The Scot's Pursuit (Highland Swords Book 3) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  A Note From Author

  Other Books by Keira Montclair

  About the Author

  Prologue

  King Edward I’s castle, Berwick

  June 1307

  King Edward I sat abed in his chambers in the royal castle in Berwick. His face was pale and he moved little. Healers tended to him frequently, but everyone knew they only delayed the inevitable. The king was nearly seventy years old, and he’d lived a full life. Soon it would end.

  The stench in the room was one of death.

  The man he’d summoned, the sheriff, had brought a new ally, one who claimed to be equally dedicated to eliminating Edward’s threats in Scotland. First and foremost among Edward’s enemies was Robert the Bruce, who insisted on calling himself the King of Scotland, although the Scots did not have the ability to choose their own ruler. The king’s son already sat on a chair in the corner of the chamber.

  “Close the door and all healers out,” Edward barked.

  “This is for all three of you. I’m not well, but I want Robert the Bruce’s head on a pike before I die.” He pointed to the sheriff and his man. “I know you were born Scottish, but you are agents of the English Crowne, and I expect you to do what you must to ensure that man dies before I do. If not, I will return to haunt each of you. The bastard is in Scotland. Find him and bring him to me, dead or alive. Whoever helps me dethrone Robert will be granted extra land and coin.”

  The king moved into a fit of coughing, powerful enough to send the sheriff back a step, and waved his hands at those present. The healers hurried inside, flocking around him.

  “I am counting on you to find the scurrilous blackguard,” he said, coughing. “If you don’t, I’ll go after him myself.”

  One healer said, “’Tis impossible, my king. You cannot even walk much due to your weakness.”

  “Then I’ll have my men carry me on a litter, if I must! This is your last chance to end the fool Scots’ pursuit of freedom.” His bout of coughing started again and he rolled onto his side in bed.

  The end was near indeed.

  The healers ushered the visitors out, and the sheriff found a private space where he might talk with his companion.

  “We need to make a plan,” said the sheriff.

  “Aye,” said his man. “But how are we to do what he asks? ’Twill be impossible to take an army that large into the Highlands. Bruce has allies everywhere, burning the land and hiding in the mountains. We don’t know the land that well.”

  “Mayhap we won’t need to bring an army but steal one. Who has the finest and largest army of warriors in all the land?”

  “Alexander Grant,” replied the new man. “But did you not already try to force his hand? Many men lost their lives. I’ll not die for this. If it isn’t a sure, sound plan, I cannot support it.”

  The sheriff shook his head in distaste. “The fools kidnapped a bairn. What a daft idea that turned out to be. And how could we have guessed the Grant’s health would have improved enough for him to use his sword again? I tried to warn Vernauld that it was not a wise approach, but he refused to listen.” He shrugged dispassionately. “He paid with his life, but we can learn from his mistakes. If we kidnap one of the Grants, the chieftains can be persuaded to unleash their warriors on the Bruce’s forces.”

  “I don’t like any of the Grants,” the other man said, his beady eyes dancing at the thought of taking the famous clan down a notch.

  “So which one do we kidnap?” the sheriff asked. “You know the clan better than I do. Making another attempt on Alexander Grant would be too risky.”

  The Scot scratched his chin, giving careful thought to all he’d heard. “There’s a festival there in a fortnight. Many visiting. The gates will be open, so we could easily get some men inside to steal someone important. ’Twill be the best time.”

  “But which one? We don’t know one from the next. He has many descendants.” The sheriff began to pace, his hands on his hips. “Attempting to steal one of his sons or grandsons could lead to a bloodbath. One of the grandsons killed Vernauld by himself, took several others with him.”

  “’Tis an easy solution. Steal a woman. He has three daughters and countless granddaughters, but stay away from the granddaughter with the white hair. I’ve heard she’s as bad as Gwyneth Ramsay. She’d give our men trouble for sure.”

  “So steal away a dark-haired woman.” The sheriff paused, hope in his gaze again.

  The Scot rubbed his jaw as he thought. “There is one who looks like the Grant. Long dark hair and blue eyes like his sweet Madeline.”

  The sheriff nodded resolutely. “Hire men to steal her away and bring her to me. Perhaps you can help me find an appropriate location to hide her.”

  The Scot’s eyes showed an odd sense of satisfaction. “My pleasure, Sheriff. I know just the place.”

  Chapter One

  July 1307, the Highlands of Scotland

  One passing glance, and his entire world changed.

  Alick MacNicol had wondered if he’d ever find love like his two cousins had, simply because no lass had ever held his interest. Oh, he enjoyed their company, loved to make them laugh, but he had yet to meet the one who would make him want anything beyond a dance, a short conversation, or a kiss.

  And yet, he immediately felt drawn to the lass hiding in the corner of Grant Castle as people danced and caroused and laughed all around her. He’d never seen her before, and something told him he needed to know her better.

  Brown hair fell in waves about her shoulders, her curves well hidden beneath a loose gown, but there was no doubt they were there and beautiful.

  As beautiful as the delicate cheekbones, the wide eyes whose color he couldn’t discern from this far away, and the plump lips that called to him, but her beauty was not what called him to her.

  Despite the haunted look on her face, he caught a flash of longing in her eyes. What drove it? Was it the desire to join all the young people talking, jesting, and dancing in the middle of the floor? Could it be a desire for one specific lad she liked? Or was it as simple as the desire to move to the music?

  Whatever it was, he would answer the siren’s call and find out for himself.

  And if he could, he would make the lass smile.

  Alick made his way across the floor of the dancers in the middle of the hall, elbows and knees knocking him frequently, but he hardly noticed. The festival was a raucous one, held to celebrate Alick and his three cousins, who’d recently assisted Robert the Bruce in his quest for Scotland’s independence from a cruel English king, and Elshander and Joya’s marriage, though both were still at MacLintock Castle. His grandsire, the renowned Alex Grant, was there with them.

  By rights, Alick should be there too—he and his cousins had formed a group they called the Highland Swords to fight Scotland’s enemies—but he’d never had it in him to str
ay far from home. He’d convinced Dyna to come back with him so they might see their parents. She’d come willingly enough, knowing he wouldn’t settle until he knew their family was hale, and a good thing—his mother was ill with one of her headaches and stomach complaints. He’d fussed over her as much as he could until his father had nearly kicked him down the staircase. They’d both promised him she would be better in a few days and insisted that he was to attend the festival arranged to celebrate his return.

  Which meant there was very little he could do for the time being—other than make the dark-haired lass smile. Perhaps she’d agree to dance if he put her in a good humor.

  He made his way to the corner and stood a few steps in front of her. “Would you care to dance with me, my lady?” He had no idea whether she had a title but decided to play it safe.

  He wanted to hear her voice, listen to the titter of her laughter, and bring out the smile in her eyes and her pouty lips.

  He got naught.

  She shook her head and looked over his shoulder, clearly dismissing him.

  He would not be dismissed. “You choose to ignore the handsomest man in all the castle?”

  Well, she certainly chose to ignore him, still staring over his shoulder.

  “In all of the Highlands?”

  She brought her gaze back to his and glared at him. “Please leave.”

  He didn’t catch even one slight twitch of her lips or her cheekbones. Everyone else chuckled at his jests and teasing taunts. Why didn’t she?

  “All right. You are correct, so I’ll admit it. ’Tis true that I am indeed the handsomest and strongest warrior in all of Scotland.”

  Nothing.

  “England? The world?”

  Still nothing.

  “Then I must be the ugliest man here.” Alick crossed his eyes, stuck his tongue out sideways and laughed, the sound intending to mimic a bleating sheep.

  He saw it. Just a slight twitch in the edges of her mouth, though she recovered quickly.

  “You cannot take it back,” he said, returning his features to normal. “I saw it. You nearly smiled.”

  She sighed and relented a bit to his charm, or so he thought. Wished? “Forgive me, but I’m not interested in dancing. I don’t dance.”

  “My name is Alick. Your name, lass?”

  She sighed again, not quite as deeply, then said, “Branwen Denton. My uncle is the Earl of Thane, a neighboring laird of yours, and I’m here strictly to keep an eye on my younger brother. I’m not allowed to dance or consort with anyone.”

  “Neighbor?” he asked, thinking of all the closest clans. It took him a moment to place the name. “About two hours away?” Not exactly a neighboring clan, but not far off either. Her assessment suggested that she rarely traveled outside Thane land.

  She nodded but did not speak, instead looking away again. Fear flashed through her eyes as she scanned the hall filled with people.

  Who was she afraid of?

  He vowed to find out.

  ***

  Branwen searched the area for her brother, but she didn’t see him. At ten winters, he often got himself into trouble, hence her father’s decision to bring her along. The Grant festivities always drew many visitors from those who lived this far in the Highlands. Before her mother had passed away, they’d come occasionally, but she hadn’t left Thane land once since her mother’s death two years ago. When her sire went somewhere, she was usually left at home with a list of chores.

  She often wondered what was worse—chores or having to spend time with her father?

  Her memories of Grant festivals were filled with braw Highland warriors. She’d loved watching the competitions, something her father had disapproved of even back then, but on her last visit to Grant land, probably three years ago, she and her mother had snuck away to peek at the warriors from the top of the curtain wall. Watching the sword-fighting, log-tossing, and horseback riding had kept her totally occupied for hours. Her mother had pointed out a few men who would make acceptable husbands for her someday, but Branwen had no memory of them. They’d all looked the same from the top of the wall. Most were tall and broad-shouldered lads who liked to shout and bellow. She hadn’t seen the attraction back then.

  Now she did. But she forced herself to ignore the handsome man in front of her and check on her brother, the reason she was here.

  Roy loved to dance, and she finally caught sight of him in the center of several older lasses, putting on a show. Their sire did not look to be in the hall, and she suspected he was probably out in the courtyard, where the men often discussed King Edward and the Scottish king, Robert the Bruce, conversations she was “too female to understand.” Or so her sire said.

  She tried not to look at the tall Highlander in front of her, but his smile was quite a temptation. It had awakened something inside of her. She’d never seen such a handsome man, from his long dark red hair to his green eyes dancing with laughter. Surely he had the broadest shoulders she’d ever seen, though the Grant warriors were all big men, much bigger than the men at her uncle’s castle. None of the men fighting outside the walls of the castle had drawn her on her last visit.

  This man…she could barely pull her gaze from him.

  And he’d almost made her laugh. Which was something she never did anymore.

  Her laugher had dried up after her dear mother had passed two years ago.

  She’d already heard this braw man’s laughter carry across the hall—he’d been teasing a bunch of young lassies by twirling them ridiculously fast, and they’d loved him for it. She’d wished to join in, but even if she had not been ordered to keep to herself and do her duty, she wouldn’t have dared for fear of looking silly. She didn’t know how to act like that, as if she didn’t have a care in the world. She, unfortunately, had many.

  Hadn’t her mother told her she’d marry a kind Highlander? A man like this? One just like those men who’d been competing outside the castle walls years ago?

  Of course, that dream had fizzled long ago. Now that her mother was gone, she was little more than a nanny and a maid to her two younger brothers.

  Perhaps she could at least give this handsome warrior one dance. It would be her chance to find out what it felt like to be admired. To have fun. If her sire caught her, she would pay. In fact, her palms broke out in a sweat just at the thought of it. But that feeling of awakening was tantalizing—as if something inside of her had burst open, like the very first bloom of spring peeking through the snow. It begged to be given the opportunity to be something new.

  Perhaps it was worth the risk.

  Perhaps he was worth the risk.

  She whispered, “Just one. Teach me how to dance.” She held her hand out and said, “But we must be quiet, if you please. Are you a Grant?”

  “I’m the son of Finlay MacNicol and Kyla Grant. And I’m the best dancer you’ll ever meet,” he said with a wink. “Come along, Branwen, and you’ll see.”

  She followed him, but he brought her much too close to her brother. She leaned in, his pleasant scent beckoning her to come even closer, and said, “Over there. I don’t wish for my sire to see me.”

  He nodded, tugging her along behind him, elbowing a few dancers along the way. When they stopped, he took a moment to demonstrate the steps. They seemed simple enough, so she started moving with the music, feeling the ache of self-consciousness as she did so.

  “You have it,” Alick said. “Dance with me.”

  The music was lively and quick, and Alick showed her more steps until they were twirling and laughing together, her heart filled with the joy of the beat, the movement, and Alick’s wide grin. His hair fell to his shoulders, straight with just a touch of a wave, and his green eyes danced as much as his feet. They had a glitter that held a promise of a joyful heart. Oh, how she wished this moment could last forever.

  For a few moments, it was as if they were the only two in the hall, just Alick and Branwen twirling to the music, feeling the beat, gazing into each other’
s eyes. This would be a moment she’d never forget. So joyful she almost forgot where she was and, more importantly, who was around her.

  And then the worst happened. The booming voice of her father, Arnald Denton, carried across the hallway from the door on the opposite end. “How dare you!” His bellow halted all the dancers mid-step, and even the lutist stopped playing.

  He marched across the hall, shoving others out of his way in his haste to get to her, and when he reached her, he raised his hand for a slap. His short frame shook with a violent anger she knew all too well.

  Branwen closed her eyes because she’d learned watching made it worse. So did crying out. When she did that, he’d only hit her harder the next time.

  Only it didn’t happen at all. She opened her eyes to find Alick with his hand on her father’s wrist, stopping the brutal slap before it could connect.

  The fire in Alick’s gaze warmed her insides.

  She’d found her hero.

  “How dare you. Let go of my hand,” her sire ground out through a clenched jaw.

  “I will once you promise not to strike your daughter. I’m assuming she’s your daughter, but I don’t know that for certain.” He towered over her father, but it didn’t seem to frighten the man she’d begun to hate.

  “She is my daughter, and I will treat her as I wish.” The fury in his brown eyes intensified.

  “You treat your own blood so cruelly? And for what, having a dance? You’ll not do so in front of me.”

  Her brother appeared behind her father. “She was dancing and laughing, Papa. I heard her. Her skirts were flying up, too.”

  “Who the hell are you?” Alick asked, turning abruptly toward the voice.

  “Do not speak to my son in such a way. You will respect him,” Father warned, doing his best to tug his hand out of Alick’s tight grasp. “Release me at once.”

  “You respect your son but not your daughter?” he asked with distaste. “I’ll be happy to release you once you promise not to strike your daughter and swear never to do it again. Because if you do, I’ll throw you over my shoulder and toss you out through our gates. I can see in her eyes that you’ve done it before. She closed them to keep from watching your blow hit flesh.”