Highlander of Mine (29 page)

God. Shit. Holy hell.

Fleur swallowed her fear though when she started to wonder what Duncan would do if their roles were reversed. He’d be brave and only think of the plan and how to execute it best. That quieted her thoughts, calmed her, then gave her an extra ripple of energy to fight for her man.

Before she realized what she had done, they were in position. Greggor and she had situated themselves ahead of the English caravan, the night slipping away with an angry streak of red in the horizon. It was better for seeing what she was doing, Fleur surmised, but also worrying since it improved the English soldiers’ vision too.

Suddenly one of the leading soldiers on the horses—she guessed they were officers, since they both had a horse—held up a hand and called out, “Halt.” Jesus, had she been spotted already? Greggor and she were behind a giant rock, perfect for concealing two people hunched over. What about the boys? She glanced to the other side of the small valley. She couldn’t see one of the lads. Not one.

Greggor and she were about thirty feet from the soldiers with a few other boulders in the way. Her breathing was too loud, so she tried to hold it. In it’s place was a loud
thump—
thump
, thump—
thump
, thump—
thump
of her heart.

“Horses,” Fleur heard one of the soldiers say to the other.

They looked behind the train as did Fleur. She felt the pounding of the horses’ hooves more than heard them. Apparently, she wasn’t the only who could do that, since the one officer had alerted the other.

They both nodded and spoke to each other, of which Fleur heard only tidbits, like, “...several horses . . .” and “...damned savages, trying to rescue their kin . . .”

That name. That word,
savage
, stirred her blood even more.

She hadn’t known about the common thread between Native Americans and Highlanders—for hundreds of years the Highlanders had been
the savages
. If it weren’t for Duncan, she might not have paid attention to that similarity. If it weren’t for the nights when she’d leaned against him, staring up at the profuse black and silver starry night sky, and the way his red-red whiskers glinted from the small fire she’d made. The way he’d tell the stories of his past, his people’s past, eager to listen to hers as well, had captured her heart. His throaty whisper, the way he smelled of clean soap and something spicy masculine, the way he’d touched her. No, he’d tried so hard not to touch her, it had seemed. Then
she’d
kissed him, and her world had changed.

She remembered the way Duncan felt inside her, always so careful, trying so hard to please her. Her body restlessly recalled with a slick feeling of warmth and loneliness without him.

She needed him.

She loved him.

As the English soldiers discussed what to do, she realized this was her chance, the time to fight for Duncan. Glancing at Greggor, she nodded. Then he did as well.

It was his voice that cut through the lightening night sky first. Manly and angry, he bellowed. The lads on the other hill yelled immediately. Such good lads. They were much louder than just Greggor, and the English horses nervously tore into the ground.

She stood without even thinking and shrieked as she ran straight for those men on the chargers. She’d never heard herself like that. It was a war cry. Two guttural, filled-with-rage screams she rent through the midnight blue sky as her legs carried her to a boulder parallel to the English officers.

Chapter 35

Y
elling deafened Duncan’s already sensitive ear. It had been bashed along the way. When he’d gained consciousness, deep searing pain cut along the side of his face. Being dragged behind a horse by his wrists, harsh rope biting into his hands, he’d been hauled over a stone that tore into his ear and cheek. The English officers had stopped the train long enough for him to stand and quickly start marching, while he’d felt warm blood drip down his neck.

As he’d internally questioned his fate once more, he heard the lone scream. It was filled with hostility. Greeting the one shout, were several other loud yells. One of them was filled with such anger he turned in the direction it came, surprised to see a shadow racing toward him. Then several shadows sprang from behind rocks and bushes and like phantoms they floated quickly toward him, toward the English soldiers.

Metal clanging sounded through the night. Some of the soldiers grunted. One of the English guards standing close to him suddenly dropped, and Duncan was fairly certain a rock missile powered by a slingshot had struck the guard. A lad’s toy, the slingshot, but it had been used in the Highlands as a weapon for many a year.

Thinking quickly, he wondered who they could be? Troopers from another clan who happened upon the English caravan? He didn’t think he was far from MacKay country, if not still in it. But there were so few men from his clan, especially so from Durness, and Tongue was just too far away to have been any help.

Whoever they were, he was grateful. The first time in many decades, he gave a silent prayer of thanks for giving him the opportunity to escape, for giving him the chance to fight for his fate. He yanked hard on the rope around his wrists, knowing the mount he was tethered to was already nervous—apparently not war horses, used to ambushes. The steed's head crashed into the other’s neck. The English officers bellowed something, and one of the nearby soldiers on foot backhanded him across his already stinging face.

Suddenly, a shadow was there, only ten feet from him. It was so slender and graceful, and he knew those thin shoulders and hips.

Lord have mercy, that was his Fleur running up a boulder, screaming.

Spirit warriors, fighting ghosts, these were legends so ingrained in him he didn’t think twice about it. However, he knew that otherworldly wee warrior. Intimately. Loved her. His stomach hollowed as he watched her sprint to the top of the boulder, then leap off, flying through the air for all eternity it seemed. She soared and had such height, was so high, only her leg smacked into the officer nearest her, but it was enough for him to topple over. Landing on the other officer, she took him with her to the ground, where Duncan couldn’t see her through the bucking horse. Finally free from its rider, it galloped away. The mount he was tethered to tried to rear, but he pulled it down by the rope around his aching wrists. Catching hold of the steed, he turned to see his shadow warrior already standing over the English soldier she’d taken down.

Little Valkyrie knew how to fight.

The other officer charged after her, and Duncan tore into the knot in the horse’s saddle. Jesus, he’d been gawking for too long. Hearing a gasp, he turned before he untied himself, scared to death of what he would see.

Fleur stood in a defensive stance, her arms slightly turned out. But the officer was gripping at one of his shoulders. Fidgeting with the knot that bound him, Duncan tried to watch as the officer charged again at Fleur only to repeal away, grunting and holding his other arm. That’s when he saw his Fleur held dirks in her fists. Only, she concealed them by having the blade toward her forearm. When the idiotic English officer attacked again, she was ready with a quick blow up and across his jaw. The officer halted and held his surely bleeding face in his hands, groaning in agony.

Finally free from the horse, Duncan clapped it on its rump. It streaked away as he saw an English soldier, pike lowered, jogging toward Fleur’s back. Oh, there was no way in hell anyone would touch his little Valkyrie.

Wearing a helm was always a good protection while in battle. But in hand-to-hand combat it was as useful as a blindfold. Making sure he was in the soldier’s blind spot, he charged, shoving the soldier with a powerful push from his chest and arms. The man collapsed a few feet from impact, and Duncan stole his pike while he kicked his head, ensuring he stayed down. Wheeling about, he saw the English officer Fleur had bettered was on his knees, and she contended with another soldier who tried to strike at her with a mace. With the extension of the mace and the English man’s longer arms, Duncan could see it was no contest. Fleur would have to get in too close to strike a blow, giving the soldier too much an advantage.

Somehow though, as Duncan took aim with the pike, she shivered low when the soldier charged, and cut him across the back of his leg as she rolled past him, straightening within a heartbeat into a defensive stance. It was like watching a trained soldier, and he was in awe of her form. But more than that, he needed to protect her. He took aim again and threw the pike as hard as he could. The English wore the steal helms and thick metal or leather vests. There were few places to strike, save the arms, legs, groin, and...The soldier gurgled as the pike sliced through his throat.

The morning light brightened, helping Duncan see Fleur’s eyes widen as the soldier fell at her feet. Then she followed the trajectory the pike had taken until her eyes landed on him. He couldn’t rip his gaze from her, even though he knew he needed to check his surroundings, ensure they were safe, but once she began to run toward him—her face half terrified, half relieved—he couldn’t look anywhere else, even though he heard the unmistakable pounding of horses nearby and men screaming in agony. She stopped before she embraced him, throwing down her knives, but then she gasped.

“What happened to your face?” Her voice rasped, but was so beautiful.

Along her jaw line was a dark bump that looked as wide and long as a man’s fist. He cupped her face, tenderly assessing her own visage. “What happened to ye, darlin’?”

She smiled, then wrapped her arms around his waist, tucking her head under his. “I was so scared.”

“Ye didn’ look it.” His voice came out so rough, holding her as tight as he dared, hoping he wasn’t breaking her ribs. Finally he glanced about, amazed that of the few English soldiers still fighting, they were getting bombarded with rocks. The majority of them were running for their lives, while small forms on horses chased after them. “Whose army is this, Fleur?”

She pulled away enough to look up at him, flinched—he must have looked affright, then smiled. “It’s my boys. Jamie and his gang. And” —she turned around quickly—“shit, where’s Greggor? He’s here somewhere.”

Leave it to the stunning woman to have a man who’d once kidnapped her for bounty to fight for her. God, who wouldn’t love her after a few seconds? Especially love her as she swore, he thought with a silent chuckle.

Duncan looked about and soon enough saw a man he thought was Greggor helping free the rest of the chained troops. Jesus, it was over then. His men were free, the English were on the run—well, one of the officers was surrendering to what appeared to be about five nine year-old lads, all cocking their slingshots at his head. Vicious little urchins. Vicious for her, Duncan knew.

“I know I need to help Jamie,” she said, “but I can’t seem to let you go.”

He glanced down, trying to grin himself, but it hurt like hell on one side of his face. “I can’t let you go either. I was so scared, Fleur, so scared of what to do.” Still, he panicked as he remembered everything prior to getting knocked out. “Rory—‘tis Rory’s doing, all of this. Where is he? How did ye—?”

She touched her cheek, right over the dark bump on her face. Proof enough that Rory had struck her. Duncan could only think of grabbing hold of his throat until the bones ground between his fingers.

“He came to the house . . .” She looked up at Duncan, her eyes so wide.

The air—the bloody air became too thick to breathe, but he couldn’t get enough of it either. “He hurt ye.” Duncan’s stomach and chest clenched tightly.

She actually rolled her eyes. “Well, he tried.”

“She beat him senseless by the time I happened upon her.” Greggor interrupted their reunion with a wide smile, looking proudly down at Fleur.

“Ye beat him?”

“He hit me first,” she said a touch defensively.

Duncan couldn’t help but laugh, yet how he gripped onto her, so scared of what Rory might have done. What the devil had gotten into the man? He’d find the answers later. Right now all he wanted—nay, all he could focus on was Fleur. He’d almost lost her. He’d almost been lost himself.

“Duncan?”

“Aye, lass.”

She licked her lips, then looked over her shoulder at Greggor, standing back watching as wee lads made a game of tying together the English soldiers who remained. The boys, as Fleur called them, laughed and carried on as though it was all a sport. Greggor shook his head.

“I need to get in there and stop them from harmin’ the English.” He glanced back at Fleur then Duncan. “Our prisoners would make a nice bargain for more grain this winter, eh?”

Duncan nodded. “Cromwell would give more than grain for that officer.”

Greggor’s eyes narrowed, but his smile widened. “Aye, so I best make sure the lads don’ kill him.” He jogged toward the boys, chuckles left in his wake.

Duncan couldn’t help but grin too. God, it felt too good to be true, his arms around Fleur again, his body close to hers once more.

She reached up on her toes, and whispered into his ear. “I—I asked to stay here. With you.”

“Actually, she didn’t ask to stay here.”

A calm female voice with a noticeable Greek accent interrupted the sweet moment. Fleur turned in a flash, her hand protectively gripping his.

“I did too ask. Haven’t you talked to Coyote?” Fleur’s voice was beyond incensed, and Duncan’s mind went blank for about two heartbeats.

He couldn’t believe it as he looked past Fleur to see two tall women, dressed in golden togas in the middle of the finished battle. His eyes must be playing tricks on him because everything and everyone stood still. Frozen. The lad’s laughing faces were stuck as they tied an English soldier to another, making it look like they were—well, Duncan hoped they were trying to make it look like the pair played leapfrog. But they were as still as statues. None of them made a noise, not even a peep of a chuckle.

“Jesus Christ, what the hell?” Duncan demanded, hoping he hadn’t gone mad.

He heard a deep, throaty chuckle and suddenly a man, not quite as tall as him, appeared. He wore leather leggings, a breach clout, and something called a hunter’s shirt. Or Duncan guessed as much from the descriptions his brothers had written in their letters. The man’s hair was free and almost as long as Fleur’s, a similar hue too. But hers had a sheen of red to it, while his was almost blue. He smiled up at Duncan.

“I do like him,” the man said. “He’s a good choice for my Fleur.”

Fleur inched closer to Duncan, her hand even tighter in his. “Duncan, this is Coyote and the muses I was telling you about.”

One of the tall women touched her chest lightly. “I’m Clio, Duncan. It’s so nice to finally meet you.” She gestured toward the other women who looked like her twin. “And this is my sister, Erato.”

Erato waved enthusiastically. “Hi, Duncan.” She glanced over to Coyote. “I know, right? He’s perfect for Fleur. He’s so brave, like she is, like I always knew she was.” She walked slowly toward Fleur. “You were so beautiful and courageous, soaring over the boulder like that. Wasn’t she?”

For a moment Duncan was surprised Erato had asked him anything. Well, this whole moment was more than shocking, and if Fleur wasn’t constantly holding his hand, he wasn’t too sure if he’d sit down on a rock and think himself a loon.

He nodded. “My wee Valkyrie, she was—is. My Fleur.” He was so stunned by what was happening he sounded daft. But Erato nodded as if she understood his meaning.

She stood close by, and soon enough her sister appeared at her side. “My sister has some bad news, Fleur.”

Fleur backed into him, still one hand in his. “No. I’m not leaving. Not without him.”

Clio sucked in a breath. “Well, we have a problem. History has been altered.”

Erato cocked her head, looking at her sister. “How did you let it get to this point?”

Clio openly glared at Coyote. “I was distracted.”

The man silently laughed and looked pointedly at Duncan, wagging his brows a couple times as if they were old friends and Duncan was in on a secret.

Erato gasped. “Coyote, I thought...but we . . .”

“Are you serious?” Clio yelled at the man, er, god. “You and my sister too?”

Coyote merely shrugged. “I told you I would run this
glimpse
my way.”

Clio made an angry strangled noise, while Erato sniffed. After some serious head shaking and finger pointing at Coyote, Clio finally turned to her sister, offering a comforting arm around her.

“Anyway, history has been altered, and it’s difficult to know what to do now.” Clio nodded for a moment, as if gaining strength to say what was needed to be said. “Helen,” she glanced at Duncan, a worried expression fluttered through her eyes, “Your mother was supposed to die a week before she did. I can only guess she held on, making sure that you and Fleur were in love before she let go.”