The Reiver

by Glynnis Campbell

  THE REIVER

  Medieval Outlaws, Prequel

  by

  THE REIVER

  Copyright © 2017 by Glynnis Campbell

  Excerpt from DANGER’S KISS

  Copyright © 2017 by Glynnis Campbell

  Glynnis Campbell – Publisher

  P.O. Box 341144

  Arleta, California 91331

  ISBN-13: 978-1-63480-029-7

  Contact: glynnis@glynnis.net

  Cover design by Richard Campbell

  Formatting by Author E.M.S.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This work is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Learn more about Glynnis Campbell and her writing at www.glynnis.net

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication and Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Dear Reader

  More Books by Glynnis Campbell

  About Glynnis Campbell

  Contact Information

  From the Jewels

  Sneak Peek at DANGER’S KISS

  Dedication

  For Barb Batlan-Massabrook

  and Deborah Stewart,

  two of the toughest “Scottish” lasses I know

  Acknowledgments

  My sincerest thanks to

  my sisters in The Summer Star,

  Tanya Anne Crosby and Laurin Wittig,

  for inspiring the legend;

  my niece Rayna Barden

  for sharing her knowledge of livestock;

  my husband Richard Campbell,

  for taking me on the best adventures;

  my amazing Readers Clan,

  for their love and support;

  and Michelle Rodriguez and Chris Pratt

  for their inspiration

  Chapter 1

  SUMMER 1211

  DUMFRIES, SCOTLAND

  Brighde felt the star coming long before anyone spied it in the night sky.

  She could feel it in the way she felt the brush of a spider’s web or the faint caress of a breeze, the distant drone of honeybees or the delicate kiss of morning mist.

  Every seventy-five years it came. Like a spark struck from a smith’s anvil, it streaked across the black night. For several days it hung in the heavens, sweeping close to the earth, lighting up heath and braes.

  Some feared it would drop from the sky and set the world ablaze.

  Brighde knew better. The star’s course never strayed.

  But it did possess a singular magic—the power of transformation. And that power was dangerous, for it could be used for either good or evil.

  Some claimed the star brought bad luck. They blamed it for fire and flood, famine and misfortune.

  But those who believed in the goodness of the star were granted rebirth, renewal, redemption—a chance to begin again.

  Brighde smiled as she tossed her shimmering golden locks over her shoulder and pulled the tap, filling her patron’s wooden flagon with ale.

  Two lost souls whose fates would be changed by the star were about to cross Brighde’s path. She could feel it in her bones. One, the lass, was coming later this eve. The other was already on his way.

  She turned toward the gap-toothed old soldier who’d plunked his coin down for a pint and gave him a brilliant smile.

  “There ye go, lad,” she sang.

  If he gave her a quizzical look for calling a man who appeared to be twice her age “lad,” she didn’t pay much heed. Her attention was centered, not on the soldier, but on the door. In another moment, he would arrive.

  Brochan Macintosh didn’t really know why he was stopping at the inn. After all, he needed to get home to his young sons. He’d been gone for hours. And he hated to leave Colin and Cambel in the hands of his already overworked housekeeper.

  For the last several weeks, he’d inhabited the tower house on the holding he’d inherited from his uncle, the former Laird of Macintosh. But the old laird must have grown daft or penniless over the last few years, for when Brochan arrived, the keep was deserted and half in ruins.

  Brochan was doing most of the repairs himself—fixing leaks in the roof, replacing cracked timbers, rebuilding rotted stairs—while his two faithful servants swept out the moldy rushes, chased mice from the buttery, kept the household fed, and watched over his sons.

  To have five of his cattle go missing in the last week only added to Brochan’s long list of problems to solve. He’d searched for hours today for the lost cows, scouring acres of the thick woods that made up the border of his property, to no avail.

  Perhaps that was why he felt he deserved to stop for an ale at the roadside inn before he trudged home.

  Throwing back the hood of his gray tartan brat, he ducked under the thatched roof and pushed open the heavy door. The inn was cheery inside, lit by tallow candles and a lively peat fire. He nodded a greeting to the old man seated by the hearth, the only patron in the inn at this hour. Then he untied the wooden cup from his belt and approached the bar.

  When he set down his cup, he almost knocked it over, so rattled was he by the tavern wench beaming at him from the other side. She was as bright as an angel and as beautiful as a goddess. Her golden tresses spilled over her perfect bosom like honey. Her skin glowed as if lit from within. Her smile was as open, pure, and enchanting as a child’s.

  But that wasn’t what made his cup stutter on the bar. Her eyes, like rare crystal, caught the light and reflected it back in mutable shades of green and blue.

  “Good day,” she said. “I’m Brighde, at your service. What will ye have?”

  Her voice was as lovely as her appearance. And yet he couldn’t help but compare her to that other beauty, the one who’d been taken away from him. No woman would ever measure up to his lovely wife, the mother of his sons. She’d been dead for five years. But his heart still ached when he thought about her sweet freckled face and her sky-blue eyes.

  “Ale, please,” he said quietly.

  Brighde took his cup and started filling it from the tap. “What are ye up to this fine summer’s day?”

  “Not much,” he said.

  “Indeed?” Her expression was amused, skeptical.

  He reconsidered. Maybe the tavern wench had information about his lost cows. “Actually, I’m searchin’ for my cattle. Some o’ them have gone missin’. Ye haven’t heard anythin’ about any coos runnin’ loose, have ye?”

  Brighde handed him his full cup. “Coos,” she mused.

  He pulled a coin from his pouch for the ale and set it on the bar, then tossed back a healthy swig.

  When Brighde picked up the coin, her eyes were twinkling. “’Tis a band o’ reivers after your coos,” she told him.

  “What?”

  “Reivers have stolen your cattle.”

  He frowned. “Reivers? What reivers?”

  “Och, that I can’t tell ye.”

  “Then how do ye know ’tis reivers and not—”

  “They’re comin’ again tonight.”

  “What?”

  “The reivers. They’re comin’ again. Tonight.”

  Brochan
lowered his brows. The lass seemed very sure of that. What wasn’t she telling him? “Look, lass, if ye know somethin’…”

  “Aye. I know somethin’.” Her eyes had taken on an unsettling silvery shade now, as if she were gazing into another world. “Watch for the reivers to return tonight. Ye’ll get your coos back…and more.”

  More? What the devil did that mean?

  Before he could ask her, she captured his eyes with her own, burning into them with blue-green fire, and the words suddenly fled from his mind. She murmured tenderly, “And ye’ll no longer be lonely.”

  He gulped. Lonely? What made her think he was lonely? Brochan wasn’t lonely. He was rarely ever alone. He had his two sons. His two servants. And, until recently, a whole herd of cows. The woman must be mistaken.

  Tearing his gaze away, he scoffed, “Lonely? I’m not lonely.”

  Yet something about the way she’d spoken snagged at his heart. Something about his reply was empty and false. And something about the way she was gazing at him now—compassion softening her eyes to a gentle gray—made him believe she was peeking between his words of denial, peering at the truth. A truth he refused to admit, even to himself.

  Her eyes lost all their frost then, darkening to a friendly blue, and she smiled. “Ye know, your stars are about to change, lad.”

  He lifted a dubious brow. Had the young miss just called him a lad? “My stars.”

  “Aye. But ’tis up to ye whether ye lay claim to that fate,” she intoned, “or let it pass ye by.”

  He took another cautious sip at his ale. “I see.” He didn’t see, not at all. Indeed, he was beginning to wonder if Brighde’s great beauty was compensation for a lack of wits.

  “The star has chosen ye,” she said.

  “The star,” he repeated.

  The poor lass was mad. All stars did was light up the night sky.

  He sighed. He knew he shouldn’t have wandered into the inn.

  He finished his ale in a gulp and tied the empty cup back onto his belt. But before he could turn away, Brighde seized his hands in hers.

  It startled him, especially when a warm vibration began to flow up his arms. Yet, even more startling, he felt no panic, no desire to pull away.

  “Remember,” she whispered, gazing into his eyes with blue-green intensity. “Your destiny is in your hands.”

  When she released him, he felt shaken to his core. But he wasn’t about to let her know it. Instead, he thanked her for the ale and turned to go. Faith, he had to get back home, back to people who believed destiny was determined, not by stars, but by hard work.

  Still, as he plodded down the road toward the tower house, he wondered if Brighde’s comment about reivers had merit. It hadn’t occurred to him that his cows might have been intentionally stolen. But considering the chilly welcome Brochan had received from the local folk on moving into the tower, it was entirely possible that a couple of the hostile neighbor lads had thieved his cattle.

  He decided there was naught to be lost by keeping a watchful eye on his herd tonight.

  Cristy Moffat picked up her inconvenient skirts, cursing her throbbing ankle and struggling to keep up with her cousins. Her lungs were burning. But she didn’t want to get left behind.

  The lads were always leaving her behind. It was bad enough that, even at eighteen, she was a wee lass and couldn’t match their long stride. But ever since she’d twisted her ankle at supper, every step sent a twinge up her leg.

  It had been a stupid accident, entirely her fault. Serving her uncle pottage, she’d tripped over her cousin’s stray foot and slopped the soup into her uncle’s lap.

  She supposed she deserved the clout he’d given her for her clumsiness. And it wasn’t the first time he’d called her a worthless lass. At least the black eye and the insult didn’t hurt like her ankle did.

  Of course, she wasn’t about to let her cousins know she was in pain. If she did, they’d tell her she had to stay home. And more than anything, she wanted to come along.

  Each of the five lads had taken a turn, creeping out at night to reive a cow from their new neighbor, Macintosh. Tonight was her turn. And she didn’t intend to miss her chance.

  Her uncle didn’t much care for Macintosh, the new owner of the tower house and land adjoining his. Her uncle didn’t like strangers, especially those with more cattle than he had. So he’d crowed with glee over his sons’ stealth and trickery, happy to add another cow to his own herd at Macintosh’s expense.

  Cristy was determined to show her cousins that she could reive cattle as well as any lad. And she meant to prove to her uncle that he was wrong, that she wasn’t entirely worthless.

  “Come on, runt!” Fergus yelled back at her as they headed toward the starlit inn. “We haven’t got all night.”

  She heard Doug mutter, “I told ye this was a mistake.”

  “Shite, Cristy!” Morris jeered. “Ye won’t even catch a calf at that speed.”

  Hamish grumbled, “She’ll probably go for the bull and break her neck.”

  “I’m comin’,” she insisted, hobbling forward. “I’m just…I’m savin’ it for tonight.”

  Archibald, the oldest, shook his head. “We shouldn’t have brought her. I’ve got a bad feelin’ about this.”

  Cristy raised a determined chin as they gathered outside the inn. “I can do it. I’ll show ye.”

  “Sure ye will,” Morris sneered.

  “I will,” Cristy insisted.

  “If ye don’t get a coo,” Hamish threatened, “that’s it. No more taggin’ along like ye’re one of us.”

  His words crushed her. But she’d learned to hide that kind of pain long ago. The pain of not belonging.

  He was right. She wasn’t one of them. But after the death of her parents seven years ago, her uncle and her cousins were all she had. If she lost them…

  She gulped back her fear.

  She couldn’t afford to fail. So she forced a cocky smile to her lips. With a confidence she didn’t feel, she said, “I’ll do it. Ye just watch me.”

  Rolling his eyes, Fergus pushed open the door of the inn, and they all crowded inside.

  Last to enter, Cristy closed the door behind her and tossed back the hood of her brown arisaid, dragging out her long black braid. A merry fire crackled on the hearth. A handful of patrons sat at tables, laughing and drinking foamy cups of ale. Her cousins were quick to claim the largest table against the wall.

  Before she could slide onto the bench beside Archibald, Hamish flipped a silver coin onto the table in front of her. “Be a good lass, and fetch us all ales.”

  They unbuckled the wooden cups from their belts and set them on the table in front of her.

  Cristy snapped up the coin, took the five cups by their handles, and headed across the room to the bar, where the tavern wench was pulling ale.

  She set the coin and the cups on the bar, adding her own.

  When the woman turned toward her, Cristy gave a little gasp. She was the most beautiful lady Cristy had ever seen. Her skin glowed like a candle, and the tresses framing her face shone like spun gold. Her lips curved up as if she kept some delicious secret, and her eyes sparkled like the surface of a stream, in varying shades of blue, green, and silver. It was hard to say how old she was. She looked both as fresh as a newborn babe and as worldly as an ancient sage.

  Obviously, Cristy’s cousins hadn’t seen the breathtaking wench. If they had, they’d have fallen all over themselves for the privilege of speaking to her.

  “Good even,” the woman said. Even her voice was beautiful, like the soft, melodic tones of a harp. “I’m Brighde, at your service. What will ye—” She broke off abruptly. Black lightning flashed in her gaze, then vanished as quickly as it had struck. She was staring at Cristy’s bruise. “Where did ye get that?”

  Cristy raised her fingers to her cheek. She’d all but forgotten about her injury. She supposed she should have kept her face hidden so as not to trouble anyone.

  “’Tis nau
ght,” she said with a shrug. “Just an acci—”

  But Brighde suddenly seized her wrist and pulled her forward. “Let me see.”

  Cristy scowled. How dare the woman grab her? And why was she making such a great fuss? It was only a black eye, after all.

  She tried to pull away, but Brighde was having none of it. The woman lifted Cristy’s chin to take a closer look. Then her eyes softened to the color of fog.

  Cristy wished she wouldn’t look at her like that, with kindness and pity. It made her uncomfortable. She squirmed out of Brighde’s grasp, avoiding the woman’s eyes. “Six ales, please.”

  With a nod, Brighde set out a tray and began to fill the cups from the tap. As she did, she dispensed an unwelcome bit of advice along with the ale. “Ye shouldn’t let them treat ye like that, orderin’ ye about like a servant.”

  Cristy blinked. What concern was it of a tavern wench’s how her cousins treated her? Unsure what to say, she smirked and shrugged. “They’re kin.”

  “Did one o’ them give ye that mark?” she asked, nodding at Cristy’s eye.

  “Nay,” Cristy said defensively.

  Brighde began filling the second cup. “But ’twas a man. A man with a hot temper, aye?”

  Cristy frowned. She owed the woman no explanation. But somehow the words came tumbling out before she could stop them. “’Twas only my uncle. I tripped and spilled pottage on him.”

  Brighde placed the full cup on the tray, arching her perfect brows. “He clouted you—for an accident?”

  “I suppose so.” It did sound wrong when she said it like that. But Brighde didn’t know the situation. And Cristy didn’t feel like explaining that she’d always been a clumsy fool.