Return of the Highlander

by Julianne MacLean

  Return of the Highlander

  Julianne MacLean

  Return of the Highlander

  Copyright © 2015 Julianne MacLean

  ISBN 13: 978-1-927675-25-0

  Excerpt from Taken by the Highlander

  Copyright © 2015 Julianne MacLean

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or a portion thereof, in any form. This book may not be resold or uploaded for distribution to others.

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design: The Killion Group, Inc.

  Editor: Patricia Thomas

  Formatting: Author E.M.S.

  Chapter One

  Scotland, 1730

  For as long as she could remember, Larena Campbell had possessed an unnaturally keen sense for impending danger. She could feel it in the air, like a whisper of warning, brushing lightly across her skin. Strangely, however, on the day that changed the course of her life forever, she’d had no notion of any unexpected threats. She hadn’t felt the danger when she rose from bed that morning, nor during those critical moments leading up to the skirmish.

  Instead, she had come close to falling asleep in the saddle numerous times, her head bobbing forward repeatedly as her horse, Rupert, plodded leisurely, shifting her from side to side in a rocking motion as they moved across lush green glens and shallow burns, where the water flowed clear as polished glass.

  Perhaps it was the heat that dulled her senses. It was unusually humid for an August afternoon in the Highlands, and there wasn’t a single stitch of wind. The dense and heavy stillness of the air—marked only by the incessant buzzing of insects on the pale purple heather of the moors—was soothing and hypnotic. She felt as if she were floating on a summer haze. Floating away…far, far away from the anguish and chaos.

  Or perhaps she had simply let down her guard. She was, after all, traveling with an escort—a highly skilled and disciplined brigade of English soldiers in tidy scarlet uniforms. They had been commissioned with the task of delivering her home to Leathan Castle in one piece.

  But that was no excuse. She should have known better than to allow herself to feel safe and secure with anyone, especially under the circumstances.

  Though she could hardly blame herself for what happened next. She’d been assured that the soldiers were competent and well trained in the arts of war and rebellion. They were also well rested—a significant advantage in situations such as these—while Larena had hardly slept a wink over the past seven days. How could she, when she’d just been shot like a musket ball, straight into the fires of hell and back?

  She blinked heavily as she recalled the terrifying sounds of the battle—the thunder of charging hooves and musket fire, steel clashing against steel, the violent cries of death and aggression. In hindsight, it was clear now that everyone would have been better off if her father had simply surrendered himself to the English, but he was a proud and courageous laird. He had done his best to repel the attack, but it was no use. He was now a prisoner in his own dungeon, charged with a number of treasonous Jacobite crimes, and his castle had been confiscated for use as an English garrison.

  Hence the reason for her lack of sleep over the past six days, for she had snuck away in the night and ridden hell-bent to Fort William to meet with the King’s representative there—with whom she had a personal connection.

  To plead for her father’s life.

  Surprisingly, everything had proceeded like a dream from that moment on, for he had listened to her plea with sympathy and understanding. She was now returning home with a company of armed English escorts and the King’s official pardon in her saddlebag.

  Sweet Mary and Joseph. It all would have been ideal, if only her luck had held. But as soon as she and her protectors entered the shade of the forest, the whole world erupted into a violent explosion of gunfire.

  And that’s when the real trouble began.

  Chapter Two

  They came out of nowhere—those reckless, dirty rebels—just looking to stir up trouble. It had become a problem lately, ever since the unexplained disappearance of the famous Butcher of the Highlands—a fearless giant of a warrior who fought for Scottish freedoms and the Jacobite cause by ransacking entire camps of British redcoats at night. His attacks came without warning, always under the cover of darkness. According to folklore, he appeared like a phantom in the mist—with blood dripping from his gleaming battle-ax, his eyes filled with murderous rage—and committed morbid acts of villainy. He drove terror, like an iron spike, into the heart of every English soldier on either side of the border. For a time, the mere knowledge of the Butcher’s existence had crippled the King’s military strength in the North.

  Many, to this day, insist that the Butcher was naught but a ghost. Others believe he was true flesh and blood. Dead now, most likely.

  Though, in recent months, new bands of hooligans had begun to rise up and wreak havoc throughout the Highlands. According to rumor, they had taken up the sword to finish what the Butcher had begun—which was nothing good. At least not in the eyes of the British army.

  * * *

  As soon as the first shot whizzed by Larena’s shoulder, her heart crashed like thunder in her chest and all the blood rushed to her head, but she was hardly the swooning type. Raised with three older brothers—all groomed to be warriors—she was suitably scrappy for a woman. More important, she knew how to use a bow and arrow better than most.

  Within seconds, another shot struck the senior officer square between the eyes. Down he went, out of the saddle like a felled tree. Then the shouting began. The soldiers scrambled for their weapons as a motley crew of ruffians came screaming out of the bush, brandishing swords and axes.

  Larena kicked in her heels and wheeled Rupert into the trees, dismounted, and withdrew her bow from the saddle scabbard. She found her footing, adjusted her stance, reached over her shoulder, and slid an arrow from her bow sack. The whole world went quiet as she positioned her fingers on the string, looked down the length of the arrow and aligned it with her target—a rebel Scotsman who was just about to swing a mortal blow to one of her escorts.

  Relaxing her grip on the string, she let the arrow go.

  It hit its mark, dead center. The rebel’s eyes went wide. He peered down at his chest, dropped his sword, and collapsed to the ground.

  While the British soldier rose to his feet and scrambled to reload, Larena fired off three more arrows in rapid succession. Meanwhile, the violence of the skirmish was escalating to an alarming degree. The soldiers were leaping off their horses and fighting the kilted rebels with knives and sabers.

  No, this cannot be happening.

  Larena’s mind screamed with images of her father swinging from the noose if her protectors failed to deliver her to the castle in time. She reached faster into her bow sack and took aim to end the skirmish as quickly as possible.

  Another shot rang out and Rupert spooked beside her. He reared up on his hind legs, pawed the air, and let out a high-pitched squeal. Larena was knocked off balance just as she let loose another arrow that twanged into a tree.

  “Easy now!” She tried to reach for Rupert’s halter, for she couldn’t let him run. He carried the King’s pardon in the saddle bags.

  It was no use. Her horse bolted into the wood.

  “No, Rupert!” she cried. “Come back!”

  She ran after him, but only managed a few steps bef
ore another shot was fired from the road and a searing pain reverberated inside her skull. She grimaced and pressed her palm to the side of her head. When she looked at her hand, it was covered in blood.

  Nausea welled up inside her.

  Fighting to resist an oncoming wave of dizziness, she staggered to the side, made an effort to grab onto something, but her knees buckled beneath her. She dropped her bow and the next thing she knew, she was tumbling down a steep embankment. Twigs and branches snapped noisily while foliage cut into her flesh and bruised her flailing body as she crashed into a grove of saplings, grunting with agony the entire way.

  Suddenly the world stopped spinning. All was quiet except for the chatter of a squirrel somewhere in the treetops. Larena could do nothing but lie on her back on a cool bed of moss, blinking up at the swaying canopy of leaves overhead, listening to a creek babble nearby, while pain throbbed in her bones.

  Get up, Larena. You must.

  But alas, her body would not respond.

  She heard no more sounds of combat. The fighting must have stopped. Who was the victor? she wondered dimly. Perhaps they would come looking for her.

  For a long while she lay among the trees, contemplating her fate until another fog rolled through her mind and she couldn’t keep her eyes open.

  This can’t be how it ends, she thought with terrible, aching regret.

  She had come so far.

  I’m sorry, Father. I wanted so badly to save you.

  Finally, she let her eyes fall closed and wondered if the stories she’d heard about death were true. Would she see a bright light? Would it take away the pain? And would her mother be waiting there to welcome her?

  Chapter Three

  Relaxing back in the saddle, Darach MacDonald couldn’t help but wonder about the strange dream he’d had that morning, just before dawn. He’d dreamed he was a hawk, soaring high over the mountains, flying home again.

  Later, when he rose from bed and gathered up his weapons for the day, something had felt different. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but he’d sensed that everything in his life was about to change.

  Had it been a premonition? Or just a meaningless dream to remind him of his regrets?

  Either way, it did not diminish his surprise six hours later when he was combing the forest on a routine scouting mission with his brother Logan, and heard shots fired in the distance.

  Darach reined in his mount and turned to Logan who rode beside him. “Did you hear that?”

  “Aye, I did,” Logan replied, stopping as well.

  They sat quietly on their horses. It had been a stagnant and uncomfortably muggy day, but suddenly a breeze whispered through the treetops. Darach closed his eyes and lifted his chin to savor the coolness on his neck as he listened carefully.

  Nothing happened for a few seconds, then another shot rang out in the distance, followed by the angry shouts of men.

  “Sounds like a monster of a brawl,” Logan said.

  “Aye,” Darach replied, gathering up the reins. “It’s coming from the old cart road, back that way. We’d best have a look.”

  It was their duty as scouts for their laird, Angus the Lion of Kinloch Castle, to keep watch over his lands. Most days were tedious and uneventful as they circled the distant perimeter—around and around continually, day after day—as these were peaceful times. Not much happened at Kinloch.

  But something felt different today…

  Urging their horses into a canter, they rode through the forest for half a mile or so to reach the road. By then the gunfire had ceased and the forest had gone quiet again.

  “Which way?” Logan asked as they paused on the road, their horses tramping around skittishly. “I don’t hear anything.”

  Darach looked north, then south. For a brief moment they lingered, listening for some indication of the direction of the skirmish. Then finally something broke through—a sound, far away at first, then it grew closer.

  Darach raised a hand. “Do you hear it?”

  “Aye.”

  It was the rumble of approaching hooves. They both turned as a riderless black horse dashed around the bend, galloping toward them as if the devil himself were on its heels.

  At the sight of Darach and Logan on the road, the harried beast skidded to a halt and reared up.

  “Whoa!” Darach vaulted lightly off his horse, dropped to the ground, and took hold of the dangling reins. “Easy now, soldier. Settle down. Trouble’s over.”

  The gelding stomped around and snorted anxiously, tossing his head while attempting to flee, but Darach held tightly to the leather reins.

  “There now,” he said in calming voice. “Don’t worry, friend. You’re safe with us.”

  As the animal gradually gentled, Darach took note of the empty scabbard and saddle bags the horse carried.

  “At least we know which direction,” Logan mentioned, gesturing toward the south.

  “Aye.” Darach fetched a rope out of his own saddle pouch and tied a bowline to lead the gelding behind them. “Let’s see if we can find out who you belong to,” he said to the animal. “What do you say to that?”

  The horse tossed his head and nickered.

  Darach stroked his neck before remounting his own horse. A moment later, they were on their way down the road to investigate.

  * * *

  “What do you make of this?” Logan asked as they dismounted and walked toward the morbid display on the road. A few loyal horses remained nearby, seeming oblivious to the carnage, nibbling at leaves in the woods. “Redcoats and Scots alike. Do you recognize the tartan?”

  Darach knelt on one knee to look more closely at one of the fallen Highlanders. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen—with an arrow sticking out of his chest. “This one’s a MacDuff,” he said. “I suspect they were having some fun, imitating the Butcher. Angus won’t take kindly to them stirring up trouble like this.”

  “What about the Redcoats?” Logan asked, bending forward to pull a small knife out of a soldier’s leg. He wiped it clean on the dead man’s trousers and slid it into his own belt. “They’re a long way from Fort William. Do you think something’s brewing?”

  “Like what?” Darach asked with displeasure as he rose to his full height, still gazing down at the face of the fallen MacDuff.

  Logan gave him a knowing look. “You must know what I’m talking about.”

  With a heavy sigh, Darach stepped over the body of an English soldier and took note of the fact that he hadn’t had a chance to draw his sword or pistol. He’d been shot between the eyes.

  “Another Jacobite uprising?” Darach replied. “Aye, it could be that, or maybe just the foolish antics of a few of young troublemakers, looking for something to brag about.” He stopped and surveyed the damage. “What isn’t clear is whether or not there were any survivors. None of these men, on either side, were stripped of their weapons.”

  “A strange thing, that,” Logan replied. “Maybe there was only one survivor and he was wounded. Couldn’t carry anything.”

  Darach scanned the edge of the road on both sides for evidence of a retreat. His eyes narrowed in on a trail of broken foliage that led into a dense section of the wood.

  “Stay here with the horses,” he said, drawing his sword and stepping into the bush. “And keep your wits about you.”

  “Always do,” Logan replied.

  With quiet movements, Darach followed the trail to a spot where he found a mangled section of low-lying ferns and evidence of hoof prints on the soft ground. He knelt down to look more closely at the prints. Reaching down, he touched what appeared to be the imprint of a small-heeled boot.

  Odd, for a company of British soldiers in the wilds of the Highlands. This was no ballroom.

  Rising to his feet, he carefully pushed his way through the brush and continued a short distance until he found a bow on the ground. He bent to pick it up.

  Holding it in his hand, he tested its weight and strength. It was Scottish workma
nship, no doubt about it. But where was the archer? he wondered, glancing all around. The trail seemed to go cold in the spot where he stood.

  Pausing a moment to listen, he heard the sound of rushing water from somewhere and peered to his right, down over a steep overhang to a creek bed below.

  Bloody hell. There was a woman down there.

  * * *

  “Logan!” he called out over his shoulder as he dropped the bow on the ground. “I found a woman!”

  Digging his heels into the soft ground to slow his descent, he relaxed his body and slid most of the way down to the bottom.

  Rushing to her side, he knelt over her and saw that she had suffered a serious blow to the head, for her flaxen hair was stained and matted with thick, dark blood. Upon closer scrutiny, it appeared to be a gunshot wound.

  Was she English? he wondered as he pressed his fingers to her soft neck, just below her jawline, searching for a pulse.

  He examined the features of her face—the soft freckled complexion, the small upturned nose and full lips. She was a beauty, no doubt about it. Quickly he moved the pads of his fingers from one spot to another on her neck, and there—at last—he found a pulse.

  Darach turned on his knee and looked up the slope to where Logan stood at the top. “She’s alive!” he called out.

  “Look out!” Logan cried.

  Whack! Pain reverberated at the back of his head and down the length of his spine. He saw stars, then fell forward onto his hands and knees.

  Moving swiftly, he rolled onto his back. The woman stood over him holding a large stone over her head. With wild, murderous eyes, she drew her hand back as if she were about to smash his face in.

  Chapter Four

  “Ach!” he bellowed as he caught her slender wrists and forced the rock from her hands. In a flash of movement, he flipped the crazed hellion onto her back and pinned her hands to the ground above her head.