Alasdair grinned. “A bonny MacIrwin fairy saved my life.”
The men’s laughter bounced off the stone walls. But concern for Gwyneth weighed heavily in Alasdair’s mind.
Would Donald MacIrwin find out she’d saved his life? He’d been nowhere near the cottage when he’d been spotted, so surely they wouldn’t make the connection.
Unless they backtracked him.
***
The entry door of Irwin Castle burst open. Chief Donald MacIrwin glanced up from his wooden bowl containing his meager supper of bland porridge, annoyed they were near out of oats and ale or anything else to eat. He hesitated to have more of the cattle or sheep butchered, else they’d have none. They’d need to raid a nearby clan soon.
“What is it?” he demanded of his four clansmen striding forward, their wild hair windblown as if they’d ridden hard, and their plaids askew. He’d set them to guard the border betwixt his land and MacGrath’s. “And more importantly, what the devil are you doing away from your posts?”
“Alasdair MacGrath was here, m’laird,” Burgin, one of his best guards, said.
Donald bolted up from his chair, rage blazing through him. “Alasdair! The chief? Where?” He reached for his sword at his side, then realized the weapon was in the armory, being cleaned and sharpened.
“Aye,” Burgin said. “He knocked Charlie out and stole his horse. Then he fled across the moor onto his own lands. We tried to stop him but Charlie’s horse is fast. He had reinforcements waiting at the border.”
“Damnation! What was he doing here? The chief would not come alone.”
“He must have been here since the other skirmish. He’d been hiding in the wood, waiting to attack one of us and make good his escape.”
“That whoreson.” Donald felt like overturning the whole table, but held his temper. How could MacGrath have hidden in the wood that well for almost two days? “Was he injured?”
“He did not appear to be injured as he fled but mayhap he was. We thought we’d seen him fall during the first skirmish. Red John remembered striking him, but then we couldn’t find his body.”
Something strange was going on. Had a member of the MacIrwin clan helped this MacGrath bastard?
“At first light, find out where he was hiding in the wood. Edward is a good tracker.”
***
The next day, Gwyneth set down her herb basket at the crest of a hill and once again murmured a prayer that Rory’s little friend would not mention the enemy warrior to anyone. Rory assured her he hadn’t said the MacGrath name to the other lad or that the man had been hiding in their byre. Still, Gwyneth’s stomach had been upset all night and she had gotten little sleep.
She inhaled the calming scents of the pungent herbs from her basket and the clean breeze as she gazed out over the rolling brownish Cairngorms toward the east. The sheep and cattle dotting the lower green hills were not MacGrath livestock. Their holdings lay beyond the meager wood and beside the loch in the distance reflecting the blue late afternoon sky. Apparently the high mountain blocked her view of their castle.
Though she did not want to admit it, she’d spent the day missing the big, teasing Scot. His devilish smile and lingering midnight gaze had disrupted her mundane life. Now, her only entertainment was her memories.
And the memories did crowd in on her. He’d said she was lovely as a spring morn, and he’d looked at her as no man had in years. As if…had he not been injured and they had been at a banquet, he might have asked for a dance, or a walk in the garden. Or a kiss.
Imagining what his lips might feel like on hers—warm, firm and smooth, she realized she had taken too close a notice of his mouth.
She pressed her eyes closed. I’m a wanton. No wonder I’m stuck here in the godforsaken Highlands.
But it wasn’t just his dark good looks that appealed to her. He appeared to have a good and compassionate heart.
She had to believe he’d made it home, where he would be safe from Donald and his men. Home, where he would heal and live to fight another day.
Yes, it was best he’d gone. She hated war, but that was his life.
From the small pouch attached to her belt, she withdrew her only remaining memento from England—her mother’s pelican-in-her-piety pendant.
Just before Gwyneth had left her father’s house, over six years ago, her mother had slipped this piece of jewelry into her hand as she’d embraced her the last time. The pendant was pewter and not very valuable except for the small ruby at the pelican’s breast. Legend said that if the pelican was unable to find food for her young, she would peck at her own breast and draw forth blood with which to feed them.
At first Gwyneth had thought her mother had given it to her as a reminder of her faith, the pelican representing Christ. But years later, she came to realize that perhaps her mother’s message meant something else—that as a mother, Gwyneth must be willing to sacrifice all for the sake of her son.
And if she had to, she would.
She closed her fingers over the worn surface of the pelican and her three chicks. She missed her mother terribly, but her father would not allow them contact. What would her mother think of Rory? Surely she would love her grandson, born in shame or not.
Gwyneth returned the pelican to her pouch and picked up her herb basket. I will not dream of things I cannot have.
“Come, Rory,” she called to her dawdling son. “Tell me, what is this herb?” She bent and fingered the rough green leaves.
He frowned. “I do nay ken,” he said in a strong accent like MacGrath’s.
“Where did that Scots brogue come from?”
Rory shrugged.
“I think you spent too much time with Master MacGrath.”
“You mean Angus?”
“You are not to call him by his first name. ’Tis not respectful.”
“He said I could.”
“I do not care what he said.”
Rory pouted. “I wish he would come back.”
She knelt before Rory. “Listen, son, you are not to mention Angus MacGrath’s name to anyone else. Do you understand? Donald will kill Master MacGrath if you do.”
Rory’s eyes widened.
So she’d told a little fib. In truth, Donald would kill Gwyneth and Rory if he knew.
“I can keep a secret,” Rory said with a solemn expression.
“Good.” She hugged him, kissed his forehead and straightened. “Time to go home. Evening will be upon us soon, and we must milk.”
He found a short stick and, as if it were a pistol, pretended to shoot at birds with it.
She shook her head. The boy would make anything into a weapon.
When they rounded the hillside, the stench of smoke met her nose. She grasped Rory’s hand and pulled him along with her. Shouts and a scream in the distance chilled her.
Forcing herself to move forward, she cut through the trees above the cottage. Flames devoured the thatched roof.
Mora!
“Where is Mora?” she whispered, ran several paces, then halted. Her dear friend lay face down in the dirt yard, a sword protruding from her back. “Dear God.” She felt as if a dagger had struck her own heart.
Donald’s men milled about around Mora.
Murdering fiends!
Horror crumpled Gwyneth’s body and she fell to her knees among the rocks. “Oh, dear heaven, Mora, what have I done?” she sobbed, pressing a hand to her mouth to hold in a scream.
“Ma, I’m scared,” Rory whimpered.
“Shh. You must be quiet.” She turned Rory away from the carnage and held him tight in her trembling arms.
Donald must have found out about Angus MacGrath. Was it because of Rory’s friend, or had MacGrath been captured when he was trying to escape?
Either way, Mora was dead and Gwyneth took full blame because she’d insisted on helping him. Mora had cautioned her against it.
I’m so sorry, Mora. I will never forgive myself.
Gwyneth wiped her eyes and stood.
“Come. We must hide.” She shoved her herb basket under a short bush, grabbed Rory’s hand and they ran through the wood, slipping on leaves and pine needles.
Two of her kinsmen appeared some distance away, headed to the left of them.
Freezing, she glanced about frantically, and then spotted a ditch behind a rock. She dragged Rory toward it.
“Lie down, and don’t make a sound,” she whispered. When he wadded himself into a ball on the ground, she covered him with soggy leaves and twigs. Hiding herself would be more difficult. She amassed a large pile of leaves and burrowed beneath. She laid a hand on Rory to keep him calm. As a mere babe, he had learned how to be quiet when it was important. Baigh had made sure of it. He’d hated a crying child.
The MacIrwin men walked by, talking. Panic quickened her blood.
Please God, don’t let them find us.
She couldn’t believe sweet, kind Mora was dead. A plague upon Donald! She would see him pay for this. Mora had done nothing wrong.
The men’s voices moved further away, and silence returned. Gwyneth concentrated on Rory’s warm, trembling hand within her own. The rocks on the ground beneath her jabbed into her shoulder and hip. She found the scent of moldy leaves and damp earth comforting because they hid her, and kept her and Rory safe.
Night descended, the temperature cooled and two owls hooted. She would not be helping Mora milk her cows this day, or ever again. They would never share another meal or work together delivering bairns. Dear Mora, a good woman. A strong woman. But not stronger than Donald’s gang of murderers. Tears streamed from Gwyneth’s eyes and dripped into the stony dirt.
Her only hope now was to flee with Rory, try to make it to MacGrath land and hope Angus MacGrath would ask his laird to give them safe passage to the Lowlands, or someplace away from here.
Donald’s men would undoubtedly be posted at various points to watch for her during the night. The MacGrath holdings were a long distance away, perhaps five miles.
***
Gwyneth and Rory stayed that night in the wood, hiding beneath the soggy, rotting leaves. The next morn before daybreak, Gwyneth pushed herself up, wincing at the pains that radiated from her stiff back and legs. A chill breeze penetrated her damp clothing, and she shivered. Quietly, she woke Rory.
Holding his hand, she led him a short distance through the wood. Using her dirk she dug roots for them to eat. Mora had taught her well which wild plants were poisonous and which ones might serve as food. Gwyneth’s eyes burned and her throat closed each time she thought of her dear friend.
Mora had been the only one to help her bring Rory into this world during a difficult birth. In truth, Mora had been like a second mother to her.
“I don’t like this.” Rory grimaced as he gnawed on the crunchy silverweed root.
“I know. I’m sorry, but it’s all I could find. Later, we will look for berries. You like those.”
He nodded, but his eyes were red and moist. She felt like bursting into tears herself, but couldn’t. She had to stay strong for his sake.
“Did Laird MacIrwin kill Mora?”
“Yes, he or one of his men did.”
“Because we helped Master MacGrath?”
“Yes.”
Rory dropped his gaze to his lap. “Was it my fault because I told Jamie?”
“No, Rory. It wasn’t your fault.” It was mine. “But I hope if Master MacGrath made it back to his clan, his laird will help us now in repayment for the good deed we did. He told me the laird was his cousin.”
Gwyneth held Rory’s small hand, and they slipped further through the wood. From her cover behind thick bushes, she spied one lookout during the day. He was near the trail she usually took. In faith, Donald will not give up until we are dead.
At dusk, Gwyneth quickened their pace and eventually they left the trees and came upon bush. Bilberry and gooseberry grew thickly. She and Rory ate their fill of the unripe, tart berries and waited for nightfall. When darkness surrounded them, they left the cover of the bushes and set out across the damp moor.
They were headed toward MacGrath lands—that much she knew. She prayed, if he was there, Angus MacGrath would return the favor of saving his life. But what if he turned out like so many other men she’d known and betrayed her at the last moment? Pains gripped her stomach, both from anxiety and hunger.
Rory was all she had—the most valuable thing in her world. For him, she would go to the MacGraths and beg assistance. Protection.
But first, they had to safely cross the moor.
***
For hours, Gwyneth and Rory trudged through darkness, with only the moon for light, and picked their way through the gorse and heather not yet in bloom. A movement up ahead at a lone tree caught her attention. She recoiled, breath held. In the dimness, her eyes strained to identify the movement—a horse swishing its tail. Where was the rider?
“Shh,” she hissed at Rory, and gave the tree a wide berth.
The horse snorted and stamped its hooves.
Gwyneth’s skin prickled. She crouched and pulled Rory down beside her.
A man grunted, groaned, then strode out into the moonlight to relieve himself. Once finished, he returned to the shadows, and a screeching birdcall sounded from the tree. Some distance away, an answering call responded. Her blood chilled. The men were communicating. What were they saying?
Gwyneth and Rory sat hunched for an immeasurable time, until her legs cramped. If they moved now, the watchman was certain to see and capture them. Vigilant to all the sounds and movements around her, she seated herself into a more comfortable position upon the damp ground and waited for the man to fall asleep.
A mist floated above the ground like a giant cloud, obscuring the moon, and the first glimmer of dawn brightened the horizon before her. Indecision tormented her. They had to leave now or be discovered in the daylight. If only the mist was lower it might conceal them.
“Shh,” she whispered to Rory. “We must move quickly but quietly.”
Rory blinked sleepy eyes at her, seemingly half aware of where they were.
“Are you awake?”
He nodded. Her poor, sweet child. She hated that he had to go through this.
She rose and tugged him along with her. They slipped toward a distant hill, her skirts snagging on heather and gorse. Cold water from the peaty soil seeped through her rawhide slippers. The cool, damp air around them vibrated with tension. She tried to ignore the knotting pain in her stomach and the weakness of her whole body from lack of food.
She had no notion where the border to MacGrath holdings was, but surely they would reach it soon.
The birdcall echoed from the tree behind them. But this time the sound was different—an alarm. “Jesu!”
A horse galloped forth, a menacing black silhouette advancing from the white mist in the distance.
“Run, Rory!” She tugged her skirts off her shoes and broke into a sprint.
He dashed several paces ahead of her.
“Faster!”
She glanced back. Two horsemen thundered close behind, one chasing on her heels. Oh, dear God, protect us! She switched directions, gasping, lungs burning, desperate for more air.
Where is Rory? Her legs wouldn’t move fast enough. The air around her thickened like water, and she couldn’t get through it.
Spotting Rory, she chased after him. “Run!” She slipped in a puddle but righted herself before she fell.
They will kill us. They will kill my precious Rory.
More horses joined in the chase. They surrounded her, their demon riders yelling in Gaelic. Two hemmed her in. Trapped, she dashed headlong between them. Something caught her by the belt and yanked her into the air. Her legs flailed on nothingness. She landed hard on her stomach across the front of a saddle. The breath whooshed from her constricted lungs.
“Ma!” Rory yelled.
Chapter Four
“Rory!” God, help me, I must get to him.
Gwyneth’s vision grew fuzzy. How
could she free herself from this rider without getting herself killed? She gasped for air that refused to enter her lungs.
The ground beneath the horse hurtled past at dizzying speed. She fought to escape, tried to grab her captor’s sword or dagger.
The kilted Scot—probably one of her own clansmen—shoved a strong hand against the back of her neck, restricting her movements. She couldn’t reach her own dirk either. Her throat tightened and tears streamed from her eyes.
Where was Rory? He still screeched nearby, though she couldn’t tell where with all the jostling. If one of these brutes hurt him, she’d take her dirk to the blackguard and damn the consequences.
The bare, hairy leg of the Scot flexed in front of her face. She could bite him. But this would only anger him, and he might toss her from the galloping horse.
More hooves pounded close-by, and eerie war cries resounded. Her captor yelled in Gaelic. The ding of clashing metal rang out.
What’s going on? The MacIrwin men wouldn’t fight amongst themselves. Were the MacGraths challenging them? Had she and Rory made it to MacGrath land? A ray of hope lit the thick blackness that had near smothered her.
Gwyneth turned her head and, upside down, watched the men slashing at each other in the misty dawn light. The pop of a pistol shot echoed. Her captor jerked and growled a curse.
He slowed the horse and unsheathed his sword. Steel blades clanged over and behind her. The man’s body tensed. The muscles of his legs under her bunched and flexed hard as iron as he engaged in swordplay with someone she couldn’t see.
The horse beneath them danced about, reared. Gwyneth’s head spun in the turmoil of movement.
Her captor shrieked. His body convulsed. The horse reared again. She slid with the man, but tried to grab onto the saddle. Her hands clasped air. With a scream, she tumbled over the animal’s hindquarters and hit the ground.
The hard impact jarred Gwyneth’s teeth and every bone in her body. Pain radiated from her left side. At least the man had broken her fall a bit.
The horse fled. She scrambled away from her captor—one of her distant cousins with red hair, a bushy beard and a grimace such as she’d never seen. He grabbed at his neck where blood gushed.
My Fierce Highlander Page 5