The Shadow 0f Her Smile (Highlander Heroes Book 3)

by Rebecca Ruger

  The Shadow of Her Smile

  Highlander Heroes, Volume 3

  Rebecca Ruger

  Published by Rebecca Ruger, 2019.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, character, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Some creative license may have been taken with exact dates and locations to better serve the plot and pacing of the novel.

  ASIN: B07XPBSNFX

  The Shadow of Her Smile

  All Rights Reserved.

  Copyright © 2019 Rebecca Ruger

  Written by Rebecca Ruger

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Disclaimer: The material in this book is for mature audiences only and may graphic content. It is intended only for those aged 18 and older.

  Rebecca Ruger

  www.rebeccaruger.com

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Disclaimer

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter 3

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Epilogue

  The End

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  February 1304

  Near Happrew, Scotland

  ADA MONCRIEFE STOOD atop the battlements at Dornoch Castle as her betrothed and his army returned. There was much to appreciate about her soon-to-be husband; he was tall and striking upon his large destrier, his chain mail shiny, his tabard bright, always untarnished it seemed by this war. John Craig somehow kept his person fastidious, even as all those who followed showed the effects of what Ada must assume was a terrific battle: swords and hands were caked in blood, dried and darkened to suggest the battle was hours old; faces and brows, under narrow brimmed helms, were swathed in sweat and grime; horses showed still a glossy sheen of lather from their labors this day.

  Ada watched John dismount and shout orders to his officers. She’d been a guest of Dornoch for almost a month, when her father had sent her along—despite her earnest protests—to her future husband. Ada imagined that John Craig, with his shiny dark hair and pleasing blue eyes, might have thrilled any young girl at first glance. Ada, herself, admitted to a modicum of relief that he was so pleasing to look upon. It had only been a few days before her good opinion had been corrected.

  Her betrothed, a Scottish baron with an allegiance to Edward I and England, was a monster.

  Initially, Ada had only been unnerved by his discourtesy to inferiors, soldier or servant and his own sister, but soon this was amplified into dread as she’d witnessed greater atrocities, attesting to his true character. She supposed she should be thankful she’d been shown his rightful personality from the start; it would have been worse to have been deceived, to have gone into the marriage completely blinded, believing him to be noble and kind. She now had no false illusions about what her marriage, and thus her life, might be.

  She watched as a line of prisoners was herded inside the gate. A sickening fright knotted in her belly, knowing these men would suffer the same fate as the previous lot of hostages. They would die, slowly and without mercy.

  With a sharp cry, which she interrupted with a hand over her mouth, Ada saw that one of the prisoners was no more than a boy. His eyes darted to and fro, taking in everything inside the yard of the castle, while his freckled cheeks showed a bright red flush of distress. He couldn’t be more than a dozen years of age, Ada decided, or only a very small framed older boy, but a child, nonetheless.

  There were six prisoners, she counted. Each one wore a tartan of red and blue and gold, though Ada did not recognize either the tartan or any man bearing it. The prisoners were not as the last group that John had brought to Dornoch. Only the boy showed any fear, his shoulders tense, as if only waiting and dreading some violence against his person. The others held their heads high, their broad shoulders neither cowed nor bent. Ada wondered if what some might perceive as bravado—their eyes were not lowered in subjugation but took in everything and everyone around them—was truly only prudence and strategy; they noted every detail of their surroundings, mayhap already plotting a confrontation and escape.

  As they came fully into the bailey, Ada stepped back, ducking under the eaves of the overhang along this part of the keep, pulling her gray cloak more tightly about her dark hair. She had no fear of being discovered—her betrothed loved an audience, she’d learned—but thought to separate herself from any coming violence. She had no desire to witness again exactly how brutal John Craig could be.

  The prisoners were instructed to dismount. One sizable soldier was dragged off his mount, already wounded, the blood-soaked tartan said. The boy fell to his knees as he landed on the ground and was quickly rewarded with a hard kick to his side. One of his comrades jumped in front of him, taking the next blow and throwing back a ferocious growl as the boy managed to gain his feet behind him. John Craig approached the man who’d come to the boy’s defense, standing eye to eye with the large warrior, who was cowed not at all by either John’s intentional menace or his own lack of weapons.

  From this distance, the words exchanged between John and his captive were lost to Ada. She caught only hints of the sounds. The man’s voice was deep, his diction heavily accented, so unlike John’s practiced and precious English. John threw his head back and laughed at something the man said. Ada cringed at the sound, so false and terrifying.

  Ada studied the brave man, who did not flinch before her betrothed. Mayhap he knew not how precarious his own position was just now. Perhaps all that bravado came with some erroneous belief that he might still be alive come this time tomorrow. When one of John’s soldiers reached again for the youth, the man threw himself in front of the lad. His hands were untied, and he pulled the boy behind him. John liked to prove his own courageousness, his own superiority, by leaving hands unbound; easy to do when surrounded by your own loyal men-at-arms. For his efforts to defend the lad, the man received a gauntlet-ed fist to the face, and blood dripped immediately from his lip. He stumbled but did not fall. And he did not release the arm of the boy.

  Ada considered him more closely as he straightened and stood eye to eye with her betrothed once more. She had an impression of height and breadth; he stood as tall as John but was broader across the shoulders. He wore no helmet—none of his comrades did—and showed a mane of very dark blond, long and tousled with sweat and dirt and blood. An angry frown furrowed his brows and she thought his teeth might be clenched, but that was all Ada could distinguish across the distance of the yard.

  Her betrothed was saying something to him and his lip seemed to curl at the words and then the boy was yanked from his grasp by another Craig minion. He reacted instantly, trying to regain hold of the boy’s arm while the boy cried out, giving up what had remained of his own courage. One of John’s soldiers dragged the lad away wh
ile the big man was beaten to the ground by three more Craig men for his attempts to stop it.

  Ada had seen enough. She swallowed her revulsion and slipped away, back inside the keep.

  SOMEHOW, ADA MANAGED to dine with her betrothed, as expected, without giving any hint that she had witnessed his return, or the happenings in the yard, only hours before.

  “And what have you been about these three days while I was gone, my dear?” John asked.

  Reveling in your absence, was her first thought. She felt Margaret, John’s sister, nearly jump out of her skin at her side at the sound of her brother’s voice.

  “We’ve been very busy with the mending,” Ada answered vaguely and thought to add, “and yesterday we helped out with the candle-making.”

  He chewed upon the dried-out meat and her words. Ada cast a glance at Margaret, but the girl would not lift her eyes from her plate, though she ate not at all. Poor Margaret, who seemed only a shadow of a true person, submissive and subjugated. Margaret was only a year younger than Ada’s twenty-one years but behaved as might a child of many fewer years. Whether her cowed and simple manner was due, in fact, to her brother’s temperament and his violent tendencies, Ada could not be sure. She guessed the girl’s only hope was to be married and removed from her brother’s volatile presence.

  If Ada herself could not somehow achieve her own freedom, she imagined that as John’s wife, she could push him to arrange a marriage for his sister to see her removed from the hell she lived.

  Seeing her own self freed was Ada’s priority. If she had to simply walk away from Dornoch, she would, though the remoteness of the castle and the desolate nature of the surrounding countryside offered not much more hope than her circumstance here. She’d thought, when John had left on this last short campaign, that the opportunity might present itself to escape. This had not been the case. She was under constant and watchful eyes, all the people of Dornoch seeming so attuned to her every movement, whether by instruction or not, that she was never alone but when in her chambers at night.

  John eyed her critically, though not with any outright displeasure. “You have made yourself very useful, Ada. That is a very admirable quality.” He cast a hard glare at his sister, who had yet to lift her head. “Would that all the ladies of Dornoch were so constructive.”

  “Margaret and I appreciated how well received our presence was. I think the women were very happy for our assistance.” She did not know if that were true, as so many souls of Dornoch seemed only spiteful and nasty people, their dark moods and fretful scurrying no doubt dictated by the baron. But Ada added a pretty smile, and this seemed to pacify John. She watched his dark brown eyes settle, not for the first time, upon her bosom. As before, he appeared wholly entranced by her chest, and she wondered if she bounced them up and down, if he might lick his lips.

  Ada Moncriefe had been raised in a fairly pleasant household, when her own father was not blustering—this often controlled and contained by her dear mother—where she had never known fear and had been often allowed to speak her mind. She had to assume that her father did not know of John Craig’s violent bent when he’d contracted the marriage agreement with him. Likely, he’d been won over, as had Ada in the first few days, by his coolly pleasing manner, his pretty speech, and his finely tailored garments. She’d swiftly learned how to be afraid, to fear what the future might hold. When she thought of what she’d witnessed of his vicious nature and coupled that with his leering at her breasts, she became truly fearful of what marriage to this man might entail.

  “Did you find success in your endeavors, sir?” She thought to ask. It was always safer to have the discussion be about him.

  He turned to her, his face softening just enough to suggest he was pleased with her query. “Great success, dear Ada.” The smile that followed was oily and sickening. “Greater than I had hoped, even. We’ve captured some infidels—done in by their own weakness—and we shall show them exactly how we deal with dissenters of our liege lord, King Edward.”

  Ada gave a brief thought to the man who’d stood against John and his men in defense of the youth. “I wonder they find themselves upon a field of battle, if they are besieged by weakness.”

  Her betrothed shrugged, spearing a scrap of meat onto his knife. “Actually, they put up a good fight, ‘twas only their softness in returning for a lad we’d captured that had so many of them also trapped.” He plopped the morsel into his mouth and chewed a bit before adding, “Weakness.”

  She would not have characterized that as weakness, but she would never say this to him.

  Later that night, plagued by frightful thoughts of what that sorrowful imprisoned lad must be thinking and feeling right now, Ada dozed and dreamed that John had the youth executed in the same manner he had another man slain just two weeks ago. That man had been suspected of poaching sheep from the vast Dornoch land. He’d denied the charge, and though there had been no witness or evidence to prove him guilty, he’d been pronounced so and had been sentenced to die. Ada could still see the man’s face, when he’d been told of his fate. His lips had quivered and parted. All color had drained from his flaccid face. He’d wrung his wool hat in his hands and had looked around, mystified, surely thinking he lived his own nightmare, waiting only to be wakened. He had not been, and because John had insisted that both she and Margaret be present while his punishment was meted out, Ada could still hear his cries, could still see his body, stripped and flogged, before he’d been hung. There had been no mercy in the hanging, as he’d not been dropped from tall gallows, his neck broken and death instant. He’d been hauled up slowly by a rope around his neck so that he was aware of his entrails being spilled onto the yard until, thankfully, death had claimed him. And still, his limbs had been secured to four horses, whose rumps had been struck with the flats of swords, scattering them off in many directions to tear his body into four pieces.

  Ada jerked up on her bed, wakened by these horrific recollections. And she knew she must act, must do something.

  She would leave tonight. She must save that poor boy.

  Again, she considered the bravery of the prisoner who today had stood against John Craig, the man with the tawny hair and arms the size of tree limbs. If she were to put her own life into his hands, she’d bet he could see her safely removed from Dornoch and her fate.

  Previously, she’d invited Margaret to give her a tour of Dornoch while her brother had been gone. She’d pretended an interest in the keep and the Craig family history but truthfully, had only wanted to know any and everything she could that might one day help her escape. It was a small vat of knowledge, but she would employ it tonight.

  Rising, she considered her chambers and its contents, and her personal belongings she’d been allowed to bring with her from home. She would not be sad to leave them behind; they were only things. A quick glance out the lone window of her chambers showed her it was indeed full dark, though she had no idea of the time, as she might have dozed for twenty minutes or two hours.

  From the cupboard where hung all her gowns that she would leave behind, Ada pulled out a small leather pouch and attached it to her belt. She debated donning her cloak; it would make her figure dark and surely conceal her identity, but it would also give rise to questions should she happen upon any persons outside her chamber. Leaving the cloak behind, Ada blew out a terrified breath and snuck out of her chamber before her fear insisted she stay.

  Chapter Two

  Bare streaks of light shone into the cells of the dungeons, landing upon the cold and wet stone floor. Mildew lived here, the stench hanging heavy in the air. Jamie MacKenna wasn’t often afraid—truth be told he couldn’t recall a time when he’d ever been afraid—but today, tonight, he was fearful. While he and four others had been tossed into the dungeon, young Henry had been taken elsewhere and they had been neither informed of his whereabouts nor why the boy had been separated from the rest. Jamie and his lieutenant, Callum, had agreed the reason no doubt had to do with leverage ov
er them, and not some dastardly plan to harm or brutalize the boy.

  Jamie prayed they were right, hoped it wasn’t just wishful thinking.

  He swiped his hand over his jaw and chin and leaned his head against the bars of the cage, watching and listening.

  They ought not to have been caught, he mused with frustration. But then, the entire day had been one mishap after another. The English had come, under Segrave and de Latimer, and—to the chagrin of loyal Scots—Robert Bruce, intent only upon capturing William Wallace and Simon Fraser. Smaller houses, Craig’s included, had supported the English campaign. Jamie’s MacKenna army had joined the fray, along with Conall Macgregor’s forces. It should have been a rout, the English hadn’t more than a thousand men all told. Jamie had an idea that Robert Bruce might have been behind the divide-and-conquer strategy, as their forces had wreaked havoc all around Stobo and Peebles and Happrew, burning fields and farms, coming and going in small groups, confusing the Scots with this practice, so different than their normal siege tactics.

  Jamie’s forces had been divided by a surprise attack. The lad, Henry, who was no soldier proper but the son of one of Jamie’s officers had quickly been trapped. They’d had to at least try and save him. Jamie might have considered it fortunate that only six men had been captured, save that so many others now lay dead upon the Cademuir Hills.

  Behind him, further back in the cell, Donald groaned. Will sat next to him, applying pressure to his wound. He wouldn’t last long and there wasn’t anything Jamie could do for him. Donald would be the lucky one, would escape the suffering come the morrow, Jamie guessed.

  “A man dinna bring prisoners to his own keep,” Callum had said earlier, “but to trade for his own prisoners, or to make an example of them.”

  Jamie couldn’t imagine that his army or the forces of the MacGregor had been able to secure any prisoners. They’d barely managed to stay alive, intent on getting Wallace and Fraser out of harm’s way.