My Highland Rebel

by Amanda Forester

  Jyne stared out over the valley below. The meadows, grasslands, and fields were illuminated in the bright moonlight. If only they could plow the fields so they could be planted, her newfound people would not starve come the fall. She had tempted the Fire Lord, but she had no confidence it would come to fruition.

  A shadow of movement caught her eye. She strained to see what was moving in one of the fields. It was a man, working the fields, plowing long rows. Could it be the warlord fulfilling his promise?

  She stared harder. No. She knew his face. This was a man who must hold her in very high esteem to be working her fields in the middle of the night. Warmth flushed through her all the way to her bare toes.

  It was Cormac.

  * * *

  Hunting he could make them do. Repairing they could be tricked to do. He could convince them it was in their interests to leave the elders alone and not interfere with them. He might even be able to persuade them to be a little less repulsive at the table. A little. But the one thing Cormac could not get his men to do was to be farmers. They were Highland warriors, not crofters.

  Cormac worked by the light of the moon. It was a mild night for spring, and if the wind was brisk at times, at least it was not raining. He was trying to make the best of it, for in truth, it was hard work. He had found an old plow in the corner of the stables and harnessed it to one of their packhorses. An ox would have been better, but he didn’t have an ox.

  He struggled to turn the pack animal and line up the plow behind the beast to till a new row. He was a strong man, but still, his hands and arms were fatigued from grasping the wooden handles of the plow, worn smooth from years of work. His back ached from being jarred by every rock hit by the plow.

  He would have given up a long time ago, but the promise of a bath with Jyne Campbell was a temptation he was not able to resist. He would claim his prize, even if it broke his back to do it. He just hoped that nobody would see it being done.

  The horse tugged the lines, and he tripped over his newly plowed rows. How did the crofters do it? He struggled to lift the heavy plow back into line to continue tilling down the length of the field. He feared instead of straight, neat lines, his rows looked like the product of a drunken blind man.

  Core adjusted himself somewhat, leaning back to allow the horse to do more of the work, and instead of pushing the plow, he guided it. It was still hard work, but after twenty rows, he had learned how not to trip over his own feet, and after thirty, he was beginning to feel like he might have the hang of it. There was something almost peaceful about plowing the fields that night, watching the moon rise silver in a sky filled with the tiny points of stars.

  He glanced over at the bulky bearskin cloak and the horned helmet he had discarded by the side of the field. They were much too impractical for the work he was doing. Fortunately, Breanna had assured him that Jyne was fast asleep. The men had drunk much and gone to bed, Cormac himself releasing the watch, saying he would do it himself, so there was none to see him as he worked. This was fortunate, for he did not know how he would explain why he would leave the gates unbolted so he could plow the fields by the light of the moon.

  The plow hit something hard and jarred to a sudden stop, giving him a jolt through his body all the way to his teeth. The horse kept going, pulling him forward and causing him to trip over the plow.

  “Whoa there!” He pulled in the reins, and the beast came to a contented stop, lowering his head to take a mouthful of something he found enticing on the ground. Cormac examined what had put a halt to his progress and found a large rock.

  Cormac sighed. He suspected the Scottish soil grew rocks. He pulled out a small handled shovel and got to digging, working around the edge of the rock until he could pull it up. It was heavy, and wrenching it from the ground took considerable effort, but he was not his father’s son for nothing. With a grunt and a groan, he was able to pull the rock, a particularly massive one, from the rich black earth. His back complained while his arms strained, and he knew that, come morning, he would pay for these efforts.

  He turned to trudge the boulder to the side only to come face to face with Jyne Campbell. She wore nothing more than a white chemise and a red plaid draped open around her. The golden locks of her hair flew loose, and her mouth was open, her eyes wide and dark in the moonlight.

  “Jyne!” He dropped the rock.

  “What are ye doing? Why are ye plowing the fields?” She ran up to him and placed her dainty, soft hands in his calloused ones.

  He struggled to come up with something to say. She wasn’t supposed to see him; she was just supposed to wake in the morning and find that the work had been done.

  “I…I…” He couldn’t think with the wind blowing her shift about, pressing it to her body and then billowing out again. It gave him ample evidence of the perfection of her petite form. A gentleman would not have looked, but he did. Oh, did he look.

  “Ye should’na be out here at this time o’ night. ’Tis cold. Ye’ll catch yer death.” He was at once concerned for her to be outside in such a thin garment and reticent to encourage her to cover her perfect form.

  “Aye, but when I saw ye, I was so surprised, I just ran out to the fields. Why are ye plowing them?”

  An excellent question, one he was sure he would come up with an answer for, probably tomorrow, which would do him no good.

  “Let me take ye back to the tower. Truly, ye should’na be out here.” Focus on her; keep the conversation off of what you’re doing. Maybe she wouldn’t notice the horse or the plow. He glanced around to note where he had discarded his cloak and helm. He spotted the bearskin cloak next to the horned helmet, the large curved horns bleached pale and stark white in the moonlight. There was no denying what that was. If she saw it, all was lost.

  “Och, ye’re a dear sweet man. Ye knew that false warlord would ne’er help me, so ye came instead to do it at night, the only time ye could do it wi’out fear o’ being hindered by those evil men. Ye’re the dearest, kindest man I’ve ever known.” Admiration shone in her eyes, and he felt himself drowning in it.

  No one had ever looked at him the way she did. Most saw him only as the odd son of a warlord, despised on one side for his tender heart and penchant for book learning, or on the other side as the demon spawn of the hellion warlord. No one had ever looked at him with admiration. He drank it in—drank it down to the dregs like a man dying of thirst. It didn’t matter that she was completely wrong about him.

  Except…it did.

  What would he do to be worthy of that genuine admiration? He shook his head. He would never be worthy of her. There was nothing he could do to gain her true admiration, so he must steal it from her by playing her false.

  “Nay, do not shake yer head and deny yer true nature. Ye canna deny that ye’ve been plowing these fields for me, for my people.” She caught herself on that last statement, but she was right the first time. Though he did wish to help the Ranalds and felt guilty for eating through their stores, Jyne was the main reason he was standing next to a plow in the middle of the night.

  “I did it for ye.”

  “Thank ye.” Her fingers closed around his, and she gave his hand a squeeze. “Thank you so much. Ye dinna ken what this means to me.”

  He smiled at her, basking in the warmth of her compliments, and placed a warm hand over her cold ones. He could not say anything, for he knew if he spoke, the spell might be broken, and she would see through to the wretchedness of his soul.

  “Look how far ye’ve gotten.” She began to scan the fields, turning her head toward the discarded helmet.

  He quickly reached an arm around her, blocking her view from the incriminating horns. “’Tis naught.”

  “Och, but it is!” She tried to turn again, and he knew he had to stop her somehow, or he would be discovered.

  He drew her close for a kiss. At first, he only meant to distract her
, turn her away from the pile of shame on the side of the field. Then she kissed him back.

  Everything changed. Warmth spread through him, chasing away every ache, every pain, until he felt he could fly. She wrapped her arms around him and pressed closer. Her perfect body, shielded only by the thinnest of chemises, was revealed to him in a manner that made him weak in the knees. He slid a hand down her back and cupped her beautiful, rounded backside. He was taking generous liberties, and he knew with every fiber of his being that her brother would kill him for it, but the knowledge only emboldened him. If he was going to die, he might as well make it worth his while. He drew her closer and deepened the kiss. He had never experienced anything so beautiful, so passionate, or so tender.

  He was completely undone.

  “Oh,” she said when she was finally allowed speech once more. She trembled slightly in his arms, but her cheeks blushed pink, and she no longer felt cold.

  “Forgive me, my lass. I take advantage.”

  “Aye, ye do, my lad.” But she did not look terribly disappointed by it.

  “I’m not a good man, I tell ye the truth. Ye should have naught to do with me, and that’s the truth too.”

  “I shall decide on that count, if ye please. And it pleases me to bestow upon ye a token o’ my affection for the service ye’re doing for myself and these poor people.”

  “If that’s just a token, I canna imagine what a full measure of yer thanks would be.” Actually, he could imagine it, was imagining it, and probably would be imagining it for the rest of his life.

  A slow, determined smile spread across her face. “Since ye’re the one who has done the work, ’tis only fair that ye receive the promised reward.”

  “Truly?” He was going to get that bath after all. He suddenly remembered that he was not supposed to know what the promised reward was. “And what might that be?”

  “Come to me this evening when ye’ve completed yer task, and ye winna be disappointed.” She gave him a coy smile, and he knew he would plow his way from here to Edinburgh if it meant a chance to be with her.

  “As ye wish.” He noted that the reward was the same for him as it was for the warlord—payment after the job was done. She was no fool, this Jyne Campbell.

  “I do wish,” she whispered. She gave him a chaste peck on the cheek, but one that promised more.

  He watched as she ran barefoot back to the tower.

  Twenty-three

  “What are ye doing?”

  Core jerked himself up. He must have dozed off over the plow. He had wanted to complete the plowing in one night, but it was an impossible task, and he was only half done. He stared at the face of Bran, slowly coming into focus. He had been up all night, and now the sun’s rays clearly illuminated his actions for all to see.

  How was he going to explain this?

  “What are ye doing here? Get back to the keep,” demanded Cormac to the utterly unimpressed Bran. Behind him, more of the men were emerging from the gates of Kinoch and wandering into the fields to see what he was doing.

  “Has she turned ye into a crofter, ye milk-livered fool?”

  “Nay!” True, the plow looked incriminating…but if Bran knew Core had made up the story about the treasure and now was helping Jyne by tilling the soil, Bran would march back to Red Rex, and everything, literally, would be lost.

  Bran folded his arms before him. “What. Are. Ye. Doing?” He could not be any clearer.

  “I…I…” Core’s mind went blank. What was he to say? Help, Lord, help! Suddenly, inspiration flashed. “I wish ye would’na bring all the men out here.”

  “Why?” Bran narrowed his eyes.

  Cormac leaned closed to Bran and lowered his voice. “I dinna wish so many about when we find it.”

  Bran’s face registered disbelief, but still there was a glint of interest. “Find it? The treasure, ye mean?”

  “Aye. The Templars buried it. Most likely in one of the planting rows. I’m turning over the soil so I can find it. And I wish to do it alone, so if ye’ll excuse me.” Core flicked the leads, and the tired horse began to plod forward once more.

  “Hold, now. Ye’re no’ thinking o’ keeping all the treasure for yerself?”

  “It belongs to the one who finds it,” called Core without looking back to see what color Bran had turned.

  “Nay! If there is treasure to be found, I’ll be here to find it.” Bran rolled up his sleeves.

  Dubh came up behind Bran. “What are ye doing?”

  Bran said nothing. More men came around.

  Dubh grabbed the plow with one massive hand, holding it still even as the horse pulled. “What do ye think ye’re doing?” demanded the large man.

  Cormac sighed as if being pressured into an unwanted confession. “Bran is helping me search for the Templar treasure, which may be buried somewhere in these fields.”

  “Ye heard that lads?” shouted Dubh. “The treasure be here!” He began to lift rocks and look underneath.

  The men cheered and ran forward, looking through the freshly tilled dirt.

  “Nay, no’ like that. We need to search in a systematic manner.” Core smiled. Within a few minutes, another plow had been located, and teams were carefully tilling the fields in neat, straight lines while other men followed behind, looking for treasure by poking sticks down into the freshly tilled soil. Had there been treasure in Kinoch, Core was certain they would have found it.

  Core smiled at his success, though he could barely keep his eyes open. He staggered back to his solar. He would get a few minutes nap and then go help Luke hide the books. Finally, something was going his way.

  Thank ye.

  * * *

  Where was he?

  Luke paced back and forth in the morning light. He had stayed up all night. First, he made sure that his fellow monks were warned to take flight. Then he determined to rescue his precious books, scrolls, and manuscripts. He could not let them see the flames. Impossible.

  The monks had taken what they could, but much remained. Luke had borrowed a cart and loaded it up to take his precious cargo to safety. But where could he go? And where was Cormac?

  Luke prided himself on excellent self-control. He had dedicated himself to learning and faith, away from the trials of life. Yet here he was, all because he refused to let two of his precious scrolls go to a thief. A thief who had now put his entire collection at risk. A thief who had lied to save Luke’s life.

  A thief who was not here when he promised he would be!

  Luke’s regard for Cormac shifted back and forth as swiftly as the swirling wind. He could not afford to wait any longer. He needed to get the books to safety. But where?

  Hours later, Luke crouched in the brush, watching Kinoch Abbey. He had approached from the side, hoping to avoid detection. But how was he to get inside?

  A lone, cloaked figure appeared at the postern gate. Luke crouched down farther in the brush and hoped the horse and cart would be hidden where he had left them behind a thick copse of trees. The figure looked both ways, then ran straight for him. Luke pulled his knife.

  The figure drew closer, and the cowl flew back, revealing Breanna. Her face was flushed from the exercise, and her red ringlets flew behind her as she ran. He stood up in surprise.

  “Breanna!”

  “Brother Luke! Whatever are ye doing hiding in the bushes?”

  “I am trying to find Cormac without drawing attention. Have I been seen?”

  “Only by me. I was on top o’ the tower, watching the men. They’re all in front. Ye’ll ne’er guess what Core’s got them doing.”

  Luke was not sure if telling him he could not guess was an invitation to speculate or not, so he paused, unclear of the social convention.

  She smiled up at him with bright green eyes and continued. “He’s got them plowing the fields!”

 
Luke was sure he could not have heard correctly. “Plowing fields for planting crops?”

  “Aye! Is that no’ strange?”

  “Quite. I wonder how Cormac managed it.”

  “I had to know, so I went and asked one o’ them, and he said there was treasure buried somewhere in the fields, so they were plowing to find it!”

  “That was very clever,” admitted Luke. “But where is Cormac now?”

  “Sleeping. Jyne’s in the kitchen, happy as a lark because o’ what the men are doing. But why are ye sneaking about?”

  Luke paused. He was not sure he could trust Breanna. She was beautiful, it was true. He was a little surprised he found her so, for after his lost love, he had not so much as looked twice at another lady. Breanna was bold, vivacious, impulsive—many things he was not. But could he trust her? Did he have a choice?

  “I have some things I need to keep out of the hands of Red Rex,” he began.

  “And ye thought to bring them here?” She raised her eyebrows at him.

  “Red Rex will surely go to the monastery, so they cannot remain there. The brothers took as many of the books as they could, but they needed to flee quickly. A cart would hold them back. I needed somewhere close I could hide them. I thought this would not be a place Red Rex would look for them.”

  “By the saints, ye’re a clever one, ye are. But where are ye going to hide a cart load o’ books where my father would’na stumble across them?”

  “I thought to hide them in the crypt under the storeroom, but it is a bit far from the postern gate. I fear I will be seen making so many trips.”

  “Crypt?” Breanna wrinkled her nose in a manner he found rather adorable. “Nay, I have a better idea.”

  Luke followed Breanna through the postern gate, hoping he had not put his faith in her erroneously. He could not count the number of tales he’d heard of lovely women who lured men to their death.