Thistle and Roses Collection: A Bundle of Scottish, Irish and English Historical Romance

by Eliza Knight

  There had been times he’d thought about ending it all. He always came back to the simple question that was with him now as he stared up at the large face of the moon.

  “Why am I still here?” he murmured.

  “Likely because ye havena pulled your arse out of the bloody trough.”

  Walter.

  Niall’s gaze slid to the side to see his brother standing there, arms crossed over his chest. “Are ye my bloody shadow? Come to tell me all my sins?”

  “When will ye see I’m not the enemy? I want to help.”

  Niall stared back up at the moon, silently asking what he should do, begging for a sign.

  Walter tugged at his arm. “Come on. Get out of the trough. Ye’re not a pig as much as ye’ve been acting the part. Let us get ye some food.”

  Niall looked over at his little brother, perhaps seeing him for the first time. His throat felt tight, closing in on itself as a well of emotion overflowed from somewhere deep in his gut.

  “Why do ye keep trying to help me? All I’ve done is berate ye for it.”

  “Aye. That’s true, but I know ye speak from pain. Not from your heart.”

  “I dinna think I have a heart left.”

  Walter rolled his eyes and gave a swift tug, pulling him halfway from the trough. Though Niall was weak from lack of food and too much whisky, he managed to get himself the rest of the way out. He stood in the moonlight, dripping water around the near frozen ground.

  “Ye have a heart. Ye have a soul. One arm. That is all ye’ve lost. Ye still have your manhood, aye?”

  Niall shrugged. Aye, he still had his bloody cock, but what woman wanted a decrepit man heaving overtop of her with his mangled body in full view.

  “I know what ye’re thinking,” Walter said. “And the answer is, every eligible maiden and all her friends. Not to mention the kitchen wenches, the widows in the glen, and their sisters.”

  “Ballocks,” Niall muttered.

  “Ye’re still handsome. Ye’re still heir to a powerful clan. Wake up, man. This is not ye. Ye canna let the loss of your arm be the destruction of your whole life. Ye’re not the first man to ever be maimed in battle. Dinna be a martyr.”

  “Says the man with two arms.”

  “Ye want me to cut it off? I’ll bloody do it.” Walter turned in a frantic circle as if looking for the closest thing with a sharp edge.

  Niall narrowed his eyes, silent, watching, waiting. When had his wee brother become such an intense force? Walter marched toward the barn, hand on the door, yanked it wide as if to continue the blockhead search. Niall couldn’t help following after his brother who marched forward with purpose, disappearing inside the barn.

  A flutter of worry dinged in Niall’s stomach. Walter wouldn’t truly go through with something so stupid, would he?

  When he didn’t immediately reappear, Niall’s pang of worry heightened into dread. Dammit, he just might. With all the changes Walter had made recently, there was every possibility that he’d gone mad. Well, Niall might wish to disappear, but not before he made certain his brother was all right.

  With a groan, Niall lurched forward, grabbed the door and yanked it open. The stables were dark and smelled of horses, leather and hay. He could hear a few horses nickering, and the soft snores of the stable hands up on the loft fast asleep.

  “Walter,” he hissed. “Enough. No more games.”

  Still, there was silence.

  He stepped farther into the barn, and the door closed behind him, blocking out all the light save for a few strips that sank between cracks in the roof.

  His feet shuffled silently on the dirt floor. Where the bloody hell had his brother gone?

  And why was his heart pounding so fiercely? He trudged toward the first set of stables, touching the wood of the gates. A horse nudged his hand with its soft muzzle, blowing out a soft breath that tickled his palm, and Niall’s heart squeezed.

  “Prince,” he whispered, leaning his forehead down until he felt it connect with the warm, solidness of his warhorse. Prince nickered and blew out another breath.

  Niall had not ridden in months. If not for his horse, he might be dead. But rather than be irritated Prince had done his job, he felt nothing but pride that the horse he’d trained from a colt into a mammoth had done his duty.

  After Niall’s arm had been severed and he was left for dead, Prince had nudged him awake, bent low and nipped at Niall’s legs until he’d managed to crawl and heave himself belly first over the saddle. Prince had taken him home like that, a bleeding sack of grain.

  Having thought him dead, the clan had been shocked and surprised to see him return, and that’s when the true battle for his life had begun. He’d lost so much blood, succumbed to fever, and stopped breathing more than once. Hell, it was a miracle he was still alive.

  Which begged the question—why, why, why…

  “He’s missed ye.” Walter was beside him, and Niall jerked toward his brother, seeing his outline in the dark.

  “Is that why ye brought me in here?”

  “Did ye really think I’d cut off my arm?” Walter chuckled. “Ye know I like to fondle a wench and drink at the same time.”

  Niall snickered. “Ye’re an arse.”

  “Aye, ’haps I am.”

  They were silent for a few minutes, Niall deep in thought as he stroked Prince’s soft muzzle. His mind was a torment of unanswered questions. “Walter, I…I dinna know what to do.”

  “Take it one day at a time, brother. But do take it. No more being locked in your chamber.”

  Niall nodded even though his brother couldn’t see him. A phantom twinge of pain rippled through the arm that was no longer there, and he stopped himself from moving to rub the spot, not wanting to humiliate himself in front of his brother. When would those pains go away? When would his body realize his arm had long since become bone in the earth?

  One day at a time. That was something he might be able to do. “I’ll have bad days.”

  “Aye. And good ones, too.”

  Niall nodded. He longed to saddle Prince and go for a ride but realized he wasn’t even certain how to mount with only one arm to grab hold of the saddle. “I have so much to learn.”

  “Aye. But as I recall, ye’re a fast learner.”

  “I’ll start training again tomorrow.”

  “Good.”

  “But I willna be laird. Walter, the right to rule is yours now.”

  “Ye’ve time before ye need to make that choice. Da is yet breathing and making a ruckus.”

  “Aye. But I want ye to know what’s coming. No matter what, I canna do that. I have to learn to pull on my bloody shirt first.”

  Walter slapped him on the back and squeezed his shoulder. “The lairdship is yours, with or without a shirt. Only thing I want is my brother back.”

  Niall drew in a long, mournful breath. “I’m not sure he’s coming back. Ye’ll have to learn to deal with me, the new me.”

  “New ye, old ye, still ye.”

  Want to read the rest of The Highlander’s Gift?

  About the Author

  Eliza Knight is an award-winning and USA Today bestselling author of over fifty sizzling historical romance and erotic romance. Under the name E. Knight, she pens rip-your-heart-out historical fiction. While not reading, writing or researching for her latest book, she chases after her three children. In her spare time (if there is such a thing…) she likes daydreaming, wine-tasting, traveling, hiking, staring at the stars, watching movies, shopping and visiting with family and friends. She lives atop a small mountain with her own knight in shining armor, three princesses and two very naughty puppies. Visit Eliza at http://www.elizaknight.com or her historical blog History Undressed: www.historyundressed.com. Sign up for her newsletter to get news about books, events, contests and sneak peaks! http://eepurl.com/CSFFD