Historical Romance: The Highlander's Deadly Charge A Highland Scottish Romance: The Highlands Warring, #7

By Anne Morrison

The Highlander's Deadly Charge - A Medieval Historical Romance Book

What happens when a noble hostage confronts a deadly Highland warrior?

 

When the Scottish king's most valuable hostage must be taken to safety, there is no better choice than Malcolm MacBride.

 

The King's Killer is strong, vicious, and terrifying...

 

So why isn't Rosaline Kirkland afraid of him?

The English noblewoman has come north with so many secrets that she barely knows who she is anymore.

 

She was meant to be a bride, then she became a hostage...

Now she is falling in love with her worst enemy!

 

Together, they journey to the distant and neglected tower of Lorngall.

Together, they create a home.

 

Far from everything she knows, Rosaline is free for the first time.

But … now she is passion's prisoner.

Will she be able to protect her heart from Mal's desires?

 

Can she separate love from the passion that burns between them?

Does she even want to?

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anne Morrison
• Release date: May 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393889267

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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March 1304

Somewhere west of Dunwald in Scotland

The field was all mud and blood, and when both sides drew back at sunset, Malcolm MacBride knew that no victor would be declared, not anytime soon. This skirmish was only the two sides testing each other, searching out each other's strengths and weaknesses that might have developed the previous winter. Summer was the time for the real battles, not the spring.

Not that those who died on the field will appreciate the difference.

He knew that he was letting the darkness that seemed to live at the center of him gain too much of a foothold in his soul. He knew that he should be grateful. Given the length of the engagement, given that the English forces had come up earlier than expected from their winter stronghold hard by Edinburgh, it could have been much worse. There were years previous when the English would have simply crushed the Scottish forces into the mud, and that wasn't what had happened here.

And yet it still will not comfort the dead.

Some of the dead were MacBrides, part of his father's people, and that made things a little more personal. The MacBrides had always stood for Robert the Bruce, had been following his banner since he had lifted it. There was a pride to it in some ways, how many of them had made the final sacrifice for the only true lord of Scotland.

The problem, of course, the crux of the matter, was that most of Clan MacBride saw a future where the fighting was going to stop. Speaking to his clansmen, fresh from the territory that he himself hadn't seen in more than four years, he knew that they arrived at the camp with the idea that the war would be won, if not this summer, than certainly by the next.

Mal himself had been campaigning since he was sixteen, and he had no such belief.

This war is going to continue until Scotland is a harrowed down to the rock.

The war camp had died down to a low buzz. The dead were dead, the wounded were being seen to, and the women of the camp were doing the thousand and one duties that allowed a band of fighting men to stay on their feet without getting felled by sickness or starvation. There was a time when he would have been right down among them, close to the fires, counting to see which of his friends had survived and covering his relief with a sly joke or a slap on the shoulder.

The friends he had first come to the camp with were long dead, and even his own kinsmen looked like strangers these days. His duties weren't simply to kill the Englishmen standing in front of them anymore. They were more complex now, things that made the other men in camp look at him warily and keep civil tongues in their heads when he was around. Mal felt as if it should have bothered him more, but it didn't. It had been years since he had found any kind of true fellowship in the camps. For better or for worse, he had become something apart from the rest.

Malcolm turned away from the battlefield only to find his uncle watching him from a short distance away, mounted on his tall red mare. The older man was one of the best trackers in the Bruce's army, and after the initial startle, Malcolm wasn't surprised.

You should have announced yourself rather than stare at me like some kind of brownie from the shadows, Uncle, he said, and Angus grinned. There was a family resemblance there. Before Angus's hair had gone gray, it had been as black as Mal's, and they were both tall lean men, as much a part of the mountains as the rocks and the deep ravines. They had the same dark eyes, brighter than might be suspected from their shade, and wide generous mouths. Almost anyone would have been able to tell that they were cut from the same stock, but men tended to like Angus on sight, and that certainly wasn't something they felt around Mal.

You need to become more aware of your surroundings, Angus said mildly. If I were an English archer, you would have been dead before I came so close. Come on. The Bruce wants a word.

Mal frowned, but he allowed Angus to give him an arm as he climbed up behind his uncle.

What's the matter? Shouldn't he be meeting with the war chieftains right now?

Angus made a non-committal sound.

Laird MacTaggart and his brother have been and gone, and I imagine there's more to be said yet about where Clan Blair wants to stand this summer.

And Clan MacBride?

He knows where we stand, Angus said with a shrug. He'll do us the honor he always has, and we will do our duty.

His uncle's words were stern, and Mal scowled.

I know where we stand as well, Uncle, he said.

Of course, you do. No one has served the Bruce as well as you have. Only remember that you are not alone in it.

I have never thought that I was alone, Mal retorted, but as they rode toward the camp and Robert's tent, he wondered if that was still the case. How long had it been since he felt like Malcolm MacBride of Clan MacBride, rather than simply being Robert's soldier?

Dangerous thoughts. Like as not to get me killed on a battlefield or careless on a raid if they occur at the wrong time.

The camp was buzzing with the tired energy after a skirmish, and Angus and Malcolm entered Robert's tent just as a young woman with a steely look in her eyes and a tall dark-haired man went out.

Robert must be pleased that the MacRaes have appeared, for all that their laird is a young woman and their war chief is a forsworn English knight. The Highlands were still reeling from how Clan MacRae had finally come back under the control of the true heir, Cora MacRae, but it looked like she had wasted no time in showing the world what she was about.

Then he and his uncle were alone with the rightful king of Scotland, and Robert was not a man to waste time.

I need you to pack up and to head to Dunwald Castle, he said bluntly. News has come that it will shortly be taken by some of Edward's forces.

Malcolm nodded. Dunwald Castle had been the Bruce's winter camp, now left with a skeleton guard as the Scottish king marched to war. The English had surged north sooner than they had been expected.

How many men can I take? I'll need at least—

Robert shook his head.

None, I am afraid. The main body of the army is marching toward Edinburgh. Dunwald is too little to defend, and they cannot stage any kind of attack from it anyway.

Then why?

I need you to escort Lady Everett north to safety.

Mal stared.

Your English hostage?

Yes. Everything of value has already been taken from Dunwald except for her. She's still a bargaining chip that I'm not prepared to lose. I want you to take her and deliver her to Lorngall on the coast.

Angus grunted.

Long trip.

Longer even than that. Robert nodded. I also want you to stay with Lady Everett until you are relieved.

Mal nodded, even as he felt a certain amount of irritation at the task. He was a man made for a battlefield or perhaps for a knife in the dark. He wasn't a nursemaid, but he understood the urgency of the mission. Of course, he had heard of Lady Everett, Robert's English hostage. If she needed to be protected, he was certainly the man for the job.

All right. If that's your will, my lord, then so be it.

Robert allowed a rare smile to cross his lips.

It is. Don't worry. We'll relieve you as soon as it is expedient to do so. I hardly want my finest soldiers cooling their heels on the western coast for the battle season.

I'll leave tonight then.

He knew why the task was necessary, but a restless part of him was already annoyed with the idea of staying out of the war until such time as he was fetched.

The battle has been the only place for me for years.

The thought was a dark one, but there was a kind of rightness to it, too. Mal went to pack his gear, and he hoped that his sojourn to the west would not last so very long.

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chapter 1

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Rosaline Kirkland, Lady Everett, sighed with relief when she stood by the window to her rooms, the tapestry that usually covered it pulled back for the first time in months.

It seems as if the spring is truly here at last. She bit her lip as she gazed out over the green fields.

She had looked a few times, during the long gray days of winter, when it felt as if there were only a few precious hours of sunlight glinting down on the earth. From her window, it looked as if the earth had been scraped bare. It made her long for the soft greens and grays of her home in the south of England, where the wind surely never blew as harsh as it did in the north.

Now, however, she could see that the green was returning, clothing the land in new grass and tender leaves. It made her smile, and that felt strange on her mouth.

Well, I have not had much to smile about, have I?

It was a bitter thought to hold in her mind, and she put it away. It was true, but she had some experience with what could happen when bitterness was allowed to take root and bloom. She had seen what happened when someone allowed their heart and their spirit to be a closed room, and it was not pretty.

She could have grown very bitter after what had happened to her the previous winter. Edward, King of England, had come to her brother, endowed him with lands and fortunes beyond anything he might have collected as a poor county knight. All it would cost him was one sister to be sent with an extravagant dowry to the north, to King Birger of Sweden.

It was a bargain, as far as her brother was concerned, and if Rosaline were honest with herself, perhaps a part of her had been more than a little hopeful. Marriage to a Swedish king might not have been the fate she pictured for herself, but it was better than other options. It had allowed her certain escapes she might never have had.

Then she had learned about King Birger's savagery, and then she had had trusted Mary Clintlock and Ross MacKinnon to get her free.

Rosaline still felt her cheeks take on a dull flush when she thought about how she had believed in the thief and the smuggler. They had delivered her right to the hands of the Scottish king. Robert had been courteous, calling her his guest and telling her that there would be no trouble if she did not cause any, and largely, he had told her the truth.

Life at Dunwald, where she had been for several months now, was similar to what she had had in England.

And better in some ways. She let the tapestry drop back into place.

The quiet and contemplation were not unlike what might be expected at a cloister. Her days were dull, but she had learned to pass them with a kind of desperate acceptance.

There was a knock at the door, and Lizzy, the ten-year-old maid, poked her head in.

Mistress, your dinner.

Ah, thank you, Lizzy, very much.

The platter revealed a few thin slices of chicken, bread, and a small lump of hard cheese. The green onion sliced up and set to one side was new, however, and Rosaline smiled.

That looks fresh.

Lizzy nodded.

Peter found some this morning. There wasn't much, but it looked ever so delicious.

That meant that Edgar, the head of the guard, Moira the chatelaine, and Rosaline herself were likely the only ones who got any, and she smiled a little.

Would you like some?

Lizzy looked around a little nervously.

Um... I don't know if I should...

I won't tell. Come, I'll split it.

She cut the green onion stalks in two, releasing the tantalizing scent of fresh growth. It really had been a while since anyone had seen fresh food. Lizzy overcame her native caution, and together, they nibbled at the bright astringent green.

Where I come from in England, we have mustard greens and ramps as well by this time of year, Rosaline said. They grow everywhere very early, and people say they're peasants' plants, but no one can resist picking a handful to bring home.

Are they good? asked Lizzy curiously.

Rosaline nodded.

Very, especially after a long winter on nothing but dried apples and withered onions.

Rosaline usually tried not to think much of England and home these days. It was too easy to sink herself into a kind of despair that the Scottish winter would only make worse. She busied herself at the fire that night, thinking of nothing more than her needlework, and then... then everything changed.

She came out of a light doze to a distant clash of steel, the hoop falling to the ground. For a moment, she thought she had only dreamed the sound, but then it came again, unmistakable. She knew the sound from the practice of her father's household troops, in the days before he had lost everything. That sound had come from the practice yard, however, and this was within the castle.

Rosaline stood, knowing that the door was barred but unable to wait for what happened next sitting at the fire like some old beldam.

What is happening?

Her heart beat faster in her chest, and she looked around. They had only allowed her a knife for eating and small snips for her needlework, but there was a stack of firewood by the hearth. She could use a length of it to defend herself if need be...

Before she could decide what to do, the door burst open, and Malcolm MacBride strode in.

In the beginning, Rosaline had been afraid of the Highland soldiers who stalked Robert's winter camp. They wore clothes rougher then what she was used to, and there was never a one that would be parted from his sword, even if he came to dinner with his king. Then she had discovered that on the whole, they were just men, just like the English soldiers she had known all her life. They were bad and good, variously loyal to their king, and none of them would have harmed her because she was under the protection of Robert the Bruce.

She had also known from the beginning that Malcolm MacBride was different.

He wore black, making him stand out from the others, and the sword at his side had a snarling lion's head for the pommel. He was reputed to be Robert's man to the core, and he was known for being not just an expert soldier but also a killer and an assassin. With his black eyes and black hair, the cold look on his face and his feared prowess on the battlefield, it was easy to imagine him as the devil's own son. The rumors followed him like kittens after a cat, and some of them were very dark indeed.

And now he was in her room.

What do you want? she asked, and in the back of her mind, she was afraid she knew. All hostages needed to be traded for something, or they had no usefulness. She wondered if her usefulness to Robert had run out, and if he had decided that she was better off dead as a message to her countrymen.

I will not scream. I won't. I won't give them the satisfaction.

MacBride did not look impressed with her resolve.

Pack, Malcolm said, and for the first time, she could feel the tension in his body like string made of something sharp and strong. His hand was on the hilt of his sword, and he closed the door, turning to face her again.

What?

Pack. I am bringing you north. Dunwald is falling. Be quick.

The world felt as if it had turned upside down, and Rosaline had no choice but to fly and do as he had ordered her. There was a bag where she could stuff her clothing, her sewing supplies and the few jewels that she had kept for her own. She had a thick cloak and some coins she could use on the road if necessary.

Do I really have so little? She wondered, and then answer came back that she had nothing at all.

Rosaline turned back to find MacBride's eyes on her. Something in his gaze made her shiver, and she was grateful for the thick lilac cloak that now covered her from throat to ankle.

All right, I'm ready, she said.

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chapter 2

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Mal had been at the winter camp in Dunwald for a short while in the months previous. He had been on his way north to find out the real intentions of Clan Blair, whether they were truly intent on joining the war effort or if they only wanted to investigate the possibility of raiding while the other clans were fighting. The old laird had stepped down, and it was Ava Blair who ruled there now. She was a raider to the core and married to an English lord of all things.

He had found her more reasonable than most, far more honorable than many, but as he had dealt with the wary Blairs, he couldn't pull his mind away from Robert's hostage.

Rosaline wasn't what he had expected when he heard that the thief known as the Peregrine and the smuggler Ross MacKinnon had brought back a fine English lady for Robert instead of the treasure they had been sent for.

He had expected a frail and pale girl, afraid of her own shadow, crying for the luxuries that had undoubtedly been left behind in her abduction. If he was being generous, he would admit that she certainly had plenty to cry over. She was in the hands of men who were known to be her enemies, stripped of any power that she had held before, and kept penned up like a prize goose.

Instead, he had glimpsed her standing on the ramparts of the castle, as high as she could go and as far from any living creature as she could be and still be within the terms of her confinement. From the distance, he could see that her hair sparkled like gold. She looked beautiful, but Mal had known many beautiful women.

He had never seen a woman with eyes like her before, as black as the midnight sky, darker than his own and so lonely that it clawed at his heart. It was a bare moment of an image before he had to continue on his way to report to Robert. For some reason that he could not articulate to himself, it had stayed with him, and he had kept an eye out for her his entire visit to Dunwald. He had glimpsed her a time or two, a bowed head and a curtsy as she left the dining hall when he had come to speak with Robert, but never again had she seemed as strange and fascinating as she was in that first glimpse. He told himself that it was only some trick of the light or the distance that had intrigued him so. As he looked at her now, however, he was not so sure.

Mal, of course, did not tell her any of this. Instead, he gestured for her to follow him as he made his way through Dunwald's dark halls, his sword ready and watching for English soldiers. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her take a brief sidestep down a dark side corridor, and he turned back toward her.

I wouldn't, he said calmly, his voice taking on that flat deadness that made other men shudder to speak with him. English soldiers aren't known for checking for pedigree before they rape their women.

Rosaline's face was already pale, but she didn't flinch or start to tear up. Instead, she met his eyes squarely, something that few men had ever been able to do.

I doubt Highland soldiers are any better, my lord.

Come on, he said roughly, and this time, he took her by the wrist. For a moment, he was startled at how narrow her wrist was in his hand. It felt as if he could feel all the bones there, as if he could bruise her just by squeezing more tightly.

Then Mal shook it off because there was no time for any kind of wooly-headed nonsense at the moment and jerked her forward.

Dunwald Castle was an ancient thing. There was no way out of the main keep but through the courtyard where the fighting was the heaviest. By the scanty torchlight, it would be difficult to tell friend from foe. Judging by the sound, it might have reached that point where most people couldn't begin to distinguish.

Stay close, he growled to Rosaline. I am the only one on that field who cares if you live or die.

It might not have been true. He assumed that at least some of the English troops would take Rosaline captive, but there were plenty who wouldn't see past her sex and the fact that she was vulnerable.

She nodded, her face tense, and after that, all he could do was pull her along, staying as far from the knots of fighting men as he could. There were already men down, dead in the first charge, but there were still men coming in, men running back and forth.

He wondered if Rosaline would freeze. He heard her utter a low cry behind him, but she stayed close, and that was all he could ask of her.

They were nearly to the stable when a man came upon them. He was enormous, and the short sword in his hand was already slicked with blood. He roared, lunging for them, and then Mal had no choice but to let go of Rosaline and fend off the man's attacks.

The man attacking them was drunk on the battle. His attacks would have severed Mal's head from his shoulders

Reviews for Historical Romance

[benn9314 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A historical book about the early Scottish customs and their love lives