by C. N. Bird
The sounds of footsteps through the undergrowth caused him to spin wildly and he sagged. “Isla!”
She strolled to his side, a hand across her mouth as she supressed a giggle. “What are ye doing, Rory?”
“I thought ye’d been taken or…” he scrubbed a hand over his face, “or decided ye didnae want me after all.”
Her gaze skimmed over his naked state and she laughed.
Rory scowled. “’Tis no laughing matter, lass. I shouldnae have fallen asleep. Anything could have happened.”
Isla shook her head, her light brown curls bouncing around her shoulders. “Ach, my mighty warrior, ye should see yerself. As much as I appreciate ye without yer plaid, I think ye should dress. ‘Twould not do for ye to give anyone a scare should they come across us.”
He allowed his scowl to deepen while he hurriedly dressed, thrusting his limbs into his garments. He still had not quite got over the fear something had happened to her. And here she was laughing at him! “Are ye saying I’m a terrifying sight?” he asked grumpily.
“Not at all, Rory,” she said softly. She came to his side and helped him pin his plaid.
When he glanced down at her, his heart thudded to a stop and all his ire dissolved. Her deep brown eyes ate into him, so soft and beautiful. Ach, how could he ever stay angry at this lass? The growing sunlight picked out the fair strands scattered amongst the brown in her hair, making them seem almost golden.
Unable to resist, he dropped a light kiss to her lips and was rewarded with her body softening into his. Ach, but he was soft in the head for this lass. “Where were ye?”
She remained huddled against him, just tucked into his side. Where before he thought her too small, now she seemed perfect.
“Looking for firewood. I’d hoped to make ye something to break yer fast. But I didnae find much.”
“Nay, ye willnae find much around here, unless that old cottage has some wood in it but I’d wager it was stripped long ago.”
“I think yer right. We shall have to satisfy ourselves with some bread I fear.”
Rory nodded. “Aye, that we will, but ‘tis no matter. We’ll stop at the village on the way back to the keep and eat there.” He paused. “Ye havenae changed yer mind have ye?”
“About returning home?” She drew back. “Nay, of course not.” Uncertainty flickered in her eyes. “Unless…unless ye have.”
Rory laughed. He shouldn’t have done but it was a relief that he wasn’t the only one doubting things. They had a way to go as man and wife, he concluded. They’d both spent too long questioning the other but they had made a start. Without a doubt, he wanted Isla by his side for the rest of his life.
“Forgive me, lass. I didnae mean to laugh. I would fight to my last breath to have ye by my side.”
She released a gentle smile and turned to rummage in his saddle bag. He admired her as she gave his mount a reassuring pat. Even after a night out in the Highlands she remained so beautiful. And such a contradiction. The way she moved and spoke was so at odds with everything he had learned of her. He itched to learn so much more. From now on, he was determined to pay much more attention to his wonderful wife. Rory released a grin. He was a lucky man indeed for how many other men had a sweet, caring wife who could fight off the English?
After they broke their fast, they mounted and made their way back down the valley toward the settlement. Rory had to admit having a wee wife was useful when it came to having her ride with him. His horse barely noticed the additional weight.
He estimated they were not more than a mile away from the village when three riders came over the hill. He braced a hand on his sword. They were highlanders but who knew if they were friend or foe. Isla’s hands tensed on his waist and he swore to himself he’d do whatever he needed to do to protect her.
The leader, a large man in a green plaid waved a hand and slowed as they approached. Rory exhaled slowly when he recognised him as the village leader. And then he stiffened as he noted the riders’ anxious expressions.
“Gregor, is all well?” he called as they brought their mounts up next to his.
“Nay, laird. The English have taken the settlement. They’ve got our women and children and some of the men locked up in the main hall. We couldnae fight them as they took us by surprise. If we raise a hand, they’ll burn them, I’m sure.”
A heavy knot twisted his stomach and he heard Isla release a gasp. “God’s blood,” he murmured. “What do they want? Are they there for supplies?”
Gregor shook his head, his grey hair blowing about his shoulders in the gentle breeze. “Nay, they’re there for ye, my laird. We managed to get away and were coming to find ye and warn ye. We hoped to seek aid in the next village too.”
Rory shook his head. “’Tis a day away, ye’ll no’ get help in time.”
“Aye, but none would give ye up, laird, so we knew not what else to do. There isnae enough of us to fight them. They must have gathered more men since their first attempt at an attack.”
He considered this for a moment. He was no coward. No highlander would flee and let women and children pay for his actions. He’d have to hand himself over. Mayhap he could negotiate with them.
Isla squeezed his waist. “They’ll want yer head,” she said softly. “Ye’ve been a thorn in their side. They’ll take ye to the tower.”
She was right. He’d played a strong role in defeating the English at Stirling. The king would want him dead. Briefly clasping her hand, he dismounted and eyed her gravely. “Ye know I cannae leave the villagers to their fate.”
She nodded, tears shimmering in her gaze. “I know.”
Ach, but he was proud of his brave lass. “I’ll do all I can to negotiate with them,” he assured her. “I’m in no mind to give them my head.” Rory kissed her knuckles. “Stay here. Stay safe.” He turned to Gregor. “Will ye accompany my wife back to the keep should anything happen to me? I’m trusting ye to keep her safe.”
“Aye, laird. Of course.” Gregor dipped his head and Rory’s heart lifted the tiniest bit.
Gregor would ensure her safety and his brother would look after her, he knew that much. But an ache still lingered as he glanced in her eyes. If only they had not wasted so much time on uncertainty. If he had but spoken to her of his concerns, they would have had a happy couple of seasons together. Still, he did not resist offering her a tilted smile as he recalled their passionate lovemaking.
“Look after yerself, lass. I’ll see ye soon.”
Isla offered up a watery smile and nodded. Turning away, Rory motioned to the two other men. “Come with me. I might have need of yer sword arms.”
He left Isla on the horse. If he went in on foot, he would look less threatening. Hopefully he could appease the English into a truce. But he still needed the reassurance of the two warriors either side of him.
Rory did not glance back. He couldn’t. If he did, he might not have the courage to continue on. For what man wanted to leave such a woman knowing he might never hold her again? It wasn’t the first time he’d said farewell to her before going off to fight but he’d always been assured of a victory.
“Wait!”
With heavy legs, he twisted to see Isla leap from his mount and dash toward him. She threw her slight weight against him and wrapped her arms around him. “I love ye, Rory.” She burrowed her face into his neck.
Hands trembling slightly, he stroked her hair and grasped her to him. “I love ye too, lass.”
Before he weakened, he urged her away and she took a step back, mayhap understanding his need for distance. Giving her a final nod, he began his journey to the village, heart weighted with anxiety. He only hoped he could come back to her. He felt her gaze on him, even as they reached the brow of the hill but he refused to look back. Isla was a brave lass, he knew that now, and she didn’t need a prolonged farewell.
When they came to the edge of the village, Rory quickly understood why the villagers had been overcome. Though the English only numbered at abo
ut five and ten, they were heavily armed and these peasants were no warriors. Once the English had taken the womenfolk, it would have been easy to subdue the men.
An Englishman eyed him warily, his bow pulled taut, as Rory approached. Rory kept his hands raised in surrender and spoke to the man in English. “I am Laird Rory MacPherson. I’ve come to seek a truce.”
The man nodded. “Aye, but your men must remain here.” He motioned to several other soldiers and they trained their arrows on the mounted highlanders before leading Rory through the village centre.
A knight stood in front of the large thatched building that acted as the hall. Rory recognised him to be important from his well-crafted sword and heavily embroidered surcoat. The man in charge, presumably.
Rory shrugged off the hand on his shoulder as the escorts tried to manhandle him toward the knight and grimly noted the few men not yet locked up were held at bay by arrows and crossbows. The cries of women and children reminded him of what was at stake and the hands thrusting out from the small windows of the hall sent a chill through him.
Arms folded, he stopped in front of the leader and gazed down at him coolly. Though the man was clearly strong, he was younger than Rory. He resisted the urge to smirk. He doubted the young lad had seen much war. Something that he hoped would work in his favour.
“Who are you?” the knight asked, a sneer on his face as he took in Rory’s dirtied plaid and unkempt hair.
“I am Laird Rory MacPherson. The man ye are looking for. Why do ye hold this people?”
“I am Sir Ranulph d’Aguillon, these people are my prisoners. But you no doubt know why we are holding them. Do you come to give yourself up?”
“Do ye guarantee the safety of these people if I do?”
“Do you not trust me, laird?”
“You English are fond of raping and pillaging. I want a guarantee that none of these people shall come to harm, should I give myself up.”
Ranulph laughed. “You are surrounded by English soldiers. Why should I make any such deal? ‘Tis not like you can do any harm.”
“Ye underestimate the will of the Scots, sir. To get back to the coast, ye’ve still got to trespass on MacPherson land. My brother will not be best pleased when he hears of my capture.” Rory stepped closer and glowered down at the man. “I cannae guarantee yer safety, should ye harm this people.”
Ranulph stroked a finger over his chin. “You overestimate your kinsman, my laird. You did not expect us to come up the coast and take your castles and take them we did. I do not fear your brother or your fellow Scots.” He motioned to the men on either side of Rory and hands clamped around both his arms suddenly.
He fought them, snarling as they drew his sword from his belt and flung it aside, but the men were large and strong. Though he did not make it easy on them, he was eventually pressed to his knees and pinned by hands on his shoulders.
Rory glared at the knight. “Ye’ll no’ get away with this. My brother will seek revenge.”
Ranulph ignored him. “Have his head. The king will be happy either way and I wish not to risk his kinsmen trying to free him on the journey back to London.”
All he saw was leather boots as his head was forced down, his neck bared. Ach, if he could only see Isla one last time, mayhap he would die a happy man. Still his brother would avenge him. That brought him some comfort.
“Nay!” a woman screamed and the hold on his head released enough for him to raise his gaze.
His heart jumped into his throat and he croaked out her name. “Isla.”
Ach, foolish lass. He wanted her as far from danger as possible. She shoved past Ranulph but he snatched her arm as he recovered from his surprise at the small woman breaking through. Rory glared at her. How had she even made it into the village? He noted Gregor not far behind Ranulph and he swallowed. Was this some rash rescue attempt?
“What is the meaning of this?” Ranulph demanded, yanking Isla into his side.
Rory gritted his teeth. If the man harmed a hair on her head…
“Pray, sir, he is my husband. Will ye no’ let me say farewell?”
Ranulph shook his head and released a twisted grin. “I am no fool, lady. You Highland women are as bold as you are foolish. I’ll not let you near him. I’m afraid you shall have to say your farewells from here.” He pulled her close to him.
“Aye, I thought ye might say as much…” Isla smiled grimly.
The knight stiffened and Rory scowled as he caught the glint of a blade pressed into Ranulph’s side. Hell fire, Isla had the man at knifepoint!
“Ye’ll be releasing my husband now, if ye dinnae mind.” She pressed the dagger deeper and Ranulph winced.
“You foolish woman. If you kill me, they’ll behead him,” he hissed.
Rory locked gazes with Isla, determined that if he was to die, she’d be the last thing he saw. Torn between feeling desperately proud and simply desperate, he remained on his knees but kept his body tense, ready to act.
“Yer planning to behead him anyway, so I may as well kill ye. Besides, ye kill him and yer men will have these villagers to answer to.” She jerked her head toward the hall and Rory couldn’t disguise the grin breaking across his face.
While the Englishman’s attention had been on Isla and Rory, Gregor had snuck behind and freed the trapped villagers. Canny lass. He wondered if Isla had planned it all along. Ach, but she made a better leader than he.
“What think ye, sir? Do ye still want the laird’s head? Is it worth yer life and that of yer men too?”
Rory noted the sweat beading on the knight’s forehead. Did the man value his pride enough that he would rather die than be bested by a mere lass or was he the sort who ran from the battlefield? He prayed the latter.
The sound of his own breathing grew loud in his ears as he waited, a sword still hanging above his head.
Ranulph’s shoulders slumped and he eyed the tiny woman beside him. “Release him,” he said tightly.
“But, sir—” one of the men protested.
“Release him,” he bit out again.
The grip on his shoulders loosened and Rory grasped his sword and came quickly to his feet. Isla beamed at him and released Ranulph. Rory eyed him warily, blade still drawn. He was aware their fortunes could change very easily.
“You might have won this time, laird, but you’ll not defeat the English. We’ll be back claiming your castle soon enough.”
Rory laughed. His wee wife had just had the man quaking at the end of her knife. He didn’t fear the knight. “We’ve taken back our keeps, sir, and we’ll take back Scotland, just ye see.”
***
“Come here, my wee lassie.”
Isla grinned and finished loosening the laces on her shift. She paused and admired Rory in her—nay, their—bed for a moment. Wearing only the blankets across his hips, the candlelight gilded his skin and made her body pulse with need. He was finally where he belonged. She did not doubt they still had a way to go but they loved each other and they now understood the other’s fears and worries.
Allowing her chemise to gape, she slunk over to the bed and flattened a kiss to his chest. When she lifted her head, she caught him watching her, eyes glinting. Heat filled her cheeks at her bold move and she tried to retreat but he caught her wrist and quickly tugged her to his side, rolling so she was pinned beneath one strong arm. His chest pressed into her side and her breathing laboured.
“Dinnae run from me, lass. I’m of no mind to let ye go again.”
She traced the lines of his muscled arm. “I’m of no mind to run from ye again.”
“Ye know I would hunt ye down if ye did.”
His lips began to trail over her cheeks and down her neck until his head was buried in the crook of her neck. Shivers of anticipation swept her body. “And I would let ye, my highland warrior, but ye’ll no’ need to hunt me down again. I love ye, Rory MacPherson.”
He lifted his head and secured her with a look that stole her breath. “I love ye, I
sla. I would follow you to the ends of the earth.”
Before she mustered a response, he captured her lips in a sensuous kiss. Isla returned the kiss eagerly, secure in the knowledge that no matter what, she'd never be apart from her highlander again.
THE END
A Love Remembered
Em Taylor
England, 1811
Prologue
Really, it was dreadfully rude of Ben not to come and see them off. They had, after all, been guests in his home for a full week. And he was rather dashing. It was a shame he was leaving to join the navy and may not be around in two years for her coming out. Of course, it seemed that young Lord Benedict Mallory, Earl of Sefdom could not even make it to the front door of the huge mansion, never mind find his way to foreign lands.
Cassandra swiped away the fly that buzzed near her bonnet. The warmth of the summer day and the disappointment at not seeing Ben seemed rather overwhelming. Her sister no doubt would be talking all the way back to their country estate in Kent and she and her father would sit opposite one another rolling their eyes at the tales of Lucy’s betrothed—the Earl of Waringham—a rather dour man who seemed somewhat besotted by her excitable sister.
“Thank you once again, Your Grace,” her father intoned, just as the noise of thudding hooves reached Cassandra’s ears. She looked up to see Ben galloping down the private road, his hat slightly askew and the tails of his dark blue coat flapping out behind him. He drew the horse to a halt and grimaced apologetically towards the Duchess.
“I am sorry for my late arrival. I was helping one of the farmers pull his cart out of a ditch.”
It was only then that Cassandra noticed his buff breeches were splattered with mud—as were his top boots.
“That is all right, young man. We are glad you could make it in the end,” her father said jovially.
“So am I, as I did want to say goodbye to Cassy... I mean Lady Cassandra.”
He walked straight over to her and indicated she should move slightly out of earshot of their parents. She did as he bade and bit her lip. He was terribly handsome and she should not feel as she did but she hoped that one day they would be married. Though at just sixteen, she knew he still regarded her as a child.