THE GIFT: A Highland Novella Read online

  Table of Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  ALSO BY MARGARET MALLORY

  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

  CHAPTER 16

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  THANK YOU

  Excerpt: CAPTURED BY A LAIRD (THE DOUGLAS LEGACY)

  Excerpt: THE GUARDIAN (THE RETURN OF THE HGHLANDERS)

  BOOK LIST

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  THE GIFT Copyright © 2014 by Margaret Mallory

  Excerpt from Captured by a Laird copyright © 2014 by Margaret Mallory

  Excerpt from The Guardian copyright ©2011 by Peggy L. Brown

  Cover Design © Seductive Designs

  Cover image, woman © Margaret Mallory

  Cover image, landscape © iStock.com/Shaiith

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

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, contact: [email protected].

  ALSO BY MARGARET MALLORY

  (Available in ebook, print, and audio)

  THE DOUGLAS LEGACY

  CAPTURED BY A LAIRD

  CLAIMED BY A HIGHLANDER (2015)

  THE RETURN OF THE HIGHLANDERS

  THE GUARDIAN

  THE SINNER

  THE WARRIOR

  THE CHIEFTAIN

  ALL THE KING’S MEN

  KNIGHT OF DESIRE

  KNIGHT OF PLEASURE

  KNIGHT OF PASSION

  Follow Margaret on Facebook https://www.facebook.com/margaretmallory.author?ref=hl and Twitter https://twitter.com/MargaretMallory

  Sign up for Margaret’s Newsletter at www.MargaretMallory.com.

  CHAPTER 1

  Late 1441

  They were burning witches.

  Lily knew better than to dabble in the black arts, but with witch fever spreading through London like the plague, any woman who sold cures for headaches, warts, or love was at risk.

  “Ouch!” Lily pricked her finger in her haste to stitch her gold coins into the boy’s tunic she had acquired for her escape.

  As she jerked on the tunic and breeches, she cursed the Duchess of Gloucester, who had attempted to murder the king with sorcery in hope of seeing the crown on her husband’s fat head.

  Not that Lily gave a farthing who was king, but why hadn’t the woman simply poisoned him?

  Thanks to the duchess’s dance with the devil, gangs were roaming the streets hunting for witches. Many were shocked to learn that the duchess’s co-conspirators in her witches’ coven were priests and monks, but Lily had grown up as the child of a criminal. Evil did not surprise her.

  She tilted her head to listen to the sounds in the dark street outside her shop. Were they growing louder? Following her instincts had saved her many times, and they were screaming for her to escape London until this witch-hunting frenzy passed.

  Lily’s heart raced as she stuffed her wild, curling red hair into the boy’s cap. She quickly donned the rest of her disguise, stepping into the too-large boots and tossing the rough brown cloak over her shoulders.

  An hour ago, she had picked the lock on the baker’s door, crept past the sleeping family, and helped herself to the clothes that were hanging on a hook by the son’s bed. She smelled faintly of yeast, but she was grateful it was not the fishmonger or the skinner who owed her for curing his boils.

  That would teach the baker to pay his debts.

  Hastily, she gathered small vials of the powders and potions that would be most difficult to replace and wrapped them in her extra pair of wool stockings. These she packed, along with a wineskin, a sharp blade, and a loaf of the baker’s fine bread, into a worn leather bag, which she then slung over her shoulder.

  At the door, she paused to take a last look at the shop where she had lived and worked since she was a child of seven. Her heart felt heavy as her gaze traveled over the neat rows of jars lining the shelves, the scrubbed pots hanging by the fire, and the fragrant bunches of drying herbs hanging from the rafters.

  She did not fool herself that any of it would be here when she returned. She would have to start from scratch. In the two years since the old herbalist had died and passed the business on to her, Lily had developed a thriving trade. The old woman had taught her well, and Lily had a knack for reading people and uncovering their secrets—valuable skills in a healer.

  Her success had led to several marriage proposals from neighboring merchants. She snorted. Romantics all of them. If the church charged her with consorting with demons—which generally involved committing acts too disgusting for anyone but the priests to imagine—not one of the merchants who had professed undying love would defend her.

  The men of her family were worse. Even if they offered to help her, which was unlikely, they were unreliable liars and cheats. There was not one person in the entire city of London she was willing to entrust with her safety.

  She locked her door, a futile gesture, and hid the key inside her sock as a promise to herself that she would return to her beloved shop. Christmas was not far off. Surely a month of advent festivities would divert the mobs’ attention and make it safe to return.

  Lily slipped silently through back alleys she’d known since childhood to make her way down to the River Thames. Her friends Linnet and Jamie had gone to live in the far north of England—Northumberland, it was called. The wealthy couple had befriended her when she was a tiny girl, and they still came by the shop with their increasing brood on their rare trips to London. They had invited her many times to visit them.

  Of course, neither she nor they believed she ever would.

  When she reached the shore of the Thames, the heavy night fog that lay over the river engulfed her like a cold, damp shroud. Her steps sounded unnaturally loud in the still, thick air as she walked along the docks, and the dank smell of the river filled her nose. All she could see of the ships that lined the riverbank was the soft glow of their lanterns bobbing in the eerie mist.

  She walked toward them, intent on taking the first ship sailing north.

  ***

  “I’d rather travel to hell than to the Lowlands,” Roderick muttered under his breath as he sharpened his dirks in preparation for the long journey. “Out of the thousands of warriors at his command, why did the Lord of the Isles choose me for this miserable task?”

  Most likely, he was singled out because he could speak the language of the Lowlanders, which he learned while a prisoner there—an experience he did not wish to repeat. But a warrior did not say nay to his chieftain, particularly when his chieftain was the Lord of the Isles, who ruled over more of the Highlands than the Scottish king.

  “That ’tis no’ the reason he chose ye to carry his message to the Douglas chieftain,” his grandmother said as she stirred a pot of fish stew over the hearth fire.

  Roderick was long accustomed to his grandmother reading his thoughts, for she had the gi
ft of The Sight. Growing up in a tiny cottage with the clan’s seer had been awkward at times for a lad. Once he became a man, she generally respected his private thoughts. Still, he made an effort to keep his mind off the lasses when he visited her.

  “Then why, pray tell, was I selected for this special honor, Seanmhair?” Roderick asked.

  “You’re one of his verra best warriors, and our chieftain has great trust in ye.”

  Roderick gave his grandmother a sideways glance. Though he knew she was proud of him, it was not in her nature to hand out compliments.

  “And,” she added after a long pause, “I advised him to send ye.”

  Roderick swallowed an oath. “Why would ye do that, Seanmhair?”

  “A great clan like ours must have a powerful seer, and no one has been born to replace me,” she said. “A few MacDonald lasses do have The Sight, but ’tis weak in ’em.”

  God only knew what that had to do with his grandmother recommending him for this miserable errand. He hoped her mind was not growing feeble, but she was as old as the mist.

  “I’ll be passing through the lands belonging to other clans on my journey,” he said, as he strapped on his claymore sword and hoisted his leather bag over his shoulder. “Am I to look for a seer and steal her?”

  He meant the question as a jest. He should have known better.

  “I fear stealing this particular lass would be a mistake,” his grandmother said with that strange, faraway look in her eyes. “Ye will have better luck if ye can persuade her to come, but bring her ye must.”

  He sighed and kissed her goodbye on the cheek. “God be with ye, Seanmhair. Remember, the chieftain himself is sending a boat to take ye to the Isle of Islay in a few days. I’ll return in time to join ye there for the Yule celebrations.”

  His boat was waiting in the cove at the bottom of the cliff below her cottage. He’d already started down the steep steps that were cut into the side of the cliff when he heard her call to him over the wind. Looking up, he saw his grandmother leaning over the sheer rock face clutching a plaid about her shoulders.

  “Mind ye don’t fall!” he shouted.

  She just leaned farther over the edge. Praise God, he had persuaded the stubborn woman to leave her lonely cliff-side cottage for the winter. On the chieftain’s home isle of Islay, she’d always be well looked after while he was away.

  “Ye won’t find the lass ye need,” she called down, “until ye stop looking for her.”

  Roderick loved her dearly, but he had no notion if his grandmother was still talking about a seer or wasting her breath harping on him again about taking a wife to replace the one who left him. He waved to let her know he’d heard what she said, for what that was worth, and prayed she would still be among the living when he returned.

  ***

  The unrelenting wind made Lily’s eyes water as she stared at the endless hills surrounding her. She had lived in London all her life and had no notion that the countryside went on forever like this. After walking for three days, it all looked the same.

  Damn. She should have found how far north that ship was sailing before she sneaked on board. What sin had she committed that led God to punish her by sending her to Scotland?

  Blindfold her and toss her out of a cart on any street corner in London, and she would know where she was and how to get her next meal. From the time she was a small child, she had traversed the dangerous streets of London unscathed. She could outwit degenerates of all types, from cutpurses to rapists.

  Yet it appeared she would die of simple hunger and cold, defeated by these empty hills.

  She had no idea if she was still walking in the direction of the border or going in circles. Continuing seemed pointless, and yet she forced herself to trudge on. She had ceased to feel her frozen hands and feet long ago, and her thoughts had grown sluggish. As a healer, she was aware that these were dangerous signs, but knowing did not help her one whit.

  Her foot caught in a hole, sending her sprawling to the ground. Despite how weak she was from lack of food, she dragged herself back up. She swayed on her feet, mesmerized by how the wind moving through the grass looked like sea swells. She had not expected to enjoy sailing on the sea.

  What happened after they tossed her off the ship? Though she tried, she could not remember.

  She managed a few more steps before stumbling again. This time, she pitched forward and fell hard. She rolled downhill, her head bouncing on the ground again and again. When her body finally came to a halt, she lay facedown, stunned and dizzy.

  Get up! Ye must keep moving!

  Lily knew she should listen to the nagging voice in the back of her head. But she was so very tired… She had to rest…for just a little while…

  CHAPTER 2

  Roderick swept his gaze over the hills again. Watching for signs of an ambush was an ingrained habit that had saved his life more than once. He had delivered the message entrusted to him with no mishap. And now, praise God and all the angels in heaven, he was headed home to the Highlands.

  Unfortunately, he was not traveling alone.

  The Douglas chieftain, the 3rd Earl of Angus, must consider his reply to the Lord of the Isles dangerous, indeed, for he had insisted that half a dozen of his warriors accompany Roderick across the breadth of Scotland from his fortress, Tantallon Castle, to the western coast. If the secret missives between these two powerful men threatened the Crown, the Douglas chieftain had far more to fear if his fell into the wrong hands. The Lord of the Isles had the protection of mountains, sea, and thousands of warriors who felt no allegiance to the Scottish Crown.

  Roderick spared a glance at the Douglas warriors. They may be allies for the time being, but that did not mean he had to like them. And he certainly knew better than to trust them.

  These Lowlanders were too much like the English for Roderick’s taste, and he detested the English. Their weapons shone bright, but these warriors were careless, talking and joking amongst themselves though they were no longer on Douglas lands. He reminded himself that he’d be rid of them in a couple of days—if he lived that long.

  Roderick pulled his horse up and raised his hand to signal the Douglas men. He scanned the hills to the south, looking for what had pricked his attention.

  “What is it?” Harold, the bulky leader of the Douglas men, asked and eyed him with suspicion.

  “Someone is hiding in the tall grass over there,” Roderick said, nodding toward a dark patch amidst the green.

  “’Tis nothing but a rock.”

  Harold apparently suffered from poor eyesight.

  “I’ll have a look all the same,” Roderick said. “You lads can ride ahead.”

  Roderick cantered across the hillside without waiting for a response. As he rode closer, the figure in the grass remained unnaturally still. This was someone in trouble, not a lookout for bandits or other troublemakers.

  He dropped off the side of his horse beside the prone body. Damn, ’twas just a lad, and he looked dead.

  Roderick knelt beside him and felt for a pulse. Relief swept through him when he felt the faint beat. The lad’s skin was cold to the touch, but he was still alive. Moving quickly, he began rubbing the lad’s back and legs to get his blood moving.

  Whisky, the best cure for most ailments, would warm the lad from the inside. Roderick flipped him over and pulled out his flask. Beneath the dirt and scratches, the lad’s face was young and beardless.

  “Don’t die on me,” Roderick ordered as he slid his arm beneath the lad’s narrow shoulders and raised him up to drink.

  The frail body shivered in his arms. The poor lad was near frozen to death.

  “Come, laddie, take a sip,” Roderick said as he tipped the flask.

  The boy coughed as the whisky slid down his throat, but he swallowed a healthy gulp. A good sign. Roderick drew in a deep breath and relaxed a wee bit. But then the lad’s cap fell off.

  Piles of flaming red curls spilled over Roderick’s arm and onto the ground like
a tumultuous river of fire. Roderick blinked, unable to take in this revelation all at once.

  Good God, the lad is a lass.

  Beneath the dirt, he could make out a sprinkling of freckles across her pale cheeks and an upturned nose. Her features were delicate, save for her full-lipped mouth, which, like her wild locks, bespoke of a wanton sensuality—or at least would make a man hope for it. Ach, how could he have mistaken this bonny lass for a lad?

  She opened her eyes, and his world tilted again.

  The lass lay utterly still in his arms, staring up at him with eyes as green as the glen after the spring rains and fringed by red-gold lashes that reminded him of sun streaks across a shimmering dawn sky.

  He ought to comfort her, to tell her not to be frightened, but when he opened his mouth, nothing came out. When he tore his gaze away from her eyes to try to regain his bearings, it dropped unerringly to her red, parted lips, which did not help at all.

  “You’ll be all right now,” he said, once he finally found his voice.

  She nodded, showing no sign she feared him. If she trusted that easily, no wonder the lass had gotten herself into such trouble.

  “Your people must live nearby,” he said. “I’ll take ye to them.”

  “I have no people here,” she whispered.

  “God’s blood, you’re English!” He could hardly believe his ears. He had spoken to her in Scots, which was essentially the same language, though the accent was different. “How did an English lass come to be so far from the border? And all by yourself?”

  When confusion clouded her eyes, he cursed himself for pressing her so soon.