Desiring The Highlander

  DESIRING THE HIGHLANDER

  Cole swallowed and the aching hunger that had been driving his emotions and actions swelled to new levels. “God, Elle,” he groaned, his voice thick and husky, “you are so incredibly beautiful.”

  Ellenor arched her back, twisting, her body begging to be touched. Cole complied. He bent down and closed his mouth over hers for a long, searing moment.

  Ellenor gripped his shoulders. Her body was screaming for more of his touch. His fingers were tormenting her with their light, stimulating caresses. She needed his mouth on her, tasting her as he did before. “Please, Cole, touch me.”

  “I am, love,” he whispered and brushed his mouth against hers.

  “No,” she moaned. “Touch me,” she begged, only half aware she was voicing her uninhibited request, “like you did before.”

  Cole knew exactly what she wanted, what her body longed for, and reveled in the thought he could make such a beautiful, strong woman weak with need for him. “Tell me. Tell me exactly what you want, Elle, and I will give it to you…”

  Books by Michele Sinclair

  THE HIGHLANDER’S BRIDE

  TO WED A HIGHLANDER

  DESIRING THE HIGHLANDER

  Published by Zebra Books

  Desiring The Highlander

  MICHELE SINCLAIR

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  To all my friends,

  whose daily inspiration helped me find

  the words this past summer,

  even on those days when I had nothing to say.

  Contents

  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

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Creag Mhor Summit, above Glen Lyon, 1301

  Crouched low, Cole crawled his way up to the edge of the cliff. His elbows and knees were caked with mud from the morning’s rain, but he didn’t care. Just as he didn’t care what his older brother had to say about what he could and couldn’t do. Arriving unseen, where so many were gathered who knew him and his family, proved he was more capable than his brother believed. And in just a few hours, every Scottish soul within ten miles would be too busy battling the English to worry about whether a young Highlander should be fighting alongside them.

  Inching forward, he felt his arm sink almost wrist deep into the wet earth and he bit back an expletive. His dark brown hair was crusted with the muck. But crawling through mud, while irritating, was better than on the jagged rocks that covered most of the broad ridge. And walking to the peak was out of the question. The trees that did pop up along this section of the flat-topped hills were so scarce the only way to avoid detection was by staying low. Hence the scrapes, the bruises, and the mud. But he would suffer them all again to be right where he was—here at Glen Lyon, where the next big battle against the English would be fought.

  The frigid spring wind caused his shirt to billow. He shivered, but not from the cold. From anticipation. As if nature knew what was about to happen and changed the weather, eager to help the Scottish achieve another victory.

  He breathed deep the heather-perfumed air and smiled. The thin-skinned English with all their armor hated the damp, cool temperatures that accompanied these hills. And soon, they would have even more reason to hate the Highlands.

  He edged up the last few feet, feeling quite brilliant and enormously brave about tricking his eldest brother and making his escape. His best friend Rob had been right. This was a lot better than training and a hell of a lot more fun than working for the stable master, taking care of the horses.

  On the battlefield below, Highland boys would become men, and when all was over, he would be one of them.

  No longer would his brother refuse to allow him to train with the soldiers despite the fact that he was sixteen and just as tall as half of them. But most of all, he would no longer be known as the third son, or one of Conor’s younger brothers, or worst of all, the boy McTiernay. People would know him by his name. Cole. And they would be scared.

  A sandy-haired figure crouched low at the cliff’s edge bent his head back and issued Cole an exasperated look. “What took you so long?”

  “Mo Chreach! I had to hide the horses way down there!” Cole hissed back as he edged his way up to his friend’s side. Cole’s bright blue eyes peered over the ridge and took in the grassy slopes that led to a wide col. Tomorrow—possibly even this afternoon if the English arrived fast enough—there would be a battle on those grounds that would rival Stirling Bridge.

  “Are they hid good?”

  Cole nodded, knowing that Rob was just as sensitive—maybe even more so—about being discovered by their comrades. “What’s happening?”

  Rob shrugged. “Not much. Most of the men have been getting the spearheads ready. The English are coming from over there. You can see something shining through the trees every once in a while if you look long enough.”

  Cole turned to stare, hoping to get a glance at the sun-stricken armor. He had no idea how long he had been studying the trees for armored movements when Rob gave a halfhearted yelp and pointed.

  Immediately, Cole shifted his gaze and followed Rob’s finger pointing down toward two figures standing no more than fifty yards below them. Cole’s heart lodged in his throat. He was unable to speak.

  “Cole, isn’t that…”

  “Your laird,” Cole finally managed to get out. “And my brother. The blaigeard must have followed us.”

  “Mo Chreach! Do you think he told my father?” Rob choked.

  Cole scoffed. “Of course he told your father. His being laird requires him to do what is right, not what you or I want,” Cole answered, mimicking one of Conor’s favorite lectures. Cole couldn’t remember his father ever once saying something so trite, and he had been a great laird.

  Three months ago, his father had turned fifty-eight years old. A week later, he was dead, leaving seven sons to mourn him. He had seemed incredibly healthy, and maybe in the body he had been. But his heart had left seven months prior with his wife. Cole had never seen his father so lost as in those months after his mother died. Her death had been unexpected and unfair.

  Some of the McTiernay families living close to the clan border had taken ill, and she had insisted on going out to help. Soon after her arrival, she had fallen prey to the mysterious disease herself, dying only a few days later. Cole’s father had never recovered from the loss. Some say he had welcomed his own sickness, letting it invade and take over so that he could once again see his one and only love.

  Be that true or not, within a week of falling ill, he had slipped away and Cole’s eldest brother, Conor, had suddenly become laird of one of the largest Highland clans in the Grey Corries.

  Cole had lost not only a father that day, but also his freedom. The morning after the burial, he had gone to the fields determined to begin his training with the soldiers. His best friend Rob had been practicing for nearly a year and a half, and Cole’s father had promised he would soon be joining his friend in the daily drills. But when Conor had turned him away and sent him to work in the stables, an icy resentment had begun to grow. Over the weeks, then months, as Conor’s pledges of personally overseeing Cole’s training were preempted repeatedly by more pressing clan needs, the resentment changed to anger and now defian
ce.

  “Your brother’s going to kill you,” Rob quipped, stating the obvious.

  “And your father isn’t?” Cole retorted.

  “My father is a farmer. And while he resents my desire to train and fight, he certainly wouldn’t leave his crops and follow me.”

  Cole cocked his head and reconsidered his brother’s stance. “I don’t think Conor did follow us.”

  “What do you mean? If he isn’t here because of us, then why? To fight? I thought you said he didn’t think MacDonnill should have picked the Strath Tay for a battleground.”

  “I did,” Cole murmured, remembering every word spoken that afternoon. He glanced around, hoping to find familiar faces, someone to indicate another reason for his brother’s untimely arrival. His peripheral vision told him that Rob was doing the same…and was just as unsuccessful as he was. “We’re in serious trouble,” Cole sighed.

  “Yeah,” Rob agreed. “But why is the laird here if not to fight and not because of you?”

  Cole folded his arms and laid his forehead down on them. “Oh, he’s here because of me. I just don’t think he followed us. If he had, he would have stopped us long before we got here. Na, he just knew where we were going.”

  “How?”

  Cole glanced at his friend’s face. The youthful features were filled with incredulity. Though nearly two years older than Cole, Rob would be forever plagued with people assuming he was younger than he actually was. He had a slight build, dark sandy blond hair, and dimples that were more like craters in his cheeks than simple indentions. Often ridiculed by the warriors as being too young to play soldier, Rob had been near desperate to find a way to prove he was not a boy, but a man. When Cole reported what he had overheard about a battle at Glen Lyon, Rob had instantly decided that he was going and that Cole was coming with him. It was time they both proved something to their elders. And there was no better way to silence tongues than to fight in a victorious battle.

  Cole watched as Conor spoke animatedly with another much older man. He couldn’t hear them, but knew his brother was not pleased with the man’s answer. Even at a distance, the black scowl of Conor’s displeasure was easily seen. His brother could go from calm to angry in the blink of an eye, but usually only with his men or those he considered family. Rarely did Conor allow anyone else to see his displeasure.

  Cole nudged his friend with his elbow. “Hey, Rob, who is that with my brother?”

  “Um, I think that’s Olave. He’s some Highlander who used to fight with Wallace before he left for France. Olave came to camp one time and all the older soldiers could talk about was his skill with every weapon known to man. He doesn’t look like much to me,” Rob added with a snort.

  Cole watched the argument change tone. Olave shook his head. Conor then picked up a stick and knelt on the ground, sketching something in the loose soil. He looked worried…hell, his brother looked scared. Cole glanced at his surroundings and reexamined them with new eyes. He studied where the English were positioned and where his comrades were preparing to meet them. A sinking feeling overcame him, and Cole began to suspect his brother had been right.

  Almost two weeks ago, a handful of eastern Highland lairds had arrived with ideas about luring the English into a battle that would weaken their forces, leaving Stirling Castle vulnerable for recapture. Conor had welcomed them and listened to their plans patiently. And then he had refused to join their campaign.

  Most of the lairds—especially MacDonnill—had made clear their disappointment, saying how Conor’s father would never have forsaken an opportunity to free Scotland. The barely veiled implication that Conor was a coward and lacked his father’s leadership skills had not been lost on anyone.

  Sitting hidden behind the wooden planks separating the Great Hall from the servants’ preparation area, Cole had listened intently, waiting for his brother to roar and drive a fist into the man’s skull. But nothing had happened. Conor only reasserted that it was foolhardy to believe that sheer Scottish bravery could defeat English archers, and that the Strath Tay was perfect ground for the English longbow to find its target.

  The lairds had ignored him, and they had been wrong.

  McTiernays were known for several things. Their large, well-trained army, their aptitude for leadership, their ability to command both loyalty and dedication of their clansmen, even their own skill with a sword. But those who truly knew them would say their ability to out-strategize even the most cunning of enemies was their greatest strength. Some believed that it was this reason above all others that kept Edward I from trying to invade the McTiernay stronghold. Only a fool marched knowingly to his death. And Edward I and his commanders were a lot of things, but they were not fools.

  Cole had never seen a battle, being only sixteen, nor had he ever fought for his life, but McTiernay intuition was flickering through his mind, revealing what was about to unfold. “Rob, come on, we’re getting out of here.”

  “Why? Isn’t it too early to join MacDonnill? The battle is hours away from starting…”

  Cole’s eyes darted over the strath. The valley was a death trap. Those few Highlanders who did survive the archers’ arrows would be heavily outmatched. It was not the English numbers which were about to be weakened; it was theirs.

  “We aren’t joining the battle,” Cole said and began to retreat.

  Rob reached out and grabbed Cole’s arm. “If your brother being here bothers you so much, then leave, but I’m staying.”

  Cole stared into his friend’s eyes. “It’s suicide, Rob. The English have us flanked on two sides, and judging by the amount of armor starting to shine through those trees, we have less than a tenth of the men. It’s going to be a slaughter.”

  “You’re wrong. Look, MacDonnill is moving men even now to attack.”

  Cole watched in horror as MacDonnill split his forces. Sounds erupting from the field below suddenly filled his ears as the Highlanders began to yell and clank their swords, forecasting victory. But Cole knew miserably that it was not to be theirs.

  The cliff provided an excellent vantage point of the staging area. From here, almost anyone could see what was about to happen. Anyone but Rob. His friend had never understood the art of strategy. Having trouble thinking ahead, Rob always addressed the problem facing him, not the one coming. Even now, he couldn’t see how the battle would unfold, but Cole could. MacDonnill had just sent over a hundred men to their deaths, and he doubted the English would be stupid enough not to take advantage of the mistake.

  “What do we have here?”

  The snarl came from behind them, accompanied with the clatter of metal made only by men wearing bulky armor. With all the noise below, Cole had not heard them approach until it was too late. His heart began to pound even faster realizing the mistake.

  “Looks like two Scottish whoresons dressed like women.”

  Rob shifted to look at them, but Cole refused to turn around. One of them kicked his shin. “’Ere now, don’t you know enough to look at your betters when they are speaking to you?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Cole could see Rob stare with open mouth at the man. His friend spoke only Gaelic and had no clue what filth the English soldiers were spouting. Cole wished he were so blessed with ignorance. His father’s closest friend, a Highlander who lived near the English border, had made sure all the McTiernays were well versed in the English tongue. He believed, as did his father, that one had to understand the enemy before he could defeat him. Cole had always refused to speak the words, but he understood them.

  Just as he understood he was about to die.

  He could feel his broadsword burning next to his thigh, but having it did little good. One movement toward it would bring instant death, and reason prompted him to do whatever he had to do to stay alive.

  He flipped over as they ordered and surveyed the depressing reality of his situation.

  Three men of varying height towered over them. It was impossible to tell how broad they were with all the metal
they wore, but from their eyes, Cole could see who was in charge. The man was standing a little over ten feet away, leaning on the hilt of his sword, which he had stabbed into the ground, and from the glint in his black eyes, Cole knew the man was a heartless bastard fully intent on killing them.

  The one closest to Rob kicked him in the ribs. When Rob instinctively reached for his sword, the man stomped on his friend’s hand. Cole could hear the bones snap under the weight. To Rob’s credit, he didn’t scream, but just stared back. He was just as aware as Cole that they were about to die.

  “Hey now, I don’t think you will be needing that today,” the English soldier sneered, kicking the broadsword away. “And I would apologize for the hand, but I don’t think you will be needing that either.”

  “What do you think they’re doing up here?” another asked. “Scouting? You don’t think they were planning on fighting, do you?” Cole suspected he had been brought along for his brawn, not his intelligence.

  “Even the Scots aren’t dumb enough to let their boys fight a man’s battle.”

  One soldier poked Cole in the side. “Hey, how old are you?”

  Rob immediately cried out, “Sguir!” yelling for them to stop. “My brother’s only a boy! He knows nothing but farming. I am the one you want.”

  The instant Rob shouted his lies, the soldiers responded. A foot weighted by iron links crashed down upon Cole’s chest. Hearing the choking sounds Rob was making, Cole guessed the same had happened to him. The English wanted them to feel helpless and weak, and damn their souls, it was working.

  “What did he say?” one of the men asked. “The dregs can’t even talk right. I don’t think they understand a damn word we’re saying.”