Highlander's Heart (Clan Matheson #2)

“I will never stand down. I fight, to win this war and to take the MacDonald’s stronghold for our clan.” His adversary spat at his feet, his gaze venomous. “Your blood and that of every MacDonald here will soon soak this soil.”


“That will never happen.” With one flick of his hand, Gregor summoned his skill and whipped his enemy’s blade out of his hand then Gregor rammed into the warrior with one shoulder and took him down to the ground. The MacKenzie hit his head on a protruding rock and his eyes rolled to the back of his head. Gregor went down on one knee next to him, checked his breathing. He was alive, but well and truly out of it, and likely to stay that way. One down, so many more to go.

In the deadly dark, warriors fought and blood splattered and swirled within the murky wash of the incoming tide. The war raged and he fought on, not only for their allied MacDonald kin here on the Isle of Skye, but also to keep their enemy from bringing their war to his own Matheson clan’s shores across the sea. He’d never allow any harm to come to his kin or the woman he loved. Garia, his wife and soul bound mate, carried their firstborn child and he intended to return to her, just as soon as he could.

Slashing through the enemy’s ranks, Gregor bounded closer toward the MacDonald chief.

A fearsome MacKenzie warrior came at the MacDonald and the chief blocked the man’s swift blow. Their claymores clashed dead center and another MacKenzie warrior swung in behind the chief. Two against one. ’Twas a calculated attack, one that would weaken their defenses if they lost their chief so soon into the battle. Damn bloodthirsty MacKenzies. They owned such a large parcel of land along the western coastline of the mainland yet still they wanted more, would slay thousands of innocent people to gain the control they so heartily desired.

Gregor flicked one hand out and with his skill sent his allied MacDonald chief flying toward safety. Both the enemy warriors attacking him fell forward into the other, their blades sliding down each other’s and piercing their chests. Blood bubbled from the two warriors’ mouths as they toppled into a heap. An unfortunate death. One he couldn’t have halted with its sheer swiftness.

He raced to the chief’s side and together they bounded back into the melee and fought. The battle raged for hour upon hour and Gregor used his skill where he could until the midnight sky lightened and dawn approached.

Bodies littered the shoreline, at least four MacKenzie warriors having fallen to one MacDonald. He’d done his best to aid his allied clan during the skirmish, but he couldn’t have been everywhere.

“Retreat!” An ear-piercing whistle suddenly shrilled from one of the MacKenzie’s and their enemy all turned tail and raced back toward their galley.

Could it be over? With his sleeve, Gregor wiped blood from his face, his muscles aching and his body weary. Battling, using both his sword arm and his fae skill combined, had worn him out.

A shout went up from the MacDonald warriors as they chased the retreating MacKenzies, and the MacKenzies bounded into their vessel, rowed through the heavy swell and out of the bay.

Shouts of victory filled the air and the men surrounding him gathered their own injured and with them slung over their shoulders, marched back toward Dunscaith Castle and the healers who would be waiting to tend to their casualties.

“I thank you for your aid this day. We’ve won the battle.” The MacDonald chief grasped Gregor’s shoulder.

“That we have.” Relief filled him, although he didn’t doubt this would be one battle amongst many that he’d have to fight against the MacKenzie clan.

“Gregor, I also have a request. I want the power of your fae blood in my line and ask that you consider a betrothal between your firstborn child, the babe your wife now carries, and one of my own children.”

“I cannae promise a betrothal, no’ when so many of my fae kind are soul bound to another, but should my child no’ be mated to another, then aye, I will consider your request.” Such a marriage of alliance was one he too heartily desired. ’Twould bind clan MacDonald and clan Matheson together as naught else could.

“Then we shall speak again when the time is right.” Lips lifted, the MacDonald sheathed his sword while along the horizon, the sun rose.

A new day had dawned, one they now entered with victory on their side.

Gregor lifted his face high and gave thanks for the new day. Now, ’twas time to return to Garia and his clan. His soul bound wife would need him soon and he intended to be right by her side when she gave birth to their long-awaited child. The first child he hoped would be one of many.





Layla’s Birth


In the meadow near the ancient House of Clan Matheson, Scotland, the very night of the battle on the Isle of Skye, 1187.