How a Scot Surrenders to a Lady

by Julie Johnstone

  She walked slowly toward Brom, though the urge to hurry swirled inside her. She had no idea how long she had before her brother, Hugo, and his men departed, but approaching Brom quickly had always been a sure way to agitate him. She paused close enough that she could get him to look at her but not so close that he would strike her if he became fearful and swung out. Brom would never intentionally hurt her, but when he was fearful, he became crazed.

  “Brom,” she said firmly, clapping her hands to get his attention.

  His gaze flittered over her, then came back to her and settled. The small smile on Brom’s face grew huge. “Sissy,” he crooned.

  She’d told Brom more times than she could remember that she was his niece, but in his mind, he always thought of her as his sister. “Brom, I need to ride out quickly. Will you help me ready Summerset?”

  He glanced to the door behind her, and a crease appeared between his brows, causing his smile to disappear. “Dark now,” he said, his sparse words heralding his brewing agitation. Brom loved routine and hated anything that disrupted it.

  “Brom,” she said, making her voice stern. “I must ride out now. Someone needs my help. Ready Summerset.”

  Her uncle shook his head violently, his shaggy hair whipping from side to side. “Dark now,” he repeated. “Dangerous and dark.”

  Sorcha looked toward the castle. Her time to gain a lead was quickly disappearing. “A woman’s life is in danger. I must save her.”

  “Dark and dangerous. Dark and dangerous,” Brom sang, his deep voice rising in volume and reverberating through the stables, causing the horse in front of him to neigh and dance.

  Sorcha blew out a frustrated breath. She had not anticipated Brom’s response to her request, and she knew that if she tried to charge past him, he would likely swoop her up and march her straight to the castle. She saw no other way to get to Summerset than to trick him, as much as she hated it.

  “Aye, I suppose ye’re correct,” she lied. “’Tis too dark to ride now. I’d like to sit with ye a spell though. Will ye fetch my stump from under the oak?”

  Brom’s eyebrows dipped together, and she knew he was trying to decide if her sitting here at this hour was too much of a change from what usually occurred, so she hurriedly added, “Please, Brom. Father is in a mood.”

  A fearful look swept across Brom’s face. Her uncle may have the mind of a child, but even children could remember what happened when a parent was angry. “The switch hurts.”

  Her throat tightened. Brom well knew the switch hurt, as Father had used it on him many times. On Finn, as well, but never on her, Constance, or Mother. Still, she nodded so he’d do as she’d asked. “Aye.” The word caught in her throat with anger and sadness. “The switch does hurt. Will ye get the stump so I may sit with ye until Father’s mood passes?”

  He nodded, rose to his towering height of nearly six and a half feet, and started toward the door as he chanted, “Get stump. Get stump. Brom get stump for Sissy.” She hated to leave Brom to deal with Father’s wrath, but there was no choice. He was too unpredictable to take with her.

  The second he rounded out of sight, she raced to Summerset’s stall, threw open the door, saddled and bridled the beast, and then led the horse outside. Immediately, voices assaulted her ears. Pinpricks raced across her skin as the flickering of torches lit up the night.

  “We ride fast and hard and on my command,” Hugo said to his men, alerting her to the fact that he had come outside fast on her own flight from the castle.

  Sorcha didn’t wait to hear more. She swung onto Summerset’s back and turned her away from the oncoming party and toward the woods that would lead them to the trail of the Marching Oaks. The sound of her breath and her thundering heart filled her ears, but as she entered the woods, a high, keening pitch broke through her fear.

  “Sissy! Sissy!” Brom called.

  Her heart ached at having to leave her uncle, but she would come back for him, no matter what. She stole one glance over her shoulder and met Hugo’s shocked stare before righting herself, nudging Summerset into a gallop, and racing into the forest. She was fast on a horse but so was Hugo. And unlike her, he was accustomed to riding in the dark. She could only pray she would reach the king’s mistress before Hugo did.

  Cameron’s senses were on alert as he guided his horse, Winthrop, slowly through the black woods that would take them back home. He rode at the front of the party tasked with guarding King David’s mistress, Katherine Mortimer, as they traveled to Dunvegan to be reunited with the king. Being in the lead meant that he was the first to see signs of danger and warn the others, and he was the first to take any arrows that may be shot at them if he failed to recognize a threat. He welcomed the challenge. For five years, he had worked tirelessly to prove he was worthy of such responsibility and equal to his legendary brothers. This was his chance to attain all he had long desired. That knowledge had been with him since a fortnight ago when they had first left Dunvegan, and it was with him now on the last leg of the journey home.

  The darkness penetrated almost everything now that they had entered the thickest part of the forest, yet it did not cause him fear. After years of hunting and tracking through this area, he could travel the land in his sleep. He could not see the roots growing up from the mossy forest floor, yet he knew they were there, so he took care to keep his pace slow. He knew just ahead was the trail of the Marching Oaks because they had traversed four hills, rounded six corners, and crossed two streams. With the Marching Oaks would come such blackness it would feel to those who were not used to it that it swallowed their very soul. The gnarled tree branches would rise on either side of them, the thick leaves blocking all light. But to him, the darkness meant greater protection from ambush, which is why he had chosen this route.

  Just before the start of the trail lay a stream, and its trickling water whispered against his ear. He stopped and reached out to his right, brushing his fingertips along the rough branch of the first oak, and then he turned his attention to listening for any sound that was not natural to the forest. The wind whistled, and behind him, leaves crunched and twigs snapped as the men in his party brought their horses to a stop, obeying his silent command. The majority of the men were MacLeod-born, and of those who were not, two of them served King David and the other two served Alex MacLean. It meant that on this mission they served him, the leader, without question.

  As if Alex could sense that Cameron had thought of him, the MacLean laird brought his horse up beside Cameron’s. The slow, steady breath of the beasts filled the silence, but there was something else in the air—a low hum that reminded him of the vibrating sound of many galloping horses. “Do ye hear the hum?” Cameron asked Alex in a low voice.

  Alex’s brow furrowed as he cocked his head to listen. “I kinnae say for certain. What does it sound like to ye?”

  “Horses galloping,” Cameron replied, scrubbing a hand across his chin. The softness gave him pause, until he recalled he had shaved his beard before they left for home.

  They sat in silence listening, but he could no longer hear the sound. Maybe he’d imagined it, or maybe the whistling wind merely now disguised it… His gut tightened as he strained to hear, and his muscles twitched in anticipation of what might be coming. An uneasy feeling swirled inside him. In the past several years of strife among the Scottish clans, he’d learned to trust his instincts. And after Graham had almost died defending Iain’s and Lachlan’s wives two years prior, Cameron also learned that in order to be the best warrior he could be, he had to rid himself of the fear that he would never match the skill of his brothers. He still wanted to be as skilled as they were, but he no longer worried that he would not be. Instead, he worked tirelessly so that he would.

  “I hear only the normal night sounds of the forest now,” he said in a low voice, “but I feel unsettled.”

  “I trust yer instincts,” Alex replied, wiping rain from his face as the light mist had suddenly become heavier. “What do ye wish to do?”


  Behind them, Katherine Mortimer’s whiny tone filtered through the dark and grated against Cameron’s ears. He found himself clenching his teeth. He could not wait to be rid of the lady. She had no care for her own safety or the directives he’d given her. He’d explained carefully that they must travel stealthily and in silence, and yet she complained continuously, seemingly oblivious to the noise she made.

  The rain began to fall more heavily, making him keenly aware that if someone was to approach, the attackers would now be even more difficult to hear. He drew his sword, and without having to command it, he heard the swish of all weapons behind him being drawn.

  “Let us make haste down the trail of the Marching Oaks,” he said. To go around would waste too much time.

  “Lord MacLeod!” Katherine Mortimer bellowed. Cameron winced as birds flew out from branches in fright of the woman’s screeching. “Lord MacLeod, why have we stopped? I’m eager to get back to the king.”

  He hissed between his teeth at her folly. If an enemy was waiting for them, her yelling certainly announced their presence. He turned and whistled softly to Rory Mac, a council member of the MacLeod clan and loyal friend, who was one horse behind him and Alex.

  Rory Mac quickly answered the call, bringing his horse near. “Aye, my lord?”

  The emphasis on the words my lord was not lost on Cameron. Rory Mac was not used to answering to him. The man was much like an older brother to Cameron. Rory Mac had seen him at his most foolish and angry, and when he spent entirely too much time wooing countless lasses to fill the loneliness that keeping his brothers at a distance had caused. Cameron had learned slowly to allow them closer and not to always expect that they would belittle him as their father had done. The need to still prove himself worthy burned inside him, but differently now. He wanted to be trusted to help protect the clan, not for glory or praise. This was his chance to show his brothers that he was capable of a commanding role so they would rely on him as fully as they did one another.

  He would not fail.

  Cameron glanced in Rory Mac’s direction but could not see his face in the darkness. The awkward feeling of the reversal of positions could not be allowed to inhibit his command. He’d asked the king for this assignment, and he could ill afford to have any mishaps. The king had been leery about acquiescing to Cameron’s request, but he’d done so after Iain had spoken up and said he believed Cameron was ready for the position. The support had shocked Cameron. Knowing that his brother may actually finally believe in him had moved something within. It was a foreign feeling, but one he was glad to experience. He prayed his brother’s faith was not ill bestowed.

  “Go explain to Lady Mortimer that her yelling in the forest when we are trying to travel in stealth could be the verra thing that gets her killed,” Cameron clipped out.

  “Aye, my lord,” Rory Mac said once more. “Being a commander seems to come naturally to ye,” he added with gruffness before doing as he had been ordered.

  The words made Cameron smile, despite his tension. They were as close to a compliment as the Scot had ever given him.

  He stared in the direction of the trail of the Marching Oaks. Darkness was both his enemy and friend right now, as was the rain. He would need to be ready for anything. Taking a deep breath, he let out an owl call, alerting his men to advance.

  Two

  Sorcha saw Hugo before she heard him, but only because he was carrying a torch. His horse bolted from between two trees, and when he glimpsed her and extinguished the torch, the blackness swallowed him whole. Yet she knew he was still there, in spite of the fact that she could not hear his horse’s hooves because of the pouring rain. Hugo was not the sort of man to give up on something simply because a problem—her—had arisen. She glanced toward the trail, obscured in darkness and then toward where Hugo had been. She started to give the order for her horse to flee when the reins were snatched from her hands. Hugo! He yanked back hard. Summerset whinnied loudly and reared back her head.

  “What the devil are ye doing?” Hugo demanded in a voice just fierce enough to be heard over the rain. The darkness may have concealed his features, but the anger in his tone was easily discernible.

  Her mind raced, and before she could think of an answer, she felt motion to her left. A horse brushed her leg and a hand gripped her by the arm. Fingers dug mercilessly into her flesh. “Answer now, Sorcha,” came her brother’s voice, his words cold as ice.

  Her heart hammered so hard she feared she could not form words, let alone a believable lie. “I overheard Father speaking with the two of ye, and I wanted to help,” she replied truthfully.

  “Ye wish to help kill the king’s mistress?” Hugo asked, his disbelief evident in his tone.

  She nodded, barely containing her sigh of relief that Hugo had drawn such an erroneous but beneficial conclusion.

  “Damn yer eyes,” Finn snarled. “Ye betray me—yer own brother.”

  Sorcha sucked in a sharp breath at the barely contained anger in his voice. She could see how he’d think that, given Father had said he would give Blair Castle to her as a wedding present after Hugo killed Katherine.

  “Finn, nay! ’Tis nae what ye think!” But she could not explain more. Not now. Not with Hugo listening.

  “Hugo,” a man hissed from behind her, making her jump. She had not even heard anyone else approach. “Someone is coming!”

  Before she knew what was occurring, Finn had released his hold and her horse was being turned. “Wait by yer sister,” Hugo commanded. “Keep my future wife safe.”

  Finn muttered his disgust but led her through the darkness until she felt a branch brush against her cheek. “Dunnae move.” He spoke so near to her that she jerked. His warm breath washed over her. “That castle is mine, Sorcha. I’ll be killing the mistress. Nae ye and nae that damnable Hugo.”

  The air swished around her as he moved away, but she blindly reached out and grasped his arm. “Finn, nay,” she whispered furiously hoping no one else could hear. “Ye must nae do this!”

  “I am soaked to the bone!” a woman cried out.

  Sorcha released Finn and moved her horse toward the voice, filled with the certainty that the woman had just sealed her own death. “Lady Katherine!” she screamed.

  Lightning slashed across the black sky, illuminating it long enough to see a fair-haired man at the front of a group of warriors. Their gazes locked before the night closed around them again. Thunder boomed, as did Sorcha’s heart. Then the clank of swords meeting resounded around her.

  Blindly, she urged her horse forward toward the woman’s whimpering voice. A second voice, deep and male, demanded the woman’s silence, but her cries grew louder. Thunder shook the earth again, and lightning once more slashed across the sky to illuminate the melee. All around her, men battled one another. To her right, the whimpering woman was on horseback, three guards surrounding her. One of Hugo’s men struck down the man closest to the king’s mistress, then a couple of arrows sliced before Sorcha’s face. She stared in horror as the arrows hit Katherine’s two remaining defenders.

  A war cry came from the darkness that once again blanketed them all, and thunder and lightning crashed. When she could see again, she screamed at the sight of Hugo beside her, bow raised and arrow aimed at the king’s mistress. Hugo released it as the fair-haired man she’d seen a moment ago cut down two of Hugo’s men to get to the woman. But it was too late. Hugo’s arrow struck with a thunk, straight into the woman’s heart.

  “Flee!” Hugo roared.

  Before Sorcha could decide what to do, a hand slapped Summerset on the flank, and her horse took off so suddenly that she nearly toppled from the back of the beast. Fear raced through her as she reached out, searching for the reins that had been snatched from her. Branches whipped across her face, leaving a trail of stinging skin and warm, trickling blood. Tree limbs snagged her sides, cut her legs, and caught the sleeves of her gown, ripping the material as Summerset surged forward, too terrified to heed Sorcha’s
commands to slow.

  The jolting ride rattled her teeth, and sharp pain shot up from her bottom and along her spine. Her head pounded as she leaned farther down over the horse, feeling around frantically for the reins now. Finally, her fingers grazed the rough leads, and she began to sob, grasping them and sitting up as she pulled back. Relief flooded her, but it was fleeting as Summerset neighed loudly and something knocked Sorcha in the middle of her forehead. A horrified scream was ripped from her as she flew off the back of her destrier and landed hard on the ground. Her head smacked against a rock that robbed her of all thought.

  Cameron found he could kill just as easily blinded as with sight. Sound guided his movements, and rage made him quick and deadly. He cut down a man to his right and struck two to his left. Then, as a sword sliced behind him whispering death in his ear, he whipped around, lunged forward, and sliced his blade through soft flesh and hard bone. With a grunt, he yanked his sword from his enemy’s torso and whirled around to face another foe. Lightning illuminated the area where he stood as rain pelted him. In the brief flash of light, he saw that Katherine was lying upon the ground unmoving. Kieran MacLeod and two of the king’s men were lying near her, also unmoving, and their attackers were fleeing.

  “After them! All of ye!” he ordered, even as he dismounted to help the king’s mistress and the injured men. At least he hoped they were merely injured.

  Stark terror mingled with rage as he strode through the darkness. Guided by memory, he moved toward where he had seen Katherine and the men. His boot had touched a body before he realized he was upon one. He kneeled, his knees hitting the now-soggy ground and sinking into the muck. He strained to see, sweeping his gaze first over Kieran and then one of the king’s men. Both were dead, killed by well-aimed arrows to the head. The storm lit the sky once more, showing the other king’s guard with a slit throat, open eyes, and an open mouth.