Highland Daydreams

Highland Daydreams

The MacKinnon Clan Series

Book Three

April Holthaus

Edited by: One More Time Editing LLC

Cover Design by: Leanne Edwards

Printed in the United States

First Printing: September 2014

ISBN-10: 1500179124

ISBN-13: 978-1500179120

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2014 April Holthaus

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events or persons are purely coincidental. No part of this publication is allowed to be reproduced without the author’s written permission.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the Sandberg Family of Minneapolis, Minnesota (descendants of Carl and Helen). I would not be the person I am today if it were not for my family.

To my husband and son, your love and support encourage me to reach for my dreams!

Acknowledgement

I would like to give a special thanks to all of my readers and Facebook friends. Your support and encouragement have been greatly appreciated. Thank you for taking a chance on me!

I would also like to send out a special thank you to my beta readers who have helped make this book be the best it can be! Thank you, Nicole Laverdure, Jennifer Green, Kimberly Court, Barbara Cooch, Rhonda Kirby, Maria McIntyre, and Stephanie Kennedy! And of course, Thanks to Helen, my editor for all of the last minute details and changes!

Content

Prologue

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

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Author’s Notes

Preview: The Honor of a Highlander

Preview: Escape to the Highlands

Dear Readers Message

About the Author

Prologue

July 22, 1298

Falkirk, Scotland

The sky darkened. Rain had fallen for more than an hour causing the ground to become slippery and muddy beneath Bram’s feet. Holding his sword high, he waited for Wallace’s battle cry. His breaths became labored and each exhale more intense. The noises around him were muffled over the sound of his heart beating loudly in his ears. Squeezing his grip tighter to steady the hilt of his broadsword, he waited. Clutching the strap of his shield, he pulled it firmly against his chest. Over the assembly of men and commotion, a call echoed.

A sea of men on each side of him barreled down the hill toward their enemy. Bram had no time to think and he acted on instinct alone. Thrashing his sword, he cut down the first few men charging towards him from the left and then the right. He raised his shield when the whistling sound of falling arrows came closer and louder but he did not slow his pace. He used his shield to push past a group of warriors to advance further towards his enemy.

For a brief moment, Bram stood in the middle of a clearing. Men had fought and fallen around him; both comrade and enemy. With eyes looking wildly about at the scene before him, he searched for his next victim. To his right, a soldier dressed in chainmail ran towards him. Sword drawn, he yelled out all sorts of blasphemies. Lowering his weapon with the blade directed towards Bram, the soldier readied himself to slice Bram through.

Bram turned to fight off another opponent, who violently swung his sword harder and harder, forcing Bram to take short steps backwards. Bram leapt to the side, able to dodge the first blow, but met the second with the pure force of his blade. A forceful shot to Bram’s ribs sent ripples of pain throughout his body. He cried out in agony. Dropping to his knees, Bram wrapped one of his arms tightly around his chest and attempted to rise. But just as he was about to stand, the man took a sharp dirk out of his boot and slashed it across Bram’s abdomen.

Bram could feel the heat of the blade as it sliced through his skin down to the muscle. Blood spilled down the front of him. Unexpectedly, a sudden dizzy spell overcame him. Bram doubled over and fell into a small puddle. Lying on the ground, he waited for death to take him. His eyes closed, the blackness came, and then there was nothing but silence.

August, 1298

Cumberland, England

Dragging the heavy weight of the iron chain secured to her ankle, Lara scurried across the floor of her cell. She tucked her knees under her chin, and wrapped her arms securely around her legs, sitting quiet and still. As her stomach growled once more, Lara pressed her hands firmly against her stomach, wishing away her hunger. The boniness of her ribs beneath her hands told her that if she did not die of illness, she would certainly die of starvation.

Lara was uncertain if it had been weeks or months she had spent within the bowels of the dungeon, for time did not exist within the darkness. She could no longer hear the desperate cries of her fellow cell mates, nor could she feel her own wounds or pains.

Lara hid her face within the folds of what was left of her dress when she heard the guards making their way down the stone stairwell. As they entered this room in the dungeon, they yelled profanities at a prisoner they dragged with them. They threatened that if he didn’t walk faster they would pitch him down the stairs.

She felt her body quiver with fear when she spied Roland, the heavier of the two guards. Roland had once visited Lara in her cell trying to satisfy his needs before he was reprimanded by another guard and forced back out of her cell. Angered by Roland’s attempted rape, the Earl of Cumberland had struck him so hard it created a grotesque scar across his face that left him almost unrecognizable.

Since that wretched day, Roland accused Lara for what had happened, swearing that he would take his revenge out on her. He often tried to put the fear of God in her with his abhorrent threats. At times, Lara wished he would just get it over with so he would leave her alone.

As he entered, Roland peeked around the bars and gave her a half smile. Lara looked away and clasped onto the hem of her skirt a little tighter. Roland turned and instructed the other guard to string up their prisoner by his wrists. The man stumbled forward as the guards dragged him to a wooden pole where a thick rope dangled from a beam on the ceiling. Wrapping the rope around his wrists, the guard tied the knot tightly. The prisoner was hoisted up and stretched from limb to limb.

When they turned him to expose his bare back, the side of his face became visible in the soft light of the torch on the wall. It was
him
. He was the only one who never fought back or struggled when the guards came for him. Lara was unsure where his unbreakable strength came from, but knew that only a warrior could be so brave. The only spark of life Lara had left within her was the empathy she felt for this warrior who shared the cell next to hers. Lara shuddered as the crack of the whip bit into the man’s flesh. The prisoners around her yelled in the man’s defense, but no sound came from the captive himself. He just clenched his teeth and endured the pain. Lara could not tell how many times they struck him for she tried to block it out.

In a chilling and raspy voice Roland demanded that he be cut down. Lifting her head up, Lara watched as the warrior hung from the rafter, limp, his head hanging to one side. Sweat and blood glistened off his body. The guard took his blade out of its sheath and sliced the rope in two. In that instant, the warrior plummeted to the ground. The portly guard picked him up by his arms and began to drag him back into his cell.

“Get in there!” the guard roared as he shoved him inside the small space.

Roland held him down as the warrior was once again chained to the wall in iron shackles.

Still curled up in the corner, Lara looked at him through the bars, tears streaming down her face. He looked broken, not only physically, but in spirit as well. She carefully watched the guards as they returned to their posts. She knew that one of them would head back up the stairs with the others while her tormentor would sit down on his chair outside her cell, tilt it back against the bars and slam back a tankard or two of whiskey. Their routine had become predictable the last several nights, and Lara had taken notice.

“Hello, my beauty,” Roland whispered to her through the cell bars, so low that no one else could hear him.

His breath smelled like rotten food and stale ale.

“My body is aching for the sweetness between your thighs and I promise that you will enjoy it,” he threatened.

“Perhaps ye would like a matching scar across the other side of yer face,” she threatened.

Roland chuckled.

“Oh how I love a woman with some fight in her.”

Lara looked away from him and hugged her knees tighter into her chest. She prayed God would take her from this place. She would rather die than stay here another night. Resting her head upon her knees, she chewed her bottom lip, in an effort to keep herself from falling asleep. If she were to drift off, she would be left vulnerable, and Roland would surely have his way with her. It would be no different than what had been done to her by that despicable man Dermot, her
husband
.

Married for no more than a sennight, Lara was still angry with herself for believing his sweet and flowery words. She had become so easily blinded by hope that she missed the obvious signs of treachery. She, like her father, had believed that the marriage of Lara and Dermot would end years of feuds between their clans. By uniting them there should have been peace. That is what Errol, Laird of Clan Moray swore his life upon with his very last breath; but no, in truth, his son Dermot proved to be a most vicious and vile man. He had chosen not to keep his father’s promise. But still, she never could have imagined that
this
would have happened.

As if it were yesterday, she recalled the morning she pleaded with her father to void the contract and marry her off to another; any other. She had only met Dermot once, many years ago, but his rude and selfish behavior left a bitter taste in her mouth. Having to marry him made Lara’s stomach twist and churn.

“Lara, ye are meddling in things in which ye should nay be meddling. Ye are ten and seven years old. ‘Tis time ye were married,” her father croaked.

“Meddling? Is my life no’ my business? I will do my duty and marry the swine. But ye are sacrificing me to the wolves. How do ye ken ye can trust ‘em? Even their own priest had been condemned for treason. The Morays’ have ne’er kept their word or their promises. Surely ye can find me a better suitor and our clan a better ally.”