The highlanders challeng.., p.1
The Highlander's Challenge, page 1
The Highlander’s Challenge
Madeline Martin
Copyright 2019 © Madeline Martin
THE HIGHLANDER’S CHALLENGE © 2019 Madeline Martin. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part or the whole of this book may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted or utilized (other than for reading by the intended reader) in ANY form (now known or hereafter invented) without prior written permission by the author. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal, and punishable by law.
* * *
THE HIGHLANDER’S CHALLENGE is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional and or are used fictitiously and solely the product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, places, businesses, events or locales is purely coincidental.
Cover Design by Teresa Sprecklemeyer @ The Midnight Muse Designs.
Contents
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
About the Author
Also by Madeline Martin
1
March 1320
Norham, England
* * *
Being the sole daughter of the Earl of Northumberland did not stop Bridget de Vere from fighting alongside her brothers as a knight.
People swarmed around her in a chaotic crush of bodies and fogged breath in the cold air. War cries and grunts filled her ears, along with the sharp ring of metal on metal.
A man showed in her line of sight through the slit in her armored helmet and lunged. She blocked the blow with her blade, but even if his large broadsword had hit, it would do little more than glance off her fine armor.
Bridget's brothers fought at her side, defending Castle Quelling against the Scottish attack. The raids were becoming more frequent.
Bridget cut down the man in front of her, only to find another in his place. Her muscles sang with strength and lent to her attacks the kind of power that heightened her confidence.
She and her brothers trained hard for long hours every day, but there was no better combat training than war. In fact, it had been at her brothers’ insistence Father finally allowed her to join.
She swung her sword at the man, but he leapt back. The braids plaited in his wild hair flew around his face and he opened his mouth in a bellowing war cry.
Before he could rush at her once more, a knight in gilded armor stepped in his path and delivered a death blow.
Richard.
Bridget's sigh echoed within her helmet, a hiss of air over the sounds of war. The youngest of all the brothers and only a year older than she, he'd taken it upon himself to be her personal guardian.
If Bridget didn't have a helmet on, she'd shoot him a glare.
Several feet away, a Scot stood over the body of one of the Castle Quelling guards. Bridget raced toward the barbarian to attack, eager to fight on her own and be away from Richard and his unwanted chivalry.
The Scot spun toward her as she approached and whipped his blade hard toward her. Bridget feinted right, then attacked left. The Scot staggered backward with blood blooming against his chest.
A fatal blow.
She would say a prayer for his soul that night. The same as she did for all the men she killed while defending their home.
Shouts of alarm pulled her attention away from the dying Scot and back to where Richard had been.
Horror sent her heart lurching into her throat. Her brother was on his knees, the blade of an axe buried through the heavy plate of his armor and into his shoulder and chest.
The man standing over him was a massive Scot with brown hair pulled back from his face. He braced his foot on Richard's noble chest and pulled the axe blade free. The sword slipped from Richard’s hand and fell uselessly to the frost-tipped grass below.
Bridget ran forward, screaming a protest no one else could hear. She had to save him, she had to kill the man before he—
The Scot brought his axe down once more, and the armor protecting her brother's head collapsed inward.
The breath sucked from her chest and her knees almost gave out.
Blood spurted from the split metal and Richard, her beautiful, chivalrous brother whose heart shone with a goodness greater than any other, pitched forward toward the ground. He landed on his face and went still as blood pooled around him.
No.
No.
No.
The Scot pulled the axe free and her brother's body jerked at the savage removal. His murderer shifted his gaze to her, his gaze filled with hatred. A puff of frozen air huffed from his mouth.
Bridget's soul burned with the need for vengeance. The scream of anguish rasped in her throat and fueled her body into attack. Someone knocked into her and she spun around.
Good training helped her right herself once more and spin around to seek out her attacker. Her brother's killer.
Oh God, Richard.
She searched around her, unable to find him. Her breath came in panicked pants and whooshed around her. If only she had the ability to see more from under the helmet. If only the man would show himself.
If only Richard was not dead.
It was the first time in a fight where the breathless stabs of fear pierced her solid sensibilities.
Richard was dead.
Awareness tingled down her spine and she snapped to the left, narrowly avoiding the swing of an axe. The large Scot with brown hair stood in front of her once more. Now she was seeing the beast up close for the first time.
His green eyes tightened with concentrated effort. One of his eyebrows was bisected by an old scar long since healed.
He swung again, but she deflected and launched her own attack. Vengeance fired through her and left every part of her searing with the need to kill this man.
“Fortiter,” he bellowed.
The MacAlister war cry – he was a MacAlister.
Her blade flew in front of her, thrusting and slashing with all the pain burning through her heart. The Scot backed up from her attacks, barely staying ahead of her moves long enough to block his death away with the large axe.
Something caught her foot. In a moment of horror, she realized it was Richard's lifeless body.
The one hesitation was all the Highlander needed. He swung his axe toward her head. She ducked hard to the right, but the blow clanged against her helmet and ripped it free. Sunlight flashed in her eyes, so brilliant it rendered her blind while the world fell from under her feet.
And everything went dark.
Aidan MacAlister stared down at the fallen knight before him. The woman had donned the armor of a man and fought like a demon flown straight out of hell.
She did not move from where she lay beside the dead knight. A deep gash showed on her jaw where either her helmet or the axe had cut deep into her ivory skin. The blow had not been a killing one. He'd seen enough war to know as much.
He should kill her. One more English dead.
Her hair spilled like midnight over the ground and her bonny face relaxed as though she were sleeping.
He should kill her.
An Englishman would slay an unconscious woman in Scotland, after all. In fact, many of them had done exactly so.
Aidan turned from the woman before he could change his mind. He was better than his enemy.
He would let the bitch live.
2
July 1322
Castle Quelling
* * *
“Marry me.”
Bridget stared up into Sir Thomas de Lacy's earnest gaze. He was hopelessly handsome with his square jaw and full lips. His pale blue eyes searched hers, as if he might find the answer to his request there.
It ought to be treasonous for a man to possess such long lashes.
He was, by far, the most attractive knight in all of England. While he was not poor, he wasn't extremely wealthy, either. Still, any woman would give her eye teeth to be standing in her position.
“No.” She could not help the smile curling her lips even as she spoke. “You know I cannot.”
He grasped her hand. His long, tapered fingers curled over hers beneath the warmth of his palm. “You know you want to.”
This time Bridget gave in to the temptation of laughter. “You know I do not.”
Thomas dropped her hand and covered his chest. “You'll break my heart, madam.”
“You haven't a heart to break and we both know it.” She offered a coy smirk.
Thomas staggered backward through the garden and sat down hard on a stone bench. Several people nearby stopped talking and turned toward him. More than one lady smiled in his direction - and had their smiles readily returned.
Bridget sank onto the bench beside him with a chastising look. The sharp aroma of rosemary hovered delicately in the air. “You shouldn't be so dramatic.”
“I disagree when you'd rather marry a barbarian than me.” The seriousness to his expression disquieted her.
“You know I haven't a say in the matter.” She kept her gaze fixed on him despite the temptation to look away and sever the solemnity widening between them.
While true, her impending marriage was about more than not having a say. It was about revenge.
Her father wa
She remembered the MacAlister she battled well. Even two years later, she could recall everything about his face. From what her father described of her husband-to-be, this was the man she had fought - from his green eyes to the scar cutting through his eyebrow.
Thomas leaned closer, and the spice of his imported perfume surrounded her. “But you don't want to go to Scotland.”
“I'll do as I'm bid by my parents.”
He laughed, and she knew he didn't believe her. They both knew how flimsy the paltry claim had been when she seldom did anything her parents bid.
His face smoothed into a serious expression once more. “Marry me.” He put his hand over hers, pinning her to the bench with the affectionate gesture. He was staring intently at her.
Too intently.
Her heart hammered in her chest.
“Marry me, Lady Bridget, my beautiful Rose of the de Veres.”
Rose of the de Veres - it was a name affectionately bestowed upon her by the court as she was the only daughter of the de Vere family. Hearing Thomas say it now with his all-too-real marriage proposal made her stomach clench.
Thomas met her eyes. “I love you.”
Bridget shook her head. “No.” This time there was no smile, no tickling gaiety. For this time, she realized he'd been serious.
“I'll protect you from leaving for Scotland. I'll secure a bit of land for us and love you—”
“No.” Bridget stood and tried not to let her heart crumple at the wounded light in Thomas' blue eyes. “I do not love you. Not in that way.” She said it gently, but even soft words could not keep the hurt from a truthful admission.
They had grown up closely beside each other. Bridget had always perceived him with the same affection she had her own brothers. To consider loving him romantically…
She shook her head. There was too much knowledge to even want to love him in such a way. Nothing but heartache would follow any woman who dared fall in love with Thomas de Lacy and his distracted admiration.
“Bridget.” He said her name in a choked voice.
Her own throat squeezed hard against the knowledge of having left him so hurt. She turned from him and strode through the sunlit garden. Tomorrow she would leave for Scotland. Tomorrow she would never see Thomas again.
“I wondered when that might happen.” A soft voice pulled at her attention and tore through the unwanted thoughts.
Her Aunt Aubrey sat in the shade of several trees. Her father’s eldest sister was not often able to visit, but Bridget always enjoyed it when she did.
Aunt Aubrey patted her withered hand on the bench beside her. Bridget sat obediently and regarded the aunt she'd always held in such fond affection. Age had long since changed Aubrey's dark hair into a rich ash gray, but her hazel eyes were still sharp, as was her mind. In her youth, she had been a warrior - she'd worn the clothes of a man and fought in battle. She'd been Edmund de Vere’s favorite daughter.
Perhaps that was why Bridget’s grandfather had convinced her parents to allow her such concessions as to train with her brothers when she first asked as a young girl.
“The boy has had his eye on you since I first arrived.” Aubrey slid a glance at Bridget. “And I suspect for far longer than that. Surely you're not surprised at his declaration.”
Bridget's face went hot. “How do you know what he said?”
Aubrey smirked. “It was written all over his face. Did you say yes?” There was a note of eagerness in her voice.
Bridget shook her head and glanced around to ensure no one had heard her aunt. She didn't want Thomas further embarrassed after having already suffered her rejection.
Aubrey's squared shoulders relaxed somewhat with apparent disappointment. “Ah, I figured as much. Pity. It might have been rather exciting to have an elopement in the family.” She smiled down at Bridget, pride evident in the glow of her golden hazel eyes. “Though I have to say, you've already created quite a stir by demanding no one attend you in Scotland. Especially at your wedding.”
Bridget pursed her lips. She couldn't tell Aubrey the true reason why, not even when she was so trusted. No one could know.
It was one thing to kill a man, it was quite another to put one's entire family at risk by doing so. No, she would kill MacAlister and suffer the consequences entirely on her own.
“I have my reasons,” Bridget offered finally.
It did not surprise her when Aubrey nodded in quiet understanding. Bridget's mother had not reacted with such acquiescence. The subject was still sore in the de Vere household, even this last day prior to her departure.
“You're a better daughter than I was,” Aubrey said. “I railed against my betrothal with all I had in me.”
“I've heard.” Bridget couldn't keep the grin off her face, remembering the tale of when Aubrey brought a sword to the wedding. Nothing came of it in the end, but there had been enough threat to make the story a family favorite. “You still married him.”
“And I'm glad for it, as surely you will be, too.” Aubrey scoffed suddenly. “I think your Thomas de Lacy will be just fine.”
Bridget followed her aunt’s gaze across the large garden to where Thomas sat at the bench with a woman on either side of him, their lips pouted out in sympathetic gestures. He said something and both women laughed.
Aubrey laid a hand over Bridget's, her aged skin soft and cool. “Forget the boy and see to your parents. Tomorrow you will say goodbye.”
The familiar knot returned to Bridget's stomach. Aubrey was right. Today was the last day she had with her family.
Her aunt squeezed Bridget's hand. “No matter what kind of man your husband is, be true to yourself always.”
Bridget took a deep breath and nodded. Aubrey had no idea how very right she was.
Tonight she would say goodbye to the family who loved her and goodbye to the home she'd always known. And soon she would see Richard's death avenged.
Forth Manor
Clackmannan, Scotland
* * *
Aidan hated the damn English. He'd have adamantly declined the suggestion of marrying one were it not for all the goodwill shoved his way to sweeten the request.
He'd been given land, albeit in the Lowlands, but it was still land, and it was rich with fertile soil. More still, he'd been provided a manor so large it would have made his parents both swell with pride.
After his parents' deaths, he'd vowed to see his brother and sister cared for. He could rest easy now knowing he'd done exactly that with his marital sacrifice.
Even still, the deal was suddenly bitter when the first specks of the oncoming retinue dotted the flat, lush landscape of Clackmannan. They'd moved at a miserably slow pace. No doubt to spare Lady Bridget de Vere any discomfort. He'd been watching for some time, waiting until finally they were visible.
Lady Bridget sat at the head of the party on a surprisingly plain steed. Her blonde hair was plaited back and she huddled down into a heavy mantle.
Aidan snorted. If the lass was cold now, she'd freeze by winter. Not that he'd mind. His contract with Robert the Bruce would be fulfilled with the wedding. Aidan's rewards had already been bestowed upon him. Surely he could not be faulted for a wife with a weak constitution.
Then he'd be free to go on to find a woman who would care for his siblings as he did, a woman who could make them all feel whole as a family after the pain of so much loss.
Two servants traveled with the lass as well as a knight, glinting in his full plate armor atop a black steed. Aidan grunted. It was unsurprising they'd sent a knight to guard the lass on her journey. Heaven forbid the fragile lady of the de Vere family be forced to trek through Scotland without someone to spare her miserable life.
