Highland Brides 04 - Lion Heart
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced or transmitted in any manner whatsoever, electronically, in print, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of both Oliver Heber Books and Tanya Anne Crosby, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Lion Heart by Tanya Anne Crosby
COPYRIGHT © Tanya Anne Crosby
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To brothers—because I have two of the best.
“Crosby’s characters keep readers engaged…”
– Publishers Weekly
“Tanya Anne Crosby sets out to show us a good time and accomplishes that with humor, a fast paced story and just the right amount of romance.”
– The Oakland Press
“Romance filled with charm, passion and intrigue …”
– Affaire de Coeur
“Ms. Crosby mixes just the right amount of humor … Fantastic, tantalizing!”
– Rendezvous
“Tanya Anne Crosby pens a tale that touches your soul and lives forever in your heart.”
– Sherrilyn Kenyon #1 NYT Bestselling Author
Look for Highland Steel early 2014
- Title Page
- Prologue
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Chapter 21
- Chapter 22
- Chapter 23
- Chapter 24
- Chapter 25
- Chapter 26
- Chapter 27
- Chapter 28
- Epilogue
- Books By Tanya Anne Crosby
D
escended of the powerful sons of MacAlpin, the MacKinnon laird seemed invulnerable behind his veil of authority. Broc knew better. The innocence of youth had been stripped from his child’s mind; he no longer believed any man invincible.
His da was dead, his minny too, and he’d come to Chreagach Mhor a poor relation seeking refuge.
He stood tall, his father’s enormous battle-scarred sword tucked into his belt, answering all of the MacKinnon’s questions without shedding a tear, though he wished more than anything he could run away and find a quiet spot to mend his bleeding heart.
Though the MacKinnon had welcomed him with open arms, Broc knew he would never feel wholly part of this clan. His own kinsmen had been murdered, their lands razed, and he felt like a beggar now standing before the MacKinnon laird.
“The lad is welcome to remain,” the MacKinnon assured Broc’s escort. “My wife’s kin will always have a place among us, and I shall keep him safe as though he were my own.”
The old woman who had brought him here wept in gratitude. “Praise ye, good sir!”
Auld Alma had assisted nearly every birth in the MacEanraig clan for as long as Broc could recall. She, too, had been left homeless, without family, but Broc knew she would not remain in the MacKinnon’s care. Nay, Alma would return to sweep up the ashes of their razed village. She would bury every poor soul she had helped bring into this world, and afterward she would remain to tend their graves.
“God will surely smile upon thee for this kindness!” she assured the MacKinnon.
Chreagach Mhor boasted the only stone keep in all of Scotia. Its laird seemed more a king than a simple chieftain, but his manner was far from imperious as he responded to her grief-stricken blessing. He smiled down at them both from his seat upon the dais. His only son, Iain, sat on his lap, and the MacKinnon’s fingers were laced in the boy’s hair. Broc’s throat grew thick at the sight of them, but he didn’t turn away.
He met the child’s gaze directly.
“You too, may have a warm bed should ye choose to remain,” the elder MacKinnon told Alma. “There is room enough—if not within the keep, then surely elsewhere. We would welcome ye with open hearts.”
“Nay, sir.” Alma shook her head. “But I thank ye anyway. I am auld and my place is with my husband.” Her eyes filled again with tears.
The elder MacKinnon nodded soberly and said nothing. He knew, as Broc knew, that her husband was dead. They were all dead but for a paltry few.
Clutching the hilt of his father’s sword, Broc lifted his shoulder, catching a fat tear with his tunic. Och, but he wasn’t a wee bairn anymore. He shouldn’t weep. It was his duty to be strong—if only his heart would stop squeezing so painfully. Another tear slipped past his guard, and he quickly swiped it away.
Dirty Sassenachs.
Anger dried his eyes.
He’d known them by their armor, bright silver shielding their bodies all the way from their legs to the top of their heads. Like mirrors, their helms had glistened under the midmorning sun.
No Scotsman wore the costume of cowards.
No Scotsman worth bearing the name murdered wee bairns and expectant mothers for the sake of greed.
The pale-faced demons had come and gone as quickly as a sudden tempest. Broc had been too busy skipping stones into the loch to fight beside his family. He had shunned his duties that morning, had stolen away to play, and he would regret his childish decision for the rest of his days.
By the time he’d heard their screams, it was too late. From a distance, he’d first spied the smoke curling into the sky. And before his eyes, their homes had been reduced to ash. Never in his life had he felt such a rage. He’d run after the murdering bastards, trying to stop them, but the scoundrels had mounted their horses and ridden away like the cowards they were. His father had said they would not stop until all of Scotia was under King Henry of England’s rules.
As long as Broc lived he didn’t think he would forget the scorched smell of his village. In his nightmares he would envision the slain bodies of his kinsmen lying limply among the mounds of ash that were once their homes… he would forever smell the scent of charred flesh… and in his heart he would dream of vengeance.
His little fist tightened upon the hilt of his father’s heavy sword. Though he could barely carry it now, someday this very sword would exact vengeance for his mother’s life and honor. There would never be room enough for other devotions. He would give his labors and his gratitude to the MacKinnon, but his heart would remain dark, lit only by the fires of revenge. Vengeance, like a glittering torch through a dark wood, would guide his way.
He would not be distracted by women or drink, he vowed.
He would not be placated by holding a young bairn on his knee.
He didn’t deserve to be surrounded by grandchildren in his old age.
He’d failed his mother.
He’d failed his kinsmen.
Aye, they had killed her, but he was as responsible as they were. He should have fought beside his family.
Another wayward tear rushed down his cheek.
He was big enough to defend his minny! He was big enough to defend his home! He should have died beside them. If it took the rest of his days to redeem himself, he would somehow find a way. He wasn’t some weak, whey-faced Sassenach girly boy! He was big for his age, they said, and he would grow up to be bigger and stronger than most. And someday he would avenge his minny and his da.
Someday he would make the English pay for their murdering ways!
Iain MacKinnon slid down from his father’s knee and came toward him. He was younger than Broc, though not by many years—perhaps five to Broc’s seven, though Broc couldn’t be certain. He came and stood before Broc, looking him square in the eyes. His expression was sober and somehow as dignified as his da’s. He nodded and said, “’Twill be alright, Broc Ceannfhionn.”
Broc didn’t believe it was true, but he didn’t say so. He narrowed his eyes at the name Iain had bestowed upon him—Broc the Blond. No one had ever called him that, but it didn’t seem such a bad thing to be called. He nodded back, thanking Iain wordlessly for his words of comfort. Five was just too young to know anything at all. When the boy was seven at least, he would better understand.
“You can share my room,” Iain offered. “I’ll show you where it is.”
Broc peered up at Alma. He wanted to go with her, instead, to help put all the ghosts to rest.
She reached out to catch his chin, lifting his face. “Sweet Broc, ye’ll do well here,” she predicted.
Another tear slipped past his guard.
“Forget the anger, child,” she advised him, “and remember the love. Make your sweet minny proud!” she commanded him. “Find ye a good woman to cherish and give her strong bairns. Let your father’s blood live long in your veins and those of your children! You are the last of the MacEanraig clan, lad.”
He swallowed hard, realizing he’d never see her again. His last tie to his kinsmen would be severed the instant she walked out the door.
But his da would want him to be a man.
He gazed at her tender countenance one last time, his eyes stinging sorely, but he didn’t shed a single tear as he turned to follow Iain MacKinnon from the hall.