Highland Hero

by Hannah Howell

  “Are ye truly certain that ’tis fate guiding ye?”

  “Such suspicion ye hold.” She smiled briefly. “I may twist the truth from time to time, but I have ne’er lied to you, Pullhair. Aye, ’tis fate. It would be kind if fate told me why I must see this mon, but she is a mischievous mistress. Howbeit, every drop of blood in my veins tells me that my destiny lies but four yards ahead inside that group of trees. Are ye prepared to meet it at my side?”

  “Aye, I have naught else to do this night.”

  Chapter 2

  A faint crackle of leaves caused Sir Kenneth Davidson to tense. He dragged himself free of the heavy stupor caused by the cold and loss of blood. Groping along the ground at his side he finally found his sword, clutched the hilt tightly, and prayed that he had enough strength to strike at least one telling blow before he died. A little afraid of what he was about to see, he slowly opened his eyes and gaped.

  It took Kenneth a full moment to accept what he saw. Crouched at his side was a beautiful young woman and a glowering little man. A strange thought wafted through his mind as he studied the little man from his shaggy brown hair to his tiny brown boots, but Kenneth quickly pushed it aside, blaming it on the pain and loss of blood. Brownies did not exist. They were but fanciful creatures who populated the tales nurses told children.

  “Who are ye?” he demanded, startled by the weak unsteady sound of his own voice. “ ’Ware, I am armed.”

  “Sir, ye may be a great warrior,” said Isbel, “but I doubt ye could cut a weel-stewed rabbit just now. I am Isbel MacLachlan Graeme, lady of Bandal, and this is my friend Pullhair.”

  “Pullhair? ’Tis an odd name. Of what clan?”

  “Mine. We have come to help you.” She cautiously edged closer to him and began to examine his wounds, wincing in sympathy when she tried to lift his jupon and he groaned in pain.

  The pain caused by her gentle attempt to administer to his wounds caused Kenneth to sweat. He then began to shiver so fiercely that his teeth clattered together as the cold air dried the sweat on his body. Harsh words flooded his mouth, but before he could spit them out, the girl and the little brown man suddenly tensed and peered into the shadows that encircled them. He looked too, but could see nothing. Despite the lack of any visible threat, however, he felt the tight grip of fear.

  Suddenly, the girl stood up, took a leather flask from inside her voluminous black cloak, and sprinkled water in a wide circle around them. Kenneth glanced at the little brown man and caught a look of horror and anger on his small unattractive face. When the girl sat back down, Pullhair glared at her.

  “Is there something out there?” Kenneth asked her.

  “There are many things lurking in the dark and the shadows, sir,” she replied. “’Tis best if ye dinnae see them. I have protected us for now.”

  “Aye,” snapped Pullhair. “Ye and this fool are protected, but I am trapped. None of the evil out there can cross the line ye just dribbled o’er the ground, but I cannae either.”

  “I will get you out,” Isbel assured him. “Now, sir, may I ken who ye are?”

  “Sir Kenneth Davidson of Glenmal, just this side of Edinburgh,” Kenneth replied, struggling to speak clearly yet not use up too much of his waning strength. “My clan was on a border raid. I was chosen to guard the rear. A few Sassanachs were reluctant to allow us a share of their goods. A few miles back I fought them and won, but I suffered a few wounds.”

  “And your people just left ye behind?”

  “The rear guard is chosen to take that risk for the sake of the others.”

  “For the sake of the loot they scramble home with, ye mean.”

  “Could ye argue with the mon later?” said Pullhair. “Ye said ye came here to save him. ’Tis advisable that ye get about the business of doing so. All ye came here to rescue him from is still out there and the others draw ever nearer.”

  “I need a litter,” Isbel muttered, reluctantly accepting the wisdom of Pullhair’s words.

  “Ye will need to step outside the circle and I cannae help you this time.”

  “I have ample protection.”

  Isbel grabbed the length of rope curled around Sir Kenneth’s saddle horn, took a deep breath, and stepped out of the protective circle. She felt the malevolence all around them edge closer but clung to her faith in her protection against it. Nevertheless, she moved quickly as she gathered what was needed to make a littler for the wounded Sir Kenneth. She smiled to herself as she removed a small hatchet from her belt, for she did not even recall looping it onto the wide piece of leather around her waist. The fates were certainly using a strong hand in directing her. They not only had forced her to meet Sir Kenneth, but had done all possible to make sure that she could help him when she found him.

  As she worked to lash together saplings and branches with Sir Kenneth’s rope, she thought about the man she had rushed into the night to save. He was pale, dirty, and helpless, but she found him breathtakingly handsome. He was tall, lean, and strong. Although it was a little hard to see clearly in the poor light of her small lantern, Isbel was sure that he was dark-haired and dark-eyed. Such particulars did not really matter, however. Isbel knew that she would like them no matter what their true color proved to be.

  She grimaced as she tugged the completed litter back to Kenneth and Pullhair. She did not think she was going to be allowed to be too particular. The moment she had set eyes on Sir Kenneth, she had known why she had been drawn to his side, pushed and pulled by him and the fates that ruled them all. This man was her mate. It was a startling realization, but in her heart, mind, and soul, she knew it. Instinct told her that even her brief marriage to the ill-fated Patrick Graeme had been no more than one step in her journey to Kenneth Davidson. It had brought her to Bandal so that she could be close enough to aid him now. The next step was the hardest, and it depended almost solely upon her. Somehow she had to make Sir Kenneth understand and want to be her mate.

  And the fates had decided to make that very difficult indeed, she mused as, with Pullhair’s help, she settled Kenneth on the litter and hitched it to his horse. Everyone told her that she was lovely so she supposed it must be true. However, she was not fulsome and men liked fulsome women. Her own husband had made a number of less than flattering remarks about the lack of meat on her delicate bones and had often tried to force her to eat more. She did not have the sort of purse a man of any standing looked for in a mate, having both a very modest wealth and equally modest land holdings. Sir Kenneth’s fine attire and equally fine mount told her that he was probably a few rungs above modest or came from a clan that was. Knights from a wealthy clan were expected to marry lasses who could add to that wealth and the power it brought.

  She inwardly cursed as she did what little she could in the dark to temporarily bind Kenneth’s wounds and make him comfortable and warm. As if her looks and near poverty were not enough to turn him away, there were her many gifts. “Gifts,” she decided, was an odd word for her strange skills as they often felt more like curses to her, especially when someone turned from her in fear. Even though her husband had thought that he could use her skills for gain, he had still feared them, even hated them at times. She often thanked God that Patrick had not had the time to realize the full extent of her skills. Her own family had occasionally found her a little intimidating, despite their own history and acceptance of such things, and her gifts had strengthened since she had left them. She dreaded seeing Sir Kenneth’s reaction when he began to understand and see the truth of her many gifts. Fate could at least have picked a man who understood, perhaps even shared, her peculiarities, she thought crossly.

  “I cannae cross that circle, lassie,” Pullhair said, his gruff voice interrupting her thoughts.

  “Aye, ye can,” she replied as she grabbed the horse’s reins. “Get on top of Sir Kenneth, but please be careful of his wounds.”

  “Ye want me to get on that fool?”

  “Aye. His body will be your shield. ’Tis but a swift
crossing and it should serve to protect you.”

  “Are ye certain?”

  “Weel, I feel it will work.”

  “I dinnae suppose anyone means to ask me if I want this wee mon lying atop me,” Kenneth said, his deep voice little more than a raspy whisper.

  “If it puts ye at ease, I swear that it will be for no more than a heartbeat. He doesnae weigh verra much and I will be in sore need of his help to tend to you when we reach Bandal.”

  Kenneth stared at the little man when he sprawled his small, brown body on his chest. Pullhair flashed him a broad grin as Isbel started to urge the nervous horse forward. The little man had a set of very white, very pointed teeth, Kenneth mused. Although he continued to deny it, vehemently, everything about the tiny fellow bespoke a brownie, one of those creatures of whispered tales and dreams.

  “Why couldnae ye just walk out of that circle?” Kenneth asked the man, a little nervous about the answer he might receive.

  “Because of the holy water she sprinkled about, ye great fool,” Pullhair replied, then he chuckled. “Ye ken what I am.”

  “I ken what ye remind me of and that ye are a little mon who, mayhap, carries too many superstitions in his head.”

  The moment they were outside of the circle, Pullhair scrambled off Kenneth but paused at the man’s side to glare at him. “Just because ye dinnae choose to believe doesnae make them superstitions. I also ken the thought stuck in your head that ye cannae shake free. I am just what the wee voice in your mind keeps insisting I am. And since I am one of those wee creatures your wet nurse told ye tales of, ye might better spend your time asking yourself why ye can see me. Most of the rest of your kind cannae.” He laughed at Kenneth’s sour look and moved up to walk at Isbel’s side.

  “Are ye tormenting that poor mon, Pullhair?” Isbel asked, after a brief look back at Kenneth revealed the man’s expression of mild annoyance.

  “Me? I dinnae torment people,” Pullhair protested, his air of insult too overdone.

  “Aye, ye do and we both ken it weel. Ye often tormented Patrick.”

  “He deserved all ill that befell him.”

  Isbel inwardly grimaced at Pullhair’s sharp response. The brownie had always detested Patrick and the feeling had been mutual. Patrick’s biggest complaint about the little man was that he had never been able to catch him or really see him. Pullhair had plagued Patrick with small annoyances and curses, restrained in his actions against the man only because she was married to him. At times she wished she had paid closer heed to the way Pullhair, her spirits, and a myriad of denizens of the netherworld had reacted to Patrick. None of them had liked the man. If she had taken a minute to look beyond his handsome face and the sweet charm he had shown her before they were married, she might well have hesitated then ended the betrothal. Instead she had married the man and, within days, realized that she had made a serious error in judgment. The fine courtier she had been wooed by had quickly disappeared, leaving in its place an insulting, greedy, and often cruel man.

  She finally gave in to temptation and softly asked Pullhair, “What do ye think of this mon?”

  “That he is a fool.”

  “Why do ye call him a fool?”

  “What else might one call a mon who nearly gets himself killed for the sake of a pack of thieves running back to their nest with a few skinny cattle?”

  “Weel, ’tis true that I dinnae ken why men must steal from each other and certainly not why they must constantly fight and kill each other. Howbeit, if that makes him a fool, then most every land with men on it is full to overflowing with fools.”

  “Aye, it is.” Pullhair bit back a smile when she cast him a disgusted look. “The mon can see me.”

  Isbel took a moment to fully understand the import of his words. When she did, she was so startled she nearly tripped. Few people saw brownies. Even fewer talked to them. Kenneth had done both.

  “But he doesnae believe in such things, does he?”

  “He doesnae want to, but the belief is there. He fights it as hard as he fought the Sassanachs.”

  Isbel felt her heart skip with hope. “Do ye think he has gifts akin to mine?”

  “He has a sympathy, lassie. He feels, deep down he believes, and he isnae as afraid as he would like to be. I think he is also bonded with you in heart, soul, and mind so tightly that he precariously shares your gift.”

  “Oh, dear. That could make Bandal a most upsetting place for him. I had hoped for time with him, time for him to soften toward me ere he confronts the full truth of Bandal and me.”

  “Ye may still have it. This could be the only night that he has the skill to see me and mine. He has been weakened by his wounds and the veil that usually covers a mortal’s eyes could have slipped a wee bit.”

  “And so it may fade as he grows stronger. I pray it does, that this sight he has is but a short-lived gift. Fate has chosen him for me, Pullhair. I was pulled here because that mon is my chosen mate. ’Twill be most difficult to make him see that if he learns too much about me too soon.”

  “Ye cannae hide what ye are forever, lassie.”

  “I ken it. I but ask for a little time, enough time to touch his heart ere his fears send him hieing for the hills.”

  Chapter 3

  A low, steady rumble stirred Kenneth from his sleep. As he woke, memories of his rescue flooded his mind. He clearly saw the lovely young woman and her tiny brown companion and felt a lingering ache from the pain caused by their administrations. They had carried him up some narrow, winding stairs, placed him on a soft bed, sponged him down, and stitched his wounds. There was also a confused tangle of partial memories, but he shook them aside for he could make no sense of them. He slid his hand over the bandage on the right side of his waist and on his right leg. He was warm, comfortable, and despite the lingering pain, felt confident he would heal.

  He opened his eyes and gave a soft cry of surprise. A huge gray cat was staring him in the face, its green eyes almost level with his. The source of the low rumble, he mused, as he cautiously lifted his hand and scratched the animal’s ears. He smiled at the look of pleasure on the animal’s face and at how the noise it made grew increasingly louder. It was unusual for a cat to be so friendly, so clean, and so well fed, and the animals were rarely allowed access to the bedchambers. Recalling the strange pair who had rescued him, he decided he should not be surprised that an animal most people scorned or feared would be made a pet.

  “Slayer doesnae usually approve of people so quickly,” said a soft, husky voice from the foot of the bed.

  Kenneth started slightly, wondering how she could have entered the room so quietly. “Slayer?”

  “Aye. Nary a mouse nor a rat dares poke its pointed wee nose onto my lands.” She idly scratched the cat’s ears when it moved to sit in front of her, rubbing its head against her stomach. “Ye are in the bed he has claimed as his own. Each morning the sun comes in that window to your right and shines o’er the bed. He warms himself in its light until it moves on.”

  “Ah, so that is why he was so friendly to me.”

  “Nay, not completely. He is most particular about the ones he chooses as his friends.” She moved to the side of the bed and lightly felt his forehead and cheeks, relieved to find no hint of a fever. “How do ye feel?”

  “I am still a wee bit weak, but I feel confident that I will heal. I do feel verra rested.”

  “Ye should. Ye have slept for nigh on three days.” She smiled faintly at his shock. “I gave ye some herbal drinks to make ye rest. That is why ye slept for so long. I believe most strongly that sleep is the best cure for most illnesses and wounds.”

  “Aye. I believe so as weel. That does explain the pieces of memories I can make no sense of. A glimpse of a face or a few words, no more.”

  “Ye did rouse a bit now and again.”

  “I owe ye my life. Ye and that odd wee mon. Where is he?”

  “He will be here as soon as the sun sets.”

  Isbel almost smi
led when Sir Kenneth frowned, his expression telling her that he ached to ask a few questions and was fighting that urge. Pullhair was right. Kenneth knew what her little friend was, could see him clearly. The man either had a gift or two he was unaware of, or because they were so closely bonded, he had slipped beneath the cloak of her own.

  Her delight over that faded abruptly. It was not really important why he could peek into the shadowed worlds. What mattered was that he could see all she had to deal with, and would quickly know exactly how magical Bandal was. That was not necessarily a good thing. The way he fought to deny the truth about Pullhair told Isbel that this was a new skill for him. Sir Kenneth Davidson was about to be privy to nearly everything most people were afraid of or, at best, simply preferred not to know about. That meant she would not have any time at all to win his heart before he discovered all of her secrets.

  She inwardly battled with an almost overwhelming sense of defeat. Even if the fates were not using such a heavy hand in directing her, she knew she would have wanted Kenneth Davidson from the moment she set eyes upon him. He was breathtakingly handsome with his glossy, thick black hair and eyes of a deep rich brown. His smooth skin was a light shade of swarthy, as if he spent a great deal of time standing naked in the sun. He was long and lean, muscular in an attractive, subtle way. His features were cleanly cut, just sharp enough to be extraordinarily handsome, and unmarked by scars. The bottom lip of his well-shaped mouth was slightly fuller than the top. Several times as she had nursed him she had struggled against the strong urge to touch her lips to his. She was almost embarrassed by how badly she wanted him.

  Cautiously, she reached out and covered his strong, long-fingered hand with hers. Patrick had bedded her only a few times before he had died, and she had found no pleasure in it. In truth, Patrick’s manner of lovemaking had left her feeling bruised and ashamed. Every part of her told her that, if she and Kenneth became lovers, she would finally know what the poets and minstrels spoke so eloquently about, and she desperately wished to know. If nothing else went as the fates wanted, she prayed there would be at least one chance for her and Kenneth to make love. It was probably a shameful way to think, but she did not care.