Page 2 of The Lost Highland Prince (The Last Celtic King #1)

1

Chapter One

He woke with a start, sweat dripping from his brow as he pushed himself to a sitting position and tried to shake off the memory. He breathed deeply, trying to get the smell of fire and blood out of his nose and the sound of clanging swords and screams out of his mind.

Close to twenty years had passed since the day his family and lineage had been destroyed in front of his young eyes. Twenty years since Morag had saved him and brought him to the men who had turned him into something new. The boy had died that day along with his family, but the man he had become still dreamed every night of the burning and the death that had destroyed his world.

He groaned quietly, running his hands over his face and hair to try to gather himself. Cailean glanced over to the other bed in the small hut that was his home for now, and his mood lifted as he saw the person there: his closest friend, Darren, laying sprawled out and snoring as though he lay in the comfort of a king's bed. Darren's cheerful manner had been Cailean's shining light over these long years, and he was glad that his troubled sleep no longer managed to affect Darren's slumber like it had when they were younger.

Cailean slid off the pallet that was his bed and quickly washed and dressed as quietly as he could manage, though he half suspected that a stampede could make its way through the hut and Darren would still snooze. He didn't bother lighting a candle while he dressed; his eyes had long since adjusted to the darkness, and anyway, he could tell from the gradually lightening sky outside the window that the sun would rise soon enough.

Once he was ready, Cailean left the hut and was hit by the unexpected briskness of the cold air. It was never warm at this time in the morning, but he hadn't expected quite a chill in May. Nevertheless, he was glad for it; it finished waking him up fully and helped him feel a little more secure in the present, pushing the past back to where it belonged. Where it had to stay, for the sake of his sanity, if nothing else.

The rebel camp usually rose early, but Cailean was up before any of them, and it was still quiet and sleepy as he paced through the site. Tents and small huts like his own were scattered everywhere, this semi-permanent structure set up just outside the village having been his home for several months now. It was a good position for the rebels, and Cailean thought it likely they'd stay here for months more if nothing happened to move them. The nearby village was sympathetic to the cause, and the goodwill was definitely something the group didn't want to pass up on.

He kept going until he reached the designated field they'd set aside for training. Here was where he'd find the refuge he sought, honing his skills with the blade and his own body in the here and now to try to fight off the helplessness that the dream always brought with it. Cailean started his training with a run, jogging the perimeter once, then again, then speeding up and keeping a faster pace. As he circled the camp, the sun began to rise over the horizon, and the beauty of the camp, the nearby village, and the countryside around them came into focus.

His memories were dark and red, but the Highlands that welcomed him as the sun brought the day were green and bright. The rolling hills surrounded the village, which sat in a natural valley, dotted with purple heather and yellow buttercups that were so picturesque that Cailean often wondered how any violence could ever occur in such a place. Birds twisted through the air, welcoming the day, and between the thicket of trees on the hillsides, Cailean saw dark figures of animals moving as the restlessness of night gave way to the calm of morning.

By the time he'd finished his run, more of the rebels had risen from their beds and made their way to the training grounds. They all greeted him with smiles and nods; he got on well with many of the men here, almost all of them, though they didn't know who he truly was. To be fair, even he didn't know who he truly was, not really, so why burden them with his past? Only those closest to him here knew about it, and that was more than enough for him.

He saw Fergus Bruce, Darren's cousin, standing alone near the training weapons, and he made his way over. Fergus and Darren were night and day; the former was gloomy and broody where the other was all sunshine and smiles, but both were extremely skilled warriors, and Cailean enjoyed the company of Fergus as well.

"Spar?" he asked, picking up a training sword and offering it to Fergus.

Fergus raised an eyebrow, then nodded, accepting the weapon. Cailean picked up one of his own, and the both of them slipped easily into their fighting stances, beginning a practice drill with the effortlessness of two men who had done it a thousand times before. As they fought, some others gathered to watch — noticeably, though, Darren was not among them. Cailean was mostly focused on the fight, but in the back of his mind he made a note to tease his friend for sleeping in too late yet again.

Fergus and Cailean sparred vigorously, working up a sweat, and when they were done, other men moved in to offer their own challenge. After about an hour, Darren finally sleepily joined them, and Cailean did indeed take joy in teasing his friend quietly as Darren picked up his own sword for their turn.

"Redcoats could murder me in me bed and ye wouldnae stir," Cailean commented, holding up a hand to indicate that he needed a break for a sip of water. "The earth could tear itself in twain and ye'd still be sleepin'."

"Aye, and happy for it. Ye'll see who's wrong when ye're all too tired tae defend yerselves," Darren bantered back good-naturedly, grinning ear to ear. "Why are ye naggin' me, anyway? Are ye me mam now?"

"God forbid. Kier has a hard enough time bein' yer da, and that grizzled old warrior's bound tae have seen worse," Cailean replied. "And who kens what ye've done tae poor Fergus tae make him the way he is."

Darren laughed. "Och, Fergus has been gloomy since birth. Ye cannae blame me for that — though he does, that's for sure."

The two friends laughed and got into position, but before they could start their own fight, someone called out, "Scouts!"

Cailean lowered his sword and turned. There, coming toward them, were indeed some of the scouts they'd sent out to the surrounding villages, some other cousins of Darren and Fergus who acted as rangers and spies as required. There were many members of the Bruce clan involved in the rebellion, and each of them was loyal and stouthearted in a way that made Cailean proud to know them.

The grizzled figure that was Kier Bruce, one of the members of the rebel council, stepped forward to receive the newcomers. Cailean was surprised; he hadn't even known that Kier was watching them train. Kier said in his usual gruff tone, "What news?"

For a man approaching sixty, his voice still carried such overwhelming strength and force that it caused the two scouts to momentarily shrink back. Cailean grinned; if even Kier's own niece and nephew weren't used to him yet, was it any wonder Darren was a bit strange? He turned to tell his friend that light barb under his breath, but stopped as the woman scout, Ferda, spoke.

"Uncle, there's been a murder," she said, causing instant gasps and murmuring in the crowd. "A fortunate one, if ye ask me. Malcolm Darach is dead. Murdered in his bed. Some say by a servant, others say by his own wife."

Cailean froze. Chieftain Malcolm Darach was… dead? That man had been one of the primary traitors who had led the McNair family to ruin and destruction. Was he truly gone?

"Ye're sure, lass?" Kier asked, focusing on her intently.

"Aye, Uncle. He's dead."

Stillness filled the air. "Who told ye this?" Kier asked quietly.

Ferda's voice took on a significance that Cailean didn't understand. "A wee birdie told us, Uncle. There's nae doubt."

Kier's expression changed, then he nodded. "It's true, then," he said, then turned to the gathered group. "Malcolm Darach is dead!"

A cheer rose up around them, but Cailean remained composed. He ignored the knowing look that Darren was giving him; the rest of the men did not know who he was, and he had no intention of letting them know the full depth of his satisfaction in that moment.

What he did know, though, was that if he ever met the person who had done this, he'd shake their hand. They could not know what good they had done for the world by ridding it of that monster.

* * *

Maeve's wrists hurt from the manacles that chained her to the wall, but she had long since stopped trying to pull her arms free. She sat in the corner of this damp, dark dungeon, wondering if perhaps they intended to let her starve to death here in the bowels of Darach castle, which until just a day ago had been the closest thing she had to a home.

Two guards approached and peered in. She didn't know their names; her husband had never encouraged her to mingle with the men, not that she'd particularly wanted to be near the ones who were loyal to him. Sure enough, they both wore identical grins as they saw her, apparently repugnantly pleased to see her brought so low.

"Chained up like an animal. Think they'll keep her that way, Rod?" one asked.

"Maybe. Or they'll just cut off her head as punishment. What sort of madwoman thinks she can get away with murderin' her own husband and just actin' innocent in response?" Rod asked, spitting on the floor. "Who else could have done such a thing, eh, Brian?"

"But I didnae do it! " Maeve wanted to scream, though she knew it would be no use. She had already screamed it over and over as they'd dragged her here after finding her standing over Malcolm's cold, dead body. She'd found him that way, and in her shock, she'd tried to pull the knife from his throat. As soon as they saw the blood on her hands, they were sure of her guilt.

"She always resented him," Brian commented. "Do ye remember the day she was brought here? All high and mighty, though she and her sisters were nothin' but cattle their own father brought tae market."

They both laughed crudely at that, and Maeve looked down at the floor, trying not to feel the pain of how accurate the blow had been. The guards may be speaking crudely, but they were not wrong. Three years ago, her cruel father, Laird O'Sullivan, had brought her here to be sold off as meat. He'd presented all three of his daughters: Maeve herself, then just eighteen, her older sister Breana, who'd been twenty, and even his little pet, Nessa, who'd been just sixteen. Nessa had always been their father's favorite, the one who escaped from his cruelties, but it had been very clear that if Malcolm had wished for her, Laird O'Sullivan would have given her up without any arguments.

But he hadn't wished for young, spirited Nessa, nor had he gone for the innocent, somewhat naive Breana. He'd chosen Maeve, saying that her beauty was reason enough that she would make a fine wife, and Maeve had never wished to be plain more.

"It isnae that her bonniness did her any good," Rod sneered back in the present. "After all, the chieftain couldnae get a bairn on her nae matter how much he tried. Even a lass as bonny as this can still be a barren shrew, it seems."

Maeve pursed her lips. She wasn't barren, at least as far as she knew, but the rest of the castle and probably most of the clan believed it was so. And why wouldn't they? Malcolm had never once touched her sexually in the entire time they had been married. He'd tried once on their wedding night, but to his shame, he'd been unable to perform. After threatening her with death if she breathed a word of it to anyone, he'd told her they'd try another night and left her chambers.

She still remembered how she'd felt as he'd left her that night, naked and confused and still virginal despite her worst fears. Such confusion, such… relief. She'd known it was only a matter of time before her virtue was taken from her, but at least that night, she'd been granted a reprieve.

And yet, the expected night had never come. They'd slept in separate rooms ever since, and he'd never come to her at night again. It was probably the only reason that she'd survived the last three years with her sanity intact.

Of course, nobody knew they didn't even sleep together. As far as they were concerned, Maeve had murdered Malcolm right in their marital bed. It wasn't true, it wasn't , but it did make her wonder: who else could have had access to his rooms? Was he bedding a maid, perhaps? No, not a maid. She had suspicions that his reasons for not wanting her extended to all women, and for just a moment, she felt a surge of pity for him. Despite his warlike nature and the rumors of his cruelty — they said he'd killed his own father for power — she wondered what it must be like to spend a whole life in a lie. It didn't excuse who he was, but it did make her wonder more about who he could have been.

But then, hadn't she done the same ever since she'd left her father's home? Wasn't everything that made her Maeve buried the day she'd given him her consent at the altar? Or even long before that, the first time she'd passively accepted her father's cruelty toward her?

The guards were speaking again. Rod suggestively said, "Ye ken, a lass can still have some uses without childbearin', especially one with so pretty a mouth as that."

Brian chuckled. "Aye. She's still awfully bonny even tied up as she is. I wonder how well she could service a man with her arms manacled behind her like that."

Fear sped up in Maeve's heart, but before it could evolve into panic, Brian sighed and continued.

"But we cannae. Eoin would have our heads. He's got it in that noble mind of his that naebody is tae touch her, and ye ken if we go against him…"

Rod grunted. "Aye, well, now that Kyle's takin' over the throne, so tae speak, Eoin's gonnae be the chieftain's son. We'd best keep on his good side."

Pure, unfiltered relief, so strong that it made her sag in place, filled Maeve at those words. Eoin, sweet Eoin, had saved her life without even knowing it. He was the son of Kyle Darach, Malcolm's closest friend and advisor — a member of the clan, but not a blood relation, as far as Maeve knew. Eoin wasn't like the rest of them, though. He was softer, kinder, a little sweeter. He'd sneak her treats sometimes, or tell her a story when he thought that no one else was listening. Apart from Ann, her maid, Eoin was the closest thing Maeve had had to a friend these long three years.

"Well," Rod said, "There's time before she's hanged. Perhaps Eoin will forget himself and let us have our fun after all. I'd say we deserve it for all the hard work we're doin', dinnae ye agree?"

Brian laughed coldly. "Och, aye," he said. He slapped his friend on the shoulder. "Dinnae worry, lad. Ye and I can go tae the brothel tonight and have them pick out a pair of their finest for us. They willnae be a patch on this one, of course, but any lassie's a looker when it's dark."

The two guards laughed uproariously at this awful joke as they walked away a little further down the corridor and out of Maeve's earshot. All she could hear of them was the echo of their sickening guffaws, and then nothing. She knew that, for now at least, she was alone.

Good. She preferred that to listening to the horrible things they'd been saying. Maeve felt like perhaps she should be distraught, or crying, or something, but even though she had tried, no tears had come. Ever since she had discovered Malcolm's body, it felt like something in her had broken, and her heart would not come out from its shelter to help her to adjust.

Hanged , they'd said. Or perhaps beheaded. Who knew. There were many ways that people liked to kill in these brutal days, at least that was what she had learned from her father and then from her husband. She wondered which method they would choose when they took her short, miserable life from her.

Maybe it should have been easy, but it wasn't. The injustice rankled inside Maeve, and she was desperate to fight back, to find her place, to find herself . She hadn't killed Malcolm, but she almost wished she had, because at least then she would have stood up for herself. Now it was too late, and she'd die here alone, her name besmirched as a barren murderess, with barely anyone who would mourn her.

Breana would cry, she was sure, and maybe Ann. Eoin would be sorrowful. But beyond that? She doubted Nessa would be particularly invested in her fate either way, and as for their father, well, he'd probably just be angry that she'd wasted herself as a valuable commodity to the O'Sullivan name.

There'd be nobody to visit the grave of Maeve O'Sullivan — she had never been able to think of herself as Maeve Darach — and soon she would fade into nothingness.

With that thought, Maeve closed her eyes, and said goodbye to the last of her hope.