Highland Brides 04 - Lion Heart Read online

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

  Lion Heart by Tanya Anne Crosby

  COPYRIGHT © Tanya Anne Crosby

  Produced with Typesetter

  Cover design by Ravven

  Published by

  Dedication

  To brothers—because I have two of the best.

  Praise for Tanya Anne Crosby

  “Crosby’s characters keep readers engaged…” – Publishers Weekly

  “Tanya Anne Crosby sets out to show us a good time and accomplishes that with humor, a fast paced story and just the right amount of romance.” – The Oakland Press “Romance filled with charm, passion and intrigue …” – Affaire de Coeur

  “Ms. Crosby mixes just the right amount of humor … Fantastic, tantalizing!” – Rendezvous “Tanya Anne Crosby pens a tale that touches your soul and lives forever in your heart.” – Sherrilyn Kenyon #1 NYT Bestselling Author

  Books In This Series

  The MacKinnon’s Bride

  Lyon’s Gift

  On Bended Knee

  Lion Heart

  Highland Song

  Look for Highland Steel early 2014

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  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

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Books By Tanya Anne Crosby

  Prologue

  Descended of the powerful sons of MacAlpin, the MacKinnon laird seemed invulnerable behind his veil of authority. Broc knew better. The innocence of youth had been stripped from his child’s mind; he no longer believed any man invincible.

  His da was dead, his minny too, and he’d come to Chreagach Mhor a poor relation seeking refuge.

  He stood tall, his father’s enormous battle-scarred sword tucked into his belt, answering all of the MacKinnon’s questions without shedding a tear, though he wished more than anything he could run away and find a quiet spot to mend his bleeding heart.

  Though the MacKinnon had welcomed him with open arms, Broc knew he would never feel wholly part of this clan. His own kinsmen had been murdered, their lands razed, and he felt like a beggar now standing before the MacKinnon laird.

  “The lad is welcome to remain,” the MacKinnon assured Broc’s escort. “My wife’s kin will always have a place among us, and I shall keep him safe as though he were my own.”

  The old woman who had brought him here wept in gratitude. “Praise ye, good sir!”

  Auld Alma had assisted nearly every birth in the MacEanraig clan for as long as Broc could recall. She, too, had been left homeless, without family, but Broc knew she would not remain in the MacKinnon’s care. Nay, Alma would return to sweep up the ashes of their razed village. She would bury every poor soul she had helped bring into this world, and afterward she would remain to tend their graves.

  “God will surely smile upon thee for this kindness!” she assured the MacKinnon.

  Chreagach Mhor boasted the only stone keep in all of Scotia. Its laird seemed more a king than a simple chieftain, but his manner was far from imperious as he responded to her grief-stricken blessing. He smiled down at them both from his seat upon the dais. His only son, Iain, sat on his lap, and the MacKinnon’s fingers were laced in the boy’s hair. Broc’s throat grew thick at the sight of them, but he didn’t turn away.

  He met the child’s gaze directly.

  “You too, may have a warm bed should ye choose to remain,” the elder MacKinnon told Alma. “There is room enough—if not within the keep, then surely elsewhere. We would welcome ye with open hearts.”

  “Nay, sir.” Alma shook her head. “But I thank ye anyway. I am auld and my place is with my husband.” Her eyes filled again with tears.

  The elder MacKinnon nodded soberly and said nothing. He knew, as Broc knew, that her husband was dead. They were all dead but for a paltry few.

  Clutching the hilt of his father’s sword, Broc lifted his shoulder, catching a fat tear with his tunic. Och, but he wasn’t a wee bairn anymore. He shouldn’t weep. It was his duty to be strong—if only his heart would stop squeezing so painfully. Another tear slipped past his guard, and he quickly swiped it away.

  Dirty Sassenachs.

  Anger dried his eyes.

  He’d known them by their armor, bright silver shielding their bodies all the way from their legs to the top of their heads. Like mirrors, their helms had glistened under the midmorning sun.

  No Scotsman wore the costume of cowards.

  No Scotsman worth bearing the name murdered wee bairns and expectant mothers for the sake of greed.

  The pale-faced demons had come and gone as quickly as a sudden tempest. Broc had been too busy skipping stones into the loch to fight beside his family. He had shunned his duties that morning, had stolen away to play, and he would regret his childish decision for the rest of his days.

  By the time he’d heard their screams, it was too late. From a distance, he’d first spied the smoke curling into the sky. And before his eyes, their homes had been reduced to ash. Never in his life had he felt such a rage. He’d run after the murdering bastards, trying to stop them, but the scoundrels had mounted their horses and ridden away like the cowards they were. His father had said they would not stop until all of Scotia was under King Henry of England’s rules.

  As long as Broc lived he didn’t think he would forget the scorched smell of his village. In his nightmares he would envision the slain bodies of his kinsmen lying limply among the mounds of ash that were once their homes… he would forever smell the scent of charred flesh… and in his heart he would dream of vengeance.

  His little fist tightened upon the hilt of his father’s heavy sword. Though he could barely carry it now, someday this very sword would exact vengeance for his mother’s life and honor. There would never be room enough for other devotions. He would give his labors and his gratitude to the MacKinnon, but his heart would remain dark, lit only by the fires of revenge. Vengeance, like a glittering torch through a dark wood, would guide his way.

  He would not be distracted by women or drink, he vowed.

  He would not be placated by holding a young bairn on his knee.

  He didn’t deserve to be surrounded by grandchildren in his old age.

  He’d failed his mother.

  He’d failed his kinsmen.

  Aye, they had killed her, but he was as responsible as they were. He should have fought beside his family.

  Another wayward tear rushed down his cheek. />
  He was big enough to defend his minny! He was big enough to defend his home! He should have died beside them. If it took the rest of his days to redeem himself, he would somehow find a way. He wasn’t some weak, whey-faced Sassenach girly boy! He was big for his age, they said, and he would grow up to be bigger and stronger than most. And someday he would avenge his minny and his da.

  Someday he would make the English pay for their murdering ways!

  Iain MacKinnon slid down from his father’s knee and came toward him. He was younger than Broc, though not by many years—perhaps five to Broc’s seven, though Broc couldn’t be certain. He came and stood before Broc, looking him square in the eyes. His expression was sober and somehow as dignified as his da’s. He nodded and said, “’Twill be alright, Broc Ceannfhionn.”

  Broc didn’t believe it was true, but he didn’t say so. He narrowed his eyes at the name Iain had bestowed upon him—Broc the Blond. No one had ever called him that, but it didn’t seem such a bad thing to be called. He nodded back, thanking Iain wordlessly for his words of comfort. Five was just too young to know anything at all. When the boy was seven at least, he would better understand.

  “You can share my room,” Iain offered. “I’ll show you where it is.”

  Broc peered up at Alma. He wanted to go with her, instead, to help put all the ghosts to rest.

  She reached out to catch his chin, lifting his face. “Sweet Broc, ye’ll do well here,” she predicted.

  Another tear slipped past his guard.

  “Forget the anger, child,” she advised him, “and remember the love. Make your sweet minny proud!” she commanded him. “Find ye a good woman to cherish and give her strong bairns. Let your father’s blood live long in your veins and those of your children! You are the last of the MacEanraig clan, lad.”

  He swallowed hard, realizing he’d never see her again. His last tie to his kinsmen would be severed the instant she walked out the door.

  But his da would want him to be a man.

  He gazed at her tender countenance one last time, his eyes stinging sorely, but he didn’t shed a single tear as he turned to follow Iain MacKinnon from the hall.

  He would remember Alma’s words always, but he never once looked back.

  Chapter One

  A blackbird chased its mate across the sunlit sky. The pair fluttered together into a nearby tree, chirping merrily as lovers are wont to do.

  Broc felt somehow empty at the sight of them. It was the second time during the span of the day that the feeling had come over him. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what troubled him, but he was restless.

  It was a beautiful summer day with every tree a verdant green. The scent of something delightful but elusive hung in the air like an invisible mist, teasing his nostrils. Something like sweet pollen mayhap, though he couldn’t name the flower of its origin.

  He stopped to watch the birds mating upon a branch overhead. Furious little creatures, they struggled together as though battling. His brows drew together as he watched them pair off. God’s truth, it seemed everything and everybody was mating except him.

  He was the last of his clan.

  It hadn’t much bothered him before today. He hadn’t allowed it to darken his thoughts. But after Gavin Mac Brodie’s sermon at his brother’s wedding, he found himself remembering an old woman’s blessing.

  Find ye a good woman to cherish and give her strong bairns. Let your father’s blood live long in your veins and those of your children! You are the last of the MacEanraig clan, lad.

  The echo of her voice had faded through the years. But her words came back to haunt him.

  They left him strangely bereft.

  If someone had asked him only a few months before if his best friend might ever wed, Broc would have laughed in their face and shaken his head with absolute conviction. But Colin was now a married man, and Broc had never seen him so joyful. He was pleased for them. And yet… in the aftermath of their nuptials, he found himself obsessing over an old woman’s last words and craving something he couldn’t name.

  He turned away from the birds and continued on his journey home. In times past, Merry, his dog, would have been at his heels, and he might have had to drag her barking away from the damned tree.

  He missed the sweet mutt.

  He sighed and pushed her memory away, only to be besieged by another more poignant.

  Always it hovered on the edge of his consciousness—the sound of his parents laughing together.

  The two of them had been deeply devoted to each other, and his da had so obviously cherished his mother that as a child Broc had felt enriched by their love. But as happy as his childhood had been, despite the hardships, his memories were tainted with the hideousness of their death.

  He could never think of them without remembering his mother’s screams.

  He had no idea that he had stopped again, nor that he sat upon the ground, but he was left reeling by the images that accosted him. Even after all these years his kinsmen’s faces haunted him. He plucked a woodland flower from the soil and crushed it in his fist, his gut burning with remembered rage.

  Nay, it was better never to open one’s heart at all, better never to be left so defenseless. The little boy he had been was long dead now. The man he had become was far stronger alone. His devotion was reserved the clan that had embraced him as a child and made him one of its own. Aside from his clan, he didn’t want to cleave to anyone.

  A wife would be little more than a burden—one he couldn’t afford.

  A dog’s growl startled him from his reverie.

  For an instant, he forgot Merry was dead and mistook the sound for that of his old companion. He turned, expecting to find her black eyes watching him, and instead saw a strange, overgrown hound instead. The animal’s teeth were bared, but something about the eyes seemed docile and harmless, mayhap even afeared. Its coat was bedraggled, wet and dirty, mayhap from a trek through the bog. It was in desperate need of a bath, food and a warm place at someone’s feet.

  It was just so that he’d found Merry. He’d had to win her over, as well. The memory brought a wistful smile to his lips.

  But then he thought about the brutal way she’d died and how much it had hurt to lay her to rest, and that empty feeling returned.

  It was too damned difficult to lose the people you loved, and it seemed to Broc that everything he loved most, he lost.

  Some part of him wanted to rise up now and brush himself off, walk away from this beast, but he didn’t. He sat there, making no move either to leave it or approach it.

  The animal’s bright eyes stared back at him.

  Broc didn’t avert his gaze. He tried to convey to the beast that no harm would come to it. He removed from the pouch at his waist a small sliver of smoked meat and offered it as a token of his friendship.

  He spoke to it softly, and the animal laid its ears back, cocking its head curiously. Broc smiled and continued to gaze at it, willing it to come to him. Extending his hand, he began to coo to it, and soon it lowered its head and took a step forward.

  It took yet another when Broc made no move to close the distance between them.

  “That a girl,” he crooned, though he had no idea the sex of the beast. Gender didn’t matter much with anything that traveled on four legs, he decided, as he waved the meat at the animal, cajoling it nearer.

  It wasn’t long before the hound was at his side, shaking its wet coat and spattering him in the face with stinky bog water. Broc chuckled and rubbed the pate of its head vigorously, rewarding it for its bravery. He handed over the meat. The poor beast snatched it quickly, devouring it in one gulp, then peered up at him as though expecting more.

  Broc laughed, patting it. “There ye go,” he said again, and stood, continuing to pet it. Its coat was soft, though it was damp and dirty. It was obviously hungry as well, but he had nothing else to feed it. Still, it looked up at him appreciatively, and his heart melted.

  He was a fool for animal
s—they were loyal without fault and always grateful.

  Aye, who needed women when they were never appeased and rarely faithful?

  Let Colin and Leith and Iain and the rest of the lads have their fill of them. He was better off alone. He wasn’t about to saddle himself with some nagging, complaining bitch. Nay, a dog was all the companion he needed. If you tossed dogs a few scraps, they followed you blindly till the day they died.

  He should take this one home, he decided, as he stroked its head, feed it, mayhap bathe it, as well. He’d learned the merits of bathing his animals. His laird’s wife had taught him how to rid the beasts of fleas, and since he didn’t seem to be able to keep them off his bed, it served him well to heed her advice.

  “Good lass,” he said, and the animal lowered its head, enjoying his attentions. He wondered where the hound had come from and to whom it belonged. He didn’t recall ever seeing it before today. Hungry it might be, but it didn’t appear famished, so it couldn’t have come very far. If it ran off after he cleaned it up a bit and fed it, he would certainly understand.

  He started to walk away, hoping it would follow. The hound took a few steps, then stopped abruptly, and Broc stopped as well, determined to befriend it. And then all at once it began to bark as though it wanted him to stay.

  Or mayhap follow.

  “What is it, lass?” he asked and took a tentative step toward it. The hound took a step back, and Broc scratched his head, trying to figure out what the moody beast was trying to tell him.

  Must be a bitch, he decided, because she didn’t seem to be able to make up her bloody mind whether she liked him or not.

  Chapter Two

  Elizabet felt like ripping out her hair in frustration.

  She tethered the mounts and sat, disheartened, upon the roots of an old oak to await the return of these unruly men with whom her father had burdened her to travel. She sighed and hugged her knees, wondering about her father’s cousin. Would Piers welcome them warmly?