The Rogue (9 page)

Birdi shook her fist at him. “I want this undone. I will not be handfast...nay, I will not.”

Aye, he wanted it undone, as well, but how? Thanks to his stupidity she was now his for a year and a day.
Oh my God.
And his priest upon hearing this would naturally insist he sanctify the union within Blackstone’s kirk...

Oh my God!

As if reading his mind, she hissed, “Ye will take us to the sacred well and undo this, Angus MacDougall!”

He eyed her warily, his mind racing through the folklore and tales he’d heard as a youth trying to recall a story of nullifying a handfasting. “Undo this how?”

Birdi huffed. “We need go to a sacred well, repeat three times that we dissolve this union, and then drink the water. ‘Tis all, and this...this farce becomes a thing of the past.”

“Are ye sure, lass, ‘tis all that we need do?”
Please say aye.

Birdi bit into her lower lip. “Mayhap there is more to the ceremony, but ‘twill be enough for me.”

Thank God.

“Consider it done.” Angus pulled out of his shirt and held it out to Birdi. “Here, put this on before ye catch ye death.”
Or I catch ye up by yer bonnie hurdies, spread yer lovely white legs, and make ye mine in truth before God.

Consummating their erroneous handfasting would be equivalent to a life sentence if his priest learned he had. And hear it, he would. If not through another priest—the men in black had a network of spies that put even the Sassenach king’s agents to shame—then he would through a wandering minstrel. Angus the Blood had proved rich fodder for many a bard’s witty but oft-barbed tongue.

As he approached her, Birdi snatched his shirt from his hand and made quick work of donning it. As it settled around her calves, she asked, “Then ‘tis agreed?”

“Aye, lass, ‘tis agreed. I dinna want to be handfast to ye either.” He’d lose all if he remained attached to Birdalane Shame. “Now where is this well?”

Birdi’s furious expression shifted to one of open-mouthed surprise. “What do ye mean, ‘where’s this well?’ ‘Tis you who ken where we are. ‘Tis you who should ken where the well is!”

“How should I ken such a place?” Humph! Good Lord, what was the woman thinking?

Birdi stomped a foot. “Are ye a blithering heathen, then?”

Teeth grinding with indignation, Angus closed the distance between them. He puffed out his chest as he loomed over her, hands on hips. “Nay, I’m a Catholic, if ‘tis any of yer concern, so there’s nay reason for me to be kenning where some superstitious lot’s sacred well is!”

Birdi gaped at him. “Superstitious lot? Why ye—”

She punched him in the gut.

Had she turned yellow and flown away, he couldn’t have been more surprised. Here she was nearly naked and all of five feet and a bit, and she had the audacity to hit Angus the Blood in anger.

He laughed, great barks rolling out of his chest like thunder.

Birdi, wide-eyed, scrambled backward.

His arm shot out and caught her. “Now where do ye think ye’re going? Ye’ll be staying with me until we undo this. I’ll not be losing Donaliegh because of ye.”

She tried to wrench free. “What care I for some Donaleigh?” She slapped the hand that held her wrist. “Ye dinna need me. Ye can go to the well by yerself, say the words, and I’ll swear—if asked—that I did the same. Truly, I will. Just please let me go.”

Tears pooled in her lovely eyes.

Ack! He snaked a hand about her waist and pulled her into his chest. Here she was crying and carrying on and she’d done naught but catch his attention as she took a bath in a glen.

He brushed the hair from her face. “Lass, hush, there’s nay reason to fash, but we have to straighten this out. Together.”

With her palms pressed to his naked chest, she shuddered and sniffed. He kissed the top of her head, and then with a finger lifted her chin. Lord, she was breathtaking with her cheeks all flushed with righteous indignation and her eyes glittering like melting ice in the sun. Were she a lady, he’d never let her go, no matter how she pleaded—would, in fact, drive her to distraction with his efforts to win her heart just as his da had successfully wooed his mother—but given their current circumstances...

  “Lass, we have to dissolve this union and haven’t much time to do it.” Word of his handfasting could get to Beal before he did. “We need ride as fast as possible to the nearest village, to Ardlui. There we’ll seek out a mid-wife.” Seeing her brow crease, he amended, “A howdie-wife.” Most were reported to practice the auld religion. “She should ken where the nearest well of which ye speak lies. Agreed?”

Birdi nodded and he silently thanked the Blessed Virgin. Donaliegh was still within his grasp if they made haste.

“Are ye hungry, lass?” They hadn’t the time to snare a rabbit or hunt berries, but if she was hungry...

Birdi shook her head. The last thing she wanted was food. Her stomach felt so gnarly she feared she’d likely toss anything she ate.

Her every move was being controlled by another, one far bigger than she, who kenned the area and had the advantage of sight. As she loathed her own helplessness, another thing disturbed her.

She had very sound reasons for not wanting to be handfast to Angus the Canteran. She didn’t want him getting her with child. But why was
he
so opposed to their union?

He didn’t fear her. Was Mary the cause? The woman was certainly on his mind enough. Given the man’s size and preference of horse, Birdi easily pictured Angus’s hale and hearty Mary; a big solid woman with honey colored hair and breasts the size and shape of beehives. She snorted. It certainly explained why he hadn’t accosted her, had let her be even while she slept. By comparison, Angus MacDougall no doubt found her—Birdi—lacking.

Ack! She shook hard. The man was making her wode. What did she care if he found her lacking? The sooner she got away from him the better. Aye. And to do so she would have to phrase her message to Tinker in such a way that the auld man would have nay choice but to do her bidding. Just as she, at the moment, had nay choice but to do Angus MacDougall’s.

“Are ye ready, lass?”

Birdi looked up to find Angus dressed in sparkling scarlet. She blinked in surprise and eased closer. “My word.” The open, waist-length coat he now wore had great puffy slit sleeves and was threaded with argent—silver. Buff colored trews covered his legs.

Angus cleared his throat. “‘Tis my courting costume. I’d have given it to ye to wear but as ye ken, it canna close.”

He had a point. The magnificent coat showed off his equally magnificent chest for the world to see. “Tis lovely...the coat, I mean.”

“Humph.” He held out a hand. “Shall we go?”

~#~

Robbie Macarthur, tired and parched, reined in and waited for his brother to pull alongside at the crossroad.

They’d been ordered into enemy territory by the Macarthur and charged with bringing home the spae. Their chieftain knew they were not only brawn and skilled swordsmen, but thorough.

The way before them leading west was little more than a deer path heading up into rugged terrain; the way heading north was a wagon road—flatter and regularly traveled. “What think ye?” Robbie asked as he brought his water bag to his mouth. “Continue north as ordered or turn west?”

They’d followed MacDougall’s tracks as far as they could—before the bastard took to the gravel-strewn riverbeds, where they’d lost him—and were now deep in enemy territory and a day’s ride south of Crianlarich.

Fegan stroked his pony’s sweating neck. “My gut says we need to turn west toward Ardlui. Though rugged, it cuts the distance, but...”

“Aye, but...”

Their liege had ordered them north, convinced Angus the Blood would take the spae the easiest and therefore the fastest route to Drasmoor and Castle Blackstone. MacDougall had, after all, raced off due north, and their liege believed he’d continue north to Crianlarich, then head west across the top of Loch Awe toward Oban. From there he’d have a fast ride south to safety.

“Macarthur has a point. Carrying the spae before him and despite the horse’s might, the Blood will not choose to court trouble. If his horse slips up yon and the spae falls...

“Aye, she’ll be of little use to him dead.”

Robbie grunted. “‘Tis agreed then. We turn right.”

Kicking their ponies into a gallop, Fegan grumbled, “With any luck, his charger will come up lame, and we’ll catch them by dawn.”

~#~

At the north end of Loch Lomond, Birdi murmured, “What’s burning?”

Scowling at the suspicious black columns rising above the treetops ahead of them, Angus muttered, “I dinna ken.”

They scrambled up a steep, shale-strew incline and came to rest on its tree-lined crest. Angus cursed. On the opposite shore of River Dochart only charred ruins remained of the village Ardlui.

Birdi whispered, “What’s happened?”

Angus tightened his hold on Birdi as he kicked Rampage’s sides. “We’ll not ken that until we get there.”

Fording the river proved easier than he’d expected, with the water running low. As they scrambled up the west bank, Angus’s gaze raked the mass devastation. “Merciful Mother...” Not one croft remained intact. Maimed, blood-soaked bodies—men, women, and bairn—lay everywhere.

The bloody bastards.

He carefully scanned the area for the butchers of Ardlui as he eased an agitated Rampage into the village. Finding the place stone quiet, he reined in, dismounted—silently cursing himself for not retrieving his chain mail—and pulled Birdi to the ground. “Stay by my side. Whoever did this appears to have fled, but...”

Angus reached for the pewter-and-bronze hilt of his claymore. He hauled the broadsword from its sheath in one fluid motion and took Birdi’s hand. “We need check to see if any have been left alive.” When Birdi said nothing, he glanced down and found her—white as snow—staring at a pool of blood at her feet. He wrapped an arm around her waist and eased her away. “Come, lass, we need seek the living, not fash over the dead.”

Eyes stinging and noses burning from the fetid smoke, they went from charred croft to charred croft—most still too hot to enter—and found no one alive.

On the far left of the village they found a croft with its roof burned away but the door still intact. Angus let loose of Birdi’s hand. Praying someone had survived the carnage—might have found refuge in a root cellar or ingle-nook, he threw his weight against the door and it fell off its leather hinges and crashed to the floor. Inside, he found the charred remains of a lad of mayhap six years huddled in a corner. Throat tight, Angus again cursed the cowards who could take an innocent’s life.

What manner of men were these savages?

Outside he found Birdi, some twenty yards from where he’d told her to stay put, keening as she knelt beside an ashen young woman whose throat had been slashed. As he approached, Birdi looked up. Flooding tears had made white tracks down her soot-coated cheeks.

“I...I canna do anything,” Birdi keened. “‘Tis too late. She’s cold.”

He raised Birdi by the arms and pulled her into his side. “‘Tis naught anyone can do, lass.” The damage had been done hours ago.

Shaking in his arms, deathly pale, she asked, “But...but why? Why would someone do this?” Her head turned left, then right. “Death is everywhere. And the stench—”

Her head suddenly snapped back to the left. “There! Do ye hear it?”

Angus, his sword arm already tensing, looked about. “Hear what?”

She pulled free. As she took off at a near run, her hands out before her, she cried, “I’m coming! I’m coming!”

Staring after her, Angus cursed. He never should have brought Birdi into this smoldering hell.

Like any warrior, he’d grown accustomed to the sights and smells of death and destruction—God knew he’d caused enough himself—but he’d given no thought to the fact that gentler folk weren’t steeled to it.

Hearing voices where there were none—in a manure pile, no less, for that appeared to be where she was heading—could mean only one thing. Birdalane Shame had lost her mind from the horror of it all.

He raced after her.

Heart thudding, palms itching, Birdi stumbled into a head-high mound of manure. Her nerves were afire, the
need
upon her in full force. Someone was frightened, in pain, but alive. But where? She spun, trying to catch the wee sound she’d heard just moments ago. “Where are ye?”

To her relief the mewing came again, this time low and directly before her. She dropped to her knees and frantically clawed into the warm, decaying mound. Within a heartbeat her fingers found a piece of wool. She clawed faster, deeper, and uncovered a blanketed bundle. She pulled it free as Angus came around the mound.

“Birdi, stop.”

Paying no heed, she whipped the blanket open and found the pudgiest, most beautiful babe she’d ever laid eyes on. It blinked up at her, opened its toothless mouth, and wailed like a banshee.

At her back Angus muttered, “I dinna believe it.”

Birdi scooped the babe into her arms. “Hush, dautie, hush.” To Angus she said, “His mother must have hidden him. He’s alive. ‘Tis wondrous!”

Angus helped her to her feet, and Birdi checked the babe for injuries. Satisfied the wee howling creature was sound, she cradled him to her chest. The babe immediately tried to rout at her breast. “Ack, the poor wee bit is hungry.”

Angus scratched his head and looked about. “Aye, but whoever did this reived all the cattle so there’s no milk to be had. Can we give him some water?”

Birdi jiggled the wailing babe. “Aye. Do ye think ye can find a bucket?” The babe needed a good wash.

Angus dutifully nodded and turned. A moment later she heard a chicken’s frantic clucking and pounding footsteps. Something whooshed past, a chicken screeched, and all fell silent.

“We’ve sup,” Angus called to her.

“Grand.” The babe was still howling and couldn’t eat chicken.

Angus shouted, “Put yer wee finger in its mouth.”

“But my hands are filthy.”

Something dropped with a soft thud and Angus, now at her back, murmured, “Give ‘im here.” He took the babe with sure hands and the yowling immediately stopped. Birdi craned her neck to see what he’d done and found the babe sucking Angus the Canteran’s wee finger, soot and all.