Page 62 of Claimed by the Clan Chief

He chuckled. “Aye, wife of mine, with your curves and eyes, nothing else. And if you think I believe that, then you’re not as wise as I first thought.”

She propped up onto her elbow and looked down at him. Her expression fell serious. “I’ll tell you everything, sir,” she said. “On the day our first-born arrives.” She pressed her lips together to keep from adding ‘because on that day we’ll be bound by our child.’

He stroked her hair. “You tell me whenever you’re ready, lass, for nothing you say will scare me away from you, or make me love you less. I knew exactly what I was getting into when I allowed my heart to open up for you, and only you.”

Epilogue

One year later

McTavish glared at the Duke of Cambridgeshire and tightened the grip around his sword. It had been a long time coming to this moment and now he was going to relish it.

Or at least he hoped that was how it would go.

“You’re a traitor to the king,” the duke said with a snarl. “Renounce your allegiance or you will hang for your misplaced loyalty.”

“If you believe I’ll renounce anything you are a bigger fool than I thought,” McTavish snarled. “You will never take me or my men.” Fury raged within him. The duke had tricked him—with promises of assistance to the Jacobite rebellion—into coming so far south of the border and now he was surrounded with only a couple of his men.

The duke on the other hand had over a dozen. At present they stood in their neat red and white uniforms with pistols and daggers. Most wore expressions of confidence—no doubt feeling secure because of their numbers—but a few had hesitation in their eyes.

And so they should. McTavish had a reputation as a fine Highland warrior for a reason. Since his marriage and becoming a father, his ambition to see Scotland in all her free glory had only intensified. This in turn had made him fight with renewed fervour and passion.

“You really think you can defeat me?” Cambridgeshire laughed. “When you’re on English soil surrounded by English soldiers waiting to spill the blood of you and your fellow heathen Scotsmen.” His laugh deepened. “I pity your naivety in following my trail. I’ll confess I never thought you would.”

“If one drip of my men’s blood hits the earth it is I who will have your blood.” McTavish took a step forward on the woodland floor, his feet crunching over the first fallen leaves. His men flanked him. Raif had his sword already half drawn. Callum had a dagger in each hand.

The Englishmen copied their movements and the distance between them shortened.

Overhead the September wind rustled through the canopy and a branch to McTavish’s left creaked.

“Perhaps it would serve you well,” the duke said, tilting his chin. “To surrender now and get on your knees.” He levelled his pistol toward McTavish. “Before I make you kneel with bullets to your kneecaps.”

Adrenaline spurted into his veins, as it always did when looking down the barrel of a gun. But he kept a handle on it. He’d get out of this, he always did. Why would today be any different?

I have to believe that.

I have to get home to Isla and the bairn.

“I will tear ye guts from your body,” Callum said and flicked his hand in front of his face, swiping at a huge wasp.

“You and whose army?” the duke laughed yet again.

The wasp flew around McTavish’s head, tickling against his ear. He batted it away. He hated that the lying duke was enjoying himself so much.

Overhead the branch creaked again.

He glanced up.

Sat against the trunk was a large pale papery mound. It had a small hole in the upper section and a black swarm hovered around it.

Hornets.

He returned his attention to the gun and switched his hold from his sword to his dagger.

The nest was high but not too far away.

He glanced at Callum and Raif then up again.

He had to give it a go, for all his bravado they were seriously outnumbered. Plus they didn’t have any pistols like the Red Coats.

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