A Sword Upon The Rose

by Brenda Joyce

  Alana’s tension increased. “Surely Bruce’s army is not beyond those trees?” she cried.

  “It is but a few dozen Highlanders, mistress. Still, they are warring with Duncan’s men.”

  Her heart thundered. They were but minutes away from a terrible battle, a part of the great war for Scotland’s throne.

  “Turn the wagon, Mistress Alana,” Connaught ordered. “We must go back before we are discovered.”

  She thought of the dark-haired Highlander who had been betrayed by one of his own men. If she was about to encounter him—and witness such treachery—she could not go back. She did not know why, but she was compelled to warn him.

  Alana began to get down from the wagon. “Will you take Eleanor back to Brodie?”

  “Alana,” Eleanor gasped. “You cannot stay—we must turn around!”

  “I have to see what is happening. But I will hide in the trees, I promise you.” Before she had finished speaking, she could hear the men shouting, the horses neighing, more loudly. The battle had moved closer to them.

  She turned, and she could see the fire on the other side of the trees far more clearly, bright and brilliant. “You’ll never outrun them with a wagon. But damned if I will die to save an old woman and a witch.” Suddenly Connaught was galloping away.

  Alana choked, shocked that he would leave them there—two women alone and defenseless!

  “Alana, if they are coming this way, you must hide! Forget me!” Eleanor’s eyes were wide with fright.

  Alana reached for the mule’s bridle. “I am not forgetting you, Gran. Let’s get you hidden.”

  “And what about you?” Eleanor demanded. “I am an old woman. My life is done. You are young. Your life is ahead of you!”

  “Do not speak that way! Come.” Alana led the mule and the wagon off the road, no easy task. The mule was balking and unruly, while the snow became deeper, until finally the wagon was stuck. But they were off the road, and not as obvious as they had been. In any case, she could not coax the mule any farther.

  Alana glanced around and saw an outcropping of rocks. She could leave Eleanor in the wagon—or hide her in the cavern there.

  Eleanor understood. “I’d rather stay here.”

  Alana nodded. “I will not be long.” She covered her grandmother with a second fur.

  Eleanor took her hand. “I am frightened for you. Why, Alana? Why won’t you hide here with me?”

  Briefly, Alana stared. What was wrong with her? Why did she wish to see if the battle just beyond the woods was the one from her vision? Why was she determined to warn the dark-haired Highlander of treachery? Perhaps sparing him any injury—and saving him from death?

  For she had seen him stabbed, and she had seen him fall. She did not know if he would live, or if he would die.

  “I am coming back. I am not leaving you here.” She hugged her, hard.

  Eleanor clasped her face. “Your mother was stubborn and brave, too.”

  Alana somehow smiled and hurried off.

  She was too agitated to be cold, as she trudged through the snow back to the road. She headed toward the line of trees that lay ahead, and the sounds of the battle became louder as she approached it. The stench of smoke and fire increased. Filled with fear and dread, her pulse pounding, Alana reached the edge of the wood. She halted, grasping a birch to remain upright.

  Her vision was before her, come to life!

  The manor was aflame, and English knights and Highland warriors were in a savage battle before it. The snow was bloodred. Swords rang, horses screamed. And then a steed went down, the Highlander astride it leaping off....

  Shaken, she felt her knees buckle. But she did not collapse. Frantically, she scanned the fighting men.

  Her heart slammed.

  A fur flung over his shoulders, bloody sword in hand, long dark hair loose, the Highlander was viciously fighting an English knight. Their huge swords clashed, shrieking, again and again, in the midst of the bloody, battling men.

  He looked exactly as she had envisioned him.

  Alana was stunned. What did this mean? To happen upon one of her visions this way?

  Screams sounded from within the manor.

  The Highlander heard them, too. He sheathed his sword and rushed to the door, which was burning. Flames shot from an adjacent window. He rammed his shoulder into the door.

  And then he suddenly turned and looked at the woods—as if he was looking at her.

  Alana stiffened.

  For it almost felt as if their gazes had met, which was impossible.

  Within a moment he had vanished inside the burning manor. Flames shot out from the walls near the door.

  Alana did not think twice. She began to run out of the trees, toward the battling men—toward the manor.

  He appeared in the doorway, a small boy in his arms. A woman and another child ran past him; he let them go first. As he ran out of the house, more of the flaming roof crashed down. He dived to the ground with the child, protecting the boy with his body.

  Alana tripped, fell, got up.

  He had risen, too, and was ushering the boy into his mother’s arms. Then he whirled to face her.

  This time, Alana knew she was entirely visible. This time, in spite of the warring men between them, she knew their eyes met.

  For one moment, she paused, breathing hard as they stared at one another, in surprise, in shock.

  And then she saw the man behind him. He was approaching rapidly, and was but a short distance away. His hair was shaggy and red.

  Her heart seemed to stop. This man meant to betray his fellow Highlander, meant to murder him. “Behind you!” she screamed.

  The Highlander whirled, sword in hand. Apparently he did not see any danger, for he faced her again. But the red-haired Scot held a dagger and his strides were unwavering....

  Alana tried again. “Behind you! Danger!” As she cried out, he whirled, and his assailant swiftly stabbed him in the chest. Almost simultaneously, the Highlander thrust his sword through the traitor, delivering a fatal blow. Slowly, the other man keeled over.

  The Highlander looked across the battle at her, staggered and fell. His blood stained the snow.

  Alana heard herself cry out. She began to run toward him again. The English knights who remained mounted were galloping away. Those on foot who could flee were doing so. All that remained was the small, victorious Highland army, the wounded, the dying and the dead.

  Alarm motivated her as never before. She had to swerve past bodies, and she tripped on a dead man’s outstretched arm. Someone tried to grab her; she dodged his hand. And then she reached him.

  She dropped to her knees in the snow, beside him. “You are hurt,” she cried.

  His blue gaze pierced hers, and he seized her wrist, hard. “Who are ye?”

  She felt mesmerized by his hard blue eyes. They were filled with suspicion. “You’re bleeding. Let me help.” But his grip was brutal—she could not move.

  “Ye wish to help?” he snarled. “Or do ye think to harm me?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  ALANA’S TENSION WAS impossible to bear. He would not release her wrist, and his stare was colder now. “Dughall,” he said harshly, his gaze unwavering upon her face, “take the dagger from my chest.”

  “Aye, my lord.” A tall blond Highlander knelt and ruthlessly yanked the blade from the flesh and tendon where it was embedded.

  Alana cried out. The Highlander did not make a sound, although he paled and his grasp on her wrist eased as his blood spewed.

  Alana jerked free and seized the hem of her skirts; she pushed a wad of it down hard on his wound. What had he been thinking?

  “That was a fine way to remove the blade,” she said tersely. But the enemy blade had missed his heart; she was relieved
to see the wound was high up, almost in his shoulder.

  He eyed her exposed knee as another man handed her a piece of linen. Alana quickly put it on his wound in place of her skirt. The wound continued to bleed. Dughall knelt, offering the warrior a flask. He took it with his right hand and drank.

  Now on both knees in the frozen snow, she shivered—but not from the cold. She was terribly aware of the Highlander she was trying to help. His presence—his proximity—seemed overwhelming. “Your wound needs cleaning. It needs stitches.”

  His blue eyes were ice. “Why would ye help me—a stranger?”

  She had no answer to give. She did not know why she was compelled to aid him. She did not know why she was worried. But he had clearly survived the attack—and she was relieved.

  She had no explanation for her relief, either.

  When she made no answer, his eyes darkened with suspicion. He struggled to stand. Instantly he reeled, as if he were a tree buffeted in the wind.

  “What are you doing?” she gasped, left holding the bloody linen. She rushed to him to brace him to stand.

  “Dughall, tell the men to raise our tents. We will spend the night here.” He did not glance at her, shaking her off, his gaze on the burning manor. It was mostly rubble and smoldering ash now, although some timbers still burned. He appeared satisfied. “No one will use this place against us now.”

  Alana recalled what she had heard about Bruce—how his armies left no stones standing. So it was true.

  He turned to Alana. “So yer an angel of mercy.” He was mocking.

  She flushed. He did not seem grateful for her aid. He seemed highly skeptical.

  “I could not let you bleed.”

  He turned as if he hadn’t heard her. “And, Dughall, get a needle and thread.”

  “Aye, Iain.” Dughall raced off.

  Her pulse was racing. His name was Iain. Why did that seem to matter to her? “I can see a simple knife wound will not kill you. You should sit back down, my lord.”

  “A true angel.” He eyed her. “Why not, mistress? Why not let a stranger bleed to death?”

  She did not know the answer herself!

  “Why were ye in the woods? Did ye flee the manor when we attacked?” He spoke sharply.

  “No.” She hesitated, now thinking about the fact that Eleanor was hiding in the woods, and it would be dark in another hour. And he was fighting for Robert Bruce. He had been in battle with Duncan’s men. It would be dangerous to reveal who she was, or where she had been going—or why. He was the enemy, even if she had been compelled to help him. “I was on my way to visit kin in Nairn.” A version of the truth would surely do.

  “Ye journey alone?” He was obviously doubtful. “And then ye rush into a battle, to aid a stranger?” His stare was unnerving.

  She wet her lips. She could not blame him for being so suspicious. “I am not alone. My grandmother is in the woods, where I left our mule and the wagon. We heard the battle....” She stopped. Now what could she say?

  “And ye decided to come closer? Ye’ll have to tell a far better tale, my lady.” But now, his gaze swept over her, from head to toe. “Who are ye? Whom do ye visit in Nairn?”

  “I am not from the castle,” she managed to say. Had he just looked at her as if she were in a brothel and awaiting his pleasure? “We are simple folk, farmers....” She could barely speak. Men did not look at her with male interest—they were too frightened to ever do so.

  For a moment he stared.

  “My grandmother carries healing potions.” That much was true. She could finally breathe, somewhat. “If you will allow it, we will clean the wound and put a healing salve on it, then stitch it closed. I must get her, my lord. She is old and it is cold out.”

  He turned. “Fergus, go into the woods and bring back an old woman and a wagon.”

  A Highlander with long blond hair rushed off to obey.

  Alana hoped that was the end of the conversation, but it was not. He said, “Ye still cannot explain why ye rushed into the battle, mistress, when all other women would hide in the woods and pray.”

  She again had no answer to make.

  His gaze narrow, he took her shoulder and guided her with him to the largest of the tents that had just been erected. He gestured and Alana preceded him inside.

  It was warmer within. A boy was laying out furs and a pallet. From outside, she could smell meat roasting—a cook fire had been started. Alana hugged herself. She felt uncomfortable, and not just because of her lies. Twilight was near, and they were alone. He did remain the enemy, he was a warrior, and as such, was frightening.

  Dughall stepped inside, carrying a small sack. “Do ye want me to sew it?”

  Alana was alarmed. “My lord, the wound must be cleaned first.” He could so easily die of an infection if it were left dirty and unwashed.

  His blue gaze upon her, he sank down on the pallet, shoving off the fur that had been loosely draped about his shoulders. For an instant, Alana stared at his broad shoulders, his huge biceps. The upper half of his leine was blood soaked. “Come, angel of mercy,” he said.

  Mockery remained in his tone. She looked aside and hurried to him. “Pressure must be kept on the wound.” She tried to sound brisk. “Or you will certainly bleed to death.”

  “Give her a blade,” he said to Dughall. To Alana, “Cut the leine off.”

  She nodded, taking the knife Dughall handed her. And then he seized her wrist another time. Alana froze, meeting his hard gaze once again.

  “Try anything untoward and ye will suffer my wrath,” he said.

  She nodded. Did he truly think she might stab him now?

  He released her. She quickly cut his leine down the front, to his belt, and pulled open the sides of his leine. She pretended not to notice the hard slabs of his chest, the dark hair there, or the small gold cross he wore. Then she uncovered his left shoulder completely.

  The wound was bleeding again. Dughall handed her more linens, which she gratefully took and pressed to it. Iain inhaled in pain and their gazes collided.

  “I am sorry.... I am trying not to hurt you.” She avoided his gaze now, acutely aware of him.

  “You have no calluses,” he said.

  She started, eyes wide, locking with his. What was he talking about?

  “On yer hands.” He was final—triumphant.

  She finally realized what he meant. If she were a farmer, her hands would be callused. Alana could only stare. She had been caught in her first deception.

  His smile was slow, dangerous. “Who are ye, lady? Dinna tell me yer a farmer’s wife—falsehoods dinna sit well with me.”

  “We were summoned to Nairn,” she managed to answer. “My grandmother carries healing potions.”

  “An answer that is no answer,” he said.

  She glanced at Dughall, her cheeks aflame. “Can you bring me warm water and soap?”

  “Aye, my lady.” He slipped from the tent.

  “The truth,” Iain said.

  Alana felt mesmerized by his unwavering stare. “We do not know why we were summoned,” she lied, feeling desperate. “But we believe my grandmother’s potions are needed.”

  His blue gaze moved over her face now, feature by feature.

  Did he believe her, when she was so deliberately lying? When she hated doing so, when she was a poor liar by nature? And Duncan of Frendraught was his enemy—would such a lie even protect her? “You should not speak. You should rest.”

  “Ye do not play these games well. Ye have no ready answers.” He had become thoughtful.

  She checked to see if his wound had stopped bleeding, and was relieved that it had. “Saving a life is no game.”

  He said, “Ye cannot or will not tell me who ye are. A spy would be prepared.”

 
“I am no spy, my lord,” Alana said tersely. He thought her a spy? She was horrified. “I am no one of any import.”

  He smiled coldly at her. “Ye have import, lady, or ye would not hide from me. And—” he paused for emphasis “—I am intrigued.”

  She was dismayed. She did not want his interest, not at all!

  “A young woman, alone in the woods with her grandmother, not far from Nairn. A young woman who does not flee from a battle, but goes into it—and warns a stranger of treachery. How long do ye think it will take for me to learn yer name?”

  If he wished to find out who she was, he would certainly be able to do so, quickly enough. She and her grandmother were well-known in these parts. But she would be long gone by then, or so she hoped.

  “And you, my lord? You fly Bruce’s flag. You command these men. You come from the Highlands. My guess, from your speech, is you come from the islands in the west.”

  “Unlike ye, lady, I have no secrets to keep. I am Iain of Islay.”

  “Iain is a common enough name.” But Alana’s heart lurched. She had heard gossip of one Iain of Islay—a warrior known as Iain the Fierce. The cousin of both Alasdair MacDonald, lord of the Isles, and his brother, Angus Og. He was renowned to be ruthless, bloodthirsty and undefeatable.

  “Are ye frightened?”

  Alana dragged her gaze to his as Dughall returned. “I hate war. I hate death. Of course I am frightened. Many men died today.”

  His gaze was on her face.

  “Are you the cousin of Angus and Alasdair MacDonald?” she had to ask.

  “So ye have heard of me,” he said, but softly.

  He was the savage Highlander known as Iain the Fierce, a warrior who never let his enemies live.

  And she was in his camp, in the midst of a war for Scotland—as the enemy.

  No, she was not just in his camp—she was in his tent.

  She got to her feet, taking a step back and away from the pallet. “I have heard of you,” she said.

  He made a sound, perhaps of satisfaction. And then Eleanor hurried into the tent, shivering, Fergus with her, breaking the tension, the moment.