“We got the coin,” grumbled one man in response.
“But not the horses, ye fool! Now they can ride for their friends and come back for us. And ye,” Morrigan turned on the spindly-legged lad who had dropped the leads of the warhorse she had coveted. “Ye ought to be more afeared o’ me than any bastard on a horse.” Morrigan strode toward the boy with the intent of teaching a lesson that would be long remembered, but her brother caught her arm.
“Let him be, he’s only a lad.”
“I was younger than that when I joined this game,” Morrigan shot back.
“Aye,” Archie leaned to whisper in her ear. “But we all canna be heartless bitches like ye.” With teasing eyes he straightened and said in a louder voice. “Besides we have a guest.”
Standing in the middle of the muddy road was the colorfully dressed man with a lyre slung on his back. Damn hunters had left him with a bunch of thieves. Morrigan cursed them once again along with their offspring and their poor mothers for general completeness. She was nothing if not thorough.
Despite being surrounded by thieves, the man appeared surprisingly calm, though perhaps after their pathetic display of incompetence he rightly felt he had nothing to fear.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” the stranger said with a seductive French accent and an equally appealing smile. “I am Jacques, poor traveling minstrel, at your service.” He gave a polished bow that put Archie’s attempts at gallantry to shame. Morrigan caught her brother’s eye to make sure he knew she had noted it.
“And what brings ye to be traveling with such cowardly companions that they would leave ye at the first sight of trouble?” Morrigan asked.
“The hunters I met on the road, and they invited me that I may walk behind them to their hunting lodge.” Jacques gave an impish grin. “I can only assume my services are no longer required.”
“Ah, then they are doubly fools, for a minstrel is a rare prize indeed,” said Archie.
“You mean for me to be ransomed?”
“Nay, nay, ye are our guest. We are but humble thieves, but we shall take ye to…” Archie swallowed what he was going to say and coughed. “We shall take ye to the doorstep o’ the great Laird McNab. We dare no’ cross the border o’ his domain for he has no tolerance for our kind, but I am assured he will welcome ye. And he can pay for yer services,” said Archie McNab jingling his ill-gotten gains.
“Archie,” hissed Morrigan drawing him aside. “What are ye doing? We canna bring him back to our Hall.”
“Nay, we will drop him close and let him walk the rest,” whispered Archie in response. “Then we will ride ahead and wait for his arrival. We are still masked, so he canna identify us as McNabs.”
“But he has certainly heard us, Brother. Do ye no’ ken he will recognize our voices?”
“Nay, nay, ye worrit yerself. Think, Morrigan. When was the last time we had a minstrel?” Archie’s eyes gleamed above his mask.
Morrigan shook her head. It had been a long, long time. And for good reason. What minstrel in his right mind would travel into the Highlands to sing for the poorest clan west of Edinburgh? It was a tempting opportunity, and Morrigan knew all too well the devious gleam in Archie’s eyes. They would soon be hosting the clan’s first minstrel in twenty years.
Archie gave some quick commands. The men, quick to see a potential reward, eagerly complied, gathering the weapons, money, and the dead boar. The minstrel appeared to be a pleasant sort of man, making no complaints and readily agreeing to the plan of taking him near the “great Laird McNab.” Morrigan wondered at the shocking hubris that would lead to that bold lie. Her brother always dreamed big, and generally settled for much less.
Morrigan jumped up on her own mount. They needed to make haste before their hunting friends returned in greater numbers looking for the return of their property and a hanging for their supper amusement. Perhaps the hunters would have the minstrel play a lively tune while Morrigan and her fellow thieves danced at the end of a rope. Aye, it was most assuredly time to leave.
“Here, my friend,” said Archie leading the minstrel toward Morrigan. “Allow us to give ye a ride.”
“Nay,” said Morrigan, easily seeing Archie’s intent. “Let him ride wi’ someone else.”
“But ye are the lightest among us.”
“Nay, Toby over there is hardly seven stone.”
Archie walked quickly toward her and hissed, “Toby is a young fool. Ye take the minstrel and dinna let him get away.” Archie turned back to the minstrel saying, “So pleased ye could join us.”
The minstrel smiled at Morrigan. “I am causing you inconvenience? I must apologize.” His voice was smooth as velvet with his polished French accent. His eyes were a shocking bright blue in contrast to his black hair, and even Morrigan had to admit he was nice to look upon.
“No inconvenience, I assure ye,” Morrigan found herself saying. Maybe inviting a minstrel back with them was not such a bad idea.
She reached out her hand to help him onto the horse and he took it, swinging himself up easily with very little assistance. He positioned himself behind her, the thighs of his long legs touching hers. Suddenly Morrigan felt quite hot in her hauberk and she took a deep breath. Damn, but he smelled nice too.
Morrigan revised her opinion of the minstrel. He was trouble. Like most of Archie’s plans, this was no doubt doomed to go horribly wrong.
Acknowledgments
My dream of seeing my books published would not be possible without the encouragement, motivation, and support I have received from my local RWA chapter, the Greater Seattle Romance Writers of America. You folks are simply the best! I especially wish to thank the incomparable Cherry Adair and her “Write the Damn Book Challenge,” and Gerri Russell for her encouragement and insight. Many thanks to my “beta” readers, Laurie Maus and Skye Sellars, who kindly read my first drafts. Thanks to my editor, Deb Werksman, who has taught me much, and to my agent, Barbara Poelle, who always has my back. And thanks to my parents for simply being Mom and Dad. I never realized how hard you worked until I had kids of my own—being a parent is one tough job. Thank you!
About the Author
Amanda Forester holds a PhD in psychology and worked for many years in academia before discovering that writing historical romance novels was way more fun. She lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and two energetic children. The Highlander’s Heart is the second novel in her Highlander series. The first, The Highlander’s Sword, was published March of 2010, and the third in the series, True Highland Spirit will be released spring of 2012. You can visit her at www.amandaforester.com.
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