Chasing a Highland Moon: A Scottish Historical Romance: The Highland Moon Series, #3

By Gwyn Brodie

Sold by her uncle to a man thirty years her senior, Lady Claire Cameron, posing as a servant, hides in the back of a supply wagon with her lady's maid. They acquire passage to the Isle of Skye, where Claire and Alice gain positions as servants at Dunvegan Castle. When Claire meets Cinead MacLeod, the handsome Laird of Dunvegan and MacLeod chief, she cannot deny the passion he ignites in her.

When Cin is injured, Claire (whom he knows as Jenny) tends him, and he becomes quite smitten with the raven-haired lass, but when he learns she is his servant, he is dismayed, as his father adhered to a strict policy of no dallying with the servants, a policy Cin soon regrets, for he cannot deny the hunger she awakens in him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gwyn Brodie
• Release date: Mar 11, 2015
• ISBN: 9781386515586

Book preview

Chasing a Highland Moon

Gwyn Brodie

Sold by her uncle to a man thirty years her senior, Lady Claire Cameron, posing as a servant, hides in the back of a supply wagon with her lady's maid. They acquire passage to the Isle of Skye, where Claire and Alice gain positions as servants at Dunvegan Castle. When Claire meets Cinead MacLeod, the handsome Laird of Dunvegan and MacLeod chief, she cannot deny the passion he ignites in her.

When Cin is injured, Claire (whom he knows as Jenny) tends him, and he becomes quite smitten with the raven-haired lass, but when he learns she is his servant, he is dismayed, as his father adhered to a strict policy of no dallying with the servants, a policy Cin soon regrets, for he cannot deny the hunger she awakens in him.

Chasing a Highland Moon

By Gwyn Brodie

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Copyright 2015, Gwyn Brodie

License Notes

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. This book is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, locations and events are fictitious or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental or from this writer's imagination.

Dedication

To my husband, Michael, for always being there when I needed him.

To my friend, Vonda, for her unfailing encouragement and motivation.

Chasing a Highland Moon

By Gwyn Brodie

Prologue

Isle of Skye, June , 1605

A fierce wind roared through the narrow glen, driving the pouring rain hard against Cinead MacLeod's back. He shifted his plaid around his shoulders, blinked the water from his eyes and lifted his gaze to dark skies that showed no sign of clearing. A bolt of lightning flashed overhead and thunder rumbled through the hills and valleys. Earlier that day, when he had first spied the ominous clouds moving in from the north, Cin had hoped the storm would hold off until they reached Dunvegan Castle, but they'd had no such luck.

Cin's father, Beathan MacLeod, the Laird of Dunvegan, and Chief of the MacLeod clan, moved his horse closer to Cin's stallion, Shadowmere. His eyes narrowed as he scoured the landscape. I'm surprised we've seen no sign of that sniveling Rogan MacDonald, he said, thick brows lowered over pale blue eyes, the same color as both his sons.

Cin nodded. Perhaps this foul weather is keeping the MacDonalds within their own walls and close to the hearth.

The laird shook his head. Perchance, but 'tis doubtful. Rogan's obsession with Isolair has destroyed his thinking. Never underestimate the bastard. Remember what I say, Cin. He's no' to be trusted.

Isolair, located on the Isle of Rum, was a working estate boasting a fine fortified castle. It had once belonged to the MacDonalds, but had been held by the MacLeods for over a century. Rogan, heir apparent to Dunscaith Castle, and the next MacDonald chief, wanted it back.

I'll no' forget, Da. He glanced at his father, a man of fifty-five summers who could still wield a broadsword with the best of them. Cin, and the rest of the clan, highly regarded their laird. Beathan MacLeod had not remained chief for over twenty-years without possessing a keen mind and developing the uncanny ability to read people. Cin knew without a doubt that what his father said about Rogan MacDonald was truth.

Summoned by King James, the chief, Cin and his party had arrived in London over a week ago, and though Cin had accompanied his father to Whitehall Palace on several occasions, he had been as awestruck as ever upon seeing the immense structure with its white stones gleaming in the bright sunlight. As they rode through the passageway beneath the impressive four-towered gatehouse, uneasiness settled over Cin, and he rested his hand on the hilt of his broadsword.

In the pristine courtyard, Rogan had confronted Cin's father, demanding once again that Isolair be returned to its rightful owners, the MacDonalds. Rogan's father, Alpin, the current MacDonald laird and chief, had not raised a finger to rein in his son's loose tongue.

Beathan MacLeod had snorted. You are more of a fool than I thought you were, if you think you will ever get your hands on Isolair. You ken as well as I, but I'll be reminding you anyway, that 'twas our ancestor, the 8th MacLeod Chief who received a charter from the Stewart King himself for Isolair at the end of the 15th century. 'Twas given to the MacLeods for safe keeping and that’s where it'll be staying, insolent whelp.

Rogan growled through clenched teeth. You'll regret your words, MacLeod bastard, he swore, pulling out his dirk and taking a step toward Cin's father, who had not yet drawn his own weapon.

Cin unsheathed his broadsword and stepped in front of his father, knocking the dirk from Rogan's hand, and leaving a shallow gash across his forearm.

Rogan cursed and jumped back, before pulling his sword, and coming at Cin, who was more than ready to take on the whoreson.

A skirmish between the clans had followed, which was quickly squelched by the king's own guards. No one had been killed. However, the king, who held an extreme dislike for the feuding between the Highlanders, went so far as to threaten to toss them all in the dungeon should it happen again. After that, the king's guards kept a close watch for any further trouble until the MacDonalds departure from Whitehall Palace a few days later.

Now, Cin wiped the water from his face, thankful the rain had slowed to a steady shower, and the worst of the trip was over. He would be sleeping in his own bedchamber when night fell, though he'd had no complaints about the accommodations in London. Queen Anne's ladies' in waiting had been more than willing to provide him with a warm bed during his stay.

Duncan MacDonell, one of Cin's close friends since his youth, drew his mount up alongside his. Och, I wish the laird had allowed us time for a bite in the village. My belly's been growling and gnawing at my backbone for a good portion of the day.

Cin chuckled. Even if we had, you would still be as ravenous as a pack of wolves. Duncan possessed the healthiest of appetites, though he carried naught but solid muscle on his tall frame.

Perhaps, he said, raking his fingers through his sodden shoulder-length brown hair. But still, a hot meal would have done much to lessen the sting of the cold rain and to staunch my hunger.

His friend was not the only one with an empty belly. From a nearby cottage, a whiff of peat smoke, mixed with the smell of fresh baked bread, reached Cin's nostrils and his own stomach growled. But he had no doubt their bellies would be filled once they reached Dunvegan, for Mistress Murray would have the kitchen staff spread the tables with food upon their arrival. He could almost taste her savory venison stew and warm buttery bread.

Cin's father joined their conversation. With such a hearty appetite as you possess, Duncan, I cannae for the life of me understand how your poor mother, wee woman that she was, managed to fill your belly at her breast.

Duncan grinned. Truth is, Laird MacLeod, I was fed by no' one, but two nursemaids.

The laird's brows shot up. You dinnae mean it.

Aye, 'tis true, laird.

Laughter exploded from Cin's chest until his stomach ached.

Behind him, Cerran, his younger brother, and head of the guards, snorted. Saints above! Do the three of you wish the whole of Skye to ken our whereabouts?

Of course not, Cerran, his father said, smiling over his shoulder at his youngest child. But a wee bit of mirth lightens the heart.

Cerran flashed his father a smile, before glancing back at the garrison of twenty-five men accompanying them.

Shadowmere tossed his head and whinnied.

Cin leaned forward and scratched him between the ears. It'll no' be long now, lad, before you'll be back at the stable filling your belly with oats.

The horse snorted in response.

He would swear the black stallion understood him at times. He chuckled and patted the animal's neck. With Shadowmere's ability to reach speeds unattainable for most horses, Cin had been offered a great deal of money for him, but he'd not sell Shadowmere for any amount. But, after much encouragement from his good friend, Galen, he did agree to a business arrangement with Alex MacPherson, Galen's brother-in-law, who wished to use the stallion to breed his prize mares. In return, Cin would receive one of Shadowmere's offspring every other year to add to his own stables.

He shifted in the saddle, as he looked toward the horizon, where dark clouds still shrouded the mountain peaks. After a return journey from London to Portree across rough seas, Cin was glad to be back on the Isle of Skye and heading for home. Normally, they would have taken a galley from Dunvegan, but his younger sister, Eilen, had recently birthed a son, and his father could not wait to see his first grandchild. Traveling over land to Portree, they visited with the new bairn and his parents, before taking a galley the following day on to London.

A sudden noise to his left made Cin reach for his broadsword. A roe deer and her two young plunged out of the dense underbrush and raced across the moor. He moved his hand away from his weapon, but remained guarded as they continued on.

Cerran rode up alongside him. We're being watched, he told the three of them, keeping his voice low.

His father frowned. How many?

Arran spotted two skulking along the ridge. How many more there are, I dinnae ken.

Battle cries suddenly echoed all around them. Cin and the others unsheathed their weapons, formed a circle of men and horses, and warily waited for the enemy to make themselves known.

His father growled through clenched teeth. 'Tis that bastard, Rogan. I would swear it on your mother's grave. And he was right.

The MacDonalds attacked from all sides, with Rogan at the forefront, his gaze locked on Cin's father. With an enraged battle cry, the cur raced across the meadow toward the MacLeod chief, his broadsword raised—murder in his eyes.

Anger surged hot though Cin's veins as Shadowmere's long legs ate up the distance between himself and Rogan. He would keep him from reaching his father—even if he had to kill him—but his attack was cut short by two of MacDonald's men.

While doing battle with a MacDonald guard, Cin near lost his head to another, but managed to block the strike with his targe. Using his dirk, he cut open the man's leg from hip to knee. The man screamed in pain and rode away, blood gushing profusely from his injury.

Behind you, Duncan shouted.

Cin jumped out of the way, just in time to keep a dirk from plowing into his back, but not quick enough to keep the tip from slicing down his ribs. The wound wasn't deep, but it burned like hell.

With a swing of his broadsword, Cin drew the blade across the man's chest, sending him to the rain-soaked ground, where he lay still.

Cin spun around to help his father, but he was no longer there—and neither was Rogan MacDonald. Fear tightened his chest. Had the whoreson taken his father while Cin was kept busy fighting for his life? Beathan MacLeod, Highland warrior that he was, would never have gone after Rogan by himself. Never go after your enemy alone and half-cocked. 'Tis a good way to get yourself killed, he had told his sons more times than Cin could count.

Duncan moved up beside him, his face and arms spattered with blood, as were Cin's. Where's Laird MacLeod? he asked, his worried gaze scanning the moor and surrounding hills.

Cin shook his head. I dinnae ken, but I'm afraid that bastard might have taken him. His gaze darted about the battlefield until it found Cerran pulling his blade from the shoulder of one of the enemy. The man yelped with pain, before disappearing into the thick underbrush.

Relieved that his brother was yet unharmed, Cin continued the search for his father.

A shrill whistle echoed through the glen. MacDonald's garrison turned and sped away, leaving Cin and the others to wonder what the devil was going on. He jumped down from Shadowmere and turned over the three bodies wearing MacLeod plaid, breathing a sigh of relief each time one of them was not his father. But the three had been his friends and part of the garrison for many years. They would be sorely missed.

The MacDonalds had fared far worse, having lost seven of their own men whose bodies had been left lying on the moor. No doubt, they would return for their fallen clansmen, or else the wolves would make short work of them.

Cin looked out across the open moor. If MacDonald had taken his father in that direction, they would still be visible. Nay. They must have passed through the glen toward the sea, but he had to be certain. Searching in the wrong direction would lose them precious time, and they had none to spare.

Arran, see if you can figure out which way the MacDonalds took the laird, before the rain washes away their tracks.

Aye. The young man dismounted, his steady gaze already scouring the rain-soaked ground.

Arran was the best of the MacLeod trackers, and it was not long before he found where four horses had split off from the rest.

Cin had been correct in his thinking. They were headed toward the sea.

Leaving ten of the garrison behind with the injured and dead, Cin, Cerran, Duncan and the remaining garrison, followed Arran through the glen.

Near the edge of the rocky outcrop surrounding the shore, they found his father's horse snorting and pawing at the ground, his neck, shoulder and breast coated with blood. Cin prayed that it was not his father's but feared the worst.

We go on foot, Cin said, jumping off Shadowmere, the sand crunching beneath his boots. Will, stay with the horses.

Will nodded. Aye, Cin.

Cin and the others followed Arran to the shore.

They went to the right, the young tracker said, his gaze never leaving the ground.

Cin's heart pounded hard against his ribs. With one hand gripping the hilt of his broadsword, and the other his dirk, he raced down the shoreline.

A short distance ahead, he caught sight of his father propped against a large rock that jutted out toward the sea. Beathan MacLeod had been brutally beaten, and his throat sliced open. The front of his shirt and plaid were red with his own blood.

Da, Cerran shouted behind Cin, his voice cracking with emotion, as they quickly closed the distance between them and the laird.

Cin looked down at his father, who but moments earlier had been laughing and joking with the rest of them. He clenched his teeth, fighting back tears, and the dark fury that threatened to consume him. His father, the Laird of Dunvegan was dead.

I'll kill the bastard, Cerran screamed, the fury in his voice thundering against the cliffs, as he pounded his fists against the rock until they bled.

Duncan dragged him away, before he could permanently injure himself.

Shaking with rage and despair, Cin knelt beside his father, whose eyes stared unseeing in the now pouring rain. He swallowed back the lump in his throat, as he clutched his father's limp hands, the knuckles torn and bleeding from fighting for his life. Hatred, pure and simple, coursed hot through Cin's veins. Rogan MacDonald, if 'tis the last thing I do, I’ll see you dead!

Chapter One

Scottish Highlands , August, 1605

Positioned on the cushioned window seat, her legs tucked beneath her skirts, Lady Claire Cameron focused solely on the needlework in her lap. A knock sounded at the bedchamber door, causing her to jump, stabbing her finger for the third time within the past hour. Uttering a most unladylike curse beneath her breath, she wiped the drop of blood on her handkerchief. Aye?

''M'lady. I've a message from the laird," Alice, her lady's maid, said from the other side of the door.

Come. Claire placed her needlework aside. What sort of message? she asked, as Alice stepped through the doorway.

He wishes fer ye to come to the solar. She closed the door behind her.

Did he say why? Her uncle generally wished her to keep out of his way.

Alice tucked a red curl behind her ear and shook her head. Nay. The color of her face changed from its usual stark white to pink, darkening the freckles across her nose and cheeks.

"Just what did he say?"

To tell ye to be quick about it, the maid said, folding a blanket and placing it along the foot of the bed.

Claire frowned and blew out a breath. Her Uncle John had become the Laird of Achnacarry Castle upon her father's death, six years earlier, when Claire was but fifteen. I cannae imagine what he would want at this hour. 'Tis near time to prepare for bed. She slipped her legs from beneath her skirts, rose from the seat, and shoved her feet into the slippers she had kicked off earlier. She left the bedchamber and headed down the dimly lit corridor to the solar.

Why did her uncle wish to speak with her now? He hardly had anything to say to her at any other time, even when they took their meals at the high table. Not that Claire cared in the least. She had lost all respect for the Cameron laird a long time ago.

She stopped outside the solar and knocked lightly.

The door swung open. Come in, come in, my dear, Uncle John said, a broad smile on his round face. His dark eyes were bright, likely from the whisky that hung heavy on his breath.

He was quite unlike himself, which was enough to give Claire reason to pause. He took her elbow and drew her inside, where a tall heavyset man, perhaps in his fifties, with thinning black hair peppered with gray, rose to his feet when he saw her.

Keeping a tight grip on her arm, her uncle steered her to a settle directly across from the stranger. She sat down. Her uncle took the seat beside her.

Laird Ferguson, I would like you to meet my niece, Lady Claire Cameron.

'''Tis a pleasure, to be sure, Lady Claire," Laird Ferguson said with a slight tilt of his head and a smile that did not quite reach his dark eyes.

She forced back a shiver. I'm afraid my uncle neglected to inform me that we were expecting a guest, Laird Ferguson. Claire hoped her uncle was not matchmaking, for he would be greatly disappointed.

The good laird and I have unfinished business, Claire, her uncle intervened, his voice a bit higher than normal. He will be staying here at Achnacarry for a few days.

After an hour of listening to small talk between the two men, Claire still had no idea as