Fate of a Highlander

by Baker, Katy

  That left only Balloch. Finn turned to face him. The man's face was almost purple with rage, his eyes glinting with hatred. He looked at his downed comrades and his lips pulled back in a sneer.

  "Want a job doing, do it yerself," he growled. "Useless bastards."

  Around him Finn heard the jeering of the crowd and guessed that most of the manor house had gathered to watch this fight. Whether they were cheering for Balloch or himself he didn't know. Nor did he care. His gaze was fixed on Balloch.

  "Ye know," Balloch said conversationally. "Ye should have let me have her. Let her know what it's like to have a real man. I'm sure she would have enjoyed it. Eventually."

  Finn’s control slipped. The rage that lurked just beyond his circle of calm reared up, threatening to shatter his composure. He fought it. Balloch wanted him to lose control. He would not fall for the trap.

  "Ye are honorless," Finn said, his words clear and calm. "A disgrace to yer name. And I'm going to kill ye."

  The words had the desired effect. With a roar, Balloch gripped his sword two-handed and charged at Finn. Finn let him come, waiting until he could see the white of Balloch's eyes. Only then, when the tip of Balloch's blade was only inches from his chest, did he step nimbly out of the way, grab Balloch's sword arm to yank him close, then squarely head-butt him in the face. Balloch staggered back, his sword arm drooping, and Finn hammered the staff into his wrist, knocking the weapon from his grasp. In a flash Finn swept Balloch's legs out from under him, then, as the man collapsed to the ground, he drew his bronze dagger and knelt on his chest, pressing the sharp blade against Balloch’s throat. All the while he felt a calm, icy detachment.

  Looking down into Balloch's eyes, wide and fearful now, he hissed, "I told ye one day there would be a reckoning. That day is here."

  He tightened his grip on the dagger, preparing to strike, when a cold, clear voice rang out, cutting through the hubbub of the crowd.

  "Stop."

  And just like that Finlay couldn't move.

  Pain flared down his back as his tattoo, the mark of his bargain, came roaring to life. He felt it burn white-hot on his back. As it did so the iron jaws of his curse came down on his will like the teeth of a man-trap.

  No! he thought desperately. No!

  He fought frantically to move but his muscles would not obey him. Their control no longer belonged to him, but to another. He shifted his eyes to the left and saw Lord Alasdair Stewart standing there, holding a bronze branding iron in his left hand. His cold, hard eyes were fixed on Finn.

  Finn pulled his lips back in a rictus snarl and fought. With every sinew in his body he tried to move, tried to fight the power of his curse. His muscles strained, his lungs filled to bursting, the tendons in his neck stood out like ropes. It was no good. His curse held him as securely as if he was bound with iron chains. He glared at Stewart, black hatred bubbling in his stomach like bile.

  Lord Stewart stepped forward. His eyes flicked contemptuously to Balloch. "Get up, ye worthless excuse for a Stewart.”

  Balloch scrambled out from beneath Finn and backed off, watching his uncle warily. Stewart's gaze returned to Finn.

  "This ends now," he said loud enough for everyone to hear. "No MacAuley will lay hands on a Stewart. Not again. Not ever."

  Balloch limped to his uncle’s side. His face was a mass of bruises and blood crusted his nostrils. Finlay's stomach constricted with hatred. If he went anywhere near Eleanor...

  "Call yerself a Stewart?" Lord Alasdair growled. "Ye allow yerself to be bested by a MacAuley?"

  "It isnae my fault—" Balloch began.

  "Quiet! I willnae listen to yer excuses. Ye willnae allow a MacAuley to lay hands on ye again. It is time this hound was taught his true place—and ye will be the one to do it. Dinna worry, I think my hound will find he is suddenly very obedient."

  Stewart gestured at Finlay and spoke a word under his breath. Obeying the silent command, Finlay's body surged upright, forcing him to stand and face Stewart. Balloch looked at his uncle uncertainly.

  "Hit him!" Stewart snapped. "Or should I fetch one of the stable hands to do it for ye?"

  Anger twisted Balloch's face. He stepped forward, clearly wary, but when Finn didn't move—couldn't move—he grew in confidence. With a growl, he landed a punch into Finn's stomach that knocked the breath out of him and doubled him over with a grunt. Slowly, he straightened. Balloch backed away, expecting Finn to counter attack but when none came, that familiar cocky grin spread over his face, the grin that made Finn want to kill him. He swung at Finn's face and he was powerless to step aside as Balloch’s fist connected with his chin. Finn's head snapped to the side and the iron tang of blood filled his mouth. A second later another blow cannoned into his temple, throwing him off balance. Finn staggered and the ground suddenly came rushing up to meet him.

  He lay on his back, staring up at the sky as a boot crashed into his ribs, one, two, three times. Pain exploded along his nerves and it was suddenly difficult to breathe. He tried to curl into a ball but even this respite was denied him.

  He heard Eleanor screaming and managed to move his eyes enough to see her struggling in the grip of three men, desperately trying to reach him.

  Nay, lass, he thought. Dinna come near. I am cursed, don't ye see? Stay away.

  Blow after blow rained down on him. Balloch was going to kill him, Finn realized. Finally Stewart had tired of his hound and he was going to let his nephew kill him. Not the beating of course. Stewart knew that no amount of physical violence could break Finn’s curse. But all it would take was for Balloch to draw his dagger—with iron in the blade—and plunge it into Finn’s chest.

  There would be nothing he could do to stop it. An ignominious end for the once-heralded youngest son of Clan MacAuley. No noble death in battle for him. No glorious sacrifice that the bards would sing of. Instead he would choke out his last breath in a muddy courtyard. If he had the strength, he would have laughed.

  But then Stewart spoke suddenly. "Enough."

  The blows stopped and Finn sucked in a breath that felt like hot needles piercing his lungs. Blood dripped slowly from his nose to pool on the ground by his face. It was bright red, like holly berries.

  "I think my hound has learned his lesson." Stewart's voice cut through the air like a knife. "Ye will leave, all of ye."

  Finn managed to lift his head enough to see the crowd dispersing. Balloch, his shoulders heaving, gave Finlay a final glare and then stomped off in the direction of the house. Only Eleanor remained, being restrained by Stewart's guardsmen, and Donald, who still lay unconscious by the bakehouse.

  Stewart came to stand over him. His expression was emotionless. He could have been looking down at an insect. Finlay breathed deeply, pushing away the pain enough to get control over his limbs. He felt the curse loosen its grip and he was finally able to move – barely. Gritting his teeth, his lips pulling back in a snarl of effort, he slowly pushed his tortured body to its knees. From there he forced his screaming muscles to uncurl into a standing position. Blood rushed to his head and for a moment he thought he might faint but he curled his hands into fists, digging his nails into his palms and used the pain to steady himself.

  I am a MacAuley, he thought. I willnae show weakness in front of this bastard.

  It took every shred of willpower, every ounce of self-control he'd learned through the long years of training under his father and elder brothers to keep himself standing, to lift his chin and meet the eyes of his torturer. He pulled his torn lips back in a smile and was rewarded when Lord Alasdair Stewart paled slightly.

  "I owe ye my thanks," Finn croaked, the effort sending a line of blood spilling down his chin. "I never quite understood why ye hated me so much. Now ye’ve helped me understand. Ye dinna hate me at all, do ye? Ye fear me."

  "Fear ye?" Stewart spat. "What do I have to fear?" He stepped forward, put a finger under Finn's chin and stared into his eyes. "Remember, Hound, ye are mine. Only death can free ye. Yer life be
longs to me. Until I see fit to end it.”

  Suddenly Finn remembered standing in a ring of stones with his brothers. It was dark and from that darkness a voice spoke to him, a malevolent voice filled with glee. "The bargain is made. In payment, I take yer life, but ye willnae die, darling of the MacAuley Clan. Ye, who of all yer people long for freedom, will instead live yer life as a slave. Only death will free ye."

  Snapping back to the present, despair washed through him like bile. He was a fool to fight. Only pain and suffering lay that way.

  As if guessing his thoughts, Stewart smirked then turned and snapped at Eleanor, "Ye will heal him. I want him fit and ready to fight." Then he waved to his guards and hurried away.

  The world seemed to contract around Finn and there was a roaring in his ears. The last thing he remembered as blackness took him was Eleanor catching him as he fell.

  Chapter 12

  Eleanor clung to Finlay's hand, fingers wrapped tight around his. She leaned forward, staring at his face as he lay unconscious on the bed in a tiny room of the manor house.

  "Wake up, damn you," she growled. "You will wake up. Hear me?"

  She'd done all she could for his injuries. She'd bathed his bruises, cleaned and stitched his cuts, dribbled poppy juice into his mouth for the pain, and wrapped tight bandages around his chest. But she was afraid that wasn't enough. She suspected he had several broken ribs and if one had punctured his lung...

  Damn this time and its lack of medical facilities! If she'd been in the twenty-first century, she would have ordered an MRI, seen exactly what was going on inside Finn's body, sent him for surgery and fixed whatever the problem was. But here she didn't even have a stethoscope so, although she'd pressed her ear to his chest to listen to his breathing, she couldn't tell if his lungs were damaged or if there might be any internal bleeding.

  She brought his hand to her face and pressed it against her cheek. Tears squeezed from her eyes.

  Images played through her mind. Images of Finn stepping between her and Balloch. Images of Finn fighting to protect her. She'd never been so relieved to see anyone as when he'd stepped into the bakehouse. And she’d never been as terrified as when Alasdair Stewart had ordered Balloch to beat him.

  She shook her head. Why did Finn allow that to happen? He was more than a match for Balloch. Why hadn't he defended himself? Why had he done exactly what Stewart had ordered him to, even to the point of letting Balloch beat him half to death?

  She drew a deep breath, unwilling to follow where that thought might lead. Finn hadn't stirred for hours and the sun had climbed in the sky. Nonetheless, it was gloomy inside the tiny room. A single candle burned in the corner, throwing flickering light across the contours of his face.

  After the fight, Stewart had ordered his men to bring Finn into this sparse room but since then the only people who'd been in were Donald, who'd been brought in with Finn, and the rest of Finn's command, who'd been pale and wide-eyed seeing their commander comatose and bleeding. Eleanor had put them to use in fetching the supplies she needed and had then examined Donald to find he only had a mild concussion. Once he'd woken, she'd ordered Rob to take him to the kitchen and saw he got a good meal before retiring to his bed.

  Finlay suddenly stirred and she leaned closer. “Finn? Can you hear me?”

  His eyelids fluttered then his eyes slowly opened. He stared blearily up at the ceiling for a moment but then his gaze cleared and he looked around, taking in his surroundings before his eyes finally settled on her.

  Relief washed through Eleanor. It was so strong that for a moment dizziness overcame her and she feared she might faint. Oh God. Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Suddenly she could breathe again. Suddenly there seemed to be color in the world again. If Finn had died...

  She clamped down on that thought.

  A smile crept across her face and tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. Clasping his hand against her chest she whispered, “You came back to me.”

  His gaze strayed to her fingers gripping his own firmly. “Aye, lass,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and raspy. “Ye brought me back. Ye gave me the strength.”

  “You did that yourself. How do you feel?”

  A ghost of a smile played across his face. “Like I’ve been wrestling with a bear.” Then his gaze sharpened. “And ye? Donald?”

  She shook her head. “I’m fine, thanks to you, and Donald just has a concussion. He’ll be okay after some food and rest.”

  “Good,” he breathed. “That’s good.”

  He extricated his hand from hers and wedged his arms under him. Then, to her surprise, levered himself up into a sitting position, wincing at the pain. She ground her teeth. He should be lying down and resting.

  He looked around at the room and then peered at the window as if measuring the position of the sun. “How much time has passed?”

  “It’s almost midday. You’ve been unconscious for several hours.”

  “Has a patrol come back recently? Two men, dressed as trackers?”

  “I’ve no idea,” she replied, surprised by this sudden change in topic.

  “Nay, they wouldnae have time to get there and back again, even if they galloped the whole way and they didnae look like they were in a hurry.”

  Eleanor frowned. She had no idea what he was talking about. “Okay. Whatever. You need rest. I’ll get some food sent up for you and then you need to—”

  “Has Stewart asked to see ye?” he demanded. “Asked any strange questions?”

  “Finn, I haven’t seen or heard from Stewart since the incident this morning. And it’s just as well because next time I lay eyes on that bastard I’m going to kick him right where it hurts. He’s a monster, Finn. He has to be stopped. I almost hope the MacAuleys take him out during the battle—and that goes against everything I’ve ever believed as a doctor.”

  It was Finn’s turn to frown. “What do ye mean ‘battle’?”

  “Can’t you hear it? The camp is in an uproar. Broag came to tell me a little while ago that Stewart has ordered the army to move out. They’re marching to meet the MacAuley and MacConnell forces. Broag reckons there’ll be a battle the day after tomorrow.”

  Finlay paled at the news. She could almost see the thoughts forming behind his eyes. Would his brothers be there? Would he have to face them?

  He passed a hand over his face and let out a long breath. “The patrol will probably be back tomorrow and if the Lord is smiling on us, they’ll come back to an empty manor house and have to follow the army. That buys us some time.”

  “Finn,” she said, schooling herself to patience. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. What patrol?”

  His eyes snapped to hers. “The patrol that Stewart sent out to investigate yer story. That’s why I wasnae here this morning. I followed them, all the way back to the place where ye first met Angus and his men.”

  Eleanor felt the blood drain from her face. Her stomach flipped over. Oh god. “Why...why would he do that?”

  Finn slipped a hand inside his shirt and brought out an object which he held out to her. “Mayhap ye should tell me.”

  The flat, oblong object was smeared with dirt and cracked all over but Eleanor still recognized it. Her cell phone. At the sight of it sitting in Finlay’s palm her heart began to race, thumping against her ribs as though she’d been running.

  Finn’s eyes were fixed on hers, stern and unyielding. “The time for secrets between us is over, Eleanor. If we are to get out of here, I must know the truth. What is this thing? It’s like naught I’ve ever seen before. Why is Stewart so interested in where ye came from? What does he suspect?”

  Eleanor’s thoughts whirled. She’d been so stupid! Did she really think she could practise modern medicine in this time and not arouse suspicion? Did she really think she could rely on such a flimsy back story to cover the truth? Alasdair Stewart was no fool. And neither was Finlay. His gaze was unblinking as he watched her, waiting for her to speak.

 
I can’t tell you! she wanted to shout. What am I supposed to say? I’m from the future. Nothing to worry about. I just thought I’d pop back in time hundreds of years for a quick vacation. Is that all right with you?

  He’d think she was insane or a witch. Possibly both. She cast around, desperately trying to think of something to say, anything that would deflect him. Her eyes alighted on the lines of his tattoo as it curled over the top of his shoulder.

  “You’re a fine one to talk about secrets!” she blurted. “You want honesty between us? Fine! Then how about you tell me what hold Alasdair Stewart has over you?”

  He stared at her. Then blinked and looked away. “I dinna know what ye mean.”

  “Don’t you? I’ve been doing a little digging of my own whilst you’ve been unconscious. Maybe you can tell me whether the story Rob told me of the cursed MacAuley brothers is more than a child’s tale. Maybe you can tell me if I’m stark raving crazy or if I really did see that tattoo of yours glowing like molten metal? Maybe you can tell me who you really are, Finlay MacAuley!”

  “Ye shouldnae listen to gossip,” he muttered.

  “I’m not listening to gossip,” he said. “I’m asking you.”

  “Ye are trying to deflect my questions,” he replied. “I’m not a fool, lass. What I want to know is why? What are ye hiding? Why willnae ye trust me?”

  Trust? Was he serious? How could she not trust him after all he’d done for her? After what they’d shared? She longed to tell him everything, for it all to come spilling out and be damned with the consequences. But it wasn’t that simple. The truth about her time-traveling would endanger him as much as it would endanger her. How could she put him at risk like that?