Highlander's Hope: A Scottish Historical Time Travel Romance (Called by a Highlander Book 2)

by Mariah Stone

  “Nae. I canna have ye risk yer life for me. I need to be there, too.”

  She should be strong. After all those years of training she couldn’t sit behind the walls again. She should be strong. If anyone should get revenge, it should be her.

  “You need to stay here, Marjorie,” he said, his voice like steel. “Your safety is the priority—yours and Colin’s. I won’t let you endure any sort of violence…I won’t let the MacDougalls touch a hair on your head again. Do you hear me?”

  It would be so easy to just say yes, to let him fight her battle. To tell herself she had Colin to think about, and there were still preparations to be made here in the castle, stakes to be made and put in place, swords to be sharpened.

  Taking her silence as agreement, Konnor leaned down and kissed her—a quick peck on her lips.

  He looked up at Malcolm. “Let’s go. Pick your best men. We go as soon as everyone’s ready.”

  She watched them go, and her heart thumped like a fist. What was she doing? She should go and tell them she was coming, too, take her sword and put on her armor, and finally let her claymore drink some enemy blood.

  But the walls looked familiar and secure. And as she thought about the hands grabbing her, panic gripped her whole body in vicious vise.

  No. She’d stay here. At least, she’d be safe.

  She watched Malcolm gather the men—he took about twenty of them. They stood in the darkness of the night courtyard, in the rain, their swords and the small chains of their mail coifs glistening dully in the light of the torches. Malcolm was barking instructions and the men listened to him carefully. Konnor did, too.

  Marjorie stood on the wall looking down at them, her heart thumping. Coward. Coward. Coward. These men would go and risk their lives for her and for Colin. Konnor would.

  Konnor! Who wasn’t from her clan, or even from her time.

  Tamhas appeared by her side, rain dripping from his rare stubble.

  “’Tis a smart move, mistress,” he said. “I’m glad ye’re nae going with them. I’ll stay with ye and make sure ye’re safe.”

  She gritted her teeth and almost felt them crumble. She wanted to say she didn’t need his protection.

  The gates opened, and the men poured out into the blackness of the night. Konnor looked up, and even in the dark, his eyes found hers. A wave of something washed through her—tenderness, warmth, and longing. He touched his forehead with his index and middle finger and made a short gesture forward with his hand… It looked like some sort of military salutation, probably from the future. Or a goodbye.

  Tamhas kept talking about her safety, her protection, Colin’s wellbeing, loyalty, and some other things she couldn’t even register in her mind. She watched Konnor’s silhouette go farther and farther into the distance beyond the walls until he dissolved into the darkness completely, as well as the other men.

  “I ken ye’re impressed by him, but I’ve been with ye yer whole life. I’ll die for ye, mistress. I’ve kent ye since we were children…”

  She kept staring out into the night. She didn’t know how much time passed, but it felt like Tamhas went on forever. What if she never saw them again? What if she’d just sent Konnor, Malcolm, Muir, and almost two dozen men to their deaths?

  What was she doing?

  She was letting herself be weak. Once again, she was the lass that had been assaulted and beaten and broken, even though every single day for the last twelve years, she’d fought with herself—for herself. She’d fought for her honor and for her life.

  And most importantly, she’d fought for hope.

  She’d never felt such deep despair as when she’d been a captive in the MacDougall’s castle. When she’d started training, she hadn’t realized it, but every time she’d swung her sword imagining an enemy, she’d fought for her future. For the hope of recovering the lass she’d been before the nightmare that changed her.

  And now, if she sat and waited and let others fight her battles, she’d never get a chance for that. She’d never be the strong warrior she wanted to be. She’d never be a good example for Colin.

  She’d never have hope for a better future—not just for her, but for other lasses and women of her clan.

  It was enough. Tonight, she would finally fight a real battle for the first time. It was time to rise.

  “I’m going with them,” she threw across her shoulder to Tamhas, and without waiting for him, she hurried towards the tower and her chamber to put on her armor so she could give the MacDougalls what they deserved.

  Chapter 23

  Konnor crouched behind a pine and watched the mostly sleeping camp. The rain was pouring down now, drumming against the leaves and grass. Many of the warriors slept in tents, hiding away from the weather. Sentinels sat by the fires burning here and there, huddling in their coats. The noisy, heavy rain, although wet and unpleasant, were another thing on their side.

  Someone crouched next to him, and he looked to his side.

  Marjorie!

  “What are you doing here?” he hissed.

  “I’m here to fight,” she said.

  “Go back to the castle this minute!”

  Tamhas appeared and squatted by her side. “Ye think I didna try? At least we can agree on this. Her place is safely behind the wall.”

  “Shut up, ye two,” she whispered.

  Being very much aware of Marjorie next to him, he felt just like before his first battle in Iraq as a young pup. Almost shitting himself, his fists clenched around his weapon like iron clamps. Only this time, it wasn’t his life he was afraid for.

  It was hers.

  The woman he was falling in love with.

  The thought made him very, very still. He stopped breathing.

  Love?

  He shook off the surprise . He’d think about it later. He needed to focus on the battle now.

  Malcolm had given him some Scottish armor, a leine croich—a long, pleated coat. Iron armor he’d seen in numerous historical action movies were too expensive for regular Scottish people. But Marjorie did have a pointed iron helmet for him and chainmail to protect his neck and shoulders. He felt like an extra on Braveheart, and Mel Gibson could jump out of a bush at any moment.

  Except, down there, the men in the little clearing in the woods weren’t actors. Or doubles. Or extras. They were real warriors with real freaking sharp steel and years of battle experience. Which Marjorie didn’t have. Konnor did, but not with swords. He should insist she return to the castle before it was too late. Tamhas would help. He could tie her up and take her home by force. But she’d hate him. And he couldn’t stop a woman like Marjorie from doing whatever she’d set her mind to. All he needed to do now was keep her safe whatever it took. Even if it cost his life.

  She was frowning, her lips tight, her chest rising and falling quickly under the leather armor she had on. She’d told him her father had splurged on it a while ago to protect her, and Konnor was glad for it.

  What was she thinking? Was she actually ready to wound and kill after so many years of theory? He’d never forget the first person who’d died by his hand. He wished she wouldn’t carry that memory.

  “How many do you think there are out there, Konnor?” she said.

  “A couple of hundred, probably.”

  Ten times as many as them. The enemy had two siege ladders, so they would move slowly tomorrow, especially after the rain.

  “Aye, looks right to me,” she said. “Well, ‘tisna anything the Bruce would shy away from. He defeated armies of two thousand men with only eight hundred of his own. ‘Tis because he had the element of surprise and clever tactics.”

  Dressed in her helmet and chainmail, she looked at him with such hardness in her eyes that she resembled the goddess of war herself.

  “We’re Highlanders, and Loch Awe is our land. ‘Tis how we fight. Together with nature, nae against it. Using our heads and cunning and nae thinking with our dicks.”

  Konnor’s jaw dropped to the ground. Marjorie
was a badass.

  But again, he already knew that.

  She looked around at her troops, all of whom were watching her.

  “Cruachan,” she said. Then a little louder. “Cruachan!”

  The whole group echoed her, in a hushed, “Cruachan!”

  Even though quiet, it rang through Konnor like the sound of a tuning fork in synch with to something deep in chest. A war cry, he realized.

  They rose to a half crouch and all crept silently down towards the MacDougall camp. Konnor stood close to Marjorie, his sword at the ready.

  They sped up as they got closer. And with the speed, something took them over. Konnor had never felt this in any of his experiences in Iraq. Like a common blanket of battle rage, one spirit of war united them. It settled in Konnor’s bones and muscles. With a final “Cruachan!” they smashed into the enemy camp like one wave.

  Konnor made sure to stay close to Marjorie. And it was her kill that he saw first. A sentinel rose, astonished. He didn’t even have time to raise his sword before she pierced his chest with her claymore.

  Her bared teeth glistened as she did it. Beautiful and terrifying, she didn’t stop. Her cat eyes shone with fury. His Celtic goddess of war, indeed.

  Konnor met his first opponent—a man who had just taken his sword out, and Konnor, letting his body remember the intense training he’d got from Marjorie, swung his sword. He met the sharp resistance with a loud clang. But the man was weak, probably still from the sleep, or from the drink. Konnor swung again from the other side. Bang. Another block. With one leg too close to Konnor, he was in a weak position. Konnor thrust the sword and stabbed the man right in his stomach.

  It took more strength than he’d realized, but the man clenched the blade with both hands and fell with a pained and a surprised expression. Konnor sighed. His first victim. Like every time, a pinch of guilt stabbed at him, but he didn’t have time to contemplate. Another man was already upon him.

  It was a bloodbath. Many were killed in their sleep, many barely managed to take up their weapons. But soon, the remaining MacDougalls were awake and armed.

  They came out of their tents roaring war cries. Marjorie crossed swords with another warrior. Konnor wanted to help, but he had his own battle to fight.

  A big man came at him with a sword. The MacDougall thrust his sword at Konnor, who met the blade with his own. He took another swing, and iron clashed too close to Konnor’s throat. He stepped back. The man, sensing weakness in Konnor, came at him with a series of downward strikes. Konnor deflected them, his training coming in handy.

  The man, sensing victory was close, raised his sword with both hands. Using a fraction of the moment when his opponent’s torso was exposed, Konnor thrust his sword into his enemy’s belly. The man went still, his claymore falling to the ground before he landed next to it.

  Something sharp bit into Konnor’s shoulder, and he jumped back. Already another MacDougall, much younger and stronger, was at him. Konnor didn’t even have time to raise his sword. The enemy’s blade came at him, ready to pierce his heart.

  Death looked into Konnor’s eyes.

  But before the blade reached Konnor’s chest, the man stopped in his tracks and fell on the ground. Marjorie removed her bloody claymore from his back.

  She nodded. “I believe we’re even.”

  She’d just saved his life. Her face was sprayed with blood, her eyes shining, her back straight. She’d never looked more powerful, more beautiful, and more alive. Konnor forgot how to breathe, how to move, how to live for a moment. She was the sun, and he was a man who’d lived in an eternal night.

  And she needed him. He needed to protect her, to do everything to have her live, even if it meant to take a blow meant for her. He looked around. More enemies came at them, and Konnor stood in position to take his next opponent. “Chruachan!” he cried, and Marjorie beamed at him.

  But the more people woke up and came at them, the more enemies the Cambels had to face. Soon, it was clear they were being pressed back.

  He pierced an enemy’s throat and kicked him back. He exchanged a glance with Marjorie, who’d just wounded another man and stood panting, her sword dripping with blood. “We need to retreat, Marjorie,” he said. “Command the retreat.”

  She looked around, her eyes determined. “Aye.” She took in a lungful of air. “Retreat! Quick! Retreat!”

  “Retreat!” Konnor echoed.

  He made sure Marjorie turned around and ran, and then he followed her, putting himself between her and the enemies. Their people ran back as well, and Konnor saw Muir, Tamhas, and Malcolm, as well as others. He estimated there were fifteen of them alive.

  The enemy warriors started following them but soon stopped, and Konnor knew they were getting instructions from their commander, taking horses and equipment, and they would arrive at Glenkeld with full force.

  And then it would be a matter of whether the castle’s fortifications would hold the MacDougalls back or not.

  Chapter 24

  Marjorie’s chest strained for breath, her shoulders and arms aching after the battle. Her head ached from a couple of hard punches she’d received. Her face was cut, her ribs ached, and she was bruised in several places.

  Konnor stood by her side on the wall, watching the MacDougall army approach. Konnor had swung his sword well on the battle field, and she was proud. He was like a Highlander. What he lacked in experience, he made up for with cunning and dexterity.

  She watched the MacDougalls arriving at Glenkeld in full force. The rain had stopped, and the sky began to clear in the east behind the trees, spilling everything in a whitish stone-gray hue. Pine trees in the nearby grove looked almost black.

  This night, she’d been christened as a warrior on her first real battlefield. She wasn’t a weakling anymore. Her hands had not shook. It was thanks to Konnor, who’d given her the strength and security to believe in herself. She hadn’t realized how much strength she’d built up after all these years.

  Thanks to Konnor’s idea, Cambels had taken out about six dozen men, but there was still no way they could win a battle in an open field. She could see now there were many more of them. Three hundred or so.

  It was the matter of defenses now.

  Her archers hid behind the hinged wooden shutters between the stone merlons on the walls. While Marjorie and her group had been fighting, the men who’d remained in the castle had covered the wooden hoardings on top of the towers and the roofs of the buildings with animal hides to them to make them fireproof. The northern wall was as secure as it could be, given the limited time and resources they had. In the courtyard, six cauldrons full of hot sand hung over the campfires, and a heap of sand lay nearby to replenish them.

  The castle had to hold.

  The mass of warriors were approaching. A siege tower loomed in the middle of them with a battering ram by its side. People carried long siege ladders. Marjorie shivered at the sight of these siege weapons.

  But then the army came close enough.

  She saw him.

  The face she’d never forget. The face she saw in her nightmares. The father who’d let his son treat her like a dirty rag.

  John MacDougall.

  Chief of the MacDougall clan, John MacDougall, sat up front on a horse. He was in expensive chainmail and armor that glistened in the milky light of dawn. His white hair was gathered in long tail that ran down his back.

  A shiver went through Marjorie at the sight of him. When she’d seen him last, all those years ago in Dunollie, he’s been much younger. Strangely, he seemed shorter now and less powerful, though his shoulders were still mighty and broad, and he sat on the horse with the grace of a highly experienced warrior.

  His eyes met hers.

  Oh, nae.

  “Marjorie,” John said, a surprised frown on his face. “Was it ye who attacked us?”

  In the darkness of the night and in the chaos of a surprise attack, he probably hadn’t recognized her, or he hadn’t seen her. That’
s right, ye pig. Triumph spread through her core like an avalanche of fire. “Didna expect that, did ye?”

  The surprise on his face changed to a threat. “Even better, ye silly lass. Do ye think ye can take me? Give me my grandson, and I will leave ye alone.”

  The goddess of winter, Beira, must have passed through the air, because Marjorie turned into an ice statue. “He isna yer grandson, ye slug! He is my son. A Cambel. MacDougalls will never touch a hair on his head.”

  “What he is, is a bastart. I will legitimize him and make him my heir. He’s the son of my only son. All my daughters gave me nothing but lasses.”

  “Over my dead body,” Marjorie growled through her teeth. “He doesna ken about ye, and he never will as long as I have a say in this.”

  She hoped Colin was sleeping, but what if he heard her? She’d concealed the truth of his violent conception from him to shield him from the knowledge, but she might need to tell him the truth and explain to him what happened.

  “Is that yer last word?” he said, looking at her from under his eyebrows.

  “Aye.”

  “Then over yer dead body it shall be.”

  He put his helm on and drew his sword. “Buaidh No Bas!” Victory or death.

  “Buaidh no bas!” the clan behind him echoed.

  “Chruachan!” Marjorie roared.

  “Chruachan!” Dozens of voices pierced the air around her.

  MacDougalls launched forward, splitting into two rivers—half of them heading to the northern wall, while the other half ran with siege ladders towards the front wall.

  “Archers, ready!” Marjorie cried. “Loose!”

  Three dozen arrows flew through the air in a high arch and fell into the swarm of people below. Warriors fell with pained grunts.

  “Again! Loose!” Marjorie cried. She turned to the inner side of the wall and yelled to the courtyard. “Sand! Bring the sand here and to the northern wall!”

  While arrows flew, down in the courtyard, two men per cauldron picked up the hot sand and made their way to the top of the walls. The siege tower moved towards the castle, as well as the battering ram.