The Warrior
Of Blood & Blade
Highland Heroes
Book Two
by Maeve Greyson
© Copyright 2020 by Maeve Greyson
Text by Maeve Greyson
Cover by Wicked Smart Designs
Dragonblade Publishing, Inc. is an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.
P.O. Box 7968
La Verne CA 91750
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Produced in the United States of America
First Edition February 2020
Kindle Edition
Reproduction of any kind except where it pertains to short quotes in relation to advertising or promotion is strictly prohibited.
All Rights Reserved.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Additional Dragonblade books by Author Maeve Greyson
Highland Heroes Series
The Guardian
The Warrior
The Judge
*** Please visit Dragonblade’s website for a full list of books and authors. Sign up for Dragonblade’s blog for sneak peeks, interviews, and more: ***
www.dragonbladepublishing.com
Amazon
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Publisher’s Note
Additional Dragonblade books by Author Maeve Greyson
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Excerpt from The Judge
About the Author
Chapter One
Northwest Highlands, Scotland
Outside the town of Inverness
Spring, 1694
Smuggling.
The very word sent crackling anticipation through him.
Duncan MacCoinnich worked the worn, leather reins between his fingers, hungering for this latest adventure like a man starved. Aye, this would be quite the change not only from fighting as a warrior for hire but also from helping his brother, Alexander, adapt to his new role as chieftain of the recently formed Clan MacCoinnich.
Lord Almighty, Duncan had never realized how stifling the everyday tasks of leading a clan and keep could be. Whilst he loved his brother and swore fealty to him without question, he was more than glad to bid all a fond farewell and set about seeking his own fortune. Adventure. Intrigue. Excitement. Aye, that’s what made a man’s blood pump and kept his heart beating strong and true.
He resettled his arse in the saddle and glanced around. The peaceful, wooded glade this side of Inverness stood in direct contrast with the heightened suspense churning inside him. Whilst he felt certain he had the wit to excel at smuggling, he had to admit, he had much to learn about the intricacies of procuring goods and eluding the ever-watchful excisemen.
No matter. He forced the worry away with a roll of his shoulders. Tenseness had set in, no doubt brought on by the long journey from Skye and his impatience to get to Inverness. The exciting unknown that lay ahead had him wound tighter than a bowstring. Aye, but that was the sheer beauty of it. The pleasure. The reward. He urged his mount to go faster. He would reach Inverness by late afternoon. At last, this newest quest was about to begin.
Sern MacDonald waited for him in Inverness. He was a good man. Smart. Fearless. Duncan couldn’t find a better teacher for the ways and hows of the fine art of smuggling, and he liked the man. The MacDonald of Skye had promised a healthy return on this investment of time, even paid him a generous sum in advance. With so much gold weighing down his pockets, the future looked promising, indeed.
His empty stomach growled. He took a deep swig from his half-empty waterskin and did his best to drown the gnawing reminder he hadn’t stopped for a meal in a while. Another gurgle sounded from his middle, his angry wame complaining about receiving nothing more than water. Duncan belched and made himself a promise. First order of business upon reaching Inverness, locate the best pub, down several pints, and have a good meal—in that order.
A woman’s scream shattered the stillness of the afternoon.
Duncan yanked his mount to a halt. Senses alert, he scanned the woods for the source of the sound.
Curses ripped through the trees, pinpointing the woman’s location.
Spurring his mount off the hard-packed, dirt road, he charged around the trees, pounding toward the sound of the distressed lass.
She screamed again, closer this time and to the right, an angry, keening sob of hopelessness drowned out by laughter—loud male laughter. Sounded like several men. Urgency drove him forward. Up ahead, he spied an opening in the trees. A flash of familiar red. British uniforms. The sight triggered the deepest of Duncan’s battle instincts. He hated the English. Raucous jeers and shouts echoed in tandem with the woman’s sobs.
Rage spurred Duncan onward. He drew a pistol and leaned forward in the saddle, hugging low against his horse as he slowed, easing through the trees. He promised himself by all that was holy, by the time he finished, a deeper red, a bloody red, would shade the bastards’ coats.
Three redcoats surrounded the girl. Two of them crouched on either side of the lass, squatting atop the ropes they had lashed across her to hold her tight to the forest floor. Her chemise and bodice were torn; her skirts were shoved up around her waist. The third bastard towered above her, standing at her feet. Wide as he was tall, the scoundrel looked the filthiest sort, especially in His Majesty’s uniform. With his trews shoved down around his knees, he staggered to the space between the lass
’s ankles whilst the other two guffawed at him and shouted lewd suggestions.
“Enough!” Duncan yelled. His agile mount cleared the last cluster of trees and burst into the clearing.
All three soldiers jerked about. As natural as breathing, Duncan took aim and fired.
The man standing closest gaped at Duncan. He clawed at his chest as a red stain spread across the grubby, white cloth of his shirt. The blackguard’s head sagged to one side, and his shoulders crumpled as he collapsed across the girl.
She shrieked, struggling in vain to shift out from under him. The two soldiers on either side of her shook themselves free of their shocked stupor, then scrambled back, arms and legs digging in the dirt in their effort to escape.
“Bloody hell!” one shouted. “She ain’t worth this!”
“The bloodiest of hells for the lot of ye!” Duncan shook the woods with a guttural battle cry as he shoved his spent pistol into the holster on his saddle and pulled its mate free of his belt. He fired, clipping the second soldier as the man dove into the bushes. Ammunition spent, the third man escaped without injury. Duncan’s rage burned hot and fierce as the fool disappeared into a patch of thick undergrowth running alongside a ravine.
Duncan leaped from his horse and gave chase, determined to kill them both for the girl’s sake. Bloody Sassenachs. Thought they could take whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted, however they wanted. He’d witnessed their brutality before. He’d send all three to kneel in judgment before their Maker.
He waded into the bushes, hacking away at the leaves and smaller branches with his sword. Both men had disappeared faster than a pair of frightened rabbits.
Duncan gave a hard look around the area. Nothing caught his attention but dancing leaves and the gentle soughing of the wind through the trees. “Show yerselves.” Teeth clenched, sword at the ready, he turned in a slow circle, scanning the ground for signs. Damned if the arse worms hadn’t managed to slip away.
Determined to find them, he strode into the ditch, slashing his way forward through the tangle of vines, grasses, and knotted bushes. Senses attuned to the slightest noise, he watched for the faintest movement or signs that would reveal his prey.
Erratic shuffling through the leaf mold caught Duncan’s attention. He veered to the right, chasing the sound, straining to keep focused. He spotted blood splattered across ferns clustered at the base of an oak. Good. The man he had wounded was bleeding. With any luck, the devil would bleed to death.
Cries for help came from the woods behind him. The lass. He stared at the way the men might have gone, then looked back where he knew the poor woman still lay trapped. The thrill of the hunt warred with the responsibility of taking proper care of the girl. He growled out his frustration. Perhaps the escaped soldiers would cross his path again someday; he’d mete out justice then. Best get back to the lass.
Jaw set, he sheathed his sword. He didn’t relish the unpleasantness of the task ahead. Who knew what the poor woman had endured or what her state of mind might be? He needed to get her to a healer or someone to help her. She had to have home or kin nearby.
He tromped through the woods, heading first to his horse. He removed his sword from the scabbard at his side and sheathed it to his saddle. No sense scaring the poor woman with such a weapon. He retrieved an extra tunic from his saddlebag, then unbelted his kilt. He shook it off his body and yanked on a pair of trews. The woman would need the warmth of his plaid and the covering of it. Such a simple gesture might offer the poor lass a little peace of mind. He’d dealt with brutalized women such as her before. Their handling took the utmost care. As he eased his way into the clearing, Duncan held up the kilt in one hand and the tunic in the other. “I have coverings for ye, lass. Ye’re safe now. I swear, I willna hurt ye.” Tossing the garments to the ground beside her, he grabbed hold of the massive corpse across her and yanked the fool away. “Bloody bastard.” Duncan dragged the scoundrel to the edge of the clearing and dumped him.
Gaze roaming wildly, the girl screamed and tried to roll away, yanking at the ropes binding her arms and legs. She coughed as the noose around her neck tightened. Her face turned red. The veins in her throat bulged as she wheezed and fought for air.
Duncan rushed to her side, tossed his kilt and spare tunic across her, then drew his sgian dhu from its sheath in his boot. “I mean ye no harm, lass, I swear it. Still yerself, afore ye strangle.”
He slashed through the ties, hoping by doing such that the one around her throat would gain some slack. It didn’t work. If he didn’t hurry, she’d soon be dead. He dug his fingers under the one tied tight around her throat. If he cut her, he cut her, he had to get her free. He sliced through the last of the frayed rope and yanked it away, flinching as he saw the burn the binding had left around her neck. The poor lass would carry that mark for a while.
Curling into a tight ball around the kilt and tunic, she rolled to her knees and scrambled to take cover in the bushes. As she moved, she shot a terrified look back at Duncan.
He held up both hands and backed away to the edge of the clearing, heart aching for the poor woman and all she must have endured. The girl couldn’t be in her right mind and understandably so. At the moment, she didn’t know who she could trust or not.
“I willna hurt ye, lass,” he said in a soft, coaxing tone, lowering himself to a kneeling position, while keeping both his hands where she could see them if she bothered to look. “I am alone. No others travel with me, so ye dinna have to worry. I shall sit right here until ye feel ready to tell me where I can take ye to get ye some aid.”
Her sobs grew softer behind the wall of trembling leaves.
Duncan glanced around the clearing. Where had the bastards taken hold of her? Had they kidnapped her and brought her here to defile her? Where were their horses? This clearing wasn’t that far from Inverness but was certainly too far for three drunken sods to carry away a strong lassie without being noticed. He wished he could search the area for their mounts, but he’d promised the girl he’d stay put. He couldn’t break his word, not even over something as small as that. To her, his word meant all the difference between trusting him or not.
“My name is Duncan,” he called out. “Duncan MacCoinnich at yer service, m’lady.” He looked around the woods and tried his damnedest to come up with something to say to put the woman at ease. “My brother is chieftain to Clan MacCoinnich. Alexander MacCoinnich be his name. He married Catriona Neal. Do ye ken the keep and the small clan what was once the Neal stronghold over on Ben Nevis? ’Tis Clan MacCoinnich now. They raise the finest horses.” Horses. Shite. What the hell was he thinking? Why in God’s good name would the poor, bedeviled girl care about horses?
Duncan huffed out a frustrated breath. He didn’t fare well with the calming of poor frightened lasses. Charming them? Aye—at least, most the time. What else might he say to put her at ease and get her to trust him?
The screen of leaves ceased trembling. Either she was listening to everything he said, or she had fainted dead away. Duncan feared it was the latter. “What be yer name, lass?”
A sharpness poked hard between his shoulder blades, encouraging him to arch his back and lift his hands. He risked a glance back, regretting that decision as the steel jabbed harder. “Lass?”
“Tilda Mackenzie,” came her weak whisper. “Hold fast for now, aye?” The girl’s voice rasped worse than a rusty hinge. With all her screaming and the damage to her throat, ’twas little wonder she could speak at all.
“Tilda Mackenzie,” Duncan repeated, taking great care not to move nor look back at her again. “’Tis my honor to meet ye, Mistress Tilda Mackenzie. Such a fine, courageous lassie. I only regret that I didna find ye sooner and save ye from such vile distress. I swear, I regret it sorely.”
“Ye may call me Tilda,” she whispered. “Did ye kill the other two rogues?”
Duncan considered lying and telling her yes to save her from worrying, but it had been his experience that such untruths always came ba
ck and bit him in the arse. “Nay, Mistress Mackenzie. The bastards slipped away. I fear I failed ye on that count, m’lady.”
“My name is Tilda, ye ken? Not milady. At least ye killed the one,” she said as she stepped out into the open. She took up a stance in front of him, wearing his tunic pulled down over her ripped clothing and his kilt wrapped around her shoulders. A dagger in one hand, she clutched her chest with the other, keeping his plaid tight around her. “For that task, I thank ye and owe ye greatly.”
Still keeping his hands aloft and well in sight, Duncan rose to his feet and gave her a polite nod. “Ye owe me nothing, m’lady. No gentleman would turn his back on a woman in such distress.”
“Call me Tilda, ye ken?” Her bottom lip, split and bloody, quivered as she hitched in a sharp breath. Her eyes, a rare turquoise color, were magnified and rendered all the more startling by her tears. “’Tis my displeasure to inform ye that gentlemen are few in this part of Scotland. Or at least, that has been my experience of late.” She wavered to one side, stumbling as though about to fall.
Duncan reached out to catch her.
“Dinna touch me!” She reeled to one side, holding her blade at the ready.
He took a step back and motioned toward his horse. “I have water. Not verra much but some. Pray let me fetch it for ye, aye?”
The lass looked about to faint. Her dark hair, more than likely once pulled back in a braided bun but now ragged, hung down across one of her shoulders. His tunic, too large for her small frame, reached to the hem of her skirts that peeped out from under the edges of his plaid. A swelling bruise was forming high on one of her cheeks, and the raw mark around her throat was oozing blood. She needed comforting before they set off to find help.
“Water, lass,” he repeated in the gentlest tone he could manage. “Rest yerself on this stump whilst I fetch it for ye, aye?”
Her troubled gaze shifted to the dead man. “Nay. Dinna leave me here.”
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