Warlord Read online

  Warlord

  Jenika Snow

  WARLORD

  By Jenika Snow

  www.JenikaSnow.com

  [email protected]

  Copyright © May 2020 by Jenika Snow

  First ebook edition © May 2020 by Jenika Snow

  Cover design by: Lori Jackson Design

  Content Editor: Kayla Robichaux

  Image provided by: Adobe Stock

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: The unauthorized reproduction, transmission, or distribution of any part of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  This literary work is fiction. Any name, places, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or establishments is solely coincidental.

  Please respect the author and do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials that would violate the author’s rights.

  Contents

  Synopsis

  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

  Epilogue One

  Epilogue Two

  Epilogue Three

  About the Author

  Bronson Lyon, Scottish leader and warlord of Clan Lyon, had seen enough death to last a lifetime. He had battle scars that would’ve killed a lesser man.

  After fighting for years to reclaim his territory, he was ready to settle down and create a family, to claim a wife. But Bronson never had time for romance. He was a warrior who made no apologies for the carnage left behind in his wake. Wooing females was foreign to him, but that was about to change.

  Warlords were not known for their gallant, tender hearts.

  Until she came along and changed everything he ever thought he knew. If anyone could make the hardened warrior be gentle, it was Genevieve.

  The buxom redhead was brought to him as a potential bride, untouched, innocent in all ways. And at the first look into her green eyes, Bronson instantly wanted to claim her. She was all he ever envisioned wanting.

  Genevieve's body was meant to bear him strong, fearsome sons, and he’d show her what it meant to be owned by a warlord.

  But there was an enemy who wanted to hurt what Bronson held most dear, and that was his new bride and his child she carried.

  *This story was previously published under the title “The Warlord Claims His Bride.” It has been reedited, parts rewritten, and new content has been added. This is a pseudo-Scottish historical romance that holds very little actual facts and is for enjoyment purposes only.

  Prologue

  Year 1425

  Battle between Clan Lyon and Clan McCarrick

  Liam Lyon stared at the field before him, at the bodies that littered the ground like death coming up from the earth. The scent of vileness, the thick, tangy scent of blood, filled the air. The red, viscose fluid covered his chest and kilt, a war stamp of victory.

  This was what it was to fight for what was theirs. Lives were lost, brothers, fathers, grandfathers, and sons killed to protect what they held most dear.

  Liam said goodbye to his wee wife and five-year-old son. And even though he would’ve liked to stay with them, cherish that he was alive, loved, complete, a man was not worth anything if he didn’t protect what was his.

  The sky was dark and ominous, as if it knew the destruction and battle that had just taken place. The haze of red and orange from a setting sun looked almost as if the very blood that soaked into the ground rose up and painted it like a canvas.

  He stared at the Briar McKnightly Mountains, the fires sporadically burning. The dragons, those fearsome beasts that lay waste to any unfortunate soul who came too close. The flames were a brilliant orange and red that glowed with renewed life because of the anger of those beasts.

  Liam and his men were far too close to their lair as it was, but a battle took place where it needed to, dangerous or not. And as he stared at those mountains, he knew he was no different than the beasts perched atop them. They protected what was theirs, the same as Liam and his men did.

  The sound of heavy hoof steps behind him had Liam turning, sword raised and ready to destroy any adversary. Dawson McCarrick’s great steed stopped a few paces from where Liam stood.

  “This night is the last night in which ye will look upon the sky, Lyon,” Dawson said in a harsh growl before dismounting his horse. Dawson already had his sword in hand, and although bodies sprawled lifeless all around them, this was truly not over yet.

  Liam tightened his grip on his sword and took a step toward Dawson. It was time to end this once and for all.

  They charged forward at the same time, their swords clashing when they reached each other. Sweat fell from Liam’s brow and mixed with the blood and dirt on his face. With the light in the sky, a great and powerful shadow crossed overhead, and the massive roar of the dragon just above their heads shook the very ground they stood on. Liam grunted when Dawson charged forward once more and roared out when his enemy brought his sword down across his chest. The burning pain of Liam’s flesh opening up followed by the warmth and wetness of his blood sliding down his already battered flesh tried to take him down.

  It would take more than that to extinguish Liam Lyon.

  He renewed his efforts.

  And then the last remaining opposing fighters charged forward. The grunts and shouts from the men engaged in battle filled Liam’s ears, and he lifted his sword higher. But before he could deliver the swing that would have Dawson’s head leaving his body, the searing pain of the blade in his back had his eyes widening and his knees giving out. He collapsed, his sword falling from his grasp, as he braced his hands on the blood-drenched earth.

  And just as swiftly as the blade had entered his back, it was ripped away. A gasp of agony nearly spilled from Liam’s mouth, but he clenched his teeth. No man would see weakness from him.

  He stared up at the sight of Dawson grinning. The man that stepped out from behind Liam and moved to stand beside Dawson was his son. Braigh was young and impressionable, brutish and lacking skill and intolerance in the battlefield. Braigh stood beside his father, his sword in his hand, Liam’s blood dripping from the tip.

  “No honor,” Liam gritted out as he looked at the two men. “Yes, stabbing a man in the back…” he wheezed out, blood starting to fill his mouth. “Dishonorable.” But they paid him no heed.

  “I told ye this would be the last night ye looked upon the sky,” Dawson said, his voice pleased, victorious.

  Blood continued to fill Liam’s mouth before spilling down his chin to drip onto his chest. The fighting all around them seemed to cease, and the only thing Liam heard was the massive roar of the dragon descending farther away.

  The battle was over, the Lyon Clan leader fallen and on the precipice of death. Liam had many things he wished he could do before his death: be there for his men, kiss his wee wife once more… and tell his son, Bronson, that he was a proud da. But he was out of time.

  As those thoughts passed through his mind, Dawson moved forward, grinned down at Liam, and lifted his sword. He didn’t give any more wait as he drove the blade through Liam’s gut.

  Dawson crouched low so they were eye-level. “What ye own is now mine,” Dawson said low but wi
th a grin still on his face.

  He tried in vain to stay conscious, those words a warning as much as they were a promise. But in the end, it was the darkness that surrounded him before finally laying claim.

  His fight was now over.

  Chapter One

  Thirty-five years later

  Blood and sweat ran down Bronson’s face with each swing of his sword. Clan Lyon—his people, his men—fought beside him just as fiercely. He was a warlord, a man who had an army of Scottish strength behind him, ready to die and take what was rightfully theirs. This had been his father’s land ages ago, but now that Bronson was the ruler of his people, and not timid as the leaders before him had been, he was taking it back. He was no longer a child but a man who had hatred inside him, rage that burned brightly.

  He swung his long sword with a mighty roar and sliced the man coming at him right through the middle. His enemy fell to his knees, looked right at Bronson, and started gurgling blood and saliva. The fluids spewed from his mouth and covered his chin and chest before he fell to the ground face-first. The rain came down harder, covering the ground and causing the dirt to become mud. Bronson stared at the body before his feet. He felt no remorse over taking yet another life, because if he didn’t take their lives, he would be the one face-first in the mud, lifeless. He slowly lifted his gaze from the corpse and stared at the scene before him. It was a bloody, violent, and gruesome picture of what it was like to fight for something that was rightfully his. Bronson looked at himself. His legs were blood stained, as was his kilt, which at one time had been a vibrant blue and green color. It was now stained rusty red and brown from the blood and dirt, but he was proud of his appearance, because it meant he had fought with his heart. He lifted his gaze once more and scanned the land. Bodies littered the field of Harrowsworth, the last village that had stood up against him and his men. It had taken him decades, and a lot of blood spilled—both from his enemies and from men of the Clan Lyon.

  There was no weakness in Clan Lyon, and although the years had been many since he stood in this very spot and lives had grown in the surrounding villages, this was still Lyon territory. A warlord never backed down, didn’t surrender, and never forgot. His father had fought with his life for this land. It had taken a very long time for Bronson to get to this point in his life where he was within grasp of owning what was his by birthright once more. He felt the strength inside him renew tenfold.

  “My lord, our enemies have all fallen. Ye’re victorious.” Cal, one of his strongest fighters for Clan Lyon, stepped up beside him.

  “Nay. This is no’ about being victorious, Cal, but about reclaiming what was always ours.” Bronson lifted his gaze and stared at the body-and-blood-covered field. “They dinna fight like they wanted tae keep this land.” He looked at Cal. “They dinna deserve to own it.”

  Cal grunted and nodded in agreement. “Aye. If they loved this land, they would be the ones left standing.” Cal smiled sadly. “Yer da would be verra proud of this moment, Bronson.”

  “Aye,” Bronson said, keeping his emotions in check, because right now they needed their leader to be the strongest he had ever been. Showing emotion was a weakness, and Bronson was not weak. The rest of his men came closer, their bare chests, kilts, faces, and swords covered in their enemies’ blood. Some had some nasty wounds, but they were all standing. This was his clan, his men, and his bloodline. They fought hard and killed their enemies, not because they wanted senseless deaths on their hands, but because they were fighting for the right to keep what was theirs.

  These men who were broken, battered, and in pieces around them had not been worthy of living on this land—of being on his family’s land. They had been rapists, thieves, and had pillaged the villages around the country and taken what wasn’t theirs. That was the difference between what Bronson was doing and what these bastards had done.

  Clan Lyon was honorable and didn’t kill without reason. They never took from a woman what wasn’t freely given. But this was the last piece of territory that belonged to his family, and Bronson had finally reclaimed it. Now it was time for him to find a good woman and a piece of land on his territory that he wanted to settle down on. He needed a wife, was ready for one after all these years of violence, one who would bear him strong, powerful sons to help protect the land they had final taken back.

  Bronson lifted his sword high above him, and his men did the same. In one mighty roar, he yelled out, “Tae Clan Lyon!”

  Chapter Two

  Genevieve wiped the sweat from her brow and grabbed the bundle of eggs the chickens had laid that morning. The sun was high, and she was already tired, but the farm wouldn’t tend to itself. She glanced over at her father, who was busy feeding the mare, and couldn’t help but smile. He tried to act so strong, but he was getting older, and his body was starting to show the wear and tear of a life of hard labor.

  The feeling of the ground rumbling, of the very earth quaking beneath her feet, was so pronounced that she held on to the small coop and glanced in the distance. The straw hat she wove sat atop her head and covered her face from the Scottish sun. Even though she was hot, tired, and still had a whole day of work ahead of her, the sight that was coming forward chilled her to the very bone. She swore her heart stopped, but then it started beating hard and fast inside her.

  She had come to realize Bronson could control her body without even having to look her way. Men—no, warriors—rode forward on great stallions, their blue-and-green-colored tartans raised high. A part of her wanted to run in the other direction, but there was another part that wanted to move closer, to be closer to Bronson. Maybe it was because she knew she’d never have a man like that, one who was ruthless and fought for what he wanted, even if that meant he’d die because of it.

  The closer Bronson came, the clearer she saw him. His chest was bare, riddled with scars, but glistening from his sweat. He wore his kilt with pride, that much was clear in the way he held himself on his massive steed. He led the group of men with a sword strapped to his back, strips of plaid tartan wrapped around his bulging biceps, and this hard, determined look on his face. Over the years and while growing up, Genevieve had seen the fearsome warlord pass through. He stayed at the manor many a fortnight, but he did not call this village his home.

  She was young, but even so, she heard the stories of Clan Lyon fighting through the villages and patches of territory that had once been his family’s. It was a hard battle, with a lot of land to cover, but it had ended now, or so she heard. It was better to back away from the politics of the land, especially when it concerned a clan that was as lethal as the Lyons. But what she couldn’t deny was that as powerful and frightening as Bronson Lyon and his clan were, the men who had taken over his territory had been brutal and vile. Surely Clan Lyon was better than they were, better than the rape and murder she knew had gone on all around her.

  The nearer they came, the faster her heart pounded. The warriors moved closer to the farm, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t even breathe as she stared at the warlord Bronson. He didn’t notice her, didn’t even turn his focus her way, but then again, he never did. Surely he’d see her as just a farmer’s daughter with nothing to offer.

  She could see how he defeated all his enemies, why just his name sent fear in the surrounding villages and even throughout the kingdom. Just looking at him frightened and excited her to no end. She wiped a bead of sweat that was trailing down her temple and licked her suddenly dry lips. He stopped his steed on the other side of her fence, so close to her that she could have reached out and touched him. For a moment, he just sat there, and she was frozen to the spot.

  His men stopped behind him, their horses breathing out and stomping their hooves. And then Bronson started speaking in Gaelic. His words were clipped and harsh as he spoke about finally being able to rest after the grueling battles. After he stopped speaking, he was silent for a moment, and then he slowly turned her way. She lowered her head, thankful she decided to wear the oversized hat, becau
se it blocked his view of her. Genevieve knew he couldn’t see her, but she still felt his gaze upon her.

  Finally, she heard him move away and lifted her head. He moved away from her small, meager cottage and headed toward the towering manor that sat atop the hill in her village. She remembered when that massive stone structure had been built. It had taken years, and a man who hadn’t cared about the people had resided there. The rumors of the many women the former lord of the manor had bedded, of the feasts he had thrown even when there was not a scrap of food that could’ve been spared, had run rampant throughout town. But, like Genevieve, the villagers had focused on themselves and worried about caring for their own families. Why worry about a man who had stolen land from another and didn’t care whether the people in the village were taken care of?

  She watched Bronson and his men head up to the manor. Bronson may have been on the battlefield for many years, but he had made sure the people in the villages on his land were taken care of, had food and fresh water, and were safe from danger. But despite the fact that he had done many good deeds, he was still this powerful warlord who could easily take down a group of men with his bare hands alone. She shivered, feeling an iciness travel through her.

  “Child, are ye okay?” Her father stepped up beside her and wiped his brow.

  She turned her focus away from the manor and stared at her da. He wiped his brow once more as sweat beaded down his skin and he squinted at her.