The Saint (52 page)

The inspiration for Gregor MacGregor’s arrow was Henry V, who at the age of sixteen was said to have had an arrowhead removed from just below his eye at a depth of six inches(!) by a presumably highly skilled medieval surgeon.

The derivation of “keep your friends close and your enemies closer” is unknown, although it is sometimes attributed to an ancient Chinese general.

A few minor notes: Dun Raith is my made-up name for the unnamed ancient Norse structure that predated what is now Castle Leod, and Loch Glascarnoch, where the royal party camps, is actually a later-date man-made loch.

As always, please visit
www.monicamccarty.com
for picture books of some of the places mentioned in this book, extended Author’s Notes, deleted scenes, and more.

A huge thank you to my editor, Kate Collins, who should be the poster girl for quick feedback. Of the eight (!) books we’ve worked on together, I think she’s batting a two- or three-day average response time. Pretty impressive—especially given her workload. As an author, I can’t tell you how wonderful it is not to sit on pins and needles waiting. And as always, thank you for helping me make my stories so much better with your insightful, thoughtful comments.

Where would I be without Junessa Viloria, “gatekeeper” extraordinaire? Thank you for keeping everything running so smoothly. You are the best!

To the entire Ballantine team for taking my manuscript from raw to polished in a gorgeous cover sitting prominently on shelves everywhere. Especially to Lynn Andreozzi and the Art Department for not one but two covers! I appreciate how hard you all work to get this done so quickly. Thank you.

To my wonderful agents, Annelise Robey and Andrea Cirillo, for the constant and unwavering support. Annelise, I still smile when I think about the message you left for me after reading this book. Wish we still had answering machines so I could hit replay when I need a pep talk!

Emily Cotler, Estella Tse, and the entire team at Wax Creative, thank you for keeping my website beautiful and up-to-date.

I’m fortunate to have a large group of writer friends who are always ready to brainstorm, talk industry, and meet for lunch. Bella Andre, Barbara Freethy, Carol Grace, Anne Mallory, Tracy Grant, travel-buddy and fellow “Onica,” Veronica Wolff, and Jami Alden, who goes above and beyond the call of duty as my alpha (never beta) reader.

Finally, to my husband, Dave, who has become quite good with the grill and has even been called on to pinch hit on the stove. Necessity is indeed the mother of invention. And to Reid and Maxine who prove the point: if they’re hungry enough, they’ll eat.

B
Y
M
ONICA
M
C
C
ARTY

The Saint
The Viper
The Ranger
The Hawk
The Chief

Highland Warrior
Highland Outlaw
Highland Scoundrel

Highlander Untamed
Highlander Unmasked
Highlander Unchained

Read on for an excerpt from

THE RECRUIT

by Monica McCarty

Published by Ballantine Books

Kenneth was in his element, enjoying every minute of his moment in the sun. He’d been born for this. Fighting. Competing. Winning. Aye, most of all winning.

It had taken him years of hard work, determination, and pulling himself out of the mud more times than he wanted to remember, but he was on the cusp of achieving what he’d wanted: to be the best.

One more event to go and a place in Bruce’s secret army would be his. He was going to do this, he could feel it. He exulted in the cheers of the crowd, knowing they could feel it too. Fate and destiny had joined forces behind him, and nothing was going to stand in his way. For the first time, there would be no one in front of him. Tomorrow, after the wrestling event, he would be named champion.

He’d already achieved something no man had ever done before, winning all five weapon events. In one more sign that fate was with him, he’d won the archery contest. It had taken the shot of his life to defeat John MacGregor, but he’d done so by less than a quarter of an inch.

He wished he could have seen MacKay’s face. After tomorrow there would be no doubt that he deserved to take his place among the best warriors in Scotland in Bruce’s
secret army, and his former rival wasn’t going to be able to do a damned thing to stop it.

Kenneth glanced up to the king’s pavilion, pleased to see Bruce clapping along with the rest.

That’s when he saw her. His wee voyeur.

He’d found himself looking for her more than once over the past few days—four, he realized—and had begun to wonder whether he’d imagined her. But nay, there she was, sitting serenely and inauspiciously at the end of the king’s platform with Alexander MacKenzie and his wife. Was she one of Lady Margaret’s attendants, then?

Solving the mystery should have been enough to put the matter behind him. Right now he should only be thinking of one thing: tomorrow’s contest. He shouldn’t be wondering what it would be like to be the one to cut those too-tight laces of hers and release some of the passion she had bottled up tightly beneath the austere facade.

Hell, he knew there were men who fantasized about debauching a nun, he just hadn’t thought he was one of them. But he couldn’t deny the fierce hum that ran through his veins when he thought about ripping off that shapeless black gown that she donned like armor to reveal the wanton he’d glimpsed hiding beneath that fade-into-the background facade.

He wanted to make her gasp. Wanted to see her lips part and color flood to her cheeks when he touched her. He wanted to be the one to make her shatter for the first time.

To his surprise, when he caught her gaze, he found himself nodding to her. Acknowledging in some way that he hadn’t forgotten her. He’d never singled out a woman so publicly—or done anything that could be construed as romantic—and the gesture took him aback.

Although he doubted anyone else had noticed, she did.
He could have seen her eyes widen from halfway across Scotland, let alone the fifty or so paces that separated them. He was more amused than surprised when she immediately ducked behind the man in front of her. But if she thought she could escape him so easily, she was mistaken.

He amended his earlier decision. Hell, he’d worked hard. He could afford to relax and enjoy a little pre-victory celebration. He wanted her, and waiting no longer seemed necessary.

He started toward her, but he’d barely exited the arena before he found his path blocked by the first of many well-wishers. He heard some form of “Sir Kenneth, you were magnificent” from the female contingent, and “Bloody impressive fighting, Sutherland” from the male.

After working so hard to get here, he should have been savoring every minute of this; it was what he’d always wanted. But instead he found himself impatiently scanning the platform and stairs where he’d last seen the lass. But the crowd was too thick and the lass too small for him to pick her out.

He finally managed to extract himself. Threading his way to the base of the stairs, he caught a glimpse of black in the sea of colorful silk moving away from him. He smiled, thinking it ironic that her plain clothing, which he suspected was meant to hide, was what identified her.

He would have gone after her, but Lady Moira caught him first. “Congratulations, Sir Kenneth, on yet another victory. Were you by chance looking for someone?” she batted her eyelashes so aggressively that he was tempted to ask whether she had something in her eye. Normally, such coquetry amused him, but right now he found it vaguely annoying.

His mouth tightened as he saw his prey slipping away.

Moira stood with Lady Elizabeth Lindsay, who seemed amused by her companion’s efforts. Lady Elizabeth was reputed to be devoted to her husband, and nothing Kenneth had seen suggested the contrary. She was friendly and polite, but nothing more. Which suited him just fine. Although she was a beautiful woman, she was shrewd, stubborn, and opinionated. He didn’t envy Lindsay the headache. Challenges were for the battlefield, not the bedchamber.

“We are all trying to figure it out,” Lady Elizabeth said.

“Figure what out?” he asked, glancing over her shoulder, trying to keep his eye on her.

“Who the nod was for,” Lady Elizabeth said.

He looked at her, barely hiding his surprise. “Nod?”

“Aye, it created quite a stir. The ladies seated around me were all quite sure you were nodding to them,” Lady Elizabeth said with a smile.

Ah hell, he guessed it had been more noticeable than he realized. Kenneth hid his reaction behind a wicked smile. “I was,” he said.

Lady Moira nearly yelped with pleasure, clapping her hands together. “I knew it, to whom?”

“I’ll leave that to you to find out,” he said with a playful wink. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I see my sister, and I need to have her patch me up so I’ll be ready for tomorrow’s competition.”

It was only partially a lie. The blow he’d taken across the ribs was starting to throb beneath his habergeon. The shirt of mail offered scant protection against the impact of steel on bone. He suspected he had a fairly nasty bruise brewing. He would see Helen to fix it up, but
after
he caught up with his little nun, who was weaving her way through the crowd at nearly a run in her effort to avoid him.

She was only running from the inevitable. Almost as certain as he was that he would win tomorrow, Kenneth was certain that before the night was out, he would have her under him. Or perhaps on top of him.

He felt a pleasant tightening in his groin just thinking about it.

She’d just passed through the gate into the castle when he saw her stop and turn.

“Mary, wait!” he heard someone—a woman—say. He turned, recognizing the speaker as Lady Margaret MacKenzie. “Where are you going in such a rush?”

Mary. He should have guessed. A common, unremarkable name that would draw no attention—just like the rest of her. He was only a few feet away, but she hadn’t seen him yet. “I think the sun—”

She stopped suddenly. Her eyes widening and mouth caught in an
O
of surprise as she saw him. On such a severe countenance, it shouldn’t have been so adorable. He found himself smiling.

In the sunlight, without the lens hiding half her face, he got his first really good look at her. Her hair was still hidden beneath an ugly black veil and wimple, her gown was still boxy and shapeless, her skin was still pale, her features were still too sharp—especially her cheekbones which stuck out prominently over sunken cheeks—and there was still an overall gray, ghostlike quality to her, but on closer scrutiny he knew his instincts had been right. The hint of prettiness and intentional obscuring of beauty was even more obvious in the stark light of day.

There was no hiding her eyes, and they were spectacular. Round and overlarge in her hollow-cheeked face, they were a remarkable greenish blue, and framed by thick, long lashes that seemed incongruously soft on such an otherwise
brittle exterior. Her mouth, too, was soft and full, with a sensual dip that made him think of a bow on a package he wanted to unwrap.

As soon as their eyes met, she instinctively dropped her gaze, as if hiding her eyes from his view.

Hiding. That’s exactly what she was doing. The question was why and from what.

“Lady Mary, Lady Margaret,” he said, approaching the two women with a bow.

Lady Margaret turned on him with a gasp. She gaped at him, and then at Mary. “You’ve met?”

He grinned, seeing the blush rise to Mary’s cheeks.

“Briefly,” she said tightly. The lass really needed to relax. She was pulled as tight as a bowstring.

“Not too briefly,” he corrected, unable to stop himself from teasing her. He liked seeing the color in her cheeks. “I’m looking forward to furthering our acquaintance. I hope you are not bored with the Games already? Perhaps they are not
exciting
enough for you?”

He knew he was being horrible, but he couldn’t help teasing her.

She wasn’t shy, though. Her eyes flashed at him in outrage.

“Oh, it was exciting, wasn’t it, Mary?” Lady Margaret interposed.

He thought she nodded, but her jaw was clenched so tight it was hard to tell. “I’m sure Sir Kenneth has heard enough accolades for the day, Margaret. He doesn’t need to hear them from us.”

She gave him a smile that made him frown. She had a way of making it sound unflattering. He was used to reading a certain amount of feminine admiration in a woman’s
gaze, but with her there was only cool challenge. He didn’t think he liked it.

“There is still the sword dance to be held this afternoon. If Lady Margaret doesn’t object, I would be happy to escort you.”

Lady Margaret looked at him in surprise. “Why would I object?”

“No!” Lady Mary said over her. Her blush deepened as she realized she’d spoken too harshly. “I mean, I regret that I must return to the castle. I’m feeling unwell.”

Lady Margaret became immediately concerned. She put her hand on Mary’s arm. “Is that why you rushed off?” She laid the back of her hand across her forehead. “You do look flushed.”

Mary nodded, not looking in his direction. Probably to avoid his quirked brow. “I think the sun was too much for me.”

Lady Margaret turned to him. “Mary has just recovered from an illness. This was the first time she’s had a chance to see the Games all week.”

“Is that so?” he drawled.

She couldn’t avoid looking at him any longer. He could see a flash of anger in her blue-green eyes that reminded him of sun glinting on the sea. He hadn’t expected so much spirit from such a quiet exterior, and his intrigue grew.

“Aye, I’ve been very unwell.” He swore he could see her chin stiffen, challenging him to disagree with her.

“My sister is a healer. If you like, I could send her to you.”

Her mouth tightened, hearing his challenge. “That is very kind of you, but I’m sure that will not be necessary. I think I just need to lie down.”