The Highlander

by Ruth Ryan Langan

  “I had no choice.” Dillon sprawled in a chair, a tankard of ale in his hand, and dismissed the servant who had been busy cleaning and binding his wounds.

  The hounds lay by his feet, raising their heads from their paws whenever his voice lifted in that familiar growl of anger.

  “With no army and no weapons, I needed to buy time.”

  “Time.” Graeme Lamont emptied his tankard and held it out for a servant to replenish his ale. When she shot him an inviting smile, he playfully swatted her rump. With one foot on a bench, he leaned on his knee and studied first Dillon, then Camus. Lacking a clan, since he had been born to an unmarried peasant girl, Graeme had been taken in by the monks and raised with these two childhood friends. The three had studied together, wenched together and had grown to manhood together. Of the three, Dillon was acknowledged as the finest warrior, Camus had the calmest demeanor and Graeme was unquestionably the one who won the females’ hearts.

  “We have all had occasion to taste English justice.” Graeme’s tone lowered. “How can you really believe that Sutton and Shaw are still alive?”

  Dillon came out of the chair so quickly, no one had time to react. He grasped Graeme by the front of his tunic, his face twisted in fury. “They are alive. Of that I have no doubt. I would know, here in my heart, if it were not so.”

  Refusing to back down, Graeme persisted, “But for how long, man?”

  Dillon whispered through clenched teeth, “You will not speak of such things again while in my sister’s presence.”

  Flame swallowed back the fear that suddenly clogged her throat. It was not so much Graeme’s words, as Dillon’s reaction to them, that had her so afraid. Such violence was a certain sign of inner turmoil.

  To cover her feelings she said, “Dillon has the Englishwoman. They would not dare to harm Sutton and Shaw, knowing she will share their fate.”

  “Perhaps.” Graeme’s eyes narrowed as he watched Dillon turn away. With a trembling hand, he straightened his tunic and lifted his tankard to his lips, emptying it in one long swallow. More than once he had felt the sting of Dillon Campbell’s legendary temper. But never like this. This situation with the English had Dillon coiled like a viper ready to strike.

  Flame’s thoughts were equally dark and unsettling. Seeking comfort, she glanced toward the old monk, who had listened without a word. “What think you, Father Anselm?”

  “I think Dillon is correct in his belief that your brothers are still alive. This English nobleman will do all in his power to spare their lives, in order to see his daughter safely returned.”

  “But what about—”

  “And now I think that you and I will go to the chapel and pray, child.” With effort the old monk pulled himself from the chair and got heavily to his feet. “And leave the talk of armies and retribution to the warriors.”

  “But I would stay and hear—”

  Dillon shook his head and waved her aside. “Go with the priest, Flame. We have serious matters to discuss.”

  “I am not a child,” she said petulantly.

  Dillon caught her hand and surprised her by pressing it to his lips. “I grow more aware of that fact every day. But I would have a word with my friends.” As she opened her mouth to argue, he added softly, “And I am in dire need of your prayers. As are Sutton and Shaw.”

  Flame clamped her mouth shut and obediently followed Father Anselm from the room.

  When they were alone, Dillon glanced from Camus to Graeme. “I require an army.”

  “How soon?” Camus asked quietly.

  “The morrow would not be soon enough,” Dillon replied with a grim smile. “But it will surely be a fortnight or more before we can assemble enough men and horses and weapons.”

  Camus nodded. “I will ride to Perthshire and Dumfries.” He turned to Graeme. “And what of you?”

  After a moment’s silence, Graeme said, “And I to Galloway and Cowal.”

  Dillon offered his hand to each man, grateful for their friendship and loyalty.

  “And what of the English soldiers?” Camus asked. “Think you that they will attempt to get the Englishwoman back?”

  “Let them try.” Dillon walked to the fireplace and, with one hand on the mantel, stared down into the flames. “After such a shameful betrayal, it would be gratifying to spill some English blood.”

  “If it is English blood you desire, there is always the English female,” Graeme said with a smirk.

  “You would kill her?” Camus asked with a look of surprise.

  “I do not speak of killing. There are other ways to seek vengeance. Especially when your captive is a female. ’Twould serve them right if she were returned to them despoiled.”

  Dillon’s frown grew. “That would make us no better than the English.”

  “Perhaps. But why should we be better?”

  Dillon’s fist clenched by his side. “Because our cause is just.”

  “Just.” Graeme slammed his tankard onto the tabletop. “I say it is time the English have a taste of the bitter gall we have been forced to swallow for a lifetime.”

  Dillon’s voice lowered dangerously. “I remember what was done to my mother. I do not hold with those who despoil innocent women.” He fixed Graeme with a piercing look. “The Englishwoman is merely a pawn, as are Sutton and Shaw. I have given my word that she will be safely returned, as long as my brothers are not required to forfeit their lives.”

  “And if they are?”

  Graeme watched the flicker of emotion in his friend’s eyes before Dillon composed himself. “Then she will forfeit her life, as well.”

  A sly smile touched Graeme’s lips. “Then I ask a favor, friend, in return for the army I will assemble.”

  Dillon arched a brow. “Ask it.”

  “If she must forfeit her life, let me have a few minutes alone with her first.” Seeing Dillon’s angry scowl, he burst out laughing. “See what the monks have done to our friend, Camus? He cannot even jest about such things.” Graeme walked closer, and slapped a hand on Dillon’s shoulder. “I had only a glimpse of the Englishwoman, but you had much more time with her. Is she truly as fair of face as I thought? Or have I been too long without a woman?”

  “You?” Camus asked with a laugh. “If you are forced to abstain for even a night, Graeme, I see you watching the wenches with a hungry look.”

  “Aye. And tonight I am feeling especially hungry. What say you, Dillon? Is the lady fair?”

  Dillon shrugged his shoulders, rubbing a hand over the linens that covered his wounds. “I did not notice.”

  Graeme chuckled, low and deep in his throat. “You were never good at telling falsehoods, my friend. Beware. Father Anselm will ask to hear your confession.”

  Camus joined in the laughter. “’Tis true, Dillon. Even the servants are whispering that she is indeed a great beauty.”

  “Aye. All but a blind man would have been aware of such.” Graeme winked at Camus. “I think our friend noticed a little too much, and wishes to keep her all to himself.” Turning to Dillon, he taunted, “What think you, Dillon? Could I spend a few minutes alone with your captive? Or are you saving her for your own pleasure?”

  “Enough jest.” Despite the laughter of his friends, Dillon felt the ragged edges of his temper beginning to fray. “You are both welcome to spend the night at Kinloch House, before you leave on your quests for an army. But I must insist that the English prisoner be treated with the same respect you would show our Highland women.”

  “I would respect her.” Graeme emptied yet another tankard, then stumbled as he attempted to walk to the table. “After I sampled her charms.”

  Camus saw the dark look that came into Dillon’s eyes. “Graeme’s words mean nothing. It is the ale that makes his tongue careless,” he said quickly, to avoid an ugly scene between his two friends. “On the morrow, he will regret having drunk so much. Come, my friend.”

  Draping his arm around Graeme’s shoulders, Camus steered him toward the door. He ca
lled to Dillon, “I give thanks for your safe return home. And on the morrow, we will begin the task of rescuing your brothers.”

  “I thank you.” Dillon waited until they had gone, then turned back to stare somberly into the fire.

  Now that he was home and had ample food in his belly, the enormity of his situation dawned. He had abducted an English nobleman’s daughter. He, and he alone, was responsible for her safe return.

  Graeme’s remarks, though made in jest, rankled. There would be many in this land who would share Graeme’s views. They would not be above seeing the woman harmed, in retribution for the injustices done to them by the English. No matter that the female was innocent. No matter that her safe return was necessary if Sutton and Shaw were to survive. There would be many who would use the woman to satisfy their own blood lust.

  He drained the tankard, tasting the bitter dregs. He would be well advised to watch her carefully. Not only because he needed her as a bargaining pawn, but because there would be many who would use her for their own selfish ends.

  Leaving the hounds to drowse by the fire, he made his way up the stairs. A sense of deep sadness welled up inside him. This homecoming should have been a happy event, marking the beginnings of peace between England and Scotland. It would have been a time of merriment, celebrated in every town and village across the land. Instead, they would once again be forced to resort to violence and bloodshed.

  When would it end? When would his green, beautiful land be allowed to flourish and prosper? When would his people be able to walk with freedom and dignity?

  Freedom. Even without the English, there was the matter of the killer who stalked these Highland forests. Over the years, a score of women, young and old, had been brutalized. As laird, it was Dillon’s responsibility to see to the safety of his people. Yet the mysterious savage remained undiscovered.

  His hands clenched into fists at his sides. He was weary beyond belief, yet he could not rest. There was still the woman to deal with. And for now, for her safety, as well as that of Sutton and Shaw, she would have to be his responsibility, and his alone.

  Chapter Eight

  L eonora and her young guard both heard the sound of footsteps moments before the door to the chambers was thrown open. Leonora, standing stiffly by the fire, tensed in preparation for the coming confrontation. She caught a quick glimpse of armed guards taking up positions on either side of the arched doorway. Then the door was closed, and Dillon Campbell filled her line of vision. He looked even more cold and forbidding than when she had last seen him.

  “Has the lady given you any trouble, Rupert?”

  “Nay.” The youth’s lips curved into a smile. In that odd, hoarse whisper, he replied, “She saw the guard in the courtyard below, else I think she might have tried to leap to her freedom.”

  Dillon’s head came up sharply. He would have to take better precautions. He could ill afford to have the woman leap to her death.

  His tone was rougher than he intended. “That would have been most foolish, my lady. All you would gain for your efforts would be broken bones and great pain. And you would still be my prisoner.”

  “Unless I died. In which case, I would be free of you,” she snarled.

  “Nay, my lady.” His tone deepened. “Even in death, you would not be free of me. If your father desired a Christian burial for his beloved daughter, he would first have to deal with me. I would hold your body ransom until my brothers were set free.” He shot her a chilling smile. “So I would not advise you to harbor thoughts of martyrdom. ’Twould be a painful death, which would serve no useful purpose.”

  She turned away in tight-lipped silence, refusing to acknowledge him. To do so would be to admit defeat. And that she would never do.

  Dillon turned to the youth. “Did she eat, Rupert?”

  “A little.”

  Dillon lifted the lid of the tray. “Very little, it would seem.” He glanced at Leonora’s rigid back. Despite the torn and dirty gown, her hair spilling wild and free to her waist, she exuded a regal bearing. “I expected to find you asleep by now, after such an exhausting journey.”

  She turned, eyes blazing. “Did you? And where am I to sleep?”

  “In my sleeping chambers.”

  “Your…!”

  Seeing that she was about to explode with fury, Dillon pretended to ignore her, which only caused her anger to increase.

  To the young guard, Dillon said, “That will be all tonight, Rupert. You did well.”

  The boy beamed at Dillon’s praise. “I would not mind standing guard throughout the night.”

  “I know that, and I am grateful for your loyalty. For now, you must sleep.”

  “The lady is determined to escape,” the lad whispered, glancing nervously at Leonora, who stood glowering at her captor.

  “Fear not through the night, Rupert. I have posted guards.”

  The boy seemed relieved. “Will you need me on the morrow?”

  “Aye.” The lady would have to be guarded day and night, not only to save her from those who would harm her, but to save her from her own foolish attempts that might result in her harm or even death. “I have decided that you will become the lady’s personal guard.”

  The boy drew himself up to his full height, which was considerable, and puffed up his chest. “I would be honored.”

  Leonora gave an exasperated sigh at the boy’s fawning devotion to the Highlander. What inspired such loyalty?

  Dillon waited until the youth had gone, then closed the door and leaned against it. His arms were folded across his chest, his legs planted far apart, in anticipation of the clash that was to come. Though he was bone-weary, he could not give in to his exhaustion until the woman was sufficiently subdued.

  Leonora’s eyes flashed with a light that he had come to recognize. “You cannot seriously believe that I will share your sleeping chambers.”

  “For now, it is the only place where I can be certain you will not attempt to escape.”

  “And how can you be certain of that?”

  “A warrior learns to sleep lightly, my lady. If you should attempt escape, I will most certainly hear you.”

  She felt the wild beating of her heart and struggled to hide her fear. “You cannot expect me to…sleep in the same pallet with you.”

  “That is exactly what I expect. Until other arrangements can be made.”

  “I demand a chamber of my own.”

  “You demand?” His lips tightened. “You demand?” Giving in to the need to release all the pent-up fury that had been building since his brothers’ capture, he stormed closer, until they were mere inches apart. “Let me remind you, my lady, that you are my prisoner. If I choose, I can have you chained in the dungeons, where you can have all the privacy you desire. Unlike your English castles, where the dungeons teem with enemies of your king, our dungeons are empty. There are no other prisoners being held in Kinloch House. Is that enough privacy to suit you?”

  Leonora struggled to hide the fear that churned inside. Though she had been forbidden to go down to the dungeons, she had heard the stories from Moira and the other servants. Rats, as well as all manner of vermin, scurried across damp earthen floors. The cells were littered with human waste. The air was thick with the cries of human misery.

  With a show of bravado she said, “I would prefer the dungeons to sharing your pallet.”

  “Aye.” He stared down at her, brow furrowed in thought. “I believe you would.” He turned away in abrupt dismissal. “But this is war, my lady. And those engaged in battle must learn to suffer all manner of discomfort. For your own safety, you must remain by my side.”

  Scalding tears burned Leonora’s eyes but she blinked them away. She was well aware of the terrible things that were done to women during war. Had she not had a taste of it during her brief encounter with the soldiers in the forest? Yet she had convinced herself that this man was above inflicting such torment. Now she realized that she had only been lulling herself into a false sense of
security. Here in his own land, surrounded by people who would stand by him, he fully intended to revert to his primitive ways and use her shamelessly. Was this not what she had expected from a Highlander?

  She would not go meekly to the slaughter. Even if she could not win, she would put up the fight of her life.

  She looked around for something, anything, to use in her defense. Spying the crystal decanter of ale, she snatched it.

  With his back to her, Dillon started toward the sleeping chamber. “Come, my lady. My body cries out for sleep.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of her shadow moving along the wall. When the hand in the shadow lifted, he spun around, barely avoiding being struck on the back of the head with the blunt object in her hand. Instead, the blow glanced off his temple, stunning him momentarily.

  He heard the crash of glass as the decanter splintered, then shattered on the floor at his feet; felt the cold sting of ale as it splashed across his neck and over his shoulders.

  It was the final act that caused his rigidly held temper to snap. His hand lashed out. His fingers closed around her wrist so tightly that she cried out in pain.

  She cringed at the full force of his fury.

  “So this is how you repay me.” His face was a mask of unconcealed fury. “I offer you food, while my brothers must starve.”

  She tossed her head, refusing to back down. “In my home, such food would not even be fit for the swine.”

  His eyes narrowed fractionally. “Yours is a prosperous land, while here the people have been forced to defend themselves for so long, they have little time or energy to prepare fine meals. But we offer to share with you what little we have. I offer you the comforts of my home, while my brothers suffer chains and torture.”

  “Your home.” Though she knew she was going too far, she could not stop herself. Frightened and confused, she lashed out with the only weapon available, her tongue. “It, too, is barely fit for the swine. This hovel is cold and dirty and smells of animals.”