To Love A Highlander (Highland Warriors Book 1)

  To Love a Highlander

  Highland Warriors Trilogy Book 1

  Donna Fletcher

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Coming Soon

  Also by Donna Fletcher

  About the Author

  No part of this publication may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including but not limited to being stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without permission of the author.

  This is a book of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art

  Kim Killion Group

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © July 2017 by Donna Fletcher

  Chapter 1

  Scotland, the Highlands, late 15th century

  Espy stared at the blood that soaked her hands. This was not right. This should not have happened. Things had been going well... she shook her head. Something was wrong. She had fought to save the woman and the bairn. Her grandmother had told her once that sometimes you had no choice, death came for everyone. Espy did not like to surrender and she fought death at every turn. After all, that was what a healer, a wise woman, did—she battled death. And Espy did not like to lose.

  “You must leave. There is no more you can do for her and Lord Craven will blame you for his wife and child’s death. Hurry, please,” the woman begged. “He will show no mercy.”

  “I cannot leave her like this, Britt. She must be cleaned and—”

  “No,” Britt said. “He will see you punished in the most horrible ways, then see you suffer a slow death. You have to leave.”

  Espy’s grandmother had warned her about Craven, Chieftain of the Clan MacCara. He was a beast of a warrior, large and powerful, and he ruled with a mighty fist. Everyone had been surprised when the gentle Aubrey, from the bordering Clan MacVarish became his bride. Some believed the loving and kind young woman tamed the mighty beast. Others believed the beast could never be tamed and waited in fear of his escape.

  Lord Craven had left this morning on a hunt with his friend Dylan and Edward MacPeters, the physician he had brought from Edinburgh to tend his wife when her time came. His wife Aubrey had not been due for another month, but the bairn had thought differently. A messenger had arrived at Espy’s grandmother’s cottage insisting that Espy, a healer schooled in more than the wise ways, hurry to the keep. That Lady Aubrey needed her. She had been concerned that the bairn was arriving early, but she had managed such births before with much success. Yet all of her learned skills had not helped her to save Aubrey and her bairn. And now Lord Craven would return soon to find his wife and unborn bairn dead. It was not right. It should not have been.

  Espy’s eyes turned wide when she saw a slight movement in Aubrey’s rounded stomach. The bairn was still alive. There was a chance to save it.

  “I need a knife,” Espy cried out.

  Britt’s eyes rounded with shock and fear.

  “The bairn still lives. I need to deliver him,” Espy explained.

  “Lord Craven will see you drawn and quartered if you split his wife open,” Britt warned.

  Espy cared nothing for what might happen to her. She had to save the bairn. She rushed and got a knife from her healing basket and hurried to expose Aubrey’s stomach. She had to be careful, if she cut too deep she could harm the bairn. Her hand was steady when she placed the knife to Aubrey’s naked stomach, though she trembled inwardly, and she said a silent prayer to please let the bairn live.

  Her wrist was suddenly grabbed and she was viciously torn away from her task. “What are you doing, woman?”

  Espy fought the short slim man. “The bairn lives. I need to deliver him.”

  “Have you not done enough?” the man screamed at her.

  She fisted her free hand and punched the man in the nose. He yelled, grabbed his face, and stumbled back. She hurried toward the bed, but before she could reach Aubrey another man grabbed her from behind.

  “You have killed Lady Aubrey, is that not enough?” the tall man yelled.

  Espy pushed at the strong arm around her waist. “Please, please let me free the bairn from her. There is a chance he could live.”

  With blood spewing from his nose, the man she had hit spoke up with difficulty. “She is a mad woman. Just look at what she has done. Look at the blood on her hands! I am a physician. I know of what I speak.”

  Espy turned wide eyes on the man and pleaded, “If you are a physician, then you know there is a chance that the bairn could survive. Please! Please! We waste time. Please cut her open and take the bairn.”

  A vicious roar reverberated through the room and the man holding Espy suddenly shoved her behind him. A man of towering height and thick with muscles consumed the doorway. His dark eyes raged with fury and pain, and he descended on the room and on those within like a beast of prey ready to devour everything in his path. He went directly to the bed and stared down at Aubrey who looked as if she slept, but the blood-stained bedding spoke the truth.

  Lord Craven turned to the man who claimed himself a physician. “I brought you here so that nothing would happen to her. Do something.”

  “There is nothing I can do. She is gone, my lord.”

  “But not the bairn,” Espy called out. “Please, let me save the bairn.”

  “She butchered your wife,” the physician accused, swiping the only clean cloth left in the room off the chest beside him to stifle the blood running from his nose. “She will do the same to your bairn if you let her. The bairn is dead. It cannot live once the mother dies.”

  “It can for a short time and you are wasting that precious time.”

  “She speaks nonsense,” the physician said. “Look at what she has done to your precious wife. She has made her suffer the torments of hell.”

  “And if it is not nonsense, you do nothing as the bairn dies,” Espy pleaded and watched how gently the large man cradled his wife against his chest, his eyes squeezing tight, the pain too much for him to bear.

  “Do not listen to her. She butchered your wife while she lived and now she wants to butcher her in death.”

  Lord Craven’s large hand moved down along his wife to rest on her rounded stomach, and Espy prayed he would feel his bairn move. His silence was louder than any words he could speak as was his hand that remained still.

  They had wasted precious time. The bairn was dead. Espy silently cursed the physician. She wanted to rage with anger at his ignorance, but it would do no good. The man who held her, who had pulled her out of the path of Lord Craven, tugged at he
r now. When she turned her head to look at him, he nodded toward the door and urged her along.

  “Do not dare take her from this room, Dylan!”

  Espy felt her skin prickle with fear as the deep bellowing voice roared through the room, and the man holding her released her quickly and surprisingly stepped in front of her.

  “Step away from her,” Lord Craven ordered so sharply that it sent a shiver through the room.

  The man went to speak.

  “I will not tell you again, Dylan,” Lord Craven warned.

  Dylan stepped aside reluctantly.

  Lord Craven held his wife close against him, pressed his cheek, stained red with heated anger, to her cold one, then gently kissed her lips. “My love, my heart, and my life go with you, Aubrey.”

  He laid her head tenderly on the pillow, brushing a strand of dark hair off her face to tuck behind her ear, an intimate gesture shared between husband and wife. He stared at her as though he waited for her to move, to speak, to open her eyes... to breathe.

  He turned his head slowly toward Espy, then he flew across the room as if he had wings. His large hand grabbed her around the throat and with brutal force he slammed her high enough against the wall for them to be face to face, leaving her feet dangling several inches above the floor.

  Pain shot through her back and head and for a moment her vision blurred and she thought he had knocked the breath out of her. Then she realized it was his hand squeezing at her throat that left her unable to breathe. Her hand shot to his, ripping at his fingers that were choking the life from her, but it did little good. The thick muscles along his arm were taut with such strength that she would never be able to budge him.

  “I will have your life for what you did!”

  His voice was a roar in her ears as she felt her life draining away. She heard voices yelling at him over and over. She could not understand what they shouted, but they did not stop.

  Suddenly, she dropped to the floor and gasped loudly when breath was finally restored to her. She took great gulps like one so parched she could not get enough to drink. She winced, her breath barely recovered when she was abruptly hoisted off the floor, the grip on her arm feeling like an iron shackle pinching painfully at her skin.

  “Leave my land and all the lands that surround me or I will see you tortured unmercifully before I make you suffer an unspeakable death.” He shoved her so hard that she fell to the floor. “Get out of my sight before I do what Aubrey would not want.”

  Espy stumbled to her feet and went to speak.

  “Say a word and I will cut out your tongue and eat it in front of you.”

  Espy turned and hurried out the door and out of the keep, the frightening glare in Lord Craven’s dark eyes and his barbaric threat, proving he was more beast than man.

  Chapter 2

  One year later...

  Cyra sat at a bench by the fireplace warming her hands. They had ached more than usual today, which meant only one thing; a storm was brewing. A crack of thunder had her jumping and confirming what her aching hands had already told her. But there was something else troubling her, though she could not understand what. More than a rainstorm was brewing and she worried what that might mean.

  Another crack of thunder and wind rapping at the door had her getting to her feet and reaching for the crock of chamomile leaves. She would brew herself a cup of chamomile tea and crawl into bed early tonight. Her tired bones could use a rest. Besides, two women were soon to give birth and she would need her strength for both deliveries.

  Espy.

  Her granddaughter’s name whispered like a soft wind around her. She missed her terribly. It had been a lonely year without her and Cyra worried how Espy had survived. She had had no one to turn to when lord Craven ordered her gone from his land and the surrounding land. Espy had come to stay a few short months prior to last year. Cyra still recalled the day Espy had shown up at her doorstep, exhausted and suffering from the loss of her parents. She had often spent time, through the years, with Cyra when her had parents traveled. Her father had been a physician who traveled in an effort to gain as much knowledge as he could and bring the most current medical practices to the people, even if it had meant going against the current acceptable practices and the physicians who extolled them.

  In so doing, William of Inuerwyc had indulged his never-ending curious daughter, Espy, with what he had learned. Inquisitive and as stubborn in nature as Espy was, she had combined her da’s acquired knowledge with Cyra’s knowledge, that had been handed down from all those before her, to form a vast wisdom of healing. Something that should have served her well, but had managed to cause her more harm than good.

  Cyra wondered everyday over her granddaughter’s whereabouts and safety, and she wished there was a way that Espy would be allowed to return home and remain here where Cyra could keep watch over her.

  A soft smile surfaced on her face that had not aged as rapidly as most. She had some lines and wrinkles, but not many for her five decades, though her hair had turned completely white. She wore it in a single braid that more often than not rested on her chest. Her hands, gratefully, had not gnarled with age, though they ached with it. And she had maintained a fine posture, though of late she felt her shoulders more heavily burdened as did so many.

  It seemed that when lord Craven’s wife, Aubrey, died, life diminished for the clan. Life had become more burdensome, smiles were rarely seen and, worse, hope had all but vanished. Most believed with Aubrey gone that the beast of MacCara castle had once again been released, and Cyra was beginning to believe it was true.

  Cyra winced when a sharp pain struck her hands and winced again when another crack of thunder sounded as if it split the earth in two.

  A strange noise that followed the thunder had Cyra stilling to listen. Had she heard a horse approach? Who would be foolish enough to ride in such a terrible storm?

  Someone who needed help.

  Cyra left the chamomile leaves to steep in the tankard while she went to the door. She was a healer and no matter the weather or how late the hour, she was available to all those who needed her. She opened the door, prepared to offer help and comfort. Her breath caught as her mouth dropped open and fear froze her in the open doorway.

  A kelpie had come for her.

  The large black horse’s backward hoof pawed the ground impatiently as if demanding she step forward, and though the rain had yet to start, he was drenched from the river he had risen from. A demon sent to collect her.

  It took a moment for Cyra to see that someone sat atop the beast. Had the kelpie brought her someone? Who could a demon horse have delivered to her door and why?

  The person on the horse seemed unable to keep himself upright and he toppled to the side, falling to the ground. The beast of a horse grew angry and stomped the earth near the fallen body as if demanding Cyra see to his care.

  Fearful the kelpie would do her harm if she did not bend to his command, she hurried to the crumpled body on the ground. It took a moment to untangle the cloak around the fallen figure and when Cyra was finally able to reveal a face, she gasped loudly and her heart slammed against her chest.

  It was her granddaughter Espy.

  “Horse. Shelter. Horse shelter,” Espy muttered as Cyra fought to get Espy to her feet.

  “After I get you inside, I will see to your horse.”

  “No. Now. A rainstorm follows. Needs shelter.” Espy fought to raise her voice. “Go, Trumble, go with Seanmhair. She will not harm you.”

  It had been too long since Cyra had heard Gaelic roll off her granddaughter’s tongue so easily and so lovingly. Though, the large beast of an animal frightened her, Cyra did as her granddaughter asked. She took hold of the reins and the beast snorted, but followed her as she guided him to the small barn that sheltered the cow and her mare. Both animals seemed none too pleased at the large animal’s presence.

  With trembling hands, she freed the horse of his saddle and blanket, realizing it had been a rainsto
rm that had drenched the horse and Espy, and no doubt would arrive here soon. She secured him in the only stall available, though she did not think that the rope she hooked across the front would stop him from going where he pleased. She grabbed the sack that had been attached to the saddle and hurried to her granddaughter.

  Cyra struggled to get her granddaughter to her feet and inside the cottage, the rain having started to fall, dropping like sharp arrows from the sky. Once inside, Cyra hurried Espy to the fireplace to get her warm and out of her wet garments.

  She could not stop her sudden cry of anguish when the fire’s light fully exposed Espy’s face. A scar ran down her right cheek. It was not a fresh scar, though it was recent, for it was still red and angry, still healing.

  “Do not ask me now, Seanmhair, or ever,” Espy whispered.

  Cyra placed a gentle hand to Espy’s scarred cheek. “You are home, Espy. I will let no one harm you.” She would keep her word. Espy had exhausted herself to return home to her. But why when she knew what awaited her here? She did not know, but whatever it was, Cyra would keep her safe no matter the consequences.

  It took time to get Espy out of her wet garments and into Cyra’s soft white wool nightdress. Tears touched her eyes when she saw not only how slim she had gotten, but the bruises on various parts of her granddaughter’s body. She had suffered a beating of some sort and Cyra wondered what else Espy had suffered, though she did not ask. That was better left for another time.

  Espy almost collapsed when she tried to walk to the bed, and Cyra was quick to slip a strong arm around her and take all her weight upon herself as her granddaughter grew heavier against her. She eased Espy down to sit on the bed, then helped lift her legs so that she could stretch out.

  “You will stay in bed and rest and heal,” Cyra ordered, tucking the blanket around Espy as she had done so often when she had been a wee bairn. “While you do, I will prepare a brew to warm you.”