The Highlander's Bride

Book 1: McTiernays

by Michele Sinclair

Genres: Medieval; Medieval Romance

Synopsis

Highland laird Conor McTiernay had always dreamed of an enduring love. But the reality of women who desired him only for his title and lands made him swear off marriage forever. That is until he first set eyes on the Englishwoman his men found hiding in the forest. Beneath the dirt and grime it was clear Laurel Cordell was beautiful. But would she prove to be yet another beguiling seductress?



Laurel trusted that the Scottish chieftain would keep her safe from the cruel laird from whom she had escaped. Looking deep into Conor's silver eyes she saw not only his calculating warrior ways but his quick arousal to passion. But before they can explore the growing desire between them, their newfound love is threatened by secrets from her past . . .

Release date: June 1, 2007

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

Scotland, 1307

“Are you ever going to get married?” It was a tiresome question that had been asked too many times these past few weeks. Since his younger brother decided to wed, everyone assumed he should now want to as well. “Your turn, Conor!” was heard everywhere he turned.

Those who knew him, knew better than to ask, but those who didn’t eventually uttered the cursed question: “So, when are you going to get married?” By the time they had finally left the wedding to return home, he had probably angered more than a few with his replies of “When I damn well want to—never.”

“What say you, Conor—are you ever going to select a wife?” came a grating voice mimicking one of the many Scottish mothers he had encountered this past week. Quiet laughter buzzed from a group of men, all blue eyed and dark haired.

“He’s going to clobber you one of these days, Craig.”

“I hope he aims for Craig’s mouth,” chimed in one of the younger riders, enjoying that someone else was the object of his older brother’s ridicule.

Conor ignored the banter of his younger brothers and led the small group to a nearby river to refresh their mounts. This obligatory trip was finally coming to an end. In a few days, he would soon be on McTiernay land again and resume his duties as laird of his clan. “See to the horses. We’ll camp at the valley ahead.”

The men nodded and began to take care of their mounts. Tonight’s destination was several miles to the north and it would be nightfall before they made camp. While the valley Conor had chosen had not even a stream to alleviate the parched throat of man or horse, the small group of highlanders all understood his decision. None of them wanted to sleep too close to Douglass soil.

While only a small portion of Douglass territory bordered the allied land upon which Conor and his men currently rode, it was in a strategic location. Sheltered on two sides by large cliffs, only two sections needed to be fortified and protected. It was an excellent place to build a fortress, and that is exactly what the Douglass ancestors had done.

Conor thought on his brother’s question as they continued towards the valley. He was a large man, even by highlander standards. His dark brown hair was usually tied back in a manner atypical of Scottish soldiers. For years, women and their mothers had pursued him relentlessly, employing various tactics to persuade him into a commitment. The idea of becoming the wife of a powerful laird was too compelling, especially when that laird was young and exceedingly attractive.

Over the years, the artificiality of soft words whispered by pretty women had changed him. He was no longer considered the desirable highlander of his youth, but a cold, hard man without warmth to share with any woman. So while still a striking man, it had been some time since he had caught a lady’s eye, whether she might be sincere or not.

It mattered little, though, for Conor had no desire to marry. Most marriages were little more than contracts. They were only a means to ensure alliances, carry on family bloodlines, share work burdens, or to meet physical needs. His talent with the sword and the unswerving loyalty of his men gained him alliances enough. His many brothers would ensure the McTiernay name would continue for generations, and he had found that his physical needs could be met any time without the prerequisite of a marriage contract.

He could recall only one marriage—his parents’—that had been something more. His parents had forged a union built on support, desire, and the assurance that—no matter what the circumstances—they would always believe and trust in each other. As a naive young man, he desired to find someone and create a similar life and bond.

After barely escaping one conniving woman, Conor began to look for pretense in women pursuing the idea of becoming Lady McTiernay. He was never disappointed. While most of his admirers were polite, not one had desired him for himself. When confronted about their title-searching designs, a few panicked and others cried. Some had called him cold, declaring him to be the only highland laird alive without a heart. After a series of disappointments and stomach-churning experiences, he decided the joy and bond his parents shared was a unique gift that would never be his.

As the group reached the valley and began to make camp, Conor refocused his attention from the past to the present and began to relax. The air was getting colder now and he was glad to be going home. There were many things to do before winter came upon his clan and, in a just a few weeks, his mountains would be covered with snow.

Conor casually observed his younger brothers building a big fire located in the center of the gathering. They were a small group, five of his six brothers and four of his elite guard. Rarely did Conor allow all of his family to journey beyond McTiernay borders, but weddings required family attendance. Conor had reluctantly agreed to allow even his youngest brothers to come since the journey was mostly upon lands of allies or neutral clans.

“I bet Colin is having a good night, being his wedding night and all,” Craig cackled loudly. His fraternal twin Crevan grinned, nodded, and leaned over to get a piece of meat. The seventeen-year-old twins were similar in physical appearance, each tall men with deep brown locks and bright blue eyes. Their personalities, however, were as different as night and day.

“Colin is lucky. Deirdre is sure pretty,” commented Clyde, the youngest McTiernay just approaching twelve years of age. His brothers constantly teased him about his name, saying that it was too bad their mother had run out of all the good names that begun with C by the time he came along. When Clyde was very young and susceptible to such jibes, Conor reminded him that they were the only two men to inherit the McTiernay silver eyes; the others had the bright blue eyes of their mother.

“Think you will ever get that lucky with the name Clyde?” returned Conan, the second youngest, who at fourteen, relished any chance to join the antics of his elder brothers.

Clyde retaliated by kicking dirt onto his brother’s plaid. Conan, seeking revenge with just a bit too much force, sprayed dirt not only onto Clyde, but onto Conor as well. After a long day’s ride, the deed seemed ample reason for the other brothers to exact retribution. It would have turned into a full brotherly brawl if Cole, the eldest after Conor and Colin, hadn’t intervened. It was now Cole’s responsibility to keep his younger brothers from too much mishap since Colin had married. As laird, Conor was too busy to be troubled with such details.

“Enough,” stated Cole in his most firm voice, trying to imitate Conor on the training field.

Conor moved to sit down away from the commotion and leaned back against one of the elm trees surrounding the small clearing. He was relieved when Cole took their younger brothers in hand before they tore up the camp they had just built. Cole was already a big lad at twenty-one, but he would have to work on his carriage to make his commands convincing. Conor stood up, dusted himself off, and walked over to have a word with his guardsmen about the night’s watch.

Though on allied land, they were still uncomfortably close to the Douglass border. Conor’s allies were Douglass’s enemies. While Conor would love a good reason to meet the cruel and dishonest laird on the battlefield, he had no desire to do so while his young brothers were vulnerable and days away from the McTiernay border.

Conor met with each of his four guardsmen securing the campsite. A couple more days’ ride north and the full night watches could ease. He gave his orders and returned to the campsite just in time to hear Craig relate his latest bit of ridiculous wench gossip.

“You won’t believe what Hilda told me,” Craig threw out, trying to bait the others. As the most boisterous in the group, Craig was an outgoing young man and always full of energy.

“Who’s Hilda?” asked the youngest, Clyde.

“Ahh, she’s some lass he met up with for the night,” answered Conan, trying to sound knowledgeable about such things.

“Anyway,” stressed Craig, trying to regain everyone’s attention, “Hilda told me that MacInnes’s granddaughter was coming to live with him.” He looked at the group with a mischievous twinkle.

“And why should that b-be interesting?” Crevan was the opposite of his twin brother. While Craig was frequently showing off and a gregarious comedian, Crevan was introspective, even-tempered, and agreeable. However, it would be an enemy’s last error in judgment to mistake Crevan’s composed nature and slight stammer as weakness. He had been training for a couple of years and exhibited the McTiernay trait for strategy, cunning and ruthlessness in battle.

“Because she isn’t Scottish—she’s English,” grinned Craig.

“Oh, ho now. I thought you s-s-said that she was MacInnes’s g-granddaughter. MacInnes is as Scottish as they come.”

“That’s because MacInnes is a highlander and was Grandfather’s best friend. Conor says that MacInnes still practices many of the highlander traditions.”

“S-So she isn’t English, then, and your b-bit of gossip remains boring.”

“Ahh, but Hilda said that she’s been living in England for many years and that her bonnie mama—MacInnes’s daughter—died when she was a child. Without her mother to guide her, it’s doubtful that any of the Scot in her remains. Everyone is wondering how long she will last before she goes running home to England crying. It’s well known how severe MacInnes is to live with.”

“The English should remain in England,” said a cold voice. Cole despised the bordering country and all those who came from there.

“Cole, can the English actually ruin the land by walking on it?” asked Clyde, who had often overheard McTiernay warriors say that the English spoil anything they touch.

Before Cole could ridicule the question, Conan, the fourteen-year-old, chimed in. “Why would an English lady come to live in Scotland with her grandfather?”

“Dunno, maybe she hated England,” answered Craig with a mouth full of cold mutton.

“English are too stupid to know they should hate their homeland,” scoffed Cole as he turned to rest on his plaid. “She probably just wants to benefit from being a powerful laird’s only relative.”

“But you said that she was supposed to be pretty,” Conan directed the semi-question to Craig. Conan was gifted with a keen intelligence and was constantly in search of new manuscripts to read and understand. But when it came to relationships—especially those with the opposite sex—he was completely lost.

“First of all, a pretty girl can still be dull-witted and extremely irritating, Conan. You just remember that,” Craig replied, using a patronizing voice he knew would irritate his younger brother.

“I know that,” Conan retorted heatedly. “That’s the reason I’m going to be like Conor and never marry. We don’t want a stupid, annoying woman, even if she is pretty.” Conan looked over at Conor for affirmation, but was disappointed. Conor’s eyes were closed and his expression was inscrutable.

“Second of all, I didn’t say she was pretty,” stated Craig. “I just said that her mother, MacInnes’s daughter, was noted to be a bonnie lady and was wanted by many men.”

“So why is MacInnes’s granddaughter English if her mother could have married a Scot?” Clyde asked innocently.

“Because,” remarked Cole as if the answer was obvious. “She ran off and married an English baron. Proves you can be pretty and stupid just like I said. But more than likely MacInnes’s granddaughter takes after her English father and hurts the eyes.”

“That must have made Laird MacInnes sad,” murmured Clyde.

As usual, Conor did not participate when his brothers conversed amongst themselves. He intentionally separated himself from them, and they knew better than to try to pull him in. It was hard straddling the roles of laird and eldest brother. He loved his family, but it was difficult to know how and when to just be their brother and not their laird. Consequently, soon after he became laird, Conor had encouraged Colin to act as the older brother, allowing him to focus on the clan and its needs.

Today, Colin had married Deirdre, Laird Dunstan’s eldest daughter. Upon their return, Cole would leave to join the guard of Laird Schellden, an ally holding lands adjacent to McTiernay’s western boundary. Colin and Cole were the first to leave, but eventually all of his brothers would set out and make their way.

This realization bothered him, but he could not understand why. He wanted his brothers to forge lives for themselves, either with him or wherever their destinies took them. But for some reason, it made him feel isolated knowing his future did not include them. The only way he knew to cushion the pain of their leaving was to distance himself now. His life was the clan, and the clan would always need him.

 

Conor was musing on all that needed to be done upon his return when Finn, the commander of his elite guard, approached from his watch in the woods.

Finn came towards Conor unsmiling and prepared for battle. “Hamish heard movement in the trees and is investigating now.”

Just then, they heard Seamus release a muted bellow from the woods. They drew their weapons as they advanced to confront the attackers. As they neared the edge of the woods, Loman and Hamish dragged an incredibly disheveled woman into the clearing.

Loman advanced towards Conor with a strong grip on the woman’s arm. She was no longer struggling, but Loman had seen firsthand how cunning she could be. Conor saw Loman’s grip and wondered at the cause for it. She was a scrawny lass, so it was hard to imagine that she could defend herself against any man. Conor found himself surprisingly intrigued.

“She knocked Seamus pretty good in the head. We captured her trying to run away from her crime,” Loman said.

When Laurel heard the word “crime,” she was surprised and then outraged. The giant they called Seamus had tried to seize her. She had every right to defend herself against such a colossal man. She turned her gaze to their leader, who seemed to be the biggest of them all.

Conor did not miss the change of emotion flash across her face. She was extremely frightened, but trying very hard not to show it. He saw her look of surprise when Loman mentioned her crime and was fascinated when the shock turned into sheer fury. However, Conor was not ready for his reaction to the defiant female when she turned her attention towards him.

Her tousled appearance and torn clothing faded for a moment, and he could only see her eyes. They were the color of the North Sea after a storm—a dark blue-gray with flecks of green. They stared at each other for several moments before he regained his wits.

“Who are you?” he demanded without inflection, somehow giving the question even more power.

She was tall for a woman, but held herself regally despite the grip Loman continued to exert. Her dress was torn at the shoulder so part of her sleeve hung down to her elbow. Her eyes sparkled intensely and she protruded her chin confidently. Still she couldn’t hide a faint tremor as Conor moved closer. He doubted most men would have seen or recognized her small shudder for what it was. He was surprised by and wary of the immediate pull he had towards her.

Laurel was desperate. She realized that the advancing man was her captor, but she instinctively knew this huge Scotsman would somehow also be her savior.

She rose her chin even higher. “My name is Laurel. Laurel Rose Cordell.”

Conor nodded at Loman to release the proud mystery. Loman immediately let Laurel go and stepped back. Conor watched her absentmindedly massage the spot where his guardsman had seized her. Dirt and twigs from bushes were ensnarled in the long golden waves of her hair. She had high cheekbones and ideal full lips that were meant for kissing. Suddenly, he realized that he was drawn to her in a very physical way despite her chaotic appearance. It had been a long time since he had a woman. Trying to regain control of his unexpected sexual need, Conor concentrated on her qualities that would calm his desire.

She was English. She was filthy and a complete mess. But somehow, she smelled of flowers, lilacs to be precise. His mother had loved the blossom and kept them throughout the keep when they were in bloom.

He was drowning in her scent and the color of her eyes, which had never budged from his, when he noticed the small pearl-handled dirk in her hand. She didn’t even seem to realize that she was holding it. This was obviously a very confused woman if she thought she could harm any one of them with her toy dagger. He reached out to take it away before she got herself hurt.

Laurel instinctively flinched as he moved forward. She wanted to run but had already experienced the foolishness of that idea. Then the giant leader reached out and with a gentle force took the dirk from her hand.

Laurel had not intended to recoil in such a cowardly manner, but she felt overawed by one so big. The man was enormous, and she knew herself to be tall for a female. All of his features were strong. And while his large muscles made him appear to be menacing, Laurel felt somewhat comforted by them. He looked like he could fight a whole army by himself if he was so inclined.

He was now so close to her Laurel could see a small scar running along the ridge of his right eyebrow, severing it in half. But other than that single small flaw, his face was masculine perfection, unlike his arms, which were riddled with scars. It was clear this man had seen and knew how to survive battles.

The warrior had thick, dark-brown hair and mesmerizing silver eyes, unlike any shade Laurel had ever seen. They reminded her of crystal glass reflecting firelight, warm yet also cold, studying each of her movements, even the most minuscule.

Despite his enormous size and the coolness in his eyes, Laurel knew she was safe with him. He would help and protect her. He had to.

In the faint moonlight, Conor watched the Englishwoman stare at him as she calculated her next move. Her dress had been torn in more than one place, revealing a white, lacy, very feminine chemise. She was definitely a high-bred lady. No one he knew wore undergarments like those. Her hair looked to be a pale gold color, but it was difficult to tell with all the grime matted within it. Even her face was covered with smudges of what could have been dirt or blood.

As Hamish approached her with a wet rag so she could wipe off her face, Laurel instinctively shrank away.

“My men did not do this.” Conor made the statement as a fact, not liking the idea that she was fearful of them.

She confirmed his statement with a simple “No.” He nodded and turned to retrieve the wet cloth from Hamish. This time when he reached out to give it to her, she did not recoil.

As Laurel began wiping her face free of the dirt and grime, she revealed a portion of her beauty. Her features were that of Scottish nobility—soft, feminine, but full of strength. Her nose lifted slightly, and her fair skin was very pale. Her lips were full and round, made for a man to leisurely explore. Conor again felt the urge to kiss her hard and deliberately, deeply and passionately, and every other way a man can drink from a woman’s lips.

As Laurel finished cleaning her face and hands, she heard a rustle in the woods and complete terror consumed her until she saw Seamus appear at the wooded edge. Instantly, she remembered that she was charged with wrongly attacking the emerging giant.

Laurel looked up defiantly at Conor. “I did not commit a crime.” She didn’t expound on her defense. Instead, she glared at Conor as if defying him to reject the truth.

Conor had seen the quick changes from panic to relief as she had seen Seamus emerge. The lass was definitely running away from something, someone.

“You are safe. No one will harm you here,” Conor clarified, trying to ease her fear. “Are you running from your husband?” He dreaded asking the question, but he had to know the answer.

Laurel remembered how close she had been to being just that—married. She shook her head vehemently. “I am not married,” she practically shouted. For a moment, the attractive giant seemed relieved by her answer, but that didn’t make any sense at all.

Suddenly, it was becoming too much. Laurel just wanted to sit down and think about what to do. Too much evil had been witnessed and endured the past two days. She was so very tired, and it hurt just to breathe.

Think, Laurel, think, she thought to herself. She still wasn’t safe regardless of what the large highlander said. She needed to find some quick means to get as far away from here as possible. She looked up and saw a quiet strength in his silver eyes. Here was someone who would honor his word—if Laurel could only get him to promise to bring her with him, wherever he was going.

“Please take me with you,” she softly pleaded. “Please help me—just for a little while. Once I am far enough away…” and just then, her strength gave out. She reached out and grabbed Conor’s arm just as she crumpled to the ground.

Conor and his guard were momentarily stunned. She had given no indication that she was on the verge of collapse. Finn reached down to pick her up. But Conor abruptly stopped him, reaching down himself to take her into his arms. A fierce desire to protect her came over him as he lifted the frail, limp form. He whispered into her ear as he walked toward the campsite, “No harm will come to you, lass. I give you my word of honor.” Then he put her down on his plaid and covered her to protect her from the night’s chill, smiling as he laid the small dirk next to her hand.

Just before dawn, Laurel stirred from her sleep and sat up, once again feeling pain course through her body. Last night’s recollection was distant, half dream, half nightmare. Looking around, she was momentarily alarmed waking up in the middle of a camp full of Scottish, bare-legged giants. Then she remembered. Her side was aching, and it still hurt to breathe, but her head was not pounding as it had been.

Laurel stood up, closed her eyes, and recalled the rugged man with lustrous gray eyes that seemed to peer into her soul. She carefully reached down and picked up the dark woolen blanket of greens and blues she had slept on. She lightly fingered the soft, well-used cloth accented with bright colors of gold, red, and burgundy and wrapped herself in its warmth. It smelled of horse flesh and of the man who had promised to keep her safe from harm. It was odd, but the blanket and its smell comforted her as she walked into the woods for some privacy.

Conor saw her rise. He had been watching her sleep for most of the night. She had moved very little while she slept, as if any change in position caused pain. It was hard to see what she looked like in her current condition, but he could not deny that something about her captivated him.

He watched her grab his plaid, drape it around her, and go into the woods barely lit by the sun’s dawning rays. She walked gracefully, with dignity and full of calm. Not at all as if she had narrowly escaped some harrowing experience.

Conor shook his head for the hundredth time, trying to get control of his wayward thoughts. He had never seen a woman in such a state of physical chaos. But even so, he wanted her on levels he couldn’t explain to anyone—especially himself.

Conor stood up abruptly. He needed to concentrate on the day’s ride and returning home. Once there, he would find a safe place for her, and then resume his daily routine. He went to gather his guards so they could break camp.

By the time Laurel returned, the rest of the group was up and preparing to leave. The youngest of the enormous Scots was the first to see her standing on the edge of the clearing watching them. The others, seeing Clyde’s unexpected halt in activity, looked to see what had affected their younger brother so.

It was a tall, slender female with long gold hair and incredible blue-green eyes. Her arm was badly bruised, her dress was torn, and she was wrapped in a McTiernay plaid.

Laurel was also transfixed by the sight of the five Scots. They were all highlanders. Their strong rugged features, dress, and weaponry were unmistakable. Some of them were still quite young, but in a few years they would grow to be giants as well. Each had coppery-brown hair ranging from a light auburn to a rich dark shade of brown like their leader’s. All of them had bright blue eyes that sparkled, with the exception of the youngest, whose unusual liquid gray eyes reminded her of the giant who had promised his protection.

Laurel looked around for their leader or any of the other men she had encountered last night, but none were in sight. A moment of panic invaded her. She needed to leave immediately. Surely, by now someone had seen what she had done and was looking for her.

One of the men approached. “Lass? Are you all right, lass? You look a mess, begging your pardon.” As he spoke, the others began to surround her, each compelled to help.

Laurel quickly realized they meant no harm and were only curious. “Umm, you are right. I am a mess. I believe it was a brother of yours who helped me last night.” She paused as she saw the four younger men grin. The oldest of the five, on the other hand, was scowling. She decided to ignore him and directed her attention to those more agreeable. “Do any of you gentlemen know where I could wash my face?”

All of them started shaking their heads. The youngest one with the gray eyes clarified, “There is only one place near here, miss, but it is a very small creek, and it is back towards Douglass land.” He pointed down to the area she escaped from last night.

Laurel blanched noticeably.

“But there is one up north a ways, miss. We’re going there today,” mentioned one of the twins.

“You could come with us,” offered another.

Laurel beamed at their youthful enthusiasm. Her smile caused an instant positive reaction in the group. Even Cole—who hated everything English—suddenly wanted to help this maiden who had been attacked so viciously.

Conor returned to see his brothers ogling Laurel as if she were an angel just arrived from the heavens. It was evident that her bewitching effect was not only limited to him. His guards, Loman and Hamish, had been discussing her when he arrived that morning, and now his brothers were practically gaping at her. Even he had been staring at her all night.

In the dim firelight, her hair had appeared a burnished yellow, but now, in the morning sunlight, the pale, golden halo could render a man senseless. Her face was heart shaped, with large eyes, high cheekbones, a pert little nose and full, rose-colored lips. It mattered not that her hair was matted and unclean. Men forgot who they were, their skills, and their duty when they saw visions such as this one.

He scowled at his brothers, narrowing his gaze. Laurel turned to see what had caused the men to jump in response. Then she saw him. Last night, he had given his word that no harm would come to her. Or was his pledge of protection just a dream?

“Did you mean it?” she whispered as he came near.

Damn, she had the most hypnotic eyes. Now that she wasn’t angry, they were a much lighter color of blue mixed with an unusual shade of green. Framed by long dark eyelashes and a perfectly shaped eyebrow a few shades darker than her pale hair, they were a little large for her face. Her right cheek was slightly swollen and the bruise on her arm was deepening in color and size. Seeing the evidence of her injuries in daylight, Conor quelled the anger stirring in him and reached out to take the plaid she was handing him.

The gasp from his brothers was audible. Whoever had beaten her had done so mercilessly. The reason behind her restless sleep was abundantly clear. They all began asking questions at once.

“What happened to you, lass?”

“Who did this to you?”

“Here, lass, sit down.”

“What’s your name, lass?”

“Aye, where is your home, pretty lady?”

“Tell me who did this, and I will seek your revenge,” one of the twins vowed.

“My brother will save you. He’s a laird,” she heard the youngest one promise.

Conor motioned for silence with a flicker of his eyes.

“Who did this?” Conor’s tone was laden with controlled fury. The four guards had returned from their night’. . .