by Mary Wine
Highland Hellcat
Highland Heat
The Highlander’s Prize
From
To Conquer a Highlander
Scotland 1437, McLeren land
Fire could be a welcome sight to a man when he’d been riding a long time and the sun had set, leaving him surrounded by darkness. But the sight of flames on the horizon could also be the most horrifying thing any laird ever set his eyes on.
Torin McLeren wanted to close his eyes in the hopes that the orange flames illuminating the night might not be there when he opened them again. He could smell the smoke on the night air now but didn’t have the luxury of allowing the horror to turn his stomach. He was laird, and protecting his holdings was his duty.
Digging his spurs into his horse, he headed toward the inferno. Wails began to drown out the hissing flames. Laments carried on the night wind as wives and mothers mourned bitterly. The scent of blood rose above the smoke, the flickering orange light illuminating the fallen bodies of his clansmen. He stared at the carnage, stunned by the number of dead and wounded. He might be a Highlander and no stranger to battle, but this was a village, not a piece of land disputed and fought over by nobles. This was McLeren land and had been for more than a century.
A horror straight out of hell surrounded him. Mercy hadn’t been present here—he’d seen less carnage after fighting the English. The slaughter was almost too much to believe or accept. His horse balked at his command to ride forward, the stallion rearing up as the heat from the blaze became hot against its hide. Torin cursed and slid from the saddle. Every muscle in his body tightened, rage slowly coming to a boil inside him. Hands reached out to him, grasping fingers seeking him as the only hope of righting the wrong that had been inflicted on them.
His temper burned hotter than the fire consuming the keep in front of him. They suffered raids from time to time, but this was something else entirely. It was war. The number of bodies lying where they had fallen was a wrong that could not be ignored. Nor should it be. These were his people, McLerens who trusted in his leadership and his sword arm for protection.
“Justice…”
One single word but it echoed across the fallen bodies of men wearing the same plaid he did. Every retainer left to keep the peace was lying dead, but they had died as Highlanders. The ground was littered with the unmoving forms of their attackers. His gaze settled on one body, the still form leaking dark blood onto his land, the kilt drawing his interest. Lowering his frame onto one knee, Torin fingered the colors of his enemy. The fire lit the scarlet and blue colors of the McBoyd clan. His neighbor and apparently now his enemy.
McBoyds? It didn’t make sense. These were common people. Good folk who labored hard to feed their families. Every McLeren retainer stationed there knew and accepted that they might have to fight for their clan, but that did not explain the number of slain villagers. There was no reason for such a slaughter. No excuse he would ever swallow or accept. McLerens did not fear the night, be they common born or not. While he was laird, they would not live in fear.
“There will be justice. I swear it.” His voice carried authority, but to those weeping over their lost family, it also gave comfort. Torin stood still only for a moment, his retainers backing him up before he turned and remounted his horse. He felt more at home in the saddle, more confident. His father had raised him to lead the McLerens in good times and bad. He would not disappoint him or a single McLeren watching him now.
“Well now, let us see what the McBoyds have to say for themselves, lads.”
Torin turned his stallion into the night without a care for the clouds that kept the moonlight from illuminating the rocky terrain. He was a Highlander, after all. Let the other things in the dark fear him.
From
Highland Hellcat
“Come, my beauty, we shall see if we can impress anyone tonight with our skill.”
Brina patted the mare on the side of the neck, and the animal gave a toss of its silken mane. She smothered a laugh before it betrayed to those around just how much she was looking forward to riding out of her father’s castle. She gained the back of the mare, and the animal let out a louder sound of excitement. Brina clasped the animal with her thighs and leaned low over its neck.
“I agree, my beauty. Standing still is very boring.”
Brina kept her voice low and gave the mare its freedom. The animal made a path toward the gate, gaining speed rapidly.
Brina allowed her laughter to escape just as she and the mare crossed beneath the heavy iron gate that was still raised.
“Don’t be out too long… Dusk is nearly fallen…” the Chattan retainer set to guarding the main entrance to Chattan Castle called after her, but Brina did not even turn her head to acknowledge the man.
Being promised to the church did have some advantages after all. Her undyed robe fluttered out behind her because the garment was simple and lacked any details that might flatter her figure. There were only two small tapes that buttoned toward the back of it in order to keep the fabric from being too cumbersome.
“Faster…”
The mare seemed to understand her and took to the rocky terrain with eagerness. The wind was crisp, almost too chilly for the autumn. Brina leaned down low and smiled as she moved in unison with the horse. The light was rapidly fading, but the approaching night didn’t cause her a bit of worry.
She was a bride of Christ, the simple gown that she wore more powerful even than the fact that her father was laird of the Chattan. No one would trifle with her, even after day faded into night.
But that security came with a price, just as all things in life did. She straightened up as the mare neared the thicket, and she spied her father’s man waiting on her.
Bran had served as a retainer for many years, and he was old enough to be her sire. He frowned at her as she slid from the back of the mare.
“Ye ride too fast.”
Brina rubbed the neck of the horse for a moment, biting back the first words that came to her lips.
“What does it matter, Bran? I am promised to the church, not betrothed like my sisters. No one cares if I ride astride.”
If she had been born first or second to Robert Chattan, there would be many who argued against her riding astride, because most midwives agreed that doing so would make a woman barren.
Bran grunted. “It’s the speed that ye ride with that most would consider too spirited for a future nun.”
Brina failed to mask her smile. “But I shall be a Highland nun, not one of those English ones who are frightened of their own shadows.”
Her father’s retainer grinned. “Aye, ye are that all right, and I pity those who forget it once ye are at the abbey and training to become the mother superior.”
Bran turned and made his way into the thicket. Brina followed him while reaching around to pull her small bow over her head. The wood felt familiar in her grip. It was a satisfying feeling, one for which she might thank her impending future as well. Her sisters had not been taught to use any weapons. They were both promised to powerful men, and the skills of hunting would be something that those Highlanders might find offensive to their pride.
She snorted. Going to the church suited her well indeed, for she had no stomach for the nature of men. She could use the bow as well as any of them.
“At least I know that ye will nae go hungry.” Bran studied the way she held the bow, and nodded with approval. “Those other nuns will likely follow ye even more devoutly because ye can put supper on the table along with saying yer prayers.”
“I plan to do much more than pray.”
From
Highland Heat
1439
Spring was blowing on the breeze.
Deirdre lifted her face and inhaled. Closing her eyes and smiling, she caught a hint of heather in the air.
But that caused a memory to stir from the dark corner of her mind where she had banished it. It rose up, reminding her of a spring two years ago when a
man had courted her with pieces of heather and soft words of flattery.
False words.
“Ye have been angry for too long, Deirdre.”
Deirdre turned her head slightly and discovered her sister Kaie standing nearby.
“And ye walk too silently; being humble doesn’t mean ye need try and act as though ye are nae even here in this life.”
Kaie smiled but corrected herself quickly, smoothing her expression until it was once again simply plain. “That is my point exactly, Deirdre. Ye take offense at everything around ye. I am content. That should nae be a reason for ye to snap at me.”
Her sister wore the undyed robe of a nun. Her hair was covered now, but Deirdre had watched as it was cut short when Kaie took her novice vows. Her own hair was still long. She had it braided and the tail caught up so that it didn’t swing behind her. The convent wouldn’t hear any vows from her, not for several more years to come.
“But ye are nae happy living among us, Deirdre, and that is a sad thing, for those living in God’s house should be here because they want to be.”
“Well, I like it better than living with our father, and since he sent my dowry to the church, it is only fitting that I sleep beneath this roof.”
Kaie drew in a stiff breath. “Ye are being too harsh. Father did his duty in arranging a match for us all. It is only fair that he would be cross to discover that ye had taken a lover.”
Melor Douglas. The man she’d defied everything to hold, because she believed his words of love.
Deirdre sighed. “True, but ye are very pleased to be here and not with Roan McLeod as his wife. Father arranged that match for ye as well, and yet you defied his choice by asking Roan McLeod to release ye. There are more than a few who would call that disrespectful to our sire.”
Her sister paled, and Deirdre instantly felt guilty for ruining her happiness.
“I’m sorry, Kaie. That was unkind of me to say.”
Her sister drew in a deep breath. “Ye most likely think me timid, but I was drawn to this convent. Every night when I closed my eyes, I dreamed of it, unlike ye…”
Kaie’s eyes had begun to glow with passion as she spoke of her devotion, but she snapped her mouth shut when she realized what she was saying.
Deirdre scoffed at her attempt to soften the truth. “Unlike me and my choice to take Melor Douglas as my lover.”
It was harsh but true, and Deirdre preferred to hear it, however blunt it might be.
“He lied to ye. Ye went to him believing ye’d be his wife.”
“Ye do nae need to make excuses for me, Kaie. I made my choice, and I will nae increase my sins by adding dishonesty to them. Everyone knows, anyway. It seems all I ever hear about here, how I am unworthy of the veil ye wear so contentedly.” Deirdre shrugged. “At least no one shall be able to claim I am intent on hiding my actions behind unspoken words and unanswered questions.”
Her sister laughed. A soft, sad little sound that sent heat into Deirdre’s cheeks, because Kaie was sweet and she didn’t need to be discussing such a scarlet subject.
“Ye have ever been bold, Deirdre. I believe ye should have been born a son for all the courage ye have burning inside ye. For ye are correct, I am content, and there is no place I would rather be but here. Living a simple life. Roan McLeod was a kind soul to allow me to become a bride of Christ instead of his wife. Wedding me would have given him a strong alliance with our clan.”
From
The Highlander’s Prize
Scottish Lowlands, 1487
“Keep yer face hidden.”
Clarrisa jerked back as one of the men escorting her hit the fabric covering the top of the wagon she rode inside of. An imprint of his fist was clearly visible for a moment.
“Best keep back, my dove. These Scots are foul-tempered creatures, to be sure. We’ve left civilization behind us in England.” There was a note of longing in Maud’s voice Clarrisa tried to ignore. She couldn’t afford to be melancholy. Her uncle’s word had been given, so she would be staying in Scotland, no matter her feelings on the matter.
Better to avoid thinking about how she felt; better to try to believe her future would be bright.
“The world is in a dark humor,” Clarrisa muttered. Her companion lifted the gold cross hanging from her girdle chain and kissed it. “I fear we need a better plan than waiting for divine help, Maud.”
Maud’s eyes widened. Faster than a flash, she reached over and tugged one of Clarrisa’s long braids. Pain shot across her scalp before the older woman sent to chaperone her released her hair. “You’ll mind your tongue, girl. Just because you’re royal-blooded doesn’t give you cause to be doubting that the good Lord has a hand in where you’re heading. You’re still bastard-born, so you’ll keep to your place.”
Clarrisa moved to the other side of the wagon and peeked out again. She knew well who she was. No one ever let her forget, not for as long as she could recall. Still, even legitimate daughters were expected to be obedient, so she truly had no right to be discontented.
So she would hope the future the horses were pulling her toward was a good one.
The night was dark, thick clouds covering the moon’s light. The trees looked sinister, and the wind sounded mournful as it rustled the branches. But Clarrisa didn’t reach for the cross hanging from her own waist. No, she’d place her faith in her wits and refuse to be frightened. That much was within her power. It gave her a sense of balance and allowed her to smile. Yes, her future would hold good things, because she would be wise enough to keep her demeanor kind. A shrew never prospered.
“Far past time for you to accept your lot with more humbleness,” Maud mumbled, sounding almost as uninterested as Clarrisa felt. “You should be grateful for this opportunity to better your lot. Not many bastards are given such opportunities.”
Clarrisa didn’t respond to Maud’s reminder that she was illegitimate. There wasn’t any point. Depending on who wore the crown of England, her lineage was a blessing or a curse.
“If you give the Scottish king a son—”
“It will be bastard-born, since I have heard no offer of marriage,” Clarrisa insisted.
Maud made a low sound of disapproval and pointed an aged finger at her. “Royal-blooded babes do not have to suffer the same burdens the rest of us do. In spite of the lack of blessing from the church your mother suffered, you are on your way to a bright future. Besides, this is Scotland. He’ll wed you quickly if you produce a male child. He simply doesn’t have to marry you first, because you are illegitimate. Set your mind to giving him a son, and your future will be bright.”
Clarrisa doubted Maud’s words. She lifted the edge of the wagon cover again and stared at the man nearest her. His plaid was belted around his waist, with a length of it pulled up and over his right shoulder. The fabric made a good cushion for the sword strapped to his wide back.
Maybe he was a Scotsman, but the sword made him look like any other man she had ever known. They lived for fighting. Power was the only thing they craved. Her blood was nothing more than another way to secure what the king of Scotland hungered for.
Blessing? Not for her, it wouldn’t be.
About the Author
Mary Wine is a multi-published author in romantic suspense, fantasy, and Western romance. Her interest in historical reenactment and costuming also inspired her to turn her pen to historical romance with her popular Highlander series. She lives with her husband and sons in Southern California, where the whole family enjoys participating in historical reenactment.
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