A Warrior's Heart Read online

  A Warrior's Heart

  Avelyn McCrae

  Published by Avelyn McCrae, 2016.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  A WARRIOR'S HEART

  First edition. January 20, 2016.

  Copyright © 2016 Avelyn McCrae.

  Written by Avelyn McCrae.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  A Warrior's Heart

  Acknowledgements

  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

  Epilogue

  Thank You!

  Looking for your next good read?

  About the Author

  A Warrior’s Heart

  Acknowledgements

  NOTE: This book is intended for mature (18+) readers.

  Cover design by Kim Killion of The Killion Group, Inc.

  Cover image by www.hotdamnstock.com

  Professional editing by the incomparable M. E. Weglarz of megedits.com, a woman with a true gift for spotting plot holes, character anomalies, black holes, and other potential WTFs. Thank you, Meg, from the bottom my heart.

  Special thanks to my brave beta readers: Tonya B., Carmen T., Tracy B., Carol T., Sandie G., Nancy K., Sharon S., Martha W., Ashley Y., and Angie N. This is a better story because of them!

  And special thanks to YOU for choosing this book. You didn’t have to, but you did 

  Chapter One

  “What is this God-forsaken place we are coming to, Roran?” asked Sean as they rode side by side along the hard-packed dirt of the King’s Road. He pulled the cloth up higher over his mouth and nose to keep the dust from choking him. All around them, the once-green fields were parched and dry, the crops nothing but withered stalks under the relentless sun that bore down on them mercilessly.

  “Donatirim,” answered Roran. He was, by nature, a man of very few words. Sean, his travelling companion, brother in arms, and best friend for more than ten years, spoke enough for both of them.

  “Donatirim,” echoed Sean, his voice thoughtful. “I wonder what we shall find in Donatirim.”

  Roran didn’t comment, but Sean knew him well enough to interpret the look on his face. Nothing, it plainly said, except perhaps a chance to quench our thirst and lie upon something softer than the drought-ravaged ground.

  “You are right, of course,” Sean nodded, hearing the words unspoken. “It certainly does not look like the sort of place to find lads suitable for the King’s Guard. Probably a bunch of scrawny, underfed rats.”

  Rats were clever and resourceful, especially those that were hungry and desperate, Roran thought. Like Sean, he did not expect to find much in the way of prospects in this thrice-cursed land, but he was not as quick to discount the possibility as his companion.

  “Though I must confess,” Sean continued with ill-concealed anticipation, as if he was not the only one actually speaking, “that I, too, will welcome an opportunity to partake of ale and gnaw upon something other than cursed rabbit. And, if there is a God out here, mayhap we will be fortunate enough to be gifted with the softness of a woman’s flesh as well.”

  Roran snorted softly. Sean never had any difficulties in that area. Females lavished attention on him wherever they went. With Sean’s burnished copper hair and glittering blue eyes, easy smile and roguish humor, he drew the fairer sex like honey drew flies. Roran would wager his prized destrier, Draighean, that within an hour of crossing the boundaries into the town proper, Sean would have one woman bathing him while another fed him. Then he’d bed them both.

  Roran, however, found little pleasure in wenching. While arguably every bit as handsome as Sean with his dark chestnut hair and golden brown eyes, he smiled rarely, spoke even less, and lacked the approachability of his companion. Both were expertly skilled and deadly, but people – including women – tended to shy away from Roran’s silent intensity.

  Of course, he was still a man, and had the needs of one. He saw to them when necessary. But while the physical release did provide the occasional much-needed relief, he had yet to find a woman who aroused his interest as well as his cock. Interest was far more difficult to come by, he’d come to realize. The ladies of the court held no lasting appeal for him; nor had any merchant, farmer, or tradesman’s daughter.

  Nor were they worth the trouble. No, when he felt the stirrings of need, he rattled his coin and did what any responsible man who avoided entanglements did – he bought himself a whore. It simplified things. There were no misunderstandings; both parties held no false perceptions or expectations.

  Once a penniless street urchin, Roran McShane had risen through the ranks to become one of the highest ranking knights among King Aedan’s Elite Guard. In skill and combat, there was none better, except, perhaps, the man at his side. His honor was unparalleled and he enjoyed the responsibility, wealth, and respect of his station. Yet, for all that Roran had achieved, the one thing he wanted most was that which he feared he would never have: a woman capable of stimulating his mind, his heart, and his loins. Nearing the end of his third decade without even the slightest indication that such a thing was possible, he had all but forgotten that single, unrealized wish. He had resigned himself to a life of honor and service. There were far, far worse things.

  “It might do you some good as well, Roran,” Sean continued cheerfully. “A man needs to dip his stick in honey occasionally to preserve it, lest it withers and falls off.”

  Beneath the cloth that covered his nose and mouth, Roran’s lips quirked. Sean did have a way with words. For all the man spoke morning, noon and night, he was an entertaining travelling companion. He was, perhaps, Roran’s only true friend, and a fine warrior. He had yet to find another with Sean’s lightning-fast speed and skill with a blade. For the sake of such prowess he would definitely endure Sean’s inane, though amusing, chatter. Not to mention that he had no doubt the other knight would lay his life down in a heartbeat on Roran’s behalf, as he would do the same.

  It certainly made things more bearable, in any case. Thanks to the efforts of Roran, Sean, and others like them, the kingdom of Scamallhaven had enjoyed great peace and prosperity, limiting the need for skirmishes, let alone all out warfare or full scale battles. For nearly ten years now Roran and Sean had travelled together on such missions, riding out to the farthest reaches of the kingdom in search of likely candidates to become warriors to serve king and country. They held contests for interested youths, selected those with the most potential, then turned them into the finest Guard in existence. It was a great honor; those who were chosen left their homes as boys, but returned as fine men.

  This year, their quest had brought them to Donatirim, the small, nearly uninhabitable hamlet at the farthest reaches of the kingdom. Thankfully, they didn’t come this way often. It was a long, hard journey, and the very harshness and cruelty of the land had a way of draining a man’s hope, withering it as it did the cr
ops year after year. If they were fortunate enough to find a few lads, he thought wryly, they would be well-seasoned by the time they made it back to the kingdom seat in Scamallhaven.

  Sean gave a martyred sigh when Roran still didn’t answer, his mind clearly on more pleasant things. “Oh well. More for me then, I suppose. But mark my words, Roran. One day you’ll come upon a woman you will find impossible to refuse.”

  Sean spurred his mount forward, leaving Roran to shake off the sudden shiver of foreboding that took him.

  Chapter Two

  The people of Donatirim were very much as Roran had expected. A layer of dust and dry earth caked in the sweat of their skin, making them appear as if they had risen from the soil. They were, as a whole, very lean, no doubt a result of the lack of crops and cattle. The homes, like the people, clearly displayed a lack of affluence.

  Despite all that, however, Roran and Sean found them to be surprisingly welcoming and friendly. The dire drought had not dampened their spirits or their generosity. They didn’t have much, but what they did have, they shared freely. The king’s men were immediately welcomed as honored guests, provided with clean, comfortable rooms and the promise of warm baths.

  Just as he’d predicted, Roran soon found himself alone in a room above the town’s only alehouse, serenaded by the giggles and moans emanating from Sean’s room next door.

  He sighed. He could not fault a man for wanting his pleasures: food, drink, women, and the thrill of battle. Roran partook heartily of the food, drink, and battle, but not of the women. He satisfied his lustful needs when he had to, but he could not take the joy in it that Sean did. Such trysts with skillful wenches always left him feeling physically sated but empty. He likened it to filling his belly with berries and bark. It provided him with the sustenance he needed, but it was only fulfilling a physiological need, no more. He did not enjoy it, he did not crave it, and the only satisfaction he got from it was the knowledge that he had done what his body demanded of him.

  Roran climbed out of his bath, glad for the chance to feel clean once again. There was a soft rap upon his chamber door. Wrapping a strip of drying cloth around his lower half, he answered the summons. A comely wench, laden with a tray of meats and bread and ale, lowered her head shyly. “Your meal, m’lord.”

  Roran opened the door and stepped aside so she could enter. Being the gentleman that he was, he stayed by the door to hold it for her exit. The young woman placed the meal upon the single scarred wooden table beneath the window and turned back to him. Instead of passing through the door, however, she fell to her knees before him, unexpectedly snatching his covering in the process.

  His back slammed against the door, shutting it as he shouted out a curse. He heard a rumbling laugh, followed by a shouted “You’re welcome!” from an all-too familiar male voice in the next room.

  Damn Sean! Roran thought as he looked down at the wench. She was attractive enough, in a homely sort of way, but far too young in his opinion. Behind the cup of his hands, his loins stirred, only slightly interested in the measure of physical pleasure she offered. The sad truth of the matter was, he desired the hot meal and ale far more.

  She leaned forward, intent on taking him in her mouth and hands, but he sidestepped quickly and reclaimed his covering. Muddy brown eyes blinked back at him, confused and sadly, lacking a sparkle of intelligence. For a moment, he felt a stab of sympathy for her, but it wasn’t enough to change his mind. He did not want this. He did not want her. And he had not asked for this, after all.

  “Sir?”

  “Be off with you.”

  “But I have already been paid.” She reached out again.

  “Then consider it a boon.”

  She tugged at the laces that held her blouse together, revealing large breasts and creamy skin dotted with freckles. “Am I not pleasing te ye? Would ye prefer another?”

  “Nae,” he snapped. “Just get out.”

  Roran closed the door on the bewildered woman, scowling down at his cock, now half-erect. But it was purely a physical response to a nice pair of breasts, not what he truly desired – a woman who was not a sure thing. One whose passion was genuine, not based in coin. One who would challenge him and light a fire in his blood, not go so easily to her knees before him.

  He grunted into the silence. There was little chance of that. His chosen life was not well-suited to such a thing. Eventually, he would succumb to his body’s demand for the satisfaction to be found in a warm, female form, but it would not be on this night.

  Roran partook of the meal (a well-roasted bird, coarse bread, and strong ale), which was surprisingly good, and opted for an uninterrupted repose upon the clean, soft bed instead.

  “Judging by the scowl still adorning your fine features, I assume the wench did not suit,” Sean commented at breakfast the next morning. The tavern maid he had sent to Roran’s room the night before placed their oatcakes and mead before them and quickly took her leave, but not before Sean noticed the furious blush that painted her cheeks.

  Roran grunted in response, not bothering to acknowledge the woman.

  “I don’t understand it, Roran,” Sean mused. “You clearly have a gift. Why do you not see fit to use it? To selfishly hoard such an innate skill, is like spitting in the face of God.”

  That earned Sean a full-on glower. His friend laughed. “Right, right. I know how devout you are. Far be it from me to offend your sensibilities.” He tucked into his food happily. “So, today we watch the whelps and tomorrow we leave. Is that the plan?”

  Roran nodded. Shortly after morning meal, they would proceed to the fields just beyond the village to view and judge the skills of the young men who wished to join the king’s ranks. There would be many of them this year, he feared. Donatirim was not a prosperous settlement, and many families would no doubt be hoping their sons would be chosen, for with each one accepted into the training program came compensation and meant one less mouth to feed at home.

  He refused to think of it as slaving. The trials were purely voluntary. And those chosen would be provided with food and shelter and a stipend during their indentured service. They would be evaluated for their potential and taught a trade in addition to learning how to fight and defend the kingdom and its people. It was an honor to serve the king.

  And afterward, when their time had been served, they were free to do whatever they chose, with far more opportunities available to them than they would have had otherwise. In truth, Roran saw nothing but good in the program. The program took boys with very few opportunities and turned them into strong, honorable men with useful skills and ethics.

  He was living proof.

  Chapter Three

  Roran looked out among those gathered, at their dirty, hopeful faces. He had been right. The queues of those waiting to apply were longer than he had ever seen them. And what a motley group they were, Roran thought as he and Sean watched them through trials meant to test their strength and skill, their courage and cunning.

  Unfortunately, there weren’t many acceptable candidates. A few showed promise, but most were too thin, too scarce of the meat and muscle they would need to be of useful service. Roran doubted their ability even to survive the long and arduous journey back to the kingdom seat, let alone the training they would be forced to endure along the way.

  When the majority had been turned away by the preliminaries, Sean took to the field to further whittle down the numbers. At most, they would choose only ten to take back with them on the morrow; it would be too difficult to find food and shelter for more than that, though it looked as if they wouldn’t even make that. Sean had an uncanny knack for sensing a lad’s potential, and with each one he went up against, he would turn to Roran and give a slight shake of his head.

  By the end, they had selected seven. They were finalizing the arrangements with the families when Sean nudged Roran.

  “Oi, Roran. What do you make of that?”

  Roran looked up to see the scrawniest of the lot standing in t
he field, waiting his turn. “Send him home, Sean,” he rumbled. He had no wish to see the lad humiliated. He was tired and hungry and coated with this God-forsaken dust over every square inch of his exposed flesh.

  “Boy! Go home,” Sean called out. “The try-outs are over.”

  The boy didn’t move. A couple of the fortunate, selected few snickered.

  “Oi, lad! Go home!”

  Instead of listening, the boy raised his “sword” – in reality a carved stick – and assumed a battle-ready stance. The other boys laughed.

  Sean looked at Roran, who shrugged his shoulders. He had tried, but if the boy insisted on making a fool of himself, then so be it. Some lessons had to be learned the hard way, and perhaps it was best that the lad learn this one now. Sean would not seriously hurt the boy, but others might not be so honorable.

  “He wants his turn, Sean. Give it to him.”

  Shaking his head, Sean walked out into the field. “All right then, lad. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  The lad made no indication that he had heard; he remained unnaturally still, poised as if to strike. Sean walked around him several times, goading him. The boy watched him carefully, spinning to keep Sean in his sights, but otherwise, waited for Sean to make the first move.

  “I grow tired of this game, boy,” Sean muttered, and lunged out, intending to smack the boy on his arse with the broad side of his sword. But in the split second it took to do so, the boy dropped and tumbled, coming up behind Sean and smacking him in the arse.

  Sean whirled around, but the boy was already out of reach, coiling again.

  “You are fast, boy, I’ll give you that,” Sean said, the hint of a smile on his face. “Let’s see how you do against this...” Sean moved forward, his steps swift and sure, his sword arm little more than a blur, but the boy ducked and leaned and managed to avoid every thrust, even going so far as to nearly bend himself in half backwards at one point.