Текст книги "My Fierce Highlander"

Автор книги: Vonda Sinclair

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Chapter Three

After returning from a visit to a sick clanswoman, Gwyneth stepped inside the byre and found it empty.

Good lord! Where was MacGrath?

She darted outside again and surveyed her surroundings. Nothing moved but the cattle and sheep. Had Donald captured MacGrath while she, Mora and Rory had been gone? Or had he left? Surely if Donald had come, he or his men would have tracked her down and asked questions. Or worse.

Since there was no sign of a struggle, MacGrath must have left on his own power. How could he journey with a broken toe? He was a madman to think he could cross that many hills and moors without a MacIrwin seeing him. She and Mora might have saved his life, only to have him limp about like a clumsy toad and get himself killed anyway. Such a blunder would put all their lives in danger.

Shaken, she ran to the nearby wood and searched for him in the deepening gloom. Maybe he had staggered out here and passed out again.

No, she didn’t see him.

Gwyneth hoped MacGrath was already on his clan’s land. Perhaps he’d been wise to leave. At least she wouldn’t be found guilty of harboring the enemy.

But she would miss the charming way his obsidian eyes sparkled when he was thinking of a bit of devilry. It had been years since a man had teased and complimented her as he had.

I am a daft woman, always a fool for a handsome man. They were all the same—pretending to be considerate one moment, and lapsing into hatefulness the next.

“’Tis better that he’s gone.” She strode into the byre again to clear away the last traces of his presence—the blanket and herbal supplies.

Rory skipped in, halted and scanned all the corners. “Where’d he go?”

“Home, I hope.”

“Oh.” A glum expression weighted her son’s features. And in the deepest part of herself, Gwyneth felt the same.

“I wish he’d stayed,” Rory said. “He was going to teach me to be a warrior.”

No, he will not! She glared at her son. With the education she was giving him, he would become a learned man, perhaps a scholar, steward or merchant. She wanted him to live a long and happy life. Not be killed in some senseless skirmish.

It was best for them all that Angus MacGrath was gone. And since no one else had known he was here, they’d be safe now. At least she didn’t think anyone else knew.

“You didn’t tell the boys at Finella’s about him, did you?”

Rory’s eyes widened. “Only Jamie. But he’s my best friend, and he won’t tell anyone.”

Dear heavens! What have you done?

***

Crouched behind the rock, hiding from the MacIrwin clansman stalking him, Alasdair tightened his grip on the spear. In his other hand, he picked up a stone the size of his fist and waited.

Strength infused his muscles as it did when he charged into battle. The pain slid away and his attention focused. He gauged the horse’s distance by the sound of its hooves among the rocks.

He sprang upright, aimed at his enemy and hurled the rock. It hit the hulking man on the side of the head with a thwack, toppling him from the horse.

The horse whinnied and scuttled sideways.

Alasdair prayed he hadn’t killed the man, but he had no time to find out. Pain lancing his foot, he limped forward. This MacIrwin was out cold, certain sure. Alasdair tossed his primitive spear, snatched the man’s basket-hilted sword, which he was far more skilled with, and heaved himself into the saddle. The animal shied from an unfamiliar rider. Alasdair controlled him with the reins, his legs and murmured Gaelic words.

He kicked the horse into a gallop across the moor and headed toward MacGrath land. No time to tarry. The MacIrwins would find their injured kinsman soon enough. The thin, cold mist dampening his face smelled of soggy peat and freedom. The horse’s gait over the uneven terrain snapped Alasdair’s teeth together. Clenching his jaw, he leaned forward.

Too late, he glimpsed a group of what appeared to be MacIrwins on a nearby trail, some on horseback. By St. Andrew, they’d already spotted him. His only option was to race toward his own land.

The men called out and charged forward on their horses. The wind whipping his hair into his eyes, Alasdair glanced back and counted five in pursuit. “God’s teeth!” He dug in his heels, urging his mount to a full run.

Two shots exploded behind him. He lay over the horse’s neck, expecting the lead balls to tear into him…but he felt nothing. Thank God the MacIrwins were bad shots and pistols were not as accurate as they should be.

A good warrior he was, but not against five, and him injured besides.

The horse beneath him was sweating and near winded. He hated to push the animal more, but his own life depended upon it.

He darted another glance back. The cursed MacIrwins advanced from the white mist, their swords poised to run him through.

“Iosa is Muire Mhàthair!” Kicking his mount’s flanks, he held his own pilfered sword at the ready. He could off two or three of them before they dealt him fatal injury. But the last two worried him.

They yelled curses, taunts and threats meant to undermine his courage. He oft used the same tactic himself.

Alasdair peered back and found one of the horses breaking away from the others, surging forward like an Arabian. The bearded, yodeling devil of a rider waved his broadsword overhead.

The fog thinned and the distant hills of his own land came into view. But he wasn’t there yet. The MacIrwin knave bore down on him. Alasdair easily understood the other man’s murderous threats, called out from a few paces away. The breath of his mount huffed within earshot.

His pursuer drew almost even with him on the left. Alasdair thrust his sword at the man’s abdomen in a quick, precise stab. The pressure on the blade’s point told him he’d struck his mark. The other man growled an oath and lashed out with his own sword.

Alasdair dodged away, guiding his mount to the right.

“A mhic an uilc!” the man bellowed, dropping back.

The renewed thunder of hooves approached. Alasdair glanced back to find the other four MacIrwins at twenty paces and gaining ground.

A hill lay before him. The horse beneath him would be hard-pressed to climb it. One thing stood in his favor—it was his hill on his lands.

Up ahead, battle cries rang out through the dusk. Through the drifting clouds, the faint light of the moon glowed off the pale shirts of a half-dozen of his clansmen descending the hill, some on foot and others on horseback.

He called out to them, slowed his horse and turned about to face the nearest MacIrwin. Alasdair raised his blade to deflect the enemy’s first blow. Metal clanged against metal. He struck out again and again at the other man with thrusts and slices.

“Alasdair!” His kinsmen joined in the skirmish. They unseated two of the MacIrwins and sent their mounts galloping. The remaining two swung their horses about and raced away, back down the hillside. The two on foot fled.

He’d made it. He released a shout of victory in the wake of the retreating MacIrwins.

His clansmen surrounded him and called out greetings. “Chief! You live!”

“We thought you dead for certain sure,” his cousin, Fergus, said.

He laughed. “I would’ve been without your help.”

At the hilltop lookout, he dismounted and slapped his borrowed horse on the haunch, sending it back to its owners. He would not be accused of horse thievery. A lone torch revealed a dozen of his clansmen gathered here, but some were missing. “Who died in the skirmish yesterday?” he asked, thankful to see his cousins Fergus and Angus hale and hearty.

Fergus named five men. Good, strong, noble men, the lot of them. Men he had grown up with and fought beside many times.

“Muire Mhàthair!” Alasdair felt responsible, for he should never have trusted the enemy’s word on anything. Tomorrow, he would visit their families and offer what help he could. But nothing would replace a husband and father gone forever. One way or another, he would see the MacIrwin pay.

“Glad we are that you made it back.” Fergus slapped him on the shoulder.

“No more glad than I. My skull was near bashed in.” Alasdair limped forward. “And I broke a toe. Smarts like the very devil.”

Despite the gloominess of the situation, they chuckled at him. Two hoisted him atop another horse.

He smiled at their good-natured ribbing about their formidable chief being brought down by his toe.

“Where’s Lachlan?”

“At the tower,” Angus said. “Hatching up a plan of attack on the craven MacIrwins. He’s madder than hell itself, thinking you dead. We all were. But I’ve never seen the lad so intent on revenge.”

Lachlan was the merry sort, and Alasdair hated to see him fash himself so. As second in command, he would be next in line to inherit the titles of chief and earl if something happened to Alasdair. Lachlan hated responsibility or being tied down and would likely find the position difficult to grow accustomed to.

“I must see him. I thank you for coming to my rescue.”

The men laughed and slapped the rump of his mount. The horse trotted forward, carrying him toward his tower, Kintalon Castle. Mist had risen from the loch and now cloaked the castle.

Inside the high-walled barmkin, he dismounted and handed the reins to a stable lad who gaped at him slack-jawed.

Shouts of “Alasdair!” and “Laird MacGrath!” rang out around him. He smiled and greeted his clan.

Several of his overjoyed clansmen lifted and carried him up the spiral stone staircase in the attached round tower.

Once inside the candlelit great hall, they set him down. The familiar smells of baking bread and spiced ale calmed him. Home. He limped to a chair and stood behind it. The room of thirty or more people fell silent. He scanned the pleased faces of his kinsmen and women before him. Gratitude and pride in his clan tightened his chest.

“I’m thankful to be home this day. I have a few minor injuries, but I’m alive.”

Their boisterous cheer resounded off the two-story high ceiling.

His brother, Lachlan, descended the stone steps. His gaze lit on Alasdair, and his face paled. “By heaven! Alasdair? You live!” He rushed forward and pulled Alasdair into a rough hug. Lachlan, the same size as him but two years younger, did not realize his own strength.

Pain shot through Alasdair’s chest and abdomen, but he didn’t even grunt. “Aye, mo bhràthar.”

Lachlan pulled back. “Thanks be to God. We thought you dead and buried in a bog, or sunk in the loch.”

Alasdair grinned. “A bonny MacIrwin fairy saved my life.”

The men’s laughter bounced off the stone walls. But concern for Gwyneth weighed heavily in Alasdair’s mind.

Would Donald MacIrwin find out she’d saved his life? He’d been nowhere near the cottage when he’d been spotted, so surely they wouldn’t make the connection.

Unless they backtracked him.

***

The entry door of Irwin Castle burst open. Chief Donald MacIrwin glanced up from his wooden bowl containing his meager supper of bland porridge, annoyed they were near out of oats and ale or anything else to eat. He hesitated to have more of the cattle or sheep butchered, else they’d have none. They’d need to raid a nearby clan soon.

“What is it?” he demanded of his four clansmen striding forward, their wild hair windblown as if they’d ridden hard, and their plaids askew. He’d set them to guard the border betwixt his land and MacGrath’s. “And more importantly, what the devil are you doing away from your posts?”

“Alasdair MacGrath was here, m’laird,” Burgin, one of his best guards, said.

Donald bolted up from his chair, rage blazing through him. “Alasdair! The chief? Where?” He reached for his sword at his side, then realized the weapon was in the armory, being cleaned and sharpened.

“Aye,” Burgin said. “He knocked Charlie out and stole his horse. Then he fled across the moor onto his own lands. We tried to stop him but Charlie’s horse is fast. He had reinforcements waiting at the border.”

“Damnation! What was he doing here? The chief would not come alone.”

“He must have been here since the other skirmish. He’d been hiding in the wood, waiting to attack one of us and make good his escape.”

“That whoreson.” Donald felt like overturning the whole table, but held his temper. How could MacGrath have hidden in the wood that well for almost two days? “Was he injured?”

“He did not appear to be injured as he fled but mayhap he was. We thought we’d seen him fall during the first skirmish. Red John remembered striking him, but then we couldn’t find his body.”

Something strange was going on. Had a member of the MacIrwin clan helped this MacGrath bastard?

“At first light, find out where he was hiding in the wood. Edward is a good tracker.”

***

The next day, Gwyneth set down her herb basket at the crest of a hill and once again murmured a prayer that Rory’s little friend would not mention the enemy warrior to anyone. Rory assured her he hadn’t said the MacGrath name to the other lad or that the man had been hiding in their byre. Still, Gwyneth’s stomach had been upset all night and she had gotten little sleep.

She inhaled the calming scents of the pungent herbs from her basket and the clean breeze as she gazed out over the rolling brownish Cairngorms toward the east. The sheep and cattle dotting the lower green hills were not MacGrath livestock. Their holdings lay beyond the meager wood and beside the loch in the distance reflecting the blue late afternoon sky. Apparently the high mountain blocked her view of their castle.

Though she did not want to admit it, she’d spent the day missing the big, teasing Scot. His devilish smile and lingering midnight gaze had disrupted her mundane life. Now, her only entertainment was her memories.

And the memories did crowd in on her. He’d said she was lovely as a spring morn, and he’d looked at her as no man had in years. As if…had he not been injured and they had been at a banquet, he might have asked for a dance, or a walk in the garden. Or a kiss.

Imagining what his lips might feel like on hers—warm, firm and smooth, she realized she had taken too close a notice of his mouth.

She pressed her eyes closed. I’m a wanton. No wonder I’m stuck here in the godforsaken Highlands.

But it wasn’t just his dark good looks that appealed to her. He appeared to have a good and compassionate heart.

She had to believe he’d made it home, where he would be safe from Donald and his men. Home, where he would heal and live to fight another day.

Yes, it was best he’d gone. She hated war, but that was his life.

From the small pouch attached to her belt, she withdrew her only remaining memento from England—her mother’s pelican-in-her-piety pendant.

Just before Gwyneth had left her father’s house, over six years ago, her mother had slipped this piece of jewelry into her hand as she’d embraced her the last time. The pendant was pewter and not very valuable except for the small ruby at the pelican’s breast. Legend said that if the pelican was unable to find food for her young, she would peck at her own breast and draw forth blood with which to feed them.

At first Gwyneth had thought her mother had given it to her as a reminder of her faith, the pelican representing Christ. But years later, she came to realize that perhaps her mother’s message meant something else—that as a mother, Gwyneth must be willing to sacrifice all for the sake of her son.

And if she had to, she would.

She closed her fingers over the worn surface of the pelican and her three chicks. She missed her mother terribly, but her father would not allow them contact. What would her mother think of Rory? Surely she would love her grandson, born in shame or not.

Gwyneth returned the pelican to her pouch and picked up her herb basket. I will not dream of things I cannot have.

“Come, Rory,” she called to her dawdling son. “Tell me, what is this herb?” She bent and fingered the rough green leaves.

He frowned. “I do nay ken,” he said in a strong accent like MacGrath’s.

“Where did that Scots brogue come from?”

Rory shrugged.

“I think you spent too much time with Master MacGrath.”

“You mean Angus?”

“You are not to call him by his first name. ’Tis not respectful.”

“He said I could.”

“I do not care what he said.”

Rory pouted. “I wish he would come back.”

She knelt before Rory. “Listen, son, you are not to mention Angus MacGrath’s name to anyone else. Do you understand? Donald will kill Master MacGrath if you do.”

Rory’s eyes widened.

So she’d told a little fib. In truth, Donald would kill Gwyneth and Rory if he knew.

“I can keep a secret,” Rory said with a solemn expression.

“Good.” She hugged him, kissed his forehead and straightened. “Time to go home. Evening will be upon us soon, and we must milk.”

He found a short stick and, as if it were a pistol, pretended to shoot at birds with it.

She shook her head. The boy would make anything into a weapon.

When they rounded the hillside, the stench of smoke met her nose. She grasped Rory’s hand and pulled him along with her. Shouts and a scream in the distance chilled her.

Forcing herself to move forward, she cut through the trees above the cottage. Flames devoured the thatched roof.

Mora!

“Where is Mora?” she whispered, ran several paces, then halted. Her dear friend lay face down in the dirt yard, a sword protruding from her back. “Dear God.” She felt as if a dagger had struck her own heart.

Donald’s men milled about around Mora.

Murdering fiends!

Horror crumpled Gwyneth’s body and she fell to her knees among the rocks. “Oh, dear heaven, Mora, what have I done?” she sobbed, pressing a hand to her mouth to hold in a scream.

“Ma, I’m scared,” Rory whimpered.

“Shh. You must be quiet.” She turned Rory away from the carnage and held him tight in her trembling arms.

Donald must have found out about Angus MacGrath. Was it because of Rory’s friend, or had MacGrath been captured when he was trying to escape?

Either way, Mora was dead and Gwyneth took full blame because she’d insisted on helping him. Mora had cautioned her against it.

I’m so sorry, Mora. I will never forgive myself.

Gwyneth wiped her eyes and stood. “Come. We must hide.” She shoved her herb basket under a short bush, grabbed Rory’s hand and they ran through the wood, slipping on leaves and pine needles.

Two of her kinsmen appeared some distance away, headed to the left of them.

Freezing, she glanced about frantically, and then spotted a ditch behind a rock. She dragged Rory toward it.

“Lie down, and don’t make a sound,” she whispered. When he wadded himself into a ball on the ground, she covered him with soggy leaves and twigs. Hiding herself would be more difficult. She amassed a large pile of leaves and burrowed beneath. She laid a hand on Rory to keep him calm. As a mere babe, he had learned how to be quiet when it was important. Baigh had made sure of it. He’d hated a crying child.

The MacIrwin men walked by, talking. Panic quickened her blood.

Please God, don’t let them find us.

She couldn’t believe sweet, kind Mora was dead. A plague upon Donald! She would see him pay for this. Mora had done nothing wrong.

The men’s voices moved further away, and silence returned. Gwyneth concentrated on Rory’s warm, trembling hand within her own. The rocks on the ground beneath her jabbed into her shoulder and hip. She found the scent of moldy leaves and damp earth comforting because they hid her, and kept her and Rory safe.

Night descended, the temperature cooled and two owls hooted. She would not be helping Mora milk her cows this day, or ever again. They would never share another meal or work together delivering bairns. Dear Mora, a good woman. A strong woman. But not stronger than Donald’s gang of murderers. Tears streamed from Gwyneth’s eyes and dripped into the stony dirt.

Her only hope now was to flee with Rory, try to make it to MacGrath land and hope Angus MacGrath would ask his laird to give them safe passage to the Lowlands, or someplace away from here.

Donald’s men would undoubtedly be posted at various points to watch for her during the night. The MacGrath holdings were a long distance away, perhaps five miles.

***

Gwyneth and Rory stayed that night in the wood, hiding beneath the soggy, rotting leaves. The next morn before daybreak, Gwyneth pushed herself up, wincing at the pains that radiated from her stiff back and legs. A chill breeze penetrated her damp clothing, and she shivered. Quietly, she woke Rory.

Holding his hand, she led him a short distance through the wood. Using her dirk she dug roots for them to eat. Mora had taught her well which wild plants were poisonous and which ones might serve as food. Gwyneth’s eyes burned and her throat closed each time she thought of her dear friend.

Mora had been the only one to help her bring Rory into this world during a difficult birth. In truth, Mora had been like a second mother to her.

“I don’t like this.” Rory grimaced as he gnawed on the crunchy silverweed root.

“I know. I’m sorry, but it’s all I could find. Later, we will look for berries. You like those.”

He nodded, but his eyes were red and moist. She felt like bursting into tears herself, but couldn’t. She had to stay strong for his sake.

“Did Laird MacIrwin kill Mora?”

“Yes, he or one of his men did.”

“Because we helped Master MacGrath?”

“Yes.”

Rory dropped his gaze to his lap. “Was it my fault because I told Jamie?”

“No, Rory. It wasn’t your fault.” It was mine. “But I hope if Master MacGrath made it back to his clan, his laird will help us now in repayment for the good deed we did. He told me the laird was his cousin.”

Gwyneth held Rory’s small hand, and they slipped further through the wood. From her cover behind thick bushes, she spied one lookout during the day. He was near the trail she usually took. In faith, Donald will not give up until we are dead.

At dusk, Gwyneth quickened their pace and eventually they left the trees and came upon bush. Bilberry and gooseberry grew thickly. She and Rory ate their fill of the unripe, tart berries and waited for nightfall. When darkness surrounded them, they left the cover of the bushes and set out across the damp moor.

They were headed toward MacGrath lands—that much she knew. She prayed, if he was there, Angus MacGrath would return the favor of saving his life. But what if he turned out like so many other men she’d known and betrayed her at the last moment? Pains gripped her stomach, both from anxiety and hunger.

Rory was all she had—the most valuable thing in her world. For him, she would go to the MacGraths and beg assistance. Protection.

But first, they had to safely cross the moor.

***

For hours, Gwyneth and Rory trudged through darkness, with only the moon for light, and picked their way through the gorse and heather not yet in bloom. A movement up ahead at a lone tree caught her attention. She recoiled, breath held. In the dimness, her eyes strained to identify the movement—a horse swishing its tail. Where was the rider?

“Shh,” she hissed at Rory, and gave the tree a wide berth.

The horse snorted and stamped its hooves.

Gwyneth’s skin prickled. She crouched and pulled Rory down beside her.

A man grunted, groaned, then strode out into the moonlight to relieve himself. Once finished, he returned to the shadows, and a screeching birdcall sounded from the tree. Some distance away, an answering call responded. Her blood chilled. The men were communicating. What were they saying?

Gwyneth and Rory sat hunched for an immeasurable time, until her legs cramped. If they moved now, the watchman was certain to see and capture them. Vigilant to all the sounds and movements around her, she seated herself into a more comfortable position upon the damp ground and waited for the man to fall asleep.

A mist floated above the ground like a giant cloud, obscuring the moon, and the first glimmer of dawn brightened the horizon before her. Indecision tormented her. They had to leave now or be discovered in the daylight. If only the mist was lower it might conceal them.

“Shh,” she whispered to Rory. “We must move quickly but quietly.”

Rory blinked sleepy eyes at her, seemingly half aware of where they were.

“Are you awake?”

He nodded. Her poor, sweet child. She hated that he had to go through this.

She rose and tugged him along with her. They slipped toward a distant hill, her skirts snagging on heather and gorse. Cold water from the peaty soil seeped through her rawhide slippers. The cool, damp air around them vibrated with tension. She tried to ignore the knotting pain in her stomach and the weakness of her whole body from lack of food.

She had no notion where the border to MacGrath holdings was, but surely they would reach it soon.

The birdcall echoed from the tree behind them. But this time the sound was different—an alarm. “Jesu!”

A horse galloped forth, a menacing black silhouette advancing from the white mist in the distance.

“Run, Rory!” She tugged her skirts off her shoes and broke into a sprint.

He dashed several paces ahead of her.

“Faster!”

She glanced back. Two horsemen thundered close behind, one chasing on her heels. Oh, dear God, protect us! She switched directions, gasping, lungs burning, desperate for more air.

Where is Rory? Her legs wouldn’t move fast enough. The air around her thickened like water, and she couldn’t get through it.

Spotting Rory, she chased after him. “Run!” She slipped in a puddle but righted herself before she fell.

They will kill us. They will kill my precious Rory.

More horses joined in the chase. They surrounded her, their demon riders yelling in Gaelic. Two hemmed her in. Trapped, she dashed headlong between them. Something caught her by the belt and yanked her into the air. Her legs flailed on nothingness. She landed hard on her stomach across the front of a saddle. The breath whooshed from her constricted lungs.

“Ma!” Rory yelled.