Loving Her Highland Enemy by Samantha Holt (best thriller novels of all time .txt) 📕

LOVING HER HIGHLAND ENEMY

SAMANTHA HOLT

Helstone Press

Copyright © 2021 Samantha Holt

All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Cover design by: Book Wizz

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309

Printed in the United States of America

PROLOGUE

She hated the new day. It didn’t deserve to be beautiful. It shouldn’t be promising.

Sunlight peeked over the hill, offering tiny glimmering splashes of a new day. The charred keep presented a stark contrast, its blackened walls and crumbling beams still smoldering, tiny wisps of smoke only hinting at the devastation it had wreaked. The bitter odor of burned wood refused to abate.

Nessa watched a curl of smoke rise until it vanished into the sunlight. She narrowed her gaze at the sky. How she’d wished to see a new day, to breathe fresh air only hours ago. She clenched her jaw.

The blanket slipped from her shoulders and the lady tending to her arm tugged it up.

“Poor wee bairn,” she kept muttering.

She didn’t feel poor or wee. She didn’t feel anything. Even the pain of the burn had begun to numb, feeling like a faint throb as the woman wrapped. She glanced at the reddened flesh before it vanished under the white cloth. She couldn’t recall when the fire had touched her or even the pain of it until she emerged from the blaze, gulping down breaths through painful lungs, scarcely able to see.

The woman tending to her said her wee size must have saved her. Allowed her to escape.

How could that be if no one else survived? Not even Leana who was so similar to her, people often mistook them for one another.

A knot formed in her dry throat.

Not even her mother. They were gone. All of them.

Men and women picked their way through the debris, calling in vain for survivors. There was no hope. Anyone who had been in that fire would know that. The flames had taken hold with such savagery that they scarcely had a moment to realize what was occurring. Escape had been impossible. Perhaps if she had remained in the Great Hall, she would be dead too. For some reason, the main doors wouldn’t open, as though they were barred from the outside.

She clenched her jaw. She might only be eight summers old but she knew why they had been trapped, and she knew how.

This had been a deliberate act. A fire set to wipe out as many important members of the clan as possible. That meant people like her and her mother would be sacrificed too. A mere maid and her daughter—no one important.

A few bodies had been found and were laid under blankets. One of them could be her mother but she imagined it would be impossible to tell if it was her. She’d already seen the state of the corpses, and when she had tried to wander over to look, the adults pulled her away.

“There, yer all patched up, love.”

Nessa eyed the woman. She didn’t recognize her, but the blaze had brought farmers from all over to help. Too late though. Everyone was gone.

The woman cupped her face. “What shall we do with ye?”

Nessa didn’t manage a response. Even if her throat wasn’t as parched as sand on a hot day, she didn’t think she could summon one. If she released a noise, what would come? Tears? Screaming? She wasn’t sure but she didn’t trust herself to unleash it. Ma always scolded her for crying, saying it was a waste of time, and she shouldn’t dwell on things that couldn’t be changed.

The fire couldn’t be changed. Her mother’s death couldn’t be changed.

She peered at her bare toes, scarcely able to recognize the gray, dusty digits as her own. When had she lost her shoes?

“What do ye have there?” The woman peeled open her clasped hand.

Nessa let her fingers fall open, revealing the charred remains of a tapestry. She recalled gripping onto it to pull herself up when the smoke became too much as she hunted for her mother in the hallway of the keep. All that remained of the image was a partridge in a pear tree.

All that remained of what was once her life.

She closed her hand over the fabric and clasped it tight, setting her jaw. Somehow, someday, whoever did this would pay. She would make certain of that.

The ground beneath her vibrated and she turned toward the sound of horses’ hooves. Several riders approached and she recognized the clan leader at the head of the group. She wondered if he would feel like her—wishing he had burned with his family too.

He spoke to one of the men picking through the rubble and his shoulders drooped. Then the man pointed at her and he turned her way. His gaze met hers. A few moments passed while he peered at her. Perhaps he would be angry that she survived, and his daughter did not. She would be angry too, she reckoned.

She pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders and kept her chin firm as he strode over. She followed the sight of his thick legs up to a broad chest, a red beard, and eyes that only just masked the pain behind them.

He crouched in front of her. “Yer Nessa, are ye no’?”

She nodded.

“Ye were a good friend to my Leana.”

She nodded again.

“It looks like ‘tis just the two of us now, wee lass.”

Her chin trembled so she bit down hard until her teeth hurt.

He flicked a finger under her chin. “That’s it. Stay strong. We cannae let our enemies see our weakness, can we?”

“Nay,” she managed to murmur.

Chief Sinclair urged her face