Much Ado About Highlanders (The Scottish Relic Trilogy) Read online

  He turned his head, calling to someone beyond the line of trees. “Over here, lads. Come see what the river coughed up for us.”

  Chapter 8

  And in her eye there hath appeared a fire.

  Kenna could see one man, but how many more were beyond the trees? Jumping back in the river no longer seemed a viable option. The soldier was too close.

  By the Virgin, she wouldn’t allow the English to take them. Still on her hands and knees, she stole a glance at Alexander. His expression told her he had no intention of surrendering, either. His hand moved to the hilt of his sword. She reached for the dirk and gathered every ounce of strength left in her body. She leaped for the Englishman, dragging one leg behind her.

  The soldier’s eyes widened, and he swung his sword in her direction. Alexander was on him before the man could even utter a cry for help. Cut down, the soldier crumpled at her feet.

  “Wait here,” he ordered, pushing her behind a tree.

  His eyes met hers for only an instant. He was a warrior ready for battle, and he would protect her to the last breath left in his body.

  “As soon as I’ve led them away, go back in the river and let the current take you as far as you can go.”

  Voices. She peered out as soon as Alexander plunged into the undergrowth along the bank. Four men came out into the clearing, the first one nearly stumbling over their dead comrade. Seeing Alexander in flight, they leaped after him and the chase began.

  She picked up the short sword of the dead soldier. It was no heavier than the ones she used in practice with the MacKay warriors. The river was only steps away. She turned and followed the shouts. There could be more of them ahead, but she couldn’t leave him here. She wouldn’t let him die. They’d exchanged vows of marriage, regardless of the mockery they’d made of it for the past six months. Kenna wouldn’t be able to live with herself if anything happened to him because of her.

  The sound of fighting brought her to a clearing. Three men were down. Alexander was deflecting the blows of the last one, a huge soldier swinging a massive sword.

  Blood covered Alexander’s shirt. His left arm hung limp and was clearly no use to him in the battle. The Englishman drove him back and he stumbled over a root. As the soldier raised the weapon over Alexander, Kenna shouted, rushing in. But she stopped short as someone grabbed a fistful of her hair from behind, yanking her backward. Then she felt the edge of a blade against her throat.

  “Drop it.”

  Alexander’s sword ran upward through his foe before the blow could fall, and the giant collapsed on her husband’s body.

  “I said drop the sword.”

  The man was a Scot, a Lowlander by his accent. Kenna wondered how many more of them were left.

  She dropped the sword at her feet as Alexander shoved the dead body away and stood up. He saw her and whoever it was holding a knife to her throat.

  “I’m taking the woman,” the Lowlander threatened. “If you follow, she’s dead.”

  “You’re not taking her anywhere,” Alexander told him. “She means nothing to you and she belongs to me.”

  “If she’s the one we’re looking for, she means a great deal to me.”

  He started to back away. Kenna stumbled and the man jerked her upright. As he did, she pulled the dirk from her belt and stabbed backward at him, hitting him in the thigh and again in the belly. She felt his grip loosen.

  Wrenching herself free, she turned to face him. But before she could strike again, he suddenly stood up straight, a peculiar look on his face. Dropping his knife, he reached back over his shoulder.

  When he fell dead on his face at her feet, she saw the hilt of a short sword protruding from his back. Behind him, a boy stood looking at them, his face flushed with anger. He couldn’t have been more than eight or nine years of age.

  “There’s more of them nearby. I seen ’em. Follow me.”

  He started off in a direction away from the river. Alexander joined her and took her hand. He was covered in blood, but she didn’t know how much of it was his.

  “The lad’s our best chance,” he told her.

  He was badly hurt. Fresh blood was seeping through the shirt on his side. His steps dragged, but they kept the boy in sight.

  Kenna wrapped an arm around him, encouraging him to lean on her. Then, just ahead, water shimmered through the trees. By the time they reached a stony beach, the boy had shoved a small skin-covered fishing boat into the water.

  “Is he going to die on you?” he asked, as Kenna helped Alexander climb inside. Blood dripped onto nets in the bottom of the boat.

  “Nay, we’ll have no dying today,” Alexander answered. “You’re a brave lad. What’s your name?”

  “Jock.” He pushed the boat away from the shore and climbed in. He nodded at the brooch on Alexander’s kilt as he fitted the oars into the pins. “You’re a Macpherson. I’ve seen the crest on yer ships’ flags.”

  “Aye. And I can see you’re a smart one, at that.”

  Kenna searched the shoreline for any sign of anyone following them. None that she could see. A dense fog was rolling in from the northern hills out over the water. When she offered to take the oars and row, the boy bristled and then turned back to Alexander.

  “You’re too far south and with none of your people.”

  “True. But how about you? You are too young to be out on your own. Where’s your kin?”

  “Down the loch on the south shore. Knipoch. Before those accursed English came, my cousin and me fished up and down the bay. But one of them fen-sucking devils cut him down, day before yesterday.” He looked with loathing back toward the shore they’d left. “So I been watching them. Staying just ahead of ’em. Warning the crofters and the fishing folk when I know they’re coming close.”

  Kenna was relieved when the fog rolled in, enfolding them, shielding them from men or beast that might be lurking on the shores. The wound in Alexander’s side continued to bleed. She tore out a section of her shift and pressed the fabric against his wound. He pretended there was nothing amiss, continuing to talk to the boy.

  “How many have you seen?”

  “All told, more than twenty. That’s as much as I can count,” Jock explained without apology. “But they move in packs. Five or six, usual. Don’t know if there’s more inland.”

  “That was a Scot helping them.”

  The boy spat over the side. “Aye, devil take him. Word is a filthy Lowlander called Donald Maxwell leads ’em. Has other renegades fighting for him. But he has English gold, they say. It’s his people what’s doing the burning and killing, blast ’im.” He paused, glancing at Kenna. “And asking about a woman.”

  “What woman?” Kenna asked.

  “They’re offering English gold for the wife of Alexander Macpherson. A MacKay woman.” Jock looked at her. “They’re looking for you.”

  At the first bend of the road south of Oban, James found the MacDougalls waiting for them. Ten of them, all on horseback. Emily sat astride her horse in front. He’d been restless to leave, but he should have known that she wasn’t finished with their argument.

  The calm and compliant Emily MacDougall that he’d met at Alexander and Kenna’s wedding six months ago and again yesterday was gone. She was still beautiful to look at, pleasant to speak to, and there was an aloofness about her that kept James safely at arm’s length. Before, her spirit was subdued. Not the woman for him.

  Now, a day later, James didn’t know what to do with this hellfire. Actually, he knew exactly what to do.

  He spoke directly to Kester, the leader of the men sent to escort the laird’s daughter back.

  “If I’m not mistaken, you’re taking the wrong road.”

  “We’re coming with you,” Emily answered instead.

  He addressed the warrior. “You have orders from the laird. I suggest you escort Lady Emily directly to Craignock Castle.”

  Emily nudged her mare forward and positioned herself between James and Kester. “You will spe
ak directly to me when your conversation involves me.”

  James studied her. The clear voice, direct look, the confidence. If there were a low-hanging tree in sight, he would have thought she’d struck her head once or twice, for she was even bolder than the woman he’d spoken to earlier at the inn. And if he thought she was beautiful before, Emily MacDougall was magnificent now. The protective shell was shattered. The real woman now sat before him.

  Fighting the urge to sweep her off her horse and drag her back to the inn, James looked off at the whitecaps checking the gray-green firth. The MacDougall men outnumbered them two to one. In any event, making love to her now might not be the most political of strategies.

  He addressed Kester. “I’d like to have a private word with you.”

  The aging warrior glanced at his mistress first and agreed only after Emily nodded her consent.

  James rode back around a small grove of scrub pines. Kester followed.

  “I’ll not play games here. My brother and his wife may be in danger. I need to get to them as fast as I can,” the Highlander explained. “Graeme MacDougall and I agreed to the arrangements. You must take the laird’s daughter back.”

  “Aye, m’lord. I agree with everything you say. But Lady Emily makes sense. She wants to travel the same road you’re taking. It leads to Craignock and to the abbey. And this way, our swords will be at your service until you reach your brother.”

  “I don’t need your swords. And I don’t need the worry of a woman traveling with us.”

  “We can keep her from harm,” Kester said. “And she’s going to do it anyway, with or without your leave.”

  James fought back his anger. “Who do you answer to? Isn’t it your responsibility to get her back to prepare for her wedding?”

  “I need no reminders from you who it is I serve. I’ve known this lass here since she was a wee bairnie. In some ways I know her better than the laird himself does. And I know it’ll serve no purpose in crossing her when she has her mind set on a thing.”

  “Even when she’s wrong?”

  “She never is. It’s her nature to think things through. She’s not one for foolhardy decisions. Unlike her cousin, Lady Kenna, she leans toward caution. If she says, ‘We travel this path, Kester,’ then I follow.”

  The man was a fool. He didn’t see that this stubborn, troublemaking sprite was different from the docile lass he knew. James had no time to worry about any of this now. If Kester wanted to put Emily’s life in danger by traveling into a region rumored to be crawling with English soldiers, it was his choice. As for himself, he and the Macpherson warriors would not wait.

  “Have it your way. You must answer to the MacDougall. I did my best to warn you.”

  The two rode back around the bend. The Macpherson men were the only ones waiting.

  “Where is Lady Emily?” Kester asked.

  “She took the men and rode ahead. She said we can catch up to them when you’re done talking.”

  Sir Ralph Evers looked across the Tweed River at the massive stone structure with the clusters of cottages and shops huddled close to its walls.

  This abbey had history. A Scottish king had died within sight of this place . . . and the coronation of an infant king had quickly followed within its walls. More important, this abbey was known far and wide to be the richest of any in Scotland.

  Evers assessed his prize. The place was braced and ready for an assault, but it would do no good. They would take the abbey if he had to burn the place to the ground.

  “I want every jewel and every pound of gold in their vaults,” he said.

  “We’ll take possession of the abbey, m’lord, but these monks are a hard lot,” his captain warned.

  Maxwell agreed. “They’ll never tell you where the vaults lie, where the gold is hidden.”

  “Take the abbey. Kill the abbot.” Evers turned an icy gaze on his men. “Then bring me his body. He will tell me everything I want to know.”

  Chapter 9

  What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true?

  The north shore of the narrow loch rose quickly to rugged foothills covered with gorse and dotted with rock outcroppings and twisted trees. In protected places, dense groves of tall pine spread out, green and dangerous. Good places for lookouts to hide.

  Kenna’s gaze swept from the stony beach to the wooded hillside. Thick mists clung to the high grassy elevation beyond. A soft rain was falling—chilling her and adding weight to the dress still soaked from her time in the river.

  “You can’t be taking the road to Oban,” Jock warned them. “To be sure, the English will be waiting for you.”

  Kenna and Jock helped Alexander out of the boat and through the shallow water to shore. She had questions for the boy about this Donald Maxwell but doubted he knew more than he’d told them already. She definitely didn’t know the man. Never heard his name. She didn’t understand why anyone—especially a renegade Scot—would be working with the English to find her. Unless it was ransom they wanted. But why not Emily, rather than her?

  In all the years of running wild in the Highlands, she’d never thought even once about being kidnapped.

  Jock was staring at Alexander’s shirt. The wound was bleeding badly again. “And the hills are too high for climbing.”

  “The fishing huts are just through these trees?” Kenna asked.

  “Aye. Tumbled down, mostly. Put up before Noah and his animals, they say. Some folk who fish here in season use them now and again.”

  She had to get Alexander under cover where she could see to his wound and do whatever she could to stop the bleeding.

  “I can take you to my folk at Knipoch.”

  “Nay, lad. We’ll be fine,” Alexander managed to say. “From here, we’ll follow the loch down to the sea. I’m thinking we’re not a day’s walk from Oban.”

  “Aye, that’s about right.”

  Alexander reached into his sporran and held out some coins. Jock backed away.

  “I didn’t help you for gold. And I’d never give you over to no English pissling or Lowlander, neither. I’ll not say a word to anyone, not even to my kin.”

  “We know. Take it, lad.” He gave the coins to Kenna, who put them into the boy’s hand. “Be on your way now.”

  Kenna pushed the boat off, and Jock rowed away into the fog. Trudging out of the water, she found Alexander sitting on a boulder. He looked pale, his face drawn. Blood was running through the cloth he held to his wound and dripped steadily from his fingers.

  Panic arose in her, causing her heart to drum loudly in her ears. She’d never been squeamish at the sight of blood, but now she felt vaguely ill and wet and cold. She’d sewn up many wounds at the priory. She’d looked after many men. But none were this badly hurt. And none had been Alexander.

  She glanced out into the fog. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to call Jock back. They should have gone with him to Knipoch. But she understood Alexander’s thinking. He didn’t want to lead the devil to the door of helpless fisherfolk.

  Now was the time to be strong. She’d use whatever shelter they could find, and she’d tend to his wounds. They were too exposed here. There was no assurance that those pursuing them didn’t have a boat. They needed to get away from the beach.

  How the feeling between them had changed, she thought. Whatever had kept them apart was behind them now. At this moment, all that they had was each other. Alexander saved her life fighting the English raiders. Kenna was his only help now.

  “Don’t forget your promise,” she told him. “No dying on me today.”

  “If you start fretting and whispering sweet nothings in my ear, wife, I’ll know I’m a dead man.” He stretched his right hand for her to take. “Where’s the she-devil I married?”

  “Right here. Though I don’t know why I shouldn’t be running even now.” Kenna helped him to his feet. “I’m staying to help you for only one reason.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “I’ll not have some weedy,
plume-plucked Englishman killing you. I’m the only one who has the right to do that.”

  “There’s my woman,” he said, leaning on her heavily as they walked.

  Kenna led him inside the protective line of trees. Three low mounds of earth and stone, with doors cut into the sides, sat in a circle. The cottages. Two of the roofs had caved in. Near the third, a number of drying racks for fish had been erected, but they too were in various stages of ruin. She looked and listened for any sign that other people might be around, but only the sound of seabirds and a small stream tumbling toward the loch disturbed the silence.

  The best hut had a patch of skin fashioned as a door. Pulling it aside, Kenna peered in. Several piles of dry seaweed and straw used as bedding were visible. A fire pit contained charred wood, and the place was dry and reasonably clean. No one had been here for quite some time, but no animals were taking shelter in it.

  Wincing, Alexander stooped and followed her in. He lowered himself onto a log by the doorway and leaned back against the stone wall.

  “Now tell the truth.” The short walk took too much out of him. His words were drawn out and he had to pause to catch his breath. “Are you truly a healer? Or are all those rumors coming from Glosters Priory . . . are they just tales to justify your stay there?”

  “Just hush and save your strength.”

  “Oh, do you have plans for me?”

  Kenna removed a slab of wood from the only window, allowing in air and light. She quickly searched the cottage for anything that might be left behind. Kicking at the bedding, she raised some dust but found a battered wooden bowl by a wall behind one of the piles of straw. Anything else of use had been taken. She hurried out to the stream to wash and fill the bowl with water.

  By the time she returned, Alexander had pushed the tartan off his shoulder and was struggling to remove his shirt. She went to him, pushing his hands away. The cloth was plastered to the wound. She peeled the shirt gently from the skin and pulled it over his head.