Sutherland's Secret

Sutherland’s Secret
is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

A Loveswept Ebook Original

Copyright © 2016 by Sharon Cullen

Excerpt from
MacLean’s Passion
by Sharon Cullen copyright © 2016 by Sharon Cullen

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin crane Random House LLC, New York.

L
OVESWEPT
is a registered trademark and the
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OVESWEPT
colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book
MacLean’s Passion
by Sharon Cullen. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the finalcrane content of the forthcoming edition.

eBook ISBN 9781101964880

Cover design: Carrie Devine/Seductive Designs

Cover photographs: Hot Damn Stock (couple), Stor (Mariusz Krukowski)/Depositphotos.com (background)

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A
BERNATHY
P
RIORY,
S
COTLAND

J
UNE 1746

“What the bloody hell is Campbell doing here?” Colin MacLean growled. “I’ll no’ have anything to do with anything that has a Campbell involved.”

“Easy,
bràthair.
” Brice Sutherland caught Colin by the neck of his shirt and pulled him away from the door he was heading toward. Colin tended to act first rather than think first. Brice, on the other hand, was curious to see what this clandestine meeting was all about, although he had his suspicions, and he didn’t like them one bit. “Let’s see what Graham has to say first,” he said.

Nearly a fortnight ago Brice had received a missive from Alasdair Graham, one of the oldest and most respected Highland chiefs. It said naught of what he wanted, only that he required Brice’s presence on this day in this priory.

Brice had hesitated in deciding whether to come. ’Twas not a good time right now, but if Graham requested his presence, then it had to be important. He’d been surprised to discover that there were a dozen other chiefs here as well. A gathering of Highland chiefs was very dangerous, indeed.

Just six weeks past, the Scottish Jacobite army had been defeated by the English in the Battle of Culloden. Ever since the English had been killing, arresting, and imprisoning any Jacobite supporter they could find. No, it was not a good time for the chiefs to gather for a secret meeting. If they were discovered, they would be put to death.

Colin grumbled beneath his breath and leaned against the wall, his hand on the butt of his pistol and his eye firmly fastened on Campbell, who sat off to the side, his back to the wall. Brice eyed Campbell as well. It was never wise to trust a Campbell.

MacLean shifted beside him. “Sinclair is here,” he muttered with a tip of his chin toward the man.

Brice nodded to Evan Sinclair, who nodded back. The gathering was a mixed bunch, part English sympathizers, part Jacobites, and part clan chiefs, like Brice, who had not fought on either side of the Battle of Culloden.

“What do ye make of this?” MacLean asked.

“Interesting,” Brice said.

MacLean grunted.

A door at the far side of the room opened. Every chief, including the English sympathizers, tensed. More than one hand went to the hilt of a sword or the butt of a pistol. A few even stood in readiness. Alasdair Graham stepped through the door. Those standing sat, and all hands relaxed from weapons, but all eyes watched the elder chief curiously.

He made his way through the silent room until he stood before them. “No doubt ye are wondering why I brought ye here.”

There were murmurs of agreement. Brice remained silent.

“I don’t have to tell ye that this meeting must be kept secret. If the English discover we have met…Well, we all know the consequences.” Graham paused to eye the inhabitants of the room. “Much thought went into this meeting and whom I could trust,” he said.

Jacobites glared at English sympathizers, who glared back.

“As ye can see, I drew no lines. I have invited clans from both sides of the war, and I expect every one of ye to behave civilly.”

“The man is daft,” Colin muttered.

“I think we can all agree that the atrocities perpetrated against our people by the English are unconscionable,” Graham said into the silent room. “Our women and children need our protection. They’re being abused and slaughtered. Our men are being arrested for no reason.”

One chief, Drummond, pounded on the arm of his chair. “Death to every
Sasannach,
” he bellowed. His outcry was followed by loud cheers, the loudest coming from Colin.

Graham held up his hand. “I did no’ call ye here to propose more war. We have no’ the resources, the men, or the weapons to fight the English in that way. But we can protect what is left of Scotland and those who cannot protect themselves.”

“What do ye want from us?” someone called out.

“I want ye to be the watchers, the
Tèarmannair,
the Protectors. I want ye to devote what men ye can to patrolling our countryside, no’ to engage the English but to watch over those who have no voice and no arms against them.”

Brice had been correct. He wanted nothing to do with this. What Graham was proposing would cost manpower he didn’t have, not to mention putting his life and the lives of his men in grave danger. He liked Graham’s plan and admired his initiative, but where in the hell would he get the men?

There was a loud murmur of assent. Heads were nodding; men began speaking to one another about where they should patrol.

“Why invite a Campbell?” MacLean shouted, causing all conversation to come to a halt. Many glared at Campbell. For his part, Campbell stared impassively back with cold black eyes.

Graham looked at MacLean in disappointment. “Because Campbell has as much to lose as ye do if the English proceed as they have been. Because for once Scotland and its chiefs need to unite against a common enemy instead of fighting among ourselves for petty offenses.”

And so the Protectors, the
Tèarmannair,
was formed, a mixture of chiefs who were allies and enemies, friends and foes, who all swore to protect the defenseless, and who all possessed Highland pride.

Brice and his men were still two days’ ride from home, and he was itching to get back. He’d been gone far too long for his peace of mind. There were too many things to get done and, as usual, not enough time to do them. As he’d been doing since Graham’s meeting, he tried to decide which men he could sacrifice for the
Tèarmannair.

Brice would have liked to have discussed Graham’s plan with MacLean. But MacLean had ridden off in the direction of his land immediately after the meeting. Maybe they could split the duties and Brice would have to supply men only half the time. ’Twas worth speaking to MacLean about.

Galad, his mount, sidestepped and tossed its head, pulling Brice from his thoughts and causing him to yank hard on the reins to remain seated. Damnation, but he needed to keep his head about him, especially with English soldiers patrolling these roads.

Brice spotted the cause of his mount’s fright. A pile of rags lying in the middle of the road. The hairs on the back of Brice’s neck prickled, and he held up his fist in a silent command to stop the line of warriors behind him.

Brice quickly glanced up and down the path, pulled his broadsword, and dismounted. Behind him were the sounds of swords being unsheathed and pistols cocked.

Using his broadsword, he poked at the rags. They were disgustingly filthy, caked with mud and what looked like blood and any other manner of muck that he didn’t want to contemplate. And they stank. No wonder Galad wouldn’t step over them. But what was odd was that they were lying in the middle of the road. It wasn’t even really a road. A wide path would be a better description.

Lachlan, Brice’s second in command, stepped up beside him and peered down at the refuse. “ ’Tis nothing but rags. Let’s move on.”

Brice bent down and pulled at the rag. Beside him, Lachlan gasped and Brice shot to his feet with a curse. ’Twas no pile of rags but a body.

“Saints above,” Lachlan said. “What the hell is this?” He crouched down and peered closer. “A woman.”

“The hell ye say,” Brice growled.

“My lord.” Calum, one of his youngest warriors and still in training, came running up from behind the line, breathing hard. “Redcoats,” he said, fear in his eyes. “Coming up behind us.”

Lachlan began ordering the men into the trees while Brice made a fateful decision. He picked up the pile of rags, shocked by how little the girl weighed. Why, he had dogs that weighed more than she did. Clucking to Galad to follow, he hurriedly made his way into the trees and crouched behind a boulder. He slapped Galad on the rump, and the horse trotted off into the forest
.

His men fanned out behind him, finding cover where they could while Brice held the woman close to him. He was fully prepared to cover her mouth should she awaken as the soldiers were passing.

Saints preserve him, but if he’d just stepped into a trap, he would be mighty displeased. He had no ready excuse as to why he was riding with a retinue of men. That alone was enough for the English to stop him and possibly arrest him.

He looked down at the lass. Her face, caked with dirt and grime, was pressed against his chest. Her nose was small, her eyes…Well, they were closed, so he couldn’t tell much about them, but her brows were nicely formed and her lashes fair and delicate. Her hair was an indeterminate color, matted and covered in filth. Her stink reminded him of his dogs when they rolled in something they’d found on the ground.

The English soldiers crested the hill, riding in a straight line, their red coats and gleaming silver buttons too bright against the forest’s muted backdrop. Just more proof that the English were a blight upon the Scottish landscape. There were only six of them. Brice and his men could easily take them, but to what end? To be hunted by more soldiers? It wasn’t worth the trouble. Best to let them pass. Brice just prayed that the lass wasn’t a trick to trap him.

The soldiers were joking, talking about the women they’d been with the night before. Their language was crude, their descriptions despicable, and it made Brice’s stomach turn.
Limey bastards
. They cared not for anyone but themselves.

He gritted his teeth and controlled the urge to put the woman down, pull his weapon, and step out from behind the boulder. That would be something MacLean would have done. Impulsive and deadly. Brice didn’t wish to be dead this day.

The soldiers passed out of sight, but Brice and his men remained unmoving, giving the soldiers plenty of time to put distance between them.

Lachlan appeared at his side and looked down at the woman with a frown. “That was risky,” he said.

“I couldn’t leave her on the road. Ye heard them. They would have misused her.”

“They were so unaware of their surroundings, they would have stepped right over her,” Lachlan said in disgust.

Brice grunted his agreement. The soldiers would have been dead if he’d had the inclination to kill them. They had not been vigilant, and that could have been a fatal mistake. Did they realize how close they had come to death?

“What are ye going to do with her?” Lachlan asked.

Brice carefully laid her on the ground. Her head lolled to the side. One hand fell lifelessly to the dirt while the other rested on her stomach. Her clothing looked like it once was a gown. A fine gown.

In the English style.

Brice quickly looked at Lachlan to see if he’d noticed. He had.

“Put her back,” Lachlan said flatly. “We don’t need that kind of trouble.”

He was right. The last thing Brice needed was to be caught with an English woman who no doubt had been ill used.

Brice looked more closely at her. Her shoulder bones were prominent. Her neck looked too fragile to support her head. Her wrists were small and delicate and covered in raised scars, as if she’d been manacled. He touched one with his finger, trying to imagine what scoundrel would clap manacles on a woman.

He well knew the abuse that the Scottish women received from the English soldiers, but he hadn’t been aware that the English treated their own women the same way. If in fact she were English. But how else would she come to be wearing an English gown?

Lachlan stood and wiped his hand on his kilt. “We need to keep moving.”

Brice kept looking at the woman. She hadn’t stirred. If not for the shallow rise and fall of her chest, he would have thought her dead.

“My lord,” Lachlan said with a note of warning.

“I know.” Brice stood and picked up the woman.

Lachlan’s eyes widened. “Ye can’t think to take her with us. She’s a
Sasannach
.”

“Ye do no’ know that.”

“She’s wearing
Sasannach
clothing. If those soldiers backtrack and ye’re caught with her…”

“Look at her, Lachlan. She’s dying. I canno’ let her die alone.”

Lachlan looked at her. Her skin was pale, thin as parchment, her veins easily seen. Brice felt for the beat of a pulse at her throat. It was barely there, too faint and too erratic. She was starved, and it would be the death of her.

“So ye take her with us and put us all in jeopardy,” Lachlan said.

“Leave. Take the rest of the men and head home. I’ll take a different route.”

Lachlan stared at him in disbelief. “Ye canno’ be serious.”

Was
he serious? He looked down at the lass, at her delicate features, at the bruises and scars and lacerations, and he knew one thing. He couldn’t let her die alone. If anyone knew this terrain, it was he. He knew where to hide and where to go for sanctuary if need be. “Go,” he said. “Ye’re wasting my time arguing.”

“I can’t let ye go alone,” Lachlan said. “It’s too dangerous.”

Brice raised a brow. “Do ye question my authority?”

Lachlan’s lips thinned. “Of course no’, but…”

“Go. If I’ve no’ returned home in three days’ time, then send scouts for me. I’ll keep to the less used paths.”

“This is madness,” Lachlan stated.

Brice looked him in the eye. “Some bastard left her on the road to die. If this were yer sister or yer wife, would ye want her to die alone?”

Their gazes clashed until Lachlan looked away. “Very well,” he said. “But if ye’re no’ back in three days, I’ll look for ye myself.”

Lachlan took charge of the men, and with one last look at Brice, they left. They didn’t question the decision, although a few of the younger ones looked at him oddly.

It wasn’t until he was alone that he cursed himself and the damn chivalry he felt for this wee lass who hadn’t even opened her eyes to look at him. But what he’d told Lachlan was the truth. Only an animal would leave a starving woman to die along the side of the road. Someone had left her here. He would do what was right and see her the rest of the way to God.