The Bold Heart (The Highland Heather and Hearts Scottish Romance Series) (22 page)

Dawn came, and they set out through the early morning mists once again in hot pursuit. By the time they’d reached a village, the sun had burnt off the haze and they could see the sheep dotting the hilltops surrounding them.

The man at the alehouse had told them a raven-haired lad on a fine black horse had only just left with the dawn. And after hastily swallowing fish and bannocks and washing it all down with mugs of ale, they were off once more. 
The bleating of the sheep faded in the distance as they galloped along riverbanks and burns swollen by the recent rains.

But when crossing the boggy ground with care, they found her tracks leading into an inviting glen.

At the entrance, Ewan paused to stand in the stirrups and peer ahead.

“Do ye see her?” Alec asked for the tenth time.

“Nay,” Ewan admitted tiredly.

Urging his horse forward, he steered the animal into the glen, which sprinkled with early summer flowers. The road dwindled into little more than a path lined by oaks, and through the leaves, Ewan spied mounds of ancient stones.

He slowed his horse to a walk.

“What is it?” Alec asked, coming up behind him.

“Cairns,” Ewan nodded with a frown.

He continued forward but slower.

And then from the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a young woman standing near an aged willow swaying gently in the wind. Her long red hair fell over her shoulders, almost down to her knees, and she wore a green plaid clasped with a Celtic cross.

However, just as quickly as he’d seen her, she was then gone, leaving him wondering if he suffered from battle madness.

Pulling rein sharply, he searched the old willow, but there was no sign of her.

Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that Alec had fallen behind, and he waited a moment for the man to join him.

“What is it?” Alec asked once he’d arrived.

“’Tis odd,” Ewan murmured, shaking his head. “I thought I saw a lass. Red-haired and wearing a green plaid by yonder willow.”

Alec raised a brow. “Aye, I thought I saw a lass, too, with hair as red as fire, near the trees, but she wore a blue kirtle. When I looked again, she was gone. Mayhap ‘twas a trick of the light.”

Ewan raised a brow. “Unlikely,” he said.

“Mayhap not,” Alec shrugged. “But recently we’ve both suffered the company of a spiteful redheaded lass, aye?”

Ewan tilted his head speculatively to the side and nodded at the willow. A large stone almost as tall as a lass stood behind it. “It could have been a trick of the sunlight, I suppose,” he said thoughtfully. “That stone, ‘tis reddish of color, aye?”

“Let’s have a look,” Alec suggested.

But Ewan stayed him with a hand. “We should just ride on. There are too many cairns here, Alec. It doesna bode well to disturb the bones of the dead.”

“I dinna believe in spirits,” Alec grunted. Wheeling his horse’s head, he urged the beast to the willow, and after a moment’s inspection, called out, “Ach, there’s naught here—naught but the stones of some old druid circle.”

Ewan hesitated. Their only chance to catch Merry depended upon speed. They truly had little time to waste. But the fact that they’d both seen a red-haired woman was odd. More than odd.

“God’s Wounds,” he swore under his breath. And turning his horse after Alec, cantered up to the willow.

“I’m curious,” Alec said then, and pointed back to some trees not far away. “Give me a moment, aye? I would see if there’s a stone circle by yon pines.”

He spurred his horse back down the path as Ewan called after him. “Aye, but be quick! I’ve no desire to stay in this place.”

Tiredly, Ewan took the opportunity to dismount and stretch his legs.

He was not a superstitious man, but he felt uneasy.

The stones of the ancient circle had mostly fallen around the willow, only one stood erect. And he was about to turn away from it when he saw them.

A fresh hoof print. A large one. And another. And yet another leading into the forest.

With his hand upon his sword hilt, he moved forward cautiously, stepping through the brambles and thickets to scan the damp ground before him. 
He’d scarcely gone a stone’s throw before he heard the snuffling of a horse and, stepping around the trunk of a twisted tree, came face-to-face with Diabhul.

He almost laughed aloud, and he would have, had not Diabhul lunged for him.

He’d just narrowly avoided the horse’s teeth, when he heard footsteps approaching, tramping noisily through the clumps of fern and bracken.

It was Merry.

Taking refuge behind the twisted trunk, he waited until she drew abreast of him and then stepping out, banded his arm around her waist and caught her to his chest.

She opened her mouth to scream and her hand arched up to lash out, but he blocked the attack and locked her arms with his.

“And ye've led us on a Merry chase, lass,” he said with a smile.

She relaxed immediately, rolling her eyes at the jest. “Are ye trying to frighten me to an early death, Ewan?” She scowled. “How did ye find me?”

How indeed? He shook his head. “Fate,” he answered. What else could he say?

“Well, ye can let me go now,” she said, wriggling a little in his arms.

He found the way her body moved against his quite pleasant and only smiled the more. “Nay, I’ll not be letting ye go again,” he murmured into her hair. “You’re coming with me, lass.”

Her spine went rigid, and she lifted her smoldering brown eyes to his. “Staying with ye and your betrothed holds little appeal. Nay, I’ll not go.”

He suppressed a smile. “Ye’ll be coming with me, lass. And I’ll drag ye kicking and screaming if I have to,” he replied, thinking how it was hard to resist the urge to plunder her lips then and there. Instead, he could only savor the anticipation of the moment their lips would finally meet again.

“Nay, I’ll just be wishing ye well on your marriage, Ewan,” she was saying. “And I’ll be on my way home—”

Lifting his hand, Ewan trailed his finger from her forehead, down her nose, and over her lips to silence them. “I’m not betrothed,” he said bluntly. “I never was.”

She drew her dark brows into a frown. “Pray tell what ye mean by such words, Ewan MacLean.”

With a shrug, he pulled her closer to his chest, noting with a private smile that she wasn’t quite as stiff as before.

“’Twas my silence that allowed it to go as far as it did,” he confessed then. “My father grew weary of waiting for me to wed and sought to find me a wife. He chose Iona. I dinna object, ‘tis true, but I thought to die in battle afore it ever mattered.”

Merry held still, and then her brown eyes filled with a mischievous gleam. “Ye didna have to die to escape her, Ewan,” she chimed sweetly. “Though I do agree with ye that death would have been preferable to taking her to wife.”

He laughed and brushed an errant curl back from her face.

She blinked a little at his touch but continued easily enough. “Ach, she’s a devious one,” she said. “But does she know ye’ll not be wedding her? Or have ye left the wee beastie dreaming you’ll be gracing her bed?”

She raised her hands to rest her palms flat on his chest as if preparing to push him away.

“Aye, she knows right well,” he answered. He lifted his hand then and ran a thumb along Merry’s jaw. The touch of her skin caused a wave of fierce desire to sweep through him, and he let the glint of lust show in his eyes. “I’d much rather speak of ye, lass. Mayhap, ye should tell me more of this man with the chest of stone, aye?” he lowered his voice and added suggestively, “the one that ye want in your bed?”

“’Tis not what I said,” she hedged, bristling a little.

“It best be what ye say,” he growled even lower. “And I’ll give ye no choice in the matter. I’ll be the only man ye ever have, Merry Macleod.”

Her brown eyes flooded with emotion. “Well, aren’t ye a wee bit arrogant, Ewan? Who says that I want ye?” she asked even as she melted against him. Sliding her hands up his chest, she threaded her fingers through his hair.

He groaned deep in the back of his throat. “I should warn ye, lass, that if ye continue that, you’re in danger of being soundly, nay, ruthlessly kissed.”

He let the words sink in, and when she didn’t stop, he lowered his head. He found her lips, kissing her with a soft tenderness that mirrored the emotions he felt toward her in his heart. 
But he’d scarcely done more than trace the curve of her lips with his tongue when he thought he heard voices on the breeze.

She moaned in a soft protest when his mouth abruptly left hers. Gently pushing her back, he held a finger to his lips, motioning for silence.

Men.

The clash of steel.

Alarmed, he whirled away and, crashing through the trees, drew his sword as he ran.

A horse bore down upon him, a dark shape of a man crouched low over its neck, and then the horse reared, and Ewan recognized the man’s plaid at once.

“Cunninghams!” he shouted, and then with his eyes widening in alarm, he searched the clearing and called out, “Alec!”

Chapter Eleven – Keen in the Old Ways

Merry ran after Ewan as he dashed back toward the road, and as they emerged from the forest, she saw a man wearing a Cunningham plaid on horseback galloping toward them. Drawing near, the horse raised on its mighty haunches, its front legs pawing the air. But after its hooves crashed down, the rider spurred on, swerving to avoid Ewan and instead making for an ancient druid circle surrounded by pines a short distance ahead.

Ewan whirled upon Merry then, pushing her behind him with a protective arm and shouting for her to stay hidden. And then with a litany of curses escaping his lips, he leapt into the saddle of his waiting horse and took off after the Cunningham.

They hadn’t gone far before Ewan unseated the man, and moving forward in a shimmering blur of steel, engaged him in combat.

It was then that Merry saw Alec’s sun-burnished head near the ancient druid circle, battling against two men wearing Cunningham plaids. Ignoring Ewan’s instructions, she spun on her heel. Intending to retrieve her bow, she’d gone only a few steps when a man sprang out from behind the large stone tilting toward the willow.

He moved forward quickly, and she couldn’t make out his face, only that he wore the Cunningham plaid.

In two steps, he’d closed the distance between them, and grabbing her by the throat, he growled in her ear. “We just want the Montgomery, ye young fool. Dinna make this your fight.”

Merry’s stomach clenched in fear.

But then instinct took over, and jabbing her knee up into his groin, she sent the man sprawling back into the ferns. And as he scrambled to his feet, she bolted in the opposite direction.

It took her several moments to realize that he hadn’t followed. She paused only to catch her breath before sprinting back to the road.

Ewan had moved further off, and he had just delivered a deathblow to the horseman when Merry’s attacker thundered past on a grey gelding at a wild gallop. But this man also avoided Ewan and instead headed directly to where Alec still fought near the tall standing stones.

Merry’s heart froze.

There was blood on Alec’s white shirt. His movements were slow, as if his sword were made of lead. He then vanquished one of his foes and swinging his sword suddenly, decapitated the other as she watched.

But then, the impact caused him to step back and stumble.

Time slowed as Merry watched him fall.

It seemed an eternity before his head struck one of the stones standing in the ancient druid circle. 
Suddenly, he went limp, his sword falling from his grasp. 
And then Merry’s attacker caught up to him. 
The Cunningham leapt from his horse and lunged toward Alec with his sword raised as Ewan’s anguished cry resounded through the glen.

Merry cringed, never wanting to hear such a sound again.

In a voice rampant with despair, anger, and horror, Ewan set off toward Alec at a dead run, but he was too far away. Still, Ewan hefted his sword as he ran and taking aim, launched it at the Cunningham like a javelin.

But it was too late. The Cunningham drove his sword into Alec as he lay stunned upon the grass.

Alec didn’t make a sound. Not even when Ewan’s sword pierced the Cunningham’s back and the man collapsed with a gurgling gasp upon Alec’s prone body.

And then Merry discovered that she was running, each step filling her with a pervasive sense of dread. 
But Ewan arrived first. Tossing the lifeless Cunningham aside as if he weighed no more than a twig, he knelt by Alec, his face registering true alarm.

And then Merry was there, standing at Alec’s feet, breathless. 
Instinctively, Ewan rose as if to shield her from the dreadful sight, but she caught a glimpse of a bloody gash across Alec’s abdomen. His shirt and plaid were soaked in blood.

She covered her mouth with both hands.

No man could survive that wound.

Dimly, she was aware of Ewan barking orders. There was strength mixed with the harshness in his voice. Somehow, it enabled her to put aside her horror. At least for the moment.

“Tear that plaid into strips, lass, and do it now!” he was shouting. Both of his hands were pressed against Alec’s abdomen, as if he were in some way holding the man together. “Be strong for him, lass. He needs us now.”

Merry nodded with a stricken expression.

With shaking hands, she stumbled to the dead Cunningham and unsheathing her dirk, began hacking a length of cloth from his plaid. The man’s face yawned open and his glassy eyes stared unseeing toward the sky. 
Only a few moments ago, he’d been shouting at her.

She swallowed and closed her eyes. She was caught in a nightmare. When would it end?

With a vicious jerk, she ripped the rest of the cloth away and staggered back to Ewan’s side to begin tearing the plaid into strips. But her hands were shaking so badly, she could scarcely move her fingers.

“Ewan—” Alec gasped, his teeth chattering in agony.

“By the blood of the saints, be silent, Alec!” Ewan thundered, and then throwing his head back, he let loose a torrent of ragged expletives and pounded his fist into the ground.