HIGHLAND HART
Vampire Hart, prequel
Cooper McKenzie
Copyright ? 2015
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Sample Chapter
June 15, 1715
John David Hart stepped to the end of the line with his shoulders back and his head held high, which for a scared to his toenails thirteen-year-old was a challenge.
He ignored those he passed who whispered as he worked to keep the tip of his father’s scabbard from dragging the ground though the muscles of his left arm were quivering from the effort.
They, like the rest of his body and soul, were past exhausted.
He was the last man in the line of men that crossed the room, ending at the dais at the far end on the last night of the clan’s annual gathering.
He was not sure if being last was good or bad, but he was here.
He wore his father’s plaid, sword, and dirk, ready to swear his oath of allegiance to his mother’s clan.
The plaid wrapped around his middle twice before going up and across his narrow chest and over his left shoulder.
Like the scabbard, the tail end of the plaid dragged the ground behind him.
Like the sword, it was too big for him, but the plaid had been a wedding gift to his father by Evan MacGregor, the clan chieftain himself, after his father had married his mother.
His mother had been cousin to, and ward of, Laird Evan MacGregor after her own parents had died when she had been just John David’s age.
Funny how history repeated itself in the most painful ways.
His father had only worn this plaid on special occasions—weddings, funerals, and clan gatherings. And now, John David was wearing it.
Though he was exhausted and near starved, John David refused to give in to the weakness.
He held himself steady and shut out the whispers and murmurs and gossipy titters of those he passed as the line moved forward as one man after another pledged themselves to their clan.
He stared ahead, focusing on the broad back of the man ahead of him.
His plan was simple. Stand the line, swear his oath, and deliver the news of his parents, all without giving in to the grief that weighed him down as if the crag this castle sat upon was resting on his narrow shoulders.
The man before him stepped forward and knelt. He recited the oath of fealty before standing to share a dram of whiskey. In another minute, John David would need to recite it perfectly himself, proving himself to be a worthy man to take his father’s place even if he was half English.
The big man he had followed across the great hall one step at a time turned and walked away.
It was John David’s turn before the laird.
As he stepped forward, the crowd closest around them settled and grew silent.
Though his knees were knocking together from more than stretched nerves, John David knelt, feeling even smaller than he normally did when the crowd of fully grown and battle-hardened clansmen around him took another step closer.
Barely five feet tall and thin as a spike, John David knew he wasn’t much to look at, but the fire in his heart had brought him from the far border of the MacGregor clan lands through a fierce storm that had raged every foot of the way.
It was all that kept him on his feet to this point, the determination to see the laird and pass along the news.
He took a moment to clear his throat as he debated which duty to fulfill first—the one to his parents, or the one to his clan. Clearing his throat again, he swallowed hard then decided direct blood outweighed distant.
Tilting his head back, he stared at Evan MacGregor through the tears that filled his eyes.
The man was tall, broad in every direction, and fierce looking, with a scar that ran from the corner of his right eye down his cheek to his jaw.
This was a warrior, a protector, a man to be feared and bowed to.
A man who may or may not react well to the news John David brought from the South.
In a clear voice, loud enough to be heard in the near silent room, John David said, “My Laird MacGregor, as the only offspring of David John Hart and Sarah Jane MacGregor Hart, ‘tis my sad duty to inform ye they’ve been murdered, and the sheep given to their care stolen by raiders a fortnight past.”
John David closed his eyes as the tears he’d been holding back since watching his parents be killed in front of their home overflowed, burning twin trails down his cheeks.
Closing his eyes, he tried to push the tears back as he took a deep breath, and then another.
On the third, he opened his eyes again and met the shocked gaze of the man he had only met twice in his life.
When he was five, the man had come to visit, and given him a bag of sweet biscuits.
Last year, after John David had turned twelve, he had accompanied his father and mother from their home to this very spot where he had stated the oath of clan loyalty for the first time.
The MacGregor looked stunned. Shock and silence flowed across the room following a hushed murmur that Sarah MacGregor, the laird’s favorite relative, and her English husband were dead.
In less than a minute, the clink of a bottle against a pewter cup at the refreshment table in the back of the hall could be heard at the dais.
Needing to complete his duty as quickly as possible before he embarrassed himself and his parents any further, John David took another breath and straightened his shoulders.
Then he spoke the words of the oath, pledging his body, blood, and loyalty to the clan, even as he wondered bitterly why he bothered.
What had the great Laird MacGregor done to help his family over the past thirteen years?
After he finished speaking, John David pushed to his feet.
Once there, he swayed under the unaccustomed weight of his father’s sword hanging from his hip.
The MacGregor still had not responded. Was his oath not good enough?
He had said the same words every other man in the clan had said, so why hadn’t he been offered a dram and a handshake?
Straightening his shoulders, John David tried to turn and walk away.
The only problem was that his body refused to cooperate.
Four days of walking through rain and wind without food or rest had finally caught up with him.
He began to burn from the inside out just before everything went fuzzy.
Seconds later, a black curtain dropped around him, and he collapsed to the floor.
****
The men who had heard both his oath and the news of his parents stepped back, staring at the lad as if he were a giant creepy-crawly.
When it became apparent that they were waiting for the boy to wake up on his own, eighteen-year-old Fiona MacGregor pushed her way past her father’s two closest advisors and into the center of the circle.
Since her mother’s death three years earlier, Fiona had taken on the public duties her mother had fulfilled.
A series of maids and kitchen wenches had stepped in to tend to the laird’s private needs.
Kneeling beside the young man, she laid a hand to his forehead and found it to be hot as Mrs. Willis’s iron kettle. “Malcolm, would you please bring the lad?” she said, addressing the biggest, fiercest-appearing man in the circle.
She was one of the few who knew that, though he had the face and body of a giant, inside, Malcolm was as gentle as a lamb, which was why she preferred him to some of the other guards her father sent with her whenever she left the castle.
Without a word, Malcolm picked up the boy and followed in her wake as she swept through the hall. The clansmen backed away, giving them a wide path to cross toward the front hall and the main staircase.
With the many bedrooms in the place being full, she decided to put John David Hart in her own bedroom until he recovered from whatever illness he had been struck down by.
From the haggard look of him as he had shared the news and taken his oath, she had a feeling he was suffering from exhaustion and extreme hunger, on top of a deep sadness at the loss of his parents.
She held the door open for Malcolm, and once the man was in the room, she waved to her bed. “Lay him down there. Then if you would be so kind, strip him.”
Without waiting for a response, she turned and placed another log on the fire. Then she lit several candles to add enough light to see by. When she turned back, she found Malcolm had laid the boy down and taken away his sword and dirk, but was now standing and staring at the boy.
“Malcolm? What’s wrong?” she asked, crossing to stand beside the giant man.
“’Tisna right fer the boy ta be in this room.”
“And where would you have him be? He’s ill, and half-starved from the look of him. I hardly think I’m in danger from him,” Fiona said as she studied the boy.
He might be small and slight now, but she could see the beginnings of a devilishly handsome man taking form. Another few years and he would have his pick of the ladies.
“Still ‘tisna right,” Malcolm insisted. “Yer the laird’s daughter. Ye shouldna be giving yer bed over ta the half-breed son of an Englishman.”
Though Fiona wanted to argue further, she had a patient to tend to. With the clan gathered, the healer had been busy from daybreak until midnight so it would be up to her to take care of this brave boy who had escaped death to bring the news of raiders to them.
“If you’re not going to help me tend him then fetch some porridge and tea for the lad, and I’ll take care of him myself. And give my apologies to Father for leaving the gathering so abruptly.”
Fiona went to the armoire in the far corner of the room and pulled out several towels and washrags. The first thing the boy needed was a good cleaning. Then she would try to wake him long enough to eat something, after which she would let him rest as long as he needed.