The Bold Heart (The Highland Heather and Hearts Scottish Romance Series)

The Highland Heather and Hearts

Scottish Romance Series

Book Four

The Bold Heart

by

Carmen Caine

Published by

Bento Box Books

Edited by

Louisa Stephens

Cover Art by

Lind

Copyright © 2014 Carmen Caine

Ebook Edition

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Dedication

To my own wee merry lass: Kailyn

Author’s Note

This is the last book in the story of King James III of Scotland, and as with the other books in this series, I have woven my fictitious characters of Merry and Ewan into his fascinating life and death in the Battle of Sauchieburn.

The next four books in the “Highland Heather and Hearts Scottish Romance Series” will be set around the 1590’s and will cover true tales of the Scottish Witch Trials, but will, once again, feature a fictional love story, beginning with:

“Heather House: Witch of the Moors”

Table of Contents

Chapter One – The Hanging at Hairibee

Chapter Two – Who Are Ye Truly?

Chapter Three – What Do Ye Want in a Lass?

Chapter Four – You’re No Brother to Me

Chapter Five – Tell Me Your Name

Chapter Six – Take My Hand

Chapter Seven – There’s No Honor in a Cunningham!

Chapter Eight – What the Heart Wants

Chapter Nine – Dinna Tease a Dragon, Lass

Chapter Ten – Treachery

Chapter Eleven - Keen in the Old Ways

Chapter Twelve – A Lass Once Again

Chapter Thirteen – Isle Men and Their Wee Sisters

Chapter Fourteen – Beaton’s Mill

Chapter Fifteen – I’m Not Saved Yet

Epilogue

Excerpt from "Heather House: Witch of the Moors"

About the Author and Other Books

Chapter One – The Hanging at Hairibee

Dunvegan Castle, Scotland

April, 1488

“Merry! ‘Tis a rider, a messenger!”

Shading her eyes, Merry squinted out of the window into the gray afternoon to see a thin, raven-haired lad with red cheeks waving from the top of the grassy hillock. 
Alarmed, she lurched to her feet, but upon seeing the grin on her nephew’s face, she heaved a sigh of relief.

“Good tidings, then,” she said under her breath.

The old woman seated by the peat fire caught Merry’s wrist. “Ye can’t leave yet, lass,” her voice quavered. “Not till ye’ve told me the day. Did they choose? Ye know I’ve been waiting.”

Merry smiled down at her and then scanned the crumpled parchment she’d been reading aloud.

It was a challenging task.

The words upon the page were blurred and difficult to decipher, clearly penned by someone unaccustomed to the quill. And the messenger had been a careless one. The letter had arrived grubby and wine-stained. More than one word had turned into a blob of black ink. But the last few sentences were legible. The most important ones.

“They’ll wed afore the harvest, Joanna.” She summed the contents in a single sentence. After kissing the top of the old woman’s head, she added, “And I’ll see ye there, ‘tis no cause for ye to fash yourself. She’ll be a proper wedded woman afore the bairn arrives.”

Joanna’s face creased into a wide gap-toothed smile. “Thank ye, lass, thank ye.” And then with a ‘hisst’ she shoved Merry toward the croft door. “Ye can read the rest to me later, aye? Now off with ye to the Lady Bree. Mayhap we’ve word of yer brother now?”

“Judging by the grin on Will’s face, ‘twould seem so,” Merry answered with what she hoped would be a heartening smile.

They’d all been worried for Ruan. Scotland was in turmoil. Civil war was no longer a question of if, but when. Rumors abounded that even the king’s own son had now risen against him. It had been a fortnight since the Earl of Lennox had summoned Ruan to Stirling, and he’d left at once in the company of his finest warriors.

Stepping out into daylight, Merry smiled tenderly at the young lad slipping down the steep grassy incline. Joanna’s croft was tucked away at the base of a hill, near the flat-topped mountains rising out of the moors. Sheep bleated in the distance, heralding the return of the old woman’s son.

A muffled curse diverted Merry’s attention back to her nephew arriving in a mudslide of fern and bits of bracken. Catching his balance, he rushed forward to greet her. 
William MacLeod. Ruan and Bree’s only surviving child—a mischievous rascal of a lad, and a lad after her own heart.

Catching him by the ear, she raised a warning brow. “Mind that tongue of yours, Will. And what brings ye so far from Dunvegan? Your mother will be fair angry with me to find ye’ve wandered this far.”

He paused a moment to catch his breath and then cocked a roguish brow in return. “And ye’ll not be telling her, Merry,” he said with confidence.

Merry reached over and tweaked his nose. They both knew he was right.

“She mollycoddles me so. Treats me like a bairn she does!” he went on to protest.

Merry’s eyes lit indulgently. “We all do, ye rascal,” she muttered and then looked away.

The dragging winter of the year before had seen the fever sweep through the clan. They’d lost many, including both of Will’s siblings, Rory and Katherine. The memory of their loss still tore Merry’s heart. Again, she heard Ruan’s roar of grief echoing through Dunvegan’s halls, and in her mind’s eye, she saw Bree weeping softly against his shoulder, seeking solace.

Shaking her head, Merry brought herself to the present.

“Your mother has cause to fret, Will,” she told him, cupping his chin in her hand and forcing his dark eyes to meet hers. “Give the poor woman some peace, aye?”

Will’s face clouded. “I miss Rory and Katherine, too,” he admitted quietly, but then the rebellious spark in his eye returned. “But I canna stay in Dunvegan the rest of my days! I’m no longer a wean. Tell her that, will ye now?”

Merry grinned. “Enough of this lackwit babbling,” she said, giving him an affectionate cuff on the side of the head. “Did your Da send tidings from Stirling, then?”

“Aye, and he’s done naught but feast at Cameron’s side for the past fortnight.” Will snorted in disgust. “Nae fighting. There’s no war yet.” He looked disappointed.

“Dinna be so anxious for bloodshed, ye wee fool,” Merry scolded lightly even as she exhaled a deep sigh of relief.

But her relief was short-lived.

“Nae, but he has tidings of some earl’s son,” Will added offhand. “Some fool got himself caught by the English. The MacLean of Duart’s son ‘twas. Ewan. Ewan MacLean.”

Merry’s heart stopped.

“Ewan!” she gasped, choking on his name.

Ewan MacLean.
A name that swept her into the past when she was a wee lass. Back to the time when she’d been wed to Fearghus, the MacDonald of Duntelm. The man had been evil incarnate. On their wedding night he’d beaten her nearly senseless. Seeking revenge against her clan, he’d clearly had the intention of taking her life in the cruelest possible way. The night had been brutal, but the memory of it no longer caused her pain. She’d set those memories free years ago.

All but one.

One memory from that night she cherished: the recollection of Ewan MacLean’s flaxen head popping up in the tower window. He’d been a lad then, younger than she was now, and he’d scaled the precarious castle walls to rescue her. He’d taken one look at her distressed state and of Fearghus’ hand raised for the deathblow. With his handsome face suffused with rage, Ewan had roared and leapt through the window, staying her husband's hand as Ruan burst through the door with drawn sword. Leaving Ruan to take vengeance, Ewan had carried her to safety, crooning soft words of comfort.

“Ye’ll be right in no time, I promise ye,” he had whispered into her hair. “A MacLeod is who ye are. Hold fast.”

“Merry?” Will’s curious voice broke into her thoughts.

Merry blinked. She had to get back to Dunvegan and right quickly.

“We have to go home, Will,” she said, glancing about.

He’d let his shaggy mountain pony loose to graze on the moor grasses at the top of the hill. Merry frowned. They’d have to send for the beastie later; it was no match for her stallion anyhow.

Turning to her nephew, she ordered crisply, “Ride with me, Will, and with haste.”

Will’s face split into a grin. “On
Diabhul
?” He nodded at her black stallion tied to the hawthorn hedge. “Ma will—”

“Your ma will understand,” Merry interrupted, pulling him after her.

Bree wouldn’t be pleased. After all these years, she still didn’t care much for horses, particularly devious, high-spirited ones like Diabhul. To Merry, he was as docile as a kitten and as loyal as a hound dog, but to everyone else, he was a fiend from hell. No, Bree would be far from pleased to see her son riding Diabhul. But she would understand.

Diabhul nudged her hand, searching for a carrot as she untied him, and then fitting a foot into the stirrup, Merry swung herself into the saddle. With a spry hop, Will settled behind her, and they sprang away, guiding the horse onto the path twisting up the hill as the 
aged Joanna hobbled to the croft door to bid them a cheerful farewell.

The day was a chilly one. Already, the mists were thickening, billowing in from the sea as they crossed the moors. 
Spring had arrived unusually late this year, and folk had begun to mutter. Some claimed it foretold of hard times to come in the months ahead. But that ‘twas nothing new. With the impending war, hard times were guaranteed.

As Diabhul raced across the gorse and heather, Merry smiled at Will’s shrieks of pleasure at the black stallion’s speed.

Closing her eyes, she let the cold wind caress her face and ruffle her dark hair. She always thought better on the back of a horse, more at peace and more centered.

Doubtless, Ewan’s rescue was underway, providing the man hadn’t already rescued himself. His fearsome reputation throughout Scotland hailed him as a formidable warrior, a man unparalleled in the art of the combat. Few dared to cross swords with him. In all likelihood, there was no cause to worry.

Letting her mind clear, she simply enjoyed the ride, and a
s they approached the shaggy heath-edged cliffs, the wind turned moist and carried with it the scent of the sea. Slowing Diabhul, she guided him down a narrow trail. The waves, crashing against the rocks below, grew louder with each step. Overhead, seagulls shrieked and swooped, and soon they arrived at the bottom and Merry let Diabhul once more gallop free down the shell-covered beach toward Dunvegan.

It wasn’t long before the MacLeods’ ancestral castle of Dunvegan rose high above them. Its massive mound of gold-hued stones perched high on its own island of yellow lichen and green moss-covered rocks. There was only one entrance to the castle and that was the sea-gate, a stone’s throw away from the village on the mainland.

Having reached the stables at the village’s north entrance, Merry slid off the stallion’s back and helped her nephew dismount.

“Get the boat ready, Will,” she ordered, patting her horse on the withers. “I’ll see Diabhul taken care of and then I’ll join ye.”

With an impish nod, the boy bounded away.

Stable lads then ran out to greet her, but as she led her stallion forward, they abruptly fell back in fear.

Merry raised an amused brow. “Not one of ye have a whit of courage,” she grumbled good-naturedly.

“Diabhul. ’Tis a beast rightly named,” one of the lads groused. “He is the Devil himself. Aye, and there’s no meaner-tempered beast roaming in all of Skye!”

“Ach, now,” Merry disagreed with a chuckle. “He’s as easy as a bairn.”

The lad snorted. “Then why did ye name him ‘Diabhul’?” he asked pertly.

Merry reached over and tousled his head. “Don’t ye start thinking now, lad. ‘Twill do ye no good as ye’ll still have to tend him.”

The lad shot her a grin but darted back as Diabhul flattened his ears. Lifting his lip, the horse lunged as if to nip the boy.

“See!” the lad cried, pointing. “He’s after my blood, he is!”

“Easy, lads,” Merry crooned to both boy and horse and led Diabhul into his stall herself.

Removing his saddle, she brushed him down with a handful of hay and had exited the stall just in time to see the stable lad lunge forward to toss the horse a pitchfork of hay. He hadn’t gotten near enough to do a proper job and most of the hay landed on Diabhul’s rump.