Highland Devil

by Hannah Howell

  She had briefly considered running to their father, her Uncle Tomas, but shook aside the thought. The man was still sick but she had no idea how bad he was. He could no longer be sensible enough to understand what she said or strong enough to stop his sons if they came after her. He had also proven impossible to convince that Robert could do anything wrong. Even her mother had complained about it. It was better to make her way to her mother’s cousins in Dubheidland and pray that they believed her and were ready to help her.

  After walking for what felt like miles, the small wound Robert had inflicted stinging badly, she stopped and sniffed the air, realizing she smelled the hint of smoke. Unsure what caused it, she scurried into the trees. As soon as she felt certain she was hidden in the trees well enough not to be seen by anyone on the road, she stopped and sniffed the air again. The smell of wood smoke was still there and had become just a little stronger.

  Mora looked carefully through the trees trying to see where the smoke could be coming from. She finally spotted a faint flicker of light to her left. Moving forward as quietly as she could, she drew near enough to recognize a small campfire. Then she saw the horse. The animal she saw was enough to tell her who was crouched by that fire. A moment later the scent of what he was cooking drifted her way and her stomach growled. It smelled as if he had caught himself a rabbit. Mora was sorely tempted to walk right over to him and ask for a share.

  Knowing that would be foolish, she turned her attention to his horse. With a mount like that she could keep well out of her cousins’ reach and probably get to Dubheidland quickly, even with her poor riding skills. It would certainly be better and faster than walking every step of the way. There would be less need for camping out in the night all by herself as well. She looked back at the man and prayed he would wander away just for a little while.

  She crept as close as she dared to his campsite, then settled down to watch for him to walk away. Mora decided she would not need much time to take the horse. As soon as she mounted the animal it would be easy enough to avoid the man if he came back and tried to catch her. Once she was on the road she would definitely have a strong advantage. Studying the horse carefully, she planned out the quickest way to saddle the animal, attach her bag, and then mount. While waiting for the man to leave for a short while, she kept going over the plan in the hope that she would be able to move fast.

  Her mind kept reminding her that stealing a man’s horse could get one hanged. Mora decided to ignore it. If she let it linger it would make her afraid and that could cause her to fail. Despite having many good reasons to be afraid, she refused to allow that fear to settle inside her.

  The man abruptly stood up and stretched, then scratched his bottom. She rolled her eyes. Her brothers always did the same, stretch and scratch. Then she pressed her lips together to hide the sigh begging to be let out.

  She missed her brothers, Niall and David. Although she and her parents had written to them several times, and she had written again after her parents were killed, there had been no reply. They had gone to France to fight, to join one of the mercenary bands there. Mora had the chilling feeling they were dead. She would not be surprised if, when her cousins learned where her brothers were going, they had made certain they would never return. If her brothers had joined with some mercenaries, she suspected it would not be difficult to get a few of those men to kill two of their own kind for the right coin.

  Staring in the direction of the fire as she thought, Mora was slowly pulled out of her musings. The man stood with his hands on his hips staring into the fire and frowning. He was a fine-looking man from what little she could see. The flickering light from the fire made it difficult to see his face though. She was much more interested in his face. She had seen far too many men who had a fine, manly build that any woman would appreciate—only to discover they had a face that looked as if they had lost too many fights or a horse had sat on it.

  She stared down at the ground fighting tears as a memory surfaced. She had said something similar to her mother once concerning her uncle’s men-at-arms and had wondered aloud if her cousins chose such men purposefully so that no one of them would outshine her cousins. Her father had laughed but had quickly smothered it as her mother had scolded her, telling her that a man’s heart and soul were of more importance than his face.

  Although she had never been unkind to any of the men, Mora had taken the scold to heart. After all, her cousins were all quite handsome, yet it was now clear their hearts and souls were dark as sin. She had had more proof of her mother’s lesson many times and owed one homely, burly man for her cat as he had saved it from being drowned and asked her if she wanted it.

  A sense that she was being watched drew her attention back to the man at the fire. He was staring right at her and she tensed. When he just shook his head, and turned to start walking into the woods, she sagged with relief. Waiting a few moments, she began to make her way, as swiftly and quietly as she could, toward the horse. When a branch snapped and she felt a tug on her braid, she cursed softly and waited a moment, fighting to untangle her hair from the branch, worrying that she was losing time to escape. Listening carefully for a moment, but hearing nothing, she hurried forward still struggling with the branch. She had reached the horse before she finally got free of it and started plucking out the bits and pieces it had left behind in her hair.

  The animal stared at her but made no sound as she set her bag down and began to saddle him. She attached her bag securely and then swung up into the saddle. It was not a graceful mount because he was so tall, but she was soon settled nicely in the saddle, and was pleased he was such a placid beast.

  She was reaching for the reins when the horse suddenly moved and Mora found herself flying through the air. The landing on the ground stole all breath from her body and she did not think she would recover fast enough to still get away. Then she groaned, for the small wound on her side that her cousin had inflicted stung badly. She wondered if it was not as insignificant as she had thought.

  A big hand grabbed her by the wrist and she silently muttered every curse she knew. A tug on her arm turned her onto her back and for a little while she feigned unconsciousness, but then she opened her eyes. She stared at the man crouched beside her, still holding her wrist in a grip that did not hurt but which she knew she would not break free of.

  She could see no weapon in his other hand as she felt her eyes grow wider and wider. She lost only a touch of the fear she felt when she saw that and it still hung on enough to keep her heart pounding so hard she was amazed he could not hear it. The man may not be holding a weapon, but that did not mean he had none or would be reluctant to use it on a woman. He would not be condemned if he struck her down since she had just tried to steal his horse. That was, after all, a hanging crime.

  Then a deep voice asked, “Why are ye trying to steal my horse?”

  Chapter Two

  Sir Gybbon Murray heard the sharp, quick sound of a branch break and quickly finished his business. As he stepped around the tree he had just relieved himself against, he frowned at the shadowy figure struggling to free itself from a branch. He decided he was due a problem as most of his journey had been trouble free. When the figure finally straightened up, he recognized it firmly as a woman as she yanked pieces of the branch out of her hair.

  Then she looked around and he pressed himself up against a tree so that he would not be visible. He cursed softly as she next hurried over to his horse, Jester. He had thought that by riding into the wood lining the road he had avoided the thieves who so often roamed the night. This woman obviously intended to take his horse. He looked around very carefully assuming she had to have some male compatriots, but could see nothing.

  He smiled as he looked back at her. He did not have to rush over. Jester would take care of her, he thought, and had to smother a chuckle as he watched her saddle the animal and take the reins from the tree he had looped them around. He crossed his arms over his chest and waited as she attached her ba
g to the saddle and then mounted Jester in a particularly graceless way.

  It did not take long for Jester to do what he did best. She was only just settling the reins in her hands when his horse moved. It took barely a moment, and little effort, for Jester to hurl her out of the saddle to the ground. Gybbon winced when she hit the ground hard. She sprawled face down and groaned softly, reaching for her side.

  “Why are ye trying to steal my horse?” he asked.

  He reached out and grabbed her wrist as she fumbled with her side, afraid she was about to get a weapon. Not finding the blade he expected, he looked down at her as she turned onto her back. She was pale but he did not know if that was just caused by the weak light from the fire he had built, or fear, or even pain. A long thick braid of hair had flipped up over her head and it was definitely pale in color. She did not open her eyes and he then wondered if she was unconscious or just in a swoon. He was ready to give her a light slap on the face to try and rouse her when she opened her eyes, brushing her braid off her face.

  Gybbon wished the light from the fire was stronger so he could see her eyes clearly. He always felt more confident of his judgments when he could see someone’s eyes. As she stared at him, her eyes grew wider and wider until he suspected they would soon sting. He just could not guess if it was because of fear or surprise.

  Mora stared at the man crouched by her side. She could see no weapon in his hand and she lost a touch of the fear gripping her so tightly. It still hung in strong enough to keep her heart pounding so hard she thought he must be able to hear it. The man may not be holding a weapon but that did not mean he had none. He must also be incensed at what she had tried to do and knew he would not be condemned if he struck her down because of it. It was a hanging crime.

  “I wasnae stealing him. I was just borrowing him for a wee while.” She was not surprised when he gave her a look of annoyance as she knew it was a weak, senseless statement.

  “I see. Just how was I expected to get him back when ye were done with him? Ye gave me no name nor a place to collect him at. Nay even a time when I could have him back. How is that nay stealing?” He frowned, cocked his head to the side, and looked toward his horse. “What is that sound?”

  “I dinnae hear anything.” She lied because she could hear Freya growling.

  Still holding her, he stood up and walked toward Jester, dragging the woman with him. “It is coming from your bag.” He reached toward it. “And now the bag is moving. Open it.”

  “Nay. They are just my belongings. Some clothes and such as that. Oh, and a few things I saved from the manor.”

  “Clothes that growl? Open it.”

  She sighed. His voice was hard and she sensed he was truly beginning to feel annoyed. In her experience, annoyed men struck out. Her father never had, but she had seen too many others who did. It seemed it did not take much for a woman to annoy a mon, either. She just hoped this man did not hate cats as much as her cousins did.

  Carefully unlatching her bag, she took a deep, steadying breath. She could do nothing but hope she had not saved her pet once only to have another man kill her. The moment she opened the bag, Freya leapt out, landing on her shoulder and curling her tail around Mora’s neck. The small, gray cat stared at the man.

  “A cat? Ye have been toting around a cat?” He took the bag from her.

  “I had to. The men I am fleeing almost killed her because she scratched one of them.”

  “Who would want to kill a kitten? The scratch couldnae have been a bad one.”

  Trying not to think on the long, bleeding gouges on Robert’s face, several of them dangerously close to his eyes, she answered, “She isnae a kitten. She is two years old, probably as big as she ever will be.”

  “Ah. A runt.” Still holding her by the wrist, he pulled her toward the campfire. “Sit.”

  “I should continue on my way,” she protested, and reached for her bag.

  He allowed her to grab it, then pulled her closer to the fire. “’Tis dark and nay a good time to travel. And where would ye go? I dinnae think there is another horse along the road for ye to steal. What is your name?”

  “Mora Ogilvy.” She had opened her mouth to protest the word “steal” and then sighed, knowing there was no point in it.

  “Sit.” He almost smiled at the way she narrowed her eyes as she stared at him, but she then sat down by the fire, setting her bag close by her side. The woman did not like to be ordered around.

  Gybbon sat across from her and studied her. She was small, almost as near to being called a runt as her cat. Her hair was blond, but the firelight glinted off some red strands as well. From what little he could see of her figure, she was temptingly curved in all the right places. Since it was difficult to see her figure as well as he would like in the firelight, he turned his study to her face.

  Her eyes were wide and what appeared to be a dark blue, the light from the fire occasionally highlighting that color. Even though her mouth was turned down in a frown, he could see enough of its shape to guess she had invitingly full lips. Her cheekbones were high, and just under the right one was a large, dark bruise.

  “Someone hit ye in the face?” he asked, wondering why that angered him so.

  “One of the men I am running from.” She sighed and tugged her cloak around herself as the cat walked down from her shoulders to settle on her lap, sitting within the folds of her cloak and staring at him. “Ye havenae told me who ye are.”

  “Sir Gybbon Murray. Who are these men ye are fleeing? And why do ye need to flee?”

  Mora sighed, still frightened, and saddened by all that had happened, but seeing no reason not to tell him. “My cousins. All three of them. The fourth is, I believe, a reluctant partner and I do wonder about the other two. The eldest is definitely determined. The old laird gave his eldest son the castle but he also gave my father, his youngest son, a fine manor house and a few acres. The new laird’s sons believe that was a mistake and that it should all go to their father, who would then hand it all down to one of them.”

  “Why didnae ye just go to the laird and tell him?”

  “He is ill and I couldnae tell how badly ill he is. He may nay have been able to understand what I told him and he certainly wouldnae be able to do anything to stop his sons. Also, telling him what his sons have done might weel make his illness worsen for he truly cared for my mother and father. For all of us.” She shook her head. “And if I was right about all of that, I would then find myself too close to the ones trying to get rid of me and without an ally to fight for me. Every time I considered going to tell Uncle Tomas what was going on, I then saw all the ways it could go horribly bad for me.”

  He nodded. “True. Ye could have walked right into the lion’s den. So, are ye just running until ye find somewhere to hide from them?”

  “Nay. For one thing, they need to pay for the killing of my parents. I am headed to some kin of my mother’s to ask for help.”

  “Who are they?”

  She frowned and stroked her cat. “Why do ye need to ken who they are? Ye willnae be having to collect your horse,” she added in a soft mutter.

  “Weel, I may ken who they are. The Murrays ken a lot of folk in this land and are even connected to many through marriage. I may ken something ye need to learn to feel more certain that they will or can help ye.”

  The way she stared at him, her eyes narrowing slightly, told him she was not sure she should trust him with that information. Gybbon was not sure why that irritated him so much as it was a completely understandable doubt. It did not help ease his irritation when he noticed that her strange little cat still watched him closely as well, its eyes also narrowed.

  “My mother was their kin. Surely they would aid their kin, even if the connection isnae terribly close; ’tis, truthfully, a rather twisted, distant link. I cannae even recall the many steps it takes to make the link, but I have met them twice. Once when I was verra young and once when their clan suffered a fever that killed a lot of its people,
mostly the adults. My mother felt he might need some help as there were a lot of them, so she and Da packed us all up and went to see them.”

  “But he didnae want her help?”

  “He didnae really need it so Mother ne’er really offered, just said enough to let him ken the offer was there if he wished to call on it. She said there were some elder women still alive and helping. Also said she would probably end up being more of a thorn in his side than a help as she suspected she wouldnae agree with the things he did considering all his siblings. So, we left, but he and my mother often corresponded.”

  “It does sound like he would have no problem lending ye a hand. So, who is he and where do ye need to go?”

  Mora sighed, seeing that he was just going to keep pressing her until he got an answer to that question. She thought about it and could see no real reason not to answer him. “I am headed to Dubheidland to request some aid from the laird there, Sir Sigimor Cameron.” She was not sure the surprise he let show and the chuckle he let loose were a good thing.

  “I ken where that is and I ken Sigimor. I will take ye there.”

  “Nay, I cannae pull ye into my troubles. . . .” She stuttered to a halt when he raised his hand.

  “Greedy relatives trying to take what isnae theirs is a problem we have dealt with before. Money and land are the causes of a lot of family strife.”

  “How sad. I dinnae understand why my cousins are so determined to be rid of us. They have e’en dreamed up a few crimes to charge me with to help them. ’Tis a fine house we have, but nay that fine and only a few acres. They have a castle and a large swath of land. I cannae e’en see how it would help in splitting up the inheritance they’d get when the laird dies.”