageway and how much he’d overheard, but she

knew it was him. She would know that grim voice anywhere. And his promise of death was not a jest.

When she looked up, he had murder in his eyes.

Conall must have known it, too, because he released her at once, stumbling back. “She is my betrothed. This is none of your concern, sir.”

Malcolm’s eyes shone with a sudden flash of pain. “Is that true, lass. Do you plan to marry this lad?”