Brave Highlander (Guardians of the Highlands #1)

Prologue

Lowlands, Scotland

Nearly a month before the Battle of Falkirk…

Only villains and lovers meet in the dark, casted in shadows.

And this party? Were decidedly not lovers…

Torchlight casted shadows on the dampened stone walls of the ruined abbey.

The group of questionable men gathered at the center of what used to be the nave.

They were surrounded by their own nervous energy and stacked stones that were still black from a fire that had erupted and marred the rock.

Even the stagnant stench of smoke lingered as if those who’d died in the blaze wanted all who entered to suffer the fear they had that night.

It was a warning of an angry spirit’s possible return.

Four men shifted uncomfortably in the darkened remains of a once grand abbey.

Four looked toward a fifth. The clear leader of this clandestine meeting.

Who stood still, staring through the space that used to be the roof.

He gazed at the moonless and starless night, as if he were waiting for a message.

It was well past midnight. Past the time any decent person would be out of their bed.

If they were caught now, they’d likely never see another morning.

They would need to be stealthy when they departed.

Though it was dark, they would not risk anyone being able to identify them or even ask what they were doing here.

Even if that meant slitting the throat of an unsuspecting witness. A body was easier to hide than a plot.

The last thing they wanted was to explain why they were here… What lie would they be able to tell that would make sense?

The Guardians of Scotland would be sent to burst through their gates, take out their guards.

They’d be dragged out of their beds in the middle of the night, tossed over the thresholds of their own doors and then thrown into the courtyards they claimed as theirs.

Their fate would be sealed as a sword came down upon their necks in a swift execution.

No trial. No leniency. For what rights did a traitor have to trial?

Of course, they weren’t really traitors. What they were doing here tonight was for their country’s greater good. They were here for their people, their families, and maybe a wee bit for their coffers. They gorged themselves on their own lies, maybe one day, they’d even believe them.

Two of the men, the weakest two, shivered, their eyes meeting, and then quickly darting away.

Neither wanting the other to speak for fear they’d run, and running would only lead to their death.

There was nowhere left to go but forward.

They’d sold themselves, and treachery was not something easily refunded.

The highest ranking among them cleared his throat and the rest of them stiffened, prepared to accept their orders. To execute his demands.

In such a low, gravelly voice they had to lean forward to listen, their leader spoke, “Robert the Bruce is gaining support,” an innocent enough statement to test if his words would echo off the stone walls.

They nodded in agreement and rain started to pelt through the opening of the roof, cold and stinging.

“His influence is spreading like pestilence upon the land,” the man continued. “And what do we do with pestilence?”

Again murmurs of agreement, and one man whispering, burn him.

Most would not categorize freedom as a pestilence.

But most were also not influenced by coin and land and titles offered by the English.

Not when they were deciding between a patriotic order called by the heir to the Scottish throne, and blood-soaked coins from the hands of strangers.

But in matters with men of questionable morals, money ruled.

“We will need to gain trust. Infiltrate and control troop placement and movement. Robert the Bruce canna win.”

What their leader really meant was that Scotland couldn’t win.

That King Edward I of England’s gold and promises of prosperity were more powerful, more enticing, than a free Scotland.

What was the price of everyone else’s freedom if one had enough money and prestige to live the extravagant life they deserved?

What did Robert the Bruce have to offer other than a broke and broken country? The choice was easy.

“Robert the Bruce gathers wolves. Let him. Wolves starve in the winter. Scotland will no’ survive this war. But our clans will. Make no mistake.” Their leader punched his arm into the air, a wet grimace on his face, the rain making him look like a rabid dog.

The four men standing before him nodded gravely, believing every word and already counting the money their bargains would provide.

Mistakenly, they believed that bravery was what had led them here.

But greed had a way of making a man blind.

Mistakenly, they believed they had the courage to protect their clans, their country, when others would not.

More fool them. Pride had a way of making a man go blind, too.

“Ye.” The man in charge growled toward one of the men, pointing a finger scarred from battle in his direction. “Ye will go first. Come closer, so I can tell ye what must be done.”

The others watched with solemn expressions as the man stepped forward, prepared to learn how he would betray Robert the Bruce and Scotland. He told himself it was to shield his family, but really it was to line his coffers with gold. Generations from now would thank him.

He did not think about those who would curse him. More the fool him. Turning a blind eye had a way of, well, ye know the rest…