Highland Fire

by Hannah Howell

Genres: Historical Fiction; Historical Romance; Medieval Romance; Scottish & Highlander

Synopsis

New York Times bestselling author Hannah Howell delivers her most enthralling novel yet with the story of an innocent beauty and an unjustly accused laird who discover a rapturous passion as they embark upon a wondrous journey across the rugged Scottish highlands. . . Swept overboard and stranded on the rocky shores of Scotland, Moira Robertson is left with only the tattered clothes on her back--and the mysterious stranger who came to her aid on the ship. Although their close surroundings unsettle her, she soon cannot resist his touch which awakens a burning ache deep within her. But can she trust her life--and her heart--to this darkly seductive man? Tavig MacAlpin is a condemned man. Accused of a murder he did not commit, his escape is thwarted by a flame-haired beauty. He must continue his search for justice, but fate has bound him to this Scottish lass--and to a slow, sensual desire that will not be denied. . . Praise for Hannah Howell and her Highland novels. . . "Few authors portray the Scottish highlands as lovingly or colorfully as Hannah Howell." -- Publishers Weekly "Expert storyteller Howell pens another Highland winner." -- Romantic Times

Release date: June 1, 2008

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 321

Sample

Northwest Coast of Scotland—August 1400

“Come, lass, surely my flattery deserves at least a wee smile.”

Moira stole a glance at the man speaking to her. He had been watching her since she had boarded the ship three days before. Crooked Annie, her sharp tongued watchdog, had grumbled about the man and sternly warned Moira to avoid him. That was not easy to do on such a small ship.

He made her uneasy. His black hair was heavily streaked with gray, and his middle was very thick, causing his doublet to fit oddly. His black beard was straggly, and he wore his hat so low she could not really see his eyes.

Everything about him indicated an aging, somewhat unclean man, yet she noticed a few things that sharply contradicted that image. The tight sleeves of his elegant black doublet revealed strong, slender arms. His equally black hose fit snugly over long, well-shaped legs. His voice was deep and rich, the voice of a vibrant young man. He moved with a lithe grace that belied his apparent age and overfed condition. Then he smiled at her, and Moira was convinced he was not what he appeared to be. The revelation made her even more nervous. Glancing around for Crooked Annie, she was a little annoyed to see the gnarled old woman cozening up to an equally gnarled old sailor.

“She will be over to scold ye and hurry ye away soon enough,” the man said.

“I believe I will go and join her.” She uttered a soft gasp of surprise when he caught her by the hand and held her in place.

“Now, lass, ye dinnae wish to ruin the old crone’s chance for a wee bit of loving, do ye?”

Moira was shocked by his blunt words. The thought of Annie doing any loving at all was almost as unsettling as being touched by the strange man. He started to grin, then frowned. She realized he could read the fear she was unable to hide. Her guardian had taught her well to fear men. It was unfair, but the moment the man grabbed her by the hand, she tensed for a blow.

“Ah, my poor, sweet, timid bairn, ye have no need to fear old George Fraser.”

It stung to hear this man call her a baby, and she quickly regained some of her lost courage, yanking free of his hold. “As I see it, Master Fraser, a ‘bairn’ ought to be verra concerned when a mon thrice her age cozens up to her.”

“Thrice her age?” George gasped then fiddled with the front of his doublet for a moment before shrugging. “Age doesnae stop a mon from appreciating the sight of a bonnie wee lass.”

“Then perhaps your wife ought to.”

“She would have, save that she is no longer with us.” He sighed, slumping against the railing. “My sainted Margaret caught a fever and coughed her last but three years ago.”

“Oh, I am so sorry, sir.” She patted his arm, her sympathy waning a little when she felt how strong and slender that arm was. “I did not mean to stir any painful memories.”

“Here now, ye keep your old eyes off this bairn,” snapped Crooked Annie, snatching Moira’s hand off his arm just as he was about to cover it with his own.

“We were just discussing his wife,” Moira protested, trying to struggle free of Annie’s iron grip, but the woman’s weathered hand was wrapped around her wrist like a manacle.

“Weel, she ought to box the rogue’s ears for being such a lecherous bastard.”

“Annie,” Moira said with a gasp, blushing a little over Annie’s coarse language. “His wife died.”

“Humph. He probably sent her to her deathbed with all his philandering about.”

“I am sorry, sir.” Moira’s apology faltered a little, for she was sure the man was suppressing a grin.

“Come on, lass.” Annie yanked her away from the man, continuing to pull her along as she headed for the ship’s tiny cabins. “Ye dinnae want old Bearnard to catch ye talking to a mon, do ye?”

The mere thought of her guardian sent a chill coursing down Moira’s spine, immediately ending her attempts to resist Crooked Annie’s insistent tug upon her hand. “Nay, I shouldnae like that at all.”

Tavig MacAlpin watched the scowling Crooked Annie drag Moira away and sighed. He leaned against the railing, checking to be sure no one was watching him as he carefully adjusted the thick padding around his middle. Ever since he had set eyes on Moira Robertson his disguise as the graying George Fraser had become a curse, even though he knew it was saving his life. The ransom offered for his capture was big enough to tempt even the most principled of men. There were none of those on the small ship.

It had taken him three long days to grab a chance to speak to Moira, but he wondered why he had been so intent on doing so. He had watched her avidly as she strolled the deck with her bent, gray-haired nurse. Moira’s coppery hair was always braided tightly, but soft curls forever slipped free to frame her small oval face. Whenever he was fortunate enough to get a closer look at her, he marveled at how few freckles colored her soft white skin. He could clearly recall how startled he had been when he stole his first look into her eyes. Tavig had expected brown ones or even green ones, but never the rich, clear blue eyes she possessed. And such big eyes, too, he mused, smiling faintly. He admitted to himself with a soft laugh that he did whatever he could to get her to look his way so that he could see those huge eyes with their long, thick dark lashes.

A chuckle escaped him. It was possible he remembered her face so well because there was not much else of her to see. She was a tiny, too-thin lass. She had a woman’s soft curves, but they were also tiny. She was certainly not his usual fare, yet Tavig had to concede that she had captured his full attention.

He cursed as he recalled the fear that had flashed in her beautiful eyes when he had touched her. That fear had returned in force when Crooked Annie had mentioned Moira’s guardian’s name. Even some of the color in Moira’s high-boned cheeks had faded. Moira’s guardian Sir Bearnard Robertson was a bully. Tavig had seen that from the start. Although Bearnard had not yet struck Moira, Tavig was certain that the possibility existed. He prayed Bearnard would not touch the girl, at least not until Tavig was within running distance of his cousin Mungan’s keep and safety. He knew that if Bearnard Robertson raised a hand against Moira, he would rush to her rescue. A good tussle with a man the size of Robertson could easily ruin his disguise. Tavig knew that would mean being dragged back to his treacherous cousin Iver. And there awaited a hangman’s noose for murders he had not committed.

A sudden chill wind swept over him. Tavig cursed again and shivered, pulling his heavy black cloak fighter around himself. He scowled up at the sky. Mixed in with the usual evening clouds that forecast the approaching night were some very ominous black clouds. Another chill wind blew over the deck with far more force than the first. Tavig cursed. A late summer storm was nearly upon them. He would soon have to return to the small cabin he shared with three other men and he dreaded it. Such close confinement with others only increased his chances of being discovered. The rain the storm would bring was far more threatening to his tenuous disguise, however, so he promised himself he would seek shelter at the first hint of rain.



A heavy weight across Moira’s chest slowly pulled her out of her dreams. She opened her eyes and hastily swallowed a scream. By the dim light of a lantern dangerously left lit and swinging wildly on its ceiling hook, Moira saw that it was not Crooked Annie sprawled on top of her but Connor, her guardian’s man-at-arms. For one long moment she lay still, barely breathing, until she realized Connor was far too drunk to be a threat. Irritation quickly banished her panic.

Moira muttered a curse as she hastily untangled herself from the snoring man. Briefly she considered sleeping on the floor of the crowded cabin, but one look revealed that the wine-soaked people already sprawled there had left little room for her. Pressing against the wall in the hope of keeping away from Connor, who smelled strongly of drink and sweat, Moira cursed the ship. She wondered for the hundredth time why they had not allowed themselves enough time to travel by horse and cart. The ransom demand for her cousin Una had arrived weeks ago. Her guardian could easily have taken a longer, more comfortable route to rescue her. Even the poor roads would not have caused them to suffer such a rough journey. Nor, she thought crossly, would she have had to suffer sleeping in such close quarters with her kinsmen and as many retainers as they could stuff into the tiny cabin.

The ship tossed roughly from side to side again. Moira frowned, listening closely as she gripped the edge of the straw mattress to hold herself away from the loudly snoring Connor. Something was wrong. The tiny ship careened over some very rough seas. Her eyes widened as she heard the wind and rain battering the outer walls of their cabin. They had sailed into a storm and a very fierce one, too, if she was any judge of such things. The rain hit the outside of the ship so hard it sounded like drumbeats. The fierce wind howled as it slammed into the ship’s wood, wailing as it tore around the ship.

Annie. Moira felt her heart skip with fear for her aging companion. The old woman was not in the cabin. She suspected Annie had crept off to see the sailor she had flirted with earlier and was now trapped out in the storm. She had to go see if Annie was safe.

Holding her breath, Moira carefully crept to the foot of the bed. She grabbed her cloak, which swung from a nail on the bedpost, and slipped it on. The moment she got out of bed she dropped to her hands and knees. The way the ship was beginning to rock it would be impossible to maneuver on foot through the people cluttering the cabin floor. Although everyone appeared to be deep in a drink-ladened sleep, Moira inched toward the door, tense with fear that someone would wake up and see her. Discovery would mean confronting her guardian Bearnard.

Once outside of the cabin she paused, bracing herself against the wall of the narrow passage. What should she do next? Annie could be safe and dry in some cabin. Moira shook her head. The man Annie had been cozening up to only hours ago was a mere deckhand, a poor lowly sailor of no rank. He would have no private place to take Annie except up on the deck. She simply had to look and assure herself that her old nursemaid was safe.

Her first attempt almost proved to be her last. Moira edged onto the first step leading up to the deck. The ship lurched, the violent motion knocking her off her feet. She slammed into the hard wall. For several moments she clung to the wall, gasping for breath. Her body still aching, she tried again.

When she first emerged onto the deck the wind and the pelting rain nearly drove her back. Moira gritted her teeth and, using anything at hand to hang on to and steady herself, started on her search for Annie. She could not believe Annie was still outside, yet the woman was not in her bed where she belonged, either. The storm had not completely dimmed the light of dawn, but it would still be difficult to find one thin old woman on the rain-washed deck. Moira heartily cursed Annie as she struggled over the pitching deck.

Tavig saw the small figure, bent against the wind and rain, edging her way, along the deck, and cursed. He had spent the last hour trying to get back to his own cabin but, since the crew was a man short, the captain had forced him to help. Tavig knew that missing man was off with Annie. He also knew that his disguise was melting away with every drop of rain, but if he left he could easily be putting everyone’s life in danger.

And now Moira was there. He had also spent the last hour praying that he was wrong, that she would not come searching for her randy old nursemaid. This was one time when he desperately wanted his accursed foresight to be proven wrong. The girl was stumbling her way toward a great deal of trouble, and he hated knowing that. He especially hated knowing that somehow he would be the cause. She fell to her knees, gripping the railing but a few feet away from him, and he sighed as he stumbled over to her. Now there was only one life he was concerned with.

“What are ye doing here, lass?” he shouted, fighting to be heard over the fury of the storm. “What few sailors are on deck are all lashed to their posts. The others will soon be wisely huddled below decks. ’Tis where ye should be.”

“’Tis where ye should be as weel.”

“I had to help batten down the hatches.” He frowned, looking up at the sky as the wind suddenly eased and the rain grew almost gentle. “It seems the storm needs to catch its breath.”

“Good. Now I can find Annie.”

“Annie is off rutting with her sailor.” He shook his head when she blushed so brightly even the dark could not hide it.

“That may be true, but she could be in trouble now. Once the storm started she should have returned to the cabin.” A gust of wind slapped her, forcing her to cling more tightly to the ship’s railing.

Tavig looked at Moira, trying to think of a way to convince her to go back inside, and froze. The cold familiar feeling that he was caught up in circumstances he could not control or change oozed over him. He tried to keep his frustration and fear out of his voice, but knew he was failing even as he spoke.

“Get away from that railing, lass.”

Moira frowned. There was an odd, strained note to his voice. She tensed, wondering if Master Fraser was something more dangerous than the aging lecher she had thought him to be.

“I will as soon as the wind eases some more,” she replied, trying to decide if she should scurry out of his reach.

“It willnae ease any more,” he snapped. “’Tis a cursed gale. This lull willnae last much longer, and the storm will probably come back stronger than before. Now move away from that twice-cursed railing.”

Even as she decided to do so in an effort to placate him, she suddenly noticed something that halted her. Master Fraser’s hair was no longer the dull color it had been. The gray was seeping out of his shoulder-length hair to settle at the tips in sticky clumps. She stared at him, watching closely as another of the few remaining streaks of gray slithered down his hair. Master Fraser was definitely not what he appeared to be. Curiosity overwhelmed her, and she reached out to touch his hair.

“Your age is washing away in the rain,” she murmured, her eyes widening at the curse he spat.

“I kenned that would happen. I have to get out of this rain.” He grabbed her so forcefully she fell against him.

“So this is where ye disappeared to—out whoring!”

Moira cried out in surprise and fear as her guardian, Sir Bearnard Robertson, grabbed her by the arm, roughly yanking her to her feet. “Nay, sir, I swear I just came out to look for Crooked Annie.”

“In this rogue’s arms?” he bellowed, vigorously shaking her. “Dinnae add lying to your sins, ye little slut.”

As Bearnard raised his meaty hand to strike her, Moira quickly turned to prepare for the blow. She fought to relax, to banish all tension and resistance from her body. Over the years she had learned that such limpness robbed his blows of some of their strength. She made no sound when he backhanded her across the face, sending her slamming onto the rough wooden deck. Landing on her hands and knees, Moira quickly bowed her head, all the while keeping a covert eye on her guardian. She wanted to be ready to avoid the worst of the pain if he decided to add a few kicks to his brutal reprimand.

An odd sound abruptly interrupted her concentration. She shook her head, but it was not a roar from inside her head, caused by the force of her guardian’s blow. A soft, low roar of pure fury erupted from the man calling himself George Fraser. Moira spun around, sitting on the deck to stare at hum. She gaped when he lunged at Bearnard, punching the bigger, heavier man and sending him sprawling onto the deck.

“Such a brave mon ye are, Robertson,” he spat. “It takes such courage to strike down a wee, skinny lass.”

“’Ware, sir,” Bearnard yelled, scrambling to his feet. “A man who scurries after a lass half his age has little right to speak so self-righteously of others. Ye are naught but an old lecher trying to seduce a foolish young lass.”

“Even if that charge were true, ’twould still make me a better mon than some slinking cur who beats a wee lass.”

A growl of pure rage escaped Bearnard as he charged Master Fraser. Both men fell to the deck with a crash. Moira cried out in dismay. Although she had no idea what she could do, she began moving toward the men. She had to stop the fight she had inadvertently caused.

“Dinnae be an idiot,” said a deep voice as she was caught from behind.

“Nicol!” she cried, looking over her shoulder at her cousin. “Where did ye come from?”

“I followed Father when he came looking for you. I must have had a vision that ye were about to do something verra stupid. Sweet Lord, Moira, why would ye want to tryst with that old fool?”

“I wasnae trysting with him. I came looking for Crooked Annie, and Master Fraser was trying to get me to go back to my cabin.”

“Ye should never have left it,” Nicol muttered then cursed softly. “Your savior’s belly has shifted.”

Nicol’s words made no sense, and Moira looked at the two combatants. They were on their feet again, warily circling as each sought a new opening to attack the other. She stared at Master Fraser and gasped. His soft belly was now an uneven lump protruding from his left side. His doublet was torn open, and she could see something sticking out. After staring hard for a moment she realized what it was. Mister Fraser’s soft belly was no more than rolled-up rags.

“His gray hair has washed away, too,” she said.

“Aye,” agreed Nicol. “The mon isnae what he pretends to be. Curse me, but I think I ken who he is.”

Before Moira could ask Nicol to explain, he left her side. Even as he drew near to his father, Bearnard charged Fraser, knocking the smaller man down. Fraser’s hat spun off his head to be caught by the wind and flung out to sea. His now completely black hair whipped around his face as he fought to keep Bearnard from putting his meaty hands around his throat. There was no mistaking Fraser as anything other than a young, strong man.

Nicol took a step toward his father as Bearnard froze. The looks on their faces told Moira they now recognized the man and were stunned by his presence on the ship. The expression forming on Fraser’s face told her that recognition was the very last thing he wanted. She tensed, suddenly afraid for the man who had so gallantly leapt to her defense.

“Tavig MacAlpin,” Bearnard yelled, leaping to his feet and placing his hand on his sword.

“Aye, and what business is it of yours?” Tavig snapped as he cautiously stood up to face the Robertson men.

“’Tis the business of every righteous mon twixt here and London.”

“Ye are no righteous mon, Robertson, but a brute who holds sway o’er others with his fists and an inexhaustible well of cruelty. Ye can command no respect or affection so ye instill fear in all those around you.” Tavig slowly put his hand on his sword, preparing for the attack he knew was to come. “’Tis a wonder ye have lived so long, that no one has yet cut your fat throat.”

“And ye would be a good one to do it, wouldnae ye? Ye like naught better than to creep up from behind a mon and cut his throat. Or their bellies, as ye did to your two friends. Your cousin Iver MacAlpin is offering a handsome sum for ye, and I mean to collect it.” Bearnard drew his sword, lunging at Tavig.

“Father,” yelled Nicol. “Sir Iver doesnae want the mon dead.”

“The bastard deserves killing,” snarled Sir Bearnard.

“Come and try,” taunted Tavig. “Aye, ye may yet get lucky, but I swear I will gut ye ere I die, ye swine.”

Bearnard roared with fury, and his attack became more vicious, but Tavig parried his every blow. He did not wish to die, but he did not want to be taken prisoner, either. If he was returned to his traitorous cousin Iver, he knew he faced a slow, painful death for murders he had not committed. If he could not win the battle against Robertson, then he would make sure the man cut him down.

“Nay, Cousin Bearnard,” Moira cried as Tavig faltered and Bearnard raised his sword to strike the death blow.

As Tavig frantically scrambled out of the way of Bearnard’s sword, he saw Moira rush toward her uncle. He cursed when Bearnard swatted the girl away, hurtling her back against the railing—the very railing Tavig had warned her to get away from. Bearnard’s attention was briefly diverted, and Tavig took quick advantage of that. He charged the man, knocking Bearnard to the ground. With two swift, furious punches he knocked Bearnard out. He barely glanced at Bearnard’s son Nicol as he leapt to his feet and ran to Moira.

“Moira, get away from that railing,” he demanded, ignoring Nicol, who stood to his right, pointing a sword at him.

Still groggy from Bearnard’s blow, Moira did not question him, but as she moved to obey his hoarse command, the renewed winds worked against her. They slammed into her, pushing her hard up against the railing. She tried to reach out for Tavig’s outstretched hand, but the howling wind held her tightly in place, as securely as any chains. Moira felt as if the breath were being forced from her body. The rough wood of the railings dug into her as the gale pressed her harder and harder against them. She could see Tavig start to move toward her, determinedly fighting the winds, but she could not move or extend her hand toward him. Then she heard the ominous sound of wood cracking.

The railing Moira was pinned to gave way even as both Tavig and Nicol yelled a warning. She clung to it as the section swung out over the swirling waters. Moira looked back at the ship to see that the railing she clutched was attached by only one splintered piece of wood. Carefully inching her hands along, she tried to make her way back to the ship, to within reach of Nicol’s and Tavig’s outstretched hands. She was only a finger’s length away from safety when the section of railing gave up its last tenuous connection to the ship. She screamed as she plummeted into the gale-tossed waters.

Tavig bellowed out Moira’s name as he clung to the undamaged railing. He could barely see the white of her nightgown. She still held on to the piece of railing, but half her body was submerged beneath the cold, churning water. Tavig knew Moira could not hold on for long, nor would she be able to pull herself out of the water. Soon she would be dragged beneath the high waves. She needed help if she was to have any chance of survival.

“Get me that rope,” he ordered Nicol, pointing to a length of hemp knotted to a nearby bollard.

“What can ye do?” asked Nicol, resheathing his sword as he hurried to obey.

“Go after her.” Tavig secured the ropes about his arm and moved to the gap in the railing.

Nicol grabbed his arn. “Are ye mad? Ye will be killed.”

“Better to die trying to save some skinny red-haired lass than swinging from Iver’s rope. And mayhap I willnae die.”

As Nicol looked down into the churning waters, he cursed. “Aye, ye will.”

“I prefer to think not. All I ken is that I must go in after Moira, or she willnae survive this. ’Tis cursed hard to trust that wee voice when it demands I hurl myself in after her, though. I just hope my intuition has the good grace to tell me how or even what will happen after I jump into these dark threatening waters.”

“What are ye babbling about, MacAlpin?”

“Fate, laddie. Twice-cursed fate.”

With a prayer that his intuitions continued to be correct, he took a deep breath and jumped. For a brief moment after he hit the cold water he panicked. He sank beneath the froth-tipped waves and feared that he would never get back to the surface. Tavig struggled upward, fighting the currents battering him. When he emerged, he took several hearty breaths, more out of relief than need. He looked for Moira and swam toward the white patch of nightgown he could still see.

Tavig cursed the waters as he struggled through the tumultuous waves toward Moira and the section of the ship’s railing she clung to so desperately. He hoisted himself up onto her haphazard raft. Tying one piece of rope about his waist, he hastily lashed himself to the wood. As soon as he felt secure, he grabbed Moira by one of her slender wrists, hauling her out of the water, and she collapsed at his side. As the cold water washed over them, he secured one of her hands to the railings as well. He then took her free hand in his. When he pressed his body flat against the sodden wood he found himself nose to nose with Moira.

“Ye are mad,” she yelled, coughing as a wave swirled over them, filling her mouth with salty water. “Now we shall both drown.”

As another wave rushed over their bodies, Tavig could not help but think that she might be right.

A hoarse groan grated upon Moira’s ears. It took her a moment to realize that the wretched sound was coming from her own mouth. She felt terrible. Her cheek pressed against something both damp and gritty, and she realized she was sprawled facedown on a beach. Her body ached so much that she wanted to weep. She was drenched both inside and out. Suddenly her stomach clenched. Struggling to lift up her head, she became painfully, helplessly ill. A low male voice murmuring some nonsense about how the agony she was enduring was for the best, that she would soon feel better, penetrated her misery. Moira prayed that she would stop being ill just long enough to tell the fool to go to hell and stay there, but she was not sure she could accomplish that goal. Her body was determined to rid itself of whatever ailed it, and that agony held all of her attention.

Tavig smiled wearily when he heard her cursing him. She would be all right. He continued to rub her back as she retched, hating to view her misery, but knowing that it was necessary. The moment she was done, he tugged her away from the place where she had been ill before allowing her to collapse on the sand.

“Here, rinse out your mouth,” he urged.

Moira opened her eyes to see him holding out a roughly carved cup. She propped herself up on one elbow, took the cup, and discovered that it held wine. As she rinsed out her mouth then sipped some of the mildly bitter brew, she glanced around. Slowly she began to remember what had happened and understood why she was sitting on a beach tinted a soft rose by a rising sun. She frowned as she looked at Tavig.

“Where did ye get the wine and the cup? They didnae wash up with us, did they?”

“Nay, there is a fishermon’s hut just beyond the shore.”

“So there is someone who may help us?”

“I dinnae think so. The hut looks as if no one has used it for a while. Since there are still supplies within and there is no sign of a boat of any kind, I can only think that the poor soul went out fishing and didnae return.”

Even as she handed him back the cup, Moira crossed herself. She then collapsed back onto the sand. Tavig’s clothes were dirty and ragged, and she wondered why he even bothered to wear what was left of a once fine linen shirt. The tatters that remained of the garment did very little to cover the broad expanse of his smooth, dark chest.

The sad state of his attire started her wondering about her own. A cool morning breeze flowed across the shore. It was touching far more of her skin than it should be if her nightgown and cloak were still whole. Moira knew she ought to at least peek down at herself to be sure that she was decently covered but she was not inclined to move. Every inch of her body felt battered and drained of all strength.

“What happened to your beard?” she ask. . .