Enemy in the Highlands

By Emily Hunt

Scotland. 1429. Clan Cameron has suffered a devastating attack from their enemies. Nearly every family in the village has lost a loved one, and Eleanor Carmichael and her siblings feel their loss the strongest after both their parents are slain.

As winter approaches, Eleanor is determined to keep her family safe, but when her brother brings home an injured man he found upon the moors, Eleanor is convinced the stranger is none other than Angus Mackintosh, the fierce warrior they were warned to fear--the man who led the attack upon their village.

As Angus’s injuries heal, Eleanor is faced with a decision: will she remain loyal to her clan and the commitment to keep her family safe, or will she shelter the man who may have brought about her village’s devastation?

Inspired by true events, this is a tale of courage and forgiveness, and of allowing your heart to live and to love again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Apr 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9781664259812

Emily Hunt

Emily Hunt is an experienced primary school teacher whose role as a science subject leader at a school in Bristol ignited a passion for promoting STEM education. During a recent year abroad in the USA she developed a popular website and blog - www.howtostem.co.uk - offering STEM activities and advice for educators working with the primary age range. She also worked within the US education system to deliver science outreach, and holds a master's in education from the University of Cambridge.

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Copyright © 2022 Emily Hunt.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

WestBow Press

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-6642-5980-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6642-5983-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6642-5981-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022903959

WestBow Press rev. date: 04/18/2022

CONTENTS

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

For My Sisters

ONE

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I hear the plodding of horse hooves before I see them. With my hood drawn up around my face to block out the harshness of the early winter wind, my only view is of the flock of two dozen sheep before me. Their bodies are thick with their woolen winter coats as they graze contentedly in the green pasture that slopes away from my boots. Skye rises from beside me and utters a low, warning woof, the hair on his back bristling. I tilt my head slightly and guess there to be two horses, two riders. I can hear the horses snort in the cold air, and I pull my hood back to see who has ridden all this way to find me and my flock.

I instantly recognize Brock Cameron by his ginger-colored beard and the hat pulled low over his brow. The other man from our village rides close behind him, though from the way he pulls his chin down into his collar to brace against the wind, I cannot tell who he is.

Brock reins in his dappled stallion mere yards from where I stand and swings down from his saddle.

Afternoon, Miss Carmichael. He tips his head and his broad smile deepens the lines that have crept into the corners of his eyes. As he strides toward me, I notice his cheeks are rosy with cold. Telltale hints of gray streak through his beard, though I know him to be no more than nine-and-twenty.

I nudge Skye with my shepherd’s staff and he dutifully sits. Good day, Mr. Cameron. I offer a friendly smile. The formality of our greetings feels silly to me; Brock and I have been friends since I was a young lass of twelve. I push the wisps of stray hair from my eyes and feel heat creeping into my cheeks as he approaches. If Brock notices my blush, I hope he thinks it only due to the wind. What brings you out on a gloomy day like this?

What I really want to ask is, how in heaven’s name did you find me out here?

Business, unfortunately. Brock runs a gloved hand along his mustache, wiping away drips of condensation that have formed during his ride. He must guess the question in my eyes because he quickly continues, we stopped at your home and Margaret indicated you had taken the flock out to pasture. ‘Twas nae difficult to guess where.

Those creases appear around his eyes again, smiling at me. He knows which pastures I favor, which brook I often lead my flock to for water. Briefly, I wonder if the rumor in the village is true: that Brock Cameron plans to ask permission to court me. I sensed his interest in me last summer, when he came nearly every afternoon to help my brother repair a rock wall along the southern side of our property. I kept them both well fed during those weeks, every day heaping food into a basket and lugging it out to them.

One day, I had watched Brock lift a boulder. The muscles in his back had tightened beneath his thin, sweat-soaked shirt as he placed the heavy weight effortlessly atop the wall. That boulder was the final piece to the puzzle they had worked hard to build, and afterward Brock had turned to see me standing there, basket in hand. The wide smile that broke across his face was from more than happiness at finishing the wall. I had seen it in his blue eyes that day, and I can see it now.

I clear my throat and push the memory aside. Aye, Margaret is keeping the fire going at home.

Brock nods in understanding. Suddenly remembering the reason for his visit, he half turns and motions to the other man waiting atop his horse.

There is a man on the loose. Callum and I are riding to the families around the village, warning them to keep a sharp eye out for him.

I arch my eyebrow, intrigued. A man?

Brock nods again. Scouts spotted him on the outskirts of our land and gave chase, hoping to capture him. Unfortunately he dismounted before they caught him and we believe he is now on foot in the area. Brock’s eyes narrow. I would feel much better, Miss Carmichael, if you would gather your flock and return home quickly.

I thrust my chin out, a habit of defiance I had perfected as a child. I can take care of myself, Brock, I say, thinking of the small dagger I keep hidden in a sheath in my belt.

His mouth forms a firm line. Nae, lass. Rumor has it this is Angus Mackintosh, the man who led the attack against our village in the spring. If this be true then he is, indeed, a very dangerous man and has taken many lives.

I draw in a sharp breath of surprise, and something akin to anger kindles in my chest. Brock needn’t have warned me about this man’s dangerous reputation, nor about how many lives were lost in the attack upon our village that unsuspecting spring morning. Many fell by the sword that day. Might this Angus Mackintosh be the one to have left so many homes grieving the loss of a father, a mother, or a child? My gut clenches. I remember the horrible hours of anxiously waiting for news of my family.

When do you expect Cedric to return home? Brock asks, pulling me from my dark memories.

Before dark, I reply, hugging my cloak tighter around my shoulders. The temperature seems to have dropped though Brock only arrived mere moments ago.

Good. I am sure he wants you safe at home as well. Brock turns back to where his horse is waiting, its breath blowing great puffs in the chilly air. I would escort you myself, Miss Carmichael, but we still have homes to ride to, and the day is growing colder.

Brock climbs up into his saddle and gathers the reins. Promise me, Eleanor, you willna tarry here long. His blue eyes shine at me, awaiting my reply.

I promise, I reply simply.

Brock nods, and suddenly the two men are off, their horses trotting back up the path and out of sight.

I suppose Brock is right in saying not to linger here. I pull my hood up around my head. Off with you. Home we go. Skye leaps from where he sits, his furry black and white body a blur of motion as he darts in and out amongst the flock. They bleat in protest, but in a matter of moments they scurry toward me and I turn to lead them up the path where the riders have just gone.

I begin to hum as I walk, but then decide against it. If Angus Mackintosh really is in the area, I do not want to encourage him to find us.

We had heard the whispered rumors about a warrior from the invading clan. Hair the color of a raven’s wing, fiery eyes that betrayed the emptiness of his soul, and skill with a sword like no one had seen before. Even before the attack on our village, we knew the man had a terrifying reputation.

My heart feels heavy in my chest as I recall these things. Skye is suddenly at my side, and I reach down to run a hand across his thick coat.

Good dog, I say in a hushed voice as he trots past, his pink tongue lolling from his mouth.

The climb grows steep, but once we crest the top of the hill I can see for miles. The wind suddenly whips open my cloak and I gasp at its bite. If I had known the day would be this cold I would not have led my sheep out to graze. Still, I know that once it snows, they will be shut in the barn for weeks at a time, and I will no longer be able to enjoy this walk. I am thankful for the cold. Warriors do not like to fight when they must trudge through snow drifts. For our village, winter is a season of safety.

In the distance, candles twinkle in the windows of our cottage. Margaret places them there, knowing I like to stay out until nightfall. The ewes bleat eagerly as if they notice the flickering lights, too.

Come on then. Home we go, I tap the last little ewe on the rump with my staff. Let’s nae dawdle. The gray sky gives me a twinge of delight. It has begun to snow.

TWO

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"M argaret?" I call, pushing the door open with my shoulder. A fire blazes in the hearth, and the scent of herbs and yeast wafts in the air. The lass has been baking again.