To Avenge Her Highland Warrior: The Highland Fire Chronicles, #3

By Samantha Holt

Lorna lost everything to war. Her home, her wealth... her lover. And now she wants revenge.

When her hasty plan throws her at the mercy of her enemy's men, she holds little hope of returning to her kin and fears death is around the corner. But could her salvation lie in the arms of her dark captor?

Logan has little time to be dealing with a stubborn noble woman. His orders are to prepare for war. His laird—the man he owes his life to—intends to join forces with the Norse and bring a battle to Scotland that will see the fate of the country forever changed. Scarred, and with no memory of his past, Logan is determined to forge a new future for himself as well as prove his loyalty to the laird. But the beautiful lass has him questioning his previous life and his goals.

When she starts claiming he once loved her, he knows he's being manipulated and she's taking advantage of his memory loss. So why is it so hard to resist the idea of having once been her lover?

With the threat of impending war—a battle that promises to bring slaughter to her family—can Lorna persuade Logan to believe her, and is the bitter man he's become even worth saving?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Helstone Press
• Release date: Oct 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223801405

Samantha Holt

USA Today bestselling author Samantha Holt lives in a small village in England with her twin girls and a dachshund called Duke. She has been a full-time author since 2012, having gone through several careers including nurse and secretary. 

Book preview

To Avenge Her Highland Warrior

The Highland Fire Chronicles

Samantha Holt

Copyright © 2014 Samantha Holt

All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Epilogue

About The Author

Chapter One

A dribble of cold water trailed down Lorna’s spine and she shuddered. Wrinkling her nose, she fought to ignore the odour of damp rock and death. The metallic scent might have had more to do with the iron currently clamped around her wrists but its similarity to the smell of blood wasn’t lost on her.

She closed her eyes and leaned back against the hard rock. How many days had she been down here? Two? Three? More? When this had been her castle, the lower donjon had never been used. How many people had Laird Gillean held down here since she’d escaped his clutches after he tried to kill her? How many people had died down here? Knowing the man who was once a brother by marriage—many.

Would she be one? Lorna kicked a rat as it scurried over her foot and cringed when it squeaked. The men-at-arms who had captured her had said Gillean would not return for a sennight. Hopefully that would give her time to escape before his homecoming. Though from the way she was shackled and dumped in the almost pitch black room, it seemed unlikely anyone would give her any respite from her confines. Kilcree had changed much since she had been lady of the keep.

The groan of hinges rattled her head, and she squinted into the darkness as a flash of daylight dribbled down the stairs. Hope burst in her chest but vanished with the sunlight as the door slammed shut. Footsteps sounded and she forced herself to breathe slowly while her heart echoed each thud.

Those footsteps came to a stop a few paces from her. In the gloom, she could make out the vaguest outline. A man. Tall, wide-shouldered. The smell of soap broke the stifling air. Lorna straightened as best as she could with her hands bound in front of her by the heavy, rusting iron. Her wrists panged in protest. No doubt the skin would be raw underneath the metal.

Why are ye here?

His voice made her jump. Rough and low—almost a growl—it grated her senses.

She raised her chin and peered at the outline of his head. Why are ye holding me? I havenae done anything wrong.

The man let out a gruff laugh. Ye were found sneaking around the laird’s chambers.

"I wasnae sneaking. And I hardly think visiting the castle which used to be my home is punishable by imprisonment. She perfected her most authoritative voice—one that had worked for many years on the men under her command. Ye know I am Lady Lorna, do ye not?"

I do.

Then release me.

He crouched, startling her. Why give up an imposing stance? She never would have done so had the roles been reversed, but knowing he was that bit closer sent a shiver through her. Who was this man? She’d known most of Gillean’s men. He had to be new. Since Gillean’s men had killed Logan, Kilcree had no one in command. A mercenary perhaps. A grizzled, scarred image of a man sprang to mind.

I cannae release ye. Ye were trespassing where ye were no’ welcome. The laird shall want to deal with ye when he returns.

The laird shall likely kill me, but I suppose ye care not.

The silence that hung between them made her heart thud. Something about his voice teased her memories but she would remember such a voice, surely? His breaths whispered harshly in the air, as if he struggled to draw them in.

I suppose ye dinnae care that ye work for an ungodly man, she continued. Would it even be possible to guilt this stranger into releasing her?

God has no place in these walls. She heard his smirk.

When they were my walls, He did.

Much has changed this past year, Lady Lorna. Ye were much mistaken coming here. Ye should have stayed at Glencolum. Kilcree is no place for a lady.

Lorna narrowed her eyes into the darkness. Ye seem to know much about me.

Many know of ye, my lady. Yer men were responsible for killing many of Gillean’s. The laird has kept a close eye on ye since.

She snorted. And she had been doing the same to him. Watching and waiting for the moment to strike. Her son was old enough to be left with the nursemaid, and Gillean had scaled down his defences when the clan at Glencolum showed no signs of retaliation for attempting to kill one of their kin and her brother’s wife. Foolishly, she’d thought it would be easy enough to slip into Kilcree and kill Gillean in his sleep. Lorna clenched a hand around the iron holding her captive.

She would have saved Scotland from the plotting of Gillean. She did not know what he had planned, but he had used the past year to garner more land and loyalty. It left her in no doubt he would eventually strike Glencolum and the rest of her kin. The man she had once called brother was as ambitious as he was deadly.

But more importantly she would have avenged Logan’s death—her one time lover.

And the man she loved. She gulped and fought the memories of how she’d treated him. If she hadn’t constantly refused him, would things have been different? Would he still be alive today? She had said goodbye to many men—her father, her first husband—but she grieved little for any of them. Her marriage had been by arrangement and she barely knew her father. Logan’s death, however, had left an ache in her heart that would never be filled. Even her darling son only eased it somewhat.

Revenge. That would make her whole again.

Ye have nothing to say, my lady? the man pressed.

Not to ye, she spat.

Whoever this man was had clearly taken on the role of her imprisoner and he would feel the full force of her hate. She consoled herself that her brother, Finn, would seek revenge for her should anything happen. Once he got over his anger, that was. She dreaded to think how furious he would be when he found out she’d put her son, Ewan, in the care of the nursemaid and snuck away on such a rash mission.

But Gillean should have been here. Rumour was, he was holed up in Kilcree, preparing for something. He spent his time between his two castles but he should have been here. And she should have had her revenge. Lorna allowed herself a bitter smile and shuddered as a howl of wind swirled through the slit of a window and wrapped her in an icy blanket.

Cold?

That smirk lingered in his tone again. Could he see her? She glanced up at the sliver of light and concluded it must highlight her. Her imprisoner was at another advantage. He saw her while she could barely make out his stance. Still, she would not show her despair. While she remained in the walls of Kilcree, her mission was not a complete failure. Gillean had tried to kill her once before but the stakes had been high. A rich bride—now Finn’s wife—had been the prize, but surely Gillean would not risk the wrath of Glencolum for the satisfaction of spilling her blood.

She prayed not. Lorna had little intention of involving her brother. For many years she had looked after herself and survived a man almost as evil as Gillean—her husband. She did not need Finn’s aid and, with his first child on the way, she wanted it even less. Finn deserved some happiness in his life.

Twisting her wrists in a bid to lessen the increasing ache, she fixed her gaze on the outline of his head. Nay, I am no’ cold. She tensed to fight another oncoming shudder.

In truth, until this man had entered the room, the temperature had been far from her mind. Was it him or the gusts of wind swirling through the dark, dank prison causing her body to feel as though she had been submerged into icy waters? Her thin woollen gown did little to warm her, and the men who had caught her in Gillean’s room had taken away her mantle—an act of cruelty she suspected. Anyone working for Gillean would have little compassion.

A warm, rough fingertip swept across the back of her hand and she squeaked while her pulse kicked. She hadn’t even seen him move. The tingles in her arm increased but they didn’t feel as though they were caused by cold—or by the constriction of the iron on her wrists. It had to be fear that caused it. Why else would this mysterious man have such an effect?

Ye are cold, he stated, wry amusement tingeing his gruff voice as he stood.

Damp rushes squelched under his boots when he took a step back—the same rushes that soaked through her skirts. 

Lorna thrust her chin higher, refusing to be a source of enjoyment for him. What sort of man took pleasure in imprisoning a woman in such squalid surroundings? Yet part of her longed for him to stay—a thought she dearly wished to quash. She had already spent two days alone in the dark confines. The thought of being left once more with no clue as to her fate made her chest constrict.

What will ye do with me? she asked, desperate to prolong their interaction. She needed some hint of what was to happen.

That isnae up to me. Ye can wait until Gillean returns.

He moved and looked to be folding his arms. A prickle on her skin told her he was studying her, but why? If he truly intended to leave her until Gillean returned, he had no need to be speaking with her.

Do ye like what ye see, mercenary? Why was she baiting him?

He released a low, raw chuckle. Mercenary? Is that what ye think I am?

A man who offers up his honour to the highest bidder? Aye, I think yer a mercenary. Ye clearly cannae make decisions for yerself.

A hand clamped around her arm like a hot vice and the hiss of his breath washed over her face. She cried out involuntarily and clamped her mouth shut while he dragged her to her feet. She near hung from his grip, her body stretched so she had to come onto her tiptoes. The chains that attached the irons to the ground clanged and squeaked in protest.

Let me assure ye, Lady Lorna, her captor hissed, that no man commands me, laird or no’. And no woman commands me either. Ye may think ye are capable of bringing a man to his knees, but ye are mistaken.

Her chin trembled. He had proved her right. This man was nothing but a mercenary with no honour or morals. Such men cared little whether you were a woman or an innocent. In all likelihood, she would not escape him or sway him in any way. Would she see her son again—the child who bore such resemblance to his father, it made her heart ache every time she looked upon him?

Several moments passed. The mercenary’s harsh breaths and her own seemed to grow louder. The heat of his palm continued to burn its way through the sleeve of her gown. Chances were he would leave a bruise. It wouldn’t be the first time a man had marked her, but she had hoped when her first husband had died it was to be the last. But men struck out. Gillean had reminded her of that and now this man.

The grip on her arm softened, just enough to allow her to relax. Lorna again questioned how she had become so careless. Years running a keep had taught her to be careful. She had become adept at negotiating and reading a situation. Her need for revenge had clouded her judgement and Ewan would likely pay for her carelessness. Would her son grow up hating her for putting herself in such a situation and leaving him motherless?

Finally the steely grip released and the man stood back once more. She failed to suppress a relieved sob. His responding exhale of breath surprised her. It sounded almost as if her moment of distress had affected him. Or perhaps she was simply looking for salvation where there was none.

Ye shall remain until Laird Gillean returns, he said decisively, his voice splitting the silence.

With that, he turned and stepped out of the door. It swung shut heavily, causing drips of water to shake from the walls and splatter on her chilled body.

Lorna dropped to the ground and drew her knees up as tremors wracked her. Tears singed her eyes and she closed them, refusing to give in. The need to avenge Logan’s death had blinded her and now those who loved her would pay for her mistake.

Filling her lungs, she curled her hands. Nay, they would not. She would not die here at the hands of a mercenary or Laird Gillean. She would kill Gillean somehow and return to Ewan. She would not have him growing up with the knowledge that the man who killed his father still lived.

Chapter Two

Logan paused outside the door and heard the rattle of chains as Lorna dropped to the ground. He put a hand to his throat and touched the raised welt. It felt tight. Not uncommon. But the churning in his gut was.

She was beautiful. Cold, wet, dirty and pale, her beauty shone under the meagre light of the donjon window. He shook his head and stomped up the stairs into the Great Hall. Something struck him as familiar about her, but he supposed he might have met her whilst in the service of Gillean. He put a hand to his head and paused in the stairwell. Why could he not remember? Why had none of his memories returned yet? The laird had told him of his life before he awoke in the very same donjon with no recollection as to his life before that moment, and it had been eventless up until the battle of Kilcree.

He was a peasant boy, it seemed, who had risen through the ranks. After Gillean had informed him he had gone into a fit after nearly dying at the hands of Lorna’s men and they had confined him for his own safety, Logan had been determined to prove himself to the laird. Thankfully he still had his wits about him and had managed to become indispensible to the laird.

He put a hand to the cold stone. Why she had returned, he couldn’t fathom. To get back her dowry probably. When Lorna had been forced from her home, she had left behind everything. But it mattered little to him. Once Gillean returned from the coast with the Norse in tow, it would be up to the laird what happened to the woman.

Logan paused in front of the table at the rear of the hall and snatched a goblet of wine. He drained it and studied the hall. The elaborate tapestry on one wall and intricate carving of the wooden stairs and banister that spanned the floor above did nothing to warm the place. A cold silence always hung in the air, even as servants scurried to clear away the morning meal. Gillean tolerated little joviality from his household and demanded nothing but hard work.

Logan smirked. That was fine by him. Hard work, he could do and laughter had no place in his life. Being Gillean’s chieftain reaped plenty of rewards and he was far from a simple peasant boy now.

Hand to his mouth, he swiped away the wine and set down the goblet. He shooed away the two hounds who sniffed around him for food and watched them slink back to their corner of the hall. His thoughts turned to Lorna again. Mayhap he had seen her during the battle, when Gillean led his men to take back his keep from the conniving woman, but something about being in her presence stabbed him like a knife in the gut—or to the throat. He touched his neck again.

One of the serving maids scurried past, and he grabbed her arm. Her eyes widened and she glanced up at him from under her lashes. The staff often regarded him like that. As though he were some disfigured beast, he thought bitterly.

Have some food taken down to the prisoner, he barked and released her arm when he felt her tremble.

Aye, sir. Anne dipped.

Perhaps he should have left the prisoner to starve a little longer. She’d only missed a few meals. It wouldn’t harm her to go hungry. Logan had no intention of letting the woman starve, however. Gillean would want to deal with her. From what little he knew of the woman, Gillean felt her to be a threat and as they were planning to make a move on Glencolum within the month, it would not hurt to have one of their kin in their grasp.

Logan helped himself to another goblet of wine, took a sip and savoured the tangy bite of the drink on his tongue. He paused in front of the tapestry. It depicted a battle—bodies and blood spilled across the hanging. He sighed. What Gillean had planned meant potential death for most of them. It could also reap huge rewards. Turning traitor to his country was not the most honourable way to make a living, but what other choice did he have? It was not as though Scotland had done anything for him. His life had been insignificant until Gillean had helped him.

If all went well, he’d have more than he’d ever dreamed of. With a chuckle, he tossed the rest of his wine onto the unlit fire pit in the centre of the room and abandoned the beaker on a table before adjusting the sword on his belt. How ironic people like Lady Lorna would end