To Woo a Highland Warrior Read online

  To Woo a Highland Warrior

  Heart of a Scot Book Four

  COLLETTE CAMERON®

  Sweet-to-Spicy Timeless Romance®

  © Copyright 2020 by Collette Cameron

  Text by Collette Cameron

  Cover by Wicked Smart Designs

  Dragonblade Publishing, Inc. is an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.

  P.O. Box 7968

  La Verne CA 91750

  [email protected]

  Produced in the United States of America

  First Edition January 2020

  Kindle Edition

  Reproduction of any kind except where it pertains to short quotes in relation to advertising or promotion is strictly prohibited.

  All Rights Reserved.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  License Notes:

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook, once purchased, may not be re-sold. 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 borrow it, or it was not purchased for you and given as a gift for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. If this book was purchased on an unauthorized platform, then it is a pirated and/or unauthorized copy and violators will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Do not purchase or accept pirated copies. Thank you for respecting the author’s hard work. For subsidiary rights, contact Dragonblade Publishing, Inc.

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  Dearest Reader;

  Thank you for your support of a small press. At Dragonblade Publishing, we strive to bring you the highest quality Historical Romance from the some of the best authors in the business. Without your support, there is no ‘us’, so we sincerely hope you adore these stories and find some new favorite authors along the way.

  Happy Reading!

  CEO, Dragonblade Publishing

  Additional Dragonblade books by Author Collette Cameron

  Heart of a Scot Series

  To Love a Highland Laird

  To Redeem a Highland Rogue

  To Seduce a Highland Scoundrel

  To Woo a Highland Warrior

  To Enchant a Highland Earl

  To Defy a Highland Duke

  To Marry a Highland Marauder

  To Bargain with a Highland Buccaneer

  *** Please visit Dragonblade’s website for a full list of books and authors. Sign up for Dragonblade’s blog for sneak peeks, interviews, and more: ***

  www.dragonbladepublishing.com

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  Dedication

  To Collette’s Chèris—the most fantastical author reader group ever!

  I love you!

  xoxo

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Publisher’s Note

  Additional Dragonblade books by Author Collette Cameron

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Scottish Highlands

  Early September 1720

  A hair-raising scream rent the late afternoon’s soggy air, wrenching Liam MacKay, Baron of Penderhaven, from his melancholy musings. He snorted in derision. When, in these past five years, weren’t his reflections melancholic? Macabre even?

  Astride Deri—so named for the gelding’s metallic-shaded coat—he reflexively clasped the dirk at his waist as the pulverizing wind caught the merest wisp of another frantic cry. Pulling his spine straighter, all of his senses acutely alert, he squinted through the deluge pelting him and methodically scrutinized the surrounding woodlands.

  From whence had the shout come?

  Close by, for certain.

  Eyes narrowed, he scratched his beard and made a thorough, circular study of the area once more. The tangy scent of sodden earth and the sharp, almost pungent, odor of the shrewish tempest met his flared nostrils.

  With the furious squall buffeting the thrashing trees and the torrential rain hammering the drenched ground—not to mention the periodic deafening booms of thunder hard on the heels of each lightning streak illuminating the heavens—he couldn’t quite discern the person’s location or gender. Another incandescent purplish flash divided the bruise-colored sky, immediately followed by an earth-shaking explosion in the firmaments.

  God’s teeth, what a gale.

  In his one and thirty years, he didn’t recall a more sudden or violent thunderstorm. The ground was still hard and arid from an unusually warm summer, and water gushed down the craggy hillside eager to reach the riotous, brown river below.

  More than once, Deri had slid on the slick slope. If there’d been lodgings to be had this past hour, Liam would’ve sought its refuge straightaway.

  Traveling in this sorry weather was stupid, plain-and-simple. But halting and risking the elements might prove worse with the trees snapping like kindling all around him. Unrelenting stinging rain pellets lashed his face, giving no hint of reprieve anytime soon either.

  For the past three hours, the powerful thunderstorm raging overhead had battered the Highlands. Which explained why he’d chosen to ride beneath the flailing branches above rather than chance the open road a few hundred yards away.

  Quite simply, there was far less risk of lightning striking him amongst the trees than upon the unprotected track paralleling the river. However, in these woodlands, a much greater risk of being taking down by a falling tree existed.

  Odin’s teeth. Damned if he did, and damned if he didn’t. A no-win situation. Caught between the coals and the cookpot.

  Head angled as he strained to hear above the storm, he pushed his saturated hair off his forehead. Another terrified shriek—definitely feminine—echoed through the Scots pine forest, curdling his blood and raising his nape hair as well as causing his horse to sidestep and snort nervously.

  “Easy, lad. Shh.” He hugged his knees to the gelding’s sides, giving him a reassuring pat on the neck. Whoever the woman was, he couldn’t ignore her terrified cries. He stroked the horse again. “Dinna fash yerself, my friend.”

  “Unhand me, vous monstre!”

  Monster and in French to boot?

  “Help! Help! Mon Dieu. Somebody, help us, s’il vous plaît.” The last broke on a ragged sob barely audible above the thunder reverberating violently in the angry pewter sky.

  What in Odin’s toes was a French woman doing in this isolated stretch of the Highlands, in this godawful weather, and screaming for help? To be fair, the storm had developed quite suddenly, and the nearest inn was miles away.

  Nonetheless, his warrior’s instinct pinged an urgent warning.

  And the Frenchwoman had said “us”. Meaning more than one person was in some sort of danger. Hell, anyone outside in this hell-fired gale was in p
eril.

  “Mon Dieu, non. Non.” The plaintive wail broke through a pause in the storm’s tumult.

  Desperate. Defeated. Disbelieving.

  Swearing a steady stream of expletives beneath his breath, Liam reined Deri in the direction of the heart-rending plea and put his heels to the horse’s sides. At once, the steed surged forward, pounding toward God only knew what. Liam erupted through the towering trees, momentarily taken aback at the bizarre scene before him.

  A traveling coach angled across the middle of the mucky road, its door flung wide open. Two men, legs splayed and their bearing menacing, stood near the front of the vehicle. The coachmen?

  A pair of dripping-wet women huddled together a few feet away, the taller with her arm wrapped protectively around the smaller woman’s shoulders. Even from where he’d exited the woodlands, he couldn’t miss the diminutive woman’s violent quaking.

  One driver gleefully brandished a pair of blunderbusses.

  Christ on the cross.

  What in the bloody hell went on here? A robbery? It didn’t make sense. Why drive the ladies to this godforsaken spot? Especially in this rabid weather?

  The fiend straightened his arm, aiming a weapon at the younger woman. “Say yer prayers, lass. ’Tis time to meet yer maker.”

  Not if Liam could help it.

  Wrenching his dirk from his belt, he released a warrior’s ferocious battle shout. Another peal of thunder split the turbulent shrapnel sky, muffling the bellow. He vaulted from the saddle. But before his feet hit the ground, the man, still grinning maniacally, pulled the trigger.

  Nae!

  “Non!” The skinny older woman threw herself in front of the other equally slender lady.

  The taller female caught her companion in her arms, the momentum from the gunshot propelling them to the muddy ground.

  “Nae! Nae! Naaee! Aunt Jeneva!” the woman cried hoarsely, hunched over her immobile aunt, patting her face. “Och, my God, ye unconscionable monster. I think…ye’ve killed her.”

  Even as Liam surged across the remaining distance, the scunner’s face contorted into a devious smirk, and he calmly leveled the other pistol at her head.

  Proud and gloriously defiant, the lass lifted her chin, her saturated bronze tresses spilling over the plain dark blue cloak covering her shoulders and spine. Such bravery in the face of terrifying peril could only be admired, and Liam’s warrior’s heart applauded her courage.

  An instant later, an uncomfortable jolt speared his breast.

  He recognized her.

  She’d been at the cèilidh hosted by Graeme Kennedy a few weeks ago. And also at that ludicrous masked ball in Edinburgh Mother had insisted he escort his sister, Kendra, to.

  “Why? Why are ye doin’ this?” she shakily asked, her delicate, stricken face streaked with tears and rain. “We’ve nae money or jewels. Nothin’ of value. We’re simple seamstresses.”

  The wind whipping his hair, the coachman shrugged casually, as if they discussed the petulant weather. He hastily sliced his companion a sly, side-eyed look. “We’ve been paid handsomely to dispose of ye.”

  Her mouth went slack, and a confused line appeared between her brows. “Ye must have the wrong person. I’m nae a threat to anyone. Neither was my aunt. We have nae enemies. Ye’ve made a horrendous mistake.”

  “Nae. ’Tis nae mistake.” He grinned, exposing time-yellowed teeth and wobbled the gun’s muzzle up and down. “We made absolute sure of yer identity, Miss Emeline Toinette Jeneva LeClaire, didna we, Hamish?”

  “Aye, that we did,” his compatriot agreed, returning his friend’s sneaky sidelong glance. “Such a fancy name. So ladylike. I still say we ought to sample the bonnie lass, Walter. Nae one will ever ken, and it seems such a waste no’ to. How often do we get to sink our wicks into a lady? A pretty one, too, even if she is a skinny rickle-a-bones lass.”

  Over Liam’s dead body would they lay so much as a finger upon her.

  Eyes rounding in comprehension, she blanched and cast a frantic glance to either side.

  “Ye have a good point, my friend.” Walter licked his fat lips, his lewd gaze lingering on the gentle swells the cloak hid. “A verra good point. He didna say we couldna, did he? He only said to make sure she didna return to Edinburgh alive.”

  Who, exactly, was the he they referred to?

  This was no random robbery then. It was an assassination. Liam didn’t have time to ponder why, however, for the scoundrels were intent on ravishing the remaining woman before disposing of her as ordered.

  All at once, the rotter became aware of Liam bearing down upon him—looking no doubt like a wrathful, bearded demon straight from the bowels of hell. His features contorting in fear and fury, the attacker staggered backward a step and veered the gun’s muzzle’ toward Liam.

  “Ye’ll meet yer maker today, ye devil’s spawn,” Liam vowed in a guttural growl.

  At a full sprint, he threw the dirk. Satisfaction flooded him as the blade lodged to the hilt in the blackguard’s throat, and a stream of crimson gushed forth.

  His eyes wide and surprised, the blunderbusses tumbled from the bounder’s hands. Clutching his neck and making weird gurgling noises, he folded to his knees, then, ever-so-slowly, slumped forward.

  Slapping a hand over her mouth, Emeline LeClaire choked on a gasp and speedily averted her attention from the grisly scene.

  Yanking an evil-looking knife from his boot, the other churl crouched into a defensive position. He brandished the knife with the ease of someone accustomed to handling a blade.

  Precisely, who were these miscreants?

  Liam would vow playing the part of coachmen wasn’t their typical employment. It didn’t matter. They’d breathe their last today.

  He whipped his tartan around his arm. Using the plaid as a shield, he lowered his shoulders and barreled into the smaller man, slamming him into the coach with a sickening crunch.

  The driver shrieked in pain and terror as Liam caught his neck in the crook of his elbow and with one violent twist, broke the would-be-murder and rapist’s neck. He crumpled to the ground, his lifeless eyes glazing over. He’d not be attacking any more defenseless women.

  Liam mightn’t ever want to marry again, but he’d never mistreat a woman or stand by and watch another do so either. Breathing hard, his heart yet hammering an erratic drumbeat behind his ribs, he retrieved his dirk, a gift from his da for his sixteenth birthday. After wiping the blade clean on one of the dead men’s coat, he slipped the knife into his belt.

  “Aunt Jeneva.” Her voice and expression anguished, Miss LeClaire rocked her ashen-faced aunt in her arms. Scarlet stained the older woman’s unmoving chest and Miss LeClaire’s gloves. “I’m sorry, Aunt, so verra sorry,” she choked around her inconsolable weeping. “Ye wouldna be here if I hadna insisted we visit Berget,” she moaned, her voice breaking.

  Hurrying to her side, Liam squatted and put two fingers to the limp woman’s neck, checking for a pulse. Dead. Lips pressed tight, he scanned the area, ensuring nobody else skulked about. “Lass, is there anyone else with ye?”

  She dragged her watery gaze upward, her thick-lashed brandy-colored eyes glazed and out-of-focus pools. The sprinkling of cinnamon-colored freckles stood out starkly on her high cheek bones and impertinent turned-up nose. Blinking sluggishly, her attention slid to the men, and a violent shudder racked her.

  Shifting slightly, he maneuvered to partially block her gruesome view. The wind caught his plaid and slapped it against his thigh. The ferocious storm yet seethed around them, but she appeared to have retreated into her own hellish world.

  “Lass?” He touched his fingertips to one shoulder.

  “Nae.” She swallowed, shaking her head then biting her plump lower lip. “Nae one.” Her voice was as lifeless as the woman draped across her lap.

  “I’m Liam MacKay,” he said softly, in the soothing tone he used to speak to an unbroken horse. No need to mention his was also a baron. “I saw ye at Graeme Kennedy’s ga
therin’ in August.” He hadn’t spoken to her and in doing so now, he violated rule number one: Stay clear of innocent lasses.

  Her expression, utterly lost and devastated, she didn’t respond.

  He hadn’t remembered her name until the dead man said it, but Liam did recall her costume at the ball. A rather hideous shepherdess ensemble, complete with a ridiculous bonnet and staff—not that they’d been introduced.

  In general, Liam shunned women.

  To be precise, he avoided unwed, marriageable lasses like the plague or pox. Snared once already in that unholy trap, he’d no intention of ever falling into that viper’s pit or finding himself in a compromising position again. Kendra and her progeny could bloody-well inherit the feudal barony.

  Familiar grief cramped his lungs, the ache blooming in his chest and stealing his breath.

  Nae. No’ now.

  Except, damn his eyes, he’d also broken rule number two in the past five minutes: Never, ever, be alone with an unmarried woman. Widows didn’t count, and he’d found them most accommodating over the years.

  “Ye’re Emeline?” He knew her name, but forcing her to focus on something besides her dead aunt cradled in her arms was paramount.

  “Aye, Emeline LeClaire,” came her monotone response. “I remember ye.” Her wary doe-eyed gaze slashed to the strip of puckered flesh marring his right cheek. “I’ve wondered several times how ye came by yer scar.”

  Not exactly the stuff of conversations, especially between strangers.

  Kristin’s doing, the night she’d tried to kill him. But he wasn’t about to reveal that to a woman and one he didn’t know. Again, his chest constricted, and he fought the helplessness the dreaded memories stirred.

  Lightning lashed across the gloomy sky. Several more jagged flashes followed in quick succession, accompanied by resounding, earth-shaking crashes. Could the thunderstorm possibly be growing worse? Just then, the rain turned to hail. The cherry-sized pellets pummeled them like miniature cannonballs. Thunder exploded, roll after furious forceful roll, across the sky.