Ravished by a Highlander

by Paula Quinn

  “Edward”—Davina’s voice pulled him back to her—“you trained me for this. We need every arm available. You will not stop me from fighting for my home.”

  “Orders, Captain, please!”

  Davina looked back once as she raced toward the narrow steps leading back to the tower.

  “Harry!” She heard Edward shout behind her. “Prepare the vats and boil the tar. I want every man alert and ready at my command. And Harry…”

  “Captain?”

  “Wake the sisters and tell them to pray.”

  In the early morning hours that passed after the massacre at St. Christopher’s, Edward’s men had managed to kill half of the enemy’s army. But the Abbey’s losses were greater. Far greater.

  Alone in the bell tower, Davina stared down at the bodies strewn across the large courtyard. The stench of burning tar and seared flesh stung her nostrils and burned her eyes as she set them beyond the gates to the meadow where men on horseback still hacked away at each other as if their hatred could never be satisfied. But there was no hatred. They fought because of her, though none of them knew her. But she knew them. Her dreams had been plagued with her faceless assassins since the day Edward had first told her of them.

  Tears brought on by the pungent air slipped down her cheeks, falling far below to where her friends… her family lay dead or dying. Dragging her palm across her eyes, she searched the bodies for Edward. He’d returned to her an hour after the fighting had begun and ordered her into the chapel with the sisters. When she’d refused, he’d tossed her over his shoulder like a sack of grain and brought her there himself. But she did not remain hidden. She couldn’t, so she’d returned to the tower and her bow and sent more than a dozen of her enemies to meet their Maker. But there were too many—or mayhap God didn’t want the rest, for they slew the men she ate with, laughed with, before her eyes.

  She had feared this day for so long that it had become a part of her. She thought she had prepared. At least, for her own death. But not for the Abbess’s. Not for Edward’s. How could anyone prepare to lose those they loved?

  Despair ravaged her and for a moment she considered stepping over the wall. If she was dead they would stop. But she had prayed for courage too many times to let God or Edward down now. Reaching into the quiver on her back, she plucked out an arrow, cocked her bow, and closed one eye to aim.

  Below her and out of her line of vision, a soldier garbed in military regalia not belonging to England crept along the chapel wall with a torch clutched in one fist and a sword in the other.

  Chapter Two

  A cool breeze, moist with the fallen rain, lifted a raven curl from Robert MacGregor’s forehead. Looking up, he glared at the pewter clouds as if daring the heavens to open again. ’Twas bad enough he and his kin had to leave Camlochlin during a storm that promised to tear auld Tamas MacKinnon’s roof off his bothy. Trekking across Scotland in the mud did not make the journey any easier.

  Rob was still unsure if he agreed with his father’s reasoning for leaving the clan to attend James of York’s coronation. What did laws made by stately nobles, dressed in powdered wigs and ruffled collars, have to do with MacGregors? Only a handful of them knew of the MacGregors of Skye, and none of them would dare venture into the mountains to enforce their laws, even if they did. What fealty did his clan owe to an English king?

  “Rebellion is not always necessary,” his father’s words invaded his troubled thoughts. “Protectin’ the clan must always come first.”

  As firstborn and heir apparent to Callum MacGregor’s title as Clan Chief of the MacGregors of Skye, Rob had been taught to understand his father’s ways of thinking. He knew that civilly showing their support to the new king was the intelligent thing to do. For as much as he cared nothing about politics so far south, there were many in Parliament who believed the Highland ways of life, with a Chief having sole authority over his clan, were outdated and should be abolished. If kissing the king’s arse would keep his clan safe and intact, then Rob would do it.

  He didn’t care if his father was chief or if he was. He’d taken on every responsibility as a leader, and more. He tilled the land, herded and sheared the sheep, repaired falling rooftops and, more times than not, denied his physical pleasure for hard work. He made decisions for his kin’s welfare alongside his father and honed his swordplay diligently and by his own choice, knowing that any weakness of body or will could destroy what belonged to him. And it had been in his blood for generations never to allow that to happen.

  But it still angered him that he should have to leave his clan to kiss the arses of men who would likely shyt in their breeches on any kind of battlefield.

  “Tell me again why ye insisted on takin’ this route, Will?” Rob asked his cousin, and yanked on his reins to steer his mount away from a muddy trench in his path. They had left their main troupe on a road just before the English border. The detour was Will’s idea, and Rob was beginning to question why he’d listened to him, or why he’d agreed to let anyone else come with them.

  “St. Christopher’s Abbey,” Will called out over his shoulder. “I told ye, Sister Margaret Mary lives there.”

  “Who the hell is Sister Margaret Mary?” Angus MacGregor growled, rubbing the small of his back. “And why does a daughter o’ the Lord interest a black heart like yers?”

  “She was m’ nursemaid fer six years after m’ mother died.”

  “I think I’ve heard Tristan speak of her,” Colin, Rob’s youngest brother, joined in thoughtfully, managing to steer his mount around a mossy incline without incident. Rob was torn between being thankful that his brother Tristan hadn’t come with them—mostly for the sisters of St. Christopher’s sake—and being angry with himself for letting Colin come along. Clearly, Will had no notion of where the hell the Abbey was. He was leading them deeper into the hills. A band of outlaws could attack them from almost any direction unseen. Not that Rob fretted overmuch about a fight, or Colin’s ability to come out of one unharmed. He just preferred that if there was a skirmish of some sort, his youngest brother not be there.

  “Do the sisters in England pray as much as the ones in Scotland do?”

  “We’re no’ in England yet,” Rob murmured impatiently, glancing at Finlay Grant from over his shoulder. The lad looked stricken for a moment, as if he had just proven himself lacking in the eyes of his leader. Hell, what would he do with Finn if they were attacked? The lad could fight well enough, but he’d always shown more interest in playing the pipes and reciting tales of past heroes than in swordplay. Every laird had a bard, and Finn was determined to become Rob’s. As irritating as it sometimes was to have the lad always underfoot, watching what he did and what he said in the event that some heroic deed he performed needed retelling, Rob was fond of Graham and Claire Grant’s youngest son. He was a respectful lad with a curious nature, and since he wasn’t the source of Rob’s frustration, he should not bear the brunt of it. “And nae,” Rob told him in a milder tone, “Scottish nuns pray more.”

  “I dinna care if her knees have worn straight through her robes,” Angus grumbled, reaching for a pouch of brew hidden in his plaid. “If she brought Will and Tristan into this world, I have nae desire to be meetin’ her.”

  “Hush, Angus.” Rob held up his hand to silence the older warrior. “D’ye hear that?”

  His companions remained quiet for a moment, listening. “Sounds like the clash o’ swords,” Angus said, his hand falling immediately to his hilt. “And that odor—That’s flesh burnin’.”

  “The Abbey!” Will’s face went pale as he whirled his mount left and dug his heels into the beast’s flanks. He disappeared over the crest of a small rise before Rob could stop him.

  Swearing an oath that his cousin and closest friend was someday going to get himself and everyone around him killed by rushing headlong into the unknown, Rob raced forward to follow, warning the younger lads to stay behind.

  Rob and Angus stopped just beyond the crest, where Will had also
halted his horse and stared with both shock and horror at the scene before him. When Colin and Finn reached them, Rob swore violently at his brother for disobeying him, but his gaze was already being pulled back to the small convent nestled within the fold of low hills.

  The Abbey was under attack. By the looks of it, the siege had been going on for more than a few hours. Hundreds of dead bodies littered the ground. Only a handful of what looked to have been two separate armies remained while ribbons of black smoke plumed the air, the residue of burning tar. The left wing of the structure was completely engulfed in flames.

  “Dear God, who would do this?”

  Will did not bother answering Finn’s haunted plea, but snatched free his bow and yanked an arrow from his quiver.

  “Will, nae!” Rob stopped him. “’Tis no’ our fight. I’ll no’ bring whoever did this doun on our clan! No’ for those who have already per—”

  The remainder of his words was cut short by a searing jolt of pain in his left shoulder and the whistle of two of Will’s arrows slicing the air in the next instant. Stunned, Rob looked down at the thin shaft of wood jutting out of his flesh. He’d been hit! Son of a… Fighting a wave of nausea, he closed his fingers around the arrow and broke off the feathered end sticking out from his plaid. Setting his murderous gaze on the skirmish, he clutched the broken arrow in one fist and dragged his claymore from its sheath with the other.

  “Now, ’tis our fight. Colin,” he growled before he charged his mount forward. “Ye and Finn take cover or I’ll set ye both on yer arses fer a fortnight.”

  Finn nodded dutifully, but Colin grew angry. “Rob, I can fight. I want to fight.”

  “No’ today,” Rob warned, his jaw rigid with fury about to be unleashed. This time Colin obeyed.

  Rob had fought in raids before. He’d even killed a few Fergussons, but this was the kind of fighting that flowed through his veins, what he had been trained to do by his father. Protect himself and those in his care at any cost. He didn’t care who’d shot him. They were all going to pay for it. Reaching the dwindling melee, he brought his sword down with savage satisfaction, killing swiftly, while Will and Angus fought a few feet away. He was about to strike again when his would-be target screamed out at him.

  “Hold, Scot! Hold for the mercy of God!” For the space of a breath, the man withered in his saddle staring into Rob’s eyes, and then at the bloody sword above his head. He spoke quickly, gathering what strength of will he had left. “I am Captain Edward Asher of the King’s Royal army. We were attacked just before dawn. I am not your enemy.”

  Rob quickly looked the man over. His dark hair was wet with blood and sweat that dripped over his brow, creating streaks down his dirty face. His garment was also bloodied, but belonging to the king’s regiment.

  His fury at being shot still unabated, Rob began to turn his mount to cut down someone else.

  “Wait.” The captain reached for Rob’s arm to stop him. “You are a Highlander. Why are you here? Has someone sent you?”

  “Ye ask many questions rather than be grateful that here is where I am.”

  “You have my thanks for your aid.”

  Rob nodded. “Behind ye.”

  Captain Asher spun on his horse and barely managed to avoid a blow to his head that would have killed him.

  Taking a moment to assure that no other enemy soldiers were in fighting distance, Rob watched with a look of bland interest while the captain felled his attacker to the ground.

  “I owe you my life,” Asher said, panting.

  “Right. Are we done here? There are more comin’.”

  Asher’s shoulders sagged heavily as if he’d had enough and knew his fate. He didn’t bother to look behind him, but wiped his moist brow. “Your name, please.”

  Hell, the man was half out of his mind. Loss of blood, Rob decided, and taking pity on him, gave him what he asked.

  “Robert MacGregor, if I die today you must save the Lady Montgomery.” Before Rob could consent or decline, the captain rushed on. “Please, I beg of you, save her. She still lives, I know it.” His eyes dipped to the broken arrow in Rob’s hand.

  Following his gaze, Rob suspected who shot him. His jaw clenched, as did his fingers. “You live. You save her.”

  “MacGregor!” Captain Asher shouted as Rob rode away. “They burned the chapel. All the sisters—dead. They were all she had. She only did what you or I would have done. Save her before the flames claim her. It is what they want.”

  Rob set his gaze toward the burning Abbey. Hell. He should find Will and toss him into the flames to find the lady since ’twas his idea to come here. A lady. Bloody hell, he couldn’t leave a lass to the flames, even if she’d tried to kill him. With his sword held high, he cut down another rider coming at him and did not look back to see what had become of Asher. He scanned the smoky courtyard for any sign of a female then muttered a string of oaths when he didn’t find her. With a look of such dark resentment and determination on his face he frightened two more soldiers out of his path, he rode his snorting beast straight to the fiery entrance. There was only one way to get inside and no time to hesitate. Yanking hard on his reins, he dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and heaved the stallion upward onto its hind legs. The charred doors splintered and cracked beneath the weight of his mount’s front hooves. Thick smoke stung his lungs and made it almost impossible to see. He called out, “Lady!” His stallion neighed and bucked at the roaring flames all around them, but Rob’s hand was strong and the beast was forced to continue. He called out again, and was about to give up and count her among the dead when he saw her. To his astonishment, the lass was trying desperately to put out the flames with a meager blanket.

  “’Tis too late, lass. Give me yer hand!”

  At the sound of his voice, she whirled around, bringing the blanket to her face to keep the smoke from choking her. “Edward?” She coughed, trying to see through the suffocating haze. “Edward, I—” The blanket slipped from her fingers and her legs gave out beneath her.

  Rob charged forward, leaning down in his saddle. Before her body hit the ground, he plucked her from the ashes.

  I’m dying. Thank You, Father. Davina had hoped it would be less painful than this. It wasn’t the smoke that scorched her lungs, or the pounding of her head, but the memory of the sisters’ screams as they burned in the chapel that made her long for Heaven.

  “Breathe now, lass.” A man’s voice, commanding enough to be Edward’s, but infinitely deeper, pulled her back.

  She coughed, dragging only slightly fresher air into her lungs. Fire lanced through her chest. Fire. She wasn’t dying. She opened her eyes to the blur of blackened grass and thick hooves tearing up the earth beneath her. She coughed again and a hand, large enough to span the back of her head, smoothed her hair away from her cheek. She was on a horse—and a man, flung across his lap to be exact. They had come for her just as Edward had feared they would, and now they had her. She wanted to scream, but her throat was raw. She would have leaped from both beasts, but the arm that held her dangling over the horse’s flanks was hard as granite. A body passed her vision on the ground, bringing the full horror of what took place this day back to her.

  They were dead.

  No. “No!” Terror and fury gripped her and she pushed herself up off her captor’s thighs. The sight over and beyond his bloodied shoulder stilled her an instant later. St. Christopher’s Abbey… her home, was burning to the ground. Everyone. Gone. “No, God, please… not my family,” she whimpered. Tears spilled down her face and she feared they might never stop. They didn’t, even when she remembered who held her.

  “Monster,” she screamed, pummeling him with blows to his chest, fighting his strength with the madness of her grief. “Bastard! What have you done?”

  “Lady.” His voice was so tender that she collapsed against him, needing mercy. “Be still,” he said softly against her ear as she clutched his upper arm, staring at the crumbling walls of her home. “Ye’re safe
now.”

  “I’m going to kill you,” she promised just as softly, leaving behind the bodies of those she loved.

  “Ye almost did already, but ’twas no’ I who did this loathsome thing.”

  It wasn’t his declaration, but the deep undercurrent of sympathy in it that almost convinced her to believe him. She pushed off his shoulder and stared up at him. He wasn’t one of them. His burr was thick and his appearance far more primitive than any man she’d ever seen, English or otherwise. A Highlander. She hadn’t been expecting one of those. The Abbess had told her about the men of the North in her lessons and how they wore blankets draped around their bodies, rather than short-coats and breeches. Davina’s eyes dipped to the great belted plaid draping one of his shoulders and the bloodstained shirt beneath. This one was big. His dark hair was longer than she’d ever seen on a man and tied away from his face, save for a stray lock, swept free over his eyes by the rushing wind. He smelled of earth and leather… and smoke.

  “Who are you then?” she demanded through trembling lips. “What are you doing here?” She waited while he stared at her as if her simple questions muddled his thoughts. Harry Barns had told her that Highlanders were thick skulled, more interested in battle than in books. This one looked like he could take down Edward’s entire regiment.

  “Edward,” she whispered, and a new rush of sorrow flooded through her. “Let me go!” She struggled again. “I must find him. Please,” she cried as her captor drew her closer to hold her still. “You don’t understand. He will think they have taken me.”

  “Who will he think has taken ye?” The Highlander withdrew just enough to look into her eyes. “Who did this, lass?”

  She was thinking of Edward, not herself or her safety, when she told him. “It was the Duke’s men, or the Earl’s. I’m not certain. Now please, I beg you, bring me back. I must find Captain Asher.”

  It was the stranger’s eyes that told her what he did not want to say. Lapis-colored gems that lost their glitter when he finally looked away. Edward was dead. Tears pooled her eyes but she said nothing as she turned in his arms, away from everything she knew, everyone she trusted.