by C. N. Bird
Sadly Rory hadn’t felt the same. He left her as the feelings overwhelmed and made her a quivering mess. Mayhap she had been a disappointment or he did not find her attractive and had done his due just to ensure their marriage was binding. Aye, a shame indeed for the large, dark-haired man was surely the most striking man she had ever met. Even with his heavy brow and long curling hair, he stole her breath.
It would have been easier to bear, had he been a bad man, she thought as she hitched her skirts and stepped over a rock. But Rory was the best of men. Honourable, chivalrous, quiet and caring. He actually asked her advice and listened to her. How many other men would listen to a mere lass? And he showed interest in her work, always querying how her embroidery was coming along or whether the household was running smoothly. If it were not for the fact he did not want her in bed, they would have the perfect marriage.
She let out a sigh when she spotted the thatched roofs of the nearest settlement. It was at least another two miles away but the sight proved reviving and she found herself walking faster. She needed to find shelter and safety quickly for who knew how many English were still roaming the hills.
No more regrets. She would continue on to her father’s keep. Hopefully he would not send her back to a place that had proved dangerous, and when he discovered her husband had little intention of giving her a child, mayhap he would take pity on her. Her father was a kindly man and would want her safe from the English.
As she continued her journey across the moors, flickers of memories taunted her. The way Rory looked at her sometimes as she sat by the fire, absorbed in her embroidery. Or how he took her hand occasionally, the coarse warmth more comforting than a wool blanket. How she longed to feel that now. But no more. No more suffering the sharp stab of disappointment. No longer, would she lie in bed and wonder with whom he was finding his pleasure.
When she finally reached the outskirts of the village, Isla was weary but almost jubilant. For a woman who spent little time outdoors, she had done well locating the settlement. Considering she was entirely alone—she tried not to think on what might have happened to her maid—the journey could have been far more treacherous.
Isla knocked on the door of the first cottage, apprehension making her stomach churn. She let herself relax as a young woman answered, just a few seasons older than her. Or mayhap the same age. The rough living aged the peasants quickly. Isla glanced down at her attire, almost glad to see it was mud-stained and creased. Hopefully she wouldn’t stand out too much.
“Can I help ye…” The fair-haired woman narrowed her eyes. “Is that ye Lady Isla?”
“Aye, aye ‘tis I.” Isla sagged a little.
“Lord above, what’s happened to ye? Did they take the keep? Are we to expect an attack?” The woman paused and smiled, wiping a hand down her coarse brown gown. “Pray come in, milady.”
Isla ducked into the small hut. It was one room with a dirt floor. Several pallets occupied one side while two sheep remained on the other. A small bench and table rested against the back wall and the fire pit cast the only light in the cottage. The odour of sheep dung made Isla want to wince but she managed to keep her face straight.
She clasped her hands in front of her and eyed the young woman. She didn’t recognise her but then they saw many visitors at the keep.
“My brother is tending to the rest of the flock at the moment. Are we in danger?”
Isla shook her head. “I dinnae think so. Laird MacPherson was to return and take back the keep though I was forced to escape before he did. But the English willnae be interested in the small villages.” In truth, she did not know that for sure but there was no point in scaring the lass. If the English really wanted to attack then there was little the villagers could do.
The woman nodded. “Well yer welcome to seek shelter here, milady, though I fear ‘twill no’ be as comfortable as yer castle.”
“I thank ye. I willnae stay long. I intend to seek refuge with my father.”
“Aye, a good idea I think. Yer a fine prize for an Englishman, milady. But ‘twill no’ be long before the laird sees them off and ye can return home.”
Isla smiled vaguely. “Yer very kind. Pray tell what is yer name? I’ll be sure to tell the laird of yer kindness.” By missive of course, but she did not wish to mention that.
“I’m Kate, milady. Pray sit, ye must be weary after yer travels. Did ye come alone?”
“Aye, I did. My maidservant and I were separated during the battle. I barely escaped unscathed. I only pray she is unharmed.”
Kate gave her a sympathetic pat on the hand as she motioned for Isla to sit on the rickety bench. “I’m sure she is well though I expect the laird will be worried for ye. Not many a lady could make such a journey unscathed.”
With a chuckle, Isla sat and folded her skirts around her. She was used to people underestimating her. She was short and very small boned. And she looked younger than her four and twenty years. Her quiet conduct and soft voice didn’t help matters either. But her mother had been a strong character, and time running her father’s household and now Rory’s had taught her much. A gentle manner often helped rather than hindered as people went out of their way to help her.
If only Rory appreciated that about her. But clearly she was not the sort of wife he longed for. Aye, he would surely be happy to be rid of his quiet, unassuming wife.
***
“Milady!”
Isla groaned and rolled, landing on the mud floor. She blinked as gloom greeted her and rubbed a hand over her face, groaning as she discovered the dirt from the ground embedded in her palms. Kate lifted a candle and Isla caught her desperate expression.
“Milady!”
Sore muscles pulled as Isla came to standing. She was not used to sleeping on a straw pallet and her body was telling her so. “What it is?”
“The English…they’re here,” Kate hissed.
“What? Here? In the village?”
“Nay, on the outskirts. My brother has gone to sound the warning but we must run, milady. If they see ye, they’ll surely know yer a noble lady.”
Isla straightened her skirts. The damned English. First they’d taken her home and now they were forcing her to run once more. But they were not that courageous. She’d held them back for long enough. Surely there were enough villagers to see them off? “Can we no’ fight them?”
“With what?” Kate shook her head. “We have no swords or walls to hide behind.”
“But to run? ‘Tis hardly…very Scottish is it?”
Kate puffed out a frustrated breath. “Milady…pray, we must go. Yer in danger.”
“How many men?”
“Milady?”
“How many men was there, Kate?”
“Ach, I dinnae know. My brother cannae count but he reckoned a dozen.”
Something had snapped inside of her. Isla wasn’t sure why but a wild anger brewed inside. She’d spent so long doing her duty. First marrying the man of her father’s choosing, then tolerating her husband’s night time antics, whatever those were, and finally holding back the English for many sennights only for them to break through. Her inability to defeat them severely rankled. She had so hoped to prove to Rory what she was made of.
“How many villagers are there? Not including the children?” she asked Kate.
“Not including the children? We number at about five and thirty.”
“We outnumber them,” Isla said thoughtfully.
“Aye but they have weapons. They could cut us all down.”
“‘Tis dark though. They dinnae know that. If ye saw a gathering of angry Scots that clearly outnumbered ye, would ye go up against them?”
Kate laughed. “Nay…nay I would not.”
“Come, we dinnae have much time. We must send word and gather everyone on the edge of the village with anything they can shake angrily. Harrows, scythes, anything.”
Kate thrust something into her hand. A fork, she realised, and they hurried to spread the word. Isla wa
s grateful the villagers did not argue. Most had already gathered to make an escape but no Scot relished the idea of not fighting for what was theirs. Whether it was because her idea was a good one or because they were just obeying their lady, she did not know nor did she care. They were to fight back. A thrill rolled through her. Was this what Rory felt before he went to battle?
She shook the thought away as she led the villagers up onto the mound surrounding the village. Rory had no place in her mind at this moment.
“We must shout at them,” she addressed several of the villagers. “The English dinnae like Gaelic. Our foreign tongue will scare them.” Something she’d discovered while defending Dunmuir. She grinned at the memory of the confusion and fear that had come across the soldier’s faces as she had spat her words at them.
The English were just visible, their torches lighting the way. Kate’s brother had been right. They were at least a dozen of them. The fire sent a flutter of fear through her. If they failed, would the English set the village alight? Were they here to rape and pillage or merely looking for something? Mayhap they were hunting for her. If Rory had claimed the keep back, she would make a fine bargaining prize. Though her husband did not want her in his bed, he was not a cruel man. He would surely do what he could to ensure her safety.
“Come then, let us send these Sasannachs on their way.” She sucked in a breath. “Thalla is cac!”
Someone spluttered in surprise before the rest of the villagers took up the cry. They shook their farming tools and screamed. Isla’s voice threatened to give out as she shouted with all her might. The lights and the vague outlines of the men paused but the peasants did not let up and the sound of wild shouts and metal upon metal rang out across the hills.
Finally the torches began to move again. Isla stopped her shouts and waited, breath held. She dropped her shoulders as the lights retreated. The noise continued around her until the flickering flames all but disappeared.
A celebratory roar echoed into the night. Isla laughed as Kate hugged her. They had done it. Relief combined with elation surged through her, making her heart race. She, the meek wife of the laird, had fought off the English and won. If only Rory had been here to see it, she thought sadly. Surely he would finally see her in a new light if he had.
***
The sight of footprints in the ground made Rory’s heart lodge in his throat. He squinted and scanned the surrounding mountainsides but there was no sign of any danger. The lay of the land was open enough that he would see anyone coming from miles off, but it did not mean being unaccompanied while the English roamed wasn’t dangerous. Even more so for Isla. She did not need to worry about just the English. She’d make a fine reward for any man.
Groping English hands pressing into his wife’s pale skin… he shuddered. If she had even got away. For all he knew, the English had her captured and were working out how best to use her to their advantage. He shook his head in an effort to change his course of thought. Worrying would do no good. Action was what was needed and if she was out in the Highlands alone, he needed to find her. If she’d been caught, he would find out soon enough.
Rory urged his mount into a fast gallop when the thatched roofs of the nearest village grew closer. The village appeared unharmed, which bode well. Though he could not figure out where all those footprints had come from. It certainly looked like a large gathering of people had stood there but for what purpose if not for the intention of attacking the unarmed villagers? Armies needed shelter and food, and what easier way was there to get it than to take it by force. Rory had seen many a village stripped bare by a rampaging army, both English and Scottish alike.
When he entered the village, he was immediately recognised and the peasants dipped their heads to him. He scowled as some grinned and offered words of congratulation. Did they mean the keep? For surely that was nothing to be celebrated? His home had nearly been destroyed in the siege, even if they had seized it back.
He reached the village leader’s house and dismounted, hopping down and tying his mount to the joust of the well that sat in the centre of the settlement. Before he made himself known to the man, a young lass, not much older than Isla, scurried up and dipped into a hurried curtsey.
“My laird,” she said breathlessly.
“Aye, lass, what is it? Speak quickly for I crave a word with yer leader.”
“He is out in the fields at the moment, laird. We are checking the flocks. The English were on our land last night.”
“Hellfire, in truth?”
“Aye, my laird.”
Rory swung his gaze around and frowned. “But they didnae harm ye?”
“Nay, my laird. We scared them away.” A smile flickered on the fair haired lass’s lips.
“Scared them away ye say?” He shook his head. How had a bunch of raggedy peasants scared away a troop of battle-hardened English? “Then all is well?”
“Aye, my laird. But I must tell ye…yer lady wife was here.”
He gulped. So she was alive. But that meant little now. Not until she was in his arms where she belonged. “During the attack?”
“Aye, she—the lady that is—helped us scare off the English.”
Rory rubbed a hand across his face. “Ye cannae mean Lady Isla, surely? Were ye mistaken, lass?”
“Nay, truthfully, my laird. She sought refuge with me. She said the keep had been overrun and she was to travel to her father’s. Does this mean ye have won back the castle?”
“Aye, aye.” He waved a hand. “Is she here still?”
“Nay, my laird.” The girl’s face dropped. “I tried to persuade her but she wouldnae listen. She seemed very determined to travel on.”
“God’s blood,” he whispered.
“Forgive me, my laird. I should have tried harder but we didnae know ye were on yer way. She insisted she needed to ensure the English didnae catch up with her in case they tried to use her against ye.”
“And she is unaccompanied?”
The girl bit her lip. “Aye.”
Rory groaned. The lass had fought the English twice and was now gallivanting around the Highlands all alone. It was so at odds with what he knew of his wife. It didn’t stop the fear clutching his heart. Though the lass was more a warrior than he ever realised, she was still vulnerable. And still determined to make it to her father’s. If her father agreed to protect her from him, he might never see her again. Might never get the chance to try again. To show her he had changed and could be gentle.
“What is yer name?” he asked the girl.
“Kate, my laird.” She grasped her skirts and dipped again.
“My thanks, Kate. Tell the villagers that I have claimed back the castle and will send men out to patrol the lands. We’ll no’ be threatened by the English scourge again. I will have ye a fine fat pig sent to ye in return for looking after my lady wife.”
“Oh, pray, ye dinnae need—”
“I do. Good day to ye, Kate.” Without waiting for a response, he leapt onto his mount and gripped the reins. At least he knew one thing. Isla was alive. For the moment. Determination pervaded every fragment of him, making his muscles tense. It seemed Isla was resolved to prove she was more than the sweet lass he thought she was. But could he prove to her he was more than just a rough warrior?
***
Legs juddering, Isla paused to rest on a rock and take in her surroundings. The clouds had cleared that afternoon to give way to bright sunshine. It should have revived her spirits but she was weary and she feared she would not reach shelter before nightfall. Climbing the hills of the Highlands in a gown proved harder than she’d expected and she wasn’t sure she had even taken the correct route. The old paths that snaked across the hills were seldom travelled but she’d seen old horse hoof prints in the ground which was thankfully still soft enough from previous days’ rain.
She tugged out the bread Kate had wrapped in a linen for her and broke off a bit. It was coarse and full of seeds but her stomach growled at the sight. She was
only one more day away from her father’s keep by her reckoning, but she was beginning to regret her bold move. Ach, if only she’d not been so caught up in the idea of proving herself.
As she swallowed down her bread and prepared herself to continue on, she caught sight of a rider. Her heart stilled as she narrowed her gaze. The sun filtering behind the mountains made it impossible to tell if he was English or Scottish but, either way, it could mean trouble.
An old cottage sat close the path so she hastened over to it and ducked behind the grey, crumbling walls. It had no roof but hopefully it would hide her from the rider. Sweat pricked on her palms as the horse’s heavy breaths and hoof beats grew louder. Whoever he was, he was headed her way. Had he spotted her? It was likely. She had been entirely out in the open.
Darting a glance around, her gaze landed on a large rock and she gripped it in her shaking hands. Isla stared at the slimy stone of the wall and listened intently. What would he do to her? Surely if he meant no harm he would have continued on his journey? Mayhap he was an English scout, on the lookout for her. Mayhap he had stopped at the village and made enough threats to find out where she was headed.
She flinched as the hoof beats ceased and she pressed herself into a deeper crouch as if that would somehow make her invisible to the stranger’s gaze. Ach, if only it were dark. Isla clutched the stone tighter and readied herself for action as the sound of a sword jangling on a belt told her the man had dismounted.
Her breaths came raggedly while her pulse beat quickly and a leather booted foot stepped into the old doorway, not far from her hiding spot. Without waiting for the rest of him to enter, she jumped on top of him and smacked the stone into his head. They tumbled together, the force sending him toppling back. She landed on his hard chest and panic made everything blurry as she scrabbled to get away. A slight cry bubbled out of her throat as she heard him groan. Isla clambered to her feet and collected her skirts without looking back.
“Isla!”
She froze and rotated slowly. “Rory?”
Sweet Mary. Rory had come to his feet and clutched his head. Sickness roiled in her stomach. She’d attacked Rory! She dashed to his side and tugged his hand away. He looked at her through glazed eyes but they still managed to make her heart skip.