Heart of the Highlander

by Robbins, Kate

  “We will talk about this later, love. Right now, let us focus on seeing your brother properly put to rest.”

  Muren did not reply, only removed her hand from his. But she did not attempt to remove his arm from her shoulder, and for that, he held on to some semblance of hope that she was not completely furious with him.

  They entered the chapel and stood close to the front whilst the bishop conducted the service. His words barely registered with Rorie. How many lives had been lost and services such as these held since this king returned from England? So many that Rorie had lost count. The man was fat in form and fat in greed, and would not be satisfied until there was nothing left of the Highlands to claim. He would rape the land and starve its people, in order to pile more gold and garish decorations into his palace at Linlithgow.

  Something had to be done about him. For Ronan’s sake and for all others who had stood against him and lost. But to whom could Rorie turn? Albany was no better than the king, for he’d displayed a greed that benefited no one but himself. If the clans rose up against the king, then what? They might band together to fight off a common enemy, but they would never agree to form a sovereignty. They could hardly keep from slashing one another’s throats as it was.

  No. There must be another solution that would satisfy the needs of the greater good, but still afford each clan their own right to govern. But greed was a quiet menace slipping into the hearts of even the most righteous of men. For some, there was never enough land, never enough gold, and never enough power.

  Rorie wished he could live a life where none of it mattered. A small cottage on Rona, with Muren and a couple of paid men to help out, would make him happy for the rest of his days. These games played by the king and his nobles made his guts burn and left a foul taste in his mouth. By God, he would find a way to ensure peace for himself and his family. He would do it, or die trying.

  The bishop offered a final benediction, and Ronan was moved down into the crypt. Muren, Freya, and Fergus were the only ones permitted to enter. A stone slab had already been carved out for Ronan. It had been commissioned the same day he’d taken on the earldom and chief of the clan. Rorie’s clan had no such display. A simple burial and some reverent tunes were their custom.

  Upon leaving the crypt, Freya said, “Fergus, can we leave here today?”

  “Aye, love. We can travel on ahead and have your and the bairns’ things sent after.”

  “Good,” she said. “I need to be somewhere else for a while.”

  Rorie could not argue with her. She’d suffered the worst kind of loss, and sometimes stepping away from the place holding the most memories helped in the healing process. Muren squeezed his hand. He looked down at her lovely face. He disliked quarrelling with her so. ‘Twas loving her and cherishing her he wanted, not bickering. They’d both become caught up in the circumstances around them, and he was determined that as soon as they returned to Eilean Donan, nothing would be more important than settling into their new life—a quiet family life. Well, as much as he could afford, in any case.

  ***

  Muren trotted along beside Rorie on the road leading home. Her mother would not journey with them; she intended to help with the bairns until Freya was in better condition. When Fergus had tried to tell her that there were plenty of servants to help at MacKay House as well, Morag scoffed at him. Muren could not help but smile now. That dynamic would surely help bring Freya’s spirits back up.

  “What I do not understand is how you and your mother were not seen on the road travelling to Golspie,” Rorie said.

  “We took the old Roman roads.”

  “And they were passable?”

  “Aye.”

  “Well, that explains—”

  Rorie’s words were cut off by an arrow which pierced his shoulder. His horse reared and threw him to the ground

  Highwaymen! Would their misfortunes never end? Muren dismounted and ran to Rorie’s side. She rolled him to his back and inspected the arrow. He groaned when she pulled him to rest on his good side.

  Both horses were distressed, so she put her hands up before her and shushed them to calm. She then tied them each to a tree and scanned the area. Rorie was still on the ground and groggy from the fall. When Muren was sure she could not see anyone nearby, she went to inspect him closer.

  “Are you hurt anywhere besides your shoulder?” she asked in a whisper.

  Rorie shook his head and looked past her with a frown. Something cold touched her neck.

  “You will both live if you empty your purse, my lady.”

  Muren looked at Rorie lying on the ground. Mayhap this was the encounter that left him with a blade in his gut? No, by God, not if she could help it. She covered his brooch pin so that the highwayman would not be drawn to it, for it would surely give away Rorie’s status as a nobleman.

  “Stay down,” she whispered and looked away as his eyes flashed in anger.

  “You may have our purse and ten times that if you let us go.”

  “Ten times that, you say? Well then, get up, my lady, and let us make acquaintance. For if you can offer me that much coin, then you must be someone of more import than I first gave either of you credit.”

  Muren stood and turned to face the lout. She had no intention of paying him anything in addition, but to find an excuse to lure him to where help could be found. They were not far from MacKenzie lands, by her estimation. Surely she could entice them into a trap by the promise of coin. Surely greed was an easy weapon to wield.

  “I am Morag Grey of Strathnaver, and you have injured the man who promised to keep me safe.”

  “Aye, and a fine job he did of that, too, my lady. Now to the business of your purse,” he said and reached out his hand.

  Muren untied her small leather purse from underneath her cloak and tossed it to him. While his eyes were transfixed on her, she scanned the area behind him. There was no sign of movement in the bushes other than at one point. Squinting her eyes, she could just make out a figure peering out from behind a large oak. So, there were at least two of them.

  “Now his purse, my lady,” the highwayman said.

  She took stock of his features to be sure that she could give a good description of the man, to allow Rorie’s men to chase him down and bring him to justice. Tall and lean, the man’s black hair was pulled back and fastened behind his neck, accenting his angular features. His brow was thick and dark, and his skin looked tanned; his eyes were as black as night. She’d noticed his accent when he first spoke. However, she did not know enough of the world to discern from whence he came. But she was certain he was not from Scotland, nor England, nor Wales. He was a foreigner, and she would not ever forget his face.

  Muren crouched over Rorie and unfastened the leather pouch tied to his belt. In it was surely several pieces of silver coin; enough to keep the man in women and drink for a long time. For surely that was all a man of his ilk stole from others to procure for himself.

  Whilst crouching over Rorie, she pulled a dagger from its sheath on his belt and slipped it up her sleeve. When she stood and turned, the highwayman had his arms folded and was grinning at her.

  “My lady, if I had more time, I would show you how to effectively hide a dagger in your sleeve.” He then grabbed her wrist and pinched until she was forced to drop the dagger. He picked it up and inspected it. “This is quite lovely. I will take this, too,” he said and turned toward Rorie’s horse, then mounted it in the smoothest movement Muren had ever seen. He was almost graceful if that was possible for such a brute.

  A crack behind her, and then the unmistakable sound of a sword being unsheathed, made the hairs stand up on the back of her neck. Why could he not simply stay down? Turning around, she noticed that Rorie had broken off the arrow and was now standing with his sword arm outstretched, pointing at the highwayman.

  “Really, Highlander? You think you can best me? For the sake of some coin and your horse, you should have stayed down.”

  The man jumped down
and unsheathed his sword. It was not large and clunky like Rorie’s broadsword, but thin and long. And according to the way the man flicked it about, the weapon was also much lighter.

  “You will not take my horse,” Rorie said.

  “Will I not, Highlander?”

  “Rorie, just let him go,” Muren said. “We can make do on my horse.”

  “You call him by his given name? Not ‘my lord’ or by his surname? Curious. That can only mean one of two things. And since you look nothing alike, I would say you are not brother and sister.”

  The highwayman grabbed Muren and had his blade to her throat before she could react. The look of fury on Rorie’s face sent chills into Muren’s heart. He should have stayed down! Blood soaked the left side of Rorie’s tunic, showing just how injured he really was. Despite this, he held his sword in his right hand and stared hard at her captor.

  “Release her and I will let you live,” Rorie said.

  “I do not think so. In fact, I am starting to think you are more than just some common Highlander. That brooch pin on your shoulder. That signifies your importance in your clan. Unfortunately, I do not know all the clan mottos, and I dare not get too close to you, lest your blade find its way into my delicate skin.”

  “I am no one,” Rorie said and stepped forward.

  The highwayman threw Muren to the ground and lashed out at Rorie. Their swords met in a loud clang that rang in Muren’s ears. Clashing metal and feet scuffing on the ground were the only sounds audible as she leapt to her feet.

  “Stay back!” Rorie said to her.

  “No, by all means, join us,” the highwayman said. “I suspect you’re more of a man than your husband.”

  Rorie should have known that the man was taunting him to lose his temper. The highwayman moved in close enough to kick Rorie’s feet out from under him. He landed on the ground with a hard thud, his sword tossed from his hand in the fall.

  The highwayman’s face turned ugly as he raised his sword high. Muren jumped in front of Rorie to stop the man and tell him she would go with him, but he had already pushed forward in this thrust.

  A stinging sensation caught her well below her heart. For a moment, she could only stare at the stranger. His eyes went wide and, for a brief moment, she thought she almost detected remorse.

  Then he masked his features again. “You foolish wench,” he said, as he pulled his sword from her body, resulting in a burning sensation forcing her to drop to her knees.

  A loud swoosh sounded somewhere above her, then a black-haired head fell to the ground beside her with a thump.

  Muren closed her eyes and vomited.

  Rorie pulled her hair back from her face and held her as she retched.

  “Christ, Muren, why would you do that?”

  “S-save you,” she said through chattering teeth. The burning in her side was getting worse, but was manageable, and was nowhere near the pain she experienced from her magrymes.

  “No, love. No, I never wanted you to do that.”

  “I s-saved you,” she said. And she had. She had changed one of her dreams. Despite the pain, her heart filled with joy. She had saved him.

  Rorie turned her onto her back and inspected her wound. “Christ,” he said. “Muren, I need you to stay still.”

  A ripping sound drew her attention to what he was doing, kneeling beside her. He pressed a part of her shift into the wound, sending sharp pain through her side.

  “It went clean through and should heal, but we need to get the bleeding to stop before I can move you.”

  Rorie held the cloth to her side for a long time. Muren drifted in and out of consciousness during that time. Flashes of the pool and crone came to her; the old woman did not look pleased.

  Muren woke to the sensation of moving. She blinked her eyes open and spied the arches of the stone bridge leading to Eilean Donan Castle. She was cradled in Rorie’s arms. She reached up to touch his handsome face and noted the moisture on his cheeks.

  “Rorie,” she whispered.

  “Hush, love,” he said, his voice cracking. “We’re almost there, and then we will get you all fixed up.”

  Muren brushed a tear that had slipped down his cheek. “Why do you weep?”

  Rorie cleared his throat. “I am not weeping.”

  “Aye, you are,” she said and tried to smile as he brushed his hand down over his face to wipe it clean.

  “You’re badly wounded and delirious, love.”

  She loved the way his lips curled ever so slightly.

  “That may be, but I have never seen more clearly.”

  Rorie gazed down into her eyes. They were wet with tears still. “I thought I had lost you,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

  “Never. I broke the cycle. The visions were meant to be a warning. I know that now, and if I had acted sooner, I could have saved—”

  “Do not think that, love. You must stop torturing yourself. Here, we are home now where we are safe and can start working on the dozen or so children we will have.”

  “S-so many?” she asked, though she would bear twenty if he wished it and the Lord blessed them.

  Her body jolted as he dismounted with her in his arms, sending a fresh wave of pain into her side. She winced, and then blackness enveloped her.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Rorie slammed his fist on the table, making the candlesticks and one goblet topple over. He’d been in a rage from the moment the Spaniard’s blade pierced Muren’s side. Never in his life had he wanted a man’s head more than in that moment.

  “He was not alone,” Rorie said through gritted teeth. “You find his companion, Ewen. Find him and bring him to me.”

  “Aye, Rorie. We will find him.”

  Ewen left the hall with six other men. Rorie slumped into a chair just as Ada rushed to his side.

  “You must let me tend to you now, lad.”

  In his haste to bring Muren to safety and send Ewen to find the highwayman’s companion, Rorie had put his own injury aside. Now that attention was drawn back to it, a dull ache emerged all down his left side.

  “How fares Muren?”

  “She is resting. Her wound is clean and I believe will heal with no complications. She is much stronger than she appears, that one. If she stays abed as long as I tell her, and the dressings are replaced when I say, she should be up and about in a sennight.”

  “Thank you, Ada,” he said. It was merely an oversight on his part that he had not made arrangements for Ada to be sent home after their return from Rona. He was now grateful for that since her healing skills were much needed at the moment.

  Lifting his plaid and poking around the arrow entrance and exit, she said, “You did well to break off the arrow, but it needs to be removed, and the wound needs to be burned, else you will suffer greatly in the coming months.”

  Rorie did not look forward to the pain he would have to endure this night, but endure it he would. He’d seen plenty of men’s wounds fester and cause a feverish sickness. Ada was right, his shoulder needed to be tended now.

  “Let us not waste any time on comfort, then. Where should we do this?”

  “We go to see the blacksmith,” she said. “Only his fire will be hot enough to seal that wound once the arrow is pulled clear.”

  Rorie trusted her enough to follow her lead, but he’d never heard of a blacksmith being involved in healing before.

  She sat him on a stool near the anvil in the blacksmith’s cottage. “Come here,” she said to the smith and his assistant. “What is your name?” she asked.

  “I am called Bane,” he said.

  “And you?” she addressed his assistant. “What is your name?”

  “Go on, boy,” Bane said.

  The boy winced and gave Rorie a wide-eyed look he did not understand.

  “I am John,” he said, and again stared hard at Rorie and then at Bane.

  Rorie looked at the smith a little closer. The man was quite tall and muscular, with whitish blond hair and icy blu
e eyes that looked familiar. Rorie estimated he was close in size to him, and then his thoughts cleared.

  Their old smith had passed on but three months earlier, and Ewen had said they’d started a new smith who was of such slight frame that Ewen was in awe at the power the man wielded behind the hammer. The size of this man did not fit such a description.

  The boy was trying to tell him something, and he had an inkling what it was.

  “Been smithing long?” Rorie asked the other man.

  “Aye, many years,” he said with an accent Rorie could not quite place. It was harsh, almost like the Norsemen of Orkney, but even more so.

  Rorie watched Bane stoke the fire. It did not flare in the way he’d seen when the old smith tended it. Rorie smiled as the bellows in behind lay flat, and the more Bane tended the fire, the smaller it became.

  When the boy made to work the bellows, Bane swatted him out of the way and did it himself. Ada had set about cutting and peeling away the sticky, blood-soaked tunic and plaid on Rorie’s shoulder.

  Just what did this Bane intend? If he was the Spaniard’s companion, why had he not come to the man’s aid? And where was the real blacksmith? Did the man presume Ada would bring him here? Unless—

  “There,” Ada said, “he’s all yours now, love.”

  No!

  Bane turned around with a sword instead of a hot piece of metal to cauterize his wound. Ada had, in fact, pulled Rorie’s tunic down so that his arm was bound to his side, leaving him with only one arm to defend himself. He stood quickly, toppling the stool, and grabbed a hammer that was resting on the anvil.

  Bane shoved the sword forward as they circled one another.

  “Why?” Rorie shouted at Ada.

  “Because you all think you are so much better than the rest of us. My Bane is as good as any of you, and you never offered him a lofty place on your war council. No, you wanted him to remain a farmer forever. Well, my son is worth more than that.”

  Rorie stepped to the side out of the way and tripped over something. He looked down at the body on the floor, and his heart squeezed hard in his chest. Christ, Muren!