Kathleen Harrington
Read Kathleen Harrington Online
Authors: Lachlan's Bride
ACHLAN
’
S
B
RIDE
The Highland Lairds Trilogy
K
ATHLEEN
H
ARRINGTON
To my son and his wife,
Rick and Jo Beck,
with all my love.
C
ONTENTS
An Excerpt from
The MacLean Groom
An Excerpt from
All or Nothing
by Dixie Lee Brown
May 1496
The Cheviot Hills
The border between England and Scotland
S
tretched flat on the blood-soaked ground, Lachlan MacRath gazed up at the cloudless morning sky and listened to the exhausted moans of the wounded.
The dead and the dying lay scattered across the lush spring grass. Overhead, the faint rays of dawn broke above the hilltops as the buttercups and bluebells dipped and swayed in the soft breeze. The gruesome corpses were sprawled amidst the wildflowers, their vacant eyes staring upward to the heavens, the stumps of their severed arms and legs still oozing blood and gore. Dented helmets, broken swords, axes, and pikes gave mute testimony to the ferocity of the combatants. Here and there, a loyal destrier, trained to war, grazed calmly alongside its fallen master.
Following close upon daylight, the scavengers would come creeping, ready to strip the bodies of anything worth a shilling: armor, dirks, boots, belts. If they were Scotsmen, he’d be in luck. If not, he’d soon be dead. There wasn’t a blessed thing he could do but wait. He was pinned beneath his dead horse, and all efforts to free himself during the night had proven fruitless.
In the fierce, running battle of the evening before, the warriors on horseback had left behind all who’d fallen. Galloping across the open, rolling countryside, Scots and English had fought savagely, till it was too dark to tell friend from foe. There was no way of knowing the outcome of the battle, for victory had been determined miles away.
Hell, it was Lachlan’s own damn fault. He’d come on the foray into England with King James for a lark. After delivering four new canons to the castle at Roxburgh, along with the Flemish master gunners to fire them, he’d decided not to return to his ship immediately as planned. The uneventful crossing on the
Sea Hawk
from the Low Countries to Edinburgh, followed by the tedious journey to the fortress, with the big guns pulled by teams of oxen, had left him eager for a bit of adventure.
When he’d learned that the king was leading a small force into Northumberland to retrieve cattle raided by Sassenach outlaws, the temptation to join them had been too great to resist. There was nothing like a hand-to-hand skirmish with his ancient foe to get a man’s blood pumping through his veins.
But Lord Dacre, Warden of the Marches, had surprised the Scots with a much larger, well-armed force of his own, and what should have been a carefree rout had turned into deadly combat.
A plea for help interrupted Lachlan’s brooding thoughts. Not far away, a wounded English soldier, who’d cried out in pain during the night, raised himself up on one elbow.
“Lychester! Over here, sir! It’s Will Jeffries!”
Lachlan watched from beneath slit lids as another Sassenach came into view. Attired in the splendid armor of the nobility, the newcomer rode a large, caparisoned black horse. He’d clearly come looking for someone, for he held the reins of a smaller chestnut, its saddle empty and waiting.
“Here I am, Marquess,” the young man named Jeffries called weakly. He lifted one hand in a trembling wave as the marquess of Lychester drew near to his countryman. Dismounting, he approached the wounded soldier.
“Thank God,” Jeffries said with a hoarse groan. “I’ve taken a sword blade in my thigh. The cut’s been oozing steadily. I was afraid I wouldn’t make it through the night.”
Lychester didn’t say a word. He came to stand behind the injured man, knelt down on one knee, and raised his fallen comrade to a seated position. Grabbing a hank of his yellow hair, the marquess jerked the fair head back and deftly slashed the exposed throat from ear to ear. Then he calmly wiped his blade on the youth’s doublet, lifted him up in his arms, and threw the body face down over the chestnut’s back.
The English nobleman glanced around, checking, no doubt, to see if there’d been a witness to the cold-blooded execution. Lachlan held his breath and remained motionless, his lids lowered over his eyes. Apparently satisfied, the marquess mounted, grabbed the reins of the second horse, and rode away.
Lachlan slowly exhaled.
Sonofabitch.
He knew the English were a bloodthirsty race. But he hadn’t thought that included the murder of a helpless patriot on a deserted battlefield.
What kind of bastard did such a traitorous thing?
Not twenty minutes later, the soft sound of whistling carried on the morning breeze caught Lachlan’s immediate attention. The melody was familiar. Hell, it should be. He’d written the damn tune to please a lady. She’d shared it with the entire Scottish court, much to Lachlan’s chagrin and his younger brother’s enjoyment. For Keir had changed the courtly lyrics to a ribald song which only Lachlan and his ladylove failed to appreciate fully. Now, no one at court remembered the original, tender ballad, only Keir MacNeil’s ode to a lusty milkmaid who liked to tumble in the hay with the stable lads.
Under the present circumstances, Lachlan was damn glad to hear that irritating refrain once again.
As the whistling grew louder, he could discern the outline of his large sibling, mounted on his big bay and making his way across the springtime landscape littered with corpses.
Lachlan braced himself up on his elbow, put two fingers to his lips, and gave a sheer whistle of his own.
“Ye puir daft loon,” Keir said with a chuckle, his silhouette blocking the rising sun as he dismounted and came to stand over Lachlan. “Don’t you know you’re supposed to jump off when your horse is caving beneath you?”
“I didn’t get a chance,” Lachlan answered gruffly. “Now get me the devil out from under here.”
“Is your leg broken?”
“I don’t think so. Though it’s bloody numb from being pinned under my horse all night. Thank God you came to find me.”
“When you didn’t show up at the castle with King Jamie in time for the dancing, I knew you were in trouble.” Keir flashed a teasing smile, his green eyes filled with mirth. “You never miss an opportunity to fondle the ladies, if you can help it.”
“Believe me, I’d much rather have spent last night wrapped in a pair of soft, willing arms,” Lachlan admitted.
Whistling quietly under his breath, Keir cut the braided cord from a fallen standard nearby and fastened it on his saddle horn, then tied the other end around the dead horse. With a gentle slap on its haunch, he urged the bay gelding to pull. “Easy, boy,” he told his steed. “Slow and easy now, big fellow.”
Lachlan clenched his teeth as the heavy carcass was dragged off his leg. “God, almighty,” he groaned.
“No, it’s just me,” Keir said with a cheerful grin. He unfastened Lachlan’s leg armor, tossing the cuisse, knee plate, and greave aside. Then he ran his long fingers gently down the length of Lachlan’s breeches, feeling with care for shattered bones.
“Nothing’s broken,” he assured his older brother as he lifted him to his feet. He pulled Lachlan’s arm across his wide shoulders. “Stand on your good leg, till the blood starts to flow.”
Shafts of pain exploded in his thigh and calf as feeling began to return to Lachlan’s leg.
Keir glanced around at the dead soldiers nearby. “Did you hear anyone cry out in Scots during the night?”
Shaking his head, Lachlan grimaced and massaged his cramped thigh. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” he said, his voice strained and tight, “before we have to fight off the scavengers, or worse. You wouldn’t believe what I just saw.”
“What happened?” Keir asked, his eyes alight with curiosity as he yanked on his gauntlets.
“I’ll tell you on the way back.”
Keir mounted and reached an arm down for his brother. Ignoring the searing pain, Lachlan grabbed the outstretched hand and threw his injured leg over the bay’s flanks.
Clasping his younger brother around the waist, Lachlan hooked his thumbs in Keir’s belt. “And don’t whistle that goddamned tune all the way back to Roxburgh,” he warned.
Keir’s bark of laughter rang out. “That’s the thanks I get for coming to find you,” he replied with a shake of his dark-haired head. “And I left a hand of cards worth a bleeding fortune on the table. Next time, get Rory to rescue you.”
“Where the devil is our oldest brother?”
“Laird MacLean is probably warming his backside by a roaring fire at Stalcaire Castle at this very moment. He’s still in the Highlands, laddie, where we all belong.”
Lachlan gave a snort of disgust at his own folly. “Next time King James decides to take a small force into Northumberland for a little pillaging and plundering, that’s where I’ll be too.”
“Riding with the king?”
“No, warming my backside at Stalcaire, right next to Rory.”
June 1503
Collyweston Palace
Northhamptonshire, England
F
rancine watched the Highlanders stride into the Tudor throne room from her place amongst the other ladies-in-waiting. The twelve Scotsmen, attired in red-and-black kilts, feathered bonnets, and short hose with buckled brogues approached his majesty, Henry VII, by the grace of God, king of England, Wales, and Ireland, with their heads high, their shoulders back, and their spines as straight as halberdiers.
Their leader was unusually tall. Taller than any other male in the room, even the English knights who’d fought with such valor at Calais. His reddish-brown hair, tied with a velvet ribbon, fell down his back. Folds of his plaid tartan were draped over one massive shoulder and pinned to his red jacket with a jeweled bodkin. A large ruby sparkled with sybaritic brilliance on his right earlobe.
“God’s blessing,” whispered Lady Diana Pembroke, who stood at Francine’s side. “Have you ever laid eyes on such a beautiful creature?”