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  Inches away. Her breath caught. Only then did she realize what she had done. Her hands were clutching his arms and her body was pressed against his. Intimately. Chest to chest and hip to hip. She could feel every hard inch of his chest and legs. She could feel something else as well. Something that made her mouth go dry, her heart drop, and her stomach flip all at the same time.

  Oh, my.

  The shock of it startled her. It was as if every nerve-ending in her body had been struck by a lightning bolt of awareness. She opened her mouth to gasp, but the sound strangled in her throat when their eyes met.

  Heaven help her! Despite the rain and the cold, her body filled with heat.

  If she hadn’t felt the proof of his desire, she could see it now in his eyes. He wanted her, and the force of it seemed to be radiating under her fingertips, making her tremble with unfamiliar sensations. Her heart seemed to be racing too fast, her breath to be short and uneven, and her limbs too heavy.

  She couldn’t seem to move. She was caught up in something she didn’t understand but couldn’t resist. Didn’t want to resist.

  The Hunter is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Ballantine Books eBook Edition

  Copyright © 2013 by Monica McCarty

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  BALLANTINE and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  eISBN: 978-0-345-54392-9

  Cover design: Lynn Andreozzi

  Cover illustration: Franco Accornero

  www.ballantinebooks.com

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  The Highland Guard

  Foreword

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Dedication

  Other Books by This Author

  THE HIGHLAND GUARD

  Tor “Chief” MacLeod: Team Leader and Expert Swordsman

  Erik “Hawk” MacSorley: Seafarer and Swimmer

  Lachlan “Viper” MacRuairi: Stealth, Infiltration, and Extraction

  Arthur “Ranger” Campbell: Scouting and Reconnaissance

  Gregor “Arrow” MacGregor: Marksman and Archer

  Magnus “Saint” MacKay: Survivalist and Weapon Forging

  Kenneth “Ice” Sutherland: Explosives and Versatility

  Eoin “Striker” MacLean: Strategist in “Pirate” Warfare

  Ewen “Hunter” Lamont: Tracker and Hunter of Men

  Robert “Raider” Boyd: Physical Strength and Hand-to-Hand Combat

  Alex “Dragon” Seton: Dirk and Close Combat

  Also:

  Helen “Angel” MacKay (née Sutherland): Healer

  FOREWORD

  The year of our lord thirteen hundred and ten. Four years ago, Robert the Bruce’s bid for the Scottish throne seemed doomed to failure, when he was forced to flee his kingdom an outlaw. But with the help of his secret band of elite warriors known as the Highland Guard, Bruce has waged a miraculous resurgence, defeating the countrymen who stood against him to retake his kingdom north of the Tay.

  With the Borders and most of Scotland’s major strongholds still occupied by English garrisons, however, the war is only half won. The biggest challenge to the Bruce’s fledgling kingship—the might of the greatest army in Christendom—is yet to come.

  After a brief respite from warfare, the truce with England comes to an end when Edward II marches on the rebel Scots. From his headquarters in the heather, Bruce launches his new “pirate” warfare, harrying the English with surprise attacks and skirmishes but refusing to meet them in an open field, eventually sending King Edward and his men scurrying back to the Borders for the winter. Delaying, not deciding, the final battle to come.

  But there is no peace for treachery. And this time, it will be not the warriors of the Highland Guard who come to his aid, but another powerful ally that has been by the Bruce’s side from the first: the church. The support of men such as William Lamberton, the Bishop of St. Andrews, has proven invaluable, with his network of spies and “couriers of the cloth” providing much needed intelligence—intelligence that just may end up saving the Bruce’s life.

  Prologue

  Dundonald Castle, Ayrshire, Scotland, late June 1297

  Fynlay Lamont was drunk again. Ewen Lamont sat in the back corner of the Great Hall of Dundonald Castle with the other young warriors and tried to ignore his father. But every raucous burst of laughter and belligerent boast that filtered back from Fynlay’s table near the front of the hall made Ewen want to slide deeper and deeper into his bench.

  “That’s your father?” one of the Earl of Menteith’s squires asked. “No wonder you don’t talk much. He does enough for both of you.”

  The other young warriors around him laughed. Ewen wanted to bury his head in shame, but he forced himself to smile at the jest and act as if it didn’t bother him. He was a man now—nearly seven and ten—not a boy. He couldn’t run away the way he’d done as a child every time his father drank too much or did something outrageous.

  But his father’s lack of control—his lack of discipline—was going to ruin everything. As it was, this meeting was like a bed of dry leaves next to a fire just waiting for a spark to ignite.

  Though the great lords gathered in secret here today were kinsmen, all descendants of Walter Stewart, the 3rd High Steward of Scotland, they didn’t always see eye-to-eye. They had come to see whether they could put aside those differences long enough to fight the English rather than each other. Adding Wild Fynlay to the already volatile mix of men in the room was like holding up a blacksmith’s bellows to fan the flames with hot air—lots of hot air.

  But like Ewen, Fynlay Lamont of Ardlamont was Sir James Stewart’s man, and as one of Stewart’s chief battle commanders, his father had a right to be here. If there was one thing Wild Fynlay knew how to do it was fight. It was keeping the fighting contained to the battlefield that was the problem.

  Wild Fynlay’s epitaph had been well earned. He was quick to fight, quick to argue, and quick to take offense. Rules, law—nothing could bind him. He did what he wanted, when and where he wanted. He’d seen Ewen’s mother thirty years ago at a local fair, decided he wanted her, and had taken her. It didn’t matter that she was betrothed to his cousin and chief, Malcolm Lamont. It didn’t matter if those choices nearly cost him—and their clan—everything.

  His father hadn’t changed at all in the year since Ewen had seen him last—except for the missing finger. While Ewen had been in the Borders in the service of Sir James Stewart, the 5th Steward of Scotland, his father had gotten so drunk, he’d bet one of th
eir kinsmen that he could pull his hand away from the table faster than the other man could draw his blade. The top joint of the middle finger on his right hand proved Fynlay wrong.

  Ewen’s reckless, more-savage-than-civilized father was always getting into trouble. He spoke with his sword and his fists—usually in a whisky-induced slur. Fighting and drinking were sports of which he never tired. And wagering. Fynlay Lamont had never met a challenge too crazy or dangerous for him to like. The last time Ewen had been home, his father had wagered that he could fight a pack of wolves with his hands—bare-arsed naked.

  He had, and won. Although he’d suffered a serious injury to his leg when one of the wolves had managed to get his teeth on him.

  Instead of returning to Rothesay Castle for his training as he was supposed to that winter, Ewen had stayed at Ardlamont to act as chieftain to his clan while his father recovered. It had been six months before Ewen could return to Sir James’s household. He’d missed every minute of it. But if there was one thing he’d learned from Sir James, it was the importance of doing his duty.

  He sure as Hades hadn’t learned it from his father. Duty and responsibility were an anathema to Fynlay Lamont. He left everyone else to clean up his mess. First Sir James, and now, if he got his wish, Ewen.

  But Ewen wasn’t going to back to Ardlamont. He didn’t care what his father wanted. He was going to earn a place in Stewart’s retinue and hopefully, if the men in this room could be persuaded, join the uprisings started last month by a man named William Wallace.

  King Edward of England had ordered the Scottish lords to appear in Irvine on July 7. The question was whether they would march the five miles to Irvine to submit to the English or march to do battle with them.

  Sir William Douglas, Lord of Douglas, had already joined Wallace and was trying to recruit his kinsmen, Stewart, Menteith, and Robert Bruce, the young Earl of Carrick to do the same. Sir James was inclined to join the fight; it was the others who would need convincing that following the rebellion of a man who wasn’t even a knight, against the most powerful king in Christendom, made sense.

  With any luck, Ewen would be marching off to his first battle in a few days. He couldn’t wait. Like every other young warrior around this table, he dreamed of greatness, of distinguishing himself on the battlefield. Then maybe everyone would stop talking about his “wild” father and the wolves he’d fought, the ships he’d nearly run aground in some half-crazed race around the Isles, or the bride he’d stolen from his own chief.

  His father’s voice stopped him cold. “When it’s complete, my castle will be the greatest stronghold in all of damned Cowal—no disrespect, Stewart.”

  Oh God, not the castle. This time, Ewen couldn’t prevent the heat from crawling up his face.

  “Where are you going to find the gold?” one of the men laughed. “Under your pillow?”

  It was well known that Fynlay couldn’t hold a coin longer than it took to gamble it away. It was also well known that his infamous castle had stood half-built for sixteen years, ever since the day Ewen’s mother had died in childbirth, when Ewen was barely a year old.

  Ewen had had enough. He couldn’t listen to his father any longer. He pushed back from the trestle table and stood.

  “Where are you going?” one of his friends asked. “The feast is just getting started. They’ll be coming around with Sir James’s special whisky soon.”

  “Don’t bother, Robby,” another of the lads said. “You know Lamont—he doesn’t believe in fun. He’s probably off to polish Sir James’s armor or sharpen his blade or stare at the dirt looking for tracks for a few hours.”

  He was right. But Ewen was used to their jesting about how seriously he took his duties, so it didn’t bother him.

  “You might try staring at dirt a little longer, Thom,” Robby said. “From what I hear you couldn’t find a fish in a barrel.”

  The others laughed, and Ewen used the opportunity to escape.

  A blast of cool, wet air hit him the moment he stepped outside the Hall. It had been raining most of the day, and though it was only late afternoon, the skies were near dark against the backdrop of the magnificent new stone keep perched high on the castle motte. Like Stewart’s castle of Rothesay on the Isle of Bute in Cowal, his Dundonald Castle in Ayrshire was one of the most impressive strongholds in Scotland, reflecting the importance of the Stewarts to the crown.

  Making his way down the hill to the castle bailey, Ewen stopped first at the armory to check Sir James’s armor and weapons, and then, having seen to them, went to the stables to make sure his favorite mount had been exercised. It had, so he pulled a bale of grass over and sat to, as Thom had said, stare at dirt.

  It was a game he’d played since he was a boy whenever he needed to get away, to see how many tracks he could find or details he could pick up. In the stable, he liked to see if he could match the tracks with the horses.

  “What do you see?”

  He turned, surprised to see Sir James in the doorway. The sky was dark behind him, casting him in the shadows. Tall and lean, his dark red hair starting to streak with gray, the hereditary High Steward of Scotland exuded nobility and authority. He was a knight, and as all knights he was good with a sword, but Stewart’s true brilliance was as a leader. He was a man whom other men would willingly follow into war—and, if necessary death.

  Immediately, Ewen jumped to his feet. How long had he been in here? “I’m sorry, my lord. Were you looking for me? Is the meeting over? What has been decided?”

  The older man shook his head and sat on the bale, motioning for him to sit beside him. “Nothing, I’m afraid. I grew tired of the squabbling and decided I needed a breath of fresh air. I assume you needed the same?”

  Ewen bowed his head and concentrated on a long piece of dried grass, not wanting him to see his shame.

  “You’re looking at the tracks?” Sir James asked.

  Ewen nodded, pointing to the hoofprints in the dirt. “I’m trying to find distinguishing marks.”

  “I hear you bested all my knights at a tracking challenge yesterday. Good work, lad. Keep this up, and you’ll be the best tracker in the Highlands.”

  Sir James’s praise meant everything to him, and Ewen was pretty sure it showed. He swelled with pride, not knowing what to say. Unlike Fynlay, words didn’t come easily for him.

  The silence stretched for a few moments.

  “You are not your father, son,” Sir James said.

  Son. If only it were true! Sir James was everything Fynlay was not: honorable, disciplined, controlled, and thoughtful.

  “I hate him,” Ewen blurted fiercely, instantly ashamed of the childish sentiment and yet unable to take it back.

  One of the best things about Sir James was that he didn’t condescend to any of his men—no matter how young. He considered what Ewen said. “I wish you could have known him when he was young. He was different then. Before your mother died and the drink took over.”

  Ewen’s jaw clenched belligerently. “You mean when he abducted my mother from his chief?”

  Sir James frowned. “Who told you that?”

  He shrugged. “Everyone. My father. It’s well known.”

  “Whatever your father’s sins, do not lay that one at his feet. Your mother went with him willingly.”

  Ewen stared at the other man in shock, but if there was anyone who would know, it was Sir James. Ewen’s mother had been his favorite cousin, and he was the man they’d gone to for help when the reprisal for his father’s rash actions had come from Malcolm Lamont.

  “That is why you helped them,” Ewen said. Suddenly it made sense. Ewen had never understood why Sir James had come to his father’s rescue and prevented his ruin after he’d started a war by stealing his chief’s bride.

  “Among other reasons,” Sir James said. “Your father’s sword, for one. He was—still is—one of the best warriors in the Highlands. You will be like him in that respect, I think. But aye, I wanted your mother to be happy.�
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  Bride abduction was perhaps one less sin to lay at his father’s feet, but Fynlay still had plenty of them left. It didn’t change the reckless, disloyal act that had broken him from his clan and nearly seen the destruction of the Lamonts of Ardlamont. Nor did it change everything that had come after.

  “You shouldn’t have allowed him to come,” Ewen said. “Not with Malcolm here.”

  Malcolm Lamont wasn’t his chief anymore. His father’s actions had caused the Ardlamont Lamonts to break from their chief. They were Stewart’s men now.

  “There was no choice. Malcolm is my cousin Menteith’s man, as your father is mine. Your father has given me his oath he will not break the truce, no matter how hard Malcolm presses him. God knows there is enough disagreement among my kinsmen without the old feud between your father and Malcolm getting in the way.”

  It was hardly right for Ewen to be questioning his lord, but he asked anyway. “And you trust him?”

  Sir James nodded. “I do.” He stood. “But come, we should get back. The feast should be dying down by now.”

  It was, but not for the reason they’d anticipated. They stepped out into the dark rain and heard a loud ruckus coming from the opposite side of the barmkin. It was the sound of cheering, followed by a gasp, and then an eerie dead silence.

  “I wonder what that is all about?” Sir James asked.

  Ewen felt a flicker of premonition.

  All of a sudden men started pouring into the barmkin, racing toward the keep. He could tell by their expressions that something was wrong. “What is it?” Sir James asked the first man to approach. “What has happened?”

  Ewen recognized the man as one of Carrick’s. “The Lamont chief claimed that no one could climb the cliffs in the rain. Wild Fynlay bet him twenty pounds that he could. He made it to the top, but slipped on the way down and fell onto the rocks below.”

  Ewen froze.

  Sir James swore. His father had kept his word not to fight, but the challenge had served the same purpose. Tempers were bound to get hot as men would take sides. “Is he dead?” Sir James asked.