Loving the Enemy [Highland Menage 10] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) Read online

  Highland Menage 10

  Loving the Enemy

  Laird Somerled and Niall MacDougal believe their new wife, Meg, has a secret. Niall isn't worried but Somerled, fearing the power of love as much as treachery, insists she's a danger to their clan. Their uncles were murdered by a cheating wife and Meg hid her marriage to a Campbell, their ancient enemy, so what else is she hiding?

  Meg is terrified they'll discover she not only married a Campbell, she was born one. King James holds her brother to ensure their marriage, ending the Campbell-MacDougal feud, continues. If her secret escapes not only will she face Somerled's wrath, Hamish may die.

  When the two youngest MacDougals bring Hamish to Duncladach Meg throws herself at him in joy. Somerled, furiously jealous, believes he's Meg's Campbell lover an banishes her from his heart.

  How can Meg help him face his fears so he can accept her love, and show his own?

  Genre: Historical, Ménage a Trois/Quatre

  Length: 44,950 words

  LOVING THE ENEMY

  Highland Menage 10

  Reece Butler

  MENAGE EVERLASTING

  Siren Publishing, Inc.

  www.SirenPublishing.com

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  A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK

  IMPRINT: Ménage Everlasting

  LOVING THE ENEMY

  Copyright © 2015 by Reece Butler

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-63259-615-4

  First E-book Publication: August 2015

  Cover design by Les Byerley

  All art and logo copyright © 2015 by Siren Publishing, Inc.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  PUBLISHER

  Siren Publishing, Inc.

  www.SirenPublishing.com

  Letter to Readers

  Dear Readers,

  If you have purchased this copy of Loving the Enemy by Reece Butler from BookStrand.com or its official distributors, thank you. Also, thank you for not sharing your copy of this book.

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  This is Reece Butler’s livelihood. It’s fair and simple. Please respect Reece Butler’s right to earn a living from her work.

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  DEDICATION

  When I was just starting out I was lucky to find an author friend who was the perfect RWA conference roommate. She was polite, didn’t snore, and was almost always in a good mood.

  Her excellent memory, amazing organizational ability, enthusiasm, and knowledge of the industry helped me so much when I was first struggling to write romance. She is still giving me a boost and, when I need it, a boot in the rear to keep me going.

  So this book, my 26th to be published, is dedicated to LeeAnn Lessard. We have both come a long way since those early days, and I thank her from the bottom of my heart.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  About the Author

  LOVING THE ENEMY

  Highland Menage 10

  REECE BUTLER

  Copyright © 2015

  Chapter One

  Laird Somerled MacDougal’s enemy attacked with a roar, claymore high. He blocked it so the blade hit his upper arm rather than his neck. Pain exploded. He cursed, dropping his arm but not his blade. Still cursing, he shrugged it off and prepared to attack.

  “Nay, none of that. I killed ye!” Niall, his twin, held up his own wooden waster the size of a claymore. “If I’d had a real blade, ye’d be dead.”

  “’Tis but a flesh wound!”

  “A flesh wound that chopped the meat from yer arm, broke the bone, and mayhaps gouged the ribs under it as well.” Niall shook his head in disgust. “Ye’d have bled out, laird. Dead. I win to fight another day, and the corbies will pluck out yer eyes.”

  “I’m nay dead!” insisted Somerled.

  “Sorry, laird, but Niall’s right,” said Torquil. With Tearlach and Rory gone, he was the next eldest. “’Tis a mortal wound. Yer blood would be flowin’ into the dirt as ye screamed.”

  “The laird of the MacDougals woulda scream,” he replied, disgusted at the suggestion of such weakness. He was also disgusted at himself for letting such a blow get through his guard.

  “Mayhaps, but ye’d still be dead.” Torquil held out his hand for the water. “So I pluck the blade from yer hand and give ye vengeance.”

  Somerled tossed the wooden claymore to Torquil before rubbing where he’d been hit. It would bruise well but might serve to keep his thoughts on what he was doing and not his wife.

  “’Tis Meg’s fault,” he complained. “She willna get out of my mind.”

  Women complicated things if you cared for them. His father never had, nor the resulting sons. Laird Dougal MacDougal had been the lazy, good-for-nothing youngest son when all his older brothers had been murdered. So he’d called himself laird and created eight heirs plus another eight bastards. Unfortunately he didn’t care to take on less enjoyable duties, such as raising his sons and providing for his clan.

  Somerled was nothing like his irresponsible father. He would stay married to Meg no matter what secret she hid from him. He was desperate to know what it was, but he’d promised not to pry and, un
like his father, he always kept his promises.

  “All we’ve done is sleep the last few nights,” he added, grumbling.

  “Dinna complain about a woman to a man what canna have one,” warned Torquil. His scars showed white against his tanned face and upper body as he warmed up.

  Now that Somerled was married he understood what Torquil was missing and would likely never have. He wished even more he’d been able to prevent the whipping that had disfigured him. Life was full of regrets, but at least all of his brothers were still alive. Eight were married and gone. Two of those were lairds and another had been knighted by King James.

  “Meg is asleep when her head hits the pillow, and she’s out the door with us afore dawn,” admitted Niall. “I didna ken arranging a Gathering of the Clan would be so much work.”

  “She spends much of the day in the village and little with us. I wonder what she’s up to, or if I can trust her.”

  “What?” demanded Niall. “Why can’t ye trust Meg? King James might have married the two of ye by proxy, but I held the broom ye jumped a sennight ago!”

  “Meg didna tell us her first husband was Edgar Campbell of Duntrune, and she willna speak of her past.” He rubbed his mouth to hide the pout that had formed. “She’s been acting like she has a secret. Turning away from me when I see her, and the like.”

  “Meg’s first marriage returned the Brooch of Lorn to us and so much more.” Torquil held his sword point up, ready to fight Niall. “Ye dinna mind eatin’ the food she cooks or sharin’ her bed. She smiles at the rest of us, so ’tis yer problem, laird, nay hers.”

  “Why would ye ask Meg to plan a MacDougal Clan Gathering if ye didna trust her?” Niall shook his head. “’Tis yerself ye are doubting.”

  Somerled crossed his arms, favoring his sore one, and tapped his fingers against his ribs. How could he explain his unease? He stared at the sixty foot high curtain wall that had protected their clan since the year 1220. Duncladach was something he could believe in. It was built by Duncan MacDougal, the grandson of the first Somerled, to protect their clan. He would not allow anyone, even his wife, to harm his people.

  “I want Meg, as my wife and Lady MacDougal,” he stated. “But I wish to ken what she’s hiding.”

  “Laird Fraser said all women hide things from their men. ’Tis their nature to chatter with one another about things no man cares to ken.” Torquil swung the blade to loosen his wrists. “If Meg told ye every thought in her head ye wouldna have time to think yerself.”

  “’Tisna those things I wish to ken, but who her father was. Or is. And if he’s alive I wish to take a claymore to his hide for what he did to her, and allowed her kin to do. They thought it sport to near drown her!”

  “Do ye believe Herald Cam was lying when he said she was Lady Margaret Stewart?” asked Niall.

  “He kenned she were married to a Campbell and didna speak of it,” he replied, sidestepping the question.

  “Whisht, laird, if ye’d kenned that, would ye have allowed her into yer bed?” Torquil’s disapproving expression pulled the corners of his eyes down. “A lass doesna take the name of her husband’s clan.”

  “Fiona did.”

  “Aye, as her father called her a bastard all her life and would rather she be raped by a battalion and her wee, broken body tossed into a ditch than see her safe at Castle Menzies.” Torquil spat the name as a curse. “A ’course she calls herself Fiona MacDougal!”

  Somerled twitched, the movement not big enough to be a shrug. He didn’t know why it bothered him so much that Meg had secrets. He had a few of his own. But his were personal, mostly about his failings as a laird. All knew he feared his brothers being massacred, as happened with their uncles. With Ewan’s ability to feel when a foot touched MacDougal land there was no reason for the sharp terror that clawed at him if he went more than a few hundred feet past the castle walls. Yet it hit him, every time. And now he also feared losing Meg.

  What if instead of going directly to the village, one day she met a Campbell beyond the border of MacDougal land, where Ewan couldn’t sense it, and returned with poison? Maybe she waited for an enemy to approach Duncladach so she could open the postern gate for him? It had happened before, though none else knew of it.

  “Mayhaps Meg feels shame for her kin and doesna wish any to ken them,” suggested Niall. “Her brothers and cousins did more than try to drown her.”

  It bothered Meg so much to speak of her past that he’d promised not to ask. It hadn’t stopped him wanting to know if what she hid would bring danger to them.

  “Cam says—”

  “Cam may be the king’s herald but he were born a Campbell,” he snapped at Torquil. “Ye canna trust any Campbell.”

  “Surely there are a few who dinna act like slavering wolves out to destroy all they see.” Niall gave him a look of disgust. “The king trusts Cam.”

  “The king is nay a MacDougal!”

  “What of Ewan?” demanded Torquil. “He has the Sight. If Meg were a danger he’d ken it. When she rode in with Cam he’d already put water on to heat for her bath.”

  “Aye, and he didna tell his laird she was here until after she’d crossed our land, entered our gates, and had that bath!”

  Which meant that Meg’s first view of him was wrestling with Dougal and Finn in the bailey, all of them naked. While the other two were well into their cups and thought it hilarious, he’d been fairly sober. Meg had taken quite an interest in him, which had raised and hardened his staff. That had caught her attention even more. Just thinking of it, and the wedding night that followed, had his cock twitching.

  “Ye ken Ewan best,” he said to Torquil. “What else has he told ye that he hasna told the rest of us?”

  Torquil shrugged and looked away. “What Ewan Sees isna set in stone. It changes with the choices made. He said if ye choose wisely, all will be well.”

  “If?” Somerled leaned his head forward, scowling. “I do what’s best for Clan MacDougal and Duncladach!”

  “Aye, but it could be wrong for Somerled MacDougal.”

  “I dinna matter. Only the Clan—”

  “Ye’re wrong, laird.”

  Torquil, usually quiet, had interrupted his laird? Somerled motioned for him to continue.

  “’Twasn’t the clan what made sure there was a wee bit of food in our bellies, even us bastards, but yerself. Ye acted as laird since we were lads, as our father didna care.” Torquil closed his eyes, his face a mask of whip scars and remembered pain. “Do ye ken how many times I begged ye to let me die?”

  Somerled closed his eyes as well. He remembered the high-pitched screams, the low whimpers, and worse, the silence of a wee boy who’d given up on ever being whole. “Aye,” he whispered, his throat closing with grief.

  “First ’twas the pain of the whipping, on near every part of my body. I couldna lie without it feelin’ like burning brands were held to my flesh. Then, when I kenned my face and body were too ugly for any lass to ever look on, ye told me to be strong, that I was worth sommat no matter what I looked like.” He paused to breathe. “That I might find a blind lass who may care for me no matter how bad I looked.”

  Somerled silently cursed. Had he said that? He couldn’t remember. He’d been too full of pain for his wee brother, too full of impotent fury that he’d not been able to slay those who’d thought it sport to torture a lad for no reason but to hear him scream. Other brothers had killed the two men, but it had been a quick death as they’d had to rush Torquil to Mary to care for his wounds.

  “Nay, Somerled,” continued Torquil. “Ye are my laird, but more, ye are my brother, one who went hungry for us all. Ye matter, for yerself. Ye told me that I mattered, and I believed ye, and forced myself to live. For that I both curse and thank ye.” He twitched. “Now that Meg’s here most days ’tis thanks I give ye.”

  He had nothing to reply, so nodded his acceptance. Torquil must have saved up years’ worth of words, and was using them all now.

  “A
nd now ’tis time for ye to make yer choices for yerself. This time what’s best for the man who kept us alive, is best for the clan.” A brisk nod and Torquil lifted his waster, turning away. “Ye think ye can beat me, Laird Niall?”

  The title was a shaft to his gut. “Why are ye calling Niall laird?”

  “Have ye forgot already?” asked Torquil over his shoulder. “Ye were too busy thinkin’ on wee Meg that ye got yerself killed. There’s no time to mourn on a battlefield. Yer twin has taken over as laird. We’ll bury yer corpse afore the corbies get too far on ye.”

  Somerled sputtered.

  “He’s right, brother,” replied Niall. “Meg is our wife, married and handfasted. Forget the past, and dinna worry of what may happen.”

  “And how should I do that?” he snapped.

  “Go stick yer head in the sea. Mayhaps the cold will shock ye awake.” Niall pointed to Somerled’s arm with his waster. “It’ll keep yer bruise down. Unless ye wish to run to wee Meggie to have her kiss it better?”

  Chapter Two

  “Where did you get that bruise?” Meg stared at Somerled’s arm. He’d pulled off his shirt, revealing a huge mark decorating his biceps. It was purple, the center an even angrier slash of color.

  “’Tis naught,” he replied, though he moved stiffly.

  She turned to Niall for an explanation as Somerled washed. She was already in bed, exhausted from the long days of summer when the sun stayed up sixteen hours. That meant only six hours of sleep as she had to be up when the false dawn lit the sky, and worked until the last fingers of red lingered over the Isle of Mull. Somerled had been acting strange lately, looking at her as if she was about to steal his precious treasures.