The Runaway Highlander (The Highland Renegades Book 2)

by Syme, R. L.

  William leaned on the table, holding his wounded side and heaving. He could have passed for her brother, she thought, with his high cheekbones and sharp-edged jawline. She and Broccin had been confused for siblings before, so it shouldn’t surprise her. Their European lineage gave them a unique look in her part of the Highlands. Or, as her mother often said, their Viking lineage. Even curled over himself, the large blond man could have passed for one of their Viking ancestors, just like Broc. Just like her brother. And her father.

  Oh heavens above. Her father. He would be ashamed of her, participating in something so unladylike as an escape. She took a breath and was about to remind William of the second half of their plan when he did what she’d been threatening to do ever since she saw his wound. As he finished heaving, Anne felt the creep of the threatening urge crawl up the back of her throat. She swallowed against it and covered her nose.

  When she composed herself enough to look back, William was unwrapping one of the rolls of linens.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Cleaning this up.” He paused, putting a hand on the table and closing his eyes, swaying. “The pain is great, my lady.”

  “We don’t have time. If you lose any more of your stomach, then you lose it, but we can’t stop. Who knows how long Aedan will be out.”

  “I didn’t kill him, did I?”

  Anne hadn’t even considered that as an option. She hadn’t seen him move. Dropping to her knees, she caught another whiff of the sour mess on the floor and covered her nose and mouth, fighting off the nausea.

  She felt the side of his head where William had made contact. A large lump had formed, and there was a tiny bit of blood, but not so much that it flowed. Still. Anne held out a hand for the roll of bandages that remained in William’s hand.

  The linen covered most of his scar as she wrapped it around the wound. Tiny breaths escaped his lips and before she stood, Anne slid her hand along the smooth side of his face. “I’m sorry, Aedan,” she whispered, hovering over his face. She ran her thumb along the bottom edge of his lip and her own mouth pursed for the briefest of seconds. Aware of William watching, she released Aedan’s wounded head and surprised herself with the fact that she wanted to stay.

  Leaning most of her weight against the shelving, Anne pulled herself to her feet, a tiny spinning feeling rumbling in her stomach. She paused to collect her wits, but the spinning wouldn’t stop. She didn’t like leaving a wounded man behind.

  “He is alive, but we can’t risk him waking.”

  William slung one of the clean tunics over his head and cried out as he pulled it fully on. The color of a rooster’s gobble, these clothes were made for the English. The mere sight of her enemy’s uniform made her fists clench. But this truly was the best of their options.

  He took one of the long spears from the shelves and slung the belt around his waist that he’d used to stifle his pain while she sewed him together.

  “Don’t forget to take that bundle of extra cloth. You’ll need to change those bandages often. After all this exertion, you’re going to bleed. And quite a bit, I’m afraid.” Anne leaned against the shelves, still blocked from her exit by Aedan’s prostrate posture.

  He groaned as he stretched for the bundle. The poor man, having to travel like this, but what choice did he have? He couldn’t stay in the dungeon, or their plans for escape would be thwarted. She couldn’t help him truly, or risk being implicated herself. This was the only way.

  Anne inhaled deeply and stepped over Aedan’s body, blocking William’s ability to get to the door. “Now.” She straightened her skirts and dropped her shoulders. “Do it.”

  William’s lips pursed and he looked from his hand to her face to the door. “I don’t think I can do this.”

  “It’s the only way I’ll be able to stay and let you back in to the castle.” And down to see Broccin in the dungeon. “They have to believe that you escaped and I had no part of it.”

  He seemed to focus on everything but her face, shifting from one foot to the other. “If there was a way for you to claim that you’d become overwhelmed and fainted…”

  She couldn’t help the laugh that escaped. Her mother would see through that in a heartbeat. Until her response to a deep wound, Anne had never so much as been squeamish about anything. She certainly wasn’t prone to fainting.

  Too bad she couldn’t exchange places with Elena just in this moment. She was fantastic at fainting. On cue, even.

  “You must do it.” Anne dropped her shoulders and waited for the blow. Instead, William grabbed her arm and pulled her from the room, grunting each time he used his right arm.

  If she’d wanted to overpower him, it wouldn’t have been much work. One good shot to his covered wound and he would likely go down. Instead, she allowed him to drag her up the stairs, past the closed door to the hall, and down the long corridor that led out of the castle.

  As they came to the end of the open, lit ground, William stopped and leaned against the wall. Anne dangled from his grip as though she might have been made of paper. She couldn’t risk doing too much, for fear of hurting the man all through.

  She expelled a long breath as he heaved against the dark stone. “You’ve got to hit me and make a run for it.”

  He eyed her until a noise down the corridor caught his attention. He pulled the both of them around the corner and into the shadow. “Someone’s coming.”

  “All the better to do it now and be off.”

  William’s jaw clenched and he tightened his hand around the spear. “Very well.” He took a step toward her and set his countenance. “I’ll make it look like I had to hit you to escape.”

  The noise sounded near the great hall again. This time, a door closed loudly and footsteps rang down the corridor.

  She shuffled a bit to create noise and William took a cue from her, clanking the edge of his spear against the wall. He closed his eyes and pulled back his arm to strike.

  But the blow never landed. Instead of the bursting pain, Anne felt… raindrops? No. She shook her head. Sweat? She didn’t quite know, but it rolled down the side of her face and continued to fall. Was it a tear? Was it blood? Was it raining? She didn’t have time to find out before another hand had her by the arm and a series of blows sounded near.

  Anne opened her eyes to find two guards pummeling William and her tall, ample-bosomed, wild-eyed mother dragging her away.

  “Bring him,” Milene de Cheyne ordered. Her tone could not have been more commanding if they’d been in her own home. Clearly, she felt herself the mistress—in loco parentis—of this house already.

  All Anne could do was stare back at William with apologetic eyes and pray to the Good Lord that he wouldn’t be executed for attempting escape.

  *****

  More than anything, Anne couldn’t believe the ruse had worked. The Sheriff himself had comforted her when they first entered the great hall. He was bleary-eyed and smelled of soured ale and rotten meat, but he believed her.

  William’s fate was not revealed to her, but the fact that he wasn’t beheaded, stretched, or stabbed in front of her was reassuring. He would be taken to the dungeon, of course, but beyond that, she had no idea.

  The Sheriff had said, at one point, that he needed the renegades alive. She hoped that meant all of them.

  It had grown so late, Elena snored in her chair by the fire. Anne would normally have woken her sister and attempted to entertain her enough to get her to bed, but this night, she needed to hear the rumblings of discussion happening around the large room.

  The Sheriff had been conferring with two of his captains and Anne’s mother practically since they received the Sheriff, groggy from having been asleep. Try as she might, Anne couldn’t understand anything they said, and Aedan still hadn’t been seen. Tightness spread through her stomach at the thought.

  She remembered the moment where she’d had his head in her hands and she’d touched those chiseled lips. Anne rubbed her thumb and finger tog
ether, absently.

  One of the soldiers scuffled nearby and brought her attention from her memory to her predicament. Still no Aedan, no resolution, no discussion of whether she would be interrogated as an accomplice or cared for as a victim.

  The soldier’s noise caught her notice again and this time, she glanced up at him. A gentle pair of brown eyes stared down at her, fixed on her face long before she’d noticed.

  He was dressed in the tattered black uniform of the castle guard. Not one of the knights that still frequented even the Sheriff’s court, but a common, expendable soldier. He seemed abnormally well-cut for the guard, who were typically slow of wit and foot. And rather than the dull, drunk leer that typically greeted her when she tried to meet the eyes of the other guardsmen, this man had furtive, cautious eyes.

  The longer they kept their gazes locked, the longer she felt like he was trying to speak to her. When a commotion started on the dais, he shook his head nearly imperceptibly and offered her a smile. Anne glanced up to see her mother on the Sheriff’s arm, descending the stairs toward her.

  Anne reached for her sister’s arm and pulled Elena away from her chair. But her sleep was too deep and she sank back into her snoring. Looking around, Anne found no other distraction and before she could escape, the Sheriff and her mother stood in front of her.

  Milene de Cheyne wore the same dark green gown she’d worn at dinner, meaning that wherever she’d been when she’d come to Anne’s rescue, she hadn’t been in her room. She often wore this dress when she tried to look her best. The deep, rich color of the velvet made her eyes sparkle, and the gold braiding high around her waist and neck accentuated her assets, as she called them.

  Something about her posture, the tight, high tenor of her laugh. This was no ordinary conversation, and it wasn’t about what happened in the dungeon. The countess was far too bright-eyed and wide-mouthed.

  This was about Anne. The Sheriff looked hungry, the Countess smug. Anne felt suddenly like a pudding.

  “My darling daughter.” Milene released the Sheriff’s arm and knelt at Anne’s knee. “I’m so glad you are unharmed and unmolested after your horrific ordeal.”

  “Yes, we’re quite pleased with this outcome.” The Sheriff clapped his hands on his generous belly and sucked on his teeth. Anne would have preferred his attentions back on his mother. But something had obviously happened to move those attentions from her to her daughter. Lovely.

  “I am of course grateful to the Countess for thwarting the escape of the Highland devil. And even more grateful to her for rescuing you, my dear.” His voice, slimy as his face, gave her an oily feeling deep inside. She wanted nothing more than for him to stop talking.

  “I am grateful as well.” Anne held up a hand to stop him blathering and mustered a loving look for her mother. “I am not certain what the man intended to do with me, but I must admit being glad never to discover it.”

  “This is of particular concern to the Sheriff, now.” Milene’s batting eyelashes distracted Anne from the words at first. But it wasn’t long before they sunk in and her whole body tensed.

  “Why now?”

  “Our deal has been struck, my dear.” The glee in her mother’s whisper mirrored her giddy look. She squeezed Anne’s hand.

  “It is out of great love for yourself that I am so pleased of the outcome of the most unfortunate…er…kidnapping.” His round face reddened. Perhaps at the similarity between the act and the light it brought to their age difference.

  Her stomach roiled. Her mother couldn’t have done this to her, she just couldn’t. Even the Baron de Montrose would have been preferable and he had pustules all over his bald head and down his back under his clothing, most like. At least he was loyal to the Scottish crown.

  Anne dug her fingernails into her mother’s hand. “Surely you jest, mother. I thought you were well away from being prepared to strike any kind of accord.”

  Days away. Days that Anne could have used to turn her mother’s eye toward better prospects. Of course, with the Sheriff in her debt for the returned prisoner, wouldn’t it be just her luck that her mother would use it for her own ends?

  Milene de Cheyne drew in her chin and considered for a moment before she spoke. She had a long face, like Elena, and a strong, straight jaw, which her brother Raleigh had inherited. But it was the pretty blonde, wavy hair and bright green eyes that Anne shared with her, and every one of her mother’s family.

  It was the most oft-exploited feature of that family, as well. Anne hated it. She would much rather have the more common red or brown hair of her countrymen. It would put her that much farther removed from the manipulation that came so easy to her mother.

  “Today’s events have convinced the Sheriff that not only can he be first in our daughter’s affections, but he can have a powerful ally in our family.”

  The two of them exchanged a look that made Anne want to claw off her own skin.

  This was about the war.

  Anne wondered for a moment if her mother hadn’t known that she would try to help the man escape. Was it possible she’d been lying in wait, armed with guards, hoping her daughter would fall into her trap? Was she that devious?

  “I was most impressed with your commitment to justice.” The man slid his sausage-like fingers around Milene’s offered hand and helped the countess to her feet.

  That translated into you are appropriately in league with my allies, and Anne couldn’t help but wish they’d been two minutes earlier or later in their attempt. That would have given the Sheriff a more accurate display of her commitments.

  “The de Cheyne family is highly committed to the King’s justice.” The countess’ sweet words were the product of much practice, and still fell unwelcome on her daughter’s ears.

  Anne feigned a yawn. “Forgive me, my lord.” Those words still drug heavily on her tongue and she couldn’t meet his eyes while she inwardly took them back. “It has been a fitful evening. I’m afraid I must retire.”

  “You haven’t given the Sheriff your answer, Anne.” This time, when her mother spoke, no sweetness lined the undersides of her words. “Certainly you should express your assent.”

  Anne stood, only to sink into a deep curtsey. “My assent is unnecessary. But you have it nonetheless.”

  The Sheriff glowered at her and Anne turned away, attending to her sister to escape his disgusting leer. She pulled at Elena’s arms and finally wrestled her younger sister to her feet.

  “Let me send guards with you, my dear.” Simon Alcock, for she must get used to calling him this now that her mother had all but sold her to the man, offered her a curt bow.

  He gestured to two of his men, who walked forward out of sync and stood, one at attention, one not. Surely, if the English were this poorly prepared, the war would soon be over.

  “Take the misses de Cheyne to their room and stand guard.” The Sheriff waved his hand to dismiss them and ushered Anne’s mother from the room, through the door that led directly to the guest quarters.

  Anne held up her nearly-asleep sister who’d missed the day’s festivities and wished she could be more like Elena. More oblivious. Better able to sleep through calamity. Less concerned with the affairs of others.

  Once they had walked the near length of the castle to their bedrooms, Elena became almost more of a weight than Anne could carry. She rested a moment at their bedroom door while one of the guards opened it.

  “We will be here all night, my lady,” one of the guards said. Anne walked past him and nodded. When she turned to close the door, she noticed that he did not avert his eyes, as the other guards had been trained to do. She recognized those alert brown eyes that had tried to speak to her before.

  Anne wondered what his eyes would say if they could truly convey messages. The emotion she read was simple enough. Concern. But the eyes themselves, what would they have said?

  She knew what hers would have said in this moment.

  Save me.

  Chapter Four


  Aedan woke with forward motion on his mind. But the pain that consumed his head stopped any ideas of moving. Somehow, he felt that he must run and yet could not run, equally, like a bad dream. Yet he recognized the foul stench of the dungeon too well for it to be a dream. Certainly, the gods would spare him the smell if he were truly still asleep.

  He felt for the source of the pain but found a bandage where he expected bloody flesh. Who had bandaged him?

  Anne.

  Fear cut through him, slicing his capacity to move, to think. She had been here, in this room. Standing in dim shadow when the pain struck him. Now, she was gone, he was bandaged, and the captive he’d struggled so hard to find had escaped.

  And he’d taken Anne.

  Aedan tried to regain that forward motion that had gripped him when he’d woken. A lady like that shouldn’t get caught up in his mess. He’d already ruined one lady’s life, and that was too much.

  He stumbled across the room and sagged against the door. The pain in his head pulsed like a battle cadence. Instead of stopping him, it pushed him toward his target. He had to find her, to find William and keep him from hurting her. Or worse.

  A sliver of wood cut into his hand as he dragged himself upward, and with his other hand, he wrenched the handle open. The door swung away from him, undoing the last shred of his balance and Aedan collapsed to the floor again. The cold of the stone seeped through the bandage and chilled the skin on either side of his scar, but the dead space in between reminded him of the moment he’d seen that sword slashing through the air toward his face. He couldn’t let that happen to Anne. Who knew what these lawless men would do to her?

  Aedan clenched his fists and used his knuckles to push himself up again. Once his knee made contact with the ground, he was quick on his feet and taking the stairs two at a time.

  At the top of the stairs, he turned back toward the hall and ran for the nearest doors. He shoved one open and two dull-eyed soldiers met him with bent spears.