He plunged forward, the icy river water numbing his legs. But he was a northern Scot and had trained to tolerate winter swims.
“Stop right there!” the bastard Englishman called again. The two of them were running along the bank toward where Alana and he crossed. Alana’s huge dog ran with them as if it were a game. They were still too far away, but soon they’d be within firing range.
Shaw threw his weight and muscle against the might of the river as if it were a foe. His boots churned across hidden rocks, their slippery surface making it difficult to keep upright with the two in his arms. As he felt his foot slip, he would lift it, placing his weight against the current and on the other foot to keep himself from falling. Step after step until he felt the bottom tip upward several feet from the other side. But as he carried them out of the water, and the soldiers saw the bairn strapped to Alana, they would shoot all of them dead.
“Can ye swim?” he asked near her ear. They were almost to the other side, but the swift current might plunge Alana downstream if he let go of her.
“Yes, but the babe…”
Damn. He couldn’t release them in the water. They could both freeze and drown. “Run when ye reach high ground,” he said, and she looked up into his face, terror making her eyes wide. “Run and find a place to hide. My men will find ye and the bairn.”
“Where are you going?” she asked, but Shaw bent down in the water, his boots balanced on a stable rock.
“I will get ye to the other side. Wrap one arm around the bairn.”
“What?”
Running closer, the Englishman yelled, “If you do not stop now, we will shoot!”
Shaw could hear Alana’s dog barking over the men. Had the beast figured out who the enemy was yet? “Put your other arm out to catch yourself,” he ordered. “So ye do not crush her.”
“Again! What?!” Her voice had taken on a hysterical pitch.
“Arm out, lass,” he said. She threw her right arm before her, and Shaw sank a little lower into his crouch. With a surge of power up through the muscles of his legs, he straightened, lifting and throwing Alana toward the low bank. He watched as she landed, only then able to draw in breath as she caught herself, the bairn safely clutched and tied, hanging from her chest. Alana’s lower legs were the only part of her wet, and she wasted no time in scrambling up the bank to dry ground.
Shaw pushed off the bottom, throwing his body back toward the bank where the soldiers held muskets. “Gu buaidh no bàs!” With the deep war cry burbling up out of his chest, he used his arms, hands cupped to carry the most water he could, to splash the river forward. Fast volleys of water flew at the two English soldiers as Shaw continued to yell, using the Sinclair war cry to give himself extra strength. A musket went off, but Shaw continued to throw a deluge of icy river at the men as he surged back across the river. If he could soak their muskets, they would be useless.
With one more leap, he reached the other bank, heaving up to see a musket trained right at his face. Instinct rather than thought shot his hand around to grab the barrel, yanking the musket from the man’s clutches.
“Damn Scot,” the soldier yelled as Shaw hurled the wet, useless gun down the river. The huge dog jumped in after it as if it were a branch for him to chase. The current began to pull him downstream.
Without giving the other man time to reload, Shaw propelled himself up the bank, barreling into the two Englishmen. With any luck, they couldn’t swim. He grabbed the one who’d lost his gun, swinging the soldier around to throw him headfirst into the roaring mountain water.
Shaw charged past the remaining Englishman to the tree where his sword lay tangled with Alana’s skirts and his kilt. Without stopping, he scooped up the sword, the hilt sliding easily into the curve of his palm, right where it belonged. A sense of relief flooded him, loosening his shoulders. With his sword firmly planted where it should be, in his grasp, he turned his entire focus on his foe.
He pivoted to face the Englishman who aimed the musket at him, but Shaw saw the dripping river water where he’d doused the flame. “We have nothing here for ye,” Shaw said, giving the man a chance to retreat and live.
“I heard a baby’s cry,” the man said, throwing his only chance to live away. “Give it to me. I have come directly from Major Dixon.” The Devil himself.
Shaw held out his arms to the sides, his wet tunic plastered to his body. “I have no babe upon me at the moment. Be gone with yer bloody life.” He jutted his chin up, indicating the woods leading back the way they came. “There are no bairns here for ye.”
The Englishman turned to glance across the river, sealing his doom. “The woman has it.” Before the final “t” spat from between his teeth, Shaw leaped forward, swinging his sword around in an arc with the combined power of both arms. The finely sharpened Sinclair war sword sliced all the way through the soldier’s neck, his head toppling to the ground as Shaw followed through to land in a crouch.
Straightening, his gaze cut downstream where three Englishmen with muskets forded the river near the horses. The dog was nowhere to be seen. Damn. He glanced where his men must be on the other side of a row of boulders, where the sounds of battle warred with the sound of the water behind him. There must be a bloody battalion for his four warriors to allow five English soldiers past. “Foking hell.” He swiveled back to the river, watching the enemy climb out on the opposite side. No doubt they had seen Alana, because they tore off in the direction she had run.
…
“It will be well. Shhh…” Alana whispered, clutching the crying baby to her chest. The poor wee thing had been jostled so much, it would be a miracle if she came away from this desperate escape unscathed, even if they weren’t shot clean through with musket balls.
Without the hindrance of her skirts, Alana ran, her long legs leaping over low scrub, her body being able to dodge trees in search of a place to hide. But there were no caves or even boulders that she could see. Even with the colorful foliage still clinging to trees and bushes, she felt exposed. And where was poor, sweet Robert? He hadn’t even tried to hide. She’d heard a gunshot behind her but didn’t dare turn to see if Shaw or Robert were hit or if the soldiers were firing at her and the baby.
There was no doubt now that the English soldiers meant to harm the newborn. But why? Why go to such trouble? Tears in her eyes made the golden forest look warped and watery, and she squeezed them to clear her sight. No time for tears.
Up ahead, a maple tree stood tall and broad, its branches thick, one of them being low enough for Alana to clutch. Its leaves had turned a bright red and still clung, giving a possible place to hide if she could climb it before anyone saw her. Holding the baby girl’s little head pressed gently against her breasts, she ran directly for the red tree. It would either be a wonderful hiding place or a bright beacon to draw the enemy. Even though Shaw and his Sinclair posse were the enemy, right now the English soldiers were obviously the greater devils.
Alana released the baby, letting the sashes hold her in place against her while she used both hands to grab the thick limb at the level of her stomach, hoisting herself up by straightening her arms. The rough bark bit into her palms as she turned in the air to balance her backside on the limb, pulling her feet up under her to stand, her gaze going to a higher limb. Don’t look down. Do not look. Just climb.
The crunch of leaves far off from the direction of the river sent more energy into her aching muscles. There was too much noise to be the footfalls of one man. Was Shaw dead? He’d thrown her and the baby to save them and rushed back toward the muskets. The thought caught at her chest, making it harder to draw breath.
Just climb. Higher. She wobbled on a thinner limb, the leaves shaking with her weight, and sucked in a gasp. She panted over the babe’s wrapped head, feeling dread and relief at the same time that the wee thing still cried softly. “Shhhh,” she whispered, trying to sooth the child. Good lord, please let it be Shaw’s men tramping through the woods toward her.
She
reached a higher limb where leaves fluttered in the breeze, thick foliage where she could hide. But anyone looking up would likely see some part of her. She wrapped her arms around the thick trunk, careful not to smash the babe against it, and felt her way around toward the back. Facing the river, Alana could watch around the trunk. She rested her backside on a limb and tried to look as thin as possible.
The baby still made little sounds against her. Alana kissed the covered little head and pressed her smallest finger back into her mouth. The babe sucked on the end of the digit, quieting. “I will not let them hurt ye,” she whispered. Bracing herself on the limb, she slowly reached for her sgian dubh, sliding it out of the thigh holster. And her hair spike was still wedged in the tight twist high on her head.
One finger in the baby’s mouth, other hand clutching the blade, she surveyed the forest where heavy boots crunched the crisp fallen leaves. Would they look up? She wiggled her little finger in the baby’s mouth, making her suck more. The poor wee thing was quiet, but she might realize soon that no milk came from the digit.
Alana peeked through the swaying leaves, and relief flooded her as Robert ran amongst the trees. He was alive, his sensitive nose plowing through the fallen colors of reds and yellows. But that relief twisted into despair as Robert stopped at the base of her maple tree, his shaggy, expressive face tipping up to find her. He barked, his mouth curving as if in celebration of winning the game.
“Mo chreach,” she said on the slimmest of breaths and closed her eyes.
“Up there,” one of the English soldiers yelled, and Alana heard them running her way.
“The dog found them,” another called. “Now aren’t you glad you did not shoot the beast, Whitmore?”
Alana clutched her dagger. How many soldiers were there? At least two, and if they had muskets, she and the wee rose-branded babe were dead. Her heart beat hard and fast, matching the thuds of a third soldier running up. One red-coated bastard even plopped his hand on Robert’s gray head. “Good boy,” he said. “Maybe I will take him back with us.”
Damn, she should have trained Robert to rip into people like her brother had advised. But the dog wasn’t a war dog, and Alana had known that if she’d trained him to be one, the Campbell warriors would claim him as one of their own because of his massive size. What would happen now to Robert? Once she was dead, would he leave her dead body to rot or stay by her side?
Thoughts shot through her head like flying debris as she watched three soldiers looking up at her from below.
“Where did her skirts go?” one asked. “Those are trousers.”
A third solider leered upward. “Maybe do not shoot her quite yet. Look at those long legs.”
If the three caught her, would death be a mercy? She glanced down to the ground far below. Would she die if she hurled herself from the tree? Likely she wasn’t high enough, and with the baby tied to her, she’d never attempt it.
“Come down, woman,” the third man ordered and glanced over his shoulder. “Shite, the Scot got past John and Mathias.” He waved his hand. “Just shoot her and the infant.”
“No,” Alana yelled. “Leave my babe and me or my dog will kill you.”
“Just give us the child, and we might let you live.”
“She is my babe,” Alana lied. “I will never give her away to English devils bent on killing innocent children.”
“It is not your babe, and it is not innocent,” the soldier who seemed to be in charge yelled back up. “Drop it to the ground, and we will let you stay in your tree.”
“How can a babe not be innocent?” she yelled, her eyes wide, fingers squeezing the dagger as she slowly stretched her throwing arm behind her. “A newborn babe is the most innocent creature alive.”
“She is a bloody Catholic,” the soldier yelled back, spitting on the ground as if the word had tainted his mouth.
There were two muskets. One of them seemed wet from fording the river. The other was dry as if the soldier had been clever and strong enough to hold it over his head as he crossed. He pointed the barrel at her, and Alana’s haphazard thoughts came together to focus onto one spot: the man’s forehead. With a full breath, she inched back her arm and put all her fear and anger into the forward flick of her wrist as she whipped the blade around to sail through the air.
Thwack! Bang!
The gun discharged as the sgian dubh lodged through the soldier’s skull right between his eyebrows. Alana felt the burn of the musket bullet skim like a trail of fire across her temple and screamed, pulling back behind the tree. She reached up to her head where blood, warm and red, trickled down like a macabre, soaking rain. A scream, born of panic, flew up her throat and cut through the cold air as she stared at the red smeared across her hand.
…
Shaw was in mid-leap over a bramble when the musket fired up at Alana. Her scream tore through him, his arms pumping at his sides as he ran toward her, his sword clutched and thirsty for more English blood. He watched as one soldier slumped forward, face smacking into the leaves and roots of the large maple that the clever lass must have climbed. A second soldier held his musket up at the tree but then threw it down when it wouldn’t fire, racing to grab up the musket of his fallen man.
Alana screamed again, a long, fear-filled yell that tore through Shaw. He wouldn’t let her die in such panic. Nay! He wouldn’t let her die at all.
He hurtled over another bramble as the second man quickly reloaded the matchlock musket that had just fired. The soldier was well trained and raised the gun toward Alana, whom Shaw could see hiding behind the trunk up over the man’s head.
“Deamhan die!” Shaw yelled, his roar making the third soldier turn toward him, sword out.
Alana screamed again, as if she had just refilled her lungs with air, the sound shattering through the trees around them like lightning striking Shaw’s entire body. But the soldier with the sword blocked Shaw’s path to the one with the musket. He met the man’s blade with his own just as the large hound pushed off the trunk of the tree, charging directly toward the soldier holding the gun. His bark changed into a ferocious growl.
Shaw swung at the English soldier before him, his daily training giving him the advantage. It was as if Shaw knew where the man would strike before he swung, easily blocking his advance. His focus slid behind his opponent to the massive dog who had leapt directly onto the soldier with the gun. The man screamed, the dog’s jaw locked around his arm as he yanked the man completely off his feet, whipping him around in the leaves with incredible strength.
The soldier fighting Shaw sneered as he came in close, their swords crossed. “The babe will die either today or on another, but God willing, it will die along with all the blasphemous Catholics.”
“Well, God and I had a talk this morn,” Shaw said, his words seething, “and He decided that ye will die today instead.”
Shaw heard more men running through the woods behind him, but his focus was on the twisted face of the Englishman. With a shove, Shaw jumped back and then thrust forward before the man could react, impaling him through the gut on his long Sinclair sword. The man’s face contorted with shock, but Shaw yanked the blade free to turn, ready to meet the next foe.
Mungo, Alistair, and Logan ran toward him from the river. Shaw inhaled fully, and he turned back to run to the tree. Off to one side, Alana’s dog continued to whip the man around by the arm while he tried to fight the beast off. One of his Sinclair men would finish the deed if they could get the dog to drop his prize.
Shaw tossed his blood-coated sword at the base of the maple tree and leaped up onto the first branch. “Alana,” he called. “Lass.” He pulled himself to the next branch and then another until his face came level with her chest, where the bairn was still tied around her, making soft crying noises. Thank God the wee thing was still alive.
“Alana,” he said again. He looked up at her face, and his breath caught. Blood. Blood everywhere. “Dia math,” he whispered, grabbing the limb she leaned against to
lift himself onto the same sturdy branch where she’d propped herself.
His hands went to her red-streaked face but hovered. He wasn’t sure where to touch without causing pain. Red leaves surrounded her, casting even more color. But the wet shine of fresh blood was no reflection from the foliage. A thick drop of blood dripped off her chin, the sound of it hitting a leaf loud in his ears.
“Ye were shot. Damn, Alana. Where?” His hands seemed too large and rough to touch her, but he must discover from where the blood was flowing. His fingers slid along her hairline, lifting her hair as he peered closer. “I need to stop the bleeding.”
“My head,” she said, her voice sounding hoarse from the screaming. “Robert?”
He glanced down to see the dog running around the tree, looking up at them. “Wishes he had wings right now to fly to his mistress,” Shaw said. Thank God she was conscious.
Her hand, which was completely coated in her own blood, rose to her hairline, where he gently brushed back her hair. “It burns there, near my ear.”
Fok. She’d been hit in the head, but the fact that she was alive and talking meant that it must have just grazed her.
“The bairn?” Alistair yelled from below.
“She is alive,” Shaw yelled down. “But Alana was shot.”
One of his men cursed loudly. “How bad?” Logan called up.
“How bad is it?” Shaw asked, more to himself as he examined the raw cut in her skin that swelled dark with fresh blood.
“Do my words make sense?” Alana asked, her eyes finally rising to meet his. There was pain in her stare, but the fear seemed to be fading. Her rapid inhales were slowing, becoming deeper as if she wished to clear her head. “No slurring?”
He forced an even breath. “Nay, lass.” He reached up under his tunic to work the bandage off his stab wound, yanking it out to hold to her head. “I think ye will be fine.” He glanced down, nodding fully to Logan. “Be ready to help her. I will lower her and the bairn down.”
The Highland Outlaw Page 7