“How many?” Ian asked.
“At least twenty men.”
Leland turned to Ian and asked, “What are ye thinking?”
Ian looked out over the horizon and pondered his next move. Like any game of war, Ian knew that he must first plan out his strategy in order to find Keira; much like in a game of chess. Most warriors well-trained in battle moved their men into position and then struck. But if the warrior expected to win, he must predict his opponent’s movements first. Any man can run out onto the battlefield waving his sword around, hoping to hit its target, but a smart man waited to make each strike count.
Ian waged that if Laird Sutherland took Keira, he would not want her in harm’s way. He would want to keep her safe and away from his battalion. She would do him no good if she were dead. Therefore, chasing after his men would only put a greater distance between him and Keira and very well could result in unnecessary loss of life. If his men were directly north and the sea was directly to the east of their position, his only option was to head west.
“We head west!”
“But what of the Sutherlands?” Rylan asked. “Ye surely dinna intend to just leave them?”
“Lady Keira is my only concern. Perhaps we should leave a few men behind. If they believe we were too busy fighting off their men, we can surprise them when they least expect it.”
“I will stay wit’ a few of the men. We are no’ too far from Fraser land. We will find refuge there,” Rylan suggested.
“Take care, my friend. God speed,” Ian said holding his arm out to Rylan.
Rylan took his hand in his.
“I will. Dinna worry about the Sutherlands. I will have them chasing their own tails by nightfall. It is my plan to head south in the morning. I will send word once I petition the Duke of Annandale for my pardon. Once it is granted, I will be a free mon and will be able to return home once again in the Highlands.”
Rylan and four others mounted their horses and headed north. As for Ian, Leland and the remaining warriors, they headed into the westward winds.
After nearly an hour of riding, Ian spotted the same wheel tracks they had seen and followed yesterday. His hope was renewed the moment he saw them. The tracks were still fresh and he knew that it would be only a matter of time before he came upon their camp. The more westward they traveled the thick density of trees faded to patches of woodland, dwarf shrubs and open pastures.
Crossing the expanse of the terrain they entered the foothills of the stony mountains of Beinn Dearg. With its summit a steep incline and reaching more than three thousand feet in the air, no horse or cart could travel up the mountain side. Its only safe passage was by passing through the glen between the valleys of mountains.
As they continue upward, the air thinned, causing the men to breathe heavily. Strong winds blew fiercely as if a storm was approaching from the north.
Leading his men into unprotected, open terrain never sat well with Ian, but Keira’s safety weighed heavy on his mind. The longer she sat in the hands of his enemy, the more danger she was in, leaving Ian no choice but to continue onwards.
~*~
Night turned into day slower than usual. Perhaps it was because sleep eluded her or perhaps it was because time itself had unnaturally slowed. Keira laid on the pallet, her eyes dry from crying. Staring into nothingness she waited for an audience with her father.
His disloyal deceit burrowed a hole so deep in her soul that she felt he might as well stab her in the heart with his own dagger. At least then she would have the dignity to look into his eyes before he betrayed her instead of him cowering behind the façade he created.
It had been nearly two days and there was no sign of Ian. Her faith weakened with each passing moment, her hope in shreds. She had no idea why she held onto hope at all. Thomas assured her that Ian would be facing the Sutherlands in a surprise attack which he’d orchestrated himself, and she had no doubt he meant every word that he said. She knew Laird Chisholm to be an influential man. How else would he have been able to convince so many Scots to go against their king?
These were dark days for Scotland. If Thomas succeeded in his plan, the English Throne would take precedence over Scotland. But if that happened, what would remain of the Scots loyal to James? No doubt Henry, the English King would weed them out like rats and Scotland would forever lose the independence that it has struggled to retain for hundreds of years. What would their forefathers think? So many great men had died for Scotland’s freedom and now Scotland was at the hand of one man’s mercy.
Thomas’s malevolence was sickening. She did not understand his motives or what he would gain by handing Scotland over to the English crown. His treachery must be worth its weight in gold, but Keira would not be surprised if the English failed to follow through with their promise.
King Henry would, however, have the support he needed to advance his war against the France. Perhaps that is what all of this was about. It was common knowledge that England and France were at war against one another.
Keira scolded herself for not paying better attention to the world of politics. Had she known at least a little more, she would have been better equipped before becoming a pawn in this game.
The flap to Keira’s tent opened and her father stepped inside. Keira took notice of the guard standing post outside her tent. Did Chisholm not trust him either?
Keira looked at her father as his expression remained unchanged. She hoped he felt shame and humiliation for disgracing his family. She hoped he felt riddled with guilt and that it clawed at him from the inside.
Before he even stepped inside the tent, Keira had already decided she would accept no apologies or excuses from the man. There was nothing he could say that would make her change how she felt. To her, he was already dead, and she had already said her goodbye. This man who stood before her was just a mere shell of what was once her father.
“I have nothing left to say to ye,” she said, looking at him in disgust. “The only question I have is did my mother know?”
Keira’s father held his head high, which angered her more. She had hoped he would fall to his knees and beg her forgiveness, but instead he stood tall and steadfast.
“Nay and neither did yer sisters,” he responded. “I did what I had to, in order to protect my family,” he said, with no feeling in his voice.
“Nay Father, ye did what ye had to, only to protect yerself. Ye thought naught of yer family or yer clan. Mother would be disgraced by what ye have done,” she replied, her words piercing like swords.
Keira’s father stepped forward and slapped her across the face. She fell back a step by the force of his hand. Her eyes welled with tears as her cheek stung from his open-handed blow.
“I will no’ have ye speak to me that way,” he said in a deep, angry tone. “Ye are still my daughter.”
Keira clenched her teeth, desperate to lash out at the man, but for the first time in her life she feared him. In a life-changing moment, he stripped her of her words. Her father had been a hard man but never once did he strike her or her sisters. She grew up admiring him as any child would adore their father, but this man was no longer her father. He was a monster!
“Ye will do what Laird Chisholm tells ye to and that is final,” he barked his order, his eyes as cold as ice.
“Laird Sinclair,” the guard said, poking his head inside the tent. “We have company. Riders have been seen along the ridge heading this way.”
Magnus gave a sharp nod and glanced back at Keira, his look of warning that she yield to his words causing her to hate him even more. He coldly turned from her and exited the tent.
Keira’s heart leapt at the knowledge of riders approaching. She wanted nothing more than for it to be Ian. She didn’t know whether to leap for joy or keep herself grounded to save herself from disappointment. Folding her hands and bringing them to her chest, she prayed, pleaded and begged for it to be him.
Nothing would please her more than being back in her husband’s warm
and safe embrace. She swore that she would never leave his side again.
~*~
As Magnus stepped out of the tent, Thomas charged toward him, blade drawn, heated with fury like a raging bull.
“Ye bloody eejit! Ye led them right to us!” Thomas yelled, his voice resonating around them.
“I did no such thing!” Magnus loudly defended.
“How else would they have found us? This hideout is far from the road and from peering eyes! Ye were careless!”
“I did exactly as ye instructed. They were supposed to head north and be greeted by the Sutherlands. Perhaps it was Sutherland who can no’ be trusted! Ye even said it yerself that Sutherland is a lying, cheating bastard! Do ye remember what I told ye at Inverness? I ne’er trusted the Sutherlands!”
Thomas eyed Magnus suspiciously. Perhaps, it was Thomas who could not be trusted. When Thomas first approached him about the alliance Magnus was hesitant to agree, but who could blame a man who was not of a sound mind? He had given up on caring about the world after the death of his wife and his mourning led to the breakdown of his own clan.
Thomas offered salvation. The world was ever-changing and Magnus was eager to change with it. Thomas promised him many things, including the protection of his daughters and an estate in England where he could peacefully live out his days away from the politics and pressures from the church.
After five long years, it took him until just now to realize that he was not fit to be Laird of his clan. He couldn’t even take care of himself, let alone take care of his clan. He looked at Chisholm as a mentor who would lead Clan Sinclair into victory. But he was wrong. He should not have let Chisholm help him escape the clutches of the King’s guardsmen at Inverness. He should have died that day on the gallows instead of allowing this farce to continue on.
Magnus stood proud in front of the Sherriff of Ross-Shire as he admitted his crimes. He knew his crimes would one day have to be answered; but he deeply regretted getting his daughter Keira involved. She was never supposed to be involved. It was the only reason he agreed to the marriage with Thomas Chisholm. He was meant to keep her safe.
Magnus looked over his shoulder to steal a glance at his young beautiful daughter. The moment he saw her red eyes he felt pain-stricken. God, she looked like her mother. Magnus clutched his fists at his side. Full of shame and remorse, he would never forgive himself. No child should have to watch their father shamefully hanged by the noose. The image he imaged would haunt her forever, no matter how mad she was at him.
Until the king’s guards stepped in, he accepted his fate at the end of the noose. If he was going to die, he would maintain his honor and integrity until his very last breath. But as the guards approached, one man stood out from the crowd, Laird Thomas Chisholm; disguised as one of the King’s guards. No one recognized him, other than Magnus.
He stood with a crooked smile staring at Magnus. Silently, he nodded and Magnus knew that his saving grace had arrived and death would not greet him this day.
Thomas and another guard grabbed onto Magnus’s arms and led him out the back door of the courtroom, but instead of heading towards the gallows, they turned down a dark corridor that led down to a small open shaft outside of the castle.
Magnus peered down the open hole and glanced at the murky waters of the moat that circled the castle.
“Jump,” he heard one of the men behind him whisper.
Magnus did as he was instructed and leaped into the waters below. With the impact of his weight and size the water made a loud splash but was muffled beneath the loud chants of onlookers near the gallows. The other two men jumped in the water behind them and the three men swam down the small channel until they were a safe enough distance away out of view from the castle guards who stood post atop the castle walls.
“Trust is becoming something of a rarity these days, would ye no agree?” Thomas asked. “I have put trust in many men and do ye know what I have learned?”
“What is that?” Magnus impatiently asked.
Thomas stepped closer. Letting out a breath, he stood quietly and stared at the ground.
“That if ye want something done,” he said as he took his dagger and forcefully thrust it deep in Magnus’s side. “Ye have to do it yerself.”
Thomas’s twisting the knife back out hurt worse than the initial impact. Magnus’s hand flew to Thomas’s shoulder as he felt faint from the pain and loss of blood as it pooled down his leg. Digging his fingers hard into Thomas’s shoulder, he let out a breath and violently tumbled to the ground. With his eyes barely open, he watched as Thomas stepped back and wiped off his blade with his sleeve.
Thomas looked at him with no emotion. Wiping his brow, he bent down and gently placed his hand on Magnus’s back. Magnus grunted at the contact though his body was too weak to move. He was dying.
“Tis a shame my old friend that things had to turn out the way they had. But the truth is, ye needed me more than I needed ye,” Thomas whispered.
They were the last words Magnus Sinclair would ever hear.
Chapter 29
Standing atop the cliff, Ian looked down the long expanse of the ravine below. It took him nearly an hour to climb the steep face to the summit but he knew it would allow him to see the landscape below for miles. The moment he saw the smoke rise from the trees, he knew for certain that was where they held his bride.
Had Ian not journeyed up the mountain, he might have missed it as their camp was nestled between hills in a deep valley with no visibility beyond the mountain that encircled it. His enemies likely never thought he would make such a climb, for it was no easy feat, but Ian was full of madness today. And he would go to any length to find Keira, his heart ached for her.
The grade of the vertical summit was nearly straight up. Without rope or a harness, fueled by adrenaline, he made the journey alone. Once he reached the top and could survey the land, he would make his way back down and return to where his men waited below.
The location of the smoke was not going to be easy to get to on horseback, but it wasn’t impossible either. Ian had ridden his horse in worse conditions. He didn’t name her Storm Fighter for nothing. She was a tough and spirited horse who had earned her name.
Making his way back down the incline he rejoined his men.
“What did ye see?” Leland asked.
“I saw the camp where they are holding her, but it is no’ easy to get to. Tis on the other side of the mountain nestled deep in the ravine. We will have to follow the river to get there,” Ian advised.
With his men loyal by his side, Ian rode ahead following the shallow, meandering river that weaved around the hilly terrain. The smell of burning wood grew stronger. They were close.
Ian drew his claymore strapped to his back as he approached the trees. As they climbed the hill they were met by nearly a dozen warriors standing on the top of the incline, each one armed with a loaded rifle in his hand.
Ian’s heart pounded thunderously. The last time he saw weapons like those was during a brief journey to France. He had seen firsthand their capability and deadly potential. They were not a Scotsmen’s choice of weaponry as Highlanders lived by their sword, but the firearm, known as an arquebus, had the ability to shoot at great distances, and gave the bearer the advantage. And now, Ian stood staring at a dozen barrels pointing directly at him. Twelve to one odds were not in his favor.
Ian kept his eye trained on the twelve warriors that were about to engage. Though they had the upper hand, he could sense the fear in their eyes as Ian’s men approached. He could see their hands tremble as their fingers hovered over their triggers. These men did not show signs of being seasoned warriors and clearly were even afraid of their own weapons. An advantage Ian would be happy to exploit. They were, however, Scotsmen, so he knew they would be relentless.
So focused on their weapons was he, Ian never noticed the red and green color of their kilts until now. Red and Green. Ian repeated the colors in his head. Why had he not realized that unt
il now? These were not the blue and green colors of Sutherland men. They were Chisholms! Scanning the area and the men who would soon meet their deaths, he spotted Thomas Chisholm at the far end of the encampment. Rage burned in his blood like boiling water. He knew the man who claimed to be Chisholm at trial was a fake. He knew catching him would never have been that easy. Chisholm had successfully planned his own death, but it was all for naught, Ian thought, as he imagined he would enjoy taking the man’s life.
Gripping the hilt of his sword, Ian charged forward as ear-piercing shots fired around him. He felt the wind on his face as he drove his horse forward breaking their line, causing the men to scatter. As they reloaded their weapons, the momentary relief gave Ian the opportunity needed to strike.
Raising his sword high, he turned his horse around for his second wave of attack. His men fought aside him, knocking several of their enemies to the ground. Ian could hear the swooshing of his blade slice through the air as he impaled his sword deep in one of the men.
As metal clashed and the wind howled, a feminine voice penetrated above the noise.
“Ian!”
Ian spun the horse around, his eyes searching frantically until they locked onto Keira standing on the far end of the encampment. One guard held her back from running toward him. Ian was about to charge when a close range, low sounding boom from an arquebus abruptly immobilized him. He did not feel the pain at first as it came in waves and grew intense with each beat of his pulse. Ian’s sword clattered to the ground as he wrapped his arm over his stomach and pressed his hand firmly against his side. He was bleeding freely though he was unable to detect how deep the bullet had gone. His eyes stayed fixed to Keira’s as he fell from the horse. For a moment, time stood still.
~*~
At the sound of thunder unlike anything she had ever heard, Keira bolted from the tent but was quickly stopped but a guard standing watch near the canopy. From across the field she could see Ian and his men charging toward the armed guards, their swords raised in the air.
Heart of the Highlands: The Beast (Protectors of the Crown Book 1) Page 21