A Heartless Laird

by McQueen, Hildie

  A Heartless Laird

  Clan Ross

  Book One

  Hildie McQueen

  Copyright © 2019 by Hildie McQueen

  Kindle Edition

  Published by Dragonblade Publishing, an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Additional Dragonblade books by Author Hildie McQueen

  Clan Ross Series

  A Heartless Laird

  *** 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

  Additional Dragonblade books by Author Hildie McQueen

  Note from the Author

  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

  About the Author

  Note from the Author

  Clan Ross was well known for being led by a string of cruel and unsavory lairds during the late fourteenth and throughout the fifteenth centuries. A couple of the lairds were imprisoned, and the king ordered their deaths. This is not the clan I will be writing about.

  The fictional Clan Ross will be a bit different. Although my lairds and warriors will be brave and brutal fighters, the actions of the characters will be explained and their reasonings will have cause, to them at least.

  1580 Highlands of Scotland north of Inverness

  All the while Scotland wars with the English, there is another war in the northern Highlands, a clash of two ferocious clans. Clan Ross and their mortal enemies, Clan McLeod, have ravaged villages and families all in the name of revenge.

  Chapter One

  Thundering of horses’ hooves vibrated the ground as the warriors retreated from the blood-soaked battlefield. A gust of wind blew over the field as if fanning over the dead and injured would add a sign of life continuing despite the errors of man.

  Two clans had battled fiercely, the battle ending by the fact neither side could continue, their arms barely able to lift the heavy weapons.

  The McLeod had called a retreat after spotting more fighters approaching from the direction of Ross lands. The reinforcements were mostly the injured warriors who’d been left behind and ordered to come later. But they were large in number.

  There were other men who happened to head by. But they were not part of either clan, simply a group of warriors headed back to their homes after fighting the English. After months of battling, the men were desperate to return home to loved ones and cared little what happened between warring clans.

  Clan Ross remained behind at the battlefield, claiming victory on that day where both sides had suffered almost equal injuries. Unlike other clashes, there were not as many dead. It was a miracle that only about a dozen men remained on the ground since the fight had been ruthless, everyone out for blood.

  Today’s battle was over; the war far from it.

  Malcolm Ross’ thirst was not quenched. As a matter of fact, dissatisfaction at the lack of a clear victor made him growl in frustration.

  Atop his steed, the bloody yet proud Highlander took in the field, his gaze moving from the battleground on past to the forest.

  Avenging the recent slaying of his father, Laird Ross, would take more than a few winning battles.

  The vision of his father being speared through the midsection formed in his mind every night. Malcolm had not been present, but he’d demanded to hear every sordid detail. Since then, he’d dreamed of it almost nightly until it was as if he’d been present. He had a clear picture of how the youngest son of Laird McLeod had run his father through, injuring him mortally. The vision replayed in his mind daily.

  In Malcolm’s opinion, it was his father’s demand from the grave that his death be avenged. Malcolm was sure of it.

  The loss of their laird had cut deeply through every member of Clan Ross, the mourning prolonged by the knowledge of how unprovoked his slaying had been.

  A proud, strong and fair leader, his father had been revered.

  Now, the helm of responsibility weighed heavily on Malcolm’s shoulders for he could never begin to fill the void his father had left. And for that, he despised the bastard responsible.

  It didn’t matter that he could possibly die in his quest to avenge his father’s death. Malcolm would continue to fight and would never be satisfied until Ethan McLeod lay bleeding and dying at his feet.

  And even then, if no one remained standing, would the ravine-deep hole within his chest ever heal?

  It would not be an easy feat, of that Malcolm was well aware. However, the McLeods had to pay with a higher price than he and his clan had. One way or another, he’d have revenge and he was more than willing to die if required.

  A bird called out from a nearby tree, bringing Malcolm out of his musings and he let out a long breath. Scanning the remains of the battle, he didn’t notice any movement from those on the ground.

  Several horses along with the injured lay still in the muddy field. Just then, carts neared as people arrived. Malcolm assumed they were a mixture of both clans. Once climbing down from mounts and carts, they moved with caution as if expecting to be attacked. A fair assumption as a wounded man acting out of instinct and self-preservation could be lethal.

  An old man seemed more focused on the animals than the injured men. He walked to a horse and stabbed it in the heart, effectively putting it out of its misery.

  Battlefields had a stench that filled the nostrils. Blood, excrement and sweat mixed with dirt wafted up when the breeze blew.

  Every time the wind passed over the area, the smell was carried toward where he was. Malcolm didn’t bother covering his nose but continued his vigil.

  It had been a particularly grueling fight, one that had definitely hurt his enemy and he was assured in knowing many more of them had been hurt worse than his own. Clan McLeod would not seek retribution for a fortnight at least and that was too long in Malcolm’s estimation.

  The fact it would be a while before he could seek the battlefield again disappointed him.

  However, there were far too many injuries and, admittedly, his own warriors were exhausted and required rest. Having battled for months since his father’s death, even the reinforcements from smaller clans were showing signs of fatigue.

  Having sent his warriors home, Malcolm and two guardsmen kept watch over the healer who’d come to search for signs of life in those presumed
dead. A waste of time in Malcolm’s estimation but he allowed it since it meant a great deal to his people. If one of his brothers lay amongst the injured, he too would demand for a healer.

  So, he reined in his impatience and ignored his own injury and remained upon his steed, standing guard.

  Nearby, there was a horse hitched to a wagon upon which four bodies were already piled. He glanced to it for but a moment, not wanting to ponder overly long at where he may end up one day soon.

  Would he, too, end up in a pile of bodies, on a cart driven by an old man to be buried?

  Despite the somber moment, he chuckled at the thought. Then he narrowed his eyes upon noticing an injured man lift his hand to get the healer’s attention. Someone was alive.

  From the profuse amount of blood still spewing from his midsection, the unfortunate warrior would, in all probability, not survive. The healer and one of the guards dragged the man near the same wagon upon which bodies were being placed.

  Malcolm didn’t bother dismounting to see who it was. His men were loyal to the end. This warrior, like those piled on the wagon, had fought valiantly and expected no special treatment.

  More movement caught his eye. Two women and a young man emerged from the trees. Probably scavengers.

  Then again, by the speed in which they scurried from one man to another, they were probably looking for a loved one.

  The trio searched for signs of life and didn’t rifle through clothing nor did they remove shoes. It was then that he noticed a cart left beside trees from where they’d come. He didn’t recognize them. The group was either a trio of healers for Clan McLeod or idiotic Good Samaritans.

  “Ride through the field and to the edges of forest once more and check for injured men,” Malcolm ordered his guardsmen. They immediately rode off to do as instructed.

  One of the women pushed hair back from her face. From the distance, it was hard to make out her features. However, by her body language, she was distraught as she knelt next to a fallen man. Then the other two lowered next to fallen men. Each quietly touched the faces of the dead men and positioned their hands across their chests.

  The older woman called to the others and they scrambled to a fallen McLeod. The trio then tore away the man’s tunic and inspected him. If the man was alive, he wouldn’t be for long.

  “Aye, Laird,” the healer motioned for him to come closer. “Could use a hand.”

  He urged his horse closer and dismounted, recognizing the injured man as a one of his guardsmen, a good fighter. Young and brash Ian McElroy was a likeable sort that had an easygoing nature. However, once on the battlefield, his sword skill was without reproach. Now the man was pale and still. However, his chest lifted and lowered, showing that he remained alive.

  “Will he live?” Malcolm asked, not particularly caring to hear the truth. “Ye must hurry about yer tasks. I cannot continue to remain here much longer. There is much I must do.”

  “I am not sure, be he deserves a chance. It will be just a moment, if ye can help me load him onto the wagon.” The older man’s flat gaze met his.

  Malcolm looked to the healer’s wagon. The man had managed to load four bodies with the help of a young skinny lad who was red-faced now from the exertion. “Where are ye putting him?”

  The healer shrugged. “Atop the others I suppose.”

  Ian had passed out and would hopefully remain so until they arrived back at the keep. If he survived the trip, then there was a possibility for recovery. By the looks of his bloodied body, he’d been hacked in the side and his left arm was almost severed. The man would lose it in all probability. And yet, the healer didn’t seemed fazed at the fact that Ian would have no doubt preferred to die than to live the rest of his life as a maimed man.

  Together, they lifted the injured man and made their way to the wagon. Once they neared, the healer motioned for Malcolm to lower Ian to the ground. “I’ll move the bodies over.”

  “He can come in our wagon.” A singsong voice came from behind and Malcolm whirled around, his right hand on his sword’s hilt.

  The greenest eyes he’d ever seen met his. The woman lifted her chin just a bit in a show of bravery, but the slight trembling of her hand told the truth. “I will care for him. I am a healer.”

  “Are ye a McLeod?” Malcolm snarled. “If so, be gone with ye.”

  If possible, her chin lifted a bit more. “Nay.” Then she quickly added. “Neither am I a Ross.” Disdain dripped from the words. “Ye were about to toss him in a wagon with dead men.” She looked about to cry, her gaze moving to the injured Ian.

  “Very well,” Malcolm acceded. He wanted to leave. Pain seared his injured side and his tunic was getting bloodier by the moment.

  Perhaps the fair lass was romantically involved with Ian. If so, she’d take good care of the warrior. “Where do ye live?”

  “The village there past the trees,” she replied, no longer paying him much heed. Her full attention on Ian, she’d lowered to her knees and brushed the warrior’s hair back from his face. For some strange reason, the action annoyed Malcolm and he huffed impatiently.

  “Send word of how he fares. I will ensure his father is aware.” He turned away toward where his horse was.

  “My name is Elspeth,” she said, and Malcolm wondered if she spoke to him or to Ian. He looked over his shoulder and, once again, was struck by the beauty of her deep pools of green. Like the darkest shadowed foliage around her, they held the promise of danger and adventure. Malcolm tore his gaze away for a moment. Realizing the tactical error, his gaze snapped back to her face. This time, he focused on her mouth. That turned out to be an error as well.

  She swallowed visibly. “Elspeth Muir.” Motioning with her head toward the older woman and young man who watched from a safe distance, she let out a soft sigh. “They are my grandmother and my brother, Conor.” The duo hitched their chins much like she’d done upon meeting him. Obviously, the Muirs were a proud people. It was something he respected, and he nodded in their direction in acknowledgement.

  “Send word,” Malcolm repeated, not wanting to remain longer. There was much to do as the new laird of Clan Ross and dawdling or holding a long conversation that did not involve strategy was a waste of time. Also, the pain was becoming unbearable.

  When he mounted and started on his way toward his keep, Malcolm looked over his shoulder. The Muir trio had already loaded Ian onto the back of their wagon. While the brother guided the horses, the grandmother and Elspeth rode beside the injured man. Both were hunched over Ian, seeming to be working on saving his life.

  If Ian survived, he’d not be able to fight again. With only one arm, it would be impossible to protect himself in battle.

  Malcolm wondered what he’d do if the same sort of injury happened to him. It didn’t take him long to admit he’d continue to fight. However, unlike him, Ian did not have the need for revenge coursing through his veins.

  Interesting that the Muirs had come to search for injured men. It was also possible they’d come with the sole purpose of finding Ian. If the lass had preoccupied the warrior, then he deserved the outcome. Women were a distraction fighters did not need during war.

  He searched his brain considering if any of his men were involved in any kind of romantic liaisons. There were two he’d often seen in what looked to be a relationship. If so, they’d be ordered to end the attachment. It would be the topic of discussion with his leaders upon his return.

  Relationships by his warriors would be banned until they conquered Clan McLeod.

  Chapter Two

  The wagon swayed from side to side as they traveled the uneven terrain back home to their small village of Kildonan, near an inlet of Loch Broom. Deep in the forest, the tiny village had escaped the clan clashes by being so secluded.

  Struggling to keep the wounded man stable, Elspeth and her grandmother rode mostly in silence. Finally, they traveled on a somewhat level road.

  “Ye shouldn’t have spoken to him,” Elspeth’s grandmot
her said in a harsh whisper. “He is a ruthless, heartless tyrant.”

  Elspeth had to agree with her grandmother’s assessment of Malcolm Ross. By the uncaring way he’d responded to her request to take the injured warrior, it was evident he’d not cared one way or the other if the young man lived or died.

  There had not only been disdain upon looking over the dead and injured, but also a sort of detachment. The man did not care for his own people or what happened to them. As a matter of fact, she was sure the only thing that motivated him was war and conquest.

  “I must admit, he was intimidating and…” she considered her next words. “Hollow, as if missing a soul.”

  Her grandmother shook her head. “Malcolm Ross is evil incarnate. There has been nothing but death and destruction since his father, the fair Laird Ross, died. Ye are correct, he has no soul.”

  “He is the laird now. I am grateful he is not our laird, but even our family has suffered because of him.” Elspeth proffered a cloth and wiped the injured man’s face.

  “However, ye are right, he did not seem to care whether this man lived or died.” Elspeth studied the young warrior. “So young, all of them dying.”

  “And for what,” her brother chimed in. “So that the lairds can boast of a triumph over each other.”

  “It should have been him instead of this young man.” Her grandmother brushed the injured man’s hair away from his face.

  “Grandmother. We are a family of healers, caretakers. Never should we wish injury or worse on anyone. Even someone as misguided as Malcolm Ross.”

  They resumed the trek in silence until arriving at their cottage. Her father and older brother, Gil, hurried over to help unload the unconscious man.

  “Boil water,” Elspeth ordered as they made their way to a room on the side of the house where they tended to the injured. “I need someone to help me.”

  While waiting for the water, Elspeth hurried to a table next to a shelf replete with herbs she’d picked and dried. Mixing a tincture of ground hemlock, bryony, henbane, and whisky, she stirred the vile-smelling liquid and poured it into a small cup. Then she turned to Ian, who remained unconscious. She’d begin the procedure while he was unaware and, hopefully, he’d remain so.