Highlander Avenged (22 page)

“Nay, this is not the right place.” She climbed out of the water and began to run along its bank, lifting her skirts high enough to keep herself from tripping. Malcolm stayed as close as he could, scanning the wood around them for danger. Rowan was right behind him with Nicholas on her heels.

Soon the trees began to thin around them and just as he was about to call out to Jeanette to stop, she skidded to a halt and stepped back in the water.

“This will do. I would rather be out there”—she pointed to where the burn broke out of the wood and into the open meadow—“but we do not want to warn them what we are about.”

“I doubt much that they could have any idea what we are about, angel, even if they did see us. They do not know about you.”

She grinned at him and he did not know how he would live without her when this was over.

Rowan stood on the bank of the burn, the Targe sack open over her hands, the stone settled on top of it in her palms. Jeanette took a breath, then shook her head and took off her brogues, tossing the sopping shoes up onto the bank. She touched the stone, then began the ritual he had seen earlier this day. Her hands flew through the air. Strange words flowed from her mouth.

“Is it working?” he asked quietly, hoping Rowan could tell.

“Aye.” Rowan’s voice was almost flat, as if she was deep in concentration.

“Are you in pain, love?” Nicholas asked.

“A little.”

Jeanette stilled. “I do not want to hurt you, Rowan.”

“We must free Scotia. If it means a bit of pain for me, I will manage it. We cannot lose her.” The fierce words were at odds with the worry in her eyes.

“Can you place the stone on the ground?” Jeanette asked. “Let me try to create the barrier on my own.”

“But—”

“I promise I will ask for your help, as I did this morn, if I need it, but I think I understand better now what I need to do.”

“Promise?”

“I do.”

Just as Rowan reluctantly settled the stone on its opened sack on the ground, the sound of a branch cracking rang through the wood around them. Nicholas and Malcolm looked at each other.

“I shall see what company we have. Nicholas, keep them safe!” And Malcolm melted into the trees.

Jeanette felt the stirrings of panic but refused to let it take her over. Too many people were counting on her ability to use the Targe, to build a barrier, as her mother had done before her. She squatted down in the burn. The feel of her wet skirts pulled by the current was oddly soothing, reminding her of the power of water. She remembered standing on the stone in the grotto, the icy water lapping at her feet, and the power that surged through her with the visions. She had the Targe stone. She had water. And she was a Guardian.

She began the ritual again, this time keeping her eyes on the Targe but her mind on the water. She imagined herself pulling the power of the water into her, through her, and directed it to the Targe. Suddenly power was whooshing through her, tingling under her skin in its rush to the stone. The sounds of swords clashing broke her concentration. She looked around but could not see who was fighting.

“Malcolm?”

“He is doing his part,” Rowan said. “We must do ours. Do you need my help?”

Jeanette looked her cousin in the eye. “Nay. I was almost there. Let me build the barrier and then you will need to use the Targe with me to push it away from us. I cannot promise it will not hurt.”

“Hurry!” Nicholas said.

Jeanette was able to find the power almost immediately, as if it had been awaiting her returned attention. It flowed through her, to the Targe, and then, as she repeated the chant and made the motions, she could see the barrier taking form but it was too small. She pulled the energy through her as hard and as fast as she could, but it grew no larger than the size of a cottage.

“I have it, but it is not as big as I had hoped,” she said to Rowan, though her attention was fixed on the barrier now, her hands flying through the air, reweaving it where it began to unravel. “I do not know how long I can hold it,” she said through gritted teeth. “Move it now if you can!”

Rowan scooped up the Targe and raised it up in her hands. Wind whipped around them, almost knocking Jeanette over, but she refused to lose the focus needed to keep the barrier from disintegrating. Jeanette flipped her hands then, as if she was turning a basket over, balancing it on its edge, then continued with her constant repetition of the words and hand signs that kept the barrier intact.

“Now, Rowan!” Jeanette said, her teeth gritted together as if she held a great weight.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Rowan push her hands, still holding the Targe, away from her chest. The trees that stood between the burn and the open meadow bent under the force of the wind and the barrier.

“It is working!” Nicholas shouted.

Malcolm’s whoop joined Nicholas’s shout, signaling his return, but Jeanette dared not look to see if he remained uninjured. She kept her focus on the barrier, her hands moving swiftly through the air, the chant continuously flowing from her lips. In her mind she could see the barrier was now beyond the trees and moving across the meadow.

“Malcolm,” Nicholas said, “follow the shield and see how far it has traveled. I will keep watch here.”

M
ALCOLM RACED OUT
into the open, not far from where they stood, and the sight before him left him speechless.

“Malcolm!” Jeanette’s voice was tight and worried.

“It is still working!” he shouted back, no longer worried about being heard or seen. Where he was there was a gentle breeze, but over the meadow, almost to the hillock, a storm raged. Leaves, dirt, gravel, and anything else in the path of the protective barrier had been scraped up and hurled into the air. He could hear the growl of the wind and was grateful he was not caught in it. “You are at the stone now!” he shouted back as he jogged farther out into the meadow. “The stone stands!” He jogged a bit farther. “Keep it going! I have to get closer,” he yelled back at them, then ran full out as far as he thought he could go and still be heard.

“Drop it now! Drop it now!” he yelled as he could just make out the MacAlpin warriors surging out of the forest and clashing with the English soldiers who were running for their lives in front of the barrier. The sound of all the debris dropping when the wind stopped was like a heavy rain. He lifted his claymore and ran to the stone to free Scotia. He made it to the hillock just as he heard the first clash of swords. He skidded around the side of what he now saw was an almost square monolith, praying that Scotia was alive, unharmed, and still there.

The same gap-toothed soldier Jeanette had felled the day Malcolm met her had an arm around Scotia, holding her close against his chest, a dagger to her throat.

Malcolm cursed. “Let her go. You have lost. Release her now.”

“As long as I have her, I have not lost.” Gaptooth sneered at him. “I see you got my message.”

Malcolm saw Duncan streak out of the wood behind Gaptooth, instantly recognizing Duncan’s dark brown hair and determination. Another warrior was not far behind. Malcolm needed to keep the soldier occupied to give Duncan and the other man time to join him.

“We did. What would you trade her for?” Malcolm asked, waving his claymore around, holding it comfortably in both hands, to keep the soldier’s attention right where he wanted it.

“You know what I want—the traitor spy and his witch, along with that stone she always carries with her.”

“Ah, Nicholas and his lady wife.” He pretended to think about it, still waving his sword about just enough for the soldier to continue to watch Malcolm and his weapon. “I do not think that will happen.”

“Then the girl dies.”

Duncan was almost there.

“I think not. If the girl dies”—he moved just a little to turn the man toward the stone slightly, and he saw Scotia move her hands along the man’s arm where she gripped it, toward where his dagger arm crossed over it—“you will follow her immediately.”

The fool took a step back, only then discovering that Duncan stood behind him, his sword tip now against the man’s spine.

“I’ll slice her neck open.” Sweat popped out on the man’s brow and trickled down the side of his face.

“You will release her, or I shall slice through your spine,” Duncan said. The other warrior stood a few steps away, wisely leaving Duncan and Malcolm room to work.

Scotia stared at Malcolm as if she was trying to tell him something.

“Duncan,” she said, her voice breathless and weak, though the glint in her eye claimed otherwise. “If I die, promise me you will slice this man in quarters and feed him to the carrion birds.”

Malcolm saw her take a deep breath as if preparing herself, and then, with a shout, she pushed the soldier’s dagger arm away with all her might. Malcolm swung his claymore, slicing the man’s now outstretched hand, and the dagger it still gripped, from his arm. Gaptooth screamed. Scotia dropped to the ground like a deadweight the second the soldier’s grip loosened on her, then scrambled behind Malcolm as Duncan ran the man through. Gaptooth dropped where he stood, facedown, his blood pumping slowly from where his hand used to be, and blossoming from the center of his back where Duncan had severed his spine.

Malcolm pulled Scotia to her feet and only then did he notice that there was a shallow slice that oozed blood from just below her left ear, almost to her chin. A hair’s breadth deeper and she would be lying on the ground losing her lifeblood. She had scratches on her face and hands, probably from the debris flung into the air by Rowan’s gift, and there was a place on the side of her head where her black hair looked matted.

“Are you well?” he asked her, but her eyes were trained on the man who had held her.

Duncan stared at Scotia, his eyes full of relief and anger, his mouth working as if he tried to speak but could not form the words he needed to say.

The shouts and clangs of sword on sword, which Malcolm had not noticed while his attention was focused on freeing Scotia, suddenly drew his eye to the open area near where the Scots had hidden in the wood and the men still fighting hard there. His heartbeat doubled as it always did at the prospect of battling the English.

“Duncan, take her to Jeanette and Rowan.” He pointed to where he had left the two Guardians with Nicholas. “That cut on her neck needs tending. If Nicholas will leave the lasses in the care of the two of you”—he nodded at the other warrior still standing a few paces away—“tell him I await his company in battle!”

With that, Malcolm wheeled toward the fighting, the battle cry of the MacKenzies bursting from his lips, as it had in so many battles before, and his claymore held at the ready.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I
T WAS DARK
when Jeanette, Rowan, Scotia, Duncan, and the other clan warrior ventured out of the shelter of the wood, but a bright half-moon had finally risen and cast enough light for them to make their way across the meadow and head back toward the battleground. As they reached the hillock in the middle of the meadow, Duncan signaled for them to stop as he crept up the wind-scraped mound to peer over it. He quickly returned to them.

“Let us go around the hillock,” he said.

Jeanette started to ask him why but he just shook his head, his mouth set in a grim line, and she stopped. She forgot about her question as they neared where the battle had been joined. Even in the dark she could see bodies scattered about where they’d fallen. She quickly scanned those closest to her to see if any were known to her amongst the dead, if any of them had golden hair.

“These are all English soldiers,” Duncan said as if he, too, had been searching for their kinsmen.

Nicholas walked out of the darkness of the forest nearest them, his face and clothes spattered with what must be blood, though Jeanette could not make out the color in the moonlight. Rowan ran to him.

“Are you hurt?” she asked before she closed the distance between them.

“Nay, love.” His smile looked tired, but genuine. “None of the blood is mine, thanks to Uilliam’s tutelage these past weeks and Malcolm’s presence at my back this day.” He kissed his wife, then looked at Scotia. “It is good to see you alive. I hear we have Malcolm and Duncan to thank for that.”

Scotia had been silent since Duncan had brought her to them near the stream and she continued that now by replying with a slow nod.

“Where is Malcolm?” Jeanette asked.

Nicholas looked around. “He must be digging graves with some of the others.”

“We are not leaving them here to rot?” Duncan asked, indignation thick in his voice.

“Nay. Malcolm made the point that leaving them here to be found would give anyone looking for us information about how many we must be and at least an inkling of our tactics, though I do not think anyone would believe what really happened here.” Nicholas looked down at Rowan, then over at Jeanette. “You two make a formidable weapon. I am very glad I am on your side in this business.”

Scotia looked quickly from her cousin to her sister and back, her eyes filled with questions, but rather than ask them, she gave a quick, curt shake of her head, as if she’d answered them herself. She crossed her arms and looked at her feet.

“You should have seen the fear in the eyes of these men as they fled into our trap.” Uilliam waved a hand toward the dead as he joined them. “I confess, I had my own worries if you could not stop your barrier before it overran us as well.”

“We would not do that to the ones we love,” Rowan said. “It was impressive, aye?”

“Aye. There will be tales told around the fires for many nights to come.”

Shadows seemed to separate themselves from the darkness of the forest, MacAlpins come to drag bodies into the wood.

“I need to speak to Malcolm.” Jeanette left her family and headed into the forest. She needed to see if he, too, was unharmed, and
then she needed to ask him to stay. The terror that had overtaken her, when he did not return with Scotia and Duncan, had filled her mind with horrible possibilities. Her mouth had gone dry at the thought that he had been harmed, or killed, and she had not been able to sit still. Even if he lived, the idea of watching him leave her to return to a life of battles, where she would never know if he were alive or dead, was almost more than she could bear.

She reached for calm now that she knew he was alive, but she could not find it, not until she had seen him for herself. Not until she convinced him to stay.

As soon as she stepped into the wood she realized that she would not be able to see where she was going, for the leaves blocked almost all of the wan light cast by the moon.

Frustration and fatigue hit her all at once. “Malcolm?” she called out. “Malcolm?”

She heard footsteps at about the same moment she saw a small, flickering light.

“Angel?”

“I am here, but I have no light.” And suddenly he was in front of her. A candle in one hand, the other cupped around the flame to keep it from blowing out. He dropped the candle, extinguishing it as it fell, and swept her into his arms.

“You were magnificent,” he said, taking her face in his big hands. “You and Rowan, both.”

He kissed her then, quick and hard, crushing her against his chest as his tongue danced with hers. Desire kindled low in her stomach and she wanted to lose herself with him again, to love him, and have him love her, as they had loved each other in the grotto. And she knew he had been as worried about her as she was about him.

“Do not go,” she whispered against his lips between kisses. “I ken it is selfish of me. I ken that there is more than you and I at stake. But I do not want you to go.”

He kissed her again, softer this time, lingering as he kissed the corner of her mouth, then sliding the tip of his tongue along the line between her lips as if inviting her to open them to him, which she did, though she couldn’t help but notice that he had not replied to her entreaty.

At last he held her close and rested his head against hers. “I would stay if I could, angel. I would have you come with me if you could, but neither of us can forsake our duties. And we would not like ourselves much if we did.”

Her throat clogged with grief and she struggled to draw in breath as she hugged him tightly to her.

“ ’Tis the hardest thing I have ever done, angel mine,” he whispered to her, his voice gruff as if his throat, too, were clogged with grief and heartbreak. “But I still cannot see another way.”

She knew he was right, but the grief—more grief—fought against reason and for a moment she tried to think of ways to manipulate him to stay with her, but only for a moment. That was not her way. She closed her eyes against the tears that begged for release and she listened to his heartbeat one last time before she stepped back. He grabbed her hands and they stood there looking at each other, though it was so dark, she could hardly make out his beloved features.

“When will you leave?” Her voice shook and she swallowed back her heartbreak lest she fall apart in front of him. She struggled to think of his grin, his twinkling eyes, the feel of his skin beneath her hands, the wonder of joining with him in the grotto, and the way he always made her feel safe when he was near.

“At first light.” He ran a finger down her cheek and she could not help but close her eyes and lean into his touch. “I do not ken where King Robert’s army fights now, so it may take me some time to find them.”

“Will you ever return here?” she asked, not sure if she really wanted to hear his answer.

“I do not ken. Angel, you are the seer.” She could hear a smile in his voice. “Perhaps you should see what the future holds for us.”

She shook her head. “I do not want to.”

“Nay?”

“I fear I will not like what I see, that it will destroy my fervent hope to see you again one day.” She stepped back into his embrace, hugging him tightly to her one last time as the tears she had fought streamed down her face.

S
EVEN LONG DAYS
later, Malcolm approached the camp of King Robert’s army late in the afternoon. It had not been easy to learn where the king was, though he had heard of the great Battle of Loudoun Hill and the routing of the English army. King Edward of England was no doubt livid that the king of Scotland had remained free once again.

“Who goes there?” a sentry shouted at him. The shout was meant as much for Malcolm as to warn the other sentries, and anyone else close enough to hear, that there was possible trouble.

“ ’Tis Malcolm MacKenzie of Blackmuir,” he replied.

There was silence as he continued to approach the sentry.

“Malcolm? Step closer.”

When he was close enough to make out the sentry’s shaggy red hair and short stature, Malcolm smiled at the familiar face.

“We thought you dead!” the man said, slapping Malcolm on the back.

“I thought so myself, a time or two, but I am alive, and so it seems, are you, Gregor.”

“Where have you been?” the man asked, his excitement quieting.

“That is something I must speak to the king about. He is here, is he not?”

“Aye, you can see his tent just there.” He pointed toward the center of the encampment where a tent larger than the others
flew a pennant of red and yellow. “Come and find me tonight. I would hear this tale of yours.”

Malcolm smiled but promised nothing. He could not tell the secrets of Clan MacAlpin to anyone but the king, and even in that he would be careful what he told and what he did not. ’Twas bad enough that one king wanted the Highland Targe and its Guardians. He’d not tempt King Robert with the full story of what Rowan and his angel could do.

A familiar pang of remorse hit him, turning his mood dark, as it had been every day since he’d left Jeanette. If he could find a way to discharge his duty to the king and to his clan, he would surely do it, but even after a sennight of battling the problem, he could not see a solution for himself, though he hoped he had found one for the MacAlpins.

He waited outside King Robert’s tent for some time before he was finally summoned inside.

“It is good to see you alive, Malcolm,” the king said, motioning for Malcolm to take a seat on the stool across the table from him. He pushed a stack of maps aside. “We have missed your sword in our battles since last I saw you. It was Dalrigh, was it not?”

“Aye, sire, it was. I was sorely wounded there and it has taken me a long time to recover.”

He then began the story of the MacAlpins and King Edward’s desire to obtain a relic they had. He did not say anything of the Guardians, nor did he say anything about the true power of the stone, though he did relate the lore of it.

“They have fought back the English twice now, but have paid dearly for it. They have had to abandon their home and take to caves until they can be sure the English are no longer after their relic, or until they can repair their castle enough to return there. They need help, my lord.”

“And you expect me to send men to their aid?”

“Not expect, but I do ask. There is reliable information that Edward has sent a contingent of men against them, led by Lord Sherwood, and they’re due to arrive in Glen Lairig anytime now.” He hoped the king would not ask where that reliable information came from, for he was certain the man would not believe it came from a vision.

The king grew thoughtful. “We had reports of ships leaving Ayr, with Sherwood and forty men aboard today. But we could not learn where they were bound.” He cast Malcolm a calculating look. “If the relic is just a stone, why do they not give it over to the English and be rid of them?”

Ire burned in Malcolm’s bones but he tried to keep his tongue civil. “Some say the Stone of Scone that you would have been crowned upon, if Edward had not stolen it, is just a relic. Should we not worry about retrieving it from English hands?”

The king steepled his fingers against his mouth, his head barely nodding. “You owe this clan something in exchange for their care of you, aye?”

“I do, but this is more important than what I owe them. King Edward hopes to crush the spirit of the Highlanders by taking this relic and crushing the clan that protects it, but I think he underestimates the spirit of the Highlanders.”

King Robert narrowed his eyes as he considered what Malcolm
had told him.

“Do these Highlanders not have allies they can call upon?” he asked at last.

“The former chief has been dispatched to rally them, but he had been gone at least a fortnight, with no word, when I left the clan.” He carefully considered his next words. “Sire”—he rubbed his right hand with his left, as Jeanette had taught him to do to loosen up tight muscles, a thought only now occurring to him—“since it is the English they fight, would you consider sending me back there as fulfillment of my service to you?”

“You would go back to fight with them even if I send no one with you?”

“I would.” Malcolm leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and looked straight into the king’s eyes in the hopes that Robert could see that every word he spoke was sincere. “They are good people fighting for Scotland, every bit as much as this army does. They are loyal to you and your cause. They have done nothing to merit these repeated attacks by an avaricious king, except that they protect something he covets, something that has been in their keeping for generations, something he knows nothing about except that it is revered in the Highlands as a protector of the place and its people. He does not even know if the lore is true, yet he harries this clan with spies and scouts, and soon, by the sound of it, a full detachment of soldiers. They are a small clan. I do not know if they can stand against those numbers on their own. I do not ken if one more warrior will turn the tide, but I would try.”

Robert leaned back in his chair and propped his feet on the table. He laced his fingers across his midsection and once more considered Malcolm.