Highland Hope (Wild Thistle Triology Book 1) Read Free

forward. His height nearly matched Aidan’s and his brawn as well. A dangerous look glinted in his dark eyes. Aidan stilled, aware of the feral intensity of this newcomer’s gaze. He crouched low, not taking his eyes from the other three men. “State yer business,” the stranger growled. His brogue was so thick, Aidan had a hard time understanding him.
    One of the attackers to his right punched Aidan in the ribs. “He said state your business.”
    Aidan narrowed his gaze. He whistled. Wolf barreled through the men, Aidan grabbed hold of his mane and leapt into the saddle.
    Men yelled. Chased after him. Aidan urged Wolf forward and glanced over his shoulder. The brawny Scotsman stood firmly rooted with his legs akimbo as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
    Aidan took one last look over his shoulder. The Highlander swung a sling stone with wide, arching motions. Aidan crouched close to Wolf’s thick neck. The man’s aim certainly couldn’t be accurate at this distance.
    The base of the hillock came fast and hard as the horse stumbled and something hit Aidan’s head with a deafening crack.
    When he grabbed for the saddle, its leathery material slipped through his fingers and he landed with a thud on the hard ground.
    “Go, Wolf. Run ,” was all he managed before darkness enveloped him.
    They dumped him on her foot.
    Hope bit the soft inside of her cheek as his weight nearly crushed her toes. She glanced down, the prisoner met her gaze with one as sharp as the steel of her claidheamh . The color of his eyes matched the deadly steel of her sword, altogether marking him as a stout enemy.
    She fisted her hands at her waist and tapped her now freed foot. “Aye, and who have we here?” she questioned her cousin Duncan.
    The prisoner spat on the dry ground beside her. Duncan kicked him hard in the side, pitching him forward against her bare legs. She jerked at the force of his weight, then regained her footing and glared at the intruder. Who the devil did the man think he was?
    Duncan kept the man pinned with the force of his foot. “Show our laird yer respect, ye wee bastard.” Duncan tipped his head at her and continued. “’He says he’s a MacKerry. Been summoned, he claims--”
    “A woman?” the prisoner mocked. His voice held disbelief as a mocking grin pulled at his broad mouth. “’Tis the truth? You have your women wearing tartans as if they’d help you defend the keep. Bollocks , man, are you such cowards as that?”
    With a growl that shook the battlements, Duncan lifted the man from the ground and tossed him, then he pressed his foot upon the man’s chest. Not a bad feat, Hope observed, for the prisoner matched her cousin’s brawn. And if he had use of his hands, mayhap he wouldn’t have been as compliant. Aye, ’twas the truth of it, for certain.
    While Duncan pinned the man, Hope glanced down at her tartan, pinching the wool between her fingers. What could possibly be wrong with it? Her plaits held creases that rivaled any other clansmen and the brooch on her shoulder, a prone lion with emerald eyes and four arrows beneath it, secured the drape of the familial tartan. ’Twas the privilege of the laird to wear it and with pride she did so. Aye, the man was daft, to be certain.
    As much as she enjoyed the man being taught to respect her authority, she needed to keep him reasonably healthy until the council decided his fate, especially since she recognized his crimson and gold tartan. “’Tis enough, Duncan. We need him in one piece for the council. And,” she added, giving the prisoner a pointed look, “we are at peace with Clan MacKerry. For now.”
    “I was summoned,” the man claimed with a scowl. ‘I have the missive in my belongings.”
    She nearly took a step back at his glare.
    She glanced about the bailey. The clan had gathered in interest, seeking a distraction from their mourning regiment, she imagined. Her stomach quaked with the tension taunting it. The council would scrutinize