Highlander's Touch (3 page)

“I can hear ye. Ye’ll not be able to hide from me for long. Your arse is mine!”

Ewan nodded to his warriors and spun his sword in the air, pointing for half of them to go one way and the other half to go another. They’d close in on their enemies soon.

“Captain, should ye be going alone?” his lieutenant, Lachlan, questioned.

Ewan frowned at the man. By his count there was less than a dozen MacDonalds left from the raid. He could easily take on four at a time. “I’m not alone. The lot of ye lads will be within yards of me.”

Lachlan nodded. “Aye, Captain, but they’ve got the Butcher with them.”

The Butcher.

Ewan had heard of the devil. A man so brutal, so cruel, that his own mother had tossed him from a cliff after he was born. Legend stated that he’d taken his tiny bairn fists, climbed back to the top of the ledge and pushed his mother off. In the past week, the man had left his signature on several of the Grant crofters—men, women and children. His name alone made Ewan hot with rage.

“The Butcher will pay for what he’s done to our people.” Ewan flicked his gaze at the men.

They looked as angry as he felt. “Lachlan, ye lead the men around to the right. Gregor, ye take the men around to the left. Flynn, ye’re with me.”

“Aye, sir,” the men murmured, then followed their leaders in formation off of the road and into the trees.

Ewan nodded to Flynn, and the two of them urged their mounts straight ahead into the woods. Their horses were trained to walk silently, so the warriors could listen for sounds that were out of place. One of the clumsy MacDonald fools was bound to let their whereabouts be known.

Out of nowhere, an arrow sailed through the air. The spinning tip swooshed past Ewan’s face and landed with a sickening
thunk
in Flynn’s shoulder. The force of the blow knocked Flynn from his horse.

Ballocks
! The enemy warriors must be in the trees!

Ewan bellowed a war cry, sword drawn. He turned his mount in a circle, prepared to fend off more arrows with his targe. When no one came into view, when no more arrows soared, he dismounted and dragged the bleeding, cursing Flynn to a tree.

“Can ye stand on your own?” Ewan asked.

Flynn nodded. Bracing himself against the tree and using his legs for power, he slid upward, keeping his back against the bark for balance. His face was pale, eyes filled with pain and rage.

“This is going to hurt.” Ewan grabbed the shaft of the arrow at his shoulder, not necessarily a deadly wound, but one that bled and hurt like the devil. “Hold tight to the base.”

Ewan placed Flynn’s fist at the base of the arrow shaft, then gripped the center with his own two hands. He snapped the arrow in half. Flynn growled, his skin growing white as a sheet. They had to leave the arrow where it was until a healer could cauterize the wound or sew him up, but at least having the end of it snapped off would make maneuvering easier.

“Dinna pass out.” Ewan retrieved Flynn’s sword and set it in the warrior’s hand.

“Stay strong, lad. They’ll be back.”

Ewan stood in front of Flynn and shouted at the trees. “Show yourselves!”

The leaves in the trees rustled, but there was no wind. A moment later, two warriors dropped to the ground, their faces split into evil sneers.

THEY were fighting! Right near her.

Suppressing a shriek, Shona clamped her mouth shut and scurried on her knees toward the wild berry shrubs. Parting the thick branches, she dove through, yanking on her skirts that got caught on a few thorns. Panic tore through her. She shoved her basket, her bow and quiver full of arrows deep into the brush. Then she yanked her dagger from her belt to cut at the branches that held her captive.

She managed to free the fabric in the nick of time, for not a breath later, several of the fighting men broke through the trees and into view. Shona scrunched herself up into the smallest little ball she could, praying none of them stared at the brambles too closely, else they catch sight of her.

Eyes wide, she couldn’t still the beating of her heart. She breathed in shallow, quick gasps.

From what she could see, it looked like two men chased another from somewhere near the road toward where she sat. Thank goodness they’d been loud enough to warn her from going that far, else she’d probably be right in the thick of their fighting, if not dead already.

The men tossed crude words at each other.

Shona wanted to squeeze her eyes closed, to cover her ears, but she forced herself to watch and listen. They did not wear the same tartan colors. Rival clans. She could tell that the largest of the three men was from Clan Grant of Castle Gealach. The others looked to be wearing the MacDonald tartan—she’d seen it enough over the years to recognize it as they’d slinked past wherever she was foraging. She also knew that all these men were extremely dangerous. Besides that, Rory had warned her to stay away from the laird’s guards. They were dangerous. They would hurt her, take advantage of her. Use her savagely. They would set flames to her house.

They’d call her a witch and condemn her to death by hanging—or worse, they’d drown or burn her. Maybe all three.

She could almost feel the water filling her lungs, the rope tight about her throat, the flames licking up over her feet to her calves, singeing her skin before reaching her knees and thighs. The fabric of her gown would melt away to ash, and her skin with it. Death would not be swift, but a painful descent into darkness.

As she watched them circle each other it was hard not to notice how fine the largest of the lads looked—the one from Clan Grant. He lunged at his opponents, a blur of a beautiful man with golden hair and bronzed skin.

The MacDonald warriors were fearsome and rough. Grit covered their skin and hair. Misshapen facial structures showed what a cruel and hard life they embraced. The vicious snarls coming from them had her stomach turning in knots. She bit down hard on her lip to keep from whimpering, and when she tasted blood brought her knuckles to her lips to bite down upon instead.

The handsome warrior fought hard, pushing his enemies back. But the MacDonald warriors weren’t about to be shoved to the ground. One slipped a
sgian dubh
from his sock and swiped haphazardly at the Grant warrior, while the other snuck up from behind.

The larger, golden man jumped back out of the way, but the blade caught on his shirt, ripping a gaping hole, and when he leapt backward, the other took a swipe. The golden one dropped and rolled in an elegant move. She cringed, expecting to see blood on his back. Her stomach dropped to her toes. When no blood came, she let herself breathe out a tiny sigh. The MacDonald idiot must have missed his target.

Though the MacDonald warriors fought viciously, they were no match for the golden god. They lacked a finesse that the warrior held. When one of them finally realized this, he beckoned to his companion, turned his back and ran, shouting for more of his comrades. The other MacDonald hesitated.

Were there more of them? Shona sank further into the bushes, one of the thorns painfully scratching her cheek.

“Cowards,” the Grant warrior growled as the second man decided to make a run for it. With a roll of his eyes, the golden one hurled his dagger, catching the other man in the back. He fell to the ground, groaning.

Shona cringed. The dagger protruded from the man’s shoulder, blood staining the fabric of his shirt. Either the Grant warrior had no aim, or he’d purposefully targeted the man in a place that would not kill him.

The golden warrior sheathed his claymore and charged toward the writhing man with anger burning in his eyes and a snarl on his lips. Handsome, powerful, fierce. A chill rushed over her. Who was he? When would he leave so she could get back to her cottage before they found her?

And, god’s blood, but if he did find her, what would he do? Bile rose in her throat, spurred by fear.

The Grant warrior stuck his boot under the man’s belly and flipped him over. He bent low, anger coming off him in waves as he stared down his enemy. “Who sent ye?” he demanded.

But the howling man didn’t respond, only rolled back onto his belly, and reached frantically behind him to get the blade. His fingers slipped in his own blood.

The golden warrior, with a huff of annoyance, yanked the blade out, followed by the weaker man’s wail of pain. The larger warrior rolled the injured one over, and again said, “Who sent ye?”

The injured man had the nerve to spit in the warrior’s face. Shona recoiled. Though the golden warrior had stabbed him—he’d also pulled the blade out.

The Grant warrior shoved his boot against the man’s chest, crushing him into the ground.

The ground continued to rumble, and two more men, looking just as desperate and unrefined as the felled one, broke through the trees. By the way the large one reacted, jumping to his feet and drawing his sword once more, he didn’t know them. More MacDonalds, judging by the tartans they wore.

Was the forest filled with them?

Shona’s stomach was so twisted up in knots she had to keep herself from vomiting. Her throat burned and her head pounded. She was working herself up so much that she’d be sick very soon if she didn’t get ahold of herself. At that realization, she forced herself to calm. Aye, she was alone. Aye, all she had was her little dagger and a few arrows for protection. But she was hidden away enough that no one had noticed her yet, and the business they were going about, they’d not notice her at all. That was, if she kept quiet.

She breathed in deeply through her nose, letting it out in a long quiet exhale.
Get a hold of yourself, Shona!
Rory would be rolling in his grave now if he knew how she was responding to these brutes. He’d taught her better than this.

The stark truth was, her life depended on her silence.

Shona clutched her blade all the tighter, ignoring the sting of the handle biting into the flesh of her palm.

The golden warrior turned in a circle, assessing his surroundings. His face remained calm as he looked about, but the steady jerk in his jaw muscle told her that he was a little more concerned than he showed. He glanced behind him, looking relieved. That was odd. ’Twas almost as though he was glad none of his comrades had come forward—if he had comrades at all?

The warrior appeared to be alone, at least that was what he wanted his enemies to think. No one chased after the MacDonald men to come to the Grant warrior’s aid. Why had he been on the road alone? Especially with the lands crawling with raiders. As a Grant warrior, he had to have known the risks of doing so.

She’d known them.

’Haps he’d had companions and the MacDonalds had defeated them.

Fear was beginning to take control of her body. Her teeth chattered and she bit down hard enough to make her jaw muscles hurt.

The new arrivals reined in their horses and smiled down on the lone warrior like ghouls. That only seemed to make the Grant Highlander more assured. Puzzling. He grinned up at the two on horseback as though he’d eat them alive within the count of ten.

Cocky warrior, he was.

“We’ve a message for your laird,” one called down with a sneer on his ugly face.

The golden god stared defiantly up at them, his weapon steady, perhaps expecting them to pounce. From his stance, Shona wondered if the message would be this man’s death, and she wished she could help him. How, she had no clue, but she couldn’t just let him die. Nettles, what was she thinking? She had to remain silent—or die. She owed this warrior nothing. She had to save herself.

But… that just seemed so wrong. Something about the golden one struck her in a place deep inside her chest that moved her to action. Still, she hesitated.

Rory had taught her to throw a knife, but she only had one and she didn’t want to hurl it and chance missing—nor did she want to give up the only weapon she could use in case someone pounced on her from behind. She did have her bow and arrows though. Perhaps that was the way to go, though it would take time to notch her arrows—and she’d need to leave the safety of her hiding place.

With that thought, she whipped her head to the side to make certain that no one was sneaking up from the other side. The forest was quiet, save for the three on her right.

“Come and give me the message, then,” the golden warrior growled with a twirl of his sword.