Historical Romance: The Highlander's English Fire A Highland Scottish Romance: The Highlands Warring, #5

By Anne Morrison

The Highlander's English Fire - A Medieval Historical Romance Book

Kerry Cordon's on her own.

 

She's an English girl searching for her long-lost fiancé in the war-torn Highlands.

She needs help, but there's no one she can trust...

 

Until she met the Highland warrior - Roark.

 

Roark has been ousted from the clan that raised him, torn away from everything he knows and everything he loves.

He's a man with nothing... until he meets Kerry.

 

Kerry sees Roark as a means to an end.

But … as they travel together, hoping to find her missing betrothed with other English prisoners of war, she realizes that he has the strength to defend those who cannot defend themselves.

 

Roark thinks Kerry is a spoiled noblewoman.

But … he soon learns that she is a creature of wit, beauty, and passion.

 

Despite their bone-deep differences, can the English knight's daughter and the dispossessed Highlander find their way to one another?

Or will Kerry's real story and Roark's torn loyalties tear them apart?

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anne Morrison
• Release date: Apr 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393029755

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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July 1303

You don't have to leave.

Roark glanced at Ava, his mouth twisting with something like humor. The daughter of old Laird Blair was almost as tall as he was, and she could look him straight in the eye. It would serve her well when she ruled as laird after the old man died.

Begging your pardon, Ava, but you are not the laird yet, and you cannot tell me what to do.

She glared at him, her hands fisted on her hips. She was a strange one, always had been, and Roark thought he understood her no better for all that they had grown up together. She wore a man's clothes, though her short dark hair was growing long enough that she could plait it a little. Her English husband's influence, perhaps.

I'm not trying to give you orders, you great fool, I am trying to talk some sense into your thick head.

And you do it so kindly, too, cousin.

Ava flinched a little at that, and he used the distraction to walk past her, out of the timbered keep that was the seat of Clan Blair. Beyond were the Paper Mountains, and below was the rest of the world, or so it felt to Roark.

His cousin grabbed his wrist, and Roark growled, shaking her off roughly.

She didn't cry out but instead grabbed at his wrist again.

Don't leave. This is your home.

No, it is yours. Your father saw to that.

Ava's eyes narrowed.

I did not ask to be declared legitimate, nor to be named the heir after the old man.

But you will not turn it down, either, will you?

Her stubborn look told him all he needed to know.

He sighed.

Ava, we have ever been straight with each other. Your father has declared you the laird. You are already married. There is no place for me here.

Are you so very proud then, that you will not stay if you cannot have the high seat for yourself?

Roark bared his teeth in a savage grin. It would have frightened other men, but Ava gave him a hard look.

Some of our kinsmen... they will not take your claim so easily.

Do you think I don't know it? Me with my English husband and lack of a—

Don't be crude, Ava. But yes. They'll be after you, and they'll be after me to step up and take the rule from you. That's not a kind of mess that I care to find myself within.

Then stay and rule with me. I trust you...

Roark shook his head.

And again I say no. He took a deep breath because the truth was always hard. And what if I decide one day that those men are right, eh? That it should be me on the high seat and not you. I'm not of Blair, but I was adopted by your own father, brought in like a lost lamb. What if the day comes, and I decide that it's my right and not yours?

Ava lifted her chin, her blue eyes flashing. Glancing over her shoulder, Roark could see a dark shape in the shadowed gate and a flash of blond hair. That would be Nicholas, her husband. Roark didn't have much taste for the man who had once laid him out on the mountainside, but he reckoned the Englishman would be a good husband for his cousin.

If you think you can, Roark...

And then what would it do to Clan Blair?

Ava glared at him because they both knew the truth. It would be chaos. Clans had been torn apart for less valid fights than the one he had proposed. With war in the South, Clan Blair needed to stay strong, against both the English and the Scottish clans that wanted them to join their coalitions.

You will always have a home here, Ava said gruffly.

Roark laughed, pulling her into his arms.

I know. I'll come back and see you in a while, I imagine. See if you've thrown over the Englishman for a suitable replacement. I might recommend a fence post or that large Billy goat that rules over the others...

I'll miss you the sooner you leave, Nicholas said, coming out of the shadows, but there was a faint smile on his lips.

Ava shook her head, stepping back and crossing her arms over her chest. Yes, she would be good in the high seat. Sooner or later, he might even find it in himself to be happy for her.

I hope you learn your own worth out there, Ava said finally. My father never knew it, and he is a fool.

It meant a great deal coming from his wild cattle-raiding cousin, but Roark only nodded, turning his back on Blair lands and everything he had ever known.

It was time to find his own way, whatever that was.

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chapter 1

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The fair was a mistake.

If Kerry Cordon were honest with herself, something she was admittedly not very good at, she would have known that right away. She would have seen fairgoers who weren't quite drunk enough yet for her to pull her particular tricks. She would have seen a populace that looked a little less forgiving than she preferred. She would have seen that there was nothing but trouble waiting for her, and she would have stayed in the woods, eating acorns if she had to.

However, Kerry was nineteen, and even though it had been three years since she was a sixteen-year-old girl at the county fair in England, she remembered it with a vividness that shocked her sometimes. She remembered how it had felt to dart among the stalls with her friends. She remembered what it had been like to beg her mother for a pence or two so she could buy ribbons for her hair, ones that were long enough that she and Anna could snip them in two, matching each other as they always loved to do.

Kerry remembered the fair, and in turn, she remembered her mother and her sister, waiting in the sad and dismal town of Wick. She remembered a time when they had been happier. If Kerry had learned anything in her short time in the North, it was that happiness was a lure that attracted the hardest of hearts and the wisest of heads. She was neither, and so she drifted close.

Chestnuts roasted at the open fires, sprinkled with salt and dried ramps. Hawkers cried their bright wares, the excitement so thick in the air that it wouldn't matter if daylight turned them shoddy and sad. She could almost taste the hot chicken pies being sold right out of the large clay oven by the baker's shop. Heaven above, how long had it been since she had had a hot pie?

So Kerry came because she was hungry, but in her heart of hearts, she knew that she came mostly because she was so lonely. She was the daughter of an English knight in the far northern reach of Scotland. The drums of war had started their low beat through the land, and it felt as if the night was closing in around her.

The moment she stepped within the crowd, however, she realized wryly how badly she had wanted to fool herself.

I'm no pretty girl out to have some fun, not anymore.

Kerry was as slender as a birch tree, not tall. It allowed her to put on tunic, trews, and hood and pass as a boy with her long dark hair braided tight and tucked down the back of her collar. Her mother had claimed that curves were never the inheritance of their family, that her fairy-like figure was just as pretty as the other girls' lusher forms.

To think, there was a time when I was worried about my curves and how I was never going to be as pretty as Gracie Holland.

She knew that it was unwise and perhaps even dangerous to dwell on the past, but tonight, when the torches had been lit for the fair and when there were jugglers and dancers all around her, it was difficult.

She had once been a normal girl, and though she knew that she was doing what she had to do, she remembered how her life had been once, and she missed it.

She passed by a trio of girls much like the one she had been. Things were not so different between England and Scotland in some ways. She passed by them, and a longing struck her with such strength that she was almost winded. If she wasn't careful, she might sit down and cry, and then where would she be?

Enough of that. Time to get to work. I have enough perhaps to buy myself some food, but nothing after that...

The crowd would be better later, she knew. Right now, people hadn't drunk enough yet, weren't as dazzled by the players as they might have been. The fair was still too sober by half.

Well, not all of it.

She passed by an enormous man who wore what looked like a wolf pelt over his shoulders. He hung on to the enormous keg by the side of the inn as if it was the only thing keeping him afloat. The tapster was filling the man's tankard again with a fascinated look, as if both appalled and curious to see how much one man could drink.

Kerry contemplated trying to go for the man's purse, which hung temptingly revealed by the edge of the fur. The enormous man's equally enormous battle ax warned her off, however, and she kept moving.

A morose shepherd nursing his tankard at one of the long tables was a better target. She followed the crowd, letting it bring her even with him naturally, and then she bent to reach for the hanging purse. With her small sharp knife, she cut the strings that held the purse to his belt and was off again before he even looked up.

Concealed by the crowd, Kerry dumped the coins into her hand and let the leather purse flutter to the ground, not looking as she did so. The take was surprisingly good for such a ragged man. He must have gotten his pay for the season.

Kerry refused to feel guilty, even if guilt tugged at her mind. She was hungry, and she had people of her own to feed, just as soon as she could find the missing Matthew Dane.

The hot chicken pie felt like heaven in her hands, and she was just taking a second bite when all of her luck ran out at once. One moment, she had nothing on her mind but enjoying her ill-gotten gains, and the next, there were hands on her, pulling her off her feet so roughly that the pie hit the ground.

The next thing she knew, she was being dragged backward into an alley, and in a terrified fury, she counted at least three men on her, maybe more. A rain of fists fell on her, and she raised her arms to protect her head.

Pushed my luck too hard. She closed her eyes in despair.

It happened sometimes. She had been beaten before. She would doubtless be beaten again.

Then one rough hand tore her hood from her face, and a fist she had been sure would bloody her nose never came.

Why it's a girl, a voice said in the darkness, and Kerry felt a wash of rage and fear come over her. She knew what came after discoveries like this, and she flung herself against the hands that had been beating her.

There were no fists, but the hands that grabbed at her were worse, tearing at her clothes. She felt one man's slobbering mouth at her ear, felt another's hand grope at her thigh. She kicked hard and blindly, pleased when they fell back, but she knew in her heart that it would not be enough, that it could never, ever be enough...

You idiots, don't lay another hand on her. Phelps is sailing tonight. If we get her on board, that's money for us all.

Kerry almost broke free in the considering pause that followed, but then they grabbed her again. Her fear leaped up in her chest. Their hands were hard, but there was more purpose to them. She found herself lifted bodily away from the ground, and with no leverage, she had no hope.

The mothers on the coast don't let their daughters roam for fear of the slavers. A sick feeling blossom in her stomach. They sell them north and east, and they are never seen again...

She fought as hard as she could, but it was as if her blows could no longer be felt. The men were too busy talking about how much money they might get, how they would drink it away. One wondered if they would get more if she were a virgin. Another laughed at how unlikely that was.

Just as they were leaving the alley, however, a dark shape came to stand in their path, and Kerry, though by now she should have known better, felt hope bloom in her heart.

Then she saw it was the drunk from the keg, and her spirits plummeted.

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chapter 2

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Roark spent three weeks wandering the North, taking the odd job here or there, keeping coin jingling in his pocket and helping out where he could and with who could pay him. It was a grim thing that there was so very much work to do.

The men were going south to join Robert the Bruce, who was looking to make his stand against England sooner rather than later. In some of the villages that he passed, there were no boys older than fourteen, no men younger than seventy.

Clan Blair, high in their perch on the Paper Mountains, had always stood apart from the warring of the South, nearly as separate from the other Highlanders as they were from the English themselves. Roark thought that would change when Ava became the laird or even before. She had spent most of her life raiding among the other clans, working for them as often as she worked against them. She was strong enough to go against the old ways. She could make Clan Blair a force to be reckoned with in the Lowlands again, and Roark wished her well of it.

Though old habits died hard, Roark had begun to think that his fate, whatever strange thing it was, lay to the South. He could find a fine place with the mercenary companies that had come out of Ireland, could likely run one himself in fairly short order, but the idea left a bad taste in his mouth.

I suppose the only route left for a man as accustomed to warring as I am is to join up with the Bruce, he decided reluctantly.

Even atop their mountains, Clan Blair was not free of trouble. Roark had been defending his adopted clan since he was a boy, from the Northern raiders, from the bandit gangs that swarmed up from the South whenever the fighting disrupted their territories. Fighting and the death that came with it were nothing new.

He finished the job he had taken helping the small northern town to set up for their fair, and then he looked around at the revelry with a strange hollow feeling inside. He had been made welcome enough. The people here were kind. They were not his people, however, and if he thought on it too hard, he would come to the conclusion that Clan Blair were not his people either.

A drink, to celebrate my running off to join up with the Bruce like a homeless dog in need of a master.

That was a little too apt for his taste, but fortunately, the innkeeper was just rolling out a new cask to breach.

That'll hold me, Roark thought with satisfaction, and for a short while, it did.

He wasn't sure when the hour had gotten so very late. The beer wasn't very good, but he had drunk a great deal of it, and that was better than good. Probably.

He stumbled up from the table he had been drinking at, nodding a somewhat steady goodbye to the innkeeper. The innkeeper looked sorry to see him go, which was only right given how many coins he had given the man.

The inn was full, but there was a grove not far away that should see him well enough. Roark wasn't looking forward to the walk through the increasingly tight crowds, and so instead ducked into an alley. When he found a lot of men in his way, he was irritated, and his mood was not improved when he saw that they seemed to be carrying a body of some sort.

What in the name of all blazes is that? he growled, swaying a little on his feet.

What does it matter to you, drunkard? She's ours.

I'm not! I'm not theirs!

The cry sobered him up, high and desperate and laced with such pain that he scowled.

Doesn't sound like she's yours, he said slowly. Sounds like you better be putting her down.

She's a filthy little thief who will do better as some Norseman's drudge than she will around here, came another voice. Get out of our way.

At least that hadn't changed. Roark still hated small and petty men who tried to tell him what to do.

He swung his battle ax down from his shoulder, making sure that the small amount of light from the fair behind them sparkled on its nicked and well-worn head. It wouldn't do him a great deal of good in a space this tight, but he didn't wager that a pack of town bullies would know much different.

All right, he said pleasantly. Why don't you tell me how you think you are going to make me do that, then?

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chapter 3

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The moment stretched out, and then one of the men decided that a drunk, even an enormous one who wielded an ax, shouldn't be a problem for a group of four men. He growled, lunging forward with a short sword, and two other men followed right behind him.

Kerry was dumped to the ground, but before she could flee, the last man, nearly as large as her rescuer, grabbed her by the arm.

You're not going anywhere, trash. We'll finish with the drunk, and then you'll be snug on a ship, bound for some northern keep where they'll work you 'til you're rotten.

Kerry barely stopped herself from screaming as the man shoved his face down close to her ear, his disgusting tongue coming out to lap its way down her face.

Who knows, maybe the captain will let us have a fond goodbye if he reckons it won't hurt your value.

Kerry wanted to shed her skin with disgust, but if he was that close and stupid enough not to secure both of her arms...

She drove her elbow backward as hard as she could. Her father had once told her it was the hardest part of her, and with any strength at all behind it, even she could do some damage. She could feel that it was a good strike as soon as it landed, hitting the man square in the center of his chest and making him suck in breath he suddenly didn't have.

Behind her, Kerry was aware of some shouts and screams of pain, but she could not focus on them. She was too intent on spinning around and landing a hard kick to the man's privates, and again, her father's voice echoed in her ears.

Don't kick at his privates, kick through them. That's how to make a man feel it.

She had been fourteen when he told her that, bored and nearly rolling her eyes, certain that she would never need his advice.

Sorry, Papa. If I ever see you again in the next life, I promise you that I will listen better next time.

The man groaned like a stuck goat when she struck him. She almost thought that she was going to get away clean when he roared, flung himself forward, and wrapped both arms around her waist. She hit the ground with a bone-jarring thump, her teeth clicking on her lip and flooding her mouth with blood. Now his weight was on her, and all Kerry could do was try to cry out, try to struggle out from under him.

He was swearing in her ear, terrible things, things that made her feel as if she was going to be sick if she stopped to consider them. Then...

Then he was lifted off of her, away from her. Kerry scrambled up to her knees, watching with awe as the man was heaved up and slammed into a wall with casual strength. She looked past his crumpled form to see the swaying form of her rescuer. He was even larger than she had thought previously, looming over her and sending a thrill of fear through her body.

She would have run, because the enemy of her enemy was not necessarily her friend, but then he lurched against one wall, uttering a soft groan.

Kerry acted without thinking. She lunged forward to catch him, and she managed to brace herself so that she caught his weight without getting dragged to the ground. All around them were the bodies of the men who had attacked her. She didn't think they were dead, but she wasn't going to spend another moment worrying about them when she did not have to.

Ugh, you're as heavy as an ox, she muttered. Did they hurt you? Did one pull a knife...?

The inn, the man slurred. I need to... the inn...

Kerry hesitated.

The wise thing to do would have been simply to leave. He had taken care of the men who'd attacked her easily. It stood to reason that he could look after himself. But it was impossible to see in the darkness if he had been wounded, and something in her refused to leave him. It was such a strong impulse that she wondered what it meant, but she did not have the time to wonder.

All right. I'll take you back to your room, and then we will be quits.

As it turned out, the man did not have a room at the inn so much as he had a wish for a room at the inn. He hung off of her like a side of beef, making every step a pain. The innkeeper didn't bat an eye, only repeating the price for the last room in the inn.

At that point, Kerry was beginning to feel cold and shaky, and so very tired she could have cried. All she wanted was to be done, and so she pulled out the coins, far too much of what she had, and handed them over for the smallest room at the top of the stairs.

Scolding and some outright begging got her rescuer up the stairs, but as she latched the door behind them, apparently, it was going to take them no farther. The man fell with a crash that she thought might have shaken the inn, and she sighed.

The hearth was lit, giving the room at least a meager form of light, and Kerry came closer, worriedly checking for the wounds he must have incurred. It took her a little while, and then she had to push him over to check his back and to confirm what she had started to suspect belatedly on the stairs.

You're not wounded; you're drunk.

You're pretty, he said in response.

She made a face.

You are too drunk to even look at me.

The only response was a deep snore, and she nearly tore her hair out, sitting on the narrow bed.

I came to see if I could find enough money for a few meals, and then I spend nearly all of it to let this giant drunk sleep off his beer.

She flopped back into the bed, feeling strangely more at peace than she had before. She had thought that after a night like the one she had just had, she would be panicked and afraid to sleep. Instead, she felt... strangely safe.

Kerry glanced at the man who was snoring away on the floor. His ax, fallen a short distance away from his fingers' reach, was an enormous thing, nicked from its battles with a heavy handle that had been stained dark over years of use. It occurred to Kerry that she perhaps should be just as afraid of the man as she was of the ones who had almost taken her. There was no telling why he had saved her.

All of that felt very far away, however. Right now, all she cared about was that the innkeeper had said that they might have the room until noon and that they might have some bread and drippings before they left.

It could be worse. She toed off her shoes and curled up in the bed. The straw ticking in the mattress did not smell all that fresh, and the blankets were scratchy, but it was a bed.

Perhaps things weren't so very bad after all.

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chapter 4

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Roark came awake with a deep thudding in his head, an ache that seemed to go throughout his entire frame, and a small body snuggled up next to his.

Ah. Well, apparently, at least one thing went right last night.

The girl in his bed was more clothed than he thought she should be, and smaller than he generally favored, but apparently, life right now was all about trying new things. He wasn't opposed to the idea, anyway, and a part of his body was