by R. L. Syme
The Outcast Highlander
The Highland Renegades: Book One
by
R.L. Syme
Copyright © R. L. Syme, 2013
ISBN 978-0-615-93583-6
All Rights Reserved
This book may not be reproduced in part or in whole without written permission from the author. This digital copy of this book cannot be sold, shared, or given away as this is an infringement of the copyright. This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
www.rlsyme.com
~ Dedication ~
For Kristy, Keely, and Meghan, who read this book in its first draft and loved it anyway; who have known these characters almost as long as I have and who will never stop rooting for them. Or me.
~ Acknowledgments ~
No writer is an island. I may sit alone at my desk to write, but I do not create alone. Not only am I the result of many years of life, but I am also actively mentored and supported by a fantastic group of friends and family. This book would not have been possible without the years of input and support of the Celtic Hearts Romance Writers chapter of RWA—not to mention the workshops and boot camps at Hearts Through History. Any writer looking for community would find it here, and more than they seek.
A huge thank-you to the Celtic Critters, run by Dawn Hamilton, for allowing me to love this book, and still gently critiquing it. Additionally, I want to thank Becca St. John, Alexa Bourne, Denny S. Bryce, Steena Holmes, and Regina Tittel, who have actively and lovingly critiqued my work over the years and helped me develop as a writer.
Over the years, I’ve been blessed to have many excellent writing and literature teachers. Starting with my grandma and aunt, whom I never had in class, but who shaped me nonetheless. Then, of course, my early teachers, culminating with my mother, who encouraged me not to settle for “good enough”, even when I could. Especially when I could. And in both my undergraduate and graduate writing/literature programs, I’ve had excellent educators shaping me, either through their teaching or their editing and noting of my work. Particularly, I want to thank Michael and Sharon Beehler, who not only taught with excellence, but also took an interest in my career as a writer and encouraged me to always think of writing on more than one level, and in context with all that has come before.
It would be both dishonest and disingenuous of me not to acknowledge and thank God. While I still have as many questions as answers, I never doubt that He is there, that He loves, and that He cares. I also hope this book is a representation of the ability He gave me.
Thank you to my family, friends, colleagues, and spiritual directors, who have taught, supported, and loved me on the road of life. This book has been rolling around in my heart for so long, and I’m happy to finally let it into the daylight. I hope you will love Broccin and Kensey as much as I do. And if you don’t, I hope you’ll extend me grace and try the next of the Highland Renegades.
Prologue
1286 – Caithness, Scotland – Castle St. Claire
Before the crow of the rooster, Broccin Sinclair woke in his bed. The gruff, commanding bark of his father’s voice brought him through the wee morning silence, toward the solar. A trail of his younger siblings followed in the dark.
Only Brigid had thought to bring a candle, so all five of them shuffled around her little light across the cold stone floors, a stair-stepping of red heads, reminding Broc yet again how little he belonged to this family.
Alana tripped at the last corner and whimpered a cry. Broc swept her up, pressed her tiny head to his chest, and led the group to their father’s room, where a glow beckoned in the open door.
“Get in here.” Magnus, Earl and Laird of Sinclair, appeared in the doorway and all four pairs of legs picked up to a run. The laird’s giant shoulders seemed to spread as they approached. Broc hadn’t seen his father since he had been called to Edinburgh, nearly two months previous. The mid-night return and summons made his stomach roll uneasily.
Once inside the expansive solar, Broc blinked away the bright glare of the fire and focused on the shadow it nearly swallowed. Alana poked him in the ribs and he released her to run across the room and jump into their father’s bed.
The shadow stirred at Magnus’ beckoning gesture and all the attention in the room shifted. Broc’s throat closed around his words. The most beautiful girl he had ever seen stepped toward him in a sheath of light.
“Children, I want you to meet the future mistress of Castle St. Claire. Granddaughter to the Queen Consort of Navarre and daughter of the laird MacLeod and Lord of Auldwick.” He took the girl by the shoulders and she winced. Broc still couldn’t speak, but his hands balled into fists of their own accord.
“But, Da. You’ve already promised Broc to Anne de Cheyne.” Duncan may have been only nine years old, but among the five of them, only he and Broc would dare stand up to their father. He stood at Broc’s shoulder, still a head shorter.
“I have.” Magnus narrowed a dark gaze on his fidgety children and slapped the young MacLeod girl square on her back. Her green eyes bulged and Broc stepped forward.
Magnus pointed a long finger at him. “You, stay where you are, boy.”
“But why is she here now, Da?” Brigid’s sleepy voice brought a wee smile to the old man’s weathered face, but it didn’t last long. His brows narrowed.
“There is some distress with her mother. I’ve left your Ma with MacLeods, and sent Old Bess back with her retinue.”
Duncan walked across the drafty room and circled the girl. Broccin was certain they would all hear his heart pounding through his chest as he watched his brother pick up a long, dark lock of her hair and sniff it.
“When will she be mistress of this castle?” Duncan stood perilously close to Magnus’ hands and Broc almost reached for his thoughtless brother. Half-brother.
“When you’re old enough to marry her.” Magnus placed a large hand on Duncan’s head and looked toward the door as though remembering something. “You’ll all treat her kindly. Or I’ll know why.”
Without another word, he left the room, but the implied punishment sent all three of the boys into a moment of frozen silence. Brigid stepped forward and took the girl’s hand.
With a polite smile, Kensey MacLeod curtsied until her long, dark hair almost swept the ground. “I’m grateful to meet you all, but do not believe what your father says about my being mistress here.” She wrapped Brigid’s arm in her own and the six of them left the blazing fire of the solar behind.
Broccin didn’t know enough to place her accent, but her Gaelic didn’t sound a bit like his siblings, or his father’s. A refined edge softened the rough language and he imagined this was the tongue the faeries used when they came to lure boys into the Otherworld.
Kensey’s shoes made soft, padding noises in the quiet hallway where the other children were all barefoot. Broccin could have sworn the heat from the fire somehow carried along with them as something inside him burned hot and bright.
“Father promised you to me, and mine you shall be.” Duncan spoke with a finality that chafed at Broc’s senses.
With a definitive shake of her head, Kensey silenced the boy’s profession. “My mother promised me I could go to Navarre when I’m thirteen, and that’s only four years away. Or perhaps even to the French court if my grandmother will support me there. I’m sure to find a husband in either place who is more appropriate to my station.” Her certainty was almost kind. Deferential.
But a deep red crept up Duncan’s neck all the same. Broc couldn’t hide his smile.
“Our father is the Earl of Caithness.” Malcolm, the youngest boy, finally piped up. He rarely spoke around Da, but had
more courage with girls than Broccin liked. “You’re not the princess of Navarre. You’re not even the daughter of the princess. So don’t you take airs with my brother.”
Broc slapped the back of Malcolm’s head. “Don’t speak to the lass like that. She’s got royal blood in her, she does.”
“You’re not wrong.” She paused, thoughtfully touching Malcolm’s arm. Broc watched the outline of her lips moving in the candlelight and they all waited. Kensey turned to Duncan. “If I must marry a Scotsman, then you will do nicely.”
The darkness gathering in Broccin’s heart spread like dye through a tunic, until he the heat of anger covered him.
No. He would have this girl, and be the laird and Earl as well, as was his right. Poor Duncan didn’t know his sword hand from his elbow. Plus, Broc was the eldest, and legitimate, no matter how much his father wished away his mother’s blood.
“You should marry Broccin. That would be the right.” Brigid’s voice carried around the corner, ahead of him. When he rounded upon them, Kensey had turned to meet his eyes.
She tilted her head to one side and scrutinized his face. “But your father said I should marry Duncan.”
“And do you always do as you’re told?” Broc almost didn’t recognize his own voice, the challenge came so quickly.
A smile brightened her delicate features and, subsequently, the entire hallway. “I don’t, but I can’t marry someone beneath me. Papa says it would be a waste of good breeding. I’m sure you’re a lovely boy.”
Broc’s breath left him once again speechless. He wanted to deny her judgment of his worth, but he’d had too many years of practice agreeing with insults. He bowed low and said, “I’m sure Duncan will make a much better husband for you.”
Duncan hopped from foot to foot on the cold ground. “Can this wait until later? My toes are frozen.”
They walked in silence to Brigid’s room, where the girls peeled off from the group. Duncan made a grand show of flourishing a regal bow to Kensey and Broccin resisted the urge to throttle the little boar where he stood.
“It’s useless to discuss, really.” Kensey allowed Duncan to take her hand, but a reserve held in her eyes that made Broc admire her all the more. She wasn’t fooled by Duncan’s shows and grandiosity.
“Yes, you’re to marry a French windbag and leave Scotland behind, and I will grow old and sad and die alone.” Duncan ended his bow with a kiss to Kensey’s hand, which did nothing for Broc’s growing fury.
Kensey retrieved her hand and shot Broccin a look of intentional conspiracy. “Promise me when we meet again, all this talk of marrying and castle mistresses will be forgotten. I want us all to be friends.”
Broccin nodded and similarly kissed her hand, but he held his lips to her skin for a moment longer than Duncan had, if only to sear the memory of her touch into his head. He may not be able to wed this most beautiful of ladies, but he would always remember how she smelled of the Highland hillside and looked at him with eyes like the North Sea.
And if Duncan did marry her, Broc was sure he would be the most miserable wretch to walk the earth. Like the shades in the faerie stories. Only a shadow of a man. For Kensey MacLeod had just stolen his heart, and it appeared she wouldn’t be returning it whole.
Chapter One
Northern Scotland, July of 1296
Broccin Sinclair scanned the valley again for signs of movement. It had been nearly four years since he roamed the craggy mountain pathways and sought shelter in the small bothans that littered the shadowed hillsides. He felt every moment of his absence in the return of names and memories, in the very air itself, crisp and free.
The old MacLeod carter he’d met on the road seemed generally reliable and talkative. He’d been assured Duncan was set to meet the MacLeod girl before midday. But Broc had already waited well past the height of the sun and had yet to see another creature approaching the Reay Forest or the MacLeod bothan.
With perfect tandem stillness, Broc sat atop his giant black stallion. After so long surviving on his own, he quickly attuned his senses to every corner of his vision.
A movement off to the east drew his full attention. A figure crested the far hill, coming toward him, fast—too slight for his brother and on a small horse—without the ease of a native Scot. This must be Kensey. Why else would a woman be out here, without an escort?
Still the brazen lass. His heart thudded with her hoof beats. He should have better prepared himself to see her again. Would she know him? Or would her years in France have dulled her memories?
He jerked Gaidel around to face the east, and then backed in closer to the thicket that began the Reay Forest. The MacLeod bothan, where they were likely to meet, was much farther to the west, down into the valley behind him. The girl drove her horse too far to the east. If she kept to her present course, she would ride through the wrong side of the valley, and never find the bothan at all.
Sighing, Broccin drew his hand to his jaw and scratched his thick, dark beard.
He could easily ride down and steer her in the right direction. Of course, that risked her mentioning to Duncan the wild man with a Sinclair sword who had come across her on MacLeod land and wouldn’t give his name. An oddity that would surely alert the new laird to the presence of one of his exiled kinsmen, even if he didn’t know it to be his brother.
He could leave the lass to her own devices and let her miss Duncan altogether. But then what kind of older brother would he be? Why leave Moray at all? Why abandon his mission to stay hidden forever? Why continue to lubricate the locals for information on his family if he ignored the outcome?
Just as he was about to put her out of his mind, she took another eastern turn that set her on the path of a large bog, and one that was well-disguised if you didn’t know the area. Since she already appeared lost, the odds were good she was bog-bound.
With a disgruntled jerk of weathered leather, he urged Gaidel down the hill toward the MacLeod girl, pulling his heavy cloak around him in hopes he could hide his worn kyrtil. The air wasn’t cold enough for the clothes he wore, but then, most men didn’t sleep in caves and hovels.
As he approached the lass, minutes later, she didn’t turn on him or even glance in his direction. Even a well-trained horse like Gaidel couldn’t conceal his hoof beats entirely at this slow pace. Surely, she’d heard him.
Instead of watching for strangers, she looked up into the hills ahead, and spoke to herself aloud in what sounded like French—he vaguely recognized the shape of his mother’s words in this girl’s frustrated rambling. It was her. Lost in the Highlands, looking for her intended.
Without warning, she pulled her red roan to a stop, and his reflexes allowed him to halt Gaidel, just a few feet behind her. He could hear her squeal in frustration, first in French, then in Gaelic tinged with a foreign tongue.
With a flash of gray stone and the smell of rosemary, he remembered the first time he’d heard that voice. And the judgment it had carried over him. A familiar tightness overtook him. Remembered shame. Not unfamiliar for his childhood memories, but he shook it off. He wasn’t that boy anymore.
Broc pulled at Gaidel’s bridle and the horse protested. “A real lady shouldn’t curse like that.”
The lass wrenched her small red mare to face him, her face white with petrified surprise. Her long, dark hair feathered around a heart-shaped face with perfect, rounded, blushing cheeks and a pert nose. The intensity of her beauty stilled his breath. How could he have forgotten to prepare himself for this moment, after all these years?
Her girlish beauty had woken his heart as a boy, but the woman she had become was far more arresting than the pretty girl he remembered.
Kensey MacLeod was not dressed for polite company, with her nearly-black hair hanging in loose curls to her saddle, rather than being braided or bound. She wore a plain blue dress with no shape to it, but the way it highlighted the blue undercurrents in her green eyes held his attention.
“And a real gentleman shouldn’t take a lady off her guard.” She jerked at the reins of her nervous horse, her mouth twisting into a tiny, frustrated line.
Broccin caught himself sliding his gaze down from her face. This was not just any lady. She was his brother’s intended wife. Keep yourself in check. He shook his head and bowed, swinging his arm out without thought in a gallant gesture.
“Apologies, my lady.” When he looked up, he noticed her eyes lingered first on the scar on his left arm, then on the swath of cloth across his chest. He reached for the edge of his cloak and pulled it back over his tattered tunic. “I meant no disrespect.”
“You are forgiven.” Her eyes still lingered on his arm. With an elegant gesture, she swept her dark, loose hair around one shoulder.
“You must be the girl returned from France. Looking for the MacLeod bothan, no doubt.” And Duncan. His heart skipped a beat when she furrowed her eyebrows and pinned him with those big, lost eyes.
“How do you know these things?”
“I thought as much,” he said, avoiding her question. “I can show you the way.”
“I believe I can find the place myself.”
Her impertinence made Broc’s blood rise. She was a full valley in the wrong direction, and growing farther in her mistake with every step of her surety. “Oh, you do?”
“I grew up here, sir. And I have explicit instructions from my brother about how to find this place.”
“If it was this brother of whom you speak leading you thus far, then he’s taken you astray, my lady. And if it is another’s directions you follow, perhaps you have missed a marker. For the MacLeod bothan is behind you, and in the valley to the west.” Broccin pointed to his right.
A deep pink spanned her cheeks and down the side of her exposed neck. After several seconds, she said, “Thank you.” A deep breath. “It would appear I am, indeed, lost.”
