The Rebel Wears Plaid

by Eliza Knight

  One

  The village of Brechin, Scottish Highlands

  Year of Our Lord 1484

  He’d seen her before.

  Lor knew that the moment he looked up from the business he was conducting with his grandfather’s friend. In the midst of a busy marketplace on a glorious spring day, he caught sight of a woman he recognized, which wasn’t unusual in itself, but with this woman, it was.

  Lor and the old man with the missing eye had been going over the purchase Lor was making of slag material for his grandfather’s blacksmith stall when he glanced up and saw her. In truth, he saw her only from the back; it was the hair that had his attention. In the sunlight, the red curls glistened like molten fire.

  Everything about her caught his eye. She was dressed in a long tunic and braies from what he could see, unusual for a lass, but she’d marched down the road with her basket of skins in her arms in a cadence that seemed much more like a man’s than a woman’s.

  Purposeful.

  Confident.

  He’d seen that walk once before.

  “Lor?”

  The old man next to him was trying to get his attention, but Lor couldn’t take his eyes from the woman as she walked down the dusty avenue. She was weaving in and out among the villagers on this busy market day, and Lor didn’t want to lose sight of her.

  He put up a hand to the old man.

  “Wait a moment,” he said. “I’ll return.”

  He didn’t wait for a reply. Quickly, he headed out into the street while the old blacksmith watched him with some frustration.

  “Where are ye going, lad?” he called after him. “If ye dunna come back, I’ll rob ye blind. I’ll tell yer grandfather that it’s yer fault he was cheated out of a good price for his iron!”

  The old man meant it as a jest, hoping Lor would return, but the young blacksmith simply waved him off as if he didn’t believe him, which he didn’t. His grandfather, Nikolaus, and old Albe had been doing business since before Lor was born. He didn’t much believe anything the old liars said.

  At the moment, he was on the hunt.

  The red curls were up ahead, and he followed them like a cat tracking a mouse. There was something about the woman that he remembered from long ago, and as he politely stepped aside to let a woman and her children pass by, it began to occur to him just where he’d seen that hair.

  Gleann Deamhain.

  The Vale of Demons.

  It was difficult to say why an incident from eight years ago suddenly stood out for him. It had been a fleeting moment as far as moments in time went. But it had stayed with him: the young lass who had practically saved him from a band of bloodthirsty cutthroats. Never mind that they were only children; Lor remembered being as afraid of them as if they’d been the mightiest army of men.

  Gòrach, they’d called him.

  He’d been stupid once, but he wasn’t going to be stupid again.

  This time, he was going to be careful.

  Lor continued to follow the lass. She finally came to a stop at a merchant who dealt in hides. As he hid back in the crowd, watching, Lor could see the lass holding up the fine pelts she’d brought, negotiating a price with an old man who seemed to be smiling at her too much. At one point, he reached out and pinched her cheek.

  She slapped him.

  Lor laughed softly.

  But the slap had turned the merchant against her and he waved her away, unwilling to buy her pelts now that she’d rejected his affection. Frustrated and unhappy, the girl backed away from the store with her basket of pelts before finally turning away and slipping into an alleyway between the stalls.

  Lor followed.

  There were some residences behind the main merchant avenue and several big plots of land where the villagers cultivated their gardens. It smelled of animals and compost back here. Beyond the gardens was a grove of trees, a big one, with paths leading into it because more villagers lived back beyond the trees.

  Suspecting that was where she was heading, Lor made his move.

  As the woman entered the trees, Lor came up behind her with great stealth and snatched her basket away.

  “Where are ye going, gòrach?” he said.

  The woman gasped in outrage and perhaps even a little fear. As Lor stood there, his eyes glimmering with mirth, the woman turned on him and balled her fists.

  “Give me back my pelts,” she snarled.

  Lor couldn’t help the smile on his lips now. It was indeed the lass from the Vale of Demons. She’d grown from a skinny, freckled girl into a lush and beautiful woman. She was quite beautiful, actually. He found himself staring at her pale skin and rosebud mouth, but that was the last thing he remembered before a fist came flying at his face.

  Down he went.

  The woman reached down and yanked the basket of pelts from his hands as Lor shook off the stars. He put his hand to his nose, noting a small bit of blood as she turned and continued her trek.

  He lumbered to his feet.

  “Wait,” he said. “I wasna trying tae rob ye. Don’t ye remember me?”

  She came to a halt, turning to him warily. She looked him up and down. “Should I?”

  He felt embarrassed that she didn’t recognize him as he’d recognized her. “It has been several years,” he said. “I was just a lad when we first met in the Vale of Morning. Ye called me gòrach and tried tae steal my birds’ eggs. Ye know…gòrach? Do ye remember now?”

  She stared at him a moment before her eyes widened. “Gòrach,” she repeated slowly. “Birds’ eggs, ye say?”

  “Aye. Ye tried tae take them from me but we made an agreement instead.”

  Her mouth popped open as the memory came clear. “Ye promised tae bring me more!”

  He nodded, grinning as he realized that she did, indeed, remember him. “I did.”

  “Ye never brought them back.”

  “But I dinna say when I’d bring ye the eggs. There’s still time.”

  He’d caught her on a technicality. She eyed him with an appraising expression as she retraced her steps in his direction.

  “’Tis true,” she said reluctantly. “So just when did ye intend tae?”

  His smile broadened. “Soon,” he said. “But I’ve been very busy.”

  “Doing what? Accosting women and stealing their baskets?”

  He laughed softly, flashing big, white teeth. “Ye accosted me once,” he said. “I was returning the favor.”

  It was clear that she was trying very hard not to smile; he was rather witty and charming. “Gòrach,” she repeated softly when she came to within a foot of him, studying the man who’d grown from the boy she’d once remembered. “So it is yerself. Ye’ve grown up.”

  “So have ye.”

  “But not so much that ye dinna recognize me.”

  He clasped his hands behind his back. “Yer hair,” he said. “I recognized yer hair. I saw it once in the vale, and when I saw ye again in town, I knew it right away.”

  “Red hair is nothing in the Highlands.”

  “But yours looks like molten metal.”

  Her brow furrowed as she pulled up a strand, looking at it. “It does?”

  He nodded. “I see such things every day.”

  “Ye do?”

  “Aye.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m a blacksmith. ’Tis my trade.”

  “I thought it was stealing birds’ eggs.”

  His grin was back. “Nay,” he said. “’Twas an interest and nothing more.”

  “Does yer grandfather still have his birdhouse?”

  “Aye.”

  “I still want mine.”

  He lifted his broad shoulders. “Mayhap ye’ll have one someday,” he said. Then he gestured to the basket in her arms. “I saw ye come in tae town with the pel
ts. Yer far from the Vale of Morning today.”

  She nodded, looking down at the lovely gray pelts. “I came tae sell them,” she said. “I come as often as I can, as often as the traps will allow.”

  He reached into the basket, picking up one of the very nice pelts. “Ye’ve skinned them well,” he said, putting it back. But his interest in the pelts was simply a cover for his interest in her. His gaze returned to her face. “Do ye remember my name?”

  “Lor.”

  His teeth flashed, flattered she should recall it so quickly. “I dunna know yers.”

  “Isabail.”

  “Isabail,” he repeated softly, rolling it over his tongue as if it were a fine wine. “A lovely name for a lovely lass. But I know ye’re not from the Vale of Morning.”

  “Nay.”

  “Where are ye from?”

  She hesitated. “Ye told me ye’re from Careston,” she said. “Why are ye here in Brechin?”

  Lor wasn’t oblivious to the fact that she was changing the subject to avoid giving him an answer. Since he’d stopped traveling through the Vale of Morning, he hadn’t thought of the demons that trolled the vale in many a year. He remembered being told that the demons were part of Clan Ruthven, or even Clan Keith.

  It occurred to him that in telling Isabail his name and village, she knew where he was from and that meant she knew his loyalties. Clearly, she didn’t want him to know the same of her. He suspected the stories of the origins of the demons were perhaps more truth than rumor.

  He couldn’t think of any other reason why she wouldn’t be forthcoming.

  But it didn’t matter. He had no sense of hatred toward clans that weren’t allied with Clan Lindsay; his loyalty was to his family and friends, no matter their clan. That had never been a big factor to him. But he knew that the world at large felt differently.

  Perhaps the lass felt differently, too.

  “I’m in Brechin because I’m doing business with a friend of my grandfather’s,” he said finally, having the courtesy not to demand an answer to his question. “I also trained with the man for some years. In fact, I lived in Brechin for a numbers of years, but I dunna recall ever seeing ye come tae town with yer pelts.”

  She looked down at her pelts as if considering her answer. “There are other villages where I can get a fine price.”

  “Is that where ye’re going now?”

  She nodded. “The merchant here… I dinna want tae agree tae his price. I’ll go elsewhere.”

  Lor knew what she meant by not paying the man’s price because he’d seen it. What had happened had been unfair, and Lor wasn’t a man who tolerated injustice. He never had been. Reaching out, he took the basket from her as she tried to snatch it back.

  “Wait here,” he told her, holding the basket away as she grabbed at it. “I’ll get yer price for ye. What did ye want?”

  She was confused, and a little miffed that he’d taken her pelts again, but she at least considered his question.

  “A shilling a pelt,” she said. “I’ll take nothing less. Where are ye going?”

  With a sly smile, he reached out and took one of her grabbing hands.

  “Come with me.”

  Isabail did. She let him hold her hand as he took her back toward the village before leaving her in the small alley next to the merchant who had pinched her on the cheek. As she peered around the corner of the stall, she watched as Lor presented the basket of pelts to the merchant, who was busy eating something and getting bread and sauce all over his tunic.

  When he looked at the pelts with some interest, Lor pushed the man’s hands back so they wouldn’t dirty the skins. He held them up for the man to show them the fine quality. But the merchant wasn’t stupid; he’d seen the pelts, and the basket, before. He knew they belonged to the pushy lass from the hills. When he finally shook his head at Lor, denying him the sale, Lor reached out and grabbed the man by the collar of his expensive robes. As Isabail watched with increasing astonishment, Lor muttered a few select words to the merchant, and the man’s expression went from defiant to fearful in one motion.

  His head nodded.

  Lor gave him the pelts, and the man counted out the shillings.

  Astonished, Isabail ducked back into the alleyway as Lor returned to her, holding out a big hand that contained several silver coins.

  “Here ye are,” he said, putting the coins into her open palm and handing her the empty basket. “He was happy tae buy them.”

  Isabail’s mouth was hanging open in surprise. She counted the coins; there were twelve. Twelve shillings, twelve pelts. Her gaze returned to Lor.

  “I dunna know what tae say,” she finally said. “When I saw the man, he refused tae buy them.”

  The ever-present smile was back on Lor’s lips. “Sometimes a man just needs a bit of prodding, ’tis all. And a strong suggestion of what will happen if he doesna agree with ye.”

  Isabail looked back to the money in her hand before finally closing a fist around it. Her gaze returned to Lor.

  “Ye told me once that ye weren’t a warrior,” she said.

  She was referring back to the first time they met. Lor remembered that conversation, too, mostly because it was something that had confused him over the years. She’d told him that, being a Highlander, he needed to learn to fight as if it was part of his identity. Truth be told, that was something he’d always wrestled with, thanks to her.

  “I’m not,” he said, with perhaps a little less humor, given the subject. “I dinna fight the man tae sell yer pelts.”

  She shook her head. “That’s not what I meant,” she said. “I suppose…I suppose I meant that ye have a presence about ye, Lor Careston. I saw it those years ago when we met, and I saw it again just now. Ye have a way about ye that is…strong. If ye were a warrior, ye’d be a fine one.”

  He laughed softly as he shook his head. “I’ve no need tae be a warrior,” he said. “I can get along fine as I am. I sold yer pelts, did I not?”

  She nodded. “Ye did,” she said. “And I thank ye for it.”

  The smile faded from his face as he looked at her, his eyes glimmering with something suggesting warmth. That pretty lass from the vale had his interest now as she had back then. It was an attraction that, although unnutured in years, was surprisingly strong. The childhood spark he’d felt those years ago had never died.

  The spark was beginning to blaze.

  “When will ye come back to Brechin?” he asked quietly. “Will ye come soon?”

  From the expression on her face, Isabail seemed to understand his inference. “I canna say,” she said honestly. “I only come when I have pelts tae sell.”

  “Do ye travel through the Vale of Morning tae come here?”

  She shrugged. “Sometimes,” she said. “Sometimes I take the road.”

  “Road from where? Where do ye live?”

  They’d gotten onto the forbidden subject again, and she averted her gaze. “In the hills,” she said, which wasn’t a lie. “Ye canna go there.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because my da willna like it.”

  Now, she was introducing a protective father so Lor backed off. But he was clever about it.

  “But if I have birds’ eggs tae bring ye, where will I find ye?” he asked.

  She looked at him. “The vale,” she said almost gently. “If ye go tae the vale, I’ll find ye.”

  “Ye willna throw rocks at me again, will ye?”

  It was her turn to grin now, a lovely smile that Lor found enchanting. “I willna,” she said. “I willna let anyone else throw them, either.”

  “If I go tae the vale tomorrow, will I find ye there?”

  It was an invitation and her eyes twinkled as she looked at him, a faint flush mottled her cheeks. “Will ye bring the eggs?”

  With a smile flickering on
his lips, he lifted one of her dirty hands to his lips, kissing the knuckles gently. He watched the flush in her cheeks deepen.

  “I’ll bring them.”

  “Then I’ll be there.”

  Winking at her, Lor dropped her hand and turned away, heading back into town to finish his business with old Albe. He wasn’t going to finish anything until he had Isabail’s pledge that she would see him again, but now he had it.

  He could go about his business.

  When Albe wanted to know why Lor was smiling so much, he smiled more but wouldn’t answer.

  Highland Gladiator

  On sale August 2020!

  Acknowledgments

  Behind the creation of every book an author pens is the vast support network of those cheering her forward. I could not have brought this book, or any book, to life without a number of amazing people. First and foremost, endless gratitude to my family—I love you all dearly and literally couldn’t do this without your love of sandwiches and “foraging for dinner.” Thank you to my agent, Kevan Lyon, for believing in me. Many thanks to the team at Sourcebooks for their excitement about the series and continued support. And last but never least, merci beaucoup to the most incredible writer friends a gal could have who helped me plot, read pages, offered advice, traveled with me for research, and handed me glasses of wine. Listed in no particular order: Andrea Snider, Brenna Ash, Madeline Martin, Lori Ann Bailey, Christi Barth, and my #ScarletSisters. Dreams happen when we believe in ourselves and persist no matter what.

  About the Author

  Eliza Knight is an award-winning and USA Today bestselling author of more than fifty sizzling historical romances. Under the name E. Knight, she’s known for riveting tales that cross landscapes around the world. Her love of history began as a young girl when she traipsed the halls of Versailles and ran through the fields in Southern France. While not reading, writing, or researching for her latest book, she chases after her three children. In her spare time (if there is such a thing…) she likes daydreaming, wine tasting, traveling, hiking, staring at the stars, watching movies, shopping, and visiting with family and friends. She lives atop a small mountain with her own knight in shining armor, three princesses, and two very naughty newfies.