Highlander Redeemed (Guardians of the Targe Book 3)

by Laurin Wittig

  ALSO BY LAURIN WITTIG

  Guardians of the Targe series

  Highlander Betrayed

  Highlander Avenged

  The Legacy of MacLeod series

  Charming the Shrew

  Daring the Highlander

  The Kilmartin Glen series

  The Devil of Kilmartin

  MacAlister’s Hope, a novella

  Anthologies

  The Winter Stone

  Jewels of Historical Romance

  Fabulous Firsts

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2015 Laurin Wittig

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781477829769

  ISBN-10: 1477829768

  Cover design by Regina Wamba

  For all the amazing, strong, talented women in my life—each one of you inspires me!

  CONTENTS

  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

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  Southwestern Scottish Highlands, 1307

  SCOTIA MACALPIN PUSHED her dark hair out of her face with the back of her water-wrinkled hand, then looked up from the huge iron pot she was scouring as she had every morning and every evening for what seemed her entire lifetime, though it had only been a fortnight or a little more. The sun was barely peeking over the ben into the Glen of Caves as she glanced down the length of the narrow clearing outside the caves that for weeks now had been home to the MacAlpins of Dunlairig. Mud puddles from last night’s rain had collected in those places her kinsmen trod most—around the cookfire, on the path to the privies, and here, where she squatted, as she did twice a day, scouring pots.

  A breeze, soft with damp and scented with the earthy aromas of the forest floor and the sharp freshness of pine and balsam, drifted across her face, shoving away the less pleasant odors of too many people living in too close quarters for too long. She gave thanks for the momentary respite and tried to ignore the beckoning of the forest that had of late become her refuge, her sanctuary.

  She closed her eyes and tried to remember her life before this place. Before her mother died, before the castle’s curtain wall had fallen and the great hall burned, before her entire life had been ripped from her, leaving her alone amidst her clan—bitterly, silently, alone.

  Scotia fisted her hands, ignoring the sting where the sand had scoured them as well as it did the pots, and reminded herself that this was war, as she did many, many times each day.

  She opened her eyes and forced herself to look at the women huddled over their tasks, worried expressions drawing down every face she saw. Even the bairns and weans were unnaturally quiet. The few warriors about seemed to sag, as if the very ground pulled too hard upon them and they had not the strength to resist it much longer. If she was tired, she knew they were fatigued beyond measure from constant rounds of training, scouting, watching, planning, and back to training. Most of the warriors were deployed outside this glen, searching and watching for the next wave of English to arrive—her sister, Jeanette, the newest Guardian of the Highland Targe, had seen the arrival in a vision. Everyone was touchy, snapping at each other, the caves filled each night with the echoes of uncomfortable dreams.

  Waiting was far worse than fighting.

  This was war.

  She kept saying that to herself, trying to make sense of the words. She had known war raged in Scotland most of her life, sometimes with the English, sometimes between factions of Scots, or even clan against clan, but never had it been this close, this personal. And this was personal. The English king had sent spies into her home—one had killed her mother, the other was now their chief and the husband of her cousin Rowan, also a Guardian of the Targe.

  “Pay attention to those pots, Scotia,” Peigi, the elder who acted as chatelaine in this terrible excuse for a home, chided her, as she did every day of late. At least Peigi spoke to her . . . sometimes.

  Scotia drifted through her kinsmen these days like a ghost everyone knew lived amongst them but no one wanted to acknowledge. After the clan’s success at the Battle of the Story Stone, a brief euphoria had swept through everyone but her. At first she had been too shocked at how close she had come to losing her life to join in the celebration—she ran her fingers along the healed, but still raised line along her throat where the gap-toothed soldier had cut her before she could free herself—but then the clan’s mood had swiftly changed to anger at Scotia. They blamed her for causing both the battle and the death of the young warrior, Myles. Once the shouting stopped, she was left with averted gazes and silence even from her sister, Jeanette, and her cousin, Rowan. Her father scowled at her and said nothing. Even Duncan, who always seemed to champion her, often at the same time he chided her for whatever scrape she had gotten herself into, refused to look at her.

  “Scotia, the pots!” Peigi barked at her. “They do not clean themselves.”

  “Aye, Peigi, I ken that all too well. Leave me be.” She scowled at the old woman and scooped up a fresh handful of sand from the battered bucket at her side, and returned to scouring the large iron pot that was still crusted with bits of porridge from the morning meal.

  “That I cannot do, lest you hare off after some new scheme that will get more of us killed without cause.”

  “I did not—”

  “You did.” Her voice quavered, but was still strong enough to carry to all who worked near them. “We all ken it, as you should.”

  Scotia sighed, scooped up another handful of sand, hardening herself against the humiliation she knew the old woman was going to throw at her again, railing at Scotia for something that was not her fault though Scotia seemed to be the only one who understood that.

  “You went against your chief’s orders and forced Myles into a position he should not have been in, and for that he paid with his life.” Peigi glared at Scotia, something she had never done before Myles’s death. “We have all coddled you too long. ’Tis beyond time for you to grow up and take responsibility for your actions.” Peigi banged a long wooden spoon against the rim of another iron pot that hung over the cookfire, then replaced the lid and turned her full attention back to Scotia, her gnarled hands fisted on her hips, one still clenching the spoon. “You are a woman now, Scotia, but still you act a child. It is unbecoming of the daughter o
f a chief, the daughter of anyone, to be so thoughtless with the lives of others.”

  Scotia peeked through her lashes as several other women working near the cook circle stared up at her. The momentary acknowledgment that she still existed among them almost made up for the glints of distrust and disappointment she saw in their eyes. She looked away from them all. It was not her fault that the English had killed Myles. Aye, he would not have left his perch high in a tree for the ground if she had not passed by his lookout position, but she was not the one to pull the blade and kill him.

  She turned her attention back to her task, blocking out the sideways looks, the shaking heads, and the heat on her cheeks that she knew gave away her humiliation at Peigi’s groundless blame. She could shun them just as much as they shunned her. Besides, if the clan had taken up the task to fight the English who had made their way into the MacAlpins’ glen, rather than just watch for them, she never would have taken it upon herself to search them out to deliver justice. If the clan had attacked, she never would have been taken hostage, never would have had a knife held at her throat. It was not her fault they had a chief who did not ken how to lead. ’Twas Rowan’s fault for falling in love with the spy, then declaring him her Protector, displacing Scotia’s da from a position he had held with honor for many years.

  But then again, if the clan had attacked, as it should have, she never would have had reason to train herself in the art of weaponry so she would never again be at the mercy, if one could call it that, of the English bastards.

  A bloodthirstiness she had not thought herself capable of until recently took over her mind, loosing all the hatred she had for the English to burn through her veins, gathering all the grief she had endured at their hands into a writhing ball of pain where her heart used to beat, and in her belly . . . she did not ken what that sensation was, but it roiled, dark and oily, demanding release. She had to be ready when this new and larger invasion of English soldiers arrived, and she did not have long if Jeanette’s visions were correct—and they had been so far.

  She kept scrubbing at the already clean pot while glancing around the clearing again, taking note that once more no one was looking at her. The council was huddled in their circle on the far end of the clearing arguing, though they kept their voices low enough she could not make out what the topic of dissension was today. She feared Nicholas would allow them to argue forever without ever stepping up and declaring what they would do, as was his right as chief and Protector of the Guardians. The women were all busy at their tasks, preparing food for the evening meal, spinning the wool that had been shorn from a few sheep before sending them off to hide with some of the older lads in the bens, or minding the wee ones. Peigi had sent the lads to gather wood, and the lasses to haul water. The warriors had disappeared to whatever duty they had for this day. Peigi was muttering to herself as she laid more fuel on the fire. She looked over at Scotia and wagged a finger at her, which Scotia knew was the woman’s admonishment to stay put, then she stomped off toward the main cave as if she marched into battle.

  The forest ran right up the benside to the edge of this narrow clearing. The sweet scented breeze once more washed over her. The trills of small birds and the rustle of leaves called to her to slip into the cool, welcoming quiet of its arms, an enticing escape from all the averted eyes and thunderous silence that was her only company amongst her kin. She was tired of pretending she didn’t care how they treated her. She was tired of Peigi’s constant barrage of blame. She could not bear to waste another minute doing things that did not matter. This was war, she reminded herself again, and she was not about to be left behind scrubbing pots when the next battle was engaged. Next time, one way or another, it would be she who cut down their foes.

  She took one more look about, satisfied for the moment that no one was paying her any attention, and slipped away into the refuge of the trees.

  DUNCAN OF DUNLAIRIG shifted on the cold stone that served as a seat in the makeshift council “chamber,” a circle of downed tree trunks and large stones set up at the far end of the clearing from the cook circle. Though it had only been a little more than a fortnight since Malcolm returned with his kin, it seemed every morn of Duncan’s life had been spent in this circle listening to plans being debated and adjusted that had only been set in place the day before. He had nothing to add to what had already been said. He had no specific role on this council now that Malcolm MacKenzie had been named the chief’s champion, along with being an unprecedented second Protector of the Guardians once he and Jeanette had married. There was nothing special required of Duncan that the Guardians and other council members couldn’t provide now that Nicholas had settled into his role as chief.

  Duncan tried to pay attention, but found it hard to stay focused on the debate as it bounced from person to person around him. Nicholas and Rowan, the chief and a Guardian, seemed always in accord with each other, though Rowan would at times defer to her uncle, Kenneth, the previous chief who now served as an advisor. Jeanette, also a Guardian, and her warrior husband, Malcolm, each held strong opinions about what the clan should do to prepare for the impending English push into Glen Lairig, hers based on the abilities and lore of the Guardians, his on firsthand experience fighting the English in King Robert’s army. Uilliam sat next to Duncan, no doubt feeling every bit as useless as Duncan did now that Uilliam was no longer Kenneth’s champion. He grunted his agreement or dissent periodically, and it was only because Duncan had known the great bear of a man most of Duncan’s five-and-twenty years that he could discern the difference.

  “The warriors are well prepared, would you agree, Duncan?” Malcolm’s question drew Duncan back to the conversation, though he was surprised Malcolm asked for his opinion.

  “Aye.” He sat up a little straighter and tried not to look startled. “The younger lads still need to train daily, but the men are very well prepared. Malcolm’s experience with English hand-to-hand tactics has been very useful. I have learned much from him so far.”

  Uilliam grunted his agreement just as Peigi’s voice rang out from the mouth of the main cave. “Och, that wee devil.” Everyone looked in her direction as she strode as fast as her aged legs would carry her to the council circle. She started talking before she was halfway across the clearing. “She’s gone again, Kenneth! That daughter of yours will not do as she is told, and I am mightily vexed. Something must be done!” she declared as she came to a stop between Rowan and Jeanette, her knobby finger wagging in the air at Kenneth across the circle.

  Rowan and Jeanette shared the same scowl, but it was Jeanette who said, “She promised me she would not slip away again. I vow, if she were a wean I would beat her.”

  “Or we could just truss her up and tie her to a tree,” Rowan said.

  “I’ll not see her tied up”—Kenneth actually glared at Rowan—“but I agree something must be done.”

  “Aye,” Uilliam said. “None of the lads I’ve set to watching her can find her once she gets into the forest. ’Tis Duncan’s fault for teaching her how to track when they were weans.”

  Duncan started to defend himself when Peigi started to laugh, or maybe cackle was a better term for the sound that wheezed out of the old woman.

  “He did, did he not?” Her head was bobbing up and down hard, and a disturbing glint was in her eyes. She turned to Nicholas, who sat on the other side of Rowan. “It seems Duncan has little to do here at this time.” To hear his own thoughts from her mouth made him wince. “Why not set him to minding Scotia, at least until she can be trusted to keep her word?”

  “Do you think that will really happen?” Rowan asked Peigi.

  “Aye, my lassie, I do, but it will take some time . . . and the right kind of patience, which it seems is in short supply from all of us of late. But Duncan has always had more patience with her antics than the rest of us, even if he scowls over them.”

  Duncan realized he was scowling now. ’Twas bad enough that he had no particular role in the clan, but ’twas wor
se that Peigi wished to set him to minding Scotia, as if she were a bairn in need of a nursemaid.

  Duncan watched as Nicholas polled everyone but him with only a look. Each one nodded.

  “Very well. Duncan, I know it seems I ask you to take up a menial task, but we cannot allow her to get away with this sort of behavior any longer. Already she has caused one death by slipping away. The lads have been instructed to follow her but to keep a good distance so they would not fall into the same fate as Myles, but she clearly uses that distance to her advantage to evade them. We cannot risk that she is putting the clan in danger”—Rowan started to interrupt him, but he took her hand in his and rested them on her thigh. “I ken she does not mean to put us in danger, but she has, and she may do so again if we are not careful with her.”

  Rowan sighed but did not argue.

  “As you wish,” Duncan said, rising from his stone seat, the old adage be careful what you wish for whispering through his head. He’d wanted to be useful, to have a role in the clan’s preparations, and now he did. Scotia’s mood would not be improved when she discovered he was her new shadow.

  LORD SHERWOOD, COMMANDER in King Edward of England’s army, dragged himself up the ladder as waves crashed on the deck above then sluiced down over him and into the bowels of the pitching ship. It took all the fortitude he could call upon not to humiliate himself by vomiting as he struggled to pull himself onto the deck of the storm-battered vessel. It was one thing for the men he commanded to spend their days and nights retching into a bucket in the fetid cargo area below, but it would not do for the son of the Earl of Walesby and the leader of this expedition to show such weakness. He grabbed for a rope and braced himself as another of the unending waves broke over the side and tried to wash him out to sea.

  “Release that line afore I slice yer hand from yer arm!”

  Sherwood glared through the dim light and frigid rain that sliced at him like tiny, icy knives. A sailor with the squinty eyes of a rat was making his way toward him.