The Highlander's Folly (The Novels of Loch Moigh Book 3) (7 page)

They were down to three pages and two squires, not counting Meghan. It should have taken half the time to pack up and begin their journey. Unease pricked at him. The sooner they reached Aberdeenshire the better. He would send word to Moigh Hall and request a guard be sent to accompany them. Aye, that’s what he’d do. They’d wait in the comfort of an inn he’d oft stayed in with his foster father and uncles. Once he had word that their guard was close, their small band would set out to meet them. A good plan. Once again he had things well in hand.

Hunter glanced at the dark, low-hanging clouds and shivered. The weather had grown worse since the day past when Cecil and Gregory had departed. ’Twould soon rain, and they’d be forced to travel on through the mud whilst wet and miserable. There were no inns between here and Aberdeenshire.

At least his lads had readied themselves for travel much quicker this morn; Meghan as well. All were as anxious as he to see the safety of Aberdeenshire’s gates. He swung up on Doireann’s back and started for the road, trusting the rest would follow. The creaking of the wagon wheels assured him he’d assumed correctly.

Hunter kept a careful watch upon the way ahead, scanning the edge of the fog-shrouded forest along to his left for any sign of danger. Naught but the sea and rocky cliffs lay to the east, and none could approach undetected from that direction. He set a goodly pace and prayed they’d encounter no trouble along the way. The closer they came to town, the thicker the thieves. God willing, they’d reach town just past Prime this very day.

They traveled on in silence. Tieren took up the rear, and Murray guarded their middle. Meghan’s mount was directly behind his, flanked by Allain on one side with Tristan and Harold, Murray’s page, on the other. John would likely sleep on the wagon until midday again today, since he’d had last watch. George took his place, reins in hand, behind the rouncies pulling their belongings along the muddy, rutted track stretching before them.

’Twas the best they could do, and their two squires were close enough to earning their spurs that they could enter into battle and manage well enough. After all, they’d been trained by Tieren, Murray and himself, all MacKintosh knights and the best in the realm.

By late morn the rain began to fall in earnest. Still they slogged on, and the collective glumness of his cluster of weary travelers weighed heavily upon him. ’Twas cold enough that huffing out a breath caused a cloud of steam. He kept his focus on the way ahead and hunkered down under his wet cloak. They’d been traveling for hours when they reached a menacing stretch of road with forest on either side. At least the rain had eased some.

Hunter sent his senses into the shadowy depths of the woodland stretching before them, not liking at all what came back. Nefarious intent rolled in waves from the darkness, chilling his blood far more than the weather ever could. He halted and signed for silence. Fog obscured the way, making it impossible to see beyond the edges of the tree line on either side. He concentrated in an attempt to locate the source of the evil lying in wait, grateful that their own presence upon the road was as equally obscured.

“What is it?” Meghan whispered, coming up beside him. She too stared toward the forest.

He whispered back, “These woods are teeming with a thieving lot of brigands and murderers.”

With a quick intake of breath, her head whipped around, and her eyes grew large. “How can you possibly know that?”

“I am a seasoned warrior and have developed instincts about such things.”
Partly true.
“Look to your mount’s ears, lass, and to Doireann’s. Their senses are far more acute than ours.” Indeed, Doireann’s ears pricked forward, flattened back and pricked forward again as if seeking the source of danger he surely felt. Meghan’s gelding did the same, lifting his front hooves in mincing steps. Murray and Tieren soon joined them.

“I dinna like what I’m sensing ahead,” Hunter said, giving the two knights a meaningful look. “We’ve only the three of us for defense. If we enter the forest, we are sure to meet with trouble, and ’tis certain we are far outnumbered.”

“We’ve John and George to defend the wagon,” Murray whispered. “And our pages have weapons as well.”

“I can fight,” Meghan said, looking to each of them in turn.

She’d tucked her sodden hair beneath her equally sodden cap. She shivered under her cloak, and her cheeks and the tip of her nose were ruddy from the cold. Yet not once had she complained or shirked her share of the duties when they camped. His admiration for her grew with each passing day. “Nay, lass. I willna allow you to do so.”

“But you saw,” she hissed between her teeth, her eyes flashing indignation. “You know I can handle a sword as well as you can.”

He wiped the rain from his face and clenched his jaw. “Do you recall when you found your weapon upon the ground?”

“Of course I do.”

“When you swung it about above your head, think you I did no’ notice the bluntness of the edges? ’Tis for naught but show. It matters no’ how well you wield the thing. You could no’ slice an apple with that blade, much less separate a man’s head from his shoulders.”

All of the color leached from her face. “Oh. Right.” She chewed her lower lip for a second. “You have spares on the wagon, don’t you? I could—”

“Aye, there are spares upon the wagon, but the lads will need them, and our other weapons outweigh you by two or three stones at least,” Tieren told her, his tone filled with feigned regret. “You could no’ heft a war club adequately, my lady.”

“I’m good with daggers, and throwing them would keep me a distance away from our enemies,” she argued. “I can help. I want to help. Don’t you carry a whetstone or two? I could sharpen my sword right now.”

“And if our enemies carry crossbows? Would ye have us sit like fat geese in the middle of this quagmire of a road whilst ye make ready yer sword for battle, lass?” Murray huffed, shaking his head.
“
’Twill no’ be long afore the outlaws sense our presence just as we’ve discovered theirs.”

Hunter couldn’t help but be impressed by her courage, and by the fact that she viewed their enemies as hers as well. Any other lass would have gladly scampered off to some safe hiding place until he and his knights had vanquished the threat. “Have you ever killed a man, Meghan?”

“No.” She glared at him. “Of course not.”

“As I thought.” He blew out a breath before turning to her. “If it pleases you, I would rather today no’ be the day you make your first kill. ’Tis a messy business.” He searched the outer edge of the forest. A barely discernible path ran along to their left. Clearly theirs would not be the first group of travelers to circumvent the brigands hiding in the thick trees.

“As quietly as we can, let us move the wagon off the road and into the brush. We’ll unload everything to carry ourselves from here on in. See yon path along the edge of the forest?” He pointed to the trail. “That is our way.”

“Aye,” Tieren agreed. “The extra palfreys we can use as decoys. Let us divide the contents of our casks between the bedrolls, sporrans and satchels. We’ll place the empties upon the palfreys’ backs along with some of our gear. We can cover their loads with the tarp, which we can cut into three pieces easily enough.”

“
’
Tis a sound plan, Tieren,” Hunter said. “We must each carry our own weapons. Meghan will take the food, waterskins and blankets.”

She shot him a disgruntled look. He shook his head. “Dinna argue, lass. I’m doing my best to protect you.”

“I don’t need your—”

“
’Twould be prudent to have her sword sharpened by a blacksmith in Aberdeenshire,” Tieren interjected. “Whether or no’ she ever joins us in battle, I would feel better knowing she could defend herself if need be.”

Meghan flashed Tieren a grateful smile. “Thank you. I agree. Let’s have my sword sharpened.” Then she turned a glare his way. “In the meantime, give me a bunch of daggers just in case.”

“I’ll see it done, my lady,” Tieren said. “We’ve several to hand.”

Hunter bit his tongue. Tieren received beatific smiles and gratitude, while she gave him naught but defiance and cheek. Did the woman not recognize that
he
was her champion? Did she not understand and appreciate his attempts to keep her safe? Ah, but hadn’t he also been the fool to take her away from all she held dear? He stifled the groan rising in his throat and turned to oversee the wagon being moved off the road.

Together they made quick work of redistributing their goods. “We’ll use signing until we can see the gates of Aberdeenshire.” Hunter accompanied his words with the signs.

Meghan’s expression suffused with frustration. “Even though I recognize ASL, I don’t know how to sign.”

“Just stay where we put you, and follow along as quietly as you are able,” he whispered close to her ear. “Mayhap I can begin to teach you once we’re safe.”

“Or I can,” Tieren said, inserting himself between the two of them.

Hunter reached out with his senses to get a read on him, but Tieren had long ago learned how to mask his true feelings. All he could glean was a distracting jumble. Was Tieren serious about claiming Meghan? “Aye, or you can.” Hunter let the matter go and took up the lead, well aware that Meghan’s gaze once again followed him. Mayhap he was as much a puzzle to her as she was to him.

He signaled for the group to follow as quietly as possible, and they started out for the path leading around the outskirts of the forest. They’d tied bits of canvas over their horses’ hooves to muffle the sound, and they rode with only rope halters lest the jingle of bits and curb straps alert any to their whereabouts.

Like wraiths they crept along at a snail’s pace through most of the afternoon. By his reckoning, they had little more than a league to go before clearing the wood and gaining sight of Aberdeenshire’s gates. Though the prickling dread still rode him hard, a fervent hope ignited that they’d managed to outwit the fiends lying in wait.

He led them around the next bend, and the fine hairs on his forearms and at the back of his neck stood on end mere seconds before he spied six rough-looking villains, two on horseback, all blocking their way. They held broadswords and axes. Their malice slammed into him like a war club. “Shite.”

Tieren, Murray, George and John rode ahead to join him. He flashed them an incredulous look. “If you are all with me, who watches our rear?”

“Meghan, Allain, Tristan and Harold.” Murray spared him a glance.

“Shite.”

“You’ve already said that,” Murray remarked while drawing his sword.

“Aye, well it bears repeating.” He looked to Tieren. “Go back and guard her.”

“
’Twould be an honor.” Tieren bowed his head briefly and turned his warhorse on its hind legs. He cantered back and dismounted, positioning himself at the end of the line facing the way they had just come with his sword drawn. Hunter issued orders to the lads to herd the horses into a tight knot and hobble them so they couldn’t bolt.

Once he was assured Meghan, the palfreys and the lads were protected, Hunter turned back to face the brigands before them. “May God protect and give us strength this day,” he prayed.

“We’re knights, lad.” Murray frowned. “They’re naught but poorly trained vagabonds.”

“One could hope, but I fear otherwise. In these perilous times, ’tis just as likely they’re well-trained knights whose laird fell upon hard times and had to let them go.” Hunter drew his claymore. “They are hungry and desperate, and that makes them all the more dangerous. All we ken for certain is that they are without honor. Outlaws. Keep your eyes open for aught coming from the tree line.

“Stay here until I give you word that our way is clear,” he called back to Tieren and the rest. “Guard the horses and each other.” With those parting words, he prepared himself for the fight ahead. “Loch Moigh! Touch no’ the cat but with gloves!” He shouted his clan’s call to battle at the top of his lungs and spurred his horse forward, his weapon at the ready.

C
HAPTER FOUR

M
eghan’s insides quivered and shook like Aunt Betty’s lime Jell-O salad straight from the mold. She heard men grunting with effort, the
thunk
of blows parried and steel ringing against steel. Swallowing convulsively, she strained to see what was going on ahead, but the fog was too thick. This fight was not an exhibition, and her life depended upon the outcome. Her stomach roiled. She was going to be sick.

“Keep your eyes to the tree line, lass, and keep your dirks at the ready,” Tieren whispered, turning her around and placing her behind the horses. “Stay put. Any danger to us will come from the woods.”

She nodded, took one of the borrowed daggers from her belt and began flipping it in the air end-over-end. A nervous habit. Allain and the other two pages, Tristan and Harold, moved into strategically spaced positions around the livestock. Closest to her, Allain held his sword in front of him, gripping the handle in both hands with white-knuckled tenacity. All three of the boys had gone pale and still.

Oh my God, they’re just children, barely preteens if even that.

She drew in a deep breath through her nose and blew it out slowly through her mouth.
Flip, flip, flip—
she tossed the dagger in her right hand.
Thump, thump, thump
pounded her heart against her rib cage. She gasped at the sound of breaking brush to her right. Two men on foot charged out from the trees. One held a large, heavy-looking club; the other brandished a rusty axe. Both men were filthy, ragged and fierce.

Tieren strode forward and engaged the man with the club. The one with the axe headed straight for Allain. Hunter’s page trembled, but stood his ground, ready to defend himself and their horses. The other two boys inched closer to help him, but they wouldn’t get to him in time. Besides, none of them would be a match for the enormous thug.

A streak of wetness darkened Allain’s hose as his bladder let loose. Rage exploded within her at the injustice. Meghan stepped out from her place beside the horses. “Hey,” she shouted. “Pick on somebody your own size, asshole!”

The thief’s gaze shifted her way. His eyes traveled over her, and he snarled, dismissing her as a threat. He turned back to Allain, kicking the kid’s sword from his hands far too easily. Allain raised his arms to cover his head. The brute hefted his axe to deliver the killing blow. Meghan snapped. She could
not
let this creep kill Allain! Instinct took over, and her focus narrowed to the bully’s most vulnerable spot—his bare neck. Flipping her dagger in the air once more, she caught it by the blade and hurled it through the air with all the force she could muster.

The thug staggered back and clutched at the knife protruding from his throat. Eyes filled with hatred and shock turned her way as he pulled the blade out by the hilt. He threw it to the ground and stalked toward her with his axe raised. A gurgling sound emitted from the wound, and frothy blood spilled down his chest to stain his tunic. She must’ve severed an artery.

She stepped back, unable to take her eyes off of the thick red stream spurting down his front with each pulse of his heart. Less than a yard away, he dropped the axe and fell to his knees. Then he toppled over face-first on the ground. A pool of crimson stained the mud beneath him.

All the air left her lungs at once. Spots danced before her eyes, and she collapsed to her hands and knees. Crawling away from the corpse, tears dripped from her cheeks to the ground, and the awful taste of bile rose to her throat. She shut her eyes tight in an effort to block out what had just happened, but the image was as real with her eyes closed as it was with them open—and the memory every bit as terrifying.

I killed a man.

Her gut lurched. She sucked in huge gulps of air and concentrated on breathing, on the feel of the wet ground beneath her palms and knees. She focused on anything other than the gruesome images flashing through her mind.

Strong hands lifted her to her feet. Alarm lit her nerves on fire, and she tensed to fight. Her eyes flew open. Hunter had her. All the fight left her with a whoosh of air from her lungs.

“Are ye hurt, lass?” His voice came out a gruff rasp, and he gripped her arms so tightly he’d leave bruises. His worry-filled gaze traveled over every inch of her.

“No.” She shook her head, and a tear slipped down her cheek. Next thing she knew, she found herself crushed against his broad chest, his strong arms banding around her with such force that all the energy she had left was squeezed right out of her. Good thing he held her up, because she couldn’t have stood on her own to save her life.

Aunt Betty’s Jell-O had nothing on her. She shook uncontrollably. Placing her palms on Hunter’s chest, she closed her eyes again and rested her cheek against the wet wool of his tunic. Somehow, finding his heart pounding as rapidly as hers gave her comfort.

“You should ha’ seen it, Sir Hunter,” Tristan cried. “The lass popped out from behind the rouncies and felled the man with a single toss of her wee dirk.”

“Aye,” Allain squeaked and cleared his throat. “Do ye ken what she said to him afore she smote him dead?”

“Nay. What did she say?” Hunter asked, his voice hoarse. He rocked her back and forth in a soothing motion.

“She told him to pick on someone his own size,” Allain answered, his tone filled with incredulous awe. “His own size, sir, and she’s nae bigger than I! Then she had the ballocks tae call him an
asshole
.”

Hunter grunted and cradled her head against his chest. She heard him swallow a few times. Her heart rate slowed a bit, but the shakes still gripped her. She was safe. Somehow she’d managed to live through the ordeal, thanks to a lifetime of training at her father’s knee.

Lord, how she wanted her dad right now, and her mom. Hell, she wanted to go upstairs to her own bedroom—after a long, scalding hot bath, that is—crawl into her bed and sleep for a week. In clean sheets and wearing her favorite flannel jammies. She hiccupped against Hunter’s chest.

“She saved Allain’s life, and that’s the truth,” Harold said. “Here, my lady.” He nudged her shoulder. “I cleaned the dirk for ye.”

“Keep it.” She burrowed closer to Hunter and gripped handfuls of his tunic. “It’s not mine anyway.”

“
’Tis now,” Allain crowed. “A war trophy, my lady, tae recall the deed. Mayhap I’ll compose a ballad for ye, in honor of yer bravery.”

She groaned, gagged and slipped her arms around Hunter’s waist.

Hunter stiffened. He removed her arms from around him and stepped away. “I’ll take the dagger for now, lad. We must be off. Open your eyes, Meghan. ’Tis over and done.”

Wait. Who’d flipped his switch? Why had he shifted from caring, comforting protector to brusque commander? She wasn’t finished with being comforted. Not by a long shot. “I prefer to keep them closed.”

“Aye, but ’tis far more difficult to see where you’re going that way.” He made a grunting sound deep in his throat. “Allain, the rain has caused a small burn to run from the wood yonder. Clean yourself up, lad, and be quick about it. Tristan, Harold, help me remove the hobbles and take the canvas from the horses’ hooves. We won’t need to muffle our passing any longer. The enemy has been routed and vanquished.”

Oh Lord.
She’d vanquished one of them herself. “You were right. Killing is a messy business,” she muttered. “I don’t ever want to have to do that again.” She opened her eyes but kept her gaze on the path ahead. “Where are Tieren and Murray?” Her heart pounded again, and panic stole her breath. “John and George aren’t . . . Tell me everyone is OK.”

“Everyone is indeed OK. The others are ensuring our way ahead is clear.” Hunter unfastened the nearest horse’s hobbles. “We dinna have much farther to go. Once we’re in Aberdeenshire, we will remain there until my kin sends a guard to escort us the rest of the way. You will be safe.”

“Safe? In fifteenth-century Scotland?” She snorted. “You’ve got to be kidding me. I’ve read a book or three about your century, and there’s nothing
safe
about it.”

“And yet, have you no’ insisted more than once that you have no need of my protection?” He met her gaze, his steel-gray eyes deadly serious.

“Touché.” Heat surged to her cheeks. “I’m beginning to see that we all need each other’s protection.” She hiccupped again and reached for the gelding’s reins with a shaky hand.

“Aye. ’Tis the way of it.” Hunter moved to her side and cupped his hands. “I ken you are able to mount on your own, but accept my aid all the same.”

“Gladly.” She placed her muddy boot in his palms and hoisted herself onto the horse’s back. “My legs are like rubber bands right now anyway.”

“I dinna ken what rubber bands are, but I’ve oft felt what you are feeling now, Beag Curaidh. A good hot meal and a day or two’s rest, and I trow you will recover well enough.” He patted her leg, leaving a muddy handprint behind. He smiled up at her, his expression filled with understanding.

She frowned. “What does
beg coo-ree
mean?”

“
’
Tis but a sobriquet to honor your bravery. It means ‘wee warrior.
’
”

“Oh.” She blinked back the tears filling her eyes again. “I don’t think I was brave, Hunter. Everything just kind of happened at once, and I acted on instinct.”

He smiled at her again, and a flush of heat suffused her insides. “Will I be able to bathe in Aberdeenshire and clean these clothes maybe?”

“Aye.”

“Good.” Grief and a bone-deep weariness overtook her. She wanted to put her arms around the horse’s neck and fall asleep on his back for the rest of the trip. Could she do that? Too bad they’d abandoned the wagon. “Does this horse have a name?”

“Aye. Nevan called him Mìlidh, which means ‘champion.’ He’s a fine destrier.”

“He is.” She patted the bay’s neck. “But Milly? Where I come from, that’s a girl’s name.” The gelding tossed his head as if she’d insulted him.

“Och, but you are no’ there. You are here, and here ’tis a strong name for a horse that has proven himself in battle more than once.”

“Point taken.” She yawned, and her mouth opened so wide, it made a popping sound. Tristan and Harold finished removing the canvas from the hooves of their ponies. Allain returned from the brush wearing a kilt of plain brown wool. His hose were dripping wet. He wrung them out and rolled them before stowing them with the rest of his things. Still babbling on about the battle, the younger boys mounted and took their places in line. Meghan scrubbed both hands over her face in an effort to wake herself up. Man, what would she give for a mocha latte about now, with extra whipped cream and chocolate shavings on top. She sighed heavily.

“Are you able to ride, lass?” Hunter wiped his muddy hands on a patch of wet grass before swinging up on Doireann.

“To tell the truth, I don’t know how long I’ll last.” She glanced at him. “I’m still adjusting to all the changes.” The constant dampness, the cold, traveling and the tension from the last few days had definitely taken a toll. “Seems like I’ve been tired ever since I got here.”

“Why did you no’ tell me? You could have rested upon the wagon as we traveled.”

She lifted her chin. “I can handle it.”

He drew his mount up beside her. “You
must
give up this ridiculous notion that you possess a man’s strength and stamina.” He reached over and snatched her off her horse like she weighed nothing. Settling her in front of him with his arm around her waist, he called over his shoulder, “Allain, take her mount’s reins and lead him. You”—he gave her a shake—“rest.”

Too tired to argue, she opted for the easiest retort. “You are
so
arrogant.”

“Aye, but I’ve earned the right to be thus, and the sooner you accept that I am your superior in every way, the better we’ll get along. Sleep now, and hold your tongue whilst you’re at it.”

“Superio
r?
”
Her eyes widened, and she straightened away from him. “Bring it, buddy. I demand a rematch. Anytime. Anywhere.” She twisted around to glare at him, stunned to find his eyes twinkling with amusement and one corner of his mouth twitching up. Her insides melted, and she studied him for several seconds before settling back against his chest. “You’re teasing me. Why would you do that?”

“To divert your troubled thoughts.” His arm tightened around her waist.

“Oh.” She nodded. “Sleep
and
hold my tongue at the same time, eh? I’ll give that a try.”

“Do,” he commanded. Leaning close, he whispered, “You ken I was raised by a twenty-first-century lass and a twenty-first-century foster cousin, aye? Both have proven themselves a man’s equal in every way. You’ve been through much these past few days. Take your rest now, whilst I watch your back. ’Tis the MacKintosh way.”

His breath against her neck and the way he held her sent shivers of pleasure coursing through her center. But the moment she stopped talking, the horror of what she’d done came flooding back. She preferred talking to the pictures in her head. “What happened to your last squire?”