Page 1 of Wanted By the Wicked Highlander

Chapter One

The world burned around Sebastian MacGregor.

Flames devoured what had once been homes, swallowing pine wood and dry winter thatch while clansmen cried out over collapsing roofs, and terrified horses screamed against their tethers.

The stench of roasting livestock and melting tallow choked the air. The blistering heat pressed against his face like a solid fist. He was already moving toward the blazing Great Hall, his boots churning through mud, when Hamish caught him by the rough wool of his tunic and slammed him hard against a splintered timber cart.

“They’re still inside!” Sebastian roared, struggling violently against the older man’s iron grip, his muscles straining beneath his leather jerkin. “Duncan’s inside!”

Hamish’s weathered face contorted. Smoke and raw grief etched deep lines across his skin. “He’s gone.” His voice cracked on the last word, jagged, and he did not try to hide it. “And if ye charge in there, yer nephew loses ye too.”

Another large part of the roof collapsed inward. A brilliant shower of golden sparks burst upward into the dark Highland sky like a grotesque celebration.

Around them, hollow-eyed women pressed crying children against their bodies and wept silently. Old warriors stood with their broadswords still drawn, knuckles white, with nowhere left to swing them. The destruction was total and absolute. Everything Duncan had spent fifteen long years building was gone in a single, merciless hour.

Sebastian went still.

His chest heaved against the constriction of his chest-plate. His fists remained clenched at his sides until his fingernails dug into his palms. The predatory roar of the fire filled the space where his brother’s booming voice once was, and he stood rooted in the ash and let it burn through him because there was nothing else to do.

His nephew had not made a sound since the first torch touched the Gate.

Sebastian became aware of him slowly. The small, trembling weight pressed against his left shoulder, two thin arms lockedaround his neck with a desperate, white-knuckled grip that had not loosened once.

Brian’s tear-streaked face was buried deep against his collarbone, hidden entirely from the leaping flames, the blinding smoke, and whatever else a six-year-old child should never witness.

Sebastian could not remember the exact second Duncan had shoved the child into his arms. He only remembered that his brother’s hands had been slick with blood when he did, and that he had turned back toward the burning threshold without looking at Sebastian again.

‘Find him a home. Find him a mother. Find him a future. Swear it, brother.’

And like the arrogant fool he was, Sebastian had laughed then, a short, hard sound, and answered,‘I am yer sword arm, not a nursemaid for bairns.’

Duncan had gripped his shoulder once. Just once, his fingers sinking deep.

‘Swear it.’

Sebastian pressed one rough, calloused hand flat against the boy’s small back. He could feel Brian’s tiny ribs expanding with each shaky, terrified breath.

Still breathin’. Still here.

He adjusted the child higher against his broad chest and turned away from the burning Hall for the last time.

He did not look back.

Hamish was beside him a moment later, speaking in a low, gravelly, urgent murmur about the South Road, about finding shelter before dawn, and about the widow MacNeil, whose small farm might take in the weakest of them for a single night.

Sebastian heard the distant shape of the words but none of their meaning. His mind had already bypassed grief, moving ahead to cold, hard military calculations.

Head count. Rations. Clean water. How many horses remained? How many of those horses were lame? How far could a broken clan of two hundred starving people walk before winter ice made the mountain passes completely impassable?

He stepped up onto the broken iron rim of a cart wheel and turned toward what was left of Clan MacGregor.

The frantic noise subsided. Slowly, then all at once, two hundred pairs of eyes turned toward him. Farmers. Widows. Old, scarred men who fought and bled beside his father. Toddlers were standing alone in the snow because there was no one left to hold them. Their faces were smeared black with ash and lit by a harsh,flickering orange glow from the fire consuming what little still remained.

They were waiting. Every single one of them was waiting.

God help them all.

Because Duncan was dead. Which meant that by ancient Highland law, the brutal warrior they were looking at had now become their Laird.