The Highland Hero (Lairds of Dunkeld Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)

by Emilia Ferguson

  “...I will ask Bruce to do it,” his lordship explained. “Bruce?” He gestured into the crowd to a tall man with a resigned looking, blunt face.

  The man nodded. “Aye, sir. Now?” he shouldered his way forward, heading, Blaine noticed, to his right. Where the door was.

  “No, Bruce,” his lordship said. “Wait until this lot has gone.”

  “Sir?” Bruce looked confused. “But shouldn't we witness it, like..?”

  “Do as I say.” The command was bloodless, but the man stopped in his tracks. Blaine flinched. “Now, all of you. Off.”

  The men muttered among themselves, but none loud enough for his lordship to overhear the actual words. Blaine shrank into the archway, hoping the door was wide enough for no one to bump into him. They shuffled past and, if anyone noticed him, it seemed to be too dark for them to see they did not know him. They have not been garrisoned here long. If they had, they'd notice an extra man.

  At last, his lordship was alone in the room. He walked briskly to a door in the wall and shut it. Blaine paused. He had no idea what to do now. He faced the closed door, hesitating.

  He could kill him now, but he didn't want the men all rushing back here. Besides, where was Chrissie? He suspected behind the door, but he had to know. His lordship had waited until all the men had gone before he went in. Where was he now? Were there more men behind there? Or was it, as he thought it was, a prison.

  Blaine stayed where he was, trying to weigh up what to do next. He heard something coming from behind the door – a noise that could have been a cry. He stepped forward, wincing as the floor creaked. He froze where he was, currently visible from all sides. However, his lordship was in the turret room and he didn't seem to hear. Blaine walked forward until he was in the doorway. Then he froze.

  The man stood with his back to Blaine, blocking most of the view into the room. His cloak obscured his view, but Blaine caught sight of a flash of blonde hair against the wall. Chrissie! It was her!

  “...but I'd rather do this first,” his lordship was saying. Blaine realized, then, horror making his mind slow, what he meant. Beneath the cloak, he was naked, his trews around his knees. Blind rage filled him and he did not even hear what Chrissie said or did, because his hand was on his sword.

  He didn't even have to try. He roared, and his lordship turned, but by then the sword had already run him through. Blaine felt the sword jam and tugged it out. Chrissie screamed. Blaine thrust the body aside, drew back the blade and severed the neck. Blood spurted up, dark and warm, but at least the man was dead. He was dealt with.

  Blaine turned away from him, sword in hand, and looked at the floor. Chrissie was on her knees, rocking. Her hands covered her face and she was making a noise somewhere between a sob and a word.

  “No. No. No, no, no, no, no...”

  “Chrissie,” he whispered, dropping to his knees and wrapping her in his arms. She fought him, hitting out at his shoulders, shaking, twisting away.

  “No. No, no, no. No. Go away!”

  “Chrissie,” he whispered, soothingly, suddenly worried that what she had heard, seen, and suffered turned her mind. “Chrissie. It's well. It's me. I'm here...”

  “No,” she whispered. “No. Blaine?”

  His heart soared, hearing the way she said his name.

  “Yes,” he said simply. He looked into her eyes and they were well again, their blue depths alive with a bright light that could have been terror and could have been relief. They stared into his own eyes, round and bright.

  “Blaine. No. You should not be here. No. You saw...You saw...”

  She burst into tears then, moving so that her head faced away from him, curling up on herself. She had stopped attacking him, but her whole body excluded him, wrapped in its own fear and anger.

  “I'm here,” he whispered, and he felt tears streaming down his face. She was safe. She was alive. She could, if he could figure out a way, go home. It was all that mattered. He did not care what he had seen. All that mattered to him was that she was safe. The man was dead. It was finished.

  He sat with her in his arms and they both rocked gently, the fear and horror still gripping them. They cried and the salt of their tears mingled as they held each other, their touch the only reality they could both believe in.

  At length, still rocking with her, he sat back on his heels.

  “Chrissie. Beloved. Do you think we can get away?”

  “I don't know if I can walk.” Her voice was a sad whisper, a thread of shame and misery. “It hurts.” She sobbed. “And I think my ankle is broken...”

  Blaine fought to hold back the rage he felt, knowing what had been done to her. He knew it had no place here, though, some strange instinct told him that this was no place for anger. Not here in the face of her own humiliation.

  “Fine,” he said gently. “It is well. I'll carry you.”

  “But...”

  “No. It is well.”

  He bent down and lifted her into his arms and, together, they walked from the room.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  LEAVING

  LEAVING

  In the corridor, Chrissie looked about wildly. Where were the guards? What had happened? All she knew was that his lordship had been outside the door and had come in and then...

  She swallowed. She would not think about that. Not yet. Not until she was away from here. Perhaps not even then. She would not think about it. It hadn't happened. It couldn't have happened.

  She was shivering, frightened, and she hated everyone in that moment, even Blaine, who had saved her. He had seen her humiliated. He was probably as ashamed as she felt. She felt horrible. Humiliated, cheapened. Made worthless. She wished he could just disappear, leave her alone.

  “I'm going to carry you downstairs, dear,” he whispered. She winced at his gentling tone and he must have seen her face, for his own stiffened. “Play dead, maybe?”

  Chrissie closed her eyes, glad for a moment's escape that afforded her. With her eyes closed, she could be anywhere. She could be at home, safe in her bedchamber with the door locked. She could...

  “What've you got there?”

  She tensed and she felt Blaine's arms tense around her. They had reached the bottom of the stairs. Evidently, someone was on guard there. Chrissie tried to stay limp, knowing she should pretend to be dead. However, she was terrified and could feel herself start to shake.

  “A body. What d'you think I've got?” Blaine said defiantly.

  “But...” a man's voice trailed off. “But who are you? His lordship said...”

  “I'm the headsman,” Blaine said directly. “Why'd you think his lordship got me to cut her throat, eh?”

  “But he said Bruce would do it,” the speaker said firmly. “Bruce! Over here!”

  Chrissie stiffened. All they needed was for Bruce to come over and query it. Then Blaine would be finished. Her with him as well. She would not pass as a dead body unless they were all blind. She thought quickly. She couldn't even walk, so how could she run?

  Blaine stepped back. Chrissie felt him swing round and then run down the hallway. She saw, through her closed eyelids, that the place was lighter, and guessed that they ran towards the courtyard. Why was he going there? What did he think they would do when they reached it? He was being a fool...

  They ran out into sunlight. Chrissie tried to keep up the pretense of being dead. The man who had addressed them was behind, hollering for the rest of the men to join him. She could hear feet on stone steps, and she wanted to open her eyes.

  “I'm heading for the gate,” Blaine whispered in a low voice. “There's a rope to lift it. When I yell, do you think you can grab it and..?” he trailed off. They were, Chrissie realized, eyes open, almost at the gate. She sat up. He yelled.

  “Aaah!”

  That, she guessed, was her cue. She saw the rope, grabbed it and pulled. She let her whole weight lean on it and he loosened his grip, letting her swing down as a counterweight as the gate went up. Her heart wa
s thudding and all thoughts had fled except the immediate need to escape here. Later, she would escape from Blaine as well. For now, she had to escape this place.

  “There!”

  The gate was just open enough to pass through. Chrissie waited until his shoulder was wedged in it and then let go of the rope which she still held. Blaine fell through onto his knees as the gate rattled down onto his shoulder, dropping her in his fall. Behind them, the gate clanged shut.

  Chrissie lay where she was, trying to breathe. She looked up at the sound of shouting.

  “Open the gate!” the man on the other side roared, reaching through it, part of a press of men who charged up to the gate, at least ten of them.

  “Right!” Blaine screamed, “Thanks,” he whispered to Chrissie. He bent and scooped Chrissie up, then lurched forward and sideways. An arrow rained down from overhead, narrowly missing, and Chrissie wanted to scream, but she had no fear left. This seemed too crazy, too insane, too ridiculous...she could have laughed if she had the energy. It was too deep a wound for tears.

  “Run!” Blaine shouted, evidently to exhort himself, because Chrissie could not have run if she tried. He ran left, holding her in his arms, running along, hugging the shelter of the wall which made it difficult for attackers to shoot unless they aimed straight down. Terrified that one of them would do just that, Chrissie held her breath and began to pray.

  They cannoned round the side of the fort and then they were running for cover of the trees. As they reached the woodlands, arrows following them, the shouts of their pursuers getting closer, Blaine collapsed. They had reached water.

  Chrissie looked round wildly. What were they going to do? They couldn't just stop here! There were men behind them, almost reaching them, and...

  “Whistle!” Blaine shouted desperately. “Call the horses.”

  Chrissie looked at him as if he had lost his mind. Horses? Was he insane? Where were horses out here in this desolate wildness? She did it, though, wondering if all the madness had seeped into him as it seemed to have seeped into her.

  She whistled. A moment later, she heard a miraculous sound. The sound of hooves.

  As the horses reached them, the drum of hoof beats becoming a roar, their first pursuers were already arriving, filling the woodlands with yells, cries, and shouts. Chrissie screamed as she saw them. Blaine bent down and lifted her into the saddle. She slid her feet into the stirrups, gripped the pommel, and lay flat.

  “Ride!” he shouted. “Now!”

  Chrissie looked back at him. “What about you?” she shouted.

  “Go!”

  She did so, blinking back tears of terror as she saw the first pursuer launch himself at Blaine. She rode straight at two of them. Princess, clearly rested, scattered them, screaming her own defiance. Chrissie rejoiced to see the terror on their faces. She wanted to kill them all, she realized fiercely. Let them feel the terror and the pain she had felt. It would expunge her humiliation. Give her back some of what she had lost.

  She heard the ring of metal, loud and metallic, cutting across the sound of rolling hooves. She risked a glance back. Blaine was on his horse now, and he was swinging his sword at his assailant. Chrissie held her breath, praying he would clear a path for his escape, and then looked ahead. The last of the men scattered before them and she gave a savage yell, delighting in seeing how they, suddenly, were the ones who were afraid. A crossbow bolt rattled from the walls, but fell hopelessly short, and Chrissie aimed for the moorlands, feeling suddenly weak with relief. However, where was Blaine? She risked turning her head as they galloped forward, and then heard the sound. Hoof beats. Galloping, racing hooves. Coming up behind her.

  “Blaine!” she screamed. A moment later he was close enough to see. He drew in beside her, riding like a madman. His hair was ruffled by the wind, cloak streaming back.

  “Chrissie!” he shouted back. “Ride! We go west.”

  “Home!” Chrissie shouted, the wind taking her words.

  They rode like wild things, the wind streaming through her hair, the moorland streaming along away from them, the dust of their passage making Chrissie's eyes stream and catching her throat, making her cough. Her ankle ached, and she tried not to put weight on it, but she had to stay in her saddle, to stay where she was, to hold on...

  She was tiring. She knew their horses would eventually tire too, but she herself was starting to feel the pain of the ride. The blind panic was wearing off, and with it ending she was suddenly tired. So tired...

  Chrissie felt her eyelids drooping and noticed Princess was slowing, too. She could hear Blaine and his horse, Bert, catching up behind them. Her back ached. Her wrists burned where she held the reins. Her ankle was a smashed casket of misery. Her whole body was bruised and aching. She was tired. So tired. She just wanted to curl up and rest. And sleep. And sleep...

  Her horse slowed to a canter, then to a trot, then to a walk. Chrissie could feel her panting, and she knew how she felt. She, too, wanted to slow, stop, and breathe. Not have to do anything. Just sleep. And breathe...

  “Chrissie!” Blaine was beside her, slowed to a walk as well. His craggy face was twisted with worry. Somehow, the expression on his face seemed incongruous to her. Why was he looking so distressed? Was he ashamed of her? Shocked? What?

  “Go away, Blaine,” Chrissie snapped, all the pain and terror bundling into a sudden fury. Why was he here, making her feel incapable? Did he think she was worthless, because he saw Lord Leonard and what he had done? Did he think it was her fault? Was that why he was being so cautious, so deferential?

  Blaine was looking at her with his brown eyes wide open, a deep sadness written there. He looked almost resigned, as if he understood. Chrissie felt a stab of guilt. If he understood, if he really did, then maybe he would just leave her alone.

  “We can rest when we reach the woods,” Blaine said quietly.

  “Yes,” Chrissie said tightly. They reached the trees and stopped. Chrissie slumped in the saddle, each part of her body aching now that she was free to feel it. She closed her eyes.

  She heard Blaine dismount and walk off into the trees, leading his horse. She let herself slide forward in the saddle, finally feeling, free to be vulnerable without his assessing gaze. He returned after a few minutes.

  “I didn't see any pursuers,” he said quietly. “I think we are perhaps three hours from Lochlann. If you want, we can look for somewhere to stop. An inn, perhaps, or one of the cottagers...” he trailed off, coming to stand before her horse's head.

  Chrissie laughed. “If I am tired,” she said lightly. “No. I'm fine. We ride.”

  Blaine looked at her as if she had slapped him. “Chrissie...” he said gently.

  “What?” she snapped. “Do you think I'm useless now? That I can't even ride?”

  Blaine looked desperate. The expression on his face almost amused her She knew she was being cruel, but she couldn't help it. She was furious with him, with his wary assessment of her, with his demeaning solicitude. He had saved her from death, it was true. However, in some respects, in that moment, she would have preferred death. At least she would have had her dignity.

  “Chrissie, please,” Blaine begged. He looked utterly horrified. “Why are you doing this?”

  Chrissie looked through him. If he didn't know, then she wasn't going to tell him. She clamped her jaw and turned in the saddle. She was in agony, her foot was aching, her back was sore. Nevertheless, they would ride.

  All the way home.

  It took more than three hours. Chrissie fell asleep in the saddle partway, but woke, cursing, biting her lip, determined to do better.

  Mostly they went slowly, sparing the horses, so it did not truly matter if she slept. It was only her pride that forced her to keep her eyes open, sit up straight despite the agony in her body, face ahead and ride. All the way.

  Midday came and went, and soon afterward they saw it. The almost mirage. The bulky silhouette on the horizon.

  Chrissie saw it, feeling
her heart lift with a wan stab of joy. Home! They were here. They were alive. She had thought never to see it again.

  She turned to face Blaine, feeling her heart suddenly aching. He was beside her, his face carefully neutral, his dark eyes deeply sad. They were together, it was true. However, it was so different to how it had been before.

  She had kept silent all morning, all through the red hot agony of the ride, with aching wrists, burning ankles, and a back that pained like hot coals. Now, looking at the innocence of that rugged face, she broke down.

  She sobbed, and sobbed, tears hot as coals on her frozen cheeks. Blaine rode up to hold her, but she batted him away and he watched helplessly as she let the feelings course through her – all the anger, the horror, the rage, the humiliation. The mourning for innocence she had lost. The feelings flowed out of her and she sobbed convulsively, unable to hold them back any longer.

  After what felt like an age, she sat up and sniffed tightly.

  “Fine,” she said in what she hoped was a light tone. “I'm fine. We can go on.”

  Her words snapped like linen in the breeze, bitter, frosty, and crisp. Out of the corner of her eye she saw how Blaine blinked as if she had hit him, but he turned from her, facing stiffly ahead.

  Good, she thought firmly. He hated her now. She had pushed him away. She did not need his pity, any more than she needed his reproach or his shame.

  They rode on across the moorland, up the hill, and through the gate.

  Inside the gate, Chrissie collapsed. The groom caught her as she crumpled in the saddle, dour faced Albert who smelled of bran mash and hay. She lay in his arms half-conscious as he hurried into the yard, into the hall, and up the stairs.

  Albert will not judge me. He does not know. Not yet. For him, I am still Chrissie. Not for Blaine.

  By the time they reached her bedchamber, Chrissie was almost asleep. She had enough time to be dimly aware that she was on her bed before she curled up in a ball and fell into a deep and dreamless rest, too exhausted for any horror to reach her.