Highland Escape

by MacRae, Cathy

  Climbing onto the bed with her, MacNairn straddled her hips, crouching above her on all fours. Anna felt his hot, vile breath on her face as he leaned forward and licked her cheek. Without warning, she thrust her hips upward in a violent motion, throwing him forward into the stone wall, face first. Blood splattered warm across her skin.

  He moaned, stunned from the impact. Quickly, she slipped her wrists from the loops. Bringing her legs up around his head, she trapped his neck and one of his arms in a vise-like grip. She pressed her legs tighter, the pressure on his neck cutting off the blood flowing to his brain.

  Unable to utter more than a guttural protest, he flailed about, throwing them off the bed, almost dislodging her hold with the fall. Anna hit the edge of the bed frame hard, and a sharp, stabbing pain lanced through her side. She ignored the pain and flexed, squeezing tighter as his face turned a dark purple-red. His body flopped forward as he passed out, and she released him to scramble quickly onto his back. Grabbing his chin in one hand and his hair the other, she twisted his head with all the force she could muster. The resulting crack sent MacNairn to meet his son in the afterlife.

  She listened for the guard to react to the sounds of their thrashing about, but realized he likely believed his laird to be simply enjoying himself—vigorously. Dismissing the thought with a snarl of disgust, she rechecked the room for clothing, finding none. Left with no option, she took the laird’s. Dressed in a leine that stank of him, Anna forced the revulsion out of her mind as she put on his kilt, buckling his broad leather belt about her much smaller waist, and more importantly, snatched his sgian dubh.

  Looking closely, she recognized the small blade Duncan had given her with the MacGregor crest. No doubt MacNairn had considered her dirk a sort of trophy. She shoved her feet into his boots, but they were much too large, more of a hindrance than help, and she kicked them aside.

  Calming herself for the next part, she made sure MacNairn’s body lay hidden by the bed. Lifting the bar from the door, she opened it only a crack. Dagger drawn, she crouched behind the portal.

  The guard stole a look into the room. “Laird?” he called tentatively. Placing a hand on his dirk, he stepped into the room and took a sudden step toward the bed before he halted. Springing from behind the door, Anna kicked the back of his leg, driving one knee to the floor. A quick draw of her dagger across his throat sent him sprawling, bleeding his life out into the rotted reeds. She shut the door and barred it, kneeling to unbuckle the guard’s belt and collect his weapons. In addition to his sgian dubh, he carried a bollock dirk almost as long as her short swords, and a broadsword of questionable quality.

  Out of breath from exertion and weak from fever and lack of food and water, she fought a wave of dizziness as she wiped sweat from her brow. With the immediate danger eliminated, she attempted a deep, calming breath, but the pain in her ribs cut like a blade. She hissed through the agony and waited for it to pass, then strapped on every weapon, feeling more confident now that she was armed.

  She glanced out the window as the noise outside rose. From the distance to the ground, she appeared to be on the second level of a three-level tower with a wood-and-beam structure above her. Searching the guard’s sporran, she withdrew a large flask of whisky.

  After opening the shutters on the window to allow more air, Anna piled the small wooden table and two chairs atop the bed. She used the whisky to soak an old tapestry hanging on one wall. The top of the moth-eaten fabric reached high enough for flames to ignite the floor above. She emptied the rest of the contents of the flask on the heather-stuffed mattress, first lighting the tapestry, then the mattress, with the candle before exiting the room.

  Checking the hallway, she inched her way to the stair, sword and dagger in hand, each step feeling as though a knife pressed deep into her side. Closing her mind to the pain, Anna stopped in an alcove to listen for footfalls and voices. Nothing within the keep made a sound. All noise came from outside. The stairs ended in a large hall filled with tables, benches and a large hearth. She found it empty.

  The double doors stood ajar, allowing the sounds of battle at the walls inside. A glance around the bailey showed no activity, though the top of the walls were thick with MacNairn warriors armed with bows, most concentrating on the main gate. She scanned the wall and spotted a small postern gate unguarded from below. Only two men stood above it.

  Needing an additional diversion and way out, Anna silently made her way to the stables, sticking to the shadows along the way. She had to move quickly, as the fire in the tower would soon alert the men. Her muscles protested, echoing the pain in her side and head. Dizziness threatened to take over, but she willed it back. Slipping through a side door, she entered the stables.

  The horses stamped their nervousness, sensing the tension in the air from the battle raging outside. Stalking the length of the stables, she spotted a young man of no more than ten and two summers on duty, his attention on the window. Not wanting to seriously injure him, she quietly approached from behind.

  She struck a blow to the side of his neck with the flat edge of her hand, rendering him unconscious. Grasping his shoulders, she dragged the lad out the door and into the bailey. She grabbed a bridle from a hook and fitted a large, dark horse. Leading him to the rear of the stables, she opened each stall along the way, allowing the horses to walk out the large double doors.

  The score or so horses seemed confused to be free and entered the yard slowly. Anna tossed a lantern into a large stack of hay at the back of the stables, then led her horse outside. She clasped his bridle tightly and led him toward the unwatched smaller gate, the rest of the horses milling behind her.

  She picked the rusted lock, then jammed the guard’s smaller dagger into the upper hinge, bending the blade slightly, leaving the gate wedged open. The fires at the stables and tower grew larger, the men’s shouts warning her they’d been spotted. Forcing herself onto her horse’s back, she struggled upright, gasping at the pain in her side. The fires further agitated the horses, and they stampeded, neighing loudly in alarm. Discovering the open gate, they funneled out of the yard as fast as the small opening allowed.

  Pressing against the neck of her horse, Anna kept to the middle of the herd, hidden by the mass of frightened horseflesh. Once outside the gates, she rode directly to the edge of the forest a few hundred yards away. Reaching the shelter of the trees, she halted and glanced toward the keep for signs of pursuit. Only an empty field lay between her and the curtain wall. Flames lit the sky from the burning keep. She had escaped.

  Though the thin moon allowed little light, she could discern formations of men on the edge of the forest, and she made her way to the closest group. More than a dozen men armed with claymores, broadswords, crossbows and axes immediately surrounded her. Several carts rested near them. She’d apparently interrupted them loading a small trebuchet. Large ceramic jars rested in the carts beside the wooden apparatus. From the smell, they contained Greek fire.

  Anna slid to the ground and raised her hands, leaning against her horse’s shoulder. “I am Anna of clan MacGregor, betrothed of Duncan MacGregor.”

  A squat, bald man, who seemed as broad as he was tall, eyed her narrowly. “If ye are who ye say ye are, why are ye dressed as a MacNairn?” His voice rumbled as gruff as his appearance.

  “I had no choice of clothing and took what was available. If I can be brought to any MacGregor or Elliot, you can confirm my identity. I assume my capture is the reason forces are gathered here. Once it is known I am safely away from the MacNairn, many lives can be spared.”

  The bald man spat on the ground. “Aye, the Stewarts fight alongside the MacGregors and Elliots this day, but naught will save Baen MacNairn from his fate. His death is long overdue. If ye speak the truth, the MacGregor captain will be relieved his bride-to-be is free.”

  A warrior took her horse. Anna nodded her thanks. “The MacNairn Laird is no more. I broke the foul beast’s neck with my own hands,” she said, her voice harsh with pain
and anger.

  Her claim brought a buzz of speculation from the group of men surrounding them. The leader gave her an appraising look, suggesting he didn’t believe her.

  “Just the same, I will be taking yer weapons, lass.”

  She handed over the weapons she’d taken from the MacNairn, but hesitated in giving up her sgian dubh. Feeling the effects of her wounds—along with lack of food or water during captivity—bearing down on her, Anna hit her limit and staggered. She raised her chin and fixed her gaze on the man.

  “This was a gift to me from Duncan MacGregor. I shall not give it up willingly.”

  Seeing the MacGregor crest on the hilt, the man gave a hint of a smile and nodded. He turned his back and walked toward the main body of retainers. Anna followed, along with five other men behind, one of whom led the horse she’d stolen.

  They passed behind several more groups of Stewart warriors before finally arriving at a group of MacGregors.

  “Lady Anna!”

  She turned at the sound of her name and saw Liam break into a run toward her. Overwhelmed at finally seeing a friendly face, she stumbled the last few steps and embraced him.

  “Easy now, lass. The lairds and captain will be glad to see ye safe. I told ye, attack one MacGregor, ye attack us all.”

  Exhausted, she staggered behind Liam as they headed toward the lairds. In the darkness, Anna couldn’t see the rocks, and her bare feet suffered for it. She was past caring, and a little more pain made no difference. She heard her name spoken as others recognized her, some offering thanks for her escape. Anna was about to tell Liam she had to stop to rest when she spotted her betrothed seated on his bay horse.

  “Duncan.” Though it was barely a whisper, he swiveled in her direction. Before her next step, he held her in his arms.

  “Thank the saints, Anna. I thought I had lost ye.”

  The warmth of his breath brought comfort as he buried his face in her hair. But the weight of the past sennight caught up with her and she shook uncontrollably, clutching him as if her life depended on the contact. He brushed her hair back, his fingers grazing her wound. She winced.

  “Ye are hurt.” His expression of relief twisted into angered concern. He pulled her closer to examine the poorly stitched gash in her head, uttering a curse when she flinched as he touched her ribs.

  Tears streamed down Anna’s cheeks, drowning her attempt at a brave smile. She remembered what he’d called her the day she’d left. If he thought it then, what must he think now after spending days—and nights—in MacNairn’s dishonorable care?

  Taking her by the hand, he led her away from the front line. She managed only a few wobbled steps before he swept her into his arms. Carrying her to a large tent many yards behind the rear of the formation, he lowered her onto a pallet, calling for food and drink. Someone brought a water skin, bread and cheese.

  MacGregor entered, followed by her grandfather and a strong-looking older man she had not seen before.

  “Anna, thank the heavens ye are safe.” Morey Elliot addressed her first, squatting on the floor by her side. Seeing her wound in the lantern light, he asked, “How fare ye?”

  “I am feverish, fear—fear my wound is infected.” Still shaking, she fought back tears.

  “Anna, this is Aeneas Stewart, Mairi’s father, my father-by-marriage,” Kenneth told her, introducing her to the older man.

  The Stewart smiled warmly and nodded. “I see ye are as strong and brave a lass as my grandson tells me.”

  They waited patiently for Anna to gather herself before pressing for information. After taking a few drinks of water and a few bites of bread, she took as deep a breath as her injured ribs allowed and recounted what she could remember. Much of it was muddled, particularly her memories of when things happened. She had no idea how many days she’d been in MacNairn’s grasp. As she described what the beast intended, Duncan stood abruptly, hands curling into fists as he paced the small space of the tent.

  Anna knew better than to try to calm him, so she continued her tale. As she came to the point where MacNairn tried to take her, Duncan stiffened, his eyes closed. Mutters and gestures of disbelief filled the tent when she described how she killed the vile man. She quickly finished her story.

  “’Tis my Sprite, for certain. More strength and courage than a tower full o’ those bastards!” Elliot exclaimed as he hugged her gently.

  Anna’s body shook. She gazed at Duncan, hoping to draw from his strength. Moving to her side, he carefully cradled her in his arms, muttering tender words in her ear. She didn’t know why he comforted her, only that he did.

  She knew it wouldn’t last. Couldn’t. She wanted to relish every moment before he acknowledged her ruined. For all he knew, she’d been taken while unconscious, even though she knew she had not. Breathing in his scent, the feel of his arms around her, Anna let them imprint on her mind for when he would let her go. It would have to be enough. She knew with a certainty as strong as the mountains before her that she would never love another man like she did this one. Though he offered her kindness now, Anna knew he could no longer want her.

  Her grandfather kissed her forehead and followed MacGregor out of the tent, the Stewart laird on their heels. Closing her eyes, she focused on the man whose arms surrounded her. She used his warmth to push back the fear and shock. After a while, she realized he’d not moved at all. Had the reality of events finally sunk in for him? Would he continue this comfort as he emotionally withdrew, or would he turn her over to family for tending?

  It didn’t take long to gain her answer. Laying her on the pallet, he took a blanket and covered her. As he sat next to her, Anna watched the twitch of tension in his body. More telling was the cold creeping in, now that he no longer held her.

  Fiona pushed through the tent flaps.

  “What dammed fool patched up our lady? A blind man could ’ave sewn straighter. There, there, lass. Fiona will see ye right.” The healer cleaned the wound on Anna’s head, then applied an herbal dressing.

  “Check her ribs on the right side. I fear they are broken.” Duncan’s voice was low, detached, sparking a deeper chill within her.

  Fiona probed her injured ribs and wrapped them tight, allowing Anna to breathe more freely. Producing a brewed tisane from a small kettle, she poured the hot liquid down Anna’s throat as Duncan helped her sit.

  Too exhausted and feverish to struggle, Anna allowed them to handle her as they would. Her eyes heavy and burning, never left Duncan, searching for signs of his love she craved so desperately. His stiff actions and rigid body language said everything she needed to know. Too fatigued to mourn her loss, Anna closed her eyes and allowed sleep to bear her away.

  Chapter 26

  Duncan had seen Anna approach, barely able to stand, supported by Liam, and had never moved so fast in his life. Though she embraced him, he knew something remained amiss. She shivered, her skin scalding hot. He pulled away to look at her and brushed her hair from her face, grazing a wound on the side of her head. Though not large, the wound appeared poorly tended and very angry.

  Realizing she was hurt, he’d quickly checked the rest of her. She recoiled as he touched her ribs. Another injury. A cursory check in the dark would not do. Taking her hand, he’d walked her back toward the main tent. She took two unsteady steps before he saw her feet were bare. Enough. He scooped her up and carried her the rest of the way.

  Entering the tent, Duncan laid her on a pallet of blankets and furs. He called for food, drink and Fiona, using the lantern light to examine Anna further. Beyond her head, ribs, and a vast assortment of hateful bruises, no other serious injuries appeared. Her eyes told a different story. She ate a small amount, drinking as if the bastard hadn’t given her as much as a drop the entire time he’d imprisoned her.

  The lairds arrived and waited until she sated her thirst and regained her composure. The weakness in her voice unsettled Duncan, but the deadness in her eyes was his undoing. Her expressive green eyes always told exactly what
she felt. They snapped when angry, blazed with enthusiasm when they sparred, and darkened with passion when they loved. Now her eyes stared lifelessly from her pale, drawn face. He stood frozen, feeling as though someone had carved out his heart with a rusted blade.

  As she told her tale, rage rose and licked at his body as though he were staked to a raging bonfire. Anger roiled in equal parts at MacNairn for committing such brutalities and himself for setting the circumstances in motion.

  The killing of MacNairn and her daring escape would be talked about for years. When she finished her account, she could no longer speak properly, her voice failing. The lairds took their leave but Duncan had no desire to follow. Anna gazed at him, need heavy in her eyes, and he offered his arms. As she made a movement toward him, he gathered her in, gently rocking back and forth, murmuring reassurances that sounded empty to his own ears. She lay beyond comfort, but he gave what she allowed. He was uncertain how much of this night she would remember—for mercy’s sake, he hoped not much.

  Fiona entered the tent and gave Anna a thorough examination, clucking her tongue and muttering against the treatment she’d endured. Duncan lay Anna on the pallet and the healer first tended to her head, mixing an herbal paste to draw out the infection, then bound her ribs. Producing a steeped a tisane, they coaxed Anna to drink.

  “How bad is she?” A tremor of fear wavered in his voice.

  Fiona cocked her head to the side. “She appears to have cracked two ribs, but I am fashed aboot her head. The fool who tended it did her no favor. ’Twas poorly done and ’tis infected, giving her the fever. We must keep pouring this brew of feverfew and yarrow down her and keep her cool. She should be in a proper bed where we can see to her, not on a cursed battlefield.”

  The command and concern in Fiona’s voice told him all he needed to hear. Once Anna fell asleep, Duncan left her in Fiona’s care and sought his father. He found the lairds gathered with the other captains. They’d altered the battle plans now Anna was safe and MacNairn dead.