The Highlander Series Page 3

  “We must hurry. There is a bolt-hole in the next chamber. You’ll have to leave alone. I can’t risk taking you. At the end, Fergus waits for you with a horse. He’ll put you and the lad on it. It’ll pain you, aye, but you’ll have to endure. ’Tis your only way out.”

  Mairin nodded her acceptance. Escape in agony or die in comfort. Didn’t seem like such a difficult decision.

  The serving woman cracked open the door of the chamber, turned back to Mairin, and put a finger to her lips. She motioned to the left to let Mairin know the guard was there.

  Crispen slid his hand into hers, and again she squeezed to comfort him. Inch by breathless inch, they crept by the sleeping guard in the darkness of the hall. Mairin held her breath the entire way, afraid if she let out so much as a puff, the guard would wake and alert the keep.

  Finally they reached the next chamber. Dust flew and curled around her nose as they stepped within, and she had to squeeze her nostrils to keep from sneezing.

  “Over here,” the woman whispered in the darkness.

  Mairin followed the sound of her voice until she felt the chill emanating from the stone wall.

  “God be with you,” the serving woman said as she ushered Mairin and Crispen into the small tunnel.

  Mairin stopped only long enough to squeeze her hand in a quick thank-you, and then she urged Crispen into the narrow passageway.

  Each step sent a fresh wave of agony through Mairin. She feared her ribs were broken, but there was naught that could be done about it now.

  They hurried through the darkness, Mairin all but dragging Crispen behind her.

  “Who goes there?”

  Mairin halted at the man’s voice but remembered that the woman had said Fergus awaited them.

  “Fergus?” she called softly. “ ’Tis I, Mairin Stuart.”

  “Come, Lady,” he urged.

  She rushed to the end and stepped onto the cold, damp ground, wincing when her bare feet made contact with rough pebbles. She gazed at their surroundings and saw that the bolt-hole exited the back of the keep where there was only a skirt between the keep and the hillside that jutted skyward.

  Wordlessly, Fergus melted into the darkness, and Mairin ran to catch up to him. They moved along the bottom of the hillside and headed for the dense population of trees at the perimeter of Duncan’s holding.

  A horse was tied to one of the trees, and Fergus quickly freed him, gathering the reins as he turned to Mairin.

  “I’ll lift you up first and then the lad.” He pointed into the distance. “That way is north. God be with you.”

  Without another word, he lifted her, all but tossing her into the saddle. It was all she could do not to fall off. Tears crushed her eyes and she doubled over, fighting unconsciousness.

  Help me please, God.

  Fergus lifted Crispen, who settled in front of her. She was glad he wasn’t riding behind her because, God’s truth, she needed something to hang on to.

  “Can you manage the reins?” she whispered to Crispen as she leaned into him.

  “I’ll protect you,” Crispen said fiercely. “Hold on to me, Mairin. I’ll take us home, I swear it.”

  She smiled at the determination in his voice. “I know you will.”

  Fergus gave the horse a slap, and it started forward. Mairin bit her lip against the scream of pain that battled to erupt. She would never make it even a mile.

  Alaric McCabe drew up his horse and held his fist up to halt his men. They’d ridden all morning, searching endless trails, tracking hoofprints to no avail. All were dead ends. He slid from the saddle and strode forward to view the disturbance in the soil. Kneeling, he touched the faint hoofprints and the flattened grass to the side. It looked as though someone took a fall from a horse. Recently.

  He scanned the immediate area and saw a footprint in a patch of bare soil a few feet away, then lifted his gaze toward the area the person had headed. Slowly he rose, drew his sword, and motioned for his men to spread out and circle the area.

  Carefully, he stepped through the trees, watching warily for any sign of ambush. He saw the horse first, grazing a short distance away, the reins hanging, the saddle askew. He frowned. Such disregard for the care of a horse was surely a sin.

  A slight rustle to his right swung him around, and he found himself staring at a small woman, her back wedged against a huge tree. Her skirts jumped like she had a litter of kittens hidden underneath, and her wide blue eyes were full of fear—and fury.

  Her long black hair hung in disarray to her waist, and it was then he noticed the colors of her tunic and the coat of arms embroidered at the hem.

  Rage temporarily blinded him, and he advanced, his sword held in an arc over his head.

  She flung an arm behind her, shoving something farther between her and the tree. Her skirts wriggled again, and it was then he realized she shielded a person. A child.

  “Stay behind me,” she hissed.

  “But Mair—”

  Alaric froze. He knew that voice. His fingers shook, for the first time in his life his hand unsteady around the hilt. Hell would be a cold place indeed before he ever allowed a Cameron hand on his kin.

  With a snarl of rage, he charged forward, grasped the woman by the shoulder, and hurled her aside. Crispen stood against the tree, his mouth open. Then he saw Alaric and all but leapt into his arms.

  The sword fell to the ground—another sin of neglect—but in that moment Alaric didn’t care. Sweet relief staggered him.

  “Crispen,” he said hoarsely, as he hugged the boy to him.

  A shriek of rage assaulted his ears just as he was hit by a flying bundle of woman. So surprised was he, that he stumbled backward, his hold on Crispen loosening.

  She wedged herself between him and Crispen and landed a knee to his groin. He doubled over, cursing as agony washed over him. He fell to one knee and grabbed his sword just as he whistled for his men. The woman was demented.

  Through the haze of pain, he saw her grab a resisting Crispen and try to run. Several things happened at once. Two of his men stepped in front of her. She halted, causing Crispen to slam into her back. When she started in the opposite direction, Gannon raised his arm to stop her.

  To Alaric’s astonishment, she swiveled, grabbed Crispen, and fell to the ground, her body huddled protectively over him.

  Gannon and Cormac froze and looked to Alaric just as the rest of his men burst through the trees.

  To further confuse the hell out of all of them, Crispen finally wiggled out from underneath her and threw himself on top of her, scowling ferociously the entire time at Gannon.

  “Don’t you hit her!” he bellowed.

  Every one of his men blinked in surprise at Crispen’s ferocity.

  “Lad, I wasn’t going to hit the lass,” Gannon said. “I was trying to prevent her from fleeing. With you. God’s teeth, we’ve been searching for you for days. The laird is worried sick over you.”

  Alaric strode over to Crispen and plucked him off the huddled woman. When he reached down to haul her upright, Crispen exploded again, shoving him back.

  Alaric stared at his nephew with an open mouth.

  “Don’t touch her,” Crispen said. “She’s badly hurt, Uncle Alaric.”

  Crispen chewed his bottom lip, and it looked for the world like the lad was going to break down and cry. Whoever the woman was, it was obvious Crispen didn’t fear her.

  “I won’t hurt her, lad,” Alaric said softly.

  He knelt down and brushed aside the hair from her face and realized she was unconscious. There was a bruise on one cheek, but otherwise she didn’t look injured.

  “Where is she hurt?” he asked Crispen.

  Tears filled Crispen’s eyes, and he wiped hastily at them with the back of his grubby hand.

  “Her stomach. And her back. It hurts her fierce if anyone touches her.”

  Carefully, so as not to alarm the boy, Alaric pulled at her clothing. When her abdomen and back came into view, he sucked in
his breath. Around him, his men alternately cursed and murmured their pity for the slight lass.

  “God in heaven, what happened to her?” Alaric asked.

  Her entire rib cage was purple, and ugly bruises marred her smooth back. He could swear one of them was in the shape of a man’s boot.

  “He beat her,” Crispen choked out. “Take us home, Uncle Alaric. I want my papa.”

  Not wanting the boy to lose his composure in front of the other men, Alaric nodded and patted him on the arm. There would be plenty of time to get the story from Crispen later. Ewan would want to hear it all.

  He stared down at the unconscious woman and frowned. She had offered her body for Crispen’s, and yet she wore the colors of Duncan Cameron. Ewan would be beyond control if Cameron had any involvement in Crispen’s disappearance.

  War. At long last, war would be declared.

  He motioned for Cormac to tend to the lass, and he reached for Crispen, intending that the boy ride with him. There were several questions he wanted answered on the ride home.

  Crispen shook his head adamantly. “Nay, you take her, Uncle Alaric. She has to ride with you. I promised her that Papa would keep her safe, but he’s not here so you have to do it. You have to.”

  Alaric sighed. There was no reasoning with the boy, and right now he was so glad he was alive, he’d cede to his ridiculous demands. Later he’d bend the brat’s ear about not questioning authority.

  “I want to ride with you, too,” Crispen said, his gaze nervously going to the woman.

  He inched closer to her as if he couldn’t stand the idea of being separated from her.

  Alaric looked skyward. Ewan hadn’t taken a firm enough hand with the boy. That was all there was to it.

  And so Alaric found himself astride his horse with the woman draped across the saddle in front of him, her body shielded in the crook of one arm, while Crispen sat on his other leg, his head nestled against her bosom.

  He glared at his men, daring even one of them to laugh. Hell, he had to relinquish his sword for the duty of carrying the two extra persons, never mind their weight didn’t equal that of a single warrior.

  Ewan just better be damn grateful. He could decide what was to be done with the woman just as soon as Alaric dumped her into Ewan’s lap.

  CHAPTER 3

  As soon as they crossed over the border onto McCabe land, a shout went up that echoed through the hills, and in the distance, Mairin heard the cry taken up and relayed. Soon, the laird would know of his son’s return.

  She twisted the reins nervously in her fingers as Crispen all but bounced off the saddle in his excitement.

  “If you keep gathering those reins, lass, you and the horse are going to end up back where you came from.”

  She glanced guiltily up at Alaric McCabe, who rode to her right. His admonishment had come out as a tease, but God’s truth, the man scared her. He looked savage with his unkempt, long dark hair and the braids dangling on each side of his temples.

  When she’d awakened in his arms, she’d nearly tossed them both out of the saddle in her haste to escape. He’d been forced to pry both her and Crispen from their perch against him, and he’d put them both on the ground until the entire thing could be sorted out.

  He hadn’t been pleased by her stubbornness, but she had Crispen solidly on her side, and having extracted a promise from Crispen to tell no one her name, they’d both stood mute when Alaric demanded answers.

  Oh, he’d blustered and waved his arms. Even threatened to choke the both of them, and in the end he’d muttered blasphemies against women and children before resuming their journey to bring Crispen home.

  Alaric had then insisted she ride with him at least another day, because he said, in no uncertain terms, the likelihood of her sitting a horse by herself in her condition was nil, and it was a sin to abuse a good horse with an inept mount.

  The journey that would normally last two days took them three, thanks to Alaric’s consideration of her condition and their stopping frequently to rest. She knew Alaric was considerate because he told her. Numerous times.

  After the first day, she was determined to ride without Alaric’s assistance, if for no other reason than to wipe the smugness from his expression. He obviously had no patience for women, and, she suspected, with the exception of his nephew, whom he obviously loved, he had even less patience with children.

  Still, given the fact that he knew nothing about her, only that Crispen championed her, he had treated her well, and his men had been politely respectful.

  Now that they neared Laird McCabe’s stronghold, fear fluttered in her throat. She would no longer be able to keep silent. The laird would demand answers, and she would be obligated to give them.

  She leaned down to whisper close to Crispen’s ear. “Do you remember your promise to me, Crispen?”

  “Aye,” he whispered back. “I’m not to tell anyone your name.”

  She nodded, feeling guilty for asking such a thing from the boy, but if she could pretend to be of no importance, just someone who happened upon Crispen and saw him safely back to his father, perhaps he would be grateful enough to provide a horse and maybe some food, and she could be on her way.

  “Not even your father,” she pressed.

  Crispen nodded solemnly. “I’ll only tell him you saved me.”

  She squeezed his arm with her free hand. “Thank you. I could ask for no better champion.”

  He turned his head back to grin broadly at her, his back puffing with pride.

  “What are the two of you whispering about?” Alaric demanded irritably.

  She glanced over to see the warrior watching her, his eyes narrow with suspicion.

  “If I wanted you to know, I’d have spoken louder,” she said calmly.

  He turned away muttering what she was sure were more blasphemies about annoying females.

  “You must make the priest weary with the length of your confessions,” she said.

  He raised one eyebrow. “Who says I confess anything?”

  She shook her head. The arrogant man probably thought his path to heaven was already assured, and that he acted in accordance to God’s will just by breathing.

  “Look, there it is!” Crispen shouted as he pointed eagerly ahead.

  They topped the hill and looked down at the stone keep nestled into the side of the next hill.

  The skirt was crumbled in several places, and there was a detail of men working steadily, replacing the stones at the wall. What she could see of the keep above the outer walls looked blackened by an old fire.

  The loch spread out to the right of the keep, the water glistening in the sunlight. One of the fingers meandered around the front of the keep, providing a natural barrier to the front gate. The bridge across it, however, sagged precariously in the middle. A temporary, narrow path over the water had been fashioned to the side, and it would only allow one horse at a time into the keep.

  Despite the obvious state of disrepair to the keep, the land was beautiful. Scattered across the valley to the left of the keep, sheep grazed, herded by an older man flanked by two dogs. Occasionally one of the dogs raced out to herd the sheep back into the imaginary boundary, and then he’d return to his master to receive an approving pat on the head.

  She turned to Alaric, who’d pulled to a stop beside her. “What happened here?”

  But he didn’t answer. A deep scowl creased his face, and his eyes went nearly black. She gripped the reins a little tighter and shivered under the intensity of his hatred. Aye, hatred. There could be no other term for what she saw in his eyes.

  Alaric spurred his horse, and hers followed automatically, leaving her to grab onto Crispen to make sure neither of them fell.

  Down the hill they rode, Alaric’s men flanking her protectively on all sides. Crispen fidgeted so hard in the saddle that she had to grip his arm so he wouldn’t jump out of his skin.

  When they reached the temporary crossing, Alaric halted to wait on her.

/>   “I’ll go in first. You follow directly behind me.”

  She nodded her understanding. It wasn’t as if she wanted to be the first into the keep anyway. In some ways, this was more frightening to her than arriving at Duncan Cameron’s keep because she didn’t know her fate here. She certainly knew what Cameron had in mind for her.

  They rode over the bridge and through the wide, arched entryway into the courtyard. A great shout went up, and it took her a moment to realize that it was Alaric who’d made the sound. She looked over to see him still astride his horse, his fist held high in the air.

  All around her, soldiers—and there were hundreds—thrust their swords skyward and took up the cry, raising and lowering their blades in celebration.

  A man entered the courtyard at a dead run, his hair flying behind him as his stride ate up the ground below him.

  “Papa!” Crispen cried, and scrambled out of the saddle before she could prevent him.

  He hit the ground running, and Mairin stared in fascination at the man she assumed was Crispen’s father. Her stomach knotted, and she swallowed, trying not to allow herself to panic all over again.

  The man was huge, and just as mean looking as Alaric, and she didn’t know how she could think it, when there was so much joy on his face as he swung Crispen into his arms, but he frightened her in a way that Alaric did not.

  The brothers were very similar in build and stature. Both had dark hair that fell below their shoulders, and both wore braids. As she looked around, though, it became apparent that all his men wore their hair the same way. Long, wild, and savage looking.

  “I’m so glad to see you, lad,” his father choked out.

  Crispen clung to the laird with his small arms, reminding Mairin of a burr stubbornly clinging to her skirts.

  Over Crispen’s head, his gaze met Mairin’s, and his eyes immediately hardened. He took in every detail about her, she was sure, and she twisted uncomfortably, feeling horribly picked apart under his scrutiny.

  She started to get down from her horse because she felt a little silly when everyone around her was dismounting, but Alaric was there, his hands reaching up to effortlessly pluck her from the horse and set her down on the ground.