The Highlander's Claim (Highland Romance)

by Jessica Knight

  Copyright © 2020 by Jessica Knight

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  The Highlander’s Claim

  Jessica Knight

  Contents

  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

  Epilogue

  The Vikings’ Brides Box Set (Sneak Peek)

  About the Author

  Also by Jessica Knight

  Chapter One

  Malcolm

  “Try to stay out of trouble, lad.”

  I look up at my father and grin. “When have you known me to get into trouble, father?”

  “I seem to recall needing to convince old Cudahy to not cut your hand off for stealin’ his wife’s pies not too long ago,” my father replies.

  “I am fairly certain you imagined that after getting into your cups one night.”

  My brother Dougal chuckles and cuffs me behind the ear. “Don’t be a horse’s ass, Malcolm.”

  “With you setting such a fine example for me, what else am I to be?”

  Dougal laughs and grabs me, quickly putting me into a headlock. We scuffle and scrap with one another. At least until my father steps in, grabs us both by our ears and twists as he pries us apart.

  “For the love of all things holy,” he mutters to himself. “I’ve raised goats with better manners than you lot.”

  “And in the case of my eldest brother, you’ve raised goats that are better looking,

  Papa,” I laugh.

  Dougal moves to cuff me behind the ear again but stops at a sharp look from our father. Our father can be a hard man and is not somebody to be trifled with. He will indulge our childish games and banter to a certain point. But one step over that line and we’re likely to find a thick leather lash striping our backsides. So when we get that look from him, we know it is time to stop fooling about.

  “Your brother and I have things to see to, Malcolm,” my father says. “I don’t want you getting into any trouble while we’re about our business.”

  “Why can’t I go with you?” I plead for the thousandth time.

  “I told you boy; this is a man’s business.”

  I bristle and fight to keep my temper in check. I’ve seen fifteen summers now. Almost sixteen. I’m a man by any measure.

  “I am not a child, Papa,” I argue.

  “You are my child, and you will heed my word, Malcolm.”

  “Stop bein’ such an infant, Mal,” Dougal grins at me. “Go have some fun in the market. Find yourself a nice English lass and ask her to make a real man outta ya.”

  “Enough,” our father growls and then turns to me. “You stay away from the English, lad. They’re no friends of ours.”

  “But Papa –”

  “They’re as like to slit your throat as they are to look at ya,” he says. “They’ll bring ya nothing but trouble. Which is to say they’ll bring us nothing but trouble. Now heed my word boy, or I swear that I won’t be bringing ya back to the market anytime soon.”

  I sigh and watch my father and brother walk away, melting into the crowd. It’s not long before I can’t see them at all. I think my father would prefer not to bring me along at all, but the job requires three, and he knows my other brother Ian can’t be relied upon to help. He also says I’m gonna need to learn my way around Weykirk sooner or later since it’s where we sell our crops and our livestock.

  Weykirk is not as large as Edinburgh, but it’s the center of the world as far as the Highland clans are concerned since they don’t enjoy dancing to the music being played by the King – a king many feel is far too cozy with England and their Virgin Queen. Not that I hold a strong opinion either way. Politics hold little interest for me.

  But since we’ve already sold our goods today, I don’t know what sorta business they’re about. I’m tempted to follow. To see where they go and what they’re doing. My pa shutting me out only makes me more curious, and he should know that by now. So if I was to follow him and see what they were up to, in a sense, it’d be his own fault.

  But then I think of the wide leather strap hanging on the wall behind the door at home and think better of it.

  It’s a gray day today. Not that it’s all that surprising since most of our days are just one shade of gray or another. Today is more of a slate than charcoal color, so that means we’re probably not gonna get any rain. Which is good since rain would make the ride back home to Galwick – which is not fun on even the warmest of days – even more unpleasant.

  Resisting the urge to follow and snoop, I wind my way through the crowded avenues of the market. Everybody is busy coming and going, carrying loads of heavy boxes to and fro. Vendors are busy shouting over each other as they go about hawking their goods. It’s a riot of colors, sounds, and smells.

  And currently, what I’m smelling is incredibly pungent horse shite. I look down at the ground and groan, finding the puddled leavings of what has to be a horse that’s very ill. I make my way down a row of vendors savoring the aroma of roasting meats and stews. My stomach rumbles, reminding me that I haven’t had breakfast, so as I pass by a produce vendor’s stall, I cop an apple while he’s not looking.

  Munching on it happily, I round a corner and stop short, my breath catching in my throat, when I find myself in a small clearing. Sitting on an old stump of a tree is the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. Maybe a summer or two younger than me, she has hair the color of burnished copper, emerald-colored eyes that somehow still sparkle in the gloom of the day, and skin fairer than a bowl of cream, the girl perched on the stump is the picture of perfection.

  I lean against the corner of the building and fold my arms over my chest, listening to her telling stories to the crowd of little ones sitting on the ground around her. They laugh and giggle as she makes up voices to bring her stories to life and shrink back with a gasp when she does something scary. She is playing them like a lute and has every single one of them eating out of the palm of her hand.

  I stand there, completely enraptured as if she was a witch who cast an enchantment spell over me.

  When she finishes her story, the crowd of children applauds wildly. Their cheers quickly turn to moans of sadness when she stands and tells them it’s time for her to depart. It’s only then I notice the large, hulking man lurking in the shadows behind her. He’s got on dark breeches, high leather boots, and dark leather gloves with matching bracers. He’s wearing a dark blue doublet that, judging by the bulk, has a boiled leather vest beneath it. On one hip sits a wicked looking dagger, and on the other hangs a scabbard that houses a blade I am certain could slice me in half.

  His movements are fluid and graceful, and his eyes are ever watchful. I take him to b
e a soldier – which likely makes him my little English rose’s bodyguard, no doubt. The fact that she has a bodyguard means she’s somebody of some standing.

  On the breast of the large man’s doublet is heraldry I don’t recognize – it’s a scarlet shield with black borders, and in the middle of the scarlet field is a black eagle with three white stars beneath it. It’s the same heraldry that adorns the breast of her dress, which is a dark green and clings to her curves ever so enticingly.

  My father has tried to teach me English heraldry – says it’s important for me to know the ones to kill and the ones to call friend. Though, he admits there are precious few of the latter. But it’s not something that interested me, so the lessons never stuck. I’m kicking myself for it now though. Knowing which noble English house she belongs to would have been a good starting point.

  Drawing her black cloak about her a bit tighter, the fire-haired girl strolls down the row of stalls, stopping to admire items on display here and there as I casually shadow the hulking man that lingers behind her. He’s far enough away to give her some sense of privacy, but close enough that he can do violence on anybody who he deems needs it – something I can tell he’s just itching for. The scowl on his face tells me he doesn’t much like my people and would like to cut a Scotsman down just for the fun of it.

  This is probably the sort of trouble my father admonished me to avoid – especially as it regards the English. But with my heart fluttering every time I simply look at her, I know I would have an easier time convincing the sun to rise in the west tomorrow than not talk to her. But unless I want to find a broad sword embedded in my skull, I will have to exercise some modicum of discretion.

  Moving quickly, I get a couple of stalls ahead of her and cop a flower from one of the vendors. I sneak a quick glance and see her moving toward me, the walking mountain shadowing her from behind. My heart is fluttering – and only partly from the thought of being impaled like a feast day pig.

  When she gets close enough, I turn and am suddenly blocking her way. She looks up and gives me what looks like a well-rehearsed smile. I present her with the rose and bow low from the waist – hoping I look more lordly and less foolish. I recall my father talking about the mannerisms and practices of the English lords.

  “For you,” I gesture with the rose. “I truly enjoyed your story.”

  The hint of a genuine smile touches the corners of her lips as she dips, giving me a slight curtsey in return as she plucks the rose from my hand.

  “Given that you were only there for the last few words spoken, I do not see how that’s possible,” she replies.

  “Oh, so you noticed me, did ya?” I grin.

  Her cheeks flush, and I see her fighting to keep the smile from her face – a fight she loses. But she finally manages to subdue her smile and look at me with the imperious look so common to the English nobles. I’m sure it’s practiced and taught among the well-heeled, but it somehow doesn’t look natural on her.

  “Yes well, a turkey does stand out among a crowd of swans.”

  She looks at me for a long moment and can’t hold the frosty glare any longer. Her regal façade cracks, and the smile returns. A moment later, we both burst into laughter. And then the mammoth man who’s been trailing her is suddenly there, standing beside the girl with his hand on the hilt of his sword and a hate-filled scowl on his face.

  He glowers at me as he pulls his sword from its scabbard a couple of inches, purposely making an ominous grinding sound to let me know where I stand with him.

  “Clear the road, you filthy Scot,” he growls.

  “Filthy? Why I bathed just last week,” I retort.

  He draws his steel another couple of inches to reinforce his point. “Make way for Lady Seeley.”

  “Sir Corman,” she replies. “There is no need for threats. I do not believe the boy is an assassin here to slay me before the eyes of God and all these people.”

  “Your Grace, it is my duty to –”

  “It is your duty to obey my command, Sir Corman,” she bristles. “Now sheath your sword and step away. Now. Do not ruin my afternoon out.”

  The big man looks at her with uncertainty in his face, but when he turns to me, his expression darkens with a barely controlled rage. I’m quite certain he would do unspeakable things to me right now if he wouldn’t lose his head for it later. Finally though, he relents and steps back a couple of steps, his eyes still locked onto me and his hands resting menacingly on the pommel of his sword.

  “I must apologize,” she says. “Corman is a good man, but he can be a bit overprotective.”

  “And he clearly does not like my people,” I grin.

  “I cannot speak to that. But I know he is a veteran of many engagements between our peoples.”

  “Fair enough,” I reply. “And to be completely fair, I don’t like a lot of my people either.”

  She smiles and looks away, covering her mouth with a hand to hide her laughter. From a distance, she was lovely. But up close, she’s absolutely radiant. Her skin is smooth and without flaw, and her eyes shine even brighter than I’d thought. It’s as if they glow with some inner fire. Standing so close to her, she looks so delicate. Fragile, even. But after hearing the way she spoke to her minder, I know there is a core of fire and steel inside of her. And I find it powerfully alluring. Indeed, I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from her or make my heart stop pounding its way out of my bloody chest.

  “I’m Malcolm Dunbarr.”

  “Catherine Seeley,” she replies.

  And that’s when my father’s lessons on heraldry finally kick in. Perfect timing. Her father is the Duke of Lancaster, who holds lands to the south. But that’s never been enough for him as he continually tries to expand his personal realm to include parts of Scotland that don’t belong to him. He’s killed a lot of Scots to press his advantage and is not a very popular figure in the Highlands, to be sure. But Catherine is his daughter and is not guilty of his crimes.

  I stand there looking at her in awe, my stomach alive with the wings of a thousand butterflies battering my insides. I cast a glance at her Sir Corman, who continues to glare at me, his hands still resting on his sword pommel as if he thinks I’m going to magically conjure a great sword of my own and strike her down. Either that or he has guessed at my infatuation for the Lady Catherine and doesn’t approve. It very well could be a bit of both.

  “So what brings you to market today, Malcolm?”

  “My pa was selling our crops,” I tell her. “What about you?”

  “My brother is attending to some business for my father,” she replies. “I was allowed out of my cell for the fresh air and sunshine.”

  If I am to guess by the cut and quality of her dress and cloak, she and I have very different definitions of what it means to live in a cell. But then, what do I know? Perhaps English nobles really do keep their women locked in cells.

  “Do they keep you in a box on that lush, palatial estate you live on?” I ask.

  “They might as well,” she grumbles.

  “So you spend the small bit of time you get out of your box telling stories to children?”

  “I cannot think of a better way to spend my time,” she replies. “Can you?”

  I flash her a smile. “I can think of a few better ways.”

  An expression of consternation crosses her face, and her cheeks flush with color. She looks away quickly and seems to be doing her best to gather herself.

  “What would your mother say if she knew you spoke to proper ladies in this fashion?” she finally asks.

  “My mother is dead,” I tell her. “Five summers now.”

  Her eyes widen, and an expression of sorrow seizes her face. She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out for a long moment. But then she clears her throat and tries to control her expression.

  “My deepest condolences,” she says. “And forgive me; I did not know.”

  “How could you? We only just met,” I ask, flashing her a grin. �
�I appreciate your sympathy though.”

  Catherine turns and walks on, trying to look interested in the vendor’s stalls behind us, though it seems obvious she is simply trying to avoid my eyes. But I’m so intoxicated by her presence; I fall into step beside her. We take no more than a few steps when I feel an itch between my shoulder blades that can only be Corman burning holes into my back with his eyes. I cut a glance behind us just to confirm it, and sure enough, I’m right. His glower only deepens when our eyes meet, and I quickly turn away.

  “Your man Corman has made an art form of hard looks,” I whisper to her. “I swear he could curdle milk with nothing more than his eyes.”

  My heart spins in my chest when she favors me with a smile and a conspiratorial laugh. It infuses me with a boldness I don’t normally possess.

  “Your smile is more beautiful than a sunrise in the Highlands,” I tell her.

  The color in her face deepens, and she looks away again. We walk in silence for a few moments before she gathers herself enough to speak.

  “That was bold,” she says.

  “What can I say? You give my heart strength.”

  “And I apparently dull your wits,” she says, her tone chastising. “It is not proper for you to speak to a Lady in such a way.”

  “I’ve never been very proper – m’Lady.”

  “You mock me now,” she says.

  I quicken my pace to get ahead of her and then step in front, blocking her path. Catherin stops, a cross look on her face. Corman steps forward, gripping his sword, obviously ready to pull steel, but she puts a hand out to forestall him. The big man takes a grudging step back.