The Warrior's Bride

by Amanda Scott

  Her actual manner of speaking stunned him briefly to silence. She spoke much as the women in his family did, so she was no ordinary maidservant.

  “You will have to explain your situation more clearly, I’m afraid,” he said. “I do not know what you meant by that.”

  “I meant that my appearance is not such that I can show myself.”

  Was it his imagination or had she sounded just on the verge of laughter?

  “There is little moonlight here in the forest, as you can see,” he said. “I doubt that I would see whatever it is that you’d liefer not show me.”

  “There is gey little to show, my lord.”

  He could not mistake it this time, definitely a near gurgle of laughter. His patience fled. More sharply, he said, “I can see nowt in this situation for humor.”

  “Nor do I, sir, I promise you. ’Tis not humor but hysteria, I fear.”

  “Whatever it is, I have had a surfeit for one night. Come out at once.”

  “I’m nearly naked,” she said flatly.

  He pressed his lips tightly together, suppressing the sudden strong urge he had to see her. Something in the way she’d said those three words challenged him to make her come out. Ruthlessly reminding himself that he was a gentleman and that it was likely that the spirit of his father, a gentleman in every sense of the word, was still watching over him, Wat said, “I have my cloak, lass. If I hold it up between us and give my word as a Borderer not to peek, will you trust me and come out?”

  Silence.

  “ ’Tis a gey warm, fur-lined cloak,” he murmured. “It even boasts a hood.”

  “I’ll trust you, sir. I have heard that your word is good. ’Tis just that I feel so… so…” The words floated softly, even wistfully, to him, and although she did not finish her last sentence, he heard rustling in the shrubbery and knew that she was trying, awkwardly or otherwise, to wriggle her way back out.

  “Can you manage by yourself?” he asked as he doffed his cloak and held it up high enough to block his view of the relevant shrubs. “Or should I try to help?”

  “I’ll manage alone if it kills me,” she muttered grimly.

  His lips curved, and he realized he was smiling. Until Cockburn’s arrival, he had felt utterly grief-stricken, miserable, even lost. He’d worried about whether he was ready yet to step into his father’s and grandfather’s shoes and assume all the burdens of his immediate family, Rankilburn, all of Clan Scott, Ettrick Forest, and the other Scott holdings; but her fortitude had somehow banished his despair.

  Whoever and whatever she was, she was damned intriguing.

  A low cry from the shrubbery almost made him shift the cloak to see what had gone amiss.

  “What is it?” he demanded.

  “Just another scratch,” she replied. “I’m nearly there.”

  He steeled himself to be patient, expecting her to remind him of his promise, as his sisters nearly always did when he promised them something. But she did not.

  Silence at last from the shrubbery told him she had extricated herself, and he sensed when she stood.

  “I’m here, sir,” she said quietly then, and he felt her move against the cloak. “My shoulders are a bit lower down than that, though.”

  Gently, he draped the cloak around her shoulders, noting that she was more than a head shorter than he was, and after she had pulled it close around her, he saw that she was slenderly curvaceous. He could also see that her long, dark hair was tangled and full of dry leaves. When she turned, he gasped at the scratches he could see, even by moonlight, on what was otherwise a pretty but exceedingly dirty face.

  “Are you going to tell me your name?” he asked, resisting an impulse to use his thumb to wipe away a bubble of blood from the deepest scratch.

  “I’m Molly, sir.”

  “Molly what?”

  “Molly is sufficient for now, I think,” she said. “It is kind of you to let me borrow your cloak,” she added quickly before he could object. “Mayhap you know of a tenant or one of your servants who might lend me a cot or pallet for the night.”

  “We won’t trouble anyone else,” he said. “I collect that you are not the maidservant that Will Cockburn and those others were seeking.”

  “What I am is cold and hungry, my lord. Those men and dogs frightened me, but I am as naught to them.”

  “Nevertheless, you are running from something, lass. No self-respecting female would be running about half naked in this forest without good cause. And prithee, do not spin me any farradiddle about being something other than self-respecting. I won’t believe you.”

  “The truth is that I am not feeling at all self-sufficient. I simply acted when the possibility arose, without due thought. Consequently, the great and fearful likelihood is that my actions will prove futile.”

  “Sakes, lass, then why did you run away?”

  Giving him a direct, even challenging look, she said with careful calm, “I have asked myself that question more than once tonight, my lord, and the answer is that I ran for no reason that you are likely to think sufficient.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  “Very well, I ran because it is… or, more precisely, was my wedding night.”

  More Amanda Scott! Read the first book in the Lairds of the Loch series,

  The Laird’s Choice.

  Available now.

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  Prologue

  Arrochar, Scotland, early August 1406

  They’re coming, my love! I must go.”

  The woman lying on the ground—nearly hidden by darkness, shrubbery, the thick bedding of pine boughs on which he had laid her, and the fur-lined cloak that he’d spread over her—opened her eyes and smiled wearily.

  “Keep… safe.”

  Had his hearing been less acute, he would not have heard his beloved wife’s soft murmur. As it was, he feared that he might never see her again.

  “I’ll come back for ye, mo chridhe,” he said. The certainty in his voice was as much for himself as for her.

  “Aye, sure,” she said. “I wish I could keep the bairn with me, though.”

  “Ye ken fine that it wouldna be safe. If she cried, they’d find ye both, and I’ll take her straight to Annie. She has a wee one of her own and milk aplenty for two.”

  “I know,” she whispered. “But guard our wee lassie well.”

  “I will, aye.”

  With that, he drew more shrubbery over her, but he could linger no longer. Sounds of pursuit from the north were louder, too loud. In the distance to the south, he could hear the raging river that might be their salvation. Reluctant though he was to leave her, he dared not let them catch him or all would be lost.

  Turning toward the last stretch of hillside he had to climb before descending to the river, he shifted the strap of his baldric and felt the reassuring weight of the sword and spear across his back. In the cloth sling he carried across his chest, his wee daughter nestled, sound asleep, one tiny ear near his beating heart.

  Cradling her in one large palm, he moved through the woods with the silence gained only by a hunter-warrior’s lifetime practice in such an environment. Pale rays of a slender summer moon slipped through the canopy to light his way.

  He allowed his pursuers to see him only once, as he hurried across a clearing in the moonlight. He knew they would easily spot his movements there from below.

  In the trees near the crest of the hill, he heard the river’s roar, still distant but louder. However, sounds of pursuit were louder, too. His enemies numbered a dozen or more, all warriors like himself. Doubtless, others hunted him all across his lands.

  His mind raced. Thanks to a late thaw, snow still capped nearby mountain peaks. But the days had been warmer for a fortnight.

  Although he had not seen the river for weeks, experience told him it would be running high, still in snow spate. The glen that it had cut was steep-sided and narrow, but below where he stood, the river’s course flattened for a sho
rt way.

  With luck, he could cross it there in a manner that his pursuers would be unlikely to emulate. His primary concern was the babe he carried.

  She was silent, still sleeping. But if she cried, they would hear her. Also, the river would be too deep and too turbulent—in its long, plunging course—to cross without swimming. That fact was the very one that might save them, though. He tried to imagine how, carrying her, he could get them both safely across.

  The answer was plain. He could not. But safety lay only on the other side, on the sacred ground of Tùr Meiloach.

  He carried his dirk, his sword, and his spear. He had also brought his bow from the castle but had left it with his lady wife. She had kept her dirk, too.

  Although she had assured him she would keep safe until his return, he held no illusions. In such matters, he had never doubted her, nor had she ever proven wrong. But as weak and exhausted as she was now, she could not defend herself against so many had she every weapon in Scotland at her disposal.

  Her only hope, and thus his own, was that he succeed in getting their bairn to safety. Then he could return for her.

  Reaching the swiftly flowing river at last, unable to hear his pursuers over its roar, he wasted no time in deliberation but untied the sling. Then he pulled his spear from its loop on his baldric, uncoiled the narrow rope he’d wound around his waist against any such need, and fashioned a knotted cap with it for the blunt end of the spear. Working swiftly, he found two suitably curved lengths of bark, bound the swaddled babe inside a bark shell and then securely to the center of his spear. Then, hefting the result, he gauged the distance, hesitated only long enough to hear male voices above the din of the river, and let fly with the spear.

  He knew he had chucked it far enough, that his arc was high enough, and that his aim would be true despite the added weight of the babe. But if the high end of the spear struck a tree branch, or if he had misjudged the position of the babe on the spear, she might land too hard. The spear might also hit a boulder. He knew that the thicket where he had aimed it boasted little such danger. But the Fates would have to be in a gey gracious mood for such a daring act to succeed.

  If it did, the spear’s point would bury itself in pine duff and soft dirt, the knotted rope cap at its top end would prevent the babe in her swaddling and sling from hitting the ground, and the bark shell would prevent any other damage.

  Then, if he made it across the river to her, all would be well. Muttering prayers to God and the Fates, he hurried to the upper end of the river’s flat section, arriving just as the sudden, unmistakable baying of a wolf struck terror into his soul.

  His pursuers’ shouts were loud enough to tell him they were topping the rise, so he knew they had not seen him throw the spear. Also, he could at least be hopeful that the river’s noise would prevent their hearing the babe’s cries when she squalled. And she surely would, if not now then later, unless…

  That thought refused to declare itself. He had to focus on his own actions now and draw his pursuers as far from his lady as he could. If they thought he was dead, so much the better. But they would have to see him in the river first.

  Accordingly, he waited until he saw movement on the steep hillside above him. Then he leaped onto a moonlit boulder that jutted into the roiling flow.

  Hearing a shout above, knowing that they had seen him, he flung himself into the torrent. Although the shock of the icy water nearly undid him, he ignored it and swam hard. Letting the current carry him, he also fought it to swim at an angle that would, he prayed, carry him to the opposite bank before it plunged him over the hundred-foot waterfall into the Loch of the Long Boats and out to sea.

  When the river swept him around a curve, he swam much harder for the distant shore. His pursuers could not move as fast as the water did. And, if anyone was daft enough to jump in after him, he would see the fool coming. He also knew, though, that if he mistimed his own efforts, the sea gods would claim him.

  Minutes later, nearing the shore and battered by unseen rocks beneath the surface, he dragged himself out and lay gasping in unfriendly shrubbery to catch his breath. Then, creeping through the shrubs, he prayed that the hilt of the sword still strapped across his back would look like a branch if anyone saw it moving. As fast as he dared, he made his way to the shelter of the trees and back up the river glen.

  He heard only the water’s roar. Then, as that thought ended, he heard the wolf bay again, a she-wolf by its cry. Finding a path of sorts, he increased his pace.

  The usual fisherman’s trail lay underwater. So this was a deer trail or a new one to the river from Malcolm the sheepherder’s cottage. In any event, the warrior’s finely honed sense of direction told him that the cottage stood not far away.

  He soon reached the clearing, where he saw a pack of wolves gathered close around the spear. The weapon with its precious burden had landed perfectly.

  The wolves’ heads turned as one at his approach, their teeth viciously bared.

  He halted, terror for his child again clutching his throat. When the leader lowered to a crouch and crept slowly toward him, he could almost hear its growl. The others watched, their narrowed eyes gleaming reddish in the pale moonlight.

  The warrior stood still. Hearing a faint sound above the river’s rushing roar, he recognized it for his daughter’s wail of hunger… or pain.

  It stopped as suddenly as it had begun.

  The lead wolf stopped, too, still in its threatening crouch, ready to spring.

  The warrior drew his sword and took a step forward, mentally daring the beast to charge him. He had counted a half-dozen in the pack. But now he saw other dark, beastly shadows moving through the trees behind them, too many to count and far too many to kill before the pack would take him down.

  The lead wolf, unmoving, bared its teeth again.

  The man stood watching it, sword ready, long enough for the icy chill of his wet clothing to make him shiver.

  Then, abruptly, the wolf rose, turned away, and vanished into the forest.

  The others followed.

  The baby remained silent.

  Chapter 1

  Tùr Meiloach, Scotland, mid-February 1425

  Dree, what’s amiss?” fifteen-year-old Muriella MacFarlan demanded as she stopped her spinning wheel and pushed an errant strand of flaxen hair off her face.

  Tawny-haired Andrena, now six months into her nineteenth year, had stiffened on her stool near the fireplace in the ladies’ solar. Dark blue eyes narrowed, head atilt, listening but with every sense alert, Andrena remained silent as she set aside the mending she loathed.

  “Dree?”

  Standing, holding a finger up to command silence, Andrena moved with her usual athletic grace to the south-facing window, its shutters open to let in fresh, sun-warmed afternoon air that was especially welcome after the previous night’s fierce storm. She could see over the barmkin wall to the steep, forested hillside below and others rolling beyond it to the declivity through which the river marking their south boundary plunged into the Loch of the Long Boats and on out to the sea.

  When Muriella drew breath to speak again, the third person in the room, their seventeen-year-old sister, Lachina, said quietly, “Murie, dearling, possess your curiosity in silence for once. When Dree knows what is amiss, she will tell us.”

  After the briefest of pauses, and not much to Andrena’s surprise, Lachina added, “Is someone approaching the tower, Dree?”

  “I don’t know, Lina. But the birds seem distressed. I think someone has entered our south woods—a stranger—nay, more than one.”

  “Can you see who they are?” Muriella demanded. Resting her spindle in its cradle, she moved to stand beside Andrena at the window.

  “I cannot see such a distance or through trees,” Andrena said. “But it must be more than one person and likely fewer than four. You see how the hawks soar in a tight circle yonder. Such behavior is odd even for goshawks. Forbye, if you look higher, you’ll see an osprey above
them. I’m going out to have a look.”

  In the same quiet way that she had spoken to Muriella, Lachina said, “The woods will be damp after such a furious storm, Dree. Mayhap you should tell our lord father what you suspect, or Malcolm Wylie.”

  “What would you have me tell them?” Andrena asked with a wry smile. “Would either of them send men out to search for intruders merely because I say the birds are unsettled?”

  Lina grimaced. They had had such discussions before, and both of them knew the answer to the question. Andrew Dubh MacFarlan would trust his men to stop intruders. And his steward, Malcolm Wylie, would look long-suffering and declare that no one could possibly be there. By the time either decided, for the sake of peace, to send men out to look, there would be no one. Andrena had suggested once that their men had made more noise than the intruders did. But her father had replied only that if that was so, her intruders had fled, which was the best outcome.

  “I’m going out,” Andrena said again.

  “Surely, men on the wall will see anyone coming,” Muriella said, peering into the distance. “Both of our boundary rivers are in full spate now, Dree. No one can cross them. And if anyone were approaching elsewhere, watchers would blow the alarm. In troth, I think those birds are soaring just as they always do.”

  “They are perturbed,” Andrena said. “I shan’t be long.”

  Her sisters exchanged a look. But although she noted the exchange, she did not comment. She knew that neither one would insist on going with her.

  Instinct that she rarely ignored urged her to make what speed she could without drawing undue attention to herself. Therefore, she hurried down the service stairs, deciding not to change from her green tunic and skirt into the deerskin breeks and jack that she favored for her solitary rambles. It occurred to her that she would have no excuse, having announced that strangers had entered the woods, to say that she had not thought anyone outside the family would see her in the boyish garb.

  Andrew did not care what his daughters wore. But he did care when one of them distressed their mother, who had declared breeks on females to be shameful. Moreover, the mossy green dress would blend well with woodland shrubbery.