The Scot's Conflict

Table of Contents Patrol Team 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 Epilogue Dear Reader Novels by Keira Montclair About the Author Patrol Team Chapter One Matheson land, The Black Isle of Scotland, early summer 1315 “He’s a she!” Geoffrey MacGriffin of Clan Matheson bellowed at the man in charge of the visiting group of Ramsay guardsmen. Grif had been serving with the Matheson guards for several months now, and today they were in the forest engaged with the archers in a mock battle, something he’d never been involved in before. A battle that apparently included a female. Logan Ramsay shouted back, “She’ll kill ye as quickly as will any man, ye fool.” An arrow buzzed by Grif’s head, and he ducked in response, cursing. “Bitch.” He yanked out his dagger and flung it at the lass high up in the tree, hoping to bring her down. Today was just a practice contest, but it was a matter of pride to win. Logan scowled. “Geoffrey MacGriffin, if ye kill my great-niece, I’ll no’ be pleased about it.” Logan was the patriarch of Clan Ramsay chieftain’s family, and he was here at Clan Matheson visiting his daughter, Brigid, the wife of the Clan Matheson chieftain, accompanied by his guardsmen. The Ramsays and Mathesons, along with Clan Grant, were close allies, and King Robert the Bruce had recently sent orders to the three clans for a joint mission. Logan Ramsay was an expert in battle, swordsmanship, and archery. The Matheson guards were fortunate to have him here to work with them before leaving for the Borderlands. With a grimace, Grif glanced up in the tree, catching a view of the blonde lass, who flashed him a grin before she hid behind the cover of new leaves. A woman! He’d heard stories of the talented Ramsay female archers, but he’d always pictured them standing in their pretty gowns in a small field inside the castle wall, shooting their bows at a large target a short distance away and squealing whenever they hit it. The lass in the tree was not clad in a gown. If so, he’d have seen all the way up to her sweet arse. Not an unpleasant notion, to be sure. But he’d be damned if he’d lose to a lass. He moved over to the tree and began to climb it, ready to yank her out of hiding so he could tie her up and be declared the winner. He’d nearly reached her when she lithely dropped to the ground, straightened, aimed her arrow, and hit him in the middle of his forehead with its false tip. “Gotcha,” she declared quietly before she whirled about and strode away. He thought his head would explode. And not from the arrow. The six other Matheson guards positioned at various places in the forest had apparently been watching because their hoots and hollers echoed through the trees. “Beaten by a lass, Grif?” “She had ye long before ye’d have gotten to her, Geoffrey.” The Ramsay elder made his pronouncement as he strode away from the tree. His friend, Lewis, laughed so hard he fell out of his tree onto a pile of soft moss, clutching his belly. It had been Lewis who’d given Grif his nickname, and it had stuck. Grif much preferred it to his full name. “A lass! Grif lost to a lass,” Lewis sputtered. Grif moved to a different spot and jumped out from behind the tree, only to find Logan standing directly in front of him. “Ye tried to kill my great-niece.” He held up a dagger and said, “Is this no’ yers, MacGriffin?” “Aye, ’tis mine,” Grif said, drawing his words out slowly to give himself time to think of a way to justify his actions. He tugged on his short beard as he thought, a telling clue that he was anxious. Logan had a nasty reputation. Grif did his best not to dwell on that and voiced the only excuse that came to mind. “I thought it was a bear in the tree.” “A blonde bear? Ye are a fool.” Logan returned Grif’s dagger and mounted his horse, shouting out instructions. “Mount up, all of ye, and return to the castle grounds. We’ll meet by the edge of the firth.” Grif quickly mounted, caught up with the blonde, and pulled his horse abreast of hers. “Well done, lass.” She slowed her horse to turn to him with an arched look. “Ye can wager yer arse that I am no’ a he. I’m proud to be a she. Dinnae forget it.” She flicked the reins and her horse trotted ahead of his. His gaze was caught by the bounce of her backside in the saddle, which put proof to her declaration. The lass had a gorgeous arse, one he’d never seen the likes of on a lad. Lewis drew close and, still laughing, asked, “Did ye curse her out for beating ye?” “Nay. I congratulated her.” Grif had been taught by his uncle Ellar, with whom he currently lived, that honesty was always best, and that in battle, it was important to recognize skill. Grif had learned through painful experience that it was better to listen to his uncle rather than his foolish sire. While his uncle was also a drunk, when he was sober, he gave good advice usually. Who else did he have to listen to? “God’s toes! How the hell did I no’ know we would be battling a lass?” Lewis shrugged. “I forget ye have no’ been with the Mathesons long enough to know the Ramsays’ past. They have the finest archers in all the land, many of them women. Logan’s wife, Gwyneth, has trained most of their daughters and