The Highlander & The Queen’s Sacrifice, page 1
The Highlander & The Queen’s Sacrifice
The Queen’s Highlanders
Book 1
Heather McCollum
© Copyright 2022 by Heather McCollum
Text by Heather McCollum
Cover by Dar Albert
Dragonblade Publishing, Inc. is an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.
P.O. Box 23
Moreno Valley, CA 92556
ceo@dragonbladepublishing.com
Produced in the United States of America
First Edition May 2022
Kindle Edition
Reproduction of any kind except where it pertains to short quotes in relation to advertising or promotion is strictly prohibited.
All Rights Reserved.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Publisher’s Note
Dedication
Scots-Gaelic and Old English Words
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
Historical Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Dedication
For Jenny, my dragonfly sister.
We met as grad students in the lab decades ago, had our babies together, and became best friends. You are brilliant, kind, and fun, and I know you would keep me safe if someone attempted to poison my dresses!
Scots-Gaelic and Old English Words
àlainn – lovely
blaigeard – bastard
cac – shite
daingead – damnit
dolt (old English) – stupid fellow
falbh – go
God’s teeth (old English) – common curse
magairlean – ballocks
mattucashlass – double edged dagger
mo chreach – my rage (common curse)
popish – 16th century derogatory reference to Roman Catholic
sgian dubh – 6 inch, black handled, single-edged dagger
tolla-thon – arsehole
yaldson (old English) – son of a prostitute
Kerr,
Put your sword away and use that clever tongue of yours, brother. We are depending upon you to accomplish your mission and return to unite our clans. My heart is in your hands. May God guide you and keep you safe while you remain tucked in the bosom of our enemy.
My devotion,
Your dearest sister, Rhona Gordon
*
Chapter One
“By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.”
William Shakespeare, Macbeth
Whitehall Palace, London, England
February 1571
“I have a letter and gift from Mary Stuart, the queen of Scotland, for her cousin, Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth,” Kerr Gordon said from his seat on his tall black horse. Rain dripped from his woolen tam, which hardly protected him from the soaking tempest God had cast as an added obstacle to his mission.
Even in the darkness Kerr could see the man’s sneer. “Leave it here,” he said.
“I have strict orders to lay the gift in your queen’s hands and to read her the letter myself.”
A man behind the first English guard chuckled. “The popish Scot can read. Imagine that.”
Kerr’s hand itched for his sword, but skewering Englishmen before Whitehall Palace would not afford him admittance to England’s mighty Queen Elizabeth.
“You will have to get past Lord Walsingham to gain access to Her Majesty,” the first guard said. “Best of luck.” He laughed but waved Kerr through the gate. “You can pay a lad to care for your mount at the stables,” he said, pointing off to the left. “When Walsingham or Lord Burghley turn you away, you can sleep with your mount for the night and be off in the morn.”
Kerr tapped his horse, Caspian, and plodded through the increasing mud, the cold rain tapping like flung pebbles against his cape. Bloody awful night. Kerr had never visited court in England and only twice in Scotland, preferring the lush and open moors. But he knew a soaked, dirty Scotsman would be denied entry into Elizabeth’s presence. Perhaps he could find a tavern or public bath to wash in. First though, he needed to find them shelter.
The stable doors were closed for the night. Kerr dismounted, his boots squishing into the noxious mud, and pushed against one side, working the latch. It was locked from the inside.
“Daingead,” he muttered. There was no turning around, and he was not sleeping in the downpour. Leaving Caspian draped with a woolen blanket, Kerr walked around the barn to the fenced paddocks and climbed into one.
“Cac,” he cursed as he sunk into the muck that smelled like horse dung. If he didn’t need Queen Mary’s letter of support in his quest, he would never have taken on this onerous task.
Trudging across the paddock, Kerr pushed through the unbarred gate and into the stall. A large white horse raised its head from its hay feeder to eye him suspiciously. But it wasn’t the horse that made Kerr pause.
“I think we have a bit of time to play before I slit your throat.” The man’s voice was rough with malicious confidence. Rain beat hard on the slate roof, and Kerr strained to hear.
He moved around the side of the white horse, a hand on its side and his other pulling the deadly-sharp mattucashlass from its scabbard strapped to his leg.
“You think you be so clever, girl,” the villain said, “with your studies of powders and poisons. The dandy who hired me warned me about you.”
Kerr looked over the stall door toward the glow of a single lantern at the far end. The man stood before a courtly-dressed woman who was tied and gagged, helpless to the brute who brandished a dagger before her. His other hand stroked his erect jack from his unlaced breeches. Rape and murder then.
That was all Kerr needed to see to condemn the man, but without knowing who he was, Kerr shouldn’t kill him. Aye, I should. But this was England, and Kerr was a Highlander. If he were thrown in the gaol, there would be no support from Queen Mary for the Gordons. Ye must end this feud. His sister’s words beat in Kerr’s heart.
Kerr shed his water-logged cape and tam and climbed over the gate, landing with a thud in the middle of the stable aisle. The bastard whipped around, his blade held before him as he scrambled to pull his breeches closed.
“Who are you?” the man yelled.
“Someone who can slice your head from your shoulders in one stroke.” Kerr slid his sword free.
The man motioned toward the woman who fought against the gag between her teeth. He lost the grip on his breeches, and they fell around his ankles. “She’s no one of import and a traitor anyway.” His words came out in a rush as he crouched to yank his breeches up. “And I can share. Truly, you can even have her all to yourself.”
“I am not someone who rapes and kills lasses, ye foking bastard.” Kerr snapped the mattucashlass through the air, hitting the man’s thigh.
The fiend squealed, dropping to the floorboards. “Mercy,” the man called as Kerr strode past him to his helpless prisoner.
Curls cascaded around the woman’s shoulders, her eyes wide with long lashes. She wore rich clothes in the English style, her full skirts tied close to her legs with a rope so that she looked like a trussed-up goose. A mumble c
“Hold still,” he said and raised his hands behind her head to find the knot. The woman stared up at him as his fingers tugged at the silk tied tightly in the soft curls of her hair. She sucked in hard through her nose and let out a gust of breath when the gag dropped away.
“You lying bastard,” she yelled. “I am not a traitor.” She glared over Kerr’s shoulder at the man on the barn floor. “Who do you work for?” She jerked her arms against her bonds as if she wished to beat him soundly.
“Wait,” Kerr said, capturing her bound hands in one of his. She stilled, but from the fierce expression on her face, it was taking all her will not to rush at the fallen man to seek revenge. Kerr cut the rope around her wrists with one of his sgian dubh’s, and she pushed at him to get out of her way, nearly tripping. “I need to free your legs, lass,” he said, bending toward the rope wrapped around her voluminous skirts.
“Watch out!” she yelled.
Crouched, Kerr spun on his heels, his fist shooting upward to clip the ruffian under the jaw. The bastard’s feet left the ground with the force of the impact, sending him sprawling backward, and his blade skidded across the hay-strewn dirt floor, his trews once more around his ankles.
“Oh no,” the woman yelled, staring at the prostrate man. “Did you kill him?” she asked.
Kerr opened his mouth and closed it, his brow furrowing. She looked and sounded upset by the thought.
“God’s teeth!” She scowled at Kerr. “Cut me free.”
*
Margaret Darby, better known as Maggie, kicked at her layers of petticoats the moment the mountainous man cut the rope around her legs. Skirts in hand, she hurried to the fallen man, crouching down next to him. She pressed her fingers against his neck.
Thump. Thump. “Alive,” she whispered. Her head dropped forward, her shoulders rounding in relief. “Thank God,” she said.
“Pardon, lass,” her rescuer said, and she turned to take in the man who could have ruined everything. He wore the costume of the Scottish Highlander, a woolen wrap of plaid design around his narrow hips, the end of it reaching up to cross one stout shoulder to fall diagonally across his chest. His leather boots were laced up the fronts of his legs, where she could see several more daggers lashed. His tunic lay wet and molded to his muscles, the bleached linen stark against the tan skin of his neck and face. Maggie hadn’t seen any Highlanders before. Did they all look as rugged, fierce, and full of masculine strength?
“Ye are angered that I harmed him?” he asked.
Mesmerized by the flash of white teeth in his perfect mouth, it took a moment for Maggie to comprehend his question. But then she frowned. “I am angered that you almost killed him.” She turned back to the traitor. “And I was well in control of the situation.” She slapped the ruffian’s bristled cheeks lightly, trying to rouse him. “God’s teeth. Wake up.”
“Are ye two…?” The man hesitated, and she peered back at him, noticing how his clipped hair hit around his strong jawline. “Lovers?” he asked.
Maggie blinked, the word sinking in, making her frown turn to disgust. Her eyes widened. “Lovers? You jest. This…” she glanced back at the man who was stupid enough to think she’d meet him unprepared. “This creature? You think we are lovers when he had me tied up while threatening me with a knife?”
The Highlander shrugged his massive shoulders. “Some lasses like to be tied up.”
Her mouth dropped open as she stared at the man’s strong form and lush mouth. Did he pleasure ladies who like to be tied up? “By this man?” She slowly shook her head. “Have you seen his teeth?”
The Highlander looked down at the prostrate man, his mouth open to expose his blackened, broken teeth. “Bad teeth don’t hinder a man’s jack.”
Maggie straightened in a huff. “They certainly hinder any type of attention from me or any other woman who refuses to roll around with unwashed, crude swine.” They stared at one another in the glow of the lantern she’d brought with her.
“I will escort ye inside to safety,” he said, glancing down the aisle toward the gates that led into the dark bailey. “We can report him to the guards.” The Highlander stepped closer to her.
“I would know your name,” she said and frowned at the breathlessness in her voice. She cleared her throat, tipping her chin a bit higher like she’d seen her friend, Cordelia, do many times.
The man was handsomely made and was obviously more rugged than any man she’d seen before. Even rain-damp he looked commanding and powerful, not at all like the overly decorated men at court.
“I am Kerr Gordon, sent to speak with Queen Elizabeth of England.”
“Cur, as in mad dog?” she asked. “What mother would name her babe after a mad dog?”
He frowned. “’Tis spelled K.E.R.R. A Scottish name.”
“Well K.E.R.R,” she spelled out, “I am Maggie Darby, well Margaret, I should say. Mistress to Queen Elizabeth and her protector.”
“Ye protect Queen Elizabeth?” he asked, his voice even despite the question in it.
Maggie frowned at him. “My father inspected King Henry’s clothing, Queen Mary had a Spanish lady inspect her garments, but then my brother inspected King Edward’s clothing, and I inspect Queen Elizabeth’s clothing for poisons and anything that could cause harm. So yes, I protect the queen’s body.”
“People send her poisoned gowns?” Kerr asked, following Maggie down the swept stable aisle.
“Catherine de Medici of France has poisoned people with perfumed gloves, and there are whispers of enemies lacing gowns as well. Lord Burghley is convinced our queen is in jeopardy of one. Therefore, I try on all gowns, gloves, hats, basically anything that touches Her Majesty’s skin.” Their boots thudded on the hard packed ground, barely heard over the rain, as they walked down the aisle between the horse stalls. “And that man,” she said, glancing over her shoulder, “was hired by someone to stop me.”
“Because ye found something?” Kerr asked.
She hesitated. “Well… no. But I received a note telling me to meet someone here tonight who would give me information about an upcoming plot.”
“The black-tooth man who tied ye up.”
“No. The script was finely wrought, cultured, regal. I am certain the author hired this ruffian to do away with me.” She looked back down the dark aisle where the man lay unmoving.
“After he raped ye,” Kerr said, anger making his burbling brogue sharp with lethality.
They stopped before the stable doors, which she saw the brute had barred. “He would not have gotten far.”
Kerr stopped, his body turning toward her. His hands landed gently on her shoulders. “Do ye not know the depravity of men, lass? That bastard had his jack out and ready. He would have taken out his lust on ye before slitting your throat.” The Highlander looked back as if he were going to charge down the aisle to finish killing him. His handsome features took on the darkness of death.
Kerr Gordon seemed truly concerned for her. No one at court had ever asked her to be wary. To them, she was another disposable attendant in the queen’s service. Elizabeth’s sacrificial lamb.
Maggie stood there, breathing in the smell of rain and fresh hay, studying the man who cared enough about her, a stranger, to aid her and then warn her to take care. She swallowed against the tightening of her chest, shaking off the familiar heartache.
“Like I said, he would not have gotten far.” She reached down her petticoat and knocked against the iron and leather cage underneath. The dulled thump made the Highlander look down, and she shifted. “I am wearing a chastity belt.”
His brow furrowed. “They are but legend that fathers use to scare their daughters.”
She chuckled. “One was sent to the queen when rumors were circulating about her and Lord Robert Dudley being too intimate. ’Twas a jest. The queen scoffed and sent it away to me, her wardrobe keeper. It is made of iron and leather, and I have the key back in my chambers.” She smiled broadly and exhaled long. “The scoundrel would have been quite put out when he lifted my petticoat to find me locked up tight.”
