by Lily Harlem
“Damn you to hell,” Kendal said, uncaring of the other man’s great size.
As he fought off three hard clashes, he was aware of Reid also battling, his assailant on the ground now. Reid was doing well. Unsurprising, he was an excellent swordsman.
The leader was watching, as though entertained by the spectacle. It hadn’t skipped Kendal’s notice that he had a musket in his hand.
“Urgh,” Kendal grunted. The other man’s blows were heavy and each one would be lethal should it hit target. Kendal had to hold his sword in both hands, biceps tensed so hard they were painful. Each strike was like fending off a charging bull.
But then the other man raised his arms just as Kendal was bringing his sword up. He spotted his moment, an opportunity, and lunged forward. He drove the blade deep into his opponent’s body, a fraction below his sternum.
Shock washed over the big man’s face. He looked down at where he’d been skewered on Kendal’s sword. He opened his mouth and a trickle of ruby-red blood spilled out. As it fell toward the ground Kendal pulled his sword out, then watched as the wounded man toppled to the right. The sound his heavy body made when it hit the woodland floor was similar to that of a tree being felled—a dense thud that shook the earth and scattered leaves and twigs.
Kendal turned in time to see Reid take a blow to his arm, a deep slash with a swift sword.
He cried out and stepped backward, blood instantly soaking his tunic.
“Damn it.” Kendal rushed toward his friend’s attacker, and got lucky with a blow to his legs.
The Red Coat yelled then fell to the ground.
A sudden ear-splitting shot rang out.
Kendal froze, then turned to the leader. The scent of gunpowder instantly filled the air.
The leader was pointing the musket directly at Kendal. A dark lick of smoke slithered from the end.
“You’re leaving me no choice,” he said, “but to kill you two traitors. Because it’s clear that’s what you are.”
“A traitor in your eyes, not in the eyes of the rightful king of Scotland.” Fury blasted through Kendal.
How dare this Englishman point a gun at me.
“We’ll see if anyone bothers to look for you two heathens, or even notices you’re dead.” He redirected the gun so it was aimed at Reid. “I don’t think they will.”
Kendal watched in horror as the gun was cocked and the trigger squeezed.
Uncaring that he was too far away to reach in time, he lunged for the musket. He couldn’t let Reid get hurt. They’d been best friends for years. They were fighting the cause together. This wasn’t how it ended for them—on a spring day in the woodland at the hands of an Englishman.
Kendal roared and brought down his sword. To his intense surprise he did reach the leader; not only that, he chopped his arm clean off, just below the elbow.
The musket fired then fell to the ground, with the half limb landing next to it.
The soldier cried out and staggered backward, clutching his severed stump.
Kendal was aware of Reid falling and then not moving.
Has he been hit?
He rushed past the Red Coat with the injured legs and kneeled over Reid. He appeared to be dead, but when Kendal held his hand over his mouth and nose he could feel warm breaths. But he was out cold. His arm was bleeding heavily and he had a gash on his head from the bullet.
“Help me, help me,” the leader cried, walking a circle in a dazed state.
“Aye, I’ll help alright, I’ll put you out of your misery.” Kendal reached for the musket, pointed at the leader, then shot him in the chest. Killing wasn’t something he enjoyed but when someone was going to kill him or Reid, it was a necessary evil.
The soldier went down slowly, crumpling to his knees, then slumping forward onto his one hand. After a long low groan he toppled to the side, curled up like a baby. His eyes were wide as he stopped breathing.
Kendal swung the musket at the soldier on the ground near Reid. He was groaning with his eyes closed and clutching his legs. He posed no risk in that state so Kendal ignored him.
“You won’t get away with this!”
Kendal spun to the fourth soldier, the one who’d first tried to strike him with his sword.
Quickly Kendal took aim with the musket.
But the other man was quick. He spun his horse around, put three tree trunks between them, and called over his shoulder, “I’ve seen your faces. I’ll be back… with an army. And then you’ll meet your maker.”
Kendal fired, missed. He fired again, the bullet ricocheting off a tree.
The flash of red disappearing made his blood boil. He should have killed him too. Taken all four of the men out of the equation the way they had the rapists that time. There was no comeback that way. No fallout.
And now…
He turned to Reid.
“Damn it.” Quickly he grabbed the leader’s horse’s reins and tugged the large cob over to his friend.
Stooping, he dragged off his belt and tightened the silver buckle above the gash in Reid’s arm. The flow of blood slowed instantly. There was nothing he could do about his head wound. “Come here, my friend,” he said, dragging Reid to sitting.
Reid was a dead weight. His head lolled and his spine sagged.
But Kendal was determined. He squatted, shoved his shoulder against Reid’s abdomen, then gathered his strength and stood.
He groaned as he did so, with the effort of Reid’s full weight. Once standing, he stepped up to the horse and managed, after a bit of jiggling, to get Reid over the saddle. Legs one side, head and arms the other. He used Reid’s belt to secure him in place.
The injured soldier was quiet now. Kendal wasn’t sure if he was still alive but didn’t much care. He took another horse, and with the reins of Reid’s horse in his hand, he mounted.
“Hey up,” he said, digging in his heels, and pointing his new steed in a northerly direction. “Time to get out of here.”
Chapter Three
Moira made a large vat of broth for her supper. It wasn’t as nice as the one Emily usually cooked, but she’d added several stems of wild garlic from the lane. She’d found it on her way back from her neighbour’s home. He didn’t have a dog to spare, but said his bitch would soon be having puppies, and Moira was welcome to one of them.
She was disappointed. It would be a few months before she could have the pup, and even longer until it would give her any protection.
But right now, looking across the courtyard toward the archway, Leannan Creag was a picture of calm contentment. The troubles her beloved country faced seemed a million miles away and it was almost as if the high walls could keep them at bay. The late afternoon sun had brought with it stillness disturbed only by a blackbird atop the highest chimneystack singing its pretty song. The goats were resting, and the chickens sat in the shade, quiet for once.
She gathered her dress, sat on the top step, and absorbed the peace. Once upon a time it had been a bustling house with her husband and brother coming and going, four servants, and visitors or groups of visitors having meetings about the cause.
How times had changed.
As her gaze rested on the archway Moira became aware of a distant noise—a dull but repetitive thudding on the hard ground. It sounded like horses.
Is it Bryce? Finally?
She stood, her heart rate picked up, and her breaths quickened. She hurried down the steps then across the cobbles. In her mind she could imagine Bryce appearing at the archway, wearing their clan kilt—blue with black and yellow weaved through it—a sword at his hip, and a big smile on his face.
But as she rushed across the courtyard it wasn’t Bryce who appeared in the archway. Instead it was two horses. At first she thought there was only one rider, then she spotted a slumped figure over the trailing one.
“You,” the rider on the lead horse said sternly. “Get me the man of the house, this is urgent.”
“He’s not here.” Moira stared up at the g
ruff-looking Scotsman. He had thick whiskers on his jawline and chin, a strong straight nose, and flashing black eyes. His hair was over-long and glossy and he wore a long dark kilt teamed with a linen tunic smeared with blood.
“When will he return?”
“He won’t.” She swallowed. “But I’m the lady of the house, can I be of service?” Again she looked at the man laid over the back horse. He appeared unconscious and injured. He certainly wasn’t moving.
“My friend needs help,” he said, dismounting with a thump on the hard ground. “Can you do that?”
“Of course.”
He glanced behind himself, toward the archway.
“Have you been followed?” she asked.
He turned to her with a frown. “And who do you fear may have followed us?”
“Red Coats.” She studied him. “I’m not wrong in thinking you’re Jacobites, am I?”
“And what would you say if we were?” He placed his hand on the handle of his sword. He had a musket hanging next to it—a soldier’s musket that had the English flag engraved on the handle.
Why does he have that?
She took a deep breath and decided to go with her instincts. She knew a man of the cause when she saw one. “I’d say you were most welcome here at Leannan Creag.”
“Thank you, Lady…?”
“Campbell. Lady Moira Campbell.”
“Campbell? I’ve heard that name before.”
“You probably have. My husband has done a lot for the cause.” She smiled, pleased they were on the same page about the rightful king.
“You should be careful who you share that information with.” He moved to his friend.
She followed. “I’ve seen enough in my time to ken who I can and cannot share with.”
“Just be careful.” He released a belt buckle, which had been secured over the prostrate man. “I’m Kendal McDonald and this is Reid Murray.”
“What happened to him?” She spotted an injury on Reid’s arm. Above it was a tourniquet made out of another belt.
“He was on the wrong end of a sword and a bullet.”
“The bullet hit him where?” She couldn’t see another injury.
“His head.”
“Oh, that’s not good.”
“He hasn’t uttered a word since, which makes it doubly bad.” Kendal dragged his friend from the horse’s saddle and hauled him over his shoulder. He grunted under the weight then shifted to ensure he had a secure grip. Both of Reid’s arms dangled down his back, the leather belt of the tourniquet swinging.
“This way.” Moira turned and gathered her skirt. “We should get him indoors.”
“Do you know someone who can help him?”
“I have some healing knowledge.” She quickened her pace, shooing the chickens out of the way. They’d woken up at the sound of the horses and come to investigate.
“For the love of God, this man is heavy.” Kendal followed her up the stone steps.
“Do you think you can get him upstairs?” She turned and paused.
Kendal’s face was red and a drip of blood landed on the floor by his boot. The wound on his friend’s arm was leaking.
“Why?” Kendal nodded at the entrance to the drawing room. “Can’t I put him in there?”
“Because it will be easier to keep him out of sight upstairs,” she said, taking the first few steps. “I don’t get many visitors but if I do and they’re not the sort we want, it might be a little safer.”
“Aye, you’re right.” He followed, his breaths laboured and his footsteps heavy.
She hurried ahead. Kendal hadn’t taken much persuading about going up the stairs, despite the effort. It had been the mention of unwanted visitors, which had spurred him on. There was only one reason for that. They’d encountered Red Coats. It was how Reid had been injured, and most likely how Kendal had acquired the military musket at his hip.
“In here.” She hurried along the landing to one of the smaller bedrooms.
Kendal was close behind her.
He’d brought trouble to her door, and possibly Red Coats, but she didn’t resent that. Angus would have helped these loyal Scotsmen and so must she, in his honour.
“On here.” She drew back the covers of the four-poster bed and managed to whisk herself out of the way as a huge male body was dumped onto it. The large wooden frame creaked.
Kendal removed his friend’s sporran and threw a blanket over him.
Quickly she worked on the tourniquet; it had loosened and slipped below the wound. With deft movements she repositioned it and tightened it, instantly stemming the flow of blood. “There’s towels in there.” She gestured to the box at the end of the bed. “Get some.”
Kendal rushed to do her bidding.
She placed one towel under the injured arm to catch any more blood and to be an indication of how much was still pouring from it.
“It’s a deep gash.” Kendal peered at the slash in his friend’s arm. “He took a hard blow from a sword.”
“Not hard enough to sever the limb,” she said. “And I can stitch this. It will help stop the bleeding and aid healing especially if I add white vinegar to the dressing.”
“You can do that?”
“Aye.” She turned her attention to the man’s head. It was at an angle on the pillow, his eyes were closed, and a large swelling was protruding from his tousled red hair, right in the middle of his forehead.
“Where’s the bullet wound?” she asked.
“Here.” Kendal pushed the hair from Reid’s ear. “Looks like he had a lucky escape, just a slice of skin taken out by the passing bullet, skull and brain still there.”
“So how’d he get this lump?” Gingerly she raised the locks of hair on the opposite side of his brow. They matched his eyebrows, which were the colour of bales of straw in twilight, a soft golden red with strands of bronze.
“I think he fell forward, hit a stone. Not best sure though, Lady Campbell, I was fighting for my own life at the time?”
“Are you injured?” She scanned his weathered face, his broad shoulders, and strong forearms. There was plenty of blood on him but was any of it his?
“No. I’m not.” He nodded at Reid. “But please, if you can help him, I’d be in your debt.”
“There’s no debt in this house for helping a Scot in need.” For a moment she studied the unconscious man’s face. He had a wide jaw, soft lips, and like Kendal he had a beard, but his was much sparser and lighter too. He was breathing shallowly but steadily.
“We need to get this tunic off,” she said. “And I’ll need hot water.”
“I’ll get the water.” Kendal straightened.
“Thank you, you’ll find it in the kitchen, it’s to the rear of the house and…”
He’d already gone.
Moira quickly went into the fourth bedroom, where her seamstress box was stored and gathered up the items she’d need. She then detoured to her bedroom and grabbed a small wooden container holding healing remedies, which she kept under her bed.
When she returned to the smallest bedroom, her patient was unmoved and Kendal hadn’t yet returned with the water she needed to clean the wounds.
She set the things she’d gathered on the table beside the bed. Then feeling hot, she opened the window. The two horses were still in the yard. They’d found the trough and one was drinking, the other resting, one back leg propped onto the hoof.
Kendal appeared, carrying a bowl of steaming water.
“Good, you’re back,” she said, making space for it on the table. “Place it here.”
He did as she’d asked, then he too went to the window and looked out.
“You can put the horses in the stables,” she said, ripping a second towel into strips.
“Nay.” He placed his hands on his hips. “I need to get them far away from here.”
“You do?” She placed the strips into the water, then set about undoing the buttons on Reid’s tunic.
“Aye, they don’t
belong to us. The soldiers they do belong to will soon be searching for them… and us.”
She looked up and held his gaze. “I understand.”
“You must deny all knowledge of us ever being at Leannan Creag, unless they find Reid.” Kendal moved to the bed. “And if they do, tell them I made you care for him under duress, that I threatened I’d kill you if you did naught for him.”
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary and—”
“Lady Campbell, I do not wish the wrath of your husband. You have done a brave thing taking us in while he is not here. You must protect yourself and not be tarnished by our riding into your courtyard.”
She blinked away the sting of a tear. If Angus were at her side now, he’d be doing a better job of removing this tunic, he’d already have the horses hidden, and he’d be plotting the next move.
“Can you help with this?” She pulled the material stuck beneath the unconscious man. “He’s heavy.”
“Aye, of course.” Quickly Kendal dragged at the soft linen, pulling it from Reid’s arms and then from his torso.
Moira scanned her patient’s body, looking for other injuries, but apart from a few silvery scars and the odd dink from the battlefield, he was perfect.
“I must go,” Kendal said, straightening.
“You’re welcome to stay,” she said. “Your friend will wonder where you are when he wakes.”
“If he wakes?” Kendal frowned and shook his head. “The fella is out cold. Don’t think I’ve ever seen someone sleep like they’re dead before.”
“Och, I’m sure he’ll be okay.” She pressed the wet strip of towel over his arm and glanced at his face. Not even a wince. Maybe he wouldn’t ever wake up. Perhaps the bullet and the fall against a rock had damaged something in his head beyond repair.
“Damn it!” Kendal pressed his hand on Reid’s shoulder. “I’m sorry this happened, my friend.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t your fault,” she said.
He sighed then stepped around the base of the bed. “I’ll take both horses away from your home, and I’ll return when I can. If Reid wakes tell him to wait here for me and if he doesn’t wake…”
Moira pulled in a deep breath. “I give you my word I’ll see to it he gets a proper burial.”