Desiring the Highlander

Book 3: McTiernays

by Michele Sinclair

Genres: Historical Romance; General Fiction; Romance

Synopsis

Seven McTiernay brothers, each a Highlander born to protect Scotland and her people, warriors known for their quick wits and quicker broadswords. The third brother, Cole, stared death in the face when he was only a boy . . .



Now Cole McTiernay is a man. And though he resists them in every way, he has responsibilities. The wild northern Highlands need a laird who can guide them to peace. Cole has the army strong enough to accomplish this task. What he doesn't have is the desire to be a leader among men.



And so he is sent off on a fool's errand: a mission to retrieve something from the very Englishmen Cole has spent his life hating. When he finds that the 'something' is a wild hellion, he balks, determined to make the return to Scotland as hard on her as it was for him to set foot on English soil. But though English herself, Ellenor intrigues him with her fierce spirit, and Cole's heart, deeply locked away for so long, may be vulnerable at last . . .

Release date: December 1, 2009

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 416

Sample

Creag Mhor Summit, above Glen Lyon, 1301

Crouched low, Cole crawled his way up to the edge of the cliff. His elbows and knees were caked with mud from the morning’s rain, but he didn’t care. Just as he didn’t care what his older brother had to say about what he could and couldn’t do. Arriving unseen, where so many were gathered who knew him and his family, proved he was more capable than his brother believed. And in just a few hours, every Scottish soul within ten miles would be too busy battling the English to worry about whether a young Highlander should be fighting alongside them.

Inching forward, he felt his arm sink almost wrist deep into the wet earth and he bit back an expletive. His dark brown hair was crusted with the muck. But crawling through mud, while irritating, was better than on the jagged rocks that covered most of the broad ridge. And walking to the peak was out of the question. The trees that did pop up along this section of the flat-topped hills were so scarce the only way to avoid detection was by staying low. Hence the scrapes, the bruises, and the mud. But he would suffer them all again to be right where he was—here at Glen Lyon, where the next big battle against the English would be fought.

The frigid spring wind caused his shirt to billow. He shivered, but not from the cold. From anticipation. As if nature knew what was about to happen and changed the weather, eager to help the Scottish achieve another victory.

He breathed deep the heather-perfumed air and smiled. The thin-skinned English with all their armor hated the damp, cool temperatures that accompanied these hills. And soon, they would have even more reason to hate the Highlands.

He edged up the last few feet, feeling quite brilliant and enormously brave about tricking his eldest brother and making his escape. His best friend Rob had been right. This was a lot better than training and a hell of a lot more fun than working for the stable master, taking care of the horses.

On the battlefield below, Highland boys would become men, and when all was over, he would be one of them.

No longer would his brother refuse to allow him to train with the soldiers despite the fact that he was sixteen and just as tall as half of them. But most of all, he would no longer be known as the third son, or one of Conor’s younger brothers, or worst of all, the boy McTiernay. People would know him by his name. Cole. And they would be scared.

A sandy-haired figure crouched low at the cliff’s edge bent his head back and issued Cole an exasperated look. “What took you so long?”

“Mo Chreach! I had to hide the horses way down there!” Cole hissed back as he edged his way up to his friend’s side. Cole’s bright blue eyes peered over the ridge and took in the grassy slopes that led to a wide col. Tomorrow—possibly even this afternoon if the English arrived fast enough—there would be a battle on those grounds that would rival Stirling Bridge.

“Are they hid good?”

Cole nodded, knowing that Rob was just as sensitive—maybe even more so—about being discovered by their comrades. “What’s happening?”

Rob shrugged. “Not much. Most of the men have been getting the spearheads ready. The English are coming from over there. You can see something shining through the trees every once in a while if you look long enough.”

Cole turned to stare, hoping to get a glance at the sun-stricken armor. He had no idea how long he had been studying the trees for armored movements when Rob gave a halfhearted yelp and pointed.

Immediately, Cole shifted his gaze and followed Rob’s finger pointing down toward two figures standing no more than fifty yards below them. Cole’s heart lodged in his throat. He was unable to speak.

“Cole, isn’t that…”

“Your laird,” Cole finally managed to get out. “And my brother. The blaigeard must have followed us.”

“Mo Chreach! Do you think he told my father?” Rob choked.

Cole scoffed. “Of course he told your father. His being laird requires him to do what is right, not what you or I want,” Cole answered, mimicking one of Conor’s favorite lectures. Cole couldn’t remember his father ever once saying something so trite, and he had been a great laird.

Three months ago, his father had turned fifty-eight years old. A week later, he was dead, leaving seven sons to mourn him. He had seemed incredibly healthy, and maybe in the body he had been. But his heart had left seven months prior with his wife. Cole had never seen his father so lost as in those months after his mother died. Her death had been unexpected and unfair.

Some of the McTiernay families living close to the clan border had taken ill, and she had insisted on going out to help. Soon after her arrival, she had fallen prey to the mysterious disease herself, dying only a few days later. Cole’s father had never recovered from the loss. Some say he had welcomed his own sickness, letting it invade and take over so that he could once again see his one and only love.

Be that true or not, within a week of falling ill, he had slipped away and Cole’s eldest brother, Conor, had suddenly become laird of one of the largest Highland clans in the Grey Corries.

Cole had lost not only a father that day, but also his freedom. The morning after the burial, he had gone to the fields determined to begin his training with the soldiers. His best friend Rob had been practicing for nearly a year and a half, and Cole’s father had promised he would soon be joining his friend in the daily drills. But when Conor had turned him away and sent him to work in the stables, an icy resentment had begun to grow. Over the weeks, then months, as Conor’s pledges of personally overseeing Cole’s training were preempted repeatedly by more pressing clan needs, the resentment changed to anger and now defiance.

“Your brother’s going to kill you,” Rob quipped, stating the obvious.

“And your father isn’t?” Cole retorted.

“My father is a farmer. And while he resents my desire to train and fight, he certainly wouldn’t leave his crops and follow me.”

Cole cocked his head and reconsidered his brother’s stance. “I don’t think Conor did follow us.”

“What do you mean? If he isn’t here because of us, then why? To fight? I thought you said he didn’t think MacDonnill should have picked the Strath Tay for a battleground.”

“I did,” Cole murmured, remembering every word spoken that afternoon. He glanced around, hoping to find familiar faces, someone to indicate another reason for his brother’s untimely arrival. His peripheral vision told him that Rob was doing the same…and was just as unsuccessful as he was. “We’re in serious trouble,” Cole sighed.

“Yeah,” Rob agreed. “But why is the laird here if not to fight and not because of you?”

Cole folded his arms and laid his forehead down on them. “Oh, he’s here because of me. I just don’t think he followed us. If he had, he would have stopped us long before we got here. Na, he just knew where we were going.”

“How?”

Cole glanced at his friend’s face. The youthful features were filled with incredulity. Though nearly two years older than Cole, Rob would be forever plagued with people assuming he was younger than he actually was. He had a slight build, dark sandy blond hair, and dimples that were more like craters in his cheeks than simple indentions. Often ridiculed by the warriors as being too young to play soldier, Rob had been near desperate to find a way to prove he was not a boy, but a man. When Cole reported what he had overheard about a battle at Glen Lyon, Rob had instantly decided that he was going and that Cole was coming with him. It was time they both proved something to their elders. And there was no better way to silence tongues than to fight in a victorious battle.

Cole watched as Conor spoke animatedly with another much older man. He couldn’t hear them, but knew his brother was not pleased with the man’s answer. Even at a distance, the black scowl of Conor’s displeasure was easily seen. His brother could go from calm to angry in the blink of an eye, but usually only with his men or those he considered family. Rarely did Conor allow anyone else to see his displeasure.

Cole nudged his friend with his elbow. “Hey, Rob, who is that with my brother?”

“Um, I think that’s Olave. He’s some Highlander who used to fight with Wallace before he left for France. Olave came to camp one time and all the older soldiers could talk about was his skill with every weapon known to man. He doesn’t look like much to me,” Rob added with a snort.

Cole watched the argument change tone. Olave shook his head. Conor then picked up a stick and knelt on the ground, sketching something in the loose soil. He looked worried…hell, his brother looked scared. Cole glanced at his surroundings and reexamined them with new eyes. He studied where the English were positioned and where his comrades were preparing to meet them. A sinking feeling overcame him, and Cole began to suspect his brother had been right.

Almost two weeks ago, a handful of eastern Highland lairds had arrived with ideas about luring the English into a battle that would weaken their forces, leaving Stirling Castle vulnerable for recapture. Conor had welcomed them and listened to their plans patiently. And then he had refused to join their campaign.

Most of the lairds—especially MacDonnill—had made clear their disappointment, saying how Conor’s father would never have forsaken an opportunity to free Scotland. The barely veiled implication that Conor was a coward and lacked his father’s leadership skills had not been lost on anyone.

Sitting hidden behind the wooden planks separating the Great Hall from the servants’ preparation area, Cole had listened intently, waiting for his brother to roar and drive a fist into the man’s skull. But nothing had happened. Conor only reasserted that it was foolhardy to believe that sheer Scottish bravery could defeat English archers, and that the Strath Tay was perfect ground for the English longbow to find its target.

The lairds had ignored him, and they had been wrong.

McTiernays were known for several things. Their large, well-trained army, their aptitude for leadership, their ability to command both loyalty and dedication of their clansmen, even their own skill with a sword. But those who truly knew them would say their ability to out-strategize even the most cunning of enemies was their greatest strength. Some believed that it was this reason above all others that kept Edward I from trying to invade the McTiernay stronghold. Only a fool marched knowingly to his death. And Edward I and his commanders were a lot of things, but they were not fools.

Cole had never seen a battle, being only sixteen, nor had he ever fought for his life, but McTiernay intuition was flickering through his mind, revealing what was about to unfold. “Rob, come on, we’re getting out of here.”

“Why? Isn’t it too early to join MacDonnill? The battle is hours away from starting…”

Cole’s eyes darted over the strath. The valley was a death trap. Those few Highlanders who did survive the archers’ arrows would be heavily outmatched. It was not the English numbers which were about to be weakened; it was theirs.

“We aren’t joining the battle,” Cole said and began to retreat.

Rob reached out and grabbed Cole’s arm. “If your brother being here bothers you so much, then leave, but I’m staying.”

Cole stared into his friend’s eyes. “It’s suicide, Rob. The English have us flanked on two sides, and judging by the amount of armor starting to shine through those trees, we have less than a tenth of the men. It’s going to be a slaughter.”

“You’re wrong. Look, MacDonnill is moving men even now to attack.”

Cole watched in horror as MacDonnill split his forces. Sounds erupting from the field below suddenly filled his ears as the Highlanders began to yell and clank their swords, forecasting victory. But Cole knew miserably that it was not to be theirs.

The cliff provided an excellent vantage point of the staging area. From here, almost anyone could see what was about to happen. Anyone but Rob. His friend had never understood the art of strategy. Having trouble thinking ahead, Rob always addressed the problem facing him, not the one coming. Even now, he couldn’t see how the battle would unfold, but Cole could. MacDonnill had just sent over a hundred men to their deaths, and he doubted the English would be stupid enough not to take advantage of the mistake.

“What do we have here?”

The snarl came from behind them, accompanied with the clatter of metal made only by men wearing bulky armor. With all the noise below, Cole had not heard them approach until it was too late. His heart began to pound even faster realizing the mistake.

“Looks like two Scottish whoresons dressed like women.”

Rob shifted to look at them, but Cole refused to turn around. One of them kicked his shin. “’Ere now, don’t you know enough to look at your betters when they are speaking to you?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Cole could see Rob stare with open mouth at the man. His friend spoke only Gaelic and had no clue what filth the English soldiers were spouting. Cole wished he were so blessed with ignorance. His father’s closest friend, a Highlander who lived near the English border, had made sure all the McTiernays were well versed in the English tongue. He believed, as did his father, that one had to understand the enemy before he could defeat him. Cole had always refused to speak the words, but he understood them.

Just as he understood he was about to die.

He could feel his broadsword burning next to his thigh, but having it did little good. One movement toward it would bring instant death, and reason prompted him to do whatever he had to do to stay alive.

He flipped over as they ordered and surveyed the depressing reality of his situation.

Three men of varying height towered over them. It was impossible to tell how broad they were with all the metal they wore, but from their eyes, Cole could see who was in charge. The man was standing a little over ten feet away, leaning on the hilt of his sword, which he had stabbed into the ground, and from the glint in his black eyes, Cole knew the man was a heartless bastard fully intent on killing them.

The one closest to Rob kicked him in the ribs. When Rob instinctively reached for his sword, the man stomped on his friend’s hand. Cole could hear the bones snap under the weight. To Rob’s credit, he didn’t scream, but just stared back. He was just as aware as Cole that they were about to die.

“Hey now, I don’t think you will be needing that today,” the English soldier sneered, kicking the broadsword away. “And I would apologize for the hand, but I don’t think you will be needing that either.”

“What do you think they’re doing up here?” another asked. “Scouting? You don’t think they were planning on fighting, do you?” Cole suspected he had been brought along for his brawn, not his intelligence.

“Even the Scots aren’t dumb enough to let their boys fight a man’s battle.”

One soldier poked Cole in the side. “Hey, how old are you?”

Rob immediately cried out, “Sguir!” yelling for them to stop. “My brother’s only a boy! He knows nothing but farming. I am the one you want.”

The instant Rob shouted his lies, the soldiers responded. A foot weighted by iron links crashed down upon Cole’s chest. Hearing the choking sounds Rob was making, Cole guessed the same had happened to him. The English wanted them to feel helpless and weak, and damn their souls, it was working.

“What did he say?” one of the men asked. “The dregs can’t even talk right. I don’t think they understand a damn word we’re saying.”

The leader’s eyes flicked from Cole to Rob and back to Cole again. Finally, he spoke. “The gaping one doesn’t,” the leader finally decided. “But the dark-haired boy does. You understand every word we are saying, don’t you? Just who are you? A farmer boy wanting to play soldier?”

His voice was deep and had a sick tone to it. The man had more than just a willingness to kill; he enjoyed the act itself. His question also proved he understood enough Gaelic to interpret some of Rob’s lies.

Cole leveled his hard gaze and let all emotion drain out of him. He was not afraid of dying and it must have shown because the leader chuckled and approached, his cruel smile growing larger as if he just thought of a delightful game involving pain and death. The soldier pinning Cole down adjusted his stance, but did not free him.

The leader swung his polished blade around and pointed it at Cole’s neck. Cole could feel Rob squirming and heard him choking. That’s when Cole grasped it was not Rob’s chest they were using to pin him down, but his windpipe.

Cole felt as if the hand of God had swooped down and torn him in half. The part with any emotion, any feeling, was screaming to save his best friend, to do something, say anything that would get the bastard to lift his foot and let Rob breathe. But the other part—the part that controlled his actions—refused to move. Every emotion, every foolish hope and childish dream he had ever had, was shriveling, leaving only a cold, empty shell in its place.

Cole stared in silent defiance as the leader slowly pressed the tip of his sword into his throat. Warm blood began to trickle down the side of Cole’s neck and then past the back of his ear. When Cole remained unresponsive to the pain, the metallic edge began to move upward, unhurried, to slice the skin. Bit by bit the blade carved its way up the neckline, stopping at the curve of Cole’s chin. The man was waiting for him to fight back, put up some type of resistance. His enjoyment rested upon reactions—a cry, a flinch, a whimper…anything to let him know that Cole was afraid.

But Cole wasn’t afraid of dying. What he was most afraid of was living.

The leader must have seen it. Somehow, he had recognized that one weakness. The man smiled cruelly, lifted his blade, and then nodded at the soldier to his right. A second later, Rob’s raspy gasps filled the air. No longer was his friend pinned, dying for lack of breath. The leader then pointed at Cole and said, “Tie up the bastard. We wouldn’t want him to suddenly feel heroic and get in the way of our fun.”

Cole heard one of his ribs crack as a foot collided with his side, forcing him to roll over. His arms were yanked back as a coarse rope was slipped around his wrists, binding them tightly together. But not once did his bright blue eyes lose their lock on the maniacal leader as he walked over to his friend’s side.

He leered at Rob and then returned his attention back to Cole. “I’ll admit that I had thought to kill you first, but I have come to realize your death means little to you. So I have changed my mind. You will watch me kill your pathetic farmer-boy brother and the slaughter of your countrymen. And then it will be your turn. Maybe by the time your legs and arms are tied to horses, you will feel more inclined to fight back.”

Then, without any more preamble, the evil man brought his sword high up in the air and then straight down, goring Rob right through his stomach and into the ground. A scream filled the air. The strike was meant to kill slowly, painfully. Then the madman struck again, his crazed smile growing each time Rob shrieked in agony.

Cole knew he was only getting started. The man would continue his merciless attack finding more and more ways to exact pain before Rob finally succumbed to his death. And there was nothing Cole could do but watch. He knew if he closed his eyes for even one second, the English lunatic would think he had won.

Suddenly, a trumpet blasted over the strath and a man riding an armor-covered horse broke over the ridge. Pausing only briefly to assess Cole and then Rob, who was now writhing on the ground, he rode straight to the leader. “Lincoln wants you and your men on the west bank now.”

The confidence the leader had worn just moments ago dissolved upon hearing the order. “The west b…” He moved to look over the ridge at the troops below. For the first time since locking his eyes on the murderer, Cole broke his gaze and looked out.

The English archers who had lined the western flank, ensuring the doom of the Scottish cause, were gone. Somehow, MacDonnill had maneuvered a handful of men behind them and they now lay dead. The battle would now be fought between the English cavalry and Scottish spearmen, a much more equitable turn of events. Cole knew who was behind the miracle. His brother. Conor must have somehow talked some sense into MacDonnill, and the pompous laird, recognizing his perilous situation, had listened. The English numbers were still significantly greater, but there was now a chance.

The English soldiers must have seen the same thing. The leader pivoted, ordered his men to get their horses, and grabbed his sword still protruding from Rob’s abdomen. But just as he jumped on his mount, he turned to face Cole. “This changes nothing. Watch your people pray to God as they meet with their end, and when I return, it will be my turn to listen to you beg for mercy.”

And then he was gone.

Cole collapsed and closed his eyes, listening to his heartbeat. He tried to feel something…anything. Fear, anger, remorse. There was nothing. Then he heard Rob.

“Cole…” Rob’s voice was weak and close to death.

Cole scooted awkwardly over to his friend. “I’m here.” He wanted to say hold on, I’m going for help, you are going to be all right, but each time he tried, the words got caught in his throat. All he could mutter was “I’m here” again and again, hoping to reassure his friend that he would not die alone.

“Do something for me.”

Cole swallowed. “What?”

“Live. I have a dagger in my belt. Use it to get free and then I want you to make every English blaigeard pay for what they do today.”

“I will.” Cole choked on the two words. Hearing his dying friend speak in such pain was making everything seem more real, more awful. The detached part of himself was slamming back inside and his heart was wrenching.

“Don’t forget me and what they did. Promise me, Cole. Promise me you won’t forget.”

“I promise.”

“And Cole…” Gurgles of blood started sputtering from Rob’s mouth. “Tell my father…”

But before he could finish the request, his eyes glazed over and Cole knew that his best friend since he had been four years old was dead. A deep hatred began to slide over his skin, slipping into his pores. The urge to join the ensuing battle below was paramount. He would find the English leader with cold black eyes and drive a blade straight through his heart.

Twisting around, Cole fumbled with the back of Rob’s belt for what seemed an eternity. Then he felt the small cool blade on his fingers and slid the tiny weapon out of its casing. A minute later, he was free.

Picking up his broadsword, he swung it high in the air and then began yelling as he descended the steep slope to join the battle.

Crazed, detached, almost unaware of his actions or what he was doing, Cole began swinging his weapon haphazardly at anything covered in armor that was moving. He plunged and sliced and created a bloody swath through every English soldier he encountered, searching for the one man who had dared to mutilate Rob.

Then he found him. He was sitting atop his horse, behind the fighting, among several other English leaders, confident that he was safe. Cole was charging the small group when a lone arrow appeared and found its target. The man came down off his horse with a crashing thud. The others immediately rode off hoping to avoid being next.

Cole screamed in fury and ran up to the Englishman hoping to find him alive. But revenge was not to be his. The arrow had pierced his jugular and the man was dead. Cole cried out and was about to behead him when suddenly his weapon was stripped from his hands. Turning to attack, Cole encountered Conor, who threw his sword down and gathered him in his arms.

“It’s over now, Cole. It’s over. He’s dead.”

Cole shook his head. “It will never be over,” he whispered. “And I won’t forget.”

Fàire Creachann Keep, off Loch Shieldaig, 1311

Cole McTiernay leaned back in the worn chair and outstretched his long legs, crossing them at the ankles. He stared out one of the few windows in the keep that had not been broken by years of wear and neglect. Clouds had begun to thicken around the Highland mountains of Torridon, and with each minute that passed, their humid masses sank just a little lower down the rugged primeval slopes. It had yet to start raining, but drops would begin to fall any moment. The unusually cold and damp spring weather had done little to help the moods of those in the room—including his own.

As choices go, it should have been a simple one and Cole was baffled why it wasn’t. Newly formed clans needed chieftains and chieftains needed an army, financial means, and the ability to make difficult decisions. All of which he possessed and Lonnagan did not. Those differences alone should have dictated who would be laird.

But not for these stubborn people.

When he had been approached to lead the nomadic clans of the northern Highlands, he had halfheartedly agreed. His men and their families desired a home and he, too, was restless and needed a change. Then word had come that another was being considered. And after ten days of endless discussions, Cole was no longer confident he was going to be the one selected. Even more surprising, he wasn’t sure whether he would be disappointed or relieved.

Heavy footsteps came up from behind. Controlled and methodical, they could only belong to one man—his older brother. Cole craned his head, gave a slight nod in acknowledgment, and then returned his gaze out the window to the lapping waters of the sea. “Made a decision?”

“No,” Conor grunted, not even trying to hide his frustration, “and you know why.”

Cole sighed and bobbed his head slightly. “I’m leaving in the morning.”

“None too soon. You and Dugan haven’t been making things easier.”

“He’s easily provoked,” Cole replied with a slight shrug.

Conor wanted to throttle his younger brother. The man had perfected the persona of one who was detached and unconcerned about the plights of others, but it wasn’t true. One only had to look into his eyes to see the sorrow Cole carried. An ache brought about from profound sadness. But Cole never would allow anyone to look long enough, deep enough, to see anything but indifference. Until he learned how to drop his guard, share his thoughts, and allow someone to grow close to him, his pain would never heal.

Cole McTiernay was the third of seven brothers, and all could be exasperatingly stubborn when they wanted to be, but Cole was famous for his obstinacy, especially when it came to his hatred of all things English. Over the years, Conor and his brothers had tried to get him to open up. But each time they pushed, Cole would emotionally retract, burying himself behind some distant, impenetrable wall. Eventually, he and his brothers had stopped trying.

Conor often wondered if that had been a mistake. Did they give up too soon? Or had they been wise to back off in fear of pushing their brother away altogether? Cole was an incredible soldier, a superb strategist, and a worthy leader, but as a man, he was hollow inside. He lacked something…something that made one want to face a new day. Conor had hoped this opportunity would give Cole the drive missing from his life, but after the heated discussions that had taken place the past couple of days, his brother acted as if he cared even less about the possibility of becoming laird than he had before.

“It’s been a lousy week,” Conor mumbled, looking for another chair.

“It’s been a lousy two weeks,” Cole corrected. “You were lucky and missed the first half.”

“So mocking Dugan, trying to make him look like a fool, was your way to perk things up?”

“Dugan is a fool. I just exposed it for all to see.”

All seven McTiernays had a dry sense of humor, but Cole was a master at sarcasm. He could deliver clever yet slicing remarks with such a straight face, it was hard to tell if he was serious or just amusing himself. In today’s case, it mattered little, for the damage had been done. “Dugan’s not the fool you make him out to be.”

Cole shrugged. “If he wasn’t, then it shouldn’t have been so easy to make him sound like one.”

“He’s a good man. And while I agree he might not be the most tactical of soldiers…”

Cole stiffened. “Try heedless, foolhardy…”

“But he could make a good leader,” Conor tried again. “He understands and relates to people. An ability you have yet to attempt, let alone master. Why is that, I wonder?”

Cole’s jaw clenched. For nearly a week, he had been tolerating Dugan’s propensity to discuss ad nauseam the most nonsensical topics. And though Cole refused to admit it out loud, he didn’t believe Dugan to be unintelligent. The man had proven himself a talented soldier—even capable of being heroic. And his friendly overtures to the clan would have been exceptionally brilliant, if they had been intentional. Dugan, however, didn’t have a strategic bone in his body. His friendliness, easiness with others, and almost effortless ability to gain a person’s trust had been natural and unplanned.

What truly bothered Cole was the man’s incredible shortsightedness. Dugan just reacted to whatever was happening directly in front of him, never considering the consequences of his statements and ideas. And for the past couple of days, Cole had been exposing that weakness time and time again. So no, he wasn’t threatened by Dugan; he was just confounded at everyone’s inability to recognize the depth of the man’s shortcomings. Who cared if he was nice? These people needed a leader…not a friend.

Cole twiddled his thumbs. “Dugan staying?”

Conor shook his head. “Left already. Your last barbs about his ideas of where and what should serve as the residence for these clansmen left him with little choice.”

“His ideas, as you put it, were ill-conceived just as most of his other plans, and everyone who heard them, with the exception of Dugan, knows it. You say he’s a good man, and he may be, but if he becomes laird of this motley group, don’t be surprised if you’re back here in a year trying to figure out how to clean up his mess. And when that happens, don’t bother asking me to pick up the pieces, for the answer will be no.”

Cole stood up and glanced at the small group of lairds sitting around a broken-down table on the far side of the room. They had assembled here almost two weeks ago to determine what to do about the northern nomadic tribes. Leaderless from either disease or war, the various clansmen had banded together informally over the years just to stay alive. Their continual raids upon neighboring clans and stock had gone from annoying to invasive and then intolerable. This gathering was a last effort to achieve peace. Many Highlanders had died in recent years securing Scotland’s freedom, and while no one relished more killing, if a new laird was not agreed upon soon, more deaths were inevitable.

“After this week, I doubt anyone would be clamoring your name if that happened. And while a few of us have similar doubts about Dugan’s ability to run a clan, we have none whatsoever about his desire to be here and lead these people.”

Cole grunted. Was that the crux of the difficulty in deciding who should be laird? Who wanted it more? And if that was it, Cole wasn’t sure how to respond. He knew he should be concerned about the outcome of the discussions, but with each passing day, he had found himself caring a little less.

He never asked for the opportunity—what some called honor—to lead the lawless, prideful bunch, nor did he ever aspire to it. But Dugan had.

Just a year younger than Cole’s twenty-seven years, Dugan Lonnagan had seen a fair number of battles and had won more than his share of fights. Unlike Cole, however, Dugan had no army, no means to support one, and no money to maintain one even if he did have it. Those reasons alone had led Cole to believe the question of who should be the next laird to be simple. Yet, the past two weeks had proved it was a much more complicated selection than Cole had anticipated it would be.

It was coming down to ability versus personality.

Dugan was tall—though Cole still dwarfed him—good looking with dark sandy brown hair, and possessed an easy nature that drew people to him as if he were honey and they were flies. Conversely, Cole lacked the patience and talent for simple conversation—especially with women and children. His reticent nature prompted him to communicate in a direct style that tended to keep people away, not beckon them to his side. In short, Dugan Lonnagan was everything that Cole was not.

So whom should they choose?

Dugan was beloved by many of the clansmen, but Cole would bring with him key alliances with neighboring clans. Then again, Cole’s name and battle success could also bring enemies—namely the English, while Dugan was relatively unknown to the southern enemy. And yet, nearby adversaries would discount Dugan, but fear Cole and his army.

Complicating the decisi. . .