Highland Destiny

Book 1: Murrays

by Hannah Howell

Genres: Historical Romance; General Fiction; Romance

Synopsis

When destiny brought Sir Balfour Murray and his wounded brother down the same road as Maldie Kirkaldy, she offered her services as a nurse even as she tried to deny the desire this dark-eyed knight had ignited at first sight. Soon they discover that they both share a mission of vengeance, but Maldie cannot tell him her true identity-to do so would brand her a spy . . .

Sworn to avenge his family as chief of the Doncoill Clan, Balfour vows to destroy his greatest foe, with Maldie at his side. Yet Balfour knows that he can no more afford to trust her than he can ignore his lust for this sultry beauty. Now, he is not only determined to unearth her deepest secrets, but also to pursue his passion for her. And nothing will stand in his way . . .

Release date: July 1, 2007

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

Scotland, Spring 1430

“Young Eric is gone.”

Balfour Murray, the laird of Donncoill, looked up from the thick venison stew he had been savoring and frowned at his sergeant of arms. The heavily muscled James looked dirty, weary, and pale with concern. It took a great deal to unsettle the placid James, and Balfour felt his insides tighten with unease, effectively killing his appetite.

“What do ye mean—gone?” he asked, rinsing out his mouth with a large swallow of hearty red wine.

James swallowed hard, shifting his feet slightly and making a soft rustle in the fresh rushes scattered over the floor of the great hall. “The lad has been taken,” he confessed, eyeing the tall, dark laird of Donncoill with a mixture of shame and wariness. “We were out hunting when we were surrounded by near to a dozen men. Colin and Thomas were cut down, God rest their brave souls, but they accounted for twice their number ere they fell. I told Eric to flee for there was a breach in the enemy’s line. He and I rode through it, but the lad’s horse faltered. Ere I could aid him, they had captured him. They fled with him. I was no longer of any interest to them, so I hied back here.”

“Who took the boy?” Balfour demanded after ordering a young page to go and find his brother Nigel.

“ ’Twas Beaton’s men.”

That Sir William Beaton would cause him trouble was no surprise to Balfour. The laird of Dubhlinn had been a thorn in the side of the Murrays for many a year. That the man would take Eric was a shock, however. Eric was the result of a brief liaison between their father and one of Beaton’s late wives. The man had callously left the infant exposed on a hillside to die. It had been simple chance that had brought James along that same path as he had returned from a hunt. The tiny Eric had been wrapped in cloth with the Beaton colors, and it had not taken his father long to discover who the child was. That Beaton would leave a helpless bairn to die appalled all of the Murrays. That the man would try to so callously murder a Murray enraged them. The Beatons had always been an irritation. At that moment they became the enemy. Balfour knew his father’s hatred for Beaton had run deep, a hatred increased by the sudden and very suspicious death of the woman he had loved. The resulting feud had been fierce and bloody. Upon his father’s death, Balfour had hoped for some peace. It was painfully clear that the laird of Dubhlinn cared nothing for peace.

“Why would Beaton want Eric?” Balfour suddenly tensed, gripping his heavy silver goblet so tightly that the ornate carvings on the side cut into his palm. “Do ye think he means to murder the boy? To finish what he tried to do so many years past?”

“Nay,” James replied, after frowning in thought for a moment. “If Beaton wanted the laddie dead he would have sent his dogs to kill Eric, nay to just take him as they did. This took planning. It wasnae any chance meeting where a few Beatons and Murrays crossed paths and the Beatons decided ’twas a fine time to cull our numbers. These men were waiting and watching for us, for Eric.”

“Which tells me that we have grown dangerously careless in our guard, but little else. Ah, Nigel,” Balfour murmured as his younger brother strode into the great hall. “ ’Tis good that ye were found so swiftly.”

“The lad ye sent to find me babbled something about Eric being taken?” Nigel sprawled on the bench at Balfour’s side and poured himself some wine.

Balfour wondered how Nigel could look so calm. Then he saw that his brother was gripping his goblet in the same way he was, so tightly that his knuckles had whitened. There was also a hard look in Nigel’s amber eyes, a look that had darkened them until they were nearly as dark a brown as his own. Balfour doubted that he would ever cease to be amazed at how well and how completely his brother could control strong emotion. He succinctly related what little he knew, then waited impatiently for Nigel to stop sipping at his wine and speak.

“Beaton needs a son,” Nigel finally said, the coldness in his deep voice the only hint of the fury he felt.

“He cast Eric aside years ago,” Balfour argued, signaling James to come and sit with them.

“Aye, for he had years left in which to breed himself a son. He failed. Scotland is littered with Beaton’s daughters, those born of his wives as weel as those born of his mistresses, whores, and even of poor unwilling lasses who had the ill luck to come within his reach.”

James nodded slowly and combed his fingers through his graying black hair. “And I have heard that the mon isnae weel.”

“The mon is rapping, loudly, on death’s door,” Nigel drawled. “His kinsmen, his enemies, and his nearest neighbors are all closing in on him. There is no one he has chosen as his heir. He probably fears to choose one, for that mon would surely hasten his death. The wolves are baying at his gates and he is desperately fighting them back.”

“When he left Eric on that hillside to die, he told the world and its mother that he didnae believe the bairn was his,” Balfour said.

“Eric looks more like his mother than a Murray. Beaton could claim him. Aye, few might believe him, but there will be naught they can do for the lad was born of Beaton’s lawful wife. A tale of a fit of blind jealousy would be all that was needed to explain away his claims that our father had cuckolded him. The mon is cursed with unthinking rages, and all ken it. They might question that Eric is truly born of his seed, but none would doubt that Beaton could become so enraged he would turn a bairn out to die, even one of his own.”

Balfour cursed and shoved his long fingers through his thick chestnut hair. “So the bastard means to put young Eric betwixt him and his enemies.”

“I have no proof of all of this, but, aye, that is what I think.”

“When I put what I ken of the mon together with all I have heard of late and what ye think, it sounds too much like the truth to argue. Eric is too young to be thrust into that nest of vipers. He may be safe as long as Beaton is alive and fear keeps his men loyal to him, but the moment the mon is too weakened by his ailments to be feared or he dies, I dinnae think Eric will survive for long.”

“Nay, mayhaps not even long enough to see the bastard buried. We cannae leave the lad there. He is a Murray.”

“I wasnae thinking of leaving him with the Beatons, although he has as much claim to what little Beaton leaves behind as any other. I was but wondering how much time we have to pull him free of Beaton’s deadly grasp.”

“Mayhap days, mayhap months, mayhap even years.”

“Or mayhap merely hours,” Balfour said, smiling grimly when Nigel shrugged, revealing that he thought the same.

“We must ride for Dubhlinn as soon as we can,” James said.

“Aye, it would seem that we must,” agreed Balfour.

He cursed and took several deep swallows of wine to try and calm himself. There would be another battle. More good men would lose their lives. Women would grieve and children would be left fatherless. Balfour hated it. He had no fear of battle. In defense of his home, the church, or the king, he would be the first to don armor. The constant bloodletting caused by feuds was what troubled him. A lot of Murrays had died because his father had loved and bedded another laird’s wife. Now they would die to try and save the child of that adulterous union. Although Balfour loved his brother and felt the boy deserved to be fought for, it was just another part of a long feud that should never have been started.

“We will ride for Dubhlinn in the morning, at first light,” Balfour said finally. “Prepare the men, James.”

“We will win, Balfour, and we will get wee Eric back,” Nigel assured his brother as soon as James had left the great hall.

Balfour studied his brother and wondered if Nigel truly felt the optimism he expressed. In many ways Nigel was just like him, but in just as many ways he was so different as to be a puzzle. Nigel was lighter of spirit, just as he was lighter of coloring. It had never surprised Balfour that Nigel had a greater skill with the ladies, for Nigel had the sweet tongue and charming nature he himself lacked. Nigel also had the gift of fine looks. Balfour had often gazed at himself in the looking glass and wondered how one man could be so brown, from his dark brown hair to his dark brown eyes to his swarthy skin. He sometimes had to fight the sour taste of envy over Nigel’s appearance, especially when the ladies sighed over his younger brother’s thick reddish brown hair, his amber eyes, and his golden skin. Now, as in so many times in the past, Balfour was drawn to share in Nigel’s more hopeful view of the coming battle. His own feeling, however, was that they were all marching to their deaths and could quite easily cause Eric’s death as well. Balfour decided he would try to settle his mood at some place in between the two.

“If God is with us, aye, we will win,” Balfour finally said.

“Saving a sweet lad like Eric from a bastard like Beaton ought to be a cause God will shed His favor on.” Nigel smiled crookedly. “Howbeit, if God truly was paying close heed, He would have struck that adder dead many years ago.”

“Mayhap He decided that Beaton was more richly deserving of the slow, painful death he now suffers.”

“We shall see that the mon dies alone.”

“All ye have said about Beaton’s plans makes sense, yet the mon must be completely mad to think that it will work. Aye, he may be able to get others to believe that Eric is his son, or, at best, nay to question it openly. For all his scheming he hasnae considered our wee brother Eric. The laddie might be slight of build and sweet of nature, but he isnae weak or witless. Beaton’s plan cannae work unless Eric plays his part as told. The minute the mon eases his guard, the lad will flee that madhouse.”

“True, but there are many ways to secure such a slender lad.” Nigel sighed and rubbed his chin as he fought yet again to control his emotion. “We also ken that there are many ways to cloud the truth in a person’s mind. Grown men, strong, battle-hardened knights, have been forced to confess to crimes they never committed. Confessions were pulled from their lips that then cost them their lives, sent them to deaths that were neither swift nor honorable. Aye, Eric is strong of spirit and quick of wit, but he is still nay more than a slender lad.”

“And he is alone,” Balfour murmured, fighting the urge to immediately ride for Dubhlinn, sword in hand, screaming loudly for Beaton’s head on a pike. “Come the morrow, whether we win or lose, at least the lad will ken that he is not alone, that his clan is fighting for him.”

Dawn arrived cloaked in a chill, gray mist. Balfour stood in the crowded bailey of Donncoill and studied his men, struggling to push aside the dark thought that some of them would not return from this battle. Even if Eric was not beloved by all of Donncoill, honor demanded that they free him from their enemy’s hold. Balfour just wished that there was a bloodless way to do it.

“Come, brother!” murmured Nigel as he led their horses over to Balfour. “Ye must look as if ye hunger for Beaton’s blood and carry no doubt of victory in your heart.”

Balfour idly patted his warhorse’s thick muscular neck. “I ken it and ye will ne’er see me waver once we mount. I had but prayed that we would have a time of peace, a time to heal all wounds, gain strength, and work our lands. There is a richness in this land, but we ne’er have the time to fully harvest it. We either neglect it to ride to battle, or our enemies destroy whatever we have built, thus leaving us to begin all over again. I but suffer from a deep weariness.”

“I understand, for it has afflicted me from time to time. This time we fight for Eric’s life. Aye, mayhap e’en his soul. Think only on that.”

“I will. ’Tis more than enough to stir the bloodlust needed to lead men to battle.” He mounted, holding his horse steady only long enough for Nigel to get into his saddle, then began to lead his men out of the bailey.

As he rode, Balfour did as Nigel had suggested and thought only of his young, sweet-natured brother. Soon he was more than eager to face Beaton and his men sword to sword. It was also far past time to put an end to the man and his crimes.

Nigel fell from his horse, one arrow protruding from his chest, another from his right leg. Balfour bellowed out a fierce curse, fear and anger strengthening his deep voice. He dismounted and pushed his way through his beleagured army until he reached Nigel. Even as he crouched by Nigel’s side, uncaring of how he was exposing himself to the deadly rain of arrows from the walls of Dubhlinn, he saw that his brother still breathed.

“Praise God,” Balfour said and signaled two of his men to pick up Nigel.

“Nay, we must not cease just because I have fallen,” Nigel protested as he was carried to the greater safety at the rear of the army. “Ye cannae let the bastard win.”

Balfour ordered his men to prepare a litter for Nigel, then looked down at his brother. “He won this battle ere we had arrayed ourselves upon this cursed field. The mon kenned that we would come after Eric, and he was ready.” He grabbed a white-faced page and pulled the boy away from the other youths huddled near the horses. “Have the retreat called, laddie. We will flee this land ere we are all buried in it.”

Nigel swore vociferously as the boy hurried away. “May the bastard’s eyes rot in his face.”

“Defeat is indeed a bitter drink,” Balfour said as he knelt by Nigel. “Howbeit, we cannae win this battle. We can only die here. That willnae aid young Eric. Dubhlinn is stronger than I remembered or had planned for. We must flee, lick our wounds, and think of another way to pull our wee brother free of Beaton’s grasp. Ye two lads,” he called, pointing to the two largest of the terrified pages. “Come and hold Nigel steady as I pull these arrows free of his flesh.”

The moment the two boys flanked Nigel and grasped him, Balfour set to work. As he pulled the first arrow out, Nigel screamed and fainted. Balfour knew that would not completely free his brother of the pain, however, and he worked as fast as he dared to remove the second arrow. He tore his own shirt into rags to bind the wounds, wincing over the filth on the cloth. His men were already in full retreat by the time he got Nigel on the litter, and he wasted no time in following them.

Defeat was a hard, bitter knot in his belly, but he forced himself to accept it. The moment he had ridden onto the open land surrounding Dubhlinn he had sensed that he had erred. His men had rushed into the attack before he could stop them. Beaton’s defenses had quickly proven to be strong and deadly. Balfour was both saddened and enraged by the deaths and injuries suffered by his men before he was able to pull them free of the slaughter. He could only hope that this folly had not cost him too dearly. As they marched back to Donncoill, a carefully selected group of men watching their backs, Balfour prayed that he could think of a way to free Eric without shedding any more blood, or, at least, not as much blood as had soaked the fields before Dubhlinn on this ill-fated day. Looking down at the slowly rousing Nigel, he also prayed that freeing one brother would not cost him the life of another.

The chilling sounds of battle cruelly destroyed the peace and pleasure of the unusually warm spring morning. Maldie Kirkcaldy cursed and hesitated in her determined march toward Dubhlinn, a march that had begun at her mother’s grave three long months ago. As her mother’s shrouded body had been lowered into its final resting place, she had sworn to make the laird of Duhblinn pay dearly for the wrongs he had done them. She had carefully prepared for everything—poor weather, lack of shelter, and lack of food. She had never considered the possibility that a battle would impede her advance.

Maldie sat down at the edge of the deeply rutted wagon track and scowled toward Dubhlinn. For a brief moment she considered drawing closer. It might be useful to know which one of the bordering clans was trying to destroy Beaton. She shook that tempting thought aside. It was dangerous to draw too close to a battle, especially when one was not known to either side. Even those who were trailing their clansmen, known to friend and foe alike, risked their lives by lingering too close to the battle. There was, however, always the chance of meeting with Beaton’s enemies later, she mused. All she had to do was convince Beaton’s enemy that she was his ally, and a good and useful one at that.

Idly drawing a pattern in the dirt with a stick, Maldie shook her head and laughed at her own foolishness. “Aye, and doesnae every fine, belted knight in the land cry out his eagerness to call wee Maldie Kirkcaldy his companion in arms.”

After a quick look around to reassure herself that she was still alone, Maldie dragged her hands through her thick, unruly hair and cursed herself. Although slender and small, she had survived three months alone wandering lands she did not know. It would be madness to lose the caution that had kept her alive, especially now when she was so close to fulfilling her vow. She had never spent so long a time so completely alone, her only companion her own vengeful thoughts, and decided it was starting to affect her wits. Maldie knew she would have to be even more careful than she had been thus far. To fail now, when she was so near to gaining the revenge her mother had begged for, would be bitter indeed.

The sounds of battle grew less fierce and she tensed, slowly rising to her feet. Instinct told her the battle was ending. The road she stood on showed clear signs of a recent passing. That army would soon return along the road, either heady with victory or bowed with defeat. Either mood could prove to be a threat to her. Maldie brushed the dust from her much mended skirts even as she backed into the thick concealing shrubs and wind-contorted trees bordering each side of the road. It was not the most secure shelter, but she felt confident that it would serve. If the army that would soon pass her way had been victorious, it would be little concerned about any possible threat. If it had lost, it would simply be watching its rear flanks. Either way she should be safe if she remained still and quiet.

After crouching in the bushes and staring down the road for several moments Maldie began to think that she had guessed wrong, that no one was coming her way. Then she heard the faint but distinct jingle of horses’ harnesses. She tensed and frantically tried to decide what to do. Although a prideful part of her stoutly declared that she was doing very well on her own, she knew that an ally or two could be very helpful. If nothing else she might be able to gain a more comfortable place to wait as she decided the best way to use all the knowledge she had gained in the last three months.

She had just convinced herself that Beaton’s enemies were her friends, that it could only benefit her to approach them, when she caught her first sight of the army and her confidence in her decision faltered. Even from a distance the army marching away from Dubhlinn looked defeated. If an army of trained knights, weighted down with armor and weaponry, was not enough to defeat Beaton, what hope did she have? Maldie quickly shook aside that sudden doubt in herself. She could not so easily cast aside or ignore her doubts about the men stumbling toward her. If Beaton could win against them with all their strength and skill, what use could they be to her? As they drew near enough for her to see the grief, weariness, and pain on their begrimed faces, she knew she had to make her final decision.

A once defeated ally was better than none, she told herself as she slowly rose to her feet. If nothing else they might have knowledge she did not, knowledge that could help her gain what she sought—Beaton’s death. That was if they did not kill her first. Praying fiercely that she was not just inviting a quick death, Maldie stepped out onto the road.

Maldie prayed that the tall, dark knight coming to a cautious halt before her could not hear how swift and hard her heart was beating. He made no threatening move toward her, and she fought to calm her fear. When she had first stepped out of the shelter of the thick brush to stand before the battered, retreating army, the possibility of gaining a few allies had made such a rash move seem worth the risk. Now that she was actually face to face with the men, seeing the cold looks on their faces, the mud and blood of battle smearing their clothes and bodies, she was not so sure. And, worse, she was no longer certain she could adequately explain her presence there, alone, on the road to Dubhlinn, or that she could immediately reveal her dark plans of revenge. These men were warriors, and she was not contemplating a battle, but a righteous murder.

“Might ye explain what a wee lass is doing alone on this road?” Balfour asked, shaking free of the hold of her wide, deep green eyes.

“Mayhap I just wished to get a closer look at how badly old Beaton has defeated you,” Maldie replied, wondering a little wildly what it was about the broad-shouldered, dark-eyed man that prompted her to be so dangerously impertinent.

“Aye, that bastard won the battle.” Balfour’s deep voice was rough and cold with fury. “Are ye one of those carrion who seek to pick o’er the bones of the dead? If ye are, ye had best step aside and keep walking down this road.”

She decided to ignore that insult, for it was one she had earned with her own ill-chosen words. “I am Maldie Kirkcaldy, just down from Dundee.”

“Ye are a verra long way from home, lass. Why have ye wandered to this cursed place?”

“I seek a few of my kinsmen.”

“Who? I may ken the family and can aid ye in the finding of them.”

“That is most kind of you, but I dinnae think ye can help me. My kinsmen wouldnae have much call to ken a mon as highborn as yourself.” Before he could press for a more informative reply, she turned her attention to the man on the litter. “Your companion looks to be sorely wounded, sir. Mayhap I can help.” She stepped closer to the wounded man, ignoring the way the large knight tensed and made a subtle move as if to block her. “I make no false, vain boast when I claim to have a true skill at healing.”

The firm confidence weighting her words made Balfour step aside, and then he scowled. It did not please him to be so easily swayed by a woman’s words, nor was it wise to so quickly put his trust in a complete stranger. She was unquestionably beautiful, from her wild raven hair to her small booted feet, but he sternly warned himself against letting his wits fall prey to a pretty face. He moved to stand on the opposite side of Nigel’s litter and watched the tiny woman carefully as she hiked up her skirts and knelt by his brother.

“I am Sir Balfour Murray, laird of Donncoill, and this mon is my brother Nigel,” he said, crouching so that he could watch every move of her pale, delicate hands, and lightly resting his hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword. “He was cut down when our enemy used guile and treachery to lure us into a trap.”

As Maldie studied Nigel’s wounds, quickly deciding what needed to be done for the man and silently cursing her lack of the right supplies, she replied, “I am ever and always amazed o’er how men think every other mon will follow the honorable laws of war. If ye would all tread a wee bit more cautiously, ye might not continue to be cut down in such great numbers.” She grimaced with distaste as she quickly removed the dirty rags covering the man’s wounds.

“ ’Tis nay unreasonable to believe that a mon who has attained the honorable title of a knight will act as befits his position.”

Balfour frowned at the soft, deeply scornful noise she made. It was just a little noise, but it carried within it a wealth of emotion—anger, bitterness, and a complete lack of respect. Although her coarse black gown implied that she was lowly born, she offered no deference to a man of his higher standing, nor to anyone of higher birth if he judged her correctly. Balfour wondered who had wronged her, then wondered why he should even care.

He studied her carefully as she bathed Nigel’s wounds and bound them to slow the bleeding. Nigel was already looking more at ease. Balfour decided that her claim of having a healing skill was not an empty one. It was almost as if her mere touch was enough to ease Nigel’s pain. As he watched her smooth the hair from Nigel’s forehead, Balfour found himself thinking of how her small, long-fingered hands would feel moving against his skin. The way his body tightened startled him. He struggled to shake aside the thought and the ill-timed arousal it had invoked.

There was a lot to be drawn to, he reluctantly conceded as he thoroughly looked her over. She was tiny and her gown was old and worn, fitting her slim, shapely form with an alluring snugness. She had high, full breasts, a tiny waist, and temptingly curved hips. For such a small woman she had very long legs, slim and beautifully shaped, which led to feet nearly as small as a child’s. Her wild raven hair was poorly restrained by a blackened strip of leather. Thick, curling tendrils fell forward to caress her pale cheeks. Her rich green eyes were so big they nearly swamped her small, heart-shaped face. Long, thick black lashes framed her lovely eyes and delicately curved dark brows highlighted them perfectly. Her nose was small and straight right to the tip, where it suddenly took a faint turn upward. Beneath full, tempting lips was a pretty, but clearly stubborn, chin. Balfour wondered how she could look so young and delicate yet so sultry at the same time.

I want her, he thought with a mixture of astonishment and some amusement. His amusement was born of wanting such a tiny, impertinent, disheveled woman. His astonishment was born of how quickly and strongly he wanted her, faster and more fiercely than he had ever wanted a woman. The hunger she stirred inside of him was so deep and strong it almost alarmed him. It was the kind of hunger that could make a man act unwisely. He struggled to clear his head and think only of Nigel’s health.

“My brother already looks more hale,” Balfour said.

“Words courteously spoken, but which tell me that ye ken verra little about healing,” Maldie said as she sat back on her heels, wiped her hands on her skirts, and met Balfour’s dark gaze. “I have done little more than bathe the blood and filth away and bound the wounds with cleaner rags. I dinnae have what I need to tend his injuries as they need to be tended.”

“What do ye need?” His eyes widened as she recited a long list, many of the things unrecognizable to him. “I dinnae carry such things to battle.”

“Mayhap ye should. After all, ’tis in battle that ye fools gain such wounds.”

“ ’Tis nay foolish to try and retrieve one’s young brother from the grasp of a mon like Beaton.” He made one short slash with his hand when she began to speak, silencing her. “I have lingered here long enough. I cannae be certain Beaton’s dogs are back in their kennels. They may weel be baying at our backs. Nigel also needs to be sheltered and cared for.”

Maldie stood up and brushed herself off. “Aye, that he does, so ye had best hurry along.”

“Ye have done so weel in tending him even without all ye said ye needed. I will be most curious to see what miracles ye can perform when all ye require is right at hand.”

“What do ye mean?”

“Ye will journey to Donncoill with us.”

“Am I to be your prisoner then?”

“Nay, my guest.”

She opened her mouth to give him a firm, rude refusal, then press. . .