The Highlander

by Terry Spear

  -Winning the Highlander's Heart: "Treachery stalks them at every turn as jealous suitors and scheming family set to destroy a love blossoming under the harshest of conditions." –Coffee Time Romance

  -Winning the Highlander's Heart: "At one point I kept waiting for the words, “Off with his head!” That’s how suspenseful this story got at one point."—Long and Short Reviews, by Xeranthemum

  -The Accidental Highland Hero: "Breathtaking settings, a sword-wielding, sexy Scottish highlander, a great plot, and as an added bonus, a happily-ever-after."—Love Romance Passion

  -The Accidental Highland Hero made me laugh. It has adventure, sword fights and daring-do with the right type of writing to make it come alive for a reader. ."—Long and Short Reviews, by Xeranthemum

  -Lady Caroline and the Egotistical Earl: "I got so caught up in the excitement and love story that I could barely put it down. I would highly recommend this one."—Clean Romance Reviews

  -A Ghost of a Chance at Love: "Murder, Mystery, a ghost and a handsome cowboy...A time travel adventure you'll not forget."—PNR, Paranormal Romance Reviews

  -Highland Rake: "A fun entertaining Highland adventure. This story was wonderfully humorous but also touching and emotional. Plenty of action, mystery and intrigue make it a page turner. I loved it!" Vonda Sinclair, My Brave Highlander

  -Highland Rake: "Loved the twists and surprises incorporated into the plot--amazing. Kept me turning the pages!" Judy Gilbert

  -The Highlander: “Her romances are the way they were meant to be with a battle of wills and with the most enchanting prize of all: true love.” ~Karen Michelle Nutt, best-selling author~

  The Highlander

  (The Highlander Series, #5)

  Terry Spear

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Terry Spear

  The Highlander

  Copyright © 2013 by Terry Spear

  All rights reserved. No part of this #may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

  Discover more about Terry Spear at:

  http://www.terryspear.com/

  Blurb:

  Anora, the shepherdess, finds a half-naked man in her bed, so what's a woman living alone in a cottage in the Lowlands of Scotland supposed to do? Prod him with her pitchfork to chase him off! Only the man is not just a traveler seeking her bed for a rest—but a wounded Highlander, who fights back, swinging his sword!

  Niall MacNeill is searching for a Frenchwoman of nobility to escort to his cousin's castle for safekeeping, when he and his friend, Gunnolf, are attacked by another Highland clan, seeking the same woman. The other Highlanders wish to sell her to the highest bidder—English or French—it does not matter.

  Niall takes refuge in a sheepherder's cottage to heal up from his wounds and discovers the shepherdess taking care of him may very well be the woman he seeks. He has no intention of doing anything but what his cousin requests of him—ensure her safety on their way to Craigly Castle—but when the lass so bravely wields her pitchfork at him, he is thinking of other, more interesting possibilities.

  Dedication:

  Thanks to all my wolf fans who have fallen in love with my medieval Highlanders! There's a little—or a lot—of wolf in all of them! The Highlanders—that is. Well, maybe my fans too.

  Also by Terry Spear:

  Romantic Suspense: Deadly Fortunes, In the Dead of the Night, Relative Danger, Bound by Danger

  The Highlanders Series: Winning the Highlander's Heart, The Accidental Highland Hero, Highland Rake, Taming the Wild Highlander

  Other historical romances: Lady Caroline & the Egotistical Earl, A Ghost of a Chance at Love

  Heart of the Wolf Series: Heart of the Wolf, Destiny of the Wolf, To Tempt the Wolf, Legend of the White Wolf, Seduced by the Wolf, Wolf Fever, Heart of the Highland Wolf, Dreaming of the Wolf, A SEAL in Wolf's Clothing, A Howl for a Highlander, A Highland Werewolf Wedding, A SEAL Wolf Christmas, Silence of the Wolf, 2014, Hero of a Highland Wolf, 2014, A Highland Wolf Christmas, 2014

  SEAL Wolves: To Tempt the Wolf, A SEAL in Wolf's Clothing, A SEAL Wolf Christmas

  Silver Bros Wolves: Destiny of the Wolf, Wolf Fever, Dreaming of the Wolf, Silence of the Wolf

  Highland Wolves: Heart of the Highland Wolf, A Howl for a Highlander, A Highland Werewolf Wedding, Hero of a Highland Wolf, A Highland Wolf Christmas

  Heart of the Jaguar Series: Savage Hunger, Jaguar Fever, Jaguar Hunt, 2014

  Vampire romances: Killing the Bloodlust, Deadly Liaisons, Huntress for Hire, Forbidden Love

  Table of Contents

  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

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  His side and the back of his head throbbed with pain and the sound of flowing water filled Niall MacNeill's ears. Where in God's wounds was he and what had happened to him? He opened his eyes to low morning light—made grayer by a thick mist. His mind, cloaked in a hazy fuzz, finally cleared enough for him to realize he was on his belly beside a river. He groaned, his head pounding, and he recalled the Murray clansman striking the blow that had knocked him out.

  But Niall wondered where in the world he was.

  He stared at the river, his thoughts so groggy, he couldn't think straight. The… the Scottish Lowlands. He must have been left for dead.

  The back of his head and his side burned.

  Gunnolf.

  He twisted too quickly to see if his Viking friend, raised as a brother, was nearby. Pain jabbed Niall where he'd been injured—a glancing sword wound in his side, and his head felt like it would split open if he moved again. He moaned a curse.

  "Gunnolf," he called out low, trying not to call attention to himself if any of the Murray clansmen were still about.

  Gurgling water slipped over the stones near his head, the rushing sound of the river in the deeper part, but he heard no voices. No sounds of human movement. Just the river's flow and birds twittering in a nearby tree.

  He prayed Gunnolf was well and not worse off than Niall was. Or worse… dead.

  His head throbbed with a perpetual dull ache now. Reaching up, Niall felt the back of his skull. A sticky wetness covered his fingers. Blood. His blood. His thoughts jumbled, he could barely remember how he came to be here.

  Ambushed! The brigands had struck right after he and Gunnolf had washed in the river, dressed in fresh clothes, and intended to sleep the night. The Clan Murray, he thought coldly, after they'd run into them earlier in the day and asked one of the men if he knew anything about a Frenchwoman living in the region.

  Another ragged jab of pain radiated through the wound in his side, and he reached out to scoop up some water in his hands and splashed it on his face, the cold river jarring him from his stupor. Devil take the bastard who’d cut him and struck such a blow to his skull that the man had knocked him out. The man most likely believed him dead.

  But where was Gunnolf? Niall had to find him as soon as he was able.

  He thought he heard the bleating of sheep off in the distance in the glen and roused himself to a sitting position. Pain in his skull and side
stabbed him so sharply, he fought drifting into a cave of blackness again. The groan he heard, he belatedly realized, was his own. Somehow, he managed to conquer the dizziness and focus again on his surroundings.

  Woods, green hills, jagged gray stone topping taller mountains in the distance, and the blue river behind him filled his view.

  Sheep meant a sheepherder would be nearby, and he could seek his help. As long as the man wasn’t one of Cian Murray's men. Though, he didn't think it could be as the Murray Clan had settled farther west, mostly living in the Highlands.

  Niall surveyed the brush and trees along the river, his gaze fixing on his sword half hidden in the long grasses and heather. He smiled darkly. He could lose most anything else, but he couldn’t live without his sword. Although not having his horse provided more of a challenge also. He needed him back just as much.

  Niall attempted to stand, and every move filled him with excruciating pain. He fought an overwhelming lightheadedness and the blackness that threatened to overcome him. After finally standing, listing to the side a little, he retrieved his sword and sheathed it. Then he began the slow walk in the direction of the sheep’s calls, remembering the task his cousin, Laird James MacNeill, had put before him. He and Gunnolf were to accompany the Chattan brothers and their kin on the way to see their McEwan cousin and his ward. During the journey, Niall and Gunnolf were to split off from them and continue on their way to the Lowlands, to the area around Banbh. There, they were to locate a French lady whose father had once saved James's life in combat during the Crusades and now needed the MacNeill’s protection—without alerting anyone as to their business.

  She was here, somewhere in the region, if Niall could discover her location. As soon as he had her in hand, he and Gunnolf would return her to James’s safekeeping. But he had to find his friend first. Once they accomplished the task, he and Gunnolf would find some other worthy cause to champion.

  For now, Niall concentrated on putting one foot before the other and not collapsing in a bloody heap in the tall green grasses again, worried about Gunnolf, their horses, and another encounter with Cian and his men.

  ***

  An impenetrable mist cloaked the lands in a chilly grayness late that morn, and the area appeared dark and more formidable, Anora thought as she returned home after selling several of her sheep at market in Banbh. A strange red glow in the sky to the north of her stone cottage caught her attention. A campfire? She studied the sight as she latched the gate to the pen.

  Her dog suddenly growled a low warning, and she turned to watch him, trying to discern what the matter was. His rusty brown and white fur stood on end, his long flappy brown ears perked up, listening to only sounds he could hear. He sniffed at the air, his white fringed tail stiffening. Then he sniffed at the ground.

  “What is wrong, Charlie?” Anora whispered.

  He looked up at her and wagged his tail, then turned his attention to the cottage again.

  Not taking any chances, Anora grabbed a pitchfork from the haystack. She had her sgian dubh tucked in its sheath at her waist, but she was afraid someone still might get the best of her if she used the shorter knife.

  Curses on anyone who might have slipped inside her home to steal from her, again. Just because she lived alone, did not mean she was without resources.

  Barely breathing, she crept toward the cottage. The tiny stones along the path crunched with every step she took, setting her nerves on edge. With the prongs of the fork, she pushed the door aside. The rusted hinges creaked, and the noise made her stop dead. Her heart thundered so out of control, she could scarcely hear anything else.

  The flap of sheepskin over the window on the north side of her house fluttered with the breeze, drawing her attention as Anora peered into the dim light. Not seeing anyone inside, she took a step into the main room. The door to her sleeping room rested slightly ajar, catching her gaze next. Her mind raced as she tried to remember how she’d left it that morning. Closed, she thought. Emitting a low growl, her dog still stood at the front door, and Anora frowned.

  “Some guard dog you are,” she whispered.

  Bringing her pitchfork back to the ready, she steeled herself and angled the weapon up. Holding her breath, she gingerly walked across the stone floor. Charlie ran into the middle of the main room growling more loudly this time, but remaining behind her—her rearguard.

  “Shh, you are scaring me more than anyone else, Charlie,” Anora whispered, holding her finger to her lips, fearing he would alert whoever might be in her cottage that she had arrived. Not that the creaking door wouldn't have already done so. Though if the intruder was still here, he was being very quiet.

  Panting, Charlie settled his rump on the floor and waited for her next command. Her hands clammy as she gripped the pitchfork tightly in her clenched fists, Anora inched forward.

  When she reached the simple slat door, she pushed at it with the sharp prongs of her pitchfork, but finding the door resisted her efforts, she paused, trying to figure out what could be blocking it.

  Hand on the door, she pushed again and found a chair held it partly jammed in place. She knew she should leave. Someone was still in the room. But it was her cottage. Well, she rented it from the local laird, but still, she had nearly always lived here and it felt as though it was hers. She had nowhere else to go and no one else who could take care of this for her. She wasn't going to allow it.

  Steeling her back, she again tightened her grip on the pitchfork. If she sucked in her breath, she could slip in through the sliver of the makeshift entrance.

  Heart thudding and holding her breath, Anora inched her way through the doorway, careful not to make a sound on the cobblestone floor in here. The windowless room was fairly dark, the scant bit of light filtering in from the main room, allowing her to see the closest objects, the bed and the small table next to it. Everything else faded into the darkness.

  Once inside, she saw a large lump of a figure sleeping in her bed, half-buried in sheepskin covers. Her breath escaped in a whoosh. She clasped her hand to her mouth to muffle her gasp. Even though she knew someone had to be in her sleeping chamber, she still couldn’t contain her surprise. Not when that someone was a large man—half naked!—and sleeping in her bed.

  Barely breathing, she lifted the chair and set it aside, careful not to make a sound. She opened the door wider to allow more light into the room so that she could see what she was doing better and so that she had an easy escape route, if she needed. Though she fully intended to make the man leave, and not be chased off herself.

  She took a deep breath and studied the sleeping figure. His naked back was to her, his broad shoulders muscled and holding her gaze. His hair was dark and curly; his head snuggled against her lumpy wool-stuffed pillow. Still wearing his boots, his big feet hung off the straw mattress, the covers reaching only to his ankles. His arms were well-muscled, way more so than her guardian's had been. Which should have warned her not to trifle with the intruder.

  She was still of the opinion that if she threatened him sufficiently, he would leave. It had worked well for her before—on two separate occasions. Not that the men had been so well muscled—or half naked.

  Then she frowned. What if under the sheepskin covers, the man was entirely bare? That would put him at more of a disadvantage, she decided.

  Courage gathered, she approached the bed.

  No naked wanderer was staying in her cottage—in her bed.

  When she reached a safe distance from the mattress, she poked at the still figure’s back with the point of her prongs. Soliciting no response, she pushed harder with the fork.

  The man quickly tossed the cover aside and leapt to his feet on top of the mattress. His dark brows were furrowed. His teeth clenched in a furious expression. His sword was raised to swing at his enemy.

  She shrieked.

  He towered over her, his dark brown eyes narrowed in hatred. He cursed. His Scottish burr was so thick that she didn’t understand his words. Or mayha
p he was speaking in Gaelic. A Highland barbarian.

  As soon as she truly saw the sword and the intricate carvings on the sloping steel cross-guard, realization dawned and her heart stuttered. He was a Highland warrior, not just some peasant seeking a place to rest.

  Anora shrank back, her gaze riveted on his naked chest, a bloody cloth wrapped around his waist, a blue and green belted plaid hung low on his lean hips. She should have been watching the motion of his sword. Instead, she stared at his bronzed, naked skin and the way the plaid hung so very low. She shifted her focus to the dark hair trailing down to his belt and disappearing beneath his plaid.

  Until he swung the sword, connecting with the wooden handle of her pitchfork, and then she refocused her attention. He yelled out at the same instant with a robust war-cry. Her heart nearly leapt from her chest.

  The sword struck the pitchfork with such force, the jolt sang all the way up through her arm, sending a streak of pain with it. The pitchfork flew across the small room, clattered against the wall, and dropped to the stone floor.

  Anora screamed, and then dashed to retrieve the fork, though it was hard to see in the dark. She considered running out of the room, but decided against it and would defend herself in the best way she knew how.

  When she grabbed for the farm tool, the man jumped from the bed. He ran only a couple of steps with his giant stride before slamming his boot atop the wooden handle of the pitchfork, cementing it firmly against the floor. He grabbed for Anora’s arm with his free hand.

  She swung her fist at him, connecting with his jaw. Pain radiated through her knuckles. She groaned and gritted her teeth. His jaw had to be made of granite.

  “Charlie! Get him!” She shook her hand as if that would get rid of the pain.