Highlander's Sword (20 page)

   "It is McNab burning the fields. He confessed as much to me."

   "Well, that makes it easier. Now I have two reasons to send him to judgment."

   "So I'm at risk for abduction by any mercenary that comes along."

   "Aye, until ye sleep wi' me," MacLaren snapped. "Then ye'll have only one mercenary to deal wi'. But perhaps that's yer plan. Keep me at bay until a knave comes along ye like better."

   "Do ye mean I'm at risk until I… we…?" Aila stumbled on her words, not knowing the proper refer ence for the act.

   "Once the marriage is consummated, and particularly after ye conceive a child, yer marriage to me is sealed."

   That made sense. Why had she not thought of that before? "So if we consummate tonight, then McNab canna get me."

   "Good night, Aila," MacLaren snarled.

   Before she lost her nerve, Aila flung herself on top of him.

   "What are ye doing now? Ye ken ye can reject me all night and then expect me to respond to yer latest tease?"

   Aila kissed him gently on the mouth, silencing his protests. "I'd rather be yer wife than McNab's." She looked down at MacLaren. The moon reflected in his grey eyes. She had made her decision. She would accept her marriage to MacLaren. He looked at her for a moment then rolled her onto her back.

   "Good enough for me. Apparently, where ye are concerned, I have no pride. Now if I start this again, ye're no' going to stop me, are ye?"

   "No stopping," Aila said, though her voice wavered. MacLaren reached down again and pulled the linen chemise all the way to her chest then pulled up his own shirt as well. Aila gasped, engulfed by his warm, naked body.

   "Stop me now," he commanded.

   She closed her eyes and stiffened but made no move to push him away.

   Brushing his lips against her, he murmured, "What do ye ken about the act between a husband and wife?"

   "Nothing."

   "But surely yer mother has told ye something o' what ye ought to ken?" he asked hopefully.

   "She said men attacked women wi' animal lusts,

using their bodies to fulfill their own desires. As a result, a woman would become wi' child and often die in the agony of childbirth. Mother said a man would use a woman until he tired o' her then move on to attack another bonnie lass—if ye were lucky. Sometimes a man's lusts ran toward barnyard animals and young boys."

   MacLaren stared at her, mouth agape. "No wonder ye are scared of me. Forgive me, but I'm starting to think verra unkindly toward yer mother."

   "Ye woud'na be the first."

   "Well now, let me try to correct any misunder standings. First, I am no' a man to run after a wench, or anything else for that matter. I'm married to ye, and ye alone will be sharing my bed. Second, I do confess to some lust, but I hope to make that a mutual feeling. Third, I do hope to sire offspring wi' ye, and I forbid ye to die in childbirth. I'll make sure ye have the best midwife around to attend ye. Is that clear?"

   "Aye," said Aila, trying to listen to what he was saying. While they talked, their bodies seemed to take on a mind of their own, rubbing against each other gently at first and now more demanding and urgent. She was not sure what she wanted, but anticipation grew inside her, and she wanted something, now.

   "Ah, but ye're sweet," he sighed and pressed against her.

   A loud crack of a tree branch broke through the night.

   "Hey, Finn. Where was the last signal?" a man's voice pierced the darkness.

   Aila and MacLaren froze.

"O'ER THERE, I KEN. WHEESHT NOW. THEIR CAMP MUST be close."

   Aila caught her breath. The voice she recognized. It was the greasy-haired man who had helped McNab kidnap her. MacLaren pressed down so his weight was heavy on top of her. She closed her eyes and held her breath as the men passed nearby in the brush. She could not speak even if she wanted, since MacLaren had also clamped his hand over her mouth.

   As the rustling noises drifted away, MacLaren whis pered low in her ear, "Ye speak; ye die."

   Was he trying to protect her or threaten her into silence? MacLaren stood up quickly, bringing her with him. He belted his plaid, and she threw on her cloak, shivering in the cool night air. A few minutes ago she had been warm and happy in MacLaren's arms. Now she was cold, and any affection he had shown her a few moments before was long gone. Her disappoint ment was palpable. MacLaren looked furious. His anger matched her own. Why had he put his hand over her mouth? Did he really think she would call out to their enemies or was so stupid she didn't know to be quiet? Either way, it was clear MacLaren did not think much of her.

   This was not the time for discussion, however, and she focused back on their current situation. More movement came from the brush, and MacLaren grabbed her and threw the edge of his plaid around her for better concealment, pressing her down and back into the shadow of the rocks. Three more men followed the path of the first two, going in the direction of their camp though not directly toward it. As soon as the men were out of sight, MacLaren started back toward camp, using a more direct route. Aila marveled at how he could move so quietly yet quickly, and she tried to mimic his movements. She was no match for his stealth through the forest, as her occasional misstep and his backward glare made plainly evident.

   After a short distance and some unfortunate rustling, MacLaren turned back, and without warning, picked her up and flung her over his shoulder. Outraged and embarrassed, Aila opened her mouth to protest, but remembering the need for silence, choked down her pride and allowed him to carry her back to camp like a sack of meal.

   Her ordeal was short, since he moved quickly, and soon they were at the edge of their camp. Everything was eerily silent, as if the forest itself was holding its breath. MacLaren pointed for her to sit by a sleeping sentry. She tried to shake the sleeping man awake but found he could not be awakened. Pale in the moon light, the man's head fell forward. Dark red blood gleamed at the base of his skull. Aila recoiled from the sentry, a flash of the stable master lying in a pool of blood invading her vision. She struggled to focus back on her current situation. The sentry breathed and she too took of breath of relief; the man was knocked unconscious but alive.

   MacLaren was crouched a few feet away, his entire focus on something in front of him. Aila turned to see what had captivated his attention and was startled at Senga stepping gingerly through the camp of sleeping men, collecting their weapons. MacLaren glanced back at Aila, giving her a murderous glare. She forgot she was not afraid of him and shrank back. He motioned for her to hide deep in the underbrush, mouthing the words, "Stay hidden."

   MacLaren crawled into the mass of sleeping men and began to silently wake them as he made his way toward the maid, whose back was to him. Aila watched transfixed as MacLaren disappeared from view, lost in shadow. Suddenly, he snapped up like a predator and grabbed the maid, silencing her with a hand over her mouth before she could scream, and dragging her back down into the sea of bodies. Aila held her breath, waiting for something to happen. Everything remained deceptively quiet. Occasionally a glint of steel flashed as the weapons were passed back to the plundered men, who remained still and silent.

   Aila stifled a gasp when McNab's men emerged from the brush and crept toward men on the ground, the moonlight gleaming off their naked blades. With a loud battle cry that pierced the night, MacLaren jumped up and charged their attackers, his deadly claymore raised high. The rest of the men followed and pounded into McNab's men with a torrent of angry steel. The shouts and screams and curses of the men and the clash of sword on sword was something terrible.

   Aila shrank back farther into the brush away from the fight. A sharp kick to her side made her yelp in surprise. A man tumbled over her, tripping as he rushed from the forest into the fray. He turned and grabbed her arm, dragging her to her feet.

   "I found her!" said the greasy-haired man.

   Aila screamed and tried to wrench away from him. He grabbed her tight and jabbed his dagger under her chin. Its icy tip stuck into the tender skin of her neck.

   
Help!
The man dropped lifeless beside her. Shaken, she turned and MacLaren was beside her, the black stain of blood on his blade. More men emerged from the forest, their eyes on Aila, their ultimate prize. Caught in the midst of the battle, fear swallowed her whole. Surrounded by fighting men, nowhere was safe. MacLaren kept her fast by his side, shielding her with his body, protecting her with his sword. Despite her terror, she was impressed by his skill as he felled one opponent after the next.

   And then, as suddenly as it began, it was over. A call went out, and McNab's men retreated, disappearing back into the forest. Aila clung to MacLaren as her body shook. MacLaren held her tight.

   "'Tis alright now. Ye're safe."

   "Thank ye," Aila murmured into his chest. "They would have taken me back to McNab."

   "Ye belong to me now. Dinna fear. Ye'll be going wi' no man but me." Though MacLaren's words were at once irritating and comforting, Aila chose to focus on the latter, at least until she stopped shaking and was able to stand without support.

   "Nasty business that," said Chaumont, walking up beside them. He was surprisingly well-groomed for a man just awakened from a dead sleep to a fight. He was in stark contrast to the Highlanders who had fought in naught but their shirts or, well, nothings, since their plaid kilts were also used as their bedrolls. Aila pretended not to notice as they belted on their plaids and got themselves dressed.

   "What's our damage?" asked MacLaren.

   "Some cuts on the men but nothing life threat ening, I should think. One of Graham's sentries was killed. This one?" Chaumont nodded at the still form of the sentry beside them.

   "Unconscious," MacLaren answered.

   "Lucky," replied Chaumont. "And, of course, the maid is gone."

   "Gone?" asked MacLaren.

   "Yes. Was it not you who killed her?"

   "Nay. I held her fast until the fight started, but I left her verra much alive."

   "What happened to her?" asked Aila, feeling a bit sick.

   MacLaren turned his attention back to Aila, and she could discern no emotion in his cold eyes. MacLaren ignored her question and asked one of his own. "Why was yer maid taking our weapons?"

   "I dinna ken for sure… that is, I…" Aila's conversa tion with Senga at the river came rushing back and she wished she had told MacLaren earlier. "Well, she did confess to me this evening that she was working for McNab, but she was afraid of someone else. McNab also mentioned someone had been giving him infor mation. I think perhaps there may be someone here who is working for McNab."

   Both men stared at her. MacLaren's cold eyes flashed with anger. His voice was deceptively soft. "Ye kenned there be a traitor in our midst, but ye dinna tell me?"

   "I was… ye were interested in other things, and I, that is, I rather got distracted, and I forgot." Aila winced, recognizing how inadequate that sounded.

   "Foolish wench! Ye could have got us all killed. Rory! Watch her." Snarling, MacLaren stalked away.

   An older warrior took her gently by the arm. "Come sit here, m'lady. Ye've no doubt had yerself a fright."

   The man's gentle words formed such a contrast to MacLaren's harsh tone that tears welled up in her eyes. She brushed them away with impatience, frustrated she had allowed this man once again to make her cry.

   "She was stabbed in the back, and then her throat was cut," said Chaumont as they neared the body of the maid, which lay a few steps into the forest.

   "Could she have been caught up in the fighting?" MacLaren asked doubtfully.

   "The first strike in the back perhaps, but the slice across her throat was purposeful enough. Seems someone did not want any confessions from her."

   "Aye," agreed MacLaren. The men before him were milling about, preparing to leave. One of them was not only a traitor but also a murderer. But who? And why? MacLaren had seen men turn allegiances for money or land, but surely Graham had more to give than McNab. MacLaren watched Graham's men with a wary eye. His soldiers seemed like good lads, many of them a bit young and eager to please.

   "Ye, there," called Warwick to one of his soldiers. "I told ye to mount up. Why is yer horse no' saddled?"

   "I-I'm sorry, I was…" The lad gestured toward a tree.