A Hellion for the Highland Hawk (Wishing for a Highlander #3)

Prologue

TWO MONTHS AGO

The blade whistled past Hunter Lawson’s cheek, and his blood answered the song of that steel, heightening his senses until he could have heard a pigeon cooing ten miles away.

His body responded before his mind ever had the chance to be involved, ducking under the broadsword and whirling around, half-dancer, half-warrior.

His opponent stumbled, thrown off balance, just as Hunter had known he would. A well-placed boot to the back sent the man sprawling into the sawdust, a satisfying grunt echoing across the yard.

With an almost disappointed sigh, Hunter rested the edge of his blade against the young man’s neck. “Do ye yield?”

The novice didn’t bother to raise his head as he lay there, breathing hard, each exhale spitting up a flurry of sawdust. “I yield, me Laird.”

“Pity,” Hunter grumbled, and took a step back.

So far that morning, no one had even made him break out in a sweat. Either the fresh meat, brought into the barracks from the surrounding villages, was getting worse by the year, or since his promotion from man-at-arms to Laird, his replacement wasn’t training them properly.

“Jack!” Hunter barked as he left the novice soldier to drag himself up off the ground.

As if he’d known this was coming, his man-at-arms, Jack Lomax, emerged from the armory with a wince.

“It’s nae me, Hunter,” he said, forgetting the formalities.

After so many years without any between them, it was proving to be a hard habit for him to break.

“If it’s nae ye, then whose fault is it?” Hunter scoffed. “I seem to remember makin’ ye me man-at-arms.”

Jack ran a hand over his auburn hair, still braided as if they were about to ride off to war.

“There’s nae much to choose from anymore.

” He lowered his voice. “Yer cousin’s vanity got most of the good ones killed.

All that’s left are the ones that didnae have any braithers or faithers to teach ‘em, since they were off fightin’ yer cousin’s war. ”

“Even from beyond the grave, he’s still sawin’ at me last shred of patience,” Hunter muttered as he glanced around at the pitiful sight of young men who lacked the capacity to even hold a sword properly.

Lads who looked as if they’d never worked a day in their lives, spoiled by mothers who had lost too many sons already.

He was about to tell Jack to put them on half rations until they could prove they were worthy of being fed, when a figure came hurtling across the training yard: one of the guards from the gate.

Tell me it’s nae an army marchin’ on us again.

As he had been reminded that morning, they simply didn’t have the men for that.

“Me Laird!” The guard skidded to a halt, breathless and wild-eyed in the way that could only spell trouble.

“What?” Hunter grunted, bracing himself.

The guard paused to gulp in a breath. “The gates, me Laird. Somethin’ at the gates. Ye’re goin’ to want to see this.”

“What is it?” Hunter didn’t have the time to make inspections.

The guard hesitated. “It’ll be easier to explain if ye just see it for yerself, me Laird.”

Tightening his grip on his broadsword and wondering if this was yet another test of his patience, Hunter stalked off toward the main gates.

Eager footsteps told him that Jack was in pursuit, though Jack had no business being anywhere but the training yard until these new soldiers showed some promise.

Still, he let Jack follow, just in case it was enemy soldiers at the gate. He might not have been the best tutor, but when it came to being in the midst of battle, sword in hand, there was no one better than Jack.

The main courtyard of Castle Lochlann stood eerily empty, a gaggle of guards stooped over something just outside the gates. Immediately, Hunter’s neck prickled, an omen of trouble.

“What is it?” he demanded to know as he approached.

The guards dispersed like rats in the granary when the castle cats were on the prowl.

As it turned out, they didn’t need to answer. Whatever it was answered for them.

A shrill wail pierced the unsettling silence of a courtyard that should have been bustling with activity.

“A bairn?” Hunter rasped, mostly to himself, as he stared down at a simple woven basket overflowing with blankets.

Nestled in the center, pink-faced and squalling, was a baby. Tiny hands curled into angry fists, more of a fighter than any of the useless lads in the training yard. If Hunter had to guess, he’d have said the child couldn’t have been more than a month old.

“There’s somethin’ in there with the bairn,” one of the guards said, pointing out the corner of a piece of paper.

Hunter pulled it out and found a note with his name written on the front in a jagged hand. Stepping to the side so the guards wouldn’t see, he opened the note and, with increasing unease, began to read:

Your spawn killed my daughter. Took my child’s life to ensure hers, so there is no doubt she is yours. I want nothing to do with the monster. She has no name; she does not deserve one.

“Is it a trick?” Jack asked, edging forward.

With a sniff, Hunter crumpled the note and shoved it into the pocket of his belted plaid. “Nay trick.” He eyed the wailing child. “She’s me daughter.”

As Jack stared wide-eyed and the guards looked anywhere but at their Laird, Hunter jammed the sharp tip of his sword into the earth so it would stand alone, and reached down for the abandoned child.

The child he had sired. The child who had evidently killed her mother on her way into the world. The child he might never have known about, if she had not been left at his gates.

Awkwardly, he rested her in the crook of his arm and stared down into her scrunched-up face. After such a dramatic entrance into life and such a brutal rejection, it was no wonder she was so angry.

Daenae worry, lassie.

He hesitantly put his finger in her tiny hand, surprised by her strength as she gripped it tightly.

“Ye’re safe now,” he whispered.

As her wails faded into soft hiccups and her face relaxed into sleepy calm, he got the feeling that she understood.

From now on, she had her father’s protection.