Page 2 of The Highlander’s Gypsy Temptation

“Take another step and I will kill the girl,” August threatened.

The stranger stopped, eyeing Idalia as if weighing the risk. “What is she to ye?”

“She is my betrothed.”

“I am not your betrothed! I am nothing to you and never will be!” Idalia argued loudly. She would not allow August to talk the stranger into allowing him to keep her. “Please, Sir,” she said. “My sister is ill and needs a healer. Please help us!”

The stranger took another step forward. August reacted by dropping Idalia to the floor and withdrawing own blade. She grabbed at his arm attempting to keep him from killing the other man, but August just shrugged her off. Turning, he hit Idalia in the head with the hilt of his sword, then stepped forward to engage the stranger in battle. The sound of sword against sword was the last thing she remembered as the darkness overcame her.

* * *

Bran MacLeod stood behind the door of his prison cell, awaiting the guard’s usual rotation of food delivery. He had managed to steal a small sgian dubh off of his guard the last time he had been brought a meal but had not had enough time to put the knife to use, not with another man appearing in the doorway. Now, he waited in silence for the earliest opportunity.

He had been captured while attempting to help his laird’s wife, Lady Katarina, escape the clutches of their rival clan’s laird, Alistair Morgan. He had been wounded in the battle, but his arm had healed to such an extent in the meantime that he now felt he could overpower his guards and escape. He sent another prayer heavenward that Lady Katarina had made it safely back to Orkney.

When the sound of metal on metal had announced the key being turned in the lock, Bran had braced himself for attack. The door had swung open, and a guard had stepped in with a trencher of food and a cup of water. His hands were full, his dirk balanced precariously in his hand under the trencher. Bran took advantage of the moment and leapt on the guard, bringing the blade up between the man’s ribs hoping to reach the heart. Unfortunately, he had missed, and the guard had lashed out with his weapon, slicing into Bran’s wounded shoulder. Desperate, and not willing to spend another moment being held captive to the likes of Alistair Morgan, Bran dropped and rolled, then came up behind the guard to sink his blade into the man’s kidneys slicing through the artery.

The guard had dropped like a stone to his knees, then had fallen flat on his face. His now sightless eyes had stared out to the side as if asking Bran for mercy. Bran had given him none. Rising to his feet, he cursed softly at the state of his shoulder. He bent down to take the guard’s blade, then stepped out into the corridor, shutting the door behind himself. He did not want any of the other guards to come across his body until long after Bran was gone. Making his way down the dark corridor, he was about to turn the direction from where he thought they had dragged him into his cell upon his capture, when he heard a commotion at the other end of the passageway.

A young woman’s voice cried out in protest. “I will not leave Leonor! Put me down!”

“You will do as I say, when I say,” the all too familiar voice of August Raymond echoed down the hallway, followed by a loud smacking sound.

Bran recognized the name the girl had mentioned as one of the Lady Katarina’s sisters. He could not leave them to their fate, especially not at the hands of a man such as August Raymond. He was a terrible man and to leave her with him was to let her go a to certain death. Sighing, Bran stepped forward. “Put the lass down.”

“I will not,” August replied, turning to face Bran’s position. “I know your voice. Come into the light so that I might see your face.”

Bran stepped forward into the candle’s light, his blade held firmly in hand. “Let the lass go, August.”

“I shall not, MacLeod,” August refused, shaking his head. His eyes only registered a small amount of surprise at seeing Bran again after so many years.

The girl’s brows raised in surprise as realization dawned in her eyes that they knew each other. “Please, help me!” she begged him, her eyes frantic with fear.

“Silence!” August commanded, giving her a sharp smack. Seeing a man strike a woman caused Bran’s blood to boil with anger. “Ye were warned,” he growled through clenched teeth, taking a threatening step toward August.

August shook his head, giving Bran a warning look. “Take another step and I shall kill the girl,” he threatened, and stopped Bran in his tracks.

He eyed the lass flung over August’s shoulder, weighing the risk of helping her, versus leaving and simply following them back to the Romani encampment, to then retrieve her. The murderous look in August’s eyes told him the latter was not an option. “What is she to ye?”

August laughed, pride entering his eyes. “She is my betrothed.”

“I am not your betrothed! I am nothing to you and never shall be!” the girl argued loudly. She turned her gaze to meet Bran’s. “Please, Sir,” she said. “My sister is ill and needs a healer. Please help us!”

Making up his mind, Bran took another step forward. August reacted by dropping the lass to the floor and withdrawing his own blade. The girl grabbed at August’s arm, clearly attempting to keep him from killing Bran, but August just shrugged her off. Turning, he hit her on the head with the hilt of his sword, then stepped forward to engage with Bran in battle. The girl slumped unconscious onto the floor. Bran raised his blade to defend against August’s attack.

“Ye should nae have come back,” Bran told him, fighting off another blow. “Ye were fortunate to survive the first attack ye made on our people by the loch. We searched for ye but found nay trace o’ ye. I had hoped ye were gone from these lands.”

“I shall nae leave without what is mine,” August grunted as he lashed out at Bran, taking advantage of his wounded shoulder.

“Ye shall leave without the lass.”

“I shall not,” August stubbornly refused.

“I shall kill ye.”

“You may try, but you know the consequences of that. Don’t think I will not do what I have said.”

Bran’s heart sank. He knew he was threatening to hurt his child. He had had an affair with August’s sister while he had been fostered to a border clan with connections to his mother’s family. That had been six years before. Six long years without him seeing his own blood; or ever being able to hug his daughter. Six years with him being a failure of a father.