Ravished by a Highlander (2 page)

It had to be enough. It was safer this way, cloistered away from those who would harm her if ever they discovered her after
the appointed time.

That time had come.

Davina knew that Edward would do anything to save her. He told her often, each time he warned her of her peril. Diligently,
he taught her to trust no one, not even those who claimed to love her. His lessons often left her feeling a bit hopeless,
though she never told him that, either.

“Would that I could slay your enemies,” he swore to her now, “and your fears along with them.”

He meant to comfort her, but good heavens, she didn’t want to discuss the future on such a breathtaking night. “Thanks to
you and God,” she said, leaving the wall to go to him and tossing him a playful smile, “I can slay them myself.”

“I agree,” he surrendered, his good mood restored by the time she reached him. “You’ve learned your lessons in defense well.”

She rested her hand on his arm and gave it a soft pat. “How could I disappoint you when you risked the Abbess’s consternation
to teach me?”

He laughed with her, both of them comfortable in their familiarity. But too soon he grew serious again.

“James is to be crowned in less than a se’nnight.”

“I know.” Davina nodded and turned toward England again. She refused to let her fears control her. “Mayhap,” she said with
a bit of defiance sparking her doleful gaze, “we should attend the coronation, Edward. Who would think to look for me at Westminster?”

“My lady…” He reached for her. “We cannot. You know—”

“I jest, dear friend.” She angled her head to speak to him over her shoulder, carefully cloaking the struggle that weighed
heaviest upon her heart, a struggle that had nothing to do with fear. “Really, Edward, must we speak of this?”

“Yes, I think we should,” he answered earnestly, then went on swiftly, before she could argue, “I’ve asked the Abbess if we
can move you to Courlochcraig Abbey in Ayr. I’ve already sent word to—”

“Absolutely not,” she stopped him. “I will not leave my home. Besides, we have no reason to believe that my enemies know of
me at all.”

“Just for a year or two. Until we’re certain—”

“No,” she told him again, this time turning to face him fully. “Edward, would you have us leave the sisters here alone to
face our enemies should they come seeking me? What defense would they have without the strong arms of you and your men? They
will not leave St. Christopher’s, nor will I.”

He sighed and shook his head at her. “I cannot argue when you prove yourself more courageous than I. I pray I do not live
to regret it. Very well, then.” The lines of his handsome face relaxed. “I shall do as you ask. For now though,” he added,
offering her his arm, “allow me to escort you to your chamber. The hour is late and the Reverend Mother will show you no mercy
when the cock crows.”

Davina rested one hand in the crook of his arm and waved away his concern with the other. “I don’t mind waking with the sun.”

“Why would you,” he replied, his voice as light now as hers as he led her out of the belfry, “when you can just fall back
to sleep in the Study Hall.”

“It was only the one time that I actually slept,” she defended, slapping his arm softly. “And don’t you have more important
things to do with your day than follow me around?”

“Three times,” he corrected, ignoring the frown he knew was false. “Once, you even snored.”

Her eyes, as they descended the stairs, were as wide as her mouth. “I have never snored in my life!”

“Save for that one time, then?”

She looked about to deny his charge again, but bit her curling lip instead. “And once during Sister Bernadette’s piano recital.
I had penance for a week. Do you remember?”

“How could I forget?” he laughed. “My men did no chores the entire time, preferring to listen at your door while you spoke
aloud to God about everything but your transgression.”

“God already knew why I fell asleep,” she explained, smiling at his grin. “I did not wish to speak poorly of Sister Bernadette’s
talent, or lack of it, even in my own defense.”

His laughter faded, leaving only a smile that looked to be painful as their walk ended and they stood at her door. When he
reached out to take her hand, Davina did her best not to let the surprise in her eyes dissuade him from touching her. “Forgive
my boldness, but there is something I must tell you. Something I should have told you long ago.”

“Of course, Edward,” she said softly, keeping her hand in his. “You know you may always speak freely to me.”

“First, I would have you know that you have come to mean—”

“Captain!”

Davina leaned over the stairwell to see Harry Barns, Edward’s second in command, plunge through the Abbey doors. “Captain!”
Harry shouted up at them, his face pale and his breath heavy from running. “They are coming!”

For one paralyzing moment, Davina doubted the good of her ears. She’d been warned of this day for four years, but had always
prayed it would not come. “Edward,” she asked hollowly, on the verge of sheer panic, “how did they find us so soon after King
Charles’s death?”

He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head back and forth as if he too refused to believe what he was hearing. But there
was no time for doubt. Spinning on his heel, he gripped her arm and hauled her into her room. “Stay here! Lock your door!”

“What good will that do us?” She sprang for her quiver and bow and headed back to the door, and to Edward blocking it. “Please,
dear friend. I do not want to cower alone in my room. I will fire from the bell tower until it is no longer safe to do so.”

“Captain!” Barns raced up the stairs, taking three at a time. “We need to prepare. Now!”

“Edward”—Davina’s voice pulled him back to her—“you trained me for this. We need every arm available. You will not stop me
from fighting for my home.”

“Orders, Captain, please!”

Davina looked back once as she raced toward the narrow steps leading back to the tower.

“Harry!” She heard Edward shout behind her. “Prepare the vats and boil the tar. I want every man alert and ready at my command.
And Harry…”

“Captain?”

“Wake the sisters and tell them to pray.”

In the early morning hours that passed after the massacre at St. Christopher’s, Edward’s men had managed to kill half of the
enemy’s army. But the Abbey’s losses were greater. Far greater.

Alone in the bell tower, Davina stared down at the bodies strewn across the large courtyard. The stench of burning tar and
seared flesh stung her nostrils and burned her eyes as she set them beyond the gates to the meadow where men on horseback
still hacked away at each other as if their hatred could never be satisfied. But there was no hatred. They fought because
of her, though none of them knew her. But she knew them. Her dreams had been plagued with her faceless assassins since the
day Edward had first told her of them.

Tears brought on by the pungent air slipped down her cheeks, falling far below to where her friends… her family lay dead or
dying. Dragging her palm across her eyes, she searched the bodies for Edward. He’d returned to her an hour after the fighting
had begun and ordered her into the chapel with the sisters. When she’d refused, he’d tossed her over his shoulder like a sack
of grain and brought her there himself. But she did not remain hidden. She couldn’t, so she’d returned to the tower and her
bow and sent more than a dozen of her enemies to meet their Maker. But there were too many—or mayhap God didn’t want the rest,
for they slew the men she ate with, laughed with, before her eyes.

She had feared this day for so long that it had become a part of her. She thought she had prepared. At least, for her own
death. But not for the Abbess’s. Not for Edward’s. How could anyone prepare to lose those they loved?

Despair ravaged her and for a moment she considered stepping over the wall. If she was dead they would stop. But she had prayed
for courage too many times to let God or Edward down now. Reaching into the quiver on her back, she plucked out an arrow,
cocked her bow, and closed one eye to aim.

Below her and out of her line of vision, a soldier garbed in military regalia not belonging to England crept along the chapel
wall with a torch clutched in one fist and a sword in the other.

A
cool breeze, moist with the fallen rain, lifted a raven curl from Robert MacGregor’s forehead. Looking up, he glared at the
pewter clouds as if daring the heavens to open again. ’Twas bad enough he and his kin had to leave Camlochlin during a storm
that promised to tear auld Tamas MacKinnon’s roof off his bothy. Trekking across Scotland in the mud did not make the journey
any easier.

Rob was still unsure if he agreed with his father’s reasoning for leaving the clan to attend James of York’s coronation. What
did laws made by stately nobles, dressed in powdered wigs and ruffled collars, have to do with MacGregors? Only a handful
of them knew of the MacGregors of Skye, and none of them would dare venture into the mountains to enforce their laws, even
if they did. What fealty did his clan owe to an English king?

“
Rebellion is not always necessary,
” his father’s words invaded his troubled thoughts. “
Protectin’ the clan must always come first.
”

As firstborn and heir apparent to Callum MacGregor’s title as Clan Chief of the MacGregors of Skye, Rob had been taught to
understand his father’s ways of thinking. He knew that civilly showing their support to the new king was the intelligent thing
to do. For as much as he cared nothing about politics so far south, there were many in Parliament who believed the Highland
ways of life, with a Chief having sole authority over his clan, were outdated and should be abolished. If kissing the king’s
arse would keep his clan safe and intact, then Rob would do it.

He didn’t care if his father was chief or if he was. He’d taken on every responsibility as a leader, and more. He tilled the
land, herded and sheared the sheep, repaired falling rooftops and, more times than not, denied his physical pleasure for hard
work. He made decisions for his kin’s welfare alongside his father and honed his swordplay diligently and by his own choice,
knowing that any weakness of body or will could destroy what belonged to him. And it had been in his blood for generations
never to allow that to happen.

But it still angered him that he should have to leave his clan to kiss the arses of men who would likely shyt in their breeches
on any kind of battlefield.

“Tell me again why ye insisted on takin’ this route, Will?” Rob asked his cousin, and yanked on his reins to steer his mount
away from a muddy trench in his path. They had left their main troupe on a road just before the English border. The detour
was Will’s idea, and Rob was beginning to question why he’d listened to him, or why he’d agreed to let anyone else come with
them.

“St. Christopher’s Abbey,” Will called out over his shoulder. “I told ye, Sister Margaret Mary lives there.”

“Who the hell is Sister Margaret Mary?” Angus MacGregor growled, rubbing the small of his back. “And why does a daughter o’
the Lord interest a black heart like yers?”

“She was m’ nursemaid fer six years after m’ mother died.”

“I think I’ve heard Tristan speak of her,” Colin, Rob’s youngest brother, joined in thoughtfully, managing to steer his mount
around a mossy incline without incident. Rob was torn between being thankful that his brother Tristan hadn’t come with them—mostly
for the sisters of St. Christopher’s sake—and being angry with himself for letting Colin come along. Clearly, Will had no
notion of where the hell the Abbey was. He was leading them deeper into the hills. A band of outlaws could attack them from
almost any direction unseen. Not that Rob fretted overmuch about a fight, or Colin’s ability to come out of one unharmed.
He just preferred that if there was a skirmish of some sort, his youngest brother not be there.

“Do the sisters in England pray as much as the ones in Scotland do?”

“We’re no’ in England yet,” Rob murmured impatiently, glancing at Finlay Grant from over his shoulder. The lad looked stricken
for a moment, as if he had just proven himself lacking in the eyes of his leader. Hell, what would he do with Finn if they
were attacked? The lad could fight well enough, but he’d always shown more interest in playing the pipes and reciting tales
of past heroes than in swordplay. Every laird had a bard, and Finn was determined to become Rob’s. As irritating as it sometimes
was to have the lad always underfoot, watching what he did and what he said in the event that some heroic deed he performed
needed retelling, Rob was fond of Graham and Claire Grant’s youngest son. He was a respectful lad with a curious nature, and
since he wasn’t the source of Rob’s frustration, he should not bear the brunt of it. “And nae,” Rob told him in a milder tone,
“Scottish nuns pray more.”

“I dinna care if her knees have worn straight through her robes,” Angus grumbled, reaching for a pouch of brew hidden in his
plaid. “If she brought Will
and
Tristan into this world, I have nae desire to be meetin’ her.”