The Guardian (Highland Heroes Book 1)

by Maeve Greyson

  Five men. Now with Wills gone, Robbie knew her best, so she’d have to watch him closer. He’d worked at Claxton House for the past couple of years.

  Gobs—the stinking mountain of flesh. Bald-headed Flynn, second-in-command. Tracker, the leader, dressed in black from his battered hat to the tips of his boots. A grizzled beard and stringy, gray hair roping down his back, the man looked as though he belonged at sea rather than on the back of a horse.

  A weasel-like man rode behind Tracker, his beady-eyed gaze darting all around them. Mercy had yet to learn that man’s name but decided, although he was the smallest of the group, he might well be the one that needed closer watching as well. He appeared to miss nothing. He cleared his throat and flicked a bony finger in her direction. “Ye keep bloodying her up like that and ye’ll no’ get as good a price for damaged goods. With her cat-eyed looks and that black hair, they’ll already think her a whore rather than a real lady no matter what ye say. Ye better keep her all pampered lookin’ and such.”

  Tracker gave Gobs a silent, narrow-eyed warning and nodded toward Mercy’s bound hands.

  Gobs rolled his eyes, dismounted with a labored grunt, and shoved a fist into one of the bags hanging from his saddle. He pulled free a length of dingy white linen that might once have been a man’s fine neckcloth. He waddled over to Mercy and replaced the cords of leather he’d used to bind her hands with the cloth, anchoring it to her saddle. “There,” he huffed as he barreled his way back to his horse. “Good enough for ye, Norton?”

  “Good enough,” Norton replied with a shrug. “We’ll see when we get there.”

  They took off again at a brisk pace. Mercy used the opportunity to make a mental note of any landmarks that might help her get back to Graham. Unfortunately, she’d traveled the first part of the journey thrown over the side of a horse. She felt sure they hadn’t made it that far from the wagons, for they were still in the pass leading to the glen that lay at the base of Ben Nevis.

  She gritted her teeth against the pain left by the previous ties, working at the knotted cloth binding her hands. If she freed her hands, she might gain control of the horse.

  Tracker, Flynn, and Gobs rode in front of her with her horse’s reins tied to Gobs’s saddle. Her heart fell. She’d never get those reins freed without a knife. Robbie and Norton rode behind her. Escape wouldn’t be easy, but surely they wouldn’t shoot her. She was worth too much to them.

  Mercy explored the idea of throwing herself from the saddle. Akio had taught her how to dive and roll. A fond memory of him praising her after she’d nearly given her riding teacher a death scare by just such a stunt. Give me your strength, Akio. Give me your agility.

  A glance forward warned her that the narrow pass would soon be behind them. She needed the woods to escape. She’d never get away in the open glen. With a final yank on her bonds, she pulled the ties free of the saddle and with care, untied her hands. Then she sent up a silent prayer and dove off her horse and to the to the left just as they passed a snarl of vines and saplings in the overgrown ravine running alongside the road.

  Shouts followed her fall as she crashed through branches. Tucked into a ball as Akio had taught her, she rolled down the side of the ravine, jabbed and beaten by undergrowth and rocks. Upon her stop, she crouched low for the span of a heartbeat, glancing around to gather her thoughts, then launched into a limping run. She had to keep to the undergrowth to go undetected. The men would search for her but would never catch her. The small, nimble Norman would be her greatest threat.

  Cursing behind her spurred her onward. She could not get caught. Branches ripped her clothes, clawed her arms, cut across her face, and yanked her hair. She didn’t care. Nothing mattered but getting back to Graham. Horses thundered above her on the road. They thought to cut her off. The men behind her sounded farther away. She could return to the road and go higher. They’d think her still in the ravine.

  She reached for the limbs of an obliging tree and pulled herself upward and toward the roadway. Just before she pushed through a dense tangle of leafy vines, she held her breath and listened. There was still definite movement in the ravine behind her. The voices had stopped, but the sound of knives slashing through vegetation was quite clear. She pulled herself up higher and crawled to the edge of the road, crouching behind a large boulder surrounded by several smaller rocks.

  Glancing first one way and then the other, she held her breath, scrabbled across the road and shimmied into a ditch overgrown with grass and heather. Staying low, she wormed her way into a thick hedge and paused to catch her breath. She stole a glance higher. The risk of attack from above was now gone. Two to three of her captors were still in the ravine; from her current perch, she could just make out the swaying foliage below as they moved through it. She peered up the road and spotted Tracker and Gobs riding slowly, peering down over the edge of the road.

  Another glance up filled her with concern. The higher she went, the less cover there was in which to hide. But if she remained here, they might discover her. She crouched lower, loosening her hair to drape around herself to hide the pink of her clothing as well as her fair skin. Thankfully, clusters of thrift colored the hillside above with vibrant shades of pinks and purples. She prayed the plant would help her blend in with the surroundings.

  Voices grew louder, drew nearer.

  “Any sight of her?” Gobs shouted.

  “Not yet,” Robbie replied. “But this vegetation be so thick, we might ha’ stepped over the wily bitch if she holed up and hid herself.”

  “Don’t be foolish enough t’come out without her, boy.” Tracker meandered back up the roadway toward Mercy’s hiding spot.

  Panic building, she studied the lay of the land directly above her. With one last glance toward Tracker and Gobs, Mercy clawed upward toward her only hope.

  Chapter Twelve

  Dawn brought nothing but more pain and a deeper, all-consuming rage.

  Forcing his waning strength to feed on sheer stubbornness, Graham resumed yesterday’s efforts to free himself. Today, he would succeed. There was no other option.

  The wound in his side burned at every intake of breath. It didn’t matter. He’d carried on through worse, and all that mattered was saving Mercy. Graham blinked and squinted against the sweat running into his eyes. Jaws working side to side, he battled the leather between his teeth, willing it to weaken and break with the steady grinding. A glance over at Duncan told him his brother was awake and did the same.

  Hands lashed over his head, tied to the iron framework of the wagon, Graham snorted in a deep breath, then dug his heels into the ground and pushed, determined to stand even though he’d failed so many times before. He roared into the gag, powering through the pain.

  Finally, Graham inched his way upward. Violent trembles nearly caused him to lose his footing. He thumped the back of his head against the side of the wagon. Praise God. He’d reached the point of standing, his bound hands caught between the small of his back and the iron bar. Inching his right thumb along the belted waist of his kilt covered by his waistcoat, he strained to hook the fingers of his tied hands around the bone-handled haft of the small dagger he kept tucked out of sight. He’d learned long ago that a secret blade could mean the difference between life and death.

  Edsbury’s hired men had relieved them of their daggers, swords, and guns. What weapons the thieves hadn’t claimed for themselves and carried off, they’d tossed into the woods on the other side of the road. Thankfully, they’d failed to find his precious blade he kept tucked against his back. After a strained bit of sawing and twisting, he freed his hands. Ripping the gag away from his mouth, he gasped in great mouthfuls of air, then pushed away from the wagon and cut Duncan free.

  “Pleased I am that ye still carry your wee blade, brother. But ye’ve gone soft. Since when does it take ye a full night and well into a new day to break your bonds?” Duncan gave him a smirk that darkened to a concerned scowl. “Turn so I can check where the bastard stabbed ye. Y
our kilt is dripping blood.”

  Graham waved him away. “No time. I’ve survived worse. Ye ken that as well as I.” He handed over his knife and motioned toward Marsden. “Free him and set the others loose from Cook’s wagon. Have the Marches search for the horses whilst the rest of us gather up what weapons we can find. With any luck, the beasts willna have wandered too far since they know us a good source for those treats Mercy always fed them.”

  Duncan took the knife and set about the task. Graham limped his way over to the side of the road, pushing through leaves and underbrush in search of his pistols. Special made and requiring a size of shot known only to him, the bastard called Flynn had shaken his head while examining the firearms, then tossed them aside.

  A glance back at the wagons stirred his already raw emotions. Janie stood beside Cook’s wagon, wringing her hands and sobbing. Graham had half a mind to leave that traitorous wench behind. He pressed a hand to his wounded side, applying pressure to ease the pain and slow oozing blood as he moved deeper into the thicket. He found both his pistols but not his sgian dhu. Losing that knife pained him. He snorted out a laugh and immediately regretted it because of his wound. He’d stolen that knife from Alexander’s collection when they’d lost most of their clan to the morbid sore throat outbreak and banded together to seek their fortunes as mercenaries.

  He tucked the pistols into his belt, slung the strap of a short-barreled musket over his shoulder, then headed back to the group. Marsden met him and helped him climb up and sit in the back of one of the flatbed wagons.

  “What is your plan, sir?” Marsden frowned at the ever-growing dark stain seeping down the left side of Graham’s kilt. “And does it include cauterizing that wound before you bleed to death?”

  Graham squinted at a spot in the distance, far ahead on the roadway. “I ride as soon as I have a horse, even if it be one of the draft horses from the wagons. The rest of ye can follow as soon as circumstances permit.”

  Captain Marsden turned and scowled at the same spot down the road. “One wounded man bleeding to death against six. Poor odds, I daresay.”

  “If I dinna make haste, they will have her sold, and I risk never finding her.” Graham ached to be on his way, the pain in his heart far outweighed the pain in his side. Every moment he sat doing nothing, Mercy slipped farther away. He’d heard a shot in the distance yesterday. He prayed to God his dear love was still alive.

  “And if you die trying to reach her, how will that help the lady?” Captain Marsden glared at him. “The woman’s own father sent a pack of miscreants after her to sell her into slavery. She needs you, Master MacCoinnich, and she needs you alive and well.”

  A steady thudding and clomping of hooves pounding against packed dirt grew louder, ending Captain Marsden’s unwelcome advice. Spry old Percy March rode at the front, astraddle Graham’s horse, while his son, Doughal, brought up the rear on Duncan’s horse and lead Marsden’s horse beside him.

  The four draft horses from the wagons plodded along between them. The only one missing was Mercy’s pampered steed. The great black beast could be the devil himself when anyone dared get near him without his mistress’s permission.

  Duncan joined Captain Marsden and Graham at the wagon. “I say we ride hard to Tor Ruadh. Ye ken Alexander will provide men and fresh horses to fetch the lady and ensure they leave no trace of those who would do her harm.”

  “We could be there in less than a day, MacCoinnich,” Marsden agreed. “We’ve but to cross the glen.”

  “We could leave the Marches to bring the wagons and the women.” Duncan turned and gave Janie a hard look. “I assume we’ll be bringing that one with us. Think it safe to trust the Marches and Cook as well?”

  “The Marches love their horses, and Cook hates everyone. I dinna ken if any of that equates to trust or no’, but I do feel that leaves Janie as the most guilty now that Robbie and Wills have shown their colors.” Graham flinched as he slid off the wagon and stood. He studied the group, instinct, experience, and pure unwillingness to give up making up his mind.

  He nodded to Marsden and Duncan. “We three ride ahead. Leave the rest here to either join us at Tor Ruadh or return to London. Makes no difference to me. I dinna trust the lot of them.” He was done with this misbegotten game. He staggered to his horse and set to the task of ensuring his mount was ready to ride.

  “Agreed,” Duncan said, and Marsden nodded as both men went to their horses.

  “When do we leave to fetch my mistress?” Janie demanded from behind them.

  Graham clenched his teeth, not trusting himself to speak for a long, hard minute. He turned and glared at the girl, willing her to confess her sins so he might be justified in abandoning her. As it was, he couldn’t do so, not in all good conscience—not yet. “Your journey depends on the Marches.” He turned and faced old Percy and Doughal. “Go through the glen and find your way to Tor Ruadh or return to London. I leave ye to it.” He motioned toward Janie and Cook. “These two go with ye, if ye wish. If ye choose to leave them here, it makes no difference to me.”

  Percy reacted with a puckering scowl, and Doughal looked bewildered. “Ye dinna trust us,” Doughal said, taking a defensive stance. “Why? What have we done to show disloyalty? We’ve served Claxton house for years.”

  “Someone betrayed her ladyship. They provided detailed reports to the Duke of Edsbury and also to His Majesty,” Captain Marsden said. “I very much doubt the two young men who assisted in the lady’s kidnapping worked alone. Neither of them appeared intelligent enough to manage such a thing.”

  “That leaves you four,” Graham said, then focused a damning scowl on Janie. “And some information given in the report was known only to yourself.”

  Janie’s face flamed even redder. She shook her head violently. “Never,” she rasped out. “Not ever—would I hurt her ladyship.”

  “I’ve no’ time to play. Ye stay with the Marches. Your fate is in their hands—for now.” Graham winced as he turned away. His blood-soaked kilt slapped against his thigh. “Duncan, bind this damn wound so I can ride.”

  “In the wagon.” Janie lumbered around him, glaring back at him with a defensive scowl. “In the wagon, her ladyship had me pack a box of bandages, herbs, and poultices in case of injuries on the trip.” She hitched her way back and forth in front him as he strode toward a place to sit so Duncan could see to his bleeding. “Let me help you.” She shook a fist at him. “If I help you, then I help her.”

  Graham reached for a tree and leaned against the sturdy trunk for support. “Get this nattering midge away from me!”

  “Get the box, girl!” Captain Marsden ordered in a barking tone that Graham couldn’t believe came from the ever-jovial man. He rested a hand on Graham’s shoulder and squeezed. “Come. Sit. Duncan can bind your wound, then we’ll be on our way.”

  Graham perched on a nearby rock flat enough to provide good support. He pulled away his waistcoat and stripped his tunic off over his head. Glancing down, he assessed the puncture wound low in his side. Good. Looked to be mostly damage to muscle. He’d had worse. At least the accursed man had only stabbed him once rather than slash his gut wide open.

  Janie retrieved the wooden box, ornate and beautiful with black lacquered sides painted with colorful dragons in flight and framed with delicate pink blossoms. The box looked more like a treasure chest than a box filled with articles for healing. Janie deposited it on the rock beside Graham, then backed away as Duncan stepped forward. She motioned toward the handle of the domed lid. “I can tell you about the poultices her ladyship packed, if you like. Her ladyship’s mother taught her all about herbs and such. She was quite the healer according to m’lady.”

  Graham gave Duncan the slightest shake of his head. No way would he trust the girl not to poison him by whatever was in that box.

  Duncan waved her away. “No need. We’ve bandaged each other for years.”

  “Go back to the wagons, girl,” Marsden instructed. “The Marches look to be ready
with the horses harnessed.”

  Janie nodded, bowed her head, then shuffled her way back to the wagons.

  “’Twill be interesting to see which direction they choose,” Graham commented, a grunt escaping him as Duncan cinched the bandage tighter around his waist. “I need to breathe, man.”

  “Ye need to stop bleeding,” Duncan shot back. “Stop your yammering.”

  Graham squinted up at the sky. They were losing daylight fast, and a storm looked to be coming. “Hurry it up. We need to be on our way.” A storm might slow the thieving kidnappers but it would slow them as well.

  Duncan helped him don his shirt, but the day had grown too warm and muggy for the waistcoat. Besides, the close-fitting garment rubbing against his wound would irritate it. He’d ride as a Highlander was meant to ride—kilt, léine, boots, and weapons. Nothing else was needed. Graham rolled up the waistcoat and stuffed it in one of the bags on the back of his saddle. Taking a long, hard swig from the leather flask he kept tucked into a hidden pocket of the saddle, Graham closed his eyes and savored the healing burn of the fine MacCoinnich whisky. Fortified by the alcohol, he mounted his horse and nodded to the others. “Let’s be about this then. ’Tis a fine day for vengeance.”

  Graham set off down the road at a fast pace, scanning the landscape as he rode. He felt certain the highwaymen would stick to the roadway through the pass. The gullies, fissures, and overgrowth covering the landscape both above and below the path made any other plan impossible. Every jamming hit of his mount’s hooves on the hard-packed ground shook him, sending jolts of pain through his side.

  Duncan thundered up beside him. “They’ve chosen Tor Ruadh,” he shouted with a jerk of his thumb back toward the wagons.