Taming a Wild Scot: A Claimed by the Highlander Novel by Rowan Keats Read Free Book Online Page A

handle of his knife, the twisted-rope pattern offering him a sure grip. If they discovered him, he’d take the leader first, then the slim-faced one with the cold eyes. A deep stab into the collar, a quick slash across the throat. After that, his strategy would largely depend on how the others reacted.
    Wasted planning, as it turned out—the soldiers halted one door before reaching him. A large iron key was produced, the latch unlocked, and the door swung wide on groaning hinges. Niall could no longer see the men, but he could hear them rattling about inside what was likely not the buttery at all, but the armory.
    “Allez-y, allez-y. Vite, vite.”
    Niall grimaced. Normans.
    Not unexpected, of course. Trained soldiers—especially those with coin enough for armor and steel weapons—were in short supply in the Eastern Highlands. Many a lord hired mercenaries from the continent. Still, you couldn’t pay for passion, and these laggards would never defend Scotland the way a Highlander would.
    Though perhaps that wasn’t a pressing concern for Baron Duthes. With the Norse raiders subdued and the English king reluctant to foster bad blood with his dead sister’s former husband, the only turmoil that darkened Scotland’s doors these days was the petty bickering between powerful families.
    “Ramassez les epées de pratique.”
    They were gathering practice swords for a session in the lists. Wood scraped along the floor, something heavy hit the wall, and a heavy metal object crashed to the ground.
“Cochon!”
    It wasn’t clear who or what the soldier was cursing as a pig, but the other men laughed.
    “Tu es chanceux qu’il n’a pas coupé ta bite.”
    As the men continued their hunt for practice swords, more rattles and bangs emanated from the armory. Seizing his opportunity, Niall stepped into the corridor. The open door to the armory effectively hid him from the soldiers’ view, but just to be safe he grabbed a dusty sack of cornmeal from a nearby pile and tossed the hundred-pound weight across his shoulders. He was dressed as a common laborer; he might as well play the part. With his eyes appropriately downcast and his legs making strong, sure strides, he headed for the kitchen.
    He was just about to round the corner and disappear, when one of the soldiers spoke.
    “
Allo
,
ma petite poule
. Where do you go in such a great hurry?”
    Niall paused. Apparently, one of the soldiers had stopped a woman at the bottom of the stairs. He had no cause to believe it was Ana, save for an odd tingle on the back of his neck. It was probably one of the seamstresses. Or a weaver lass.
    “What I do is none of your concern. Let me pass.”
    Or perhaps not.
The tart tones of Ana’s peeved voice rippled down his spine. Niall slipped the sack of cornmeal to the ground and turned. Sure enough, his wife stood at the far end of the corridor, her hands on her hips, impeded by the outstretched arm of the huge sergeant.
    Niall frowned. But before he could take a step, Ana’s gaze lifted to meet his.
    The message in her eyes was clear and certain:
Do not interfere
.
    His lips tightened. Was she mad? Did she really believe he would stand back and allow a mongrel to waylay his wife in a dark corridor? Even a false wife?
    Eyes on the big brute, he moved forward.
    “Why so grave, my lovely?” The Norman put his hand on Ana’s face, and icy fury sped through Niall’s veins like spring runoff. Almost without thought, his knife was in his hand. “Are Scottish men so lacking in bed that they cannot put a smile upon your face?”
    “Perhaps you should pose that question to my husband.”
    The soldier grinned and patted the hilt of his sword. “I would be happy to.”
    She pointed over his shoulder. “Excellent. He’s right behind you.”
    Niall skidded to a halt less than three feet from his target. Every muscle in his body was pumped with rage, but thanks to Ana, he’d lost the edge of surprise. He could still cripple this filthy