Taming a Wild Scot: A Claimed by the Highlander Novel (17 page)

Then he attacked.

He swung the bow first, fierce satisfaction spreading through his veins when the wood struck an unseen object and elicited a grunt of pain. Then he stabbed, sinking his knife into the familiar firm resistance of muscle—probably an arm.

Quickly, before Leod could dart away, he yanked the blade free and slashed again. He tried for a third jab, but his blade met nothing but air.

Leod was now badly injured.

But still one with the shadows.

“It’s over, Leod,” Niall said, spinning slowly. When his ears caught the sound of ragged breathing, he stopped. His gaze could not penetrate the curtain of obscurity that lay beyond a knobby birch tree, but he was confident the other man stood there. “Go to your grave with an easy conscience. Tell me why you betrayed me.”

Leod shuffled into view, a huddled shape leaning heavily against the tree. His left hand clutched his sword arm, black blood soaking the sleeve of his lèine. His face was twisted. “You want to know why? Blame our father.”

Our
father?

Leod smirked at the expression on Niall’s face. He dropped his sword and sank slowly to the ground. In addition to the cuts on his arm and torso, a dark stain of red marred his temple. “Did you think you were the great man’s only chance-bairn?”

Niall stiffened.

“Apparently you did,” Leod said, choking out a short laugh. “But I was the first. He brought me to Dunstoras when I was ten, much as he did with you.”

A deep breath lifted Niall’s chest. “Does Aiden know?”

“Nay.” Leod closed his eyes. “I felt no kinship for a boy born with everything when I had naught.”

Niall sheathed his dirk and crossed to the dying man. “Why did you not tell me?”

Leod opened his eyes again. “
You?
You were the old man’s pride and joy—a big, strapping lad with a gift for the sword. You excelled at every task he gave you. I had no reason to befriend you.”

That wasn’t the history Niall remembered, but who was he to argue with a dying man? “Indeed, you were willing to slay me. For what? The necklace?”

Leod lifted his hand away from his arm and stared at the dark stain of blood. “All I wanted was for the wretch to call me son. Even if it were only on his deathbed. But he told no one, not even his confessor.”

Niall sensed the end was nearing, yet he still had no answers. “Why did you try to kill me?”

“After the laird’s death, I sought new meaning in my life, and I found it. In the form of a new master willing to give me everything I desired in exchange for my loyalty.”

“What new master?”

Leod’s next breath was a shudder. “He bade me to watch you. . . .”

Niall waited.

“He was certain you would find the necklace,” he said. “And he was right.”

“Who asked this of you?”

“Once Aiden was arrested, it was my task to recover the necklace from the earl of Lochurkie, but the righteous sot believed Aiden’s proclamations of innocence and secreted it out of the castle with a faithful guard. We lost the necklace after that.” He choked out another laugh. “Until your determined hunt tracked it down.”

Niall frowned. “’Twas you who stole the necklace at Dunstoras?”

Leod coughed, and a dribble of blood ran down his chin. “Nay, my master did that. Henry de Coleville was a very careful man. Mine was not a face the king’s courier would trust near the necklace.”

But his master’s was? “Who is your master? Tell me now.”

Leod’s head fell back against the trunk of the tree. “Do not think to press me,” he said, as his eyelids drifted down. “I will . . . never . . . betray . . . him.”

The last word came out softly, as Leod gave up his last breath.

A deep silence settled around them, the forest’s requiem for a lost life. It didn’t last long—the busy chitter of a red squirrel in search of nuts soon broke the quiet. Niall was still unsettled by all that Leod had revealed, but he thrust his turbulent thoughts to the back of his mind. He closed Leod’s eyes, said a quick prayer, and stood. Then he scooped up the man’s discarded sword and turned on his heel. A burial would have to wait.

Ana was still out there, alone in the forest.

•   •   •

Reaching safety was all Ana could think about. Even after she stumbled out of the wood and onto the road, she kept running. Her attacker knew she was the village healer and could no doubt track her to the bothy. The only truly safe place was the manor.

She arrived at the gate utterly breathless and sweating profusely. As was the norm after dark, the portcullis was down and an armed guard stood in the center of the arch, challenging any who sought to enter. Usually, upon spying her face the guard ordered the portcullis raised and ushered her inside. But not tonight. Perhaps she looked more disheveled than she knew.

“I’m here to tend the Lady Elayne,” she said to the stony-faced guard. Ana knew him, but could not recall his name. She’d once had to lance a boil on his buttocks.

He stared at her for a moment, then walked to the iron gate and hailed another guard on the other side. The two men exchanged a few whispered comments, and then the second guard walked away.

“You’re to wait here,” her guard said.

“Why?” she demanded, peering over his shoulder. She could see a group of men gathered in the inner close, a number of them carrying torches. A loud voice was exhorting the crowd, but she couldn’t make out the words. “The baroness needs my care. I can hardly deliver it from here.”

He didn’t respond.

Ana glanced behind her. The road was empty, but it might not remain that way for long. “Please,” she begged the guard. “Grant me entry. I promise you the baron will vouch for me.”

He said nothing, just stood at attention, his eyes straight ahead.

Through the portcullis, Ana saw the second guard reach the throng in the courtyard. The loud voice ceased, and a strange quiet fell over the night air. She shivered and drew her brat tight around her shoulders. Why were so many men gathered in the bailey? What task required torches? A search of some kind?

“Has someone gone missing?” she asked the guard.

Still no response.

The crowd in the bailey suddenly swarmed toward the gate, led by three figures. As they neared, Ana identified the three as the second guard, Mr. Hurley, and Friar Colban. The look on the friar’s face turned her guts to jelly. He practically glowed with malicious triumph.

Dear Lord.

The mob in the bailey had something to do with
her
.

Barely able to breathe for the sudden wash of terror, she spun away—mindless of direction, just praying for safety. She did not get far. The gate guard anticipated her attempt to flee and dropped his spear in front of her, blocking her retreat. The wooden pole plowed into her belly, and bile rose into her mouth.

“Ana Bisset,” called the constable.

She turned to face him, one hand on her stomach. He waved to a man above them on the wall, and the heavy groan of metal chain preceded the ascent of the gate. Hurley’s expression was calm and reasonable. She allowed herself to hope.

“Mr. Hurley?”

“Serious charges have been leveled against you by Brother Colban and the handmaiden Bébinn. They are accusing you of witchcraft.”

Ana’s mouth went dry. “I am not a witch.”

“So you say,” Brother Colban said hotly, shaking the torch in his hands like a judgment staff, “and yet you’ve brought a demon to life in the baroness’s belly.”

“The bairn is no demon. It is a child, nothing more.”

“It was dead, and now it is alive. What else could it be but a demon?”

“The babe was never dead,” she protested.

“I felt the baroness’s belly myself. There was no life in her womb.”

“You were mistaken. The babe—”

“Cease,” the friar roared, pointing a finger at her. “I know what I felt. Your lies will not sway us, witch.”

The chill consumed her entire body. That one word—
witch
—brought back memories too horrific to contemplate. Desperate to calm her accusers, Ana appealed to the constable. “Mr. Hurley, please. The babe was not dead, just lying still for a time. Much like any of us might after a fall.”

He shook his head. “I was not present. I cannot give evidence.”

“Let me speak to the baron, then. He was there.”

Hurley’s expression hardened. “The baron is with his wife. Upon learning what had transpired, Lady Elayne became distraught. She tried to harm herself.”

Madness. The entire situation was madness.

“But I did nothing wrong,” she pleaded. “I simply healed the Lady Elayne as I’ve healed many other people in the village.” She gestured to the crowd. “As I’ve healed many of you.”

“Nothing wrong?” snarled the friar. “You invited Satan into our homes, and into Lady Elayne’s womb.” Grabbing the wooden cross hanging at his belt, he stepped forward, shaking it at her. “Get thee gone. Back to hell, disciple of Satan. Back to hell.”

Ana instinctively recoiled. And then wished she hadn’t.

“See?” the friar crowed, smiling darkly. “It fears the sign of Christ.”

He began to murmur words in Latin, and many of the men in the mob genuflected. Ana’s head pounded. She madly sifted through her thoughts, hoping to find some argument that might calm the frenzy and return the villagers to sanity.

“Mr. Hurley,” she appealed again. “You searched my bothy. Did you find
anything
to suggest I worship a god other than the Lord Almighty?”

“Nay.”

“There,” she said, satisfied. “You’ve heard from the constable himself.”

“My word matters not,” Hurley said quietly. “The baron has already ruled on the matter.”

“But I’m innocent.”

His gaze dropped. “The baron is the law.”

“You cannot truly believe I am capable of bringing a dead bairn back to life.”

“What I believe is irrelevant,” the constable said. He waved to the guards. “Take her to the dungeon.”

“Nay,” protested the friar. He shoved aside the two men reaching for her arms. “Evil must be routed and routed swiftly, else it will taint every soul in the village. The witch must face the fire.”

Ana closed her eyes.
Dear Lord, no
.

“The baron said nothing of slaying her,” Hurley responded.

“The baron is dealing with his own troubles,” Brother Colban said. “His wife has a demon in her belly. He cannot allow the devil’s spawn to be born into this world.”

Her eyes flew open. “What does he mean to do?”

The friar ignored her. He addressed the constable. “Take her to the market square. Have your men plant a stake.”

Hurley’s lips thinned. “I do not take my orders from you, Friar.”

“Nor do I take mine from you,” the holy man said. “When it comes to God’s will, I am His interpreter, not the baron. The sanctity of all our souls is at risk. Our families are at risk. If I say she dies this night, then she dies.”

Hurley stepped firmly between Ana and Brother Colban. “I cannot let you do that.”

The friar turned to the mob behind him. “The witch must die for your families to be safe,” he exhorted. “Let her live and your children will be forever haunted and bedeviled. Do what must be done.”

The mob surged forward with an angry roar.

Mr. Hurley did his best to hold fast, but he was swiftly overwhelmed. He fell beneath the thrashing, raging crowd. Ana’s last sight of him before she was carried away was the sleeve of his red tunic and a fisted hand.

All was lost.

T
hey
ambushed Isabail of Lochurkie’s carriage in the dark of night in a narrow pass between two steep crags. Her guards numbered thirteen, which was ten more than Aiden’s party was blessed with, but he had surprise and rocky terrain on his side.

A dropped boulder prevented the carriage from racing to safety through the pass, and the narrowness of the corridor prevented the carriage from turning around. Several strategically shot arrows cut the number of able opponents by half before they leapt into the gorge to do battle.

Aiden dove straight for Sir Robert. The knight was their most formidable foe, mounted on a sturdy destrier and covered head to thigh in ring mail. The fool was careless enough—or arrogant enough—to leave his shield tied to the back of his saddle, and Aiden took advantage. Ducking under the knight’s swinging blade, he sliced through the leather thong holding the shield and spun out of reach.

Now protected by a solid steel barrier, he pressed in close, absorbing blow upon blow from the knight’s fiercely wielded short sword.

The man’s horse was well trained. It held its ground despite the loudly clanging metal and showers of sparks. The splendid black-and-white beast was draped in a full set of cuir boille armor—a fact Aiden applauded when the tip of his sword went wide and struck the animal’s neck. He took no pleasure from injuring a fine horse.

“You wretched sot,” Sir Robert cried. “I knew you were a fiend the moment I cast eyes upon you. You’ve made a grievous error today. The lady is not yours to take.”

“I mean no harm to the lady. Lay down your weapon.”

Sir Robert snorted and struck the shield with a mighty blow that sent a tremor down Aiden’s arm. “I think you mistake who has the advantage.”

“Lay down your weapon and this can end without bloodshed.”

“Nay! I’ll see you into hell first.”

Aiden allowed the big knight to pound on him, again and again, knowing every blow depleted the man’s strength. When he saw the man’s arm tremble slightly upon pulling back, he knew the time was right to make his move. Sir Robert’s rage had not abated, but his swings were slower now and his underarm remained exposed a tad longer than it should have. Aiden dropped the shield and thrust his sword up and to the left. His aim was true. The blade went deep.

Sir Robert spat blood.

Aiden tugged his blade free, regret clawing at his gut. This was no enemy in war—Sir Robert was a fellow Scotsman whose only fault was that he dared to protect a lady from harm. Aye, the man was a boor and a braggart, but he didn’t deserve to die. Not this way.

“Harm one hair on her head,” gurgled Sir Robert, “and I’ll haunt you from the grave for eternity.”

Aiden did not doubt him. Knowing his men were still outnumbered, he nodded respectfully to the knight, then picked up the shield and dove back into the fighting. He whacked a brawny young lad on the back of his helm with the shield. The lad dropped like a stone.

Duncan and Graeme were quick to wrap up their own conflicts once the tide turned. Minutes later, the surviving guards were kneeling on the ground in a tight circle, hands bound behind their backs.

Aiden yanked the carriage door open.

“Step out, my lady.”

A woman emerged from the carriage and hastily descended the step, her skirts bunched in hand. A plump, older lady with a look of stark terror on her face. Not Lady Isabail. Her handmaiden.

“Now, my lady,” Aiden said coldly. “Or I will carry you out without a care to how much of your sark and stockings are displayed to the world.”

His ears caught the rustle of starched linens. The carriage wobbled and then a woman appeared in the doorway. Nay, not a woman. An angel in a pale blue gown. The color suited her, underscoring her silvery beauty, but Aiden wasn’t about to tell her so.

This woman was threatening to take his beloved Dunstoras.

“Wise choice,” he said. His hand itched to offer her aid as she descended to the ground, but he held tight to his sword instead. The punishment he’d endured at the hands of her brother was still too fresh in his mind. He pointed the tip of the blade toward Sir Robert’s destrier. “Mount up.”

She did not immediately obey. Instead, she took a moment to berate him in a quavering voice. “You will hang for this, orchard keeper. My cousin, the new earl, will avenge my honor with all due fury.”

“I am not an orchard keeper. Nor am I interested in robbing you of your virtue.” If he admitted he was the man she accused of murdering her brother, he suspected she would faint. Noblewomen were given to fainting spells. “Mount up.”

She frowned. “That’s a battle steed. You cannot expect me to ride such a powerful beast—especially with no gloves.”

“You won’t be holding the reins.”

Her frown deepened. “Who will?”

“Me.”

Confusion softened her face. “Am I to be led about like a child on a pony?”

“Up,” he repeated, pointing to the huge horse again.

She crossed to the animal and reached for the cantle of the saddle, but failed to grab it. Her head barely topped the destrier’s back. Graeme gave the lady a leg up and her handmaiden spread her shimmering blue skirts demurely across the horse’s withers.

Aiden lit a loose pile of clothing on fire, then took the reins of the destrier, swept Isabail’s skirts out of his way, and leapt upon the back of the horse. Without a word, he lifted the lady and settled her in front of him.

Isabail gave a short shriek, then held herself stiff.

Aiden wrapped an arm around her slender waist, cinching her securely to his chest, and turned the horse around to face the open end of Gildorm Pass. As he urged the big destrier past the bound men, Isabail found her voice again.

“Surely you don’t mean to leave them like this.”

“I do.”

“But there are wildcats and wolves in these mountains.” Which was why he’d lit the beacon—to alert guards from the castle below who would reach the pass within a few hours. But Aiden was not of a mind to explain that to Isabail. Not while he was struggling with the unexpected pleasure of holding her in his arms. The damned woman was soft in all the right places and smelled faintly of some flower he could not name.

She made his bloody head spin.

Determined to put as much distance between him and the ambush site as swiftly as possible, Aiden led his men out of the pass and headed west toward Dunstoras. They were headed home.

•   •   •

Niall made good time through the forest. He might have caught up with Ana had he not run across the remnants of a campfire just east of the ridge overlooking the road. The coals were dead but relatively fresh, and recalling Leod’s claim to be serving another master, he sank into a crouch to take a closer look.

Animal bones, scorched by flame and chewed bare, were strewn about the ground. A poacher would know to bury such evidence to keep the constable’s men off his back. Niall ran a finger over a deep cleft in a nearby log, clearly made by a long, narrow blade. Poachers did not carry swords, either.

He straightened.

Bent branches and half-melted footsteps in the snow told him the fellow had gone north, up past the clear water spring that pooled in the rocks.

Once Ana was safe, it might be wise to return to the woods and follow the trail. To tie up all the loose threads.

Niall jogged down the hill to the road, then picked up his pace.

When he reached the edge of the village, he slowed to a walk. In the distance, he could see torches lighting up the sky, which brought a frown to his brow. Duthes was a sleepy town and activities after dark were uncommon.

Ana’s bothy was dark, so he continued up the lane toward the manor.

When he spied the crowd gathered at the gate, he ducked into the shadows of the village dye house. A mix of soldiers and gillies, half of them carrying torches, surrounded a smaller group under the archway. Niall recognized Hurley, the friar . . . and Ana. A strident voice carried on the night air, but the wind blurred the words beyond recognition—not that he had need to decipher their meaning. It was clear by his angry gestures that the friar was accusing Ana of something.

Niall eyed the half dozen bowmen on the wall. Their attention was locked on the mob.

The voices in the distance swelled and, in a flash, the constable was overrun and Ana grabbed. Led by the black-robed friar, the crowd dragged her down the lane toward the village square.

Niall instinctively stepped forward, his hand on the hilt of Leod’s sword. It did not sit well to see Ana so roughly used.

But as the gate emptied and the open expanse of the manor courtyard beckoned, he halted. The archers on the wall were distracted by the mob. It would be a simple exercise to swing wide behind the shoemaker’s hut and slip under the portcullis. With so many of the manor goodmen heading for the village square, he’d been granted an unexpected opportunity to retrieve the necklace. Deserted corridors and a dearth of watchmen would make the task near effortless. After four long months, redeeming his honor was within reach.

His gaze slid back to the men dragging Ana. As they marched past the dye house, he could see righteous anger and obvious loathing etched on their faces—a dangerous combination. Ana’s beautiful face was pale and wrought with fear.

He sucked in a slow, deep breath.

No amount of redemption was worth that look.

He left the protection of the dye house and darted for the blacksmith’s barn. At the corner, he paused and peered into the village square. The crowd was thick and blocked his view. Many of the men were chanting
witch, witch
, and those who carried torches shook them in the night air. He was just about to dash across the lane to the tavern, when someone whispered his name.

“Robbie.”

Niall’s gaze lifted to the upper window of the barn. A young man leaned out, waving. He did not recognize the fellow, but it was clear the fellow recognized him. “Gordie?”

“Aye. Come inside.”

“Not the now—”

“You can see the square from here.”

Niall tugged on the barn door and slid quickly inside. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimness. On the upper level, two young men—one draped in the tabard of a guard—stood by an open window. Niall mounted the ladder two rungs at a time and hastened to join them.

Gordie nodded to the guard. “My brother, Simon.”

Niall acknowledged the other man with a nod, then peered out the window. In the center of the square two soldiers were digging a narrow hole in the frozen dirt. Two other men were shearing branches from a felled tree, creating a pole.

“They mean to burn her,” Gordie said grimly. “They think her a witch.”

Niall’s stomach twisted.

Fear was a powerful weapon. Especially in the hands of a skilled orator like the friar. There was little chance he’d be able to reason with these men. Unfortunately, he was only one man against thirty—a frontal attack was out of the question. He’d have to snatch her away.

But how?

“We need to create a diversion,” he told the two young men.

Gordie frowned. “What sort of diversion?”

“Something that will scatter the crowd.”

“Whatever we do,” said Simon solemnly, “we’d best be quick.”

Niall looked down into the square. The stake had been planted and the men were now binding Ana to the pole, her arms tight behind her back.

“Fetch kindling,” the friar shouted. “Only a truly scorching fire will banish her evil to hell.”

•   •   •

Closing her eyes did nothing to calm the tumultuous heave of Ana’s stomach. The horror of her situation still reached her a host of ways: the mob chanting, “Burn, witch, burn,” the sharp scent of freshly cut wood, and the feel of the hemp rope biting into her wrists. Worst of all, the sounds and smells invoked the memories of another horror-filled day—a hot summer afternoon in June, ten years before.

The images of that day were still brutally vivid, and she could almost feel the press of her father’s fingers on her shoulders. Half holding her back, half clenched with grief. She had cried herself hoarse that day, imploring the villagers to release her mother, and when that had no effect, begging her mother for forgiveness.

Her mother had smiled sadly in return.

How similar the events were—the wooden stake, the rope bindings, the piles of kindling—and yet how different. Her mother had burned in broad daylight, in the middle of a sweet green meadow, while she and her father watched in raw dismay. She would burn in darkness, with no family or loved one to witness her passing.

Perhaps that was for the best.

She remembered some of the more gruesome moments, including her mother’s blood-chilling screams and the sickening smell.

“Please forgive me, Mother,” she had whispered. “I did not mean to betray your secret. I did not know that when I told Aifric of your gift, the consequences would be so dire.”

For years after her mother’s death, Ana had refused to acknowledge her own burgeoning gift. Unable to understand why her mother had continued to heal ungrateful villagers in spite of great risk to herself, she vowed never to fall victim to the same curse. But faced with her father’s broken and bleeding body in the streets of Aberdeen, she’d been unable to hold true to her vow. She’d dragged him to a narrow alley, summoned the healing heat, and cured him. Later, he’d given her his gold ring to acknowledge her passage into the role of healer. He’d been proud of her, just as he’d always been proud of her mother. Despite the risk inherent in her gift.

As men tossed bundle upon bundle of kindling at her feet, Ana felt hot tears roll down her cheeks and drip off her chin. This was it, then. The bitter end.

Friar Colban—a tall, thin specter in black robes—appeared out of the swarm of dark faces before her. Poisonous anger gave his features a bony, bleak cast, and she had no trouble imagining him as Death himself.

“Repent now,” he shouted. “Repent your sins and God will save your soul.”

Ana straightened against the pole and looked the friar boldly in the eye. She drew on strength she did not know she possessed. “I have nothing to repent. I am innocent.”