Highlander Avenged (18 page)

She’d not be managed any longer.

Triumph and anger mixed with the deep slash of festering grief within her, heating her blood like a fever, making her more determined than ever to do what she had sworn to do: avenge her mother’s death.

Sure, the man who had murdered her mum had died by Kenneth’s hand in front of all the castlefolk, but she had found little satisfaction in that. She wanted the English to fear the people of Clan MacAlpin. She wanted the English to fear her. She had lived in fear of them for far too long. Today she would end that once and for all. Today she would prove to everyone that she was not some wee lass that had to be managed and protected. She wasn’t a wee lass anymore. She thought about how she’d spent her days, flirting with the lads and manipulating everyone she knew to do her bidding . . . except Duncan. He was the one person who never fell for her charms. He was the one who always had the sour face when looking at her, as if he could approve of nothing she did. As if she needed his approval. Hah.

Today she would show him and all the rest of her clan just exactly who she was, and wouldn’t they all be surprised when it was Scotia who brought the English to their knees, quaking in fear.

She slipped into the tent she shared with several women who did the cooking and washing for the warriors. Once inside, she donned the tunic and trews she had “borrowed” from one of the kitchen lads before she left the castle, then dug in the sack that contained everything important to her, including her mother’s eating knife and the dirk, long and mortally sharp, that had been used to kill her. That bastard spy’s dagger would do more damage this day. She secured the weapons in the belt she had buckled about her waist to keep the trews up.

Now the question was simply, Where would she start looking for the English? Duncan, the ass, continued to claim he had not found them, only their abandoned camp near the Story Stone, though he had let slip that it appeared there were only a handful of English in the glen so far. The Story Stone was west of the castle, not far from the loch, while she was south and east of her home now, huddled in a glenlike fold of the mountain. She peeked out of the tent and waited until she could exit it without being seen. Quietly, she slipped around the side of her tent and headed into the thick wood in which the warriors’ camp had been set up. She passed a place where someone had been chopping wood. A small ax lay on the ground, left behind by its owner. She picked it up and slid the smooth wooden handle through her belt without stopping. It was no battle ax, but then she could not wield a heavy battle ax. She could hear Duncan’s derisive retort in her head: “You cannot wield any weapon. You are just a scrawny lass.”

“Not anymore,” she said aloud from between clenched teeth, and banished Duncan’s voice from her head.

Indeed, since before they had left the castle, Scotia had been working hard to make herself stronger, running up and down the ben, hefting stones ever bigger, ever heavier, until at night her fingers would be bloodied and her extremities and back would ache. She had not been able to do any of that since they had been driven out of the castle. She cursed Duncan again, even though she knew he was not responsible for that decision. She hadn’t been able to train, but she had watched the warriors training since she’d come to the warriors’ camp, memorizing their moves and the tips they gave each other, so she could move as lethally as they did when her chance arose.

Just then the trees opened up, allowing her a view of her home. She stopped, her breath caught in her throat. She missed her home. She missed her mother. She missed how safe she had felt there, and how simply she’d viewed her world and her place in it. She knew how naïve she had been. She had never been safe there. No one had. Wall or no wall. Guardian or no Guardian. If her mum had not been able to keep them safe, Rowan had not a hope of doing so.

And while the rest of them seemed content to wait for the English to arrive in force, she was done waiting. She was taking the fight to them, even if she had to do it alone.

M
ALCOLM AND
J
EANETTE
led Rowan and Nicholas to the burn where Jeanette had seen Scotia in trouble this morning. They needed privacy for the next experiment and the grotto was much farther away than the burn. This place had worked for Jeanette’s scrying once, so it seemed likely, if she could use the Targe stone, it should work here again.

When they arrived, Rowan and Jeanette stood near the water. The men held back far enough to be out of the way, though Malcolm positioned himself close enough to Jeanette to catch her if she collapsed, as she had in the grotto.

Rowan handed the sack to her cousin, then joined the men. Jeanette placed the sack on the ground, loosening the ties until the circular piece of ermine pelt lay flat, the stone in its center, as Rowan had held it, and with the three symbols, now visible, painted around the edge. Jeanette knelt next to it and began to chant and move her arms in the air.

Malcolm recognized the graceful arcs and swishes of her hands in the air from yesterday and this morning, when she had whispered whatever she was now chanting. It warmed him, in an unaccustomed way, to know that he was trusted with this secret of Clan MacAlpin, that he stood shoulder to shoulder with these people who had lost much more than he had in the fight against the English, though they had never gone to war. They fought their own sort of battle for their home and their country.

Jeanette lifted the stone into her hands, raising it up as if she were offering it to God. They all waited, expectation thick in the air, but Malcolm knew it wasn’t working. She wasn’t seeing anything.

After a long time, she lowered her hands to her lap. “Nothing.” But she didn’t look at those gathered there, she narrowed her eyes and studied the open sack as if she’d never seen it before. No one moved. They clearly knew that look as well as Malcolm was coming to know it. She was working through the problem, sorting through all she knew and adding what she had just learned to it, before she came up with—

“Rowan,” she said quietly without lifting her gaze from the sack. “Will you help me?”

Rowan quickly joined her cousin, kneeling opposite her, the sack between them.

“How?” she asked.

Jeanette was quiet again, then nodded, as if she was satisfied with whatever she had decided. “Take the stone.” She laid it in Rowan’s outstretched hands, then Rowan turned the sack until the mirror symbol sat in front of Jeanette, and an inverted V with three wavy lines beneath it lay in front of Rowan. A third symbol that looked like an arrow broken in two places, so it formed the shape of a Z, lay closest to the men. Jeanette laid her own hands over the stone.

“Draw forth the power of the Targe, Rowan. Send it through the stone. Send it through me.”

“Send it through you?”

“Aye. ’Twas your use of the Targe without the protections that brought my gift forth, I am sure of it. Perhaps you will open the power of the Targe for me.”

“I dinna ken how to send it through you.”

“Clearly you have learned how to send your gift through the Targe in order to focus it where you need it to go, as I saw when you toppled the trees in a perfect triangle around those soldiers. Just send the power of the stone, the power that you direct with your gift, to me instead of a tree.”

Rowan shook her head. “I do not want to hurt you, Cousin.”

“And you will not.”

“You cannot be sure.”

“I trust you,” Jeanette said, and Malcolm could see Rowan’s breath catch but she nodded slowly and locked her gaze on Jeanette’s.

His angel didn’t chant and move her hands this time. The two women sat quietly, tension cascading off of them enough to fill the wood. Birds abandoned the trees nearby and even the little telltale sounds of small animals moving through the forest ceased.

Malcolm couldn’t stand it any longer.

“Jeanette.” He kept his voice soft, quiet, trying not to startle her. “Think of the water in the cup, the water in the pool covering the stone. ’Tis the water that brought you the waking visions.”

She took a long, deep breath and nodded slightly. She kept one hand on the stone where Rowan still held it between them, and reached out with the other, letting her fingertips dip into the edge of the burn. A sudden wind whipped through the wood, scattering leaves and dropping bits of trees in its path. Jeanette threw her head back. Both women’s hair lifted and danced about them in the wind. Gooseflesh rode Malcolm’s skin. He took a step toward them and was stopped with an iron grip upon his arm.

“Nay,” Nicholas said. “Do not stop them. The wind is a sign that Rowan’s gift is active. She will not hurt Jeanette with it, but she will hurt you if you try to interfere. As will I.”

Malcolm itched to go to Jeanette with the same white-hot urgency that had propelled him into his last battle. In his mind Nicholas became Cameron, Malcolm’s cousin and best friend, who had also bade him not to act upon his instincts. Cameron, it turned out, had been right, he now realized. His men had been battle weary, injured, ill, but Malcolm had seen nothing but a chance to beat back the English and their Scottish allies. Cameron had seen more clearly than Malcolm that it was not time to engage in battle again. Nicholas understood his wife’s gift, and likely the Targe, far better than Malcolm could and he counseled patience. He shrugged off Nicholas’s grip but did not retreat from his position halfway between the chief and the women. Neither did he move to Jeanette’s side, though the need to do so was fierce. His angel learned from what did not work for her. He could do the same, learning from his mistake that had almost cost him his sword arm, but that had also brought him to this clan and Jeanette.

Just when he thought he could hold his position no longer, Jeanette yanked her hand off the stone. Rowan slumped and the wind immediately died; leaves fluttered to the ground in the sudden still and quiet.

“Now,” Nicholas said, striding to his wife.

Malcolm was kneeling by Jeanette instantly. “Angel? Are you well?” He brushed her silky hair away from where it tangled over her face, searching for any sign of injury. He was rewarded with a smile full of wonder, her blue eyes alight with what he knew was a look of understanding, of knowledge gained.

“What did you see?” he asked.

The light in her eyes went out like a storm cloud covering the sun. “They will be here soon, too soon,” she said. “Nicholas, the English are drawing near. I saw a soldier on a horse, leading I know not how many men. He had dark hair with a lock of pure white.”

Nicholas narrowed his eyes. “He rides a honey-colored horse, aye?” he asked Jeanette.

“He does. There were three red stars upon his surcoat, too. You ken who this man is?”

Nicholas took a deep breath and pushed his fingers through his hair. “I do. He is Lord Sherwood. I have met him several times during my service with King Edward. He is a very able commander of men. Sly, good with tactics. King Edward relies on him for advice in battle.” He shook his head. “He is a formidable foe. Did you see more?”

“I could not tell where they were, except that it looked like they were moving toward the coast—I could smell the salt air. I could hear the sound of men marching but I could not see them clearly enough to tell how many there were. I cannot tell exactly when I saw them, but ’twas still summer to be sure. The purple and yellow Heel Cups were in full bloom, so I cannot be seeing far into the future, for they will start blooming very soon now.”

Nicholas nodded. “It is as we thought, but good to have verification that they will be upon us soon. Did you seek out that vision or did it just come to you?”

“Both. Three times the visions have come through me in a stream, all jumbled together, but I am learning how to grab a specific one long enough to look at it. I can’t see much—there always seems to be a fog around all but something or someone specific. I searched the stream for something of the English this time, once I figured out how to call the visions to me through the stone.”

She leaned against Malcolm then, and he pulled her close.

“Thank you for reminding me of the water,” she said. “I was so intent upon the Targe that I forgot what I had learned only this morning.”

“You have learned a lot,” Rowan said, a smile on her tired face. “You learned how to use the Targe much faster than I did.”

Nicholas looked down at his wife where she stood leaning against him. “She used the Targe?”

“Aye, my love. It would seem we have two Guardians to fight the English,” Rowan said with a broad smile.

Malcolm felt Jeanette stiffen against him. “What is it, angel?”

“It is the destiny I always expected,” she said, looking at everyone standing in a circle about her, “but not the one I want now.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“W
HY, ANGEL?
’T
IS
what you have prepared for your whole life,” Malcolm said. Jeanette could not make herself look up at him lest she cry. She was about to break his heart and it was breaking hers first.

“Is it because of Malcolm?” Rowan asked.

“I need to speak to him alone,” Jeanette said. “He does not ken what this means, Rowan.”

“What is it I do not ken?” he asked, his voice rough now. “What have you not told me, Jeanette?”

“We will return to the caves,” Rowan said, pulling Nicholas by the hand, back the way they’d come. “Do not be too long, my cousin. We must decide how best to use two Guardians.”

Jeanette nodded, waiting as long as she could before she had to tell Malcolm the truth of her new status, but he was impatient.

“What is it you have to tell me?” His voice was gruff but she could not tell if it was from anger or concern.

She turned to face him. “I love you, you ken that, aye?”

“I do, and you ken I feel the same?”

She nodded, swallowing hard against the lump that rose in her throat. “I cannot marry you, Malcolm.”

“Because you are now a Guardian?”

“Aye.”

“But Rowan is a Guardian and she is wed to Nicholas. We are no different. You said you were mine, and I was yours.” He took her hands in his iron grip as if he knew he was losing her. “In the old way, we are married already.”

“But you did not know,
we
did not know, that I would be a Guardian of the Targe. I am no longer simply a member of the clan, free to make my own choices.”

“There is another you must wed now?”

“Nay, never. There will never be anyone but you in my heart. You are my heart, but I will not hold you to vows given without understanding what you would have to give up.”

“I give up nothing to marry with you, Jeanette, my angel. I only gain.”

“Nay. To marry me now, you would have to give up everything you want for your life. You would have to give up your birthright, your destiny.”

“But you are my destiny. Can you not feel that?” She could hear the confusion and the knife edge of anger in his voice now and see it in the tense lines around his mouth. “You dinna want to be my wife now that you are a Guardian? Is that it?”

“Oh, Malcolm.” She reached up to touch his beloved face but he flinched away from her, anger now clear in the sharpness of his glare. “I want nothing more than to be your wife, to live by your side for the rest of our years. I want to have your bairns, and watch them grow up strong and wise, like their father. That is what I want above all else. But I will not have my wishes at the expense of yours.”

“I do not understand, Jeanette. What are you not saying?”

She stood as tall as she could, girding herself against the pain she was inflicting on both of them. ’Twas best to just say it straight out, ’twas kindest, though she longed for one more kiss, one more precious moment between them. But that was a selfish desire. She would have to satisfy her aching heart with what they had already shared. What she must say to him now would end everything between them. It must.

“As a Guardian, whomever I marry must forsake his own clan, his own home, and bide with me at Dunlairig. He must swear allegiance to the MacAlpins and forswear all other allegiances. As Guardian I cannot leave this land, for now I am truly a guardian of it, holding it safe for all the generations that have come before me, and all who will come after. I cannot even offer you the traditional role of the Guardian’s Protector, for the Protector is also the chief, and I will not ask Nicholas to step down from that post. The Targe chose Rowan first for a reason, most likely because her gift is a powerful weapon. Her chosen Protector is chief.”

She waited for him to say something but when the silence grew too heavy to bear, she said, “You see I have nothing to offer you that mitigates the loss of your birthright. You were born to be the chief of the MacKenzies. You cannot be the chief of the MacAlpins. If you marry me, you must renounce your family. You will simply be a warrior of the MacAlpin clan and I will not let you do that.”

“You will not let me? What if I wish to give up my birthright?”

A flicker of hope sparked in her heart, but was quickly extinguished. “You would come to hate me, I fear. Malcolm”—and this time she did not let him flinch away as she took his beloved face between her palms—“I love you with all my heart, but I cannot let you throw away your own destiny simply because mine has changed. If I were not a Guardian, I would be free to wed you and live amongst your people. I would be free to be your Lady at Blackmuir Castle and I would gladly make that choice, though I would miss my family. I do not have that choice.”

“And you would make my choice for me?”

She reached up on her toes and kissed him lightly. “I do not wish to hurt you more than I already have. Your arm is healed. Your hand is getting stronger every day. Soon you will be ready to resume your place in King Robert’s army, and then you will become the chief of your clan. It is what you have wanted all along.”

“But now I want you, too.” He took her lips in a bruising kiss that spoke of the love and loss that battled in both of them. “I want you, too,” he said, resting his forehead against hers.

“But you can’t have both. Neither of us can. Not now. I am sorry.” She kissed him on the cheek, and felt a tear trickle down her own. “I do love you,” she said, turning away quickly before the single tear turned into a torrent.

M
ALCOLM WATCHED HIS
future walk away from him, too stunned to follow. He shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck. The pain of his battle wound had been easier to bear than this. Why had she not told him sooner? He had known Nicholas had changed sides to wed Rowan, but he had not understood that the man had no choice. That Rowan had no choice. And now Jeanette would take all choice away from him. He fisted his hands, the right one now almost closing completely, and, for the first time, found himself wishing Jeanette was not such a gifted healer, that his arm would never fully heal. If he could never wield a claymore again, he would not be worthy of taking his father’s place as the chief, and he could stay here, with her. He could be her husband, her protector, even if he was not the chief.

But his arm
was
healed. His hand did grow stronger every day.

There must be a way. Malcolm had never given up a battle, and he would not give up this one, either. Jeanette would be his. ’Twas only a matter of figuring out how.

Figuring out how . . .

His hand was not fully functioning yet, so he had time before he must decide his fate. Perhaps there was some compromise that could be found, some way to allow them to be together without giving up their duties to their clans.

Malcolm had to laugh at himself with that thought. Compromise. ’Twas what his father had been trying to teach him all along, and all it had taken to teach him the value of it was for him to fall in love. He hurried back to the caves. Jeanette might believe there was no way they could be together now, but he’d not give her up without a fight.

J
EANETTE QUICKLY PACKED
her few things in a leather travel sack as the events of the day preoccupied her: the joy of that moment when the power of the Targe surged through her, the visions coming fast but somehow under her control this time, and the despair that swept all the joy away when Rowan confirmed what Jeanette already knew—she was a Guardian of the Highland Targe and her future was no longer hers to decide. Did any of the visions contain happiness or was her gift only the bringer of pain?

She swiped an errant tear from her lashes. She had no time to wallow in self-pity. She had become what she had always wanted, though not in the conventional way. As a Guardian of the Highland Targe, she would be able to help her clan in far more important ways than seeing them settled in the caves. She should be elated, as she had always imagined she would be. But never had she seen Malcolm in her daydreams.

And she knew she would not see him much more. As soon as he could wield his claymore again, he would be gone. If she could go back to the stream and change what had transpired there . . . if he had not reminded her of the water’s role in her visions . . . would she?

She knew the answer. She would not. This was her birthright and she could not give it up, any more than she could ask him to give up his.

“Enough,” she said out loud, needing to hear it. She stuffed the last kirtle into the sack, then looked around to see what else she needed to take with her to the warriors’ camp. She was a Guardian now. She must participate in the plans to fight back the English, and if what she saw in her vision came true, if Scotia was held hostage by their enemies, what then? She prayed Duncan had returned to the camp fast enough to prevent that, but even so, Scotia was headstrong and often did not listen, especially not to Duncan. “Enough,” she said again. There were only so many things she could worry about and at this moment, packing to leave the caves needed her full attention. She headed toward the mouth of the cave, grabbing an empty waterskin as she passed a small pile of them.

Water. It seemed she needed water to call the visions to her. She grabbed three more waterskins and called for a lad as she stepped into the dappled sunlight outside the cave. Quickly she told him what she needed, and sent him off at a run.

Rowan looked at her oddly.

Jeanette shrugged. “If I need water for the visions, ’twill do me no good to be without a ready supply.”

“Do you think ’tis that water specifically?”

“I do not think so. It did not look like the water in the grotto spilled out of there. ’Tis possible there is something about the water in this glen, but it does not seem likely to me. Water, mirrors, some crystal stones—those are the tools used for scrying.”

“You have learned this from the chronicles?”

“Aye, but little else of use. There is no mention of there ever having been more than one Guardian at a time. Nor any mention of more than one Protector, either.”

“Malcolm did not like what you told him.”

“He did not. Is it that obvious?”

“He is like a bear with a thorn in his paw, growling at everyone about everything.”

Jeanette closed her eyes, pushing the grief she held over hurting him, and over her own loss, as far down as possible into the blackness where all her other grief lived, but still it clogged her throat and lay like a stone in her belly. The lad sprinted back into the clearing just then, skidding to a halt in front of Jeanette and handing her the four heavy, wet bags without a word.

“We should go,” she said to Rowan.

The hike to the warriors’ camp went swiftly and silently. Nicholas had instructed the six warriors who had been keeping watch at the pass into the Glen of Caves to surround them as they traveled, but to keep out of sight of the group, making it easier to surprise any English soldiers they might run across. Then he set a fast pace that Rowan and Jeanette had trouble keeping up with. Malcolm walked just behind them, his claymore drawn for the first time since Jeanette had known him. The men were all positioned to protect Rowan, but then Jeanette remembered that now she, too, was a Guardian. It was both women they protected.

After a couple of hours they reached the camp, which was little more than a large cooking fire, out now in order to limit the opportunity for them to be found by its scent or smoke. There were scattered piles of belongings here and there amongst the trees, and a few tents. But no people. Jeanette knew there had been scouts watching their approach, for she had heard the owl call they all used as a signal as they drew near the camp.

“Where is everyone?” Jeanette asked.

Nicholas let out a shrill call like that of a hawk and Denis, the old gatekeeper, stepped from behind the trunk of a huge pine tree.

“What’s happened?” Nicholas asked as the rest of his party came to a stop behind him. Their six warrior escorts fanned out to keep watch around them all.

Denis limped forward. “Duncan arrived with the warning for Scotia but she was not here. We do not ken if she left on her own, or was somehow taken from our midst without any of us knowing.”