Monica McCarty - The Chief

T he battle was intensifying now. Going faster. Moving toward a fatal end with each stroke. The scent of well-worked bodies wafted in the breeze. Tension and excitement surged in the crowd.

No one was going to do anything to stop it.

With blow after ringing blow, the golden-haired warrior moved his opponent back. The dark-haired warrior couldnt last much longer. Christinas heart was pounding so hard she couldnt breathe.

She gasped again when the dark warrior stumbled back and fell to the ground. Her horror only grew when his mouth curved up in a smile.

The golden warrior raised his sword above his head, poised for the final blow.

No! a voice rang out.

His gaze shot to hers. She was riveted to the ground by the most piercing ice-blue eyes shed ever seen. Eyes that seared her with an intensity shed never experienced before. Eyes that were hard, cold, and utterly without mercy.

She blanched, as horror dawned: She was the one whod cried out.

Their gazes held for only an instant before he looked brusquely away.

Disappointment crashed over her. How could she have expected mercy from such a man? Despite her strange fascination, he was not a knight but a brutish barbarian warlord.

She couldnt bear to watch. Turning her head, she braced herself for the gasp of the crowd as the golden warrior finished the job. She heard the sword whiz through the air and land with a resounding thud that shook her to her toes.

But the gasp never came.

A LSO BY M ONICA M C C ARTY

Highland Warrior
Highland Outlaw
Highland Scoundrel

Highlander Untamed
Highlander Unchained
Highlander Unmasked

To Jami and Nyree, who first heard this idea almost eight years ago and helped to get me to the place where I could write it. Thank you for all of your brilliance, encouragement, and friendship. What would I do without you guys (other than spend much less time on the phone)? Go Cardinals (and the SSRW)!

A special thanks to the usual suspects for their help in getting this series off the ground: Kate Collins (my fabulous editor), Andrea Cirillo and Annelise Robey (my equally fabulous agents), the entire Ballantine team, and Emily Cotler and Claire Anderson at Wax Creative.

No doctors to thank in this book (maybe next time Nora and Sean), but I do want to thank Scottish historian and fellow author Sharron Gunn for her help with some of the Gaelic translations.

And finally, to Dave, Reid, and Maxine: Your support means so much to me (even if its sometimes reluctantly given). And for the record, when I tell you not to bother Mommy because shes busy, what I really mean is I love you.

The year of our Lord thirteen hundred and five. After nine years of bloody war, Scotland is firmly in English hands. Edward Plantagenet, the most ruthless and powerful man in Christendom, sits upon the throne, and William Wallace, Scotlands great freedom fighter, lies in an English prison. All is seemingly lost, the voices of rebellion crushed by the mighty Hammer of the Scots.

But in her darkest hour, the torch of Scotlands freedom will be lit once more. Against nearly insurmountable odds, Robert Bruce, Earl of Carrick and Lord of Annandale, will make his bid for the throne.

But he will not do so alone.

Lost in the mists of time, forgotten by all but a few, is the legend of a secret band of elite warriors handpicked by Bruce from the darkest corners of the Highlands and Western Isles to form the deadliest fighting force the world has ever seen.

In a time when the veil between life and death is a mere shadow, Bruces Highland Guard will stop at nothing but freedom from English rule.

These are the stories of the men who answered freedoms call, and in the process, helped forge a nation.

From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be rememberd;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother;

William Shakespeare, King Henry V, Act 4, Scene III

Lochmaben Castle,
Dumfries and Galloway, Scotland,
August 28, 1305

William Wallace is dead.

For a moment, Robert Bruce, Earl of Carrick, Lord of Annandale, and one-time joint Guardian of Scotland, couldnt speak. Though death had been inevitable for Wallace since his capture a few weeks ago, expectation did not lessen the crushing blow of finality. The hope that the brave-hearted Wallace had lit in his heartin the heart of every Scotsman who chaffed under the yoke of English tyrannyflickered.

Scotlands champion was dead. The torch would pass to himif he chose to take it. Twas a heavy burden and, as Wallaces death had proved, a deadly one. He had everything to lose.

Bruce forced back the errant thoughts and acknowledged the prelates pronouncement with a grim nod. He motioned for his friend to sit on the wooden bench and warm himself by the fire. William Lamberton, Bishop of St. Andrews, was drenched to the skin and looked ready to collapse from exhaustion, as if he had been the one to ride day and night from London with the news himself.

Bruce poured a cup of dark red wine from the flagon on the side table and sat beside him. Here, drink this. You look as if you need it.

They both did.

Lamberton accepted it with a murmur of thanks and took a long drink. Bruce did the same, but the pungent fruitiness of the wine soured in his mouth.

Lowering his voice, he steeled himself for the rest. How?

Lambertons gaze darted back and forth. With his round, boyish face and cold, reddened nose, he had the look of a hare sensing danger. And a plump one at that. But Bruce did not let the prelates unthreatening appearance fool him, for behind the inauspicious mask lurked a mind as nimble, shrewd, and cunning as King Edwards himself. Is it safe? the bishop asked.

Bruce nodded. Aye. Lamberton was wise to be wary. They were alone in his private chamber, but Lochmaben Castle belonged to Edward now, and Bruce was being watched. The King of England might call him friend, but he did not trust him. Edward might be a tyrant, but he was a shrewd one. No one can hear us, he assured the bishop. Ive made certain of it. Tell me.

Lambertons dark eyes met his, and the starkness reflected there augured the horror of what was to come. He suffered a traitors death.

Bruce flinched. Then suffered Wallace had. His jaw clenched, and he nodded for the other man to continue.

They dragged him behind a horse through the streets of London for three miles, to Smithfield Elms. He was hanged, drawn, and quartered, but not before they chopped off his manhood, eviscerated his bowels, and burned them before his eyes. His head sits on a pike atop London Bridge.

Bruces eyes burned with rage. Pride has made Edward a fool.

Lamberton looked around again, but the only movement was the flickering shadows of the candlelight playing across the tapestry-lined stone walls. His fear was understandable: Men had been sent to the tower for uttering less. When soldiers did not come bursting through the door, however, he relaxed. Aye. Edwards vengeance has made a powerful martyr. Wallaces ghost will haunt him far more than the man did. Tis not like Edward to make such a mistake.