Historical Romance: The Highlander’s Vengeance A Highland Scottish Romance: The Highlands Warring, #12

By Anne Morrison

The Highlander's Vengeance - A Medieval Historical Romance Book

Lady Rose Haldan is hiding some very dark secrets …

 

Rose doesn't know how to be honest.

She has been on the run for four years, and she has done terrible things to survive.

She's been safe traveling with an acting troupe however...

 

Well, as safe as she can be when women aren't allowed on the stage!

 

But, when Rose met Rowan…

 

The Highlander blows her cover, and instantly finds himself fascinated by the wild, brave actress.

 

Rose knows that she needs protection to survive, and right now, that protection is Rowan.

The fierce Highlander terrifies the rest of the world, but for Rose, he is kind.

In his arms, she finds a freedom that she never considered before.

 

However, Rose's secrets follow her wherever she goes, and Rowan needs her to be truthful, just once!

 

Will Rose come clean about her dark past in time?

Who is the English knight chasing her, and what does it all mean?

Will the passion of the English actress and the Highland warrior set the world alight, or will it all fall to darkness?

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anne Morrison
• Release date: Jul 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393394099

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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January 1307

There were worse places to spend the winter than on Laird Craddock's lands, Rowan Muir thought, but plenty better as well. Craddock lands lay in a long strip sheltered by the side of Thistlewaite Mountains, and thanks to the warring between England and Scotland, there was a worn and tired look to them Some of the crofts were painfully new, put up after the original cottages on the land had been burned during the fighting, and the ones that had survived had an ill-used look to them that spoke of desperately needed repairs.

I should be back on Muir lands, he thought for what must have been the seventieth time since the battle season had ended, but there was as little he could do about it now as there was when he realized that the passes back to his homeland in the distant northern part of Scotland had been closed off by early snow.

He could feel a restlessness in him that had absolutely nothing to do with wanting to go home and everything to do with the enforced idleness. During the cold weather, there was little to do except sleep and tend to the animals, and he found himself uneasily craving the heat and excitement of battle.

Better be wary of that. You've seen the ones that have gotten too used to the feel of the sword in their fist and eating death with every meal. There's no home for that kind.

He was a Highlander, and he knew why he fought. Rowan wasn't fighting for prestige the way English knights were, and he was not fighting for money, the way the Irish mercenaries were. He was fighting to get the English out of his home and to make sure that his family and those like them were safe. The Highlanders might not have been very friendly with each other on the best of times, but they could certainly see the need to band together to keep the English out as best they were able.

That was why Laird Craddock had brought Rowan and a handful of other men back to his lands this year and why the Craddock clans folk had opened their cottages to the wayward soldiers. Rowan had found himself boarded with an old widow and her young grandson, which might not have been the quarters he would have chosen, but he was grateful for it.

He tried to show that gratitude by doing chores around their small cottage, caring for their animals and staying away to give them as much space as he could during the day. They were good people, but Rowan had found himself less and less inclined for company the older he got.

My uncles would laugh themselves sick at me for thinking myself old at twenty-seven.

He missed his family, missed them intensely, but a part of him wondered what it would be like to ever return to Clan Muir, to truly be with them from one end of the year to the other. The battle season, depending on how vicious the English were feeling and how ambitious Robert became, seemed to last a little longer with every year that went by. It occurred to him with some surprise that he had been at this for almost ten years now, a third of his life given over to protecting his home from those who would take it.

He walked along the ridge, where the thin arable land gave way to the low mountains. He remembered being surprised when someone had told him they were mountains at all. Clan Muir lay to the north, where the mountains rose up to bite at the sky. If you climbed all the way up, the way that Rowan had done more than once as a boy, the air felt thin and dangerous.

It's home. He wrapped his wool cloak a little tighter around him. The home I am fighting for, the home that I will one day return and perhaps rule.

It felt very distant, however, like a dream or a story that he had been told one night after another battle. Rowan pushed the thought away because Clan Muir at the foot of the Annfinan Mountains was home. It was the one thing he knew, the one thing he had to know. Otherwise, what was the point of any of it?

The winter afternoon was short and sharp. By the time he turned around and sighted the old widow's roof again, the sun was already halfway hidden by the jagged line of the pine trees. In winter, the whole of the Highlands seemed to resent the light, sending it away at the first opportunity and keeping the dark close long into the morning.

Rowan frowned when he saw a small figure waving at him from the fence. The widow's grandson was an unusually stolid little boy, hard to frighten, hard to rouse for any reason. He had seen his parents killed by the English just a few years ago, and Rowan guessed that after that, nothing would much scare the lad again, for better or for worse. Now, however, Brody's face looked as red as a ripe strawberry, and he was waving as if his arm might fall off. Rowan ran up to the fence, worried the old widow might have injured herself.

A rider, a rider came from King Robert, the little boy squeaked. He came with a message for all of the warriors.

Rowan frowned.

At the hall?

Yes!

Rowan nodded and broke into a loping ground-eating run. He preferred to ride if he could, but there were plenty of times when the Highlander soldiers simply marched and ran where they needed to go. He had been teaching Brody the trick of it, and the boy paced him for a short while but then fell behind. It occurred to Rowan that the boy would likely grow into it at some point; after all, there would always be a war waiting for him no matter how slowly he ran.

Just as the sun sank beneath the trees and just as orange streaked the sky, Rowan came to the wooden hall that served as the home of the laird. It was a tall and long building, slightly shambling after a few years of neglect from having the men away at war. It had looked more than a little sad when Rowan had seen it for the first time in October, but now it was clear that there was something going on.

It seemed as if most of the clan had come in from the crofts to hear the news, and people were lighting the torches at the door. Everyone was speaking excitedly to each other, and someone had even gotten out a small drum, beating out a dancing rhythm on it.

Been a while. I missed the harvest dances this year, and no one feels much like dancing on the march.

For all that he had been made welcome here, Rowan was still very much a stranger. He nodded at the crofters who had been friendly, ignored the ones who had been stand-offish, and made his way into the hall where he could see other soldiers that had ended up wintering on Craddock lands. They stood close to the high seat, where elderly Laird Craddock sat, and the looks on their faces ranged from incredulous to gleeful.

What's the matter? Rowan asked, coming up. Did someone kill the king?

It was a common concern. The English had sent kidnappers after Robert the Bruce more than once, and when those had failed to produce results, they had simply started to send assassins.

Laird Craddock turned to him with a goblin grin on his wrinkled face.

Oh, lad, better and better yet. Edward is dead.

For a long moment, Rowan only stared. It seemed beyond belief. Edward, called King Edward with respect to his face, Longshanks behind his back, and things far more poisonous in the North, was some kind of distant monster. He was the English king whose belly was never full so he must devour all the lands around him, from Scotland in the north to Spain and France in the south.

It seemed impossible such a monster could actually die, not when he had been shaping the face of war in the North for most of Rowan's life, but Laird Craddock was not given to lies or to glee, so it must be true.

Then the war is over, Rowan said, the words strange in his mouth. He should be thrilled, as excited as the crofters outside. However, he had been a soldier for most of his life, and he held back.

Oh, young Muir, no, no, said Laird Craddock with a chuckle. It won't be over until we're all dead or until English kings learn not to look north. But the English king is dead, and Robert has called for an early marshaling this year. We will fight, and we will take back what was ours.

The other fighters nodded, and the preparations began. Most of the time, the fighters were gathered in May and the battle joined in June, but Robert might call as early as April or even in March if winter broke early.

Rowan could feel the excitement for battle after even just a few months' confinement, but his heart felt heavy, too heavy by far for him to carry.

This will never end. Never so long as we have kings, never so long as we have something that someone else wants.

It was enough to make him run mad, but of course, he couldn't. He was Rowan Muir, son of Laird Muir, the leader of Muir's war band and soldier for Scotland. He had no business running mad, and he knew that he was needed.

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chapter 1

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April 1307

If Rab drops his lines one more time, I shall take that wine bag that he is so fond of and make him eat it, Rose Halder thought.

And throughout... throughout all the stars in the sky, I have... I have never in all my life seen... all the stars in the sky...

Oh, my lord, you do me too high an honor, she said, cutting into his confused speech. For all the stars in the sky may sparkle, but none of them do speak, and all I have to recommend me is my own tongue and my own wit.

Rab hated it, but better than she cut through his lines than have the audience pitch rocks at them, as had happened in Ettainton. She still had a rather nasty scar on her shin from where one stone had caught her unawares.

That was the risky part of the play, however, she reckoned. That was Rab's last big speech, and Berthold knew better than to give him anything very complicated toward the end of the plays. Instead, she had a rather sweet little speech while Delmont and Paul prepared their fight scene, and then it was all smooth sailing until it came time to die dramatically and beautifully at the very end.

The audience at least seemed to appreciate the trouble she took to move the plot forward, such as it was. They listened enraptured as she told them about her lonely girlhood in Cornwall and how she had always dreamed of the day that a valiant man would come and rescue her. She was pleased she remembered that she was meant to be from Cornwall this evening. Living on the border was dangerous enough, and a heroine from the wrong part of the world could be a real problem for everyone.

By the end of her speech and by the time she had fled backstage and Luther had come out to take charge of Rab, the audience was stamping and roaring with approval, and she could finally stop and get herself some food.

Nights like this, you could almost think that everything was going right.

Delmont, who played their wise old men, their foolish old men, and their bombastic soldiers, clapped her on the shoulder as she went by, his arms full of branches for the scene where Rab would need to fight his way through an enchanted thicket.

Well done, Thomas, he said. It looks like half the audience is in love with you.

As long as it’s the half with skirts, I'll be quite pleased, she said cheerfully.

He gave her a mock frown.

You stay away from those girls, you understand? If you get someone's brother or father after you, I think Berthold will simply leave you behind rather than have you grow into another Rab. You're too young to be thinking of that kind of thing, after all.

Rose promised to behave, and then she shook her head wryly. As if everything could ever go right for her.

Still, it was a safer place she had found than she had had in years, even if everyone thought of her as an extraordinarily pretty boy rather than as a rather handsome girl, and it was far better to be a boy no matter how pretty, than a girl on the borderlands.

Berthold had wrangled a platter of roast chicken for the troupe from the inn where they were performing, and she made a face at how very picked over it was. It was what came of having so much work in the first half of the play and so little in the second, she figured. It was little more than bones picked clean.

I would have eaten the skin if there had been some of the skin left to eat. Her belly rumbled.

She hesitated because it was bad form in the extreme to go haring off while the play was still running, but Rose hadn't eaten since early that day, and it was only a cup of barely warm barley.

She still might have resisted, but then she saw Rab's purse half-hidden behind some of his clothes and gear, and she made her decision.

He owes me money anyway, and no one else is helping cover for him half as much.

It wasn't the kind of rationalization that a good English girl would have made for herself, but Rose had gone through so many names and so many stories since she had left Langrove that she barely knew who she was anymore, let alone how good she might be.

I'll pay him back. If he even notices that it’s gone, which he might not if he's already messing up his lines.

She whisked a few coins out of Rab's purse, tucked the purse down a little lower in Rab's things so that it would not tempt anyone else, and stole across the courtyard into the inn itself. Except for a few soldiers at a back table, the inn was empty. Everyone was probably watching the play in the yard, and that would make getting some kind of food even faster.

She found the kitchen girl, showing her coins.

What can you get me for this, love?

The girl snorted.

I can give you a sad look, how about that?

Rose guessed that the girl was several years older than she was and that she ran the kitchen in fact if not in name.

She widened her eyes and gave her mouth a rather pitiful turn.

Nothing at all? Miss, please, I'm the youngest of my troupe. They make me eat last, and there's never anything left.

All right, don't break yourself trying to cry for my sake. I don't hold with the theater. Just give me those and stay quiet for a bit. I can do you a bit of chicken and drippings, maybe.

Rose grinned, handing over the coins.

Thank you much, miss, I'll remember you in my prayers.

The girl disappeared back into the kitchen, and Rose sat down by the hearth. Outside, she could hear Rab and Peter start their fight. It was fine; that meant that she had plenty of time to get food. She only needed to remember not to stain the fine dress that she had helped Angus put together; he would have her head if she spilled on the fine stitches.

Her train of thought was broken into bits when a heavy hand fell down on her shoulder, and she was lifted painfully from her seat. Before she could shout or do much more than gasp, Rose was spun around, and she found herself looking into a bearded face flushed with drink.

My lucky day, the enormous man crooned. It looks like a lovely lady had come to visit this humble place. Come sit with me, pretty lady, and I will buy you all the chicken you like if you kiss me.

A number of things flashed through Rose's mind. They did run into a fair few people who did not know that acting troupes were always composed of men, and her wig, a long fall of horsehair that Angus styled into cunning braids, was a convincing thing. Usually, it was enough to hear Rose swagger and curse before they learned the error of their ways, but this man was too close to her, too large, and some sixth sense that she had developed from her time on the road told her that violence lurked right below his surface.

Well, only one way to deal with a man like that. She took him firmly by the shoulders and rammed her knee up between his legs.

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chapter 2

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Rowan had thought that it was going to be a quiet night. He liked quiet nights, and he was especially protective of them when he knew they were not going to stay quiet. In just a few weeks, they would be joining up with Robert's army, and after that, the nights that weren't spent in tense anticipation of battle would be spent in the moans of the wounded and the recovery from war, such that could be accomplished on the run.

The war band from Clan Muir had been joined by the band from one of the lesser clans, and since the death of their own commander the year before, they were happy to join with Rowan's own men. It was an unruly group, but it was not as if the soldiers of the North were known for their decorum or their discipline.

No, Rowan thought with some amusement, we are known for winning our battles.

Unlike the conscripted soldiers from England and the mercenaries from Ireland, the Highlanders were mostly volunteers come together to defend their land. Most of them would have far preferred to stay on their own lands tending to their own affairs but ambitions of kings had pulled them out, and they were by and large angry about it.

The inn had been a pleasant disruption on the path to Glen Rivven, where Robert was mustering his forces. The ones who could afford a hot meal were getting one, and there was a pleasant enough ash grove close by where most could sleep. Rowan, who might have preferred a night under a proper roof, was sleeping rough himself that night, if only to make sure that the men didn't roister too hard or offend the town. The last thing they needed was to leave an irate town in their wake, and while he was mostly sure of the men from Muir lands, he was less familiar with the others.

Still, things were going well enough that he was enjoying an ale by the fire and leaving his men to their own devices. He was just thinking how good it was to enjoy a quiet night on the eve of the battle season when trouble walked in.

At first, he had no idea what a French lady was doing on the borderlands, between England and Scotland, because only a French lady would be dressed in a gown so tight with her hair streaming down in such elaborate plaits. She was a small thing, dainty in the way he liked his women, and there was a surge of interest before he realized that he was looking at the actor from the troupe performing in front of the inn.

It's what comes of spending the winter with a widow old enough to have suckled Methuselah, Rowan thought, more amused than put out. You start flirting with any friendly face or likely looking pair of legs.

He went back to his ale, wondering about perhaps seeing about more food, when he saw motion out of the corner of his eye.

The man who had risen to meet the little actor was one of the men he wasn't sure about, from Clan Finnic perhaps or Clan Morgan. He was a large man and rather stupid, which was not a problem until it became Rowan's problem

He had approached the boy, too drunk to realize that it was a boy in a dress rather than a pretty girl. Apparently, whatever invitation he had slurred into the boy's ear was distasteful enough that the boy had decided to take offense. Just as Rowan rose to separate the two, the boy drew the fighter close and drove his knee up straight between the man's legs.

Rowan winced as the man uttered a deep groan and staggered but did not fall. The boy turned to flee, but the soldier roared, grabbing him by the back of his dress and dragging him back with an incoherent curse.

Rowan did some choice swearing of his own and lunged forward. He was smaller than the man, though not by much, and leaner besides, but he had the advantage of being as fast as lightning and mostly sober besides.

Stop before you humiliate yourself further, Rowan snarled, pulling the man back.

The fighter released the boy, who landed on his rear in the rushes. Up close, he still looked enough like a lass that Rowan thought he might burst into tears, but instead, the boy bounced like a ball, up on his feet and fists up to defend himself.

Rowan, who had been feeling rather grim earlier that evening, laughed out loud.

There. Does that look like a likely lass to you?

The man started to protest, and Rowan bit out a growl. He reached over and tugged

Reviews for Historical Romance

[benn9314 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Another great romance story about the Scottish people in the early centries