The Scot's Deception (Highland Swords Book 5)

by Keira Montclair

The time Branwen had spoken of had come. She had a sudden clear understanding of everything they’d said.

  Her knees knocked together as she waited, her arrow nocked and ready to fly.

  Finally, they were within range. She let the first arrow fly, hitting the lead man on horseback. He kept coming, the arrow protruding from his shoulder, but she had to keep moving.

  She nocked another and fired at the second man, missing him. She nocked a third and aimed, only to be interrupted by Drostan’s shout.

  “Chrissa, you have to take them out or they’ll kill both of us!”

  “Stop yelling at me! You’re not helping.”

  “You’re about to see our blood spilled all over this ground. You wanted to go to battle? You have it.”

  “Mayhap I’ve changed my mind about wishing to be a spy.” She fired another arrow and caught the second horseman in his thigh. “The thought of it has taken an ugly turn.”

  “Shoot! And I’m not a spy. My mother might be or mayhap she’s not even my mother. Get it out of your mind. We’re more important. You’re more important. Shoot! They’re nearly upon us.”

  Nocking another with shaking hands, she fired at the first man, hitting him straight in his midsection, knocking him off his horse. She fired again at the second and hit his flank, but he didn’t fall. She tried to shoot at Percy, the third horseman, but he rode to the side in a wide curve, jumping off his horse and running straight at Drostan, his sword lifted overhead.

  Trying to watch them both, she prepared another shot. She fired at the second horseman, hitting him in the throat, blood spurting everywhere as he fell to the ground, dead if she were to guess. So she turned to Percy next. Drostan and the sheriff were now facing off, Drostan blocking the man’s parries.

  She glanced back to see if any others were coming, but the fourth man had gone back and was nowhere to be seen. Bringing her gaze back to Percy, she nocked her arrow and aimed, watching the men parry, waiting for an opportunity.

  When it came, she fired an arrow into Percy’s arm. The injury wouldn’t stop him—it hadn’t incapacitated the arm—but the sight of the arrow had thrown off his concentration. He jumped, staring at her and cursing, and Drostan scored a direct blow to his sword arm.

  Chrissa watched what happened next as if in slow motion. Percy’s sword flew out of his hands and sliced across Drostan’s leg, instantly spilling blood down the front of his trews. Chrissa fired another arrow and struck the sheriff square in the chest, killing him instantly.

  But Drostan looked terrible.

  She couldn’t lose him, not when she’d just figured out that she loved him.

  “Drostan!”

  ***

  Alex sat near the hearth, surrounded by more clanmates than he could identify. He was tiring from all the decisions they had been forced to make, so he nodded to Jamie and Connor. It was their job to see this through to the end. Jamie held his arms up to silence the group, which consisted mostly of men.

  “We’re going after Dyna’s and Alasdair’s group to see if we can assist them,” Connor said. “We know not how many we’ll be handling. Astra drew a map showing us exactly where Chrissa was held, so we’re going there first. Jamie, you take the other group to meet the Ramsay warriors at Gallow Hill. ’Tis time to take a group to Stirling. The archers will travel with you. We’ll leave a third group here to protect our land. Uncle Logan, will you be traveling ahead?”

  “Aye, I’ll meet with the Ramsays before they join up with the Grant group, but I’m leaving Lina behind.”

  “If anything changes, please send a messenger,” Jamie said.

  “You have my word that I’ll update you with travel instructions. Godspeed to all groups, especially the group going after their own.”

  Alex hated to see so many of their warriors headed out to battle, but there was little to be done but fight. Watching his sons, his clan, his allies all convene to work together also gave him a deep sense of pride. He and Maddie had raised them well, and they’d built a powerful, meaningful alliance with the Ramsays and their other close allies. They were strong enough to take on their enemies, England included. They had to protect their people, their country, their land.

  Father Dowall stood up and said, “May I? I’d like to pray for blessings in this difficult time.”

  Alex looked at Logan, who nodded his agreement, so he gave his assent to the priest.

  Father Dowall said a simple but eloquent prayer, something that gave them all a quick boost of confidence. When he finished, he glanced at Logan, then approached him while the others mulled about.

  “I was wondering if I could travel with the group following the special swords,” the priest said. “I’d like to see their swords in action, if you don’t mind.”

  The priest’s words surprised Alex, but when Logan looked to him for his opinion, he waved to indicate he didn’t mind if the man followed the spectral swords.

  “I’m going with the other group,” Logan reminded the priest. “I can’t promise they’ll return you to your chapel, but you’ll not be far away if Astra’s directions are correct.”

  Alex had little doubt of that—the lass could find her way if blindfolded.

  “Many thanks to you, my lord. I’ll be able to find my way, I’m sure. Godspeed to your group.” He nodded and left, grabbing a hunk of bread from the trestle table still loaded with various foodstuffs.

  “Godspeed to all of us,” Alex said, praying his granddaughter would be found quickly. Maybe he should have given the sword to Dyna or Alasdair. A loan to help them find Chrissa.

  Only he knew who was supposed to wield the sword, and it was neither of them.

  Chapter Twenty

  Drostan cursed under his breath, wanting to scream at Chrissa, at his horse, even at the dead men around him. Forcing himself to stand, he managed to get on his horse without much trouble.

  “Drostan, I have to stitch you up. What are you doing?”

  “Chrissa, get on your horse. We have to move far away from here.” He clutched his thigh, trying to stanch the bleeding.

  “Allow me to stitch you first.”

  “Nay, there are three dead men or nearly dead men. The wolves and other creatures will smell the blood and be here soon. I can’t move them, nor do I want to. And if we stay out in the open, others may come along. I know you have to stitch me up before we can head home, but we cannot stay here. Let’s move ahead and see what we can find on the other side of the ravine. I can hear moving water up ahead. If we’re lucky, there’s a burn. We should be able to find an outcropping or a grove of pines as protection. I need to wash the blood off me, too.”

  “All right.” She didn’t say much, though she kept staring at his injury. Before they left, she quickly retrieved all of the arrows that were salvageable. She probably would need all of them.

  Once they made it through the ravine, he led her off the main path to the right to a place well hidden by a grove of pines. There was a large outcropping that would keep them dry if it rained. He bustled around the area dragging pine boughs behind him.

  “How did you know this was here?” she asked, simply because it was perfect.

  “I just had this odd feeling, and I could hear the water.” He busied himself with the branches, ignoring her. He knew his strength was waning, so he needed to do what he could to conceal their position. After she sewed him up, he’d be of no use to anyone.

  “What are you doing, Drostan?”

  “Simple. Do you see those trees? I can weave these among the branches, blocking anyone’s view of us, plus it will offer protection against the elements of whatever weather Scotland chooses to throw at us.” He continued until he’d finished his task, and he had to admit, he’d done a fine job with the branches. It was a good thing, because he was depleting his strength rapidly, though he’d never tell her so.

  She grabbed her saddlebag and took it over to a small rock under the outcropping, sitting down to sort out her necessary items. “Come, I must sew up yo
ur wound or you’ll never survive.” Grabbing a small basin, she moved to the burn and filled it with fresh water.

  He limped over to her and pulled off his trews, using his plaid to maintain his dignity. At this point, he didn’t care. He was in a great deal of pain, and he was more frightened than he’d ever been, simply because he knew he wouldn’t be able to protect her anymore. The thought of sending her off alone worried him more than any wound could.

  He wiped the sweat from his brow and sat down in front of her.

  “I have nothing to give you to help with the pain. Sorry.”

  “Have you any of your aunt’s salve to protect against the fever?”

  “Aye, I have a small jar that should be enough.”

  “’Tis all I’ll need. Do not worry about my pain. Just get it done as quickly as possible.” He’d only been stitched once, a couple of years ago, and his sire had forced him to drink enough ale to make him nearly pass out.

  There was no ale to help him this time. He watched her press on the wound, pushing down hard.

  “Why are you delaying?” he asked, surprised by a sudden bout of dizziness.

  “Because you’re bleeding is heavy enough that I can’t see the edges of your wound. I have to slow it before I can stitch it together. Too much pressure from the blood will just pop my stitches as soon as you get on a horse.”

  He could see the misting in her eyes, so he cupped her cheek and lifted her gaze to his. “We’ll get through this. We have each other, and we’re both too stubborn to let those bastards who took us captive win in any way.” He leaned over and gave her a chaste kiss on the lips, and he was pleased she didn’t turn away from him.

  A sudden stab of pain jolted him, so he pulled back, nodding for her to continue. Too addled to do anything else at this point, he closed his eyes while she prepared to start stitching.

  He must have dozed off because the next thing he knew, it felt like a knife had been plunged into his open wound. His eyes flew open and he nearly roared, but he stopped, transfixed by the sheer beauty of Chrissa hard at work.

  She was the most beautiful lass he’d ever seen. Her concentration was such that her tongue stuck out slightly between her teeth as she worked. Watching her truly dulled the pain that shot through him with each precise placement of her needle. He found a rock beneath him and gripped it as tightly as he could, helping him conquer the pain. Crying out might distract her, and he would never, ever strike her out of his own discomfort.

  “Lass, I’m not a spy,” he whispered, sweat still beading across his forehead so he wiped it down with the sleeve of one arm. “I’ve always been interested in you, ever since we made our pledge, but this past year it got so you were almost the only thing I noticed. You’re my world.”

  Chrissa nodded, casting an appreciative glance at him before she continued her work. “I believe you. My feelings have been changing for a while now, I realize. It’s been…confusing. It was a perfect time for someone to make a fool of me. They wanted us to argue, and they arranged for it to happen.”

  “I agree.” He paused, thinking about their escape from their castle. Other than the confrontation that had ended in his wound, everything had been too easy. “And I found one other thing odd. It shouldn’t have been so simple for us to escape. The door was left unlocked, our weapons were just down the passageway, and two horses were tied up in the perfect spot. Who was the last person in the chamber with us?”

  “DeFry,” she whispered. “He didn’t follow Percy.”

  “True, and your cousins seemed to believe he was loyal to the Scots. He’s not on your grandsire’s list of traitors either. Mayhap he’s a spy for the Scots. Would he do that? Pretend that he supports King Edward?”

  “’Tis possible. At this point, it seems anything is possible.”

  Drostan knew she had several more stitches to place, and he leaned his head back against the stone outcropping because he was so tired. He could take a nap and sleep through this pain.

  “Drostan!” she said, nudging him. “You have to stay awake.”

  “Why?” He kept his eyes open to please her but didn’t move his head.

  “Because my aunt Jennie, the healer, always says so. I must get you home quickly.”

  “Lass, I don’t know how to tell you this, but I’m not going home. I’ll never make it. You won’t be able to get me on my horse and I can’t get on myself. You’ll have to go for help. Even if I managed to climb on, I wouldn’t be able to stay upright.” His eyes fluttered shut again. “Keep talking. I’m listening.”

  He didn’t hear another word she said.

  ***

  The man finished writing his missive, tying it carefully with twine. He handed it to the waiting messenger and sent him on his way.

  He worked on the second missive laboriously, phrasing his words just right, then put the mark of the clan at the bottom before tying it carefully with twine, just like the other one. They looked exactly alike.

  A second lad arrived and he passed along both the missive and the coin he’d promised for delivery of the message to the right person. The lad asked, “This is to go to the chieftain of the Ramsay group headed toward Stirling Castle?”

  “Aye, now Godspeed with you.”

  The second messenger left and the man leaned back, a huge smile on his face. He’d planned this so intricately that he had to smile. It was a brilliant plan.

  He’d sent a message to the leader of the Ramsay warriors explaining that there was a group of Englishmen disguised as Grant warriors out to kill them. It was suggested they kill them all.

  Then he’d sent a message to the leader of the Grant warriors explaining that a group of Englishmen disguised as Ramsay warriors had been sent out with instructions to kill the Grant warriors.

  The result should be the Grant warriors killing the Ramsays and the Ramsays killing the Grants. He’d signed both as though they were sent by Robert the Bruce. True, he’d only seen the man’s signature a couple of times, but since most men did not have the ability to read, whoever read it would not know the Bruce’s signature.

  He wished to be on the next field to watch.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chrissa settled Drostan as best she could. He was built of solid muscle, so moving him was not easy, but she’d managed to lay him down across the fur she’d retrieved from her horse. She rinsed his blood stained trews in the burn, then left them out to dry, hanging them on the pine branches.

  He hadn’t awakened from the last time he’d fallen asleep. She’d finished the last few stitches, though it had been difficult to see through the tears misting her eyes, and then applied the salve and bandaged it.

  She tucked a plaid over him, then leaned down and kissed his cheek. “I love you, Drostan. I’ll hurry. I need to get someone here quickly, I know.”

  After filling the skin with fresh water and drinking deeply, she set it down next to him in case he awakened. Then she climbed on her horse and rode out, a sick feeling in her gut. She found the path she had to take back to Grant land without a problem, but the farther she traveled, the more a small voice niggled at her in the back of her mind.

  He’s going to die.

  He’s going to die.

  He’s going to die.

  You don’t need to leave. The Grant patrol will find you now that you’re out of the cellar.

  He never left you.

  Her mind returned to that day all those years ago, when she was around six summers. Her leg had hurt so badly she couldn’t walk. She’d known her parents would find her, but waiting alone was horrible.

  But Drostan had found her and stayed. He’d done it for her—and her response had been to make demands of him. To tell him he needed to be the strongest soldier in the lists if he wished to marry her. A tear slid down her cheek.

  And he did it, or as good as. He did it for you.

  You cannot leave him.

  The more she traveled, the more the last comment made sense. A sudden urge gripped her t
hat she couldn’t ignore.

  Turning her horse around, she tugged on the reins and flew back toward him. No more running from how she felt. She and Drostan belonged together.

  If he lived, she didn’t care if she ever fought another battle.

  She would fight, of course, if called upon to do so, but life wasn’t about reaching for glory—it was about doing the right thing because it was right. Maybe glory would come from it, maybe not. All she knew was she wanted to be with Drostan.

  When she made it back, she filled the water skin again, said a quick prayer, then tucked herself up against Drostan, pulling the plaid over both of them. To her surprise, he awakened.

  “Chrissa?”

  “What? I’m here.”

  “Did I ever tell you I love you?”

  “Nay. Say it again.” She smiled, her heart blossoming.

  “I was so angry when I thought you believed my mother over me. But you were held captive. They tried to twist our minds and turn us against each other. I understand why you doubted me. I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did. I love you, Chrissa.” He had to stop to gather strength to speak. “Every part of my being loves you. I’m glad you came back.”

  “I love you, too, Drostan. I’m sorry I doubted you.” Tears ran down her face because she could hear the weakness in his voice.

  His eyes closed again. “I’m so tired.”

  “You must drink some water,” she urged.

  “What?”

  “Mama always made everyone drink water when they had a big wound.”

  “I am thirsty.”

  She sat him up, leaning his head back against her chest. He drank several long sips, then closed his eyes again.

  “A little more. Please, love?”

  He opened his eyes and drank more, then sighed, but he had a tight grip on her hand. She managed to slide the two of them down to a prone position again, and she fell asleep against him, their hands entwined.

  ***

  The many groups of warriors moved out of the hall, preparing for their journeys. There were only a few left, among them Father Dowall, who was reading his Bible by the hearth. Logan searched out Alex, Avelina behind him.