The Highlander's Reluctant Bride
Page 1
Table of Contents
THE HIGHLANDER’S RELUCTANT BRIDE
Acknowledgements
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
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
THE HIGHLANDER’S RELUCTANT BRIDE
CATHY MACRAE
SOUL MATE PUBLISHING
New York
THE HIGHLANDER’S RELUCTANT BRIDE
Copyright©2014
CATHY MACRAE
Cover Design by Rae Monet, Inc.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.
Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Published in the United States of America by
Soul Mate Publishing
P.O. Box 24
Macedon, New York, 14502
ISBN-13: 978-1-61935-406-7
www.SoulMatePublishing.com
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
This book is dedicated
to the readers who asked for Ranald’s story,
and my critique group
who kept him the man he was meant to be.
Acknowledgements
Heartfelt thanks go out once again to my fantastic critique group, Derek Dodson, Dawn Hamilton, Keira Montclair, and Cate Parke, who helped bring this story to life. And to my wonderful editor, Char, whose eagle eye made the story shine.
And to those of you who have supported my dream this past year – I love you.
Chapter 1
1377, Scotland, above the Firth of Clyde
“Fire!”
Riona jolted awake. She blinked, her eyes blearily registering the red glow that pulsed across the stone wall of the laird’s bedroom. The banked hearth did little to dispel the gloom, the embers like so many pinpoints of burnished light. What shone through the window seemed much brighter.
Her head shot up. Colors of ochre and scarlet flickered through the narrow portal. The harsh scent of smoke rose on the air. Riona bolted to her feet, her stool tumbling noisily to the stones.
The door to her father’s room flung open and a man leapt inside. “Lady Caitriona.” His voice ground harsh and overly loud in the sickroom, but Riona did not fuss. A quick glance to her da reassured her he still slept, his breathing barely moving the blanket drawn over his chest.
She turned and stared at the man at the door. “What is happening, Fergus?”
Chorused shouts from the parapet caused her to jerk in response, but she could not pull her gaze from Fergus’s pale face.
“The castle is under attack.”
“Fire!”
Ranald Scott reined his horse to a halt, waving a hand to silence the dogs whining anxiously beside him, their sensitive noses twitching at the acrid stench of smoke filtering through the trees. Along the crest of the cliff, the night glowed red around the base of Scaurness Castle and Ranald could see dark forms scurrying back and forth like misshapen ants in the glare.
He spoke to his captain. “Keep it silent, Finlay. We dinnae want to alert the attackers.”
Finlay nodded to the men riding behind them. “Ride with haste but caution. The rocks are treacherous.”
Ranald unleashed the dogs to save them from the danger of being stomped. They would follow with caution, having been raised in his stables and accustomed to the great beasts the warriors rode. With his soldiers falling into line, he spurred his horse forward, bolting up the mountainside. Hearn’s muscles bunched and surged under Ranald, fighting to keep his footing on the stony slope.
Beside him, Finlay’s horse stumbled to its knees, a well-timed jerk of the reins giving the steed back his balance. Their shod hooves rang on the rocks, but the shouts from the castle had grown louder and hid the sound of their advance.
Ranald stifled a curse as Hearn slid on a loose stone, nearly pitching him to the rocks. Would they reach the castle in time? Unscathed?
The harsh glow of the fire dimmed in the first light of morning. With a roaring battle cry, Ranald released his soldiers across the field. Three score swarmed into the unsuspecting flank of those firing upon the castle. The postern gate hung partly ajar, but the main gate remained unbreached and bowmen on the parapet held the attackers at bay.
Around the base of the walls, lingering Greek fire clung to the charred grass and soil, keeping the enemy away and at the mercy of the clouds of arrows raining down whenever they approached too closely.
At the unexpected cry of challenge from Ranald’s men, the attackers split into two groups, peeling away from their attempt to broaden the opening at the damaged postern gate. Shields raised against the maelstrom of arrows left them no protection from the mounted horsemen sweeping them from behind. Quickly the forces engaged, but surprise was on Ranald’s side. He and his men plunged into the fray, claymores singing in the morning air as mist rose from the water below and wafted across the bloody ground.
“Retreat! Retreat!” The cry went up among the harried attackers, and they drew back into the forest, fading wraith-like into the early morning shadows.
“Hold!”
The Scott soldiers grouped, searching the now-empty field for sight of the enemy. Ranald wiped sweat from his eyes, barely registering the gritty feel of partially dried blood caking one side of his face. At his whistle the hounds, Pol and Senga, bounded to his side.
With a jerk of his head, he turned his men to the gates of Scaurness Castle.
Riona gazed down from the parapet. The men who had routed those attacking the castle now reformed about their leader, bristling with swords and triumphant battle-lust. The field had cleared of the enemy, except for six who lay dead. She peered closely at the still forms. Though impossible to tell from this distance, she hoped the dead did not include the soldiers who had come so unexpectedly to their
aid.
Men shouted in the bailey below and she heard the creak of the heavy portcullis as it lifted. Their unknown supporters approached the castle.
“I will join Manus.” Handing her bow and half-full quiver to a soldier, Riona hurried down the steps to the bailey. She made her way to the gate, finding the captain of the guards deep in conversation with one of his men. Manus ended his conversation as Riona approached.
“My lady.” His words were clipped, the expression on his face just short of hostile. Riona ignored the tone of his voice. He made it clear he did not approve of her assumed leadership of the clan since her father’s illness. Though it rankled, Riona no longer let it bother her. It was not his decision to make.
“Do ye know these men at the gate?” Manus demanded.
“I believe they have been sent from the king.” Her reply did not seem to improve Manus’s attitude. Men from the king sent to rule the Macrory clan had not been his choice, either.
Riona flexed her fingers to relieve the strain of the bow. “Let them in.”
Manus gave the command. The gate swung open and the bloodied soldiers rode through the narrow barbican, Macrory soldiers watching warily through the holes in the ceiling and arrow slits along either side of the passageway.
Ranald’s muscles were tight, poised to react at the least provocation. Roiling battle-fury had yet to bleed away, compounded by the obvious distrust of the Macrory soldiers reluctantly allowing them into the castle and the frown on the face of the young woman standing at their head.
Tall and slender, her dark red hair bound back in a thick braid, she stood her ground. Ranald knew it was irrational, but somehow her attitude rankled. He drew Hearn to a stop several feet away from the woman. Pol and Senga pranced over to the two fallen men lying inside the jammed postern gate, sniffing the bodies curiously.
The woman eyed the enormous dogs. Hearn pawed the ground, tossing his head impatiently. Ranald made no attempt to control the beasts. His sympathy lay with those newly come from battle, not the young woman who faced him with a regal air.
“This is Lady Caitriona.” The hulking, dark-haired man beside the woman took a step forward. Ranald acknowledged the woman with a brief nod, earning another frown. “I am Manus, captain of the Macrory guard.”
Ranald leaned forward in his saddle, at last checking Hearn’s movements. “I am Ranald Scott. I am here to secure the castle for the king.”
He thought Lady Caitriona stiffened, but she inclined her head gracefully. “Welcome to Scaurness Castle, milord. Yer arrival was most timely.”
Ranald swung down from Hearn’s back, handing the reins to a lad who stepped forward for the duty. Finlay remained at his side as he questioned Lady Caitriona. “I want to know how they jammed the gate.”
“Milord, ye are injured,” she replied. “We will tend ye and then discuss this. The gate will be repaired.”
Ranald favored Lady Caitriona with a half-smile. “The blood isnae mine. I’ll be glad of a wash in due time. We will settle this first.”
“As ye wish.”
Ranald paused, waiting for her to retire to the keep. She did not.
They paced forward, Ranald and Finlay in step with Manus. Approaching the gate, Ranald noted its hinge sported a dagger jammed deep inside. Frowning, he turned to the Macrory captain. “This wasnae done by an outsider.”
Manus grunted. “Nae. We will find the traitor and deal with him.”
Ranald pierced him with a stare. “Do it.” He stepped forward and grasped the dagger. With a mighty heave, he pulled it from its berth, and the door swung slightly with release.
“Fix it.” With that, Ranald turned and jogged quickly down the shallow steps from the postern gate. He reclaimed his horse’s reins and swung into the saddle. His anger communicated itself through his arms to his horse’s bit, his legs tightening as Hearn danced in response. He urged the powerful horse deeper among the Macrory soldiers in the bailey witnessing his exchange with their captain.
Halting in their midst, Ranald used Hearn’s antics to fully capture their attention. “Hear me! I am Ranald Scott. I come at the order of King Robert of Scotland, at the request of Laird Macrory, to secure this castle from those who would seize and hold it against the king.”
Hearn’s forelegs lifted briefly, then jarred to the ground as Ranald added, “I will tolerate no man standing against me or mine. If ye have issue with this, take it up with my captain. If ye canna accept it, the postern gate is still open, and ye are free to leave today. I will tolerate none who question my authority.” Ranald eyed the Macrory soldiers. None offered him challenge. Their laird had requested help from the crown, bitter dregs to swallow, but they would face it, nonetheless.
Satisfied with the response, he dismounted again, slapping Hearn’s rump to send him back to the lad reaching for his reins. Pol and Senga gamboled beside Ranald, and he rested a hand on Pol’s broad head. He turned to the laird’s daughter, expecting her to invite him into the keep.
Strands of burnished hair had torn loose from her braid, whipping in the wind. Her eyes, narrowed with either dislike or distrust, or perhaps both, she appeared far more likely to usher him straight to hell.
The laird lay dying, his breathing slow and rasping, his body wasted. Riona balanced on the wooden stool at her father’s bedside. Leaning against the straw-filled mattress, she held his gnarled hand in hers, gently tracing her thumb across the parchment-like skin. Servants slipped noiselessly about the laird’s room, stoking the fire against the seaside chill permeating the stone walls of the castle.
“Everything will be fine, Da. King Robert has sent men to help ye hold the castle. Stay with me, Da. Please.”
Laird Macrory stirred. His hand twitched and his eyelids flickered open. Riona forced a smile across stiff lips. “Would ye like something to drink?”
His eyes gleamed as they took in the room. He nodded, a single jerk of his head. Riona slipped an arm behind her father’s shoulders, clenching her teeth grimly at the unnatural feel of bones knitted together with withered muscles and flesh.
Lifting him from the pillows, she reached for the cup on the low table beside the bed and held it to his lips. At the first taste, the laird’s eyes cut furiously to her.
She shook her head, forestalling his complaint. “Wine is good for ye, Da.”
Laird Macrory turned his head away. With a sigh, she signaled to her father’s ghille standing guard at the door. “Get the man whisky.”
Fergus strode to a table across the room where a flask stood next to a pair of goblets, and poured a generous measure. Riona shoved a hank of loose hair from her face and reached for the goblet. Laird Macrory’s nostrils flared as he scented the rich amber liquid. Accepting her help, he drank it down.
Fergus and Riona settled the laird back onto the pillows and she rose to her feet, arching her back against tired muscles. Exhaling her exhaustion, she stepped to the chest at the foot of the bed and pulled a linen sheet from within.
She nodded to Fergus. “Help him to the garderobe and I’ll change the linens.”
Laird Macrory’s shrunken body proved no difficulty for Fergus’s strong arms, and it had become a familiar routine. Riona tugged the soiled linens from the bed, smoothing a clean sheet in place as Fergus returned with the laird. In a trice they changed his nightshirt and Riona bundled the laundry together for a servant to deal with later.
She tilted her head toward the door, silently asking Fergus to join her beyond the laird’s hearing. Her father’s eyes closed and he relaxed, his small store of strength depleted. After a final glance at the laird, Fergus followed her from the room.
“He is no better.” Riona’s words were brittle, her voice harsh in her grief-tightened throat. She leaned heavily against the wall, weary from the labor of the past two weeks and the truth she could not br
ing herself to speak. She closed her eyes.
“Nae,” he replied. “I dinna think he’ll last the night.”
Riona’s eyes flew open at the wealth of regret in Fergus’s voice. How long had he been her father’s man? She couldn’t remember a time he hadn’t been available at a moment’s notice to do whatever the laird asked of him. There was none beyond her brother, Kinnon, and the Macrory captain, Manus, that her da trusted as much.
She managed a faint smile and patted Fergus’s arm. “Ye’ve done all ye could. Perhaps Kinnon will return soon from France.” Before the king’s man lays claim to our land. She hesitated as the unsaid words hung between them.
Worry lines around Fergus’s eyes told their own tale. Kinnon was missing and they didn’t know if he was alive or dead.
“Ye willna blame yerself,” Riona told the man firmly. “‘Twas no’ yer fault. Da has been sick for a while, now. ‘Twas nothing any of us could do.”
Fergus nodded, but she could tell it was for her benefit only. His entire life, Fergus’s purpose had been to protect the laird. He’d been prepared to battle to his death if necessary, but against the casualty of old age and illness, he stood helpless.
Riona pushed away from the wall and walked to the narrow window overlooking the courtyard below. The familiar play of sun-kissed surf rippled against the shore far beneath the castle walls. She bit her lip. Her father, unable to lead the clan since his illness struck, had petitioned the king for help. Situated on the promontory overlooking the River Clyde, and pledged to the Scottish king, Scaurness Castle and the Macrory clan lands were always in contention by those who would claim them for the Lord of the Isles, and pirates who sought to control the firth.
Riona sighed. The king had dispatched her cousin, Ranald Scott, to secure the land. She grudgingly conceded there could be worse men to send. In fact, she could name a few quite easily. But she had not seen Ranald since they were children, and he was largely unknown to her.