Legend of a Highland Lass: Scottish Medieval Highlander Romance
Page 1
Legend of a Highland Lass
Their fame was legendary, their true selves more vulnerable than ever...
Kenna Kendrick
Contents
Thank you
About the book
Prologue
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
But there’s more…
Afterword
Do you want more Romance?
Capturing the Reluctant Highlander
Never miss a thing
Thank you
About the Author
Thank you
I want to personally thank you for purchasing my book. It really means a lot to me. It’s a blessing to have the opportunity to share with you, my passion for writing, through my stories.
As a FREE GIFT, I am giving you a link to my first novel. It has more than 100 reviews, with an average rating of 4.5 out of 5
It is called “Stealing the Highland Bride”, and you can get it for FREE.
Please note that this story is only available for YOU as a subscriber and hasn't been published anywhere else.
Please click on the cover to download the book
About the book
He was a ghost, she was a shadow, can they find their way into the light?
Rose MacGillis was more of a legend than a real person. Leading a group of illegals called "the Scots", her reputation proceeded her, while her identity remained an unsolvable mystery. After the grave mistake of killing a relative of the English King, Rose and her companions are in grave danger. Now, their only way to safety lies in the hands of a cryptic Highlander...
The Wanderer was always on a mission. A restless spirit with no past and no future, this man of no name cared only about coin. When a lass equally mysterious and infamous approaches him, the Wanderer will be forced to face memories he wanted to keep buried, and plan an act of revenge as fiery as the passion she will awake in him...
How will these two cross the Highlands when there is a price upon their heads, treachery amongst them and a scourging fire inside them?
Their fame was legendary, their true selves more vulnerable than ever...
Prologue
The Scottish Highlands
1756
The towering inferno blazed with the vibrant intensity of a thousand suns, the flames licking the heavens as the interminable and heart-wrenching screams of those trapped inside rang out into the night. The cries of those burning in the fire reached an ear-piercing and gut-churning level of excruciation, their pleas for assistance going unanswered as the inferno consumed every inch of the village.
“Sean!” a woman’s voice cried out. “Please! Help us! Help us!”
The fire crackled, and roared, and rage, the flames curving like the crooked claw of a beast as it reached out toward the man standing in front of the fire. He was unmoving, paralyzed with fear and wishing with all his willpower to be able to save those trapped inside.
“Sean!” the woman cried out again. “Me God, Sean! Help us!”
But the man couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. All he could do was watch as the fire grew hotter and brighter, and as the heat licked at his skin and caused every part of his body to feel that it was moments away from being engulfed in the flames—the fire grabbed him, pulled him in, and consumed him with the rest of the poor denizens that were trapped inside.
“Seaaaan!”
Sean Wilson shot awake, his sinewy and finely tuned body coated with a layer of sweat. He sat upright, the chill of the early morning cooling him somewhat as he felt the huff-and-puff quality of his breathing trying so desperately to settle.
“Ye are alright,” Sean said. “Just breathe…”
Sean held his head in his hands. It was just another nightmare, the same one that he had seemingly every other night. It was relentless. Without an end in sight. He felt it was like a curse that haunted him every day for the past two years, just like how the English haunted all of the Highlands with their endless crusade against all of the Scots that dwelled inside of the country.
The small campfire in front of Sean was still ablaze, subtly, but nonetheless still burning. Sean stared at the burning embers for a few moments, the crack of the wood being slowly scorched over the only sound emitted for miles. He was flush against the side of a mountain, hidden in a ravine and surrounded on all sides by green covered terrain. He looked to his left toward the horizon, the sprawling expanse of the Scottish Highlands, suffering under the plague known as the English, and seeing the first hints of morning light, a pinkish hue to the sky signaling that another day had ended and a new one was about to begin. But it didn’t feel that way for Sean. For the past two years, it felt as though life itself had blended into an amorphous blob of time, without any reprieve, break, or signaling of change. Memories of his family, those who perished in the fire so long ago, felt as though they were still there with him. It was as if they had only perished the night prior, not two years ago as it was according to the test of time.
Sean stood, running his hands through his raven-colored hair as he smoothed his tunic and stepped around the campfire, his chiseled jaw sporting three-day-stubble that only complimented his rugged and strikingly good-looking features. He looked out to the horizon, focused on nothing in particular. “There is not a thing out there for me,” he said aloud.
And then he heard it—the voice of his wife. Sean knew that she wasn’t there, but it was still comforting for him to occasionally pretend that she was.
“It will be alright, Sean,” he heard her say. “It will all be alright.”
“It will not. Ye are gone, me love. Both of ye are gone. I miss ye to much…”
“Ye must keep pushing. Ye must keep living.”
Sean shook his head. “I do not want to live anymore. I just wish to seek vengeance for yer death, me love…”
And then her voiced fleeted. It was gone. No longer there.
Sean rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the tenseness in his chest somewhat subsiding as he walked over to his horse and ran his hand through the animal’s mane. Sean then moved to his saddlebag and peeked inside, the spoils of his looting the night prior still resting inside. He had a day’s ride to Campbell’s village, and he knew that if he set out now, he would be able to make it in time.
But how much longer? he thought. How long will I be able to gae afore me fate catches up to me? The English occupy everything. There is not a place in these lands they do not possess some kind of control over.
Sean released a breath; all of his frustrations being huffed out. He hated living in the times that he did. All of the Highlands were plagued by the English, the stranglehold they had over the entirety of the country locked down with a white-knuckled grip. The Highlanders occupying the lands were outnumbered, not a soul among them able
to put up a fight worthwhile.
The English created men like me, Sean pondered. Their rule pushed men like me to the edge. I am not the only one, either. We are all oppressed. We all are aimless drifters now looking for a purpose.
With a sigh, Sean turned and mounted his horse. He took one last moment to stare out at the horizon, embracing the calm he knew was a precursor to whatever storm he would undoubtedly be caught up in next. He then turned his horse, whipped at the reins, and began his half-day journey to the village.
It was quiet ride. Sean came across no one for a significant chunk of time. He took a dirt pathway that cut through the mountains, ascending for three miles before dipping and declining into a valley. Partway through the journey, he saw a young Highlander boy, perched on a rock with grime on his face. The boy looked upon Sean, no curious glint in his eye, no sense of concern or even curiousness in his gaze. The boy was young, maybe ten or twelve, but the look in his eye was that of a man, one who had seen his fair share of strife and was now a jaded member of the Highlands as a result.
Sean offered up a subtle nod to the boy—but the boy gave him nothing in reply. Sean rode away, the boy still staring out at nothing in particular as the sun rose to the highest peaks and began to beat down on the back of his neck.
Sean arrived on the outskirts of the village around midday. The village itself was nestled in a field overlooking an English stronghold off in the distance. Several cottages were lined up side-by-side, the smell of cooked meats and spices in the air as Sean rode in and was greeted by two burly men with swords in their hands.
“Halt there,” the one on the left said, holding a meaty palm up and forcing Sean to stop. “What is yer business?”
“I am here to speak to Campbell,” Sean said. “I have returned with his goods.”
“And what is yer name?” the one on the right said.
Sean jutted his chin, drawing a breath as he said: “I am the one they call Wanderer.”
The two men exchanged looks, their defensive postures and attitudes going slack at the mention of the name. Sean knew that his reputation had spread across the Highlands, his name on the tip of every Highlander and Englishman alike. He was feared, perhaps one of the most feared men in all of the land.
The burly man on the right turned to his partner. “Gae and fetch Campbell,” he said. “Tell him the Wanderer is here.”
The burly man on the left retreated with haste, the man left behind avoiding eye contact with Sean as his counterpart sought out their leader. Sean could see the fear in his eyes, all of the stories he had been undoubtedly told playing back in his mind. Moments later, the other burly man returned, escorted by a gaunt man with hair and a beard the color of fire. It was Campbell, the clan leader, rubbing his hands together and waited for Sean to deliver him the loot he had paid Sean to steal.
“Welcome back, Wanderer,” Campbell said. “I trust ye were successful?”
Sean said nothing as he dismounted his horse, grabbed the bag from his satchel, and handed it over to Campbell. Campbell looked inside, beaming with an ear-to-ear grin as he laid eyes on the swords inside.
He turned to his men. “Relax, gentleman. This man is not here to hurt ye. He works for me.”
Sean shook his head. “I work for no one. I only survive for myself.”
Campbell laughed. “Ah. Aye. I see.” He looked in the satchel, eyeballing a pair of buffed and shined swords that belonged to an English lord. “Splendid. Most splendid. These shall fetch me a pretty coin once I sell them.” He reached into his pockets, producing a small leather sack filled with coins and handing them over to Sean. “Well done, Wanderer. If I require yer services again, I shall send word.”
Sean nodded, turning back and preparing to mount his horse.
“Do ye wish to stay?” Campbell said, gesturing over his shoulder to his cottage just a few feet away. “I have just prepared a meal. I have the finest whiskey on hand as well. A man like ye could use a drink, based on the gloss I see in yer eyes.”
Sean shook his head. “I have a long ride ahead of me. I must be going before nightfall.”
“Oh, nonsense. Stay! We have food, drink, and many fine women. Ye are a good-looking man. I would not doubt that ye would find yerself on the receiving end of a successful night!” Campbell laughed, amused at his own words—but the humor was completely lost on Sean.
“No,” Sean said. “But thank ye for yer hospitality. I must be going.”
Campbell wagged a finger. “It is not wise for a man of yer reputation to be riding at this time. We are well within English territory. I know that ye have made a few enemies in these parts. The Highlands know of ye well, Wanderer. I am surprised that ye have even survived as long as ye have. Come! Follow me!”
Sean waited, debating if he should turn to leave. But he felt perhaps a drink would take the edge off, so he followed after Campbell into his home and was poured two fingers worth of whiskey. He sat by the fireplace, taking comfort in the warmth being offered to him that he was certain he would not find for the next couple of days.
“How is yer drink?” Campbell inquired.
Sean nodded, avoiding eye contact with the village leader. “It is fine. Many thanks for yer hospitality.”
“I know of ye well, Wanderer,” Campbell said, swirling the contents of his glass around. “That is what they call ye, correct? Wanderer?”
“Aye,” Sean said with a nod. “It helps protect me. Offers me anonymity.”
“Ye are a rogue, me son. The last vestiges of the aimless Scottish Highlanders who wandered the plains with no goal in sight and no place to claim as home.”
Sean shrugged, taking a pull of his whiskey. “It is a living when all is said and done.”
“Quite a living it is. You’re a thief for hire, a swordsman whose skillsets are at the disposal of the highest bidder.”
Sean looked over his glass. “That sounds like an insult.”
Campbell waved him off. “No, no. Not in the slightest. It is admirable, really. Men like ye are the reason the English have had a headache as of recent. Men like ye are putting a halt to their domination of the lands. Men like ye refuse to give in. Ye are rogues. Ye have no rules.”
Sean shook his head. “I have rules. I do not engage in just any exploit offered to me. I am not a savage. I have disposed of vile men, thieves and rapists and murderers and selfish tyrants who had very much received what was coming to them, including that English Lord whose castle I just looted for ye.”
Campbell smiled. “Rules, eh? And what are these rules of yers?”
“No women or children. Other than that, anything, any task or job proposed to me is fair game—for the right price, of course.”
Campbell leaned back. “I have heard the stories about ye. Ye have looted, killed, and assassinated Scotsmen and English alike. And ye seem to be good at it too, well-versed in blending in and out and hiding in the remote recesses of the country. Is it true ye know of every inch of the Highlands? Perhaps more than most men?”
Sean nodded.
Campbell squinted, stroking his beard as he looked pensively at Sean. “Who are ye, Wanderer? Really? I have heard the legends about ye.”
“Must of them are not true.”
“I very much doubt that. Is it not true that ye took on a clan of savages with yer bare hands?”
It was true. Sean had once singlehandedly defended himself against a horde of thieves who attempted to rob and kill him just months prior. He recalled the brute display of force he had shown, remembering well at how he dispelled of the men and managed to walk away with nothing more than a cut on his cheek that had now turned into a faint scar.
“No,” he lied to Campbell. “That story is not true…”
Campbell could hear the dishonesty—and he smiled. “Well,” he said, “I would insist that ye stay, but it sounds like ye are set on yer ways. A man like ye is searching for something more than just a rush. Am I wrong?”
Sean shook his head. “No. Ye are
not wrong.”
Campbell leaned in. “Then what Do ye search for, Wanderer? Huh? I am curious to know…”
Sean had his reasons for why he lived the life that he did, his past the driving force for doing the things that he did. As he polished off the last of his whiskey, he stood, moved toward the door, and said: “I seek vengeance, me friend. And thank ye for the drink…”