The Lass and the Thief (Highlands’ Partners in Crime #28)

Prologue

Callan Blackwood sat atop a sun-drenched boulder.

Locks of sandy hair drooped over his forehead, which was knotted in a frown.

A wooden shaft rested against his legs. He drew the blade of a knife over the tip, watching the thin wood curl and flutter away as he flicked it with his fingers.

The gnarled shaft transformed to a smooth, thick tip.

It was a meditative action for him, and a good way to while away the hours rather than being lost in the bitter injustices of the world.

Some days it was easier to forget about them than others.

Today was such a day, where the sun shone brightly, dancing upon the ground.

Trees rustled with lively activity from small animals, eager to forage while the sun was bright, offering fewer shadows in which predators could hide. Callan smiled at the thought.

He didn’t need shadows.

He stood still when he heard the clop of horses’ hooves against the ground, the sharp cry of a driver, and the rattle of hard wheels against harder ground.

Gripping the javelin in one hand, he slid to the ground and ducked behind the rock, shifting his legs to a crouching position and drawing one arm back, while the other stretched out in front of him, pointing at the road.

He breathed slowly. Even though he’d done this hundreds of times before there was no sense in getting complacent. His muscles were strained, his lips were pressed together, and his green eyes were focused on the view.

A tight knot twisted in his stomach as he saw the blood-red pattern of tartan.

MacPherson tartan.

The driver was one of the Laird’s guards, clad in a heavy cloak with a sword at his side, gleaming with eagerness to claim lives.

Frustration and anger prickled upon Callan’s skin as he thought about the crimes of the vile Laird. Greed, ambition, starving his own people, grinding them into the mud with his heels as he trod upon them.

Callan waited until the carriage turned around a narrow bend before he let the javelin fly.

His arm was strong and his aim was true.

The javelin thrust between the spokes of the rear wheel, thick enough not to snap as it turned.

There was a grinding sound and a jerking motion as the carriage came to an abrupt stop.

Callan breathed slowly, his hands now pressed against the boulder, watching like a hawk.

Or a vulture.

The driver cursed as he clambered down. He glanced at the door, which remained closed.

Callan smirked at the thought that the Laird himself might be sitting inside.

A handsome ransom would be promised indeed, although presumably the Laird would have deserved more than one guard.

A minor noble then? Someone of interest or importance?

Either way, Callan might be able to seize the opportunity and bleed MacPherson of some gold.

The driver bent down and frowned when he saw the javelin. He looked around sharply, drawing his sword, but Callan was well-hidden. There was an uneasy look on the guard’s face as he sheathed his sword and tried to wrench the javelin free. As soon as his back was turned, Callan moved.

Nimble footsteps danced upon the ground as Callan closed the distance between him and the guard.

At the last moment the guard noticed a shadow approaching.

He turned, a curse on his lips, fingers curling around the hilt of his sword, vexation in his eyes.

Callan wrapped a burly arm around the guard’s neck, dragging him back.

He raised a knee, driving it into the guard’s flank, making him grunt.

The arm fell away from the sword and Callan dragged him from the carriage, hoping that whoever was inside wouldn’t try to be a hero.

It had happened before, and it never ended well for them.

“Get… off me, ye…” the guard grunted, the words mangled and strained amid choking breaths.

Callan squeezed tight, but the man wasn’t going to go willingly.

He stamped with all his might and managed to catch the side of Callan’s foot.

Instinctively, Callan’s grip loosened and gave the guard the opportunity to shift around, grappling with Callan.

Thumbs tried to gouge Callan’s eyes. Heavy breaths washed over him.

“Ye think ye can get the best of me, bandit? I’ll rip out yer tongue,” the guard rasped.

Callan then headbutted the guard with enough force to hear a sharp crack.

The guard staggered back, clutching his nose as blood streamed from his nostrils.

Callan pressed the advantage, tackling the man and sweeping his legs away.

They both crashed to dried mud and hard stone, the impact reverberating through Callan’s body.

“Ach,” the guard grunted as his arms fell away from his face.

Callan laid an iron arm across the man’s throat. His other hand slipped down and pulled out a dagger.

“Thank ye for yer service tae my people,” Callan whispered, then slid the eight-inch blade between the man’s ribs.

Callan lifted his body as soon as he started to feel the warmth spread beneath him, drawing the dagger away as he did so.

The guard struggled for a moment, but then all his strength left him.

Callan sank back on his knees, twisting his neck and shaking the ache from his arm.

He grabbed a cloth from another pocket and wiped the blood off his dagger before returning it to its hidden position.

Then, he patted down the guard and was disappointed to find that he didn’t have much coin on him, but something was better than nothing.

He also took the man’s sword and hid it in a bush, intending to retrieve it later.

“Traveling light, eh?” Callan muttered and turned towards the carriage.

That was where the real treasure lay. He stood up and dusted himself off, not bothering to look back at the dead guard. The carriage was motionless as he approached, but then the door cracked open. Callan tensed, ready to defend himself, but he quickly realized that would be unnecessary.

A woman appeared.

A dress trailed along her slender figure, so white it reflected the sun and made it seem that she was glowing.

Raven hair framed her face and spilled over her shoulders.

Her mouth was a worried bow, her round cheeks flushed with fear.

As for her eyes he could not say, for they were covered by a blindfold of black silk.

“Who’s there? What’s gaeing on?” she asked in a vulnerable, trembling voice.

Callan narrowed his eyes, then his hand darted out and grabbed her hand, pulling this mysterious lass from the carriage and into his world.