Authors: Monica McCarty
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #Medieval, #Scottish, #Historical Romance, #Fiction
The Knight (18 page)
In the crowd of men near the wall there were no more than a handful of the rebels, but they were being guarded by at least a score of her brother’s men. Given the state of the prisoners, it seemed an overabundance of caution. Perhaps when the castle was first taken over a month ago such a show of force might have been warranted, but stripped of their crude leather warcoats and weapons, after weeks of imprisonment with barely enough food and water to keep them alive, and being worked nearly to death all day, the raggedy-looking prisoners appeared ill-equipped to mount much of a resistance.
Except for one.
She looked and looked, the panic rising in her chest. Where was he? Had he been one of the men crushed?
Hot tears prickled her eyes, and she told herself she was being ridiculous. He was a prisoner. A Scot. One of Robert the Bruce’s rebels.
But he was also…
Her heart slammed, and she let out a small cry of relief, when the powerfully built warrior stepped out from behind the wall.
Thank God
! He was all right. More than all right actually, he was spectacular.
She sighed with every bit of her almost-seventeen-year-old heart. The women at court teased her mercilessly about her naivety and innocence. “You’re such a child, Rosie-lin,” they’d say with a roll of the eyes, when she dared to venture into their conversations (the nickname sounded much nicer coming from her brother than from them).
Well, she certainly wasn’t feeling like a child now. For the first time in her life, she was feeling like a woman utterly entranced by a man.
And what a man! He was the fodder of legend and bard’s tales. Tall and broad-shouldered, his dark hair hanging in long tangled waves around a brutishly handsome face, he was one of the strongest, most imposing looking-warriors she’d ever seen.
As if to prove her point, he bent down to pick up an enormous stone. Her breath caught and her heart started to flutter wildly in her chest. Despite the coolness in the room, her skin warmed with a flush. The damp linen shirt stretched across his broad chest with the effort, revealing every ridge, every bulge, every sharply defined muscle straining underneath―of which there were an abundance. Even weakened by imprisonment, he looked strong enough to tear apart a garrison of soldiers with his bare hands.
She revised her earlier opinion: Perhaps the large number of soldiers keeping watch was prudent after all.
Only when he disappeared around the other side of the wall did she remember to breathe again. A few minutes later, he reappeared and it would start all over again. Every now and then, he would exchange a word or two with one of the prisoners, before one of the guards broke it up―usually with the flick of a switch.
He spoke most often to a tall, blond-haired man, though he wasn’t as friendly to him as he was with the third red-haired man. He was also tall, but that was where the similarities ended. More than any of the other prisoners, the red-haired man was showing the effects of the hard labor. He was gaunt and pale, and every day he seemed to grow more stooped.
The Scot―that is how she thought of the impressive warrior―did what he could to help him when the guards were not looking, by shouldering some of his rocks or taking his place in line to wield the hammer. She’d even seen the Scot pass the other man the precious few ladles of water they were allowed during their brief breaks. But the man was fading before her eyes.
She turned away from the window. She had to stop. She couldn’t do this. It made her feel so helpless. She knew they were rebels and deserved to be punished, but the man was going to die. That he would probably be executed anyway when the work was done, didn’t matter. No one should suffer like that.
She picked up her needlework, but she put it down a few minutes later and returned her gaze to the window.
She couldn’t look away. She had to do something. But what? Her brother had warned her not to interfere.
The answer came to her the next morning after church. As she was leaving morning prayers, she caught sight of a serving woman carrying a large bowl and a few pieces of bread toward the prison―a paltry amount for so many men.
That was it! She would leave them extra food.
It took her a few days to come up with a plan, but eventually she was ready to put it in motion.
Sneaking extra bits of beef was the easy part. She wrapped them in the cloth she kept at her lap while she ate, and then tucked the bundle in the purse at her waist before she left. Getting the food to the prisoners, however, was the challenge.
She’d watched the prisoners enough to know their routine. Every morning the guards led them out through the small courtyard between the chapel and the damaged Great Hall to the main courtyard. They were lined up and given instructions, before being permitted to collect the carts, which were stored on the side of the bakehouse. The carts were what she was aiming for.
That night, when the castle was quiet, she donned a dark cloak and snuck out of the tower. Keeping to the shadows, she worked her way around the yard, careful to avoid any guards who might be on patrol. But it was remarkably quiet. With the rebel forces crushed, there was little threat of an attack. She quickly deposited her bundle in one of the carts and made her way back up to her chamber.
The next morning she watched from her window as one of the men returned with the cart, immediately went to the Scot, and surreptitiously passed him the bundle. The Scot looked around, as if suspecting a trick, but when one of the guards barked an order at him―presumably to get to work―she saw the faint twist of a smile.
That smile was all the encouragement she needed. Her nighttime excursions continued for a week, and she swore the dark red-haired man grew stronger. Many of the men seemed to walk a little taller.
She knew her brother would be furious if he discovered what she was doing―and she hated the idea of a secret between them―but she told herself it was but a small gesture and could do no harm.
But she was wrong. Terribly wrong.
…End excerpt from THE RAIDER by Monica McCarty © 2014
Buy
THE RAIDER
The following titles are also available in electronic format.
The Highland Guard Series (in order)
THE ARROW (coming Spring 2014)
THE HIGHLAND GUARD FIRST 5-BOOK BUNDLE
The Campbell Trilogy (in order)
CAMPBELL TRILOGY 3-BOOK BUNDLE
The MacLeod Trilogy (in order)
HIGHLANDER UNMASKED
HIGHLANDER UNCHAINED
Monica McCarty is the
New York Times
and
USA Today
bestselling author of fourteen (and counting!) Scottish Historical romances, including her current Highland Guard series (THE CHIEF, THE HAWK, THE RANGER, THE VIPER, THE SAINT, THE RECRUIT, THE HUNTER, THE KNIGHT (novella), and the soon-to-be-released, THE RAIDER). Her books have won and been nominated for numerous awards, including the Romance Writers of America’s RITA, RT Book Reviews Reviewers’ Choice, the Bookseller’s Best, and Amazon’s Best Books of the Year. Known for her “torrid chemistry” and “lush and steamy romance” as well as her “believable historical situations” (Publishers Weekly), her books have been translated and published throughout the world. Monica’s interest in the Scottish clan system began in the most unlikely of places: a comparative legal history course at Stanford Law School. After a short, but enjoyable, stint practicing law, she realized that mixing a legal career with her husband’s transitory career as a professional baseball player was not exactly a match made in heaven. So she “traded” in her legal briefs for Scottish Historical Romances with sexy alpha heroes. When not trekking across the moors and rocky seascapes of Scotland, Monica can be found in Northern California with her husband and two children.
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