The Laird

by Virginia Brown

  She slid another quick glance toward him, recognized the sullen set of his jaw. “So I understand,” she said.

  “He told you.”

  “Of your barefoot stroll? Yea, so he did.”

  When he muttered an obscenity under his breath, Judith said, “He could have held you for ransom, as I have been.”

  “Unlikely, under the circumstances.” Another blast of wind and rain pelted them, and for several moments, any conversation was impossible. When the rain lessened, he rode his mount close to hers again. “He said you were well.”

  “And so I was. Did you doubt? Have we not discussed this in greater length while still at Dumbarton? We gave great entertainment to Argyll and the king’s castellan.”

  “Christ, what did you expect? I risked my life and liberty to come into the enemy’s lair to bring you home at last, and you tell me you’d rather stay with a Scot!”

  “Did you ask my wishes?” Anger warmed her beneath the chill mantle of rain that wet her face. “No one ever asked my wishes, save Robert Campbell. All the long years I was left to languish in a foreign land, alone without even a husband to see to my rights and needs, and you think to berate me for saying at last what I want instead of yielding like a timid mouse to what you want!”

  He recoiled slightly, eyes narrowed beneath the helm, familiar and yet strange to her, this brother she didn’t really know. And that was the most illuminating thing, that she had longed for a home that was no longer hers, yearned for love and had not recognized it until almost too late. If she had not fled Lochawe, perhaps she would never have known it. Would never have known the sweetness of loving Rob . . .

  “You don’t know what is best,” Payton said harshly, “for if you did, you would not shame your family and your name. Best to go to a nunnery than live loosely—”

  “Handfasting is the same as marriage, but without the priest.”

  “As I said—loose. And if you have a child? Saints help you, then, for it’s sure you’ll need it.”

  Her lips thinned into a stubborn line of silence. She had no intention of telling him that Glenlyon’s babe already grew inside her.

  “Judith,” Payton said when they had ridden a while in cold, wet silence, “you have your lands near York. They’re good lands, fertile, with ample rents. If the terms set out by the Bruce are signed by Edward, no Scot can own land in England, nor Englishman own land in Scotland. All contracts are null. You can wed again; there have been negotiations for you.”

  Surprise trembled through her, and she turned to look at him through the mist. “When?”

  “Recently—”

  “Then that is why you ransomed me? Not because you want me home but because there is an advantage for you?”

  A dull color rose up his throat, and he looked away, his jaw clenching. “Christ, I told him . . .” His head snapped back, and he stared at her. “Marriage aside, you’ll be safe in England.”

  “I don’t want safety, I want love.”

  “Love is not necessary to survival.”

  She stared at him a moment, thought of another man and the same words, spoken about a child, then, but just as mistaken.

  “Perhaps it is not necessary to you,” she said, “but it is vital to me. I wed once for duty. When I wed again, it will be for love.”

  “It seems,” Payton said softly, “that we are at an impasse.”

  “Yea, brother, so we are.”

  “You have learned how to be willful in Scotland.”

  “Nay, I have learned how to be loved.”

  THE RAIN HAD stopped. A mist of gray light draped like a curtain over rocks and slopes. Judith’s heart clutched, and unexpected tears stung her eyes. The mist reminded her of Rob, of the unique color of his eyes. Why did she weep so often now? It seemed as if she could not go an hour without the sting of tears behind her lids—she, who had rarely wept in her life, a veritable waterfall these days.

  A wall snaked across the land, dipping into valleys and rising with the hills, built of Roman stones that had long been the dividing line between England and Scotland. It had been debated whether the wall had been built to keep the Scots out of England or keep the English out of Scotland, but the wall was there just the same, with the boundaries occasionally contested.

  Just ahead lay the border, with the city of Carlisle not far beyond promising respite from cold and rain. Riding faster now within reach of a fire and ale, Payton’s guard jostled around her, laughing and sharing tales of their plans for later. The road swooped in a steep glide down, then up again, rolling toward England.

  Toward years without love . . . without Rob . . .

  Desperation seized her, a kind of madness borne of fear and even sorrow. She could not be led tamely back like a hound. Not without doing all she could to get away.

  And then, the miracle. The chance she had been waiting for since leaving Dumbarton presented itself. Her guard relaxed vigilance, thought of their bellies and comfort rather than the woman they had been charged to escort. She seized the moment, slowed her mount, easing back a bit.

  They rode ahead of her, riding down the brown ribbon of road into a gentle dale of green grass and grazing sheep, and she dropped back even more. At the head of the hundred-strong troop, her brother rode with his comrade in arms. No one seemed to notice that she flagged, and should they, she intended to pretend a necessary stop in the bushes. None would question that. She had made so many of those stops her brother had accused her of purposeful delay.

  A damp wind curled the edges of her plaide around her, and her horse danced over muddy ruts, sliding a little. She eased back onto the grassy verge near a copse of hazel.

  No one noticed. They were some distance ahead now, dull light gleaming on the linked mail and domed helmets and weapons. Caked mud from hooves soared into the air, chunks flying behind like heavy rain, the slapping sound of hoofbeats fading.

  One rider among so many, her absence not yet noticed.

  Blood pounded in her ears, beat through her veins with a wild rush, and she turned her mount down the slope off the road and into the trees that edged a rocky stream. Faster now, urgency biting at her, she followed the winding brook that led away from the city until the ground became too marshy. She paused to get her bearings.

  Stretching to one side lay the sloping hills they had just passed, and to the other lay the wall, moss-covered and draped in ivy, high as a man’s head in places. She urged her horse through the high, thick grass, keeping to the wall’s shelter for a ways, then cut across the undulating hills that led northward.

  The horse stumbled slightly in ditches, clambering up and then down again, with mud flying up and grass whipping at belly and legs. Her hands were cold, her teeth began to chatter, and tension pulled tight inside her like a rope being stretched. She pushed onward until she reached a rocky ledge and brought her horse to a skidding halt. Snorting, he hung his head and shook it, blowing steam into the air.

  Below, an angry torrent, swollen by the rains, surged over rocks, chewed at dirt banks, swallowed chunks of earth and grass in its hungry spate. It was too dangerous to attempt fording, with the dark water deep and treacherous. To cross, she would have to go around, using the bridge up on the road. A risk, but her only alternative.

  As soon as she started around, she heard a shout on the wind and looked back. Payton. And with him came the hundred. They flowed across the fields toward her, a dark wedge of determination. Panic swelled. No, not now, not when she was so close. She urged her mount up and down the banks of the raging stream, searching for a place to ford it before they reached her. There must be a way across.

  And then she saw it, a crag that rose out and over the water, grass-fringed, sticking out so far it almost reached the opposite bank. Her horse was winded, flagging. Several feet of open air lay between one bank and the next.


  Another shout, closer now, and she made up her mind.

  “Shh, shh,” she urged, circling the bay for a running start. It snorted, danced, pawed restlessly at the ground, and she dug her heels into its sides. Bounding forward in a canter, she felt the smooth bunch of muscles beneath her, the lengthy stride, and then the sudden lift into the air.

  For an instant, it was as if she had wings. Dealan d’—Mairi’s butterfly.

  Then the bay landed on the opposite bank, a brief jolt, and she was safe. She glanced behind her when she reached the top of the next hill. Pallid light glinted on pikes and helmets. They were already slowing, some separating to ride toward the road, but they would be too late. She would be well into Scotland long before they could catch up.

  Exhilarated, she lifted her arm into the air, saw her brother ride right to the edge of the flooded stream and rein to a halt. He stared up at her with an expression of baffled anger, and she felt almost sorry for him. Almost.

  Wheeling her horse, she crested the hill—and saw them, a band of near fifty men coming down the Carlisle road.

  Even from this distance, she recognized the rider in front, the black hair swept back from his face, and the dark blue plaide that whipped behind him. Without a single glance or regret for what lay behind, she rode toward her future.

  HE’D SEEN HER streak across the fields, a solitary rider dark against the green, and recognized her at once. Even if not for the bright hair that spilled down her back, he would have known her. And if he had been close enough, he would have throttled her when she made that daft leap across the spate. Failure would have meant serious injury or even death.

  Yet fierce joy surged through him when she turned her horse north. The wind snatched at her plaide and her hair, sent it streaming behind her like a banner.

  “By hell,” Lochawe said, “she rides like a Scot!”

  Archie MacCallum and the MacGregors whooped with rising excitement, swords drawn and axes waving over their heads as they hurtled down the sticky mire of the road without regard for man nor beast. Like hounds on the scent of a fox, they spied their prey and gave voice.

  Rob let them run a bit; perhaps it would give Langdon pause. Fifty Highlanders against a hundred seasoned English men-at-arms were fine odds. The Bruce himself had faced the same unequal odds and been victorious.

  Not for him the fray, not when he had his lady so close now, near enough that he could see the wild light in her eyes and the gleam of her teeth as she came laughing toward him.

  He waited, allowed her the moment, curbed his restive mount with an easy hand while she sidled alongside him. Rosy-cheeked from the wind and chill, she lifted a fine brow. Then the husky voice that had kept his dreams alive said, “You are late, Glenlyon.”

  “Yea, lady. But not too late.”

  “No,” she agreed and leaned forward so that he caught the clean fresh scent of heather in her hair as she reached for him, “it is never too late to love.”

  Leaning toward her, he cupped her chin in his palm and brushed his mouth over her parted lips. “I shall,” he said softly, “give you all the love you can bear.”

  Her hand came up to cradle his, fingers trembling slightly, the laughter in her eyes replaced by the burn of emotion. “It is liable to take you a lifetime.”

  “Then we had best begin now.”

  “Yea, or as soon as we convince my brother that I am not going on to England.”

  He followed the direction of her gaze and saw that his father and the MacGregors had incredibly come to a clash with Langdon’s men. The chink of swords sounded muted by distance, but deadly nonetheless. Rob swore softly under his breath and gave her a swift, hard kiss.

  “Ride on, and I’ll follow.”

  “No!” Instant alarm sprang into her eyes. “Payton would like nothing better than to see you slain—please, do not join the fray!”

  “And what kind of man would I be to allow others to risk injury or death for my cause? Ride on, Judith, and let me meet with your brother, or this will never end.”

  “If you think to persuade him to ride meekly away, you are a fool, for he would no more relinquish that which he considers his than you would.”

  Rob studied her for a moment, then nodded. “Aye, you are right. Stay here then, and whatever happens, you will be protected. Your brother would not harm you.”

  “If he slays you, he might as well.”

  Curbing his restless mount, he leaned forward again to kiss her, then spurred away, riding to join his men.

  Sir Payton saw him coming, and amidst the shouts and flashing swords, rode out to meet him. Heavy mist dripped from helmet and blades, dampened the air like rain as they rode within several feet of each other and paused. Horses danced, snorting, mud churning beneath lethal hooves.

  “The lady goes with me,” Glenlyon said before Langdon could speak, and watched anger crease his face.

  “My sister goes home to England,” was the snarling reply, and his sword gleamed dully when he lifted it. “We can settle this between us. I am no longer unhorsed or weaponless—do you dare?”

  “I dare.” Rob kneed his mount forward a step. “Do you have courage enough to keep this only between us? If I win, we leave unmolested. If you win, you take the lady and leave my men to return to Scotland.”

  “If I win,” Langdon growled, “I will do what I wish in regard to your men.”

  “You were released unharmed, save for your donation of horse and arms,” Rob said, lifting a brow. “Are you too craven to extend the same courtesy?”

  Sir Payton considered a moment, then gave a jerk of his head. “Aye, then, the same courtesy. If I win, your men can walk back the way they came.”

  “Done.”

  Orders were given, and reluctantly, the MacGregors and MacNeishes quit the fight to group behind Rob, muttering in discontent, but compliant. Sir Payton had the same problem with his men, but they finally regrouped some distance away, watchful and waiting.

  “I hope ye know what ye are about,” Lochawe muttered, his expression registering doubt. “We could have won the day.”

  “And if I killed her brother? Would she love me for it, or would that always be between us?”

  Angus Campbell looked startled. Mist dampened his face and clung in pale drops on his lashes. Finally he shook his head. “So that’s what this is about, is it?”

  “That’s what it’s been about for a while. What did you think?”

  “I thought,” Angus said after a moment, “that it was about her lands.”

  “It has never been about lands, but about her.” Rob slid a glance toward Judith where she still sat her mount, fret in the agitation of her hands but a resolute expression on her face. He looked back at his father. “It has always been about her.”

  “God be with ye,” Lochawe said after a moment. “Ye deserve the lady and her love.”

  Dismounting, Rob stood still and tense while Sir Payton dismounted and approached. It was quiet. The smell of rain and mud was thick. Rob wore only his tunic and plaide, but Sir Payton wore the red and yellow Wakefield tabard, with the leopard rampant upon his chest. Dull light glittered on the embroidered beast and on the metal of his chainse.

  A brisk wind caught the edge of Rob’s plaide as he stood with legs braced, sword held at the ready, his stance alone a silent challenge. Sir Payton closed the muddy space between them in three long strides.

  JUDITH STIFLED A scream. Her worst nightmare had come true, the choice before her a grim one. How could she just sit and watch while the man she loved and her own brother hacked at one another with lethal swords? Somehow, her fist was in her mouth, and she tasted blood, so hard did she press against her lips.

  Payton wore protective armor, while Rob had only his tunic and plaide . . . the deafening clangs of sword against sword were so loud . . . s
o deadly. She tried not to look, but terror kept her eyes on them as they fought, slashing at one another, brittle light reflected from their blades, and both wore expressions of fierce concentration. She heard Archie MacCallum swear softly, knew that Lochawe scowled, yet it all seemed to be a terrible dream, with men moving as slowly as if the very mist that blurred them dragged them down.

  Rob went down on one knee in the mud as Payton’s blade forced him back, and Judith stifled a scream with both hands to keep from distracting them. Her heart pounded, and there was a loud roaring in her ears.

  Oh Mary, Mother of God, let him live! she prayed as hot fear rose to choke her, and then, miraculously it seemed, he was on his feet again, swinging his heavy sword sideways to catch her brother by surprise. The blow knocked Payton back, his booted foot sliding in rutted mud, and he staggered but kept upright, barely able to turn away the vicious blow. It caught his sword beneath the hilt and sent it up into the air and spinning away to land heavily on the grassy verge.

  Panting from his exertions, with sweat and mud coating his face, Payton grimly spread his arms out to the sides to indicate defeat. Judith wanted to weep. She was happy Rob had won, yet knew her brother would not accept his defeat graciously. He never had.

  “Take her then,” Payton snarled when Rob stepped back and away, “for no decent Englishman would have her after she’s lain with the devil!”

  Fine lines of fury marked the edges of Rob’s mouth, his mud-smeared face just as angry as he replied, “I will take her, and be glad to set her free from men who care more about her lands than about her.”

  Payton shot a glance toward Judith. He looked angry and miserable. “It was never about the lands for me. She’s my sister, my blood. I would never have turned my back on her as she’s turned her back on me.”

  Judith nudged her mount forward several steps, until she was close enough to him to say softly, “Payton, you are my brother, and I love you as a sister should, but my life would never be complete without Rob. I am sorry you don’t understand. I have made my choice, and perhaps one day you will find it in your heart to forgive me and understand why I have chosen love over all.”