My Lady Highlande

by Nancy Lee Badger

  “Run!” yelled a voice in her head. She gathered the hem of her skirt in one fist and dove behind a thick grouping of fir trees. Keeping the branches between her and the battle, she stepped onto the small trail that would lead her to the river. The enemy had attacked from that direction, but it was a familiar trail. Images of making love with Bull on the banks of the river, drove her forward.

  She worried about her friends, but getting away was the first thing on her mind. Without a weapon, magical powers, or Jaden-Tog by her side, what could she do? The brownie had scurried up a tree, but she could not follow him. The best plan was to regroup away from the bloodshed, but for the moment, she needed to hide.

  “The waterfall!” she said, as she ran. She could hide beneath it, while she formulated a strategy to save her friends. “If only I had a weapon.”

  “Halt!”

  Izzy’s bare feet skidded through the dead leaves, tumbling onto her back. Why had she not thought to ask Bull if he had found her lost footwear? A warrior stood in the middle of the deer trail with his legs spread. When she finally slid to a stop, her hips were between the man’s legs, and her skirt had tangled around her thighs. His filthy leer caused a quick intake of breath. Izzy recognized him, as the guard from her cell. The Sinclair was no longer a threat; a threat that had kept his hands off her in her cell, earlier.

  “And to think I dinna’ want to guard our retreat route. Ye be what I have lusted over, since last we met, wench,” he said, his voice deep and raspy.

  “Retreat? I pray it shall occur in minutes, for yer kinsmen are cowards,” Izzy replied. She slowly brought her knees up to her chest, as if to cover her sudden nakedness.

  “Ye know no’ what ye say, lass. Half those bastards are hired men, and they know how to fight. Yer friends shall die within minutes, but we can pass the time, together.”

  “Minutes ‘tis all it takes? My other lovers spend hours pleasuring me,” she lied. Showing fear, as a reaction to his threats, was what men of his ilk desired. She was too strong; too much a Highlander to lie quiet while a man hurt her, or her friends.

  As expected, the warrior’s face darkened with rage. When he raised his sword to strike, Izzy kicked him beneath his belted plaid. His shriek intensified, and he toppled sideways, into a grove of prickly bushes.

  Praying for Gavin, Bull, and Jenny’s survival, Izzy grabbed the sword that had fallen with him, and continued toward the river. The long sword was too heavy to wield, but dragging it behind her, gave her the courage to go on. The bushes and trees suddenly opened to the riverbank. She ran past the partially hidden glade where she and Bull had enjoyed each other. Though she inhaled the familiar fragrance of thick grass and chamomile blossoms, nothing compared to Bull’s musky scent, but Bull was not here. She had to hide, or defend herself, from the next attack. She was powerless to help anyone.

  If only I had Dorcas Swann’s powers.

  A deep breath cleared her mind, and she loosened the hand clutching her skirt. She wanted to soothe the white knuckles of her other hand, clasped tightly around the sword’s hilt. When she passed a thick stand of pines, she shoved the blade deep in the soft moss surrounding the base of a Rowan tree. Safely stored, she reached into her pocket. The potion bottles she had brought from New England were safe.

  Battle sounds, barely discernible above the river’s current, reminded her that she needed to find a way to help her friends. She glanced around, as if an idea would come to her of its own volition. She could search for Balfour, but he was probably long gone.

  “What have we here?” a gruff voice said.

  I know that voice.

  She turned back the way she had come. The Sinclair sat atop a huge beast that was decked out in battle armor, from it bridle to its rump.

  “Ye be the last person I expected to see, Sinclair. I am surprised ye left the safety of yer…bedchamber.” Surprise at finding him so close turned to hatred, but she kept her voice steady, and her face passive.

  He growled, then sneered. “Aye, I am here, and ye be here. Coincidence? Or, fate?”

  Glancing toward camp, a horrid thought dawned. “Why are yer men killing their own kinsmen?”

  He unsheathed his long sword, and kicked his horse’s sides. As he grew closer, Izzy’s heart raced. Beating back the fear, she crossed her arms over her chest. The man enjoyed terrorizing others, so she would not bend to his will.

  Not this time.

  She gazed briefly at the tree tops, but praying that Jaden-Tog might again come to her rescue seemed foolish. She had lost sight of the magical creature during the first moments of the attack, after he had taken to the trees. Was he hiding nearby in wolf form, or was he long gone?

  Help yerself, the voice in her head commanded.

  Izzy had taken her own advice, since escaping this world five years earlier. She would escape the aged warrior.

  When he stopped his mount inches from her, and slowly dismounted, his large belly, belted with a wide armored girdle, no longer jiggled. His boots hid his hairy calves, and his great plaid crossed his barrel chest. If she had not seen him nearly undressed, she might have regarded him as handsome.

  Izzy laughed. “I see yer sons in yer eyes, but they are better men than ye shall ever be.”

  The Sinclair’s cheeks grew ruddy with rage, or embarrassment. She cared not which, as long as she kept him off guard. To him, she was only a woman, and a small one at that.

  “Aye, yer a wee boil on my arse, but yer attributes keep me from killing ye. Yet. When ye flash those gray eyes at me, and the wind whips yer golden curls about yer heart-shaped face, I forget yer the bitch who goads my son. I shall no’ allow him to dirty his future with the likes of ye.” Stalking toward her, he smiled. When the bushes rustled, he stopped. Balfour broke through the trees, and raced toward them. He reared at The Sinclair, but the bastard slashed at him. Blood spurted, darkening the grass.

  “Doona’ touch him again!” Izzy lunged at The Sinclair, and slammed him against his own mount. Balfour reared again, then turned and galloped northward, toward the waterfall. Relief swept over her.

  It had happened so fast, she never thought to escape. The Sinclair pushed away from his own beast, marching toward her, with his bloodied sword raised.

  Stand yer ground.

  Courage was her only defense, yet he carried a large sword, and she possessed nothing but her wits. She only had time for a single breath, and a whispered prayer for Balfour, before The Sinclair’s meaty paw grabbed her arm.

  “Ye and I have much to discuss, lass, but when the battle is won, ye shall fall to yer knees once more.”

  His sneer brought back images of his bedchamber. The horror lingered, but his kind would not entrap her ever again.

  “My future is ever-changing, but ye have no’ answered my query. Yer sons are under attack. Why?”

  “My men will no’ harm my sons, but they will capture Gavin and bring him home. Once I get him away from ye, yer ample cleavage will no longer amuse him. Once I have bedded ye, and he hears of our tryst, yer loose morals will disgust him.”

  Gaurding her face from expressing her feelings at his repulsive plan, she smiled. Silence is golden.

  “Smile all ye want. I expect yer no’ so sweet and innocent. My son shall see through yer magic.” He lowered his sword, and swept fingers across her cheek.

  She steeled herself not to move. “I have no magic.”

  He chuckled, but did not smile. “I know Dorcas Swann took ye on. Ye canna’ tell me she chose a peasant, over all those who practice witchery.”

  “I am no witch. I am simply Isobel. My name means ‘consecrated to God’ and I will no’ stand here and be slandered by the likes of ye.”

  He sheathed his sword, then grasped her shoulders. “We have a bit of time before the battle ends. I shall take ye against a tree. If I be lucky, Gavin will arrive to see us rutting like beasts. Such a sight should turn him from yer bed.”

  Izzy struggled against his grasp, as his fingers bit in
to her upper arms. Her attempts proved too late to block his advance. Pushed backwards, she slammed into the trunk of a pine tree. Needles and pinecones rained down like snow, and the musty smell of dead leaves and moss, tasted bitter on her tongue.

  Why had she opened her mouth? To scream? A good idea, but before she could inhale, his fleshy lips covered her mouth. His tongue pushed into her, and she instinctively bit down. The taste of blood was as freeing as the kick in the groin she had gifted his warrior. He pulled away, swearing.

  A fist exploded against her cheek, slamming her head sideways. The rough bark scraped her other cheek.

  “Yer a wicked woman, but ye shall no’ poison my plan to win back my son.” He shoved a flabby knee between her thighs, spreading her legs. Through her daze, she sensed him yank her skirt above her knees. He had released her arms, leaving them bruised and aching in their wake. Repositioning his hands beneath her bottom, he lifted her until they faced each other.

  As she twisted in his embrace, her feet kicked the air, and the back of her shirt tore. His sweat made her gag, and his manhood prodded her belly. This feat amused her, since the man’s own belly was enormous.

  She laughed.

  His eyes widened, then closed to mere slits, as he held her aloft with one meaty paw and fumbled with his plaid with the other.

  “Put me down, ye big oaf. ‘Tis no’ to my liking, to have ye touching me.” Braced with her back against the tree, she managed to twist to one side. Her knee found its mark, rewarding her with his pained grunt.

  “Ye bitch!” He grabbed her hair, twisting her neck violently.

  Izzy feared he would break it, but his expletive was followed by a groan. When the pain made him fall to his knees, her feet hit the ground. She pushed against him, but he knocked her sideways. She struggled free and rolled away. He caught an ankle, but she pushed to her feet. He followed her up and grabbed the front of her shirt.

  Branches cracked and broke farther down, along the river. When Bull broke through and marched onto the riverbank, The Sinclair grabbed her around her waist. Bull stopped and stared at her and her assailant. Taking several deep breaths, his eyes widened. When she twisted in the old man’s grasp, Bull’s gaze darkened.

  As he ran toward them, she turned back to the Sinclair, and slammed her head into his nose. Blood spewed, and he pushed her to the ground.

  “I shall kill ye!”

  “Stars above, Bull. Get this bastard away from me!”

  “Done.” Bull grabbed the laird by the shirt and punched him in the chin. The older man flew onto his back, then rolled to his side. He groaned, then stopped moving. The Sinclair’s mount reared, then galloped northward. Blood dripped from Bull’s nose and mouth as he offered his hand, and helped her to her feet. Clutching his hand like a lifeline, she stared at his bleeding knuckles.

  “Yer hurt,” she whispered. Bloodied from his forehead to his knees, her quick perusal assured her it was not his blood. Her gaze lingered on his chiseled cheekbones, black hair, and ice blue eyes. He smelled better than she recalled, even covered in filth, and blood.

  “It’s nothing. I’m glad I found you. Why did you run?”

  “I ran because I was unarmed. Doona’ think less of me.”

  “Never.” He caressed her scraped cheek, which reminded her of his injured knuckles.

  Izzy ripped off two sections of her hem and hastened to the water’s edge. Kneeling, she dipped them in the cool water. The cold soothed her heart. Her senses were working on overload, a term she overheard Jenny once use. She was safe, and she would live, for a while longer. They would both live.

  The Sinclair groaned, but did not move. Returning to Bull’s side, she pressed one of the wet pieces of cloth on his knuckles, and dabbed the other on her cheek.

  “Thanks,” he said, but he was looking toward the forest.

  “Has the battle ceased?” Silence surrounded them, except for the river current at their backs.

  “It was winding down, which is why I slipped away to find you.”

  “Who won?”

  “Let’s find out.” He tossed the bloody cloth to the ground, and headed toward the trail at a trot.

  Izzy glared at his back, until her eyes drifted to the swaying plaid that hung low on his hips. She shook her head to clear the sight from her mind, and got a splitting headache.

  “What about him?” she asked, pointing at the groaning Sinclair laird, lying on his back in a cluster of chamomile flowers. The fragrance did nothing to cover the stench of Sinclair’s sweat. Bull did not answer. She had learned, early on, not to leave an enemy at her back, but she was no murderer.

  She kicked him in the belly, and he flopped to his side. Tightening Bull’s discarded bloody cloth into a binding, she tied the older man’s hands. Pulling the sword from its sheath, she threw his plaid up and bared a pudgy thigh.

  A noise startled her. Bull had returned to her side. Izzy nodded to him, and said, “Did I tell ye Balfour tried to protect me?”

  “He did? Where is he?”

  “This bastard cut him, and the beast ran off.”

  Bull’s gaze darkened, and his shoulders tensed. “I really want this p.o.s. dead.”

  “P.o.s?”

  “Piece of…never mind. Let’s get back to the glade.”

  Izzy glanced down at her attacker. His eyes flickered, but only a low groan spewed from between his lips. “I should slit yer throat, but I am an honorable woman. Gavin would have seen through yer deception, but I need proof against yer lies.”

  Izzy sliced a thin, curved line from his groin to his left hip, which created a crude but discernible letter ‘C’. Shock flickered in Bull’s eyes.

  “ ‘Tis the Highland’s symbol fer coward.”

  The prisoner groaned. He probably would escape, as either his warriors, or his sons, had won the battle. Neither would strike him dead, so she must take solace that she had marked him for his true nature.

  Turning her back on her unconscious assailant, she followed Bull. He had taken the old warrior’s sword, so she pulled her hidden blade from the roots of the nearby tree. Dragging the heavy weapon through the grass, she said a silent prayer, placing her trust in Bull to get them safely back to their friends.

  CHAPTER 16

  Gavin wiped blood from his eyes, and surveyed the scene. Dying men’s groans echoed through the glen, while rider-less mounts stumbled through the carnage. He grabbed the reins of an uninjured animal, and tugged the beast toward the thicket of bushes where he had shoved Jenny.

  “Lass? Ye can come out. ‘Tis safe.”

  “Really?” As she unfolded her tall, slender limbs from her hiding spot, her borrowed cloak opened, and she brushed leaves from the dress that clung to every curve.

  Gavin’s body tightened. This was an unwanted response, since his future lay elsewhere. With Isobel not far from his thoughts, he should not look at other beautiful women, but Jenny Morgan was striking. She was also Isobel’s good friend.

  “You’re bleeding!”

  “I be fine, lass. ‘Tis the blood of another warrior. I have this mount, which shall spirit us to safety. Let me help you up.”

  She brushed his hands away, and swung into the saddle with little effort, and without his assistance. Her dress slid up past her knees, and he hardened in the span of a breath. Inhaling deeply, he smelled Jenny’s lavender scent.

  With his body out of control, he decided to walk. The animal followed at his heels. They stole deeper into the forest, then curved away from the trail, toward the meadow.

  “Where are we headed? Shouldn’t we look for Izzy, and Bull? What about your brother?”

  He did not answer. Having recognized the marauders as a squad of mercenaries wearing his father’s plaid, the choice of direction was clear. Besides, he did not want her to gaze upon the carnage in the camp. Until he discovered the fate of the people she loved, she was better off far from the field of battle.

  “To your friend’s cottage. We must regroup, and should be safe.
If she has survived, we shall meet her there.”

  “Don’t even joke about it. She has to be okay. Did you say Izzy has a cottage?”

  “I assume she never spoke of her home…or of me.”

  Jenny laughed.

  Why did his heart twist inside his chest at her mirth? It flowed through him like the finest whisky, yet he thirsted for more. Jenny was not of his world, and the sight of his father’s warriors, as they hacked and slaughtered Niall’s men, had drawn a pitiful cry from her lips.

  He and Bull had fought to keep her safe. They had shoved her into the bushes, and battled to keep all from her hiding spot. If he had any inkling of an impending attack, he would have focused on using his magic. A sphere of silence would have hidden her, until he made sure she was safe, but they had been surprised. He was tempted to conjure one now, and hide her, until he reconnoitered the area surrounding the camp.

  He had lost sight of Bull. Had he taken the coward’s path, or had he sought to protect Isobel? Neither of their bodies lay among the dead and injured, so hope was still at hand.

  “She never said a word. If I had known any of this…I’m not sure if I would have willingly followed her here. But, I didn’t, did I? That little man brought us here, right?”

  “True.”

  “Can he send me back?”

  Gavin stopped, then turned and gazed up at her. Could she accept the truth? “ ‘Tis possible, lass. If he survived.”

  Her eyes widened and her pale lips made a perfect ‘o’, but no sound emerged. He had shocked her into silence, which was just as well. His father might be near, as well as other warriors. The sooner they arrived at the MacHamish farm, the better.