Текст книги "Highland Daydreams"

Автор книги: April Holthaus

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Highland Daydreams

 

The MacKinnon Clan Series

Book Three

April Holthaus

 

Edited by: One More Time Editing LLC

Cover Design by: Leanne Edwards

Printed in the United States

First Printing: September 2014

ISBN-10: 1500179124

ISBN-13: 978-1500179120

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2014 April Holthaus

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events or persons are purely coincidental. No part of this publication is allowed to be reproduced without the author’s written permission.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the Sandberg Family of Minneapolis, Minnesota (descendants of Carl and Helen). I would not be the person I am today if it were not for my family.

To my husband and son, your love and support encourage me to reach for my dreams!

Acknowledgement

I would like to give a special thanks to all of my readers and Facebook friends. Your support and encouragement have been greatly appreciated. Thank you for taking a chance on me!

I would also like to send out a special thank you to my beta readers who have helped make this book be the best it can be! Thank you, Nicole Laverdure, Jennifer Green, Kimberly Court, Barbara Cooch, Rhonda Kirby, Maria McIntyre, and Stephanie Kennedy! And of course, Thanks to Helen, my editor for all of the last minute details and changes!

Content

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Author’s Notes

Preview: The Honor of a Highlander

Preview: Escape to the Highlands

Dear Readers Message

About the Author

Prologue

July 22, 1298

Falkirk, Scotland

The sky darkened. Rain had fallen for more than an hour causing the ground to become slippery and muddy beneath Bram’s feet. Holding his sword high, he waited for Wallace’s battle cry. His breaths became labored and each exhale more intense. The noises around him were muffled over the sound of his heart beating loudly in his ears. Squeezing his grip tighter to steady the hilt of his broadsword, he waited. Clutching the strap of his shield, he pulled it firmly against his chest. Over the assembly of men and commotion, a call echoed.

A sea of men on each side of him barreled down the hill toward their enemy. Bram had no time to think and he acted on instinct alone. Thrashing his sword, he cut down the first few men charging towards him from the left and then the right. He raised his shield when the whistling sound of falling arrows came closer and louder but he did not slow his pace. He used his shield to push past a group of warriors to advance further towards his enemy.

For a brief moment, Bram stood in the middle of a clearing. Men had fought and fallen around him; both comrade and enemy. With eyes looking wildly about at the scene before him, he searched for his next victim. To his right, a soldier dressed in chainmail ran towards him. Sword drawn, he yelled out all sorts of blasphemies. Lowering his weapon with the blade directed towards Bram, the soldier readied himself to slice Bram through.

Bram turned to fight off another opponent, who violently swung his sword harder and harder, forcing Bram to take short steps backwards. Bram leapt to the side, able to dodge the first blow, but met the second with the pure force of his blade. A forceful shot to Bram’s ribs sent ripples of pain throughout his body. He cried out in agony. Dropping to his knees, Bram wrapped one of his arms tightly around his chest and attempted to rise. But just as he was about to stand, the man took a sharp dirk out of his boot and slashed it across Bram’s abdomen.

Bram could feel the heat of the blade as it sliced through his skin down to the muscle. Blood spilled down the front of him. Unexpectedly, a sudden dizzy spell overcame him. Bram doubled over and fell into a small puddle. Lying on the ground, he waited for death to take him. His eyes closed, the blackness came, and then there was nothing but silence.

Chapter 1

August, 1298

Cumberland, England

Dragging the heavy weight of the iron chain secured to her ankle, Lara scurried across the floor of her cell. She tucked her knees under her chin, and wrapped her arms securely around her legs, sitting quiet and still. As her stomach growled once more, Lara pressed her hands firmly against her stomach, wishing away her hunger. The boniness of her ribs beneath her hands told her that if she did not die of illness, she would certainly die of starvation.

Lara was uncertain if it had been weeks or months she had spent within the bowels of the dungeon, for time did not exist within the darkness. She could no longer hear the desperate cries of her fellow cell mates, nor could she feel her own wounds or pains.

Lara hid her face within the folds of what was left of her dress when she heard the guards making their way down the stone stairwell. As they entered this room in the dungeon, they yelled profanities at a prisoner they dragged with them. They threatened that if he didn’t walk faster they would pitch him down the stairs.

She felt her body quiver with fear when she spied Roland, the heavier of the two guards. Roland had once visited Lara in her cell trying to satisfy his needs before he was reprimanded by another guard and forced back out of her cell. Angered by Roland’s attempted rape, the Earl of Cumberland had struck him so hard it created a grotesque scar across his face that left him almost unrecognizable.

Since that wretched day, Roland accused Lara for what had happened, swearing that he would take his revenge out on her. He often tried to put the fear of God in her with his abhorrent threats. At times, Lara wished he would just get it over with so he would leave her alone.

As he entered, Roland peeked around the bars and gave her a half smile. Lara looked away and clasped onto the hem of her skirt a little tighter. Roland turned and instructed the other guard to string up their prisoner by his wrists. The man stumbled forward as the guards dragged him to a wooden pole where a thick rope dangled from a beam on the ceiling. Wrapping the rope around his wrists, the guard tied the knot tightly. The prisoner was hoisted up and stretched from limb to limb.

When they turned him to expose his bare back, the side of his face became visible in the soft light of the torch on the wall. It was him. He was the only one who never fought back or struggled when the guards came for him. Lara was unsure where his unbreakable strength came from, but knew that only a warrior could be so brave. The only spark of life Lara had left within her was the empathy she felt for this warrior who shared the cell next to hers. Lara shuddered as the crack of the whip bit into the man’s flesh. The prisoners around her yelled in the man’s defense, but no sound came from the captive himself. He just clenched his teeth and endured the pain. Lara could not tell how many times they struck him for she tried to block it out.

In a chilling and raspy voice Roland demanded that he be cut down. Lifting her head up, Lara watched as the warrior hung from the rafter, limp, his head hanging to one side. Sweat and blood glistened off his body. The guard took his blade out of its sheath and sliced the rope in two. In that instant, the warrior plummeted to the ground. The portly guard picked him up by his arms and began to drag him back into his cell.

“Get in there!” the guard roared as he shoved him inside the small space.

Roland held him down as the warrior was once again chained to the wall in iron shackles.

Still curled up in the corner, Lara looked at him through the bars, tears streaming down her face. He looked broken, not only physically, but in spirit as well. She carefully watched the guards as they returned to their posts. She knew that one of them would head back up the stairs with the others while her tormentor would sit down on his chair outside her cell, tilt it back against the bars and slam back a tankard or two of whiskey. Their routine had become predictable the last several nights, and Lara had taken notice.

“Hello, my beauty,” Roland whispered to her through the cell bars, so low that no one else could hear him.

His breath smelled like rotten food and stale ale.

“My body is aching for the sweetness between your thighs and I promise that you will enjoy it,” he threatened.

“Perhaps ye would like a matching scar across the other side of yer face,” she threatened.

Roland chuckled.

“Oh how I love a woman with some fight in her.”

Lara looked away from him and hugged her knees tighter into her chest. She prayed God would take her from this place. She would rather die than stay here another night. Resting her head upon her knees, she chewed her bottom lip, in an effort to keep herself from falling asleep. If she were to drift off, she would be left vulnerable, and Roland would surely have his way with her. It would be no different than what had been done to her by that despicable man Dermot, her husband.

Married for no more than a sennight, Lara was still angry with herself for believing his sweet and flowery words. She had become so easily blinded by hope that she missed the obvious signs of treachery. She, like her father, had believed that the marriage of Lara and Dermot would end years of feuds between their clans. By uniting them there should have been peace. That is what Errol, Laird of Clan Moray swore his life upon with his very last breath; but no, in truth, his son Dermot proved to be a most vicious and vile man. He had chosen not to keep his father’s promise. But still, she never could have imagined that this would have happened.

As if it were yesterday, she recalled the morning she pleaded with her father to void the contract and marry her off to another; any other. She had only met Dermot once, many years ago, but his rude and selfish behavior left a bitter taste in her mouth. Having to marry him made Lara’s stomach twist and churn.

“Lara, ye are meddling in things in which ye should nay be meddling. Ye are ten and seven years old. ‘Tis time ye were married,” her father croaked.

“Meddling? Is my life no’ my business? I will do my duty and marry the swine. But ye are sacrificing me to the wolves. How do ye ken ye can trust ‘em? Even their own priest had been condemned for treason. The Morays’ have ne’er kept their word or their promises. Surely ye can find me a better suitor and our clan a better ally.”

Her father’s eyes darkened like the night sky and his brows furrowed. In a deep and lowered tone he replied, “We need this alliance, Lara. We have far too many enemies. Ye will do the Laird’s bidding if he so wishes it. Ye will marry the son of Laird Moray and that is the end of it. Ye will no’ defy me again. I have found ye a suitor who has the means to care fer ye. God only hope he can handle ye. I will no’ hear another word.”

Lara’s thoughts were interrupted by a loud snore coming from outside her cell. With the guard asleep, Lara was sure that this time she would be able to slip her thin, bony wrists out of the shackles without notice. Lara reached out and wet her wrists from a small puddle of muddy water that had been leaking from the ceiling onto the ground. She began to vigorously twist her right hand back and forth successfully popping it out of its binding. Repeating the same thing with the other hand, she was able to free herself from the irons. Now she only needed the key to unlock the one around her ankle.

Glancing around the room, she saw no one had noticed her actions, except for the nameless warrior whose heavy gaze sent chills down Lara’s spine. He watched her like a hawk watching his prey, but remained silent. On her hands and knees, Lara silently crawled towards Roland. Sliding her small hands through the bars, she slipped Roland’s dagger from his belt. With one forceful thrust, she stabbed the man in the back.

Roland howled in agony. Lara twisted the blade and pulled it back out as blood gushed from his wound. It took only moments before his body became motionless and fell from his chair onto the ground. Lara promised herself that she would not mourn this loss of life though she would be dutiful and ask God for forgiveness.

Lara’s arm ached as she stretched it as far as she could through the bars for the key ring latched to his belt. Once she retrieved it, she removed her ankle chain, staggered to the door of her cell, and swung the door open. The loud creak of steel echoed throughout the chamber. The prisoners around her had remained silent until now. Whispering in low voices they begged for her to help release them, but her time was precious and she knew that she could not save them all.

With little time to escape, Lara crept towards the stairs. Putting one foot on the first step, she felt an unnerving tightness in her chest. She looked back over her shoulder to the injured warrior. His body was slumped to one side and his worn out arms hung lifeless from the chains. Seeing his helplessness, she knew she had to save him. She could not let a man as brave as he, die in here. Inspired by his valor and strength, Lara took courage. If it were not for him, she may never have had the bravery to take a man’s life to save her own.

Quickly, but as quiet as a field mouse, she ran to his cell, turned the key in the lock, and unlatched the door. The warrior raised his head to her but said nothing. For a fleeting moment, Lara wondered if perhaps the warrior was a mute. For the past two weeks, he had not said one word. From above the staircase, Lara heard a noise from the guards. Worried that her escape would fail, she tossed the key ring at his side and prayed her small token of freedom would help him escape as well. Lara took off running up the long staircase.

Once she reached the top step, Lara looked around and saw two guards sitting at a small round table in heavy debate. Their distraction and conversation made it easy for Lara to take the opportunity to examine the large open room. On each side of the room were two wooden support beams that held up the ceiling; just wide enough for Lara to hide behind, unnoticed, if she could get to them. When the guards weren’t looking, she held her breath and quickly advanced forward to the first beam.

Pressing her back up against the first beam, she waited to see if the guards had noticed her presence. She could feel her chest rise and fall with each unsteady breath. Lara felt her knees start to buckle and she could not stop her hands from shaking. After a few minutes, she peeked around the wooden beam to see if all was clear. The guards continued to be distracted. Taking in another deep breath, she ran as quietly and swiftly as she could to the next one, stepping as light as a feather.

Lara could feel the hairs on her arms rise and her heartbeat quicken. She had made it this far and now freedom was only a few more feet away. She prayed her attempt would be successful and not in vain. It had been a long while since she breathed in the crisp, fresh air and felt the earth beneath her feet. She was determined to do so again even if she had to kill every guard that stood in her way.

As soon as she was able to look back at the guards, Lara heard the jingling sound of a chain coming from the stairs that led to the dungeon. The guards jumped from their chairs and ran over to the staircase to inspect the noise. Lara used the distraction to run to the alcove which framed the door.

Carefully, she began to turn the handle.

“What do you think you are doing?” one of the guards yelled from across the room.

Lara panicked; so frightened her body went stiff. Unexpectedly, she heard a loud painful moan followed by several grunts and heavy breathing from behind her. Looking over her shoulder, she saw the two guards engaged in a brawl with the nameless warrior who had managed to escape his cell as well. A crack to the jaw, a jab to the stomach, the warrior fell to his knees. His two attackers circled around and mocked him for his failed attempt to escape.

Lara’s heart ached for him. He was in no condition to fight. But just as she thought his luck had run out, the warrior grabbed onto the back of one of the guard’s knees and pummeled him to the ground. Bringing his fist up high into the air, he swung down making contact with the guard’s nose knocking him out cold. Blood trickled down the guard’s face and spilled onto the floor.

The other guard grabbed onto the warrior’s arms, but the warrior twisted his upper body, tossing the man over his shoulder and slamming him onto the ground. After a few more swings and punches, the warrior was able to render the second guard unconscious as well.

Lara could feel goose bumps creep along her arms as the warrior limped toward her. He was taller than she had expected. From the dim light, all she could tell was that he had long hair with a matching beard, broad shoulders and a thin waistline. Still unable to make out his features, she watched as he looked past her out the door.

“Run towards the trees, and follow me close,” he whispered, as he pushed her through the door and started running towards the dense forest.

Chapter 2

The blackness of night blinded Lara from seeing the low branches as she ran past them. Small twigs slashed across her face, stinging her cheeks. Too dark to see even a few feet ahead of her, Lara was uncertain where they were heading. Deep inside, she wanted to trust him, but still had reservations. Even though they had shared more than a week together in the same hellish pit, she knew nothing of him. And she had no cause or reason to trust him.

Even with the warrior’s obvious injuries, Lara had a hard time keeping up with him. He was fast and physically in better shape than she was. The muscles in her legs started to burn. She knew not how she could keep going. Let the English come, she thought. Tripping over small tree roots on the forest floor, Lara tumbled forward, collapsing to her knees. The warrior ran back to her.

“Are ye hurt?” he asked.

Lara shook her head.

“Nay. Go. Just leave me, please,” she begged as tears flowed freely down her cheeks.

“Nay. Now get up,” he said as he grabbed under her arms, helping her to her feet. “Ye canna stop. Ye must keep going.”

Lara took a deep breath and nodded her head.

Silently, they trotted through the forest for miles within the dark until they came across a campfire where three men were sleeping. The campfire burned low and the men snored loudly, covering the sound of leaves crunching under Lara’s feet. The warrior put his finger to his lips indicating for Lara to keep quiet as he crept further towards them. He stopped and waited for several long moments. Holding his hand up for Lara to stay where she was, he walked to the other side of their camp where three horses were tied to a tree.

Without a word, he gave Lara a wave of his hand for her to walk towards him. Lara’s heart raced. She had to put her hand over her mouth to quiet her breathing. Her legs felt like dough and shook almost uncontrollably at the knees. She stepped lightly, praying to God that she could make it across the campsite without waking the men. As she walked towards her companion, her eyes did not stray from the sleeping men. That was her first mistake. Stepping on a twig, she gasped and felt her heart drop in her chest. Lara froze in place. She was no longer able to quiet her breathing as she imagined all sort of terrible things the men would do to them once they discovered their presence. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t think; her head began to spin. The warrior calmly walked back towards Lara and took her by the hand. Together they walked to the other side of the camp. Lara took a sigh of relief when they safely made it across. Grabbing onto her waist, he carefully lifted Lara on top of one of the horses. The horse grunted loudly.

“What is that?” a man grumbled as he looked in Lara’s and the warrior’s direction. “Wake up ye eejits, they are stealing our horses!” he hollered.

With lightning speed, the warrior untied the ropes, freeing the other two horses. Swinging up behind her and wrapping one arm around her waist, he grabbed onto the reigns. After a loud slap to the horse’s rump, the horse bolted into a fast sprint. The men’s voices from behind them began to fade as the distance between them and the camp increased.

After riding several hours, Lara could smell the distinct aroma of food being carried on the wind. The delectable smell made her stomach growl and mouth water. The warrior slowed the horse and stilled its movement as they came upon a small dwelling.

The croft was made of stone and looked as if it had been abandoned. Several stones had crumbled showing signs of erosion and the ill-thatched roof was in desperate need of repair. Along the back side of the croft was a small barn that housed two horses and throughout the yard a dozen chickens pecked the ground.

At first, her instinct was to tell him to keep going for she did not know if they were on English soil or Scotland’s. However, the smell of the food and the idea of a warm pallet were far too tempting. As they drew closer towards the barn, the chickens became startled by the horse and began to cluck loudly.

“Who goes there?” a woman croaked.

“I apologize, my lady, I dinna mean to disturb ye,” the warrior replied.

Once the woman came into view, the warrior dismounted and walked closer to her but remained in the shadows. The woman was old with a round mid-section and stood half as tall as him. Her clothes were tattered and worn and her silvery hair was partially covered by a white linen head-rail.

“Are ye the mon, McGregor sent lookin’ fer work? I was told that ye would no’ be here fer a few days.”

“Nay, my lady. I am no’ McGregor. We are passing through and happened to come across yer lands. We are seeking food and shelter.”

Lara watched as the old woman looked the warrior up and down. Tilting her head to the side, she looked behind him to Lara who was still perched on top of the horse. Pursing her lips, the woman looked at the two of them very carefully.

“Have ye any coin?” she rudely asked.

“Nay, my lady,” the warrior replied.

“Well, if ye cannae pay me then ye will work fer yer meal.”

“Of course, my lady,” the warrior said, and slightly bowed his head to her.

“And who is that there wit ye?” she asked.

“Only an acquaintance, my lady.”

“Well, come here so I can have a look at ye,” she insisted.

Lara slid down the side of the horse and slowly came out of the shadow and stood within the light of the moon. With her hands balled tightly against her sides, she readied herself to run if instinct told her to. Her stomach clenched when the old woman gazed down at her with beady eyes. The woman expressed a look of astonishment as if she was utterly appalled by Lara’s appearance.

Keeping her arms close to her sides, Lara kept her head lowered. Ashamed of her ragged dress and nappy hair, Lara bit her bottom lip hoping not to be ridiculed by the woman.

“Good God lass, what happened to ye?

Lara did not know how to respond. She knew nothing of this woman nor whether she could be trusted. She certainly could not tell the woman who she was and from where she had just escaped. Lara remained silent. Glancing over to the warrior, she looked for some indication as to what to do or say to the old hag but he stood quiet, staring at her blankly. In the dim light of dusk, she could only feel his stare.

“What is yer name?” she asked rather impatiently. “Well now, dinna be shy. Speak up lass.”

“Lara,” she quietly responded, giving the woman nothing more than her first name.

“It’s good to meet ye, Lara. My name is Rowena,” she said, then turned her attention back to the warrior. “The lass can sleep inside. As fer ye, there should be plenty of hay fer ye in the barn. Tomorrow mornin’ I expect ye to have the horses brushed down and the chickens fed. When my husband, Innes, returns in the mornin’ he can tell ye what else needs to be done. He works as a blacksmith in the village so he is away often. We lost our last farmhand, so much is needed to be done. If ye prove to be well worth the hire, I shall e’en pay ye,” the woman offered to the warrior.

“Thank ye, my lady,” he said in a more grateful tone.

Lara followed Rowena towards the front of the house. Before turning the corner, the woman turned back and asked, “Laddie, what do I call ye?”

The warrior cleared his throat before speaking.

“Bram, my lady. My name is Bram MacKinnon.”

Grateful for the woman’s hospitality, Bram eagerly walked towardss the barn. He welcomed the fresh air and a dry pallet. The past two weeks had been hell on both his body and his mind. As he entered the barn, he noted a stack of hay in one of the abandoned stalls. Grabbing a large heap of it, he arranged the hay into flat layers on the ground. Bram laid his weary body down upon a wool sack he had found and placed on top of the hay. He swore to the heavens that he would forever lie in that spot and not move another muscle.

Rolling to his side and placing his arm underneath his head, his muscles twitched as pain shot down his right arm and lower back. He yearned for a tankard of whiskey to drink away his pain or knock him out completely. His body felt as if he had been tied up and dragged by a horse running at full speed.

Stretching his arms wide, he rubbed his shoulders to loosen his tense muscles. Carefully, he lifted the blood-stained tunic over his head and tossed it onto the ground; his back still sore from the lashings. Lying back, he tried to close his eyes for just a bit but his effort failed miserably.

Overly exhausted, Bram knew he needed to rest, but sleep eluded him. It was the silence that plotted against him, denying him the rest he so desperately needed. For every time he closed his eyes; he was back on the battlefield. The flashbacks were vivid; waking nightmares. The sound of metal clashing, the buzzing of arrows whizzing through the air and the smell of death all around him. But it wasn’t actually the battle that haunted him. In all of his twenty three years, he had been in battle many times and not once had it changed him. But a pair of dark blue eyes belonging to an English soldier haunted his dreams. Those eyes belonged to the man who had pierced his sword into Bram’s abdomen causing him to lose so much blood it rendered him unconscious.

Bram hoped fate would allow him to face that man again someday. Looking down at his stomach, he saw the ghastly scar that was still continuing to heal. He could still feel the heat of the Englishman’s blade every time he looked at it; a memory not so easily forgotten.

The imprisonment he endured was nothing compared to witnessing his Scottish brethren slaughtered that rainy day. Bram felt he should have been among them. He recalled the heavy rainfall washing the blood and mud away from his face. He was shaken awake and carried off in a wagon pulled by two black horses draped in the English royal colors until he awoke in the dungeons at Cumberland.

Bram had expected his execution to come quick, but the Earl of Cumberland had delayed the trials while he was attending the marriage of his cousin, the Duke of York, to Lady Rosalind of Northumberland. Bram learned many valuable things while listening to the guards talk amongst each other; things he was most anxious to rely back to William Wallace and Robert the Bruce. But most importantly, to his own brother, Rory, Laird of Clan MacKinnon.

Over and over, Bram struggled with why his cousin Ewan, who had fought aside him, had left him on the battlefield to die. When Bram had regained the strength to lift his head out of the muck, he had seen a group of his fellow Scotsmen retreat towards the woods along with Ewan. Ewan was more of a brother to him than his own brother Rory. His brother felt that Bram’s adventurous temperament was more a burden than a blessing. Ewan, however, was different. He still knew how to enjoy adventure, unlike Rory. Bram knew that he could not fault Ewan for leaving him behind. He would only have left if he thought Bram was dead.

His thoughts turned to home. He missed the sights, the smells, even his overbearing brother. It had not been the first time he had been away from Dunakin Castle. In fact, he had left for weeks at a time on several occasions, gallivanting across the Highlands, meeting with the neighboring clans as well as visiting his favorite French whore, Genevieve.

How he wished to be with her now, to feel the soft touch of her bosom. To Bram, women were made for bedding and breeding. His brother Rory blamed his arrogance about women on Elspeth, a young, dark-haired maiden, he’d once loved who had turned her attentions to Rory. Bram had thought to marry the lass, but she had broken his heart. After her untimely death he viewed marriage as a fool’s game, and there were far too many women who willingly offered to lie on their backs for him without it.

Bram had never missed an opportunity to lift a lass’ skirt. Even though he would leave them without words of commitment, he always accepted the consequences thereafter. He had two sons already. Colin, his oldest at seven summers, born to Marietta, and Connor, a wee laddie of four summers, to Fiona.

Never committing to either lass, Bram gratefully welcomed the bairns into his life. Thinking about his two young lads now weighed heavy on his heart. He felt full of guilt for leaving them. But he knew they were brave lads, and they would believe that their father had died heroically in battle. Still, the emptiness in his chest had him longing for home.