The Warrior's Bride

by Amanda Scott

  “They think they are,” he muttered.

  She recalled then that he did know them both, and better than he might have liked. So she said sweetly and with a fervent hope that neither Mag nor Ian would ever hear what she had said, “I do not know about such things, for no female can. But, if I recall aright, they said MacAulay is a much finer warrior and much more skilled with a sword and a dirk than either one of them is.”

  He made a strange groaning sound in his throat.

  “What was that you said?” she asked innocently. “I did not quite hear you.”

  “I said nowt. Now, hold your tongue.”

  If MacAulay was somehow still following them, Murie decided, she had to do whatever she could to divert Dougal’s attention. Accordingly, she said, “Ian said that MacAulay once defeated six opponents all by himself.”

  “Blethers.”

  “I know, but Ian did say that,” Murie said lightly. “In troth, I did not believe him at the time. But then Mag said that he had seen MacAulay take on four or five men, so I do think now that Ian’s six might well be possible.”

  Dougal fell silent then, which was eminently satisfactory to her, especially if he was worrying about MacAulay.

  He looked back up the hill behind them, though, and that would not do.

  She tried another topic. “You do seem to like abducting young women, which I think is a most dishonorable trait in a man. In troth, though, you have not been a successful abductor, have you? I know of at least two who outwitted—”

  “Devil take ye,” he swore. “It were bad enough that ye made up that bletherish tale, calling me Donal Blackheart and reciting it at God kens how many ceilidhs. But, by God, I’ll soon teach ye the wisdom to hold your tongue!”

  Murie shut her eyes, wincing in horror of what she might have unleashed.

  Focusing on the sword slashing down toward his head, Rob leaped sideways and, with one hand, brought his own sword up so fast and hard that it crashed against the other one and wrenched it from his opponent’s grip. As it flew with a clatter into the rocks, Rob gripped his own sword’s hilt with both hands and whipped the flat of its blade back hard against the side of his opponent’s head.

  The man lost his footing on the treacherous ground, fell, and cracked his head against a boulder.

  Scáthach’s man was also down and still, blood still oozing from a wound in his neck, the dirk he had wielded lying some distance away. The dog stood guard over him with every muscle and sense alert.

  Scarcely had Rob noted these facts than, with a shout of fury, a third swordsman appeared from behind a boulder, accompanied by a fourth.

  “Weapon!” Rob bellowed when he saw the fourth man move toward Scáthach. The dog was too agile and quick to let a swordsman hurt her, and she would now do all that she could to keep the villain occupied.

  With the well-sharpened point of his own blade and without ceremony, Rob dispatched the nearest man and then whirled to confront the one still standing.

  That chap, suddenly finding himself between the darting, growling dog and a highly skilled swordsman, turned tail from both and ran.

  Catching him easily, Rob jerked him back and around.

  The man flung down his sword and cried, “I yield, sir. Prithee, I yield!”

  Since none of the four attackers had tried to aid Lady Muriella, Rob deduced that this one, like the others, was Dougal’s minion.

  A sweeping look at the three on the ground, unmoving, told Rob they were dead, and he felt no remorse. To attack a man from behind was a dishonorable act for any warrior. They had brought death on themselves.

  “Prithee, sir,” the live one cried. “We did nobbut what we was told tae do.”

  Keeping the man’s right arm in an iron grip, Rob said, “You and these others take your orders from Dougal MacPharlain, aye?”

  “Aye, sir. Though, we all of us answer tae Pharlain in the end.”

  “Did you see the lady with Dougal?”

  “Aye, sure, though, in troth, sir, I… I ha’ me doots she’d be a lady.” The man was shaking, either from fear or from cold.

  Rob did not care which it was. “Do you not know who she is?”

  The man shrugged. “She were comely enough. So, ’tis likely, she be a lass Dougal wants. He takes his pleasures where he finds ’em, and we all ken fine that Pharlain keeps a spy or two at Tùr Meiloach. Mayhap she’d be one o’ them.”

  “Was she not struggling to escape from Dougal?”

  The man hesitated.

  Hardening his tone, Rob said, “Was she not?”

  Visibly swallowing, the other nodded. “Aye, but if a chappie values his hide, he doesna put hisself betwixt Dougal and his lassies—or nowt else, come tae that.”

  Rob’s hands itched to smack the man. He held his fire, though, aware that the person he really wanted to punish was riding farther away by the minute.

  Therefore, he said grimly, “That lady is Andrew Dubh MacFarlan’s youngest daughter, the lady Muriella. Dougal abducted her by force. Since it is the second time he has taken one of Andrew’s daughters, I mean to teach him better manners, but I will leave you to bury your friends if you can figure out how to do that.”

  “Aye, I’ll bury ’em,” the other said on a note of relief. “I’ll dig wi’ me dirk.”

  “You will not, for I mean to dispose of your weapons over the first cliff I come to,” Rob said. “You can dig your friends’ graves with your hands, or you can go back to Pharlain and Dougal and tell them where they lie, or…”

  He paused, eyeing the man’s ashen face thoughtfully.

  “Prithee, m’lord, I canna tell Pharlain or Dougal we failed. They’d order me flogged for no being dead m’self. Sakes, I’d liefer niver go back there at all.”

  “Then I’ll offer you one more choice,” Rob said. “Go through yonder pass to Andrew Dubh’s tower and tell him all that happened here. Then yield to him.”

  “But them what go to Tùr Meiloach do never be seen again,” the man cried. “Rockslides claim them if bogs or vicious birds and beasts dinna get ’em first.”

  “But true MacFarlans are safe at Tùr Meiloach, because its land provides sanctuary for them,” Rob said gently. “Men say that, too, do they not?”

  “Aye, but I ha’ long served Pharlain. Andrew Dubh would be more like tae hang me than gi’ me sanctuary.”

  “I have heard that Andrew welcomes any MacFarlan who swears fealty to him. Sithee, though, I’m told he can tell if the swearing is heartfelt or not,” Rob warned, seeing no reason to add the fact that he disbelieved that part himself.

  “If I say it, I’ll mean it,” his erstwhile assailant said morosely. “In troth, I’ve nae choice. But likewise, I’ve nae wife nor bairn at Arrochar tae miss me. I’ll go.”

  “Good, but tell me one more thing before you do. Were there not watchers up here—Andrew’s watchers?”

  The man tensed again but said, “Aye, there were, but Dougal said tae render them harmless. So them lads ye just killed, they killed them all and said that, by Pharlain’s reckoning, that were the only way they’d stay harmless.”

  “You had nowt to do with their deaths?”

  “No tae say ‘nowt,’ sir,” the man said wretchedly. “I watched tae be sure nae one else interfered.”

  “I’ll not hold you responsible for that, but go quickly before I change my mind,” Rob said. “Tell Andrew Dubh that I’ll make sure Dougal and her ladyship are truly heading for Arrochar and will report back to him as quick as I can.”

  “They’ll be going tae Arrochar, aye,” the man said. “Dougal were a-cursing the rain when we got here. He’ll be gey wroth with it by now.”

  Nodding but unwilling to trust the man completely, Rob followed him long enough to be sure he continued west through the pass. Then, calling Scáthach to heel, he made his way back as fast as he could to where the four had attacked him.

  Returning his sword to its baldric and the sheath that protected its sharp end and tip, he collected the
other men’s weapons and hid them well off the path.

  Being soaked through and no longer planning to spend the night out, he left his oiled skin where it lay, to retrieve later, and took a minute to slick his hair back from his forehead and retie it at his nape. Then, pulling his wet wool cap on again for added warmth, he set out, cautiously traversing the steep, wet slope of talus and scree beneath the precipitous ridge that extended northward from the pass.

  Scáthach moved in his wake with graceful ease, either unaware that she was soaked to the skin and traversing a dangerous slope or indifferent to both facts.

  The two riders below had reached the Lomondside path. Rob had no fear that they might see him or Scáthach, although he could see them, because looking downward kept the rain from pelting his face as he watched them. Looking up through the downpour, as they would have to do to see him, would be much harder.

  He let his thoughts dwell briefly on an image of the rain drowning Dougal if he looked up long enough, but focused on keeping them in sight. That the route Rob had chosen was a more dangerous one than theirs did not trouble him one whit.

  Firmly gagged again and grateful that Dougal had done no worse, Murie tried to imagine how she could escape. For the first time in her life, though, her imagination failed to provide mental relief from the reality of her situation. She tried to focus on what she had heard described in folk tales or otherwise about people escaping from dreadful danger. Instead, images of Robert MacAulay failing to fight off dozens of attackers filled her mind’s eye.

  In every one of them, he fell quickly and lay where his attackers left him.

  With tears welling in her eyes, she remembered her strange dream, when he had flung Dougal into the clouds, and wondered if that might mean she shared some of Lina’s prophetic abilities. That hope soon died, though. If she shared the gift of prophecy, would not the images that had just come to her be the prophetic ones?

  If they were not, how would she know the difference?

  Considering that you were wanting to murder the man just hours ago, a mean voice in her head whispered…

  What it might have whispered next, she did not know, because she shut her ears to it in much the same way that earlier she had shut her eyes to Dougal’s anger. She would not, must not, think of MacAulay being dead. Reminding herself that Mag and Ian had said that Rob was a fine warrior, albeit no finer than either of them, Murie let herself hope that MacAulay was at least skilled enough to fight off any man stupid enough to serve Dougal.

  Not that she cared so much about Robert MacAulay, she told herself firmly. He had tried to follow her and must have had thoughts, at least, about rescuing her. For doing even that much, one was obliged to be grateful enough to pray that he was alive. Because, if he was dead, no one would know what had become of her.

  Fortunately, her cloak and the heat of Dougal’s body against her back and legs kept most of her warm, but she had been hungry for a long time now. The aroma of the steam emanating from MacAulay’s cauldron had merely teased her senses before. Now she could hear and feel her stomach growling. She had missed her midday meal, and with the supper hour drawing nearer each minute…

  “I ken fine that ye’re hungry, lass,” Dougal said as if he were hearing her thoughts, or her stomach. “My lads and I ate the food we brought with us at midday, so I’ve nowt to give ye, but we’ll reach Arrochar by suppertime, and we’ll be near enough to hear the bell ring even if we’re a bit late.”

  She would have liked to say that she would eat no food he provided. But, since she could not talk, she made no reply. Her stomach rumbled again, though.

  The rest of their ride was uneventful, and tedious. Although she kept hoping that someone would rescue her, no one did, but she realized that she was a little curious about Arrochar. After all, it had been her parents’ home until her sister Andrena was born, and Murie had never clapped eyes on the place.

  Darkness descended, and the rain continued, so at first all she saw were pinpricks of light that shimmered in the rain. She was soaked to the skin by then, her hair dripping even under her hood. But she kept warm enough until Dougal drew rein before a small stone outbuilding and dismounted.

  “I’ll help ye down, lass,” he said. But she had already leaned forward, thrown her right leg over the horse’s rump, and splashed to the ground.

  Dougal caught her by an arm as if he feared she might try to run, but she was grateful, because she had trouble just standing. She felt tired and weak but retained spirit enough to tell herself that she was not afraid of Dougal.

  Then he took her to the stone building, which was no more than a shed. Removing her gag, he pulled the door open to reveal the darkness within and shoved her inside.

  Stumbling over her skirts on the uneven dirt floor, Murie nearly fell. The door slammed shut, and she heard a heavy bar fall into place on the other side.

  “May God rot your black heart and soul and see you underground for this, Dougal MacPharlain,” she muttered into the unknown, terrifying blackness. “If He does not, I swear that when I get out of here, I will.”

  Although cursing him did make her feel better for a moment, it was sheer bravado.

  The one place a fertile imagination is a dreadful affliction is in a small, pitch-dark, doubtless spider-filled shed with its walls rapidly closing in on one.

  Chapter 7

  Tùr Meiloach

  Rob met Andrew Dubh, a number of his men, and four Highland garrons halfway between the pass and the timberline. The rain had eased at last to a drizzle, but Rob was soaked and tired. Greeting Andrew with more relief than any other emotion, he said, “I found your fallen men, sir. They all lie to the right of the path where it begins to slope down, so I trust you’ve brought torches.”

  “Aye, well-wrapped ones, tinderboxes, as well.” Andrew turned to the two men walking right behind him and said, “Take three or four others and the garrons. Ye’ll bury our lads in our graveyard, o’ course, after ye bury them others. If ye need more shovels or aught else, send someone, and I’ll see ye get all ye need.”

  “Aye, laird,” the two said in unison.

  “Where is she, lad?” Andrew demanded as he turned and they started back down the slope toward the woods.

  “Dougal has her, sir. I assume that his chap found the tower and told you what happened.”

  “Aye, he did, and swore fealty to me, withal. I told him I’d decide in the morning what to do with him, but likely I’ll keep him. I canna blame the man for obeying Dougal’s orders, as he says he did. Pharlain isna the rightful chief of Clan Farlan, but he has acted as such for so long that even folks who support me but still live on the land he controls have nae choice but to obey him. Jamie’s Inverness Parliament may change that, though.”

  “ ‘May’ change it?” Rob said, surprised. “I thought you were going to prove your rightful claim to Arrochar there.”

  “I thought so, too,” Andrew said. “But to do that, I must be able to present my royal charters to his grace.”

  “Do you fear that someone might seize them on the way to Inverness?”

  “Nay, for I’m canny enough to protect them from theft.” With a grimace, Andrew added dourly, “In troth, I canna lay my hands on them just now.”

  “Sakes, sir, don’t you know where they are?”

  “I did until last summer when they vanished,” Andrew said. “I dinna want to talk about that now, though. Tell me instead how the devil that contermacious lassie of mine contrived to get herself abducted by Dougal MacPharlain.”

  “She told me she had come looking for you, sir,” Rob said.

  “Our Pluff told me as much, aye. I expect she were hoping for permission to walk outside the wall after her confinement, and Pluff didna ken he should keep her in. Sithee, I hadna told him or the others to do so, because I’d liefer not humiliate her so. But how did ye come to know what happened to her?”

  Without hesitation, Rob said, “I walked out with Scáthach this morning and stayed away until t
he rain began. When I returned to the cottage, I found that she had taken shelter inside.”

  Andrew snorted. “More likely, the curious lass took advantage of a few raindrops to see how ye were living in the cottage.”

  The image of her ladyship on the ladder, peering into the loft, leaped to Rob’s mind. “I won’t debate that,” he said. “I told her she should not be there, and when she said I’d not dare send her back out in the rain, I said it was the natural consequence of her own actions and put her outside with orders to go home.”

  “Good on ye, then,” Andrew said, nodding.

  “I don’t know about that, sir,” Rob said, grimacing. “I was thinking about her reputation—and my own, come to that. The result, though, was that instead of returning to the tower, she went toward the Wylies’ cottage and ran into Dougal.”

  “How d’ye ken that?”

  Rob explained, adding, “I’m afraid I had put Dougal’s trespassing out of my head, sir, believing that he would not do it again. But he did.”

  “Aye, that’s plain.”

  “When I heard her ladyship scream, I ran toward the slope and saw them heading up toward the pass.” Rob did not mention Muriella’s fall or Dougal’s manner of carrying her, but he did tell Andrew about the horse.

  “Had he nae others with him save the men he’d left to guard his back?”

  “None that I saw,” Rob said cautiously.

  Andrew nodded.

  Rob said, “Dougal’s man told me he was sure that Dougal would take her to Arrochar, but I followed high along the ridge and far enough to see that he was right before coming back here. I sent him to you because I knew you’d want to know about her ladyship and see to your dead. We must not leave Lady Muriella long at Arrochar, sir. Her reputation will be in shreds afterward now, in any event.”

  “Nay, nay,” Andrew said. He added bluntly, “Likely, Dougal hopes to marry the lass, so he and Pharlain will take care to prevent any suspicion of rape.”

  Rob stared at him, wanting to ask why the devil he would voice such an evil prospect for his daughter. Fighting down that unexpected surge of fury, he reminded himself that Andrew was entitled to his opinions, even if they were daft. Then he said with forced calm, “I’m not sure that even Pharlain controls Dougal.”