Highland Avenger

by Julie Johnstone

  Grant wiped his hands on his braies as he and Ross stood over the knights. “We’ll don their clothing.”

  Ross nodded, already reaching to undress his captive. “God’s bones,” he swore under his breath. “I heartily wish there was another course. Seeing an Englishman naked turns my stomach.”

  “Aye,” Grant agreed. He peeled off his own plaid and braies to don the armor of the knight he’d just disrobed. “They smell like dead fish.”

  “They look like fish, too, scrawny as they are,” Ross said, facing Grant as he tugged on the last of the knight’s armor.

  Grant raised his bow and arrow to ensure he could maneuver well in the armor. He’d be able to kill a man, and that was all he needed to know. “Can ye shoot and swing?” he asked Ross.

  Ross scowled at him and quickly bound the two knights’ hands and feet, and stuffed cloth in their mouths. “That’s like inquiring if I can please a wench. Dunnae ask such foolish questions.”

  Grant shoved his clothing into the sporran attached to his horse, Tintreach. “Tintreach, quiet,” he instructed his beloved destrier before he gave a yank on the rope to make sure the beast was secure. The stallion dipped his head as if in understanding, to which Grant reluctantly smiled. It felt wrong to experience even a fleeting hint of lightness with Simon’s death weighing so heavily on him. He patted the horse, which had been a gift from his father years before and had been with him through more battles than he could even remember. “I’ll return.” To Ross, he said, “Are ye ready?”

  “Since the day I first walked,” Ross assured him.

  With that, they stepped out from the woods and moved toward the bridge.

  There were commoners and knights alike crossing the bridge from both directions. Grant walked among the English, his footfalls on the wooden bridge thudding in time with his heart. When he got to the spike that held Simon’s head, Grant’s progress faltered and his grip tightened on the hilt of his dagger.

  “Grant,” Ross hissed low in his ear. “Dunnae be foolish. If ye act now, we’ll nae make it out alive.”

  “It’s quite a sight, is it not?” came a nasally voice from behind Grant.

  He clenched his teeth until his jaw ached and then slowly turned toward the voice. Ice-blue eyes stared levelly at him. Grant inclined his head to the blond-haired man, who looked to be a nobleman based on the rich cloth of his cape and his neatly shaved face. The man was built like a warrior, but his armor gleamed in the glow of the torches and the moonlight above them. His armor appeared unmarred, as if it had never been worn in battle.

  The man motioned to Simon’s head. “Clearly, I speak of the decapitated Scot, Laird Simon Fraser,” the stranger said, exasperation tingeing his tone. Then he chuckled, and it took every ounce of restraint Grant possessed not to plunge his sword into the Englishman’s heart. “I suppose I should say the former laird. He is quite dead now.”

  “Yes,” Grant answered, taking on the English accent his brother had made him practice nightly since they’d been reunited. Simon had insisted it might one day save Grant’s life, and it appeared today might be that day.

  “Did you happen to see the beheading?” the man asked. “I myself was detained and missed it.”

  Grant swallowed the rage clawing to get out of him. His fingertips throbbed where he clutched his dagger. “No, Lord…?”

  “De Beauchamp,” the man replied, flourishing his hand and offering a mock bow. “I’m Guy de Beauchamp. You may call me Lord de Beauchamp.”

  How typical of the English to be so pompous that they don’t bother learning to whom they are speaking to ensure it is not an enemy. De Beauchamp waved a hand at Ross. “It that your man gaping at me?”

  Grant stole a glance over his shoulder at Ross, who was, indeed, gaping. “Yes, my lord. He’s mute. Fool got his tongue cut out by a Scot.” Ross’s lips pressed together in distaste at Grant’s lie.

  “That is quite foolish. Scots are cunning liars, though. No doubt they took your friend unaware.”

  “Indeed,” Grant responded simply. The less he spoke the better. His English accent was passable but not perfect.

  “Well, I’m headed to the tavern to hear the details from the MacDougall’s own mouth. The king may trust the Scot, but I personally trust no Scot ever. They’ve proven in my personal experience to be treacherous.” Grant grunted in return, hoping that would suffice, which apparently it did, the fool Englishman. De Beauchamp moved in front of Grant and motioned him to follow.

  Grant fell in step behind the English lord and met Ross’s gaze. Stay to the shadows, Grant mouthed, exhaling with relief at Ross’s nod. MacDougall and Aros would both recognize Grant and Ross, so it would not do for the men to see them.

  Men lined up outside of Straton Tavern, waiting to enter the establishment. But as de Beauchamp neared the doors, the men hastily moved out of the way. Grant stayed close enough to the man to enter the tavern on his heels but not so close that Grant and Ross could not fade away once inside. The throng of men filling the pub made it easy enough to lose de Beauchamp, and the thick smoke from the fires and poor lighting aided their task.

  Grant swept his gaze over the crowd as he weaved in and out of knights swigging ale and singing bawdy tunes, searching for MacDougall and his warriors. It did not take long to spot the laird. He was an unusually tall man, standing a good head above almost all others in the crowd. MacDougall stood face-to-face with another man whom Grant did not recognize, but by the rich cloth of his robes, which carried the symbol of a serpent rising out of fire, and the heavy gold rings upon his fingers, Grant assumed he was another English nobleman. And when de Beauchamp stopped beside the two men and they all exchanged greetings, it seemed Grant’s assumption was correct.

  The man with the serpent crest waved yet another man over, but this stranger was assuredly not a nobleman. He wore a simple wool robe and no jewelry. After brief introductions, Grant watched the man take a deep breath, and to Grant’s surprise, he began to sing. Grant caught the faint notes in the air, though at first, he could not make out all the words.

  “Stay here,” he instructed Ross. “I’m going to move closer to figure out what story the bard is telling.”

  Ross nodded, and Grant edged closer along the wall, careful to stay behind the men who had started to gather around the bard, MacDougall, de Beauchamp, and the man standing with them.

  “Never had I seen such a sight as a novice who could fight,” the bard sang. “Graceful as a doe was she who felled the pompous knight, as pretty as you please, and all with a look that would render a man helpless when her violet eyes were upon you.”

  “Bard, where is it ye saw this novice?” MacDougall demanded, interrupting the song.

  “At market in Hawick-upon-Tweed. She is a frequent visitor there from the Sisters of Saint Cecilia Convent.”

  Grant frowned. Why the devil did MacDougall care about a novice about whom a bard sang?

  “And ye’re certain of her eyes?” MacDougall demanded.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “By God!” MacDougall exclaimed and then burst out into hearty laughter. “Aros!” he boomed, and Grant’s one-time friend, whom he had once trained with, strode up to his father. “Son.” MacDougall clapped Aros on the shoulder. “Take all but five of our men and ride to Hawick-upon-Tweed. Bring the novice the bard sang of to our stronghold.”

  “Father, is she—”

  “Shut yer trap,” MacDougall thundered, to which Aros considerably reddened but nodded.

  This was perfect. There was no way for Ross and Grant to take both men when they had their warriors with them, but they could concentrate on MacDougall. When Aros returned, he’d learn that Grant had taken his father to Dithorn Castle, Grant’s stronghold in the Highlands. Aros would attempt to rescue him, the fool. Everyone knew Dithorn was virtually impenetrable. But Aros was just cocksure enough to ignore that fact. He’d join his father in death.

  Aros gave a nod to his father, and with a shrill whistle, the ma
n departed, along with a good portion of the men who had surrounded MacDougall. Grant smiled to himself. Aros was like his father. They both thought themselves invincible, but they would soon discover just how wrong they were.

  As the laird exchanged words with the bard and de Beauchamp, Grant moved back along the wall the way he had come and found Ross. “We’ll await MacDougall outside and take him unawares.”

  Ross arched an eyebrow at Grant. “What of his son and their warriors? They far outnumber us.”

  Grant quickly told Ross of MacDougall’s instructions to Aros. Ross gave a long, hearty chuckle. “I do so love how foolish some men are.”

  “Aye,” Grant agreed, feeling a grim smile stretch his lips. “Come. Let us get in place to capture our quarry.”

  Chapter Four

  “Eve!” Clara pounded at Eve’s bedchamber door. “Eve, your silence toward me has continued long enough. I know well that you’re avoiding me, and it has to stop!”

  Glaring at the door, Eve shoved the remainder of her clothes in her satchel, sheathed her sword and her dagger, took one last look around the small, sparse space that had been her home for the last eight years, and turning, she strode to the door and opened it.

  “I’m glad to see you’ve got your good sense back,” Clara said, reaching for Eve.

  “My good sense is intact,” Eve said. “I have not forgiven your deception.”

  “You opened the door,” Clara pointed out.

  “Yes,” Eve replied, refusing to offer more. Clara was a liar. Eve tried to step around Clara, but the woman moved swiftly to block Eve in the small passage.

  “If you opened the door knowing I was on the other side, surely that means you are ready to listen to me. It’s been six days since you discovered those letters.”

  Eve snorted. “Is six days the allotted time for forgiving someone for lying?” When Clara opened her mouth as if to answer, Eve shook her head. “Never mind! I don’t want to hear whatever lies you will spew.” Eve inhaled a shaky breath. “I opened the door because I’m leaving.” She sidestepped Clara, but before she could take another step, Clara was gripping her arm. Eve could jerk herself free; she was stronger than Clara. Yet, despite the fact that the woman had lied to her for years, Eve could not bring herself to do something that might cause Clara harm. Clara still held a piece of her heart, though Eve tried to ignore the tug.

  “What do you mean, you’re leaving? You cannot be so foolish as to venture to market after the fiasco last time?”

  Eve whirled to face Clara, incensed that the woman was lecturing her. “No, I’m not going to market.” She watched in satisfaction as the woman’s face drained of color. No doubt, Clara was realizing that Eve was truly leaving. “I’m going home,” she said, delivering the blow intended to hurt, yet when Clara’s fingers tightened on Eve’s arm, Eve was dismayed at the niggle of guilt she felt and pity.

  “Eve, no! How would you even get there?”

  “I have my ways,” Eve said, refusing to tell Clara that she’d arranged to ride with Summer Walkers who were traveling to the Lowlands. It was none of the woman’s concern, not anymore. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I wish to say goodbye to the nuns.” She swiveled on her heel, but before she could take more than two steps, Clara was calling to her to stop. Instead, Eve rushed ahead, practically running toward the chapel. The desperation in Clara’s voice made Eve want to halt and listen to what Clara had to say. But if she did that, her silly heart may wish to believe, and she could not be such a trusting fool again.

  She burst into the chapel, panting. As Sister Mary Margaret turned to her from the altar with a look of surprise on her face, Clara barreled in behind Eve, her nun habit swishing around her ankles. A peaceful look was upon Clara’s face, until the door clicked shut, and then irritation swept her friend’s features. Clara had a unique ability to disguise her emotions that Eve had always been impressed with. She played the part of a serene nun perfectly, and sometimes Eve almost forgot Clara was not a nun. “Eve Decres! I have cared for you for all your life! When you had fever, I tended you. When you cried yourself to sleep for months after your parents died, I dried your tears. I rocked you. I told you stories. When you had bad dreams, I held you close. You will at least let me explain why I lied to you.”

  Eve bit down hard on her lip as guilt washed over her. Clara had indeed done all of those things and more. She had baked Eve treats to remind her of home. She had told her stories of her father, her mother, and her sister, so even though they were dead, they would never be forgotten. Indecision warred within her, but when her gaze caught that of Sister Mary Margaret, who nodded encouragingly to her, Eve felt herself give. Slowly, she turned to Clara, who now stood by the door to the courtyard, misery etched upon her face as she twisted her hands.

  “You could not rule the castle and choose a husband in your own right until this week,” Clara rushed out.

  “Yes,” Eve confirmed. She already knew these things.

  Clara let out a long sigh. “I could not allow you to venture home without knowing if your uncle betrayed your father or not. He could have forced you to wed a man of his choosing and simply taken the castle from you! At the very least, you should find a husband first.”

  “I intend to do so when I return home,” Eve said, not bothering to gentle the tone of irritation she felt. She had long ago decided she’d rather be dead than forced to wed a man for her castle.

  Clara looked stricken. “But Eve—”

  “I trust my uncle,” Eve said, punctuating each word. “Scots kidnapped us. Scots invaded my home. Not Englishmen, like Uncle Frederick. My uncle will guard me judiciously until I have chosen the man I will marry. My uncle will know to have extra guards at the castle upon my return.”

  Sister Mary Margaret cleared her throat. “I believe the point Clara is trying to make is that your uncle very well could have been plotting with those Scots to take the castle and you from your father, and if that is the case—”

  “My uncle would have never done that,” Eve interrupted, recalling memories of sitting on her uncle’s lap by the fire listening to his stories. Her uncle had given her first dagger to her. It could not be true. She refused to believe it. He was the only family she had left!

  “Eve,” Clara started gently. “I—”

  The chapel door swung open with a bang, and a man loomed in the doorway. His brown hair was tightly pulled back at the nape of his neck to display a handsome face. He had a sword in one hand and daggers sheathed at both hips. Footsteps sounded behind him, and suddenly, more men appeared, all big, burly, and wearing plaids.

  Eve took an instinctive step back, and when she did, the man’s dark gaze locked on her from the doorway. He studied her eyes for a moment and then strode straight for her.

  She reached for her sword and even as she unsheathed it, the man grasped Clara and held a sword to her neck. “Unless ye wish to see the nun die, I suggest ye hand me yer sword.”

  Fear swirled in Eve’s mind, and before she could decide what to do, Sister Mary Margaret screamed from behind Eve and ran past her, a chalice grasped in her hands. Before the abbess neared the man holding Clara, one of the other men stepped forward and knocked the chalice away from her, then clutched the nun by the shoulder while raising his hand as if to strike her.

  “No!” Eve and Clara shouted in unison.

  “Hold!” the apparent leader bellowed, glaring at his man.

  Eve gripped her sword tightly as relief poured through her.

  The man offered her a courteous smile as he held out his hand. “Ye will nae get more than a swing in before ye are taken down, and I’d rather nae see ye injured.”

  “Considering that you have stormed into a convent and are holding a nun against her will, I’m sure you can understand that your words don’t provide me much comfort,” Eve said.

  “Aye, I ken how ye would feel thusly.” He nodded. “Be that as it may, I still require yer sword.”

  “And if I refuse?” Eve asked, s
weeping her eyes over the stranger and his men. Hopelessness rushed through her. She was vastly outnumbered.

  He offered a courteous smile. “Ye would force me to hurt the nun, which I dunnae care to do.” The statement was delivered in such a matter-of-fact way that Eve was left with a certainty that the man would do whatever he must to get what he wanted, and she suspected he had come for her—led here, no doubt, by her own foolishness with the English knight in the market. Damn the bard. He must have spread her story, and the words of his song had given some hint of who she was. It had to be her eyes; she could think of no other characteristics she possessed that were so unique.

  Her heart hammered as she raised her sword to the man.

  “Eve, no!” Clara cried.

  Eve winced at Clara’s use of her given name. The woman’s eyes widened as the man holding her chuckled. “Thank ye, Sister. Ye have just made things much simpler than I feared they might be.” With that, he shoved Clara to the side, grasped Eve’s sword, and threw it to the ground, well away from them. “Yer daggers, as well, Lady Decres.”

  Eve’s fingers fluttered to her daggers sheathed at her hips, but she hesitated when she brushed the hilts. She would be weaponless, helpless, if she gave them up, just as she had been the night her family had been killed.

  The man in front of her sighed. “Perhaps I was nae clear enough. Ye will be coming with us, and I’d rather it be without having to hurt ye or the nuns. Dunnae be foolish and cause one of them to be gravely injured.” His warning was not even slightly veiled.

  Reluctantly, Eve handed over the daggers. The man took them and sheathed them on his hips beside his own daggers. Then he closed the distance between them and reached toward her. He grasped her right arm and turned it so her wrist was facing him.