“If you would be so kind.” He hated asking for her assistance with anything.
She set his shoes, sporran and dagger aside. He was thankful to have at least one weapon left with which to defend himself.
She laid his wide leather belt on the earth floor, flung out the four-yard-long blue and black plaid on top of it and quickly gathered it into pleats. She had done this before and plenty. For Baigh Shaw, the venomed whoreson.
“There now.” She rose. “Can you do the rest yourself?”
“Aye and I thank you.” Cursed kilt. He should’ve worn trews on the day of the battle, but he hadn’t expected to be fighting.
When she disappeared out the door, he limped over and lay down naked on the pleated material. No easy task with pain wracking his body. He grasped both sides of the belt and fastened it around his waist. Teeth clenched together, he pushed himself up onto his feet and adjusted the kilt until it hung to his satisfaction. After finding his brooch in his sporran, he fashioned the top ends of his plaide into a sash. He wished he had a shirt. He didn’t relish going about like a bare-chested barbarian.
Pulling the seal ring from his sporran, he frowned. No doubt Gwyneth knew its significance, but no time to worry about that now. He replaced it and strapped the pouch around his waist.
Being careful of his broken toe, he slipped on his shoes. His injuries were not severe enough to stop him from escaping this godforsaken place as soon as he could.
Nighttime would be the best time to leave, but he would have a harder time finding his way. How he wished he had a sword.
Gwyneth returned a moment later. Her gaze stroked over his bare chest. He knew it wasn’t so appealing with its bruises, cuts and scars. But her face flushed just the same. Did she see him as a man now, since he was dressed, rather than just her patient?
“I see you had no trouble dressing. You are more recovered than I thought.”
“Aye. Why did you not tell me Baigh Shaw was your husband?” His question came out harsher than he’d intended.
“You knew him?”
“Indeed.”
Her eyes rounded. “Did Rory tell you that?”
“Never mind how I figured it out.”
“I take it you were not fond of Baigh.”
“Canny lass,” Alasdair muttered, then narrowed his eyes, gauging her fearful expression.
She took one step back and clenched her hands before her. “What did he do?”
“I don’t wish to speak of it.” Hell, why had he said anything.
“Very well. I’ll leave you alone then.” Her wary gaze remained locked on him until she disappeared out the door.
Long minutes later, Alasdair limped to the door and peered out at the surroundings. The byre and cottage sat in a tiny sheltered cove just off the glen. A stand of black pines grew thick on the sloping hills behind the cottage, and a few shaggy black cattle grazed further down toward the glen. He spied no one around. It was time to take his leave of this place.
Holding onto the rough stone wall of the byre, he limped outside. The fresh air, washed clean with the rain the night before, pushed back a bit of the fogginess in his throbbing head. The sun warmed his face and lightened his mood. He said a prayer of thanks that he had survived. Glancing around, he made sure he was alone.
Pain shot up from his foot with each step, but he continued on his way, hobbling toward the edge of the wood. God’s truth, if he was going to limp like an old man, he’d need the staff of an old man. He would sharpen the top and make a spear. More cumbersome than a sword, but still highly effective for defense.
After choosing a small oak tree to his satisfaction, he whittled at the wood with his dagger. Inhaling the scent of green tree sap, he wondered if Gwyneth could have provided the powdered meadow saffron Shaw had slipped into Alasdair’s father’s ale. Why, then, had she saved his life? Perhaps she was trying to appease her own guilt.
Since Rory was almost six, obviously she’d been married to Shaw at the time.
His spear sharpened, Alasdair didn’t have time to linger and discover the truth. He glanced back to make sure no one watched him. All remained silent and still. He limped deeper into the cool forest, his footsteps releasing the scents of moldering leaves and black dirt.
By the sun, he gauged he was traveling east, toward his own land. He would never be so glad as to see MacGrath sod, and his clan. He listened for the sounds of hidden enemies, but the high-pitched calls of crossbills feeding in the pine branches overhead thwarted his efforts.
Hearing a different sort of bird, this one screeching in the distance, he paused. The MacIrwin call, he would recognize it anywhere. It sounded again, closer this time. Searching out a place to hide, he crept down an embankment, careful not to disturb the brown pine needles, and hid below a gigantic decaying tree stump, one of many that littered the area.
Minutes later, a MacIrwin strode by, humming a ballad, his rawhide shoes padding over the damp leaves. Crouching, Alasdair held his breath and watched. He did not want to kill a man this day.
Once the other man moved on and the sounds of the forest returned to normal, Alasdair crawled from his hideout and continued on his way.
The more steps he took, the more intense the agony from his toe—stabbing pain that shot halfway up his leg. He ground his teeth. The exertion spiked the aching in his head as well.
The trees thinned and gave way to scrubby bushes and tall gorse. He paused at the edge of a moor swathed in heather and other short vegetation. Only a couple boulders and larger bushes dotting the land would provide any sort of cover. Crossing without being seen would prove a hellish task.
Perhaps he should wait for nightfall before attempting it.
Keeping a close watch on the landscape spread out before him, he rested for a spell between gooseberry bushes.
The gash on his abdomen smarted and burned. He glanced down and found it bleeding again despite the fine stitches. The bonny healer would’ve scolded him over that.
He’d never gotten the chance to ask her what an English lady was doing here in the Highlands. Likely, she wouldn’t have told him anyway. And it was just as likely he’d never see her again. He didn’t care for the feel of that, despite her possible guilt.
Something about her had held his attention, not just her clear, vivid blue eyes that met his with courage and intelligence. She was a wee, slight thing but appeared to possess the hidden strength of a mighty oak. Perhaps he had enjoyed too much making her blush with his compliments. He glanced back in the direction of the woods and her cottage, some small aching spot within his chest making him yearn to see her one more time. To thank her again for saving his life.
Sometime later, thick gloaming settled over the land along with a faint gray mist. Surely it was murky enough that he wouldn’t be seen easily. His predominately blue and black tartan was dull in color, and he wore no light-colored shirt that would glow at a distance in the twilight.
His gaze scanning the deserted moor, he stood and limped forward. Though he had to be careful where he stepped among the rocks and heather so as not to further injure his toe, he made good progress across the damp ground until a distant noise met his ears. Hoof beats.
He turned. A horse and rider approached at a trot from behind. God’s bones! He’d been spotted. Glancing about for cover, he found no bushes nearby. Only a large rock. Teeth gritted against the piercing pain in his foot, he limped forward and crouched behind the rock.
“Who are you?” the rider called out in Gaelic. Too close, the man drew up, but Alasdair dared not peer out.
The horse clomped closer. A sword swished from a sheath in a metallic hiss.
Chapter Three
After returning from a visit to a sick clanswoman, Gwyneth stepped inside the byre and found it empty.
Good lord! Where was MacGrath?
She darted outside again and surveyed her surroundings. Nothing moved but the cattle and sheep. Had Donald captured MacGrath while she, Mora and Rory had been gone
? Or had he left? Surely if Donald had come, he or his men would have tracked her down and asked questions. Or worse.
Since there was no sign of a struggle, MacGrath must have left on his own power. How could he journey with a broken toe? He was a madman to think he could cross that many hills and moors without a MacIrwin seeing him. She and Mora might have saved his life, only to have him limp about like a clumsy toad and get himself killed anyway. Such a blunder would put all their lives in danger.
Shaken, she ran to the nearby wood and searched for him in the deepening gloom. Maybe he had staggered out here and passed out again.
No, she didn’t see him.
Gwyneth hoped MacGrath was already on his clan’s land. Perhaps he’d been wise to leave. At least she wouldn’t be found guilty of harboring the enemy.
But she would miss the charming way his obsidian eyes sparkled when he was thinking of a bit of devilry. It had been years since a man had teased and complimented her as he had.
I am a daft woman, always a fool for a handsome man. They were all the same—pretending to be considerate one moment, and lapsing into hatefulness the next.
“’Tis better that he’s gone.” She strode into the byre again to clear away the last traces of his presence—the blanket and herbal supplies.
Rory skipped in, halted and scanned all the corners. “Where’d he go?”
“Home, I hope.”
“Oh.” A glum expression weighted her son’s features. And in the deepest part of herself, Gwyneth felt the same.
“I wish he’d stayed,” Rory said. “He was going to teach me to be a warrior.”
No, he will not! She glared at her son. With the education she was giving him, he would become a learned man, perhaps a scholar, steward or merchant. She wanted him to live a long and happy life. Not be killed in some senseless skirmish.
It was best for them all that Angus MacGrath was gone. And since no one else had known he was here, they’d be safe now. At least she didn’t think anyone else knew.
“You didn’t tell the boys at Finella’s about him, did you?”
Rory’s eyes widened. “Only Jamie. But he’s my best friend, and he won’t tell anyone.”
Dear heavens! What have you done?
***
Crouched behind the rock, hiding from the MacIrwin clansman stalking him, Alasdair tightened his grip on the spear. In his other hand, he picked up a stone the size of his fist and waited.
Strength infused his muscles as it did when he charged into battle. The pain slid away and his attention focused. He gauged the horse’s distance by the sound of its hooves among the rocks.
He sprang upright, aimed at his enemy and hurled the rock. It hit the hulking man on the side of the head with a thwack, toppling him from the horse.
The horse whinnied and scuttled sideways.
Alasdair prayed he hadn’t killed the man, but he had no time to find out. Pain lancing his foot, he limped forward. This MacIrwin was out cold, certain sure. Alasdair tossed his primitive spear, snatched the man’s basket-hilted sword, which he was far more skilled with, and heaved himself into the saddle. The animal shied from an unfamiliar rider. Alasdair controlled him with the reins, his legs and murmured Gaelic words.
He kicked the horse into a gallop across the moor and headed toward MacGrath land. No time to tarry. The MacIrwins would find their injured kinsman soon enough. The thin, cold mist dampening his face smelled of soggy peat and freedom. The horse’s gait over the uneven terrain snapped Alasdair’s teeth together. Clenching his jaw, he leaned forward.
Too late, he glimpsed a group of what appeared to be MacIrwins on a nearby trail, some on horseback. By St. Andrew, they’d already spotted him. His only option was to race toward his own land.
The men called out and charged forward on their horses. The wind whipping his hair into his eyes, Alasdair glanced back and counted five in pursuit. “God’s teeth!” He dug in his heels, urging his mount to a full run.
Two shots exploded behind him. He lay over the horse’s neck, expecting the lead balls to tear into him…but he felt nothing. Thank God the MacIrwins were bad shots and pistols were not as accurate as they should be.
A good warrior he was, but not against five, and him injured besides.
The horse beneath him was sweating and near winded. He hated to push the animal more, but his own life depended upon it.
He darted another glance back. The cursed MacIrwins advanced from the white mist, their swords poised to run him through.
“Iosa is Muire Mhàthair!” Kicking his mount’s flanks, he held his own pilfered sword at the ready. He could off two or three of them before they dealt him fatal injury. But the last two worried him.
They yelled curses, taunts and threats meant to undermine his courage. He oft used the same tactic himself.
Alasdair peered back and found one of the horses breaking away from the others, surging forward like an Arabian. The bearded, yodeling devil of a rider waved his broadsword overhead.
The fog thinned and the distant hills of his own land came into view. But he wasn’t there yet. The MacIrwin knave bore down on him. Alasdair easily understood the other man’s murderous threats, called out from a few paces away. The breath of his mount huffed within earshot.
His pursuer drew almost even with him on the left. Alasdair thrust his sword at the man’s abdomen in a quick, precise stab. The pressure on the blade’s point told him he’d struck his mark. The other man growled an oath and lashed out with his own sword.
Alasdair dodged away, guiding his mount to the right.
“A mhic an uilc!” the man bellowed, dropping back.
The renewed thunder of hooves approached. Alasdair glanced back to find the other four MacIrwins at twenty paces and gaining ground.
A hill lay before him. The horse beneath him would be hard-pressed to climb it. One thing stood in his favor—it was his hill on his lands.
Up ahead, battle cries rang out through the dusk. Through the drifting clouds, the faint light of the moon glowed off the pale shirts of a half-dozen of his clansmen descending the hill, some on foot and others on horseback.
He called out to them, slowed his horse and turned about to face the nearest MacIrwin. Alasdair raised his blade to deflect the enemy’s first blow. Metal clanged against metal. He struck out again and again at the other man with thrusts and slices.
“Alasdair!” His kinsmen joined in the skirmish. They unseated two of the MacIrwins and sent their mounts galloping. The remaining two swung their horses about and raced away, back down the hillside. The two on foot fled.
He’d made it. He released a shout of victory in the wake of the retreating MacIrwins.
His clansmen surrounded him and called out greetings. “Chief! You live!”
“We thought you dead for certain sure,” his cousin, Fergus, said.
He laughed. “I would’ve been without your help.”
At the hilltop lookout, he dismounted and slapped his borrowed horse on the haunch, sending it back to its owners. He would not be accused of horse thievery. A lone torch revealed a dozen of his clansmen gathered here, but some were missing. “Who died in the skirmish yesterday?” he asked, thankful to see his cousins Fergus and Angus hale and hearty.
Fergus named five men. Good, strong, noble men, the lot of them. Men he had grown up with and fought beside many times.
“Muire Mhàthair!” Alasdair felt responsible, for he should never have trusted the enemy’s word on anything. Tomorrow, he would visit their families and offer what help he could. But nothing would replace a husband and father gone forever. One way or another, he would see the MacIrwin pay.
“Glad we are that you made it back.” Fergus slapped him on the shoulder.
“No more glad than I. My skull was near bashed in.” Alasdair limped forward. “And I broke a toe. Smarts like the very devil.”
Despite the gloominess of the situation, they chuckled at him. Two hoisted him atop another horse.
&nbs
p; He smiled at their good-natured ribbing about their formidable chief being brought down by his toe.
“Where’s Lachlan?”
“At the tower,” Angus said. “Hatching up a plan of attack on the craven MacIrwins. He’s madder than hell itself, thinking you dead. We all were. But I’ve never seen the lad so intent on revenge.”
Lachlan was the merry sort, and Alasdair hated to see him fash himself so. As second in command, he would be next in line to inherit the titles of chief and earl if something happened to Alasdair. Lachlan hated responsibility or being tied down and would likely find the position difficult to grow accustomed to.
“I must see him. I thank you for coming to my rescue.”
The men laughed and slapped the rump of his mount. The horse trotted forward, carrying him toward his tower, Kintalon Castle. Mist had risen from the loch and now cloaked the castle.
Inside the high-walled barmkin, he dismounted and handed the reins to a stable lad who gaped at him slack-jawed.
Shouts of “Alasdair!” and “Laird MacGrath!” rang out around him. He smiled and greeted his clan.
Several of his overjoyed clansmen lifted and carried him up the spiral stone staircase in the attached round tower.
Once inside the candlelit great hall, they set him down. The familiar smells of baking bread and spiced ale calmed him. Home. He limped to a chair and stood behind it. The room of thirty or more people fell silent. He scanned the pleased faces of his kinsmen and women before him. Gratitude and pride in his clan tightened his chest.
“I’m thankful to be home this day. I have a few minor injuries, but I’m alive.”
Their boisterous cheer resounded off the two-story high ceiling.
His brother, Lachlan, descended the stone steps. His gaze lit on Alasdair, and his face paled. “By heaven! Alasdair? You live!” He rushed forward and pulled Alasdair into a rough hug. Lachlan, the same size as him but two years younger, did not realize his own strength.
Pain shot through Alasdair’s chest and abdomen, but he didn’t even grunt. “Aye, mo bhràthar.”
Lachlan pulled back. “Thanks be to God. We thought you dead and buried in a bog, or sunk in the loch.”
My Fierce Highlander Page 4