Her Highland Protector (Scottish Highlander Romance) Read online

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2019 by Barbara Bard

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Be A Part of Barbara Bard’s Family

  I write for you, the readers, and I love hearing from you! Thank you for your ongoing support as we journey through the most romantic era together.

  If you’re not a member of my family yet, it’s never too late. Stay up to date on upcoming releases and check out the website for all information on romance.

  I hope my stories touch you as deeply as you have impacted me. Enjoy the happily ever after!

  Let’s connect and download your Free Exclusive Story here!

  (Available only to my subscribers)

  BookHip.com/XVLXVP

  Contents

  Copyright

  Be A Part of Barbara Bard’s Family

  Book 6 – ARC Copy

  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

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  The Extended Epilogue

  Highlander’s Savior – Preview

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Highlander’s Honor – Preview

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Also by Barbara Bard

  Her Highland Protector

  Prologue

  The moon rose bright and full, eclipsing the stars as the hunter stalked his prey. He scented her fear, her terror, watched her shadow hasten across the Scottish moors.

  To his keen eyes, her slim figure showed up clear against the darker heather and rocks, the golden hair that spilled down her back gleaming like gold even in the darkness. He crept from rock to rock, his body low to the ground, one with the night, the shadows.

  She knew she was being stalked. Often pausing to gaze around her, her eyes passed over him without observing him. Near the ground he peered up, he heard her swift intake of breath, her quickly muttered prayer. He wanted to grin in his triumph, yet he knew better. His prey might observe the gleam of his bared teeth. As she ran on, climbing the hill, perhaps she hoped to make a stand there, or rather wished to put it between herself and her stalker.

  Run, little girl, run.

  Chasing his prey heightened his excitement. If one of them gave up too soon, surrendered in their panic, rolled over on their backs to expose their vulnerable throats, he felt disappointment. For certain, they still died under his knife. Still, he relished their screams of agony, still stared deep into their eyes as the life left them.

  Ah, but the chase. The pursuit of predator and prey what was thrilled him the most.

  The girl fled. He climbed the hill after her, squirmed on his belly at the summit of the hill to stare down, seeing her run across the moors, trip over an unseen rock, then run on. His breath quickened as he bolted after her, keeping low to the ground, ducking behind thickets of bramble or large rocks, always moving slightly faster than she did.

  Lights of the small village in the distance twinkled, and the girl made straight for it. If he failed to bring her down quickly, she would escape into the safety of the Scottish peasants’ arms, and that he could not let happen. Not ever. Yanking his dagger from its sheath, he picked up his pace, running faster than she. It didn’t matter if she saw him now. He would be on her in seconds.

  Reversing the hilt in his hand, he lunged for her. The girl spun around with a sharp scream, holding her hands out toward him in defense. As though that would stop him. He hit her just above her ear with the steel hilt of the dagger, cutting the scream off short. The girl fell in a heap at his feet. Panting lightly with the exertion and the excitement coursing through him, he glanced at the village to make sure her scream had not brought out potential rescuers.

  He saw and heard nothing. Still, he was far too close to the village. He planned to make this one scream and scream, and for that he needed privacy. Seizing her by her wrist, he dragged her unconscious body back the way they had come, rounding the hill rather than going over it.

  His loins throbbed with that wonderful, erotic sensation, his excitement flooded his body until he thought he’d burst from it. Her body was not truly heavy, bumping and slithering over the stones and heather until he found the perfect place to work.

  Near a ravine he planned to dump her corpse into later, when he was finished with her, he cut her clothes from her body as well as took off his own. He wanted no blood on them. Even though none would dare question him, blood on his clothes would raise eyebrows. Whispers would start.

  The girl roused as he finished stripping, setting his clothes carefully aside. Seeing him, she screamed, her hair falling around her naked body like a burial shroud.

  He chuckled. “Scream all you want. No one can hear you.”

  In her panic, she tried to scramble away, to escape, using her hands and feet to impel herself backward. “Nay, please, dinnae hurt me, I swear, I give ye what ye want.”

  “Of course you will.”

  She shrieked again as he pounced on her, his dagger’s blade, once shining in the dark, grew black under her blood.

  As he wanted, as he had planned, she screamed a great deal.

  Chapter 1

  On a rare sunny day in the northern English moors, a light spring wind brought with it the scent of heather blooming on the rolling hills. Myra Travers stole a quick moment from her work to enjoy a break from the nearly constant drizzle and the clouds that loomed low overhead. Roaming outside the castle’s high protective walls, she plucked a few wildflower blossoms to breathe in their sweet odor. Gazing up at the armed men atop the ramparts, she raised a hand to wave at them.

  Some waved back.

  Her rough woolen cloak about her shoulders, Myra wandered further, gazing at the herds of cattle and flocks of sheep grazing on the moors in their pastures behind low stone walls. Herd boys followed them, guarding them against predators, armed with slings and stones if a hungry wolf came hunting. Not far to the north lay the border with Scotland, the land of the barbarian hordes whose tales of rape and bloodshed had horrified her since she was small.

  Unpinning her hair, she let it fall like a river of black silk to her waist, treasuring the sensation of the wind wash through it like fingers. Closing her eyes, Myra tilted her head back to better feel the sun on her skin. Breathing deeply of the sweet scents off the moors, she smiled a little, relishing the moment. For that was all she had – a stolen moment. Soon, she must return to the castle and her duties.

  “Myra.”

  Opening them, she turned, finding the head housekeeper, and the only person in Myra’s life who loved her, waving in a come hither ges
ture. With a sigh, as she had hoped to stay outside for a short while longer, she obeyed the summons. With the flowers still in her hand, she approached Lilibet, her mother in all but blood. Even so, she smiled brightly, her dark grey cloak streaming out behind her.

  “Look,” she said, holding up the flowers. “Aren’t they lovely?”

  “Plan to put them in yer room, do ye?” Lilibet asked, her own smile nearly as bright as Myra’s. “I don’t blame ye fer wantin’ out on this fine day, and ye can stay out fer short while longer. I just wanted a word with ye.”

  Myra’s happy smile faded. “Is something wrong?”

  “What? o’ course not. I wished to ask ye if ye considered marriage, lass. Ye be nine and ten now, and it be time to think o’ such things.”

  Her happy mood gone, Myra snorted. “Who would want to marry me, Lilibet? I’m an orphan who works as a cleaning maid. I have nothing to offer a man.”

  “Phaw, lass,” Lilibet retorted. “Look at ye, Myra. Ye be the most beautiful girl in this district. Ye turn heads, and many o’ the men here would be honored to have ye to wife.”

  Myra turned away to gaze over the rolling moors. “You shouldn’t say things that aren’t true, I am not beautiful and no one would want me.”

  For answer, Lilibet lifted a handful of Myra’s loose hair to display. “Here now, ye have such stunning hair, lass. Skin like new milk, and who wouldn’t kill for the eyes ye have. Like twin sapphires they be, jewels of the purest blue.”

  Turning fully to face Lilibet, Myra lifted her chin. “At any rate, I’m not ready to marry. Servant girls don’t have to rush into marriage like heiresses.”

  “I just want ye to consider the matter,” Lilibet said. “I won’t push ye into anything, but ye should still be looking at the available men. There be plenty of young, handsome lads among His Lordship’s men-at-arms who would offer ye a decent future.”

  Myra gazed into Lilibet’s kind, warm brown eyes, and impulsively embraced her. “If I got married, who would look after you?”

  Lilibet chuckled, holding Myra by the arms. “You be a sweet lass to worry about me. Who knows, perhaps one day I may marry again. Old Thomas still be pestering me to marry him.”

  Myra tried to picture Lilibet marrying the stodgy, aging butler to His Lordship, a man who had never learned how to smile. Still, he cared deeply for Lilibet, who lost her first husband right around the time she took Myra into her care. Short and stout with curly brown hair streaked with silver, Lilibet took in the orphaned Myra when the villagers brought her to the castle as a four year old child.

  “I must be back to me duties,” Lilibet said, turning. “Another ten minutes, lass, then ye best return to yers.”

  “I will.”

  Taking a moment to watch Lilibet return to the castle’s bailey, Myra strolled back toward the low stone wall that marked the pastures, the shaggy heather and green grass that fed the Earl’s sheep and cattle. Pondering Lilibet’s words of advice about seeking a potential husband, Myra shook her head. “That’s not for me,” she murmured. “No one will love me, and I don’t want anyone to. I want the freedom of being me.”

  ***

  Like many servants in the Earl’s service, Myra was in awe of him. He was a big man, robust, in his late twenties with close cropped blond hair who paid little heed to the small army of servants who kept this castle, Primshire Castle, running and himself comfortable. He returned from Scotland late the following day, riding his big roan horse, his pack of twenty men-at-arms behind him. Along with three other cleaning maids, Myra happened to be in the bailey as he rode in, carrying a basket of laundry. She swept low in a curtsey until he passed her by, her head bowed. As protocol demanded, she remained thus until he left her vicinity, and heard his seneschal, Lord Avery, greet him. And listened to every word after.

  “Greetings, My Lord,” Lord Avery said with a bow. “I trust you had a pleasant journey.”

  The Earl of Primshire, Lord Marsden Platt, grunted as he dismounted. “A journey to that wretched country is seldom pleasant, as you very well know.”

  “I do indeed. I must inform you the Duchess of Greenbriar arrived yesterday.”

  From the corner of her eye, Myra watched as Lord Primshire paused, staring at his seneschal. “Greenbriar? What in heavens name does she want?”

  “I know not, My Lord. I told her you were not in residence, but she insisted on remaining until you arrived.”

  Lord Primshire shrugged his massive shoulders under his tunic and fine wool cloak. “Inform her I will see her at supper.”

  Lord Avery bowed. “Right away, My Lord.”

  Now Myra could rise and go about her business, as Lord Primshire continued on his way across the bailey, a groom taking his horse to unsaddle and care for. His men-at-arms also dismounted, chatting and laughing amongst themselves as they unsaddled their own mounts. After what Lilibet had spoken to her about the previous day, Myra paid a little more attention to them as she passed through.

  Three of them watched her walk toward the castle proper, offering her friendly smiles and small waves. Where once she might have ignored them, she returned their smiles, blushing furiously. With the basket in her arms, she couldn’t wave back, but tried to keep them in sight for as long as possible. They weren’t terribly bad looking, she surmised, and seemed friendly enough. Maybe one day I’ll stop to talk with them.

  Right then, however, she had to get the clean laundry she carried back to the Earl’s manservant, as it held clean sheets for his bed. On her way up the stairs toward the Earl’s private suite of apartments, she passed other servants like herself going about their business. Knocking on the door, she waited, wondering if the Earl himself was inside, or considered that he had not gotten to them yet.

  The door swung open.

  However, it was not James, His Lordship’s manservant who opened it. It was the Earl of Primshire himself.

  Myra instantly dipped into a curtsey. “Y-your laundry, M-My Lord.”

  “Oh. Right. Very well, bring it in.”

  He stepped aside to permit her to enter, Myra all but tripping over her feet. As James cleaned his master’s rooms, Myra had never before entered the opulent place. Frightened, in awe, she gazed around at the tapestries on the walls, the suits of armor, marble statues of half-naked people, the thick hides of sheep and deer on the flagstone floor.

  “Just put it down anywhere,” His Lordship said. “James will take care of it when he gets back.”

  Myra set it down where she hoped he wouldn’t trip over it, then hurried toward the still open door. She curtsied again as she drew closer to him, but unbelievably, his big hand under his chin raised her up. Forced to gaze into his icy blue eyes, she caught her breath at the lack of life in them, as though she gazed into the eyes of a dead animal.

  She had never heard rumors or talk of the Earl being a cruel man, but right then she instantly knew he was. Cold, ruthless, she suspected him capable of horrible things, and shivered under his implacable regard. His lips spread in a smile, yet his eyes never matched it.

  “You’re a pretty little thing,” he said, his voice low. “What’s your name?”

  “M-Myra, My Lord.”

  “Pretty name as well. I’ll remember you. Go on now.”

  Pulling her chin from his grip, she curtsied again, then nearly ran from the chamber, closing the door behind her. Frightened out of her wits, feeling as though she had just escaped death by a hair, she strode fast, almost running in her haste. Half-fearing he chase her down and throttle her in the presence of all the people in the castle, Myra fled to her tiny chamber at the very top floor, one of many such rooms for servants.

  Inside, she slammed the door and ran home the bolt, then retreated to the narrow cot she’d slept on since she began working in the household when she was nine years old. Sitting on the edge, she trembled and shook as though ill with a fever, trying to keep her tears in.

  “Why am I so frightened?” she whispered aloud. “He paid me a complimen
t. Why would his eyes make me so afraid?”

  She had no answer to that. Still, she told herself it was the simple awe of a peasant like herself when confronted by a great lord, and gradually came to accept it as the truth. Deep down inside her soul, she knew she lied.

  Chapter 2

  Greer MacEilish stood over the corpse of the naked girl in the ravine and grit his teeth in fury. Just like all the others, she had been cut at precise angles across her body and face, eviscerated like a deer brought down by a hunter. Which, Greer suspected, was the intent the murderer had all along. Early spring flies buzzed around her blackened blood, the girl’s filmed eyes staring into his as though accusing him.

  Finally he glanced up at the five clansmen standing at the top of the ravine, gazing down, their expressions as sickened as he felt.

  “Anyone ken who she be?” he asked.

  Jared Macalester, his closest friend, gestured toward the village about a mile distant.