Blaze Historicals Bundle II

by Jacquie D'Alessandro

  He was bluffing, of course. He would aim for Alexander. The woman was but a minor player in their passion play. But most importantly, he would not risk hitting the boy.

  He shifted his gaze to the woman. “Mistress Field, I presume?” Not waiting for her answer, he said, “Bring me the boy. Otherwise you may be the first to test my hunter’s skill.”

  It seemed there truly was no honor among thieves, not even wedded ones. She hiked up her skirts and hared off toward the waiting horses. Climbing into the saddle, she dug in her heels and rode off.

  Callum returned his attention to Field. “It seems my odds of making my true mark have just improved—greatly.”

  Field’s scarred lip twisted. “I wouldn’t count on it, Fraser.” He reached down and swept up both Alasdair and his sword. He held the boy in front of him.

  Rage ripped through Callum. “You codless scut.”

  Waking, Alasdair saw him and broke into a wail. “Papa, Papa, come!”

  Callum’s heart lurched. Taking care to keep his features blank and his voice steady, he called back, “Easy, lad, Papa will fetch you soon.” Addressing Alex, he commanded, “Put him down and step away.”

  “And if I don’t.”

  Callum fitted his arrow into the yew bowstring and took aim. “I am a very good shot.”

  Alex held Alasdair higher. “You’ll have to be.”

  Field’s cowardice disarmed him as another man’s bravery never could. “Only the verra vilest of villains would put his own flesh and blood in jeopardy to save his miserable pockmarked hide.”

  Field didn’t deny it. “So, Fraser, what’s it going to be? Do you back off and let me ride away or do you bear a bow-riddled corpse back to the fair Alys?”

  Callum hesitated. Winning once would have been his most important priority. Rather than release his enemy, he would have taken his chances with Alasdair’s life and let his arrow fly. But because of Alys, that arrogant, selfish man was no more. He had become a better man at last. Opening his heart meant opening it to give and receive love as well as to reap hurt. Alasdair was like his own son. A child of his own flesh could not be more precious to him. He hadn’t exaggerated when he’d said that he’d give his life for the boy. Even if it meant letting Field go free, keeping his lad safe must be his sole care.

  But he would not give up, not yet. Arm tensed and arrow at the ready, he waited, hoping for a distraction for Field—and a Christmas miracle for himself.

  ALYS CRESTED THE MOUNTAIN leading to the main traveling road. Woods surrounded her on either side, the close growing trees blocking out sun. Once she’d likened the spot to a witch’s forest where the night folk of ghosties and goblins might bide, but she no longer had time or energy to waste on fancies, foolish or otherwise. Her seven-months’-ago self seemed silly to her now. It wasn’t the night folk she need fear but the evils of flesh-and-blood men, one man in particular.

  Alex Field. Were it not for Alasdair, she would find herself wishing she’d never set eyes upon his face. Fair or foul, he was a monster and she saw now that he always had been. Were his scars to magically disappear, he would remain forever ugly in her eyes.

  Here the roads descended into little more than pack-horse tracks. The copse was deeper than she recalled. Picking her way through the bracken and closely growing trees made for slow going, but eventually she crested the clearing. Rushing water told her she was not far off from the place.

  A horse moving at full gallop sounded ahead. Moments later, horse and rider broke through the trees and came into view. Leaning low in the saddle, the female figure rode toward her as though devils chased her, her cone-shaped cap knocked to one side. Heedless of other passengers, she rode dead center of the narrow road, heading for Alys. Alys made to move to the side and let her pass when the plucked forehead and painted features beneath the headdress came into view. The angular face was chillingly familiar. If Alys lived to be one hundred, never would she forget it. It belonged to the “burgher’s widow,” the very woman who’d stolen Alasdair seven months before and who likely had helped to steal him this time, too.

  And suddenly the final puzzle piece fell into place. The burgher’s widow was no widow at all but Alex’s lawful, wedded wife.

  She took one look at Alys. Plucked forehead furrowing, she wheeled her horse about.

  But Alys didn’t mean to give up easily. She didn’t mean to give up at all. Spurred on by a mother’s love, she somehow managed to turn her horse’s head and follow suit, quickly building to full gallop. Ere long she and her quarry were riding neck and neck. Struggling to stay in the saddle, she reached across and hauled back a hand. The backhanded blow knocked the bitch from her seat. Reaching across, Alys grabbed the reins. Hands fisted about them, somehow she managed to bring both horses to a halt. Scrambling out of the saddle, she launched herself at the “widow.”

  They rolled. Alys scrambled atop, pinning the taller, stronger woman to the ground and pulling her pinkie finger back.

  “Ouch!” Sweat broke out on the widow’s unnaturally high forehead, and her bony body ceased thrashing. “Get off me.”

  Harkening back to her borrowed motto, Alys held fast. “Och, I’ll get off you all right in good time.” She reached down with her free hand and drew out her dirk. Poking the point at the jugular of that knobby white neck, she demanded, “But first, where the hell is my son?”

  CALLUM EYED ALEXANDER. Their silent standoff had gone on for longer than he cared to count. Steeling himself to ignore the muscles bunching in his shoulder and the cramping in his forearms, he held his bow and arrow in position, awaiting release. Equally stubborn, Field still held on to the boy. If only there might be some distraction, something to lure the Outlander into lowering his guard and Alasdair if only for a minute.

  Horses, two, beat a path toward them. A woman’s voice, Morag’s, shrilled, “Alex, mind your back!”

  Predictably, Field turned. The movement simultaneously shielded Alasdair and made a bull’s-eye of Alex’s back. Callum didn’t hesitate. He drew back and released. Even before the arrow left his bowstring, he knew it would strike sure and true. It did. The steel-tipped head found its target in Alex’s left side, his heart’s side. Seeing the arrow poking through his front, Field screamed. Callum threw down his bow and swung out of the saddle. He ran over to them, catching Alasdair just as Alex fell sideways into the rock bed.

  Clasping Alasdair against his chest, he rubbed soothing circles over the tiny, shuddering shoulders. “There, there, my lad, your papa is here. Dinna fret. You’re safe now, my son.”

  He looked up to see two riders draw up, a young page and Morag. Sporting a black eye and a hatless head, Field’s wife sat tethered to the saddle of a second horse, her wrists bound behind her. Taking in the delicate features and shapely legs of the other rider, he realized the page was no page at all. The rider was Alys. She half climbed, half fell from her saddle and rushed over to them.

  Twisting his head, Alasdair ceased crying and threw up his chubby arms. “Mama! Mama, come!”

  It wasn’t until she stood before him that he looked beneath her cap and saw she was hurt. “Alys, love, you’re bleeding!”

  She dismissed his concern with a flick of her hand. “I took a tumble but I’m fine. Mayhap when you teach Alasdair to ride, you might do the same for me.” Despite the cut on her lip, she smiled.

  “I think that could be arranged.” He handed her the boy and put his arms around them both. “Merry Christmas, my wife.”

  She sent him a wobbly smile. “Merry Christmas, my husband.”

  They were still holding on to each other when Ewan, armed to the teeth, rode into the clearing. “What did I miss?” he asked with a grin.

  Callum smiled back. “Kidnapping, foiled plotting and one soon-to-be death.” He jerked his head to where Field lay twitching.

  Ewan dismounted and joined them by Field’s prone form. He nudged the fallen man with the toe of his boot. “Care to unburden your soiled soul before you take your leave
of this life?”

  Alys carried Alasdair a few paces away and set him facing away from the grim view. Retracing her steps to where Field lay, she shook her head. “Why, Alex? I loved you once. Mayhap ’twas only a maid’s unschooled heart I had to offer but had you been kind, had you tended it, that love I felt for you would have grown.”

  Even with death upon him, Field held fast to his mocking mien. He opened his mouth and laughed. “Love?” He snorted. “What use did I have for the love of a rustic slattern?”

  Fury tore through Callum. He stepped forward. Though he’d set his bow aside, he still had the use of his fists. “Were you not already dying, dog, I would make you so for daring to speak of my lady thus. I am minded to finish the business now.”

  Ewan’s hand descended on his shoulder. “No, my brother. He means to goad you into doing that which he desires.” He slanted his gaze to Alasdair playing with a pebble along the mound of mud. “Do you really want your son to see you slit a fallen man’s throat in cold blood? Let Nature take its course.”

  Beside him, Alys reached for his fist, unfurled the clenched fingers and slipped her small hand inside. “Ewan has the right of it.” Her blue eyes alighted on the fallen man at their feet and her gaze narrowed. “His cruel comments can harm me nay more. And it doesna seem as though he’ll live to make those for much longer.”

  Callum stepped back, reclaiming his calm. They were right, of course. Field could do aught to harm them anymore. His scarred face had lost its florid color and turned ashen and his life’s blood was leaking out into the water, turning it pink. Vile words were the rogue’s last recourse and like breaths, he hadn’t many more left.

  Looking up at them, Field laughed. He opened his mouth as if to say more but a wracking cough cut him off. Blood bubbled from the corners of his mouth, dribbling his chin. “You amused me for a time, but once I realized I couldn’t rut, ’twas the bairn I cared for.”

  Between gasping breaths, Alex relayed the rest of his twisted tale. Desperate to get the boy back in order to claim his inheritance, he’d dispatched the “burgher’s widow,” his wife, Morag, to abduct Alasdair the previous spring. He hadn’t counted on insipid little Alys bringing the matter before a laird’s court or that anyone in authority would take the word of a whore over that of a seemingly respectable burgher’s dame. Once Alys and Alasdair were under the protection of the MacLeod, Alex had to find another way. Fortunately for him, Morag had remained in Skye. Through her, he learned that Alys was affianced to another laird, Callum Fraser.

  Standing in a circle around him, Callum, Ewan and Alys exchanged amazed looks. It was quite a tale.

  From across the glen, a high-pitched voice called out, “Is he not dead yet? How much longer must we sit about gawking?” Morag, as good as forgotten, scowled at them from where Alys had left her tethered to her horse.

  Ewan turned to them and winked. “It seems someone is eager to take up residence in her new home. I think a dungeon cell will do her nicely.” He dropped his gaze to Field. “By the looks of him, she will occupy it alone.”

  Some time later, Ewan rode off with the prisoners, Field strapped facedown over his wife’s horse. The danger past and his family finally safe, Callum felt his spirits rising along with a certain member of his anatomy. Stepping back, he glided his gaze over Alys, lingering on her legs. “I recall a twilight eve much as this being the start of our story.”

  “Aye, my lord. So it was.”

  Callum angled his face toward her and fastened his hot mouth on the shell of her ear. “Christmas gift giving cuts both ways. Now that we are most proper wed, will you grant me the boon of dressing in breeches betimes? In the privacy of our chamber,” he added quickly. He might have become a better man, a man bordering on goodness, but still he wasn’t inclined to share.

  There was no trace of shyness in the dazzling smile Alys sent him. “Once you have me behind our bolted bedchamber door, my lord, I will wear as much or as little as you like, be it Christmastide or any other day of the year.”

  From his seat on the ground, Alasdair called out, “Hung-ar-y!”

  Laughing, they walked over to him. Lifting him into his arms, Callum ruffled his golden curls. “Och, that’s the settling of it, then. My lady, shall we take our son and return?”

  Hand in hand, they walked toward the horses, Callum carrying Alasdair on his shoulders. Now that the danger was past, the boy seemed to view it all as one great silly game. Callum hoped it would always be so. From here on, he meant to devote the rest of his days to making sure that both Alasdair and his mother felt supremely safe and utterly loved.

  They were almost to the horses when a beggar burst forth from the bushes. “Ah ha, I have you! Halt you, Callum Fraser, I have you in my sights and by all that is holy you will hear me out.”

  “You halt, you. Come no further.” Wondering how the lunatic came to know his name, Callum handed Alasdair to Alys and set them swiftly behind him. Turning back to the intruder, he unsheathed his dirk.

  Wild-eyed, filthy and nearly naked, the man shook his head of matted hair. Ranting of “glad tidings” and “proof positive,” he produced a limp wad of parchment from beneath his smock.

  “I have glad tidings to report, tidings the Almighty Himself put into my hands to deliver you, and by God you will hear me out even if I must take this stick to your backside to stay you long enough to listen.”

  Callum slid his knife back in its sheath. “Father Fearghas?”

  The priest wagged a grimy finger his way. “Aye, ’tis me or what remains of me. For ten years I bore the burden of your mischief and tricks, Master Fraser, and now that you’re a man grown you have managed to finally finish what you began as a wean.” He thrust the paper at him. “This page I took from the parish records with mine own hands. The Lady Alys is not married to any man save to you. Alexander Field was already wed when first they met. The parish records prove his wedding well enough but to another lady. The marriage to milady was a sham, a vicious ruse. This is the proof of it. Take it, take it, please!”

  Stepping around to Callum’s side, Alys said very gently, “Aye, Father, we know.”

  The priest’s eyes popped. “You…know?”

  She nodded. “Alexander confessed all.”

  Father Fearghas crushed the paper in his fist. “You know!” He slammed the wad upon the ground and stamped it beneath his bare and bruised heel. Jumping up and down, he shrieked, “You know! You know! Do you ken what I have endured this past week? Do you?”

  Callum and Alys shook their heads. Cautiously Callum said, “It seems you have suffered some…ill?”

  “Some…ill?” Father Fearghas pulled at the neck of his smock. “Since last I left you, Callum Fraser, I have been poisoned by bad food, beset with the gripes, beaten, robbed and ridiculed. I have humbled myself before my sister and endured her taunts and gloating. I have deceived a fellow priest and defaced a parish records book. I, who set out to walk in the footsteps of Christian saints and martyrs, will find myself fortunate if I am not defrocked. All these trials and tribulations I have endured for naught—because you know!”

  His head fell. His shoulders sagged. He looked to be on the verge of crying.

  Callum and Alys exchanged looks. Beneath her breath, she cautioned, “Be gentle with him.”

  Callum nodded. He stepped up to his old tutor and extended his hand. “Thank you.”

  Coming up on the priest’s other side, Alys reached out with her free hand and patted his shoulder. “Yes, good father, thank you. If ’tis any consolation, we only learned the full truth mere moments ago.”

  Father Fearghas jerked up his head, the wild look once more upon him. “You mean to say I missed the opportunity to be the bearer of glad tidings, the messenger of the Almighty, and the hero of this godforsaken tale by mere…moments?”

  Callum and Alys hesitated. Alys spoke up, “Good news is always welcome news.” She punctuated the pronouncement with a bright smile.

  Later Father Fearghas
would recall that in that moment he’d felt a great rumbling inside him, not his belly this time but higher up, in his chest. Along with it came a tickling sensation moving into his throat as if an unseen feather were sweeping across his palate.

  To everyone’s astonishment, including his, he dropped to his knees, threw back his head—and laughed.

  Epilogue

  January 5, Twelfth Night

  THEY MARRIED AGAIN on Twelfth Night, not out of need but so that all their loved ones might be present to share in their joy. Ewan and Brianna hosted the celebration. Their chapel and great hall were festooned with flowers and bows of yew and holly for the occasion and a much restored Father Fearghas once again officiated over the saying of the vows. After the ceremony, they filed back into the great hall for the feasting. Milread performed another rune cast as a gift for the newlyweds. Given how matters had gone the last time, Alys hesitated but Callum accepted with alacrity if only, Alys suspected, to tweak Father Fearghas.

  This time the rune cast brought forth a glowingly positive report, the presence and position of the ancient symbols foretelling of fertility and bright new beginnings. According to Milread, the prominent presence of BEORC, the rune of birth and family, almost always foretold of a babe soon to come. Alys slipped a hand below the table, laid it upon her flat belly and smiled to herself. It was too soon to be certain, just a feeling she had, but she strongly suspected that part of the prophecy was already on its way to coming true.

  Fittingly the final rune was WUNJO, the rune representing joy and Happily Ever After.

  Now many hours later, the feasting was at last showing signs of winding down. Torches lit one end of the chamber to the other. From the minstrel’s gallery, fiddlers and pipers and drummers played on and likely would do so well into the night and next morn. The guests having sated themselves with every imaginable dish of food and form of drink, the trestle tables were moved to the side to make way for the entertainment.