The Highlander’s Hellion

by Eliza Knight

  Just then, a knock sounded at the salon door, and in walked her da—the great and mighty Magnus Sutherland, Earl of Sutherland. He took one look at Greer on her knees before her mother and raised his hands into the air.

  “I’ll not be changing my mind, Greer. Ye might as well give up on your campaign now.” Exasperation filled his features. “Allow your mother a moment of peace.”

  Greer stood, hands fisted, spine straight, prepared to go into battle. “But, Da—”

  “That’s enough. I’ll not hear another word. It’s time ye acted like the grown woman ye wish us to see ye as. I’ve already had messengers sent out. In a fortnight’s time, the great hall will be filled with lads for ye to choose from.”

  She refrained from making a comment about them being her escorts when she realized exactly what her father must mean. “Choose from?” Greer nearly choked on the words. Blood drained from her head, making her sway slightly.

  Magnus walked to the hearth, took hold of a poker and shoved at the broken log before adding another. “Aye. Ye’re to marry. And ye’re lucky that instead of plucking a bachelor from a loch, I’m allowing ye to have some choice in it. ’Tis only fair, given I allowed Bella the same freedom.”

  Freedom to choose the shackle. As if that was a consolation prize compared to the freedom she found at sea. Greer should be happy her father was allowing her the choice. That he’d even thought to do so without her having to beg showed how much he really loved her. She knew that. There were plenty of women in Scotland, and indeed the world, who had no choice at all. They were simply shoved into the grasp of their new husband and told to honor and obey the stranger they would now be on a most intimate basis with. Greer would rather drown than do that. A fact her parents must also comprehend. Their tempering of her desire to be at sea was born out of love, and nothing more, but that didn’t make it any less disappointing.

  “Married,” she breathed out, pressing her hand to her chest and shaking her head. Why did it feel like a horse was sitting on her torso? She struggled to draw in breath. “I’m not ready to marry.”

  If she were to marry now, her life would be over. No more trips out to sea. No more lying in the middle of the ocean with the sun beaming down on her, daydreaming that she would meet a selkie who would turn into a handsome warrior determined to give her the life she’d always dreamed of. Aye, childish thoughts perhaps, but ones she wasn’t willing to part with just yet.

  “None of us are until ’tis time.” When her father said this, he glanced at her mother, who returned his gaze with a knowing look that only proved to triple Greer’s frustration.

  “What does that even mean?” Greer tried to hide her exasperation, but the feat proved difficult. This was her life they were talking about, not what to eat for supper.

  “At the feast, ye’ll find a man that will honor ye and cherish ye, one ye can honor and cherish. And then ye will be ready.” Her father nodded as though she should understand this information without question, or at the very least accept it.

  “I dinna think that is the way it happens, Da,” Greer argued, looking to her mother for support.

  But who was she kidding? Her mother had been plucked from a battlefield and forced to marry her Da. They were lucky to have fallen in love. And Bella was no different. She’d had to choose, and she’d chosen the most unlikely bachelor. She too, was lucky it had turned out to be a love match with her husband, Niall. Her eldest brother, Strath, was also married quite happily, to a woman who should have been his enemy.

  Was that how it was in this family? That one sought out the most unlikely person to be their spouse? That didn’t sound in the least bit appealing. Quite the opposite. And how was she supposed to get behind the idea in just two weeks? She wouldn’t, and so she’d likely make a fool of herself, which would only increase her parents’ frustration with her.

  She peeked at Blair, who was wide-eyed and biting her lip. Her sister probably expected her to blow at any minute. Blair was much subtler. A rule follower. In fact, Greer could count on one hand the number of times Blair had got in trouble their entire lives, and even those times had been nothing important. Tiny little infractions that most people couldn’t even remember.

  Magnus stepped forward, placed his hands gently on her shoulders and ducked down a little to meet her gaze. “We love ye, mo chridhe. Give it a chance. I promise ye this, if none of the men at the feast catch your fancy, I willna force ye. Not yet. But I do ask that ye give me the same respect and actually try.”

  Greer’s stomach churned, knotting itself like the line she used to tie down her currach. What choice did she have but to nod, to at least let her parents think she was accepting of this fate they were forcing upon her. A fate that Highland society itself would push for. One she knew was coming, but hadn’t thought she’d so vehemently oppose in her mind.

  As the third child born to the Earl and Countess of Sutherland, she was quite distant from inheriting. Now that her two older siblings both had children of their own, she was even further away. A marriage with her would be advantageous to a man because of the size of her dowry, coin her father had been very generous in offering. But that was it. There wasn’t land or a great castle that she’d be adding to the bargain. Just a chest full of coin. Which meant that any man coming to the feast would be either completely penniless or had a desire to shackle himself to her, the latter of which she thought very unlikely, considering her reputation. Most men found her difficult to get along with.

  “What if… What if none of them find me…worthy?” she whispered, half shocked she’d said the words aloud.

  “They’d be mad not to,” her father said. “Your wit alone is enough to warrant every eligible bachelor in Scotland to come calling.”

  “Ye’re only saying that because ye’re my da, and ye have to say things like that.”

  “’Tis true, I am biased when it comes to my children, but, lass, ye must believe in yourself on land as much as ye believe in yourself at sea.”

  She could do that. She hoped.

  Nodding, she fell against her father, hearing his heart beat solidly in his chest. From behind, her mother approached, and she too hugged her.

  Not to be left behind, Blair leapt up from her chair and joined them.

  If only she never had to leave the circle of their arms, the place she felt safest when not at sea.

  “No currach for two weeks,” her father said. “We want to make certain ye’re safe until then. And…no competitions when the men do arrive.”

  Greer crossed her fingers behind her father’s back and nodded, feeling her face heat. Would she never live down the infamous spearfishing event?

  It’d be a wonder if any of the men her father invited came at all, considering they’d be risking their lives if they were wed to her.

  “Aye, Da.”

  “Promise.” All three of her family members stared at her with different expressions.

  Her father was stern. Her mother, pleading. And Blair, perhaps the only one to realize exactly who they were exacting a promise from, had the intelligence to appear terrified.

  Chapter Two

  Roderick “the Grim” MacCulloch, laird of his clan, rubbed at the sore spot on his leg that ached whenever a storm was near. While he’d like to claim the injury was one he sustained in battle beside his king, Robert the Bruce, the truth was far more humiliating. A mortification he could sometimes laugh about, depending on his mood.

  Standing on the battlements of his castle, Gleann Mórinnse, he beheld the Dornoch Firth, and the white of the sky that would soon, no doubt, be swirling with dark clouds.

  Just that morning, several shepherds had shown up on the doorsteps of his keep to lament about their missing sheep and cattle. Once more, the damned Ross clan had carried out a midnight raid of his lands.

  Over a decade ago, the Ross clan had been subdued by the Sutherlands with the help of Roderick’s father—the younger brother to the old laird MacCulloch. The MacCullochs had been hea
vily in debt. Enough that he’d sold his only daughter to the Ross clan.

  When Roderick’s da took the lairdship from his wayward brother, he’d vowed to protect the entrance to the Dornoch Firth—the same vow that Roderick had made—from English invasion. Roderick’s father had burned down the original tower, Terrel Tower, and rebuilt the one Roderick now called home, giving it a new name, Gleann Mórinnse, meaning vale of big meadows, and to their clan, a bright future.

  A bright future that was overshadowed by the losses they’d felt greatly.

  And now, with over a decade’s need for vengeance festering, it would appear that someone in the Ross clan had decided it was time to test their limits. The most plausible person was Ina Ross. Marmaduke, her Sassenach husband, had died a few years ago. And after the one bairn she’d ever produced passed away before reaching his fifth year, she’d not had another child. So why now? What was she trying to accomplish?

  A few raids to test the waters? A few tiny infractions against the treaty to see who was paying attention? Or perhaps a simple need to destroy what she’d kept locked up for so long?

  If he knew the Ross clan well, and he liked to think he did, then it was not only about a little raid. There was much more to it than that. Ina was incredibly devious and clever, and her thirst for destruction was akin to a drowning man in need of air. The fact she had waited over a decade was surprising.

  Blast it all! His uncle had destroyed his clan’s trust and that of their allies, but they were finally at a good place. The ache of the loss of his sister was still strong, but it had dulled with time, and he finally felt as though he could breathe. It had been three years now. Long years. But he had plans for his clan. Ideas for growth that would give them more security. Sheep and cattle had been a part of that plan.

  And now Ina had decided to meddle. Not only were their livestock being taken, which was taking food and coin from his crofters’ hands, but the clan was getting increasingly nervous. It was just a few animals taken in the dead of night now, but if the men, or women, responsible weren’t stopped soon, next they’d be taking more. Robbing a croft of what they owned, taking other precious things that didn’t belong to them. Even a life.

  Roderick wouldn’t allow it. His clan had suffered enough with the brutality of his uncle, the transition to Roderick’s father as laird a decade ago, and then another transition when they’d lost his da. They’d lost men. He’d lost his sister.

  How dare Ina Ross attempt to squash their attempts at rebuilding?

  The MacCulloch shepherds were not weaklings. Nor were they fearful. If anything, they were spitting mad that a dozen sheep and cattle had been taken from beneath their noses. They’d taken to teaming up, doubling the manpower, extra weapons strapped to each of them, and doubling the hounds on watch.

  Those shepherds that were still a bit wet behind the ears brought along their das and their older brothers. His people would fight for what was theirs, and Roderick wouldn’t stop them. He’d not seen them this passionate about anything in a long while. It was as if his own grief had laid a blanket of sorrow over his people. He owed them. In fact, tonight he was planning on getting back what had been stolen from them. A raid of his own to show Ina he wasn’t afraid of her. To show his people he was their protector.

  “My laird.”

  Roderick didn’t turn away from the view, but he nodded his acknowledgement to his younger brother, Jon, who’d joined him.

  Jon leaned against the ramparts. He had the same coloring as their sister, Jessica. Golden and light, the exact opposite of the demons that had haunted her. She’d always had an angelic quality to her. And Jon, too. On the field of battle, men would often stop to stare at Jon, struck by his divine appearance. That was a mistake, which Jon took full advantage of. Thank God he’d been leading their army the last few years.

  The lassies, too, were slayed by one wink from his brother, which Jon also took full advantage of. He was a bachelor to the core and had no interest in becoming anything other than that. A sentiment Roderick shared, though with less vigor.

  “There are more crofters waiting in the great hall, Brother,” Jon said.

  Roderick had seen them. Every quarter of an hour or so, at least half a dozen of them arrived. Crofters and warriors alike. Their clan was small, and most of his men held duties as both. He suspected they were coming to speak to him about the recent raids, but he would not be surprised if the Ross bastards had indeed gone a step further from the last raid.

  “Any word from the scouts?” Roderick asked.

  “Aye,” Jon said. “They’ve scouted along the perimeter of the land and didna find anything other than a few campfires that could be anyone. Nothing points to the Ross clan other than the shepherds who said the men wore Ross colors.”

  It had occurred to Roderick that men from another clan, or even outlaws, could have put on Ross colors to make it look like they were Ina’s men. But that notion would be put to rest when he went on his own raid tonight and found their cattle and sheep.

  He scowled into the distance. Nothing was ever easy. Not that he expected it to me. Being laird was a most honorable and difficult duty. He had to see to the welfare of everyone in his clan. A great responsibility he’d not known would be his own until he was nearly a man and his father had taken the position from his brother. And it wasn’t one he’d fully embraced even when he was made laird, suffering from grief. He was ready now.

  “I will do right by them,” he said more to himself than anyone else.

  “They trust ye, Grim.”

  Roderick grimaced at the moniker, only further proving why he had it. “Aye. And I’ll see they are recompensed.”

  His brother followed him down the stairs, and Roderick frowned the entire way, the pain in his thigh intense. A storm was definitely coming. By the time they’d reached the base, beads of sweat lined his spine, but he pushed through. A warrior never showed weakness, especially physical weakness. A laird had to be a god among men.

  All the same, Jon side-eyed him. “How’s the leg?”

  “Fine.” Roderick’s tone was clipped, but he didn’t care. Jon knew better than to ask, anyway.

  He stomped across the bailey and into the keep, where the great hall was filled with the men who spoke none too softly to each other about what they’d lost.

  “Laird,” Angus MacCulloch, a third cousin of Roderick and Jon’s, spoke. “Thank ye for coming so quick.”

  “I’d not leave ye waiting after such torment.” Roderick stepped forward and grasped the men by their arms, giving them his full attention.

  “What are we to do about the Ross clan? We’ve not had trouble from them in many years.”

  “Aye, at least ten give or take a few by my count.” Roderick nodded. “Not a whisper. They’ve been silent all this time. Not even seeking us out for trade, or even a minor trespass on our land.” The Ross Clan silence was terrifying. What had Ina been up to while they all sat by, calm and carefree? “Tonight, we ride. See if we canna recover what they’ve stolen. Maybe question a crofter or two. And when we return, I’ll send word to Sutherland that the bastards are up to their old tricks.”

  The men nodded, loudly voicing their agreement. “We’ll ride with ye.”

  Roderick nodded. “Only three of ye. I want to keep the party small. Jon, ye’ll stay here and protect the castle and lands.”

  “Aye, my laird,” his brother agreed.

  Three men stepped forward, Angus among them.

  “Gather what ye need and meet me in the bailey in an hour,” Roderick instructed.

  The men left the great hall, and Roderick turned to gather the things he would need for the raid.

  “Brother.” Jon’s voice stilled him.

  “Aye?” Roderick turned back around, warily eyeing Jon.

  “Be careful.” Jon’s face did not show any of his emotions, but Roderick would have to be a dense fool not to know the meaning behind the words.

  What happened three years prior was e
nough to haunt him for the rest of his life. After having lost both their parents and their sister, whenever they parted, they each worried about whether or not it would be the last time they saw each other.

  Death spared no one.

  Death rarely gave a warning.

  Roderick would never forgive himself for not being there when his sister needed him. And he knew Jon harbored guilt, too, for he’d been training with Roderick deep in the woods with their men. They’d not been gone long, a few days at most, and Jessica had been doing well. Had been happy, even.

  Since losing his sister and parents, he had a better appreciation of the fragility of life. Thank goodness for his younger brother being willing to step in to lead their army. But he knew he couldn’t count on Jon forever. At some point, Roderick was going to have to be the one who held a sword to his enemy’s neck. Until now, the Highlands had been relatively quiet, save for a skirmish here and there.

  And if it came down to choosing between an enemy or those he cared about, he knew he could be ruthless.

  Never again would he lose someone close to him.

  He’d sustained the thigh injury that would leave him pained for the rest of his days on the anniversary of his sister’s death. It was almost a reminder of what he’d lost. In that single moment, a year’s worth of healing had reverted, shoving him back into the brooding darkness.

  Refusing to venture down the pained past his memory appeared to want to dredge up, Roderick grasped his brother’s shoulder and gave a hard squeeze. “I’ll be careful. Take care of things while I’m gone.” And without a backward glance, he was marching toward the bailey.

  His mount, Twilight, a massive black warhorse, was already saddled, and a leather bag of provisions was fastened to the side along with his targe. Hidden within the folds of the saddle blanket were two broadswords, and his claymore was strapped to his back. A sgian dubh graced each boot, and at his wrists were two smaller daggers.

  With a nod at his stable master, he marched to Twilight and mounted, ignoring the stabbing ache in his thigh. He wiped at the sweat on his brow and breathed out a long sigh. The ride was going to be rough, but sheer force of will would power him through it. And when he returned, he’d have a tub filled to the brim with hot water brought in, and after a nice long soak, he’d rub the salve the healer had given him onto his leg.