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, Isla. 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
Her Highland Defender
Samantha Holt
Copyright 2015 ©Samantha Holt
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organisations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Edited by Em Petrova
Proofed by Destini Reece
Chapter One
Scottish Highlands, 1314
The sight of grey stone against steep green hills gave Blane Ross cause to ease his grip on the reins a little. He pulled the horse to a stop and dismounted, giving her a reassuring pat.
“Ye’ll get yer food and rest, never fear,” he assured her.
His stomach growled at the image his own words conjured. Steaming bowls of stew, a soft feathered bed. Och, he’d even take a straw pallet at present. His bones ached so deeply, he feared they’d never feel normal again. Five days of hard riding had taken its toll and, alas, at eight and twenty he was no young man anymore. Nevertheless, he still had his strength and determination. If he had to, he’d face down the English now, even with weary bones, and slaughter them all.
But he’d prefer rest at present.
And if he was to take on the Sassenach bastards, he needed all the strength he could muster. Blane wouldn’t give them the chance to escape again.
Hand shielding his eyes, he surveyed the loch below, cut deep into the hills and stretching for some distance. The sun cast shimmering ribbons along the flat surface of the water and reflected the gold spots of grass on the mountains.
Long and narrow, there was little flat land about the area but what tiny amount there was a castle and what looked to be a scattering of cottages occupied. The position of the keep worked well to keep out invaders. Whoever had built their castle here had chosen well. Armies would struggle to march down the steep hills and three sides of the keep were surrounded by the deep water of the loch. If his people had had such a place to take refuge, would their fates have been different?
The familiar angry swell made him clench his teeth. Blood, torn clothing, ashen and disfigured faces burned in his mind. He shook away the images. Not that he didn’t wish to remember them, for he did. The memories would come in useful when he lifted his blade to his enemies. But for the moment, he had to consider other things.
Dalma whinnied to remind him one of those things was her. She had done well but needed food and rest more than he. Blane hoped they would find a warm welcome at this keep.
Opting to direct her down rather than risk injury on the steep slopes, he muttered thanks for the dry weather. It would preserve any tracks and aid him in catching up with the group of English barbarians. The days leading up to their attack had been typical of the highlands—wet, cold and grey. But in some odd twist of fate, the very day of it had been glorious. Blane couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen such a clear and brilliant sky.
The days following might have been beautiful too. His kin would have appreciated it. But he could not—not when the sun-scorched grass and glinting streams ran red with blood.
By the time he’d reached the first of the cottages, he’d managed to calm his ire and worked to appear as harmless as possible. Not an easy feat with his great height. Some of his clan had claimed he had Norse blood in him though he looked as dark as any other Scot.
Nevertheless, these were dangerous times and with Robert the Bruce facing down Edward II in the lowlands, no stranger could be trusted, not even one who looked like a Scot.
He paused outside the first cottage, noting the closed shutters and doors. When he peered around the small hut, its white-washed walls discoloured with mud, he noted the same of all the other dwellings. Air whistled between them, surrounding him in a blanket of solitude, and he stilled. A wooden shutter squeaked and swung gently as though pushed by the hand of a ghoul. Aye, strangers were dangerous but he’d not expected to be greeted by a village of ghosts.
Where were the villagers?
He swallowed the hard knot in his throat. Blane prayed they hadn’t succumbed to the same fate as his clan. But, nay, there were no bloodstains upon the ground, no burnt buildings or upturned carts.
They were in hiding.
Was one man really enough to send a whole village into hiding? He listened carefully as he made his way up the single dirt track leading between the homes to the castle. Aye, there were sounds of life. The odd low of a cow and the faint murmur of voices.
Was he so very threatening? He was strong, aye, and a good fighter. The many battles he’d fought had trained him well but one man against an entire village? Even he was not so arrogant to believe he could approach in so obvious a manner and defeat them. Clearly someone here did not think the same.
As he neared the castle, he stared up at the three-storey building. It was built in two parts, one being added later he suspected. The first part was wider and stronger, with the later addition jutting out to one side. The stone was lighter, less worn. No moss clung to it.
Narrow arrow loops covered much of the bottom while wider windows were cut into the top level. A wooden gallery ran across the very top of the castle and he saw no defenders at the ready. The castle had been locked up too. Hiding instead of defending was the name of the day, it seemed.
A feminine cry made him swivel. On instinct, he drew out his sword. A child scurried across the mud in front of the cottages followed by a lass.
“Nay, Fergus,” she cried and snatched up the child who could have been no more than three summers old. She froze when she spotted him. Her eyes rounded. Clutching the child to her, she turned her back to him and used herself to shield the infant from him.
Her shoulders shook and he heard her utter tiny pleas. The words near shattered his heart. Had the women of his clan done the same when faced with the English marauders?
Slipping his sword into his belt, he dismounted and bid Dalma to stay before taking a cautious step forward. “Lass...” His voice sounded too gruff, too aggressive. He saw her shoulders jolt and her body tense. “I mean ye no harm.”
The dark-haired lass didn’t respond. She only murmured to the child who wriggled in her arms to get free. He took a step closer and her trembling increased.
“Lass,” he tried again. “I speak the truth. I’m no’ here to harm ye.”
Slowly, she eased the child down. “Run, wee one,” she urged and as soon as the boy’s feet touched the ground, he scurried off. She spun sending wild curls about her face. Pushing the mass of hair back, she lifted her gaze to his. Her eyes were an unnatural blue—not quite clear summer sky blue or deep ocean blue but a colour he could not place. They were haunting and did something strange to his gut.
“We have no riches here. Naught of value.”
“I dinnae want yer riches.”
“What is it ye want then?”
“Only yer hospitality.” He skimmed his gaze down her gown and noted the finely woven green wool. Delicate gold thread patterned the neckline and sleeves. She was of import to this village then. “I ask for an audience with yer chief.”
“I cannae grant ye that.”
Blane peered at the women who he suspected was around a few summers over twenty. She could be the chief’s wife, he supposed.
“’Tis of vital import that I speak with him.”
She folded her arms. “And I’m telling ye ‘tis nae possible. What is yer business here?”
“I merely ask for a pallet for the night and some sustenance.” He wasn’t sure he wanted to inform her about the English mercenaries roaming the lands. He’d already scared her enough. It wa
s information better saved for the clan chief.
Her gaze remained on his face, almost as though she was staring through him. “How am I to trust ye?”
Blane didn’t blame her for her reticence. He hadn’t expected a warm welcome, but why was this woman acting the gatekeeper instead of one of the men? If this wild-haired woman had been part of his clan, he’d be keeping her locked up behind the walls of the castle. With a narrow chin, delicate lips and those wide eyes, she’d make a fine prize for any warrior.
Cautiously, he curled his hand around the grip of his sword and drew it out. She flinched but held firm. Admiration filled him. Then he turned the blade and offered her the pommel. “I surrender my blade to ye.”
Eyes narrow, she eased out a hand and curled it around the grip. His blade was light, perfect for thrusting and swiping down enemies and this was no tiny female—half-starved mayhap, but tall—so she lifted it with ease, though he noted some hesitancy in her movements. Watching it carefully, she lowered the sword to her side and put the point into the ground.
“What do they call ye, stranger?”
“Blane of the Ross Clan from Glenlochan.”
“Ye’ve come a long way. What brings ye here? Are ye to join the fight against the English?”
“Aye.”
Though he wasn’t headed to meet the English king’s men in battle. His fight was with these knight-errants who were taking advantage of Scotland’s war-torn state. They must have broken off from the army and decided a battle with the Scots wasn’t worth their time. Instead, they were plundering the weakest villages, taking what little wealth they had and slaughtering and raping in the process.
Better not to terrify the lass, though.
“What is yer name?”
“Ceana.” Her unnerving gaze came back to his face. “This here is the seat of the chief of the Malcolm clan.”
“Yer people need not hide from me. I can do little harm to ye on my own without my blade.”
“I am no’ foolish enough to believe that. Come, I’ll get ye food and drink and we’ll decide if yer to be trusted or no’.” She nodded toward a wooden stand. “Tether yer mount there. We’ll see to her shortly.”
I Left My Heart in Scotland Page 18