by Barbara Bard
He slumped against the door and breathed deeply, hoping that the sensations would diminish in time. He gazed down at the empty hallway. Through the windows of the castle he could hear some of the Highlanders still enjoying the feast outside. Warriors from the various clans wining and dining and basking in the euphoria that winning a war brings. They must have stayed up all night enjoying the spoils of war. Once again Declan had been prevented from being a part of that, sent here to guard this Sassenach woman by Drew.
It was a duty that he would do to the best of his ability, but one that he would much rather be enjoyed by someone else. He thought of Drew and Blair, able to enjoy the respect of the rest of the clan, while Declan was sitting in the cold hall guarding some Sassenach girl. It wasn't that he hated his cousins, just that he wanted to be with them right now. He believed that he could fight side by side with them as the warrior he was and gain their respect, as well as that of the other clans. Going to battle was the only was the only way to prove his loyalty, and here was another opportunity passing him by.
He rose, and thought about checking on the prisoner, but he decided that he didn't need to feel her sharp tongue this morning, not with his head in the state it was. She was pretty enough, for a Sassenach girl, and spirited, but she could not hold a candle to a woman like Deirdre.
Just thinking about Deirdre was enough to send Declan into a spin. She was everything a man could want, and he looked forward to seeing her again. Somehow he would prove to her that he was a man she could be proud of, that he was better than Blair and would give her the life she needed.
He just wasn't sure how to go about it. His previous rebellion seemed to have died in its infancy once Drew sided with Blair. Deirdre and Old Will thought that Drew was integral to the success, but now that Drew was firmly allied with Blair there seemed little chance for the two brothers to be broken up. Declan was quietly relieved. The idea of a rebellion had never sat easily with him, but he still wished to make his cousins see how they had lost their minds.
A full rebellion had always struck Declan as a last resort, and even now it seemed to be too drastic, but he just wanted to get Drew and Blair's attention, to make them see that their actions were wrong.
Although he wanted to leave his post, he was afraid of disappointing his cousins. The possibility made him think of his own father, the younger brother of Aife's-the father of Drew and Blair. He had been wounded in the first war, left with only one leg, and as such had not been able to fight in this battle. He was at home, in a small hamlet across the valley. Declan wanted to make him proud and live the life of a warrior that had been denied to his father.
Instead, he walked down to the end of the hallway and peered out of the window, looking at the warriors from various clans departing. Many of them embraced each other, glad to have done battle. They were all amicable now, but Declan had a feeling it was just a matter of time before they were at war with each other again. The petty squabbles over land and other matters often took hold of the Highlanders. Nobody dared attack his father though. Declan hoped that one day he would be treated with as much respect as his father was.
Declan knew that because of his father’s war injuries, his family won’t be considered when it comes to matters of war, and it wouldn't be long before they were forgotten. Declan could easily leave and return home, but then he would never take his rightful place as a leader of armies, as a fierce warrior.
Below him he watched the banners depart one by one, although some still remained, wanting to enjoy the feasting even longer. There were plenty of men, some of whom would surely be unimpressed that Drew and Blair had taken Sassenach women to their chambers and treated them as equals.
Now that the battle was over it was time for old differences to emerge, and perhaps Declan could sway some of them into confronting his cousins. If he could have influence over the McCall clan, it would go a long way to making his father proud. Then he could enjoy the same respect as Blair, Drew, and restore the Highlanders to their pure blood and not have to worry about the enemy lurking within the camp.
Staring back at the door, Drew rested his hand on his blade. He had to be patient and wait. There was plenty of time for him to achieve all he wanted to. He was still twenty-two, and perhaps this time youth was his advantage.
Declan returned to his post, waiting all morning for someone to arrive and relieve him, but nobody came. He was unable to slake his thirst, and his stomach was beginning to rumble. All morning long he paced up and down the hallway. More than a few hours had passed since he had risen and by that point he had enough of it. He was not going to be forgotten in this manner, and since this Catherine was locked up nice and tightly he saw no harm in leaving to go and get some food.
Now that some time had passed, Declan had a calmer mind, and a fresher way of looking at things. His mood the previous night had been influenced by the alcohol, and he was a little ashamed of how he had treated Drew. That wasn't usually like him, and he didn't want his cousin to think him ungrateful. He just wants the whole clan united and not divided by frivolous things like Sassenach lass and venturing into unnecessary wars.
He was just a youth going through the throes of maturity, being forged by war. He had been thrust into a battle that transformed his mind and made him see things he had never seen before. He could feel himself changing, and yet was so unsure of who he was changing into.
But he wanted so badly to be around all the other Highlanders. It felt as though the world was passing him by, and he wasn't sure how to go about changing that. All he wanted was to be involved. So much was changing, and he wasn't sure if he could adapt to the new order that Drew and Blair seemed to be implementing.
Walking through the castle, Declan kept an eye out for Drew or Blair, but saw no sign of them. He continued outside, his stomach giving him trouble. He could hear the noise from his post and wanted to be a part of it, so he went out and got some meat to fill his belly.
Looking around, Declan gazed in awe at the hardened warriors around him. He was but a boy among men, and the sight of them filled him with a deep respect. He longed to be a part of them, to be looked upon with the same respect as they looked at each other. He yearned for the brotherhood that exist among warriors. Women emerged from their tents as well, looking tousled and rough.
Declan blushed at the sight of them, especially when they smiled at him.
Declan heard snippets of conversation as he made his way through the camp, wanting to soak in as much as possible before all the clans left, although from the conversations he heard he was sure that some of them would be sticking around for the foreseeable future. That could play into his plans well, if they were willing to listen.
Mostly, Declan held his tongue, cowed by the reputation of all the older warriors, but when he heard one conversation, he could not remain silent. An older man with a thick black beard was heralding the feats of Drew against Lord Flynn. The man's bald head gleamed under the morning sun, and his words carried on the air.
“Never hae there been such a display of sheer power than in that battle. I was with Drew every step of the way, watching how he feinted and drew that Sassenach bastard in, then the killing blow!” he thrust a fist into the air and laughed uproariously. The others around him joined in.
Declan rolled his eyes, for he had heard plenty about this fight already. Seeing Drew in battle had been a privilege, but Declan wished that he was spoken about in such a manner.
Lost in his thought, he unconsciously muttered under his breath “he is nae even that good.”
“What was that, lad?” the man asked. Drew froze. He didn't think anyone had been paying him attention, so it took him by surprise to be challenged like this.
“Well, gae on? What did ye mean? Dae ye nae think that Drew was mighty?”
“Oh, my cousin did indeed show a great deal of bravery against Lord Flynn, but dinnae ye think ye are giving him a wee bit tae much credit? He is just a man after all, and from what I saw he wasn't always
in control.”
“Are ye praising the Sassenach?”
“Nay! I would never! But I would nae be so quick tae believe that Drew is the only good swordsman. I'm sure that I could have beaten Lord Flynn if I was given the chance, and I am only sorry that the battle ended so quickly. I was waiting to fight side by side with my cousins.”
The man looked at him, then laughed. Declan's cheeks darkened.
“Who are ye to show me such dishonor?” he said in a terse voice.
“They call me Mont,” the big man said, his rumbling baritone powerful enough to shake the ground. “And I dinnae mean tae show ye disrespect, but ye get what ye give in this world, and ye seem quick to speak against yer cousin.”
“Nay, I love my cousin, and I am proud of him, I only wish that I had been given the chance tae prove myself in battle against the Sassenach villain,” Declan said. The debate had gathered a little attention among the people around him, and Mont seemed amused by the steel that Declan was showing.
“Ye think ye would be able tae best Lord Flynn? Even though he was Sassenach I hae to give him respect. He was blessed with talent, which makes Drew's victory all the more impressive. Dae ye think ye could even win while suffering the same wound as Drew?”
“I was fighting in that battle for as long as I could! If Drew had nae returned I would hae taken up the fight for him. I would hae done my cousin proud.”
Mont laughed. “Did ye see the same duel as I? Flynn's blade slashed as quickly as a whip. Why, I believe Drew is the best swordsman this land has seen since the Blue Thistle. And as much as I admire yer enthusiasm I would nae like tae see a pup like ye gae up against a swordsman like the Sassenachman.”
“The who?” Declan asked. Mont looked at him with astonishment.
“Have ye nae heard of the Blue Thistle? What are we teaching the wee lads and lasses?” he said, looking around. The other people chuckled softly. “I'm just about on my last legs. Come back later and I'll give ye a tale for the ages,” he promised.
“Ah, speak of the devil,” Mont said, and looked up. The others around them gasped. Declan looked around, and saw Drew storming towards him.
“What are ye doeing here, Declan? I told ye tae guard Catherine,” he thundered, his face a picture of anger. Declan groaned inwardly.
“I was hungry, cousin! I only came down here tae eat. She is locked up, there is nae danger of her escaping. I left the key by the door,” he said.
“Ye hae tae take yer duties seriously, Declan. Stay here if ye like, but it may be best for ye tae gae on home and be with yer father. Ye hae been through a lot. We love having ye here, but we would understand if ye wanted tae return home,” Drew said, his anger diminishing.
Drew turned and made his way back to the castle, leaving Declan with a festering shame inside. He wished that he could do something to make his cousins proud of him, to ensure that his name would be spoken in the same breath as the rest of the McCalls. Drew and Blair cast long shadows. All Declan wanted was to live up to their reputations.
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Highlander’s Honor – Preview
Chapter 1
Dawn tinged the eastern horizon a bright pink, perhaps hinting at the warm day ahead. Birds chirped from their thickets, rousing with the new sun, darting from the branches like tiny arrows as the cantering horse disturbed them into flight. The mount’s grey legs sent pollen from the purple heather up into the light breeze as it crossed the moors of northern England. The horse’s rider expertly guided it across a shallow streamlet, leaped a low stone wall and galloped up the hill.
Lady Catrin Waterford, daughter of the Duke of Whitewood, reined in at the top of the hill to glance back. Her escort, two of her father’s retainers, loped in her wake. But as she demanded they ride a distance behind her to give her some semblance of privacy, they rode nearly a half mile to her rear. Chirruping to her mount, she cantered down the far side just as the sun broke over the horizon.
She took her left hand off her reins long enough to cast back the hood of the light cloak she wore against the early dawn’s damp chill. Catrin gazed at the sunrise, then closed her eyes and tilted her head back to further feel the strong horse beneath her, the new sun’s rays kissing her cheeks. Unfettered, her wild mane of rich, auburn hair flew behind her like a war banner.
Her gelding stumbled, forcing her to open her eyes.
Catrin gasped, her heart hammering in her chest.
No fewer than a dozen riders raced toward her, their horses leaping thickets and dodging rocks. Not highwaymen. She observed the familiar brigandines, the heavy two-handed swords, the stern faces. Scots. Armed with bows as well as swords, they called to one another in that despicable dialect of the Scottish Highlands. Fear and anger rushed through her as she hauled on her reins, forcing the grey to slide forward under his momentum, his rear quarters slung low.
Wheeling the gelding around, Catrin plunged her heels into his sides, urging him into a full run. Racing up the low-lying hill, she glanced back once, finding the horsemen had spread out in case she changed directions, and closing the distance. Crossing the hill she had just descended, Catrin discovered to her horror that five more Scots dashed in to cut her off from her escape. And her guards.
“Eh, lads,” called one, a tall red-haired man who gestured to the north. “Coot ‘er oof noo.”
Riders from behind her swept up and to her left, forcing her toward the right, into the direction of the rider who yelled. Even as he closed the distance between them, his red hair flying in the wind, Catrin saw her opening. If she could just nip past him before he reached that rock . . . . Pushing her gelding harder, she raced the Scot, shooting glances at him even as she screamed for help from her guards.
She was seconds too late.
The red-haired horseman cut in front of her, forcing her gelding to rear or be forced to slam headlong into his black. Catrin grasped for the pommel of her saddle as the grey’s hooves climbed high and missed her grip. Unbalanced, she toppled backward over the cantle to hit the ground hard. Her breath knocked from her lungs, she had no air to scream as the Scotsman flung himself from his saddle even before his horse came to a trampling halt.
The others circled around her, trotting their horses in a huge milling group, giving her no chance to rise to her feet and run. Seizing her by her arms, the Scot stood her upright, then spun her around. Catrin, despite her inability to draw breath, fought him, trying to pull her hands loose, to kick him, to bite. Her strength was no match for his, and he bound her hands tightly behind her with a tough leather strap.
“Gae, lads, chase the lassie’s men oof.”
Six of his men, if he was indeed the leader of this band, immediately split away from the group and galloped westward. Catrin knew her father’s men at arms stood no chance to free her, as grossly outnumbered as they were. Hope of rescue or escape from these foul men died as she fought now to get her breath back.
Hope perhaps had died within her, but her defiance had not. As the leader turned her to face him, she spat in his face, her spittle smacking him square on his hawk-like nose. Glaring at him, still unable to speak, she expected him to backhand her for her insult. Instead, he grinned.
“Ach, lads, seems we hae here a wee spitfire of a lass,” he said, arming her defiance from his face with his sleeve. “I dinnae expect a great noble lady tae fight so.”
She studied him as she waited for her breath to return. Tall, he was, with broad shoulders, and lean narrow hips. A scar ran from the corner of his left eye down his cheek, yet she never thought she had seen a comelier man. His hazel-green eyes stared at her with a hint of admiration, framed by long dark lashes. His smiling lips appeared full and ripe for kissing, and his teeth were pure white, not brown as so many peoples were.
Slowly, air seeped back into Catrin’s lungs. “Let me go
,” she gritted. “Or I will have you drawn and quartered by sunset.”
“Ye willnae be drawin’ nor quarterin’ nobody, Me Lady Catrin,” he replied easily. “Fer ye be halfway to me castle in the Highlands by sunset.”
Catrin stiffened. “You know who I am?”
“Ach. Course, Me Lady. Dae ye ken who I be?”
“How can I? I have never seen you before in my life.”
“Then let me introduce meself.” He grinned, his merry hazel-green eyes dancing in his lean face. “I be Ranulf Thorburn, heir to the Laird of Clan Thorburn.”
She physically felt the blood drain from her flesh. A chill crept into her body, the air left her lungs again in a short whoosh. Fear, no, terror swept through her as she recognized the name. Clan Thorburn. Kyle Thorburn.
She did not realize she spoke the name aloud until Ranulf nodded. “Aye, Me Lady. Your da did murder me elder brother.”
“Liar!” she screamed. “Your brother murdered mine and was hanged for it.”