Highlander Redeemed (Guardians of the Targe Book 3) (30 page)

“You are a Guardian, Scotia,” he said. “’Tis my place as Protector of the Guardians to keep you safe.”

“More like you mean to keep me from returning to find Duncan. I give you all my word I will not do that.” Though that was exactly what she wanted most to do. “I understand the Guardians must be protected, but you ken I can protect myself, aye?” she said.

“That remains to be seen, but it is seeming more and more likely,” Malcolm answered.

She sighed. She might be a Guardian now, but that did not mean she would be trusted. If she was lucky, she might win the trust of her clan in time.

“’Tis my right as a Guardian to be concerned with protecting all of us, aye? We are too easy to track traveling this way. We need to split up,” she whispered.

“We are not splitting up,” Nicholas said quietly over his shoulder, and she was impressed once again with the man’s talents. Hearing like that would serve a spy well. “We will be at the rendezvous camp soon. For now, we need to be quiet, and step as
lightly as we can. The Guardians—all three of you—must be kept safe so you can create the Highland Targe, if you can. That is what is most important right now.”

Scotia did not respond, but she agreed with him. She only hoped that between the three of them they could figure out how to raise a shield that would protect this route into the Highlands from England’s greedy king.

It was not long before they came to a place where Nicholas gave the owl call, and it was answered. They moved silently onward into a dense part of the forest where the trees grew close together, their crowns blocking out all evidence that the sky still existed over them. The air was damp, cool, and carried the sharp scents of pine and balsam. Green, furry moss grew on the north side of most of the larger trees, and the ground beneath was spongy with a thick carpet of last year’s leaves and pine needles.

As they moved deeper into the narrow fold of the mountain, it grew darker and colder beneath the trees until at last they reached the far end, where the rudiments of a camp had been left for just this moment.

“No fires,” Nicholas said as they gathered around the cache. “We will wait here for the others, but we cannot linger here even so long as the night. Love,” he said to Rowan, “can the three of you raise the Targe?”

Rowan looked at Jeanette, then Scotia, but neither of them knew the answer any better than she did.

“I dinna ken, but—”

The same tawny owl call interrupted her. Nicholas signaled for the women to take cover as he and Malcolm drew their swords and stood behind two large trees. Scotia drew her sword as well, and only then realized she had left her shield at the standing stone. She motioned for her sister and cousin to move further up the side of the tiny glen where there was a little undergrowth to hide in, but she remained behind a tree, close enough to Malcolm and Nicholas to fight with them if necessary.

The first people she saw were Uilliam and Jock. Uilliam had Duncan over his shoulder, and it took Scotia every ounce of her stubborn will to stay where she was until her chief and his champion, her Protectors, called for the Guardians.

“What are you waiting for?” Jeanette strode past Scotia, heading for Uilliam and Duncan. Scotia lost no time following her.

“More of the lads are behind us,” Uilliam said with a grunt as Jock helped him lay Duncan on the ground. Scotia dropped to her knees and took Duncan’s cold hand in her own. Blood stained his left shoulder, wet and red, even in the dim light of the forest. Dread made her shiver.

“Does he yet live?” she asked Jeanette as her sister ripped Duncan’s sleeve away, revealing the wound.

“Aye,” Jeanette said. She glanced up at Uilliam. “What happened to the arrow?”

“I took it out of his shoulder so I could carry him without causing further damage,” he said to Jeanette, “but I had not time, nor anything to bind it with. How did you ken ’twas an arrow?”

“I saw it,” she said without emotion as she rifled through her healer’s sack and laid out a needle, thread, a smaller bag of moss, and a rolled-up strip of linen on a stone near her knee.

Scotia smoothed Duncan’s hair away from his face, noting how soft it was, softer than her own, but he did not stir. “Why does he not wake?”

“He must have hit his head as he fell,” Jeanette said. “He has a gash just here.” She turned his head to reveal a small cut and a large lump not far behind his left ear. “Come sit here, sister.” She indicated for Scotia to sit where she could cradle his head in her lap, then handed her a pad of moss. “Hold this to the cut to help it stop bleeding.”

Scotia did just as she was told without a moment’s thought or hesitation, letting the weight of Duncan’s head rest in her lap as she pressed the moss to his injury with one hand, and continued to smooth his hair away in long slow strokes with the other.

“Will he die?” Her voice trembled just a little. Jeanette reached out and cupped her sister’s cheek with one hand.

“The wounds do not look terrible, but there is always a risk of fever and festering.” As if that reminded her of something, Jeanette pulled her healer bag back to her and rummaged through it again, finally pulling out a small glass jar with a piece of waxed leather covering the mouth and tied in place with a piece of deer sinew. “When this is all over I must travel to visit Morven. She never taught me how to make this salve, and it does seem to prevent festering.” She slathered the pungent ointment into and around Duncan’s shoulder wound, then had Scotia lift his head enough for her to slather some on that wound as well.

“Aye,” Rowan said, scratching at what Scotia knew was a scar on her ribs from when Jeanette had used this same salve on her after the curtain wall fell. “But it smells terrible and stained my kirtles.”

“But you had not the slightest hint of fever or fester,” Jeanette said, a little smile lifting the corners of her mouth as she recovered the jar. “You should be grateful for the stinky stuff.”

Rowan’s teasing complaints and Jeanette’s hint of a smile lifted Scotia’s fears, at least a little. They would never tease if they thought Duncan was dying.

Jeanette then turned her attention back to threading the needle and using a little more moss to blot away the blood that had slowed but not stopped.

“Malcolm,” Uilliam said, “when I got to Duncan, Jock here and the rest of your kin were fighting back the English who were still trying to get to Duncan. Our lads joined in, so Jock and I could get him away.” Scotia looked up from Duncan’s face and saw that Uilliam’s eyes were focused on Jeanette as she took the first stitch. “You set up a barrier around him, did you not, lassie? The English were gathered around him when we arrived, but could not get near enough to touch him. I had no trouble.”

“Well, I guess that proves your belief that those of ill intent will not be able to pass through a Guardian barrier,” Scotia said.

“Aye, but”—Jeanette shook her head and glanced up at Uilliam—“’twas not me who set up that barrier, well, not me exactly.”

“Rowan?” Uilliam asked.

“’Twas all three of us,” Scotia answered him.

“Then you are . . .”

“I am a Guardian, aye.”

“I knew you would be.” Duncan’s hoarse voice surprised them all.

Scotia looked down at him. “You are alive.” She felt her lip tremble. “Thank God, you are alive.” The joy that filled her was unlike anything she had ever felt before, as if the bright light of the sun burst within her, sending light into every dark crevice, every dark thought, every dark emotion, filling her with the love she had for this man. She would have hugged him, but she was not sure he would allow that. She satisfied her need by brushing his hair away from his face again, then ran the back of her fingers down his cheek before he could stop her. “How do you feel?”

“Thirsty.” It was not what she was hoping to hear, but she took it as a good sign.

Rowan handed her a waterskin, and she helped Duncan drink a little, though ’twas hard to do while prone.

It wasn’t until she set aside the skin that she remembered the others standing around them. Jeanette tied off her last stitch, snipped the end of the thread, and started to bind some moss over the wound.

“Are you finished?” Scotia asked, knowing that as soon as he could, Duncan would likely move away from her, as he’d done so dramatically last night, and this morning as they traveled to the meadow.

“I am,” Jeanette said.

“I think I will lie here a little longer,” Duncan said. “Can I speak to Scotia alone?”

No one replied, they just moved away from the couple. Scotia held her breath, not sure what was coming next, but all he did was
to lean his head a little into her stroking fingers. Relief flowed through her at the small gesture that he did not mean to push her away, and she could not stop the water that gathered in her eyes.

She leaned down so he could see her face and judge the truth of what she said. “I thought I had lost you,” she whispered. “I thought I had lost you before I could ever atone for the way I threw your care, your friendship, and your love away. I did not ken if you were dead or alive, so I did what I could to keep you safe, then I carried on, as you taught me.”

He reached up and wiped her tear from his cheek, then smiled. “And I thought I had lost you when that arrow hit me. It makes me hopeful that you are so glad I am alive.”

“More than you know,” she said, and shyly leaned down further to press a chaste kiss to his lips, only to be surprised when his hand came up and cupped her neck, holding her in place as he kissed her back.

When he released her, he smiled. “I was wrong about you.”

“You have
never
been wrong about me, Duncan.”

“This time I was. I was angry with you, more angry than I have ever been. As much as you felt I had betrayed your trust, I felt you had betrayed mine.”

“I did.” She was not proud of that, but it was the truth, and she was determined to speak only the truth with Duncan.

“Aye, but Uilliam made me see that you quickly saw your mistake and took full responsibility for it, doing your best to protect the clan from the worst of it and telling the truth about many other things, too. When I left you last night I did not believe you worthy of becoming a Guardian, but today, with Uilliam’s help, I understand why you are worthy, that you really have changed.”

“Uilliam only had part of it right.” Truth. She owed him the complete truth. “But you were right about me. As much as I took responsibility for the harm I had caused, I did not understand how I came to cause it until you abandoned me in the bower, bound and helpless. It was not until then that I had to face that I
had brought everything upon myself. It was not enough to admit to my mistakes, I had to see how they came to be, and I knew, if I continued that way, I would never be worthy of becoming a Guardian, and I would never have a chance to win you back. If I had not seen that when I was with you I was a better person than I thought myself capable of being—a stronger person, who did not need to manipulate, or ignore what other people needed, in order to be happy—I never would have understood what I needed to do to be worthy. With you, I liked myself better. With you, I found a purpose and a focus that had always been missing from my life. With you, I found . . .” She blinked and determined to get it all said. “With you, I found my heart. You are my heart.”

Scotia held her breath.

“And you are mine,” Duncan said. “You have always been mine,” He whispered as he pulled her down for another kiss.

Scotia thought she’d burst from the joy that filled her, but the moment was quickly interrupted by a sharp “ahem,” from someone, drawing their attention to the arrival of Kenneth and several others.

“Does he ken you are a Guardian?” Duncan asked quietly.

“Nay, but there is that to tell.” A sudden
knowing
came over her that she realized had come to her when the Targe took her but that made itself clear to her only now. “There is more, Duncan.” She smiled down at him. “So much more! Da! Everyone, I have a story to tell you.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

D
UNCAN TRIED TO
sit up as the council and other warriors gathered around, while Scotia tried to hold him down. In truth he would like nothing more than to stay just where they were, but he could feel the excitement vibrating through her.

“Do not move. You will open your stitches,” she said.

“I would like to sit up,” he insisted. “Can you help me?”

Before she could, Nicholas and Malcolm assisted him to rise enough to sit. Rowan had two men move a stone for him to lean back on, and when he was settled, Jeanette moved in to bandage his head, which explained the headache that started to pound as soon as he sat up.

Scotia stood beside him, waiting for him to be settled. He reached up and squeezed her hand. “Tell us.”

“Are you a Guardian?” Kenneth asked.

“I am well and truly a Guardian, that much was made clear. My gift is
knowing
—”

“’Twas more than simple
knowing
,” Rowan said.

“Aye, but even that—” She realized confusion raced through the gathering, and knew she had to back up even more. “When I was chosen by the Targe stone my
knowing
became stronger, and I was filled with a barrage of
knowings
so great that it was hard to focus on any one of them, but I
knew
Duncan was in trouble so I followed that
knowing
to him, but I could not see what was happening so I shared Jeanette’s gift—”

“There was no sharing,” Jeanette said. “You took it. It was as if I could only follow where you went with it, though I could see and
know
all you did.”

“I did not mean to take it. I did not even know I could share it. We will have to experiment with that, sister.”

“We will,” Rowan said, making a point that there was another Guardian to include.

“As I said,” Scotia continued, “I used Jeanette’s gift to see Duncan just as he was shot. The archer who shot you”—she looked down at him—“was upon you, and in my fear for you I grabbed Rowan’s gift and directed it to throw the archer—”

“’Twas not a throw,” Rowan said, “she picked him up and hurled him away from you. Even I have not been able to do that.”