The Guardian

by Greyson, Maeve

  “I’m not dead yet!” Flynn shouted from across the clearing.

  “The hell ye’re not.” Graham charged from around the boulder, careened around the trees, then dropped Flynn where he stood leaning against the rocks.

  Duncan, Marsden, and Mercy eased out from where they’d taken cover, moving with care as they searched the area. Captain Marsden bent and scooped up a pair of saddlebags, rummaged through the contents, and pulled out a parchment with a familiar wax seal. He unfolded the letter, his scowl darkening as he read the missive. “It appears your father gave the men a promissory note payable once they’d completed their task.” Marsden shook his head as he refolded the letter. “Apparently, even he didn’t trust the miscreants he’d hired to dispose of his daughter.” His jowls tightened and his face reddened even more. “Deplorable man.”

  Mercy shook her head. “What those miscreants didn’t realize is that my father tricked them. If his claim that Jameson Campbell owned his soul was true, then he had no gold to give them. They would never be paid and could do little to recoup the monies owed.” She shrugged and gave a sad smile as she looked around the clearing. “What is the old saying? You can’t get blood from a stone?”

  “Then who would have paid us?” Duncan asked with an irritated look directed at Graham. “Ye said there’d be as much gold as we could carry.”

  “The king,” Graham said. “Ye forget His Majesty is a part of this, too.”

  Marsden frowned, stared at the promissory note, then shook his head. “But His Majesty seemed genuinely concerned for her ladyship’s welfare when he spoke of securing her a suitable match. He appeared deeply troubled over the additional information of Lady Mercy’s situation provided him by the duke.” He waved his stubby fingers to encompass the whole of the camp. “None of this madness fits the king’s demeanor at all. I truly believe he’d be most enraged to discover such an barbarous plot regarding the lady.”

  “His Majesty plays a good game,” Graham said as he hugged an arm around Mercy, his heart lifting when she nestled her head in the crook of his shoulder. “He controls his courtiers like a chess master moves his pawns.” He pressed a kiss to Mercy’s forehead and held her tighter, blowing out a heavy sigh as his gaze scanned the encampment.

  “What’s wrong?” Mercy asked, pulling back and studying him. She motioned toward the still form of Flynn. “He was the last.”

  “Nay, love.” Graham shook his head. “The traitors from your own household are still free to do their evil mischief, and we’ve no idea what that mischief might be.” It cut him to the quick to see how his words hurt her, but it couldn’t be helped. Mercy was still in danger.

  Who knew what the Marches, Cook, and Janie would say when they reached anyone willing to lend a sympathetic ear and report back to the king? Graham very much doubted they’d heard the last from the duke.

  “Your clan,” Mercy whispered, drawing a shaking hand to her brow. “What trouble might they cause your clan? How will Father misconstrue this to his own benefit?”

  “We must make haste and warn them.” Graham took hold of her hand and started the climb back up the hillside to where they’d left their horses tied. Determination spurred him on—that, and the knowledge that as soon as they made it to Clan MacCoinnich keep, he’d be talking to Father William about performing a wedding. It was time to make his protection of Lady Mercy Claxton official and more importantly—permanent.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Mercy opened her eyes to the road ahead, her feeling of contentment fleeting, leaving her as quick as the wind. A smattering of dwellings filled this end of the glen. One might even call the place a village. A village protected and governed by Graham’s eldest brother, Alexander, chieftain to Clan MacCoinnich. She pressed the knot along her hairline and ran her fingers down the scrapes and cuts along her cheek. What would Graham’s people think of her arriving in such a state?

  A meandering flock of sheep bah’d and barged into their path, wandering in and out between the horses, oblivious to the riders. Children laughed and played around the squat houses of mud bricks, stacked stones, and thatched roofs. Mercy could almost see the news of their arrival rippling through the village, spreading among the people. She could tell who had heard of their passing through by the way the people emerged from their houses or ceased their outside chores and waved for their children to come in close.

  Women with baskets propped high on their hips climbed up from the low banks of a nearby burn, its crystal-clear waters sparkling across the riverbed stones as it snaked alongside the road and disappeared beneath a short, wooden bridge arched up ahead. The washer women shaded their eyes and studied the riders as they rode past. Mercy swallowed hard. Their scrutiny pricked across her skin like crows pecking flesh from her bones. No one smiled or waved. No one spoke. Was Graham unknown to his brother’s people? Was he disliked? Or was it because of her?

  Graham drew up close, riding at her side. “Dinna let them trouble ye, lass. They’re still leery of folks they dinna ken, but they’ll come ’round. They’ve been through much, and it takes time for deep wounds to heal.”

  “Graham!” A pretty, young woman with hair as bright and flaming as newly forged copper ran toward them, waving both hands high in the air. “Graham! Ye’ve a’ready returned!”

  A pang of jealousy stabbed through Mercy just as surely as if the girl greeting Graham had shot her through with an arrow. Mercy sat taller in the saddle and lifted her chin. “You have one villager thrilled to see you.”

  Three large, white geese raced along behind the woman, trotting after her as fast as they could waddle. Following the geese, were two goats, a dog, and three laughing children.

  Graham smiled and waved back at the girl. “Ahh…that’s Gretna. She loves everyone and they love her.”

  “I see.” Loved by everyone. Mercy couldn’t begin to imagine how that might feel. She pulled in a deep breath and did her best to shove her insecurities aside. A pang of remorse flashed through her like a subtle scolding. Others shunned her without knowing her, and she hated it. How hypocritical was it of her to shun others on sight? She would give this girl a chance. She ground her teeth as Gretna ran along beside Graham’s mount, smiling and laughing.

  “Meet Lady Mercy Claxton, Gretna.” Graham pulled his mount to a stop and held out a hand to Mercy.

  “A pleasure, m’lady.” Gretna gave a curtsy, then drew closer, shading her eyes with one hand as she peered up at her. The girl’s head tilted to one side and her reddish blonde brows drew together over the startling blue of her eyes.

  Mercy flitted a hand to her hair and forced a nervous smile. “Forgive my appearance. I’m afraid our trip became quite the adventure over the past few days.”

  Gretna’s eyes widened. “Oh no, m’lady.” She shook her head. “I didna mean to stare at ye like a rude bairn. I was just thinking how those bruises and scrapes of yours could use some tending.” She turned and gave Graham a narrow-eyed glare. “Did ye no’ take the parcel of arnica and other herbs I sent for your journey? They wouldha helped your lady here.”

  “Ahh…”

  Mercy held her breath to keep from laughing out loud. She’d never seen Graham in such a state. The man looked like he actually feared the young slip of a girl.

  “‘Ahh’s’ arse. I’m ashamed of ye, Graham MacCoinnich! Ye know better, or at least ye should.” Gretna rolled her eyes and shook her head before returning her attention to Mercy. “Once ye’re settled, tell Mistress Catriona that old Elena, she’s the village healer, and me will be up to tend to your aches proper since it appears ye’ve been ignored and treated most poorly.” Gretna raised her voice, directing the scolding portion of her diatribe at Graham. “I canna believe ye werena properly tended.”

  Graham flushed a bright red and looked away. It was the first time Mercy had ever seen him speechless. She hurried to defend him. “You mustn’t be too hard on him, Gretna. He’s saved me from much evil on this trip and was also injured in the process.”<
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  Gretna took a step to the side and studied Graham. “He doesna seem injured to me.”

  Graham yanked up the side of his tunic. “Right here, ye sharp-tongued hen. See the bandage? Stabbed and left to die, but I overcame it and lived to tell the tale.”

  “Oh, here we go,” Duncan warned. “Brother, can this no’ wait until we’re all settled in the keep with a mug of ale in our hands?”

  Gretna turned away from the men, holding up a hand as though anything further they might say could just as well be tossed to the winds. She smiled up at Mercy. “Have Mistress Catriona fetch us, aye? Elena and I shall have ye feeling right as can be. I’ll see to gathering the herbs and such now.” She shooed the geese, goats, dog, and children back into the field from whence they’d come, tossing another smile back over her shoulder. “And welcome to Tor Ruadh, m’lady. We’ll take good care of ye here.”

  Mercy now understood why everyone loved Gretna. She embodied kindness and compassion. “What a nice woman.”

  “Aye,” Graham grumbled with a snorting huff. “If she curbed that sharp tongue of hers, she’d be a damn sight nicer. God help her husband, Colin.”

  Mercy laughed. She urged her mount onward, but the lighthearted feeling of the moment disappeared as she lifted her gaze to the impressive mountain known as Ben Nevis and the castle etched into its side. The rugged cliffs rose up and around, cradling the mighty fortress of stone like a mother cradling her child. “Tor Ruadh?”

  “Aye,” Graham said with a nod toward the four turreted towers. The square, main keep surrounded on three sides by an imposing curtain wall seemed to emerge from one side of the mountain, wrap around the buildings, then dive back into the mountain’s side. “The ancestral Neals that built this knew a thing or two about creating a stronghold. Breaking in to save Catriona was quite the chore.”

  “Saving? Your brother’s wife?” Mercy studied the massive stone barriers fully armed with arrow slits, crenels, and murder holes. “I understood the two clans, Neal and MacCoinnich, had joined by marriage and were now known as MacCoinnich, but I didn’t realize the alliance had come about through violence.”

  Graham grew thoughtful as they crossed the stone bridge and approached the gatehouse. “I’ll leave that telling to Catriona. ’Tis her story to tell.” As they came up between the two guard towers forming the castle’s barbican, Graham held up a hand and shouted. “Wake up and open the gate, Ranald!”

  The iron and wood portcullis remained down.

  “Who travels wi’ yourself and Duncan?”

  “Captain Marsden from His Majesty’s guard and Lady Mercy Claxton. Now open the gate.”

  A thumping sound came from the tower on Mercy’s right followed by a great rattling of chains and groaning of gears. The heavy barrier in front of them inched up, coming to a halt when it had risen high enough for them to pass beneath.

  Mercy looked up as they road through the narrow neck of the entryway. A system of chains, pulleys, the portcullis, and then rows upon rows of lethal-looking spears hung suspended above them. The cold, gruesome sight triggered a shiver, and she urged her horse to move faster. The tunnel was a perfect defensive greeting for unwanted visitors.

  Breathing came easier as the confined entrance opened up into the spacious grounds in front of the keep itself. Mercy rode close to Graham, casting nervous glances around the area and praying these people would be as welcoming as Gretna from the village.

  A tall, dark-haired man resembling Graham emerged from one of the massive double doors of the keep and took a stance on the top step of the stone staircase. His initial welcoming smile crumbled into a scowl as his sharp-eyed gaze skimmed across the four of them. He strode forward, racing down the steps in great strides as Graham dismounted. His scowl grew even more fierce when he spotted the bloodstain on Graham’s kilt. “Your blood or theirs?”

  “Mine,” Graham answered, then held up a hand to stave off his brother’s reply. “But the land drinks their blood and eats their bones now. We’ll have no more trouble from that lot.”

  The man gave a curt nod, then looked past Graham to Mercy and presented her with a wary smile, strained but polite. “Welcome to Tor Ruadh, m’lady. I am Alexander MacCoinnich, Graham’s eldest brother and chieftain to Clan MacCoinnich.”

  Before Mercy could reply, a striking young woman with flaming-red hair stepped out from the doors and hurried down the steps to take her place at Chieftain MacCoinnich’s side. Her gaze locked on Mercy, she paused but a moment, then rushed to Mercy’s mount, waving for the men to follow. “I canna believe the lot of ye. Help her down. Can ye no’ see she needs tending?”

  Graham held up his hands to lift her down, but Mercy shooed him away. “No. Your wound. I don’t want it to bleed again.” Before he could argue, she dismounted, sliding her feet to the ground with a stiffness that triggered a squeaking gasp she hoped the others wouldn’t notice. She held to the saddle a long moment to steady herself and convince her aching muscles to cooperate.

  “Are ye all right, love?” Graham whispered.

  “Yes.” Mercy gave a quick nod, praying he wouldn’t make a fuss.

  Taking her hand, Graham eased her into the curve of his arm. The comfort of his nearness and silent assurance helped her strength considerably.

  “Lady Mercy Claxton,” he said, then pressed a kiss to her hand and stood taller, prouder. “And soon—my wife.”

  “Well, then. I am Catriona MacCoinnich,” the red-haired woman said, a genuine welcome shining in her smile that reached clear to the brilliant green of her eyes. “And I am verra proud to meet another woman brave enough to take on a MacCoinnich brother. Welcome to Tor Ruadh, Lady Claxton.”

  “Please…my name is Mercy. I’d rather set aside the name of Lady Claxton, if you don’t mind. That title no longer suits.” She swallowed hard, feeling as though a weight had been lifted.

  She’d never imagined it would be so easy to deny her family name. Mercy squeezed Graham’s hand, thankful for the protection of his arm as a sudden shyness overtook her. Would Graham’s people truly accept her so easily?

  “And I am very happy to be here…to meet you all. Thank you.” She glanced at Graham, concern for his well-being foremost in her mind. “We met Gretna from the village, and she spoke of a healer. Could we please summon her? Graham is injured and needs more care than I was able to give him on the trip. I fear infection might steal him from us yet.”

  “Dinna fash yourself,” Graham argued. “I am fine.”

  Catriona scowled as she gave Graham a closer up and down look. “I see the blood staining your kilt now. Where are ye hurt?”

  “He was stabbed in the left side,” Mercy said before Graham could answer. “A deep gouge. I cleaned it as best I could with a pine needle wash and kept plantain and knitbone on it since, but I didn’t have anything with which to stitch it closed.”

  “Enough!” Graham held up a hand. “I said I am fine.”

  Pressing a hand to his chest, Mercy peered up at him, willing him to cooperate. “Please, Graham. I can’t bear to lose you. Let them see to you. Please.”

  Rolling his eyes and blowing out a deep, long-suffering sigh, Graham shook his head. “I will allow Elena to tend me as long as she tends your injuries first, agreed?”

  “Agreed.” Mercy felt a great deal better with that worry off her mind.

  Alexander laughed as he clapped a hand of welcome on Duncan’s shoulder. “Are they always like this?” He cast a side-eyed glance at Graham and Mercy.

  “Aye, brother,” Duncan replied with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “Sometimes worse.”

  “I find it delightful,” Captain Marsden said with a grin as he shook hands with Alexander. “And it is good to see you again and visit the comfort of your fine home, Chieftain MacCoinnich. The weather is much drier and more welcoming than it was this past spring when last I visited.”

  Catriona looped her arm through Mercy’s and eased her away from Graham’s side. “We shall take care of the bo
th of ye, lass. I promise.”

  A stabbing pain cut Mercy’s smile short and made her gasp as she started up the steps to the keep. “Forgive me. I’m still a little stiff and sore.”

  Catriona waved down a young lad in the process of propping open the doors leading into the main keep. “Run and fetch Elena and Gretna. Be quick about it, ye ken?”

  “Aye, m’lady.” The boy made a respectful hopping bob, then took off down the steps and across the courtyard at a fast lope.

  “I can tell by looking at ye and by Graham saying ye’re to be his wife that ye’ve had quite the journey.” Catriona led Mercy to a cushioned chair beside one of the smaller offset hearths at the front of the great room and motioned for a maid. “Wine for the lady. Laced heavy with honey and a bit of Elena’s herb mix from the larder. Buttered bread, too, aye?”

  “Aye, m’lady.” The maid curtseyed and hurried off across the great cavernous room filled with long trestle tables and benches.

  Mercy eyed the fine, dark weave of the upholstered chair, then looked down at her filthy clothes. “I should sit on one of the benches. I don’t wish to soil your furniture.”

  She glanced around the high-ceilinged room, not as opulent and gaudy as what she’d always been accustomed to in London, but the area had a regal air about it. Stately and refined in a strong, quiet way. The clan crest hung above both of the larger hearths, one situated on one side of the great hall, the other closer to the head of the room. Tartans and banners decorated the stone columns standing throughout the room, and gray flagstones, highly polished, made up the floor. The arches and doorways beneath the second-floor gallery circling the room were either fashioned of intricately chiseled stone or rich, reddish-hued wood carved and decorated with intertwining knots and thistles. The room shouted the courage and pride of Scotland.

  “I’ll be fine over there.” Mercy turned toward one of the nearby benches.