The Saint: A Highland Guard Novel Read online

  The Saint is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Ballantine Books eBook Edition

  Copyright © 2012 by Monica McCarty

  Excerpt from The Recruit copyright © 2012 by Monica McCarty

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  BALLANTINE and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book The Recruit by Monica McCarty. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  eISBN: 978-0-345-53211-4

  Cover illustration: Franco Accornero

  Cover lettering: Iskra Design

  www.ballantinebooks.com

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  The Highland Guard

  Foreword

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Other Books by This Author

  Excerpt from The Recruit

  THE HIGHLAND GUARD

  Tor “Chief” MacLeod: Team Leader and Expert Swordsman

  Erik “Hawk” MacSorley: Seafarer and Swimmer

  Lachlan “Viper” MacRuairi: Stealth, Infiltration, and Extraction

  Arthur “Ranger” Campbell: Scouting and Reconnaissance

  Gregor “Arrow” MacGregor: Marksman and Archer

  Magnus “Saint” MacKay: Survivalist and Weapon Forging

  William “Templar” Gordon: Alchemy and Explosives

  Eoin “Striker” MacLean: Strategist in “Pirate” Warfare

  Ewen “Hunter” Lamont: Tracker and Hunter of Men

  Robert “Raider” Boyd: Physical Strength and Hand-to-Hand Combat

  Alex “Dragon” Seton: Dirk and Close Combat

  FOREWORD

  The year of our lord thirteen hundred and eight. After two and a half years of war, Robert “the Bruce” has waged one of the greatest recoveries in history. Against nearly insurmountable odds, with the help of his secret band of elite warriors known as the Highland Guard, he has defeated both the English at Glen Trool and Loudoun Hill and the powerful Scottish barons who stood against him—namely, the Comyns, the MacDowells, and the MacDougalls. In October, the Earl of Ross is finally brought to heel, submitting to Bruce, who now holds Scotland north of the Tay.

  With England’s new king, Edward II, busy trying to rein in his troublesome barons, and his brother Edward Bruce keeping watch over the troublesome south, King Robert enjoys a well-earned reprieve from battle. But Bruce’s hold on the crown of Scotland is anything but certain, and in a realm filled with enemies both named and unnamed, peace is merely an illusion. Soon, Bruce will face the greatest threat to his life yet, and once again, he will call upon the legendary warriors of the Highland Guard to save him.

  Prologue

  Inverbreakie Castle, Ross, Scottish Highlands,

  August 1305

  Magnus MacKay caught the movement out of the corner of his swollen eye, but it was too late. He couldn’t get the studded leather targe around in time to shield himself, and the war hammer landed with full, bone-crushing force across his left side, sending him careening headfirst into the dirt. Again. And this time with at least a few broken ribs.

  Behind his own grunt of pain, he heard the collective gasp of the crowd, followed by the anxious silence as they waited for his next move. If he had one.

  A broad shadow fell across him, blocking out the bright sunlight. He gazed up into the menacing visage of his enemy.

  “Had enough?” the Sutherland henchman taunted.

  Every inch of him had had enough. Magnus hurt in places he didn’t know he could hurt. He’d been bruised, battered, and hammered to a bloody pulp, but he wouldn’t give up. Not this time. For five years he’d suffered defeat at the hands of Donald Munro, the Sutherland champion. But not today. Today the prize was too important.

  Magnus spit the dirt out of his mouth, wiped the blood and sweat from his eyes, and gritted his teeth against the pain as he dragged himself back to his feet. He wobbled, but through sheer force of will steadied and shook the stars clear from his vision. “Never.”

  A cheer went up from the crowd. Or half the crowd, that is. Like the rest of Scotland, the clans gathered to watch the Highland Games were divided. It wasn’t Robert Bruce and John Comyn that men took sides with today, however (though both of Scotland’s claimants to the throne were present), but the parties to an even older and bloodier feud: the MacKays and the Sutherlands.

  “Stubborn whelp,” the other man said.

  Magnus didn’t necessarily disagree. He lifted his targe in one hand and his hammer in the other, and prepared for the next blow.

  It came. Again and again. Like a battering ram. Munro was relentless.

  But so was Magnus. Every time the fierce warrior knocked him down, he got up. He refused to surrender. He’d be damned if he’d come in second to the braggart again.

  The Sutherland henchman had been a thorn in his side since the first Games in which Magnus had competed, five years before. Magnus had been only eight and ten, and besting the heralded champion, who was five years older and already in the prime of his manhood, had seemed an impossible task.

  Then.

  But Magnus was no longer a stripling lad. In the last year, he’d added considerable bulk and strength to his lean, muscular build. And at a handful of inches over Munro’s six feet, Magnus had the advantage in height. The scales were no longer so unbalanced.

  He’d already acquitted himself well at these Games, winning the foot race and sword challenges—although the best swordsman in the Highlands, Tor MacLeod, was absent—and placing among the top three in the other competitions with the exception of swimming, which was to be expected. Magnus hailed from the mountains of Northern Scotland, and the Islanders dominated the water events.

  But this was the challenge Magnus had to win. The hammer event belonged to Munro. He’d dominated it for nearly ten years. It was his pride and dominion. And wresting the crown from his nemesis’s head to claim victory for the MacKays would make it all the more satisfying. Hatred ran deep between the two clans, but Munro’s arrogance and disdain had made it personal.

  Still, it was far more than hatred and clan pride fueling Magnus’s determination to win. He was deeply conscious of one set of eyes on him. One b