“I ken it,” Simon said as he withdrew his sword, a savage look twisting his features. “After we survive this, I’m going to hunt down the MacDougall and rip out his black heart with my bare hands.”
Grant nodded, and they both spat toward the ground. They had no respect for liars and turncoats, and this day, Laird MacDougall had proven to be both. “I’ll be by yer side to help ye, Brother. I vow it.”
Simon clasped Grant’s arm, and a swell of emotion tightened Grant’s throat. “Bruce approaches,” Simon said. “We must act quickly.”
Grant looked behind him to where the king fast approached with his young wife by his side. Three bloodied, battered Scots rode in front of Bruce and Elizabeth, and three more rode behind, as well as the two foolish pups who should not have come here and put themselves in the middle of the danger. Every warrior was armed and prepared to give his life to save that of his new king’s. Now, weapons even weighted Thomas and Allisdair, as Bruce had knighted them before the battle. Bruce represented the Scottish people’s greatest hope to defeat the tyrannical King Edward of England, who wished to subjugate them with an unmerciful iron fist.
Urgency tensed Grant’s muscles. He glanced swiftly to his left to the steep impenetrable rocks of the mountain. They’d find no escape there. To the right, then. One look down the plunging cliffside was all it took to understand they would not all make it. But most of them could escape, and he’d give his own life to ensure Simon and Thomas lived. A nearby ridge looked close enough to the ledge that would lead to slanting, scalable rock and freedom. Those who made their way down the mountainside could jump to it. Someone would have to drive the horses back toward the scene of the last battle so the approaching Englishmen would follow the decoy while the king, his wife, and the other warriors escaped, ferreting Bruce to safety. Then they could gather new allies and take down Edward.
Grant jerked his rope out of his sporran and jumped off his horse.
“Grant, what are ye…” Simon’s voice trailed off as Grant held up the rope and pointed at the ledge, then looked to the king, the queen, and what was left of the king’s army.
“Grant Fraser, I could kiss ye,” Ross MacLorh said, dismounting his horse.
Grant winked at his friend. “I’ll thank ye nae to. If I die today, I dunnae want the lips of a big, burly Scot to be the last I recall.”
Tense laughter rippled around the group as the rest of the party dismounted. The king stepped toward Grant and clasped him on the shoulder. “What do ye intend to do with the rope?”
“I’ll lower each of ye down to the ledge and then drop the rope to ye, Sire,” Grant explained. “I’ll remain to drive the horses back the way we came and ensure the English think they are following all of us.”
Even as the king nodded, Simon said, “Nay,” his unyielding green gaze locking on Grant. “Ye’ll go with the king and the others, and I’ll lead the horses.”
“The devil ye will,” Grant protested. “I’m staying, and ye’re going. Ye’re laird of our clan. Ye must leave.”
Ross snatched the rope out of Grant’s hand. “We will all die this day if ye two stand here bickering.”
“Bruce.” Ross waved at the king. “Come. Ye must go first.”
“Take Elizabeth before me,” the king said, his voice like steel.
The queen opened her mouth to protest, but Bruce silenced her with a kiss. He cupped her cheeks and whispered something in her ear, to which she nodded and then turned to Ross. “I put my life in yer hands, Ross.”
“They’re steady hands, my queen,” he vowed.
As Ross slipped the rope around the queen’s waist, Grant faced Simon once more. “I’m staying. The rope is mine. The idea was mine. Ye and Thomas must flee.” This was his moment of restitution for failing to always be there for Simon, as they had vowed long ago as boys they always would be after their parents had died, and only the four siblings had remained.
Simon slipped his hand to the back of Grant’s neck and gripped it, bringing them so close that their foreheads touched. “I’m yer laird,” his brother said, the intensity of his tone humming in Grant’s ear like a thousand swarming bees. “Ye will do as I say.”
“Nay,” Grant argued. “Ye will be outnumbered.” He did not state the obvious that whoever stayed had little chance of living.
“Aye.” Simon nodded and squeezed Grant’s neck. “But ye ken these mountains better than any man here, myself included. The king has a better chance of escaping with ye leading the party, as does Thomas.”
Damn his brother for being right. The desire to deny the truth clawed at Grant, making him feel as if someone slashed at his innards with a jagged dagger. If he refused, Simon would simply argue, and Grant once again would have failed to trust his elder brother, his laird, as he had done in the past when he’d believed Simon a turncoat for the English. After they had been reunited and he had learned that Simon had been working as a spy in King Edward’s court and had not really abandoned the Scottish cause, Grant had vowed that he would never doubt his brother again.
Grant looked over his shoulder to where the king was being lowered to his queen. “I’ll lead them to the pass.” Simon’s exhalation of obvious relief nearly caused Grant to recant his words. His brother expected to die. That’s why he wished to be the one to stay and not let Grant. Grant would die for Simon, just as Simon would him. “I’ll be returning for ye,” he said and glared at Simon when he opened his mouth to protest. “Ross kens the route from the pass as well as I do.”
“Aye, I do,” Ross confirmed.
Grant gripped Simon by the shoulder. “Dunnae get yerself killed before I come back for ye.”
Simon offered a smile. “Dunnae get yerself killed trying to save me.”
Grant jerked his elder brother into an embrace. “I kinnae think of a better way to die than giving my life for ye, Brother.”
Simon nodded. “Same here, Brother.”
They broke apart, and Grant made quick work of lowering Ross, the only one remaining, to the ledge. He then slipped the rope around his own waist and gave Simon one last look as his brother braced himself, feet apart, ready to lower Grant.
“I’ll see ye soon,” Grant assured him. “And then we will hunt down Laird MacDougall together and kill him for betraying us.”
“I’ll hold ye to that promise,” Simon said.
When Grant reached the ledge, he looked up, expecting to see Simon, but the rope came flying toward him, and then shouted commands from Simon to the horses to retreat came from above Grant.
He maneuvered to the front of the party and waved them onward. “We’ll move fast. Watch yer step and stay close.” He had to get the king and the others to safety, and then return to aid his brother. He’d not prayed since the day he’d learned his mother had been taken by their enemies, but as he scaled the rocks, he began to plead to God to shield Simon, and all of them, this day.
Chapter Two
Hawick-upon-Tweed, Scotland
People crowded the market, but Eve weaved her way through the tables where goods were being hocked, determined to buy the best fruit and vegetables for the convent. She tugged on her itchy novice habit, which she had not, in eight years of hiding, ever become accustomed to wearing, and continued on through the throng of bartering townspeople.
She bowed her head and folded her hands in front of her, as if in prayerful consideration, while she passed a group of knights who donned capes emblazoned with the King of England’s coat of arms. She stole a sideways glance at them, not surprised when none of them spared the slightest look for her. Men never took notice of nuns—or women feigning to be a novice as she was. It was why Clara always had Eve wear her habit. It was the perfect disguise. Clara vowed it made her practically invisible to any man who might be searching for the lost heiress of Linlithian Castle.
Eve didn’t see how any man would even recognize her. She’d changed much in the years since she’d escaped from the Scots who had stormed her home, murdered her famil
y, and intended to force her hand in marriage to gain her father’s castle. But Clara insisted that she was recognizable, and Eve’s uncle agreed. And because Uncle Frederick had been ruling both the castle and her father’s men in her stead until she reached eighteen summers, she’d had no choice but to relent. She had not seen her uncle in the years since she’d fled, but they had exchanged many letters, and any time Eve disagreed with one of Clara’s dictates, her uncle always sided with Clara and reminded Eve that she was obligated to heed him.
Eve had long dreamed of the day she could leave the confines of the Sisters of Saint Cecilia Convent and return to her home, and as today was finally her eighteenth birthday, she had every intention of making the journey to Linlithian within the sennight. She knew her uncle only sought to protect her by keeping her here, but she wanted to take her rightful place and rule fairly and wisely as her father had. She would take her uncle’s counsel, of course, but she had her own mind and would use it the way her parents had raised her to use it. And thanks to King Edward’s declaration when he had gifted her father Linlithian for saving his life, her father’s heir, should it be a girl, could rule the castle in her own right upon reaching eighteen summers and choose her own husband. She intended to pick a husband as soon as possible, and he would be a man she could love who would love her in return.
Eve plucked a berry out of a basket and sampled it as she thought about the possibility of marrying. She had long imagined it. Of course she had. Her parents had been very much in love, and she wanted that, as well. She frowned as she bit into another sweet berry, worry niggling at her. As the heiress to a castle that stood strategically between the border of Scotland and England, many men would wish to wed her for her home and not her true self. She would have to be careful and wise if she was to find real love. God willing, she would not wed for less.
“Let go of me!” a woman screamed from behind Eve, instantly sparking her protective instincts. She slipped her hand inside the slit she had cut into her habit for easy access to the dagger sheathed on her hip. Eve turned, her temper flaring at the sight of a gypsy woman in the clutches of one of the knights and surrounded by his comrades.
The knight jerked the dark-haired woman to him. “Help me!” she cried out, trying and failing to strike him.
“Sir,” Eve pleaded, turning to the fruit seller behind the nearest table. “Surely, you will aid the woman?”
The older man shook his head, remorse in his eyes. “If I aid her, I could lose my home or my life. My wife and children need me.”
Eve bit her lip in frustration. She could hardly argue with his comment. It was true. The king’s knights who traveled through these parts were often violent to the Scottish people of the village. Though Eve had no love for Highlanders, she had gotten to know the Lowlanders of these parts, and they were a civilized, kind people. Even the gypsies never hurt anyone and were generous with their knowledge.
She glanced at the woman again and tensed when the knight began to drag the crying gypsy off toward a side road. She swept her gaze around the crowded square, but the few men who were there were clearly averting their eyes from the knights. Eve curled her fingers around the hilt of her dagger as her heart began to pound. Clara would be furious if Eve involved herself, but what choice was there? The woman was helpless against so many men.
“In the name of King Edward, halt!” Eve shouted. She ran toward the knights, who had all stopped and were turning her way.
“Sister!” the fruit seller behind her cried out, but she did not look back as she raced across the courtyard.
“What do you need, Sister?” the knight demanded when she stood before him.
He raked his gaze over Eve quickly, but then his eyes widened a bit. He frowned, looking her over in a much slower fashion. The gypsy woman tried to jerk out of his grip, but he yanked her back so hard she yelped.
Eve ground her teeth. “You should not treat a lady so,” she said, struggling to keep her tone civil.
“This is no lady, Sister.” The man’s dark eyes bore into Eve. “Have you taken your vows? Seems a shame for one as young and pretty as you to give her life to God.”
Eve’s skin crawled at his words. She normally tried to avoid outright lying, but in this case, she would make an exception. “I am indeed a nun,” she fibbed, “and I can assure you that God will condemn you for treating this woman so roughly—as would King Edward, I’m certain.”
The knights all laughed. The one standing before her said, “The king gives us freedom to deal with Scottish townspeople as we see fit. And if God disliked how I was treating this woman, he would have incited one of the cowardly men over there to stop me.” The knight waved a negligent hand in the direction of the square.
“God incited me to stop you,” Eve said, clutching her hidden dagger more tightly as the men laughed at her. The gypsy’s eyes grew large. To Eve’s right, a traveling bard began to sing a story that, to her dismay, featured a young nun with lavender eyes and bold claims. Eve shot a glare at the bard, who grinned at her.
“How could you possibly stop me, Sister?” the same knight asked, amusement underlying his words.
Eve surveyed the man carefully. He was bigger than her, but that alone did not frighten her. She’d long ago befriended the gypsies, known as the Summer Walkers, who traveled by the convent every summer, and they’d taught her to be quick with a sword and a dagger. She had spent the years in hiding training her mind and body so that she’d never again feel helpless the way she had the night she’d been taken. But she did not have her sword with her now, and the dagger could only do so much against a group of men. She could likely defeat this one man, but then his comrades would simply seize her if she did. This battle called for strategy.
“I’m quite good with a dagger,” she finally answered, allowing her tone to become slightly boastful as she withdrew her hidden blade.
The knights’ laughter immediately died when the sun caught on the sharp, gleaming edge of her weapon. The one before her cocked his eyebrow as he shoved the now-quiet gypsy woman to one of his comrades. “Where did a nun come by such a thing?”
Eve shrugged. “From the hand of a thief who tried to rob me.”
“You disarmed the man of his dagger?” the knight asked, his disbelief clear.
“I assure you,” Eve said evenly, “it is not as unlikely as it seems. I’ll wager you that I can disarm you, too.”
The man scoffed at her, but when she simply stared at him, he frowned. “All right,” he replied, his tone taking on a manipulative edge that she recognized. The abbess of the convent always sounded that way when she was bartering in the markets. Sister Mary Margaret was a cunning woman with a huge heart, but she was unyielding when it came to getting what she desired. If Eve could be half the leader of her father’s men that Sister Mary Margaret was of the nuns, then she would be a good ruler.
“You’ve nothing to offer me,” the man growled, then leered at her. “Now, if you weren’t a nun…” His gaze trailed slowly along her habit.
When his eyes returned to hers, Eve simply gave a half smile and a shrug. “If you’re fearful I’ll best you, simply say so.”
“Come on, Darius,” one of his comrades spoke up. “You cannot let a nun goad you like that. If you won’t fight her, I will!” All the men standing with Darius laughed, and the knight’s face turned red.
Darius look at her. “When I best you, I’ll take your dagger as my prize.”
“All right,” Eve said, struggling not to smirk. “But when I win, you’ll set the gypsy free and vow to let her go without harm.”
“As you wish, Sister…?”
“Mary,” Eve replied, using her sister’s name on a whim. She certainly could not give her own, and it seemed fitting somehow to remember Mary when rescuing this woman, as Eve had failed to rescue her sister.
Darius pointed to Eve’s dagger. “I suggest you sheathe your weapon for the fight.”
“Ye kinnae really mean to fight the nun?” some
one asked from behind her.
Eve whirled around to find the man who had refused to help the gypsy standing there. Behind him a small crowd from the market looked on from a safe distance.
The knight shrugged. “It was the nun’s idea. But if you’d rather not, Sister Mary…”
Eve faced Darius once more. The man had brawn but little brains. “The winner is the first to disarm the other,” she announced. “And you will take a care not to cut me.” She added the last line for his benefit, to make him think she was fearful.
“Of course,” he replied, motioning to one of his comrades for his sword.
Eve eyed the sword, taking in the length, shape, and type of metal used to forge it. It was very similar to the one she secretly had made in town the previous year, in preparation for returning home. When Darius held the weapon out to her, she let it tip to the ground and then made a show of struggling to lift it upright. “It’s very heavy,” she huffed, inwardly rolling her eyes.
The pompous man snickered as she lifted the weapon with several well-timed grunts. When it was hip height, she said, “I believe I’m ready.”
The knight nodded and swiveled his sword forward, gently tapping his blade to hers. She gasped and feigned nearly dropping it while he laughed. His blade was directly in front of her, mid-waist, exactly where she wanted it. This was too easy. “Sister, that was a warning tap,” Darius said. “You’re certain that—”
Eve shoved her sword upward and to the left, clanging against his. His jaw dropped. He tensed and began to react, but it was too late. The momentum of her hit had driven his blade far to the right. When he turned awkwardly in order to correct his hold, she dipped her sword down and into a full arc, bringing it back up to slam into the other side of his blade. His weapon went flying out of his hands, and she sent the tip of her sword toward his chest, directly over his heart.
“Hold still,” she commanded, “or the point may slip and plunge into your heart. I am only a woman, after all, too weak to hold up this great big sword.”
Highland Avenger Page 2