The Highlanders: A Smitten Historical Romance Collection
Other Smitten Historical Romance Titles by The Highlanders Authors
Among the Poppies – J’nell Ciesielski
Songbird and the Spy – J’nell Ciesielski
Mist O’er the Voyageur – Naomi Musch
A Heart Set Free – Janet Grunst
A Heart for Freedom – Janet Grunst
You’re the Cream in My Coffee – Jennifer Lamont Leo
Ain’t Misbehavin’ – Jennifer Lamont Leo
THE HIGHLANDERS BY J’NELL CIESIELSKI, JENNIFER LAMONT LEO, JANET GRUNST, NAOMI MUSCH
ISBN: 978-1-64526-063-9
Copyright © 2019 by J’nell Ciesielski, Jennifer Lamont Leo, Janet Grunst, Naomi Musch
Cover design by Elaina Lee
Interior design by Karthick Srinivasan
Available in print from your local bookstore, online, or from the publisher at: ShopLPC.com
For more information on this book and the authors visit: http://www.jnellciesielski.com/, http://jenniferlamontleo.com/, https://janetgrunst.com/, https://naomimusch.com/
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All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.TM. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com. “NIV” and “New International Version” are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.TM.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Ciesielski, J’nell, Leo, Jennifer Lamont, Grunst, Janet, Musch, Naomi
The Highlanders / J’nell Ciesielski, Jennifer Lamont Leo, Janet Grunst,
Naomi Musch 1st ed.
Printed in the United States of America
PRAISE FOR THE HIGHLANDERS
A bonny collection of four uniquely told tales with four thoroughly Scottish heroes. Skillfully woven romance and adventure spans centuries to create a heartfelt, poignant historical tapestry. The Highlanders is not to be missed!
~Laura Frantz
Christy award-winning author of The Lacemaker
From a village in 1717 Scotland to a Scotsman living in 1915 Sandpoint, Idaho, this delightful collection of stories will draw you into the richness of the Scottish culture. The characters in each story live and love from the heart of their heritage. You can hear the accent leap off the pages!
~Jan Cline
Author of the American Dreams Series
CONTENTS
Night Fox
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
A Tender Siege
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
The Year Without Summer
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
Author’s Note
The Violinist
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Author’s Note
Miss S.
Like this story, you’re small but pack a mighty burst of excitement. One day we promise to take you to the land of where all Mama’s stories come from and see why she wants Daddy to move us there.
Chapter 1
Scotland, 1717
ANOTHER CARRIAGE ON PARADE, another plump pheasant ripe for the plucking.
Rooney Corsen crouched in the bushes and edged the mask over her face. She pulled the dark hood of her cape over her hair, careful to tuck back the unruly springs that were her telltale feature, and waited as the carriage creaked up the dusty road. Judging by the braw set of grays with jingling harnesses that would have cost a village merchant ten years’ wages, it looked to be His Excellency Arthur Logan, Druimbeath’s own procurator fiscal.
Excitement fluttered in Rooney’s chest. “The fattest purse of them all.”
Sunlight dappled the gleaming carriage as it moved closer. Securing her pistol in her waistband, Rooney readied to move. The carriage rolled by. Leaping out of the bushes, she launched herself at the back and flipped onto the roof, her petite body landing without a thud. She gripped the edge and swung in through the window, landing with a neat plop on the seat.
“Good afternoon, yer Excellency.”
The old toad’s eyes bugged out of his fleshy face. “Y-you!”
Rooney frowned at his uncovered head and slipped into her accent ruse. “I dinna ken ye were bald.”
Logan lunged for the tightly curled, gray wig on the bench next to him and slapped it atop his head. One pudgy hand reached up to rap on the roof.
“Wouldna advise that.”
“You think to stop me, boy?”
Shrugging, Rooney pulled out her pistol. “My dag will have something to say about it.” She’d never had to fire it before and prayed today wouldn’t be the first time.
Logan lowered his arm and scowled. “I know who you are. Night Fox.”
“Good, then ye’ll ken why I’m here.”
“Pilfering, looting, robbing, and making a mockery of my official robes.”
“Have no fear, yer Excellency. Yer robes are under no threat from me. They’d swallow me whole if I were to take them.” She leveled the pistol at his face. “But I will partake o the others where it concerns yer purse. If ye dinna mind.”
“I do mind!”
Rooney pulled back the hammer. The deadly click resonated within the cushioned confines. “’Tis a shame, for that’s a bonny jabot ye’re wearing. So crisp an
d white.”
With a choking sound, Logan pulled a small box out from under his feet and flipped off the lid. Inside nestled two plump bags. He lifted them and tossed them to Rooney. “One day they’ll finally catch you and string you up a tree. When you cry out for my mercy, I’ll turn a deaf ear as I muse over my dessert. One less miscreant I have to judge.”
“Ye fatten yerself o’er the misfortunes o others. Too bad the villagers canna pickle ye in broth. They’d feast for months.” Rooney shook her head. “Nay, I shouldna said that. Yer juices are too foul for anyone to stomach.”
“Why you little—”
“Tsk, tsk. Ye’re purplin and it isna a good color for ye. As I believe I may be the culprit, I shall have to remove myself from yer bulging presence. Thank ye kindly for the offerings.”
“Laird Glèidh returns today, and he’ll not stand to have a thief on his lands!”
“Then I shall have to pay him a visit and welcome him home.” Securing the bags and her pistol to her belt, Rooney sailed through the window and on top of the carriage. Twisting around, she stuck her head back through the window. “Dinna think to stop and have yer driver come after me. I’m a crack shot and will be watching from among the trees. Farewell, yer Excellency. Until we meet again.”
Rooney caught hold of a tree limb as the carriage passed under its boughs and swung into the leafy sanctuary. The carriage disappeared from view. She took an unsteady breath. As her plundering fame grew so did the danger. It wouldn’t be like this forever. Only until the debt was paid.
Skinning down the tree, Rooney pulled the stifling black mask and hood from her face. Bothersome thing, but if anyone discovered she was the eldest daughter of a deceased laird thieving money from her neighbors, the hangman’s noose would come fast around her neck. Her sisters would have no one to protect them, and that was a fate Rooney would never allow to happen. Not while there was breath in her body.
And the procurator fiscal’s money bags in her hands.
Every battle-weary bone in Deven McLendon’s body ached as he crossed the threshold of his bedchamber and slammed the door on fiscal Logan’s blustering. Silence. It fell blissfully on Deven’s ears after a year of booming cannons, clanging swords, and death screams on the fields of combat. Another spent in hiding.
He was finally home.
Two years ago, to the month, he’d ridden off with the McLendon chieftain to fight for King James and his right to the throne of England. It had been a disastrous defeat for the Jacobites. Now, Deven wanted nothing more than to put the English and the horrid memories of war and death behind him.
But that would never be. Every gray stone of his home, each turret and chimney, now belonged to him because of that fateful musket ball that had slain his father on Preston field. Over three hundred years of McLendon ancestry now weighed on Deven’s shoulders.
Crossing the room to his desk, Deven ran his hand over the worn surface. It was dusted, and the books kept precisely where he’d stacked them before joining the cause. He adjusted the quill feather that faced the wrong way. Tomorrow he would have his things moved into the laird’s chambers. Not tonight. His father’s spirit could rest there one final time.
Deven pulled a fresh sheet of parchment from the drawer and smoothed it over the desk then dipped the quill in the newly filled inkwell to scratch out an itemized list. First thing in the morning, he would look over the estate’s account books to see how badly it had been managed in the master’s absence. Then he’d ride out to inspect the crops for the coming winter and begin repairs on the tenant’s homes. Too many things neglected over the years, but no longer. He was home to set them right.
He laid down the quill as exhaustion blurred his vision. It had been a long, hard ride back to Strathmoore, crossing the Great Glen and the Cairngorms, avoiding detachments of British soldiers and their loyalists eager to turn in Jacobites for coin. The Indemnity Act passed two months prior, pardoning all those who’d participated in the Rising, but news was slow to reach the Highlands. A boon for the British.
Deven rose and opened the window. A late September breeze swept in, cooling the stuffy air. Somewhere in the darkness, an animal cried. A fox.
Night Fox.
Propping his hands on the windowsill, the conversation with Logan backed up like the aftereffects of a bad meal. Two weeks of hard riding to be welcomed home by the fuming procurator demanding his money be returned and justice ignited against this roving band of thieves which the Night Fox led. His Excellency had then drunk all of the best whisky and ordered a chamber to be made up for him, having no desire to be robbed again on his return trip home.
Deven pushed away from the window and paced. Something must be done about this Fox. As laird of Strathmoore, he could not allow lawlessness to beleaguer his estate and people. Nor could he take one more unannounced visit from the fiscal. His whisky storage wouldn’t survive it.
“Trouble sleeping?”
Deven grabbed the dirk at his hip. A small figure cloaked in black crouched in his open window. “Should’ve thought twice afore climbing into this window, laddie.”
The shadow flipped back the edge of his cloak. A pistol pointed directly at Deven.
“I did, but I couldna resist an openin. Thank ye kindly for makin it so easy. Customarily, I’m obliged to break a glass or two.”
Deven removed his hand from his dirk but didn’t relax his stance as he stared at the masked intruder. He was small with the unchanged voice of a lad and speech of the unschooled. He sat in a comfortable squat of one who’d crouched in many windows. Survival in the Highlands had always been meant for the strongest, and those among the weak had too oft succumbed to less scrupulous occupations. But weak or strong, none were exempt from the law. Nor were the young. “Ye’re the one they’re calling the Night Fox.”
“At yer service, Lord Glèidh. Ceud mile fàilte.”
Deven snorted at the proper Gaelic greeting. “A hundred thousand welcomes. Is that what ye say before ye reive people? Rather polite for someone of yer ilk.”
“I see no reason why this shouldna be a pleasant experience for all involved. Stealing or not.”
“So said with a dag pointed at my heart.”
“Precautions must be made. Ye canna imagine the skelloch some raise when asked to hand o’er their coin purse.”
“Ye and yer band of thieves are making quite the impression across my lands.”
“My band? Nay, ye’re mistaken, my lord. I work alone. More profit that way.”
“I suppose the fiscal was distraught when he recounted being robbed by an entire troupe of hooded bandits. A pistol aimed at the heart will do that to a person.”
The Fox’s head tilted to the side. “Canna blame the auld toad. Must be a cut to his pride to have been waylaid by only the one. To survive a band sounds much more the menacin escape.”
“I leave for a rebellion and return to find bairns thinking they ken how to play a man’s game. Sorry, lad, but ye’ll not be taking from me. Not this night and not any other. Nor from any of my people.”
The Fox’s small feet shifted on the windowsill with the balance of a cat. Naught but the whites of his eyes shone through the cloaking blackness. “Allow me to put yer mind at ease. I’ve no intention o takin from yer people, at least not the ones yer powerful hand seeks to protect. ’Tis the fattened ganders that should sleep with one eye open.”
“Yer presence here tonight confirms I’m one of those corpulent geese.”
“I come to bid ye welcome home, though it be under saddened conditions as the new laird. Yer father was always a kind and fair laird.”
The simple words cut like a blade. Ever a gracious man who put his tenants and clan first, Father had never gotten over Deven’s leaving to attend Oxford for law. One of their many contentions. “My father’s ways are not mine. There is only the law of right and wrong. Anyone caught crossing the line will be handled with the swift arm of justice.”
“Ne’er cared o’ermuch for line
s. More fun dancin across them.”
“Ye’ve been warned, Night Fox.”
“As have ye, m’laird.” The Fox pulled an object from the folds of his cloak and held it out for inspection. “Bonny bauble. Ye shouldna leave it layin about for anyone to pick up.”
Candlelight winked off the ruby studs beveled into the silver disk. Father’s brooch. The birthright of the laird. Deven shook with anger. “Ye’ll be giving that back.”
“I think not just the now, but I do look forward to our wee dance. Catch!” Pocketing the brooch, the Fox extracted another object and tossed it across the room.
Deven caught it. A bundle of green foxtails tied with a red ribbon. He looked up. The window was empty. Throwing the bundle to the floor, he raced to the window and scanned the ground and trees. Laughter floated above him. There, dangling from a rope tossed over the roof was the Night Fox.
“Laugh while ye can, lad, for I have caught yer scent. The hunt is on.”
Hoisting himself onto the roof, the Night Fox laughed again. “I do hope so, for I’ve no doubt ye’ll be a worthy adversary!”
Deven slammed the window shut and bolted it tight. Let that scoundrel go. Let him flee into the night with the carefree wind at his back for tomorrow the chase began.
Chapter 2
IT WAS THE MOST exquisite thing Rooney had ever taken. A silver brooch with deep ruby stones curving around it like studs on a warrior’s shield. With the amount she could get for it, this piece could be the final answer to her family’s prayers. Never again would she have to steal.
On the other hand, she’d miss the chance to spar with Deven McLendon.
Last evening’s grab was meant to be a quick in and out, but he’d made things rather difficult. Challenging her without fear. Most of her victims didn’t know how to find their mouth without a fork to guide them much less pull a blade on her. She couldn’t leave the brave man standing there in an attempt of defending his property without giving him a proper foe.
If he wanted to hunt the Fox, then a chase she would give him.
Flipping the piece over, she traced a nail over the Gaelic inscription. Valor of my ancestors. A beautiful sentiment.