Taming a Wild Scot: A Claimed by the Highlander Novel (18 page)

“So be it,” he cried.

Unable to look away, Ana watched the friar lower his torch toward the kindling.

•   •   •

Niall desperately glanced around the inside of the barn. His gaze caught on the ox cart, tipped upright in the corner. “Harness the oxen to the cart and fill it with hay. Hurry now.”

As the lads slid down the ladder and grabbed the leather harnesses, he slipped his bow off his shoulder and drew an arrow from his quiver. A very different scenario from hunting in the woods, and failure would have far more dire consequences than an empty belly. But he had faith in his abilities. In a single flowing movement, he nocked the arrow and let it fly.

The arrow struck true, knocking the torch out of the friar’s hand and sending it tumbling.

The friar glared at the rolling torch and screamed, “Find the shooter!” Then he snatched a second torch from a burly soldier and without hesitation tossed it at the kindling.

Niall shot that torch, too. The arrow pierced the wad of tarred cloth at the top and drove the torch halfway across the square in a glorious arc of light.

“Stop him!” shrieked the friar, pointing at the barn.

A group of men turned and rushed the barn.

“Open the doors,” Niall called to the two lads. Then he leapt from the window, breaking his fall on a charging villager. The fellow hit the ground with a solid thunk and was instantly rendered unconscious. Niall rolled to his feet, punched another villager who thought to tackle him, and snatched the fellow’s torch. As the barn doors swung open, Niall tossed the torch to Gordie.

“Light the cart on fire,” he said, turning to face a pair of oncoming soldiers.

Both men were armed, so Niall shouldered his bow and drew Leod’s sword. He parried a vicious slice from one opponent and ducked under the blade of the other. Neither man was particularly adept, but both were strong and able. Luckily, the battle was short-lived—a few moments later, a pair of panicked oxen careened down the lane towing a burning cart. The two soldiers dove off to the side, one to the right and the other to the left. Niall loped after the cart. The wide-eyed oxen and their madly pitching fireball tore through the crowd. Wiser men leapt out of the way, but several fell victim to hoof or cart wheel.

Out of the corner of his eye, Niall saw the friar pick up a discarded torch and toss it on the kindling. With his bow shouldered, Niall had no chance to stop him. The wood took a moment to catch, and then it roared to life.

Niall’s heart hammered in his chest.

Gods above.
Ana was still bound to the stake. He had to cut her free.

Leaping over a groaning villager, he ran like the hounds of hell were at his feet.

•   •   •

Ana closed her eyes against the smoke and prayed for a miracle. But in her heart of hearts, she knew there wouldn’t be one. And she was afraid. Afraid that she would suffer the same unbelievable agony as her mother had. The flames had consumed her in a furious rush, but not before her screams had filled the meadow for an endless, unbearable length of time.

Ana did not want to die that way.

A torrid wave of heat stirred her hair, and her stomach heaved. Any other death she could endure, but not this.
Please God.
Not this.

“Ana!”

Tears sprang to her eyes as Niall’s voice cut through the chaos around her. Choking on smoke, she peered into the night, seeking a glimpse of him. One last look at his handsome face. Was that too much to ask?

Her gaze caught a flash of cream-colored lèine. There. Behind the pillory. Running toward her, raw determination etched on his face.

Niall.

But right behind him, swinging a mighty double-bladed battle-ax, was the big French soldier Ana remembered from the cellars. The one who’d called her
his small chicken
.

“Niall,” she screamed hoarsely. “Behind you!”

•   •   •

Even before the words left Ana’s mouth, Niall was ducking. The look on her face told him everything he needed to know. He dodged behind the pillory and heard the crunch of splintering wood only inches from his head.

Gripping his sword in both hands, Niall spun to face his opponent.

The Frenchman.
Of course
.

But Niall did not have time for a duel, especially with such a skilled foe. If he didn’t free Ana in the next few minutes, she would die. And that would crush him in ways he could not yet imagine. He hadn’t saved her that day in Lochurkie’s dungeon just to lose her a few months later.

She’d fought so bloody hard to survive.

The Frenchman came at him with a roar, swinging his ax. Niall leapt back, narrowly avoiding a lost head. He actually felt the air at his neck stir. It went against his every instinct, but he dodged behind the pillory once more and sheathed his sword. Slipping his bow off his shoulder as he ducked another furious attack from his foe, he drew another arrow from his quiver.

By the gods, he hoped his skill with a bow was as good as he thought it was.

Because this shot could just as soon kill Ana as save her.

Pulling the bowstring taut, he took hasty aim and loosed the arrow.

T
he leather on Ana’s boots was curling from the intense heat, and a painful ache radiated up her legs. Her breaths came fast and shallow, despite the smoke, as panic set in. The flames were only inches away. Any moment now, her skirts would burst into flame. She strained to pull as far away from the singeing heat as she could, but her arms were bound tightly behind the pole.

She felt a sting on her arm, and for a moment assumed a spark had landed on her flesh. But when she jerked to shake off the burning ash, her hands came loose. It was only then that she realized she been freed. By an arrow.

Sobbing with amazement, she scrambled away from the stake.

As she leapt over the kindling, she noticed some of the fire came with her—the hem of her skirt was ablaze. Terrified that she might not have escaped after all, she dove to the ground and rolled in the dirt, praying that the cold earth would douse the flames. And to her immense relief, it did.

She lay there for a moment, listening to the sounds of chaos—the groans of injured men, the snap and crackle of burning wood, the mad braying of panicked oxen—and then she got to her feet. Her toes still hurt, but she was alive.

“So, you survived the flames,” a soft voice said behind her.

She whirled around. Friar Colban stood a mere three paces away, his black robes smeared with gray soot, and a soldier’s steel-tipped pike clutched in his hands.

“I am not a witch,” she said. There was a twisted smile on his face that made her distinctly uneasy. Although he seemed calm, the pike he held was more than capable of skewering her.

“Witch or demon, it makes no difference. You are all Satan’s minions.”

“Nor am I a demon.” With the burning stake to her right and the fishpond to her left, her only escape lay behind her. She slid a step back.

His eyes darkened. “Such protests will not save you.”

Oh, but they might . . . if she could slip outside his reach without him noticing. Ana took another small step backward. “I am a simple healer, no more.”

“No,” he snarled, shaking his pike. “You are a snake in the garden waiting for your opportunity to strike.”

His calm façade was cracking. It was only a matter of time before he lost all restraint and tried to run her through. Ana took a third step backward . . . and struck wood. Startled, she glanced over her shoulder. One of the permanent market stalls—a spare, three-sided wooden structure—blocked her egress. She was trapped.

Her gaze returned to the friar’s face.

He smiled. “The best way to kill a snake is to cut off its head.” And then he aimed the spearhead at her throat and charged.

Inexperienced in battle and unable to call upon even a single lesson in the martial arts, Ana allowed instinct to guide her actions. She dodged left. The spear shot past her and plunged deep into the back wall of the stall. Praying her opponent was as unseasoned as she, Ana grabbed the long ash pole and yanked on it. It came loose—of both the stall and the friar’s hands. Colban made no attempt to regain the weapon—instead he rushed at her in a purple-faced rage, his hands reaching for her neck.

Ana tossed the heavy pike at him.

It was a weak and wobbly throw, but it was surprisingly effective. It struck him in the shin, and then got caught in his long robes. He tripped and went down on his knees.

Ana needed no further incentive—she skirted his outstretched arms and darted for freedom.

•   •   •

Only an instant after the arrow took flight, the Frenchman’s ax split Niall’s yew bow right in half. Niall flung the broken weapon aside and drew his sword. For the next minute, he gave every bit of his attention to parrying the mighty chops and swings of his opponent’s blade. He wanted to check on Ana, but frankly, there was no opportunity.

The Frenchman was very strong and very skilled.

He was as good with an ax as any Norseman Niall had encountered in the northern isles. And that was saying a lot. His movements were spare and elegant, his swings a blur in the air. Few opportunities arose to break his guard, and any Niall took were swiftly parried.

Sweat rolled down his back, soaking his lèine.

The Frenchman wore a ring mail hauberk, which reached to his thighs. It made scoring a debilitating slice a difficult chore. As he stopped another powerful chop with the forte of his sword, Niall prayed that his large opponent was not as fit as he appeared to be. Against this sort of pummeling, the advantage of his easier movements would not last long.

Spinning to his right to avoid a calculated stroke, Niall shot a quick glance at the burning stake. Thankfully, it was empty.
Ana was free
. The knowledge lightened his heart and bolstered his will to succeed. He reached deep and summoned every last reserve of his strength. The Frenchman had to go down now.

His weakness was his legs.

Not only were they unprotected by mail, they lacked the smooth and graceful motions of the man’s upper body. Awkward footwork could be a man’s downfall, under the right circumstances. Niall pressed his attack, forcing the Frenchman back. The swineherd’s hut stood just behind him, fronted by a fenced pig sty.

Mud was exactly the advantage he needed.

Ducking another humming ax swing, Niall slammed the flat of his sword against the Frenchman’s ribs. The big man stumbled and hit the fence hard. Wood cracked, but did not break. Roaring with anger, the Frenchman chopped at Niall’s head and missed. Niall aimed lower—he stomped on the man’s instep and then kneed him in the groin.

Again the man stumbled back, and this time the fence snapped. The wallowing pigs leapt up as the Frenchman stepped into the mud.

Niall followed, hacking and slashing, buoyed by the pungent odor of success.

The Frenchman put up a good fight, but the mud did him in. As Niall directed a two-handed cut at the man’s shoulder, he lifted his arm to parry, and lost his footing. He flailed briefly, then landed on his arse with a huge splat. Mud sprayed everywhere.

Niall could have finished him then. Instead, he bounded from the sty, leaving the man slipping and sliding and cursing his progeny for a thousand years. Finding Ana was more important.

He scanned the market square as he ran.

No females in skirts anywhere to be seen.

His eyes latched onto Gordie, who was waving his arms in the upper window of the blacksmith’s barn. He darted for the open door, his sword at the ready. But none of the men he encountered were interested in a fight—they all backed away as he approached.

Inside the barn, Simon stood waiting with two plow horses saddled and harnessed. Gordie slid down the ladder, then turned to help Ana descend.

“You’re a damned fine swordsman, Robbie,” Gordie said, grinning.

“No,” Ana disputed crossly, “he’s a damned fine fool.” She glared at him. “Why didn’t you simply run? He might have killed you.”

Niall tossed Leod’s sword into a hay pile, grabbed Ana by the elbows, and yanked her to his chest. Then he kissed her, hard and hot and long. He didn’t stop kissing her until all the anxiety that had twisted his gut since he first heard her scream had eased from his body.

Gordie hooted.

When he finally pulled away, Ana’s lips were swollen and her eyes were bright.

“You, wife, are a heaping midden of trouble.”

She smiled tremulously. “Believe it or not, I merely wanted to help you get the necklace.”

“Aye, well, next time—”

“Speaking of necklaces,” Simon interrupted, thrusting the reins at Niall. “You’d best be on your way. The baron is calling for bloody murder.”

“Oh?”

“Apparently, during all the excitement someone stole the ruby necklace he gifted to his wife,” Simon said.

“Truly?”

The young guard nodded. “The constable is sporting a black eye and wounded pride. You know the first man he’ll want to question is you.”

Niall started to lift Ana into a saddle, but she dug her fingers into his arm, staying him. “Nay, I cannot leave. The friar suggested the baron might harm Lady Elayne.”

“Fear not, Goodhealer,” Simon said. “Whilst Brother Colban was attempting his witless form of justice, the Lady Elayne delivered her son with the help of her handmaiden, Bébinn. Word is, the lad’s a bonny sort and he closely resembles his da. The baron has naught but praise for his wife at the moment.”

“And the baroness? Is she well?”

“Weary but happily eating bread and honey, according to one of the weaver lasses.”

Ana’s fingers gentled on his arm. “That’s good news indeed.”

Niall helped her settle into the saddle. “We’ll stop by the bothy to gather a few necessities. I trust you’ve no objection to leaving Duthes for good?”

She sighed heavily. “I never had a chance to grow a garden.”

Niall mounted his own horse, then turned to look at her. “A garden can grow almost anywhere, with the proper attention.”

“I used to believe that was true.”

Niall was still convinced that it was. And if it wasn’t, how important was a garden anyway? He waved his thanks to the two young men, prodded the big plow horse into a canter, and led Ana out of the barn and into the night.

•   •   •

They rode all night and most of the next morning without resting. A light drizzle started just after daybreak and it slowly but steadily soaked their clothing. Ana knew the constable would likely be on their trail, so she chewed on her dry bread without complaint. But her blistered toes still ached, her arse was getting chafed, and Niall had offered no information as to their destination.

As the horses picked their way down a rocky path into a small glen, she called to him.

“Can we stop a wee while?”

“Nay,” he said, without turning.

“Why not?”

“We need to reach the bridge at Kildrummy before dark.”

She studied his broad back as it swayed in the saddle. That was the first detail he had shared. “What’s in Kildrummy?”

“Several of my men.”

She bit off another piece of bread and chewed, considering that. “If they are your men, will they not wait for you if you are a wee bit late?”

“Nay.”

“Why not?”

He sighed and reined in his thick-necked sorrel, waiting for her to catch up. Then he looked at her and said, “If I don’t appear by dark, they’ll consider me lost and move on.”

She tilted her head and studied him. A droplet of rain plopped from her makeshift hood to her nose. “Would you be traveling faster if you were alone?”

He glanced away. “Aye.”

“Then leave me behind.”

A frown stormed onto his brow. “Don’t be foolish.”

“Why is that foolish?”

“I can’t leave you out here in the wilds alone.”

She held his gaze steady. “You did it once before.”

Twin flags of color rose to his cheeks. “That was different. I barely knew you then.”

“The only thing different is that this time we are ahorse.”

“Nay,” he said, glaring at her. “The last time I also had my brother to care for.”

Ana blinked. “MacCurran is your brother?”

Niall’s face tightened, and he prodded his horse forward. “Aye.”

Well, that explained a lot . . . and yet nothing. It made sense of his willingness to risk his life breaking the man out of Lochurkie, but added to the confusion over his lineage. Hadn’t he implied his mother was a whore?

“I’m perfectly able to fend for myself. You need not trouble yourself with my welfare.”

He halted again, but did not turn around. “Is that what you think this is? A mere execution of chivalric duty?”

Ana frowned. “Isn’t it?”

“Nay.” He slid off his horse and strode over to Ana. Grabbing her by the waist with a pair of big, warm hands, he tugged her to the ground. “Let me make myself clear, as it appears that I have thus far failed. I do not risk life and limb to save women I don’t give a damn about. I love you, you bloody frustrating woman.”

Ana was charmed by his declaration. For a brief moment, she even envisioned throwing herself into his arms and vowing to love him forever in return.

But the memories of her grief-stricken father were haunting her again, clearer than ever. Her mother’s death had ripped the heart from his chest, and even Ana’s healing gift hadn’t been able to soothe the wound. Niall didn’t realize that the horror they had so recently escaped was a mere rehearsal for the troubles that lay ahead. As much as she loved him in return, how could she condemn him to that fate?

“I am flattered,” she said slowly, the words thick as putty in her mouth. She willed the rain to temper her pink cheeks. “You’ve proven yourself a steady and courageous partner. I wish that I could say I returned your affections, but alas I cannot.”

He stared at her, his handsome features still as stone.

After a long moment, he released her and stepped away. “If that’s the way you wish to play the game, so be it. Mount your horse.”

His voice was cold and hard. Much as it had been the day he’d first confronted her in the bothy. It took all of her courage to ask him, “Will we be parting ways?”

He pinned her gaze. “Nay.”

Then he spun on his heel and marched to his horse.

Ana resigned herself to a very unpleasant journey. It was better that he hate her now, she reasoned. That way, she would never have to see his tearstained face across a village square. Not that she could imagine Niall weeping over anything.

She tried to put the toe of her boot in the stirrup, but the girth of the huge black plow horse made it impossible to reach. That failure, added to the pulsing pain in her toes, drew a very unladylike word from her lips.

“Shite.”

Niall appeared at her side. He swept her charred skirts aside and peered at her curled boots. “What’s wrong with your feet?”

“Nothing.”

“I don’t believe you. Take your boots off,” he demanded.

“Nay.”

A muscle in his jaw worked. “Take your damned boots off, or I’ll cut them off with my dirk.”

“I’m cold and wet,” she protested with genuine misery. “I need my boots.”

He glared at her. “Then it would be wise to ensure they remain in one piece. Take them off.”

Ana limped over to a boulder and, leaning on it, untied her boots. Her toes throbbed as she loosened the ties, and it was with great care that she eased the first boot off.