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  HIGHLAND VENGEANCE

  by

  K.E. Saxon

  HIGHLAND VENGEANCE

  Set in the turn of the thirteenth century Scottish Highlands, this is the story of Daniel MacLaurin, a handsome, rugged warrior-laird haunted by his past, and Maryn Donald, the beautiful, high-spirited lass destined to help him find his heart’s ease.

  After his mother and grandfather, the only family he has ever known, are viciously murdered in a surprise invasion when he is a lad of 13, Daniel spends years focusing on training as a warrior and rebuilding his fortress, determined to control the world around him so that nothing like it will ever happen again.

  Maryn Donald is a wild child; a lass who, as the only offspring of her widowed father, has been indulged in her high-spiritedness. So much so, that she takes matters into her own hands when she sees that the neighboring clan is mistreating their horses. She impetuously steals them and then, as recompense for her crime, must wed the powerful, wealthy young laird about whom she’s heard such disturbing rumors: Daniel MacLaurin.

  HIGHLAND VENGEANCE is a steamy adventure romance, but it is also a family saga. It’s the story of how a man overcomes the horror of his past to find love, connection, and contentment once more.

  Kindle Edition

  Highland Vengeance

  Copyright © 2008 by K.E. Saxon http://www.kesaxon.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author K.E. Saxon, the copyright owner and publisher of this book, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the publisher. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in its work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Kindle Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Cover Photos obtained from Romance Novel Covers

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The twelfth and thirteenth century Scottish Highlands is a fascinating time in history. Although much is known, there is still much that remains in shadow and supposition. The old laws of succession, and the old Celtic systems were mixing with the new feudal systems brought in by the Norman-influenced kings of Scots (the first key figure in this being David I, who became king of Scots in 1124).

  Although, by the time of William the Lion (William I), who ruled Scotland from 1165 to 1214, the feudal systems were more firmly established in the southern region of Scotland, the king had managed to exert his influence and sway in the wilder northern and western regions as well. Mostly through alliances with foreigners to whom he chartered land, or to natives who sought a royal charter for their land in order to secure it for their own offspring.

  My vision, therefore, was of a kind of “melting pot.” The old ways, not completely abandoned, yet the new coming to be embraced.

  Although I did many, many (many) months of research into this time in the Scottish Highlands history, I still found it necessary to take some creative license on certain aspects in order to fulfill my vision for the romance, and allow for less confusion to the romance reader. I won’t list the licenses I took, but hope that the history purists will close an eye to these instances and simply enjoy the tale.

  K.E. Saxon

  *

  GLOSSARY

  Boabhan Sith or Baoban Sith baa’-van shee Scottish Highland fairies that look like beautiful women but are really vampires thirsty for the blood of young men. They appear first as ravens, then as girls in white or green dresses with hoofed feet. Iron is said to repel them.

  cu sith coo shee: a fairy dog that can cast the evil eye. About the size of a cow, it has dark green fur. As the tale goes, anyone who encounters the hound faces almost certain death, but it will bark three times, with long pauses between, to give its potential victim time to flee.

  targe ‘tärj: a light shield used esp. by the Scots.

  uisge beatha ishka beyha: Lit: ‘Water of Life’, a.k.a. whiskey Uphalieday Up-helly-a January 6, the Feast of the Epiphany, a.k.a. ‘Twelfth Night’.

  Sext sekst: The fourth of the seven canonical hours, or the service for it, originally fixed for the sixth hour of the day taken as noon.

  PART ONE

  The Darkest Day

  “Hell is empty, and all the devils are here.”

  The Tempest (Act I, Scene ii)

  “O villain, villain, smiling, damned villain!”

  Hamlet (Act I, Scene v)

  PROLOGUE

  The Highlands, Scotland 1190

  The morn dawned crisp and bright as Daniel MacLaurin, a lad of thirteen summers, gathered his fishing rod and tackle and trotted downstairs toward the kitchen.

  “Beatha!” he called to the cook from the passage leading into her realm. Skidding to a halt just inside the doorway, he asked excitedly, “Have you a crust of bread or, mayhap, a bannock cake to ease my hunger?”

  The jolly, round-faced cook grinned at the laird’s young grandson and tipped her fuzzy-haired gray head in the direction of the freshly made bannock cakes piled in a wooden bowl on the long, scarred table just behind her. “Take more than one, lad. You’re to begin your squire’s trainin’ on the morrow,” she reminded him unnecessarily, “and you need to be buildin’ your strength.” She turned back to her task at the hearth then, her aged bulk causing the stool to creak as she resettled herself upon its hard surface.

  Daniel scooped up several of the flat cakes and tossed them inside his kit. He whistled merrily as he passed his mother’s maid in the corridor and dipped his head in greeting to her. Her cheeks pinkened as she nodded shyly in return, dropping her eyes to the rush-covered stone floor as she scurried past him. She was a sweet—and Daniel thought—very lovely brown-haired lass of fourteen summers, only a few moons older than he was himself. He turned his head to watch her departure as he continued walking in the opposite direction and collided into a wall sconce in the process. Thankfully, the lass was now too far away to notice his clumsy encounter with the light source.

  As he ambled across the bailey toward the fortress gate, he saw his grandfather, a tall and white-haired, but still clearly robust man of nigh on sixty summers, standing with his lieutenant near the entrance to the training field. “Good morn, Grandfather!” he called out to him. When the older man turned in his direction, Daniel continued, “I’m off to the loch to catch a few trout for our dinner!”

  “‘Tis a fine day for it, lad. And a good way it is to spend your last day of freedom before the next part of your training begins!” the old man rejoined before turning back to the other man to continue their discussion.

  As all the villagers and most of the castle’s household had gone to a cattle fair in the next shire, Daniel decided to skirt the deserted village and jog a
cross the glen instead.

  He was winded, but exhilarated, by the time he reached his favorite fishing spot a half-hour later. As he’d expected, the area was deserted, a serene bower, with only the sounds of nature to keep company with him. A goshawk circled overhead, presumably looking for a meal, and the lush green heath that covered the hillside seemed to Daniel to be basking in the sun’s warm, yellow glow now that the last snows of spring had finally melted. Birds twittered in the pine forest that bordered either side of the loch, and woodland creatures foraged for treats in the dew-coated grass just beyond the water’s banks. Inhaling deeply, he became intoxicated on the fresh pine-scented air as it expanded his lungs. He held it inside himself a moment before slowly releasing it back into the cool, moist atmosphere around him. When he at last squatted down at the loch’s edge and cast out the fishing line, he grinned at the circles of small waves his fly created as it broke the serenity of the water’s surface. As he continued casting out the line in quick succession, patiently awaiting his first catch of the day, he nibbled on one of the bannock cakes.

  After two hours, he’d eaten them all and had caught seven medium-sized trout, which was plenty to feed the few members of the household that had remained behind. Deciding to pack up his kit and go back home, he gathered his belongings together and had only just turned to leave when a sound of thunder broke his reverie.

  Thinking he was about to be caught in a cloudburst, he looked up just as he felt a terrible rumbling beneath him, accompanied by the roar of men’s voices coming from just beyond the rise. A shiver of foreboding ran through him as he whipped his head around. His eyes shot wide. There, directly where his family’s fortress and the village lay, ominous gray and white smoke billowed. Dread, like a vise, pushed the air from his lungs. His heart pounding painfully in his chest, he dropped his fishing pole. Mother! Grandfather!

  In the next second he was in motion. By instinct alone, he picked up his rod and headed away from the sound of the charging men. Tall and lanky, his spindly legs churned as his long, narrow feet flew across the heath and into the cover of trees that lined the loch.

  He’d barely entered the dark canopy and fallen down to his knees, when an army of naked men on horseback came charging over the rise, covered in the blue war paint of the ancient Highlanders. Their eyes shone like eery white marble orbs through the cerulean tint on their faces, and the gore of recent battle coated their bodies and their horses. Some of the men were brandishing their blood-drenched swords high above their heads while others were carrying the fire spikes they’d used to set the blazes.

  The leader of the brigands swung a bloody spike with a human head attached to the end of it. “Make haste. To the loch! We must wash off this woad and be on our way before the other MacLaurin soldiers return.”

  Fearful tears gathered in Daniel’s eyes, blurring his vision, before he manfully swiped them away with the back of his hand. He must see the faces of the men who’d done this deed. But there was so much blood! More than he’d seen in his life. His innards twisted at the sight. Covering his mouth with both hands, he swallowed hard, nearly choking, in an effort to keep from spewing out the sour bile and recently consumed bannocks that now threatened to rise up from his churning insides. After a moment, his stomach settled a bit and his eyes were drawn once more to the leader, and then to the grotesque and mutilated head on the spike. The blue devils were still too far away for him to see which of his clansmen had come to such a vile end.

  Without warning, his gut violently convulsed, causing him to lose the battle to keep his food down. It was all he could do to release the meal from its moorings and stay quiet enough to remain undiscovered by the men.

  Fearing for his family, but driven to stay until he’d seen the faces of his enemies, Daniel remained hidden and carefully silent.

  The men at last reached the banks of the loch, giving him a clear view of them for the first time. A chill shot up his spine as his mind interpreted what his eyes beheld. Several of the brigands were fully aroused. With bone-deep panic spurring his heart to hammer against his ribs, he tilted his head, straining to hear their boastful banter as they washed off the evidence of their violence. Tho’ they spoke in the tongue of the Highlands, their accents were unusual and their speech, stilted. ‘Twas clearly not their native tongue. As their visages were slowly revealed, they made crude comparisons of the women they had forced themselves upon, laughing and taunting each other as if it were some game of sport they’d been about. A shudder of pure loathing ran through Daniel.

  He turned his gaze back to the leader, who was still on one knee at the edge of the loch, washing off the slaughter gore. The man was tall, standing head and shoulders above many of the men under his command, with a medium, muscular frame, and reddish-brown hair that was a bit long, even by Highlander standards. It hung in a blood-matted braid down his back, ending at the base of his spine. Daniel’s fists clenched. Turn a bit more to the left, you merciless fiend so I can at last know my enemy!

  As if Daniel’s thoughts were invisible hands gripping the leader’s shoulders, the man stood and turned, his face stripped of its disguise and its features clearly revealed. A dark brown beard covered most of the lower half of his narrow countenance, and heavy, dark brows sat like thunder clouds over light-colored eyes, bringing his long, aquiline nose into prominence. Three raised abrasions, red with blood, ran from his brow to his cheek. Marks? Left by someone’s nails?

  The leader strode towards his friends, leaving Daniel with a clear view of the horror on the spike thrusting up from the ground. “Godamercy,” Daniel whispered as a buzzing sound filled his head and black spots danced in his vision. In the next instant, he was on his side in the soil, his sights riveted on the violent tableau at the edge of the loch. He sucked in two deep breaths to stave off the swoon that threatened as tears flooded his eyes once more. Blinking them away, he ignored them as they ran down his cheeks in dust-stained rivulets, for naught else mattered but the dreadful sight before him. ‘Twas his grandfather’s head the devil-leader had wielded so proudly—just as his young mind had dimly suspected, but his heart had refused to believe.

  “What will you be doing with that?” one of the soldiers called out to the man, pointing toward the skewered, blood-streaked butcher’s prize.

  The leader shrugged. With a demon light in his eye, he turned back to the mass of human flesh and bone and, grasping it in both hands, released it from its stake and gleefully threw it into the loch. It floated a moment before sinking like a stone down below the water’s surface, leaving a few air bubbles in its wake. Over the roar of the men’s laughter, he said, “Aye, that be a fit grave for you, old man!” As he bent down and washed the blood from his hands once more, he called over his shoulder, “Many a trout will have a fine feast this day, I trow!” He threw his head back and howled with evil glee.

  A lust for blood and a need to kill, the likes of which Daniel had never known, filled his heart in that dreadful moment, and the last vestige of innocence fell away. An image flashed through his mind then, as he knelt there in his family’s wood, of the murderers begging for mercy while he savagely tore each one of them apart with his bare hands. But directly on the heels of that vision of valor, cold reality set in. He had no weapon, nor the skill needed to satisfy his need for vengeance. Not yet. But this atrocity would not go unpunished, of that he would make certain. If not by his own hands, then by the hands of others—whether they be survivors of this blood-filled day or members of allied clans.

  Resigned to the fact that retribution would not be gained this day, Daniel turned his thoughts to getting home. Purposefully, he made his way through the cover of trees skirting the men’s camp to the edge of the covering leading to the rise. Tho’ he was impatient to reach his home, he took a longer route to stay out of sight of the villains.

  *

  By the time Daniel reached the village, the fires were almost out. Embers still burned and there was a dense haze of smoke clinging like a shroud t
o the air, making it difficult to breathe. It burned his throat and made his eyes sting so painfully that tears gushed from them like water over a fall. The air was hot, so hot that he felt as if he were being roasted on a spit. Choking and gagging, he fell forward onto all fours at the base of the well. In desperation, he sat up and stripped his tunic and shirt from his overheated body. After dipping his shirt in the bucket of water that he found next to the well, he cooled his sizzling skin with the liquid. Afterward, as he struggled to his feet once more, he held the wet shirt over his nose and mouth, hoping it would help him breathe more easily. The maneuver worked, allowing him to survey the area as he continued down the main path that would lead him up the hillside to his family’s fortress. Every cottage and building, it seemed, had been set ablaze and now smoldered in charred heaps on either side of the dirt-and-pebble path he trod upon.

  As he at last reached the outskirts of the village and began his journey toward his home, a new rush of dread crowded into him. Tho’ the keep was made mostly of mortar and stone, wood had been used for doors and framing, so there was some likelihood that it had succumbed to a great amount of damage from the fires that the devils had set. And this time, he knew, he would find death there as well. His most avid wish, however, was that the marauders had at least spared his mother’s and the other women’s lives. “I beg you, Lord, please let me find my mother alive,” he prayed aloud, but the dread would not be eased.

  He began to run. With long, bounding strides he raced, his feet barely touching the ground as he rushed up the steep incline, across the open drawbridge, past the gatehouse, and into the outer bailey. He skidded to a halt a few feet from where he’d had his last words with his grandfather that morn. With lungs blowing and a face drenched in sweat, his eyes locked on the horrible destruction all around him. His grandfather’s lieutenant and several of the fortress guards lay slain, along with their horses, just inside the outer bailey. A flock of geese passed overhead, their flight formation sending a shadowed chevron across the macabre scene, their muted honks echoing, like the chimes at daybreak, in the hushed, grim quiet of the courtyard and startling him out of his shocked stupor. He stumbled forward and entered the inner bailey, the courtyard surrounding his family’s keep. There, in this place he’d always believed to be inviolable, he found even more death and destruction. The stables were a mass of char and the bodies of slain soldiers were all around him, providing ample proof of the valiant struggle they’d made to protect the keep from the marauders. The men were scattered upon the ground and hung from the curtain wall and towers, their bodies unnaturally contorted in death as their life’s blood seeped out of them.