Page 70 of The Highlander’s Defiant Bride

“I am happy with my marriage to Cameron. Have you not gained enough financially from that? Before I left Clyth Castle, I made certain all the outstanding bills were paid. Your accounts are settled. You have no more debt. If you spend wisely from this day forward, you will be well, wanting for nothing.”

“My life should be about more than simply existing.” He offered her a grim smile. “I could have so much more.”

“But you would not have me.” She straightened. “If you do this, if you kill Cameron, I will never forgive you.”

Destiny’s plea hung between them like a thin, fragile thing that might break with the next gust of wind. Her father’s face was a mask of lines dug deep, not by years of hard work, but by a man who had learned how to measure people by what they could give him. For a long moment he did not answer her, only stared into the distance as if counting sums and margins no one else could see.

“You think I do not know of your comforts?” he said at last, his voice low and careful. “You have finer gowns, warm rooms, a place beside a laird. Those are yours, thanks to me. But there is more to be had, Destiny. Land. Cattle. Bargains that will set our line for another generation.” He leaned closer. “Once the first bargain is severed, the second alliance with the Mackenzies will set us up for life.”

Her hands went white on the pommel of the saddle. “You speak of bargains despite the human cost.” Her voice broke then. “You would trade my life the same as you would a cow at market. And you would take Cameron’s so that you may advance your agenda. It is a shame we are worth so little to you.”

He shrugged, impatient now. “A man must look forward, child. Sentiment does not buy grain when winter comes. You are of my blood, but blood alone will not feed us. I have given you the chance to lift us out of need. You should have learned gratitude.” There was a hardness there that was almost filial in its expectation. He truly believed he was doing what any sensible father must.

“Gratitude?” Destiny echoed. “Gratitude is not bartered with a blade at my throat. You have taken my choice from me and call it providence.” Her throat tightened. The men around them shifted uneasily, and even the horses stamped. “If you go forward with this, if you let them kill Cameron or force me into some marriage to buy you coin, then know this—I will die before I let you use me again.”

For a moment, a flicker of regret or perhaps surprise worked his jaw. But it passed as quickly as it had appeared.

He straightened in his saddle, and his eyes, cold as flint, met hers. “You forget who put you where you are.” He tapped the pommel with the butt of his hand. “I made choices for this family. If you cannot honour those choices or help me get as much from this life as I can, then I have no further need of you.”

Again, he threatened her with death. Destiny’s chest tightened. Fear and fury warred within her, but beneath those emotions a quieter steel formed. She thought of Cameron’s hands, of the way he had stood in the breach for Foulis, of the people she had rallied in the courtyard. She thought of the strip of Munro plaid pressed like a promise against her skin.

“Then you will be remembered as the man who sold his daughter, and possibly murdered her,” she said boldly. “You will stand alone.”

Her father’s face contorted with anger. He gave a short, humourless laugh and flicked his reins. “I might stand alone, but I will be a wealthy man.” With that he urged his horse forward. The Mackenzies fell into place around him like a tight black tide, and the column moved on, the clack of hooves swallowing the last of their words.

Destiny sat trembling, the wind tugging at her skirts, the taste of dust bitter in her mouth. Alone now except for her guards, she cupped her fingers around the small scrap of plaid. It warmed within her palm, reminding her that all was not lost. As the camp receded into the pale distance, Destiny straightened her shoulders and let the horse carry her forward. The piece of plaid in her palm was but a small, stubborn hope, and reminded her, alive or dead, she would never be anyone’s pawn again.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Destiny rode in the direction of Foulis Castle, surrounded by six guards whose horses moved in unison. Their gazes were fixed ahead of them, not really paying attention to Destiny, giving her time to work the ropes about her wrists. They burned against her flesh as she stretched the bindings, rewarded as the ropes eased. The breeze whipped the loosened tendrils of hair from her plait about her face. Even so, she could clearly see the ridge rising sharply ahead of them. Once over the ridge, they would be on Munro land.

As they crested the lip, on the opposite side of the ridge were line after line of Cameron’s warriors. Destiny smiled at the sight. He had chosen the high ground, the slope and rock working to his advantage. Even outnumbered, he had made the land itself his ally.

The Mackenzies slowed, reforming into ranks. The men around her tightened until only a hand’s-width separated their horses from her own. They were not willing to give her any way to escape when their enemy was so near.

The laird of the Mackenzies, broad and grey-bearded, spurred his horse forward. “The Munros will learn what it means to betray us,” he snarled, loud enough for her and all his men to hear. “They delivered one of ours to the king. Today, we will deliver their laird to the grave.”

A murmur rippled through the Mackenzie line, raw and vengeful.

Destiny’s stomach twisted. The Mackenzies still outnumbered the Munros two-to-one. Her father rode near the Mackenzie laird, his expression a mask of cold satisfaction.

When he turned towards her, there was no pity in his eyes. “You will stand beside the Mackenzie chief’s son,” he ordered. “You will be wed before the sun sets whether the Munro bastard falls or not. So do not get any ideas, daughter.”

The reverend perched on a nervous horse beside the Mackenzie chief, his face pale as parchment, his hands shaking around the worn leather of his prayer book.

“My lords,” his voice quavered, “this cannot be sanctioned. The lady’s husband still lives. This is no marriage, but a sin.”

The Mackenzie laird sneered at the man’s discomfort. He reached out and backhanded the book from the cleric’s grip, sending it tumbling into the mud.

A ripple of unease swept through the Mackenzie warriors. Men shifted in their saddles, glancing at one another, clearly unsettled to see anyone, let alone their laird, raise a hand against a man of God. Several men stared at the reverend’s prayer book in the mud as though expecting lightning to strike for such sacrilege.

“Then pray harder,” he growled. “Once the Munro’s blood stains the earth, the lady will be free enough.”

Destiny’s pulse thundered in her ears. She cast a quick glance towards Callum, who was riding beside her. His face remained carefully blank. Then his jaw tightened, and he gave her the smallest nod.

That was all she needed.

As the horse on her other side edged closer, Destiny leaned in the saddle and snatched the knife from the guard’s belt in one swift, reckless motion. Pain flared as she sawed at her own bindings, her wrists still loosely tied, but free enough now to work. The blade bit, the cords frayed, and at last they gave beneath her trembling fingers.