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  Praise for MONICA McCARTY and her New York Times and USA Today bestselling Highland Guard series!

  “Against a richly historical and violent backdrop, McCarty deftly weaves a surprisingly moving love story that demands a skillful writer’s touch. Her exquisite prose makes this a book readers will treasure.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “The characters leap off the pages and into your heart. With a stunning plot that has enough twists and turns in all the right places, McCarty has created yet another captivating story that is sure to please!”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “Passion and politics abound in this exceptionally well-researched romance that skillfully interweaves fiction with history and sheds new light on a particularly fascinating and violent time.”

  —Library Journal

  “Readers who deplore ‘wallpaper historicals’ will appreciate not only the romance but McCarty’s efforts to go beyond the superficialities of historical Scotland.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Spectacularly entertaining. . . . McCarty is a master of blending fact and fiction.”

  —Romance Junkies

  “One of those amazing books that captures your attention right from the get-go. . . . McCarty has written a tale fit for a king.”

  —Coffee Time Romance

  “Thoroughly enjoyable. . . . Cleverly interwoven plot twists . . . kept me on my toes!”

  —The Romance Reviews

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  For Jami.

  Rain, sleet, or snow? The postal service has nothing on you! Thank you for being the first reader of every one of my books—even when life doesn’t make it easy. You are the best.

  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

  ALSO: HELEN “ANGEL” MACKAY (NÉE SUTHERLAND): Healer

  FOREWORD

  SINCE 1306, WHEN he first made his bid for the throne against a seemingly undefeatable foe, Robert the Bruce has been preparing for the decisive battle with England that will either legitimize his kingship and cement his place on Scotland’s throne, or strip the crown from his head and bring back English overlordship to Scotland.

  By the late fall of 1313, King Robert is secure enough on the throne to force the enemy’s hand. He issues a proclamation that he will disinherit any Scottish nobles still loyal to the English who do not submit to him in a year’s time. Edward II of England cannot ignore the threat. He issues his own proclamation in December 1313 for a call to muster at Berwick-upon-Tweed in June 1314 to march on Scotland.

  The English are coming, and Bruce intends to be ready for them. In the crucial early months of 1314, the king wages a preemptive war by continuing the raids in England to fund the costly war, and taking back the remaining Scottish castles still in English hands. The taking back of two of these castles, Roxburgh and Edinburgh, leads to feats of military skill that will become legend, ensuring the hero status of Bruce’s two famous lieutenants, James Douglas and Thomas Randolph.

  But they will not do it alone. The elite warriors of the Highland Guard and a man of much more humble birth will prove instrumental in the final push toward the most important battle yet to come.

  PROLOGUE

  Douglas Castle, South Lanarkshire, Scotland, June 1, 1296

  THOMAS MACGOWAN—WEE THOM as everyone in the village called him (his father being Big Thom)—looked at the top of the tower and forgot to breathe. He nearly stumbled, too, which would have been a disaster, as his da had entrusted him with the very important task of carrying the laird’s sword. Considering the hours his father had spent sharpening the blade until it could “slice a hair in two,” and polishing it until “he could see every speck of soot on his wee laddie’s face,” had he dropped it in the mud, his bum would have stung for a week!

  He wouldn’t have minded too much though. Big Thom was the best blacksmith for miles around, and Thommy (it was what his mother called him—a lad of nearly nine sure as the Devil shouldn’t be called “wee”) took fierce pride in his father’s work. Big Thom MacGowan wasn’t just an ordinary village smith, he was Lord William “the Hardy” Douglas’s personal smith and armorer.

  But as Thommy stared up at the tower ramparts, he could almost excuse his near mishap. For what had caused his breath to stop and his limbs to forget their purpose was a glimpse of something extraordinary. A rare, exquisite beauty of the like the little boy who had spent most of his days surrounded by the fire and soot of his father’s forge had never imagined. It was as if he were seeing a brilliant jewel for the first time when all he’d known were lumps of ore. He didn’t need to know who it was to know that he was seeing something special. The way the light caught her white-blond hair blowing in the breeze, the snowy perfection of her tiny face, the shimmering gold gown. It dazzled the eyes. She dazzled the eyes.

  “Is she a princess?” Thommy asked in reverent tones when he could finally remember how to speak.

  His father gave a hearty guffaw and cuffed him on the back of the head fondly. “To you she might as well be, laddie. ’Tis the laird’s wee lassie, Lady Elizabeth. Don’t you remember . . . ?” He shook his head. “You must have been too young when the family left for Berwick Castle four years ago—she was little more than a babe then. But now that the laird has been released from Edward’s prison”—he spit on the ground as he did every time the English king’s name was mentioned—“she and her brothers have returned with the laird and Lady Eleanor to live here.”

  Thommy knew that Sir William had been keeper of Berwick Castle when King Edward had attacked the city and slaughtered thousands of Scots. For his defiance in holding the castle against him, King Edward had thrown the laird in prison. But he’d been freed on signing the king’s “ragman rolls” of allegiance that all the Scottish lords had been forced to put their names to.

  At the thought of such a beautiful creature in their midst, Thommy’s eyes must have widened.

  His father might be the biggest man in the village, with heavy muscles as hard as rock from clobbering steel into shape for a living, but he wasn’t thickheaded. He still had a smile on his face, but his dark blue eyes had narrowed just enough for Thommy to take the warning. “Stay away from her, lad. The wee lass is not for the likes of you. Your mother may have been the daughter of a knight, but you are the son of a smith—about as far from noble as the roof of that tower. You may like to climb the rocks around here, but you’ll never be able to climb that high.”

  His father laughed at his own jest and pushed Thommy on ahead.

  But Thommy wasn’t so sure his father was right. He was pretty good at climbing.

  Midsummer’s Day

  “Why are you crying?”

  The little girl’s voice startled him. Thommy looked up and blinked, shielding his eyes with his arm, as if a ray of sunshine
had just slipped out from behind dark clouds.

  It was the little princess from the tower a few weeks ago—Lady Elizabeth.

  “I’m not crying!” He wiped his eyes furiously with the back of his hand, shame crawling up his cheeks in a hot flush.

  She held his gaze for one long heartbeat. Her eyes were big and round and startlingly blue. Up close her features were even more perfect than he’d realized, small and delicate set in an adorable heart-shaped face. Two chunky plaits of hair at her temples had been pulled back in a crown around her head and tied with a long pink ribbon that matched her gown. He’d never seen a gown of pink before. The material was strange, too. It wasn’t scratchy like wool but soft and shimmery. He wanted to reach out and touch it, but his hands probably had soot and dirt on them.

  There was no one to remind him to wash them anymore.

  The resulting wave of sorrow made him scowl at her, trying to make her go away. Why was he even noticing blue eyes and pink gowns? His mother was gone and never coming back.

  He had to force back a fresh blast of heat burning behind his eyes. He’d never been so humiliated in his life. Almost-nine-year-old lads didn’t cry, and to be caught doing so by a lass—any lass, but especially a fine one like Lady Elizabeth—made him want to crawl under a rock and die.

  She ignored his warning, however, and sat beside him.

  He was sitting on the bank of the river that wound its way through the village, well away from—and what he thought was out of sight—the Midsummer’s Day festivities. But the dull sound of merriment could be heard in the distance.

  “Why did the fish swim across the river?”

  He was so startled by the question it took him a moment to respond. “I don’t know.”

  She smiled, revealing a big gap in the space where her two front teeth should have been. “It couldn’t beach the sea.”

  She barely got the last word out before she startled giggling. He didn’t think it was very funny, but he couldn’t help smiling when he saw how much she enjoyed it.

  When her giggling finally died down, they sat in surprisingly comfortable silence for a few minutes. He didn’t know much about little girls, but it seemed unusual that one could be so quiet. A few of his friends had little sisters and they were always bothering them with their chatter.

  As it was summer, Thommy wasn’t wearing shoes, and he dug his heel back and forth in the dirt as they watched the swiftly moving current. He only stopped when she started to copy him, and he realized her fine leather slippers were getting muddy.

  “How old are you?” he asked.

  “Six. How old are you?”

  His chest puffed out. “Almost nine.”

  Her nose wrinkled. It was a tiny nose, so there were only one or two, but they were kind of cute. “When is your saint’s day?” she asked.

  “The twenty-third of November.”

  She grinned, and he was embarrassed again. It was still a full five months away.

  She was quiet again for a while, before she asked, “Don’t you like the fair?”

  Hearing the gentle probing of the question, he stiffened. His mouth turned in a scowl. He didn’t want to talk about it. He was about to tell her to go away and leave him be—lady or not—when he looked over at her face and all the anger seeped out of him. She didn’t mean to pry; she was just trying to be nice.

  He picked up a small, flat rock from the ground and threw it into the river. It skipped twice before sinking into the water. “My mother died Sunday last.”

  He could feel her eyes on him, but he didn’t look up, not wanting to see her compassion. “You must miss her a lot.”

  He nodded, his throat squeezing hot again. He missed her terribly—the beautiful, smiling woman who’d loved her husband and son with such abandon. But that was no excuse to bawl like a baby.

  She must have guessed the direction of his thoughts. He felt a gentle touch on his arm, as if a butterfly had landed and spread its wings. The sensation enveloped him with a strange warmth. For a moment it reminded him of the way he felt when his mother hugged him.

  “I never knew my mother, and I still miss her.”

  He frowned. “You didn’t know her?”

  She shook her head, her flaxen hair floating around her shoulders like a veil of spun silver and gold. “She died giving birth to me.”

  “My mother died giving birth, too.” He paused. “To my new brother.”

  She must have heard something in his voice. “He didn’t mean to hurt her,” she said softly.

  Thommy sucked in a startled gasp. He stared at her in horror, realizing what he’d said.

  “My brother blamed me, too, when I was little.” Those big blue eyes pinned him. “But he forgave me.”

  “There was nothing to forgive, it wasn’t your fault.” The response was automatic, but Thommy realized as he said it that he meant it. It was no more her fault than it had been his two-week-old brother’s.

  Someone shouted her name, and she made a face, crinkling up her nose again and pursing her pouty mouth. “That’s my nurse. I better go. It was nice to meet you . . .”

  “Thom,” he filled in. “But everyone calls me Thommy.” Somehow it was very important that this lass never think of him as “wee.”

  “I’m Elizabeth,” she said. “But you can call me Ella, since we’re such good friends now.”

  He nodded, trying to hide his smile. She was sweet and all, but almost-nine-year-old lads weren’t “friends” with six-year-old lasses—especially ones who looked like princesses.

  She jumped to her feet so quickly she would have slipped in the mud had he not caught her arm, steadying her. “Careful,” he said. “You’ll fall and hurt yourself.”

  She laughed as if that were the funniest thing she’d ever heard and ran off to find her nurse.

  He watched her go and realized that for the first time since his grief-stricken father had told him the news of his mother’s death, Thommy felt as if the dark cloud surrounding him might have lifted just a little.

  One month later

  Thommy was about to tell Joanna to hurry up—again—they were going to be late to join the others, when he heard her voice. “Hi, Thommy.”

  He looked over to see Lady Elizabeth standing beside him. He’d noticed her arrival in church with the rest of her family, including the black-haired lad of about his own age who was hastening none too happily through the crowd toward them.

  “Hi,” he said uncertainly, aware that some of the other villagers who were milling around the churchyard following the Sunday services were looking at them—probably wondering why the little lady was talking to the smithy’s son.

  “I’m Ella,” she said to Joanna, who was staring at her with a similar look to the one he’d had on his face the first time he’d seen her.

  “J-J-o-anna Dicson,” she finally managed, and then remembering added hastily, “My lady.”

  “Just Ella. You are the marshall’s daughter?”

  Joanna nodded mutely.

  The dark-haired lad with the stormy expression came up behind her. “What are you doing, Ella? You can’t run off like that.”

  She sighed, with a short movement of her eyes that in a few years Thommy assumed would be a full roll. “This is my brother, Jamie.” She turned to the lad who might have even been an inch or two taller than Thommy (who was already as tall as lads two or three years older than he). “I was just saying hello to Thommy and,” she turned her head, “Joanna.”

  Thommy glanced toward Jo and frowned. What was wrong with her? She was staring at the young lord as if he were one of those knights from the silly stories she was always going on about. His frown deepened, realizing that the young lord was staring right back at her with a silly look on his face, too.

  Thommy stepped in front of her protectively. Joanna was a pain at times—like today when he was supposed to be joining the other lads to swim and she’d asked to come along right in front of her mother. But since his mother had died, her
mother was always doing nice things for him, and he couldn’t say no.

  Jamie returned the frown, seeing his movement. He turned back to his sister. “How did you meet?”

  Thommy tensed.

  Ella turned to him and smiled. “At the fair last month. Thommy saved me from slipping in the mud.”

  Thommy released the breath he didn’t even realize he’d been holding. The only thing worse than having Lady Elizabeth see him crying might be her telling other people about it. Their eyes met in understanding. She’d kept his secret, and now they had a bond.

  Jamie shook his head and ruffled her hair fondly. “What else is new, Ella? You need to stop being in such a hurry all the time; one of these days someone isn’t going to be around to catch you, and you’re going to get hurt.”

  Now Thommy understood the reason for Ella’s laughter at his warning last time. Apparently her slipping wasn’t an unusual occurrence.

  Ignoring her brother, she asked, “Where are you going?”

  “To the falls at Arnesalloch to go swimming with some of the other lads in the village.”

  “I asked if he would take me along,” Joanna volunteered.

  “Jamie is supposed to help teach me to ride my new pony,” Ella countered.

  The two boys exchanged looks of commiseration. Apparently Thommy wasn’t the only one having to watch over a younger sibling—or in Jo’s case an almost sibling. He’d known her as long as he could remember, and since she pestered him most of the time, he suspected that was about like having a sister.

  “Would you like to come?” Ella asked. “You could bring your horses and we could all ride together.”

  There was an awkward silence eventually filled by Jo. “We don’t have horses. Thommy and I don’t know how to ride.”

  Ella looked perplexed. “You don’t?” She looked accusingly at her brother. “I thought you said all knights needed to know how to ride a horse.”