How a Scot Surrenders to a Lady

by Julie Johnstone

  How a Scot Surrenders to a Lady

  Highlander Vows: Entangled Hearts, Book Five

  by

  Julie Johnstone

  How a Scot Surrenders to a Lady

  Copyright © 2017 by Julie Johnstone

  Kindle Edition

  Cover Design by The Midnight Muse

  Editing by Double Vision Editorial and Victory Editing

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

  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.

  License Notes

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  Charming Scots are the most dangerous rogues of them all! You can get Christmas in the Scot’s Arms for free by visiting www.juliejohnstoneauthor.com and clicking the free download graphic. Happy reading!

  Dedication

  For all the readers who have written to me to tell me how much they love my Highlander Vows: Entangled Hearts series. Your letters mean the world to me!

  Author’s Note

  Dear Readers,

  I have taken great pains to make sure the words I used in writing this story were as historically accurate as possible. However, given that I am writing to a modern audience, there are some instances when I chose to use a word that was not in existence in the fourteenth century, as they simply did not have a word at that time to correctly convey the meaning of the sentence.

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  All the best,

  Julie

  Table of Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT PAGE

  DEDICATION

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  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

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Prologue

  1352

  Isle of Skye, Scotland

  Cameron MacLeod paused at the top of the seagate stairs to strip off his clothing, leaving on only his braies, which were hanging low on his hips.

  “What are ye doing?” his older brother Graham demanded from behind him, his voice rising sharply above the music of the pipers from the shore below.

  Cameron ignored Graham for a moment. His brothers were always questioning him—what he did, why he did it, why he didn’t do something, what was he thinking when he’d done a particular something. It made him so angry!

  An all-too-familiar tic began in Cameron’s jaw. He clenched his teeth as he stared down at the torches that littered the shore. They flickered bright orange in the slowly descending night sky. Thoughts of the past stirred on the salty breeze that blew off the loch, cooling his sweat-slicked skin after hours of target practice. His father’s voice, harsh and razor-sharp, hummed in his mind, making the twitch grow worse: Ye’ll nae ever be the warrior that yer brothers are.

  “Brother,” Graham growled. “Did ye hear me?”

  Cameron nodded absently. How was it that his father’s critical voice could still be so loud from the grave?

  Attempting to shake the memories, he looked out at the thick throng of revelers who’d traveled from near and far to join in the MacLeod clan’s annual St. John’s Eve celebration. His father had died right before the same celebration two years prior. The recollections were always strong this night. Father was gone, yet Cameron still expected to see him, eyes narrowed and mouth twisted with disappointment.

  He’s nae here, Cameron reminded himself. And ye are worthy.

  Below, on the shore that surrounded one side of his and his brothers’ home, Dunvegan Castle, rings of fire blazed in perfect lines, as if an army of flame advanced from the loch to attack. It was a sight to behold and conjured memories that his older brothers Iain, Lachlan, and even Graham had told Cameron about going into battle. His brothers had risked their lives to protect others, but he had not. He’d asked—repeatedly—when scrimmages had arisen, but Iain, as the eldest brother and the MacLeod laird, had denied him each time, insisting fifteen summers was too young to fight.

  But Iain had lied. Cameron knew this to be true because his brother had been in battle by fifteen summers himself. Their father had often bragged that one as young as Iain had been a fiercer warrior than men who were much older than he was. Iain simply didn’t think Cameron ready. That desperate feeling to prove himself—and prove everyone else wrong—flushed him like a fever.

  “Are ye dallying here in hopes of missing the dagger-throwing competition?” Graham asked, his goading tone snapping Cameron to attention. He opened his mouth to answer, but Graham spoke again. “Do ye fear ye will nae win? I staked my horse, who ye ken I love more than ye, against Archibald MacLean’s boastful claim that he would beat ye so soundly ye’d be ashamed to hold yer head up.”

  Cameron smiled grimly. Archibald MacLean, cousin to Alex MacLean—the laird of the MacLean clan and friend to all the MacLeod brothers—thought too much of his own skills. “Dunnae fret, Brother,” Cameron said. “I’ll send Archibald home without yer destrier and with a much-needed reminder that I’m the best dagger thrower in Scotland.”

  Graham whistled. “’Tis quite an assertion.”

  Cameron shrugged. “’Tis a fact. Iain and Lachlan are the best at hand-to-hand combat,” he started, “ye are the greatest hunter, and I’ve the most skill with forging weapons, throwing daggers, and charming the lasses.”

  Graham smacked Cameron in the head with a grunt. “If ye spent less time wooing the lasses, ye’d have more time to focus on becoming a better warrior.”

  Cameron’s skin prickled with irritation, but he shoved the anger away. It did no good. For years, he’d been vexed at his father for making him feel unworthy to be a MacLeod, and it had not changed his father’s opinion. Besides, he was focused—merely on the lasses. He still trained dilig
ently, as he’d done when their father was alive, but now he refused to walk around like a dog begging for recognition.

  “If training to be a warrior was half as enjoyable as charming the lasses, then I’d dedicate myself to the task body and soul,” Cameron replied, falling into the familiar habit of cloaking himself in indifference. Lately, apathy hadn’t been coming easily, though.

  As the words left his mouth, his gaze fastened on Mary, a household servant with a sweet smile and kind disposition, with whom he’d often flirted. She ascended the seagate stairs, and when she saw him, a smile transformed the look of deep focus on her face to one of pleasure. “Talking of lasses…”

  A grunt came from Graham. “Ye’re wasting yer potential by dividing yer attention between training and the lasses.” His rebuking tone, so similar to their father’s, caused Cameron’s jaw to immediately lock, sending a sharp pain shooting along the edge.

  His irritation increased, yet he knew well that showing it was pointless. Instead, he snorted and said, “If ye believe time spent with lasses is a waste, ye have simply nae met the right lass.”

  “Apparently ye have nae, either,” Graham drawled. “Every time I turn around, ye are with a different lass.”

  Cameron winked at his brother, though his tic now beat a rapid tattoo along his jaw. “All the lasses I give my attention to are the right lasses for my purposes.”

  “Ye have a purpose, then, do ye?” Graham asked, arching his eyebrows.

  Cameron flinched. Devil take his brother for getting to him. “Aye. Enjoyment of life. There are four of us. Four MacLeod brothers.” Sometimes they seemed to forget he was one of them, as if he didn’t belong. “I suppose the duty of enjoying life falls to me since the lot of ye will nae give me another.”

  For the love of God, where had that come from?

  Graham’s eyes widened, and pity appeared in his brother’s gaze. “Cameron—”

  “Iain is the oldest, he’s laird, and he’s married,” Cameron rushed out, his throat tightening even as he spoke, as if he were struggling to hold in a truth. “There is nae a chance he can enjoy life, the poor man, what with his duties as laird and husband to Catriona.”

  Graham frowned at him. “Cameron—”

  Cameron cut him off again, that tightening feeling in his throat causing him to swallow hard. “Lachlan is too busy fighting battles or training to fight battles. The pitiable wee devil barely takes time to enjoy the sun on his face, let alone a lass.”

  Deep lines appeared between Graham’s brows. Cameron didn’t know whether it was because he still hadn’t let Graham speak or because of Graham and Lachlan’s contentious relationship. To say the two brothers were not close was not strong enough. Cameron may only have been fifteen summers, but he saw the things his brothers tried to hide. He suspected much of the problem between Lachlan and Graham was that Graham was jealous of Lachlan. But it was not Cameron’s problem to sort out.

  “And ye…” He speared Graham with a knowing look. “I ken ye only have eyes for one lass, though ye dunnae ever seem to make any progress with her.” Cameron was boldly alluding to his suspicion that Graham was smitten with Bridgette MacLean, Alex MacLean’s sister.

  Graham’s face turned red, and he opened his mouth—likely to deny it—but Cameron pushed forward again, glad to have the focus off himself. “Dunnae bother crying false. I will nae tell yer secret.” He continued toward the shore but had not gotten more than five steps when he met with Mary, who was slow to climb the stairs with the jugs of ale she was carrying.

  She paused directly in front of him and gave him a saucy look. “If ye win the dagger-throwing contest, I’ll give ye a kiss.”

  Out of habit, Cameron winked at the lass, though he felt no desire to woo anyone at the moment. “Then I must be sure to win,” he replied smoothly, ignoring the derisive noise that came from Graham.

  “Come find me in the kitchens when it’s over, aye?” she asked, stepping around him.

  She had already walked past him when he replied, “Aye, I’ll do that.”

  He continued at a faster pace down the stairs, wanting to reach the shore before Graham might speak of his purpose in life again. Lillianna, a curly-headed brunette one year his senior, came quickly up the stairs toward them.

  The daughter of the stable master paused in the middle of the steps to smile up at him, and he slowed to a stop. “I’ve been looking for ye, Cameron,” Lillianna said.

  “Have ye now, lass?” he teased. Lasses and humor usually helped to keep the empty feeling away. “What is it ye be needing from me?”

  “I’ve collected fern seeds for ye to rub on yer eyelids so ye can see the fairies that come out tonight during the celebration,” she replied with a flirtatious smile.

  He barely repressed the urge to shudder, which would likely offend her. He had as deep a belief in fairies and in seers as any man or woman in his clan, but that did not mean he wanted to see the magical creatures. Before his father had died, he had told Cameron about a time he had sought out Eolande, the seer who lived at the Fairy Pools on Skye and was thought to be of fairy blood. Long ago, Eolande had gifted one of his forefathers with a charmed Fairy Flag to be used to save his clan in a time of dire need, so when the seer had foretold his father’s death, Father had believed her. Not a day had passed that Father hadn’t regretted the burden of the knowledge.

  No thanks. He didn’t want to see fairies, or seers, or the seer-fairy of Skye and learn some dire foretelling of his own life. Still, he’d take the seeds so as not to hurt Lillianna, and he would toss them away. He held out his hand. “That was verra sweet of ye to collect seeds for me, Lillianna.”

  “Close yer eyes,” she commanded, surprising him.

  “What for?” he asked with a frown.

  “So I can rub the fern seeds on yer eyelids, of course,” she answered.

  Behind him, Graham shifted from foot to foot, and Cameron could imagine the restless, irritated expression his brother likely wore. It no doubt resembled the one his father had worn for years whenever he had looked at Cameron.

  His stomach tightened. He was stuck. But he’d not appear fearful now. “Dunnae fash yerself, lass. I’ll do it.”

  Did his voice sound panicky, or was that his imagination? He studied Lillianna’s face for signs that she might have noticed his hesitation.

  She smirked at him. “Dunnae tell me ye’re suddenly afraid to let a woman touch ye?”

  “Aye,” came Graham’s laughter-choked voice. He shoved Cameron in the shoulder. “Are ye scairt to let the lass put the fern seeds on yer eyelids?”

  Cameron’s tic returned with the force of a hit to his jaw. He inhaled sharply, his nostrils flaring. His brother knew good and damned well that he had no interest in seeing any magical creatures. Graham was the one person to whom Cameron had long ago confessed his wariness.

  Lillianna gave him an expectant look, and then her lips parted. “Are ye fearful of the fairies, the seers, or both?” Surprise muffled her tone.

  “Nae either,” he said as decisively as he could manage and promptly closed his eyes. “Just eager to reach the dagger-throwing contest. Be quick about it, aye?”

  “To be certain, I will,” she responded before her cool, smooth fingertips touched his lids and gently rubbed the fern seeds on them. Unease stirred deep within him, but he held himself perfectly still. Suddenly her touch was gone, and he opened his eyes to find her face a hairsbreadth from his. “Do ye ken what I have under my gown tonight, Cameron?”

  He gave her a wolfish smile. He knew well the tradition of wearing nothing under one’s outer clothing on St. John’s Eve. Legend had it that young, unmarried folk would divine lovers for the night, or perchance even find their future spouses. He had no interest in a spouse, but a lass to dally with…? He started to raise his hand to run it down Lillianna’s rosy cheek when his brother clasped his shoulder.

  “Time to go,” Graham barked. Stepping to Cameron’s side without releasing his hold, he propelle
d him down the stairs.

  For the space of a breath, Cameron considered resisting, but he did need to get to the dagger-throwing competition. Still, he glanced over his shoulder and winked at Lillianna. “Wish me luck.”

  Lillianna blew him a kiss. “Come find me in the great hall when ye’re done.”

  He nodded even as Graham snorted loudly beside him. As they continued their descent, Graham spoke. “How do ye plan to meet with two lasses at once?”

  Cameron blinked in confusion until he recalled his promise to Mary. “Simple. I’ll meet Mary first and then Lillianna,” he said with a grin.

  Graham scowled at him. “One day, Brother, ye will meet a lass who will make things confusing.”

  “And I’ll wish her farewell faster than she can take a breath,” Cameron replied, not liking how much his brother’s glare reminded him of their father’s. The past was haunting him tonight, and he felt out of sorts. “I dunnae want one lass,” he continued, but the feeling of being confused—or rather, on the verge of something important—grew. “Especially a confusing one.” His voice had become quieter, and his mind whirred as if a storm had slipped into his head. “I want nothing more than to be a warrior.” The truth came out before he could stop it.

  His brother’s eyes widened a fraction, and he sighed. “I suspected.” Graham clasped him on the shoulder. “Dunnae be yer own worst enemy, then.”

  Cameron frowned. “I’m nae. I train as much as anyone else, but Iain dunnae seem to see, nor care.”

  “Iain sees everything. Dunnae ever forget that. He sees that ye have given up; we all do. Iain is testing ye, waiting to see if ye will rise up and become the man we all ken ye can be. Presently, ye’re failing Iain’s test. Dunnae continue to be a clot-heid. If ye truly wish to be seen as an equal, ye must pursue that desire with utter determination.”

  Their eyes locked, and Cameron realized with a start that what his brother had said made sense. He had given up, had settled on being the reckless brother.