Wicked Highland Heroes

by Tarah Scott

  “Perhaps.”

  Victoria studied her. “You are not afraid?”

  “Of what?” Aurari asked as she pried a cover off a tin container. “Retribution?”

  Victoria nodded. “Once David Robertson’s clan discovers he has been murdered, there will be

  bloodlust in the air.”

  “It would not be the first time.” Candle in hand, Aurari bent and lit the kindling that lay in the belly of the stove. The wood sparked and caught fire. She straightened, facing Victoria. “And you have assured us safe passage.”

  “Aye,” Victoria said. “And you shall have it, but

  Evan did not know that when he killed David

  Robertson.”

  “I knew you must be returned to your husband.”

  “How?”

  Aurari shrugged and began doling out a measure of flour from the tin.

  “I am of a mind you do not make a habit of killing men,” Victoria persisted.

  “Murder?”

  “You call it that?”

  Aurari laughed. “What matters is what your husband will call it.”

  Victoria frowned. “I think he would not care.” He protects his possessions all too well. Was that how he saw her? “Do you regret having married me?” he had asked in the meadow. She recalled Lily’s journal and the boy who had grown up knowing he wasn’t wanted. Did he realize he had also learned that if a man wanted a woman he took her? Warmth flushed through her. Did the fact he had taken her by force mean he had never wanted a woman the way he did her? Should she be distressed or comforted by that possibility?

  A sudden jolt to the wagon yanked Victoria back to the present. She grabbed the side of the bed.

  “Something is amiss?”

  The Gypsy woman was staring, and Victoria could have sworn she had read her mind. Aurari smiled. “One of the disadvantages of a home that travels.” She pulled butter and eggs from the pantry over the stove.

  Victoria picked up the bowl and began stirring the ingredients. “How did you know I spoke the truth when you saw me with David Robertson? You took my word as a woman?”

  “As a woman?” Aurari grunted. “Women are far more cunning than men. Nay. I knew our paths were

  destined to cross again.”

  Victoria ceased stirring, her mouth parting in astonished realization. “So it was you I saw the day we traveled to Fauldun Castle.”

  “You are surprised?”

  She studied Aurari. “Are you a witch?”

  “Nay.” Aurari located a flat pan from a low cupboard next to the stove. “I do not practice the black arts.”

  “But you knew everything, even then.” Aurari added water to the biscuit dough.

  “Everything? What is everything?”

  Victoria stiffened at the indulgent note in the

  Gypsy’s voice. “It is clear I need not say.”

  Aurari took the bowl from her. “There was something that day I saw you.” She began stirring the mixture. “You are an open book, mistress. It does not take second sight to understand you hide much.”

  “Yet you know exactly what I speak of?”

  “Nay,” she said. “I have offended you. How?”

  “How did you know I was to marry Iain

  MacPherson?”

  “I never said I knew that.” She glanced at Victoria. “This is what bothers you—you think I knew?” Aurari smiled as she deftly shaped a portion of the dough into a small ball. “True, I could have, or at least if the knowledge so chose, it could have come to me. But in this case, I used the same methods you might.” She smiled. “I asked your husband who you were.”

  Victoria blinked. “You…asked?”

  “He told me. Though it was clear he considered it none of my business. He answered the question for the benefit of my male companions.”

  “What was that answer?”

  “That you were an English noblewoman sent by King Henry to marry him.” Victoria gasped, and Aurari’s head swiveled in her direction. She raised a brow. “A lie?”

  “Surely you knew?”

  “I did not.” Aurari returned her attention to the dough. “But you did marry him.”

  “But I had no intention of doing so,” Victoria replied.

  “Why were you sent to him, then?”

  Victoria reached into the bowl and began shaping dough in a haphazard manner.

  Aurari’s brows lifted as she surveyed the biscuit Victoria nearly flung onto the pan. “My people are sure to wonder how the English eat supper.”

  Victoria looked down at the misshapen dough.

  “And I would not blame them one wit.”

  * * *

  Red and yellow blended throughout the leaves of the trees, deceiving the eye as to where one color began and the other ended. Yet the early autumn colors only served to remind Victoria they were in the sixth day of their journey.

  “Something is wrong?” Aurari asked.

  The wagon bumped over a rut in the road.

  “We are on MacPherson land,” Victoria motioned with her head at the countryside. “We should reach

  Fauldun Castle today.”

  “You do not seem pleased.”

  Victoria looked at her. In the short time they had been together she had learned to read the Gypsy woman’s intense gaze. “There is much to consider. I have been away almost a week.”

  Aurari’s expression turned uncharacteristically sober. “Perhaps you should have ridden on ahead as I first suggested.”

  “Nay,” Victoria replied, remembering Evan’s consternation at Aurari having recommended they break up the small band. “Evan is right. It was unsafe for me to be with the two men he felt could be spared.”

  Aurari’s gaze pinned Victoria. “I expect, mistress, it was more your belief that you could protect us, than it was the idea we could not protect you.”

  Before further comment could be given, the wagons were surrounded by MacPherson men. “It seems that theory is about to be tested,” Aurari whispered as the lead man urged his mount forward and stopped in front of Evan.

  “Oh ho! What have we here?” he said.

  “Egyptians,” one of the men behind him said.

  The lead man caught sight of Victoria and Aurari. “From the looks of things, some fine lasses among them.”

  He made to urge his horse past Evan, but the Gypsy men drew their swords. A chorus of steel answered as the MacPherson men drew their weapons in response.

  Victoria shot to her feet. “I command you to sheathe your weapons!”

  The man who had spoken first blinked, and Victoria knew that, for once, her English accent had proven useful. She saw his gaze flick from her to Evan, then back to her again, his eyes narrowing.

  “Are you deaf?” she demanded. “Sheathe your swords.”

  This time, the man laughed. “By whose authority? Not these?” He jabbed his claymore in the direction of the Gypsies.

  “By mine.”

  “Yours?”

  “Or my husband’s.” Scooping up the tartan that lay beside her, Victoria climbed from the wagon. The Gypsy men on horseback parted as she strode to the man and halted before him. His eyes narrowed as they fell on the tartan Victoria swirled in a flourish around her shoulders.

  “You recognize the plaid?” she demanded.

  “’Tis the laird’s plaid,” one man breathed.

  “Quiet, you fool,” the leader commanded. “It is not necessarily the tartan she is supposed to have worn.” Then to her, “For all we know, you took that from a dead woman.”

  “Are you willing to wager?” Without waiting for a reply, Victoria faced Evan. “We will press on, sir. I wish to reach Fauldun Castle before this day ends.” “You will not be going anywhere,” the Highlander cut in.

  Victoria whirled. “Do you wish to inform my husband you were the fool who refused me assistance? Or shall I tell him you had the good sense to see me safely home?”

  Something flickered in the man’s eyes, and Victoria for
ced back the demand to know if her husband had survived the rescue attempt. She could show no fear. If the Gypsy men feared they wouldn’t come under MacPherson protection once they reached Fauldun Castle, they might attempt fighting the Highlanders now.

  The leader eyed the Gypsy men. “These will remain.”

  “They will not. Now,” Victoria scanned the group of MacPherson men, “unless you propose to kill every

  last one of us, prepare to ride as guard.”

  “As guard? For—”

  “Enough!” Victoria cut off the affront she knew was on the tip of his tongue. “You will be silent, or I promise you, Lord MacPherson will deal with you.” The man hesitated, then shot another glance at

  Evan. “They must sheathe their swords.”

  Victoria turned to Evan. “If you would, sir.”

  Without taking his eyes from the MacPherson warrior, Evan jerked his head, and his men slid their weapons back into their scabbards.

  Victoria forced her legs to remain steady on the slow walk back to the wagon.

  * * *

  As if the gods of old had lowered themselves to the level of mortal man and showered gold upon them, streaks of sunlight blazed from what seemed the highest peaks of the Grampians. Points of light were at last discernible in the shadows of those great summits, and something stirred deep within Victoria at the realization she was seeing sconces from Fauldun Castle’s battlements.

  Home, she thought, even as a small voice answered, Fool. Wed but a week, and you are easily forgotten.

  She had not thought to ever see Fauldun Castle— or Iain MacPherson—again. She had left with Edwin. Would he believe she had been kidnapped by David Robertson? Would he welcome her home or send her back to England?

  The hour that passed before the keep broke into sight seemed as long as the week had been. The MacPherson men who rode as escort identified themselves to the guards on the castle walls. The discussion that passed between the two groups livened up at the announcement of Victoria’s presence. Their speech unexpectedly turned to Gaelic, and it was obvious that the Gypsies were now the topic of conversation.

  The gate opened and Thomas emerged.

  “He is not here,” she whispered.

  He approached the wagon, face grim.

  “Something is amiss,” Aurari said. “Need we fear?”

  Victoria placed a hand over hers. “Nay, ’tis Thomas. He will protect you even as my lord would.” “I am sorry, mistress,” Aurari said.

  Victoria ignored the pain the understanding in Aurari’s voice called forth as her attention remained on Thomas. His eyes never wavered as he passed through the crowd, coming to a halt in front of her. He lifted Victoria from her seat on the wagon and, to her great surprise, clasped her hand to his lips and fell to one knee at her feet.

  “We had given you up for dead,” he murmured the words against her hand.

  “Dead?” she repeated. Victoria pulled at his hand in an effort to force him to his feet, but he paid her no heed. “Thomas,” she whispered, keeping the trembling in her body from her voice, “I am well.”

  He looked up at her. She gave him a reassuring smile and he rose.

  Victoria laid a hand on his arm. “Where is my lord? The rescue attempt, it was…not successful?” She gripped his arm as her knees buckled.

  Thomas grabbed her around the waist. “Take heart, your husband is in the north, scouring

  Robertson and Menzies territory for you.”

  Panic shot to the surface. “Robertson?” “My lady.” Thomas steadied her. “Are you ill?” Victoria shook her head.

  “Courage,” he said. “You have come so far.”

  “Please, Thomas,” she said, choking inwardly at the thought of the word courage being associated with the emotions that swept through her, “may we go inside?”

  He began leading her through the Gypsy’s ranks, and Victoria asked, “He is well?” The hesitation in his eyes frightened her. “Do not spare me. Quickly, what is it?”

  “He has all but given you up for dead. Indeed, I, too, thought you were gone. Though he searches day and night, I know he fears the worst.”

  Victoria’s knees weakened. He fears for you. The thought rang through her mind and a cloud seemed to envelope her. Dim awareness of a shout from Thomas and movement when MacPherson men began to surround the Gypsies drew Victoria’s attention.

  “Nay—nay! You shall not touch them!” She ran to where the Gypsies stood, positioning herself between them and the men who now clearly reveled in the possibility that their thirst for Gypsy blood might yet be slaked.

  “They are friends.” Victoria said, looking around at the men, her gaze settling on Thomas. “No one lays a hand on them. They are under my protection—and my lord’s.”

  Thomas cast a critical gaze on the Gypsies. “I assume there is sufficient reason for this promise?”

  “Aye,” she answered. “They saved my life.”

  * * *

  The evening meal would have been the most joyful of her life if not for the empty chair to her right. Victoria looked at Thomas and wasn’t surprised to discover his gaze on Aurari’s face. The man’s attention hadn’t wavered from her since introductions had been made. Even Katherine was subdued, her head bowed as if to avoid Victoria’s gaze from across the table.

  “There is no safer place you can be, Aurari,”

  Victoria had assured her when Evan protested against Aurari lodging the night within the castle walls. “Is there, Thomas?”

  “Aye.” He stepped forward and raised Aurari’s hand to his lips. “I will guard her door myself.”

  The look on Evan’s face at that pronouncement read so plain, Victoria had laughed. “Rest easy, Evan.” She laid a hand on his arm. “The door is barred from within.”

  Amusement faded as another memory imposed

  itself on the recollection. “I must go to him,” she had told Thomas a few short hours ago.

  “Iain could be anywhere, my lady. I can imagine his anger were he to return and find you gone in search of him.”

  “You care more about his anger than easing his mind?” she demanded.

  Thomas’s expression softened. “Nay.”

  “What then?”

  “His sadness.”

  That had stopped her cold.

  Thomas smiled, but no pleasure lurked in his expression when he said, “Iain would not last another day knowing you had come and gone.”

  Those final words had reduced her to tears, and Victoria allowed herself the luxury of a friend’s strong arms while her body gave into sobs.

  * * *

  Seated on the couch in her bedchamber’s anteroom, Victoria found herself alone for the first time since her return to Fauldun Castle. A wave of nausea washed over her, and her hand shook as she pressed the back of her fingers to her mouth. In the last five days, she still hadn’t reconciled the possibility that her husband might not return home with the fear of facing him when he did.

  Victoria reached for the linen handkerchief she had stuffed into her bodice. A sudden ruckus outside the room drew her attention to the door. It flung open. Hard wood banged against the thick stone wall, and she was on her feet only to collapse back onto the couch when her knees gave way.

  No sound, save that of boots across carpeted floor, met her ears. Even before he reached her, Victoria was in tears, not out of surprise, but at sight of the bruises that were clear remnants of a severe beating on her husband’s thin face.

  Iain fell to his knees, burying his face in her lap. She looked up helplessly at Thomas, who offered a gentle smile, then clicked the door shut behind him. She stroked Iain’s hair and startled at the tremble in his body. His grip on her waist tightened as he shook his head from side to side.

  “Do not fret my lord,” Victoria said. “I am no worse for wear.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Iain lifted his head and gazed at Victoria. “What manner of woman are you?”

  The near whisper went unan
swered, and he stared at her until it became clear she grew uncomfortable under his scrutiny. He stretched a hand to her cheek, stroked it, then rose and sat on the couch beside her.

  “What did you hope to accomplish by putting yourself in jeopardy?”

  Victoria lowered her eyes. “There was no other way,” she murmured.

  No other way? His heart hammered. All harm that had come to her since he stole her from Montrose Abbey was his doing. The attempted rape, David Robertson’s hands on her…Edwin Hockley.

  With a finger to her chin, Iain tipped her face upward toward his. “Were you harmed in any way?”

  She frowned. “Did Thomas not inform you I was well? He promised to do so.”

  “Aye.” Iain released her. “But you would not commit such information to paper.”

  Her face reddened. “It matters not.”

  Dread coiled deep in his gut. “What do you mean?”

  “My lord, please, David Robertson is dead.”

  “It matters,” Iain growled, his anger fueled by having been cheated out of thrusting his sword through the coward’s belly. “Were you harmed?”

  “I swear, I am well. No harm was done me.” “Victoria—” Iain clamped down on his fury. “Victoria,” he began more gently, “you are my wife. I swear, you need not fear. I do not blame you.”

  An indignant brow shot up. “I have done no wrong.”

  The words were fearless, but he didn’t miss the quaver in her voice. He covered her hand with his. “I know, love. Now be forthright. What happened?”

  She flung his hand from hers. “No one laid a finger on your precious possession.”

  His heart twisted. He would die a little more every time he looked into her eyes—and deserve it. “And what of Hockley?” Iain asked. “Had he anything to offer my precious possession?”

  “Edwin?” Her eyes widened. “Sweet Jesu, even now you think—”

  Iain squeezed her hand. “It is him I distrust, not you. You cannot deny Hockley wants you, and we both know he would use the situation to his benefit.” Something flickered in her eyes.

  “By God, the look on your face has signed his death warrant.” Iain startled at his outburst. No war was needed to infect his mistake. Only the death of the man who had taken what belonged to him.