Historical Romance: The Highlander's Thief A Highland Scottish Romance: The Highlands Warring, #6

By Anne Morrison

The Highlander's Thief - A Medieval Historical Romance Book

Mary Clintlock is known as the famous Peregrine - the mysterious thief who robs smugglers and Englishmen.

 

Ross MacKinnon, Highlander captain of the Sea Hawk, has had his cargo stolen one too many times by the Peregrine.

He has nothing but hatred for the thief.

 

When Ross finds an unconscious girl on the road during a driving storm, he has no idea that she is the mysterious Peregrine.

And that's just the beginning of the story for the smuggler and thief.

 

As the Highlands go to war once again with England, Ross and Mary find themselves tangled in royal plots.

 

Nothing is quite as it seems…

 

A mysterious treasure sails from Edinburgh to make Sweden England's ally.

And Ross and Mary are sent to steal the treasure.

 

Along the way, they discover a passion that neither of them suspected.

When they find the treasure, a terrible decision must be made.

And neither of them will be the same again.

 

Their dark secrets threaten to destroy them.

But can Ross and Mary find peace in their new love in a land torn by war and intrigue?

 

 

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anne Morrison
• Release date: Apr 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393282303

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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October 1303

One of the things that Ross MacKinnon of Clan MacKinnon liked to pride himself on was the fact that he was usually having a good time. Barring a few specific instances in the past, most of his life since he had lit out for the sea and the billowing sails that he had always dreamed about had been exactly what he liked. He could do as he pleased, say what he liked, and most people found him too useful or clever to bother with irritating things like morals or duty.

All in all, it was a grand way to live, but on a stormy evening somewhere west of Pitlochry, he had to admit that it couldn't all be fun and games. He was stuck starting his trek to the coast in a blustering storm, afraid to leave any later for fear that it might get worse.

And worse, and worse yet, and then where would I be? At that point, I'd be stuck until spring, and I might as well settle myself in some old croft like a man trying to claw enough to eat out of this damned rocky soil.

He tried to smile at the idea, but it really did send a shiver through him. From the time he was a boy, he had wanted nothing more than to be his own man. As far as he was concerned, there was no way to be his own man when he was beholden to the earth for his living.

No, his living waited for him in a hidden cove just off the eastern coast, and she had sails that filled with the north wind and would carry him to Cathay and the far east if only he asked. The Sea Hawk was his pride and joy. Some of his men joked that he was closer to it than he would ever allow himself to be with a lover, and perhaps they were right about that. She sailed truer than any heart he had ever met, including his own.

He focused on her sails and her curved prow, how it felt when he cast off from the shore, finally free of the chains of land. It was better than thinking about what the man in Pitlochry had told him. When Ross thought of it, he wanted to spit.

The last part of the shipment never came, the one-eyed man had said with a shrug. You are paid in full for everything that was delivered, and it is as fine a shipment of goods as ever. We'll thank you for that, MacKinnon, but no, we shall not pay you for goods that we never saw.

Something terrible must have crossed over Ross's face then, because the one-eyed man's hand dropped down to the dagger by his side, and throughout the small and filthy cottage where they did their business, the men rustled uneasily. That many men in such a confined space, and Ross knew he would be dead if he tried anything. However, it was good to know that they were still afraid of him, and he decided to take some comfort in that.

Wyatt may be a crook, but he's no cheat. Ross pulled his hood a little more snugly over his head. That means that this shipment was partially lost. Just like the last one, and the one I sent to Jamie Cook not long before.

His gelding Sky whickered nervously when the distant thunder boomed, and Ross leaned down to thump his neck comfortingly before returning to his thoughts.

It's what I've been suspecting then. Someone's turned thief along the way, and a good one, too, to sneak things out under Michael Parson's watch. Could be one of his people, but they're all dead terrified of him... no, it has to be someone who's making off with things somewhere on the road and doing it fast and quiet.

Ross made a face, but he knew the truth.

It was probably the Peregrine.

Smugglers who operated out of the western sea didn't speak to each other all that much. It didn't suit their natures, and depending on if one of them was caught, it might mean that half a dozen could go down if the authorities tortured the names out of him.

However, over the last few months, the network had been buzzing with talk about a new thief who seemed to be known by one and all as the Peregrine. Supposedly, the Peregrine struck in broad daylight and made off with enough goods to feed a village. The Peregrine stole gold from under the noses of English and Scottish alike, and no one knew where he nested. He was invisible, a ghost, a near-myth, a rumor.

Ross had heard the stories, first with amusement as they had started circulating, and then with frustration as his goods fell victim to the thief's quick fingers. Ghost or not, if Ross came across the Peregrine, the thief would find himself well-plucked to say the least.

It would be another few weeks before he could send goods inland, and this time, he decided, he would be riding rearguard.

And when I find the slimy miserable little whoreson who's picking off my goods, I'll tear his damn head from his body...

Ross's thoughts were interrupted when Sky, usually an incredibly dependable animal, stopped in his tracks, staring into the sleeting rain ahead. Irritated, Ross dug his heels into the horse's side, but the gelding refused to move forward.

You spoiled excuse for a nag, Ross muttered, but with a sigh, he slid off to lead the horse forward, peering ahead into the gloom as he did so. He didn't think that horses saw any better than men did, but if Sky had picked up on some trench in the road or some trouble ahead before he did, he wasn't going to waste that warning.

Just as the rain let up a little, and just as he was deciding that Sky was having one of his rare nervous fits, a large shape moved in the road in front of him. He had just a moment to realize that there was no way for him to get out of the way in time, and then with a braying whinny, a horse and wagon charged directly toward him and his own mount.

Ross swore, and then more out of instinct than anything logical or reasoned, he grabbed frantically as the reins that went flying by. He was nearly jerked off his feet, and even as he wound up on his knees in the muck, he knew he was lucky. If the horse had been fresh, if the reins had become wrapped around his wrist, there was a chance he could have had his entire arm torn clean from his body.

Instead, just before Ross would have ended up on his face in the mud, the horse hitched to the wagon came to a stop on its own. He was a gelding like Sky, and his head hung down to his hooves as his sides went in and out like an irregular bellows. Sky snorted but didn't move, instead staring at the newcomer with his ears slightly laid back.

Easy, Sky. We're not going to be rude to our new friend, particularly if he came along with some gifts for us.

The wagon that the nag drew was a common contrivance throughout the Highlands, crude and held together with wooden pegs instead of good iron nails. People used them to carry everything from hay to cloth to piglets, and hopefully, whatever was inside would account for some of his lost goods.

First, however, Ross had to secure Sky, which was easy, and then he had to secure the wagon horse, which was less straightforward. The nag tossed his head whenever Ross grabbed for his bridle, and finally, when Ross had it, he cursed as the horse nearly yanked the leather cords out of his hands.

Finally, however, both horses were secured, and Ross was able to climb up on the buckboard and get a look in the wagon.

All right, well, we're hoping for some weapons to sell on to Wallace or the Bruce, but I certainly wouldn't say no to some furs or even some hams... or a girl. I guess it can be a girl, too.

Lying in the back of the wagon as if she had been thrown there was a girl half-tangled in her own dark cloak. He could see that she was lying on top of some loose bags of the kind that came from the mills, and he knew that his prize was going to be little more than grains of flour left behind after the mill-girl had made her delivery.

The girl herself was as still as a stone, and for a terrible moment, he thought she was dead. He climbed back into the wagon beside her, doing his best not to tread on her sprawled arms or legs. There was just enough space to kneel down next to her.

I don't have to be burying anyone, he thought angrily, but he knew that he would do it anyway. This part of the country was wild, and if he dumped her by the side of the road wrapped in her cloak, he'd be leaving her for the animals in the forest. He might be a bastard through and through, but he wouldn't consign some poor stranger to such a fate.

There was just enough light in the sky to see that her face was pale and the blood from her nose and her split lip was dark. When he held his hand in front of her lips, however, he was gratified to feel her warm breath.

Well, you're alive at least, he said with a sigh. Though now I have to decide what in the name of all the saints I'm to do with you.

He knew she wasn't shamming. She was too still for that. He knew he hadn't budged her. However, just as the words left his mouth, her hand shifted, coming to rest against his knee. The gesture was small, inconsequential in every way, but entreating.

Ross felt something stir in the dusty empty place that he liked to call a heart, and he cursed himself all over again.

Must be out of my mind, he growled.

He reached down to arrange her limbs more comfortably, wrapping her wool cloak around her body. Then it was time to jump down from the wagon and see to the chore of securing Sky's reins to the back and locating the nag's reins as well, before climbing back into the driver's seat.

I had hoped for something like arms or furs, he told the unconscious girl in the back, but I suppose you will have to do.

However, as he gigged the nag back onto the joke of a road going in the right direction, Ross found he wasn't all that unhappy with his decision.

Ah, it could be worse. I'll keep the lass until I come to a decent town to drop her off on, perhaps collect a kiss or more for my trouble and be on my way. Simple.

Why in the world did it sound like he could hear laughter when he thought that?

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chapter 1

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Mary Clintlock would have said that she was as tough as she needed to be and probably a little more than that. She was strong enough to make her way along the long roads and byways of the North without much fear of the men and animals that she found there; she could walk for days before crying enough and swim like a fish in the coldest melted-snow streams.

All that, and she was still such a baby about pain.

Before she opened her eyes, the first thing that struck her was pain. Her back hurt, her arms hurt, and for some terrible reason, even her face hurt. Why was that? Without thinking of what she was doing, she reached for her face and as soon as she even brushed her fingers against her lower lip, she cried out in shock and outraged pain.

She remembered an oncoming tree-branch after the damn nag she had stolen spooked in the storm. She remembered the reins burning through her hands as she tried to stop or turn the beast before it crashed them into a gorge or ravine. There had been no time to be afraid, no time even for panic. There was only the sleeting rain, her muscles aching from almost twelve hours of travel, and then the sudden and complete realization that the thick tree-branch was going to smash her in the face and that there was nothing she could do about it.

Well, you shouldn't have done that, now, should you?

Mary jerked her hand away, now aware of the taste of blood in her mouth, and in the same motion, she tried to sit up to see who in the world was talking to her. That turned out to be a mistake because as she sat up, her head spun like a top, so badly that thought she was going to be sick. She lay back down on what turned out to be a surprisingly comfortable basket, whimpering a little as the pain flashed dully through her body.

She closed her eyes so that her vision would stop swimming and heard a rattle to her right.

If you're going to be sick, there's a bucket next to your head. If you get any on yourself, I sure as hell am not going to clean it up.

The words were harsh, but to her surprise, she felt a cool hand rest over her forehead and then cup her cheek. Mary hadn't noticed before, but it felt as if her face was burning hot. The hand resting against her skin was blessedly cool, almost cold, and she sighed.

No, I will not be sick, she said after a moment, when she could make sure that she was speaking the truth. Where in the name of St. Jude am I?

She opened her eyes just in time to see the lean man who had brought her the bucket cross to the other side of the room. Through the small window beyond him, she could see that it was pitch black  outside and still spitting rain. The one-room cottage that they were in was lit by the low hearth, where there was a pot of something that smelled delicious bubbling away.

You're here, the man said shortly. Somewhere west of Pitlochry, somewhere east of the sea. Beyond that, you probably know better than I do. Where in the world did your master get that nag that nearly bit through my jerkin to my skin, anyway?

Mary's mind raced. She might have been in pain, but she knew very well that she could ill-afford to lose her wits. Who was this man, and what were his intentions toward her? Had he looked in the bags in the wagon? What had happened to her that her face hurt so abominably?

My master... well, he's fond of the devilish beast. If it makes you feel better, he doesn't like me any more than he likes you, but he's sweet as pie for my master.

The man tending the fire snorted with a slight smile. Mary found that she could look around if she didn't try to sit up. In the mild light from the hearth, she could see that he was cast tall and lean, with sleek dark red hair that he tied neatly at the nape. He was a handsome man, but there was an ease and a grace to his motions that told her that he might be a dangerous one, too. A sword leaned against the wall behind him, but that was not such a rare thing, not after England had withdrawn for the winter and Robert Bruce had sent most of his fighting force home for the coming winter.

That's usually the way of it. That nag doesn't look big enough to turn the great wheel at a mill, so I figured that he must have been some family pet grown too large.

Mill... For a moment, Mary was panicked that whatever had struck her down so thoroughly had rattled her wits, too, but then she remembered.

Right, I put the loot in those damned bags from that mill.

The miller's daughters have the blame for that one, I'm afraid. I tried to make him work, and now he hates me forever.

The red-haired man chuckled at that, poking the fire with a stick and drawing up a stool to sit next to it. The cottage was so small that if she simply got up and took four paces, she would be standing close enough to put her arms around him.

Why in the world had that burst into her mind?

You're looking at me, he said.

She looked at him curiously.

Am I?

You are. And you're worried about what I might do to you.

Well, right now, I'm more worried about the bags of gold dust hidden under the empty bags of flour in the wagon.

Shouldn't I be? Longshanks had his soldiers crawling through every nook and cranny in the Highlands this year and half the men Robert turned away did so with less pay than he promised them. There are already stories about them turning bandit on these roads.

Well, it's clear enough I'm no Englishman, and I didn't fight for Robert this year. I had more important things to be doing.

There was an obvious bait in his voice, something that drew her in the way a flickering switch would draw in the bright eyes of a cat. Another girl might have ignored it, but then she wouldn't have been Mary Clintlock, who the nuns had always said had a curiosity as great as the enormous iron bell that summoned them to prayers.

And what terribly important things were you off and doing, Master Stranger? she asked. Cautiously, she tried sitting up again, and this time, she succeeded. Mary leaned herself against the cracked wall next to the bed, looking at her rescuer curiously.

He grinned at her, and he went from handsome to positively devilishly attractive. He was all mischief, a promised pleasure that she had to come looking for.

Oh, goodness, this one might be dangerous.

It's Captain Ross MacKinnon, no stranger to you, lass. And you, do you have a name?

No matter what she had done, how many ways she had disappointed the nuns who reared her, it seemed as if luck and the saints were still on her side. Either she had kept her face still enough so he did not notice anything, or it was dim enough that any twitch of hers had gone unseen.

Well, I do have a name, but you might know me better as the Peregrine.

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chapter 2

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The cottage was one that Ross had come across a while back, when he was spending more time inland. He didn't particularly like to think much about that time in his life, but he couldn't deny that some of the knowledge he had picked up during it was useful.

The cottage had once belonged to a recluse gone to fight for Robert. The man was definitely not coming back, so it became a good place for Ross to spend the night when he was in the area, to leave some supplies if some future iteration of him was less lucky, and in this case, to bring in unconscious girls who seemed to have picked up a rough case of bad luck.

At least it wasn't fatally bad. He washed her face gently with a rag soaked in rainwater. She had likely been driving her wagon back to wherever she was employed, and perhaps the horse had shied, or a tree had blown some branches low. It wasn't a terrible blow, but it was enough to stun her into unconsciousness and to split her lip.

The blood he was washing off the girl's face and the memories from the first time he had found this cottage made him shudder irritably. He shrugged it off and continued washing her rather pretty face.

She reminded him of some of the Irish girls he had known when he ended up in Port Gallus. Her skin was as white and pure as the flesh of a spring apple, but her hair was as dark as charcoal, fallen out of her braids and loose around her. There was a quiet kind of beauty to her, something he did not see so very often, and he traced a gentle finger along her cheek before he went to see to the fire and the food.

You are growing soft, MacKinnon. There was a time not so very long ago when you might have left her to her fate and taken her horse and her wagon besides.

Those were days were far behind him, however, or at least he liked to think they were, and tonight, all he had to do was to keep himself and an injured girl dry and alive.

He spared her another look as he busied himself in the cottage. In the warmth and the dry, she seemed to be breathing a little easier, and that was certainly a good thing. He let her alone for a while until she came up on her own. She had a smart way of talking that made him grin. He liked a woman who wasn't afraid to speak her mind, and this one didn't seem to have any issues with that. When he asked her name, however, she hesitated and that made him tilt his head to one side, watching her.

You can tell me whatever name you like, lass, and I will not go digging so deeply.

The look she gave him was frankly suspicious.

And why would you be so forgiving?

He shrugged.

I suppose that I could say something about knowing what it is to need to lay low in this country, or perhaps something about how there's little on the land that I care about, but I do not know if you would believe me. Instead, I'll simply say that you've got a goodly way about you, one I wouldn't want to see trapped into anything that worried her.

She watched him for a long moment. Ross found himself wondering idly what color her eyes were. They were pale, almost colorless in the dim light of the cottage. Green perhaps, or blue.

Mary.

She almost tripped over it, and Ross laughed at her. She stiffened a little at that, and he drew up a stool to sit on as he stirred the stew slowly.

Oh, lass, if you are going to be lying to me, pick better than that.

I'm not lying, she

Reviews for Historical Romance

[benn9314 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A lesson about war and the dangers and heart aches that go with it but then the victories