Desiring The Highlander

by Michele Sinclair

  The leader’s eyes flicked from Cole to Rob and back to Cole again. Finally, he spoke. “The gaping one doesn’t,” the leader finally decided. “But the dark-haired boy does. You understand every word we are saying, don’t you? Just who are you? A farmer boy wanting to play soldier?”

  His voice was deep and had a sick tone to it. The man had more than just a willingness to kill; he enjoyed the act itself. His question also proved he understood enough Gaelic to interpret some of Rob’s lies.

  Cole leveled his hard gaze and let all emotion drain out of him. He was not afraid of dying and it must have shown because the leader chuckled and approached, his cruel smile growing larger as if he just thought of a delightful game involving pain and death. The soldier pinning Cole down adjusted his stance, but did not free him.

  The leader swung his polished blade around and pointed it at Cole’s neck. Cole could feel Rob squirming and heard him choking. That’s when Cole grasped it was not Rob’s chest they were using to pin him down, but his windpipe.

  Cole felt as if the hand of God had swooped down and torn him in half. The part with any emotion, any feeling, was screaming to save his best friend, to do something, say anything that would get the bastard to lift his foot and let Rob breathe. But the other part—the part that controlled his actions—refused to move. Every emotion, every foolish hope and childish dream he had ever had, was shriveling, leaving only a cold, empty shell in its place.

  Cole stared in silent defiance as the leader slowly pressed the tip of his sword into his throat. Warm blood began to trickle down the side of Cole’s neck and then past the back of his ear. When Cole remained unresponsive to the pain, the metallic edge began to move upward, unhurried, to slice the skin. Bit by bit the blade carved its way up the neckline, stopping at the curve of Cole’s chin. The man was waiting for him to fight back, put up some type of resistance. His enjoyment rested upon reactions—a cry, a flinch, a whimper…anything to let him know that Cole was afraid.

  But Cole wasn’t afraid of dying. What he was most afraid of was living.

  The leader must have seen it. Somehow, he had recognized that one weakness. The man smiled cruelly, lifted his blade, and then nodded at the soldier to his right. A second later, Rob’s raspy gasps filled the air. No longer was his friend pinned, dying for lack of breath. The leader then pointed at Cole and said, “Tie up the bastard. We wouldn’t want him to suddenly feel heroic and get in the way of our fun.”

  Cole heard one of his ribs crack as a foot collided with his side, forcing him to roll over. His arms were yanked back as a coarse rope was slipped around his wrists, binding them tightly together. But not once did his bright blue eyes lose their lock on the maniacal leader as he walked over to his friend’s side.

  He leered at Rob and then returned his attention back to Cole. “I’ll admit that I had thought to kill you first, but I have come to realize your death means little to you. So I have changed my mind. You will watch me kill your pathetic farmer-boy brother and the slaughter of your countrymen. And then it will be your turn. Maybe by the time your legs and arms are tied to horses, you will feel more inclined to fight back.”

  Then, without any more preamble, the evil man brought his sword high up in the air and then straight down, goring Rob right through his stomach and into the ground. A scream filled the air. The strike was meant to kill slowly, painfully. Then the madman struck again, his crazed smile growing each time Rob shrieked in agony.

  Cole knew he was only getting started. The man would continue his merciless attack finding more and more ways to exact pain before Rob finally succumbed to his death. And there was nothing Cole could do but watch. He knew if he closed his eyes for even one second, the English lunatic would think he had won.

  Suddenly, a trumpet blasted over the strath and a man riding an armor-covered horse broke over the ridge. Pausing only briefly to assess Cole and then Rob, who was now writhing on the ground, he rode straight to the leader. “Lincoln wants you and your men on the west bank now.”

  The confidence the leader had worn just moments ago dissolved upon hearing the order. “The west b…” He moved to look over the ridge at the troops below. For the first time since locking his eyes on the murderer, Cole broke his gaze and looked out.

  The English archers who had lined the western flank, ensuring the doom of the Scottish cause, were gone. Somehow, MacDonnill had maneuvered a handful of men behind them and they now lay dead. The battle would now be fought between the English cavalry and Scottish spearmen, a much more equitable turn of events. Cole knew who was behind the miracle. His brother. Conor must have somehow talked some sense into MacDonnill, and the pompous laird, recognizing his perilous situation, had listened. The English numbers were still significantly greater, but there was now a chance.

  The English soldiers must have seen the same thing. The leader pivoted, ordered his men to get their horses, and grabbed his sword still protruding from Rob’s abdomen. But just as he jumped on his mount, he turned to face Cole. “This changes nothing. Watch your people pray to God as they meet with their end, and when I return, it will be my turn to listen to you beg for mercy.”

  And then he was gone.

  Cole collapsed and closed his eyes, listening to his heartbeat. He tried to feel something…anything. Fear, anger, remorse. There was nothing. Then he heard Rob.

  “Cole…” Rob’s voice was weak and close to death.

  Cole scooted awkwardly over to his friend. “I’m here.” He wanted to say hold on, I’m going for help, you are going to be all right, but each time he tried, the words got caught in his throat. All he could mutter was “I’m here” again and again, hoping to reassure his friend that he would not die alone.

  “Do something for me.”

  Cole swallowed. “What?”

  “Live. I have a dagger in my belt. Use it to get free and then I want you to make every English blaigeard pay for what they do today.”

  “I will.” Cole choked on the two words. Hearing his dying friend speak in such pain was making everything seem more real, more awful. The detached part of himself was slamming back inside and his heart was wrenching.

  “Don’t forget me and what they did. Promise me, Cole. Promise me you won’t forget.”

  “I promise.”

  “And Cole…” Gurgles of blood started sputtering from Rob’s mouth. “Tell my father…”

  But before he could finish the request, his eyes glazed over and Cole knew that his best friend since he had been four years old was dead. A deep hatred began to slide over his skin, slipping into his pores. The urge to join the ensuing battle below was paramount. He would find the English leader with cold black eyes and drive a blade straight through his heart.

  Twisting around, Cole fumbled with the back of Rob’s belt for what seemed an eternity. Then he felt the small cool blade on his fingers and slid the tiny weapon out of its casing. A minute later, he was free.

  Picking up his broadsword, he swung it high in the air and then began yelling as he descended the steep slope to join the battle.

  Crazed, detached, almost unaware of his actions or what he was doing, Cole began swinging his weapon haphazardly at anything covered in armor that was moving. He plunged and sliced and created a bloody swath through every English soldier he encountered, searching for the one man who had dared to mutilate Rob.

  Then he found him. He was sitting atop his horse, behind the fighting, among several other English leaders, confident that he was safe. Cole was charging the small group when a lone arrow appeared and found its target. The man came down off his horse with a crashing thud. The others immediately rode off hoping to avoid being next.

  Cole screamed in fury and ran up to the Englishman hoping to find him alive. But revenge was not to be his. The arrow had pierced his jugular and the man was dead. Cole cried out and was about to behead him when suddenly his weapon was stripped from his hands. Turning to attack, Cole encountered Conor, who threw his sword down and gathered him in h
is arms.

  “It’s over now, Cole. It’s over. He’s dead.”

  Cole shook his head. “It will never be over,” he whispered. “And I won’t forget.”

  Chapter 1

  Fàire Creachann Keep, off Loch Shieldaig, 1311

  Cole McTiernay leaned back in the worn chair and outstretched his long legs, crossing them at the ankles. He stared out one of the few windows in the keep that had not been broken by years of wear and neglect. Clouds had begun to thicken around the Highland mountains of Torridon, and with each minute that passed, their humid masses sank just a little lower down the rugged primeval slopes. It had yet to start raining, but drops would begin to fall any moment. The unusually cold and damp spring weather had done little to help the moods of those in the room—including his own.

  As choices go, it should have been a simple one and Cole was baffled why it wasn’t. Newly formed clans needed chieftains and chieftains needed an army, financial means, and the ability to make difficult decisions. All of which he possessed and Lonnagan did not. Those differences alone should have dictated who would be laird.

  But not for these stubborn people.

  When he had been approached to lead the nomadic clans of the northern Highlands, he had halfheartedly agreed. His men and their families desired a home and he, too, was restless and needed a change. Then word had come that another was being considered. And after ten days of endless discussions, Cole was no longer confident he was going to be the one selected. Even more surprising, he wasn’t sure whether he would be disappointed or relieved.

  Heavy footsteps came up from behind. Controlled and methodical, they could only belong to one man—his older brother. Cole craned his head, gave a slight nod in acknowledgment, and then returned his gaze out the window to the lapping waters of the sea. “Made a decision?”

  “No,” Conor grunted, not even trying to hide his frustration, “and you know why.”

  Cole sighed and bobbed his head slightly. “I’m leaving in the morning.”

  “None too soon. You and Dugan haven’t been making things easier.”

  “He’s easily provoked,” Cole replied with a slight shrug.

  Conor wanted to throttle his younger brother. The man had perfected the persona of one who was detached and unconcerned about the plights of others, but it wasn’t true. One only had to look into his eyes to see the sorrow Cole carried. An ache brought about from profound sadness. But Cole never would allow anyone to look long enough, deep enough, to see anything but indifference. Until he learned how to drop his guard, share his thoughts, and allow someone to grow close to him, his pain would never heal.

  Cole McTiernay was the third of seven brothers, and all could be exasperatingly stubborn when they wanted to be, but Cole was famous for his obstinacy, especially when it came to his hatred of all things English. Over the years, Conor and his brothers had tried to get him to open up. But each time they pushed, Cole would emotionally retract, burying himself behind some distant, impenetrable wall. Eventually, he and his brothers had stopped trying.

  Conor often wondered if that had been a mistake. Did they give up too soon? Or had they been wise to back off in fear of pushing their brother away altogether? Cole was an incredible soldier, a superb strategist, and a worthy leader, but as a man, he was hollow inside. He lacked something…something that made one want to face a new day. Conor had hoped this opportunity would give Cole the drive missing from his life, but after the heated discussions that had taken place the past couple of days, his brother acted as if he cared even less about the possibility of becoming laird than he had before.

  “It’s been a lousy week,” Conor mumbled, looking for another chair.

  “It’s been a lousy two weeks,” Cole corrected. “You were lucky and missed the first half.”

  “So mocking Dugan, trying to make him look like a fool, was your way to perk things up?”

  “Dugan is a fool. I just exposed it for all to see.”

  All seven McTiernays had a dry sense of humor, but Cole was a master at sarcasm. He could deliver clever yet slicing remarks with such a straight face, it was hard to tell if he was serious or just amusing himself. In today’s case, it mattered little, for the damage had been done. “Dugan’s not the fool you make him out to be.”

  Cole shrugged. “If he wasn’t, then it shouldn’t have been so easy to make him sound like one.”

  “He’s a good man. And while I agree he might not be the most tactical of soldiers…”

  Cole stiffened. “Try heedless, foolhardy…”

  “But he could make a good leader,” Conor tried again. “He understands and relates to people. An ability you have yet to attempt, let alone master. Why is that, I wonder?”

  Cole’s jaw clenched. For nearly a week, he had been tolerating Dugan’s propensity to discuss ad nauseam the most nonsensical topics. And though Cole refused to admit it out loud, he didn’t believe Dugan to be unintelligent. The man had proven himself a talented soldier—even capable of being heroic. And his friendly overtures to the clan would have been exceptionally brilliant, if they had been intentional. Dugan, however, didn’t have a strategic bone in his body. His friendliness, easiness with others, and almost effortless ability to gain a person’s trust had been natural and unplanned.

  What truly bothered Cole was the man’s incredible shortsightedness. Dugan just reacted to whatever was happening directly in front of him, never considering the consequences of his statements and ideas. And for the past couple of days, Cole had been exposing that weakness time and time again. So no, he wasn’t threatened by Dugan; he was just confounded at everyone’s inability to recognize the depth of the man’s shortcomings. Who cared if he was nice? These people needed a leader…not a friend.

  Cole twiddled his thumbs. “Dugan staying?”

  Conor shook his head. “Left already. Your last barbs about his ideas of where and what should serve as the residence for these clansmen left him with little choice.”

  “His ideas, as you put it, were ill-conceived just as most of his other plans, and everyone who heard them, with the exception of Dugan, knows it. You say he’s a good man, and he may be, but if he becomes laird of this motley group, don’t be surprised if you’re back here in a year trying to figure out how to clean up his mess. And when that happens, don’t bother asking me to pick up the pieces, for the answer will be no.”

  Cole stood up and glanced at the small group of lairds sitting around a broken-down table on the far side of the room. They had assembled here almost two weeks ago to determine what to do about the northern nomadic tribes. Leaderless from either disease or war, the various clansmen had banded together informally over the years just to stay alive. Their continual raids upon neighboring clans and stock had gone from annoying to invasive and then intolerable. This gathering was a last effort to achieve peace. Many Highlanders had died in recent years securing Scotland’s freedom, and while no one relished more killing, if a new laird was not agreed upon soon, more deaths were inevitable.

  “After this week, I doubt anyone would be clamoring your name if that happened. And while a few of us have similar doubts about Dugan’s ability to run a clan, we have none whatsoever about his desire to be here and lead these people.”

  Cole grunted. Was that the crux of the difficulty in deciding who should be laird? Who wanted it more? And if that was it, Cole wasn’t sure how to respond. He knew he should be concerned about the outcome of the discussions, but with each passing day, he had found himself caring a little less.

  He never asked for the opportunity—what some called honor—to lead the lawless, prideful bunch, nor did he ever aspire to it. But Dugan had.

  Just a year younger than Cole’s twenty-seven years, Dugan Lonnagan had seen a fair number of battles and had won more than his share of fights. Unlike Cole, however, Dugan had no army, no means to support one, and no money to maintain one even if he did have it. Those reasons alone had led Cole to believe the question of who should be the next
laird to be simple. Yet, the past two weeks had proved it was a much more complicated selection than Cole had anticipated it would be.

  It was coming down to ability versus personality.

  Dugan was tall—though Cole still dwarfed him—good looking with dark sandy brown hair, and possessed an easy nature that drew people to him as if he were honey and they were flies. Conversely, Cole lacked the patience and talent for simple conversation—especially with women and children. His reticent nature prompted him to communicate in a direct style that tended to keep people away, not beckon them to his side. In short, Dugan Lonnagan was everything that Cole was not.

  So whom should they choose?

  Dugan was beloved by many of the clansmen, but Cole would bring with him key alliances with neighboring clans. Then again, Cole’s name and battle success could also bring enemies—namely the English, while Dugan was relatively unknown to the southern enemy. And yet, nearby adversaries would discount Dugan, but fear Cole and his army.

  Complicating the decision further was the concept of influence. Several Highland lairds believed Dugan could be easily manipulated to do what they wanted. Unfortunately, clans led by weak men often became unwanted burdens to their neighbors. Conversely, Cole would listen to suggestions and ideas, but he would heed only his own counsel when making decisions and compromises. And anyone who’d had doubts as to just how hardheaded and stubborn Cole could be, had learned otherwise two weeks ago when he convinced everyone to convene at Fàire Creachann. Cole had announced then that if he were to be chosen as laird, the abandoned, crumbling fortress would serve as the new clan’s home. A decision incredible to many—including Dugan.

  An unintelligible grumble erupted from the far side of the room. Tempers were flaring again. Conor shifted his stance and was about to return to the group when he paused. Hesitating, his silver eyes met Cole’s blue ones. At thirty-seven, Conor was just ten years senior to his younger brother, but in the past few years, Cole had grown to match him in height and breadth. That and his steady gaze reminded Conor that Cole was no longer a young man in need of counseling. He was an adult and had proved it many times. If Cole wanted to walk away from the opportunity in front of him, he could do just that. Conor only wanted him to do it for the right reasons.