Her Highland Defender (Scottish Highlander Romance) Read online

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2019 by Barbara Bard

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  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Be A Part of Barbara Bard’s Family

  Table of Contents

  Her Highland Defender

  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

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Epilogue

  The End

  Highland Trails of Love – A Preview

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Be A Part of Barbara Bard’s Family

  Also by Barbara Bard

  Her Highland Defender

  Chapter 1

  Eamon Baird stood on the roof of his father and mother’s home, his eyes focused on the horizon as a cool breeze came in from the north. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as the chill licked at his skin, Eamon rubbing his three days’ worth of stubble as he kept his gaze fixated on the horizon.

  Ten years had passed. Ten years since the attacks lead by Sir Jessup and his army that nearly obliterated his entire clan. But Eamon was only a boy then, removed from the fight as his elders set about securing another victory, one that bought them time to live in relative peace. But, like all pacts that had been made—Eamon knew it was only a matter of time before the wrath of the Sassenach inevitably struck again.

  And he was no longer a boy. He was a man, a competent and headstrong warrior with his father’s massive, sinewy build that struck fear into the hearts of those who did not know him. He had carried on the legacy of his clan’s penchant for breeding the best warriors in all of the land, and now, here and now, Eamon was the official head of the clan’s premier warriors known as “The Bairdsmen.” Many changes had taken place in the course of a decade, and Eamon, twenty-two, appeared to be in his 30’s from the amount of fighting he had seen. It was nothing significant, just scuffles here and there with the Sassenach and fellow countrymen alike. But it was enough to have aged Eamon, and as he stood on his father’s roof and recalled tales of the battle with Sir Jessup, he could not help but wonder when the time would come where he would be involved in a fight of that caliber.

  “Eamon,” a female voice called out from down below.

  Eamon walked over to the ladder that lead to ground level and peeked over—his sister Rose staring up at him with a perplexed expression. “Aye,” he said.

  “What are ye doing up there?” Rose inquired.

  Eamon shrugged. “Just taking in the early morning sunrise, sister.”

  “Ye will catch a cold.”

  He waved her off. “I am fine. Dinnae worry about me.”

  Eamon could not help but note how much she had grown in the past few years as she did. They were no longer the children—they were the leaders of the clan.

  “Father wishes tae speak tae ye,” Rose said.

  Eamon descended the ladder and met up with his sister.

  “Are ye sure ye are all right?” Rose asked.

  “Aye, I told ye I am fine.”

  “There is a look in yer eyes.”

  “There is naw look in me eyes.”

  Rose laughed. “I ken ye well, brother. I ken when something is troubling ye.”

  There was—but Eamon did not want to say it out loud, though he knew his sister was probably well-aware of what was troubling him. He merely hooked his arm around her neck, kissed her on the cheek, and said: “Ye think tae much, sister.”

  Eamon jogged ahead of her, no longer wanting to speak about what was on his mind for fear of reminding himself that many things weighed heavy on his heart. Instead, he raced ahead to the tavern, knowing full-well where his father was and what he was up to.

  ***

  Finlay Baird was no longer the man he once was. He was old, complete with a head of silver hair and a beard to match. He had

  sustained enough injuries during his life that he was no longer able to fight. He walked with a cane, and he fought off a cough that seemed to rear its head every few days to remind him that his time on Earth was coming to an end.

  He was sipping a whiskey in the tavern, his thoughts focused on his wife and his children and all that they had built as Eamon walked inside.

  Finlay smiled—consistently proud of his children. “Me boy,” he said. “Come. Sit.”

  Eamon gestured to the whiskey. “A little early in the day fer that father, is it nae?”

  Finlay flashed a smile. “I will nae be told by me children aboot

  when and where tae drink. I am an old man. I hae earned a little carelessness.”

  Eamon sat, looking at his father fondly. When both of the men were in the same room, one could not help but note how alike they look. It was only a difference of weathered skin, silver hair, and aging that set them apart—two generations of Bairds, seated together, passing the torch slowly but surely from the last generation to the next.

  “Rose said ye wished tae speak with me,” Eamon said.

  Finlay nodded. “Aye…”

  Eamon waited a long beat for his father to continue. “Well,” he said, finally breaking the silence. “What is on yer mind, father?”

  Finlay slowly leveled his gaze on his son. “Today is the day. Is it nae?”

  Eamon felt his heart sink into his stomach. He tried his best to fight off the choking sensation in his throat, his emotions struggling to get out. “Aye…” he said. “It is.”

  Finlay shrugged. “I just wanted tae see if—”

  “I am fine, father,” Eamon replied, shifting his weight, defensive. “I am nae some wounded animal that needs tending tae.”

  “Naw one said that ye were.”

  “Naw one needed tae. I can sense it in the tones that are spoken tae me.”

  Finlay could see the anger welling up inside of his son. It
was

  only natural, considering the circumstances. “Rose,” he began, “thought that it might be appropriate tae raise a toast tae Juliet this evening. She thought—”

  Eamon held up his hand, gritting his teeth as he heard the name out loud that ran through his mind at least a dozen times a day. “Please, father,” he pleaded. “Dinnae speak of her out loud.”

  Finlay leaned forward, adjusting his grip on his wooden cane. “Ye hae nae spoken of her since it happened, me son.”

  “What is there tae say? Me wife passed from illness. All in the clan kens of what happened. Saying it out loud dozens of times will nae change the fact that she is gone.”

  “It is healthy tae purge yer mind of the burden, me son. Ye let

  these thoughts of her fester. Ye allow yer grief tae define ye.”

  “I dinnae let me grief define me.”

  Finlay rested a weathered hand on top of his son’s strong and able hand. “Ye dae, Eamon. I assure ye of this. I am yer father, and I am telling ye that ye are nae letting yerself grieve…”

  Eamon sat back, absorbing his father’s words. He knew them to be true, and he hated admitting that fact to himself. “She passed a year ago, father,” he said. “That is enough time tae move on.”

  “But ye have nae,” Finlay replied. “Ye merely speak these words without any conviction behind them. Ye say ye hae grieved—but I dinnae think that this is true.”

  Eamon shook his head. “Naw man or woman or creature should dwell on thoughts of losing a love one fer this long a time.”

  “There are naw rules, Eamon. Grief is naw something that goes away quickly.”

  Eamon hung his head and screamed internally for his sadness to subside. For a moment, he was vulnerable, his father’s words cutting through him like a knife. “I miss her,” he said, low enough that only his father could hear. “And it does nae seem tae be any less potent of an emotion as each day passes. My heart weighs just as heavy as it did when she passed…”

  Finlay nodded. “I can only imagine, me son. It was a sudden passing. It was a lot fer ye tae bear.”

  Eamon sighed, his memories depleting him of energy as he sat back. “We hae all lost so much,” he said. “Ye, me, Gavina. Every person here. It does nae seem that one day passes without someone we love being lost tae the abyss…”

  Finlay nodded, completely empathetic with his son. “I ken, Eamon,” he said. “Believe me, I ken…”

  Eamon opened his mouth to say something else—but he was cut short when the loud and terrified shrieking of a woman was heard from the other end of the village.

  ***

  Finlay and Eamon hustled outside of the tavern, their eyes scanning for the source of the noise.

  “Over there!” a voice cried out. “There! Over there!”

  Eamon diverted his gaze to a woman who had been in the midst of tending to a garden, her finger crooked toward the west as a single rider on horseback, clad in gray garb, mounted a horse and began riding away from the village.

  “Stop him,” Finlay said, gritting his teeth and gripping onto his cane with a white-knuckled grip.

  Eamon located the nearest horse, sans a saddle, and mounted it. He bucked the horse and rode off after the rider.

  The rider, moving as fast as his horse could carry him, removed a bow and arrow from his satchel. Lining up a shot, he aimed at Eamon, closing in from thirty yards out, and let off a shot.

  Eamon, spotting the bow being lined up, ducked to his left and narrowly missed being impaled as he closed in on the rider.

  The rider, cursing at his miss, kicked his heels into the side of the horse and continued his ride. He headed for the foliage in front of him, dense and stretching on for a significant number of miles.

  Eamon, hot on the rider’s heels, cursed once he realized he had no weapons on him. He trailed the rider as they zig-zagged their way through the trees, the rider competent in his stride and keeping Eamon on his toes.

  Eamon pursued the rider for a half-mile, unable to close in on him—and then a thought popped up into his brain. He broke right, disappearing from the rider’s rear as the sound of his horse’s hoof

  beats slowly faded.

  The rider, casting a look over his shoulder, smiled with satisfaction, certain that he had lost the Highlander. He continued to ride, as fast and as hard as he could, making his way toward the designated rallying point that his leader had given him. He looked ahead, a cascade of light peeking in from the other side of the forest—his salvation.

  The rider pushed…and pushed…and pushed, confidant that he was on the cusp of making his escape. As he attempted to push through and out of the forest—he felt the weight of the horse of the Highlander pursuing him slamming into his side and knocking him clear off his mound.

  Eamon, having successfully flanked the rider, also fell from his horse. The two men laid on the ground for a moment, the wind knocked out of them as they struggled to stand.

  The rider stood first, slowly unsheathing his sword as Eamon found his footing. Eamon knew he had no time to waste—he charged.

  He tackled the rider to the ground, the two men tumbling over each other and struggling to get the advantage. It wasn't long until Eamon knocked the sword from the rider's grip, leaving him no choice but to fight with bare hands.

  Eamon punched the rider. The rider punched Eamon. A few more kicks and blows were exchange, one of which knocked Eamon dizy. The rider took the opportunity to put Eamon into headlock, preparing to break his neck as Eamon began to see dark spots around his vision.

  Eamon felt things slowly turn to black, his hands groping along the ground for anything that could assist him. His fingertips then grazed a rock, his palm quickly suctioning up against the rock before he picked it up, swung it back, and slammed it into the rider’s skull.

  The rider fell instantly, the rock having cracked open his skull in a fatal blow that killed him right away. Eamon stood back, catching his breath as he stared at the sprawled-out corpse. Moments later, two of the other Bairdsmen arrived on horseback and quickly dismounted.

  “Eamon!” the one called Sean said. “Are ye all right?”

  Eamon opened his mouth to reply as he looked at the gray garb on the fallen rider—and the flaming cross stitched in red on his tunic. He gasped, having heard of these colors and insignia before.

  Eamon moved closer to the rider, examining his garb from head-to-toe to confirm what he already knew. “We maist get back tae the village,” he said. “Something foreboding is playing out before us…”

  Chapter 2

  The body of the rider that Eamon had slain was brought into the tavern and placed on a table. The Bairdsman who had come to Eamon’s assistance, Sean, winced as they laid the corpse down.

  “We could nae take it somewhere where we dinnae eat and drink?” he said.

  Eamon flashed Sean a look, the same irked look he flashed Sean often, being that Sean was a man prone to speaking his mind constantly.

  Sean held up his hands in submission, taking the hint fine.

  “What is this?” a familiar voice called out from the doorway.

  Eamon turned and laid eyes on his aunt Gavina, her hair tied in a braid and hands on her hips. She was older now, a mother—but still the most formidable warrior in these parts, even if Eamon did have about one-hundred pounds on her.

  Eamon gestured to the dead rider. “Look…” he said.

  Gavina walked over and looked at the dead man gray garb and reversed red crucifix crudely stitched into his tunic. She closed her eyes. “Me God…”

  Sean held up his hands. “I would very much like tae ken what ye both seem tae already ken…”

  Eamon jutted his chin toward the dead body. “He is a member of the Hands of God.”

  Sean squinted. “What is that?”

  “A group of rogue Sassenach warriors,” the voice of Finlay said from the corner, seated with a depleted look on his face and a watchful eye focused on the dead body.

  �
�The Hands of God?” Sean said.

  Gavina nodded. “Aye. There are rumors that hae circulated fer the past several years aboot them. It was said that there was a small band of men, naw mair than thirty of them, who were expelled or rebelled from Sassenach rule. They set aboot looting and pillaging anything they could and adopted the moniker ‘Hands of God’ as a way tae strike fear into the hearts of Scotsmen.”

  Finlay shook his head. “Naw,” he said, slowing rising from his chair. “That is nae entirely true, Gavina.” He walked over to the body. “I am afraid it is much mair sinister and foreboding than that…”

  Gavina, Eamon, and Sean waited for Finlay to continue.

  “Ye are correct,” Finlay continued, “that these men were once under the employ of the Sassenach. That is true. But they did nae just rebel from their order—they were wronged by them?”