Her Highlander's Lion Heart (Scottish Highlander Romance)

by Barbara Bard

  Isla nodded. "The area is far from the rule of the English. It is a more than a suitable destination fer our people tae live a free and happy existence."

  A respectful nod from Denholm, his ginger hair illuminated in the blaze of the fire before him. "As you wish, me Lady."

  Isla closed her eyelids. "Do not waste the formalities on me, brother. I accept father's designation as leader wi' the utmost reluctance."

  “Then ye must embrace all that the responsibility entails, dear sister.” He gestured to the solemn and slack members of the tribe gazing on with a tearful reminiscence of the fire. “Our people will now look tae ye tae make the decisions they cannot. Ye are their leader, now…”

  Isla opened her eyes and nodded, reaching over and squeezing her brother's forearm and thanking God that such a level-minded and headstrong soul as Denholm' was on her side.

  “When should we disembark from this area, me Lady?” Denholm inquired.

  “In the morra,” the Lady replied. “They deserve a night’s rest. We are far enough away fae the English that we still have some time.”

  Another nod. “I will consult wi’ the able-bodied men of the clan. We will set about organizing the caravan fer our departure.” He placed his hands on her shoulders. “But promise my one thing, Lady.”

  Isla’s emerald eyes, the same ones that had encapsulated so many suitors in the past, twinkled in the fire as she looked on her brother’s face.

  “Drink,” Denholm said with a crooked smile that showed brightly through his red beard. “And drink well!”

  Isla smirked as Denholm then produced a bottle, uncorked it, and placed it in his sister's hand. They drank to their father at that moment as Gavina looked on with a curious gaze.

  They drank to their hopes and their futures.

  Chapter 2

  A pinpoint of light entered Finlay’s field of vision. Small, a tiny dot. The dot then expanded into an overbearing glow that felt like a beacon of light from the heavens. A groggy and sore sensation overcame his body as he lifted his head and saw the hazy outline of the river where he had been pulled through, before passing out inside of the cave. Finlay drew a breath and pushed off the ground, every sinew in his being feeling saturated with a dull, aching pain that would not seem to subside. Stand, he told himself. Use yer might and stand.

  Finlay pushed off of the ground, slowly rising as his thick calves bore all of his weight. He rose, and rose, and rose…and then he collapsed back onto the earth, his cheek flush against the coolness of the rocky cave. Stand, damn ye! Finlay though, shaking his head as a pain shot through the center of his brain. Mustering the energy to stand, Finlay then glanced down at the wound in his abdomen and saw that he was still bleeding. Going off of his instinct—and the methods taught to him about self-care from his father—Finlay ripped his tattered tunic from his broad and thickly-muscled chest, balled up the remnants, and pressed it to his side. He groaned, his skin flushing before turning pale as he got into a crouch and began his slow ascension to the outside of the cave.

  The sun outside had just risen, and the trickle of the river calming and somewhat easeful to Finlay’s senses as he scanned around for any signs of the noblemen. They must be gone fae here…

  Slowly inching his way toward the river, his mouth parched, and lips chapped, Finlay approached the churning waters. His legs became weaker, his newfound sense of energy quickly subsiding as he fell to his hands and knees and reached out for the river just a few feet in front of him. Drink…Drink…

  Finlay scooped a handful of water, bringing it to his parched lips as an odd buzzing sensation filled his ears. The world once again spun, Finlay collapsed into the river, and then he came to a profound realization that he, like his late brothers, was about to depart from his mortal coil as he closed his eyes and gracefully accepted his fate…

  ***

  Isla, her hair braided after indulging young Gavina, propped her sister onto her lap outside of their tent. Gavina, staring up with full and emerald eyes at her older sister, flashed the most innocent of smiles. "When are we gonnae leave from her, Isla?" she asked, her delicate yet strong voice a subtle reminder of their late mother.

  “Soon, Gavina,” Isla said. “We just need tae make the proper preparations.”

  Gavina threw her arms around her sister's neck, still distraught by her father's death, but finding solace in her big sister's embrace. "Are ye really Lady of the clan now?" she asked, somewhat elated as if Isla had stumbled onto some newfound legacy and royalty—which, in a way, she had.

  Isla nodded, drawing a breath and puffing her chest and catching the attention of one of the male clan members who could not help but note the rugged yet regal beauty that Isla sported. “I’m still yer sister,” she said. “That will never change.”

  “Does this mean that I am a princess?” Gavina asked enthusiastically.

  Isla beamed fondly at her younger sibling, who bore a strong resemblance to Isla with hints of her brother Denholm. Gavina wasn't a princess by the standard rules of the clan's lineage—but Isla would not crush her younger sister's spirits by telling her the truth. She was far too young for that.

  Isla traced a finger through Gavina’s hair. “Of course, me dear princess,” she cooed. “And ye are by far the fairest of them all.”

  A giddy demeanor overcame Gavina. “The fairest of them all?”

  Isla pressed her forehead to Gavina’s. “The fairest of them all…”

  As the two sisters shared a laugh, Denholm and another one of the raven-haired men, Eamon, approached with anticipatory stances and postures. “Me Lady,” Eamon said with a nod. “It appears we are short of water rations. There is a river not far fae here. I would like tae send a few of the women tae fetch a resupply far our upcoming journey.”

  Isla nodded. “Be quick. We must move soon. Escort them tae the river tae make sure they have the proper protection.”

  “Of course,” Eamon said, turning on his heel and preparing for the trek.

  Gavina perked up. “Can I gae with them?”

  Isla shook her head. “I need ye here. Those nimble hands of yers are tae valuable.”

  Gavina huffed and hopped off her sister’s lap, somewhat defiant and puffing her chest as she moved toward the inside of the tent. “I have more sense than that wallop Eamon. It should be me who leads this expedition tae the river.”

  Denholm let loose the loudest belly laugh he could muster, bracing himself on his knees as Gavina crossed her arms and entered the tent.

  “Gavina,” Isla scolded.

  “She sounds like mother!” Denholm noted through his laughter.

  Isla looked at her brother. “Do not indulge her. She is merely repeating what she has overheard ye saying on more than one occasion.”

  A shrug. “Tae her credit, Eamon is a wallop.”

  “That’s enough, Denholm. Send Eamon on his way. And make haste. I shall set about organizing the caravan.”

  With a wry smile, Denholm nodded and turned away. “As ye wish, me lady…”

  As Eamon and two of the women mounted their trio of horses, Isla stood and surveyed the members of her clan—her people, her family, her responsibility. She could sense that something lingered for them out on the horizon, a new journey awaiting them all.

  She just could not discern yet if that feeling were hope or fear.

  Eamon and two of the women from the clan approached the riverbed, Eamon, carefully and studiously, scanned the surroundings for any signs of unfamiliar faces. After making the women wait for several moments for him to give them the go-ahead, Eamon nodded toward the river and dismounted his horse. “Be quick,” he said, the women fetching leather canteens with spouts to fill with water. “We are short on time.”

  The women straddled both sides of the river, both of them hastily filling the canteens with as much water as they could carry. Eamon walked the lake, one hand resting on the sword strapped to his side as his booted feet crunched the gravel beneath him. As the women set about
filling the canteens, his mind wandered to thoughts of the future, now in the hands of Lady Isla.

  He was not used to operating under the rule of a woman, but Isla was not just any woman—she was the daughter of Urian, the Laird of the clan who had preserved their way of life and their people for over a decade. The family that he raised were, by far, the most competent and headstrong people he had ever met. If his fate and that of his clan had to rest in the hands of anyone, he was more than at ease with the notion that Lady Isla was the one who now controlled their collective destiny.

  Eamon then opened his mouth to get an estimate on how much longer the women needed to fill their water rations—a high-pitched shriek came from behind him, near some shrubbery resting adjacent to a boulder jutting out of the river. With a hustle in his step and his broadsword drawn, Eamon raced back to meet the women and shouted: "What is it?" before stumbling across a sight he had not anticipated finding: a man, strong and big with a muscular body that looked like something that the Greeks had mentioned in their folklore.

  “A dead man!” the woman shouted, dropping her canteen and grabbing onto the other woman for comfort. “He is dead! Look!”

  Eamon, crouching down to get a better look at the dead man in the river, saw the wound in the man’s abdomen and the generally pale nature of his skin. He then reached down, pressed two fingers to the man’s neck, and felt a weak but still very-much beating pulse fighting to pick up in rhythm.

  Eamon turned to the women. “Fetch me horse,” he said, sheathing his sword. “Now.”

  Chapter 3

  “What is that noise?” Denholm noted as his hand crept toward his weapon, Eamon approaching in the distance on his steed with the two women he took with him in tow.

  Isla said nothing as she squinted to make out the commotion. As Eamon and the horses approached, she could see what looked like a corpse straddled to the back of his mount, a distraught and frantic look on Eamon’s bearded face as they came to a halt just outside her tent.

  “We found him by the river!” Eamon said, dismounting and gesturing for Denholm to help him remove the body from the back of his steed. “He is still alive!”

  The rest of the clan, still in the process of breaking down their camp, gathered around Eamon and the horses as Denholm assisted in pulling the half-dead man off the back.

  “Gavina,” Isla said to her sister as she approached Denholm. “Gae inside. Right now.”

  “But, Isla—”

  “Now, I said!”

  Gavina retreated into the tent as Denholm and Eamon carried the body towards Denholm’ dwelling resting next to Isla’s. Isla approached the man and saw a fluttering of his eyelids, his rugged and handsome features stressed by whatever ordeal he had gone through. Who is he? She thought, encapsulated by his features and unnerved by his overall condition. Who is this man…?

  Isla examined his body, spotting the wound in his abdomen and knowing immediately from the shape of the injury that it had undoubtedly been the result of an attack by a nobleman archer.

  “Should we fetch Ella?" Denholm inquired, as they moved the man toward his tent, referring to the most medically-inclined of all the villagers, their unofficial but still competent healer that had save many of them from dire fates on more than one occasion.

  “Aye,” Isla said, haste in her tone. “Aye, quickly.”

  Denholm shouted out for Ella as they moved the man inside his tent, Isla ordering the others away as they laid him on a fur-coated cot and heard him mumbling something that no one could make out.

  “He has a fever,” Eamon said as they stood back from the cot. “I dinnae think he is long fer this world.”

  "Leave Ella tae decide that," Isla said as she crouched by the man's side. She looked at his face, a few cuts, and scrapes across his cheeks and temples that were still struggling to heal.

  “Do you recognize him?” Isla asked Denholm.

  Denholm got alongside his sister and took a moment to examine the man’s face, scouring his brain for any trace of a description or name that would coincide with the half-dead man in front of him. “I’m nae certain,” he said, looking at the tattered appearance of the man’s clothing. “He must be fae another clan. The Wallaces. The Bairds, perhaps.”

  Ella, a petite young woman with flaxen hair and a pensive and fearful expression, approached the man on the cot and did a quick assessment of his condition. “He has lost a lot of blood,” she said. “We must fetch the arrow from his wound as well.” She looked up at Eamon. “Fetch me supplies. Quickly.”

  Eamon retreated from the tent as Isla crept in closer to the man on the cot, intrigued and frightened by his overall state. She found herself drawn to the man in front of her, a notion that confused her and encapsulated her all at once. The man then began twitching, his skin turning red as the onset of a fever began to take hold.

  “Glenn,” he mumbled. “L-Lachlan…”

  “What is he saying?” Denholm inquired.

  Isla did not reply as she watched the man writhe from the pain on the cot. Going off of instinct—and recalling what her mother would do when she was sick as a child—she reached out her hand, gently placed it on the man's firm and sculpted pectoral muscle and pressed down with soft maternal pressure. The man on the cot, after a moment, ceased his twitching and mumbling, rested back, and fell back into a slumber.

  “It will all be all right,” Isla whispered into his ear, unable to help herself from soothing a man whose name she did not even know. “Rest now. Ye are safe…”

  Chapter 4

  The remnants of the arrow lodged in Finlay’s abdomen had been removed. The wound had been cleaned and cauterized, his fluids had been replenished, and two whole days had passed as Ella stayed at his side and slowly but surely nursed him back to health.

  Ella had been unsure over the course of the first day if Finlay—whom they referred to as “the strong one”—if he would survive his wounds. A lot of blood had been lost. His body had been battered and bruised to its maximum limits. Ella had applied various tonics and ointments that she had compiled over the years to his various scrapes and cuts and made it a point to change out the bandages on the wound on his abdomen twice daily to stave off any kind of perversion from outside elements.

  “How is he?” Isla asked on the second day as she entered the tent, Finlay in a deep slumber and snoring complacently on Denholm’ cot.

  Ella nodded. “Better noo. His wounds are heeling at a good pace. He must still rest though.”

  Isla sighed. “We may nae have the time. How long does he need?”

  Ella contemplated, “He must at least rest another day.”

  Isla turned and left the tent, Denholm waiting for her with Gavina tethered to his side. “We have a problem, me Lady,” he said gravely.

  “Speak.”

  “Our scouts have spotted noblemen approaching us from the east. They are only a day-and-a-half’s ride away.”

  Isla shook her head. “We must move soon. How quickly can ye and yer men dismantle the camp?”

  “A few hours, me Lady. No mair.”

  A nod. “Do it as fast as ye can. I want us oot of this place by the morning.”

  “And where shall we be going?”

  Isla shooed off Gavina to help Ella as she pulled Denholm inside her tent.

  “Did ye speak with our father about the map?” she asked.

  Denholm squinted. “Naw. He dinnae speak to me of such matters.” He smiled. Pointed at his sister. “Ye were always next in line to rule. Ye were the smarter one.”

  “Where I lacked brawn, ye sure as the skies are blue made up fer it, me dear brother.”

  Isla moved over to a wooden chest resting near a stool, removed a rolled-up piece of parchment from the inside, and spread it across a small wooden table resting in the center of the tent. “Look here,” she said, pressing down the corners on the edges of a map of Scotland. “Father did plan this some time ago.”

  Denholm puttered air through his lips when he saw
his father’s penmanship scribbled all along the map. “He had travelled all over.”

  “Tae nearly every corner of Scotland. He was always on the search fer somewhere permanent tae let our people call home.”

  Denholm hung his head, remembering well the history of his clan: the murder of his mother, the death of their youngest brother from sickness, the slaying of Isla’s fiancé, Douglas not more than a year prior. When the thought crept into his mind, Denholm could not help but look at his sister and wonder if the day would ever come when she would divulge her feelings on the subject. But Isla was tough like her father, fair like her mother, and never embarked or went about doing a damn thing she didn’t want to do unless by choice. Denholm couldn’t help but smile when he thought of this—it was no mistake that she was the leader of their clan.