My Highland Laird: Sci-Regency Book 5 Read online

  Table of Contents

  My Highland Laird

  Copyright

  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

  About the Author

  Books by J.L. Langley

  My Highland Laird

  J.L. Langley

  Copyright

  This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  My Highland Laird

  by J.L. Langley

  First Edition published by Yellow Rose Publishing, August 2020

  Copyright © JULY 2020 by J.L. Langley

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book only. No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared in any form, including, but not limited to printing, photocopying, faxing, or emailing, without prior written permission from Yellow Rose Publishing.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Editor by Desi Chapman, Blue Ink Editing, LLC

  Cover Art by Tiferet Design

  PROLOGUE

  August 10, 4829: Planet Skye

  West of Lochwood Castle on the edge of A’Gul Woods

  Och, but one of these days, his cousin’s libido was going to be the death of him; Ciaran was certain of it. He’d spent two hours on horseback already, and no way were they ever going to make it before dark. This was their big day. Their fostering was over, and they were finally going home. Ciaran glanced up at the darkening sky with its wispy clouds, then at his cousin.

  “We’re going tae miss supper with the clan in the great hall.”

  Ram smiled, showing off the dimples he was renowned for. His hair was still mussed from whatever lass’s bed he’d crawled out of. “Cook will still feed us. Besides, I wasnae that late.”

  Shaking his head, Ciaran couldn’t quite contain his smirk. “Ye five minutes was more like an hour. Ye ken, they probably have a big feast planned fer our homecoming.”

  “They do have a celebration planned, and Ciaran is right—we’re going to be late for it.” Patrick, who rode on Ram’s other side, chuckled and leaned over to pluck a piece of hay from Ram’s hair. “What was it again that you had to do before leaving, Ram?”

  Perhaps it was a hayloft rather than a bed.

  Ram rubbed his nose and sniffed.

  “More like who instead of what,” Grant said from slightly behind them.

  They all chuckled.

  Ram at least had the decency to blush, though he did puff his chest out a bit, but then he wrinkled his nose and rubbed it again.

  Duncan hurried his horse up beside Ciaran’s and grinned at them. “I just want tae ken who the lass was.”

  “A gentleman never tells. And I’ll have ye all ken I was saying my goodbyes,” Ram declared and pulled ahead of them with his chin firmly in the air, then promptly covered one nostril with his finger, leaned over, and blew snot out of his nose.

  More laughter ensued.

  Rolling his eyes, Ciaran snorted. It wasn’t like they wouldn’t be going back to visit. Och, but he was really going to miss Patrick and Marcus.

  “Oh yes, you are a gentleman and a scholar,” Patrick quipped.

  Ciaran laughed along with the rest of the group, but truth be told, he was actually okay with Ram’s delay. They’d been home on visits—Ellenwine Castle, the Campbell keep, wasn’t far from it—but he was nervous about going home for good. Not, of course, that he’d admit that to anyone. What if he didn’t live up to his father’s expectations now that he would be around all the time? What if he couldn’t learn the managerial things about being a chieftain as quickly as he’d learned to be a warrior?

  “Why dinna we just go through A’Gul Woods?” Boyd asked. He’d been bringing up the rear, but he hurried alongside Ciaran, pointing to the woods on their right.

  Glancing at the tall oaks and pines of A’Gul Woods, Ciaran grinned. Those woods bordered his clan’s land, acting as a natural defense against enemies. At night there was a constant low fog, giving it a very mystical feel. He’d played in those woods as a child because it butted up against the castle wall and ended at the back of his aunt Agatha’s cottage. If they turned now and headed into the woods, it would only take them fifteen minutes to get to the MacKay keep, assuming one took the right path. A man could just as easily get lost in those woods for hours.

  Resigning himself to another hour in the saddle, Ciaran said, “They are haunted.” He trusted the Campbells, but he preferred to keep the shortcut to his home secret.

  “Really?”

  “Oh, aye,” Ram answered with a straight face. “There are bogles and fae, and I’ve even seen a kelpie. Loch Sterling is on the other side of Lochwood Castle, dinna ye ken?”

  “It’s really haunted?” Boyd asked again, his voice full of wonder and a bit of apprehension. It took everything Ciaran had not to laugh.

  Patrick didn’t have as much restraint; he chuckled and rode ahead of all of them. “We are not going through the woods.”

  Out of nowhere a thin beam of red stretched across the gloaming, then disappeared. Then another and another. Like little fireflies. There were dozens of them, and they were beautiful.

  Ciaran stared, fascinated. “What is that?”

  Everyone seemed to stop, puzzled by the phenomena.

  Next to him, one of the lights landed on Duncan’s chest. “It’s on m—” He froze, his eyes widened, and he fell from the saddle so quickly Ciaran couldn’t process what had happened, much less grab him.

  Chaos descended on them like a highland storm in spring, and everything seemed to happen at once. With a distressed snort, Duncan’s horse reared up, then bolted. More beams of red zipped through the air, and Patrick kicked his horse’s flanks, running full-out toward the right, toward the trees, his blond hair flying out behind him. There were gasps all around. The horses pranced, agitated. Even Horace, Ciaran’s unflappable warhorse, sidestepped. The cries of victory echoed in the distance like an ominous rumble.

  “To the woods!” Patrick shouted.

  The others followed, thundering past.

  Duncan lay on the deep green grass, staring up at the darkening sky with sightless eyes and a hole through the middle of his chest. There was no blood, but there was no mistaking the utter stillness of death.

  “Ciaran!” Patrick shouted again.

  Snapping out of his daze, Ciaran raced after his mentor and their small band of warriors as more lights lit up the hazy dusk.

  Once he hit the tree line, he didn’t stop. He drove Horace deep, following the other four men until fog settled around them, embracing them in the darkness under the canopy. Branches and leaves slapped against his face, arms, and thighs, stinging him.

  The men slowed to a stop in front of him, forming a circle among the trees. Men and horses breathed hard, filling the quiet of the forest.

  Ciaran started to protest but realized the re
d lights had stopped—they could not penetrate the thickness of the woods—though the dull sounds of enemy combatants remained, if one listened carefully.

  Patrick threw his leg over his saddle and dropped to the ground. Twigs snapped under his boots as he patted his horse’s neck.

  “What are ye doing?” Grant huffed out, sounding outraged. “Why are we nae continuing on tae Lochwood Castle?”

  Boyd spat next to him. In the dark, his expression didn’t show, but his tone clearly announced his disgust with Grant’s suggestion. “We’re Campbells! We dinna leave our kin. We have tae go back and get Duncan.”

  “Ye go get ’em, ye fuckin’ bampot.” Grant leaped from his horse and started toward Boyd.

  Ram, always the peacekeeper, jumped off his horse as well, but Patrick got there first.

  “Enough!” Patrick said, pushing Grant back.

  Neither man seemed inclined to continue after that. As captain of the Campbell clan, Patrick was their leader in the absence of the laird. And even if he wasn’t, his reputation as a warrior would have made him so. The Campbell warriors followed him out of respect, but the power their elderly laird had trusted him with and his prowess as a swordsman caused a little fear as well.

  “We will get Duncan, but not now. Now, we are going to assess the situation. We have more than ourselves to think about. Lochwood Castle is less than an hour’s ride to the east of us, and our own keep is only three hours west.” He turned toward Grant. “How many arrows do you have?”

  “Twenty or so.” Grant was the only archer of their small group, now that Duncan was dead. He pulled his bow off his saddle. His quiver full of arrows was already on his back.

  “That will have to do. Come on.” Without waiting for an answer, Patrick drew his sword and headed toward the southwest corner of the forest, where the attackers had been.

  Twenty arrows wasn’t much. With a queasy feeling in his stomach, Ciaran swung his leg over Horace and dropped to the ground, knowing his horse was well trained and would be right there when he got back. He’d follow Patrick into battle anytime and anywhere, but God help him, he truly wondered if this would be the last time.

  Ram was there to meet him. “Ye okay?”

  “Aye. Ye?” Ciaran pulled his sword from his scabbard.

  “Aye.” Ram nodded and took his sword to hand as well.

  They all fell in line behind Patrick, walking swiftly but quietly so as not to give away their position. The closer they got to the edge of the forest, the louder their attackers’ voices got. They were still some ways away from the sounds of it. Not in the forest, thank God.

  As they neared the tree line, Patrick held up a hand, bringing them to a halt. The forest wasn’t large, but it was dense. They should still be out of view. They certainly couldn’t see their enemy.

  Patrick crept forward slowly, then motioned for all of them to follow.

  One by one they did so, positioning themselves behind trees.

  The voices grew louder now. They spoke English, but Ciaran could only make out a few words here and there. The men were dressed all in black, and as soon as night fell, they’d be nearly invisible. It was not a comforting thought.

  A branch popped behind Ciaran and leaves rustled.

  “Fuck,” Ram hissed.

  Ciaran glanced over his shoulder and saw Ram.

  A bolt of light zipped past his shoulder, and Ciaran flinched, ducking back behind the tree. Another bolt hit the oak, tearing through the bark with a sizzling crack. Bits of wood flew, and a splinter lodged into his arm. Moving his sword to his left hand, he nearly dropped it, his hands were shaking so badly. He covered his shoulder with his right hand, wiping away blood and barely feeling the pain. “Bluidy hell. What the devil? Who are they?”

  “I don’t know. Stay behind cover,” Patrick gritted out just ahead and to the left of Ciaran. His voice sounded tense. Patrick usually calmed down in a fight, as though he were in his element. He was the best swordsman in all the highlands, but this was not a normal fight. There were no clashing swords or flying arrows like they were used to. This was an ambush with advanced technology the likes Ciaran had only ever heard of in stories. “Ramsey, are you all right?”

  “Aye. Just tripped over a fuckin’ rock.”

  More shots were fired, and more tree bark splintered.

  Bluidy hell! Ciaran frowned. They were pinned down. The woods offered cover, but there was little hope of defeating their attackers if they couldn’t leave it without risk of getting shot.

  Someone, it sounded like Grant, shouted, “Och!” from behind them.

  Ciaran turned his head to see Grant stomping on the forest brush. A small cloud of smoke infused the air around his foot. Damnation. What chance did they have if these weapons could start fires? They were surrounded by kindling, and to make matters worse, Ciaran could swear some of the enemy had advanced forward while shooting.

  “Uh, Patrick? They’re advancing. How many of them are there?”

  “I see,” Patrick said. “Grant?”

  An arrow came out of the trees and hit one of the attackers square in the chest. The others stopped, backing up some, but did not relent in their firing. Grant quickly fired another and hit the man beside the first. This time the shooting stopped, and the men retreated back before continuing their assault.

  “There are about three dozen of them, from what I can tell.” Patrick turned to look behind Ciaran at the remaining three men in their party. “Get ready.” He lifted his sword and turned back to the front. “If they come through the trees, cut them down.”

  There was another yelp through the volley of lights, and they were down a man as Boyd fell. He dropped to the carpet of moss, clutching his thigh.

  “Are you still with us, Boyd?” Patrick asked.

  “Aye, ye radge wee shite.”

  Patrick chuckled. “A crazy shit, am I?”

  “Aye,” Ciaran answered with a grin at the same time as Boyd. His heart beat so hard, he swore he could actually feel it on the outside of his chest, but he welcomed the fight. Being pinned down was like waiting for the guillotine to slice off your head. His mind kept wandering back to poor Duncan. He preferred to bring the fight to his enemies, though Patrick had taught him the value of waiting.

  At eighteen summers, Ciaran had been in several battles, but he’d never faced anything like this, and for the first time in a long time, he was actually scared. It was like fighting an unseen unknown assailant. If he had not seen the men, he could almost believe they were fighting a supernatural presence. This reminded him of the time he’d gotten lost in these same woods, playing hide-and-seek when he was seven, and spent several lonely hours in the dark surrounded by terrifying sounds. He’d feared bogles and the bean-nighe, not men with lights. Then his father had finally appeared through the mist and trees like an avenging angel. Ciaran could still see his father in a glow of torchlight, making him look almost heavenly. That night was just like this one, warm with a fog hovering about knee level. The moonlight was scarce, but of course it always was—Skye had perpetual cloud cover. It gave Ciaran an idea.

  “Patrick?”

  Patrick turned his head to glance at Ciaran. He stared for the longest moment, not saying anything.

  “I’m going tae send Boyd tae my father and have my father and his men flank the enemy. If we continue tae draw their fire, my clan can attack when they run out of shots.”

  “They don’t run out of shots,” Patrick said, as though he knew what he was talking about. Were these enemies from Patrick’s home?

  “Never?” A never-ending supply of ammunition? Ice ran through Ciaran’s veins. How were they going to get out of this?

  “Not until they run out of energy, which can take days, but if there is sunlight, they can recharge. So no, never.”

  A blast hit the tree next to Ciaran, making him wince. Shields! Like the trees were providing for them. It was either that or hope the men got tired of shooting at them and gave up. Which was highly doubtful.
Unlike a bow and arrow, it didn’t appear they used any effort to fire their weapons. “What if they use shields?”

  “Metal or wood?”

  “We have both.”

  Patrick was quiet for several moments, then nodded. “Do it. It’s our only chance. Metal shields are better, but wood is better than nothing.”

  Ciaran didn’t wait for further instruction. Sheathing his sword, he hurried to Boyd, then helped him up. Together they hobbled their way toward the horses, with Ciaran supporting most of Boyd’s weight. Boyd was not light, but Ciaran was big for his age. Already he topped six feet two inches, matching Boyd’s height. “Ye are going tae my father and telling him tae bring help. They need tae bring shields. Metal ones. And archers.”

  “Aye. Son of a bitch!” Boyd winced in pain as they went over a fallen log. “What of bogles? And the wee fairy folk?”

  Ciaran stumbled a few steps. “Bogles and the fae? Really?” They were being shot at by alien technology and Boyd was worried about bogles?

  “Aye! Ye said yeself these woods are haunted.” Boyd was slowing down.

  “I lied.” Ciaran stopped, turned, and planted his shoulder in Boyd’s gut to lift him.

  Boyd grunted and let out a string of curses. “Lad, when this is over, I’m gonna kick ye in the arse fer this indignity.”

  “Ye are more than welcome tae try. We have nae time fer ye tae make it on ye own.” Ciaran kept going, despite Boyd’s cursing. When he made it to the horses, he set Boyd on his feet next to Ciaran’s horse. “Take Horace; he kens these woods. He’ll take ye straight tae the castle. Ye will come out in back of my aunt’s cottage. Keep going and follow the wall around tae the barbican. The guards should recognize Horace, but in case, take this.” Ciaran took off the brooch at his shoulder with his seal. As firstborn and heir, it had his unique sigil in the bottom left of his family crest. “Tell them tae send the signal when they get in position. God speed!”

  Boyd mounted Horace, swinging his injured leg over the saddle. “Hold them till I get back, lad.”

  “Aye!” Ciaran swatted his trusted horse on the rump. “Go home, Horace.”