by Kate Forrest
Table of Contents
Excerpt
The Crusader’s Heart
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Historical Note
A word about the author…
Thank you for purchasing
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“ ’Tis nice to know you lust after me, but I won’t settle for being a poor crusader’s whore.”
The jab at his reduced circumstances made the lust disappear immediately. “Mary told you, did she?” Alex drew toward her, and Isobel quickly backed against the wall.
Isobel said nothing, but he’d seen Mary’s jealousy of Isobel when they’d arrived. The love of his youth was beautiful, but she could be cruel.
“Alex, I did not mean…” She held up her palms, as if to push him away.
“Aye, you did. You meant exactly what you said.” Alex pressed against her open palms, crowding her. “I may be poor, but at least I know my place in this world. Can you say the same?”
Now her cheeks were stained crimson with shame. At first, Alex felt satisfied. But then he saw the uncertainty in her eyes and his anger dissipated. What am I to do with you?
“What do you want from me, Isobel?”
“I do not know,” she whispered.
“I think you do.”
He cupped her face with his hands, lifting her chin upwards. He bent his head. Their eyes locked, but Alex hesitated. Then he felt Isobel’s hands reach up and wrap around his neck, pulling him down to her.
“Kiss me, Alex,” she whispered.
The Crusader’s Heart
by
Kate Forrest
The MacKinnons of Mull, Book One
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
The Crusader’s Heart
COPYRIGHT © 2018 by Kate Forrest
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Diana Carlile
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Tea Rose Edition, 2018
Print ISBN 978-1-5092-2132-5
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-2133-2
The MacKinnons of Mull, Book One
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
For Tyler
Acknowledgements
The inspiration for The Crusader’s Heart came from my first trip to Scotland in 2013. In touring Edinburgh Castle, I learned about Queen Margaret, who later became a saint. Visiting Dunfermline Abbey, the site of her burial, settled my interest in this fascinating woman. A second trip to Scotland the following year left me consumed by the beauty of the Western Isles, and I knew it had to be the setting for a story someday.
On moving to the Finger Lakes region of New York in 2015, I read every book I could find on Queen Margaret, intent on writing a story about her. But I was also desperate to write about the Western Isles, and a nagging voice in my head told me I should create distance between my protagonists and this iconic holy woman. And so I placed Margaret in the periphery and wrote a story that is threaded together with inspiration from my travels. It seems fitting then to first acknowledge the source of my inspiration: Queen Margaret and Scotland.
I started this project in July of 2015. I was settling into a new home and, truthfully, feeling a bit down after living two exciting years in England enjoying travel, rich history, and magnificent gardens. The Finger Lakes region of New York has a beautiful diverse landscape, but I wasn’t ready to love it yet. My heart was still in the southeast of England, planted firmly alongside my Bishop of Llandaff dahlias.
My husband, Tyler, knew the only way to move forward was for me to write my novel. He gave me the love, support, and time I needed to get Alex and Isobel’s story on the page. I fail to put into words exactly what that has meant to me, but it is why this book is dedicated to you, Tyler.
The person that helped me get this project off the ground is my good friend and fellow writer, Ryan Russell. His critiques of the manuscript, thoughtful advice, and enthusiasm were vital to me during my writing process.
I have been fortunate to learn craft from so many talented individuals, including the extraordinary Kathy Ayres, my writing mentor. Her guidance, wisdom, and encouragement are invaluable to me.
Thank you to all the authors, especially Susan M. Boyer, who gave me indispensable advice. It was a great kindness to share your time and knowledge with me.
More than once in my life, my family has told me, “Kate, do what you love. You love to write.” They know me well, and their support of my creative work has never wavered. I am grateful to each of them.
Thank you to my dear friends of many talents. You critiqued, you inspired, you praised. It means the world to me.
A story isn’t finished until it has an audience, and I am beyond grateful to my wonderful publisher, the Wild Rose Press, for giving this novel a platform. They also paired me with the perfect editor, Eilidh MacKenzie. I am thankful for her guidance and tremendous eye for detail.
Finally, I am thankful to all my readers. You complete my story’s journey.
Chapter 1
Kingdom of the Scots, late spring, 1153
A twig snapped and a man said, “Dinnae move.” Before Isobel Campbell could turn, strong hands grabbed her shoulders and pulled her backward to collide against the man’s stomach. She bounced off him, but he pulled her back again—bringing her to rest against his full belly.
Isobel grabbed at her assailant’s hands, clawing at them as the pressure on her shoulders increased from his crushing hold. As Isobel twisted and pulled away from him, she scanned the dark, empty forest. Think, Isobel! Instantly, her hands dropped to her side. My knife! She palmed beneath the satchel at her side for the sgian dubh. Carefully, she unsheathed the knife before he could restrict her hands.
“Turn to face me,” he demanded.
His smell surrounded her. She inhaled slowly to steady herself, but his stench coated her throat. She coughed, her body convulsing as she tried to regain control.
“Enough!” her captor shouted, shaking her. The action only increased her coughing. He hauled on one shoulder, but her legs felt sluggish as she tried to keep up with the twist of her upper body. Her hands flexed, naturally wanting to steady he
r, but Isobel caught herself before she dropped the blade.
Finally, the coughing ceased as he released her shoulders. For a brief moment the awful pressure was gone, though quickly replaced with the feel of his bruising hands at her waist as he awkwardly pulled her around to face him. A rush of cool night air swept over her, sending Isobel’s hair into a wild dance. She flinched, as though in pain, as her hair blew across her attacker’s open mouth. He spat it out, the strands flying back across her face. The wetness from his mouth caused the strands to stick to her cheek; his terrible smell was now on her skin.
She wanted to attack, but she couldn’t. He still has too much control. I must wait for the right moment.
She kept the blade of her knife concealed beneath her cloak.
“Your hair tastes as good as it smells,” the fiend said, with a laugh of amusement. “Though I’d rather have it in my hands than down my throat!” He laughed again as he roughly brushed Isobel’s spit-covered hair behind her ear. She ground her teeth in response, but otherwise remained passive as the fiend’s hands came to rest on her upper arms again.
She knew from colliding with his stomach that he was portly. With him standing before her, she could also see he was short for a man, barely taller than her. Because of his weight, he would be slow to catch her if she somehow managed to escape.
Though he was no warrior, his strength was greater than her own. She would need to make a clean break.
“Too many fine things to be a peasant girl,” he said, looking down at her wool cloak. “I wonder what riches ye have hidden away beneath this.” He played with the fastening to her cloak and chuckled as his appraisal continued.
Isobel refused to show fear. She stood her ground—her chin lifted high as the disgusting examination continued. Be patient. She squeezed the knife’s jeweled haft in her right palm, taking care to keep it hidden in the folds of her cloak, as she waited for him to relax his hold so she could make her move.
“A fine bag,” he said, tapping his finger against her leather satchel. “I’ll see what it holds soon enough.” Her attacker whistled. “Look at ye! That face! Ah, I cannae wait to have ye! The lads will be sorry they missed this.”
His words sent chills of warning down Isobel’s spine. She knew what he meant to do with her. The bastard is alone. Focus on that advantage.
In his excitement, the man slapped his thigh. Isobel’s right arm was momentarily freed.
Without delay, she rammed the knife straight into the middle of his belly. His laughter turned into a horrible scream as his eyes widened. When he grabbed for the knife, she pulled it from his swollen stomach and ran.
“Bitch!” His voice thundered in her ears.
Isobel raced along the rushing waters of the burn, jumping over fallen logs as she maneuvered her way up the hillside. The man panted and cursed as he chased after her. Despite his injury and size, he moved faster than she’d anticipated. The woods were too thickly forested, and she feared breaking her own neck if she ran into a tree in the dark. She needed to stay near the water so she could see by the moonlight, but that advantage worked for them both. The only thing she could do was wear him down. She quickened her pace as much as she dared, her satchel thumping against her hip as she raced over the mossy rocks on the stream bank. Isobel’s own breathing labored and the muscles in her legs burned, but she kept moving. As the time passed, the sounds of her attacker became fainter and fainter. She ran until she was certain he’d given up.
Giving in to her own exhaustion, she leaned against one of the large boulders lining the stream and took several deep breaths. As the rhythm of her heart settled, she fought back the sting of tears that threatened to upset the calm she’d maintained since leaving Edinburgh. That man deserves no tears. If he dies, so be it. One less beast on this earth.
“If David could hear such thoughts,” Isobel whispered. She should be repentant. David would demand nothing less if he knew she’d just mortally injured a man. And yet she could not find it in her to feel remorse for her actions. Stabbing that man had been her only course of action. It was survival. And she knew a great deal about survival.
Even though it wasn’t the same, and she was no longer a helpless child, her present state resonated strongly with the past. I’ve been on my own too long. I’ve had too much time to think. I must focus on the here and now. She palmed her cheeks and forehead, wiping away the sweat from her run along the stream.
Despite tonight, she’d been lucky—too lucky since leaving Edinburgh. It had not seemed possible to pass through the city unnoticed, but she had. Then, when she was far from the city, she feared getting lost in the wilderness. She had traveled before by road between Edinburgh and Stirling, but David warned her to stay off the main paths and keep to the woods. She’d easily gotten turned around in the forest, and she had gone too far west, missing the easier route to Stirling. Isobel was angry for the time she’d lost. Only four days in, she was worn and weary. Still, that was no excuse to let her guard down.
She’d been careful of people and safely avoided several parties of traveling warriors and merchants since departing Edinburgh. Even at night when she slept, she devised traps around her so she would hear anyone approaching. She was rattled by her slip tonight in letting her guard down. Moments before the attack, she’d been busy making a temporary shelter for the night. She usually made camp earlier, before dusk, but she needed to compensate for lost time. In her exhaustion from walking all day, she hadn’t heard any movement in the forest. A lack of awareness could be costly. She was fortunate to have escaped.
Realizing that her position by the water was still compromising, she made her way into the dark forest and found a large tree that afforded a good view of the burn and was wide enough to conceal her from behind. It wasn’t ideal for the night, but it would have to do.
As she sat, Isobel flexed her right hand, trying to study it in the moonlight, but it was too dark. She gently touched her palm, flinching as she traced the indentations left from the jewel-encrusted handle of her knife. Beautiful and functional, the blade had done its job and, mercifully, the physical cost of the struggle would likely fade within a day. If she was in Edinburgh, a healer would tend to her sore hand, give her a dram, and she’d fall asleep in her warm bed.
Isobel closed her palm into a fist, willing herself not to miss her room at the castle. It did not satisfy to dwell on what was lost to her now, but she keenly felt everything that was out of her reach.
The first night in the wilderness had been the most trying. She’d wept freely at the isolation and questioned her strength to continue. The quiet was the most difficult part. Wherever David kept court, she was surrounded by people. While she didn’t miss them specifically, she missed the noise and commotion. She missed hearing the men practice swordsmanship in the bailey at dawn, the sound of the fire crackling in the great hall, and the chorus of voices that rose up around her as everyone gathered to share stories and a meal together. She even missed the sound of children running down the castle corridors. In the wilds of the Lowlands at night, no noise reached her, save for what the passing breeze rustled from the stillness. Funny how sound had kept the loneliness from her life; now that all was quiet, she could truly see how empty her life was.
Isobel recognized early in her journey how thoughts like that could crush her. She fought against them, trying to focus on her true purpose—taking the relic to Iona. The first night she’d held the relic case tightly to her chest, finding strength in all it symbolized to her and the people of Scotland. David trusted her to find the relic a sanctuary, since it was no longer safe in Edinburgh. She recalled their parting words a few morns ago.
“I know you have struggled these past years to find where you belong in this world. I know I pushed hard for the church, but I saw in you what my mother saw in me—purity and light that is true.” David looked down at the case and then back to Isobel. “When she told me of its contents, I did not believe her. Not until after her death when I heard of th
e miracles surrounding her in life did I begin to trust what I now know to be true. It must be protected at all costs, and I fear, as I have feared for many months now, my time to protect it is nearly over.”
He reached out, taking her hand in his, and placed the slim case into her palm. Isobel took it and carefully concealed it within the special pocket sewn into her cloak.
“The people of Iona will care for this as I have most of my life,” he said. “I think you will also find what you have searched for all these years on this journey, Isobel.”
She had felt in her heart it would be the last time they spoke. She wanted to say so many things to him, but there was no time to speak it.
Her departure from the city was hasty that morning, even though she’d known for some time she would be the one to move the relic. Plans were under way for a journey set for late summer, but everything changed a few nights ago.
David intended for a companion to accompany her, but such arrangements could not be made in time—not with someone they trusted. The morning she left, David assured her a crusader by the name of Alexander MacKinnon would escort her from Stirling to Iona. She hadn’t considered what the man would be like; her mind had been preoccupied with other thoughts. During the day, she was filled with purpose and determination. The nights were different.
The nights exposed her thoughts beyond the mission. What will become of me when this deed is done? She cursed her wandering mind and tried to relax against the base of the tree. From a warm bed to the cold ground. Court life had afforded her many comforts, and she was not ashamed to say she missed those comforts now. She knew the woman she was—and that woman missed her warm bed in Edinburgh.
In the morning, she would be who she needed to be. She would make for Stirling and pray her companion, the crusader, awaited her there.
****
Alexander MacKinnon had not been in Kirkcaldy one night before the missive from King David arrived. The king had given no mention to the mission when Alex saw him in Edinburgh just a few days prior. The task was unusual, but a request from the king would be met, no matter how strange it was. Any man—or at least any MacKinnon—would do the same. However, that seemed to matter very little to the man sitting across from him in the alehouse that evening.
