The Brigand's Rescued Bride: Highland Mates, #2

1

Dominik loved a night like this.

The moonless sky was flecked with distant specks of stars, and it wrapped itself around the old stone fortress like a navy-blue blanket. The quiet darkness was a comfort to the inhabitants of Castle McCormack, instilling a false sense of safety that a man with the right skills and sensibilities could take advantage of, should he feel so inclined.

Dominik was just such a man, and tonight he found himself weaving his way between the outer stables, moving from shadow to shadow with the grace of a tomcat in his prime. It had been a while since the brigand had engaged in this sort of covert operation. He was glad he still had the talent for it. Years of being a leader, even of a mercenary company, could very well have softened his skills, and tonight would surely be a test of his prowess.

Of medium build and medium height, Dominik was the sort of man that, under normal circumstances, could blend in with any crowd, and in this case, easily hid behind pillars and low walls. What he didn’t have in physical bulk, he made up for with a demanding presence. After all, he always told himself, ye don’t have to be the biggest man in the room, ye simply have to be his employer. It didn’t hurt that he was intimidatingly handsome, with sharp cheekbones, dark eyes, and stick straight dark hair he kept tied back in a loose leather wrap. Hair that was in dire need of a cut, a matter he’d see to soon enough. His only flaw, if ye could call it that, was a long scar that ran from his brow to his chin, just skirting his eye.

Dominik touched that scar now. It was a reminder of what he was doing here. Of why he’d braved the guards at the main gate and would circumvent the lines of soldiers yet to come. The man that had given him that scar was inside, comforted by the false security of his warm bed, and finally, Dominik would have his revenge. Years of peace had caused the people of the castle to become complacent. The laird would pay for that mistake at the end of Dominik’s blade.

Nearly ten years had passed since Dominik’s reputation had been smeared and his knighthood stripped from him. All because of the lies of Ruairi McCormack. The same lies that secured this very castle and his lairdship, which he renamed after himself as soon as he promenaded through the main gate.

Crouched behind the low stone wall that separated the stables from the inner gatehouse, Dominik bided his time. Soon, the guards would rotate. That would be the time to make his move from the outer yard and into the inner bailey—one step closer to the keep and the castle residence beyond.

There were voices, and he peered over the roughhewn granite to see the pair on duty step away from the portcullis and head in the opposite direction of the stables. Likely back to the barracks on the other side of the compound to signal their replacements to take over.

Dominik had a small window of time to slip through the small side door and across the yard to the keep. Wrapping his dark cloak around himself, the lone rogue watched as both guardsmen disappeared around the corner of the skirt wall. He tumbled over the wall and darted forward, dodging firelight cast from far too few torches.

The darkness obscured his route, and when no shouts of alarm were heard, he knew he’d evaded notice from the watchtowers above. He stole through the small door in the wall of the gatehouse and found himself mere strides from the door to the keep.

As expected, only one guard stood at the door.

Shrouded in darkness, Dominik scooped a small stone up from the gravel path and skipped it toward the guard. The noise distracted him, and the young man turned to follow the path just as anticipated. Taking the opportunity, Dominik again darted just outside the firelight, sneaking up silently behind the guard. He felt the weight of his sap in his hand. It was a palm-sized pouch sealed with powder—the perfect weapon for waylaying the unsuspecting guard. With a practiced swing, he struck the guard in the back of the head with the weighted weapon, and the young man fell like a sack of potatoes toward the stone floor.

Before the guard could land and make a ruckus, Dominik caught the man and gently lowered him down, leaning him back against the arch of the doorway. His breaths were small and shallow. He was unconscious, but he’d live. He pulled a small bottle from his belt and sprinkled the pungent liquor all over the guard’s garments, then settled the half-empty bottle in the man’s hand. It was a waste of good rum, but it would hide his tracks. Anyone that smelled the guard would think he was drunk on the job, passed out from too much to drink rather than waylaid by an assassin.

And that’s what I am, surely? Dominik thought to himself. After tonight, naught but a murderer. No matter how just a reason there be.

He shook his head, dismissing the thought. The decision had been made. Honor demanded justice, even if he had to find it through dishonorable means.

Sticking to the wall on the left side, Dominik crept across the cavernous expanse of the keep’s great hall. It was lined with long, roughhewn tables and matching benches, and there was a set of large throne-like seats at the far end of the room. There was a small servants’ entrance toward the back as well, just as the barmaid described to him the night before. She was a bonnie lass and the daughter of a servant that had once worked in the keep. She knew the layout inside and out, and Dominik easily charmed the information out of her with honeyed words and sweeter coin. The map she drew for him shone brightly in his mind’s eye as he made his way to the small doorway, listening through the wood and hearing nothing on the other side. He stepped through the threshold, crossed the open air of the inner courtyard, and entered the castle with no one to stop him.

Passed the main chamber, he took a left, heading toward the western wing where the barmaid had said the sleeping quarters were kept. The corridors were brighter than he would have liked, the halls lined with torchlight at regular intervals.

Dominik heard footsteps and stopped, ducking behind an outcropping in the wall. Far ahead, he saw a tapestry pushed aside, and out from behind came a servant boy holding a lantern with a single candle. He let the large tapestry fall behind him, and as he scurried on his way down the hall, a long wide yawn stretched across his tired face. Dominik smiled at the sight.

There, behind a well-worn tapestry that displayed a scene of three women with goblets raised high, was a hidden passageway. It had to be a servant’s hallway. These narrow passages likely snaked all over the castle so that they could traverse the property unseen. This would be how he got to the western wing. This was how he would remain unseen.

Glancing in either direction along the hallway, Dominik snatched a torch from the iron bracket on the wall and slipped behind the large swatch of embroidered fabric and into the darkness beyond. Torchlight bounced off the cool grey stone as he moved westward. He thought briefly about what he might do if he ran into a servant in these cramped spaces, but he pushed aside the thought.

Hopefully, it wouldn’t be a problem. After all, it was late and unlikely for there to be heavy traffic at this time of night. Hopefully, he’d find a way to subdue someone should they come along or somehow charm his way past, pretending that he belonged. It would depend on the situation, so there was no point worrying too much about it now.

Eventually, the passage twisted, and to his left was a thin winding stairway that traveled upward beyond the low ceiling. He knew the laird’s chambers were located somewhere on the third floor, according to the pliant barmaid, and he had yet to ascend. Now seemed as good a time as any, so he mounted the narrow stairs and climbed the spiraling tunnel upward, passing one landing and stopping at the second. Like the one he had entered, the thin slit of an opening had no door, but instead, the back of a long heavy tapestry shielded his view of the hall. The warm flickering of torchlight emanated from the breath of space just above the stone floor. He stopped, putting his ear to the fabric, listening for movement on the other side. Hearing nothing for one breath, two, three, he pulled the tapestry aside ever so slightly and peered into the hall, glancing quickly around for the tell-tale bouncing candlelight that would signal a servant or wandering guard. All was still and quiet.

Dominik pushed aside the tapestry. This one was a hunting scene, a lean dog chasing a lithe fox. Apt for his actions now, and he wondered, was he the dog or the fox in this scenario? He squinted up and down the hallway and spotted a trio of four torches, all surrounding a single doorway.

He was in luck.

That was his landmark. The torches signaled the room as the laird’s bed chamber. His heart pounded in his chest as he crept close to the door, nearly in his throat as he eased it carefully open. He set the torch in an open bracket in the wall, not wanting to risk the moving light giving him away. The well-oiled hinges moved smoothly against one another, and the rogue crossed the threshold into the darkened chamber, taking a moment to let his eyes adjust to the change in light. The faintest glimmer of starlight reflected off gilded picture frames, and after a moment of staring in narrow-eyed, Dominik could make out the four-post bed that took up the majority of the space.

Anticipation whirled alongside the smallest sliver of shame as Dominik eased his dirk from its scabbard at his side. Ruairi McCormack deserved death, surely, but there was no honor in killing a man while he slept. Nevertheless, Dominik moved forward.

Justice over honor, he assured himself again.

Ruairi lay there under the thick quilted blanket, his chest rising and falling with every breath. His dusty blond hair framed his face like a crown, but its blue eyes were closed, heavy with sleep. Dominik lifted his blade to the man’s throat, ready to strike.

Out of nowhere, a scream ricocheted throughout the room.

He looked up to see a woman on the other side of the bed, her mouth open in shock.

Och, hell, Dominik cursed.

2

Mairi screamed at the sight of the figure looming over the bed, his thin stiletto blade shining in the light cast from her small candle flame. The piercing shrill of her voice echoed against the stone walls of the cavernous bed chamber as her eyes went wide.

She’d snuck quietly out of bed to fetch a drink of water from the basin in the washroom and now returned to something—someone—in the laird’s room with them. He’d clearly come to kill the man lying in the bed. Would he turn his blade to her next?

The sleeping man’s eyes shot open as he was awakened by Mairi’s ear-splintering shriek. The sudden noise startled the intruder, and the cloaked man looked up and then back down in a moment of hesitation.

The distraction gave Laird McCormack the chance to react. He took the opportunity to reach up and defend himself from the attack. The laird grabbed the man’s wrist as it hovered over his prone form, twisting it sideways. The blade clattered to the floor and out of sight. Shrouded in a dark cloak, the intruder’s eyes flashed from the depths of his deep hood toward Mairi and then back to the laird.

The would-be assassin ripped his arm free and sprung the other side of the room in a few long strides. An open window awaited him there, one that looked down on the outer ward below. In what seemed like a flash and quicker than Mairi thought possible, the man unfurled a long length of rope from somewhere on his person and hooked the end to the flagpole that stuck out from the window’s ledge. He locked dark eyes with Mairi for a moment, and then he was gone over the side and into the dark night.

Mairi sucked in a deep gulp of air, suddenly realizing she’d been holding her breath since her scream.

As she did so, the laird managed to jump out of bed, tangling himself in the quilt as he did so. He lost his footing and tumbled to the ground as he tripped over the fabric. Scrambling for purchase, he extricated himself from the heavy material and crawled on all fours toward the window in pursuit of the cloaked assailant. He stood over the ledge, and as he looked down, he roared, his wordless shout rivaling the high-pitched scream Mairi had released just moments ago. She felt herself shrink at the sound. She was used to bearing the brunt of the large man’s anger, and even when not directed at her, it made her insides twist in fear.

Surely he will nae be able to turn this attack against me, aye? she thought with dismay.

The laird leaned down to the floor, lifting the quilt from the cold stone. He wrapped it around his bare lower half, likely to stave off the nighttime chill. His shoulders shook with what she could only guess was rage.

If only she hadn’t been so startled.

If I had nae screamed, perhaps he would be dead.

She cursed herself for thinking such dark thoughts. They were not very Christian thoughts, but the truth of the words lay deep within her heart. Laird Ruairi McCormack was not a decent man, let alone a Godly one. The world was a worse place for Mairi with him in it. A worse place for her kin. Likely, it was a worse place for many others as well.

Ruairi turned toward her, his beautiful blue eyes narrowed and dark with rage. Who was that? he growled as if Mairi was somehow complicit. As if Mairi knew the man that had stolen into the room in the middle of the night.

I— she gulped, I donnae ken, sire. She carefully set the small lantern on the bedside table, freeing her hands and readying herself for the possible beating to come. She couldn’t exactly defend herself against the laird, but she could at least avoid being scalded by the hot wax of the candle should he choose to launch himself at her.

The laird’s eyes flashed with doubt and suspicion. But rather than come after Mairi, he crossed the room in two great strides, throwing open the huge double doors of his chambers.

Guards, he shouted once, then a second time into the darkened hallway beyond.

He was met with silence, and then there was a loud clattering of studded metal against plate mail as one of his armored guards, his First Knight Steffen, rounded the corner from his rooms down the hall. Mairi could see his wide, bulky form fill the space in the doorway opposite of the taller, thinner Ruairi.

Aye, sire? the knight asked, his breath ragged as he sucked in gulps of air.

Mairi noticed that his armor had been thrown on, with no care for buckling or strapping anything but the necessities. It hung off him in places. They were more for show than effectiveness should a fight break out. He must have taken the time to put it on when he heard her scream rather than come immediately at the cry.

There was a man—a man in me chambers, Steffen, Ruairi roared, the laird practically spitting with anger. If I had nae awakened, ye’d be mopping up me blood from the floor. Ruairi used one thickly muscular arm to point at the spot in the bed where he had lain.

Steffen’s eyes grew wide as saucers. Laird, I am sorry, I donnae ken how anyone could have—

Dogs, Ruairi shouted, interrupting his second, spittle flying into the shorter man’s face. "Get the dogs and chase him down like