Historical Romance: A Highland Bride’s Rescue A Highland Scottish Romance: The Highlands Warring, #4

By Anne Morrison

A Highland Bride's Rescue - A Medieval Historical Romance Book

 

English knight Devon Montgomery had no idea he was going to get shipwrecked…

And then rescued by the most beautiful and incredible Highlander he has ever met!

 

Cora MacRae should have been the Laird of Clan MacRae when her father died.

Instead… she was marooned on a small island, with no way out.

Until… an English knight washed up with the tide!

 

English knight and Highlander.

 

Two people of immense passion somehow find themselves in the war-torn Highlands.

Their desire draws them to each other, but there is far more waiting for them if only they can trust each other.

 

Devon has spent his life fighting for England.

Cora lives her life fighting to get back to her clan.

 

Only… to suffer under her uncle's cruel rule.

They can make each other no promises, but Devon cannot keep his hands off the fiery girl who was born to lead her people.

Cora knows that Devon was meant to end lives, but she cannot resist his eyes, his lips, his body, and his kindness.
 

Will their passion bring them together?

Or will it destroy them both?

 

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anne Morrison
• Release date: Mar 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393010234

Anne Morrison

Anne Morrison is a multi-voiced writer who aspires to use different voices in telling her stories, seeing characters coming alive through the multi-faceted writing styles give her great satisfaction. As a young girl, Anne has been fascinated with romance stories of Scottish Highlander where brooding, glaring heroes fight to win the hearts of strong-willed, captivating heroines. Such an act requires bravery, such an act requires faith.  She now lives in south London with her husband and two lovely children.

Book preview

prologue

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May 1303

Sule Skerry, North of Scotland

Cora wasn't sure she had slept a full night through in the three years she had spent on the forsaken spar of rock they told her was called Sule Skerry. At first, she woke up due to the unusual noises of the island. The gulls shrieked like lost souls, and the waves pounded on the rock, roaring like crazed beasts. Every night, she thought she would be devoured by the monsters that sounded as if they were all around her. Every morning, she woke up wan and tearful, both elated and despairing to have survived the night.

After Cora had gotten over the fright of those first terrible weeks, it was her dreams that had awakened her. In her dreams, her father, Ian MacRae, rose up from his watery grave. His face had once been the kindest she had ever known, always ready with a gentle word for any of the keep's children.

The specter of Ian MacRae in her dreams was a more terrifying thing. His clothes were soaked with sea water, and he trailed seaweed behind him. The crabs had eaten his eyes, but he lurched toward her with a deliberate motion, his arms open wide.

Daughter, daughter, you know your place. Go to your place!

In her dreams, Cora felt a deep horror rise up in her chest at this specter. After her mother died, her father loved her fiercely, was proud of her and protective. This specter only hung on to Ian MacRae's protective streak, death giving it a darker flavor by far.

She struggled to turn and run, but it felt as if her feet were stuck fast. All she could do was wait for him to reach for her with his drowned dead hands, demanding to know why she wasn't in the space that was hers by her right and his will.

Cora always closed her eyes as her dead father's hands reached for her, and right before he would wrap her in those rotting arms, she woke up. Sometimes, lying in her small bed, tears stinging her eyes, she wished she hadn't awakened. Perhaps it would be better to fall into the dead thing's embrace than to wake up to another gray day on Sule Skerry,

Then reason would reassert itself, along with her pride. Cora wasn't some silly wisp of a girl who had been cast away by a cruel lover. She was a MacRae, and if all things were equal in the world, she would be Laird MacRae herself, the leader of the clan she loved more than she loved her own. It didn't matter that she was stranded on a desolate little spar of rock, her only contact from the men who came to deliver her supplies every two weeks. It didn't matter that sometimes she was so lonely she wanted to scream along with the gulls, envying their wings and their ability to cross miles of stormy seas on a whim.

This world is not fair, so it will not give me what I deserve and what is mine. So that means I will take it. All I need is one opportunity.

Sometimes, Cora awoke at night, sure she had missed it. She was certain that some single and glorious chance to escape her northern prison and return home had arrived and left again. Perhaps someone had stopped on the shore and set sail again. Perhaps her suppliers had had a momentary change of heart. Whatever chance it was, she had missed it, and it would never, ever come again.

None of those reasons awoke Cora from her light and restless sleep that day in May. One moment she was asleep, and the next, she was awake, staring up at the dusty rafters over her head.

Why am I awake?

She had gone to sleep with the storm moving over her, growling and thundering like a mad thing. It wasn't one of the terrible winter storms, but it was a fierce thing. She was grateful that her prison was well-built, with only a leak or two here and there to dampen her space.

From her single window, Cora could see the sky lightening, turning from a sullen deep blue to something golden, warm, and oddly sweet. Cora had seen the sunrise on Sule Skerry a thousand times, but for some reason, this dawn took her breath away.

She rose up from her bed clad only in her sleeping shift, wrapping her tattered shawl around her shoulders. As she slipped on her shoes, Cora told herself that there was nothing that made this morning any different from any of the others. She had been fooled so many times before, looking for signs in the sunlight or the sparkle of the water. Eventually, she had learned that the light of the sun and the sparkle on the water were not for her. They didn't signify any change to her condition, and to believe they did was courting heartbreak and perhaps madness.

Still, as she unlatched her door and walked down toward the beach, Cora thought that perhaps something today was different. Something made her hurry toward the water, and when she got there, she scanned the half-mile or so of dark beach. The storm last night had thrown up a great deal of debris.

A good time to dig clams. But she didn't think her heart would be beating so very fast for clams. Cora started walking along the beach, treading right along the waterline where the water tamped the sand down to something firm to walk on.

By the time she had made her way down to the boundary of the beach, she knew herself for a fool.

I probably just woke up because I heard a gull call or the sea shift. That, or I have finally gone around the bend.

Cora worried more about the latter possibility than she cared to think about. Her only sources of human contact were the taciturn sailors who came and brought her two crates of supplies twice a month. Sometimes, they came even less often, if the storms kept them away. Then she had to ration her food out carefully until they might return, starvation an ever-circling worry. The freshwater spring on the island would keep her alive, but not much more, not when the only thing that grew on the island was tough grass and weeds

Loneliness and deprivation would take their toll on an unwary mind. Cora refused to let herself sink into the lethargy that would signal the beginning of the end. She reminded herself every day of who she was and what was waiting for her back at her home, her real home.

I'm not crazy, Cora told herself firmly. I am not. I want to get home very much, and I will not give up hope. I had some hope today, and it proved to be false. So be it. Tomorrow, perhaps I will have something else.

She looked out over the sea, south to where Scotland and her home lay. She didn't know what was happening there any longer. The men who supplied her refused to say a word. Cora told herself that it was only a matter of time before she returned to take her rightful place in the world, but at the moment, that day felt very far away indeed.

As she walked back toward her cottage, however, the sun rose just high enough to light up the waves for the first time that day. Instead of a flat sheet of dull gray, she could see the green and the blue of the waves... and the dark shape that cruised on top of them.

At first, Cora thought it was just a barrel or some other flotsam detached from a passing ship. Then she wondered if it were a seal, though it didn't swim like any healthy seal she had ever seen. Then the shape grew even closer, and she realized with a shock it was neither seal nor barrel.

It was a man.

Cora acted without thinking. She threw off her shawl and kicked off her shoes. She turned and hurled herself into the water. The cold took her breath away, but she worked through it, striking out for the man in the water with a powerful stroke.

At that moment, for perhaps the first time since the ship that had brought her to Sule Skerry pulled away, Cora wasn't thinking about her lost birthright or how she might be able to return home someday. Instead, all she could see was that there was a man in trouble. If she did not help him, he was going to die, and she refused to let that happen.

I am Laird MacRae, and nothing can take that from me. I will not let the ocean have this man...

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chapter 1

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Devon Montgomery knew that he was going to die. One moment, he was on board a nameless ship full of ruffians and criminals. They were a contentious crew, but for once, they were all intent on the same goal. They needed to pull together and survive the waves that slapped at the ship, hanging on as best they could, doing everything in their power to keep the ship afloat.

Devon heard Captain Benning roaring like a wounded animal. The old man's voice carried over the storm, telling his men to secure the rigging or he would dump them overboard himself.

Devon himself was a passenger, not a crewman, but he was pressed into service with the rest, given ropes to secure and joining a chain of men struggling to bring down a flapping sail. Then the water had crashed into the deck, everything had turned around...

And he was lost.

Devon was a man used to power. As one of England's most determined knights and as the commander of Edward's northern army, he had charge over thousands of men. They lived and died based on his decisions, and he took that responsibility seriously.

When he was swept overboard, however, he knew how very little any of that meant. The ocean was a vast and powerful thing, and his own strength and that of his king meant nothing to it.

We should send the Highlanders marching against the ocean, he thought wildly. Then they would know what relentless meant...

Once in the water, Devon did what he could to keep his head above water, to keep from swallowing seawater. The waves and wind whipped him away from the ship in a matter of breaths, and then there was nothing to be seen but the night and nothing to feel but the waves beating onto him.

He found a piece of wood to cling to, only to lose it. As his fingers slipped off the wood, as his nails broke and his strength dwindled, he could feel his body giving up.

It would be so very easy, a siren's voice whispered in his head. Give up. There's nothing waiting for you back in England but more fighting. Who knows what waits for you in the far north? Would it not be better to simply sleep? To find your rest beneath the northern waters as so many people have done?

The worst part was how very seductive the voice really was. Devon had been fighting for England in one way or another since he was strong enough to swing his sword. The Montgomerys were not a wealthy family, but they were noble. Devon was still proud that he had won his knighthood on the field rather than having it bought, as so many knighthoods were.

It had only taken a few months on the field before he realized how very far apart the old stories were from warfare, where men lost their lives or were injured so badly that they wished they had.

Is it such a good life that it is worth fighting for?

Another wave battered him. Devon could feel the darkness edging around his vision. There was a moment, one that he would remember all his life, where he thought it might have been better to give up. He wanted the sweet release that the depths of the sea offered him. It was an end, but it was also an end to the fighting, an end to the terrible things he carried with him. It would mean he would never need to hear another cry for help that he could not answer.

He was on the verge of giving up, and then fury at his situation surged through his body. It was his life, and he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that if he did not fight for it, no one else would. Devon struck out against the waves, floating as well as he could, fighting for his life.

Even then, it wouldn't have been enough. Devon was exhausted. He could feel the thread of his life running through his fingers, and soon there would be none left. There would be nothing after that.

Then he felt a hard nudge against the small of his back, and then another one against his thigh. If Devon hadn't already lost his voice from the shouting to be heard on the ship, he would have shouted.

The nudge came again, bringing another two or three with it. With a horror he would not have said that he had the energy for, Devon tried to see what was happening. It was too dark, however, and the nudges, some gentle, some harder, seemed to come out of nowhere.

Something sleek and surprisingly warm brushed against his hand. Something else rubbed against his side.

Devon thought that he was going to be eaten by something he was almost too terrified to see. Then, to his shock, he felt the hard nudges pushing him up, helping him stay on the surface so he could breathe. The waves broke over him again, but this time, staying upright was a far easier proposition.

He heard a strange squeaking noise that somehow cut through the pounding of the waves. The thunderstorm had passed overhead, and now the moon was coming out again. It turned the water to silver, and as another nudge pushed him forward, Devon looked around to see if he could get a better idea of what had rescued him.

When he saw one dark eye, far bigger than a human’s, it turned out to be too much. It was too strange for him after what he had been through. Devon's vision darkened, and everything, including the terrible eye, seemed suddenly that much further away.

Devon tried to cling to consciousness. He was still altogether too aware of the depths of the ocean that stretched endlessly below his toes. He didn't want to die here, but suddenly he realized how very inescapable that fate might be.

As he was overwhelmed by the fear and the darkness, the last thing he was aware of was a plea that seemed to come from the very core of his being, which echoed out into the darkness where there could be no one to hear.

Please. Not like this. Not alone.

* * *

Devon's eyes cracked open. The first thing he was aware of was a feeling of mild surprise that he was still around to open his eyes. Then he yelped when he saw the same dark eye that he had glimpsed before, just a few inches away from his own. Dawn was just cracking the sky, and now he could see his rescuers for what they were.

There were a full dozen or more of them, sleek, gray animals that were at least as long as he was tall. He would have thought they were fish, but an old mariner had told him about them once, said that they breathed air like any man or woman. Eating them was a sin, and if a man was righteous, then they might come and save him if he went overboard in a storm.

They may return a living man, or they may return a body, the old mariner had said, but once they choose you, it means something. Your life, for what's left of it, will never be the same.

Are you holy? Devon asked tentatively through salt-cracked lips. Have you come to save me?

To his shock, the dolphin on his left let loose an ear-splitting cackle, something that sounded so much like a high human laugh that a superstitious chill ran up Devon's spine.

Another nudge propelled him forward in the water. He realized with a sense of wonder and fascination that they must have pushed him through the night and now into the dawn. When he looked ahead, he could see the faintest outcropping of stone in front of him. Sweden? Scotland? At the moment, he didn't care if it was Wales or France. All he wanted was to feel solid land underneath him.

Devon was dismayed to feel his vision blurring again. He had been battle-fatigued enough to know what this was. He had been fighting for so long that his body was going to give out. Devon thrashed, trying to stay conscious, but it was no use, and the darkness came for him again.

* * *

When Devon next opened his eyes, he knew he must be hallucinating. The face that hovered over his belonged to a woman, one whose long black hair dropped over her shoulder and came down to tickle his chin. In the bright sunlight, her eyes shone with a deep violet, which surely couldn't have been right.

You're beautiful, he said in awe, and then the darkness swelled over his vision and he knew no more.

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chapter 2

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Cora lunged into the water, not letting the cold stop her, not letting the fact that her shift was glued to her legs give her a pause.

There was a person in the water, and they needed help.

She waded out fast, and then when the water grew to be too deep to walk, Cora struck out with a long smooth stroke. She had learned to swim in the deep lochs by Clan MacRae's territory, and deep water was always a friend to her.

She glimpsed the sleek gray forms of dolphins streaking for the horizon just as she got to the limp form. It was a man, she saw, one who had been beaten and bruised by the waves until he lost consciousness.

He was large, far larger than she was, but Cora gritted her teeth. At least he wasn't thrashing in the water. If he had been, she would have had to let him sink no matter what she wanted. A thrashing man would drag her down.

Instead, she was able to roll him onto his back. With one arm hooked around his chest, she was able to begin dragging him back to shore. Just a few strokes in this awkward position and with a large man in tow was exhausting.

It felt like an eternity before she was able to touch the sandy bottom with her toes. It got easier then. The man was breathing and floating well enough that she could simply drag him back to the shore.

Even so, by the time they were both mostly on dry land, Cora's heart was pounding like a drum. Her legs were shaking with exhaustion. For a moment, she was afraid that she was going to be sick.

Cora slowly came back to herself, realizing that she was lying on her belly as the man lay on his back. One arm was thrown over the man's chest, and his hand had come up to cover hers. The strange tenderness of the gesture made her heart tighten in a way she didn't understand. She shook it off and knelt up to look at what the sea had brought her.

He was a big man, broad and with the powerful muscles that she knew came from the sword and shield rather than the plow. His hair was as fair as her own was dark, and she guessed that when the sea water dried out of it, it would be gold. His features were even but hard. He was saved from a savage look only by a full mouth that she thought must be inclined to smile.

Wake up, Cora croaked. Some of the rasp in her voice was because of the water. The rest, unfortunately, was because she hadn't had a chance to really speak to anyone for months. There had been one man on the supply boat who had spoken to her, but they’d replaced him the year before.

Wake up, she repeated more clearly.

Hesitantly, Cora reached up to touch the man's face, rough with stubble. There was a scrape on his chin from his time in the storm. It would be painful when he awoke, she thought absently.

She was startled by the urge to kiss him. It came from someplace deep inside her. The moment the thought appeared, it dug in with a tenacity that surprised her. She wanted to know what it might be like to feel those lips on hers. Would he wake up like something out of a fairy tale if she touched her lips to his?

She was so lost in her foolish thoughts that she didn't realize that the stranger had opened his eyes and was staring up at her. In the dawn, she saw that his eyes were a bright blue, ringed by dark lashes of the kind her mother had once declared wasted on a boy.

You're beautiful, he murmured.

She was just getting the breath to call him a liar when he fainted again, and she sighed.

Well, I suppose you're the type who shows up to pay a woman compliments and then declares himself too injured to do anything useful when the time comes. All right.

For a moment, she was afraid that she would have to drag him all the way back to the cottage, but then she remembered the small cart that her suppliers had left her once. They seldom needed it to get her small amounts of foodstuffs to her door, but it came in handy sometimes, and it came in handy today.

When the cart started rolling with her shipwrecked man in it, Cora couldn't help grinning, despite how heavy he was and how she was now soaked in saltwater.

Things were changing. This might be the very opportunity that she needed.

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chapter 3

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The first thing Devon realized when he woke up was that he was no longer in the ocean. He was no longer being pounded by saltwater waves or pushed around by dolphins, and that was good. He was instead on a well-padded pallet and covered up with a thick wool blanket. His hair was still slightly damp, but on the whole, he was warm and dry.

Overall, it was an improvement.

The second thing he realized was that he was in a space that was separated from the rest of a room by a heavy curtain. From the other side of the curtain, he could hear light footsteps and smell something rich and meaty that made his stomach grumble angrily. He had no idea what time it was or even where he was, but he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was hungry.

Devon decided nothing could be gained by waiting behind the curtain any longer than he had to. He pushed the curtain back. The bright afternoon sunlight from the open door and the single window came in, dazzling him for a moment. Devon staggered to his feet, blinking hard to clear his vision.

Well!

The word came, not from him, but instead from a short girl who was standing at the stove, one hand on the ladle in the pot, her extraordinary violet eyes widening in surprise.

Devon remembered her lovely face as the one that had hovered above his for a moment in his dream. She was as beautiful as he remembered, but he hadn't expected her form to draw him as well. She was curvy in the way he liked his women, dressed in a simple gown of grass green with a rag tucked into her belt for a makeshift apron. Her hair, black as charcoal, hung over her shoulder in a long braid. He guessed that if brushed loose, her hair would hang down to her knees.

He was struck by that image. What would she look like spread across his bed? All that dark hair spread out over her pale skin, her round breasts, her bare belly...

Well! the girl said again in a different tone. Her eyes drifted lower, and Devon had another realization. He was utterly naked.

The sound he made was far from appropriate for a man of his age and his station. He reached back into the bed area, groping blindly until he came up with a blanket. Devon wrapped it around his hips in a kind of improvised kilt. His face felt so hot he wasn't sure why it wasn't steaming. When he turned back, the girl's hand was over her mouth, hiding a smile and doing it rather poorly.

I'm sorry, he began, but she waved it off, shaking her head.

Oh, you weren't to know. But you mustn't fash yourself. I'm the one who put you to bed, after all.

Devon forgot about his hunger and his embarrassment long enough to frown at her.

On your own? I saw you on the beach...

Aye, and I was the one who pulled you back here, got you out of those clothes, and put you to bed, too.

You did?

Yes, and I mostly even did it without dropping you. If you have any bruises, I suggest you blame that on the dolphins.

The... ones who brought me to shore?

"Yes. They can