Highlander Medieval 06 - Her Highland Hero (3 page)

“Mayhap you should have just bedded the lass,” Finbar said. “Put both of you out of misery. Mayhap her da would come around.”

As if Marcus could ever be alone with the lass to make that happen.

The kiss they had shared made him only desire her more. He wanted more than anything in the world for the lady to be his wife, his lover, and the mother of his bairns, but he couldn’t bring his clan into this. If he stole her away, many of his people could suffer or die should the earl and his men fight to have her returned home.

Honor bound, he could not take the lady in such a manner. She was too precious to him. He knew how much she loved her father, and it could put a wedge between them forever.

“She loves you,” Rob said, “just like I said. How you ever won her over is beyond me when Finbar and I are so much brawer.”

Shaking his head, unable to find the humor in the situation as much as he usually could, Marcus stiffly mounted his horse. “Unless I can change the earl’s mind, there is no hope for us.”

“Dinna be daft, man,” Finbar said. “She is worth moving mountains for.”

“He wants someone to produce an heir who will inherit his title and lands. No’ a Highlander who wouldna live with her in the earl’s world.”

“Mayhap ‘tis time for the lass to learn the truth of her heritage,” Rob said darkly.

Marcus did not want to be the one to tell her the truth. The word should come from the earl. He suspected the man would not speak with her about it ever, if he could hide the secret from her forever.

“Come,” Marcus said. “‘Tis nearly time for the celebration, and a bonny lass awaits my first dance.” Marcus wondered though. Mayhap it was time that she learned the truth even if it meant he was the one who would have to tell her. Would she hate him for it?

That’s what he feared.

When he arrived at the keep, the evening did not go as planned. He was permitted the first dance and tried to keep his distance from the lass as deemed appropriate, but the way Isobel looked so adoringly at him and moved in closer than was considered proper, he heard quite a few grumbles. She was declaring her heart to him, and her actions were not lost on the assembled lords and ladies.

He loved her for it, but feared for her, too. What if her da decided to force her to wed any Englishman of his own choice just to ensure Isobel didn’t ruin her chances because of the affection she showed Marcus?

An English baron by the name of Erickson swept her across the floor after that, dancing her as far away from Marcus as he could manage. He glanced in Marcus’s direction, green eyes narrowed, a small smirk on his face as if telling him the lady was now his. Wanting to growl his displeasure, Marcus then noticed Lord Fenton, arms folded, his expression aggravated as he watched Isobel dance. He was another of Isobel’s suitors, though after she had broken his nose years ago, Marcus wondered why the baron still wished to wed the lass—well, for the earldom, he supposed. Marcus feared for Isobel’s safety should she wed him. The man was nondescript—ordinary wheat-colored hair, pale brown eyes—the only thing remarkable about him—the slightly crooked nose. Marcus smiled evilly.

As if he knew Marcus was observing him, Fenton turned to look at him, his mouth turning down even more than before. Marcus suspected Isobel had never told her da what she’d done to the man or Lord Pembroke would not have agreed to allow the baron to court her.

Standing next to Fenton, a baron named Hammersfield glanced in Marcus’s direction. Hammersfield began to speak to Fenton, both eyeing Marcus with contempt. Amused at the way Hammersfield had his hair rolled to imitate King Henry’s curls, Marcus eyed him back with just as much scorn. He wondered if the baron dispensed with the curls when he was engaged in combat in the field. Both men were dressed in their finery, their garments heavily embroidered to show off their wealth. Marcus, on the other hand, wore much simpler clothes, not about to have a clanswoman work so many hours on embellishing his clothes to catch Isobel’s eye as if he were a bird showing off his plumage. Lord Erickson’s bright red hair was already showy enough, but he wore clothes to match. If he dressed like that on the battlefield, he would be his enemies’ easiest target.

Movement to his right caught Marcus’s eye and he saw both Hammersfield and Fenton grinning like a couple of fools before Marcus turned to see two armed men stalking toward him. The burly men were armed and not dressed in finery like the others attending the function, both broad of chest, and looked fit enough to wield the swords they wore. He knew this was not a social call.

“Come with us,” the taller of the two men said.

Marcus looked back at the dancers, but could not see Isobel. He did not wish her to make a scene should she see he was leaving so abruptly without saying goodbye when he was certain where this was headed, but he did not want her to believe he had left of his own accord, either, without saying goodbye.

He caught her maid’s eye as she waited nearby, her gaze taking in all. Her expression concerned—though for him or for Isobel when she learned he was sent away—he wasn’t certain. Mary nodded just once to him as if to say she would relay his regrets to her mistress.

“Do not tarry. Move.” This time the black-haired man touched the hilt of his sword, the implied threat that he would use whatever force necessary.

Marcus was unarmed, his sword left with his horse. He’d never expected to have to fight any man at the earl’s keep. Not that he would have been allowed to carry a weapon into the keep.

As the two men led him to the stables, the one who seemed to be in charge said, “The earl did not wish you to have to make your long journey home so late at night. ‘Tis not safe, you know. Best you leave now.” He smiled broadly, malice in his black eyes as he folded his arms, his thick body positioned so if Marcus took a step toward the keep, he would not be successful.

Marcus had not seen the earl this eve, but he must have been angered at Isobel’s flaunting of her dancing with him.

“Aye, ‘tis fortunate you were able to dance with the lady once. Run along now like a good lad, will you?” the other said condescendingly, looking just as determined to send Marcus on his way and just as sinister, though he was smaller in size, but wiry looking.

Marcus looked back at the sizeable keep, the four stone towers stretching into the diffused light of gloaming, sconces holding torches, the golden flames wavering in the breeze. He wished with all his heart that he could take Isobel away, hating that he could not. He turned on his heel and entered the stable where a lad was quickly saddling his horse.

Once Marcus had mounted his horse, he steered him through the inner bailey and beyond the gates to the road in the direction of the village across the border where his cousins waited for him at The Wildeswin. His cousins would never expect him to arrive this early, and he hoped he wouldn’t upset their plans overmuch. He couldn’t quit thinking about the way Isobel had kissed him back, the way she’d wanted him to marry her, the way she’d promised to change her da’s mind about them. He knew the earl would not.

Marcus didn’t believe threatening her da with the truth would sway him to give her up either, though he had considered it. He was thinking of other options he might try, even sending a missive to the English king, to let him know the true story. Would the king take his word over a Norman earl’s? Would he even care to learn the truth and would it matter one whit? As many illegitimate children as King Henry had, most likely not.

Marcus hadn’t traveled more than a half a mile beyond Lord Pembroke’s castle before three men on horseback came out of the woods, all with swords drawn. They were dressed in tunics of fine wool cloth and trewes, not like the average ruffians looking to steal from a person traveling alone.

“Kill the savage who believes he is good enough to be one of us,” a brown-bearded man said, his long hair in tangles, his brown eyes narrowed.

Marcus knew then that this was not a random encounter. He didn’t recognize any of the men. He was certain whoever had sent them had done so because of Isobel, probably a lord interested in her hand in marriage who was still at the party either dancing with her or watching her dance.

Marcus unsheathed his sword with a whoosh and looked from one to another, measuring them for the task.

The boldest of the men charged him. Blood hot with fury, Marcus swung his broadsword at the bearded man, cutting him down from his horse in a mighty blow. Mayhap the savage was better trained to deal with whoever these men were than they thought. Or mayhap that was why three of them were tasked to murder him.

The man lay still on the ground, blood spilling from his chest. The two men who were left hesitated, and then a younger man with his hair cut close gave a war cry and kneed his horse to take Marcus on next. Swords clashed, clanging in the cool night air, the sound ringing through the woods.

The angry clashing of swords, metal striking metal, the horses’ heavy footfalls as they pranced while the two men fought, the horses’ snorts, and the men’s grunts filled the air.

Marcus struck a decisive blow, ripping the sword from the man’s grasp. The man quickly went for a dagger, and Marcus shoved his sword into the man’s belly. He yanked his blade free.

Before the man even fell from his horse, Marcus felt a sword slicing across his back. He cursed revenge and turned his horse so quickly, he unsettled his attacker’s mount. The horse reared upward, unseating the brigand. He fell to the rocky earth, landing hard on his back with an “oof,” and didn’t move.

Marcus waited for him to clamber to his feet and renew the attack, but the man’s gray eyes grew shadowed, then stared up at him lifelessly. Blood spread over the ground from the back of the man’s head.

Warily, Marcus dismounted, his own back burning with pain. The whoreson couldn’t even fight him in an honest battle man to man. Though what had Marcus expected when three of them had been set upon him?

He kicked the man aside, saw the rock he’d struck his head on, and shook his head. “Next time, you will have to send a bigger force to deter me, whosoever you are that sent these men to murder me.”

Before he grew too weak to manage, Marcus climbed into his saddle and rode like the devil to the tavern. When he arrived, he fell from his horse to the ground in a bloodied heap, cursing at everything he could curse. With a willpower that overtook the pain carving a swath through his back, he managed to get to his feet and stumbled to the tavern, pushing the door open, and took two steps inside.

Praying his cousins were here, his vision blurring and the peat smoke from the fire making the tavern even hazier, he couldn’t see them among the men seated at the half dozen tables scattered about. With as much strength as he could muster, he shouted, “Finbar! Rob!”

The place was noisy and smelled of ale, but when he yelled, conversation ceased and all gazes swung to him.

He thought he saw his cousins rushing to aid him, but he couldn’t be sure. He just hoped no one else meant to kill him as his sword fell from his weakened grasp and struck the floor right before he joined his weapon, smacking hard against the wooden planks, sending up a cloud of dust in his wake.

Isobel wondered why Lord Erickson had swept her toward the other side of the great hall, until she realized he was trying to keep her from seeing Marcus further. After her father would not grant her hand in marriage to Marcus, she intended to prove to the assembled lords and ladies that she had chosen the Highlander as her own. No one else need ask for her hand in marriage.

She had seen the hostile looks directed at him, and some of those same men had cast the same kind of disparaging looks her way. Did they think she’d ever agree to marry any one of them? She knew her father could make that decision, if he so chose. But he’d always assured her and before that—her mother—that Isobel would have a choice.

“Some wine, my lady?” Lord Erickson asked her.

She shook her head and again looked for Marcus. Erickson had a quick temper that matched his fiery red hair. She could imagine having several redheaded bairns who each had tempers to match their father’s.

Lords Fenton, Neville, and Hammersfield headed her way as if they believed it was now their turn to spend time with her. She wished to take a respite and drink some wine with Marcus. She had every intention of showing how much she loved the Highlander and no other man would have her affection.

Glancing around the hall at the collected visitors, she realized her father was nowhere in sight, and she felt a chill race down her spine. He always stayed close at hand while she danced with the gentlemen. Was another suitor offering for her, and this time her father was considering any proposal just to ensure she did not wed the Highlander?

“Lady Isobel, would you care to dance with—” Fenton didn’t finish speaking when Cantrell, one of her father’s servants, hurried into the great hall to talk to her father’s advisor on the other side of the room.

Cantrell was a spry middle-aged man who oft ran errands for her when she needed something done—for a fee. Yet, he’d proved invaluable to her time and again. He was always crossing the border, knew everyone and one and all liked him, so he had been invaluable to her father as well since Cantrell always heard the news first about trouble brewing at the border and quickly apprised her father. She wondered if he charged her father for the information, or gave it freely.

Lord Wynfield’s pudgy face reddened, his jaw dropping. Whatever the news, it was not good. He glanced around the great hall—looking for her father? Then spied her and he quickly spoke to Cantrell and headed out with Cantrell following behind.

“Hope that it is not trouble at the border again,” Hammersfield said, crossing his arms. “Whoever has the pleasure of marrying Lady Isobel will have to deal with all of this on a regular basis, I daresay.”

After her father was dead! Marrying her would not mean the lord would suddenly have her father’s title and his properties.

Lords Fenton and Erickson agreed. The men began to talk to one another about the unruly Scots, while Lord Neville quickly took the opportunity to offer his arm to Isobel. “A dance, my lady?”