The Highlander
Ruth Langan
About the Author
A high school honours student who wrote for the school paper and was editor of the yearbook, Ruth was awarded a full scholarship to college, where she hoped to pursue an English degree.
Her plans were changed, however, because of financial conditions, and she joined the workforce, becoming a secretary to the vice president of a large corporation.
Ruth Ryan Langan married her childhood sweetheart, Tom, and together they have raised five children. Avid travellers and sports enthusiasts, Ruth and her family enjoy bowling, golfing, skiing, and swimming. Along with her husband, Ruth jogs several miles each day (to get away from the word processor).
Ruth's writing career began when she gave a very special birthday present to herself. Her gift was an hour a day to pursue her writing. Soon she was a published novelist.
She says of her career, "The greatest reward for a writer is having someone say "I loved your book." These simple words make all the hours of writing worthwhile."
Ruth is co-founder and past treasurer of the Greater Detroit Chapter of Romance Writers of America, as well as a charter member of the national organization of Romance Writers of America, the Detroit Women Writers, Novelists, Inc., and Sisters in Crime.
In addition, Ruth has coscripted with Marianne Willman and Jan Greenberg, four original screenplays, one of which, Pendulum, is contemporary, and three of which are historical in nature. Ruth has also completed a children's book, which features illustrations by her daughter-in-law Patty Langan.
Prologue
The Scottish Highlands, 1281
“S oldiers! God in heaven, English soldiers!”
A cry of terror shattered the silence of the idyllic summer day in the Highland meadow. Men hastily retrieved weapons. Women who had moments earlier been enjoying a bit of gossip scurried in search of children playing in the tall grass.
With a call to arms, the leader of the clan leapt upon his horse, drawing his sword. The horse reared up, then dropped to its knees, a knife embedded in its chest. As its rider fell, two English soldiers jumped on him and crushed his skull with a mallet.
A woman screamed and tried to escape, but her voice was abruptly stilled. When a younger woman rushed to her aid, she found herself surrounded by men whose eyes glittered with bloodlust.
Throughout the afternoon, the leaden skies reverberated with the clang of sword against armor, and the sound of terrified cries. By the time the sun had made its arc to the western sky, the grass of the Highland meadow was stained red with the blood of its people. Men, women, children, even infants at the breast, had been slaughtered.
Fortified by their successful attack, the soldiers turned their mounts toward home.
An eerie calm settled over the scene of carnage as an aged monk emerged from the woods. Walking among the dead, he began to administer the Last Rites.
When a movement caught his eye, he turned and studied the body of a lad, then shook his head, convinced that it had been merely the breeze rippling the boy’s clothes. Surely no one could have survived such a bloody massacre. Much to his surprise, the lad moved again. The monk hurried over, knelt, and touched a hand to his shoulder.
The boy lifted his head and peered at him through a haze of pain. His face had been split from temple to jaw by a blow from a sword.
“Praise God. You’re alive, then? Here, lad.” The monk pressed a square of linen to the boy’s wound. “This will stem the flow of blood.”
When the lad was assured that this was indeed a peaceful man of God, he rolled aside, revealing a depression in the ground in which were hidden twin boys, about six years, and a girl of three or four. All were bloody and dazed, but alive.
Recovering from his surprise, the monk helped them to sit, then removed a flask of spirits from his waist and held it to their lips. They drank greedily. All, that is, save the eldest, who refused nourishment as he stared through glazed eyes at the scene of carnage.
“Who are your people?” the monk asked.
“We are from the Clan Campbell,” the twins answered in unison. “Our father, Modric, was leader.”
“But how did you survive such a brutal attack?”
“Dillon,” the little girl said proudly, pointing to her beloved older brother. “He shielded us with his body.”
The monk studied the silent lad with interest. Heroism in one so young was a rare and precious thing.
“Did any of your clan manage to escape?”
The oldest stared around bleakly, then shook his head, overwhelmed by the fact that he and his brothers and sister were all that remained of an entire clan.
“Then you shall come with me to the monastery,” the monk said. “There we will offer thanks to God for your deliverance from the English swords.” As he began herding the children toward the distant spires, he said softly, “My name is Father Anselm. You will be safe with me. The monks will see to your future. And you, lass. What is your name?”
“Flame,” the little girl said proudly.
He cleared his throat. A most un-Christian name. “You will be sent to the nearby abbey, Flame, where the good sisters will educate you in the ways of a lady.”
He had gone some distance when he realized that the older lad was not with them. He returned to find the lad kneeling beside a man and woman. The man, like all the others, had been savaged nearly beyond recognition. The woman, her clothes torn from her, had been brutalized by the soldiers before death had mercifully claimed her.
“Come, lad. We will return on the morrow to bury the dead,” the priest said softly.
Still the boy continued to kneel, his eyes narrowed, his face expressionless.
“You must forget what you see here, lad,” the monk said.
“Nay.” For the first time, the boy broke his silence. His fists clenched at his sides. “I shall never forget.”
The monk was surprised by the hard, merciless look in the eyes of one so young. He had seen that look before. But only in the eyes of seasoned warriors.
“When I am old enough,” the boy added through gritted teeth, “I swear on the souls of my father and mother that I will avenge this deed. The English who did this thing will one day answer to Dillon Campbell.”
Chapter One
England , 1292
“O h, Moira. I see the savages!” Leonora, daughter of Lord Alec Waltham, stood on the balcony of the keep, her gaze sweeping the green lands of her beloved England. For as far as the eye could see, the land belonged to her wealthy father, most of it given to him by a grateful King Edward in appreciation for a lifetime of service to the Crown. Alec Waltham was one of the king’s most trusted friends, and Edward’s generosity to his friends was legendary, as was his volatile temper. It was well known in wealthy circles that Edward was an autocratic, short-tempered monarch who became violent even against his most trusted friends if they dared to criticize him.
“God save us. Where?” Her aged nurse waddled across the room and lifted a gnarled hand to squint into the bright light.
“On that distant hilltop. See how the sunlight reflects off their swords?”
“Aye.” The old woman crossed herself. “I would ne’er have believed that I would live to see heathens such as these sleeping under the same roof with civilized people, and even sharing food at your father’s table. Ah, the things I’ve heard about them.”
“Heard? Have you never seen a Highlander, then?”
The woman who had been nurse to Leonora’s mother, and her mother before her, shivered. “Nay. But I’ve heard stories about the savages. They are giants, child, who bare their limbs even in the harshest weather, and who wear little more than rags.” Seeing Leonora’s shocked reaction, she went on, “Aye,
those who have seen them say they are wild, unkempt creatures, their manner of speech crude, their hairy faces horrible to behold.”
Leonora’s eyes widened. “Oh, Moira. Whatever shall I do? Father has ordered me to join him in welcoming these…creatures.” She lifted a delicate hand to her throat.
“If he’d been wise, he’d have ordered you to remain locked in your chambers until the Highlanders departed. Who knows what villainy might befall us?” The old nurse lowered her voice. “There are those who say they eat English children, and drink their blood.”
“Hush, Moira. I cannot believe such nonsense. Father would never invite such monsters into his home.”
“Never forget, ’twas not your father’s choice. The king ordered this meeting.”
“Aye, and would the king place his most trusted friend in danger?”
The old woman gave no reply, but wisely kept her thoughts to herself. There were spies everywhere. Woe to any who fell out of favor with the Crown.
Leonora watched three horsemen urge their mounts toward the moat. At a shout, the drawbridge was lowered, and the heavy portcullis raised. The three clattered across. Immediately, the portcullis was lowered and the drawbridge was raised, leaving them no means of retreating.
“These Highlanders are either very foolish,” Leonora said, turning to take leave of her chambers, “or very brave. After all, there are only three of them, and over a hundred of the king’s finest soldiers positioned within these walls.”
“’Tis said that it takes but one Highlander to crush an entire English army.”
“You go too far with such treasonous talk.” Leonora opened the door and flounced from the room, eyes flashing. “These are not gods. They are mere mortals.” Over her shoulder she announced haughtily, “And, since we are well fortified, I intend to see them for myself.”
When she was gone, her nurse crossed herself again and dropped to her knees to pray. The lass was young, barely ten and six, and a bit headstrong. Soon enough she would see for herself that the rest of the world was not as civilized as England.
“What if they ask us to relinquish our weapons, Dillon?”
“Rob said we must do as we are bid if we are to convince them of our willingness to make peace.” Dillon Campbell dismounted and handed the reins to a young lad, whose mouth dropped open like one staring at an apparition.
Dillon, choosing to ignore the effect he had on the English lad, shook the dust from his traveling cloak and tossed it rakishly over one massive shoulder. Then he shook his head like a great, shaggy beast, before straightening.
His younger brothers, Sutton and Shaw, followed suit. Though they were identical twins, with hair the color of straw and eyes more green than blue, their natures were very different. From infancy, Sutton had imitated his older brother, relishing every opportunity to wield a sword in battle. Gentle Shaw, impressed by the fine minds and generous spirits of the monks who had raised him and his brothers, had already pledged himself to the Church. It was only a matter of time before he would enter the monastery, to begin a life of prayer and contemplation.
“All of our weapons?” Sutton asked.
Dillon’s lips curved slightly as he sought to hide his smile. “It matters not what Rob said, for he is safe in Edinburgh and we are the ones who must sleep with the enemy. I trust not these English dogs. We will give them only those weapons they can see. ’Twould not hurt to conceal a dirk or two,” he muttered under his breath, “for it could mean the difference between life and death.”
“Aye.” Relieved Sutton touched a hand to the knife hidden at his waist. He’d had no intention of giving it up to these English tyrants.
“Remember what I told you,” Dillon commanded softly. “Trust no one. Leave nothing to chance. Look always to your safety.”
A heavy door leading to the courtyard was thrown open and several soldiers stepped out and formed a guard of honor on either side of the doorway. Like the lad who stood holding the reins of the strangers’ horses, they gaped at the sight of these three Highlanders, who stood head and shoulders above even the tallest in their midst.
Behind the soldiers came a man in the robes of a bishop, followed by several formally dressed men. As each of them stepped outside, they shot speculative glances at the three strangers, then formed a half circle and turned expectantly toward the doorway, where their host paused, a young woman standing close behind.
The man in elegant fur-trimmed doublet and satin breeches could only be the lord of the keep. His silver hair, neatly trimmed moustache and pointed beard framed a handsome face whose most notable feature was a pair of lively, intelligent eyes.
“I am Lord Alec Waltham. I bid you welcome to England and to my home.”
Dillon stepped forward, carefully shielding his brothers. “Thank you, Lord Waltham.” Presenting his sword, he said, “I am Dillon Campbell, and these are my brothers, Sutton and Shaw.”
Following the lead of their older brother, the two offered their swords to their host. Lord Waltham accepted, and handed the weapons to the captain of the guard.
Drawing his daughter beside him, Lord Waltham said, “May I present my beloved daughter, Leonora.”
“My lady.” Dillon, keenly aware of the contrast between his own rough clothing and that of his host, stepped forward and lifted her hand, brushing his lips lightly over her knuckles.
Up close, the female smelled of crushed roses. Her skin was as pale as alabaster, and her hair as black as a raven’s wing. She glanced up, then away, but in that brief instant Dillon found himself looking into eyes the color of the heather that bloomed on the Highland meadows. They were the most unusual eyes he’d ever seen. Almost at once he released her hand and took a step back.
Leonora nodded her head stiffly, too overcome to speak. The Scotsman’s voice was as cultured as any Englishman’s, except for a slight burr. The hand that had touched hers was rough and callused, with a grip so strong it could have broken every bone in her tiny palm. When his lips touched her flesh, she felt a tremor along her spine unlike anything she had ever experienced before.
Moira had been right. These men were indeed giants. Rough, crude, unkempt giants who smelled of horses. Their Viking ancestry was clearly visible in their massive size and the red glints in untrimmed hair that fell in disarray to their shoulders. Their clothes were little more than rags.
The one called Dillon was probably considered handsome by the coarse women of his own land. Perhaps he would be, Leonora thought, if it weren’t for the thin scar that ran from temple to jaw, clearly visible beneath a growth of red-gold beard. He wore no shirt beneath his cloak, and her gaze fastened on his naked, muscled shoulder. No English gentleman would dare to offend a lady’s sensibilities in such a manner. Yet, for some unexplained reason, she could not seem to tear her gaze from the offensive sight.
Lord Waltham directed their attention to the others who stood beside him. “May I present the Bishop of York.”
“Your grace,” Dillon said, lifting the bishop’s hand to his lips.
“You are Christian?” The bishop couldn’t hide his surprise.
“Aye. After the…untimely death of our parents, my brothers and I were raised by monks in the monastery of St. Collum.”
The bishop beamed with pleasure. He’d expected these barbarians to be heathens. The fact that they’d been raised by monks made the prospect of peace talks with these Scots all the sweeter.
Lord Waltham motioned another man forward. He wore a beautifully tailored velvet doublet in shades of blue and scarlet with blue silk breeches. “This is an emissary from the king himself. May I present George Godwin, the Duke of Essex.”
The man kept his expression bland, but Dillon could read hostility in his eyes. This was better, he thought. He would prefer to know what was in a man’s heart before he agreed to sit at table with him. In the manner of a warrior, Dillon lifted his right hand from the empty scabbard and held it aloft. Essex did the same.
“This is Lord James Blak
ely and his son, Alger,” Lord Waltham said.
Father and son were handsome, with neatly trimmed hair and beards, and the fierce bearing of soldiers. The older man nodded stiffly. His son kept his hand on his sword and took a step closer to the lady Leonora, while he took the measure of the man he faced. It was obvious that he considered the lady his personal responsibility, and feared that these strangers might be a threat to her safety.
Something about these two troubled Dillon. Some long-buried dread began to surface, but he pushed it aside, reminding himself sternly that any English soldier would arouse such feelings.
Lord Waltham indicated a stooped, balding man who leaned on a walking stick. “This is the king’s own counsel, Lord John Forest.”
Dillon studied the man, who studied him just as carefully. There was neither friendship nor hostility in his eyes; merely veiled curiosity.
“Welcome,” John Forest said as he offered his hand.
“I thank you.”
Lord Waltham had carefully gauged the reaction of these strangers to all who had been introduced. It was essential, with men who harbored ancient enmity, that their first meeting be one of ease and trust. It was obvious that there was little of either on both sides.
“You must be weary after your long journey,” he said. “You will wish to refresh yourselves before you are shown to your chambers. Come.”
When Lord Waltham turned to lead the way, with his daughter on his arm, Dillon signalled to his two brothers, who followed closely. They stepped inside the great stone walls, and made their way along a hallway made bright by hundreds of lighted tapers set in sconces. While they walked, they shot furtive glances at the soldiers who followed at a discreet distance. When their party halted, a servant pulled open a door and stood aside, allowing them to enter. The soldiers remained outside.
Inside, several chairs draped with animal hides were positioned around a blazing fire. Lord Waltham and his daughter held a whispered conference before she turned to speak to a servant. That done, her father held a chair for her beside the fire. Immediately, Alger Blakely placed himself beside her in a proprietary manner.