Page 4 of Promised to the Forbidden Laird

Raw and humiliating, the words tore from her. A few MacNicol men moved forward, then halted. She noticed their reluctance. They glanced from her to Cormac, from Cormac to MacIver's men, from duty to fear, and back again. Cormac had been using the language of protection for far too long. Some still believed him. Others were afraid that if they took action against a councilman, the clan would fall apart before Lachlan's body reached the cairn.

Cowards, she thought to herself.

Cormac pulled her under the arch. The outer path curled around the cliffside, the stones black and slippery beneath her. Beyond the low wall, the land collapsed into white waves that crashed into the black rock deep below.

Donaldina fought back with everything she had. Yet, no matter how much she clawed at his sleeve, how deeply her skin tore as she twisted her wrist, or how she almost slipped when she kicked backward, his blade remained pressed against her flesh, like the icy touch of death beneath her jaw.

“Be still,” he snarled. “Ye will not ruin this through pride.”

“This?” she gasped. “Me brother’s burial? Me clan’s peace?”

“Me clan,” he warned matter-of-factly.

Shouting erupted in the courtyard behind them. Donaldina turned her head as far as the blade would allow. Roy MacIver stood in the open yard. Across the distance, their gazes locked, like a hand closing around her heart.

“Too late, MacIver!” Cormac uttered, his grip on her tightening.

Laird MacIver started forward.

“Move,” Cormac breathed, and dragged her backward onto the cliff path.

Her skirts swayed in the wind. Below, the sea roared. MacIver's blade glinted in the gray light as he strained to close the distance, but the first hard tug had already brought her past the gate, down the narrow trail where one slip would give the storm what it sought.

Donaldina did not waste a single breath to cry.

She chose to scream instead.

CHAPTER TWO

Cliff path above Dun Ard, 1604

Her screams pierced the wind. She felt the sound escape her throat, dissolve beneath the raging violence of sea and storm, as if Dun Ard had decided not to hear her. Cormac dragged her along the cliff path, one hand around her arm and the other holding the blade close enough to her throat that every stumble threatened to make her death look like an accident.

The procession broke into chaos as Father Maol's prayer came to a sudden stop, cut short by fear. Yet, the guards who trailed all the way to the outer gate did not move. Over her shoulder, Donaldina caught MacNicol men exchanging brief, enraging glances, their hands on sword hilts and feet anchored to the ground.

“Stop him!” she cried.

No one did. Cormac’s grip tightened until pain flashed white through her wrist.

“Keep back!” he shouted, turning his head only enough to cast the words behind him. “Any man who values Lady Donaldina’s life will hold his place.”

He used her name and her life like a shield, and the men who should have known better let him.

“Cormac,” called one of the older guards, his voice shaking with uncertainty, “this isnae the way.”

“The way?” Cormac laughed, hauling her forward. “The way was lost the moment MacIver set foot in our hall. Horses!” he bellowed toward the ridge ahead, where the path bent between two jutting rocks slick with rain. “Bring them down!”

Donaldina’s stomach turned. Horses waited beyond the ridge. This wasn’t madness born in an instant. No, it had method to it. He stood in Lachlan’s hall, bowed his head before the body, spoke of honor and protection, while men of his choosing waited with saddled horses near the cliffs.

“Ye planned this,” she snarled.

Cormac pulled her so sharply that her shoulder burned. “I planned survival.”

“Ye planned treason.”

“I planned a future,” he snapped, his mouth close to her ear. “One ye should have accepted when it was first offered.”

She twisted sharply, raking her nails along the back of his hand. He cursed but did not release her, his blade grazing her skin.