by Amy Jarecki
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Amy Jarecki
Preview of The Highland Commander copyright © 2017 by Amy Jarecki
Cover design by Elizabeth Turner
Cover illustration by Craig White
Cover copyright © 2017 by Hachette Book Group
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First Edition: March 2017
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ISBN: 978-1-4555-9780-2 (mass market), 978-1-4555-9782-6 (ebook)
E3-20161214-DA-PC
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
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
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Author’s Note
A Preview of The Higland Commander
About the Author
Fall in Love with Forever Romance
Newsletters
To my agent, Elaine Spencer, who rarely sugarcoats anything, but believes in me regardless of my flaws.
And to my talented editor, Caroline Acebo, who has a magical knack for bringing out artfulness.
I thank you both.
Chapter One
Hoord Moor, Scotland. 21 August 1703.
The dead Highland soldier stared vacantly at the thick, low-hanging clouds. Akira clutched her basket tight to her stomach. Concealed in the tall moorland grass, this man needed no healing. Now only the minister could offer help to redeem the hapless warrior’s soul.
Death on the battlefield bore none of the heroics she’d heard from fireside tales. Death on the battlefield was cold and lonely, dismal like the mist muffling the shrill calls of the buzzards.
And for naught.
Gulping back her nausea, Akira turned away. A breeze rustled through the eerily tranquil lea as if putting to rest the violence that had occurred not more than an hour ago. She scanned the stark meadow, searching for men who might have need of a healer’s attention. She cared not whether they were Government dragoons or clansmen from Highland regiments. Anyone suffering from battle wounds this day needed tending, regardless of politics.
A deep moan came from the forest beyond the tree line not ten paces away. She jolted, jostling the remedies in her basket. “Is s-someone there?”
When no answer came, she glanced over her shoulder. Her companions had moved on—women from the village of Dunkeld who had helped tend the wounded before red-coated soldiers marshaled the men into the back of a wagon. Where they would go from there, Akira hadn’t asked, but she hoped they wouldn’t be thrown in a prison pit, at least not before their wounds were healed.
The moan came again and, with it, a chilly gust that made her hackles stand on end.
Cautiously, Akira tiptoed into the trees, peering through the foliage to ensure she wasn’t walking into a trap. A telltale path of blood skimmed over the ground, leading to two black boots beneath a clump of broom. Had the man dragged himself all the way from the battlefield to hide?
“Are you injured?” she asked warily, her perspiring palms slipping on the basket’s handle. Could she trust he wouldn’t leap up and attack?
“My leg,” said a strained voice.
There was no disguising the pain in his tone. “Goodness gracious,” she whispered, dropping to her knees in the thick moss and pulling away the branches and debris that covered his body.
Vivid hazel eyes stared up at her from beneath a layer of dirt. Wild as the Highlands and filled with agony, his gaze penetrated her defenses like a dagger. She’d never seen eyes that expressive—that intense. They made her so…so unnerved.
“What happened?” she asked.
He shuttered those eyes with a wince. “Shot.”
Akira’s gaze darted to his kilt, hitched up and exposing a well-muscled thigh covered with blood.
“You a healer?” he asked, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“Aye.” She peered closer. Puckered skin. A round hole. “A musket ball?”
His trembling fingers slid to the puncture wound. “’Tis still in there. It needs to come out.”
Care of musket wounds far exceeded her skill. “I-I’ll fetch the physician.”
Opening his eyes, the man clasped her arm in a powerful grip. The pressure of his huge hand hurt. Gasping, she tugged away, but his fingers clamped harder, and those eyes grew more determined.
“No,” he said in an intense whisper. “You do it.”
She shook her head. “Sir, I cannot.”
He released her arm, then pulled a knife from his sleeve. “Use my wee dagger.” The blade glistened, honed sharp and shiny clean against his mud-encrusted doublet.
She shied away from the weapon. “But you could die.”
The mere thought of performing surgery after the loss of her last patient made her stomach turn over. And it had been Dr. Kennedy who’d carved out the musket ball in that unfortunate patient’s knee, though she’d tended the lad through his painful decline and eventual death. Regardless of the physician’s role, the man’s passing had taken a toll on her resolve.
“Do it, I say.” For a man on the brink of death, he spewed the command like a high-ranking officer. “I cannot risk being found. Do you understand?”
Licking her lips, she stared at the wound, then pressed her fingers against it. He was right; the ball needed to come out now, and if he refused to let her find a physician, Akira was the only healer in Dunkeld sk
illed enough to help him.
He hissed in pain.
“Apologies.” She snapped her hand away. “I was feeling for the musket ball.”
“Whisky.”
She glanced to her basket. “I’ve only herbs and tinctures.”
“In my sporran.”
The leather pouch rested askew, held in place by a belt around his hips. Merciful mercy, it covered his unmentionables. Moreover, he was armed like an outlaw, with a dirk sheathed on one side of his belt, a flintlock pistol on the other, and a gargantuan sword slung in its scabbard beside him. Who knew what other deadly weapons this imposing Highlander hid on his person?
His shaking fingers fumbled with the thong that cinched the sporran closed.
She licked her lips. “You expect me to reach inside?” Goodness, her voice sounded shrill.
“Och,” he groaned, his hands dropping. “Give a wounded du—ah—scrapper a bit o’ help, would you now?”
Akira scraped her teeth over her bottom lip. The Highlander did need something to ease his pain. Praying she wouldn’t be seen and accused of stealing, she braced herself, shoved her hand inside the hideous thing, and wrapped her fingers around a flask. She blinked twice as she pulled it out and held it up. Silver? Gracious, a flask like that could pay for Akira and her family to eat for a year or more.
She pulled the stopper and he raised his head, running his tongue across chapped lips. “Give me a good tot, lass.”
His fingers trembled while he guided the flask in her hands, drank a healthy swig, and coughed.
“I’m ready,” he said, his jaw muscles flexing as he bared his teeth—straight, white, contrasting with the dark stubble and dirt on his face. Dear Lord, such a man could pass for the devil.
The faster she worked, the less he’d suffer. With a featherlight touch, she swirled her fingers over the puncture and located the hard lump not far beneath the skin. Thank heavens the musket ball had stopped in his flesh and hadn’t shattered the bone.
Though she’d never removed a musket ball before, she had removed an arrow. Steeling her nerves, she gripped the knife and willed her hand to steady. “Prepare yourself, sir.” But still she hesitated.
He grasped her wrist and squeezed, staring into her eyes with determination and focus. “You can do this, lass.”
Setting her jaw, she gave him a sharp nod. Then she returned her gaze to the wound, quickly slid the knife through the musket hole with one hand, and pushed against the ball with the other. The Highlander’s entire body quaked. But no sound other than a strained grunt passed his lips.
Blood gushed from the wound and soaked Akira’s fingers. Gritting her teeth, she applied more pressure, pushing the knife until she hit lead.
I cannot fail. I will not let him die.
She gritted her teeth and forced another flesh-carving twist of her wrist. The ball popped out. Blood flooded from the wound like an open spigot.
The man jerked, his leg thumping. Akira dove for her basket and grabbed a cloth. Wadding it tight, she held the Highlander’s leg down with her elbows while she shoved the compress against the puncture with all her might. Looking up, she stared at his eyes until he focused on her. “Hold on,” she said. “The worst is over.”
Though he never cried out, the Highlander panted, sweat streaming from his brow. Not blinking, he stared at her like a yellow-eyed wildcat. “Horse.”
Akira pushed the cloth harder, the muscles in his thigh solid as steel. “The soldiers took all the horses.”
“Damnation!” he swore through clenched teeth, his breathing still ragged. Then his stare intensified. “I will…purchase…yours.”
The man could die with his next breath, yet he still issued orders as if in charge of an entire battalion of cavalry. His tone demanded she respond with instant agreement, but she could not.
“I can barely afford to feed my siblings. I have no horse. Not even a donkey—not that I’d let you have it if I did.” There. She wasn’t about to allow this Highlander to lord it over her as if he were the Marquis of Atholl.
His eyes rolled to the back of his head. “Buy one.”
“I told you—”
“There is…coin…My sporran.”
Akira glanced at the man’s sporran again. She’d have to sink her fingers deeper this time. Though she might be poor, she was certainly no harlot. Fishing in there was as nerve-racking as carving a musket ball out of the man’s thigh. With a grimace, she tried shifting his belt aside a wee bit. Curses—the sporran shifted not an inch.
And he was still bleeding like a stuck pig. “Even if I did purchase you a horse, you couldn’t ride. I’d wager you’d travel no more than a mile afore you fell off and succumbed to your wound.” Still holding the cloth in place, Akira reached for her basket. “Let me wrap this tight and I’ll call the soldiers. They’re helping the wounded into a cart.”
“Absolutely not!” His eyes flashed wide as he gripped her wrist. The man’s intense stare, combined with the hard line of his jaw, wasn’t the look of a pleading man—it was the look of a man who would not be disobeyed. “Atholl’s men must not know I’m here.”
She gave him her most exasperated expression while she wrapped the bandage around his thigh. Asserting her authority as a healer, Akira squared her shoulders. She was in charge, not he. “You ken they can help you.”
“The Government troops? They’re murderers.” He winced. “They’d slit my throat for certain.”
Since the battle’s end, she hadn’t seen anyone slit a throat…but then she hadn’t asked where the soldiers were taking the injured. She’d just assumed to the monastery to be tended by the monks. But the pure intensity of this man’s cold stare told her to do as he said. Beyond that, she believed him.
The hairs on her nape stood on end as she twisted the bandage like a tourniquet and tied it while questions needled her mind. If this man was as important as he seemed, why had he been left alone? “Who are you?”
“Merely…merely a Highlander who needs to haste back to his lands”—he drew in a stuttering breath—“a-afore the ill-breeding curs burn me out.”
She narrowed her gaze. A man of property? Akira wasn’t daft—especially when her mother’s larder was bare. “I’ll fetch you a horse if you pay me a shilling.”
“Done,” he said, as if such coin meant nothing. “Make haste and tell no one I’m here.”
Gulping, she glanced down to the sporran. She’d been in there once before. Besides, the Highlander was in no shape to do anything untoward. If it wasn’t for the need to care for her mother and three sisters, she’d call over the dragoons and let them see to this man’s need for a mount. But for a shilling? Ma would be so happy.
Akira’s fingers trembled.
Taking a deep breath, she reached inside the sporran. Her hand stuck in the neck, forcing her to twist her wrist to push deeper. Something hard flexed against her fingers. She froze. Holy hexes, she was shoving against the rock-hard wall of his inner thigh. She had no choice but to look down.
Dear Lord, please do not let anyone venture past us now.
With her hand completely buried in the man’s sporran, she looked like an alehouse harlot toying with his…unmentionables.
“Are ye having trouble, lass?” The man’s deep burr lulled with a hint of mischief, practically stopping her heart.
“No.” With a blink, she wrapped her fingers around a number of coins and forcefully drew her hand free.
Akira’s tongue went dry. Three silver shillings and two ten-shilling pieces filled her palm. She’d never seen so much coin in her life. No, she should not feel badly about asking for payment. After dropping one shilling in her pocket and returning all but one of the other coins, she held up a ten-shilling piece. This ought to be enough.
Standing, she hesitated. “What is your name, sir?”
A deep crease formed between his brows. “’Tis no concern of yours.”
He didn’t trust her—not that she trusted him, either. The only man she’
d ever trusted was Uncle Bruno. “I won’t reveal it.” She crossed herself. “I swear on my grandfather’s grave.”
His lips thinned. “You can call me Geordie. And you, miss?”
Geordie is no given name I’ve ever heard. Odd.
She curtsied. “You may call me Akira.” Blast, she wasn’t going to say “Akie.” Only her sisters referred to her thus. And “Ayres” would make him suspicious for certain. Her family might be descendants of Gypsy stock, but they’d given up their heathen practices generations ago. If Mr. Geordie wanted to hide his identity, she certainly would hide hers.
* * *
After the healer left, George Gordon closed his eyes and prayed the woman had enough sense to keep her mouth shut. After Queen Anne had rejected the Scottish Parliament’s proposed Act of Security, the entire country was in an uproar—and ready to strike against the Government at last. Yes, he’d agreed to stand by his cousin and challenge the Government troops. The queen’s Act of Settlement was nothing but a sham, created to subvert the succession of the rightful Stuart line behind the guise of Protestantism.
Thank God he hadn’t worn anything to reveal his true identity. He’d even kept to the rear beside his cousin William. After he was thrown from his horse, the skirmish had raged on and the clansmen had charged ahead across the moorland, leaving Geordie for dead.
Once he’d dragged himself into the brush, he must have lost consciousness until that wisp of a healer found him. He thanked the stars it had been she and not a redcoat. His lands would be forfeit if Queen Anne discovered he’d ridden against the English crown.
James Stuart may be exiled, but he is the only king to whom I will pay fealty. I would take ten musket balls to the thigh if it assured his coronation.
Geordie’s leg throbbed—ached like someone had stabbed him with a firebrand. But through the pain, he must have dozed again, because it seemed that Akira returned in the blink of an eye.
He eyed her sternly, as he would a servant—an inexplicably bonny servant. “Did the stable master ask questions?” he demanded, forcing himself to sit up. God’s teeth, everything spun. The sharp pain made his gut churn.
“Pardon?” she replied in a tone mirroring his own. Never in his life had he seen such a haughty expression come from a commoner. “’Tis a bit difficult to conceal a horse beneath my arisaid. Besides, I didn’t steal the beast.” She thrust a fist against her hip. “He asked where I came up with that kind of coin.”
