In the Arms of a Highlander

Book 9: McTiernays

by Michele Sinclair

Genres: Ancient World Romance; Viking Romance

Synopsis

The McTiernay brothers will always be able to depend upon Brodie Dunstan's loyalty, his sword, and his strength. But there is another kind of bond—one that can fell even a fearless warrior . . .



Brodie Dunstan was an honored McTiernay commander when he agreed to leave and help an allied clan. Eight years later, he's back among the McTiernays at Lochlen Castle, yet despite the welcome, Brodie feels he's still searching for his rightful place. The moment he rescues a storm-soaked young woman on the road to Lochlen, he wonders if he's found it . . .



From nun to killer to royal spy, Shinae Mayboill has had little choice in her life's path so far. Now, caught in a compromising position with Brodie after her rescue, she's ushered into a hasty marriage. To her surprise, Brodie is unlike any man she has ever met, with a tenderness that belies his powerful persona. Their passion deepens every day. But when Brodie learns the truth about her past—and the real reason she has come to Lochlen Castle—will there still be room for her in the Highlander's heart?



Contains mature themes.

Release date: January 25, 2022

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

AUGUST 1322, LAMMERMUIR HILLS

Shinae tried to ignore the continual complaints of the woman trudging beside her as the bitter night breeze continued to chill their bones. Isilmë had valid reasons to be grumpy, but after days of hearing about them, Shinae just wanted her uninvited companion to be quiet, for she was miserable as well. Despite it being summer, the day felt more like late fall. The intermittent rain and constant cool wind had started in before dawn, and the dank and unusually cold air had not improved with the sun’s rising.

Most days, the foul weather would not be a problem. She would seek or build a shelter near one of the rivers, snare a rabbit, light a fire, eat, and stay warm until the rain stopped. For most of their journey, they had followed the Lieder River and then the Blackadder, which kept them near such resources. Unfortunately, after turning south yesterday, they came to the southern edges of the Lammermuir Hills, which had little to offer but grass and lots of rocks.

“Ow! Slow down!” Isilmë wailed. Shinae did not stop or look back. An old woman with a bad hip could have traveled farther than they had in the last week.

The trip from Melrose to Lochlen Castle should have taken approximately three days on foot, but with their slow pace, it was taking much longer. And on days like today, it was hard not to think they should have been warm, dry, and full from dining on delicious foods but they were close now, so close that Shinae did not want to stop; walking was the only thing keeping them from being even colder.

Shinae expected to catch a glimpse of the lit sconces of Lochlen Castle with each peak they passed and forced herself to keep moving one foot in front of the other despite being wet and nearly frozen. This meant Isilmë had to follow or be alone. So, she also kept walking . . . and complaining.

Shinae had not wanted a traveling companion and had hoped the abbess would force Isilmë to remain with her and the other sisters when they all left the morning after the fire. Maybe Dryburgh Abbey would be habitable again someday, but it would not be anytime soon, so everyone had headed south to join the sisters at Jedburgh Abbey. Then, on the brink of their departure, the shortest of the nuns had shocked everyone when she declared that she too was renouncing her vows and joining Shinae. Suddenly, she too had a great desire to help the injured villagers at Melrose. Unfortunately, the frazzled abbess had no desire to even try to make Isilmë stay with the other sisters. It was almost as if the harsh woman was glad both of them would no longer be in her care.

To Shinae’s surprise, and despite her and Isilmë being her opposites in almost every way, they slowly developed a unique bond that was oddly comforting. At least it had been. Now, they were both too cold and wet to be civil, and where Shinae had kept her suffering mostly to herself, Isilmë voiced every cross thought in her head.

With each step, Shinae silently wished she had already arrived at Lochlen. When they first started to make their way to where the castle was located, she had held no animosity that the journey was taking longer than anticipated. She—a simple, half-Scot, half-Gypsy ex-nun—had been given a mission. One she did not want but could not refuse. Her sister’s husband, and therefore her sister, were in grave danger, and Shinae was tasked to tell absolutely no one but them about the strange message Cyric wanted her to relay.

Lochlen Castle was the home of Colin McTiernay, the Lowland chieftain of a powerful clan into which her sister had married. Cyric, who was some close family friend, had estimated it would be a slow but easy two-to three-day journey to the east by foot.

The very first morning she should have realized that the journey would be neither short nor easy.

Within an hour of their journey, the sky had become overcast and the air had become cooler. Neither she nor Isilmë was physically prepared to walk long distances day after day, and the dank air made it even more difficult. However, by midday they had made it to Leader Water and turned north leaving the River Tweed behind. That was when it started to rain. It was a light rain, but it was enough to make them put on their cloaks to stay dry.

Shinae and Isilmë had gone through the rubble at Dryburgh when all had left and found multiple odds and ends, including a lump of soap, a brush, candles, a few bags, blankets, and two cloaks that had belonged to taller-than-average monks. Shinae did not mind the hem dragging behind her, but Isilmë had wisely trimmed hers and did not have to deal with having to constantly pull the hem free when it got snagged on some root or stick. But Shinae had melted the beeswax from the few candles that had survived the fire and rubbed them on the hood and shoulders of her cloak. When she had offered to do the same for Isilmë, she refused, saying that it made the material stiff and uncomfortable. Seeing the beads of water run off Shinae’s cloak as hers grew damp had made Isilmë, understandably but annoyingly, snappish.

They had started walking even closer to the Leader Water’s winding shore so the overhanging branches could protect them from getting too wet. It was not the ideal way to travel, but nonetheless, they had been making progress until Isilmë caught her foot on some fallen branches and twisted her ankle. Not badly, but enough that continued use would have made the injury much worse, possibly halting their journey for a week, if not longer.

They had decided to just stop and make camp where they were. It had easy access to the river, and all the foliage kept them fairly hidden. Always traveling from one village to another as a child, Shinae had spent the first dozen years of her life building shelters, starting fires, trapping rabbits, and sleeping out in the open. So when they had stopped, she had not hesitated and started to erect a small shelter to protect them from rain. By the time she had caught a rabbit, the rain had stopped, and with a little patience she finally got a fire going. They stayed there two days . . . two very sunny, warm days when all Isilmë’s chatter would have been easier to endure if they had been walking. The morning of the third day, Isilmë agreed she was healed enough to continue if they went slowly.

The sky had been a beautiful shade of blue with just a few clouds. Periodically, they had halted briefly for Isilmë to rest her ankle, and by midafternoon she had needed to stop. Each night, Shinae had been able to quickly capture and skin a good-sized rabbit that would feed them that night and the next day. Once she got a fire going, Isilmë would find a small but sturdy branch to cook the meat, and at night they would sleep beneath the stars. With no shelter to be built, Shinae opted to bathe in the river. Upon seeing her clean, Isilmë decided she wanted one too. They both wished that they had remained dirty.

When she borrowed Shinae’s soap, Isilmë had taken it and their entire bag along with her. It would not have been a problem if she had just left their things on the shore, not on a rock close to where she was bathing. By the time she realized all their possessions had been taken by a strong current in the river, it was too late. They both had only the clothes they were wearing and Shinae’s sgian dubh strapped to her waist inside her tunic and the dirk strapped to her thigh.

The fifth day they reached Blackadder Water and Shinae knew they were close. If they increased their pace, they would be at Lochlen Castle before sundown, which was good because the vegetation and their easy food sources were gone. The landscape had changed to large, treeless hills, making one feel like they were traveling in circles. Small game was still around, but there were only prickly bushes here and there, which provided no shelter from the wind and burned fast. Keeping warm throughout the night meant one of them had to wake every few hours to feed the fire.

Today should have been the last day of their journey, with them having arrived at Lochlen Castle hours ago. But early that morning the skies had opened up and a heavy rain had come down for over an hour before lessening into a soft drizzle. Hard rain, then drizzle occurred all day until the late afternoon, when another downpour came, this time with a cold wind.

Without the sun, she and Isilmë could not get dry, and being hungry only added to their discomfort. Animals had gone into hiding and dry firewood was impossible to find. Even if they had found some food, they would not have been able keep the fire going to cook anything. They were freezing, starving, and exhausted.

Isilmë started to fret once again. “I’m cold and any minute it is going to pour down on us again,” she huffed. “And I know you believe it is all my fault.”

“I do not,” Shinae muttered. It was inarguable that they would have arrived at Lochlen Castle and been safe from the miserable weather if Isilmë had not gotten hurt. But it was also true that such an accident could have happened to anyone, including her.

“If we do not get there soon, you will have led us to our deaths,” Isilmë grumbled in an accusatory tone.

Shinae took a deep breath and remained silent. Isilmë’s bitter complaints were no longer irritating but infuriating, and her last comment was not entirely inaccurate. The sun had dropped below the horizon and the temperature was dropping with each minute. Already wet and cold, if she and Isilmë stopped moving and fell asleep in this wind, it really was plausible they would not live to see the morning. Reaching Lochlen Castle was imperative. Not just for their survival, but her sister’s.

“Just think, you could have joined the nuns and be well fed and warm at Jedburgh Abbey.”

Isilmë’s grimace turned even more sour. “Another abbey is the only place worse than where I am right now.” The vehemence in her friend’s voice was unmistakable. Shinae was not going to pry. Like her, Isilmë’s reasons for leaving the order were her own.

Except being close in age, they had little in common with each other. Shinae had a happy childhood and traveled a great deal in her youth as her father was a traveling merchant. Isilmë had a very different upbringing, growing up at the abbey, and knew no other life. Consequently, at seven and twenty years old, she had few skills and lacked the knowledge it took to lure unmarried men who were seeking a wife to her side.

The one talent Isilmë did possess was her exceptional skills with a needle and thread. Her clothes were always perfect. Shinae thought it pointless to put such tedious effort into making a habit. No matter how well crafted, the garment would still feel restricting, the headdress more than a little uncomfortable. And that was why the moment she had decided to leave the Church, Shinae had not returned to wearing her wimple, veil, and scapular.

Isilmë, on the other hand, had continued to dress exactly like she had while living at the abbey. With only her face visible, one could just see Isilmë’s round, freckled cheekbones and pink lips that were meant for smiling and laughter, not the somber life of a nun. It was not until she had hurt her ankle that she finally gave up the headdress, revealing she was a hidden beauty.

Isilmë only saw herself as short, curvy, and freckled, and the color of her hazel eyes was common among Scots. Her one vanity was her auburn hair—thick, vibrant, and just a tad wild. Like Shinae, Isilmë must have refused to cut her hair very short like most nuns did. Shinae had been scorned by the abbess for being rebellious, and while amicable in most things, cutting her hair was never going to be one of them.

The largest difference between them was their manner of speaking. Shinae preferred to have a calm voice and spoke directly and concisely when needed, keeping most of her thoughts or opinions to herself. Isilmë could not be more different. Never at a loss for words, she was gregarious to the point that it rankled many people’s nerves. As a captive audience for the past several days, Shinae could do nothing but listen. But she also understood what compelled her friend’s constant babble. Growing up in the Church, Isilmë had been verbally stifled her entire life, which had only intensified her need to vocalize every thought, emotion, and opinion to anyone within hearing distance.

After five days of travel, it was hard to say if Shinae wanted warmth or silence more. Neither was possible until they reached Lochlen.

Brodie pushed his blue-and-white kilt back down in frustration. The wind wanted to undress him and, aside from the chill in the air, he was not the type to wander around in only a léine. He turned north, glad to be heading away from the castle lights and into the darkness. He had endured hours before he had been able to escape Lochlen Castle’s walls and its inhabitants’ overwhelming cheerfulness. The rain from earlier had stopped, but it was threatening to return as clouds started to block the night sky. Periodically, the moonlight peeked through, enabling him to see into the distance, but one had to know the area well when outside the village at night to keep from getting lost.

“Where are you going?” The jaunty question erupted beside him.

Brodie’s gold-brown eyes gave his friend a hard stare, making it clear he wished to be alone. “I left without telling anyone for a reason.”

Dunlop chuckled. “Aye, it was so clear that I thought you were practically begging me to follow.”

“I wish to be alone.” Brodie’s low voice rumbled with displeasure.

“Probably, and who could blame you? That Callum boasts enough confidence and good looks to fill two great halls, let alone one.” He paused, then added, “The pol thoin’s is also too observant.”

It was partially true. Callum’s abundant self-assurance in any setting was often irritating, but tonight he had unwittingly brought up some sensitive topics. It rankled that the esteemed Schellden commander could see the truth of situations he knew little about.

After an eight-year hiatus from being a commander for Colin McTiernay, Brodie had abruptly returned to Lochlen Castle. That was three months ago. All knew this. What they did not know was that he had returned to the McTiernays after being dismissed as Laird Donovan’s presumptive heir. This was known only to very few—none of whom would have shared that information with anyone. Yet Callum had correctly guessed at the truth and boldly asked him why the laird had made such an unexpected decision. Brodie had silently risen, left the gaiety of the great hall, and left.

Truth was, he did not know why Mahon had told him to leave.

Dunlop gave his friend a light punch on the arm. “You should be finding a willing woman to lose yourself in. Nothing like being in the soft arms of a curvy female to make you forget your troubles.”

Brodie said nothing. He had not been with a woman since his return and Dunlop no doubt correctly suspected that he had not lain with one for far too long before that.

The years had not changed his friend much. Dunlop still had his easygoing demeanor, which hid the true force of his nature. His dark hazel eyes saw far more than people realized until his sarcasm gave him away. It always held more truth than was comfortable and tended to put people on edge. Just like it did now.

“I don’t need a woman. I need to think and be alone.”

“So you say,” Dunlop replied with a shrug.

If anyone did understand him, however, it was Dunlop. Eight years ago, they had been close friends, until an unusual opportunity had separated them. Three months ago, unexpected events had thrown them back together. Despite the near decade of separation, Dunlop acted and probably believed that their friendship had changed very little. And, in a way, he was right.

When he had left, Colin McTiernay was the new laird of the Dunstan clan. Colin had taken over as a McTiernay chieftain of his wife’s clan upon her father’s death. At that time, Brodie had been a member of Colin’s elite guard. Now, eight years later, Dunlop was still a commander but with more seniority, significantly more responsibility, and the confidence to match such a position. Brodie, however—who was three years older than his friend—was now nothing more than a displaced soldier with little possibility of becoming an elite guard again. He was not even sure he wanted his old position. At one and forty, he helped where he could and supported the McTiernay commanders where needed, glad to help the clan and its army as needed.

“Come, let’s return.”

“You should have worn a hat,” Brodie chided.

Dunlop issued him a scowl. Nearly bald since his early twenties, Dunlop had compensated for his thinning hair by growing a thick, brown, slightly gray beard. The little hair that he did have grew only on the sides of his head, which Dunlop routinely shaved. And yet, while baldness was not attractive on some men, Dunlop thought it improved his appearance to women. His smooth head and bushy beard had always made him look older than his age of which he took advantage. Brodie suspected that even now only a few knew exactly how old he was.

Brodie, on the other hand, kept his face shaven and possessed thick, shoulder-length, dark blond hair that had been a much lighter color when he had served Colin McTiernay. Under Donovan, it had darkened, and to hide the few grays, he usually tied it back at his nape.

Another significant difference was their height. Dunlop was almost three inches taller, but Brodie had always outsized his friend in girth, and despite the years and age, he was still considered one of the strongest among Lowlanders. Only a few could best him in strength, and not reliably. He would have been considered quite the catch upon his return to the clan, but his once-attractive face had disappeared. Now people only saw dark emotions in his expression. Time and experience had left no trace of his previous jovial personality.

For the next hour, Dunlop and Brodie walked in silence. A sudden gust of wind caused Brodie to look up. Clouds were getting thicker and he could feel the moisture in the air rising. It would soon be raining again, and this time it would be heavy, concealing most, if not all, of the moonlight.

“Leave now and you might make it back before the storm hits,” Brodie suggested. “Frank’s cottage is near, and he told me earlier that he’ll be staying with his eldest daughter throughout the festivities if I need to be alone.”

Several of the farmers who lived a ways from the castle were staying with friends or family who lived in the village next to Lochlen, so they could enjoy the rare nighttime celebrations. It was not often that multiple feasts were held this time of year. Lammas Day, a holiday celebrated in August, was a single festival to mark the annual wheat harvest. This August, however, was unusual. Colin McTiernay had invited all his brothers to gather together to enjoy the holiday at Lochlen Castle.

Fierce winter snowstorms the past few years had made it impossible to travel long distances even in the Lowlands from November to April, and if the winter trend continued, it would be the same this year. As a result, none of the McTiernays had been all together since the last McTiernay marriage five years before. So instead of gathering for Christmas at McTiernay Castle, Colin had sent word to his brothers suggesting they bring everyone together in August to help celebrate Lammas at Lochlen. With the mild weather, all could make the journey—even the youngest—and celebrate the first wheat harvest festival of the year together.

Brodie thought it a fine idea until he remembered Colin had six brothers, five of whom had children. For the last couple of weeks, the McTiernays had kept coming and coming—all very boisterous and annoyingly merry. By the noise, one would assume every family had arrived simultaneously when Conor, the clan chief, his wife, and four children came through the gate. The noise had been loud and boisterous. But for a week, more McTiernays came, each with noisy children—most of them small with piercing shrieks of laughter or distress. Only Conan and his wife, Mhàiri, had yet to arrive, and no one knew just when they would get there.

After the families’ immediate euphoria upon arrival, Brodie had hoped that the noise would calm, but if anything, it had continued to rise. Colin and his wife, Makenna, had five children, and his siblings brought eleven more. To find any peace and quiet, one was forced to leave the castle.

After a few minutes of walking in silence, it was clear that Dunlop was not returning back to Lochlen. “Know that if there is only one bed, you’re sleeping on the floor.”

Dunlop once again shrugged his large shoulders. They had both slept outside many times over the years so sleeping on the floor was not a concern. “As long as there is a fire and shelter from the rain,” he said in hopes that his friend would finally break down and talk.

It was not that Brodie was unwilling to discuss Laird Mahon Donovan and what had happened, he just did not know what to say that Dunlop did not already know. He just had never dreamed he would be back on McTiernay land.

Brodie stopped walking and squeezed his eyes shut. He had been a fool to think a non-Donovan would be named Mahon’s heir. Brodie may have lived among them for years, but he was a Dunstan by birth and a McTiernay at heart.

Colin McTiernay—born and raised a Highlander—had married Makenna Dunstan and, upon her father’s death, took over leading the clan. Within a couple of years, he’d won the hearts of most clansmen and women, and the clan was now referred to as the Dunstan-McTiernays, a clan under the powerful Highland McTiernays.

The takeover had been far from trouble-free, but eventually it had been done, and with Mahon’s support. Brodie had just assumed it would be the same for him when the laird finally announced Brodie as his heir.

But he had not, and the only man Brodie could think of who might be named Mahon’s heir was Taveon. Just shy of six feet, his girth was muscular. His long, black hair and brown, almond-shaped eyes made him nauseatingly attractive to women.

He was not only a true Donovan, Taveon was an excellent swordsman, and the men liked him. It was why Brodie had made him a commander. Taveon was also considerably overconfident and needed to mature at least several more years and fight in a few battles with true enemies, before he would truly be a good leader. All this Brodie had thought was obvious to Mahon. But when Mahon suggested Brodie return to Colin McTiernay, Taveon’s usually congenial expression turned smug at the idea of being named as the Donovan heir. It had felt like betrayal then and still did now. Pride compelled Brodie to say nothing and simply leave the clan. Arguing would have been pointless. Thankfully, Colin had welcomed him back, allowing his commanders to decide on Brodie’s role and responsibilities.

Thunder cracked and lightning lit up the sky. Brodie shifted his thoughts to start searching for Frank’s cottage, or at least signs of where it should be. It was close, but he could not yet see it with clouds blackening the surroundings. Dunlop glanced around as well. Pointing southwest, he said, “It’s over the next hill.”

Brodie grunted and followed in silence. Despite his years away, he knew the land and felt comfortable walking among the hills even in the near darkness, but Dunlop had lived in this part of the Lammermuir Hills since birth. He knew every rock, bush, and cottage. He could practically be blind and still find his way around.

Brodie began heading in the direction Dunlop had indicated as lightning lit up the clouds, revealing a huddled silhouette to his right. He stopped and stared into the darkness to see if he had been mistaken. Another flash. He had not. It was a drenched figure barely shuffling along in the same direction he and Dunlop had been going. He could not imagine who would be venturing out in this dangerous weather, when even animals knew to find shelter.

The crumpled figure suddenly collapsed.

Brodie ran forward, with Dunlop on his heels.

Brodie reached the huddled figure and could just barely make out that she was a woman, drenched and shivering. Muddy footprints showed that if she had managed to keep walking in the direction she was headed, she would have passed Lochlen Castle without even knowing it.

He picked her up, surprised to find her lighter than he thought she would be in her sopping garment. Lightning between the clouds followed by earsplitting thunder started to come more often in the sky, and any moment now another torrent of rain would be released.

Brodie turned about to head to the cabin when Dunlop pointed to the woman’s filthy white tunic and said in an incredulous voice, “She’s a nun.”

Another crack of thunder filled the air and the wind picked up. Brodie nodded. “We need to get her to Frank’s cottage.”

He started to move, and the woman suddenly opened her eyes. Her teeth were chattering so much, she could hardly speak, and yet she began to squirm, somehow finding the energy to resist being held.

Giving up, she murmured, “Isilmë.”

Her voice was so quiet, he could barely tell if she had even said anything. Her body shuddered violently, and Brodie began to walk more briskly, feeling an urgency grow inside him. She needed to get warm and dry before she caught ill.

Brodie felt a cold finger curl around the edge of his léine. She gave it a tug and then tugged again. When he slowed and gave her attention, she whispered hoarsely, “Find Isilmë.”

Again, lightning struck between the clouds, lighting up the night sky, and in . . .