The Highlander's Fugitive: Highland Heroes, #5

By Fiona Grant

Falsely accused of being a witch.

Betrayed by villagers whose lives she had saved.

Sorcha has no choice but to run for her life...

When a mother and newborn die under her care, Sorcha McLeod is forced to flee with her childhood friend, Dermid Mackenzie, who rescues her from a frenzied mob of torch-bearing villagers.

Thanks to ugly rumors that have been spread about her, Sorcha realizes in despair that she has no chance of going back home to clear her name. But that fades into insignificance when she discovers that she and Dermid will not be able to find a safe harbor anywhere in Scotland. The fear of witches and witchcraft is too deeply entrenched throughout the land...

The pair keep running, and things get worse. When pretending to curse their hunters to effect to escape when they are cornered, Sorcha merely confirms what everyone now thinks of her.

All she ever wanted to do was to be a healer like her mother Maura, and work with the magic she feels flowing through her veins to help those who need her—mothers, babes, injured warriors, and sick villagers.

Instead, Sorcha and Dermid are forced to make their way even deeper into the wilds of Scotland, daring to trust no-one....

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blue Gem Publishing
• Release date: Jan 23, 2019
• ISBN: 9781922772251

Book preview

Prologue

Dermid let out a snort of laughter as he hurtled after Sorcha, determined to catch her. Little minx! Barely twelve summers, and she was easily outstripping him and Ewan, who he could hear panting along behind him.

Sorcha flew across the mossy ground between her father’s keep and the forest beyond, surefooted and fleet. The faded fabric of her plaid blended with the brown and green of the landscape on this dull October day; her bright red hair was the only spot of colour, streaming out behind her like a shimmering cape. She risked a glance back and grinned in triumph, but doing it slowed her down a fraction and enabled Dermid to gain on her.

At 17 summers, he was decidedly too old for such games—as was 15-year-old Ewan, for that matter—but Sorcha had always had a sort of enchantment about her, and she had roped both boys into a footrace as soon as her mother had set her free from the needlework and lyre that consumed her winter afternoons. 

The three were racing for the woods at the far end of the glen, where sparse trees turned to a darkly wooded tangle in a matter of a few steps. Sorcha had her long wool skirts bunched up in her fists, and her slender legs pounded a thrumming rhythm against the damp moor grass. 

Ewan, though broader than Dermid, was labouring hard under his weight and began falling behind. By the time Sorcha and Dermid had cleared the tree line, he was some distance behind, and the other two crashed through the brush side-by-side until the trees had closed off the view of the castle behind. Then Sorcha, gasping for breath, pulled up short in a hollow full of dried leaves and fell to her knees by a patch of brilliant green blooming in an upturned log.

What is this, Sorcha? Dermid bent over and sucked in a few deep breaths. Giving up, are ye? Or is it that ye want to wait for Ewan?

She didn’t even spare him a glance, tugging at the plant. "Nay, look, I think ‘tis tormentil. The nurse said it could be used to stop up blood flow, and she wanted some last fortnight to boil in milk. Help me, Dermid."

He knelt by her side and began digging up the root. He was of the age when it would be considered unmanly to spend time digging up herbal remedies for little highland lasses, but he’d never been able to say no to Sorcha. 

Dermid had known her since she was a wee bairn. They’d grown up in nearby clans, and Lachlan McLeod, Sorcha’s father, had been in charge of his foster education in the early years of his life. Sorcha had a soft spot in his heart, the little sister he’d cared for by proxy since the day he’d arrived at the McLeod keep. Now that he spent most of his days back in his uncle’s country, he sorely missed their time together. 

Here, lass. He handed her some of the plant and rooted for more while he grinned at the sight of her dirty fingernails. Yer mother willnae be pleased to see those hands. She’s all for making a lady of yer.

Ach, she willnae care. Sorcha dismissed his comment with a shrug. She’s had her own hands in the soil often enough, searching for herbs. She shot a glance his way. And as a healer, she’s had her hands in far worse than dirt. 

Young Sorcha had the right of it there, Dermid thought, digging up more of the plant. From a tender age, she’d taken an interest in the healing remedies old Morag peddled at the gates of the keep in plague season, and even as a little girl, she’d demanded imperiously that Dermid be her escort through the dark woods to gather handfuls of weed and thistle for the household store. 

He had consented willingly enough, delighting in her wide-eyed fascination with the world around her. Her mother Maura had a rare gift for healing, and on many an occasion, the usual training for a young Scottish lass in running a household had given way to classes on herbal remedies, dressing wounds, and midwifery. 

Lachlan McLeod had tended to look the other way out of love for his wife, but Dermid had seen the worry in his eyes when he looked at his tender-hearted daughter and had heard him issue a low-voiced warning or two about what the villagers were muttering in dark corners. It was a short step from having people grateful for healing potions to murmurs about a witch’s brew.

As though wee Sorcha could ever countenance witchcraft. Dermid looked on her now with brotherly warmth and nudged her tenderly. I’ve missed you, lassie. 

She looked up with a glint of laughter in her deep green eyes.

Ye getting soft, now ye are out from under my father’s tutelage?

Nothing awry with a soft soul, he answered seriously.

At that moment, their companion pushed through the leaves, red-faced and angry from the exertion. Ye left me behind, he growled, struggling to regain control of his breathing.

Sorcha looked up with genuine concern. Nay, we wouldnae do that. She looked absently at the root clenched in her small white hand and then held it up for inspection. "Look, I’ve come upon a patch of tormentil. I can use it to⁠—"

A cloud darkened his forehead, and he pulled the root roughly from her grasp. Ye cannae keep up with this nonsense, Sorcha. Why dinna ye ever gather thistle, like god-fearing women?

She shrunk back as though struck. We’ve enough thistle at the house, Ewan. Tormentil is used for different ailments, and I’ve been searching for the like for many weeks now. Tis nothing ungodly about it.

Dermid frowned and wrested the root from the other boy’s grasp. He didna care much for Ewan McFarlane, and he liked even less his attitude towards Sorcha. What is this ye are saying, Ewan? There’s naught heathen about the healing herbs.

He glowered at Dermid. What would ye know? Some in the village say the roots and bushes in these woods have been used before for witchcraft.

Dermid cast a glance at Sorcha at that moment and thought with a wry smile that she looked every part the witch, her hair lank and loose around her face and indignant fire sparking in her green eyes. She pulled herself to her full height, her head barely clearing Ewan’s chest.

And what’s it to ye, Ewan McFarlane? What do ye care what people say behind closed doors?

He glared at her. Father says in another year’s time we’re to make the alliance of our families official, and I won’t have some wayward lass tainting the McFarlane name.

Sorcha’s face abruptly changed as comprehension dawned in her eyes, her face becoming sober. It took a moment longer for Dermid to understand. When at last he did, his face darkened as well.

Ye are to be betrothed? For some reason, the idea of the spoiled boy in front of him one day winning the hand of a McLeod daughter bothered him deeply, and he struggled to keep the disdain out of his voice. 

Aye, Ewan answered triumphantly. I overheard father speaking with Laird McLeod about the arrangements.

Tis not fitting to eavesdrop. Sorcha’s words came out strangely docile, and Dermid winced at the cloud that had come across her otherwise lovely day.

Tis not fitting to dabble in witchcraft, Ewan shot back, mocking.

I dinna dabble in witchcraft! Take that back! The girl’s fire returned, and she smacked the arm of the gloating boy in front of her. 

He backed away, tauntingly. Are ye going to make me, then, lass? He turned and ran, laughing. Sorcha took off after the fleeing boy, threatening all manner of ear-pulling and head knocking, leaving Dermid alone in the clearing. 

He shook his head. Sorcha might be able to outrun Ewan, but she was too slight to best him in a tussle. She knew it, too, and that would make her temper flare even hotter. Sorcha did not like being mocked any more than she liked being beaten in a footrace.

He bent and methodically gathered each stray piece of tormentil in his tunic. It was better, after all, for him to be seen gathering the medicinal herb than for it to be carried back