The night was bitterly cold and even the moon was against them. It often slid out from behind the clouds, leaving Rolf and his men exposed in the light for long periods of time. Some way back Rolf had ordered his men to leave their mounts and continue on foot. He knew the Scotsmen would have sentries and did not want the noise of the horses to alert anyone to their presence.
Rolf came to an abrupt halt beside a tree when he saw the winking lights of a few scattered campfires in the distance. Carefully he drew his sword, whispering back an order for his men to do the same. They inched forward, stopping to listen for any sounds of alarm. When Rolf believed they were mere yards from the camp, he gave his men a signal to spread out and surround the area.
Rolf felt a surge of excitement sweep through him. No shouts or cries came from the trees. So it hadn’t been a trap after all. Rolf’s heart beat faster, his grip tightened on his sword. Then a cry rang out to his left, splitting the silence of the night. A Scottish sentry must have spotted one of Rolf’s men and the alarm had been raised. Raising his sword in his good hand, Rolf charged forward, the clang of steel and the shouts of men filling the air.
As Rolf swung his broadsword, a faint smile crossed his lips. Tonight would be the night. On this cold Highland evening, he would finally fulfill the wishes of his sovereign and put an abrupt end to the Black Wolf’s activities.
Chapter Four
Megan dreamt.
Alone she faced a band of marauding English soldiers wielding a heavy Scottish claymore in her right hand. In her left, she held a metal shield, easily blocking the ineffective thrusts of the English lances. Their ineptness amused her and their frustration delighted her even more.
She swung her sword at an advancing soldier. “Be gone ye English blackguards. Be gone from Scotland forever.”
She threw back her head. Her unbound hair tumbled about her shoulders in a protective curtain as if guarding her from the wayward attack of the enemy. The hefty sword felt light as she swung it. A surge of power swept through her. She could not tire, she would not concede. She was invincible—and would vanquish the hated English on behalf of all of Scotland.
She crossed swords with one of the soldiers. “Ye shall rue the day ye ever dared to set foot in Scotland.”
Their cries became more strident and angry, but she was not afraid. Instead she knew with absolute certainty she would prevail. Waving the claymore, she warned the soldiers to step back or she would do away with all of them.
They did as she ordered, stepping back and lowering their swords. But they continued to shout and hurl insults until it became a loud thunder in her ears.
Then seemingly out of nowhere, Megan felt the press of a hard cool blade against her neck. It felt incredibly real.
It was real.
She opened her eyes. To her horror, she could see the dark outline of a man kneeling beside her, holding a knife to her neck with one hand and pulling the covers off her with the other.
He muttered. “Too bad they want you alive.”
Closing her eyes, she continued to feign sleep while sliding her hand beneath her pillow. Pressing her lips together in relief, she felt her hand close around the handle of the small dagger she always hid there.
With a ferocious cry, she swung the dagger at his arm and then rolled sideways away from his blade. Her attacker howled in pain and surprise, tumbling to the floor on one shoulder.
Coming to a crouch, she thrust at him again. Her second attempt was also successful and she heard an angry scream of rage.
Scrambling away, she groped for her boots, shoving shoved her feet into them and stumbling toward the exit. She could hear the screams and shouts from outside the tent and knew they were under attack. Swallowing her fear, she reached for the tent flap, but yelped when her attacker tackled her from behind, grabbing her around the knees. She landed against the floor with a bone-jarring thud. Kicking her legs, she hit his face and managed to free herself from his hold. As she struggled to her feet, she felt her father’s wolf pelt bunched beneath her. Grabbing it in her hands, she stumbled to the tent flap, threw it aside and darted outside.
Throwing the pelt across her shoulders, Megan paused, aghast at the scene being played out in front of her. In the dim light of the moon, she could see the dark forms of her clansmen engaged in a fierce struggle with heavily armed attackers. Two of her men fell screaming while she watched in horror.
Panic swept over her. God help her, she was their leader. What should she do? She had to do something or they all would be lost.
The legend!
The answer came to her in a moment of startling clarity. The legend of the Black Wolf had always rallied her men, giving them renewed strength and determination. If she could invoke the legend of Black Wolf, it might create a diversion and permit her men to reorganize and regroup. Drawing the heavy cloak up over her head, she took a deep breath and howled at the top of her lungs.
Aaaaayooooo!
The fighting ceased as all eyes turned toward her. The moon chose that moment to slide out from behind a cloud, casting a dramatic and eerie glow across the camp. Megan held up one hand in a silent salute.
“The Black Wolf Lives!”
“Hurrah!”
“Capture him!” The shouted order came from behind her. Whirling around, Megan saw her attacker, a young man, standing in the entrance of her tent, gripping his thigh with one hand. His nose was bloodied, his clothes torn, but he pointed at her, urging his countrymen on to the kill. “Don’t let him flee.”
Taking a deep breath, Megan turned and dashed into the forest. Behind her, she could hear the English soldiers begin a furious pursuit.
She ran, paying no attention to direction. Branches grabbed at her, scratching her face and hands and unraveling her hair from its tight braid, her eyes watered from the angry lash of the wind. Fear choked the breath in her throat. The wolf pelt was heavy and slowed her, but she dared not cast it aside for fear of freezing.
Gasping for air, she stumbled over a protruding log and landed straight on her face in the snow. Crying out in fear, she struggled to come to her feet when someone fell on top of her from behind, knocking the breath from her lungs.
“I’ve got him.” She twisted beneath the suffocating weight. “Bring me a light.”
Her attacker grasped her arm in a painful grip and rolled her over. For a brief moment, Megan saw a flash of steel and knew that her demise was imminent. Clamping her lips together to hold back a cry of terror, she turned her head to the side, preparing to feel the cold blade pierce her skin.
Then a torch was thrust near her face and Megan squeezed her eyes shut at the blinding light. Still no blade sliced into her body. Time seemed to stand still before she heard her attacker speak.
“God’s blood. It’s just a woman.”
“A woman?” She heard a squeal and then saw the angry face of the young man who had attacked her in the tent. “I swear, my lord, there was no one else in the tent.”
Megan cringed as more Englishmen clamored about her in disbelief, cursing. Her heart hammered, but she kept her lips pressed together in defiance. She’d not beg for mercy. She’d go to her death honoring the memory of the many men who had died at the hands of these barbarians, including her father and brother.
“Christ, we’ve been tricked.” Her attacker swore, easing himself off her body and dragging her up. As she stood facing him for the first time without the torch blinding her, a nauseating wave of fear swept through her.
The man looked like a demon apparition from Hell. His long black hair swirled around his enormous shoulders and the front of his tunic was splattered with blood—undoubtedly the blood of her men. Framed with thick black eyebrows, his eyes gleamed in the moonlight as he assessed her.
“Curse your foolish ruse, woman. Where is the Wolf?” The controlled fury in
his voice sent warning shivers of dread up her spine.
For a moment, Megan could only stare at him. The Wolf? Why, he had already captured the Wolf.
She had opened her mouth to speak when an unexpected surge of elation swept through her. It hadn’t even occurred to these arrogant Englishmen that a woman could be the Wolf. Suppressing the smile of triumph that rose to her lips, Megan stared back at him. Let him continue his search for the Wolf if he so desired.
“You came from his tent and wear his pelt. So, where is he?”
Megan stiffened in defiance, refusing to answer. He scowled at her and for a moment, Megan feared he might strike her. Instead, he released her with a disgusted grunt and turned to the young man who had attacked her while she slept.
“Andrew, are you certain there was no other person in the tent?”
Andrew nodded. “I’m certain, my lord. She was alone. B-but it was dark and she came at me so ferociously with a dagger that I never even thought she was...well, a woman.”
The dark-haired Englishman crossed his arms against his chest, frowning. “She harmed you?”
The boy flushed, his expression one of mortification and anger. “N-not really, my lord. They are just flesh wounds and don’t hurt...much.”
The Englishman turned his speculative gaze back to Megan. “I’m afraid we’ll get little more from her now. But keep an eye on her. I’m certain she is someone of worth to the Wolf.”
“Aye, Rolf, as you say.”
Megan’s eyes narrowed as she heard the young man address the dark-haired man as Rolf. Undoubtedly this was Rolf St. James, the evil and maimed soldier King George had sent to the Scottish Highlands to capture the Wolf. Her gaze fell to his hands. Both were gloved, the right one resting on the shoulder of the man to whom he spoke, the other dangling by his side. It was difficult to be certain in the dim light, but she though his left hand was the infamous crippled appendage.
Megan shivered as she raised her gaze to study his shadowed profile while he spoke to a man holding a torch. He looked dangerous and forbidding enough to have murdered his own wife. He’d also proven to be clever by playing on her ego and trapping her in a foray such as tonight. Curse her rotten luck. She’d been careless to underestimate him. It had cost her dearly.
Clenching her fists in frustration, she pressed them against her side. In doing so, she felt the hard lump of the dirk in her waistband. A sweep of exhilaration shot through her. She hadn’t been searched and no one had yet discovered the knife.
Megan slipped her hand beneath the pelt, her fingers closing around the handle of the dirk. She might soon be dead, but perhaps she could take the infamous Rolf St. James with her. It would send a strong message to King George that the Scots would not be silent while the English starved and beat their people into submission. Closing her eyes, she summoned her courage by remembering the faces of her brother and father.
“For Scotland,” Megan whispered as she moved toward Rolf.
* * *
Rolf heard the girl whisper something, and turned just in time to see a flash of steel reveal itself from beneath her pelt. His years of training as a soldier served him well. He raised his arm just as the dagger skimmed across the skin of his forearm. Before she could move, his good hand shot out, clamping around her wrist and pressing it hard until the dirk fell to the forest floor.
She fought against his hold, clawing and struggling to get free. Andrew leapt to his lord’s side grabbing the girl and pinning her arms behind her back. “God’s blood, Rolf, she moved so quickly I didn’t even see her.”
Rolf nodded, examining his torn shirt and the shallow flesh wound she had inflicted. “If I’d been a bit slower, I would have felt that steel between my shoulder blades instead of across my arm.”
Rolf brought his dark eyes up to the girl’s face, examining her. Long strands of raven-black hair fell in a tangled mass about her shoulders and her chest heaved with exertion. She met his gaze her eyes filled with defiance and strangely, pride. Rolf felt a stirring of admiration for the woman. She had been clever in her escape and had forfeited her own freedom, and perhaps life, to permit the Wolf and several other men to flee unscathed. Indeed, a most intriguing woman.
Rolf knelt in front of her, placing his hands inside her boots and around her ankles before skimming his hands up the length of her legs. She gave a cry of outrage.
“Don’t ye dare touch me.” She aimed a kick directly at his groin.
He caught her foot and held it. “Try that again and I’ll have you tied both hand and foot while check for weapons. You may rest assured that I have no intention of being skewered by another one of your hidden daggers.”
She frowned but stopped her struggle. Rolf released her foot, letting it fall to the snowy ground in a temporary truce. Then he felt along her waist and stomach, sliding his hand up both arms and sides. He removed the wolf pelt and searched along the lining for any unusual bumps. Satisfied there were no more hidden weapons, Rolf wrapped the pelt around her shoulders again. She gasped as the fingers of his good hand brushed across her breasts, and glared at him as a faint smile touched his lips.
Rolf turned around. “All right, Andrew. She has no other weapons. Take her back to the horses, but see to it that her hands are tied and she rides double with one of the men. I’ll take no more risks with this one. She has proven to be quite resourceful this night.”
Nodding, Andrew yanked on her arm, pulling her into the forest. Rolf stood, watching Andrew remove the Scottish lass. She had shown spirit and remarkable courage in the face of astonishing danger. An odd mix of qualities for a woman, he mused to himself, wondering if all Highland women were as wild and untamed as she.
A voice interrupted his thoughts. “Shall we search the woods for the Wolf?”
Rolf turned around to face his trusted comrade, shaking his head. “Nay, Peter, it’s too dark and the advantage of surprise is no longer ours. Have Henry round up the rest of the prisoners and bring them back to the castle. We’ll see what information can be gleaned from them in regards to the whereabouts of the Wolf.”
Peter nodded and barked an order at a nearby group of men. Rolf’s eyes drifted back to the black spot amid the trees where Andrew had disappeared with the Scottish woman.
“An unusual lass,” he murmured. “I wonder just what she was doing in the Black Wolf’s tent.”
Chapter Five
The wind and snow howled around the riders in a white flurry, making the already difficult trek even more treacherous. Megan shivered with cold in spite of the heavy wolf pelt still draped around her shoulders. She rode double with the young man who had attacked her in the tent. He was furious, undoubtedly because she had managed to wound him. She had watched while he tied a strip of cloth around his thigh and arm, cursing the entire time under his breath. When he was done, he had tied her hands behind her back and given her a rude push into the saddle.
Without hands to balance, the ride over the craggy terrain was arduous. Megan refused to lean against the young man for support, figuring he’d probably refuse aid to her anyway. Gritting her teeth together, she narrowed her eyes against the wind and concentrated on the direction in which they were headed. It didn’t take her long to realize that they were going to Castle Kilcraig.
Two long years had passed since she had set foot inside her former home. It had been her dream, and the dream of her father and brother, that one day they would recapture the castle and return in triumph. But now they were dead. And Megan, the last of the MacLeods, did not return victorious, but as a prisoner of the enemy.
Megan swallowed the bitter taste of bile in her throat, concentrating instead on the condition of the castle. The twin parapets loomed large in the dark and she could see candlelight gleaming through some of the windows. As they rode into the courtyard, Megan noticed that it had been swept clean and the stable r
oof, damaged during the eviction, had been repaired.
Andrew yanked her off the horse and she nearly fell, swaying until she regained her balance. As the other Englishmen rode into the courtyard shouting orders and bringing more Scottish prisoners with them, anger, strong and fierce, flooded through her.
The English had no right to be here. Castle Kilcraig belonged to the MacLeods. It had been built with Scottish blood and sweat and the English had no right to occupy it.
Megan clenched her fists behind her back. She would get Castle Kilcraig back, she vowed. She would restore honor to the MacLeod name or die trying.
“Come on, lass.” Andrew grabbed her arm and pulled her behind him.
“Don’t touch me.”
He ignored her, tightening his grip on her arm. She clamped her mouth shut and suffered the indignity of being dragged into the place that was once her home.
Still, when they crossed the threshold, Megan felt a twinge of homesickness. No matter who occupied Castle Kilcraig, this place would always be her home. She had been born here, grown up among these ancient stones and explored every corner. Her parents had been married in the Great Hall amid much fanfare. It was no use. Her heart was tied to this place as much as it was bound to the land in which she was born.
As they passed the Great Hall, Megan dared to pause for a quick look into the chamber. No candles were lit. It was dark except for a blazing fire in the enormous hearth. For a fleeting moment, Megan could picture its vastness lit by hundreds of candles and filled with long wooden tables covered with the blue, yellow and green plaids of the MacLeod clan. She fancied she could hear poignant strains of a bagpipe echoing through the room.
“Make haste,” Andrew chided Megan, pushing her forward and snapping her from her daydream. He led her none-too-gently toward the staircase, guiding her up the stairs to the living quarters instead of down toward the dungeon where the rest of the prisoners were headed.
Megan looked around in alarm. “What are ye doing? Why am I no’ going wi’ the others?”
The Thorn & the Thistle Page 4