Dreamer (Highland Treasure Trilogy) Read online

  DREAMER

  Book one of

  Highland Treasure Trilogy

  May McGoldrick

  ISBN 0451197186

  Copyright © 2010 by Nikoo K. and James A. McGoldrick

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher: May McGoldrick Books, PO Box 665, Watertown, CT 06795.www.JanCoffey.com

  First Published by NAL, an imprint of Dutton Signet,

  a division of Penguin Books, USA, Inc.

  For Carla Patton--writer, doctor, and friend

  May your dreams come true…

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  PROLOGUE

  Jervaulx Abbey in Yorkshire, England

  August 1535

  “They’ve fled!”

  Arthur Courtenay, the king’s Deputy Lieutenant in Yorkshire, angrily spurred his steed past the flaring torches until the giant animal was snorting and tossing his head not a half pace away from the faces of the cowering servants and villagers.

  “Where have they gone?” His voice rasped with barely controlled fury. “When?”

  “These fools have all swallowed their tongues, m’lord.”

  Sir Arthur drew his sword, and the shoving throng fell away as he nudged the animal forward to the very steps of the abbey’s chapter house.

  “Drag the abbot out,” he shouted. “And the monks, as well. Every fat, cowardly one of them. I’ll stick their treasonous heads on pikes if they do not come up with answers.”

  “M’lord!” The sound of one of the soldiers, calling as he ran from the small churchyard, drew the Deputy Lieutenant’s head around. “M’lord, ‘tis true. There is freshly packed earth behind the large crypt.”

  “What are you waiting for?” Courtenay wheeled the warhorse, forcing the fearful onlookers back even farther. “Start digging. And clear the yard of this rabble.”

  Riding into the graveyard, the Deputy Lieutenant dismounted in front of the crypt, a stone chapel-like edifice, and threw the reins at a soldier standing nearby. Wordlessly, Sir Arthur stalked around the building, but stopped and whirled when a cloaked figure reached out of the shadows for him. He knew the man.

  “You sent word too late, monk!” Courtenay rasped.

  “Three prizes have escaped us, but the treasure has not.”

  “‘Tis here? Are you certain?”

  “I saw the three sisters dragging the chest down here after the sun set. They must have dug that hole earlier, though, for all they did was place the chest in there and cover it.”

  Sir Arthur peered at the two men digging out the loose soil, as another stood over them with a torch. Their faces glistened with sweat and dirt.

  “You told me that you’ve searched their belongings many times these past months. You told me that none of them could be hiding anything.”

  “We did search!” The man pulled the hood of his dark cloak farther forward on his face as one of the English soldiers walked past them. “But yesterday, two messengers arrived. The first brought news that their father, Edmund Percy, is dead in the Tower.”

  “Aye, and that treacherous Thomas More will be next,” Sir Arthur spat. “His head will soon adorn London Bridge, as well. But what of it?”

  “We expected you to bring the news of their father’s death and a warrant for their arrest at the same time.”

  “I had to wait for the Lord Chancellor to issue the warrant, and then,” he angrily scuffed at the dirt beneath his boots, “never mind all of that. You failed to send me the message in time, and that displeases me. But what of this second messenger?”

  “The second one came from Nichola Percy, the mother.”

  “Do you believe she is nearby?”

  The hooded man shook his head. “From what I’ve been able to glean from the abbot and the servants, she remains in hiding in the Borders, north of the Tweed. But as you thought, she has remained true to her daughters. In fact, she must have sent help, as well, for their escape.”

  “And you think the messenger brought the treasure?” Courtenay’s question received only silence for an answer. “But it makes no sense for her to effect their escape, and yet still send them--”

  A cry of discovery brought both men’s heads around.

  “‘Tis here! We’ve hit it, m’lord.”

  “Bring it out!”

  The Deputy Lieutenant strode hurriedly to the side of the open grave, but the hooded man only moved as far as the shadows would allow.

  The wooden chest was lifted out of the hole. Leaning over the dirt-covered box, Sir Arthur motioned to one of the soldiers to break the latch with the end of his halberd. With a single blow, the deed was done, and Courtenay pushed forward toward the unopened box. The anticipation was obvious in every face, and even the hooded man now stepped out of the shadows.

  The Deputy Lieutenant crouched and pushed open the lid. Every man leaped back, scattering to a safe distant.

  Every man, that is, but the hooded figure who, stepping past Sir Arthur, reached into the chest and picked up the squirming, hissing snake.

  “What the devil?” Courtenay cried out angrily.

  The cloaked man threw the snake back into the grave. “Catherine Percy, the eldest of the three, has an odd sense of humor...and no fear of adders.”

  “So this is it?” Sir Arthur barked. “This is to be our treasure?”

  The man reached into the box again and picked out a rolled parchment. Opening it, he looked up and met the Deputy Lieutenant’s gaze.

  “Nay, m’lord! She also left us a map!”

  CHAPTER 1

  Balvenie Castle, Scotland

  The dowager’s gray eyes opened and slowly focused on the half armor before moving upward to the anxious face of the tall, red-haired man standing by her bed.

  “Has Catherine Percy arrived?”

  “Nay, Mother. Not yet.”

  “You will look after that young woman, John. You will honor our promise to protect her.”

  “Of course! You know the messenger brought word that she is safe and en route. There is nothing more that needs to be done.”

  The old woman coughed weakly and, lifting a frail hand, waved off the attentions of the young woman gliding around the bed. The invalid’s eyes never left the warrior’s face, and the attendant, her niece Susan, stepped back and picked up a piece of needlework, settling once again onto the stool beside the great curtained bed.

  “Your bride, then! I assume she is here?”

  He shook his head. “Nay, Mother. Ellen is still two days ride away, at least.”

  “Then why are you here? To watch
me die?”

  A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of the warrior’s mouth, but faded quickly. “If I recall correctly, you sent for me.”

  “Hmmph! I do not know why I should have!” the woman grumbled feebly. “But then, I’ve no more than a handful of breaths left in this wasted, old carcass. Maybe I simply thought you’d see fit to grant me my dying wish.”

  Quietly, he took her bony hands in his powerful grip. “You’ll live, Mother. You’ll live to see us wed. In fact--”

  “I do not give a thistle puff to see a wedding.” Lady Anne Stewart’s eyes moved and rested on her niece’s face as the young woman quietly stitched away at her work. If only Susan had been more like the other women--the court ladies or better yet, the bonny little fools who used any excuse to come to Balvenie Castle and fawn over her son, fighting for his attention.

  Just then, Susan’s eyes lifted and met hers. Whether the young woman glimpsed a hint of regret or perhaps disappointment in the dowager’s face, Lady Anne didn’t know, but her niece rose quickly to her feet, flushing crimson, and with a polite curtsy stepped out of the bedchamber. Mother and son were left alone.

  The dowager let out a heavy breath. “I’ve forsaken all my other dreams, John. All I care about now is for you to bring me your wife--full in the belly with an heir.”

  “These things are not done overnight.”

  For the flash of a moment the sickly woman’s eyes sharpened. “That’s exactly when ‘tis done. And I’ve seen enough mistresses of yours hanging about the gates to know you are an expert in the matter.”

  The warrior bit back his words as he released her hands.

  “Do something useful. Prop me up a wee bit.”

  So John Stewart--earl of Athol, cousin to James V of Scotland, and laird of nearly all from Elgin to Huntly--pushed his great brand and his dirk behind him and gently lifted the tiny woman into a sitting position.

  Lady Anne Stewart’s expression was one of intense pain. As she settled against the pillows, her keen eyes studied her son’s weary face.“They tell me you’ve been tearing up the countryside looking for cattle raiders.”

  “Aye. And when I get them, I’ll hang them all from the nearest tree that’ll hold the blackguards’ weight.”

  “Clever lads, I take it.” The dowager’s brow furrowed as she gave another weak cough. “The same as before?”

  “The same,” Athol growled.

  The dowager knew that for weeks her son had been scouring the glens and the rugged mountain terrain for the raiders. “There is an easier way to stop these men.”

  His patronizing glance was fleeting, but too open to go unnoticed.

  “I do not know that anything but a noose or the edge of a sword that will convince these mongrel dogs.”

  “I know, you think me a doddering old fool. But I have the answer. All you have to do...is...ask...”

  Athol sat down on the edge of the bed as a spell of coughing shook the old woman’s frame. A moment went by as she appeared to struggle for breath.

  “Very well, I am asking,” he said when she’d settled again. “Give me your advice.”

  She looked at him sternly, a glimmer of satisfaction in her gray eyes. “I tell you, John, it cannot be too soon for you to marry. You need a bairn to succeed you. That’ll be the end to all your troubles.”

  “I’ve agreed, Mother. I know you’ve been impatient to see me settled. The plans are set and--”

  “Plans...plans...” Her words gave way to another wrenching cough. “I had plans too. I brought Susan up here with the plan of seeing you two wed. If you would have done as I--”

  “Mother!”

  There was warning in his tone, she knew. And they had been through this discussion months ago. “Well, what you say is not good enough. What good are plans when it comes to the troubles of your people? Nay! I tell you...”

  Her words trailed off, and the laird turned to the window, where the sound of shouting rose from the rain-swept courtyard below. In an instant, the shouting could be heard below stairs. Striding across the floor, he yanked open the door of the chamber in time to see his thin, gloomy-faced old steward breathlessly mounting the top step down the corridor.

  “M’lord!” the steward gasped, his face crimson from the exertion and the news. “M’lord, they’ve struck the farm at Muckle Long Brae.”

  The earl’s face darkened ominously. “Were any of our people hurt?”

  “Nay.” The steward lowered his voice with a glance at the dowager, who was peering from the bed. “But the filthy dogs burned your new barn there.”

  “And the cattle?”

  “They took a half dozen of the new blacks and turned out the rest, before setting the place afire.”

  “But what of Wat and his kin?”

  “Trussed up like hogs, m’lord. But unhurt. His oldest lad’s below, if you want to talk to him. The barn is ashes, he says, and Wat’s set out after them.”

  “Saddle my horse, and gather the men.” Outside the window, the rain had turned into a downpour. The steward disappeared down the corridor.

  “John,” the dowager called as he turned his grim visage toward her. “It’ll be a dark and rainy night, and they’ve half a day’s start on you, at least.”

  “Aye, but Wat’s after them now, and they have to travel the same as we do.”

  “But you know these mountains hold a thousand hiding places for these brazen thieves.”

  He took a step restlessly toward the open door. “Aye, and I know most of them, Mother.”

  The woman began to cough again, holding up her hand for him to wait. “Let them have the cattle, John,” she said finally. “Go and meet your bride.”

  Athol stared at her with scarcely concealed disbelief. “I’ve always respected you as the woman who brought me into this world. But you know that as earl of these lands, I take no direction from anyone--especially not from--”

  “Not from your mother? From a woman?” The dowager let out a labored breath. “Well, ‘tis pleasant to know that you at least have enough respect for me on my deathbed to grant me leave to remain your mother.”

  “I have to go, m’lady.”

  She raised a trembling hand in the air. “Wait, John. This may be the last...the last...we meet. You are my only son...”

  The set of his firm jaw bespoke his will. She knew that no matter what affection he held for her, his people’s needs would always drive his actions. “Please wait. Hear me. I know what lies behind the actions of this Adam of the Glen.”

  Athol’s eyes narrowed, and the old woman knew she had bought another moment. He stepped toward the bed.

  “How do you know anything about him? And how do you even know his name?”

  “Even if my servants failed to keep me informed, I would know.” She turned her pained gaze from Athol’s face and stared at the dark ceiling above the window. “I know for a fact what he wants, for I have known him since he was a bairn.”

  Athol loomed over her in an instant. “No matter how hard I’ve tried, we’ve failed in every attempt to find the hiding place of the bastard. I’ve questioned every man and woman from here to Elgin. Not one of them has known a thing about this son of Satan. Not where he came from or why he suddenly has decided make a hell of the lives of my people. And now my own mother tells me that she’s known this man all along!” He took her hand firmly in his. “Very well, Mother. What is it that you know?”

  Lady Anne Stewart’s other hand reached over and gripped her son’s arm. “Listen to me, John, and do what I say. On the grave of your father, I tell you he would be giving you the same advice if he were still alive...in spite of the wreckage that Adam has caused.”

  “Speak, Mother.”

  The dowager knew her son was a man feared by many, particularly when his people’s welfare was at stake. Now, feeling his gray eyes boring into hers, feeling the bridled power of the fingers wrapped around hers, she knew why.

  “No matter where you look for the man, he is cert
ain to escape you. He knows these lands as well as you, John. And he knows your own people better than you would ever imagine.”

  “Aye, he knows what to steal from them.”

  “All the same. I’m telling you the truth.” Her grip tightened on his wrist. “And no matter what you do, he’ll continue with this destruction. Adam of the Glen will become bolder with every passing day. ‘Tis no wonder that you feel him lurking around you. He won’t give up...not until...”

  A violent fit of coughing again left her gasping for breath for a few moments. Athol wrapped an arm around her shoulder and raised her higher in the bed. She shook her head at his offer of a cup.

  “Nay. There...there will be no rest...no peace until you’re wed. Not until the news of a bairn to succeed you spreads through your lands.”

  Athol stared down at her. “I do not understand this. I still...”

  “Adam believes he has the right to live off your wealth.” Her fingers trembled as they tightened on his arm. “The bastard son of a whore he might be, John Stewart, but what you do not know is that Adam of the Glen is your brother.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Catherine Percy listened to the tinkling laughter of the woman riding behind her.

  Ellen Crawford was young, clever, and certainly beautiful. And she was apparently to be the wife of John Stewart, earl of Athol. By chance, the two traveling parties had met just north of Stirling Castle, and Catherine had been delighted to be able to travel into the wilds of the Highlands in the company of another woman--especially one who had traveled this route before.

  Glancing back in the direction of her traveling companion, Catherine wondered to what extent she could seek the assistance of the future countess of Athol. Or for that matter, how much she could reveal to her.

  Certainly, Catherine thought, she was no longer in any immediate danger of being captured by the treacherous Deputy Lieutenant. And her sisters, too, were well on their way to safety. Any day now, Laura should be arriving at the Church of St. Duthac, on the eastern sea, and Adrianne, the youngest, was probably already settled in on an island called Bharra in the Western Isles.