Highlander of Mine

by Red L. Jameson

  Then a small pebble crashed against a pane in the glass right in front of her nose.

  Yes, very human.

  “Fleur,” someone whispered.

  The voice was not a man’s. And for a heartbreaking moment, she wondered if Helen had...Helen was gone, she had to remind herself. Tears rushed to her eyes, and her heart pinched, but she stood to see who the hell it was throwing rocks at the window.

  No one.

  She glanced in every direction, but the person who had thrown the stones wasn’t there. About to give up, she saw a huge shadow walking into her view. Hunkering down, she made sure she could see the man, but he couldn’t see her. Fleur didn’t recognize him. There weren’t a lot of men from Durness, but she could identify all of the males by now. This man was big, almost as giant as Duncan. He appeared to be wearing some kind of metal getup, looking like a conquistador. Her stomach bottomed out. Oh God, soldiers of this time wore the same kind of suits, didn’t they? A metal helm, metal vest piece, and thick leather jackets to protect from arrows, swords, and the weak bullets spit at them.

  Fleur couldn’t breathe for a moment, could hardly think. A soldier, more than likely an English, New Order soldier, was in her back yard. Something scraped against the kitchen door, and she flinched, holding the plaid closer, as if that could protect her.

  “Lady Fleur,” a thin whisper sounded through the door, “’Tis me, Jamie.”

  It did sound like one of her lads, not quite a man’s voice and held a bit higher from desperation and panic.

  The English soldier was fifteen feet from the whisper, from Jamie. With her heart pounding in her ears and throat, she scurried to the door and unbolted it, then quietly opened it.

  She almost cried when she saw it was really him, on his knees, hunched over in a dark plaid, camouflaging most of his body. Letting him in, she closed the door as softly as she had opened it. Placing a finger over her lips, she then pointed to where the soldier stood. Jamie nodded.

  An odd strangling noise erupted from where the English soldier was. Jamie carefully angled his head to the side and lifted himself like a trained soldier to see out of the window. Fleur didn’t know what was more shocking, that a little fourteen year-old boy knew how to protect himself from such violence, or the noise that was getting louder. Mimicking Jamie, she tilted her head similarly and saw with one eye out the glass the large soldier clutched at something around his throat. There were eight boys, four on each side, of a rope looped around the soldier’s throat. They tugged until the huge man fell to his knees. The whites of his eyes became glaringly visible. Then the soldier plummeted, face first, into the ground.

  “Jesus, I hoped that’d be more quiet,” Jamie whispered.

  Fleur gripped onto the boy’s arm. “Duncan.”

  That was all she could think about. Where was he? What had happened?

  Jamie nodded solemnly. “My lady, they have him.”

  Fleur winced, the words hitting her as if Jamie had struck her with his dirk deep in the belly. No, in the heart.

  “If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’ ha’ believed it,” Jamie said. “But Captain MacKay led yer man away with a few of his troops, led ‘em close to Cave Smoo, where there were English soldiers who’d filled the place with smoke, so no one could see, then captured them.”

  Captured them. Captured her Duncan. Her man, Jamie had called him.

  Being frightened for so many years, so scared of making the wrong move, so scared she wouldn’t gain approval, Fleur was unfamiliar with the anger that suddenly pounded through her veins. It snarled and snapped for action.

  “Duncan’s been captured by English soldiers? And Rory did this?” She didn’t recognize her voice. It was deeper than usual. Calm. Menacing.

  Jamie glanced at her askew, but then nodded. “Aye, Rory’s sided with that damned Cromwell, it seems.”

  Her heart no longer thundered in her ears. An eerie silence ensued.

  Rory and his English cronies had taken Duncan from her?

  “I’m going to kill Rory.”

  Jamie’s eyes widened momentarily, then he nodded. “I would for ye. He’s on his way here.” Jamie took a sip of a breath. “There are four soldiers ‘round yer house. Well, three now, thanks to my men. And we’ll take out the others and Rory too.”

  “Rory’s on his way here?”

  “I’m guessin’ so. He seemed to head this direction.”

  “And he stole Duncan to give to the English?” It made her angry with herself that she needed to hear it one more time, but she did. She needed to know in no uncertain terms that Rory was the cause of this. Plus it helped give her time to think about what to do next.

  “It appears so, aye.”

  That settled it. She’d hurt Rory, make him pay for what he’d done. No. Wait. She needed Duncan back.

  “Duncan—” She’d meant to ask what was to happen to him, but could only say the love of her life’s name.

  Jamie came closer and patted her shoulder. “I have five of my men following the train of English soldiers and the captured men. We’ll take care of the English here, and that shite, Rory. Pardon my language, my lady. Then we’ll fight for our captured men.”

  That was the second time skinny, too-young Jamie had called his boys his men. At another time, Fleur would have found humor in that. She’d think it was funny. But it wasn’t. She didn’t comprehend until just then that the lads Jamie spoke of were more men than they should have been. They’d been orphaned by war, forced to become fighters for their survival, then for each other. And they were somehow loyal to her, because she’d fed them a few times and loved listening to their stories and how they talked to each other. It had reminded her of her cousins when they were young. Yet her affections were more than that. Being around Jamie and his gang reminded her of...her. Forced to grow up before her time. But Jaime and the boys came out swinging, while Fleur had tucked herself into a book, like a bookmark. Looking back, Fleur no longer felt shame for what she had done, being frozen in fear. But right now, she preferred Jamie’s tactics.

  “Thank you.” Tears sprang to her eyes, but she promised herself a good cry once it was over. For now, she had to get her man back. “Let me talk to Rory.”

  Jamie’s dark brows furrowed.

  “Rory needs to pay.”

  His brows knitted together all the more, but his glistening eyes softened. “The plan is to take out the English guards ‘round yer house, one by one, quick and quiet. Then Rory.”

  They both heard deep baritone voices talking at the front of the house, and they stilled instantly. The voices were very much men’s, not the lads’. Jamie turned back to Fleur, gripping both her arms now.

  “I’m here to protect ye,” he whispered.

  “Thank you. But let me handle Rory.”

  The voices quieted as Jamie’s grip tightened. The boy was so much a man already, he probably could protect her. She believed that with every thin muscle in his body he’d try to save her. That gave her a powerful surge of energy.

  But this was one fight from which she wasn’t going to back down.

  Thunderous banging rapped on the door. “Fleur, ‘tis Rory. I need to talk to ye, lass.” His voice sounded calm, if not a touch pleading. There wasn’t an ounce of panic or recrimination in it.

  Something about that, about the lack of guilt flamed Fleur’s chest until all she felt was seething outrage. Blue-purple élan flooded her arms and legs, making her feel as though she might be able to pick up a car if she needed to.

  “Let me handle Rory, Jamie,” she ordered.

  The lad gave in with a solemn bow of his head. “I’ll hide in a nearby chamber. I’ll be here if ye need anythin’.”

  She nodded, then pushed him into her room. After making sure he couldn’t be seen, she swept to the main door—the door Helen had shown her through, shown her a different life to live, one full of love, and now Rory was about to rip all of that apart.

  Jeez, Coyote had been right abo
ut him. But why? Why would Rory do any of this?

  The whys didn’t matter when Duncan was somewhere out there in harm’s way.

  Deciding to appear calm, she answered the door, after pulling the plaid a bit tighter around her. She had fashioned it over one of her shoulders, as Duncan had, but it was long and brushed against the floor as she walked. It would be a hindrance when attacking Rory, so she’d have to get rid of it when she found her moment.

  Slowly she opened the door, wondering if she looked nervous, panicked, angry. He appeared as if he’d been covered in soot, as if he truly had been fighting a fire, and had tried to wash it off before coming here. He dripped seawater from his darkened hair—the scent strong, acidic, and alarming.

  “Rory.” She let him in, not sure if she could say much more.

  He looked her down and up as he passed, assessing the plaid. Surprising her, he fingered the wool, stopping to stand too close. “This—these colors are from the MacKay crest.”

  She glanced down at his hand far too near her breast.

  “Did Duncan ever tell ye he’s related to me?”

  She blinked, stunned. What an odd conversation to have, and it distracted her as was his hand. Wanting to give in and grimace from his proximity, she bit the inside of her lip to keep from showing her emotions.

  “He’s from noble blood, like me,” Rory continued. “But his father’s father wanted nothing to do with the title and settled for a life as a farmer. Patrick MacKay, Duncan’s father liked the life too and never fought for a title, married a commoner.”

  “Helen?”

  Rory nodded and stepped even closer, inspecting the plaid all the more, his fingers grazed against her collarbone. The scent of smoke suddenly became more pungent, watering her eyes. But she could smell something else on him. A sickly sweet aroma, similar to the earth, similar to copper. Blood. Was it Duncan’s? She stepped back, but he grabbed hold of her arms.

  “Duncan’s line had more noble blood than even my brother’s and mine. I often wondered if my brother breathed easily once Duncan left. He was the only threat to the lairdship.” Rory yanked her closer, his stomach touching hers, his chest against hers. Panic seared through her arms and chest. Rory merely chuckled as if he were telling campfire stories. “But then my brother, the idiot, gave Duncan a job when he returned from Sweden. A high-ranking one at that, working with me. I wondered if my brother had gone mad. If Duncan were close to what once had been his, then wouldn’t the man want it all the more? My brother, though, thought I was being paranoid, thought Duncan was no threat.” Then he pulled Fleur that much closer, enveloping her in a too tight embrace.

  Disgusted and wondering if she would vomit, Fleur held still. Her uncle had taught her how to do this, how to get close to an enemy, his weak spots more accessible.

  Rory huffed in her ear. “I guess my brother was right after all.”

  Adjusting herself slightly, Rory didn’t seem to notice as she slid a leg between his. He did notice though when she slowly held onto his shirtsleeves, fisting them for balance. As fast as she could, she hefted her knee with all her might. He was quick though and had his own leg against hers, shifting his pelvis away from injury. She’d missed, damn it! Then she started pounding on his leather-clad chest, trying to reach his face to yank off the skin.

  The world suddenly blackened with the thudding presence of intense pain along her cheek and jaw. Opening her eyes, she was surprised to see the floor, the blurry floor.

  Rory must have hit her, hit her so hard she’d fallen. Her vision was hazy at best, and she couldn’t think, couldn’t buck her body into action.

  “Don’ ye ever do that again,” Rory seethed as he knelt in front of her.

  Startling her into complete stupefaction for few seconds, he gently feathered his hand across her face.

  “I don’ want to hurt ye,” he said softly. “Don’ make me do that again, ye ken?”

  “Get yer hands off her.”

  Fleur winced as she heard Jamie’s young voice. He sounded so threatening though. So cold.

  Her vision started to define lines, becoming less fuzzy. She saw Rory darkly smile at the boy.

  He didn’t say a word, but stood slowly, excruciatingly so. Rory reached behind him, and that was when Fleur noticed he wore a huge sword on his back. Just the pummel showing over his shoulder and the tip past his hip. With a sickening sound, Rory began to pull the blade from the leather when Fleur heard it, as if Coyote were in the room, as if her younger self were shouting at her, a wind humming through the house: “Get up! Get up! Do something!”

  She knew what to do then.

  Gripping the floor, she swung one leg then the other under Rory. He toppled over before he could extract his sword, his arms flailing over his head. Then she was on him, her legs holding his down, her hand gripping his hair, the other cocking back and punching him as hard as she could. With a sickening crunch, his nose gave way as she hit. The pain that radiated in her hand and up her arm was more severe than she’d expected. She’d never punched anyone before and wanted to wince, wanted to cradle her hand in her arm and cry. But as she saw blood spurt from Rory’s once perfect nose, the pain suddenly vanished.

  She saw red-black rage. Clutching his hair with both hands, she pounded his head into the floor.

  “Where’s Duncan? Where are you taking him?”

  Rory gurgled and coughed the blood that rolled down from his nose into his mouth.

  Slamming his head against the floor again, she yelled, “Where’s Duncan?”

  He didn’t make a sound this time, but looked at her with glassy eyes.

  About to smack his head into the floor again, she stopped when someone forcefully clamped his hand on her shoulder. She glanced up, angry to be interrupted.

  “Greggor,” she whispered.

  Jamie was close to the man who was now a MacKay prisoner, the man she’d nearly forgotten since she’d been kidnapped.

  “I—I released him,” Jamie said quickly, staring at Rory. “Thought we needed as many men as possible when I realized what Rory was about.”

  “The lad will make a great chief if ever given the chance.” Greggor smiled at Jamie, and tried to keep his calm grin as he looked down at her with his intense light blue eyes. “My lady, ye’ve pounded his head too hard. He’s no good now.”

  Fleur glanced again at the man under her. Rory’s eyes rolled back, showing a sickening white. She jumped from him. “Did I kill him?”

  Greggor knelt beside Rory, a hand over his nose. He shook his head. “Nay, but I reckon he’ll have a hell of a headache when he wakes, which probably won’t be for hours.”

  The way Greggor had pronounced hell had sounded...weird. And at first Fleur didn’t recognize the word, as if he’d said hail instead. But she shook herself, trying to stay engaged in the moment.

  Greggor looked up at Jamie. “Help me tie him to a chair.” Jamie jumped into action. Fleur didn’t know where they got the rope, but there it was. Instead of to a chair, they tied Rory to the couch, letting him lay down as he slept. Or was unconscious. Whatever.

  After she’d been told the other English guards were down and restrained, she returned to her room, changing into her black jogging suit and running shoes. She felt gingerly along her jaw line. Sure, Fleur had wrestled with her cousins, but she’d never hit them. And they’d never hit her. She couldn’t believe Rory had struck her so fast she hadn’t seen it coming. It was a good lesson to learn, to keep her eyes on her enemies. Thank God, Jamie had been there to distract Rory long enough to return to her senses. She shuddered, wondering what Rory would have done to her, why he had touched her so gently afterwards, why he was so pathological.

  None of it mattered though. Not when her man was somewhere out there with English soldiers.

  She raced back to Jamie and Greggor. Eight of the lads had come in the house and bowed when she emerged from her room. As one, they said, “My lady.”

  She waved off the formal greeting and asked, “
How do we get Duncan back?”

  Everyone turned to Jamie. “They have close to twenty men. At least twenty that I saw. They have only an hour’s time ahead of us. And they have a dozen of our men in chains, I’d guess, making progress slow.”

  “Aye,” Greggor agreed.

  “If we gather horses—”

  “How much time will that take?” Fleur huffed, impatient.

  Greggor shrugged and Jamie’s brows furrowed. “Another half hour. Mayhap faster.”

  “Too long,” she said. “I have to track him down now.” She took a breath, thinking. Or trying to. “All right. I’ll take half the men and start running after Duncan, while Greggor and you, Jamie, get the horses.”

  “Never good to divide when the stakes are so high.” Greggor shook his head.

  “But dividing makes us faster,” Jamie argued.

  Greggor crossed his arms over his chest, biting his lower lip. He turned to Fleur and slowly sank to one of his knees. “Ye saved my life, princess. In gratitude, I’ll give ye mine. My allegiance is with ye. I’ll go with ye, running on legs, while Jamie gets the horses.”

  Fleur’s heart hammered at the sentiment. Greggor somehow had her hand in his and kissed it, not like a man wanting a woman, but like a man humbly giving her everything he had—his life. The gift was overwhelming, and she had no choice but to accept it, since she needed all the help she could to have Duncan back in her arms.

  The other boys attempted to go down on one knee, murmuring something similar, and she blinked away tears as she shook her head. “Thank you, thank all of you so much, but we have to run now. We have to get our men back.”

  In a whirl, they flew into motion. Fleur ran with Greggor beside her and about twenty boys ranging in age from fourteen to nine. Jeez, she couldn’t ask a nine year-old to keep up, let alone to fight for her. But she’d think about that later, after she found Duncan. Jamie had told her that the five boys trailing the English train were going to leave signs to help them find their trail. She’d found the first strip of white linen tied on a tree branch easily enough, but after a couple miles in, she panicked, not finding another sign.