Her Highland Defender

by Samantha Holt

  He went to sit but a sting in his side prevented him. “Hell’s teeth,” he hissed, placing a hand to his ribs. The wound wouldn’t be fatal, he didn’t think, but it was painful and likely needed sealing. He couldn’t leave it open for long.

  Blane opted for rolling onto his side, and finally pushing up. Water streamed from his hair and he swiped aside the drops before coming to his feet. He climbed away from the river to the muddy bank and eyed the dark skies. From the puddles in the mud, it had been raining hard and was likely to continue to do so.

  He could find shelter. Or he could pursue the English. He stopped and steadied himself as a wash of pain rolled over him. The sting in his side was nothing. It was the memory of Ceana, lying prone on the floor. Was she dead? Nay, she couldn’t be. He would know it, surely?

  Would she think he had abandoned her? It had been the only way. He couldn’t risk her death and he needed to survive to come after her. He hadn’t counted on her trying to fight against her captor, though. Nor had he been sure he’d survive the fall.

  But survive it he had. And now he needed to get Ceana back.

  Blane glanced at the thick, steely clouds. He lifted up his shirt and eyed the laceration. It could wait for treatment. Once he had Ceana back, he’d worry about it. For now, he tore a strip from his shirt and bound it around his waist, pulling it tight.

  Drawing in a breath, he began his journey. They’d be headed toward the English encampment most likely. He hadn’t seen it himself but every Scot in the land knew where the Sassenachs had made camp for the impending battle. It would be a long journey on foot.

  He offered up a silent prayer for Ceana’s safety. Was she well? Had she been gravely injured? Was she in pain?

  As he made his way out of the forest and followed the river path through the hills, he pushed aside those thoughts. They would not help. His focus had to be simply getting to her. Once he was at her side, he’d worry about any injuries she’d sustained. The lass was strong enough to survive on her own with impaired sight for so long, surely she could endure a few Englishmen?

  The night came far too soon. He continued as long as his legs would carry him. Shafts of pain speared him intermittently and he became aware of bruises and scratches he must have garnered from his plummet down the falls. Though he desperately wanted to catch up with Ceana as quickly as possible, he was no good to her dead or beaten down by exhaustion so he found a boulder large enough to provide some shelter should it rain. The ground was damp through his plaid, but fatigue weighted his lids and he slept fully until the next morning.

  He travelled for two more days with no sign of the English. When he paused to study the barren hills, he spotted a group of travellers—lowlanders. They were armed but unlikely to pose a threat to him. The Scots often battled one another but for now they were united against but one enemy.

  However, he still approached with caution, a hand to the pommel of his sword. The three men reacted similarly.

  “How goes it?” one asked.

  “Well, thank ye.” He darted an uneasy look around. “Have ye seen any Englishmen on yer travels?”

  The man, who looked to be around a decade older than himself, nodded. “Aye, some five miles back. They outnumbered us so we avoided them. Likely readying themselves for battle.”

  “Aye, is there word on Bruce and his men?”

  “’Twill no’ be long before he faces the English. A fierce battle ahead, I reckon. Are ye looking to join the fight?”

  “I’ve a different battle to fight,” Blane said tightly.

  “Those Sassenachs?”

  “Aye.”

  “We heard there were English roaming the hills, causing all sorts of devastation. My sons and I are to check on the settlement not far from here.” He pointed over the brow of the hill. “Should ye need food and rest, we welcome all fellow Scots, especially those with a strong sword arm.” The older man glanced him up and down. “Ye look in need of it.”

  “I thank ye but I must make haste.”

  “If yer after that woman with them, I fear ye may be disappointed.” His grey eyes softened in sympathy. “I dinnae like breaking bad news but I would not see a strong man such as yerself go into battle for naught.”

  “What is yer meaning?” Blane tried to ignore the way his heart gave a painful thump against his chest.

  “If she’s still alive, I have my doubts she will be for much longer.” The man pressed his lips together as though debating what to tell him. “They were dragging her. Behind a horse.” He shook his head. “They finally put her over the beast but a lass cannae survive such an ordeal, surely?”

  Blane swallowed hard. He felt as though a rock had replaced his heart, hard and heavy. It weighed him down and all strength seemed to dessert him. His knees gave way and he fell to them. The man patted him on the shoulder.

  “No doubt ye did what ye could.”

  He shook his head. “Nay—” His voice fractured.

  “I’d lend ye my sword arm but...”

  Blane didn’t even look up at the man. “’Twas my fight.” He drew in a breath. “Still is.”

  “Well, good luck to ye.”

  The three men walked away. Blane felt the burn of tears in his eyes and the weight of grief in his body, as though he was under the waterfall again, being battered against the rocks by the fall of water.

  He tried to imagine Ceana surviving such a thing. She was a strong lass in will, aye, but in body, not so much. There was too little of her. She’d been going without for too long. How could she possibly have survived being dragged behind a horse?

  Bile burned up his throat and pressed his palms to the damp grass as he retched a little. He took a deep breath and forced himself back to his feet. Sitting here wouldn’t help her. If she was dead, he had further revenge to seek and if she was alive, he had to get to her.

  Blane sprinted. It didn’t matter that his side burned or that his breaths rasped in his chest. He was no young man anymore but the aches and pains meant nothing. Though he had to slow his pace, when he climbed the rise of a hill, giant grey stones forcing him to take a winding path, his determination did not wane. He had to be close.

  He was.

  Blane crouched and eyed the large encampment. Trails of smoke rose from between white tents. Men milled about but it was quiet for such a big camp. Many of the soldiers would be on the battlefield, mayhap. He considered his fellow countrymen and offered up a prayer for their victory. Depending on what had happened to Ceana, he would join them if he could. His life would not be worth much if she was truly gone anyway.

  He remained there until dusk. The grey light slipped over the landscape like a sheet. Clouds remained coated the skies and for that, he was grateful. He would have a better chance of slipping in unnoticed without any stars or the moon to highlight him. The glow of the fires revealed the position of the tents. From his observations, he’d not been able to spot Ceana. If she was alive, she’d be hidden away mayhap, until ransom could be demanded.

  He needed to search the tents.

  Blane slipped his blade out of his belt, eyed it with a nod. He would spill more English blood this day. Mayhap his would join them and soak into the lush Scottish land. He had only two aims. Find Ceana, seek revenge. If she was dead, let him join her.

  Slotting his sword back into his belt, he made his way down the mountain toward the camp. A few men roamed the perimeter but they wouldn’t be looking for a single man. They’d expect Bruce and his army to steal in mayhap, but not a warrior alone. It was easy for him to slip between the tents and follow the corridors the fabric walls created. He paused to listen for word of Ceana but there were none so he moved on.

  Blane continued like this, stealing a peek in when he could, listening for word of her until he came upon a tent with a man stationed outside. He recognised him from the falls. Crouching, he lifted the edge of the material and his heart stilled.

  Without hesitation, he stood and drew out his dagger. He carved a slice in
the fabric large enough for him to slip through.

  Too late. Bitterness burned the back of his throat and he dropped to his knees next to her body. Too late. Ashen face, limp body. Beaten and bruised. Dried blood coated one side of her face. He thrust aside his dagger and blade so as to press his hands beneath her. His eyes grew hot, and he scooped her up to bury his face against her. Her body was cold and lifeless in his arms.

  “Forgive me,” he rasped.

  Blane lifted his head away to eye her face and her still lashes against her skin. He went to kiss her. Something hauled him back.

  Someone.

  Another man joined him. He fought them briefly but his strength had deserted him. They had him bound and dragged out of the tent before he was even able to kick out. All he could do was continue to mutter, “Forgive me.”

  They bound him to a wooden pole, muttering curses in English that he hardly took the time to understand. His arms pulled tight above him until his shoulders burned. The Englishmen spat words at him but he didn’t take them in. He eyed the tent that held Ceana’s body and prayed for forgiveness. Mayhap her family would gain revenge for her.

  The fists came next. He hardly felt the blows. The gash on his side split open and blood seeped into his shirt. Even in the firelight he saw it blossom into an ugly red stain. That was good. He’d join her soon enough.

  A crack across his face and he tasted the metallic tang of blood.

  “You should have stayed away, Scot.”

  It was only then, he recognised the man doing the beating as the one who had stuck his blade in him.

  “If ye want to kill me, then kill me, ye coward,” Blane managed to spit through swollen lips.

  The man shook his head. “Nay. You killed many of our men. Now, I do not have to share the rewards, which is well enough, and really I should be thanking you for that, but I am a man of honour and I must ensure my fellow countrymen are avenged.” He stepped close. “I am sure you understand as much.” A glint in his eye told Blane this man knew exactly how much he longed to slaughter them all to avenge Ceana. “You’ll die slowly and painfully.”

  Another blow to his gut cut off any response. Then the Englishman drew out a knife.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Something cold startled Ceana awake. She jolted upright and cried out as pain wracked her body. A hand clamped over her mouth and she screamed against it.

  “Shhhh.”

  The fingers over her mouth slowly eased away and she brushed the water from her face. The front of her gown was soaked and the lad who’d been holding her sheepishly dropped the bucket of water he’d just thrown over her. She vaguely recognised him as the lad who’d brought her food upon her arrival but she’d been unable to eat it in her delirious state. The light inside the tent told her it was daytime. She had lost at least a day by her reckoning.

  She scrabbled back and pressed herself up against the fabric of the tent. If the guards had let him in here, they likely did not care what he did with her.

  “I mean you no harm,” he said, offering his hands out in a placating manner. He knelt beside her. “The men have been summoned to fight. There are few around. The battle will end this day and it is likely we face defeat from what I hear tell of. We shall be leaving soon.”

  Ceana blinked at him.

  “You must escape now. Do not wait. Get as far away from here as possible.”

  “W-why are ye helping me?”

  “In spite of what you Scots may think, we are not all barbarians.”

  “That is what ye think we are, do ye not?”

  “We fight for our king, naught more. ‘Tis a job. I am a musician. I have no wish to see men dead but I must earn my coin where I can. Most of us fight simply because we have no other way of surviving.”

  “Och, men are fools.”

  “That we are. Now you must flee. Do not stop until you are safe.”

  Ceana eased to her feet. How far she would get, she knew not, but mayhap she’d find a settlement nearby and someone would take sympathy on her. The thought of days travelling alone with nothing but her memories of Blane created an empty ache inside her but she had to return home. Her sister and mother needed her.

  “I thank ye. What is yer name?”

  “Reynard.” The young man said with a shy smile.

  She leaned in and kissed his cheek. “God shall reward ye for yer compassion.”

  “I think ‘tis too late for any of us. God will not look kindly upon these deeds.”

  “Yer a good man, I am sure of it. God will have mercy.”

  “Go,” he urged.

  Ceana lifted away the flap of the tent and took a breath. She let her eyes adjust and listened carefully. Reynard was right, the camp was almost deserted.

  “Sweet Lord,” she whispered.

  She flew to him and wrapped her arms about his bared torso. It was him, she’d recognised that dark hair and strong build with ease. Sweat and what she suspected was blood greeted her fingers. His chest rose and fell with rasping breaths, reassuring her that he lived yet. Easing back, she lifted her hands to his face and cradled his swollen jaw.

  Blane jerked his head away from her when she touched his mouth.

  “Ceana,” he croaked.

  “Aye, love.”

  “Jesus Lord. Yer alive.”

  “I though ye were dead. I thought they’d killed ye.” She dropped her head to his chest and held back the tears.

  “And I ye. I should have known ye were too strong to let them kill ye.”

  “We must leave, Blane.”

  He groaned. “I cannae. I’ll hold ye back and ye are no big enough to untie me.”

  “I willnae leave ye.” She lifted her head and eyed the pattern of his face. She wished now she could make out his expression.

  “Ye must.”

  “Never.” Ceana wrapped her fingers around his neck. “Never.” She stretched upward to try to find the knot in his bonds. Ceana tugged. Pulled. Fought with the ropes.

  “Ceana,” he snapped, breaking her frantic battle. “If the English catch ye again, ye will put yer father in danger. Ye cannae do that, and I cannae outrun them or protect ye in this condition. Ye must leave.”

  Ceana drew in a breath and held it. Her father. He would likely be in the midst of battle now. But the Scots were winning were they not? She had a potential army at her disposal if she could find them. Somehow, she had to save him.

  Voices made her heart jolt and she came onto tiptoes to kiss his swollen mouth. “I love ye,” she murmured. “Always.”

  “And I ye. I’d take a beating all over again for ye, Ceana. Yer a lass worth dying for.”

  Her throat clogged. “Dinnae say that.”

  The voices came nearer. “Go,” he urged.

  She gave him one last kiss and fled, darting between the tents. She moved with purpose in spite of the pain rattling through her bones. When this was all over, she would likely need days of bedrest but until Blane was safe, she would not even consider resting.

  Ceana found a few remaining horses, tied up not far from the edge of the camp. She had to dart into a tent to avoid being spotted. She peered out and could make out the movement of the men as they strolled past. Riding was going to be dangerous. She’d never been on a horse before. Too dangerous.

  But Blane needed her help. And fast.

  Listening intently for footsteps, she edged up to the horse, palms out. Cleaning out the stables meant she knew well enough how to handle one. But to ride one?

  She allowed the animal to nuzzle her palm and she whispered reassuring words to it. “I’ll need yer help. Ye’ll have to be patient with me.”

  Using a bucket to aid her up, she found herself atop the animal. Taking a heavy swallow, she grasped its mane and let it adjust to her slight weight before giving it a light jab with her heels. The horse took off, away from the encampment and to the north. It was likely a seasoned war-horse and knew well enough where it was intended to go. She only hoped they did not arrive i
n the midst of battle.

  She couldn’t say how long they rode for. Only that each hoof beat echoed the hammer of her heart. It was exhilarating and terrifying. If only Blane could see her. He’d be proud of her courage. And terrified for her too likely. She allowed herself a smile. He was alive. He’d been beaten and injured but he was alive, and she intended to keep it that way.

  “Woah there.”

  She tried to draw the horse to a halt as they came upon a group of men. Ceana squinted into the distance and recognised it as another encampment. But a Scottish one this time.

  The men managed to persuade the horse to slow and finally stop, then aided her down.

  “Are ye harmed, lass?” one of them asked. “Did those Sassenachs harm ye?”

  She shook her head. “I must get a message to my da.” Though she tried to wriggle away, the man held her arms fast.

  “Ye’ll no’ get far. The English are in retreat. Bruce has driven them back. The men are returning and ‘tis chaos.”

  “I need to speak with him!”

  “Aye, aye, lass, calm yerself down. We’ll find him. What is his name?”

  “Chief Donal of the Malcolm Clan. I am his daughter—Ceana.”

  “Rest a wee while, lass,” he told her, handing her over to another Scot. “See to her, Alan.”

  Though tempted to protest, Ceana was aware that these men would have a better chance of finding her father in amongst all the fighters gathered here this day. She eased down onto a makeshift wooden bench and accepted a skin of water. She gulped it down, spluttering as water hit the back of her dry throat. Pausing, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand before taking a more careful swallow.

  The man who had aided her onto the bench remained standing in front of her. “Can I get ye anything, lass? We've a surgeon if ye need one.”

  “I am no' harmed.” Her body might be bruised but she hadn't seemed to have broken anything though her toe panged every now and then from where she'd stubbed it against a rock. One of the lads at home had once done the same and fractured it. There was naught that could be done so she ignored it. “We are winning?”

  “The English have gone into retreat,” Alan told her. “The king abandoned them and they are in disarray. Our men follow.”