When a Laird Takes a Lady: A Claimed by the Highlander Novel Read Online Free Page A

more. Isabail Grant was his enemy. He had to remember that. John Grant had robbed him of all he held dear—his reputation, his home, and his kin. The justiciar could have chosen to believe Aiden’s version of the events—in fact, for a brief time Aiden thought he had won the man over—but he had not. The earl had ruled against him. And he hadn’t stopped there. In the days that followed, he’d brutally tortured Aiden and outlawed all who carried the MacCurran name. Every hardship his people currentlyendured could be laid at feet of the Grants. Seeing Isabail as a gentlewoman in need of protection was a mistake.
    She could restore his life, or she could destroy it.
    And it was up to him to decide which it would be.
Isabail possessed information that could redeem him in the eyes of the king and return his clan to their rightful prominence. She knew the identity of the man in black—the man who was behind all of the misfortunes that had befallen him.
    Gaining that information was all that mattered.
    Aiden trudged around the bothy to the woodpile, which was buried under several thick inches of snow and ice. He swept aside the layer of snow; then, with a clenched fist, he hammered the ice. With one mighty blow, the ice cracked and fell away. The smaller pieces of kindling were at the top, the larger split logs at the bottom. Aiden scooped up some of both, then returned to the bothy.
    Inside, he stomped his feet to rid his boots of clinging snow. Isabail was bent over her maid, binding her sprained ankle, but the moment his gaze fell upon her, she shrank against the back wall of the hut.
Saints above.
He’d never struck a woman in his life, and he wasn’t about to start now. He’d lost enough. He refused to give up his principles, no matter how justified his anger might be.
    The peat bricks were still burning nicely, so he stacked the wood near the flames to dry it out. Wet wood would create more smoke, and in a bothy with no chimney and a winter storm preventing open shutters, smoke was a hazard.
    All the while, Isabail hugged the daub and wattle wall, watching him warily.
    “Are you hungry?” he asked.
    Hope brightened in her eyes for a moment, but she tempered it and then shook her head. “I don’t willingly take solace from my enemies.”
    He shrugged. “The key word there is
willing
, lass. If you don’t eat, you won’t be strong enough to make another attempt to escape.” He dug into his pouch and pulled out two large strips of dried venison. One, he chewed on. The other he broke in half and offered to Isabail.
    She resisted for several heartbeats.
    Then she darted forward, snatched the meat from his hands, and retreated to her corner of the hut.
    “You’ll not benefit from the fire over there,” he said, with a shake of his head.
    “I’m fine.”
    “Nay, you’re not.” The woman still wore her damp clothes. If she did not dry out, he’d be tending to two invalids, not one. Aiden crossed the room in an easy stride, grabbed her about her slender waist, and hauled her over to the fire. He forced her down onto a blanket before the flames. “Eat, then sleep.”
    Then he stepped away, seeking his own pallet.
    Isabail stared at him, her face pale. But she remained where she was, her feet almost instinctively reaching toward the fire. The room was quiet for a while, with only the crackle of the fire and the chew of dried meat.
    Then, with a hesitant voice, Isabail asked, “Is he all right? The man I hit?”
    “Graeme? Aye.”
    “I feared I might have killed him.”
    Aiden snorted. A rock wielded by a sturdy milkmaid, perhaps. But not one hefted by a will-o’-the wisp like Isabail Grant. Graeme would face a great deal of ribbing over being felled by the likes of her.
    “Sneer if you’d like,” she said quietly, “but I am not like you. I do not murder people with an easy conscience.”
    Aiden tossed her a hard look. “Be careful, lass. You know naught of what you speak.”
    “You deny you killed