The Recruit

by Monica McCarty

  He shone as brightly as any star. Everything about him flashed and shimmered, from the golden streaks in his dark brown hair, the dangerous gleam in his challenging blue eyes, and the lean hard lines of his pugnaciously handsome face to the white flash of his take-no-prisoners grin. Though the men appealed in different ways, Sir Kenneth Sutherland could rival Gregor MacGregor for the title of most handsome man in Scotland, and she suspected he knew it.

  Sir Kenneth exuded confidence and brash arrogance. He probably thought she would fall at his feet just like all the other young, starry-eyed ladies seemed to be doing. But she was no longer young, and the stars had been wrenched from her eyes a very long time ago.

  Still, she felt an unmistakable thrill shooting through her veins, a spark of excitement that she hadn’t felt in a very long time. It was probably her temper. He seemed to bring out a heretofore unknown streak of combativeness in her.

  It was the way he looked at her. Confident and arrogant, yes, but also provoking. As if he were daring the world to come at him. As if he were always trying to prove something. He didn’t think she could resist him and was daring her to try.

  “Running away again, my lady?” he taunted softly. “This time I might have to come after you.”

  The Recruit is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Ballantine Books eBook Edition

  Copyright © 2012 by Monica McCarty

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  BALLANTINE and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  eISBN: 978-0-345-53599-3

  Cover Design: Lynn Andreozzi

  Cover illustration: Franco Accornero

  www.ballantinebooks.com

  v3.1_r1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  The Highland Guard

  Foreword

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Other Books by This Author

  THE HIGHLAND GUARD

  Tor “Chief” MacLeod: Team Leader and Expert Swordsman

  Erik “Hawk” MacSorley: Seafarer and Swimmer

  Lachlan “Viper” MacRuairi: Stealth, Infiltration, and Extraction

  Arthur “Ranger” Campbell: Scouting and Reconnaissance

  Gregor “Arrow” MacGregor: Marksman and Archer

  Magnus “Saint” MacKay: Survivalist and Weapon Forging

  Eoin “Striker” MacLean: Strategist in “Pirate” Warfare

  Ewen “Hunter” Lamont: Tracker and Hunter of Men

  Robert “Raider” Boyd: Physical Strength and Hand-to-Hand Combat

  Alex “Dragon” Seton: Dirk and Close Combat

  FOREWORD

  The year of our lord thirteen hundred and nine. Three years ago, Robert the Bruce’s bid for the Scottish throne and the torch for Scotland’s independence had been all but extinguished. But against nearly insurmountable odds, with the help of his secret band of elite warriors known as the Highland Guard, Bruce has waged one of the greatest comebacks in history, retaking his kingdom north of the Tay. In March, King Robert holds his first Parliament and enjoys a brief reprieve from battle following a much-needed truce.

  But problems with his barons will not keep England’s King Edward II occupied forever. The truce is pushed back twice, but eventually the call to muster at Berwick-upon-Tweed and march upon the rebel Scots goes out.

  With the English ready to invade and war looming, Bruce’s new kingship will face its first big test, and once again he will rely on the extraordinary skills of his Highland Guard to defeat his enemies—both English and Scot. Bruce’s kingship may have divided a nation, but he hasn’t given up hope of rallying all Scots—even those still loyal to the English—under his banner. But winning their loyalty may prove his biggest challenge yet.

  Prologue

  September 1306

  Ponteland Castle, Northumberland, English Marches

  Dear God, who could it be at this hour?

  Mary’s heart was in her throat as she hurried down the torchlit stairwell, tying the belt of the velvet robe she’d donned over her night-rail. When you were married to one of the most hunted men in Scotland and the man hunting him was the most powerful king in Christendom, being awakened in the middle of the night to the news that someone was at the gate was sure to provoke a certain amount of panic. Panic that proved warranted when Mary entered the Hall, and the person waiting for her turned and tossed back the rain-sodden hood of her dark wool huque.

  Her heartbeat slammed to a halt. Though the woman’s long, golden hair was hidden beneath the ugliest head covering she’d ever seen and her delicate features were streaked with mud, Mary knew her in an instant.

  She stared in horror at the face that so mirrored her own.

  “Janet, what are you doing here? You shouldn’t have come!”

  England was no place for a Scot—man or woman—with ties to Robert Bruce. And Janet, like Mary, had too many to count. Their eldest sister had been Robert’s first wife; their eldest brother had been married to Robert’s sister; their four-year-old nephew, the current Earl of Mar, was being hunted with Robert’s queen, and their niece was Robert’s only heir. King Edward of England would love nothing more than to get his hands on another daughter of Mar.

  Hearing the censure in Mary’s voice, her younger-by-two-minutes twin sister flashed her an unrepentant grin and put her hands on her hips. “Well that’s a fine welcome after I’ve sailed around Scotland and ridden nearly ten miles in nonstop rain on the most disagreeable old nag known to man—”

  “Janet!” she interrupted impatiently. Though her sister might seem oblivious to the danger, Mary knew she was not. Whereas Mary chose to face reality straight on, however, Janet preferred to run right over it and hope it didn’t catch up to her.

  Janet pursed her mouth the way she always did when Mary forced her to slow down. “Why I’ve come to take you home, of course!”

  Take her home. Scotland. Mary’s heart clenched. God, if only it were so simple.

  “Does Walter know you’re here?” She couldn’t believe their brother would have sanctioned such a dangerous journey. Mary’s gaze ran over her sister in the candlelight. “And what in heavens are you wearing?”

  Mary should have known better than to ask two questions, as it gave her sister a chance to ignore the one she didn’t like. Janet smiled again, pulled back her dark wool cloak, and spread the skirt of the coarse brown wool gown wide, preening as if it were the finest silk, which, given her fashion-loving sister’s penchant f
or wearing exactly that, made her current choice of attire even more remarkable. “Do you like it?”

  “Of course, I don’t like it—it’s horrible.” Mary wrinkled her nose, admittedly sharing more than a little of her sister’s love for fine things. Were those moth holes? “With that old-fashioned wimple, you look like a nun—and an impoverished one at that.”

  Apparently that was the right thing to say. Janet’s eyes lit up. “Do you think so? I did my best, but I didn’t have much to work with—”

  “Janet!” Mary stopped her before she could get going again. But God, it was so good to see her! Their eyes met, and her throat started to close. “You shouldn’t be h-here.”

  Her voice broke at the last, and all traces of Janet’s feigned good humor fled. A moment later Mary was enfolded in her sister’s arms. The tears she’d managed to hold back for the six horrible months since her husband had abandoned her to this nightmare came pouring out.

  “You’ll be safe here,” he’d said offhandedly, his mind already on the fight ahead. John Strathbogie, Earl of Atholl, had decided on his path and nothing would stand in his way. Certainly not her. The child bride he’d never wanted, and the wife he barely noticed.

  She’d swallowed what little pride she had left and asked, “Why can’t we go with you?”

  He’d frowned, the impossibly handsome face that had once captured her young girl’s heart turning on her impatiently. “I’m trying to protect you and David.” The son who was nearly as much of a stranger to him as his wife. Seeing her expression, he sighed. “I’ll come for you when I can. It is safer for you in England. Edward will have no cause to blame you if things go badly.”

  But never could they have imagined just how badly things would go. He’d left so confident, so certain of the righteousness of his cause and eager for the battle ahead. The Earl of Atholl was a hero, always among the first to lift his sword to answer freedom’s call. He’d fought in nearly every major battle in the past ten years over the long war for Scotland’s independence. For the cause he’d been imprisoned, forced to fight in Edward’s army, had his son held hostage for more than eight years, and had his lands on both sides of the border forfeited (and eventually returned). But none of that had stopped him from answering the call again, this time to take up her former brother-in-law Robert Bruce’s bid for the throne.

  But after suffering two catastrophic defeats on the battlefield Robert’s army was on the run. As one of only three earls who’d witnessed Bruce’s coronation and joined the would-be king in his rebellion against Edward of England, her husband was one of Scotland’s most hunted men.

  But so far Atholl had been right: Edward had not turned his vengeful eye on the wife and son the “traitorous earl” had left behind. The son who’d been taken from her before he was six months old to be raised in an English court and had only been returned earlier this year on the condition that he remain confined to their English lands. But how long could they continue to escape Edward’s wrath and the taint of Atholl’s treason? Every day she feared looking out the tower window and seeing the king’s army surrounding them.

  She was so tired of living in fear all the time, trying to be brave. She cried against her sister’s shoulder, letting the emotions that she’d fought so valiantly to contain unfurl in hot, choking sobs.

  “Of course I had to come,” Janet said, murmuring soothing words until her tears abated. Only then did she grab Mary by the shoulders and hold her back to look at her. “What have you done to yourself? You are as thin as a reed. When was the last time you ate?”

  She sounded so much like their mother—gone nearly fifteen years now—that Mary almost smiled. Despite being the younger of the two, Janet had always been the protector. Throughout the disappointment and disillusionment of Mary’s marriage, the taking of her son, and the deaths of their parents, sister, and brother, Janet had been the one to dry Mary’s tears.

  She hadn’t realized just how terribly alone she’d felt until the moment she’d seen Janet standing before the fire, soaking wet and wearing odd clothes, but here.

  Without waiting for Mary to answer, Janet took charge, calling for one of the servants to bring them some wine, bread, and cheese. Looking back and forth between the two nearly identical faces, the girl didn’t hesitate to follow Janet’s bidding. Mary could only smile as she found herself seated beside her sister with a large platter of food in front of her a few minutes later. Janet had divested herself of her wet cloak and hung it by the fire to dry, but had yet to remove the wimple and veil, which, seeing the big wooden cross hanging around her neck, Mary assumed was meant to suggest she was a nun.

  She looked at her sister again, the fear returning. “You shouldn’t have come, Janet. Duncan will be furious that you have put yourself in danger.” She almost hesitated to ask. “How did you manage to travel all the way from Castle Tioram to here without his help?”

  Janet’s mouth quirked. “I found a more sympathetic set of ears.”

  Their eyes met. It wasn’t hard to guess who she meant. “Lady Christina?”

  Their brother Duncan was married to Christina MacRuairi, known as the Lady of the Isles, the only legitimate heir to the Lordship of Garmoran. A powerful force in her own right, Christina wouldn’t hesitate to defy their formidable brother if she believed in the cause.

  Janet nodded. “It was her idea to dress like this. She provided the men and birlinn.” Of course, Mary realized. Only Lady Christina’s Islanders would have the seafaring skill to slip right under the nose of the English fleet. “We came ashore just north of Newcastle-upon-Tyne. From there I purchased a horse. Twelve pounds for an obstinate nag that must be older than me and isn’t worth half that! The man will surely go to hell for taking advantage of a nun.”

  Janet was so outraged, Mary decided not to point out she wasn’t actually a nun.

  “It took me a few hours longer than it should have, but I made it. I passed right by a party of English soldiers and not one of them gave me a second glance.”

  Mary was glad she was sitting down. Only her sister would talk about sailing hundreds of miles around Scotland through treacherous waters right through the heart of the English fleet, riding ten miles through war-ravaged countryside, and then confronting the enemy as if it were nothing. “Please do not tell me that you rode here alone?”

  Janet looked at her as if she were daft. “Of course not. I had Cailin with me.”

  Mary groaned. Cailin was sixty years old if he was a day. Her father’s former stablemaster had been married to their nursemaid, and Janet had had him wrapped around her little finger since they were two. He would protect them both to the death, but he was no warrior.

  Janet smirked. “He wasn’t too happy to have the top of his head shaved, but he makes a fine monk. I sent him to the kitchens to dry out and get something to eat while you gather your and David’s things. We should leave as soon as we can. I brought a gown for you like mine, although I suspect it will be too big.” She wrinkled her nose again at Mary’s appearance. “Jerusalem’s Temples, Mary, you look as pinched and woebegone as a half-starved sparrow.” Trust her sister to not hold her tongue for the sake of vanity. Mary knew she’d lost weight, but she hadn’t realized how much until she saw her sister’s worried expression. “But it will have to do. I just brought a cloak for Davey; he’s a bit young to be a monk.”

  Her son was nine, conceived on her wedding night when she was just fourteen and born while her husband was imprisoned in the Tower of London after his first rebellion. She hadn’t seen her husband for nearly two years after they were married. It had been a harbinger of things to come.

  She wanted nothing more than to jump at her sister’s offer, and if it were just her, she would. She’d do almost anything to return to Scotland—almost. But she had David’s future to think about. Atholl’s rebellions against Edward had robbed their son of his childhood; she would not let them take his patrimony. Not if there was a chance they could escape this nightmare unscathed.


  Mary shook her head, wanting to cry all over again. “I can’t. I want to, but I dare not. If we attempt to leave England, Edward will consider us traitors, and David’s claim to the earldom will be forfeit. Atholl will come for us when he can.”

  She had to believe that. Even with all that had happened, she couldn’t believe he would leave them to face this alone.

  Janet stilled, her big blue eyes growing round and wide. “You haven’t heard?”

  Something in her sister’s voice alerted her; a chill spread over her skin like a thin sheet of ice. “Heard what?”

  “Robert has escaped, fleeing to the Isles with the help of our brother and Lady Christina. But the queen’s party was taken in Tain over a week ago. The Earl of Ross violated the sanctuary of St. Duthac’s and had them arrested.” Mary sucked in her breath at the sacrilege. “That is why I came.”

  The blood drained from Mary’s face. “And Atholl?” she said numbly, though she knew the answer.

  Janet didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. Mary knew her husband would be with the women. He was always with the women. They adored him. He was a hero, after all.

  But now it was over. Scotland’s hero earl had been captured. Her heart squeezed. After all the disappointments and all the hurt, she still felt the pangs of the girlish love she’d once borne him. Those feelings had been crushed a long time ago, but the thought of her husband in chains resurrected whatever vestiges of those dreams that remained.

  Why, John? Why did it have to end like this? She didn’t know whether she was talking about their marriage or his life. Perhaps both.

  “I’m sorry,” Janet said, putting a hand on hers. She had never liked Mary’s husband, but she seemed to understand her feelings. “I thought you knew.”

  Mary shook her head. “We are alone here. Sir Adam comes when he can. But he was called to court nearly a week ago—” She stopped, realizing the timing was probably not a coincidence. Had he known?

  Nay. Mary shook off the thought. Sir Adam Gordon had done everything he could to protect her and David the past six months, even becoming surety for her son’s release. He was one of Atholl’s closest friends. The two men had fought together for Scotland at Dunbar and Falkirk, and served time together in Edward’s army in Flanders when they lost. Although the two friends had taken opposite sides over the issue of Bruce’s kingship, with Sir Adam loyal to the deposed King John Balliol and siding with their former English allies against Bruce, she knew Sir Adam would do his best to keep them safe.