Books by Heather Grothaus
THE WARRIOR
THE CHAMPION
THE HIGHLANDER
TAMING THE BEAST
NEVER KISS A STRANGER
NEVER SEDUCE A SCOUNDREL
NEVER LOVE A LORD
VALENTINE
ADRIAN
ROMAN
CONSTANTINE
THE LAIRD’S VOW
THE HIGHLANDER’S PROMISE
THE SCOT’S OATH
HIGHLAND BEAST
(with Hannah Howell and Victoria Dahl)
Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.
Contents
Books by Heather Grothaus
Contents
The Scot’s Oath
Copyright
Dedication
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
Epilogue
The Scot’s Oath
Heather Grothaus
LYRICAL PRESS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
Copyright
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
LYRICAL PRESS BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2021 by Heather Grothaus
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, educational, or institutional use.
Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Sales Manager: Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY 10018. Attn. Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.
Lyrical Press and Lyrical Press logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
First Electronic Edition: February 2021
ISBN-13: 978-1-5161- 0709-4 (ebook)
ISBN-10: 1-5161-0709-8 (ebook)
First Print Edition: February 2021
ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0713-1
ISBN-10: 1-5161-0713-6
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
For Sir Cheerio
Prologue
September 1428
Caedmaray, Western Isles
Scotland
The island looked like the loneliest place Thomas had ever seen—perhaps it was even the end of the earth.
The ever-present shrieks of the seabirds that had followed the supply boat from Thurso swelled as the living banner of white darts swooped beyond the bow to dive through the sea spray and fog surrounding the rolling green land mass. Caedmaray was small—like a crumpled hat floating upon the water—and seemed to grow no larger as they drew near. No structures penetrated the ceiling of mist, and, indeed, even the rounded crest of the isle’s pinnacle seemed too meek or tired to attempt challenging the dense cloud surrounding it like a cloche.
The burly captain appeared at Thomas’s side then, seizing the rail near the bow as the supply boat bucked and leaped over angry swells. “Caedmaray,” he confirmed in a shout over the roar of the waves and wind. The stocky cog ship that bore them had departed from Thurso just that morning on indigo water sheeted with white-gray waves. And even though the wind was at their back, hurtling them over the rutted and bucking sea, the journey had taken hours.
“Nae beach to land upon,” the captain continued. “We’ll move the cargo ashore, gain our trade, and be gone. Storm rolling in, English. If we arenae gone within the hour, ’tis dead we’ll all be, to a man. So move yer arse, ken?”
Thomas nodded. “Aye, Captain.”
Apparently satisfied with Thomas’s curt answer, the captain turned and stomped away as easily as if he were traversing the stone floor of a chapel while only comfortably drunk, but the wild dip of the clouds beyond the rail caused Thomas’s stomach to spasm, even after these many months.
Eight months since he’d fled the woods beyond Loch Acras. The same length of time as would pass before the supplies ship made the dangerous and lengthy journey to Caedmaray once more.
Eight months since he’d bashed in the skull of the dead Carson on the hillside, hoping against hope that Vaughn Hargrave would think it was Thomas Annesley lying dead and would cease his scourging of the Highlands for him. Cease his determination to see destroyed anyone connected with Thomas.
Seven months since he’d crept into Thurso and gained the basest work as an anonymous ship hand on a trading vessel, earning just enough through the balmy summer to buy food to eat in a darkened doorway or filthy alley after the town had gone to sleep. His hands had bled for weeks at first, the sea water and rough work sucking the moisture from his skin and ripping thin, deep wounds into the folds of his fingers more deftly than any blade.
Thomas’s hands no longer bled, the skin now tough and stiff and slicked like matted wool. Never of ample flesh to begin with, he was whip-thin now, his muscles like cording beneath his tanned skin, his hair long and curling and caught up with a leather strap most days. He looked like any of the other unfortunate young men hired on the trading ships now, and save for his crisp English accent, no one would ever guess that this young, starving worker—little more than a slave—was at one time Baron Annesley, Lord of Darlyrede. It was only when he spoke that the trouble was likely to ensue, and Thomas had spent many days recovering behind an inn from beatings doled out by drunken Scots.
Thomas watched Caedmaray slowly approach over the rutted, striped waves. The seas were rougher here than Thomas had ever known any sea could be, and it was nearly another hour before the ship dropped anchor some distance from the rocky shore. Then the ship hands slipped out like a strand of pearls, connected to one another by a rope lashed to a boulder on the island, chest deep in the icy, shoving water, passing heavy barrel and bundle and crate over head in vain attempts to keep the cargo dry as it was ferried ashore. The sea burned in Thomas’s eyes and nose, in his lungs and stomach, as he gasped to stay upright on the slick, submerged
