The Highlander's Welsh Bride: Book 5 in the Hardy Heroines series

by Cathy MacRae

  A grin crept back over his face. “If I had a sister, I’d want her to be like ye.”

  Carys swallowed past the unexpected lump in her throat, fighting the conflicting tides of warmth and cold that swept through her. Thoughts fled to Hywel and her eyes clouded with pain. “Ye are as a brother to me,” she managed before her voice was swallowed up in unshed tears.

  She slipped quickly away, measuring her tread to give herself time to gather her emotions. She missed her mam and da, her husband, and her brother. Grief was a treacherous beast, ready to ambush when least expected. She’d thought the memories had faded beyond such recall, but a powerful ache swelled in her chest, making it difficult to breathe. As much as she had come to care for Gorrie and his family, she didn’t know if she could let them past the barriers she’d set around her heart.

  By the time she reached the cottage, she’d managed, if not a smile, at least a less-haunted look, her face relaxed and tears wiped away. But she was thankful for the dimly lit interior of the stone building, as Lorna’s keen eyes missed little. A single window lay open, allowing watery sunlight to pool on the dirt floor. Smoke from the hearth swept up through the thatched roof, creating a haze in the room.

  Lorna glanced up as Carys knocked on the open door.

  “Och, lass, ’tis good to see ye! Look who’s here,” she said, tapping Fergal’s shoulder as she bustled toward the door. Her husband gripped his chair’s arm rests and rose slowly to his feet. Carys set the fresh meat on the table and waited for Fergal to approach, not wishing to give him cause to stumble.

  “We’re forever indebted to ye, lass,” he said gravely. “Ye have ever been a blessing to us.”

  Carys’s stomach did a peculiar flip-flop and her breath caught in her throat. Bereft of blood kin she may be, but her idle longings for family seemed to be coming true. She swallowed twice before she was able to force words past her faltering tongue.

  “Ye welcomed Tully and me when we knew no one,” she replied, carefully sidestepping the issue of close bonding. “What manner of person would I be to sit idly by whilst ye and yer family came to harm?”

  Fergal snorted. “There are plenty of lasses who daren’t get their hands soiled, much less risk their life for another.”

  “Now, Fergal,” Lorna chided, patting his arm as though hoping to halt a long-running tirade. “’Tis a shame to speak ill of the dead.”

  “I’ll say no more. But ye, Carys, are always welcome here.” He gave his wife a glance then cleared his throat. “Lorna and I’ve been talking. We’d like ye and Tully to live with us—not just a place for Tully should aught happen to ye. ’Tis no good allowing ye to live in the forest like ye do. We can add a room or even build ye a wee cottage.” He hobbled to the door and pointed to a spot not too far distant. “There. Ye’d have a place of yer own, but close enough Lorna and I can keep an eye on ye.”

  Carys’s head spun. Fergal’s words and Lorna’s excited encouragement buzzed about her. Her heart cried out equally against the potential for heartbreak and for the nurturing bonds of family. Her head assured her it was better to live among friends than alone. Her heart wasn’t so certain.

  She raised her hands in a sue for peace. “I am overwhelmed. Though I am very appreciative, might I think on yer offer? And speak with Tully, of course.” She paused. “I promised Tully I would help him find his way home, though I do not know where his family lives. I had considered a trip to Morvern within the next fortnight to search for anyone who knew his da and where I might look. May I give ye my answer when I return?”

  Fergal and Lorna exchanged glances. “We’d be pleased to help ye. And there is nae need to rush yer decision. As long as ye know ye are needed—and wanted—here, ’tis enough.”

  Oddly deflated now the need to make a decision had passed, Carys smiled. “I told Gorrie I would help ye around the house today. In the morn, I will see about adding to the larder before I leave for Morvern.”

  “Stay the night, then,” Lorna insisted. “Ye can leave for the hunt with a warm meal in yer belly and our thanks for yer trouble.”

  Carys grabbed the empty bucket next to the door and escaped outside.

  It would simplify things to share chores. Having others close by to talk to would be nice.

  Or would it?

  Absently filling the bucket from a nearby stream, Carys sought to understand the reticence in her heart.

  They accept me for who I am.

  They do not truly know me.

  They are full of kind words and praise.

  When would this change to urges to find a husband, start a family?

  I am at peace in the forest, and yet, the solitude often overwhelms me.

  Living near Fergal and Lorna would be a different kind of peace.

  She grasped the wooden handle and hoisted the bucket from the stream, knocking it lightly against her shins. The slight pain jarred her thoughts to the truth.

  I am afraid to love. Can I join Fergal and Lorna and Gorrie and keep my heart safe?

  Carys nodded firmly though her heart raced. Yes.

  * * *

  The sun had scarcely added its pearly strands to the dawn sky when Carys and Dewr slipped from Lorna and Fergal’s barn the next morning, a bundle of warm oat cakes in Carys’s hand. Both Tully and Gorrie had insisted they accompany her, but she needed the time to herself and had only promised they could join her if they were awake when she left. A slight grin creased her lips. Both lads were at an age where rising before dawn was nigh impossible. Their gentle snores silenced abruptly as she gently closed the barn door. She flipped her fingers in invitation to Dewr, and they flitted like ghosts through the pre-dawn gloom.

  The trees’ dark shadows slipped over her like a protective shroud, hiding her from the view of her quarry. On the edge of a small glen she bagged two hares busy nibbling dew-bright grasses. Morning mists swirled about her as she crossed the burn and headed deeper into the forest.

  An hour later, a brace of fat grouse also dangled at her belt. She now had enough to feed Lorna’s family for several days, but Carys expected to be a week or more on the road to Morvern and back. Rays of early sunlight shone through the dense foliage, alighting on hillock and stone. Dewr growled softly. Something moved ahead. Carys waited, motionless, eyes scanning the woods to catch the movement again.

  Sun beams glinted off the most impressive rack she’d ever seen on a stag. His ears twitched, seeking sound. Slowly he turned his head, regally surveying his land. Water gurgled over the stones in homage at his feet. Power rippled through his great muscles as he gathered himself and leapt the small stream. Setting Dewr to follow at her heel, Carys dropped to a crouch and scurried through the underbrush, in awe of the magnificent beast and feverish with the thrill of the hunt.

  As she ducked and dodged through the forest, she sent up a quick prayer to the bean sidhe who cared for all such faerie cattle.

  “Guide this hart before my arrow,” she chanted beneath her breath as she halted and nocked an arrow. Dewr leaned against her, her excited tremble shuddering up Carys’s leg.

  The stag stood just at the edge of a glen, his coloring blending well with the leaves and trees, making him nigh invisible.

  Move a bit more so I can see ye better.

  In absolute silence, she waited. An ache grew in her arm from the tension on the bowstring. Long moments passed like hours. She scarcely dared to breathe. Step by hesitant step, the beast entered the clearing. Sunshine warmed the glen, the green grasses a contrast to his sleek, red hide. He dropped his head and nibbled a fern.

  The tip of her arrow pointed to his cheek, and she swiftly drew her aim up his neck and shoulders to a spot slightly behind and above his elbow.

  “Fly true,” she breathed as she loosed the arrow.

  * * *

  “There’s the proud beastie,” Dugan whispered.

  Birk lay on his belly and peered over the top of a rise. They’d been on the trail all morn of a hart big enough to feed the clan an
d now had him in sight. The stag stood at the edge of a field, grazing. Heavy antlers dipped as he ate.

  “Dinnae I tell ye he was a fat laddie?” another man asked, a grin on his face.

  “Aye, ye did. Good work. Fan out and dinnae let him see ye,” Birk ordered.

  They stood down wind of him, so he’d not catch their scent. As each man rose to a crouch, bow in hand, the stag stumbled toward the woods, then collapsed.

  “What the devil?” Dugan took a step toward the edge of the ridge.

  Birk placed a hand on him. “Hold,” he ordered. He lowered his hand. “Down.”

  They all squatted and waited.

  A black-haired figure strode out of the forest, dog at her side. She’d slung a long bow over her shoulder and drew a hefty dagger.

  “M’laird, yer supper!” Dugan quipped, clearly torn between indignation and amusement, an arched brow querying Birk’s next move.

  “Shhh. Watch,” Birk commanded.

  The lass couldn’t have boasted more than a score of years, yet she’d killed the deer they’d been hunting all morn with one shot. A smile grew across Birk’s face.

  “What’re ye thinking, Laird? Ye get that look and I know ye to be up to nae good,” Dugan said.

  “I think I’ve solved my bride problem,” Birk said. “That has to be the lass from Ferguson’s ship. What better choice for the new Lady MacLean?”

  Dugan frowned. “I dinnae understand.”

  Birk grinned at his captain. “She already defends our people and livestock. Yer ma and da like her fine.”

  “Aye, young Gorrie cannae shut up about her. But, Laird, the council will have a fit. If she’s the one stranded from Ferguson’s boat, she dinnae come from another clan. Clanless, she brings no alliances or dowry.” He shook his head. “The council willnae approve.”

  Birk’s lips twisted. “I’ll nae have another spoiled laird’s daughter to wife. Can ye see any of those women lifting a bow or sword to help our people?”

  The men all chuckled. They knew as well as Birk the women brought before him the past few months were more worried about their own comforts than the well-being of the clan.

  “Nae, Laird, I cannae,” Dugan replied.

  “Well, this lass has, and she’s nae a MacLean yet.”

  “What if she says ye nae?” whispered another hunter.

  Birk’s smiled broadened. “She’ll nae have a choice.”

  Dugan rubbed his chin. “What’s yer plan? How will ye bring her in?”

  “Tell me what the law is for poaching on MacLean land,” Birk coaxed.

  A ripple of surprise answered him.

  Dugan frowned. “I dinnae like it. She deserves our respect.”

  Birk placed a hand on his captain. “Aye, she does. Howbeit, she has violated clan law. She isnae a MacLean. ’Tis our duty to take her in. Iain, take the men and bring her back. I dinnae want a single bruise on her, aye?”

  “Aye, m’laird,” Iain replied.

  “Any harm comes to her, ye’ll answer to me. If all goes well, she’ll be yer lady in a sennight.”

  His declaration inspired a round of grins and nods.

  “Dugan and I will head back to the keep. Dinnae name me laird. In fact, dinnae give her a name beyond The MacLean. I’ll handle the rest.”

  Birk and Dugan crept back to their mounts, saddled up, and headed back to the keep.

  “Laird, are ye certain about this?” Dugan asked.

  Birk couldn’t contain his smile if he’d wanted to. “Aye. I’ve nae been so sure of anything in a verra long time.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Her shot must have pierced his heart. Carys waited a moment, expecting the stag to bolt to his feet. Except for the sway of his heavy antlers as they listed to the side, the animal did not move. She strode warily to the deer, touching his shoulder reverently.

  “A grand one, aye?” She murmured a brief prayer of thanks for a good hunt. The great beast would provide many meals for all of them, and Carys had several uses for the hide.

  Laying her bow next to the stag, she drew a knife and moved to a cluster of small saplings. “We’ll need to make a frame to carry this one back to Fergal and Lorna’s,” she murmured. “I fear ’twill take the both of us the rest of the morning to make the trek back.”

  Dewr sniffed the fallen animal, then turned to follow Carys. Suddenly, the dog’s head jerked up, hackles rising as a growl issued from deep in her chest.

  A shiver raised the hair on the back of Carys’s neck. Had a wolf been attracted to the scent of blood? She slowly scanned the area, noting her bow and arrow several feet away, next to the stag. She gripped her blade securely.

  “What is it, girl?” she whispered. “What does yer nose tell ye?”

  Dewr erupted in a flurry of barks as five men rose from the underbrush, arrows leveled. Carys stared at them in shock that turned quickly to dismay when she noted their numbers.

  “Lay down yer knife, lass,” one called. “Ye’ll be coming with us, now. Ye’ve been caught poaching The MacLean’s deer.”

  * * *

  Birk swung into his saddle, an ear to the scene unfolding behind him.

  “She isnae likely to come willingly,” Dugan remarked as he reined his horse next to Birk’s big black stallion. “If she suspects the penalty for poaching is death, she’ll fight.”

  “She’ll fight anyway,” Birk replied, his fingers restless on the reins.

  A shout went up, but the words were unintelligible. Birk flinched. Sounds of men crashing through the underbrush rose. Birk winced. Dugan and the other two men exchanged looks.

  “What if she escapes?” Dugan wondered aloud.

  Birk scowled. “She’s one lass against six men.” He glared at Dugan. “My men. They’ll nae let a lass get the better of them—even this lass.”

  Another shout, followed by a flurry of disagreeable grumbles reached their ears. Birk’s horse pinned his ears back and champed his bit. After a moment, Birk tapped him lightly with his heels.

  “I dinnae wish her to lay eyes on me yet. We’ll meet Iain and his captive at Dairborrodal.”

  Dugan shook his head and urged his mount after Birk. “Iain has to catch her, first.”

  * * *

  “Dewr, find Tully,” Carys commanded. “Go!”

  The dog hesitated, then, at Carys’s commanding sweep of her arm, bounded away. As quick as Dewr disappeared into the underbrush, Carys laid her escape plan. There was little she could do against six men, but she had been hunting these woods for the past three months and more and knew the trails as well as she knew the path to Gorrie’s home from the cave.

  Slamming her knife into its sheath, she dove for her bow and arrows before she darted to the side and into the trees. A shout went up behind her. She flew swiftly down the trail, then, choosing a slight gap in the bracken-littered forest floor, dropped to the ground and rolled off the path. She rose to a low crouch and scurried deeper into the underbrush before halting at the edge of a ravine with a rumbling burn below, the sound of its rushing white waters rising to her ears.

  Darting behind a large tree, she rose to her full height, back pressed against the bark as she peered around the trunk, looking for her attackers. Her breathing calmed and the roaring water became part of the noise of the forest. A twig snapped.

  Carys stared over her left shoulder, the direction she’d taken from the path. A hand clasped her right wrist and yanked her from behind the tree. She immediately dropped to a crouch and bent her elbow toward him, breaking his grip. Bounding upright, she cupped her fist in her opposite hand and slammed her elbow into the point of his chin. The blow forced him up on his toes, and Carys drove her foot into the side of his knee. He yelped and staggered forward, completely off-balance. With a helpful nudge with her boot, she sent him tumbling over the edge of the ravine.

  The sound of his cry and plunge down the rocky embankment brought a shout from the others. Carys bounded away again, left hand outstretched before her to protect he
r face from low branches as she raced through the underbrush. She circled back to the glen, hoping to find the horses the men had left behind. Slipping over the edge of the ridge on the other side of the glen, she spotted six horses waiting patiently. Carys skidded to a halt.

  Six? Her mind cast back. She’d seen five men earlier. One horse squealed in ill-temper and kicked at its neighbor. A mild ruckus erupted, then settled. Carys quickly recounted the horses. Six. Had one man remained behind?

  A shout, undoubtedly meant to alert the others, came from near the tethered horses. Wheeling about, Carys fled back into the trees. Booted feet hammered the leaf-covered ground, pounding bracken and other small plants as they chased her, choosing speed over stealth. She wove through the trees, seeking darker reaches of the forest. Birds shrieked and burst from the trees near her, betraying her to her hunters. Carys dodged a large trunk, rounding it in a quarter-circle, seeking to mislead the men behind her. The feint gained her a few moments’ time, but a cry announced they had her in view again.

  She grasped a low-hanging branch and swung up into a tree. Her bow, slung across her back to free her hands, caught on another, sturdier branch. Her foot, boot soles worn smooth, slid over loose bark. She scrambled to catch herself, scraping away flesh from her fingers and palms as the limb slipped from her grasp. With a grunt, she fell.

  Air blasted from her chest in a gasp as she hit the ground flat on her back. Shadows and light sparkled before her eyes as she fought to remain conscious. Her mouth gaped open like a landed fish, but only a trickle of air made its way into her lungs. The scent of decayed leaves and old leather filled her nose. Booted feet tramped next to her head.

  Hands grabbed her arms and wrists and dragged her to her feet. Her legs would not support her, and she hung between two men, her breath a thin shriek as it whistled thinly in and out of her lungs. Suddenly, she gave a great heave as her air passages opened, and she shoved upward with all the force she could manage, then collapsed toward the ground, her legs tucked beneath her.