Highlander's Return: The Sinclair Brothers Trilogy, Bonus Novella (Book 2.5) (2 page)

By the time Burke finally dismounted and unrolled an
extra length of plaid to sleep on, the summer sun had set and the bluish light
of night was setting in.

He was in Sutherland territory now. Both he and
Laoch were exhausted, but deep sleep evaded him. Though the night was warm and
the forest floor soft, he couldn’t get comfortable. Bloody hell, but Sutherland
land was no place for a lone Sinclair, he thought for the hundredth time.

The following morning a few hours into his ride, he halted
Laoch near a large loch. He let the animal drink, then hobbled him and knelt
next to the water’s edge, cupping his hands in the cool, clear water. When he
had taken his fill, he stood, scanning the area.

Sutherland land looked similar to Sinclair land,
though the Sinclair coastline, on the very farthest northeast tip of Scotland,
was a bit more rugged. Burke was surrounded by patches of forest, which were
broken up by rolling green hills and taller mountains to the west. He couldn’t
quite see the coast to the east, but he knew that if he were atop one of the
nearby hills, he would be able to spot the North Sea. The loch at which he
stood was longer than it was wide, and he could look up the length of it as it
continued northwesterly.

Suddenly a sense of familiarity slammed into him. It
was unlikely that he had been here before, though. Since tensions remained high
between the Sutherlands and the Sinclairs, he and his clansmen normally took
the long way around Sutherland land. The only time he could remember traveling
directly across Sutherland terrain, as he did now, was…

That night in November, nearly ten years ago. It
felt like a lifetime ago. The summer scene transformed before his eyes into the
wintery landscape of that cold, stormy night…

November, 1297

Burke tried to suppress the shiver that threatened
to make him look like a green lad in front of his uncle, three cousins, and the
handful of other clansmen who were traveling south. Despite his thick woolen
hose, winter boots, and extra Sinclair plaid around his shoulders, there was no
denying that he was freezing.

He glanced at his uncle, Laird Henry Sinclair, and
noticed that his nose was tipped blue and his teeth were firmly clenched. So,
even the mighty Laird was feeling the cold. Burke’s cousins, Robert, Garrick,
and Daniel, looked to be struggling with the unusually frigid conditions, too. Nevertheless,
all the men sat stoutly atop their horses as they rode south toward the
Scottish Lowlands.

They had good reason to march proudly south, this
freakish winter storm be damned. They were going to witness William Wallace’s knighting
ceremony and pledge their clan’s loyalty to the struggle for Scottish
independence. Every able-bodied clansman longed to be on this trip, and Burke
was honored and humbled to be part of the small retinue that was making the
journey.

Burke was the cousin to the heirs of the Sinclair
Lairdship, but because he was a rare only child, and a son at that, he had been
sent to live and train with the Laird’s three sons. He couldn’t have counted
himself luckier. Not only was it an honor to get to live so closely with the
Laird and his family, but it made for a damned fun boyhood. He was of an age
with the Sinclair brothers, and they had grown up hunting, fishing, fighting,
and eventually chasing the lasses around Roslin.

Now, though, he and his Sinclair cousins were
men
.
He was nineteen, which put him right between Daniel and Garrick in age. All
four of them were tall, strapping, and getting bigger and stronger by the day. It
seemed like none of them could get enough when it came to training with the
sword, the bow, hand-to-hand combat, or learning the responsibilities of
leadership.

Robert was the most serious, of course, since he
would assuredly be Laird some day. Garrick excelled with the bow, and what
Daniel had lacked initially in age and strength (being the youngest) he now
made up for in stubborn determination and decisiveness. All agreed that Burke
was the smoothest and best at talking with the lasses, but if they teased him
too much about it, he was sure to give them a few scrapes and bruises on the
practice field to remind them that he could fight as well.

Though relations with the Sutherlands were strained,
the Sinclair retinue had been given permission to cross their lands on their
way to pledge their loyalty to Wallace. The Sutherlands were on the side of
Scottish independence, after all. Even still, the small band of Sinclairs moved
at a brisk pace over the snow-covered hills, and it wasn’t just because of the
cold.

Suddenly all the men’s heads snapped up at the faint
sound of a high-pitched scream.

“What the devil?” Laird Sinclair said gruffly,
wheeling his horse toward the sound.

“Nay, father, it could be dangerous,” Robert said at
the Laird’s side.

“We cannot let fear prevent us from doing what is
right,” the Laird replied quietly to his eldest son. He motioned for the group
of men to follow him, and spurred his horse toward the direction of the sound.

Burke’s blood was suddenly warmer, and it wasn’t
from the increased pace of the warhorse beneath him. What could have made such
a sound? Would he and his clansmen be able to help?

The band of Sinclair men didn’t have to travel far
through the deep snowdrifts and biting wind to discover the source of the
scream. A frozen loch emerged ahead through the flurries of snow. While most of
the surface was frozen over and still, Burke’s eye immediately went to the
flutter of movement along the nearest shoreline.

The scream came again, and this time there was no
mistaking it—it came from a thrashing figure who had apparently fallen through
the ice. It sounded like a lass.

Without thinking, Burke kicked his horse hard,
sending him shooting ahead of the others. His eyes were locked on the figure,
who was flailing and keening with increasing desperation. He vaguely registered
his uncle’s calls for caution behind him, but he ignored them.

He reined in his horse just at the loch’s frozen
shoreline and flung himself from the animal’s back. Never taking his eyes from
the thrashing figure, he ripped off the extra plaids he had wrapped around his
shoulders, then stepped cautiously onto the ice.

Just as he eased onto the iced-over loch, the rest
of the party arrived at the shoreline. Burke didn’t wait for them, though. Instead,
he moved toward the helpless lass, ignoring the sting of cold cutting through
his clothes. Again, shouts sounded from behind him, but he was entirely focused
on the flailing figure, who was now only a few yards away.

She was struggling to keep her head above the icy
water. Her screams had turned to strangled gurgles. As Burke neared her, he
crouched, then slid his belly onto the ice to avoid breaking through himself.
The pool in which the lass swam was large, indicating that she had tried to
pull herself out, only to break off more of the icy crust.

“It’s all right, lass,” Burke said in a low,
soothing tone as he inched himself forward on his stomach.

Her wide, dark eyes locked on him with a look of
terror and desperation, and he felt a jolt in his chest.

“Just swim over here and I’ll pull you out.” He
spoke as if he were trying to sooth a spooked animal.

She struggled feebly toward him. No doubt her limbs
were turning to stone from the cold. He had to act fast if he hoped to save
her. He extended his arm, shortening the distance and coaxing her on with a
beckoning hand.

Her head slipped a bit lower in the water even as
she strained to reach his outstretched hand. He scooted an inch closer, but froze
when he heard the deep groan of the ice beneath him.

“Just a little farther, lass. That’s it. You can do
it. Reach!”

Just as her head sank completely under the dark
water, her fingers brushed his. He risked lurching forward even farther.
Blessedly, instead of falling through the ice himself, he managed to clamp a
hand around her wrist and yank her toward him.

She slid like a seal onto the ice next to him,
coughing and sputtering violently. He scooted himself farther back onto more
solid ice, dragging her by the wrist after him. When he felt it was safe, he
raised himself first to a crouch, then onto one knee, all the while listening
to the ice. The only noise, though, was the lass’s haggard breathing and the
distant sounds of his clansmen on the shore, who were calling out
encouragements to him.

When he fully trusted the ice, he knelt and scooped
the shivering, coughing lass in his arms. Despite the fact that he had been
lying on the ice with only his shirt to protect him from the cold, his skin
felt warm in comparison to her drenched, huddled body. She wasn’t out of the
woods yet.

As quickly as he could manage without slipping,
Burke strode to the loch’s shore. Several of his clansmen ripped the extra
plaids from their own shoulders and wrapped them around both him and the lass.

“What the bloody hell brought about that course of
action, Burke?” Laird Sinclair said as he vigorously rubbed Burke’s back
through several layers of plaid.

“I…I just…I knew I needed to help her,” he replied,
though judging by the Laird’s furrowed brow, the explanation made about as much
sense to him as it did to Burke himself. He didn’t know what had possessed him
to act so rashly. All he knew was that something in the lass’s cries had
stabbed him directly in the heart, and he had to save her.

He looked down at the slight lass in his arms. Her
long, dark hair was plastered to her head, and her wide eyes were still locked
on him with a look somewhere between awe and disbelief. For some reason, his
chest pulled again, and his stomach did a little flip.

Just then, he registered her sodden wool cloak and
gown. The weight of those garments had nearly drowned her, and now they were
holding the cold water to her skin.

The Laird seemed to have the same thought. “She
needs to get warm. Dougall, where is the nearest Sutherland keep?”

The gnarled old clansman thought for a moment. “Brora
Tower isn’t far from here, Laird. We skirted it a few miles back,” Dougall said
finally.

The lass nodded vigorously. “B-B-Brora,” she managed
through chattering teeth.

“Lass, you’ll also need to…discard those soaked
clothes,” Laird Sinclair said, averting his eyes.

The lass’s eyes widened even farther, and her gaze
shot from Burke to the Laird and the surrounding men.

“Don’t misunderstand,” the Laird said quickly, holding
up his hands. “We are not interested in compromising the honor of a Sutherland
lass. But you could die if you don’t get warmed up, and fast. We can keep you
covered with our plaids the whole time, and we’ll all turn our backs while you
disrobe.”

After another futile glance at the group of men, she
nodded again. She reached for the tie holding her cloak closed at her neck, and
though her fingers shook violently, she managed to unfasten the tie. With a few
adjustments of his arms, which still firmly held the lass to his chest, Burke
managed to free the sodden cloak, and the garment dropped heavily into the snow
at his feet. Laird Sinclair scooped it up and draped it across his saddle.

Burke set the lass down so that she could begin
working on her dress, and all the Sinclair men moved off several paces with
their backs turned. But when the lass’s feet touched the ground and her weight
came onto them, she cried out and nearly toppled over. Burke instantly wrapped
her in his embrace once more, steadying her.

“M-m-my legs d-d-don’t seem to b-b-be working,” she
stuttered through her shivers.

Desperate to help but unsure of what to do, Burke
glanced around. His eyes lighted on a copse of evergreen trees a few dozen
yards away. “Perhaps I can help,” he said, scooping her off her feet again.

He strode to the copse and set the lass down again,
but this time, he placed her on a fallen log so that she didn’t have to use her
frozen legs or feet. She began fumbling with the ties on her dress, but her
fingers couldn’t manage the small knots.

After watching her struggle for several moments,
Burke tentatively reached out and glanced at her for permission to help. She
nodded silently, so he set to work on the gown’s ties. In short order, he had
the ties loosened, but hesitated again at what to do next.

“It’s all right,” the lass said, apparently reading
the uncertainty on his face. She reached up to the material at her shoulders
and feebly pulled it down, but the soaked wool barely budged. So Burke helped
her again, tugging down her dress even as he felt his face flame.

Despite his cousins’ teasing about his skill with
the lasses, the encounters he’d had—a few stolen kisses with a kitchen maid, a
bit more with a lass from the village last Beltane—seemed tame and boyish compared
to this. He had saved this beautiful, ethereal lass, and now he was helping her
disrobe.

He ripped both his thoughts and his eyes away from
what his hands were doing as they tugged her dress past her breasts and down
her waist to reveal her soaked chemise. He was only doing this out of
necessity, he reminded himself. He forced his eyes to stay firmly focused over
her right shoulder, but even still, his hands brushed the inward curve of her waist
and the flair of her hips, and he felt a stab of heat despite the frosty
temperature.