The Scot's Betrayal (Highland Swords Book 1) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Author’s Note

  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

  Epilogue

  Dear Reader

  Other Novels By Keira

  About Keira

  Author’s Note

  Many times I have asked you to suspend your beliefs of the real world when you join me on a journey. Whether it’s a magical pony, an owl protector, a lass capable of seeing the future, or an odd storm, my books are filled with the kind of remarkable happenings many people in the Celtic world whole-heartedly believed in.

  This one is no exception.

  Those of you who have read my previous books may recognize the four characters at the center of this series—the three Grant lads born on the same night at the same time and their indomitable female cousin—but this is a standalone series that can be followed by anyone. In it, we will embark on a journey into the magical underworld of the Grants. I’m not sure where this journey will take us, but I am excited about it!

  You will see a few true historical facts interwoven with my fictional world, but this novel and its companions are primarily the workings of my own creative mind.

  Welcome to my world! I hope you choose to stay for a while.

  Keira Montclair

  Prologue

  And so the story was told for generation after generation.

  Alasdair, dark-haired son of Jake (John) Grant and Aline Carron.

  Elshander, fair-haired son of Jamie (James) Grant and Gracie Grant, and

  Alick, fire-haired son of Kyla Grant and Finlay MacNicol.

  All three were born on the same day, at the same exact time, all descendants of the renowned Alexander Grant, the finest swordsman in all the land.

  When their time comes, the three shall lead Clan Grant together to be one of the strongest clans in Scottish history.

  Their time has come.

  Chapter One

  Scotland

  Late summer, 1304

  A high-pitched scream of terror ripped through the air as Alasdair Grant and his cousins emerged from a ravine in the middle of the Lowlands.

  It was a sound he never wished to hear again.

  Just ahead of them, a group of travelers on horseback was being attacked by reivers. One of the bastards had plucked a raven-haired woman off her horse and ridden away from the clash, leaving most of his fellow thieves behind. Two men rode with him, one on either side, to serve as protection.

  Alasdair waved his hand to his two cousins, Alick and Elshander, indicating they were to go to battle while he went after the kidnapped woman.

  Arrows began to fly, taking the villains out one by one, and he smirked, knowing exactly who was firing those arrows.

  The reivers didn’t stand a chance. His cousin was the best archer in all of Scotland. Dyna had signaled them a few moments ago, before they’d heard any sounds of a skirmish, and then peeled off to tie up her horse and position herself in the trees. The lass had an uncanny way of knowing things she should not know, sensing danger before it happened.

  The fact that she was correct so many times unsettled him, but he was grateful for her insights. And for her arrows.

  He urged his horse into a fast gallop after the villain mishandling the dark-haired woman. The man had made a mistake, thankfully—he’d chosen to ride off into a meadow rather than into the ravine from which Alasdair and his cousins had emerged. An arrow sluiced through the sky, taking out the reiver riding to the kidnapper’s right. Alasdair brought his black steed up to the other guard.

  They were probably English—no identifiable plaid, no fighting skills, no horseback riding expertise. The bastards had probably thought there’d be no repercussions to attacking a group of Scots. Their present monarch, King Edward, known also as Longshanks because he was so tall, certainly would not care. Relations between the two nations were more sour than a jug of two-week-old goat’s milk. Longshanks hated the Scots, had even massacred most of Berwick before taking it in England’s name, and didn’t hesitate to let everyone know his true feelings. Even so, he fancied himself their rightful ruler, daring to overtake much of the Lowlands from the Scots, and giving land that had been in Scots’ families for centuries over to English noblemen.

  Alasdair spit off to the side of his horse at the thought of all that had transpired in his beloved Scotland.

  King Alexander III’s death had thrown Scotland into turmoil, and after his daughter Margaret passed on several years later, there were fourteen rivals who had vied for the illustrious title of king of the Scots. King Edward had chosen John Balliol to be king, but the man had been little better than a puppet and had been removed.

  Truth be told, Edward considered himself the king of both England and Scotland, and after asserting his dominance over the past several years, was attempting to ease into a peaceful agreement with Scotland. He’d returned some land, appointed many Scottish sheriffs, but much of the north still didn’t trust him. Some had sworn fealty while others held out. Now it was a waiting game.

  The Scots wished for their own king. William Wallace had fought hard for that role, his courage lighting a fire of fury in the heart of every Scotsman and Scotswoman, and Robert the Bruce and John Comyn had also made cases for themselves. But Edward had no intention of relinquishing control. His reprisals were brutal and he constantly sent his men into Scotland, giving them free license to take over any Scots’ property and do what they wanted with the occupants, including the women.

  The past few years had brought many new battles with the English, whether a literal skirmish or a less direct push for land, power, and dominance.

  The English had done enough to wound his people. Alasdair would not let these English bastards hurt a Scots woman.

  Shouting the Grant battle cry, he swung his sword the way he’d practiced over a thousand times in the lists and in battle, slicing the fool across his side, eliminating the second guard. Blood blossomed from the cut as he fell to the ground, his horse struggling to stay up. Two down, only one left. The kidnapper’s horse had been driven wild by the sounds of fighting and the sluice of arrows, and the bastard atop the stallion struggled to stay mounted. Alasdair had to fall back to keep the panicked horse from taking him out.

  The fool struggled to keep his saddle, partly because he didn’t have any discernable riding skills and partly because his captive was fighting him with all her might.

  “Don’t give up,” he yelled to her. Then he urged his animal on. “Come on, Midnight, just a wee bit closer. I’ve got two apples left.” His horse was a powerful animal, named after the famous war horse that had carried his grandsire, the famous warrior Alexander Grant, through the Battle of Largs. The stallion’s bloodline had given him the right to the name.

  The graceful beast slipped him close enough for Alasdair to reach out and grab the man’s tunic, yanking him off his horse and tossing him to the ground. A shout ripped through the air, and he didn’t need to look back to know an arrow had struck the kidnapper on his way down.

  That left the woman. She fought to stay on the spooked horse, grabbing its mane to right herself.

  The animal looked liable to buck her off, however, and Alasdair decided there was an easier way. He reached over, his long legs and arms assisting him in his endeavor, snaked an arm around her waist, and lifted her off the horse and onto his lap. She landed hard, but he managed to hold himself straight to stabilize her.

  As soon as Midnight stopped, the lass turned to look at him. Before he could say anything she gave him an unbelievably hard shove, something he hadn’t expected, and he tumbled off the horse, taking her with him. They landed at the top of a small knoll, his arms still wrapped around her, and they rolled down the bumpy incline until they finally stopped at the bottom, both on their sides looking at each other, panting.

  He heard horses’ hooves, and since he didn’t yet know who they belonged to, he put his finger to her lips and said, “I’m a Scot, not a bloody Englishmen. I’m here to return you to your companions, but for now, you must be quiet. There are more reivers about, and we don’t want them to catch sight of us here. You can yell at me afterward, if you must.”

  She stared at him a long moment before nodding.

  Beautiful wasn’t a strong enough word for this woman. Long dark hair the color of Midnight’s mane had fallen out of her plait, the silky strands curling around her face. But it was her eyes that clutched at him.

  They were dark blue, the color of a sapphire jewel he’d seen in the hilt of his grandsire’s sword. He had two cousins who were blessed with blue eyes, but they were both a light blue. The eyes that stared at him were the color of a midnight sky. Mesmerizing. Even more so since they were set above high cheekbones and luscious red lips.

  He took in every detail of that lovely face, noti
ng the arch of her brow, the peak of her hairline, and the trembling of her lower lip. She was likely frightened, but she held still. In spite of her position at the bottom of the glen, she was as regal as any Scotswoman.

  She was a Scotswoman, was she not? He’d assumed so, but perhaps he only wished to think it.

  “My thanks to you, but please return me to my husband.”

  He was relieved to hear the deep burr in her throat, but that other word dampened his spirits. Husband. He heard another rustling, however, reminding him they were still in danger. “A few more minutes,” he whispered.

  Two horses passed by them, the riders’ view concealed by clumps of bushes. The men traveled on past, one yelling at the other, “Hurry, those bastards fight too much. Get the hell out of here.” He knew from the way they spoke they were English.

  “Who were they?” she whispered, after they’d gone on by. Her lips tickled his ear, sending a jolt of energy through him. Then, in a very husky voice, she asked, “Who are you?”

  ***

  Emmalin was so struck by the man’s looks that she could barely speak, but she forced herself because she had to know if he was a friend or enemy.

  He wore a dark red plaid, though she didn’t recognize it, and he had a Scottish lilt that warmed her heart. It was a voice that spoke of confidence, pride, and loyalty. All the characteristics of the kind of man she’d wished to marry someday, not the English dandy she’d been saddled with thanks to the King of England.

  “I’m Alasdair Grant, and we would do best to wait until my cousins find us. Leave them to take care of the rest of your attackers.”

  Relief cascaded through her. The Grants had been her sire’s allies. He’d been proud to call the great Alexander Grant his friend.

  Alasdair’s gaze locked on hers and she returned the stare. They lay so close together she could see the blue flecks in his gray eyes. He had long dark eyelashes and hair the color of night, almost black, long and untethered. He was definitely a Highlander, what the English would refer to as a savage Scot. A scar along his right jawline didn’t detract from his appeal one bit—indeed, it enhanced his good looks, if that were possible.

  Her father had always said a scar earned fighting as a Scot was one to wear with pride.

  He stood and pulled her to her feet but kept her close enough that their noses nearly touched, something that happened simply because of the uneven terrain underfoot. Although she knew she should push him away—she was married, after all—she couldn’t bring herself to do it. He smelled of the winds and the pines, and he was tall enough that he made her feel small, something that was rare for her. Without thinking, she reached forward and took his hand in hers, clasping it for warmth. Holding it, she felt safer than she had in a long time.

  Thankfully, he allowed it.

  Until the spell was broken.

  ***

  The meaning of her words struck him the very next moment. She was married, and thus off limits. He stepped away from her, against his own base desire.

  He nodded and said, “I shall return you right away. What is your name?”

  “Emmalin MacLintock. Nay, my pardon. I’m newly wed to Baron Langley Hawkinge. He is awaiting my return, I’m certain.”

  “Any relation to Finnean MacLintock, laird of MacLintock Castle?” His grandsire had spoken of the MacLintocks before—they were allies from the Lowlands, if he recalled correctly.

  So why was she married to one of the enemy?

  Sadness filled her eyes. “Aye, he was my sire. He passed on nearly a year ago. My marriage was arranged after his death, an arrangement forced on me by King Edward.”

  “But you’re Scottish. You should marry a Scot.”

  She cast her gaze down, but that look of grief, of unhappiness, stayed with him. Was she sad because she’d lost her sire or because she wasn’t happy with her new marriage?

  He knew what Dyna would say—none of your business, Alasdair.

  A whistle pierced through the air, Dyna’s signal that all was well, so he helped Emmalin back up the knoll and over to his horse. Midnight had stood steadfast through all the chaos.

  After helping her onto his horse and mounting behind her, he flicked the reins and headed back to where he’d left his cousins. There was plenty of tree cover around them, so he knew his other cousin was likely swinging from tree to tree with her bow at the ready.

  She knew how to stay hidden.

  He approached the group warily, scanning to be sure the attackers had all been killed or wounded. Many of the lasses’ companions had dismounted. He knew immediately which of the group was her husband. A fair-haired man stood in the middle of the gathering, hands on his hips, bellowing at everyone around him. He certainly looked the part.

  It was a small group, fortunately. King Edward’s cavalry sometimes rode into Scotland in huge numbers. Hundreds or even thousands of men. His grandsire had advised all of them to stay far away from such large groups, which seemed bent on causing trouble and killing Scots.

  Alasdair’s two cousins, Elshander and Alick, were still on their horses, not far from the baron. As Midnight approached the group, Alick pointed to them and said, “There they are.”

  Elshander, whom they all called Els, said, “There she is, as we promised. Saved by our cousin.”

  Alasdair whispered in her ear, “Your husband doesn’t look verra happy.”

  “He’s probably worried,” she said, pushing forward in the saddle so her back was a distance from him. Even so, he could feel her shiver, and he could not help but wonder why. Covered with her mantle in late summer, she shouldn’t be cold. Was she afraid of her own husband?

  Now his interest was piqued. The lads in Clan Grant were all taught to respect lasses and treat them right, a legacy enforced by his grandsire. But Alasdair knew that lasses were mistreated in other clans, and most certainly by the English.

  “Get down from there. You should not be riding with a savage Scotsman,” Hawkinge said, glaring at both of them as they approached.

  The man reached for his wife, but Alasdair pulled Midnight back.

  Langley Hawkinge, in true English style, clearly did not favor the Scots.

  Which was fine by Alasdair—the Scots did not favor the English either.

  Hawkinge’s eyes narrowed, but he did not move. “Bring her to me.” His clenched jaw told Alasdair everything he needed to know.

  Baron or not, Langley Hawkinge was a bastard. And he was clearly no warrior or knight. If he’d made any effort to rescue his wife, it wasn’t obvious from the look of him. His hair was fair and neatly coiffed, like a lady’s should be.

  Alasdair was tempted to say as much, but the lass turned to him with a frightened gaze that caught him.

  “Please. Do not taunt him.” Her mouth opened as if she wished to say more, but she kept quiet, casting her gaze downward.

  He felt an odd compulsion to do whatever she asked of him. But that didn’t mean he would allow Hawkinge to assist her off Midnight. Rather, he moved his horse forward and placed his hands around Emmalin’s waist, lifting her up and then setting her down with the greatest of care. “No thanks for saving your wife?”

  Langley gave him a brief nod. That was all the thanks he would get, he was sure of it. Alick wore a wide grin behind the brute, silently encouraging him to say more, but he did not.

  He stopped his urge to teach the man a lesson only because of Emmalin. The baron struck him as the kind of man who would make her suffer for his anger. Whether it was the line of his jaw, the coldness in his eyes, or the clench of his fists that told him so, he wasn’t sure. But he would not cause this woman any pain if he could help it.

  The man stooped to kiss her cheek and whispered, “Did he harm you at all, my love?” The “whisper” could be heard by all.

  “Nay, but who were those men, my lord?” she asked, staring up at her husband, who was pacing the ground, clearly still agitated.

  He stopped and glared up at the Grant cousins. “Why are you still here? Begone. We do not need you.”

  “Are you sure about that? You didn’t do a great job of protecting your wife a few moments ago,” Alasdair drawled.

  “We would have handled the attack without your help. We’ll handle everything from here. Take your leave. Now.” His ten guards had fallen in around him. Some bore injuries from the battle, but all had survived.