Highlanders: The Warrior and the Rose / The Forbidden Highlander / Rescued by the Highland Warrior

“Spare me, Alasdair! I beg you!” Bishop Alan sobbed.

“Don’t,” Juliana heard herself gasp, but as she spoke, she was seized brutally from behind by her hair. She was jerked backwards, into a man’s arms, while beside her Mary was also grabbed. Her captor pressed a knife to her throat.

Juliana went still. The Highlander—Alasdair—still holding Alan, shifted to look at her.

“Don’t hurt my sister!” Juliana cried, her gaze locked with Alasdair’s. “She is with child!”

“We’re not here for women,” he said coldly, and he pushed Alan hard, so he fell face first to the floor. He then laid one spurred and booted foot on his back. Revulsion briefly covered his face, and then he looked at Juliana again. “Release both women.”

His men obeyed at once. Juliana rushed to Mary, and they instantly clasped hands. But she could not take her eyes off of Alasdair, who continued to press Alan into the floor with his boot.

She began to shake. Her men had been murdered, and she knew that this Highlander meant to murder her bishop, too.

Her fear intensified. Was he Alasdair Og, the eldest son of Angus Mor, Lord of the Isles?

His father was a ruthless warrior who considered himself a king. And in effect, he was just that. Angus Mor commanded not just Islay and Kintyre, but other, smaller islands, lands in Argyll and Galloway, and a great deal of the high seas. No other regent dared to assert authority there. The kings of Scotland, England and Norway had tried and failed.

Angus Mor was an older man now, but she had heard it said that his son was as ruthless, as fearless, as ambitious, and one day, perhaps soon, he would be Lord of the Isles.

He was not just tall, a head taller than most, but he was hewn like a statue of stone. His broad shoulders, chest and arms were those of a Highlander who had spent his entire life hefting axes and swords. And his hair needed to be cut. It was well past his shoulders. Now, she saw a blue feather woven into a braid, the color almost as pale as his eyes.

Juliana jerked, for she realized she was staring—and she saw that Alasdair was staring as intently back at her.

She suddenly flushed. He did not appear as ruthless just then, for his gaze was narrowed, and he was staring at her red hair, which had come free of its braid and now spilled over her chest.

“What do you want?” she managed to ask.

His mouth curled and he removed his foot from Alan’s back. Alan scrambled across the floor, crawling frantically away from him but Alasdair took two steps towards Alan, reached down, seized his shoulder and dragged him to his feet. “Can ye not crawl away faster?” he mocked.

“I have done nothing ill, my lord!” Alan gasped, his cheeks stained with tears.

Juliana could not stand such abuse. “Stop!”

Mary seized her hand and gave her an incredulous and warning look.

Alasdair faced Juliana, and suddenly it was so still and silent in the cathedral that Juliana could hear her own breathing, which was labored, and her sister’s, which was as harsh. “I beg yer pardon?” One black brow slashed upwards.

She now noticed just how even his features were, and that he had a crescent scar under his right eye. She wet her lips. She could hardly order Alasdair MacDonald around. “Please, reconsider what you intend to do.”

He smiled, amused, and turned to his foremost soldier, a Highlander with long, curly red hair. “Take him outside. Shackle him. I’ll be out to dispose of him in a moment.”

“I didn’t betray you!” Alan screamed.

“Liar.” Alasdair struck him with the back of his hand, across the face. The slap was made effortlessly but was so powerful that bone and cartilage cracked, blood streamed, and Alan was propelled across the nave. Another soldier caught him before he fell and forced him outside.

She could not allow this! Juliana rushed forward. “Stop! What quarrel do you have with the bishop? Why do you torment him so?”

His eyes wide, he looked at her anew. This time, speculation was clear in his gaze. “The bishop has betrayed me, lady. If ye must ken.”

“Could there be a mistake? I have known the good bishop for ten years, if not more. He is a good man.”

“Ah, why am I not surprised that ye, lady, would think so?” He slowly smiled, and she shivered because she did not care for the way he was regarding her—he was looking very carefully at her every feature and at her figure. “Ye must be the lady of Lismore.”

He had been bound to realize her identity, sooner or later. It was common knowledge that Lismore was her dowry. She was clearly a noblewoman, and her red hair was always the cause of interest and admiration—it often gave her away. “I am Lady Juliana MacDougall.”

“The bards have not done ye justice, lady,” he said, very softly. “They have sung of yer beauty, but not well enough. Their songs cannot match it.”

Juliana trembled. Ian lay dead not far from the vestibule, as did another of her knights. And he dared to flatter her now? “You have attacked my lands, you have killed my men!”

“And I am sorry—but the bishop must pay for his treachery.”

Juliana did not want to argue with him. “Bishop Alan does not have a treacherous nature.” She did not add what she wished to state—that he must be wrong.

“I am not surprised ye’d be loyal—yer a MacDougall.”

She tensed, breathing hard. “Are you Alasdair Og?” she finally asked.

He smiled. “The very one.”

So she was confronting her worst enemy. “I thought you were in the south—fighting with Robert Bruce.”

“I returned—for revenge.”

“What do you think he has done?” she cried.

Mary now hurried up to her. “Juliana, leave it be. You cannot save him.”

Her sister was so pale, and her hand was on the protrusion of her pregnant belly. She knew what Mary truly meant to say—leave war to the men. Their brother would hunt down Alasdair for what he had done today. Of that, there was no doubt.

But she had to do something, to try to save Bishop Alan’s life. Juliana took Mary’s arm and guided her to the steps before the altar, pushing her to sit. “I do not want you to jeopardize the babe,” she said low.

“You are placing yourself in jeopardy. You will never persuade him to leave the bishop in peace,” Mary whispered back, but her gaze was on Alasdair.

He hadn’t moved, and from the end of the nave, he stared at them.

Juliana turned back to her sister. “Too many have already died! And he has attacked my land!”

Before Mary could rebut, Juliana straightened and walked back to Alasdair. He shook his head. “Ye should heed yer sister—she is wise.”

“What did he do?”

“I will not debate ye, Lady Juliana. But I am pleased to tell ye the truth. The good bishop came to me, claiming to support Bruce as king. But I am no fool. I tested him and discovered he was naught but a spy sent by your brother. He spied on me, he spied on my brother and he spied on my father. I cannot let such treachery go.”

Juliana knew her brother—he was a man of great ambition as well. He had played kings against one another—and he had won. It was probable that he had pushed the good bishop to spy.

“I see ye believe me.”

She met his gaze, which wasn’t as ice-cold as before. “Please spare him,” Juliana heard herself whisper.