Highland Warrior

by McCollum, Heather

  “Get off me!” Pulling the last of the moisture in her mouth, she spit in his face.

  Releasing her hair, he wiped it away, his pelvis still holding her with his weight against the chapel. His leer had changed into a face of fury, and his free hand landed on her throat, bruising it so that she could not draw breath. Twisting, she tried to kick out at him, but he was strong and heavy. With him blocking her air, she couldn’t even curse him.

  His other hand reached down to ruck up her smock, and the wind bit into the skin of her bare legs. Stars started to flash in her eyes as she struggled to draw breath. Did he mean to kill her then? Right there? Raping her still-warm body? She blinked, looking away from the smug victory in Henry’s face. Movement outside the stone wall held her gaze, and she dropped her hands, going limp with relief.

  Joshua.

  …

  The four-foot stone wall was no obstacle. Joshua would have punched his way through the rocks to get to Kára, but all he had to do was launch himself over the barrier encircling the churchyard.

  Warrior’s blood pumped through him as if he were in the deadliest battle he’d ever seen. It shot energy into his muscles, helping him focus past the horror of seeing horses grazing outside the chapel wall. Condensing his churning dark thoughts, he pulled them into a single goal—to kill whoever was harming Kára. It didn’t matter if it were King James himself; the fool shoving Kára against the chapel wall and now holding her by the neck would die.

  Without breaking his stride, Joshua leaped over the wall. The bastard holding her had barely turned to see him coming when Joshua yanked him away from Kára. In the back of his mind, Joshua recognized him as Henry Stuart, Robert’s eldest son, but it changed nothing. Before Henry could utter a word, Joshua shoved his sword into his chest, the blade going halfway through so he could then rip it downward through bone, muscle, and sinew.

  Henry’s gurgled curse came from his stretched lips as Joshua split him open with his tempered blade from chest to abdomen. Only the man’s belt stopped him from sawing through his foking jack. “The Horseman of War sends ye to Hell,” Joshua said and yanked his sword free. “For your crimes against this woman and her people.”

  Henry Stuart crumpled into the trampled grass, his entrails rolling out with his blood. Joshua threw his bloodstained sword down and stopped before Kára where she leaned gasping against the chapel wall, hands at her bruised throat. His arms raised before him, but his palms hovered over her, not touching for fear it would hurt her.

  “Kára. Kára. Kára.” Her name rolled from his lips like a prayer as he drew in large drafts of air after his frantic run. “Can I…?” His hands cupped the back of his head, his chest rising and falling fast as if he were still running. “Where can I touch ye? Are ye bleeding? Oh God, I will follow him to Hell and kill him again.”

  She held up one hand as if she could not talk but wanted him to stop. Tears ran down her face. “I…I will recover,” she said, the words coming slow and pained on a hoarse whisper.

  His hands reached for her slowly. His cloak having dropped away somewhere on the hill as he’d raced up it, he had nothing but himself with which to cover her. He didn’t want to startle her, but he must hold her, feel her warm and breathing in his arms. Touching her stiff shoulders, he slid his hands around her back, gently pulling her into his chest. She went willingly, her weight heavy in his arms as if she surrendered all of her strength, letting him hold her body up. He gladly took it.

  “Kára, och but I should have stayed here,” he whispered. “I should have gotten here faster. I did not see the horses until I stepped out the tavern door.”

  His gaze scanned the gravestones. “There were three horses.”

  “I killed the other two,” she said, her hand flipping weakly from her side to gesture toward the other end of the graveyard.

  He held her tighter, trying to fight against his need to squeeze her into him, and kissed the top of her head, her face buried in his chest. “Ye are truly a warrior queen, Kára Flett, and as brave as any lass I have known.”

  “Robert will come after my people.”

  His hand pulled away from where he’d touched her head, blood smeared on it. “Ye are bleeding,” he said. “Your head.”

  “And probably my back.”

  She remained tucked into him as his fingers probed gently through her hair, finding the cut. “I need to look at it.”

  She pulled slightly back, and he turned her around to lean up against the chapel wall. The back of her smock was sliced from the rock, a thick line of red blood stark against the white of the material. He parted the fabric to see the skin. “The cut on your back is superficial and will heal easily if washed and bandaged.”

  His gaze moved up to her head, and his inhale stopped. Blood, red and seeping, colored her pale locks. He exhaled slowly, parting her hair to look closer at the cut. “Your scalp is bleeding more, but that is the nature of head wounds,” he said, forcing the worry out of his voice. He yanked a rag from his belt and pressed it to her head, holding it there as he gently turned her around. “I do not think ye need stitches, but it might be damaged inside.” He met her eyes. “Are ye hurt anywhere else?”

  Had Henry managed to penetrate her body with anything, a finger, his jack, anything? Joshua would make certain to cut off whatever it was and throw it to the dogs.

  She shook her head, his hand keeping the cloth pressed to her red-tinged locks, and cleared her throat. He felt her wince. “My throat. He was set to rape me, too. I think he was torn between that and killing me.”

  Foking bastard would have done both. The urge to kick the lump of a man in the grass churned up through Joshua like sour burps, but he would not let go of Kára for anything in the world, not even revenge.

  Kára pulled away slightly and looked up into his face. Her tears had stopped but worry threatened to bring them back. She trembled, making him fear she was in shock. What did one do if someone was in shock? Keep them warm. Give them a sip of whisky. Damn, he wished his sister, Hannah, was there to help. “We should get ye to Hilda,” he said. “She will heal ye.”

  “They will hunt me down at Hillside,” she said, and he watched her work at swallowing. “I cannot return there. Even gone, Robert might still ransack anywhere he thinks I could be. Henry said he hunts me for taking Hilda and Broch. But killing his son…”

  Joshua caught her chin in his fingers. “Kára, ye had no choice but to defend yourself. And ye did not kill Robert’s son. I did.”

  He pulled her back into his arms, willing his comfort and strength into her. “And Robert will not know, anyway. I will dispose of the bodies,” he said, looking toward the sea and then down over the rolling hills toward Birsay. Damn, treeless expanse. He’d have to work fast before the three were noticed missing.

  “Come,” he said. “I will take ye to your den. No one will find ye there.”

  “My brooches, sword, and mattucashlass are over there,” she said, pointing. They walked through the swaying grasses, Joshua continually scanning the terrain for more of Robert’s men or the earl himself.

  He left her holding the rag to her head beside the chapel as he went to claim her items. The brooch was lodged in the temple of one warrior Joshua had known, a decent fellow when training, but easily swayed to evil, apparently. Joshua yanked the brooch out. After some time in the sea, no one would even be able to tell that he’d been pierced, if they even surfaced.

  Joshua grabbed her short sword and then wiped the mattucashlass free of blood after yanking it from the other brute’s forehead. Kára was a damn good shot. Thank God, or she would likely be dead right now. The thought made his skin itch and his heart thump wildly, his untamed warrior fury threatening to take over his reasoning.

  Nay, he could not storm into Robert’s palace and slaughter everyone. There would always be another Stuart, another stronger warlord to kick and suppress Kára’
s people. He must convince her to leave Orkney. But first…

  He went to her, shaking out her woolen gown and cloak. “Let us get ye warm,” he said, wrapping her in the cloak and pulling her into him again, using the chapel wall to block the wind. “But we need to leave before anyone finds us with them here.”

  She nodded, her forehead brushing his chest, and raised her face to his. He hated the numbness he saw there, the trembling. Glancing up, she blinked. “I will help you clean up.”

  “Nay. If someone comes upon this, ’tis better if they find only me. Nothing should tie ye to this.”

  “Robert knows you are helping us after The Brute and Jean saw us at the palace.”

  He leveled his gaze with hers, his brows raised. “I want ye safe and sound and warm, away from this. I can carry ye to your den.”

  He saw the shine of unbidden tears in her eyes. It tore into him, and he had to guard against his grip tightening on her arms with his fury. It was all he could do not to run back over to Henry and slice him to bits.

  Kára inhaled a shaky breath. Thank the Lord she couldn’t peer into his mind to see the bloody retribution he imagined. She nodded. “I can walk.”

  Looking out across the empty moor hills, Joshua kept her tucked against him as they walked to the village below where Asmund was standing out before the tavern. Several other men from the village stood with him. They watched them approach, Asmund wringing his hands. “Dróttning,” he said.

  “She needs to rest tucked away,” Joshua said.

  Kára stood straighter before the men. “I am well.”

  Joshua recognized one of the men who had tried to take Fuil the night he first saw Kára. “Ye have the ship in the harbor?”

  “Aye.”

  Joshua glanced back toward the chapel on the hill. “I have a job for ye.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “He who wishes to fight must first count the cost.”

  Sun Tzu – The Art of War

  “Do not look cross at me,” Kára said, staring Joshua down where he stood in the path leading back into the village. “I told you I was not going to nap the day away.”

  Joshua had left her in her den to help the ship’s captain load the bodies onto his boat to carry out and dump in the sea. She’d waited a full hour, warming herself, rubbing some liniment on her neck bruises, and putting a sticky poultice on her head wound, before walking the short distance back toward Asmund’s tavern.

  She walked past Joshua, deciding that a cup of Asmund’s mead would bolster her even more.

  Joshua’s boots crunched the pebbles behind her. “If ye wobble with dizziness or grow pale, I will lift ye and carry ye back there. I have seen men hit their heads and die days later or go about puking and dizzy for weeks before the world righted itself in their heads.”

  “I feel completely well.” A lie. Her throat ached, her voice still hoarse, and her scalp burned where the poultice worked. “I will not hide away when there is work to be done to help my family.” She glanced past him toward the chapel. “Did you send the horses away?”

  “I rode one, leading the other two, about two miles past the chapel. If I have a chance, I will lead them farther once I retrieve Fuil.”

  She pushed through Asmund’s door, Joshua right on her heels. Her friend stood behind the bar. Relief washed over his familiar grumpy face, and he came around. He bowed his head before wrapping her in a quick hug. “I went to help the Highlander clean up on the hill and saw what ye had to do to defend yourself,” he whispered and nodded. “Your father is proud in Heaven, a clever and courageous daughter.”

  She would argue against both for having gone up there alone in the first place and then trembling like a blade of grass in a tempest. But she smiled softly instead. “Thank you for helping…clean up.”

  “Langdon is about to pull anchor. Lamont is helping him dump the bastards far out.” Asmund leaned in. “Robert will never find a trace of them. I even hauled up a bucket of water to wash the grass free of blood.”

  She squeezed his hands tightly. “I am grateful.”

  Joshua stood at the open door, half in and half out. It was still Samhain. Didn’t he know it was dangerous to stand in thresholds? She walked over, but he stopped her from exiting, a hand holding her shoulder. “Someone approaches,” he said, barely moving his lips as he stared out. He moved them back inside, shutting the door. “Hide until we know who it is.”

  “Dróttning,” Asmund said, beckoning her toward the back of the room where steps led above. “Stay tucked up there.”

  She ran up the steps and perched at the top in the shadows where she could still hear. Pulling her knees up under her dress, she rested her chin, barely breathing as the door opened. Several sets of boots thudded on the wooden floor.

  “Joshua Sinclair.”

  “Lord Patrick,” Joshua responded, a bored tone to his voice. “What brings ye out from behind your father’s walls?” Patrick was Robert’s second eldest legitimate son. She knew little about him, except that he was not as cruel but still condescending and privileged.

  “Ye have blood on ye,” Patrick said. Kára could hear the suspicion in his voice.

  “I am the Horseman of War,” Joshua answered. “I always have blood on me.”

  Kára heard someone slide chairs on the floor as if to sit. How many guards did he have with him? She pulled her mattucashlass from her boot and held it, her fingers curling tightly around the handle. The trembling had come back to her hands, and she breathed deeply, trying to dispel it. But all the breathing did was hurt her throat and make stars spark in her vision. She’d be little use to Joshua like this.

  “Ye said ye were leaving Orkney, but then ye show up to steal away my father’s healer and my sister’s horse. Ye are helping the thieves now.” Patrick tsked. “He has given us free license to kill ye for it.”

  Kára’s heart hammered, beating at the inside of her chest. Holy Lord. She did not want to kill anyone else this day. She pushed herself up against the wall as if trying to shrink into the wood boards framing the stairs.

  “The healer,” Joshua said, “is not Robert’s. He does not employ her, giving her a wage for her services. Instead, he chained her to a rock, an old woman, inside his palace, enslaving her, leaving her in filth. I merely freed her.”

  “We will retrieve her,” Patrick said, and Kára could imagine him waving his hand, dismissing all his father’s sins as if he were the Pope. “And Jean’s horse.”

  “The horse was also imprisoned from its true owner. Ye can add horse thievery to your father’s sins. ’Tis a hangable crime where I come from.”

  “Is that why ye are working for the enemy now, Sinclair?” Patrick asked. “Whatever money they pay ye is likely ours. They have won your loyalty with stolen gold.”

  “I am loyal to God and no one else,” Joshua said. Kára could hear the warning in his voice. She longed to see the expressions of those below but didn’t dare move. Even a pebble kicked from the steps would alert them that she hid there.

  “How about the King of Scotland, my cousin?” Patrick asked. Would Joshua admit his disloyalty to the crown before Patrick and his men, marking him as a traitor?

  “Questioning loyalty?” Joshua asked, a grin in his voice. “With an inscription that calls Robert the king of Scotland carved in stone over his door?” It was a much-refuted engraving on the entry arch of the Earl’s Palace: Lord Robert Stuart, King of the Scots, son of James V, erected this building.

  “’Tis a grammatical error in the Latin,” Patrick said.

  “An error that has never been corrected.” Could Patrick hear the underlying warning in Joshua’s tone? “Let King James come to Orkney to see how Robert treats his subjects and what he calls himself, King of Scotland, written in stone.”

  The sound of someone drinking was followed by the tap of a tankard on the stone bar. “Like
ye said, my cousin does not care what goes on here far from Edinburgh.”

  The sound of men rising, their scabbards jostling against stone tables and the bar, made Kára suck in a full inhale, her empty hand going to her sore throat at the ache it caused.

  “Then let us not worry over royal backing. Tell your father, Patrick, to leave the people of Orkney unmolested. Pay them fairly to work and give them access to hunt on their lands.”

  Patrick’s scoff made a chill prickle Kára’s arms. Perhaps he was as bad as his brother. “Or what, Sinclair?”

  Joshua’s tone, even and low, held the promise of death. “Or suffer the wrath of the Horseman of War.”

  “Foking cocky,” Patrick said. “One warrior against a crew that he trained. Save yourself and leave the isle.” Kára heard the door open.

  “Barkeep,” Patrick called. “Have ye seen my brother, Henry, ride this way today?”

  “Nay,” Asmund said. “Been minding my bar inside.”

  Patrick muttered something she couldn’t hear, and the door shut. Silence held for several seconds while Kára listened to the men calling for Henry outdoors, but there would be no reply.

  After a long, silent pause, Joshua’s face appeared at the bottom of the staircase. “They are leaving the village.”

  Her breath came in a huff as she tried to shake off the heaviness of dread that threatened to crumple her. She couldn’t act with bravery when she still quaked. Stepping lightly, she met him at the bottom of the stairs. Asmund stared out the window. “They are riding toward the chapel.” He shook his head. “Bloody plague on this isle,” he said, not looking away.

  “Perhaps it is time to live somewhere else,” Joshua said, his gaze fastened to hers. “Somewhere fresh and bountiful.”

  “You make Scotia sound like Eden,” Kára whispered.

  Joshua shrugged, the fury cut into the lines of his face softening. “’Tis close, but colder. And no one runs around naked.”