Pride of the Clan by Anna Markland

contingent who’d been loyal to his late father, and shown respect to him.  
    “The roasting meat smelled delicious,” she said, biting into the flesh. “I didna think I was hungry.” His shaft reacted predictably as he watched her lick the juices off her fingers. She looked at him curiously when he groaned involuntarily. “I was only thinking the grease will help with the healing,” he lied.
    To take his mind off his arousal he built a campfire for them away from the other men. He bade her lie down close to the fire and tucked plaids around her. “Someday, my lady, ye and I will lie in a bed of fine furs and make love,” he whispered. “But if I kiss ye now, Tannoch will make much of it.”
    She smiled coyly and snuggled into the plaids.
    He unfurled his bedroll then lay where he might keep an eye on Tannoch and his cronies. It wasn’t likely they would attempt to molest Margaret or attack him. They were too busy hurling insults at the Stewarts whom they’d tied back to back against a tree. The Earl looked done for. The prisoners had been given nothing to eat or drink since their capture and he’d be surprised if the auld man’s ribs weren’t broken after Tannoch’s beating.
    He vaguely wondered if he’d ever have to call upon men of his clan to help oust his brother. He’d never given it much thought, but now it occurred to him the people of Dunalastair fell into two distinct groups. Those who aligned themselves with Tannoch and those, the majority, who tended to steer clear of the chieftain. But such treacherous thoughts were dangerous in these uncertain times. Anyone tainted by the stigma of treason might end up like the skeletons twisting in the wind on the Gallows Tree. He couldn’t see the macabre landmark in the pitch black but it was there.
    Margaret slept, if fitfully. He doubted he would sleep when the woman he desired was close and yet untouchable. He prayed for the strength to deal with whatever lay ahead in Stirling.

STIRLING

    As they approached the north gate of Stirling Castle after another day in the saddle Tannoch called a halt. He dismounted and strode towards the mountain pony carrying the Earl. He grasped a handful of the auld man’s white hair and lifted his head. “Recognize this place, Kingslayer?” he taunted.
    Rheade suspected the Earl couldn’t have spoken his own name, let alone known where he was, but Tannoch persisted, pointing to the castle wall. “Remember, a dozen years gone, yer cousin, Murdoch Stewart, and his two sons executed here by yer order?”
    He snorted, let go of the Earl’s head, remounted and led the column forward.
    Armed guards challenged them at the gate.
    “I am Tannoch Collier Starkey Robertson,” he declared loudly, puffing out his chest, “Chieftain of Clan Robertson and Queen Joan’s loyal servant. Inform Her Majesty I have captured Walter Stewart and his grandson, Robert. I await her instructions.”
    Well to the rear of the group, Margaret leaned over to whisper to Rheade. “He didna capture them.”
    Rheade shifted his weight in the saddle. “It’s his right as chieftain to lay claim to the arrest.”
    She mumbled something under her breath. He wasn’t be sure, but it may have been Bollocks .
    The guards gawked until Tannoch snarled at them like an angry bear. Rheade knew what a daunting sight it was, given that many of his brother’s teeth were either missing or stained brown. The obscene mouth and the bushy, unkempt red beard were enough to knock any man off balance.
    Two scurried off. The rest ushered the Robertsons and their prisoners through the gate and into the bailey, bowing as if the King of all the Scots himself had arrived.
    Rheade was heartsick; the Queen’s men likely judged the Robertsons a barbaric lot. But at least Tannoch hadn’t mentioned Margaret.
    He glanced at her. She’d snuggled into the plaids for protection against the cold wind. He wanted to plant a kiss on her red nose. “Not long now,” he reassured