Page 1 of Highlander’s Captive

Prologue

Dunollie Castle, Lorne, Scotland, 1296

The fiery cross burned.

Boom. Boom. Boom. The sound of hundreds of palms beating against drums reverberated in Craig Cambel’s chest, his heart slamming with the rhythm.

Behind him waited two hundred Cambel clansmen. Every single one had answered the ancient call of the cross in flames which stood next to the clan chief’s horse.

The call to bloodshed.

The call to restore lost honor.

The call to rescue a loved one.

Dunollie Castle loomed before Craig, the seat of the MacDougall clan. It had four curtain walls, a gate right in front of the Cambels, and a simple square tower of three floors built into the right corner. On the roof and on the walls, archers stood at the ready, strings taut, arrows pointed at Craig and his men.

But Cambel fire arrows prepared to answer. The battering ram was in place before the gate. Long siege ladders, some repaired, some newly constructed, held tightly.

Sir Colin Cambel, the chief of the clan and Craig’s grandfather, raised one arm, and the drums silenced as one.

“John MacDougall!” His cry carried far, into the leaden sky, echoing from the rocks and the walls. “Show yerself!”

Archers shifted up on the roof, giving way. A man appeared between them.

“Cambel,” he cried. “Did ye come to return my lands?”

“The lands were granted to me by King John Balliol and are nae yers no more.”

“Aye, ye were too eager to accept them. Dinna forget ye’re still my vassal.”

“Seems ’tis ye who forgets things. Things like honor. Things like keeping yer word. Things like protecting yer vassals.”

“I owe no protection to thieves.”

“Thieves?” Sir Colin spat on the ground. “How dare ye. Give me back my granddaughter. And if ye ken what is good for ye, give me yer bastart of a son who canna take a lass’s nae for an answer. I will teach him about honor. Clearly, his own father failed to do so.”

Craig’s hand clenched around the handle of his claymore. He remembered the day when his sister Marjorie had disappeared. She had gone out of the castle with her maid to gather herbs for the kitchen. After a while, the maid had run back alone, screaming, trembling, a deep cut on her cheek.

It took the Cambels two sennights of searching and questioning to learn who’d taken her.

Alasdair MacDougall.

Their laird’s son.

Craig’s jaw tightened, the need to find the bastart and free his sister stinging.

John MacDougall was silent for a moment. “If ye want yer granddaughter, Sir Colin, ye must come and take her. She is my son’s intended, and I wilna give her back until my son wants her gone.”

Silence fell on the shore of Oban Bay. Craig knew in his bones that this day would not end without spilled blood.

It remained to be seen if Marjorie was harmed or not.

A growl of fury was born in Craig’s gut, rose up his throat, and carried through the field. The MacDougalls looked at him. Cambel men tensed, ready to launch at the signal.

“If yer son touched a hair on her head…” Craig heard his own voice carry through the air. “I will make it my life’s mission to make his death long and painful.”

His family roared. His father on the horse beside him, his two stepbrothers, his grandfather, his uncles, and his cousins were all here. The rest of the clan followed, their axes and swords high in the air. The thundering returned—not of the drums this time, but of weapons against shields.