Highland Jewel (Highland Brides)

by Greiman, Lois

“If you stop me,” Rose said firmly, “you will need to explain your presence here.” Her gaze shifted to the shadow she knew to be Harlow and her tone softened. “Do not worry. There is but something I must do.” She lifted the reins. “Keep silent, Hannah,” she whispered, “and when I return on the morrow, I will ask our laird if there is not some way that you and Harlow might wed.”

  “Me lady,” said Hannah, “how could ye ken me fondest desire?”

  “Be silent, now,” Rose begged, and turned away again.

  “I canna let ye go into danger to better me own life,” Hannah whispered. “For I owe ye much already.”

  “You owe me nothing,” countered Rose, hurrying toward the drawbridge.

  ” Tis na true.”

  From the darkness Silken called softly, startling a gasp from Hannah, but she grabbed Harlow’s hand, dragging him along as she ran after the black mare. “I owe ye for wee Somerled’s life. For sweet Roman’s well-being. For Eve’s happiness. I owe ye much already. Dunnaa go,” she pleaded.

  “I must. Please understand. I—”

  “Auld William guards the drawbridge,” said Harlow suddenly. “I will send him away and lower the bridge.”

  “No! Harlow!” Hannah gasped, but he was already striding off. “Please,” pleaded the woman again, but Rose took her hand, shushing her softly. They stood together silently then, waiting until Harlow returned.

  “I told him I’d keep his watch,” he explained. He caught Rose’s gaze with his own. “Ye have only a few minutes.”

  He turned away and she followed.

  The crank complained softly as Harlow turned it. The drawbridge settled onto the land beyond the rushing river.

  “Thank you,” Rose whispered. “I shall not forget this.”

  She was across the bridge in a moment, and though it was not easy to mount bareback, she managed it somehow, and, leaning over the mare’s neck, headed west, toward MacAulay Hold.

  “Harlow,” Hannah whispered, gripping her lover’s sleeve with trembling hands, “what have we done?”

  Most probably he had caused his own execution, Harlow reasoned grimly. “We have done nothing,” he said, pulling her hands from his sleeve to take them in his own. “It is I and I alone who has aided her escape. Ye will claim na knowledge of it. Do ye hear me?”

  “Nay, Harlow!” Hannah cried. “Why do ye do this?”

  For a moment his eyes closed and when he turned his gaze to the west, there was no sight of the Lady Fiona, no sound of the black mare’s hoofbeats in the darkness. “She could have seen me dead, Hannah,” he answered. “She could have caused me death long since. For the laird thinks it is I who wounded her.”

  “Nay!” Hannah denied, her fingers tightening in his. “Nay. Tis na true.”

  “Aye, me love,” he said softly. “And he has reasons to think I wish her harm. And for that I am sorry. But I canna be sorry for granting her wish. She has saved me more than once from the Forbes’ fury. I fear he thinks I stalk her, when in truth I only wish to be near ye. He thinks me lust for her so deep that I deny all good sense in me quest for her. He thinks me the greatest of fools.”

  Harlow’s voice was filled with deep, quiet sorrow, an aching longing for respect.

  “Harlow,” Hannah whispered, “I dunna understand yer words, but I ken this. If the Lady Fiona should be harmed, the guilt shall be upon our heads, whether or na others know of our deeds. Please. If ye love me, go after her. Dunna let harm befall her.”

  In the darkness Harlow blanched. If he followed her, Leith would see his actions as proof of his guilt and would surely kill him. But if he did not… “I do love ye, lass. Dunna forget that,” he implored, and, loosing her hands, hurried toward the stable and a swift mount.

  Dermid chuckled to himself. So the lass had flown Glen Creag and now headed west toward MacAulay Hold.

  Turning his horse, he followed her. He could kill her quickly and soon, but how much better to wait until they reached MacAulay land and take his time with her!

  Yes. He would follow her, anticipating the killing to come.

  Chapter 29

  “Me laird! Me laird!” Hannah pounded on the door of Leith’s temporary bedchamber, her heart in her throat.

  He appeared in an instant, a plaid clutched about his waist, his great chest heaving with panic, his sharp eyes gleaming in anticipation of her words. “Fiona?” he questioned, his mind scrambling to assemble thoughts. She had seemed to be recovering so well, but…

  “Aye, me laird,” said Hannah, but there was no time to say more for already he was rushing down the hall, one white-knuckled hand gripping the blanket at his hip.

  Ranald still slept in the doorway. Leith vaulted over him in an instant, pushing the door inward. “Where is she?” he demanded, his gaze storming about the room.

  “Gone, me laird.”

  “Gone?” The word was choked from his throat.

  “Aye.” Hannah squeezing her hands together, suddenly fearful of this man who ruled their lives. “She has flown. All alone. I could na stop her.”

  “Why?” He reviewed every word he had spoken to her, every detail that might give him a clue to her thoughts.

  “She but said there was sommat she must do,” Hannah exclaimed, wringing her hands.

  “Sommat she must do?” Leith grabbed Hannah’s arms. “What? What must she do?”

  “I dunna know. She didna say, but insisted she must go. I begged her to stay, me laird, for she is na yet mended. Please… If anything should happen to her…” Hannah covered her face with splayed fingers. “Please—”

  “Hannah!” Leith snapped, shaking her. “Where did she go? Which way?”

  “I dunna ken,” Hannah cried. “She rode the black horse. I couldna see her past—”

  “Which way?” Leith roared, his face contorted with rage.

  “West! West, I think. But I couldna see far for ‘twas dark. She may have turned. I—”

  “West,” he said, his grip loosening. “Toward the MacAulays.”

  Hannah’s jaw dropped as she shook her head in firm denial. “She is na a spy for the MacAulays,” she insisted. “She loves us. She would na—”

  “Hannah!” Leith shook her again, his tone flat. “Go to the stable. See that Beinn is saddled. Do ye hear?”

  She swallowed hard, her face white, her body shaking.

  “Do ye hear, lass?” he shouted.

  “Aye.” She nodded woodenly. “But me laird, I fear Harlow has … taken yer stallion.”

  “Harlow?” Within Leith’s chest his heart stopped dead. “What say ye?”

  “I begged him,” she said. “I begged him to follow her. To keep her safe. He said yer stallion would follow her mare. That—”

  “Brother!” called Roderic, running down the hall. “What is it?”

  “Fiona! She is gone. See that a horse is readied,” Leith ordered.

  Rose had been riding for three hours or more. She winced, covering her wound with her right hand. Pain shook her with sharp tremors. But she could not stop. Perhaps she should have tried a straighter course toward the bridge that would take her to MacAulay Hold, but it had been dark as pitch when she’d started out, and she’d been uncertain she could find it without following the river.

  But what if Creag Burn was not the watercourse that led to MacAulay land? What if the bridge she had traversed with Leith had been on another burn?

  Doubt shook her resolve. Perhaps she was a fool to fly from the safety of Glen Creag on account of a fearsome dream. But… No. She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling the emotions again. Something drew her to the MacAulay’s side. She was needed and she could not delay.

  Maise tossed her head and pranced a bit. The movement sharpened the pain in Rose’s shoulder, but she touched her heels to the mare’s sides and hurried on.

  Behind her the sky paled with the arrival of the sun. Birds tested their voices in their first morning songs as she urged Maise into a ground-eating trot.

  Another ridge
, another valley. Where was that damned bridge?

  From far behind, Rose thought she heard the deep-throated trumpet of a stallion.

  Someone followed. But who? It did not matter, for whoever it was, she must flee before it was too late.

  The sun rose, sparkling off the dew below her mare’s sweeping hooves. Down a steep grade now, and there—off to her right, just a quarter mile away—was the bridge. And past that, no more than a mile, would be MacAulay Hold.

  Good God!

  Harlow halted Beinn at the hill’s crest.

  Lady Fiona was headed toward the bridge to MacAulay Hold. But then, she was the old laird’s daughter.

  And yet he’d heard the tale of the old man’s addled state. What MacAulay would care if she died? Mayhap she would be mistaken for just another Forbes. But no—not just another Forbes. The wife of the Forbes! The woman who would bear his heirs and therefore was a strong threat to them.

  She would not be safe at MacAulay Hold. He must stop her.

  But there! Off to the right! A man! Bow raised!

  No! Not sweet Fiona! She must not die!

  Harlow wrenched his bow from his shoulder to fit an arrow to the sinew.

  “Jesu!” Leith breathed, astride his bay mount, seeing Harlow at the hill’s crest, bow bent. Nay, Jesul he pleaded, and, sweeping up his own bow, he set his arrow to flight just a heartbeat after Harlow’s.

  He saw it pierce the lad’s side, saw the boy’s body jerk, nearly falling from his horse. But Harlow did not fall. Instead he gripped Beinn’s mane and turned to disappear below the hill.

  “Nay!” Leith shrieked, his soul aching with the certainty of Harlow’s quest to kill the lady he loved more than life. “Nay!” he railed again, kicking his mount into a gallop and thundering up the rise.

  He saw Harlow for only a fleeting moment before he was hidden from sight again. Beneath him, Leith’s mount heaved for breath. Far ahead a black horse emerged from a copse. “Rose.” He whispered her name. She was there, bent low over her mare’s dark mane, her hair hidden beneath a Forbes plaid. She was alive. Still alive.

  But there. Harlow rode on—following her like a hound with Beinn’s great strides closing the distance.

  Please, ]esu! Leith prayed, and took the downhill grade at a dead run. The bay stumbled, half-sliding down the slope.

  To the right, a movement caught Leith’s eyes. What? A man? A large body teetered to its feet.

  A wounded man? But who? How? Harlow’s arrow?

  No time to learn the truth! No time to stop.

  Sweet Jesu, protect her!

  She was a quarter mile ahead. No more. He had to stop her. He could not fail his Hannah. But the pain. It speared outward from the arrow, gripping Harlow in dark waves. He could not stop. Must save Fiona. Must prove his mettle. Beneath him the white stallion labored, his heart pounding, his great body lathered, his nostrils wide and flaring.

  A rock ahead. The huge stallion swerved. Harlow swayed, his splayed hand cradling the arrow that pierced him, his fortitude slipping and suddenly he was gone, sliding beneath the animal’s churning hooves.

  Rose pulled Maise to a halt before the MacAulay’s gate. Above the timbers a man heralded her.

  “I must see Laird Ian MacAulay!” she called desperately.

  “Nay,” answered the man, canting his head in an attempt to see beneath the plaid that covered hers. “Na one sees the auld laird these days.”

  “Not even the laird’s own?” she called, and reaching up, she swept the shawl from her head.

  “God!” gasped the man. Sunlight sparkled like unquenched flame from the woman’s loosed hair. Her chin was uplifted, her voice strong and sure in the still morn. ” Tis auld Ian’s lady.”

  “Nay,” breathed his partner, awe making his voice rasp. “‘Tis his daughter returned from afar.”

  “Or mayhap na kin at all, but a trickster sent from our enemies.”

  “Nay,” said the other. “Ye canna look upon her face and deny that she came from any but Lady Elizabeth. She is the exact image of the auld laird’s first wife.”

  There was a moment of breathless silence before the gate swung open.

  No hesitation. No delay. Rose was through, her heart racing along with Maise’s hoofbeats over the hard-packed earth. Past a small boy and his sister. Past an unhitched dog cart. She slid from the mare’s back and in a moment was through the thick doors of the hall.

  Faces turned to her. Jaws dropped, but she stopped for nothing, driven by the aching need that drew her toward Ian’s chamber.

  “MacAulay,” she breathed, rushing on.

  A man stepped before her, blocking her way, but she dodged him, hurrying across the floor and throwing open a door.

  Ian MacAulay sat bolt upright in the midst of his velvet-draped bed.

  “Father.” Rose breathed the single word, forgetting the lies she had told. Forgetting everything but this one moment—her head filled with eerie sensations she could no longer deny. Men streamed in behind her, reaching for her.

  “Nay!” Ian said, lifting one hand and startling them with the strength of his voice. “Nay.” He shook his head. “Leave us.”

  Ahead, Beinn stood with trailing reins. Harlow lay not far away, crumpled on the earth. But Leith had no time to stop, to question, to learn the truth, for the woman who held his soul was now inside MacAulay Hold.

  Pressing the bay onward, Leith thundered up to the timber gate.

  Huge hooves skidded to a halt, sliding in the churned earth.

  “Let me enter,” ordered Leith, his tone low and even, his expression somber and hard.

  “Nay,” returned the man who stood above the wall, his lance lowered toward Leith’s chest. “I have told ye afore. Na Forbes is welcome here.”

  “Let me in.” Beneath him the stallion lifted impatient hooves in a slow, cadenced dance.

  “Nay,” called the lance man. “I willna allow—”

  But he never completed his sentence for Leith had no time to waste. He spurred his mount forward and with three desperate swipes of Leith’s arm, the gate fell, severed and bent. With a roar, Leith pressed the bay on. The stallion reared, charging the break. Wood splintered, flying in all directions, and they were through, racing along the course Rose had taken only minutes before, but now there was another beside him—Roderic, his face a mask of determination “I am with ye, brother.”

  Vaulting from his mount’s back, Leith flew to the door of the hall.

  “Me lady!” He roared the words like a challenge. “If ye have harmed a hair on her head, me axe shall na be stilled till this keep floats in blood.”

  Warriors pivoted toward him, hands reaching for weapons.

  “Hold!” commanded a wavering voice.

  Heads turned.

  Ian MacAulay stood in the doorway of his bedchamber. And beside him, hale and straight and lovely, was Fiona Rose.

  Relief sluiced through Leith’s war-ready system, calming his fighting instincts, quieting the killing rage.

  “I will have her back,” he said, his voice barely audible, but his expression so dark his intent was obvious.

  “He broke through the gate, me laird,” announced the guard, rushing in.

  “Then I shall see him out!” challenged another, drawing his blade.

  “Nay!” called Ian in a stronger voice. “There shall be na blood shed here this day.”

  “Me laird.” Dugald hurried down the steps toward them. “Ye have only just regained yer speech. Ye must save yer strength.”

  “Save it?” Ian smiled, though only one corner of his mouth lifted. “For what?” He paused, straightening his back and seeming to grow younger as they watched. “What could be more important than the return of me own daughter to MacAulay Hold?”

  “With respect, me laird,” Dugald said stiffly, his gaze shifting to Rose’s face, “there is na proof that she be yer true daughter. Indeed, Murial swears that she is na.”

  “Murial.” Ian nodded slowly. “I fear he
r hatred for the Forbes has infected ye with its poison, Dugald. Too long has she mourned her brother Owen’s death. Tis past, and time to make a new future—a future where the Forbes and the MacAulays are again friends.”

  “Nay!” choked Dugald. “Too much has passed between us. There shall never be peace.”

  “Aye,” said Ian, his expression somber. “For the sake of me daughter, Fiona, there shall be.”

  “We know na if she be indeed yer kin,” spat Dugald. “But we do know that she is a Forbes—living with the verra man who kilt me brother by marriage!”

  Leith tightened his grip on his axe. “I didna kill Owen,” he said. “But the other is true. Fiona is indeed a Forbes now.” It was far too late to back away from the lies now. “Though she was once a MacAulay.”

  “Lies!” Dugald shouted, fists clenched. “All lies from the mouth of a filthy—”

  “Quiet!” Ian roared, then paled, looking weak as Rose gripped his arm to help him remain upright. “Dugald,” he said finally, his tone softened, his head shaking sadly. “Have ye na eyes? Or be ye too young to recall the lass’s mother?”

  Dugald’s gaze turned slowly to Rose, his expression hard, his jaw clenched.

  Beneath his glare Rose refused to flinch. Reality had faded into a blur, so that she was no longer sure what was a lie and what was truth, but she had proclaimed herself to be the old laird’s daughter, and now she must play out the game. Holding herself straight as a lance, her chin lifted, she spoke. “I am Fiona MacAulay, daughter to Elizabeth and Laird Ian.”

  “Nay!” Dugald snarled. “Ye are an imposter, brought here for Forbes’ devious purposes. To—”

  “‘Tis na true.” Ian shook his head, his voice firm with conviction, stopping Dugald’s words. “Forbes has brought her for me purposes. At me request.”

  “Me laird.” Dugald took a short step backward, his tone baffled, his scowl dark. “Why?”

  Ian’s old eyes softened. “I could na afford to lose ye to this mission, Dugald,” he said, “for me health was fast failing. I needed ye here with our people. Thus…” He shifted his gaze to Leith and shrugged. “I asked Forbes.” He smiled, looking younger. “A test of sorts, mayhap, to judge how dearly he wished for peace between us. And indeed …” He motioned toward Rose, who stood as still as a statue. “He must have wanted it a great deal, for he has dared much to bring her to me.”