Highland Archer

by Hildie McQueen

  Highland Archer

  Highlander Series

  Bestselling Author

  Hildie McQueen

  Pink Door Publishing, Augusta, Georgia 2016

  Highland Archer

  Copyright © 2016 Hildie McQueen

  Cover Artist: Dar Albert

  Editor: Scott Moreland

  ISBN: 978-1-939356-49-9

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

  This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader.

  If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it to your retailer and purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Other Works by Hildie McQueen

  (In reading order)

  Moriag Series

  Beauty and the Highlander

  The Lass and the Laird

  Lady and the Scot

  The Laird’s Daughter

  The McDougalls

  Highlander’s Captive

  Highlander’s Conquest

  Highlander’s Claim

  Standalone

  Highland Archer

  The Wolf of Skye

  Highland Laird *

  * Not yet published

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Other Works by Hildie McQueen

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Excerpt from THE WOLF OF SKYE

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  The Archer

  Air rasped in and out of Valent’s lungs as he raced through the thick forest near his humble home. Low branches slashed his arms and face, yet, undeterred by the pain, on he sprinted. Fear coursed through him while tears streaked down his cheeks as he jumped over a fallen tree and cut to the right upon spotting the road back to the cottage where he lived.

  Footfalls nearing from behind forced Valent to run faster.

  A hard hit to the center of his back sent him stumbling forward. He let out a scream when a second hit landed on the back of his head and he slammed to the ground tossing his bow and quiver to the side.

  It was impossible to count the blows that followed. Kicks and punches continued until he faded in and out of consciousness. Finally, his attackers ran off and he curled into a ball, willing the pain to go away. If he didn’t get up and make it home to get his wounds tended to, he’d not make it to the archery competition the following day and surely lose his spot as apprentice archer.

  Valent dragged himself to sit and winced while trying hard to keep from sobbing. His sides ached when he breathed. Blood from his nose dripped down the front of his tunic.

  “Valent!” a deep voice called out. “Get on with it, boy. I’ve yet to see what ye accomplished in the hunt.” Old Tavish came in to view, mouth falling open. “Not again.”

  Tavish hurried to him and bent down peering at Valent’s face. “Who did this?”

  Not that it mattered if he named his assailants. There was nothing to be done about it. “Donall, Ceardac, and Beathan.”

  “Ah,” Tavish said as he wrapped an arm around Valent’s waist with care. “Come on. Get up slowly boy. Let’s get ye home… I will send for Meagan to come see about ye.”

  “No.” Everything ached, from his face to his calves. Valent shook with pain at standing. “Not Meagan.”

  It took longer than it should’ve to get to their cottage. Tavish couldn’t help him much. The man was riddled with discomfort every day from old battle injuries and walked with a pronounced limp.

  Once inside, swaying side to side, Valent dragged his right leg across the dirt floor of his home to his cot. Each movement brought a groan as Tavish helped him lower to the bedding.

  “I have decided to speak to the laird in the morning,” Tavish announced with a huff. “’Tis time he does something about his sons. Could ’ave killed ye, lad.”

  At six and ten years of age, Valent knew he was much too old to have an old man speak for him. “I will do it. Do not be speaking for me, Tavish. If the laird gets angry, let it be with me.”

  “Drink this,” Tavish forced a cup of vile smelling liquid to his lips. “All of it.”

  Within moments of drinking the tonic, Valent could barely keep his eyes open.

  “Do not send for Meagan, please…” his word were slurred and he fought not to sleep. “I beg ye, Tavish.” He hated it when a tear slid down his face. “I must compete tomorrow or any chance for me as an archer is gone.”

  There was doubt in Tavish’s gaze. “Ye will be fine, lad.”

  * * *

  “My God, Valent, what happened to you?” Meagan’s worried eyes took in his bruised face. A sad sight he must be. Valent groaned, squeezed his eyes shut and prayed she did not bring her daughter. The fair Lora would never look upon him with admiration, not after seeing him like this.

  Meagan placed a wet cloth on his brow. “One day you will grow to be broader and bigger than whoever did this and you will take your revenge. Poor thing, look at you.”

  “You won’t be able to compete for the archer guard now.” Lora’s familiar singsong voice made Valent cringe.

  Tavish coughed and cleared his throat. “Of course, he will. And teach the lot of them how much better he is.”

  Even though there was pride in Tavish’s words, they angered Valent. It was doubtful he’d be considered. Especially since losing his prized kill when running from Donall and his brothers.

  The next day, each step brought a streak of pain up Valent’s right leg, but he refused to use a walking stick for support when going to the main keep. He entered the dark interior ensuring to take measured steps.

  Just inside a small antechamber, a high-pitched voice called out.

  “Who assaulted you?” Ariana, the laird’s daughter’s rounded eyes met his before taking in the rest of his face. The girl didn’t move from the chair where she lounged while continuing to study him.

  The color of autumn leaves, he’d never seen eyes like hers. The first time he’d seen her up close, he was seven years old and she a child of about four. He’d never forgotten when she came to him and took his hand, attempting to get him to play with her.

  “Your brothers,” he replied to the young girl who gasped, her mouth forming an “O”.

  “They are no better than the beasties they hunt,” she told him. The laird’s daughter stood and neared to inspect his injuries. “Da won’t do anything to them. Ye may as well just go back home.” She shrugged as if no longer interested and returned to her sea
t.

  Footsteps sounded and he whirled to find the laird standing in the doorway. “What are ye doing in here?”

  “I called him in,” Ariana piped up behind him. “He was limping and I wanted to know what happened.”

  The laird’s gaze was cold and distant when meeting Valent’s. “You’re the boy Tavish took in are you not?”

  Valent bowed his head. “Aye, my laird.”

  “I hear good things about your archery skills.” The laird’s comment surprised him. Once again, the shrewd gaze went from his face to where he held his arm protectively around his waist. “I suppose your injuries will stop you from competing tomorrow.”

  “Nay. I will compete still.” Valent’s eyes rounded at realizing the lack of proper address. “I beg forgiveness, my laird, you did not ask the question of me.”

  “’Tis fine.” The man waved his apology away. “How did you become injured?”

  Realization dawned. It was best not to confess the truth of his injuries. If the laird became angry with him, it would be impossible to win a place with the archer guards. He’d remain a stable boy with no aspiration to ever defend his people, his laird.

  The laird lifted a brow in question. “Well?”

  Ariana got to her feet and stood beside her father. “Donall, Ceardac, and Beathan beat him.”

  Of course, the girl would enjoy seeing her brothers punished. The fact the boys would then take it out on him was not something she’d ever consider.

  “Go to your chamber, Ariana.” The laird let out a weary breath before addressing him.

  “So the hunting prize, the doe, presented yesterday was not Donall’s kill?” The laird waited on his reply, his gaze without warmth.

  Valent knew his best chance at the laird allowing him to compete without a kill would be based on how he answered. “I was not at the presentation of the kills, as Tavish was tending to my wounds. Therefore, I canna say, my laird.”

  The McLeod nodded and looked away. “I see.”

  He hoped the laird would allow him to compete, but when permission was not forthcoming, he waited to be dismissed. Instead, the laird turned away from him. “I’ve always wondered.” The laird paced with his hands grasped behind his back. “Who took you from your home to deposit you at my doorstep and why? You were but three or four at the most. When the housekeeper found you, it was as if you’d just been promptly deposited. Not overly malnourished, nor mistreated, barely able to speak as you were too young. And you don’t remember anything?”

  Although he wanted to leave and immediately see how well he could work with his bow, curiosity kept him planted.

  Tavish discovered him when he’d been fighting for food scraps in the courtyard. The old man had taken pity on him and brought the wee lad to live with him. Valent had already been at the keep for a few weeks by then.

  “Nay, my laird. I would one day like to know where I came from. Why I was abandoned. I only vaguely remember a brother, a boy.”

  “You may compete tomorrow. Without a kill to your name, it will take great skill to beat out the others.” The laird eyed his bruised face and bandaged left wrist. “With your injuries I doubt ye will overcome.”

  “Thank you, my laird.” Valent bowed his head. “By the end of the day, I hope to pledge my bow and myself to ye.”

  The laird’s slight nod was enough lift his spirits.

  Chapter Two

  Fourteen years later

  Valent wrapped his hands around the woman’s waist as she straddled him. Lisbeth lifted and lowered her hips, breathing harsh, breasts bouncing from the exertion. He closed his eyes and allowed the sensations to take control.

  To ensure she climaxed, he reached between her legs and caressed her until she cried out and trembled, her sex constricting around his hardness.

  When his release neared, once again he took her by the waist. “Get off me.” He easily lifted her and rolled to his side to spend his seed onto the dirty blanket.

  “Stay with me, Valent,” the woman begged as she ran her hands down his chest. “I want your strong arms around me all night.”

  Every time he came to her, the same invitation, and Valent always replied that he could not. It was best he stopped visiting her, as she cared more for him than he ever would for her.

  The woman was older than him by ten years, a kind person whom he brought small animals for her supper, provided wood in winter and completed repairs to her cottage.

  Although he never asked, it was apparent Lisbeth had other lovers. Not that he blamed her. It was the only way for her to survive the harsh life of a widow.

  “I cannot. Tavish is not well and I do not like to leave him alone for long.”

  She sat up on the bed and smiled in understanding. “You are a good son to him.”

  Valent didn’t bother to correct her. Tavish was, indeed, the closest thing to a father. The man could barely move about now, his legs so crippled, many times Valent had to carry the old man outside the cottage for fresh air.

  The old man spoke more and more of dying, preparing himself and Valent for what seemed to come soon. “I am at the end of my days here,” he often said. “Too tired to tarry about much longer.”

  The sun was setting as Valent walked to his cottage; he looked toward the tall walls of the McLeod keep. He’d fought with the head guard many times over his decision not to live in the guards’ cramped quarters. Even now that he was head archer, they had insisted he move to live within the walls.

  Yet he refused to leave Tavish on his own. He vowed to care for the man whom he owed life to until the very end. If not for Tavish, surely Valent would have died while young.

  His mind went to the laird who’d not made an appearance in the last few weeks. It was rumored he was very ill and would not make it through the next winter. The clan would see a new leader soon.

  With quick tempers and reckless attitudes, any of the laird’s sons could very well be the downfall of the clan.

  Of the laird’s three sons, the eldest Donall, was the most like his father. No friend to Valent or anyone of lower ranking, the soon to be laird rarely deemed it necessary to speak to the guard. Interesting, since they were sworn to defend his life, one would think the man would find a way to endear himself to them. At least the elder McLeod was smart enough to invite the guardsmen to dine with him and often attended their competitions.

  It was not an easy time in the northeastern Highlands. Too many clan clashes. Even within the larger clans, family struggles had caused rifts that divided them.

  Although the McLeods were rarely challenged and remained strong, there were rumors of an imminent attack by rival Clan McKenzie.

  The ongoing clashes between the two clans had ceased years earlier and Valent hoped that the passing of the current McLeod laird did not lead the new McKenzie laird to think the McLeods weak and attempt a takeover.

  That night, he settled onto his cot and the sounds of the wind outside lulled him to a deep sleep.

  The mist of the mountains swirled thick in the air. The fog made it hard to see more than a few yards. Valent narrowed his gaze and strained towards the trees. It was out there, looking at him. Red eyes in the distance took in his every move. Fear sent an icy trickle down his spine. It was escape or die. Although he understood he could never outrun it unless he hurried, his legs refused to budge.

  “Find it. Kill it,” a raspy voice demanded.

  His mind screamed that he run when the huge claws appeared out of the darkness. Large enough to cut him in half, the huge hand paused in midair. “You or him?”

  The voice, while familiar, struck as much terror as the thought of death. All he could do was tremble. His right hand was squeezed. Someone held it tightly, refusing to let go. In desperation he reached toward whoever stood next to him with his free hand.

  The hand slid out of his grasp and Valent fought with all his might, flaying his arms in an attempt to find the person, but instead of flesh and bone, there was only air.

  He
began to cry and then scream in frustration. They did not understand him. He could not speak. Could not communicate his wish to remain, to not lose whoever held his hand. Then he was lifted into the air. He struggled and cried out, his arms extended over the beast’s shoulder.

  On the floor lay a small boy crying, his mouth wide open. When the child opened his eyes and looked to him, Valent went limp. It was him, a boy child torn from his family.

  But no, it wasn’t. He was being carried off by the beast.

  Gray mist gave way to darkness and terror at what came next and his body shook uncontrollably. The beast threw him down and he scrambled to a tree and huddled under the low branches.

  “Time to pay,” the beast roared.

  Valent jerked awake, his breathing harsh. The same dream that haunted him for years. Each time the same frustration. In the midst of the terror-filled events, there were bits, hints to his past. Who he was and what happened when he’d been torn from his family. If only he could see more, understand more and not be overtaken by fear.

  He raked a shaky hand through his tangled, shoulder-length hair and got up. He checked on Tavish, who slept soundly, and went outside. The brisk air would help clear his mind and slow the beating of his errant heart.