The Bold Heart (The Highland Heather and Hearts Scottish Romance Series) (2 page)

“Ye can do better than that,” Merry scolded, but she didn’t press the matter further. The lads were right; Diabhul hated everyone but her. She’d come back after she’d heard the tidings herself.

Will sat in a small boat, poking with a stick at the fish in the water as he waited for her, and taking up the oars, Merry rowed the short distance to the sea-gate. A watchman helped them to disembark, and they hurried up the narrow flight of steps cut deep into the rock and entered the castle grounds.

“Hie ye off now, Will,” Merry hissed in a conspiratorial tone. “Mayhap your mother doesna yet know ye rode Diabhul.”

Flashing a wide smile, he bounded away.

Dusting her hands, Merry took a step forward but then pulled up short.

Bree stood by the well, her arms crossed.

The years had changed Bree. Gone was the shy, unassuming English maiden that had stolen her brother’s heart. In that girl’s place stood a gentle yet commanding lady. Her brown curls were braided and pinned neatly to her head, and fine lines appeared under her green, sharp eyes—eyes that hadn’t missed a thing.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t see him riding Diabhul?” Bree asked, smoothing her skirts. “And if I hadn’t, Merry, there are at least ten others who also saw and were telling me long afore you even reached the stables.”

Merry heaved an apologetic sigh. “’Twas the tidings of Ewan,” she said in her defense.

Bree’s green eyes narrowed and her lips thinned.

The silence between them grew.

And then Bree sighed too. “And how much did Will tell you?” she finally asked.

Merry exhaled, knowing that she’d been forgiven—at least for the moment. 
“Only that he was caught by the English,” she answered.

“Yes, he was betrayed,” Bree answered in her quiet way. “He’d ridden to free Alec Montgomery from the Cunninghams, but ‘twas a trap. Ewan and his men, along with Alec, were ambushed in the Borderlands and then taken as prisoners.” She paused a moment before adding, “He’s in the keeping of the Lord Warden of the West March—in Carlisle.”

Merry swallowed. Carlisle was a lawless place. Treachery and deceit abounded there. Mayhap, Ewan wouldn't be able to rescue himself after all.

“And what is being done about it, sister?” Merry asked with a frown. “Surely, the Earl of Douglas can free him? As Lord Warden of the East March, can he not now wrest Ewan from the hands of the English?”

“Ruan says ‘tis not so simple a matter,” Bree continued, motioning for Merry to follow her into the castle. “Not with Alec Montgomery tangled in the affair. The Lord Wardens will not agree anytime soon upon the Cunningham-Montgomery dispute. Instead, Ruan has asked that we send Gentle John to Carlisle straightway to free Ewan and the others before harm finds them.”

Merry’s brown eyes lit with concern. While Gentle John was undoubtedly one of the fiercest warriors in the clan and a man wholly capable of overseeing Ewan’s rescue, he’d recently taken a fall from a horse whilst jousting. His injuries had him still abed, hardly ready at that moment to command a daring rescue.

Bree waved a hand as she mounted the spiral stairs leading into the hall. “I shall find another to go sooner in his stead, Merry,” she assured. “’Tis not time to fret. We’ll see Ewan saved.”

“But when?” Merry asked with a worried scowl. Aye, she was only growing more worried by the minute. “We must not delay, Bree. If we wait too long, they’ll have him hung at Hairibee!”

“Ewan is the Earl of Mull’s son,” Bree disagreed firmly. “His life will not be taken so lightly.”

Merry’s scowl deepened. She didn’t share Bree’s certainty.

They entered the hall then, and the Lady of Dunvegan was surrounded at once by a bevy of women, all eager for her attention.

“Did ye see what Merry did, my lady?” one gasped, fanning her cheeks.

“Riding
that
horse, he was,” a small, spare woman of middle age inserted.

“Ach, Merry must be touched in the head,” began another with a disapproving face, but then as Merry stepped up behind Bree, her hand flew to cover her mouth.

Merry rolled her eyes. “Yes, I let wee Will ride Diabhul,” she snapped, and then shouldering past them, made her way to an aged white-haired figure slumped before the massive fireplace.

It was Isobel, her nursemaid, and a woman both she and Ruan looked upon as a mother even more than their own.

“Ruan?” the old woman queried feebly as she approached. A smile crossed her withered face as her hand fluttered in greeting.

“Nay, ‘tis Merry,” Merry answered with a smile. “Are ye not a wee bit disappointed now?”

Isobel gave a small laugh. “Ye look so much like him, my sweet lass.”

Merry feigned a frown, but she knew Isobel spoke the truth. 
She not only shared her brother’s raven hair, unusual height, and dark brown eyes, but she mirrored his skill with a bow and was not bad with dirk in hand as well.

“Aye, I should have been born a lad,” she said with a laugh.

Isobel’s old eyes gleamed as she took in Merry’s appearance. “Crooked hems and loose threads,” she clucked. “I’ve done ye wrong, ye can’t even sew a straight seam. ‘Tis time ye wed ere the lads notice my failure.”

Arranging the shawl around Isobel’s shoulders, Merry leaned down and kissed the top of the old woman’s head. “But I can ride and hunt better than any man and hold my own with a sword. What need have I of a husband?”

Isobel clucked. “Can ye get a bairn on your own too, then?”

Merry snorted a little. Isobel had been nagging her more of late. “I’ve already been wed and widowed, ‘twas enough to suffice me. Besides, I dinna want a comfortable, ordered life. Ye know I’m happy as I am.”

The old woman’s forehead knit into a frown. “Love ‘tis what I’m speaking of, lass. Love,” she mumbled, and then with an acid glare, she settled back to doze before the fire.

Merry watched her a moment before turning away.

She had no interest in a husband. After her disastrous marriage, Ruan had promised to let her choose her own husband, if and when she found true love. Mayhap someday, but she hadn’t found love yet, and she hadn’t felt particularly inclined to seek it out either. She quite liked her life, riding Diabhul on the moors, tending to the crofters, and hunting for the clan as needed.

Stretching, she surveyed the hall. The evening feast would start soon. In the corner, several hounds rooted in the rushes for bones. Lads scurried about, lighting the torches on the walls. Already, the servants were setting the tables.

At the far end of the hall, Bree stood, conversing with the ladies circled around her.

Merry winced.

Most likely, they spoke of her, and as they began to move in her direction, Merry moved to make her escape.

Feeling strangely restless, she returned to the sea-gate and taking a boat, rowed to shore. With her thoughts preoccupied by Ewan, she saw Diabhul properly tended to before joining the stable hands for a steaming bowl of herring stew, barley loaf, and a mug of home-brewed ale.

What if Ewan couldn’t escape on his own? 
What if he’d been injured? 
Or what if they truly planned to hang him despite his noble blood?

The feud between the Montgomery and Cunningham clans was a vicious and bloody one. The Cunninghams might harm Ewan regardless, earl’s son or no.

Thinking in circles, Merry idly spooned her stew, watching as it slowly congealed before giving up on the notion of eating altogether. Setting her uneaten portion down before a grateful mouser, she made her way back to the castle.

As Lady of Dunvegan, Bree presided in the hall during Ruan’s absence, settling clan disputes as necessary, and judging by the guffaws and wheedling tones coming from the hall, there was a particularly amusing dispute that evening—one likely to keep the clan’s attention for quite some time.

Not in the mood to join in the revelry, Merry headed to her chamber, and closing her eyes, lay back on her heather-filled pallet.

Through the open window, she could hear the gentle lapping of the waves as they mingled with the rise and fall of the afternoon pipes drifting on the wind.

“If only I’d been born a man,” she lamented aloud.

If she were a man, she wouldn’t wait for someone to take action. She owed Ewan a life-debt, and because of that, she’d ride to England and rescue him herself.

The thought gave her pause.

She could wield a weapon as good as any man in the clan, shoot an arrow better, and her skills on the horse were unmatched.

Slowly, she sat up and hugged her legs, resting her chin upon the top of her knees. She could see her reflection in the small polished mirror hanging next to her bed. Large dark eyes stared back at her in a strong-featured face. Her lips were full and carved like marble. Twisting her raven hair back into a tight rope, she analyzed her image critically.

She was unusually tall. Taller than most men, but she couldn’t pass for one, given her delicate complexion.

But if she cut her hair, she just might pass for a lad.

Playing with her locks, she let them slip through her fingers.

Carlisle was a turbulent English town where border warfare raged—a lawless place where one could bribe anyone. No doubt a man such as Gentle John could free Ewan by strength of arms.

But a cunning mind and a few good coins might free him easier ... and sooner.

She made up her mind at once.

Unsheathing a sharp blade, it was only a matter of moments before the last lock of raven hair fluttered to the chamber floor.

It was irregular, not to mention unseemly, for a lass to travel abroad without proper escort, but Ruan had trained her well, and she would travel quickly. Diabhul’s speed was unmatched.

Bree would be distraught and Ruan furious, but she strengthened her resolve. ‘Twas a matter of honor. Ewan had saved her life. She was certain she could save his.

Carlisle was a fortnight away. She would need little coin on the journey down, but a fair amount to actually free him. Wriggling under the bed, she pulled out a small wooden chest and took out a leather pouch. She’d saved quite a bit of coin over the years. Surely, it would be enough. 
Choosing her heaviest woolen cloak, she quickly sewed the coins into the hem.

And then once again standing before the mirror, she 
judged her appearance. 
With her short hair, she was closer to passing for a lad. But she had to hide her breasts. Ripping the corner of the muslin sheet from her bed into strips, she bound her chest as tightly as she could and surveyed the results. With a mischievous grin at the boyish image smiling back at her, she ran her hand through her cropped hair and then, collecting her bow and quiver, set off to borrow a pair of Ruan’s travel breeches.

She visited the castle storeroom next, tiptoeing past ricks of cabbages and sacks of oats to the baskets of hard cheese and thick salted bannocks. Placing her selection in the center of a plaid, she tied the four corners into a neat parcel and hefted it, testing its weight. Satisfied, she drew her hood to hide her shorn head and, keeping to the shadows, slipped out of the castle once again to head for the sea-gate.

She’d just passed the well when she heard the soft sound of padded footsteps behind her. She knew immediately who it was.

“Skulking about now, are ye, Will?” she asked as she turned around.

Skipping out of the shadows, he replied in a loud whisper, “Heading off to England, are ye no?”

Merry arched an amused brow. “A keen eye ye have, lad,” she said, impressed. “Sometimes, I wonder if ye truly are of the fairy ilk.”

They both shared a quiet laugh.

And then, bouncing with excitement, he asked, “Can I come?”

His face fell then as he read his answer in her expression, and it took him a moment to master his disappointment.

Stepping forward, Merry tousled his head fondly. “Next time,” she said, and winked. “Now hie ye off to your mother like a good lad, but not a word of me till the morrow, aye?”

“Aye,” he agreed solemnly, but then gave a reluctant smile.

Shouldering her pack once more, she left him at the well and made her way to where the night watchman stood by the tethered boats.

“Off to tend Diabhul again?” the man asked, a smile creasing his weathered face.

“Aye, he’s a wee bit off his feed,” Merry lied easily enough. Tossing her bow and the pack into the boat, she hopped in after them. “I’ve a mind to sit with him this night and mayhap hunt with the dawn,” she added for good measure.

Behind the watchman’s back, Will grinned and began to dance.

Sending her nephew a warning glare, Merry grabbed the oars and shoved off.

Gray mist consumed her almost at once, but before the sight of Will disappeared into the blanket of fog, she saw his thin arm raise in farewell.

Blowing him a kiss in response, she turned away and set the oars deeper into the water. The boat pitched a little as she strained forward, and excitement tingled through her.

She was really leaving, heeding the call of destiny.

For a brief moment, she felt a pinch of guilt over Ruan and Bree. They would worry, but it would not be for long. She would see Ewan free right quickly and return to Dunvegan before a month had gone.

Diabhul was restless, sensing her excitement as she adjusted the leather straps of her favorite saddle. It was a fine-tooled saddle, inlaid with silver filigree and fit for a nobleman. A gift from Ruan. 
Securing the last buckle, she led Diabhul from his stall, past the snoring stable lad, and out onto the dirt road.

A heavy fog veiled the village, wrapping the trees and the moss-covered stones in mist. It was so thick that it muffled sound and sight.

No one would see her go.

It was as if fate itself were lending a hand.

Leaving the castle of her birth behind, she set the course south and headed out onto the moors. She rode slowly at first but with increasing speed, knowing Diabhul to be as sure-footed as a mountain goat. She didn’t really need to guide him. They both knew practically every gray boulder and clump of grass dotting the Isle of Skye.