The Highlander's Temptation (3 page)

“Aye?” he said, focusing his attention on
their aunt.

“I’d be happy to have Lorna return home with me upon my departure. Visits with me have helped Heather so much.”

Lorna’s head shot up, mouth falling open as she glanced from her brother to her aunt. Good God, no! Beside her on the bench, Heather kicked Lorna in the shin and made a slight gesture with her knife as though she were slitting her wrist. Lorna pressed her lips together to keep from laughing.

“I’m sure that’s not necessary, Aunt,” Lorna said, giving the woman her sweetest smile. At least she’d not told her there was no way in hell she’d step foot outside of this castle for a journey unless it was on some adventure she chose for herself. She’d heard enough horror stories about the etiquette lessons Heather had to endure.

“Magnus?” Fiona urged.

There was a flash of irritation in his eyes. Magnus didn’t mind his siblings calling him by his name, but all others were to address him formally. Lorna agreed that should be the case with the clan, but with family, Lorna thought he ought to be more lenient, especially where their aunt was concerned.

Aye, she was a thorn in his arse, but she was also very helpful.

Before her brother could say something he’d regret, Lorna pressed her hand to his forearm and chimed in. “’Haps we can plan on me accompanying Heather on her next visit.”

That seemed to pacify their aunt. She nodded and returned to her dinner.

Ronan, who sat beside Magnus on the opposite side of the table, leaned close to their brother and smirked as he said something.
Probably crude. Lorna rolled her eyes. If Blane was here, he’d have joined in their bawdy drivel. Or maybe even saved her from having to invite herself to stay at their aunt’s house.

As it was, Blane was gallivanting about the countryside and the borders dressed as
an Englishman selling wool. Sutherland wool. Their prized product. Superior to all others in texture, softness, thickness, and ability to hold dye.

She stirred her stew, frowning. Blane always came home safe and sound, but she still worried. There was a lot of unrest throughout the country, and
the blasted English king, Longshanks, was determined to be rid of them all. It would only take one wrong move and her beloved brother would be forever taken away.

Lorna glanced up. She gazed from one sibling to the next. She loved them.
All of them. They loved each other more than most, maybe because they’d lost their parents so young and only had each other to rely on. Whatever the case was, they’d a bond not even steel could cut through.

Magnus raised his mug of ale. “A toast!” he boomed.

Every mug lifted into the air, ale sloshing over the sides and cheers filled the room.

“Clan Sutherland!” he bellowed.

And the room erupted in uproarious calls and clinks of mugs. A smile split her face and she was overcome with joy.

She’d be perfectly happy never to leave here.
And perfectly ecstatic to never marry MacOwen.

Even still, as she
clinked her mug and took a mighty gulp, she couldn’t help but wonder if there was a man out there she could love, and one who just might love her in return.

Chapter Two

Glasgow Castle

Laird Jamie Montgomery leaned against the stone wall at the back of the great hall filled with at least a half dozen chiefs and two score warriors. Thousands more waited beyond the castle walls and in the courtyard.
Their shouts and cheers a low din beyond the thick stone walls of Glasgow.

At the head of the men
packed into the great hall, standing atop Jamie’s trestle table upon the dais, was William Wallace.

The man was covered in weapons, his fa
ce painted and blood spattered. Long hair, once strung back in a queue but now floated about his face in wild, plaited strands. He’d not even bothered to seek out the healer before calling this emergency meeting. Not that a healer would have done more than clean out his wounds, ’haps give him a few stitches.

Thank goo
dness Jamie’s servants had swept away the embroidered table runner his mother had created from the center of the table as the men barreled into the great hall. As it was, Wallace’s muddy boots left marks on the table Jamie was certain his housekeeper would scoff at. But what was he to do when Wallace was so obviously filled with passionate anger?

And so Jamie had taken up residence against the wall
. Watching not only their country’s freedom fighter rave, but the men in the crowd enticing him. Their fists pumped into the air, and ale flowed freely as though the amber liquid poured liberally from the springs.

They were all out for blood.
Revenge against the dreaded English. And the lot of them would end up dead if they didn’t start relying on their instincts and using their minds instead of their foolhardy hearts.

Wallace was the only man he’d ever met who fought with passion and strategy. But the men who followed him weren’t all the same. Most were riled up by their leader, the cause, by their hate, and they rushed headlong into action with little thought as to how they should truly proceed. They played a dangerous game. And without Wallace’s strategy, they’d have suffered much more loss. He might look uncivilized, with his wild hair and war paint, but the man was a military mastermind. And he’d gained everyone’s trust, support and respect. Scotland’s fight for freedom would never have gotten this far without him. That was a
fact.

“We must fight! We must go now. Invade England!” Wallace was shouting, the skin beneath the paint reddening to match the splatters of blood on his cheeks.
His white teeth flashed as he bared them, seeing whatever demons haunted him off in the distance.

The men raised their swords, daggers and fists into the air, sending battle cries echoing off the stone walls of the great hall.
The other chiefs seated before a feast on the dais paused in their bites to stare not at Wallace but at Jamie.

The council members trusted Jamie’s opinion. He was not a man who normally led with his heart, but rather tactical logic. A trait he’d learned from his father. God rest his soul.

Jamie kept his expression blank, flicked his eyes back to Wallace and waited for what else he’d have to say. He’d not let the man be pushed aside as some on the council wanted. They thought Wallace rash, ruled by emotion. Aye, part of that was true, but Jamie trusted the man all the same. He was intelligent and creative in the ways of war. In truth, Jamie respected him all the more for his passion. Not many a man was able to lead by such a thirst to see their cause reign triumphant.

“We’ll take a force of Scots across the borders and crush them all!” The way the man was shouting, he was likely to be hoarse within the hour.

Wallace turned around, bent toward the table and grabbed a mug out of Chief MacArran’s hands, gulping the contents and wiping the dribble on his sleeve before handing the mug back. MacArran grimaced as he took hold of the mug and set it on the table as though a dog had just slurped out of it.

Jamie repressed the urge to roll his eyes. Sometimes he felt like he was dealing with a crowd of green lads.

Wallace faced those in the great hall with blazing, angry eyes. And why shouldn’t he? The man had just endured a battle against the bloody Sassenachs. And one he’d not planned. He’d been attacked, ambushed, he and his men just south of Glasgow.

Rather than going to Stirling where the council resided, Wallace had called half the council members to Glasgow, in fear the English wer
e headed straight for Stirling, currently held by the Bruce’s men, though not easily. Not even a year had passed since John Baliol had been stripped of his reign over Scotland. The northern English maggot, had been recruited by Longshanks—the English king, named so for his great height—to rule over Scotland because of his distant relation to King David who’d not ruled in over a hundred years. More distant was Baliol than their future king, Robert the Bruce—but Robert was not Longshanks’ choice and while England feigned occupation of their country, they’d put a pretender on the throne. Now Baliol resided where he should, in the Tower of London.

A rat bastard he was. Toom Tabbard. The nickname, meaning Empty Coat, made Jamie snicker. Should have named him Empty Sac. Bastard had no ballocks.

Toom Tabbard never gave a fig for the Scottish people, and allowed the Sassenachs to traipse all over the countryside, raping, pillaging, burning. The reminder only made Jamie’s gut rot with shame to have been acquainted with the man. Not that he’d been closely acquainted. When Jamie’s father had passed, knowing the imposter was ruling, and his own seat so close to Jamie’s father offered up his allegiance, if only to keep an eye on the man.

Keeping his enemy close kept him apprised of, and able to foil
, so many plans Baliol and Longshanks had contrived for the Scottish people. And his father had been able to keep the Bruce informed. Because of that, Jamie had been well acquainted with their plans, and able to offer more than just his leadership and fighting skills to the country.

Jamie was damn
proud that he’d been chosen as one of the twelve to reside within the Bruce’s council—even if he was slightly annoyed that Wallace was clunking his gut-covered boots on the place he ate every night.

“What say ye, Montgomery? Will ye invade with me?” Wallace had stopped pacing, placed his hands on his hips and looked at Jamie with expectation.

Every eye in the grand hall whipped around to face him. Jamie kept his arms crossed but pushed off the wall, rocking slowly on his feet as he thought about a response that would be both diplomatic and diffusing.

“I would refer to the council. I am but a member of a voting assembly.”
He kept his voice even, meeting each of the council members’ gazes and then Wallace’s.

“Och, Montgomery, your opinion then,” Wallace said. “Dinna give us another vague answer, but your thoughts, my laird.”

Jamie tilted his head from side to side, cracking the tension away from his neck. “I have always been of the opinion that any action taken in haste is foolish.”

Wallace bared his teeth, glaring daggers at Jamie. For a moment, Jamie wondered if the man would leap off the table and demand he battle it out with swords right there in the middle of the great hall. He kind of liked the idea. His sword was bigger than Wallace’s by at least six inches.

But Wallace did not leap off the table. Instead he cracked his knuckles. “What would ye propose then?”

The five other council members present,
leaned closer, over the table and the group standing between him and the table pressed nearer. The very air crackled with stale ale, sweat, meat, blood and rage lust.

Jamie did not hesitate in answering, for ’twas a thought he’d had for quite some time.
“We need to gather more forces.”

“More forces?” Wallace pursed his lips
, crossed his arms over his chest. “Aye. We need more.”

“We need to garner alliances with the north. Right now only half the country is fighting against the English. Of the other half, they’ve suffered, aye, but they’ve not had the battles in their courtyards as yet.”
Jamie stayed where he was, not stepping forward into the room. His voice reverberated through the great hall.

“And how do ye propose we seek
them out?” Chief MacArran asked, peering from behind Wallace’s legs.

“We speak to them. Let us leave enough forces here to protect ou
r people, but let us recruit more warriors and clans from the north. We need more warriors, more supplies, more coin. We canna continue to do this as we are, else we’ll end up defeated on the battlefield with lame horses and no boots, our ribs protruding enough to count.”

Wallace nodded, and the men at the trestle table turned and discussed with each other.

Jamie leaned back against the wall, glad he was able to diffuse the situation and get across a point he’d been trying to make for the last eight months—they couldn’t achieve Scottish freedom with only half the country fully invested.

After several moments of the men conferring, Wallace raised his hand, calling for silence from those in the great hall.
He looked straight a Jamie when he said, “Ye’ll be the one to go.”

Jamie pushed back off the wall, taking a steady step forward.
He must not have heard correctly. “What?” he questioned. The hint of menace in his voice could not be helped.

“’Twas your idea.
” Wallace shrugged as though he spoke of something simple. “Ye’ll head north. Take your men with ye. We’ll need as many clans on our side as ye can muster.”

“Nay.” Jamie clenched his jaw. “I’m needed here. A journey such as that would last months.”

“Aye, ye’re right. Would not Malcolm do well in your stead, keeping the clan and castle in order?”

Jamie glanced toward the hearth where his younger brother Malcolm leaned against the mantle. Only two years younger, Malcolm was just as well versed in the workings of the castle and lands as Jamie. Hell, he was his only heir since Jamie had yet to marry, though at twenty-nine it was nearing time he did so. Malcolm gave a curt
, confident nod.

Jamie didn’t feel any relief at the prospect.

“All right. I’ll go, but I shall return within three months.”

Wallace shrugged. “Suit yourself, my laird. As long as ye dinna take overlong. The English are likely to chew off their own feet in eagerness to cross the borders.”

Jamie raised a brow. “They’d not be making it across too well, then.”

Wallace chuckled. “Aye, but wouldn’t it be a sight to see them crawling in the mud?”

A few of the men dropped to the ground and pretended to crawl the way they envisioned the English would, bleeding from their stumps.

“Seek out the Sutherlands first. Their chief has a large army and quite a fair amount of clans allied to him. If ye talk to him, he could send out
messengers and ye might find yourself back at Glasgow a lot sooner.”

Jamie was unsure of which council member spoke. As soon as he heard the name Sutherland he was tunneled back
in time to fifteen years prior. He recalled every minute detail, even the scent of fresh spring flowers and grass. The blonde haired cherub who’d smiled up at him. Her parents slaughtered. Thank God her brother had only been injured, and not murdered as Jamie had originally thought.

He’d not had contact with the Sutherlands since, as his father was given Glasgow below the Highland mountains. They’d been keeping the English from crossing over into the north for as long as he could remember.

And yet, he had an intense curiosity. What had happened to them all? Had their brother, the laird, about his age, been able to gain control? Respect? And the girl… She’d be about nineteen now. Would her hair glisten as golden in the sun as it had back then?

Jamie frowned. Why the hell was he thinking about the lassie’s hair?

“I’ll leave at first light,” he growled.

The men in the great hall all nodded, murmurs rippling through the crowd.
His two childhood friends and the men he refused to fight without, Toby and Donald, stepped forward. Their fathers had been warriors within Jamie’s father’s army, and so they’d spent much time together. They’d even accompanied him to Clan Fraser’s for his fostering.

“We’ll go with
ye, my laird,” Toby said.

“Aye, Montgomery, we’ve got your back.”

Jamie nodded. He wouldn’t have gone without them.