The Highlander's Outlaw Bride Read Free Page A

deadwood piled haphazardly next to a small cook fire. He grabbed an oatcake from the stone at the fire’s edge.
    “Ow!” He blew on his singed fingers, tossing the freshly cooked bannock back and forth between his hands. Deftly swiping two more of the sizzling oatcakes, he settled against a nearby fallen log to eat.
    The Frenchman grimaced as he approached the fire. “Bannock s again?”
    Conn shrugged off his friend’s complaint. He didn’t care if Bray ate or not.
    Short-tempered Gillis bristled. “Ye willnae find yer Frenchie mishmak food here,” he huffed, waving an oatcake in the older man’s direction. “This is Scots fare, and good enough for the likes of ye!”
    Bray leaned down with a glower for the lad. “From what I have seen, Scots food is merely another word for plain and inintéressant .”
    Conn sighed. Why must Bray insist on needling the hot-headed lad?
    “’Tis better than ye got aboard that ship!” Gillis glowered and bit into his bannock.
    “Is that why you jumped ship when we docked in Ballantrae?”
    “I dinnae jump ship!”
    Conn felt moved to intervene. “Dinnae fash the lad, Bray. He isnae cut out for life at sea. Leave it at that. Ye will get other food when we arrive at Troon.”
    Bray’s feigned chagrin matched the mocking flash of his grin. “My apologies.”
    With one smooth movement, he bent to snag an oatcake in one hand, delivering a smack to the back of Gillis’s head with the other as he stepped past the boy. Gillis sputtered at the abuse, but had enough sense not to physically challenge the older man. Conn watched with mild amusement as Gillis returned to his supper, muttering against all things not Scottish, and against Frenchmen in particular.
    Rising, Conn lifted his arms in a bone-popping stretch.
    “I am away to the burn to wash.” He glanced sternly from Bray to Gillis. “Stay out of trouble whilst I am gone.”
    Bray gave him a bland, innocent look, and Gillis hunched his shoulders to indicate he couldn’t be responsible for Bray’s actions. Conn shook his head. Tossing his plaide over one shoulder, he headed for the inviting little pool of water beneath the waterfall.
    He halted on the edge of the burn, the high, full moon’s silvery light sparkling like diamonds across the rippled surface of the water. He glanced around the clearing, instinctively alert for danger. Seeing no threats, he stripped away his travel-stained clothes and stepped into the pool.
    The icy water burst with fine needle pricks over his tired body, washing away the day’s accumulation of grit and grime. Adjusting to the frigid water, he lifted his arms, stroked to the center of the pool and dove beneath the water. He surfaced with a shake of his head, sending silver droplets of water flying in all directions. Refreshed, he glided to the bank. Climbing from the water, he strode back to his clothing. The evening breeze rippled softly through the moonlit grass, and the gurgling water whispered a murmuring counterpoint beneath the velvet sky. Appreciating the peacefulness, Conn decided to linger a bit longer, away from the certain strife at camp.
    Seated on one corner of his plaide, he used the other edge to wipe most of the clinging moisture from his body. Declining to pull his dusty clothes back on over his clean, damp skin, he rolled onto his back and draped the woolen fabric across himself to block the slight breeze, his sword close to hand. He stared at the spangled sky as the words from his sister’s letters ran through his mind.
    Ye must come home. There has been an accident.
    I dinnae know how to reach ye—pray God this letter finds ye.
    Cousin Malcolm brought men with him to Morven. Da is dead. Ye must come home. Please, Conn. Please come home.
    Fists clenched against the tightness in his chest, he forced his breathing to slow . I am sorry yer letters dinnae reach me in time, Mairead. I am sorry I wasnae there to help him. I will finish my business with the king, and then I will