Secrets Of A Highland Warrior

The key to his past...

...lies with the enemy sharing his bed!

Part of The Lochmore Legacy: a Scottish castle through the ages! Rory Lochmore had expected to wage battle, to claim land and finally secure his standing within his clan... Instead he won a wife. A McCrieff wife. Their convenient marriage could unite the two long-feuding clans forever. But can a political alliance give way to a passion strong enough to stand the secrets of the past?

NICOLE LOCKE discovered her first romance novels in her grandmother’s closet, where they were secretly hidden. Convinced that books that were hidden must be better than those that weren’t, Nicole greedily read them. It was only natural for her to start writing them—but now not so secretly!

Also by Nicole Locke

Lovers and Legends miniseries

The Knight’s Broken Promise

Her Enemy Highlander

The Highland Laird’s Bride

In Debt to the Enemy Lord

The Knight’s Scarred Maiden

Her Christmas Knight

The Lochmore Legacy collection

His Convenient Highland Wedding by Janice Preston

Unlaced by the Highland Duke by Lara Temple

A Runaway Bride for the Highlander by Elisabeth Hobbes

Secrets of a Highland Warrior by Nicole Locke

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Secrets of a Highland Warrior

Nicole Locke

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08916-6

SECRETS OF A HIGHLAND WARRIOR

© 2019 Harlequin Books S.A.

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

Version: 2020-03-02

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Travelling through romantic dialogue

and dense Scottish mists.

Careening over passionate scenes

and rocky Highland paths.

Forging on ahead in character conflicts

to a Highland castle (or two).

This book is dedicated to Elisabeth Hobbes,

Janice Preston and Lara Temple,

who are brilliant writers and even better friends.

Thank you!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue by Janice Preston

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One
Spring 1293

‘I don’t like this.’ Rory surveyed the landscape surrounding him and his men. Tall branches bending slightly in the spring breeze, birds calling softly, the stream mere horse-lengths in front of them, rushing past carrying winter’s melting ice.

Around them was nothing else but rolling fields and a wide sparse treeline that had been manned and maintained to remain that way since before he was born. Enough trees for game, but not enough for enemies to hide behind.

Not that there should be enemies while they stood on Lochmore land, but across that stream...

‘Perhaps they are waiting over that ridge.’ Paiden sidled his horse alongside his and whispered low.

Rory didn’t turn his attention to the other men. They had maintained their position and were far enough behind to not hear the words that Paiden inevitably desired to share. Of the same age, if different temperament, Paiden had been at his side for as long as he had memory.

Paiden had been talking for that long as well and Rory was used to his friend’s humour even in the direst circumstances. Now, on this mildest of mornings, the circumstances weren’t dire, but they weren’t safe either. His men, well back from the stream few ventured near, didn’t need to hear words to comprehend their predictament.

‘How likely is it that a garrison of McCrieffs and their horses are crouching behind a hill no taller than a couple of rabbits could breach?’

‘Oh, as likely as toothless Joan is capable of eating overcooked venison.’

Not likely at all. There was no one to greet him and his men this fine spring day. Twenty of them in all here, one hundred more waiting at the castle should he make the agreed signal. Twenty was enough of a force for the expected confrontation, but not enough to provoke a first strike. If the McCrieffs wanted a fight, then there were enough to defend the Lochmore claim. If they wanted to negotiate, the numbers weren’t so intimidating that the possibility was there as well.

Months had gone into the planning of this day. A fortnight spent on discussing the number of men, the weaponry, the day and the hour. Rory was prepared for every likely scenario when it came to this day. The nothingness they faced wasn’t any scenario at all.

Which was why they stayed on the Lochmore side of the stream. Across the water was the beginning of McCrieff land. Or what was McCrieff land. It was now his by royal decree.

After his clan supported the crowning of John Balliol last November, the English King Edward had granted the Lochmores part of the McCrieff lands. The ones that bordered along the stream that for years had separated the two clans. The two enemies.

The stream had been a firm divide between the clans and a well-welcomed one. Owning the land, however, gave the Lochmores even more pleasure. To take by any means something precious from the McCrieffs was worth any price paid.

But months had passed since Edward’s decree. During that time the McCrieffs ignored Edward’s law and the Lochmore Chief’s messages.

So it came down to this day, to this hour to fight, to battle. Except all that was before him was the rising of the morning sun and the blades of plentiful grass the horses fed from.

Certainly, the beauty of the land was enough to please any Highlander, but the landscape wasn’t what he intended or expected to see right now.

The granting of this land wasn’t at the McCrieffs’ consent. In fact, this very land had been bitterly fought over for years. Everything between them had been fought over for years.

Also, being Highlanders, it wasn’t expected that the McCrieffs would agree to an English king’s decree. After all, what right did he have over a Highlander’s lands?

However, since it was convenient at this moment for Lochmore’s Chief, Rory’s father, to accept, he did. But with no word from the McCrieffs, it seemed they didn’t accept the terms.

Now, with no one here, it didn’t seem like anything at all.

‘It’s a trap,’ Paiden said.

‘Truly, that ridge wouldn’t be able to hide one horse and we’d hear them if they laid in wait. Where would they lay a trap?’

Rory looked behind at his men waiting for command. They were as restless as the mounts beneath them. They expected to let out a war cry today. Indeed, they’d feasted and bedded in celebration the night before in case today was their last.

If they returned now, it would be without gaining the honour of such celebration. If he returned to his father emptyhanded with no resolution or information, today might indeed be his last. His father wouldn’t allow such ambiguity. McCrieffs present or not, Rory’s only choice was to confront.

‘I’m crossing,’ Rory said. When Paiden pulled his horse only slightly more ahead, Rory stopped. ‘The others didn’t move.’

‘That’s because you didn’t give the signal to move.’

‘Exactly, so what are you doing?’

‘You can give the men commands all that you want, but I’ll still be by your side.’

‘When I’m Chief—’

‘You can give me orders and I won’t cross you in front of others, but until then... Forget it.’

When he was Chief. Not yet. Not without his father’s death and an elder’s approval. But Rory hadn’t been concerned for approval because of this honour today of leading his men to confront the McCrieffs. To demand why they ignored a king’s decree and a clan’s chief.

For months, the firm conclusion as to why the McCrieffs had ignored the decree and messages was that they contested the claim. So in the last message the Lochmores had arranged this day. To meet and agree or if not, to fight. The McCrieffs made no reply, but that, too, wasn’t a concern. For no Highlander would be so cowardly as to ignore a challenge and the last missive was a challenge.

Thus, because he was the only son, the only child of the Lochmore Chief, he wore the best armour his clan owned and wore a sword he’d sharpened himself. The McCrieffs had all to gain with his death and they would not claim it. This was to be his day to prove himself to his father, to his clan. To himself. It was all to be his. His to battle, wrest and claim.

If no blood was to be found on this side of the water, he’d simply ride forward to find it. The hatred between the Lochmores and McCrieffs was too deep for there not to be some argument this day. Some trophy to be won so when he did face his father again, Finley would give his proud approval. Rory would never give up until he finally obtained it.

‘If I can’t rid myself of you...’ Rory sighed with exaggeration ‘...then the others will want to ride as well.’ With his arm raised, he drew a large circle in the air. Whatever might come, this land was his to ensure this day and ensure it he must. For once, he’d be the Lochmore his father wanted him to be.

Chapter Two

Ailsa set the bowl of bone broth and bread on the table and raised the cup of tisane to the thin lips of the Chief of Clan McCrieff. Only a few drops did he take this morning, only a few more throughout last night. The tisane was important for the pain, the beef-broth mixture crucial to retain his strength.

But this last fortnight both had been increasingly difficult for him to swallow. It was that which was telling of the sickness overwhelming him more than the grey pallor of his skin and his laboured breath. His body was slowly wasting away. His ice-blue eyes, however, were sharp as ever and steady on her.

If his eyes could speak, Ailsa knew the barrage of hate would be fierce. Though he was losing his strength day by day, he hadn’t lost his opinions.

The fact he didn’t speak now meant he was saving his strength...for what she didn’t know. She never could understand their Chief who was and had always been filled with rage and suspicion.

Even towards her, their only healer. She glanced up to find his eyes piercing her the entire time he drank the tisane. Mistrust. As if her long sleepless nights and tireless searching for calming herbs weren’t because she was there to help, but to harm him.

She would never, could never, do so. It went against everything she was. It was also a sin. God’s law should have been enough to appease Hamish McCrieff that she would do her duty to him. But she suspected Hamish had committed so many sins he didn’t see the breaking of one as much of a deterrent.

Blasphemous thoughts. This man was Chief of the Clan and deserved respect and loyalty. But everything about him made fear climb like poisonous vines under her skin.

Standing and setting down the cup, Ailsa nodded towards Mary, one of the most faithful of servants, who stood as well, and they adjusted the bedding so Hamish was made more comfortable. She didn’t know what ailed him, but she’d seen it before. The decline was slow, the body consumed on the inside until there was nothing left. All that could be done was to ease the pain and ensure a longer sleep until he died.

A quick death would be more merciful and she had heard of men doing so to their brethren on the battlefields. But for her it was too kind for this man, who wasn’t worth risking her soul for. There was many a day when she wanted to. Something she went to confessional with often. Weeks of confessionals now. The seasons were changing and still McCrieff lingered, leaving the clan in a vulnerable state.

It was no relief when Hamish’s gaze shifted over her shoulder. No relief at all since his accusing stare was aimed entirely at the only other person in the room. Her father, Frederick, who months ago had been elected to be heir apparent to the Chief. To become, in effect, Tanist. Further because Hamish was so ill it was also agreed that her father would be privy to any and all decisions that Hamish would decree. Most significantly, Frederick could suggest and, in certain circumstances, make decisions of his own that would be equally revered by the council. Unusual, but Hamish was dying and her father was a greatly respected warrior, with a bloodline linked to chiefs in the past. The decree was unanimous, including that of Hamish himself. However, Alisa always felt Hamish had given it unwillingly.

Her father must have felt the same way as well. And whether it was because of loyalty to the Chief who he had served under for years or to keep the peace among the Clan, Frederick still consulted with Hamish. In front of the clan, it kept the peace. Only she knew what a toll it took on her father and it was no surprise that, after he gained her attention, he left the room.

As quietly as possible, Alisa stepped away from the bed and let Mary continue with the rest of the routine. Months of working together, they no longer had to discuss the Chief’s care...they only had to endure it.

The room next to the chamber was empty save for her father and Alisa closed the door behind her. He let out a breath.

‘He eats less every day,’ Ailsa said.

‘But drinks your tisane more. Is this because of the pain?’

Hamish hid his pain from her; Ailsa suspected, because he didn’t want her father to know. But at night, when Hannah or Mary took over, when he tried to sleep, he cried out. For a man of Hamish’s stature to do so meant the pain was horrific.

Ailsa nodded. ‘The pain is expected at this stage. For now he seems aware, but it will increase and he will be less... He may not even know who he is.’

Frederick exhaled. ‘The others will not care.’

‘Others?’

Her father raised his finger to his lips and shook his head once.

Ailsa tightened her jaw and kept her words to herself. If Hamish’s health was in further decline, more decisions would be made by her father. The issue, of course, was even at the height of Hamish’s power, her father never saw eye to eye with their Chief. In the past, there were arguments, but to keep the loyalties strong, her father always yielded to the clan Chief...as he should.

Since Hamish didn’t have the strength for all decision making, the clan would lean more on her father, whether Hamish wanted it or not.

There should be no others when it came to the rule of McCrieffs. Everyone should be behind her father, who was a fair man. The Tanist vote and shared ruling was unanimous. It was rare and, to keep McCrieffs strong, to everyone outside the clan it was unknown, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t the right course for her clan. Hamish couldn’t be expected to rule as he once had. However, Hamish had lived long and had spread his venom deep. There were rumours that others were loyal to only him. It incensed her. Her father had every right by blood and sword to rule the McCrieffs and rule them justly. Yet, as long as Hamish lived, Hamish still kept his power and her father was forced to keep the balance.

And she was forced to keep Hamish alive. When Hamish died, her father would face adversity no other McCrieff had ever faced before: To mend a divided Clan. Her father was a warrior, not a negotiator.

However, Hamish’s decreasing strength could change the stalemate—

The outside door burst open and both swung their gaze towards the messenger who bent over his knees to catch his breath. ‘Lochmores are here,’ he panted.

Ailsa’s entire body seized. Their enemy was on their land. How could this have happened without her father being at the forefront of the fight? ‘Father, what is—?’

Frederick kept his gaze on the young man before him. ‘How far?’

‘Just outside the village.’

‘Again!’ Ailsa gasped and Frederick laid a hand on her arm.

The Lochmores were on McCrieff land. It was too soon since the last time. The bodies were still raw in the graves and they were here this soon again? Never!

Lochmores attacking again and this time their clan was divided. They were weak. Is that why they struck? While she’d been tending a dying man, already her clan were dying defending their land.

Ailsa wrenched her arm free of her father’s restraint. ‘They’ve never returned this soon before. Why now?’

‘And the people?’ Frederick asked the messenger.

‘Holding steady.’

For how long? As Tanist and warrior her father would want to be part of that battle. As Clan healer it would be her duty to attend those in need. ‘My pouches are full and ready, I need to only go to my room.’

‘No,’ her father commanded. His expression was not one she’d seen before. The warrior, the father and leader were there, but a flash of something else exposed itself to her. A look she’d never seen before and it took her aback. That vulnerability was of a man facing something far stronger than himself.

‘Whatever happens here today, stay hidden until I say otherwise.’

‘Stay hidden while people die?’ The last time there had been an attack was mere months ago and he’d let her tend the injured. Two McCrieffs had died. The time before that, she’d been a mere child. Too young to comprehend what she saw, but old enough to remember her friend, Magnus, charging towards the oncoming Lochmores. Too small to make a difference and far too inconsequential to be seen. The horse’s hooves cut his life down immediately. ‘You can’t expect me to sit still. I can’t!’

‘There will be no deaths today, not by my hand or decree. If it was my will, all would be spared. Except...’

‘Except?’ She seemed only to think and speak in questions now. Stupid. Ineffectual. Useless. Even her emotions were weak. She knew that all too well. Magnus had been all smiles and then violently nothing but blood and crushed bone. The Lochmores were no longer just some clan hated by the McCrieffs. She hated them, too. But then... Ailsa shook her thoughts away. There should be no but then... ‘There are no exceptions! If the Lochmores are here, then I am needed.’

‘You have twenty years, my Ailsa, my daughter, and I’m a selfish man—if I could keep you for longer I would.’

‘I’ll stay safe. I have and can again.’

‘I’ll keep you safe...until I can’t any more.’

‘Father?’ Did he mean to sacrifice himself? No. To sacrifice himself was one matter, but he was Tanist and he’d be sacrificing his clan, his life, the life of his ancestors.

‘Stay hidden, Ailsa, until I call for you. That is my only wish and desire as a father, but if that won’t do this time, I order you to. Do you understand?’

An order. Aware the messenger was rapt with every gesture and word, Ailsa held still. She would question her father, but never the clan’s leader. When she nodded, her father swept out of the room with the messenger following.

Exhaling the breath she held, Ailsa thought only a moment about what she would do. Quietly, she stepped into Hamish’s room. He was mostly awake, so she waved Mary over to her to whisper what was happening. Told her to stay with Hamish and care for him. Mary glanced at Hamish, but agreed.

With that done, Ailsa left the room. She’d keep her silence in front of others, but to stay hidden wasn’t an order she’d obey from her Tanist or her father. Their enemy was on McCrieff land. Blood had or would be spilled. A true healer was neither daughter nor clan member. She would heal.

* * *

The battle armour Rory wore weighed heavily on him as he travelled further on to McCrieff territory. Paiden rode by his side, watching his back, and the rest of the men stayed evenly spaced behind them.

They were as silent as a troop of Highland warriors could be. Only he, because of his armour, made sounds unlike the others. The sound and the burden chafed the further they travelled on McCrieff land. Rory rolled his shoulders, but it gave no relief in the tightness of his gambeson over his tunic, nor did it ease the weight of the chainmail of his hauberk. None of the others wore armour. Their shields and swords were enough for any true Highland battle.

An hour, maybe two, travelling like this and he felt as tense as a burdened deer being hunted. A weighted deer was a slow one.

What he wouldn’t give for flinging both shield and sword in the air and crying out for war. This hiding game of the McCrieffs wore thin. Mere months ago, when Edward granted McCrieff land to Lochmores there’d been a clash of swords. Small, significant...unsanctioned. The border of their land was always patrolled. Some Lochmores, gloating over what they perceived as a victory, had raced over to McCrieff land. It was a small battle unknown until too late by their Chief and the men had been well punished. More so since blood was shed. Two McCrieffs had died and one Lochmore.

That had been nothing more or less than it’d been for generations until this very moment. His sword arm ached with the need to swing. To feel the rough reverberation of metal against metal. Instead, they rode through empty fields until they saw the village surrounding the motte and bailey with a centre keep.

Even from this distance, Rory could see the weakness of the McCrieffs’ half-stone and half-timber defence. It was encircled by a partial wall at its lowest point, but nothing a bit of fire and a medium-sized battalion could not destroy.

McCrieff’s castle was, mostly, as his father remembered and recalled to him. Had they made no improvements since then? His own land was surrounded by water, but even they fortified their walls. The McCrieffs had not prospered like his own clan.

Riding slowly, they approached the village, which wasn’t empty, but full of wide-eyed silent residents. So much silence, which weighed heavier than his armour. Ominous. Foreboding. Not one resident moved. It was as if they feared one flick of a wrist would erupt in bloodshed. Rory slowed his horse even more and quieted the breaths through his lungs.

There was always a moment of stillness before a battle, but he felt none of the menacing tenuousness now. He craved to fight, but with soldiers who also craved to draw their swords. Not villagers and children. Not with domesticity that chafed more than the unusual circumstance he found himself in. Only the animals didn’t seem to understand that the unnatural stillness wasn’t to be broken.

So they rode through gaggles of squawking hens and through small herds of sheep. Always Rory observed every detail of the residents, buildings and houses. He might not feel the hatred of enemies, but he knew there were those who hated him. Anything he missed could be his death or the demise of his men. He didn’t want either, but he wouldn’t accept the latter at all.

They had prepared for battle. Instead, they walked through the McCrieffs’ village as if this was no more than a neighbourly visit. Except the silence. This was the indication that all was not welcoming. Good, he wanted to fight. Why weren’t they fighting?

Damn the coward, McCrieff. Hamish’s reputation was as a duplicitous ruler, but rumour was he faced you as he lied. This nothingness was something else and unwanted. How could he prove to his clan, to his Chief, his father, that he, too, would be worthy of power if at this moment he was denied proving himself?

On through the silent village until the wide open gates. Here, Rory stopped and Paiden pulled his horse alongside his once again.

‘I don’t like this,’ Paiden said.

‘Now you show caution?’ Rory said.

‘I wanted to turn away at the stream, but you wouldn’t let me,’ Paiden gave a fake wobble to his voice. ‘But I’ll agree if you turn back now.’

Deep on McCrieff land and it wasn’t safe for any of them. The questions kept mounting. ‘Why bother? If it’s a trap, we’re in it and it matters not if I go through that gate or not.’

Paiden gave a grim chuckle. ‘I think it matters very much. About what that is, is up to you.’

It was a trap Rory knew he must purposefully step foot into. He was already a dead man simply riding to this point. If he rode past the gate, he’d be in the Great Courtyard surrounded by McCrieff warriors who could easily strike him with arrows. Armour or not. Enough arrows and any protection would eventually fail.

However, he was also a dead man if he stood outside the gates, so it was possible they intended to take him prisoner, but the McCrieff Chief wasn’t that clever. So what else could it be? Did they intend to lay out a feast for him and his men and tell tales by the fire?

He’d rather kill the entire clan than sit at their table. If his father discovered he’d done so, he’d lose all honour.

‘Stay here,’ Rory said.

Paiden snorted, but he held his mount still as Rory approached the gate and assessed each gatekeeper. They gave no indication of their intentions to his presence. Their bodies tense, but no weapon in either hand. Of course, there was no welcoming greeting on their lips either. Just more of that unnatural stillness like the villagers.

So he passed through the gate on well-worn dirt beneath smaller buildings in different states of disrepair.

Once through to the other side, Rory could see two men above, but from the angle of the gate and the high walls, he knew there were hidden places where numerous men could walk the wall, aim their bow and arrow over the slats and pull the killing shot.

Just past the walls’ shadow and Rory spotted a lone man descending the keep’s steps. There were many steps, tightly terraced, yet he took them one at a time. He spotted no limp or deformity in the Scotsman. No, the McCrieff took the steps slowly and deliberately to waste time.

Another scan of his surroundings and Rory waited while the stranger strode towards them. He appeared the same age as his father, but that was the only certainty he could be Chief of Clan McCrieff.

He was tall, thick, his shoulders wide. Lochmore’s Chief was a scholar—this man led troops, fought in battles and had shed much blood. His father had said Hamish was large, but everything else didn’t fit. This man didn’t look as if he spoke to councils and negotiated.

A flash of movement at the top of the stairs and Rory glanced towards the new threat. It was a woman half in the shadows of the doorway, her white gown giving a shape and size to her. She appeared younger than the man striding towards him now.