My Highland Rebel

by Amanda Forester

  “Forgive me. I take liberties,” he murmured.

  “Aye, ye do.” And she flashed him a smile that made his heart stop.

  “I…I should no’ be out here in the open.”

  “Aye, do take care.” Her brow furrowed in concern. All he could think was that she looked adorable, even when worried.

  He took his leave and ran away, chastising himself for going too far. He needed to think clearly, but something about being in the presence of Jyne Campbell made that quite difficult. He was not sure what sort of game they were playing or whether he was winning or losing, but he did know she was trouble to him.

  And all he could think of was when he could see her again.

  * * *

  Jyne stared at Cormac as he walked away. She had kissed him. Kissed him. She’d kissed Cormac!

  She was not under the influence of any spell or potion. Yet when he looked at her, gazed deep into her eyes, her knees went weak, her heart began to pound, and all her intended no’s just faded away. She knew she was not supposed to go about kissing men, especially men she had met on the moor, about whom she knew nothing. What was she thinking? This was so unlike her. Maybe she had taken a swig of her own medicine.

  Jyne returned to the kitchen and began to pace. She was not one for self-deceit. She had kissed Cormac because…because…she wanted to. She wanted to very much. Before this momentous day, she had never before been kissed. The thought of pressing one’s lips against someone else’s had seemed a bit strange and not at all something she would enjoy. She had been wrong. Very wrong.

  Cormac was a handsome man, with his angular cheekbones and strong jaw. He was muscular, yet not in the bulky manner of her brothers. No, he was strong in his own way. This was not even his fight. He had no ties here, not to the land or to her clan. He could just walk away anytime, yet he had stayed to help her. He was an honorable man to be sure.

  Jyne smiled to herself with a sudden realization. All of her sheltered life, she had wished for the ability to show her worth. She had wanted the chance to show her clan that she, too, could be capable and brave. She had also secretly desired to fall in love in some wild fashion, as many of her siblings had done.

  Whether she liked it or not, she had finally gotten her wish. She had embarked on a true Campbell adventure!

  Twelve

  Cormac absently scrambled up the ivy wall and slipped into his solar chamber with a smile that never dimmed. He feared he might have a goofy grin on his face for the rest of his life. He should be thinking of what to do next. Instead, all he could think of was kissing a certain lass. She was wonderful. She was beautiful. No one had ever kissed him like that.

  He stared at the horned helm, discarded on the floor. If she knew that Cormac and the Fire Lord were the same, she would despise him. And most likely impale him on one of his own horns. He had won her kisses only because he had pretended to be someone other than who he was. Of course it could never last. Eventually, her kin would put a stop to it. With any luck, he would be long gone before they did.

  Trouble was, now that her kiss was on his lips, he doubted he could ever forget it. She had treated him with more kindness in a few short hours than his father or any of his ilk had ever done in a lifetime. Perhaps she could be convinced to run away with him. They could flee to some distant land where his father would never find them…and she would never discover his deceit. He would have no complaints waking beside her every morn. He definitely would have no complaints taking her to bed each night.

  “Cormac.”

  He could wrap his arms around her and—

  “Cormac!”

  Core’s delightful dream shattered, and he blinked at Brother Luke, who was glaring at him.

  “Aye?” asked Core, wondering how long he had been lost in his daydream.

  “I have been trying to speak with you, but you have done naught but stare at the walls with a stupid grin on your face. What happened down there?”

  “Nothing!” Core was too accustomed to covering his tracks to do anything but lie. “All is well. The men sleep. Jyne is well. No problems at all.”

  Luke raised an eyebrow. The man was no fool. “I am glad to hear it, but what of your plans? How will you get a treasure to save the monastery? You have not forgotten, have you?”

  Forgotten? No. Devised a plan? Alas, also no.

  “Have a plan. Working on it now!” More lies.

  “What is this plan?” Brother Luke was not easily convinced.

  “Um…well…we could…”

  “You have no plan.”

  “Something will come to me. Something always does.”

  “I do not need to remind you that a library of irreplaceable books and the lives of over twenty good brothers lie in the balance.”

  “Aye, I know it.” Core sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, pulling a bit to focus his attention. He needed to get himself together. He had to prove to his father he was a bloodthirsty warlord who did not care for anything but a lust for power and destruction, or Rex would burn the books—all his wonderful books. And of course, saving the monks would be good too, though they were not half as welcoming to him.

  Books had always been there for him, giving him companionship when he was young and alone. They had opened his mind to new ideas and perspectives. They had provided him the clues to unlock the mysteries of alchemy. They had not judged or abandoned him when the truth of his unfortunate parentage had been discovered. Many times, they had been his only friends. Truth was, he would give anything to save that library.

  In order to gain his father’s approval and stave off the attack, he first needed to earn the respect of his men. Thanks to Jyne, he now had an idea of how to do it.

  “The first thing I need to do is get the attention o’ my men.”

  “The men who treat you with utter disrespect.” Brother Luke showed no mercy in his observations.

  “Aye, those men. And to do it, I’m going to need yer help.”

  Brother Luke frowned. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”

  Core smiled. “Ye might. What do ye ken o’ alchemy?”

  A few hours later, Red Rex’s men were beginning to wake, rubbing their heads and complaining of a terrible ache. It was all the better for him. Core glanced toward where Brother Luke had hidden himself behind a tapestry. This had to work.

  “Ye all will swear yer fealty to me!” declared Cormac.

  “Ye want me to do what?” growled Bran. He rubbed his head and had a difficult time opening his eyes more than a painful squint.

  Cormac scanned the great hall, making sure all the men were accounted for and trapped within. He had shut and barred all the doors of the great hall so he could have some privacy with these men. He was the son of Red Rex. It was time to show them exactly what that meant.

  “I demand ye to swear fealty to me.”

  “Piss off!” growled Dubh to the grumbles of agreement of the men.

  “Feeling ill? I dinna care. Ye’ll swear fealty to me now!” Core’s pulse was elevated for speaking so boldly to these men, men he knew could kill without a second thought. He almost wished he had worn the horned helmet to give him the appearance of authority. He took a breath and reminded himself the point was for the men to see him as their leader, not his father.

  Bran snorted and took to his feet, the first of the men to do so. Even hurt, he was dangerous. “Who are ye to ask such a thing?”

  “I am the one who holds something ye prize, and when ye swear yer oath to me, it will be returned to ye.” Cormac leaned back in the master’s chair on the dais.

  “What item?” asked Dubh.

  Cormac merely smiled.

  “I’m in no mood to play wi’ ye, lad,” snarled Bran.

  “I’m no lad. I am the son o’ Red Rex, who I’m sure will be interested in how ye were subdued by a few old s
erving wenches.”

  “Ye’ll ne’er get the words out o’ yer mouth,” roared Bran and reached for something hidden in his boot. Except it wasn’t there.

  “Looking for this?” Cormac held up the hidden knife, the sgian dubh, the sign of the Highlander. To have it taken from a man was a great shame. Taking a man’s sword or his horse, or even his tam or his boots was one thing, but taking a man’s sgian dubh was taking his dignity.

  Core lifted a canvas bag from the floor and plunked it on the table with a metallic clatter. He had a bag full of them from all the men. He smiled at the sullen men and leaned back in his chair. “Ye will swear fealty to me, or I will give these all to my father. I’m sure he’ll be interested in knowing how I came to have them.”

  “Ye canna defeat all of us,” growled one man. “Give that back, ye filthy—”

  Cormac jumped to his feet, giving the signal to the hidden monk. “I am the one and only son o’ the great Red Rex. Defy me, and ye will feel the wrath o’ the Fire Lord!”

  Explosions rang out, with loud bangs in each corner, filling the room with sulfur smoke. The men jumped and held their hands over their ears, huddling together in fear. It was helped by the headaches they all seemed to be experiencing, which must have worsened with the noise, making them all wince in pain. The effects were only a mere pop of black powder, enough to make a loud noise, but not enough to hurt anything. Of course, the men didn’t need to know that.

  “Ye will bow before me and swear yer fealty. If ye do so now, I will grant the return o’ yer knives. If not, I will count ye among my enemies, and we shall do battle. Now, who is with me?” Core waited and held his breath.

  Nobody moved. The smoke slowly settled, and still no one said a word. Finally, Dubh trudged forward. “Ye’re the son o’ that bastard fer sure,” grumbled the large man, and he swore fealty.

  The next to come was a tall, blond-haired man with one eye. Next was a bald man with a ginger beard and enormous forearms. One by one, the men came forward and swore their fealty to him until only Bran was left.

  Bran walked up to Core slowly. “Ye surprised me today,” he grudgingly admitted. “I do solemnly swear my fealty to ye, but ye’ve a long way before ye’re a match for yer father.”

  Core nodded at the battle-hardened warrior and returned the man’s knife to him. To gain Bran’s allegiance was something. To keep it was another.

  All in all, it went as well as he could have hoped. Core strode through the great hall, the men giving him nods of respect as he passed. He paused at the door and donned his horned helm before unbarring the doors. The helmet still smelled, but he didn’t mind so much. Today, with the help of Lady Jyne and the good Brother Luke, he had defeated his own army. It was a good day.

  Thirteen

  Jyne was not one to be dissuaded by an initial setback. The sleeping draught had not worked as she had planned, but there must be another way to remove the unwanted marauders from her home. It was time to strike once again. Trouble was, Jyne had no idea how to oust the warlord and his motley followers from Kinoch Abbey. She paced back and forth in her chamber. After the debacle with the sleeping potion, she wasn’t sure what to do next.

  Making things worse, she had a difficult time concentrating on the problem at hand when her mind kept returning to her time with Cormac. She sighed and leaned against the cool stone wall, remembering his kisses. She had never felt such a lightness, a warm joy that spread throughout her entire body. He made her feel wonderful. Had it been momentous for him too?

  What if it wasn’t?

  What if it was?

  Jyne groaned and began pacing her chamber once more. She needed to forget about Cormac and focus on her current problem. She needed to get the Fire Lord and his knaves out of Kinoch before one of the elders or the young ones got hurt. She needed them out before she got hurt. Though the Fire Lord had left her alone last night, she had no guarantee he would do the same tonight.

  A loud bang and a popping sound startled her out of her troubled musings.

  “By all the saints, what was that?” she gasped. She ran down the spiral stairs in the direction of the sound. Had the Fire Lord used his dark arts to rip another hole through a wall of Kinoch? Was anyone hurt? She ran faster.

  She reached the large double doors to the great hall, but they were shut. A small crowd of elders and children was gathered around the door.

  “What happened in there?” Jyne asked Alasdair, who hobbled forward, a gnarled walking stick in his hand.

  “I dinna ken. The doors are locked from the inside.”

  Jyne heard shouting coming from inside the great hall, but could not tell what was being said. “Who is in there? Are any of our people in danger?”

  “’Tis the Fire Lord and his wretched band what’s in there,” said Cook, wiping her hands on her apron. “I saw them all go in, but none so far has come out.”

  “Mayhap the Fire Lord has rained down fire on himself and tore himself to bits?” suggested one of the matrons.

  “It would surely serve him right, but I fear we canna hope for such luck,” replied Jyne. “I think we should get the wee bairns hidden back away.”

  “Awwwww,” sounded a chorus of children.

  “’Tis for yer own safety,” chided the elderly matron.

  “But we’ve done naught all day but sit around. We want to play!” complained a child who looked to be about four years old.

  “I dinna want to go back there. It’s haunted!” cried another child.

  “And if these wicked men kill each other, they’ll surely turn into more ghosts,” said a lad with a glint in his eye.

  “What is this about it being haunted?” Jyne asked the matron.

  “’Tis naught but their imagination,” she said, walking over to her. “Actually,” she added when she was close enough to whisper without being overheard by the children, “I have heard it too. We took the children to the refectory to sleep and stay out o’ the way o’ the men. ’Tis next to the storeroom, which holds the trapdoor what leads to the crypt below.”

  The matron paused, looking about to make sure none of the children were close enough to hear her words.

  “What happened?” prompted Jyne.

  “I heard such noises, I could’na account for them. There was banging and pounding and cries of a banshee. Och, it raised the hairs on the back o’ me neck, it did.”

  “Did ye go down into the crypt to investigate?”

  “Lord love ye, nay, Lady Jyne. Why would I wish to meet wi’ a ghostie? Have we no’ enough problems of our own?”

  “Aye, ye’re right, o’ course,” replied Jyne, not sure what to make of the tale.

  The doors to the great hall flew open with a bang, and out strode the Fire Lord himself, his face concealed as always with the large, horned helm. The elders and children scurried out of his path. The man pointed at Jyne.

  “Why are ye here? I told ye to stay in yer chamber or the kitchens,” thundered the Fire Lord.

  Jyne raised her chin, defiant. “This is my keep, and I’ll go where I wish. Besides, I heard such a loud noise, I feared ye had torn another hole in one o’ my walls.”

  “Ye are mistaken. For this is my keep. And ye belong to me.”

  “How dare ye!”

  The warlord ignored her gasp and turned his attention back to his men, who crowded around the doorway of the great hall. “This wench belongs to me. If any o’ ye touch as much as a hair on her head, I shall call down my fire and rip ye apart until ye’re wearing yer entrails like a hat. Is that clear?”

  The marauders all nodded and mumbled, “Aye, sir,” showing more deference than ever before.

  “Bran.” The Fire Lord addressed a tall, muscular man. “Dubh.” He turned his attention to an overfed man, his sheer size intimidating. “I’ll have yer word on this.”

  “Aye,” the men replie
d, giving him a glare but complying with his request. Satisfied, the Fire Lord strode with confidence up the spiral stone staircase.

  When he was gone, Jyne was faced with the glares of the warlord’s men. Any trace of deference was gone, and she hoped they would follow the warlord’s commands in his absence.

  “Take the bairns away,” she whispered to the elderly matron.

  The matron nodded and motioned for the children to come with her. Jyne could detect some silent reluctance on their part, probably due to fears of ghosts and ghouls. After some hesitation, they all followed the matron away from the main hall.

  An older man with a brown mustache and a powerful presence, whom the Fire Lord had addressed as Bran, walked up to her. She took a step back, then another.

  “Dinna fear. I winna risk my entrails by harming ye,” said Bran in a low voice. Though his words should have been reassuring, his tone was one of warning. “I ken it was ye that tainted our meal. I’ll have no more o’ that nonsense in our food and drink. I may no’ be able to harm ye, but if any o’ my men get so much as a bellyache from our victuals, I’ll cut off the heads o’ all those in the kitchen, starting wi’ that cook and going down to the youngest scullery maid. Ye ken me?”

  Jyne swallowed hard. “I understand.”

  There would be no more plots with the food.

  The men filed out into the courtyard, and Jyne retreated back to the relative safety of her own chamber. She put a hand to her chest and took deep breaths until she could no longer feel her pulse beat in her ears.

  That man would kill her people without a thought, without remorse, and without any difficulty. What match were a few elders and children compared to a demon like that? She hoped they could hold out until her brother could return, though it would be at least another three days before anyone would come. Could they last that long?

  A soft rap sounded on her door. She opened it a crack, then opened it wide to allow Cormac to enter. Her heart began to beat loudly again, though for a much different reason. He had returned!

  “Forgive the intrusion, m’lady.” He gave her a hesitant smile. “I heard the loud blast. I feared for yer safety.”