Legend of a Highland Lass: Scottish Medieval Highlander Romance

by Kenna Kendrick

  Four men were inside, two of them seated at one of the four round tables off to the left, the area to the right set up with a counter and a fireplace just behind it. Bottle were lined on a shelf and based on the way the tavern had been set up, Brandon knew that this was undoubtedly an establishment set up in a way that appealed to a Redcoat more than a Highlander.

  A man with long hair was behind the counter, picking at his thumbnail with a small knife. Despite the fact that he spent most of his days indoors, his skin was weathered and had a darkened shade that suggest copious amounts of time out in the sun.

  Brandon cleared his throat to get the man’s attention. The man stood, walking up to Brandon with a neutral gaze that held neither animosity nor cordiality.

  “Ye the tavern owner?” Brandon asked.

  The man nodded. “Help you?”

  “An ale, for starters.”

  “Don’t have any. Just the whiskey.”

  “I don’t have an argument with that.”

  The tavern owner fetched a glass and poured Brandon two finger’s worth. Brandon brought the glass to his lips, taking a sip and feeling the liquor dulling some of the ache in his legs from riding as fast as he had been the past couple of hours.

  “Where can I get supplies around here?” Brandon said.

  The tavern owner pointed to one of the windows facing the opposite side of the village. “Right across the way. What kind of supplies are ye looking for?”

  “Food, mostly.”

  “A man by the name of Miller has salted meats that stay well-preserved for long amounts of time. Quite good, too.”

  The door opened, Brandon turning his head to the left to see that Lachlan and Eamon had entered.

  “Friends of yours?” the tavern owner said.

  Brandon nodded. “Fetch them a whiskey as well.”

  The tavern owner complied, Brandon fishing in the leather pouch attached near his back on his belt and produced two coins that he placed down on the counter.

  Lachlan, taking his glass from the tavern owner, gestured around the establishment. “Looks like a Redcoat put this tavern together,” he said with a wince.

  “Aye,” Brandon said. “I thought the same.”

  Eamon, holding up two fingers to the tavern owner, said: “This is a Highlander village, aye?”

  The tavern owner forked a thumb over his shoulder. “Ye saw the Highlanders guarding that gate. No?”

  “We did.”

  “Then what does that tell ye?”

  Lachlan pouted his lower lip in confusion. “Then why does this place look like a Redcoat establishment?”

  The door to the tavern opened abruptly. It swung quickly to the point that it nearly slammed against the frame. Brandon whipped his head to the right and saw three Redcoats enter, a man at the lead with a manicured beard and a glint in his eye like he had been expecting Brandon for quite some time.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said.

  Brandon, Lachlan, and Eamon remained motionless, trying to act as casually as possible at the Redcoat in the lead broke off from the men behind him who stood guard at the door with their hands clasped in front of them—guard dogs, heeling but ready to leap out and attack at a moment’s notice.

  The Redcoat with the manicured beard gestured to Brandon and the other two Scots. “Is there a problem?” he said.

  Brandon felt his heart beating, his body turning hot as he sensed an incoming attack. “No problem exists here, my friend.”

  “Well,” the Redcoat said, taking a step toward Brandon, just a few inches shy of his nose pressing against Brandon’s, “then why are you blocking my path to ordering a drink?”

  Brandon stood aside slowly, Lachlan and Eamon following suit as the Redcoat smiled wryly at the tavern owner. “Fetch me some of that whiskey that you Highlanders seem to like so much.”

  The tavern owner, his head low and not wanting to look the Redcoat in the eye, retrieved the order and gave it to the Redcoat—free of charge.

  The Redcoat threw back the entire glass before proceeding to folds his hands and casually lean on the countertop with one fist propped against his hip. “So,” he said. “I have never seen the three of you around here before.”

  Brandon shrugged. “We’re just passing through. I was under the impression that this was a Highlander village.”

  The Redcoat returned the shrug. “It was,” he said, “until last night.” He extended his hand. “My apologies. My name is Lord Cutler. I am an associate of Lord Brumwald. I trust you heard of him.”

  Brandon looked at Cutler’s hand like a stain was on it, reluctant to exchange the gripping of palms with the Redcoat but knowing that it was wiser to just appease the man, make his leave, and get as far away from the village as possible.

  Cutler, turning his body and gesturing out the window, said: “We actually just took care of the village leader this morning. You see, we took over the village with very little resistance. The leader was the only one attempting to offer resistance. It was incredible how much this town bended to our demands. As I said, he was the only one putting up a fight. But he won’t be joining us for whatever years he may have had left.”

  Brandon clenched his jaw. He knew they had made a mistake coming here, his mind already shifting toward blaming Rose and the Wanderer for having pointed him in this direction.

  “We are not here to start trouble,” Brandon said. “We are just Highlanders—”

  “Exactly,” Lord Cutler interjected. “You Highlanders are the problem. That’s why I’m here, to see about every one of you that comes through…and find which one of them is responsible for the death of the King’s nephew.”

  Brandon felt his knees go weak, perplexed as to how word could have spread so quickly about the death of the King’s kin. It was clear that the King was out for blood, and word had traveled quickly through the Highlands and all the Redcoats in close proximity. All were looking. All were on alert—and the one name Lord Cutler had managed to cross paths with three of the men responsible for the death of the King’s nephew, even if Cutler himself did not know it yet.

  “I don’t know what ye are speaking of,” Brandon said. “We are merely weary travelers looking for a bit of rest.”

  “Oh, I’m sure that’s the case,” Cutler snickered. “But nonetheless—who are you? What clan do you reside with? I must ask these questions to make absolutely sure you’re not the men we’re seeking.”

  “We have no clan. We are the only three. We are merely drifters. We cause no trouble. We have no quarrel with ye or yer people.”

  Cutler shifted his weight, his gaze scrutinous and jaw clenched. “There is a woman who leads the men we seek,” he said. “Her name is Rose. Do you know of whom I speak of?”

  Brandon shrugged. “I have met more than a few Roses in my time. It’s difficult to say.”

  “Which direction did you ride from?”

  Brandon held his tongue. He knew that if he told Cutler the truth, the man might deduce that they had come in from the area where the King’s nephew was slaughtered, were the altercation occurred in the tavern not long ago. Brandon knew that Cutler possessed more knowledge of the circumstances than he was letting on. The Redcoat was toying with him, batting him around like a dog playing with a rodent.

  “We came in from the north,” Brandon lied. “We are headed for a seaside village.”

  Lord Cutler wagged a finger. “The men at the gate said you came in from the east. They’ve been threatened under death to tell us the truth, but they have been unwavering in their loyalty thus far. So, are they being dishonest—or are you?”

  The two Redcoats guarding the door moved forward, Brandon now completely on edge as Lachlan and Eamon started shifting their stances ever so subtly behind him. Brandon knew that however he approached the situation next would make all the differences, that their only route out of the tavern was through conversation. He knew they needed to leave, and he needed to make it happen as quickly as possible. There were on
ly three Redcoats to handle, and chances were that Brandon and his men would dispose of them quickly, but the question still remained of how many were waiting outside, around the corner, or any of the place that Brandon had not seen them hiding.

  “Look,” Brandon said, holding his hands up in submission. “We are not trying to cause trouble, but we are not a part of this group that ye speak of.” He gestured to Lachlan and Eamon. “We are traders, barterers, survivors. Nothing more. We only came here to fetch supplies, but if we have caused any distress, we are more than willing to leave.”

  Lord Cutler walked toward Brandon, his booted feet thudding against the floorboards and resounding through the tavern. The only patrons slowly retreated away, huddling at a table in the corner of the room and not daring to make any kind of eye contact with Cutler or his men.

  “I think,” Lord Cutler said, “that I will lock you away until I figure out for sure who you. I don’t like you, Highlander. I don’t trust you. You reek of dishonesty, and I might just kill you even after I figure out who you and your men are.”

  Brandon sensed that the negotiations were well past the point of failing, so he responded by pulling his sword—but he only managed to bring it partway out before Cutler kicked him to the ground.

  Eamon and Lachlan prepared to step in, but two Redcoats waiting in the dark behind them came up behind them swiftly and pressed the tips of their swords gently near their spines.

  “Let’s not spill blood just yet,” Cutler said. “I think that would be easier, don’t you?”

  Lachlan and Eamon looked to Brandon, laying on his back with his hands held up. He nodded grimly to the two of them, Lachlan and Eamon then reluctantly dropping their swords with a thud to the floorboards as Cutler stood directly over Brandon.

  “Now,” Lord Cutler said. “Let’s see who exactly you are, Highlander.”

  Cutler raised his booted foot, brought it up high, and made contact with his heel on the side of Brandon’s head, Brandon’s senses shutting off and his world immediately turning dark in the blink of an eye.

  Chapter Ten

  Sean tilted his head toward the heavens as he rode side-by-side with Rose. The sun was peeking out as it drifter closer into the west, the day in the midst of beginning to come to an end. We should have run into Brandon by now.

  Sean knew there was a multitude of reasons that could have been contributing to their delay in running into Brandon—but his senses nonetheless were piqued and feeling like he was almost sniffing out something dire in the air as they approached an opening in the forest that spill out into a brief break of open fields.

  “How far are we from this village?” Rose asked. “The day grows late. We’ve seen no sign of Brandon.”

  “If he gathered supplies,” Sean said, “then it is no doubt wearing down the horses slightly. That means it’ll take more time for him to make his return.”

  Rose shook her head. “No. Brandon is a fast rider. He would have returned by now. Something is wrong.”

  “Don’t immediately let yer mind jump to dire thoughts.”

  “You’ll forgive me if the events of the past few days have my fears slightly elevated.”

  Sean let his gaze drift and land on Rose for a brief moment as she closed her eye and ran her fingers through her hair. The sun in its duller state of vibrance still effectively basked her in a kind of divine glow, and Sean couldn’t help but feel part of him dissolve into a susceptive state of admiring her.

  He blinked, refocusing his attention back to the terrain in front of. There is no need to act like a fool, his mind gibbered, …But you have not laid with a woman in quite some time…But, so what? When has that concerned before?...Because something makes this one different…Enough of this! Yer mind should not be thinking of is. There is no more discussion on the matter.

  “What was yer dream?” Sean heard Rose ask.

  He rolled his eyes. “Ye are still focusing yer attention on that?”

  “A man of yer kind has a past. To me, it looks like one that haunts ye.”

  “Everyone has a past. Ye’ll indulge me in one or two occasional nightmares as a result.”

  Rose shrugged. “I do not blame ye. I was just curious.”

  “Do ye not think?” Sean said. “That we keep running into the same problem?”

  Rose squinted her confusion. “What do you mean?”

  “About not making things personal.”

  “I am maintaining that agreement.”

  “Yet, ye still ask questions ye said ye would not ask.”

  Rose huffed. “Forget it,” she said with a wave of her hand. “I’m just trying not to think about why Brandon is delayed.”

  Sean didn’t know if Rose was being forthright with what she said, at least it not being the whole truth of why she was asking. He was feeling the same way she did: curious, captivated, somewhat yearning to know more about her. He was not thrilled about feeling that way, but it was happening, nonetheless. Just distract, he pondered. Don’t allow her to get on the subject. Don’t acknowledge it, if need be.

  But Sean didn’t need to deviate in the moments that followed, the slow-building rumble of hoofbeats approaching them from behind cause all heads to swivel around to make out the reason behind the noise.

  Rose drew breathing, sitting up with an exaggerate posture as she looked behind her. “Riders approach,” she said.

  “Aye,” Sean replied. “And I have a feeling we don’t want to run into them.”

  The gathering hoofbeats built to a pound that the ground shook, the numbers of the incoming riders clearly outmatching Sean and Rose’s people five-to-one.

  “Everyone find concealment!” Rose shouted out. “Now!”

  “We can’t stay on the horses,” Sean said.

  Rose’s eyes went wide. “What?”

  “We need to set them loose. We can’t hide with them. Get everyone to take their supplies and cut the animals loose.”

  Rose huffed. “This is insane.”

  Sean pointed down the road behind them. “Over fifty men approach,” he said. “There is no way we can handle them, and I doubt that we’re being pursued by other Highlanders. This is Redcoat territory. They just tend to be on the other side of the road.”

  Sean watched as Rose debated, but she gathered herself quickly at clearly knowing that time was of the essence. “Cut loose of your horses,” she said to the group. “Scatter them ahead of us and find somewhere to hide.”

  The group of riders split down the middle, dismounting their horses and stripping them off their bags and supplies. After clearing off their belongings, the Scots shooed their horses away with slaps and claps and the horses rode off together toward the right and left of the field.

  The Scots then darted straight ahead where the tree line once against started. Riders rode off in pairs to the left and right, hiding behind dense shrubbery away from the narrow dirt pathway on all sides. Each one of the Scouts dismounted their horses and crouched down or slipped behind various areas of naturally grown concealment.

  Rose and Sean took behind a large tree, their backs pressed against the tree resting about thirty feed from the dirt road. They waited for what felt like an eternity as a collective of 50-plus-riders slowed their speed and began to ride together in a slow trot.

  “Slow through the forest,” a Redcoat’s voice called out. “Let your horses rest.”

  Sean closed his eyes, leaning into Rose’s ear and whispering: “Redcoats.”

  Rose lowered her tone. “I figured as much…”

  The Scots remained hidden as the Redcoats moved through, none of them paying particular attention to anything but the road ahead of them.

  Sean, curious to make out the leader, slowly turned in a circle so he could face the tree he was pressed up against. He kept his limbs tight as he moved, turning his body ever-so slowly as he slowly peeked out from around the tree.

  “Did any of you see those horses back there?” another one of the Redcoats called out. “There w
ere a few galloping away when we entered the fields.”

  “Probably wild,” another one said.

  “I was quite positive I saw saddles.”

  “Enough,” the one at the head of the group grumbled. “Cease this conversation.”