The thought consumed Ronan Sinclare day and night, and that hatred grew stronger with each passing day. Carissa, daughter of Mordrac the Barbarian, had robbed him of everything: his family, love, and life itself. She was the last obstacle to his returning home. Once he was done with her, he could finally go home, or could he?

Ronan paced the river’s edge like a caged animal. That was how he felt—like an animal. There was nothing left of Ronan of the clan Sinclare, fourth son of Tavish and Addie Sinclare, brother to Cavan, Artair, and Lachlan.

Ronan stopped his pacing with a guttural laugh and a shake of his head. He looked down at his brown wool leggings, knee-high leather boots, and dark brown, long leather belted vest over his tan wool tunic. This was not the dress of a Highlander.

His troubled thoughts stopped him. How could he even think that he was not a Highlander? He had been born and raised in one of the most pow
erful clans in all of Scotland. He couldn’t lose his heritage. He would return to it once this chore was done.

But the question nagged at him. Could he truly go home again? In his heart, he was always a Highlander, but now…

He glanced over himself with a critical eye and knew that there wasn’t a shred of a Highlander there. He was now, by no means of his own doing, a mercenary, a man who would kill for a price.

That certainly wasn’t the way of a Highlander. A Highlander fought for his clan and his land. His skills or integrity could not be bought. A Highlander was an honorable man, and he had been anything but that.

He stretched his hands out and took a good look at them. They bore not only the marks of battle but of his fight to survive as well. When he had first been captured by the barbarians, two of his fingers had been broken and never healed right. He had been forced to learn how to cope with the disability and how to handle his sword and bow and arrow all over again. Strangely enough, it had made him more proficient at both.

He made a fist and gave his chest a pound, a chest that was once a source of teasing from his brothers. They had reminded him time and again how scrawny he was, but no more. He had gained thirty pounds of hard muscle, not only in his chest but in his arms and legs. He also thought he had gained in height—at one time thinking himself shorter than most men, he now seemed to stand a
full head above them. Though perhaps it was just his overall appearance, for his once-boyish looks were gone, replaced by those of a battle-hardened warrior. His slim nose had been broken, its perfect shape left slightly distorted. And though he was but five-and-twenty years old, age lines had dug deep around his eyes and crept around his mouth. Oddly enough, while the women seemed fearful of him, they were also drawn to him. There wasn’t a village he entered where women didn’t offer themselves to him though he wasn’t interested.

There was only one woman he loved even though he had never seen her face. He had relished her tender and loving touch and could still feel and smell her warm, sweet breath on his cheek as she reassured him he would be all right, that she would see him get well and grow strong. She had also assuaged his worries over his brother Cavan’s fate, finding out that he was also a captive but alive and well. She had given him hope when there had been none, and she had kept her word…she had helped him grow strong again. And it was because of Carissa, a heartless barbarian just like her father, that the woman he loved was lost to him forever.

He would not rest until Carissa felt the same pain she had inflicted upon him and Hope. He had named the slave Hope, for she had admitted in a whisper that she could not recall a given name, having been a slave as long as she could remember.

She had cleaned and mended his wounds and bathed the blood off him. She had spooned a tasty
liquid into his mouth even when he protested that he wasn’t hungry. She had insisted he needed to grow strong.

She had done all this, and he had no inkling of her features. He had been beaten so badly that his eyes had been swollen shut. His recovery was long, and he would have suffered even more if it hadn’t been for Hope. She came to him every day, though her visits were short, Carissa arriving and, with a harsh voice, chasing her away while berating her.

However, Hope would sneak back to him at night, and they would talk. The more he learned about her, the more he fell in love with her and the more she insisted that they could never be together. He refused to believe her, but she had been right.

Carissa sold him to a band of mercenaries and, while it would have been easy for him to escape from them, or simply buy his freedom and return home, his only thought was to free Hope and take her home with him. It had proved more difficult than he had thought, and the day came when he learned that Hope was gone forever. A part of him died that day, a part he would never be able to retrieve.

The news grew worse when he discovered that Hope had died by Carissa’s hand. He blamed himself for not rescuing her soon enough, and that day he swore revenge, the taste of it bitter in his mouth. He pledged never to return home until he found Carissa and avenged Hope’s death.

That day was today.

He turned and walked to his old but battled-
seasoned mare and swiftly mounted. She pranced and snorted, for she knew by the way he seated her that they were going into battle, and she was ready. He had discovered where Carissa was hiding, and he knew the place well, for it had once provided sanctuary for him.

A winter wind whipped around him, and he could smell snow in the air, but not even a snowstorm would stop him. By tomorrow morning, he would arrive at his destination and have his revenge.

Chapter 2

“S
he will let us enter the village or else,” Cavan commanded.

“You have met my grandmother Bethane and should know that threats, even from the laird of the clan Sinclare, mean little to her,” Zia said and looked to her husband Artair, third oldest of the four Sinclare brothers.

“My wife is right,” Artair agreed, walking over to her and slipping a supportive arm around her waist. “The village Black is a sanctuary for those who seek its shelter. Bethane will not let you enter if you mean anyone harm.”

“She shelters an enemy,” Cavan shouted, and had to rein in his stallion, which suddenly snorted and pranced impatiently.

“Your enemy, not hers,” Zia said. “And you do not know for certain if Carissa is there.”

“Whose side do you take?” Cavan snapped.

“The side of common sense,” she said irritably.

“Zia is right,” Artair said, and raised his hand to prevent his brother’s protest. “We received word
that Carissa
may
have sought safety at the village Black, but we cannot confirm that.”

“And the only way to confirm that is to enter the village and see for ourselves,” Cavan pointed out. “It was Bethane, lest you forget, who told us that when we find Carissa, we find our brother Ronan.”

Zia nodded. “I am well aware of that, but you cannot go charging into the village with a contingent of warriors. My grandmother will never allow it.”

“We are fifty strong. How can she stop us?” Lachlan asked, with a curious smile.

Zia sighed, and Artair shook his head at his younger brother while Lachlan’s wife Alyce pointed to the treetops.

“Did you not notice the sentinels in the trees as we approached?” she asked, her finger going from one tree to another then another.

Lachlan turned a charming grin on his wife. “It is good to have a beautiful wife skilled in battle strategy. But…” His grin grew, and he repeated the obvious. “We have fifty seasoned warriors while they have a few men in trees.”

Alyce guided her mare closer to her husband’s horse and reached out to pat his face. “There are more than a mere few, dear husband, and my guess is that they are highly skilled.” She turned to Zia. “Am I right?”

“You are,” Zia confirmed.

This time Alyce looked to Cavan. “How do you fight what you cannot see?”

Cavan nodded. “You are right, but that does not deter me from my course.” He turned to Zia. “How do we gain entrance to your village?”

“You request permission from my grandmother, though I can assure you that your warriors will not be granted entrance,” Zia said. “And if Carissa is there and has requested sanctuary, my grandmother will not let you take her away.”

“Perhaps she can be persuaded.”

The three Sinclare brothers and the two wives turned to stare at the sudden appearance of a cloaked stranger. His hood fell over his head amply concealing his face, though his formidable stance warned he was not to be dismissed lightly.

“You have business here, stranger?” Cavan asked sharply.

“Do you?” came an equally sharp reply.

“Mind your tongue,” Lachlan snapped. “You speak to the laird of the clan Sinclare.”

“And that should matter to me?” he said with an irritated growl. “Now move out of my way. I have the common sense to gain entrance first and leave the particulars until later.”

Though they made no effort to move, he passed by them with his mare trailing obediently behind him, and just before he reached the entrance to the village, marked by overgrown foliage, a man dropped from a tree to land with a forceful thud in front of him.

The hooded stranger whispered something to him, and the sentinel nodded and parted the bushes for him to pass and gain entrance to the village.

Cavan immediately directed his stallion to the entrance when suddenly a flurry of arrows shot out of the treetops, forcing him to halt as they hit the ground around him.

“Zia!” Cavan shouted. “Speak to your grandmother now!”

She held her hand up, so the sentinels would hold their arrows, and hurried passed Cavan, disappearing beyond the foliage.

Cavan addressed his brothers and Alyce. “That man is a mercenary.”

“And for a price he will do anything,” Alyce said.

“So his business here?” Lachlan asked.

“Perhaps someone placed a price on Carissa’s head, and he’s here to collect her,” Artair offered.

“Who would be so foolish to do that?” Cavan said. “All of the Highland clans know we search for her and are in agreement. She is to be found and made to pay as her father did.”

“What I wonder,” Alyce said, “is how the stranger gained such easy access to the village. The sentinel seemed not to question him at all, which means—”

“He is known to them,” Cavan finished, and turned to Artair. “We need entrance to the village now.”

“You have it,” Zia said, emerging from the dense foliage, “but not your warriors. They must remain here.”

“For now it will do,” Cavan said, dismounting from his stallion, as did Lachlan and Artair.

The three brothers and Alyce followed Zia through the narrow entranceway that allowed them to walk single file, their horses skittish as they followed. And the brothers didn’t like what they saw as they entered the pristine village.

The stranger stood speaking with Bethane, and she was nodding and smiling as if she were talking with an old friend. When she spotted them, her smile grew and she waved. The stranger quickly leaned closer, and whatever he whispered caused her to nod.

“He has her ear,” Cavan said to his brothers, as they walked alongside him. “Stay alert. Something goes on here that doesn’t sit right with me.”

Both men nodded.

Bethane stepped forward before they moved too close, placing a buffer between the men. “It is good to see you all again though I wish the circumstances were different.”

“It is always good to see you, Bethane,” Cavan acknowledged. “And I regret that a clan issue has been placed at your doorstep.”

“It was inevitable,” she said. “And it is better that it all comes together here on neutral ground.”

“There can be only one outcome,” Cavan said, taking his stance. “And your own words predicted it.”

Bethane nodded, her smile never wavering. “I remember. I told you to find Carissa and you’d find your brother.”

“Then you don’t deny that Carissa is here?” Cavan asked.

“I don’t deny it.”

“Then hand her over to me,” Cavan said, “for it has been far too long since I have seen my brother.”

“The way you tormented him, I’m surprised you would want to see him again,” the stranger said, and threw back his hood.

Cavan and his brothers stood staring at the man. It was Artair who first recognized him.

“Ronan!” Artair cried, and rushed forward to ensnare him in a brotherly hug.

Lachlan followed and did the same.

Cavan remained were he stood, as did Ronan after the hugs, slaps on the backs, and more hugs were done. Finally, the two brothers stepped forward at the same time and within seconds arms were flung around each other. Then Cavan grabbed his youngest brother by the back of his neck and rested his forehead on his.

“There is much I have to say to you, though not now. Now it is just good to have you back.”

Ronan remained silent, unable to respond. He was torn between relief at being with his family once again and unease in being with them. Cavan was right, though, there was much that needed to be said, but not now. Now he had to finish the last leg of his journey home.

“Why didn’t you reveal yourself to us when you first came upon us?” Artair asked.

Cavan answered. “Because the honor was due him to lay claim to Carissa first and as such have a say in her punishment.”

Ronan nodded. “I want the
final
say, Cavan.”

Cavan braced his hand on Ronan’s shoulder. “You have it.” He then turned to Bethane. “Bring us Carissa.”

Her response rang through the village like a clanging bell. “No!”

BOOK: The Highlander's Forbidden Bride

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