Highlander Betrayed (Guardians of the Targe)

by Wittig, Laurin

ROWAN SAT ON the hard ground, holding herself upright stiffly. The sharp burning in her side pulsed with each heartbeat. The deep ache in her shin and the echo of her headache throbbed in time with it. A faint nausea kept her from trying to get up again in spite of her need to see if anyone else was hurt, inside or outside the destroyed castle wall.

  But Jeanette wouldn’t let her up anyway, so she sat, stoic, as her cousin examined her injuries. In spite of the destruction that had just occurred, the thing that should be their sole concern in this moment, four surly Highlanders stood in a ring at Rowan’s back where she couldn’t see them but she could feel their wariness washing over her. She knew it wasn’t aimed at her but at the stranger who had helped her and Scotia escape the falling wall. Scotia stood behind her as well, but she was sure that was to avoid having to look Rowan in the eye.

  Anger pushed away the nausea and dulled the pain. If it were not for Scotia’s tryst, neither of them would have been in the path of the wall and all of them could be seeing to the needs of the clan right now, rather than hovering over her while her injuries were tended.

  “Who is with Auntie?” she asked.

  “Helen,” Jeanette said.

  Rowan stifled a gasp as Jeanette pulled the stone shard from her side.

  “Uncle?” Rowan grimaced as she twisted to look over her shoulder at Kenneth, the glowering man she loved like a father. His hair hung to his shoulders, a hint of the jet-black he’d had in his youth peeking through the steely-grey braids at his temples. “Is anyone else hurt?”

  “Hold still,” Jeanette said as she tore Rowan’s gown and kirtle a little more than the stone had. “You were lucky. It does not look too bad. I shall have to bind it, but I do not think you need stitches.”

  Her uncle suddenly moved in front of Rowan, drawing her attention with him. The three other Highlanders stepped up on either side of the chief, forming a wall of men with the women behind them. Nicholas must be returning, though she could not see around her kinsmen.

  “Was anyone hurt inside?” Rowan asked again, trying to stand to see if Nicholas had found young Conall, but her head swam. Jeanette’s firm hand on her shoulder pushed her back down to the ground.

  “Da, if you could answer her, she might not try so hard to get your attention that she further injures herself.” Jeanette shook her head and Rowan didn’t correct her assumption.

  “I’m not hurt that badly.” Rowan tried to hide the wince as her cousin pressed a cloth to the oozing wound in her side, then began wrapping a long length of linen around her torso to hold it in place.

  “No one was hurt but you,” Kenneth said, but he did not turn when he spoke to her, keeping watch on the hillside. “The wall is not going anywhere. I can attend to it when I’m done with the outsider Scotia spoke of.”

  “His name is Nicholas of Achnamara.”

  Kenneth grunted but did not move. She leaned over enough to peer between her uncle and the shaggy black-haired Uilliam, the chief’s best friend and Champion, catching sight of the stranger as he closed the distance between himself and the Highlanders.

  She had not really looked at Nicholas of Achnamara before. His touch had played havoc with her senses, but she’d been too dazed by their near escape to truly see him. He had broad shoulders, a trim waist, and it was clear, in spite of the dust that dulled its shine, that his hair was as inky as Scotia’s. But where her cousin’s was smooth and mostly straight, his was wavy and a bit wild about a face that was just rugged enough to keep him from looking pretty.

  “That is the man that helped you?” Jeanette whispered.

  Rowan nodded but she was trying to see if he had Conall with him. He glanced down at her as he drew to a halt a man’s length from Kenneth, then locked eyes with her uncle.

  “I found no one below,” he said and Rowan closed her eyes and gave thanks.

  “Who are you?” Kenneth demanded, icy suspicion frosting the air between them.

  “He’s the one that saved us!” Scotia’s heated words melted the cold and Rowan nodded, though she knew no one was looking at her.

  “Thank you for saving my sister and my cousin,” Jeanette said, standing and leaving Rowan the only one not on her feet. She pushed herself upwards, ignoring the burning in her side and the wooziness in her head. Jeanette sighed but helped her, looping her arm around Rowan’s waist. Rowan leaned into her cousin.

  “ ‘Saving’ is a bit of an overstatement, mistress,” Nicholas said, a smile on his face as he dipped his head slightly, though his eyes never left Kenneth’s. “I only helped them to safety.”

  There was a long silence and Rowan knew her uncle was weighing each and every word the man had spoken, determining the truth or lies therein.

  “Jeanette, should not you and Scotia be getting Rowan inside?” Kenneth’s question was a command.

  “But, Da—” Scotia complained.

  Kenneth raised a hand to cut her off but Scotia paid no attention.

  “—You owe him hospitality,” she said. “He has done a great service to the clan this day.”

  Kenneth growled again. “Jeanette, get them inside.”

  Rowan looked straight at Nicholas, waiting for some reaction from him that would reveal something about this man, this stranger, who had appeared out of nowhere just as the wall fell, but he never took his eyes off her uncle. Canny man.

  “Come on, Ro, Scotia.” Jeanette took some of Rowan’s weight as she turned her toward the castle gate.

  Rowan looked over her shoulder at Nicholas once more. She was grateful to the man for helping her escape the wall, but there were questions that needed answering: Why was he here, and who or what had he been looking for after the wall fell?

  “Come, Rowan,” Jeanette said quietly, urging her cousin along.

  Rowan limped where she’d been hit in the leg and took care to breathe shallowly. Scotia moved with them, trailing behind.

  “Try not to injure him too much, Da,” Jeanette said over her shoulder. “He did get two of your lassies clear of the wall.” She winked at Rowan. “Mostly.”

  NICHOLAS GLANCED OVER the chief’s shoulder and an unwanted concern further threatened his calm. The women were moving slowly toward the gate. Rowan limped and he knew the stone shard in her side had hurt, but she hadn’t complained once about pain, and none of these men had offered to help her, to carry her. He forced himself to take a deep breath and look away from the distraction of the women.

  But now he stared at the men who stood by and let Rowan limp into the castle with only her cousin for support. Would they have helped her if she’d cried and moaned? But she hadn’t. She was strong, stoic—and yet Nicholas itched to sweep her into his arms and…

  But he could not. He turned his attention once more back to the line of men in front of him. No matter how quickly Rowan had gotten under his skin, he had to stand here and face her scowling kinfolk.

  He’d already taken the measure of the chief. The man was fiercely protective, as was his duty, and he was used to having his orders followed without objection, and yet the impertinent comments from Jeanette revealed that he must have a soft spot for his family, for she showed no fear in speaking so and he showed no anger at it. Anyone who had dared speak to Nicholas’s own father that way would have regretted it quickly and painfully, as he had cause to know firsthand.

  “Who are you?” the bear of a man standing to the chief’s right asked. His black hair was so shaggy and his beard so wild, it was hard to see more of his face than a glimmer of eyes and the tip of his round nose.

  “Nicholas of Achnamara,” he replied. “And you are?”

  “It does not matter who he is.” Kenneth’s glare grew razor sharp. “What are you doing here?”

  No “Thank you for aiding my daughter and niece.” Straight to the point.

  And Nicholas must answer him.

  “I have been traveling,” Nicholas said, which was true. “I’m trying to find my way home again.” Which wasn’t.

  “You do not ken
your way home?” the bear scoffed. “Are you deep in your cups then?”

  Nicholas found it interesting that the chief did not seem to mind sharing this interview with the other man, as if they had done this many times together.

  “Nay, not deep in my cups.” He let the tiniest sliver of irritation sharpen his words. “Lost. I was but a wean when I left my home, only ten and two. It has taken me a long time to return and I confess I do not remember exactly where Achnamara is, except that it is in the Highlands.” Which was a lie. He knew exactly where it was, far away from here. “Do you ken where it is?” he asked the bear pointedly.

  The man grunted. “I do not.”

  “Where have you been all these years?” the chief asked.

  “My father’s home, in the borders.” Again, the truth would suffice and it would account for his rusty Gaelic.

  The bear bobbed his head a little. “That explains it.”

  “Explains what?” Nicholas tilted his head a little to the left, trying to see the man’s eyes. Did he suspect something? Did he distrust Nicholas’s story? It was, so far, the truth except for the part about looking for his home. He could not return to that place.

  “You are a Sassenach, no?”

  An old visceral reaction to the word—Sassenach, “outlander”—fisted in his gut. Everyone was an outlander to Highlanders. “Do you have a problem with that?” Nicholas raised his chin and stepped closer to the man.

  The bear stepped forward until he was nearly nose-to-nose with Nicholas. “That depends. Which side of the borders would you be from? The feckless English side, or the feckless Scottish side?”

  Nicholas fought a smile. He knew this dance and had instigated it himself many a time to throw an adversary off. He pulled his shoulders back, letting his chest puff out.

  “Well, your own dear da must have been from the feckless English side,” Nicholas said, cocking his head as if considering an interesting bug. “ ’Tis a pity your mum had not the good sense to turn him and his money away before they made a great lout like you.” Nicholas waited, still trying to see the man’s eyes for some clue as to whether he was about to get run through with a claymore, or had interpreted the insult as the test it seemed to be.

  “He’ll do,” the bear said to the chief and stepped back from Nicholas.

  “Perhaps.” The chief stared at him hard, as if weighing the truth in each word one by one and Nicholas realized how shrewd the man was. He’d let the bear goad Nicholas while he’d watched his reactions, judged him. “Where are you bound for?” he asked at last.

  Nicholas looked over at the castle, then back to the man standing in front of him. “Here, if you will allow it. I have been traveling for a long time. It would be nice to bide a while in one place. Perhaps someone here will ken something of my home.”

  Once more he could almost see Kenneth measuring his words for lies but since it was all truth, though not all of the truth, there were no lies to be found. At length he glanced at the bear and they nodded slightly to each other without exchanging a single word.

  “You can bide a short while here,” the chief said.

  Nicholas let out a slow breath and smiled but the chief’s glower got darker.

  “I said a short while, and you’ll have to work for your keep.”

  “Of course.” Nicholas knew there was more to come. No man invited strangers into the midst of his home so easily.

  “We’ve been the winter without news of the world,” the chief said, “and now it appears we have need of men to clear the wall.”

  “What do you ken of walls and their construction?” the bear asked Nicholas.

  Nicholas looked over his shoulder at the rubble field and shrugged. “I know how to run away from them when they fall.” A grudging splatter of chuckles ran through the two otherwise silent men. “Other than that, I’ve seen them built a time or two but know little of the ways of doing it.”

  “Do you have enough muscles to do more than run?” the bear asked.

  “Enough to take you down, auld man.” Nicholas grinned at him, playing the game the bear seemed to enjoy. “I have done a bit of labor in my life. I can help clear the rubble but I will be of no use building it back.” Of course he wouldn’t be here long enough to build it back anyway, but they needn’t know that.

  “Hmph,” the chief scowled at him. “You shall work with Uilliam here.” He jerked his thumb toward the bear. “The faster we can get the rubble moved, the faster we can rebuild the wall. You do not mind hard work, do you?”

  Nicholas shook his head, but he was still trying to find the catch in the invitation, for he was sure there was one.

  “And you’ll not be leaving his sight”—the chief leaned his head toward Uilliam.

  “Or Duncan’s,” Uilliam interrupted, echoing the chief’s gesture by jerking his thumb at the younger of the other two men. Nicholas judged Duncan to be about his own age of a score and five or possibly a little less. His brown hair whipped about his face, making it difficult to judge either his temperament or his precise age.

  “Or Duncan’s sight for any reason,” the chief finished.

  And there it was—the catch. He’d found a way into the castle but he wouldn’t have free run of it. It was good enough for the moment. Once he’d had the time to gain the trust of these men, the rest would fall into place.

  The chief stepped toward Nicholas until his craggy face blocked out everything else.

  “You ken that I’m granting you hospitality, aye?” He poked a sharp finger in Nicholas’s chest. “And with it my protection? In case your Sassenach father did not explain your responsibilities in such a situation, let me. You will bring no harm to anyone within this castle while you bide here. And in exchange, we will make you the same pledge. No harm to you while you bide within these walls. Do you accept our hospitality?”

  Hospitality. It was a Highland custom he had counted on and not something most of the king’s spies would understand. Never was such a promise of safety made in the English court and yet here, in the Highlands, where the world was full of dangers from men and nature it was a grant of reprieve from all that, an offer of safety, of comfort, of sustenance, however temporary, and in exchange he must vow the same—to bring no harm to these people. He swallowed, strangely unwilling to enter into an oath he was unlikely to be able to keep.

  But he had no choice. He needed access to this castle. If he did not accept he was sure he would, at best, be sent on his way; at worst, he’d be imprisoned… or dead.

  “I accept.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  ROWAN GRIMACED BUT refused to admit how much the cut in her side hurt in spite of the mint poultice her cousin had used to numb it. At least she had been the only one injured. And for all that it hurt, it could have been so much worse if the stranger, Nicholas of Achnamara—she liked the way his name rolled around in her head—hadn’t caught her when she’d tripped, hadn’t pulled her to safety.

  Rowan grunted as Jeanette poked at the cut, making sure all the stone was out. “That is enough, Jeanette. I have work to do.”

  “She is almost done, Rowan, but you will not be seeing to any work the rest of this day,” Elspet said from her bed. Scotia sat next to her with her arms crossed like armor and pique painted all over her face.

  Rowan wanted to argue, but she’d not tax Elspet’s fragile energy by doing so. “You know what a good hand Jeanette has for this work.” Pride twined through Elspet’s quiet praise. “If she says you will barely have a scar when it is healed, you ken that to be true.”

  Rowan didn’t care about a scar. But she did care that she hadn’t done her proper duty with Scotia. If she had kept a closer watch on her wayward cousin, she never would have been meeting Conall on that path and none of them would have been in danger when the wall came down.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t get Scotia away from there before the wall collapsed.”

  Jeanette looked up at Rowan, their faces so close Rowan could feel her cousin’s bre
ath on her cheek. “And what, pray tell, was she doing on that poor excuse for a path that was more important than being here with her mother?” Jeanette looked across to the bed and leveled a stern glance at her sister even though Scotia wouldn’t meet anyone’s eyes.

  Elspet managed to echo Jeanette’s question without ever saying a word. She simply turned her mother’s eye on her youngest daughter—but the girl remained stubbornly mute.

  The image of Scotia and Conall wrapped in each other’s arms flashed through Rowan’s mind, bringing the memory of the warmth and unsettling feelings that had swamped her when Nicholas held her hand in his. Remembering the heat of his touch brought with it the memory of his scent that had washed over her, earthy and fresh, like the forest she loved to wander. An unusual restlessness gripped her. It had taken more self-control than she’d thought it should to leave him to face her uncle and Uilliam.

  “Rowan?” Elspet’s voice wavered slightly, rising on a thin note of concern. Rowan retraced her wandering thoughts to find the question Elspet wanted answered.

  “I do not know what Scotia was doing on the path.” She closed her eyes as Jeanette pressed a pad of linen against her wound, soaking up the still oozing blood, thankful for the excuse not to meet her aunt’s. She hated lying to her but Elspet did not need more worries, especially not where her errant daughter was concerned. “But she did not want to come away and I stood there and argued with her.”

  “Is this true?” Elspet had a hand on Scotia’s arm. “Why would you not do as your cousin asked?”

  Scotia glanced at Rowan with a look that seemed to ask for help. Rowan shifted on the bench, searching for a way to explain without actually lying.

  “Be still, Ro. Scotia, go and fetch another kirtle for Rowan. This one”—Jeanette indicated the bloodstained one lying on the floor at Rowan’s feet—“will have to be mended and cleaned, though I know not if the blood will come out.”

  Scotia didn’t say anything but she did have the grace to mouth “my thanks” to both of them as she slid off the bed and made for the chamber door.