My Highland Rebel

by Amanda Forester

  “I so swear, no harm will come to these people.” He spoke reverently, truly, for he would do anything she asked. She blinked, staring at him, surprised. He cleared his throat. “I care naught for these people. They can do as they wish as long as they stay out of my way. Now take me to the master’s chamber. Nay, take me to yer chamber!”

  She raised one thin eyebrow and raised her hand to point at the door they were standing before. Core opened the door and strode through it. The room was a bit sparse, but had a comfortable feel. The main thing he noticed was a large bed with a richly embroidered canopy about it. He took a few more steps toward the bed. The large bed. The large bed where he and Jyne could… He shook his head and only succeeded in worsening his headache as the heavy helmet wobbled on his head.

  He turned to Jyne, who very slowly inched into the room, leaving the door open for a quick escape. Wise lass. “Ye would give yerself for the protection of others, Jyne Ranald?”

  Jyne raised her chin. “I am not a Ranald. I am Lady Jyne Campbell, sister of Sir David Campbell.”

  Core froze. It was fortunate that he still wore the helm, for she could not see how his jaw dropped at the unfortunate news.

  “Laird Campbell?” he asked in a voice an octave higher than his previous question. Dread ran a frozen finger down his backbone. The Campbells were well known in these parts. The Campbells were well known everywhere.

  “Aye. Kinoch Abbey belongs to the Campbell now. He will come for me, make no mistake, and I will enjoy seeing ye drawn and quartered for yer crimes!”

  Core swallowed hard. He had attacked the sister of David Campbell. He was dead for sure.

  * * *

  The imposing warlord stood before her, silent and inscrutable in his iron helm. Jyne remained in the doorway, casting the occasional glance toward the stairs. Maybe she should make a run for it. Yet if she did, what would happen to the people she was determined to protect?

  She looked again at the stairs. These people were not even her clan. Their own clan had left them behind, these elders and children. Clearly, they were not worth much to anyone. She was the daughter of Laird Campbell. Why should she sacrifice herself for these people she had only just met? She could run to the stable, grab a horse, and fly back home—back where it was safe, back where everyone treated her like a child, back where everyone knew she was not capable of handling situations such as the one before her.

  She took a deep breath and stepped farther into the room. She was a Campbell, and the Ranalds needed her. She would run from no one. She glared at the warlord, for even if she could not see him, he could see her. She did not wish him to guess his presence made her heart pound against her rib cage. He was a tall man, but his exact proportions were difficult to determine beneath the large cloak of a bearskin draped over his Highland plaid.

  “My brother will kill ye.” She was simply stating a fact.

  The man before her sighed audibly. “Aye, I ken it.”

  She was surprised by his easy agreement on this point. “Who are ye?”

  He stood tall before her and spoke in a low, gravelly voice. “I am the Fire Lord, son o’ Red Rex.”

  Jyne took a shaky breath. She wished to mock the presumptuousness of such a title, but she had seen herself how he had destroyed her gate with thunder and fire. Yet no matter how impressive his skills, her brother would come for her. “Ye must leave here now, Fire Lord. If ye do, my brother may spare yer life.”

  “I canna leave.” He sounded as displeased to say it as Jyne was to hear it.

  “Why not?”

  “I must finish what was started.”

  “What have ye started? And what is this nonsense about a treasure hidden in the abbey?”

  The warlord started for her, and she backed out of his way, toward a corner of the room. To her surprise, he walked past her and drew the heavy oak door closed with a bang. “What do ye ken of a treasure here?” he demanded.

  Her heart pounded so hard, she feared it would be heard across the room. “I ken naught. The first I heard o’ the tale was from the lips o’ yer men.”

  The Fire Lord’s shoulders drooped at her response. “There’s no treasure here? Naught that could be seen as treasure?”

  “Nay. And even if I did find treasure, I would hardly give it to ye.” She was determined not to be bullied.

  “Not even if it meant I would leave?”

  “I may have a few coins.” She rummaged through her pockets. If she could pay him to leave, it was worth the price. “Would this do?” She held out a handful of small coins.

  The warlord glanced at her meager offering and shook his head, causing him to have to steady the heavy helmet with both hands. She wondered what he was hiding beneath the helm. Why did he not take it off? Was he so hideous that he needed to conceal his face? Perhaps he had experienced a grievous injury, and his scars were so repellent that he could never show his face again. Or maybe he bore the scars of the pox. Or maybe he was just being an arse.

  “There is no treasure here, naught o’ value,” she repeated. If only he could be made to believe it, maybe he would move on.

  “I hope that’s no’ true.” The warlord turned away from her.

  She tried talking sense to the man. “But it is true. Ye need to leave now. Ye’ve already eaten through most of our stores. Ye should move along. Leave before Laird Campbell returns.”

  “I wish I could,” was his muttered reply.

  “What do ye mean? Are ye no’ the leader o’ these men? Tell them to be gone!”

  He made a low, snorting sound from inside the helm and changed the subject abruptly. “Why are ye here, Lady Jyne Campbell, sister o’ the Laird Campbell?”

  “These are my dower lands,” she informed him boldly. “We have come to inspect the property.”

  “And have ye a groom, Jyne Campbell?”

  She took a breath before responding. “I was promised to be married, but he died. The great plague.”

  The warlord made no response, and she continued. Somehow, it was easier to speak to someone when she could not see his face. “I had only met him a few times, but still, I mourned him and what might o’ been. We were to be wed this spring.”

  “So ye traveled here to see yer would-be home. But who are these people to ye?”

  “Their clan was overcome by the plague, and these poor folks were left behind.”

  “So they are no’ Campbells?”

  “They have sworn fealty to the Campbell, and they are under my protection!” She put her hands on her hips and stood her ground. After all, she was a Campbell. She might be the runt of the litter, but she was a Campbell nonetheless.

  The Fire Lord took a step closer. “Ye would sacrifice yerself for these people ye only just met?”

  “These poor folks have suffered enough. I will help them if I can.”

  “Ye help them, for ye ken what it is to lose. They lost their kin, and ye lost yer affianced husband.”

  Jyne blinked at the man. She had been prepared for him to attack her, not bring tears to her eyes by reminding her of her lost future. “Aye,” she answered softly.

  “I am sorry for yer loss.”

  Jyne was confused by this warlord. Was he playing at some cruel jest with her? She had expected to be dragged into the room and ravished senseless. She gripped the handle of her knife where it was hidden up her sleeve. She fully intended to gut the man if he tried anything more than a firm handshake.

  Instead of attacking her, he offered sympathy? What nonsense was this? Still, he had taken her home by force, eaten through her stores, and called her a wench—grounds for murder if there ever were any. She crossed her arms once more and stiffened her resolve. There could be no sympathy for this man.

  “If ye had any true feeling, ye would take yerself from here and stop terrorizing elders and wee bairns. Have they no’ suffered
enough? Ye should be ashamed o’ yerself.” He took a step toward her, but she continued.

  “Ye attack innocents—women, elders, children. There’s no glory in that. Ye’re naught but a worm, preying on the weak and the helpless, because ye’re too cowardly to take on anyone who would give you a fair fight. Ye’re a loathsome creature, and I despise ye!” She expected him to fight back, but he said nothing.

  They stood together in the silence of the chamber, with nothing but the flicker of a single candle illuminating the room. It was unnerving, and her hands trembled. With the helmet hiding him from view, she could not read his facial expression to predict what he might do next. She may be confused by his inaction, but she knew he was a dangerous man. Anyone who could call upon lightning to strike a hole through an iron door was treacherous.

  “Ye should be ashamed o’ yerself,” she repeated. This time, it came out almost as a whisper, yet it bounced off the bare stone walls of the tower chamber.

  “I am.”

  “What did ye say?”

  He cleared his throat. “I am tired o’ yer fractious, arguing tongue. Come here, wench.” He added the last as an afterthought, purposely designed to insult her.

  Her legs suddenly felt like jelly. She glanced at the door leading to the stairs. It was closed but not locked. She could make a run for it if she could get her legs to hold her.

  “Remember, it was ye who offered yerself to me.”

  She hated him. With every ounce, every fiber of her being, she hated him. She had tried to do something noble to protect those who could not protect themselves, and he made it sound all very sordid, as if she had wanted to give herself to him. Yet now she was bound by the deal she had made with this devil.

  Slowly, she forced her feet to move closer to him, shuffling toward the lingering shadows where he stood. She stopped when she was a foot away from him. She tried to peer between the slots of the helmet to see the man within, but in the dim light, she could see nothing of his face, which she was convinced must be a mangled wreck of pure evil. Her fingers clasped around the knife hidden in her sleeve. When he reached for her, she would stab him in the gut…or maybe just a little bit lower.

  “Ye’ll stay here tonight. Dinna attempt to leave.” The Fire Lord stomped to the doorway, leaving her confused in his wake.

  “Where are ye going?” She regretted the words as soon as they left her lips.

  “Miss me already, my bonnie lass? Ye females are such a fickle breed. Nay, I dinna desire ye tonight. But remember, I have claimed ye, and none shall have ye but me!”

  He jerked the door closed, leaving her alone in the dimly lit bedchamber. With a clank and a heavy click, she knew she’d been locked inside.

  She wrapped her arms around herself to keep from trembling. She hoped Donnach would return soon with her clansmen.

  Nine

  “Just kill him.”

  “Nay, where’s the fun in that?”

  Cormac raced down the tower stairs to the great hall, where he found yet another problem. The man Jyne had been sending to get help had been revived and tied with his arms stretched wide to an upended table. The men were taking turns throwing knifes at him, presumably seeing how close they could come before they killed him.

  Though he was being used for sport, Core knew the man’s life would be short-lived. Rex’s men might allow elders to live to serve them, but they would not trust an able-bodied man. No, this man they would kill.

  “Enough, just be done with it.” Core strode into the room, pulling off his helm. It was a tremendous relief.

  “Done trying to impress the lass?” sneered Bran.

  Core ignored the older man and strode directly toward the grim face of the Campbell warrior. Core took out his knife with a flourish. The man’s jaw set. He was a brave one. Core hoped he was also smart.

  Core put a hand on his shoulder and moved in close, lunging at the man like he was going to stab him.

  “Play dead,” Core hissed in the man’s ear.

  The man’s eyes narrowed in uncooperative defiance. Why did everything have to be so difficult? Core knocked him on the head with the crossguard of his dagger, and the man slumped against his bonds. Core jabbed his knife forward, as if he was stabbing the man, his large bearskin cloak hiding the subterfuge from his men. Core wasted no time in cutting the man free, and he collapsed forward in a heap where none could see the lack of blood.

  “Aw, ye ruined our amusement,” complained one man.

  “Nay, we still got the monk. Tie him up ’til he tells us where the treasure is!” said Dubh.

  The men cheered and moved toward the monk, who was still sitting at the table where Core had left him. Of course, there was no way the monk would have been allowed to leave.

  “Stop!” commanded Core. “I tell ye he doesna know where the treasure lies.”

  “But ye told Rex—”

  “I ken what I told my father. He doesna need to worry over details. Truth is, the monk doesna ken the location o’ the treasure but can translate some texts that do. Dinna harm him, or we’ll ne’er get our hands on the gold.” Core spoke quickly, as Dubh had already dragged the monk to his feet.

  Dubh gave Core a pout and shoved the monk back down.

  “Get my things and put them in the top chamber of the tower,” Core commanded the monk. “I will be taking the master’s chamber. The rest o’ ye sorry lot can fend for yerself.”

  “And what if he doesna want to help ye?” asked Dubh.

  “O’ course he doesna want to help me,” replied Core. “But he will, or I will send him down to ye to help motivate him.”

  This gained Core several smiles of approval. The men of Red Rex enjoyed being motivational. Core gave Brother Luke a nod. The monk left the room with Dubh following behind to ensure cooperation.

  Core surveyed the large form of the collapsed Campbell warrior with disapproval. Of course he had to be a large man. Core bent down and pulled the warrior up and over his shoulders, grunting with the effort to stand. The warrior was as heavy as he looked, but Core was uncommonly strong for his size. His unfortunate parentage was good for something at least.

  “What are ye doing?” demanded Bran, blocking Core’s escape.

  “I ken ye like the smell o’ rotting flesh when ye eat, but I dinna care for it. I was going to toss his carcass outside, unless ye’d rather do it.”

  Bran stood aside with a shrug, and Core staggered into the inner courtyard with the man. He hoped Jyne would appreciate the backache he was going to have for saving the man, though of course she could never know.

  He struggled his way across the courtyard, satisfied at least that the man was still breathing, though it would have been easier had he played along. Now where was he going to hide the body?

  * * *

  Jyne was determined not to sleep. She didn’t know when the warlord would be back to do whatever it was he had in mind to do to her. She did know before he got a chance to do it, she’d poke a few holes in him for his trouble.

  Despite her best efforts, she found it impossible to keep standing in the middle of the room after such a tiring day. She sat on the bed, refusing to loosen her gown for fear the warlord would return and see it as an invitation.

  The candle gutted, leaving her in complete darkness. She shivered and resigned herself to huddling under the blankets, just to keep warm. She slipped the knife under her pillow. She intended to be waiting for him, but her eyes refused to stay open.

  At some point in the middle of the night, she was awoken by a slight tapping on the door. She sat bolt upright, fumbling for the knife. Her heart beat in her throat, but she was ready to defend herself.

  Instead of the odious warlord barging in her bedchamber, the slight tapping came again. Maybe it was Alasdair or one of the children. She jumped out of bed and ran to the oak door, her bare feet cold on the stone flo
or.

  “Who is it?” she whispered, pressing her face to the door.

  “’Tis I, Cormac. Are ye well, m’lady?”

  Relief flooded through her. Cormac had returned. “I am well, but that bastard locked me in here.”

  “Let me see what I can do.”

  Jyne waited, listening to soft clanking at the lock until the door jerked open. She stepped back to allow him to enter, which he did quickly, closing the door softly behind him. He carried a small lantern that emitted a muted yellow glowing light. In the soft light, his face appeared a chiseled perfection, angular but handsome. She had never seen a more attractive man.

  “Thank ye!” She wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders and hugged him tightly. She jumped back a moment later, realizing what she had done. She should not embrace a strange man; however, since she was being rescued, she felt she had earned some latitude.

  “Are ye well? Did he hurt ye in any way?” He touched her shoulder and ran his hand down her arm until he was holding her hand.

  “Nay, I am unhurt. He just scared me a bit. Then locked me in here. I was fearful he would come back.” Her heart beat fast, though she was not sure whether it was from the awful memory of the warlord or because the Highlander before her gently squeezed her hand.

  “I hope he was no’ too frightening.” Cormac’s warm eyes were ones of concern. “Though he is a rather terrifying figure. I canna blame ye if ye were scared o’ such a man.”

  “Nay,” answered Jyne, her confidence returning. “He tried insults, then he tried kindness, but I saw through his lies. In truth, he was more annoying than frightening.”

  “Annoying?” Cormac seemed disappointed. “This mighty warrior, the Fire Lord himself, strikes through the postern gate using a science bordering on the magical, takes over the abbey in a matter of minutes, locks ye in the tower, and ye find him merely annoying?”

  “And rude and ill-mannered,” added Jyne.