Hunted (The Scottish Falconers Book 2)

Hunted

The Scottish Falconers

Book Two

By Diane Wylie

Copyright © 2016 by Diane Wylie

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, and events are either from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is coincidental.

Any errors are my own.

Discover more about Diane Wylie at
http://www.dianewylie.com
.

Dedication

I would like to dedicate this book to my friend of 44 years, Diane Nobile Clossey, who lost her battle with breast cancer. She became an angel with God on May 1, 2016. She will be sorely missed by her family, “The Group”, and me.

Roses are red

Violets are blue

My dear friend Diane

We will always miss you.

Praise for Diane Wylie’s other titles…

“…Ms. Wylie has a wonderful writing style. I recommend this book for anyone who enjoys a good historical.”

~Janet C. Abney, Amazon reviewer (about BESIEGED)

“…You hate for this to end. A must read for paranormal readers and has made me a believer.”

~P.E. Patterson, Amazon reviewer (about MAGIC OF THE PENTACLE)

“…I highly recommend this book to anyone who enjoys a good romance and mystery. The author did not leave you wanting.”

~Linda Tonis, member of the Paranormal Romance Review Team (about MOONLIGHT AND ILLUSIONS)

“…as I read the story, I simply could not put it down until I had devoured every last word…”

~Rie McGaha from Romance Writers United (about LILA’S VOW)

“…an author who displays a rare talent and leaves you wanting more…”

~Marilyn Rondeau from RIO—Reviewers International Organization (about SECRETS AND SACRIFICES)

“…Ms. Wylie gives historical romance a breath of fresh air…”

~Sandra Marlow from Romance Junkies (about JENNY’S PASSION)

“…Wylie expertly brings the reader back in time as she weaves the perfect web of history, lust, and intrigue…”

~Jennifer Vido from Fresh Fiction (about SECRETS AND SACRIFICES)

Other Titles by Diane Wylie

Secrets and Sacrifices

Daughters of the Civil War series:

Book One — Jenny’s Passion

Book Two — Lila’s Vow

Adam’s Treasure

A Soldier to Love

Outlaw Lover

All About That Magic series:

Prelude to Magic

Book One — Moonlight and Illusions

Book Two — Magic of the Pentacle

Book Three — Magic at the Roxy

The Scottish Falconer series:

Book One – Besieged

Author’s Note

For the sake of the story, I have slightly changed the history regarding the smuggling of The Honours of Scotland from Dunnottar castle. The Graham family members are all fictional characters, and they did not take the royal artifacts out of Dunnottar. In my research, two accounts of this act exist. Either Christian Fletcher, the wife of the minister of Kinneff Parish Church, or Fletcher’s servant carried the crown, sceptre, and sword out of the castle.

In addition, I gave the falcons more abilities than the normal trained peregrine falcons, as I don’t believe they can be used to track people and I am told they have no real loyalty to people.

The child in the story, William Ogilvie, was actually born later to Sir George Ogilvie’s second wife, Margaret Arbuthnot, and not to Elizabeth Douglas.

I hope you agree that these minor tweaks in the truth added to the entertainment value of the story.

Diane Wylie

March 1652

Scotland

Panting heavily, Isobel Graham ran through the brambles and brush, splashed through a small stream, and scaled the muddy bank before reaching the spot where her peregrine falcon, Latharna, had brought down a large duck. The falcon had already begun to pluck out the dull brown feathers of its prey.

Isobel stopped a few feet away and whistled sharply. Latharna raised her head and regarded Isobel with her black eyes for a heartbeat or two. Then she spread her large gray and brown wings, soared a short distance, and landed on Isobel’s gloved hand. The falcon immediately ate the skinned rat her mistress held as Isobel caught the leather jesses on the birds legs between her fingers to keep the falcon with her.

“Och, Latharna, I didna think ye’d come to me. That’s a good girl.” Isobel sucked in another breath. “I’m wishing we had a bonnie retriever dog to chase down the kill.”

Isobel had lost her falcon during the siege at Dunnottar Castle a month ago, but the bird had found the Graham family again as they headed north, away from the carnage.

Still carrying the falcon, Isobel stepped over and picked up the dead duck by its feet.

“My brother Rabbie would be happy to ken ye found us, just like his Brisda found him. He helped me train ye, do you remember?” Isobel stroked the falcon’s breast with one finger before placing the finely tooled leather hood over its head. Latharna would be calmer now that she couldn’t see.

Dunnottar woods stretched out dark and gloomy for miles around her as Isobel trudged back toward the camp where her father and brother were waiting. Occasional shafts of sunlight broke through the tall canopy of fir, elm, spruce, and oak trees that thrived here.

The majestic falcon rode easily on Isobel’s leather glove-covered hand as she walked over tree roots and stone. There was no path to follow, but she remembered going past the forked chestnut tree, so this was the correct direction.

Isobel put down the duck and bent to pick up a few chestnuts from those littering the ground under the tree. She stuffed them in the pockets of the boy’s breeches she wore. The nuts would be delicious when roasted. Traveling folks needed to help themselves to food when it became available.

Kak! Kak!

Isobel jerked her head around to look at her falcon. Latharna rarely uttered a peep when she was hooded, and now she had sounded an alarm call.

The falcon’s wings fluttered and she shook herself in a rousing fashion. Something had disturbed the bird.

Isobel froze, listening carefully.

A faint, human cry of distress reached her ears.

It stopped, and then a few seconds later, she heard it again. Someone needed help. Grahams never turn their backs on someone in need.

Quickly, Isobel stripped the hood off Latharna, released the jesses, and jerked her arm upward. The falcon lifted from her hand and soared up into the sky.

“I’ll call ye back later, lassie,” she told the departing bird.

Then she hung her duck from a branch by tying its legs with a leather thong.

Finally, Isobel retrieved her
sgian dubh
from the sheath at her belt. Now armed with her knife, she set off in the direction of the noise.

* * *

Derek Sinclair lay with the dead bodies for two days before he could form a plan and summon the strength to move on it. At first, the stench had made him sick, but now it no longer bothered him. What bothered him the most were the birds and animals who came to feast on the English and Scottish soldiers alike. They were relentless and attacked him, a living human, a few times too.

Switching clothing with the dead Scotsman seemed the only prudent thing to do when one was severely incapacitated in the middle of Scotland. The Scots hated the English; ergo, they hated him. Should an able-bodied Scots come along, they would finish him off in a thrice.

Derek lifted his head from the ground and stared at the body beside him. The man had a thick beard, unlike any other English soldier, including himself. Would anyone notice, or would they only see the red coat of the enemy on the man? Perhaps his two-day growth of beard would suffice in pulling off this charade.

It had taken him hours to undress himself and the Scotsman, then switch clothing and clothe them both again. Although he had been tempted to leave the body unclothed, he had no ability to hide the body. A naked man was sure to arouse suspicions.

After buttoning the red coat on the deceased enemy, Derek said a silent prayer for the souls of all of the dead men in this glade and that he was making the right decision. Taking a deep breath to steel himself, he used his elbows to drag his wounded body along the uneven ground. He had taken a slashing broadsword cut to the hip and an arrow through the calf muscle of his left leg. Pain was a constant companion and walking was impossible. If no one helped him soon, bleeding and fever would finish what the Scots had started.

“Help! Is anyone out there? Help me!” As soon as he heard himself speak, he realized the error. He would need to remember his Scottish grandmother’s soft burr and re-establish the accent he had picked up by living with her.

He had been a small child of only six years old when his English parents started leaving him with her while they traveled all over the world. For a while, they came back to take him home to England from time to time. Then they stopped coming back. Grandmamm told him his mother and father had been attacked and killed by highway robbers. For many years, Derek had harbored a secret hope that his beloved grandmother had been mistaken and Mother and Father would return for him. They never did.

Derek let his head drop onto the wet ground and closed his eyes. Guilt, a familiar emotion, flooded him once more. By virtue of his Scottish grandparents, Derek was one-quarter Scottish and here he was, killing his own people. But he had joined the English army to survive when his beloved Grandda passed away, followed a year later by Grandmamm. As much as Derek loved her and she cherished him, he was convinced that she no longer wanted to be alive without her husband.

Now Derek had done what his commanders had sent him to do … kill Scots. He’d had no choice.

Dreams of a picnic lunch with a faceless young lady by a cool lake filled his head when a sudden pain in his side made him moan aloud.

“Was it you then? Did ye call for help?”

Derek opened his eyes to find a pair of clear blue eyes in a pale feminine face looking back at him.

“Aye, lassie.” He moaned again and curled into a ball. “Dinna be kicking a helpless mon, for the love of God.”

Her face, topped by a wreath of red braids, drew closer as she knelt beside him. It was then that he noticed the wicked-looking knife in her hand. His first thought was to fight, but that idea faded quickly. He was at the mercy of a Scottish woman wearing breeches and carrying a big knife. Could things get much worse?

“Who are you, and what happened here?” Her gaze flicked past him and over the surrounding area where dead men lay strewn about in various frozen poses.

“We were ambushed.” Derek had to keep his wits about him to answer this woman or his goose would be cooked. He sucked in a lungful of air and extended a hand toward her. “Can ye help me? Please?”

Her face froze as she noticed the fresh blood on his hand. Moving around as he had done had reopened the wound on his hip despite his best efforts to stem the loss.

“First, who are ye?”

“My name is Derek Sinclair. I came to Dunnottar from
An t-Eilean Sgitheanach
.”

“Oh, from the Isle of Skye.” She came a little closer. “Arrow in the leg. Will ye be wanting it out?”

“Aye, but first,” he pulled up the bloody homespun shirt, “can ye help me with this?”

* * *

Isobel didn’t put aside her suspicious nature, but she did sheath her knife when she saw the large cut in the man’s hip. He pulled down the waistband of his breeches to reveal a gaping wound that went clear to the bone and disappeared around his backside. Had it been at a different angle or location, he would have lost the leg or bled out by now. Odd, though, how the breeches had not been cut as well, but she would think about the implications of that fact later.

“Aye, I can help. Wait a moment.”

Getting to her feet, she surveyed the dead men. One English soldier had landed so that his clothing remained unsoiled by his blood as he died. Taking her dirk out again, Isobel cut several strips off the man’s jacket and shirt, and then pulled a fairly clean tartan sash off a deceased Scots man.

She knew the surviving man, Derek, watched her as she went about this business. She could feel his gaze on her. As she walked back to where he lay, she wondered which side had won this battle or if all involved had died on the spot. By her count, fourteen English soldiers and nine Scottish had lost their lives here.

“Did anyone else survive?”

Derek shook his head before subsiding flat on the ground. “I dinna ken. A bash to the head knocked me out, and when I came around, no one else was moving.”

Folding a thick pad of cloth, Isobel pushed aside his shirt and breeches and then pressed the pad hard against the gaping wound with both hands.

Derek let out a gasp and his whole body jerked.

“It will need stitching, and I’ve not got anything for it here.”

Turning a perspiring face toward her, he panted out his question, “Why is a pretty lassie like you dressed in breeches and out here alone?”

His curiosity brought a smile to her lips. It was the typical male reaction. “Och, I’m not alone.”

Lifting one hand from the compress, she held her forearm up and whistled.

After a bit, there came a rustle of air, and Latharna landed on her arm. Feeling a little foolish for showing off, Isobel stole a look at the injured man’s face. His kindly brown eyes were wide with surprise.

“Would ye be some kind of witch?”

Isobel jerked her arm up and sent her falcon off into the sky again.

“Nay, I’m a falconer. We were hunting. I was headed back to camp when I heard ye call out.”

Derek just grunted and closed his eyes. Perspiration ran down his face, so she blotted it with the tartan.

“Can ye not walk?”

“No,” he said through gritted teeth. “Can ye get the arrow out of my leg?”

Keeping one hand on the bleeding wound, she leaned over to examine the man’s leg. The tip of the arrowhead and part of the shaft protruded from one side. Only a piece of shaft protruded from the other. His breeches appeared to have been cut up each side.

“It looks like a Scottish arrow.”

“Just my luck.” He made an attempt to chuckle. “To be shot by one of my own. I tried to get it out.”

“Mmm.” She had no other response for this bit of news.

Isobel helped him sit up briefly and wound the tartan tightly around his hips to hold the pad in place. By now, the afternoon shadows were lengthening and the sky was turning a soft purple.

“Listen to me, Derek Sinclair.” She took his face in her hands and turned it toward her. He seemed to be fading out. His face was pale and clammy. “I’m going to fetch my father and brother. We’ll bring ye back to our camp and do our best for you.”

He nodded, but his eyes slid closed. “No choice.”