Page 1 of The Highlander's Captured Bride
Prologue
Scotland, 1715
Clan MacFerson
At the sound of the terrified neigh, Ethan shot from the back of his family’s stables into the front. He got there in time to see a blacksmith about to place a shoe on a bay-colored mare. With one look, he knew the poor man was moments away from getting kicked in the head, as this horse tended to frighten easily. He rushed in and yanked the man away just as a hoof came up to lay a crushing kick to the man’s head.
His pull was so forceful that both men were sprawled out on the floor. The horse pranced away while they sat in disbelief until the smith stood and helped him up. Ethan dusted off his kilt and went to get the horse, whose eyes were heavy with fear and her ears twitched angrily.
“She’s a nervous one,” he said to the smithy. “It doesnae take much to get her agitated.”
“Sorry, Master MacFerson.” The blacksmith then sighed. “I dinnae ken.”
“Most wouldnae.” Ethan rubbed the horse’s ears with one hand. “I’ve spent most of me time inside here with these horses. Let me help ye. Get yer tools and follow me lead.”
Guiding the horse to a corner where barrels and buckets of feed rested, he sat on a stool and began to pet the animal’s ears to soothe her. He got her calmed her down enough that her ears stopped moving agitatedly. Then, he plucked a late apple from the barrels near him and fed it to her.
While he got her distracted enough, he gestured for the smith to begin putting the shoe to her. He looked up to a window and saw the mist rising from the ground. The loch near his home made a thick mist blanket the land every morning. It was just past dawn and, even though it was summer, the land was white.
I wonder if Finley is home yet? I want to give him me ideas about this summer’s tournament.
He kept soothing the horse while the smithy worked. His mind, however, kept flitting to his older brother and how the tournament between them and Clan Hofte— their once greatest enemies— had come about. A smile tugged at his face when he remembered how Finley had nearly gotten himself killed by taking the suggestion to them.
The smithy was almost done when a boy came running into the stable, his face pale and eyes frantic. “Master MacFerson, yer faither needs ye.”
His brows knit in the middle, “Is something wrong?”
The boy’s capped head nodded furiously, “Yes, sir, it’s…it’s yer brother, he was—” a hard grimace on the boy’s face had Ethan shooting up from his seat before the boy could spit the last words out, “—found dead a while ago at the forest line.”
Ethan took off running with fear fueling his feet. He darted past guards, through a side gate, and down a slope, to come to a skidding halt. His father’s broad back blocked his way but when he shifted, Ethan nearly collapsed where he stood.
Finley was resting on a tree, his body in a casual pose but his neck…his neck was slashed right across. Dried blood stained his skin and his clothes. His shock had a cry of fright trapped in his throat, and he grabbed unto his father to steady himself.
Finley’s light brown-blond hair was matted with dew and his tanned skin was mottled. He was dressed in his hunting’s apparel, thick trews and linen shirt. In his lax hand, resting on his lap, was a wineskin.
“Has anyone touched him?” his father asked while he turned to the men, and all shook their heads. He then addressed the closest man and ordered, “Summon the hunting party he went out with yesterday. Someone had to have witnessed something.”
“Aye, sir,” a man nodded then ran off.
All Ethan could comprehend was his brother, lying there, dead. His eyes began to burn and his stomach felt sick.
The sound of running feet dragged his attention from the west—where the soldiers’ bunkhouse was— but he did not look up as the group of seven, who had hunted yesterday, came up to them.
With no time to waste, Balgair demanded, “What happened last night? Was me son alone coming back from the hunt?”
The leader of the group, Alban, stepped forward. “The hunt was a success, Me Laird. We came back, strung up the deer we caught, washed off and decided to go to a nearby tavern to celebrate. Finley had caught the eye of a lass and went out with her. We dinnae want to interrupt him, so we came back, certain he would be able to come home alone. He is a trained fighter, Sir, and the hunt wasnae strenuous.”
“And who was this lass?”
The men shared a look between them before Alban, a bit regrettably, admitted, “She wasnae one of the usual tavern lasses, sir, I figured she was new to the…er…trade.”
“But there was nay way that lass could’ve done this,” another added. “She was thin as a river wisp.”
“She couldhae been working with someone,” a man put in. “In all fairness, many could have used her to lure him out. But that begs the question, who would want him dead? As far as I ken, everyone loved Finley.”
“And nay one would run or walk with that wound,” Alban gestured. “It's like the ones we used to drain the deer. One slash across the neck and that’s what all it took to kill him. And with the blood splatter on the ground, it looks like he was killed here too.”
Balgair rubbed his bearded cheek in frustration, “So, nay witnesses, only a lass ye dinnae ken about and me son, dead on this tree.” He took a moment to consider his next actions and then to the nearest soldier, he ordered, “Yer name is Boyd, aye? Saddle yer horse and ride to Inverness, less than two hours’ run. I’ll give ye a letter to a man named Mister Stewart O’Cain. He is an investigator who hasnae lost a case in his life. If he isnae able to come immediately, stay with him and plead me case until he does. Three of ye, find that lass from the tavern and bring her to me. One of ye, send for me brother at Perth and— ”
