The Black Wolf's Captive (The Highland Wolf Series Book 1) Read online

  The Black Wolf’s Captive

  TESSA MURRAN

  The Black Wolf’s Captive by Tessa Murran.

  Copyright © 2018 Tessa Murran

  All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

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  Visit the author’s website at www.tessamurran.com

  First Edition

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  To my Dad who always had his head stuck in a book.

  Thank you for giving me the gift of reading and so much more.

  I miss you.

  Author's Note

  The Black Wolf’s Captive is set against the remote and turbulent backdrop of the Scottish Highlands. It is 1637 and Scotland is ruled by the English King Charles I, whose uneasy grip on power and inability to unite the kingdom means the real power in the highlands belongs to the clans. Protected by their remoteness from Scottish law they have free reign to indulge in long-held traditions of raiding and bitter feuding. They squabble with each other for dominance, like dogs over a bone, but the growth of power for one clan nearly always comes at the expense of other clans who are ruthlessly subordinated by force.

  It is within this context and the fall of one clan to another that Ailsa and Duncan meet. Ailsa is a young woman trying to break free of the restraints of marriage and family loyalties and Duncan is a man scarred by the brutality of the world he inhabits. They are thrown together in mutual enmity and as they try to survive in a world where power is a life or death commodity, they must learn to trust in each other and ultimately find love.

  The characters in The Black Wolf’s Captive are wholly fictitious but I have anchored the story in its historical context by using authentic clan names and places, though the true history of the MacLeod’s and the Campbells, dark and delicious though it is, does not include Duncan and Ailsa. They are entirely fictitious as are the events in this book.

  If you have enjoyed plunging into their world you may like to read a preview of The Lone Wolf’s Bride, Book 2 in The Highland Wolf Series, which follows at the end of this book.

  Chapter One

  Scottish Highlands 1637

  Ailsa MacLeod rode hard at the stone wall, anger and frustration conquering her common sense. Her dress rode up in the wind and she gripped hard with her thighs against Fingal’s flanks as he just made it over by a whisker. The gloom of Benscreavie woods was just up ahead, there no one would find her and she could find some peace, if only for a few sweet hours. She had to get away from Cailleach castle and the bustle of her sister’s wedding preparations for a chance to think and have a moment’s respite from her mother demanding that she behave with the propriety of a laird’s daughter.

  The threat still rang in her ears. ‘Your days of scampering around the highlands like a wildcat are over, missy. You’ll knuckle down and do your duty, like your sister, make no mistake. This wedding of Morag’s is a fine opportunity for you to meet with the most eligible men in the clans and it is your duty to marry well and marry soon. You need a strong man with a firm hand who’ll put bairns in your belly and bring an end to your willfulness. Though where we’ll find one to take you in hand God knows.’

  So there is it was. Her fate was sealed and there was no escaping it now. One of the wedding guests would claim her, the bride price would be negotiated and she would be sold like cattle to the highest bidder. Then she would be owned and used to breed heirs and all her youth and beauty would be thrown away on a man she would never want.

  Her mother, Hester MacLeod, was a woman of prodigious fertility who had spent her whole life fawning over Ailsa’s father and disappointing him by producing a procession of four daughters but only one son and heir. With the oldest married off and her sister, Morag, to be wed in the coming days her mother’s every waking hour was now devoted to sacrificing her youngest daughter on the altar of political alliance. Morag’s wedding would be an excellent opportunity for her mother to sniff out potential husbands from the neighbouring clans.

  As her resentment festered, Ailsa pounded on up through the meadow, strewn with its carpet of buttercups pushing their glossy yellow faces to the sun. A herd of shaggy ginger cattle looked on her plight with indifference as they raised their huge heads casually, wide wet nostrils flaring for signs of danger and then resumed cropping the spring grasses. She used to love this season with its soft warmth after the harshness of winter, its sense of a new beginning. But her optimism for the future faded as her mother’s familiar grievance stuck in her head. ‘If you would only apply yourself to neatening your appearance and comporting yourself in a ladylike manner you may well catch a husband of your own.’

  It was all so humiliating, the idea that she should set out to catch a husband as one would a fat, speckled trout! Ailsa would have none of that. Her sister may surrender meekly to a lifetime of servitude to a husband, but she could not bear such a fate.

  As she reached the woods Fingal’s hooves fell silent on a carpet of fallen pine needles. He took her further into the green womb of peace and solitude as she let him dawdle along, wrestling with a way out of her predicament. On returning home she would be punished for all sorts of transgressions. Stealing away from home at first light dressed in a maidservant’s clothes for a start. The coarse petticoats and tight dress felt rough against her skin, ripe with the sweat of their true owner, but worth the discomfort. Ailsa hadn’t wanted anyone living close by the castle to recognise Laird MacLeod’s daughter and give word so that they could drag her back. She took care to stay off the well-worn tracks so as to avoid the many guests from the neighbouring clans all streaming towards the castle, like ants to a honey pot.

  Ailsa decided to keep riding and not stop until all the anger and worry swirling about in her head was gone. ‘If it’s a whipping I’m in for I shall have some sport first Fingal. Let us enjoy our stolen freedom for just a while,’ she said, spurring him on to a headlong gallop through the woods. Fingal’s pounding hooves threw up a shower of mud to spatter her stockings but she barely noticed. Wet branches whipped her face as faster and faster she went, her hair, the red-brown of chestnuts, flying out wildly.

  She rounded a sharp bend and Fingal came to an abrupt halt, rearing up and pawing his hooves in the air. There, not a hundred yards away, a large group of riders were thundering towards her. There was no time to go around them and though she tried her best to control him, Fingal reared up again and unseated her. Ailsa fell hard into a large puddle of mud, gasping as its icy shower splattered her and the air was driven from her lungs. A dull ache shot through her ankle. Dazed and winded she was vaguely aware of movement and the jabber of voices as the woods became a blur of green. It was hard to breathe and a violent shivering took hold of her.

  Something big and black was approaching, a strong grip on her elbow pulled her up and suddenly she was looking into hooded eyes, as dark and fathomless as a loch on a stormy day. Ailsa’s head cleared and she saw before her a youngish man, overwhelmingly large so close up and handsome in a forbidding kind of way. His face wore an expression of concerned exasperation.

  ‘Are you alright lass?’ he asked, shaking
her vigorously. ‘Are you hurt?’ His voice was commanding and somewhat terrifying and with difficulty, Ailsa managed to suck in a breath of air.

  ‘You’re hurting me, let go of my arm,’ she gasped, choking back tears. Some other men on horseback were crowding round now, staring boldly and her cheeks felt as though they were on fire. There were about a dozen of them, all heavily armed, dirty and dishevelled - strangers, travellers and not part of her clan by the looks of them. They could be mercenaries or criminals for all she knew so she must not show fear.

  ‘Winded most likely but lively enough,’ the man shouted to his companions.

  Through a tangle of wet hair, Ailsa risked a glance up at her captor into dark brown eyes of extraordinary beauty for a man. They were fringed with thick black lashes and were intensely curious with the spark of a fierce intelligence. As her wits returned she took in tousled black hair hanging loose down to the jawline of a hard face streaked with dirt. He looked her up and down casually and then reached a hand up and slowly pulled the hair back off her face.

  Seeing him more clearly, as her head cleared, only fed her fear. Several days old stubble darkened his jawline and his clothes were encrusted with mud. There was a black pelt slung across his broad shoulders and it was as if he were part beast himself. There was an air of suppressed violence and danger about him, and his companions too. He narrowed his eyes, trying to puzzle her out.

  ‘Tell me, girl, why were you riding so fast and so dangerously? Is someone chasing you?’ he demanded.

  ‘No!’ she replied.

  Ailsa wrenched free her arm and stood up, but the world seemed to spin away from her and she lost her footing in the mud. This time she felt an even stronger grip of two vice-like hands on her waist and a wall of tartan-clad chest pressed to her face. She was forced to hold on to the man to stay upright. The subtle smell of heather clung to him, earthy and woodsy, and somewhat hysterically she thought, ‘I wonder who he’s been rolling in the heather with?’ She burst into nervous laughter as panic took hold.

  ‘Look at me, stop laughing,’ he commanded, shaking some sense into her. ‘Now are you hurt, girl, did you hit your head? You had quite a fall, albeit the muck softened your landing’

  ‘No I’m not hurt,’ Ailsa replied.

  ‘A village girl most likely and an uncommonly pretty one,’ he shouted to his friends.

  Ailsa’s blood boiled at his arrogance, talking about her as if she weren’t there.

  ‘How old are you, girl?’ the stranger continued.

  ‘Old enough to look after myself,’ she snapped. ‘Now I’m unhurt, or I would be if you’d just let go of me. I wish to be on my way.’

  ‘I don’t intend to let you go until I am satisfied you won’t collapse in the mud again. Can you ride?’

  ‘Yes, it’s not the first time I have fallen off a horse. Now please let me go and I will be on my way and trouble you no more’.

  ‘You’re not troubling me,’ he said with a sardonic grin, looking at her with more interest, his eyes holding her gaze and his face inches from hers. He showed no intention of releasing her. The look in his eyes had changed from concern to something like admiration and Ailsa’s heart raced with panic. She wished she had not ridden out alone. She wished to be anywhere but here with all these men staring and this enormous man putting his hands on her. As she squirmed to free herself it seemed to amuse him.

  ‘You should stop a while and clear your head or you’ll as like fall off again and break your pretty little neck you fool. Where did you get the horse? Did you steal it?’

  Ailsa was suddenly acutely aware of her tatty dress and dirty face and the fact that she looked like a poor village girl and one who was far away from the protection of the castle walls. Fingal was a good looking horse and his saddle and bridle were made of fine leather so of course, this man would assume the worst of her.

  One of the other men, a big blonde ruffian, shouted. ‘If the lass is unhurt Duncan we should press on or we’ll be missed. Put her down and you can seek her out for a tumble later.’

  ‘Aye Rory, I will,’ replied the man. ‘Where is your home lass, is it far?’

  ‘In the village of Cailleach - at the tavern,’ Ailsa lied smoothly. ‘Now I am not hurt, I am fit to ride and I demand you get your hands off me’.

  ‘I don’t think you’re in a position to demand anything and I’ll let go when I’ve a mind to and not before lass. Bring her horse,’ he shouted commandingly to one of his companions.

  Fingal, who hadn’t gone far after his disloyal display, was brought over, snorting and jumping. He didn’t like these men any more than she did. Anger bubbled up inside of Ailsa, with this man, with her life, with herself for having got into this situation. Sore all over, she knew there was a sound whipping in store for her back at Cailleach and now this brute and his friends were treating her like a fool.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Mairead,’ Ailsa lied again.

  ‘Can you mount Mairead?’

  ‘Of course I can.’ Ailsa grabbed Fingal’s saddle and tried to get up but when she put full weight on her leg she stumbled and moaned with the pain of it, instinctively grabbing for her ankle. Forced to clutch on to the muscular arm holding her up, she hated to give the man the satisfaction of needing his help.

  ‘So you are hurt. Fetch up your skirts girl so that I can have a look at that leg,’ he said kneeling swiftly.

  ‘I will not. How dare you,’ replied Ailsa in outrage and to the amusement of his friends who started laughing again.

  He got up and narrowed his eyes at her. ‘I must say you have a very haughty manner for a tavern wench. Where did you learn such airs?’

  ‘She doesn’t fancy you Duncan, best leave her be,’ said the man called Rory.

  Just then one of the horses sank its big, yellow teeth spitefully into Fingal’s flank. Startled again and intimidated by all the bigger horses surrounding him, he wrenched free of her grasp and pounded off along the track. Ailsa watched his traitorous rump disappear from view with dismay.

  ‘Well, that settles it. There’s nothing else for it Mairead. I cannot in all honour leave you injured in these woods.’

  ‘Honour!’

  ‘You’ll have to ride with me and you shall have my escort to Cailleach,’ said her captor smiling broadly.

  ‘But I don’t want your…!’

  Before she had time to argue he picked her up, hoisting her onto his saddle as if she weighed no more than a goose feather. He threw himself up behind her and to her horror, Ailsa found her back pressed up against his chest and her whole body enclosed by a prison of hard thighs and muscular forearms.

  ‘I’m Duncan, by the way,’ he said cheerfully. ‘And I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance. You’ve certainly livened up our journey this morning.’

  Ailsa could feel his body pressing against hers. She tried to pull forward and away but he pulled her in close.

  ‘Stop wriggling else you’ll fall off again,’ he said sharply, wrapping one arm around her waist and pinning her to him. She had no choice but to quieten and endure it.

  Duncan controlled his horse with ease as they rode hard towards Cailleach and he made no further attempt to speak. The silence made Ailsa keenly aware of him. She looked down at his hands, broad, scarred and capable of breaking her neck like a chicken bone. It would be best to use guile to outwit him for confronting him had only made him overbearing. She had to slip away from these men and get back into the safety of Cailleach.

  The highland weather had begun to close in and black clouds, ripe with rain, loomed overhead. By the time the village came into view, nestled haphazardly up against the shelter of the castle walls, Ailsa was shivering violently in her muddy clothes and glad of Duncan’s warmth on her back. He seemed to sense her discomfort and pulled her even closer. The rain started to fall, fat drops plopping onto the muddy ground and suddenly the heavens opened.

  They wound their way amongst the maze of stone dwellings as rain
began to drip noisily off the rough thatch roofs. The mouth-watering smell of fresh bannocks wafted from the bakers, mixing with the tang of metal and wood smoke from the blacksmith and Ailsa felt comforted to be almost home. Though she was fearful that someone would see her with this man, in such a state, not many people were abroad now most having taken shelter indoors out of the downpour. If she was lucky she might get out of this predicament unscathed, just a bit longer to hold her nerve.

  When they got to the tavern, Duncan pulled up his horse and dismounted smoothly. He reached for her, pulling her down from the saddle and against his chest. Ailsa tried to avoid his penetrating gaze on her face as she was placed gently on the sodden ground.

  ‘Here we are lass. Best get in out of the wet and rest that ankle. I’ll come and find you soon so there’s no need to pine for me,’ he smiled, winking at her.

  ‘I’d as soon pine for that pig over there as you,’ Ailsa retorted, gesturing to a fat sow and her piglets in a nearby stall, ‘and I hope never to lay eyes on you again.’

  ‘Fine thanks I get for helping a lady in distress,’ he laughed back, his friends laughing along with him. Ailsa didn’t like the sarcastic way he said ‘lady’. He leaned over, his wicked brown eyes piercing her soul and whispered in her ear. ‘You’ll sing a different tune when I’m between your legs taking you lass. I promise you’ll beg for more.’

  Face burning with mortification and before she could stop herself, Ailsa delivered him a stinging slap across the face. Before he could recover she slipped from his grasp and ran behind the tavern limping horribly on the swollen ankle, desperate to escape through the maze of meagre dwellings which she knew like the back of her hand.

  Duncan did not follow her. He rubbed his face ruefully, the laughter of his friends ringing in his ears. He took their jests in good spirit. It was not the first time a woman had slapped him and it wasn’t the first time he had deserved it either. Though not keen to let go of such a beauty, he had a duty of courtesy to fulfil with Laird MacLeod and could not tarry longer. He had taken the honourable course and brought her home safe when all he had really wanted to do was lose himself in kissing her and spend the night pressing that soft, ripe body against his.