Highland Heart

by Heather McCollum

  Evelyn fled. Rachel hastened into the barn. She’d spent hours in her father’s at home, and the tang of fresh hay and dung were familiar to her. Tails flicked along the pebble-strewn walk between the stalls. A plain saddle and bridle hung on the wall. A dark muzzle pushed over the wooden gate of one stall and snorted. Rachel grabbed a handful of oats from a sack on the wall.

  “Aren’t you a fine lady,” she murmured to the tall mare and let the horse lip the oats from her hand. Rachel lifted the gear off the wall and stepped into the stall. She worked the bridle between the mare’s teeth and ran her strong hand down the horse’s neck. It wasn’t the horse she’d had, but it was a fair swap. She led the beast through the darkness, keeping to the back sides of houses. She knew exactly where she was headed. The moor that stretched wide and bare in front of Druim would allow no hiding, and a single rider out at night would call suspicion. No, the mountains behind the castle were the best way to go.

  “Holy God, please guide my way to safety,” she whispered into the hazy black mist floating down along the ledges of granite.

  Rachel led the horse along a narrow path between the castle wall and the rock face. Thunder rumbled, and she tipped her head upward with a soft groan. The horse nickered. “Shh,” she whispered.

  Rain began to tap the summer leaves overhead just as she spotted a fairly large ascending path. She tramped up the path, under the trees. Lightning sparked across the moor behind with a deafening clap of thunder. Rachel jumped and the mare yanked the reins. Rachel gasped, grabbing for a better hold, but the leather slipped from her grip. The horse ran.

  “No!” she yelled to its retreating tail. She ran several steps after it. “Come back here,” she called as loudly as she dared and stopped, knowing full well there was no catching a running horse. She spent a full minute trying to decide what to do. Go after the horse or continue on foot? In the end the increasing downpour decided it for her. Under the thick canopy of trees, Rachel was dry. Trying to find the horse meant she’d have to go back toward Druim and she’d get soaked. She gathered her skirts and climbed.

  She walked blindly, her thin slippers barely protecting her feet from sharp rocks. She wanted to put some distance between her and Druim before finding a place to hide for the night. Who knew what types of animals roamed these woods? She glanced up nervously as God lit up the woods with another flash of lightning. The deafening crack of thunder barely registered in her shocked mind—for standing on a boulder just above her was the man from the woods.

  He had come for her.

  The light retreated, leaving her blind until her blinking eyes adjusted again to the shadows. He stood, staring down as if cut from the rugged granite around them, a fortress like the mighty one behind her. Curiosity and shock mixed on his face. Did he remember her? As distant lightning lit up the trees, she watched his eyebrows rise and the corner of his lush mouth crook upward into a lopsided grin.

  Rachel’s heart danced, flushing her with heat that, luckily, he couldn’t see in the dark. He’d come for her. A man who kept his promise.

  She wasn’t sure what to do. Should she walk to him or wait in the dark? What was the protocol for a rescue? She huffed. Some rescue. She’d done most of it herself. And for all she knew she was being rescued by someone much more dangerous than those at Druim.

  The man’s shadow moved in the darkness and Rachel jumped, frowning at herself. Even if she could barely see, she could definitely hear.

  “What is your name?” she asked, her voice sharp in the stillness. All these years, she’d never known the boy’s name, only the deep blue of his eyes.

  “Alec Munro.” His voice, drawn rough and strong, reflected his Highland heritage. He was a Munro. Thank the Holy Lord. “And ye are?”

  Rachel released her breath and smiled in relief. “Rachel Brindle. I was traveling with my father and sister to Munro Keep when the Macbains attacked.”

  “And ye circled around into the fight to…”

  Rachel felt guilt bubble up inside. She certainly hadn’t meant to ride back and distract him. “My sense of direction is quite poor,” she murmured. “I did not intend to distract you.”

  “Yer father travels to meet with The Munro?”

  A flash of lightning showed him much closer than she’d thought, his gaze assessing. She refused to back away, even though her foot lifted involuntarily. “My father trades with Hamish Munro.”

  “Hamish Munro is dead.”

  “Oh…I am sorry. My father did not know. I suppose he will want to discuss trade with your new chief.”

  The man remained silent and still.

  Rain dripped on Rachel’s head and she wiped at it. “Do you have a horse?”

  She took two stumbling steps past Alec before he placed his hands on her shoulders and gently turned her in another direction. Rachel ignored the thrill that shot down her arms at the solid hold.

  She huffed. He didn’t have to look so bloody amused. “If you plan to help in my rescue at all, please lead the way.” Her words sounded terse but Rachel’s frustration was growing to the point she just might choke on it. She’d done the hard work of escaping a fortified castle without alerting the guard. The least the Highlander could do was lead her to Munro Keep.

  Alec’s hand slid down her sleeved arm, his strong fingers wrapping around her wrist. He stepped close as they walked along a twining path upward into the forest. Rachel nearly jumped when she felt his warm breath against her chilled ear. His words were quiet but as firm as his hold. “I am not rescuing ye, Rachel Brindle.”

  Rachel’s breath caught in her chest as she stared out into the dark shadows, which flickered sporadically with brilliant lightning. She shivered as his lip grazed her skin.

  “I am capturing ye.”

  Chapter Three

  The cave was cool and the lass even cooler, in body and in mood. She sat against the rough, curved wall. Alec draped a wool blanket around her wet shoulders. She ignored him. He bent to a small pile of brush and scraped flint into it. Sparks caught and soon a flame snapped upward. He blew gently, feeding the fire.

  He glanced at Rachel. Even in her exhaustion she was bonny, her soft brown hair curling wildly as it dried around a heart-shaped face. A lovely English lass; smooth skin, long lashes, small, and delicate. He smiled. Delicate, but also able to escape Druim singlehandedly—and able to heal the mortal wound he’d taken earlier in the woods. His smile faltered.

  When Alec had spotted the small group winding their way through Munro territory, he’d been surprised to see the two lasses riding with the English bastard who had been swindling his father for years. Hamish Munro had taken a fatal blow from a Macbain sword during a bloody battle at Loch Tuinn three months ago, leaving Alec, his remaining son, to lead the huge Munro clan.

  His father had never allowed anyone to view the family accounts, and now Alec knew why. Alec would always remember his father as a mighty warrior, but the man had no accounting education. The books were a mess. Alec doubted that Hamish even realized that William Brindle was giving him far less than promised for Munro wool over the years.

  He offered Rachel a crumbly oat cake. For a moment, Alec thought she’d refuse or even throw it at him, but she took it.

  “Thank you,” she gritted out, and took a bite.

  His eyebrow rose. Manners, even to one’s captor? He shook his head. He’d never understand the English.

  Alec spitted a skinned hare he’d caught earlier over the fire. Wind and rain thrashed outside. Thunder rumbled and shook. There was no journeying to Munro Keep tonight. His horse was safe enough, tied farther down the mountainside in the shelter of another cave The three mountains, which ran behind Druim all the way to Munro Keep, held numerous caves and conduits. He’d explored them as a child and still didn’t know where they all led.

  “We’ll wait out the storm here,” Alec said, though Rachel didn’t look his way. Alec ran a finger over the puckered skin across his heart. “So…” He watched Rachel closely. “I had a
hole through my chest this noon.”

  Rachel’s bannock dropped into her lap.

  “Yet it is healed and I’m alive.” He paused, but she didn’t answer. “Not what I expected when that arrow took me down.”

  “You hit your head.” Rachel met his eyes. “That is just one of many scars you seem to have received in the past.”

  He shook his head. “A warrior knows each one of his marks.” He extended a leg and turned it so that his flexed calf showed, and ran a finger down a six-inch scar. “The winter of 1501, raid on the moor before Druim.” He traced the jagged line along his side. “Summer of 1503, Loch Tuinn.” Then he pushed his hair back from his forehead, revealing a small divot. “A rock from a Macbain slingshot, fall of 1508.”

  “How about the one near your ear?” she asked, so soft he almost couldn’t hear her. He rubbed his thumb over the scratch that had been there since he was a boy, surprised that she even noticed it.

  “A slice from a wee lass when I was a boy.”

  “You remember?”

  “Every single one,” he answered.

  Rachel stared. He reached over his shoulder to touch the matching hole on his back. “Macbain arrow, Munro woods, noon today. It would have been my last mark if ye hadn’t…” He gestured toward her hands, which clenched in the folds of her green gown. “What exactly did ye do?”

  She looked at her hands. “I prayed,” she whispered. “It’s a gift from God.” She looked up, her eyes intense. “I am no witch. I only do good.”

  Alec nodded. He wasn’t superstitious, but understood her concern. Witch hunters reveled in finding anyone different, especially weak, unprotected lasses they could brutalize and eventually kill. “Praying is good,” he said, and watched her inhale slowly. “So this praying…it can heal injuries. Can it do anything else?”

  Rachel shook her head, but then stopped. “Well, I can tell if someone is ailing.” Her voice lowered. “By touching them. So I know what to fix.” Her head was bent, but she watched him from under long lashes.

  “A blessing.”

  She smiled just a bit. Alec’s breath hitched in his throat at the gentle curve of her lips. She was stunning.

  He cleared his throat and turned the hare. “I mean, beneficial. Ye could save a lot of lives.”

  She nodded. “That’s what I do. I try not to let anyone see, but I must help people when they are ailing. It would be cruel not to.” The words tumbled out of her as if she’d held them back for a long time.

  “Does anyone know about yer…praying?” Alec asked, and then wished he hadn’t. Her eager smile faded.

  “My sister knows and cautions me. My father knows and commands me not to help people.”

  “Yer mother?”

  “She had the power, but she died. An accident. She fell from a horse and hit her head. She died before I could reach her.” Tears glistened in her eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Thank ye for your aid today.”

  “I…I didn’t mean to distract you. It was my fault you were hit.”

  Alec snorted. “It was my own bloody fault for letting a bonny lass pull my attention from battle.”

  She looked confused. “Why, then, am I your prisoner?”

  He poked at the fire. “Because yer father has been cheating my clan for the last ten years, making the Brindles enemies to the Munros.”

  Her forehead furrowed. “The wool?”

  “Aye, William Brindle has promised a fair price, but has not delivered.”

  Rachel’s eyes moved back to the fire. “Mother was always Father’s conscience. When she died…” The woman rubbed at her forehead as if it pained her. “So, that’s why you came for me.”

  A low moan sounded in the dark tunnel. Rachel’s head snapped around to stare into the darkness. Lightning splashed white light into the cave for a long moment, illuminating what looked like the long, ridged throat of a beast. She gasped as the thunder ebbed.

  “’Tis just the wind, let in through a hole to the outside somewhere down the tunnel.”

  Rachel nodded but hedged closer to him.

  “Although some say,” he began, and her wide eyes swung his way. “That it’s the wretched sobbing of Lady Elspet as she weeps over the deaths of her two suitors, Jamie Macbain and Morgan Munro.”

  “Macbain and Munro?”

  “Aye, ’twas the start of our feud nearly a hundred years ago.”

  Rachel looked incredulous. “You are battling over…a woman…dead a hundred years?”

  Alec’s anger simmered, narrowing his eyes. What did this English woman know of loyalty and justice? “I battle to avenge my father, my brothers, my grandfather, my great-grandfather, all the way to Morgan Munro who died because he loved a little Englishwoman. We’ve fought ever since, and one day we will be victorious.”

  Her lips were still tight. She shook her lovely head. “I’ll never understand men.” She snorted. “You create a tradition based on hate and death.”

  “Of course ye doona understand,” he said. “Ye are a woman, an Englishwoman, and a healer. My ways are foreign to ye.” He shrugged to show he didn’t care about the condemnation in the set of her lips. Did he care? Bloody hell—no. He frowned and rose. The lightning had moved farther off but the rain continued to pelt in slants.

  Alec was tired of smelling like blood and death. He grabbed a thin slice of soap from his satchel and headed out the mouth of the cave. “Doona try to escape through the caves. They are dangerous.” He spoke without looking back.

  He pulled his kilt from his hips, dropping it at the edge of the dry cave, and walked out into the storm. The cool rain felt good against his heated body. Alec rubbed the soap over himself and through his hair, scrubbing his own blood from his chest and limbs.

  His own blood. If he’d died today, would the Macbains consider it a final victory since he was the last of his father’s sons? He grimaced. A distraction had nearly cost him everything. He could easily blame the girl, and she seemed ready to take it on. But the truth was that she’d captured his usually unwavering attention simply with her presence.

  She’d stared at him through the trees without a sound, without a hint of fear. Rachel Brindle might be English, might be the daughter of a swindler—might even be a witch—but she was no coward. Cunning and courage had delivered her from Druim. Alec rinsed the soap from his body and shook the heavy rainwater from his hair.

  He turned just as Rachel’s scream shot out of the cave and straight into his heart.

  Chapter Four

  Rachel dangled from a protruding rock, panting as the toes of her torn slippers dug into any foothold she could find. “Help!” She’d merely been trying to find a private spot to see to her needs when she’d walked over the edge of this crater in the absolute darkness.

  “Rachel!” Alec’s pounding footfalls washed relief through her trembling body.

  “Stop!” she huffed. “You’ll fall.”

  The drumming stopped not too far from her. “Where are ye?” His feet shuffled, loose pebbles rolling along the jagged floor.

  “Over a ledge.”

  “Bloody hell,” he cursed. “I canna see.”

  “Wait.” Her word was breathless and she tried to keep the panic from weakening her hold. She funneled magic toward the faint sting on her leg. A blue glow flooded out of her hands, illuminating below the edge the horn-shaped rock sticking out of the cliff wall less than a foot down.

  “Bloody, damn hell. Hold on!”

  “That was the plan,” she panted.

  His head appeared over the side. “Just look at me.”

  Rachel stared at his perfect face. High cheekbones, a slender nose with just a small bump, like it had been broken once. He probably knew the date, place, and who had given it to him. His jaw was square and strong. His perfectly formed lips pinched tight with thought. Wet hair framed his face as he leaned over. A clean soap scent mixed with the smell of the dank earth before her face.

  Alec’s chin nearly touched the
rock to which she clung. His hands encircled her wrists and he began to pull. But before she could even let go of the rock, the ties holding her long sleeves ripped. A small scream flew out of her on a gasp as she felt herself begin to slip out of the long cloth tubes. Her toes dug in and she stilled, her nose smashed into the dirt.

  A string of curses, most in Gaelic, echoed off the walls. “I need to pull these sleeves off so I can grab yer arms. Who bloody wears long sleeves in the summer?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Are yer feet on a rock?”

  “My toes.”

  “One hand at a time.” He tugged gently on her right sleeve. Rachel released her fingers. The sleeve was gone, replaced by Alec’s hand around her bare wrist. “Now the other.” Rachel felt the tug but couldn’t seem to let go. It was as if fear had captured her muscles and they no longer obeyed her will. She shook.

  “Rachel.”

  Rachel blinked, her gaze moving back up to Alec’s face.

  “I have yer wrist now.” He squeezed her right wrist gently. “Ye’re not going to fall, but to get ye up easier, I need both of yer arms.”

  Rachel blinked. “I’m scared,” she whispered.

  A lopsided grin broke along Alec’s face. “Ye jumped into battle, yanked an arrow from my bloody chest, rode with a horde of hostile Macbains, and escaped Druim on yer own, lass. And now ye’re afraid to give me yer sleeve.”

  Rachel’s pinched lips relaxed as she breathed. “I’m ready.”

  He nodded. As soon as she released her grasp, the sleeve whooshed from her arm and Alec’s other hand caught her wrist. He dragged her up.

  Rachel’s toes dug at the side of the cliff. “Ah!”

  “What?” He froze.

  “My dress, it’s caught.” Rachel felt the snag. She tried to kick at it and began to slip. She gasped and Alec pulled hard. Her kirtle ripped. Rachel’s feet churned up the vertical granite and dirt wall until her knees found the edge. She let her light go out as she scrambled up, climbing into Alec’s lap.

  Rachel wrapped trembling arms around his warm, hard torso. She burrowed her face into his skin and inhaled his fresh scent. Alec gently moved her arms up over his shoulders. Some part of her realized that she straddled his lap. Her own thin chemise seemed to be the only material between them and it rode up high around her thighs. But at the moment she didn’t care, didn’t care about anything except that she wasn’t falling into an unmarked grave in a remote Highland mountain.