Highland Escape

by Cathy MacRae

  She swallowed uneasily.

  He and his father wore the blood of their enemies liberally on skin and clothing. Knowing the young woman was his sister explained the ferocity with which he fought to reclaim her. It did not explain, however, why Anna was being detained.

  “Aye. Ye will come with us.”

  The laird mounted his horse, picked up his daughter and placed her on the front of his saddle. He then rode back across the field. Another man did the same with the other girl.

  The younger man faced her. “I am Sir Duncan MacGregor, the laird’s son. Ye will hand over yer weapons and ride with us. It can be done willingly, or ye can fight. The choice is yers.”

  With a hard look, Anna unbuckled her sword sheath and removed the two daggers from her belt. She then tugged each dagger from her boots, handing them with a growl to the men who approached.

  “Will I be allowed to ride, sir?” she asked with as much venom as she dared.

  Duncan motioned for her horse. “Aye, the laird put ye in my charge. Ye will ride.”

  Taking Orion’s reins, he indicated she mount. As they headed toward the battle site, she noticed a man speaking with Laird MacGregor, arms flailing, clearly angry.

  “He is my brother, laird. ’Tis my right to demand a challenge!”

  The laird glanced at Anna then back at the fuming man in front of him, reluctantly nodding his head. “Set camp. See to the wounded first.”

  So, the brother to the man I knifed demands the right to avenge his injury. Anna’s blood boiled. Never mind that he’d disobeyed his laird’s orders. He cannot believe ’twas done by a woman, she mocked. His rage suddenly made her weary. It was not the first time a man wished to kill her. She shrugged. He will join the ranks of others who have tried. The only question is, dead or wounded?

  “’Tis what I get for being of assistance.” She didn’t realize she’d spoken loud enough to be heard, but MacGregor the Younger gave a twitch of a smile at her complaint.

  Men set up tents, built fires and gathered the wounded.

  “Sir, I am trained as a healer, if I may offer aid,” she said as Duncan tied her horse to a nearby tree.

  He eyed her suspiciously. “Why would ye assist my men if ye believe yerself our prisoner?”

  A good question. Why indeed? “Am I correct in assuming these men were injured rescuing two young women kidnapped by a raiding party?”

  He gave a short nod in response.

  “Then helping men who were injured putting a stop to such a barbaric practice is reason enough.” The opportunity to tend to the wounded drowned out her anger—for now.

  Cocking his head slightly, he crooked one corner of his mouth at her response. “A fair answer. We have a tent and some supplies. Do ye require aught else?”

  Dismounting, Anna pulled her bag from Orion’s back. “Boiling water and whisky if you can spare it.”

  “Fetch water from the burn and set it to boiling,” Duncan ordered one of the men tending the fire. He stared hard at her as if trying to assess the truthfulness of her answer. Anna stood fixed as his gaze penetrated her. After a few unnerving moments of forceful scrutiny, he strode toward the tent.

  Opening the flap, Duncan motioned for her to enter. As soon as she did, the stench of impending death struck her. Supplies sat on the ground between two pallets with injured men already on them; they appeared to be the worst of the injured. One man suffered a deep belly wound, the source of the acrid smell. The other bore a long slash down one leg.

  Anna spoke quietly to Duncan. “Sir, this man is not likely to survive. I will make a poultice to staunch his wound and give him poppy tea for the pain.”

  Duncan nodded as a man brought in a pot of steaming water and whispered to him while Anna went about her work.

  Finishing with the stomach injury, she turned to the leg wound. Using waxed silk thread and a rounded needle, she closed the extensive gash. She then applied a medicated salve to ward off infection and bound it. One after another, men were brought to her, each staring at her in surprise when they arrived for treatment.

  While she worked, she repeatedly caught sight of Duncan MacGregor from the corner of her eye. He watched her, his countenance brooding, angry. Though not an overly tall man, he possessed an imposing presence. He carried himself as a seasoned warrior, the scars visible on his arms also giving testament to his experience. He was a man used to having orders obeyed. When his men made eye contact, a nod gained their compliance. The MacGregors appeared highly trained and well disciplined. The slight number of their injured, compared to the number of their enemies now lying dead on the field, proved this fact.

  “May I ask why I am being detained, sir?” Anna asked without turning away from the injured man she tended.

  When Duncan did not respond, she glanced in his direction. He hadn’t moved. Still standing, legs apart, arms folded across his chest, he wore a grim, inscrutable mask. The heat of anger rose within and her hands clenched around her tools. Held for no perceivable reason, she now endured being ignored as if of no consequence. I should let them treat their own damned wounded. With an effort, she resisted the temptation to pack her bags and cease her hard work.

  The healer in her wouldn’t allow her to let these men suffer. Since MacGregor permitted her to see to his men, she knew they had no healer among them. The wounded played no part in their laird’s decision to hold his daughter’s rescuer against her will. As much as she wanted to retaliate for his treatment, her honor wouldn’t allow it. Her father always said a true man or woman of honor behaved such, whether it was expected or not, whether observed or not. Honor did not, however, prevent her from goading her captor.

  She waited to speak again until finished with the last man brought to her. “Is that all the wounded, sir?” She bit back the snarl she wanted to use to punctuate her question.

  Duncan nodded once.

  “Thank you for allowing me to treat your men. I applaud your efforts in stopping barbarians such as those from taking young women against their will.” The sarcasm in her voice apparently fell on deaf ears. Again, she inspired no visible response. The urge to challenge him with physical confrontation swelled, then faded. Even if she could get past him, a large group of men outside the tent would not hesitate to stop her.

  Surrounded by seasoned warriors, she saw no chance to escape. She would have to bide her time. After watching her dispatch their enemies, Anna knew they would not see her as a helpless female and would thus be on guard.

  Now finished treating the wounded, she wanted to wash the blood and filth away and quench her thirst. After a quiet morning, this day seemed to grow more and more disastrous. Tomorrow promised to be more of the same. If she survived the night.

  Chapter 2

  The camp noises faded from Duncan’s thoughts. He and his men had killed the main body of the MacNairn party that had captured his beloved sister and her handmaiden. He’d only needed to find and kill the rest of the raiding party and retrieve the girls. He stared at their prisoner skeptically.

  When he first spotted the raiding party across the glen with the women, rage filled every corner of his being. As he and his men charged toward the band, a stranger stepped from the trees and dropped three of the enemy by bow before the raiders could react. Another fell before the mysterious ally had drawn swords. Instead of a long sword, claymore, or axe, he’d wielded two falchions, his movements fluid as he avoided the first attack. Striking the sword arm of the attacker, he then delivered the killing blow. The last MacNairn fared no better. Parrying the attack, the mysterious stranger quickly cut the bastard down.

  Reining in his horse several paces away, Duncan had immediately noticed the stranger wasn’t a man, but a woman. Impossible! Had he not seen the whole thing played out before him, he never would have believed it. However, ’twas true. This strange woman stopped six Highland warriors with a deadly effectiveness he’d never witnessed before.

  Such skill! Such bravery! Never have I seen a woman best a man i
n combat—much less six men! Heat slid through his veins. And the bonniest I have ever seen. No pampered lily, this lass, but vital, compelling—alive.

  Her expressive eyes, the color of green only found in nature, reminded him of faerie stories his mam told him as a wean. They reflected strength and courage—viridescent eyes sparking anger.

  Long black hair reached her waist, held in a braid thick as his wrist. Her smooth complexion glowed, tanned by time in the sun. The high cheekbones, strong nose and chin, and kissable lips all added up to striking beauty. She’d finished treating his wounded with skills one would expect to have taken half a lifetime to master. His own clan healer was not nearly as proficient, and the old crone had seen many winters.

  She claims to be a Scot, but her dress and mannerisms claim her as English. She is, however, well-spoken in Gaelic. For some reason, the lass had a fine teacher. A mystery. Unfortunately, a mystery he would unlikely solve, as his father gave Shamus permission to avenge his brother’s shoulder injury. Fool. His brother faces punishment for disobeying his laird by firing upon the lass, particularly since she’d saved my sister. Discipline must be maintained. He’d fought in too many battles not to know the lesson well. As captain, it fell to him to see all obeyed without question. Including himself.

  I owe her a life-debt. The conundrum twisted him inside. He knew his father did not wish to sentence the woman to death, but could not ignore clan law. Should I support my kinsman or the lass I just met? Smiling inside from a feeling he didn’t quite understand, he sincerely hoped this Anna survived the night.

  He watched her glance about—no doubt searching for a way past him—but ignored her questions about captivity for he had no answer to offer. His only orders were to disarm and detain her. Her body stiffened, fists clenched, a vision of anger. He swallowed the smile on his face when she spun toward him.

  “Sir, do you wish me to attend the women? I can treat any injuries they may have sustained.” She wielded her sharp tongue with the same ruthless precision as a blade. The play of emotions on her face, as changing as the clouds above, beguiled him.

  He took advantage of the opportunity to gaze at her before answering. “’Tis not necessary. They were not injured.”

  She responded with a slight squint and nod. Did she disbelieve him? Or think he did not trust her?

  “We have no shelter for ye. Ye will set up camp outside this tent. Food is being prepared. Ye will eat with us.”

  “Thank you for the kind offer but that will not be necessary. I can take care of my own meal.” Her face and tone were as rigid as the finest steel blade.

  Duncan motioned for her to exit the tent. Her saddlebags and bedroll lay deposited on the ground outside, and she replaced the supplies in her pack. Glancing up, she stiffened. He followed her gaze to her stallion on the other side of camp, saddle removed, tethered to the other horses—one more route of escape denied her.

  Duncan watched with curiosity as the woman quickly set up her camp. She gathered her belongings and placed them beside a large rock away from the tent. Producing a small folding knife, she cut two saplings, laying them next to her ground cloth, using a third sapling to create a slender trident.

  She paced to the burn, moving quietly along the bank, her shadow falling away from the water, he noted with approval. Halting next to a small eddy created by a submerged log, she took a deep breath. With one swift movement, she impaled an unsuspecting trout.

  Duncan jerked with a snort of surprise.

  After cleaning the fish with precise, neat moves, she returned to her campsite. She dug a small fire pit, collected fallen limbs nearby, then pulled out a flint. When the stone struck the knife, sparks flew into the tinder cradled in the shallow pit. The wood caught and a fire grew.

  Duncan doubted he could have done it as quickly. Within a few minutes, she had a fire burning and the fish on a spit. She ignored him, not giving him even a cursory glance.

  How can such a lass, scarcely out of her youth, possess such skills? ’Tis unheard of, absurd. Not for hundreds of years have women been trained in combat and woodcraft, and ’twas then only to repel the Roman bastards.

  He resisted the growing temptation to approach her, a multitude of questions on his mind. It was clear she wanted nothing to do with him. He couldn’t blame her. They treated her as an enemy rather than an ally. What is Da about? He saw how she rescued Nessa.

  Even dressed like a man, he found her stunning, though the church would call her choice of clothing a sin. Try as he might, Duncan couldn’t tear his eyes from her. Her feminine curves weren’t completely hidden beneath the leather armor she wore. A matching black tunic and trews covered the rest. Leather bracers along with the cuirass were well fitted and spoke of wealth, as did her horse. It makes no sense. Why would anyone of means allow a daughter as beautiful as she to dress and behave as a man and travel alone? A mystery indeed.

  He remembered the challenge and his mood shifted. He struggled with a strong need to do something to intervene. He ran a hand over his face in frustration. He could not. Clan law bound him as tightly as his father. He could not even offer to stand in her place.

  Stand in her place? St. Filan’s teeth! What am I thinking? Go against a clansman for a strange lass? What was wrong with him?

  Why did he feel a powerful urge to protect her when she clearly didn’t want his protection? It must be gratitude for saving Nessa and her maid. A curiosity. A riddle to solve, no more. One of his men handed him a bowl of stew, causing him to push such thoughts away with another curse.

  * * *

  Finishing the fish, Anna produced one of the few remaining apples in her pack. With a pout, she inhaled its sweet fragrance before biting into the succulent flesh. Better to savor this, as there would likely be no such luxuries where they were headed. From the smell of the stew they passed around, she could assume her rations as a prisoner would be similar or worse. Her gut tightened as MacGregor approached, the same dark, brooding expression on his face.

  “Come. Did ye hear the request for challenge when we arrived at camp?”

  Of course she had. Did he think her daft? She rose without acknowledging the question.

  “The rules are simple. The challenger chooses the type of weapon. Ye will have yer pick from several. The winner can allow quarter if he chooses or not. Any grievances are considered fulfilled by the match.”

  Anna snapped her head around in response. “Is that not convenient for clan MacGregor? No such right to my kinsmen if someone were to wish to avenge my death,” she spat, no longer trying to contain the anger she’d held back all afternoon. Every muscle in her body tensed as she struggled against the urge to knock the man next to her on his arse.

  “And what clan should I expect to come calling if ye were to lose this eve?”

  His tone sounded calm and even, infuriating her more. Stiff with anger, Anna faced the men gathered without answering and strode toward the ring of expectant faces. She could play the game of ignoring questions as well as he.

  “Good luck.”

  “Go to the devil, sir,” she shot back with enough force to injure.

  Laird MacGregor entered the circle and commanded attention. “Shamus has claimed his right to challenge. It should be said that Alasdair was injured disobeying my order. But he is a kinsman. Under the laws of our clan, ’tis his right and I grant it. I demand quarter be offered because the challenged is a woman, and because she killed the MacNairn filth who stole my Nessa.” He turned to Anna, nodded slightly and left the circle.

  A square of plaide sat between them on the ground, blades scattered on its surface. The knives were of various lengths, none longer than her forearm plus handle. Shamus walked to the cloth, promptly selected a dagger and snarled at her. Looking at the pile, she noticed wooden batons as long as the longest dirks.

  She claimed one in each hand and peered at Duncan. “Am I allowed two?”

  He turned to Shamus for the answer. His laughter joined that of the rest of the m
en as he replied, “Only a Sassenach would bring a stick to a knife fight.”

  Allowing the insult to pass, Anna quickly slipped into the mental space her mentor had taught her. Give no thought to killing or being killed. Give no thought to your enemy. Clear your mind. Take only what is given.

  Zhang’s lesson had been drilled into her for longer than she could remember—flowing through her like the air she breathed.

  Shamus spat on the ground at her feet, his face contorting with hatred. “English bitch.”

  He seemed to need no provocation to work himself up to kill a woman. Any blood spilled would be on his hands.

  “Barbarians,” Anna growled. She brought the batons up and swung them around in circular patterns. Shifting her feet along with the sticks, she fell into a steady rhythm. The rods moved rapidly in a blur of motion, singing low as they cut through the air. Shamus watched with surprised fascination, seemingly uncertain what to make of the unfamiliar movements. She needed to take care. By the way he moved, this man had survived a number of fights.

  He moved warily, probing the perimeter of her swings. Where the batons made contact with his blade a distinct clack echoed. Cautious not to hit the dagger on the edge, she struck only the flat of his weapon. This pattern went on for a while, his probing, her defending. He sought a weakness. She strove not to show one.

  Shamus stepped in for a slash. Anna deflected most of his blow, but the tip grazed her left arm between the elbow and shoulder, causing a familiar sting and warmth as blood flowed.

  He tossed her a wicked grin and a taunt. No time to think, only focus on the here, the now. Another slash and she swung both sticks in response. Each made contact with the wrist holding his blade, creating the distinctive smack-smack sound of wood on meat. Shamus dropped his blade. From the force of contact, she hoped for a broken bone.

  Allowing the batons to continue to circle after the strike, she brought them both down to crash into the outside of his knee, spinning as she swung to add more force to the blow. The twin strikes buckled his leg, driving his knee into the soft turf. As she continued her spin, Anna used the momentum of her last attack to power the next, aiming for the back of his skull where the spine joined. The double strikes—one after the other—to this vulnerable area rendered him unconscious with a sickening thud, dropping him like a felled tree.