My Fierce Highlander (7 page)

Two of her kinsmen appeared some distance
away, headed to the left of them.

Freezing, she glanced about frantically, and
then spotted a ditch behind a rock. She dragged Rory toward it.

“Lie down, and don’t make a sound,” she
whispered. When he wadded himself into a ball on the ground, she
covered him with soggy leaves and twigs. Hiding herself would be
more difficult. She amassed a large pile of leaves and burrowed
beneath. She laid a hand on Rory to keep him calm. As a mere babe,
he had learned how to be quiet when it was important. Baigh had
made sure of it. He’d hated a crying child.

The MacIrwin men walked by, talking. Panic
quickened her blood.

Please God, don’t let them find us.

She couldn’t believe sweet, kind Mora was
dead. A plague upon Donald! She would see him pay for this. Mora
had done nothing wrong.

The men’s voices moved further away, and
silence returned. Gwyneth concentrated on Rory’s warm, trembling
hand within her own. The rocks on the ground beneath her jabbed
into her shoulder and hip. She found the scent of moldy leaves and
damp earth comforting because they hid her, and kept her and Rory
safe.

Night descended, the temperature cooled and
two owls hooted. She would not be helping Mora milk her cows this
day, or ever again. They would never share another meal or work
together delivering bairns. Dear Mora, a good woman. A strong
woman. But not stronger than Donald’s gang of murderers. Tears
streamed from Gwyneth’s eyes and dripped into the stony dirt.

Her only hope now was to flee with Rory, try
to make it to MacGrath land and hope Angus MacGrath would ask his
laird to give them safe passage to the Lowlands, or someplace away
from here.

Donald’s men would undoubtedly be posted at
various points to watch for her during the night. The MacGrath
holdings were a long distance away, perhaps five miles.

***

Gwyneth and Rory stayed that night in the
wood, hiding beneath the soggy, rotting leaves. The next morn
before daybreak, Gwyneth pushed herself up, wincing at the pains
that radiated from her stiff back and legs. A chill breeze
penetrated her damp clothing, and she shivered. Quietly, she woke
Rory.

Holding his hand, she led him a short
distance through the wood. Using her dirk she dug roots for them to
eat. Mora had taught her well which wild plants were poisonous and
which ones might serve as food. Gwyneth’s eyes burned and her
throat closed each time she thought of her dear friend.

Mora had been the only one to help her bring
Rory into this world during a difficult birth. In truth, Mora had
been like a second mother to her.

“I don’t like this.” Rory grimaced as he
gnawed on the crunchy silverweed root.

“I know. I’m sorry, but it’s all I could
find. Later, we will look for berries. You like those.”

He nodded, but his eyes were red and moist.
She felt like bursting into tears herself, but couldn’t. She had to
stay strong for his sake.

“Did Laird MacIrwin kill Mora?”

“Yes, he or one of his men did.”

“Because we helped Master MacGrath?”

“Yes.”

Rory dropped his gaze to his lap. “Was it my
fault because I told Jamie?”

“No, Rory. It wasn’t your fault.”
It was
mine.
“But I hope if Master MacGrath made it back to his clan,
his laird will help us now in repayment for the good deed we did.
He told me the laird was his cousin.”

Gwyneth held Rory’s small hand, and they
slipped further through the wood. From her cover behind thick
bushes, she spied one lookout during the day. He was near the trail
she usually took.
In faith, Donald will not give up until we are
dead.

At dusk, Gwyneth quickened their pace and
eventually they left the trees and came upon bush. Bilberry and
gooseberry grew thickly. She and Rory ate their fill of the unripe,
tart berries and waited for nightfall. When darkness surrounded
them, they left the cover of the bushes and set out across the damp
moor.

They were headed toward MacGrath lands—that
much she knew. She prayed, if he was there, Angus MacGrath would
return the favor of saving his life. But what if he turned out like
so many other men she’d known and betrayed her at the last moment?
Pains gripped her stomach, both from anxiety and hunger.

Rory was all she had—the most valuable thing
in her world. For him, she would go to the MacGraths and beg
assistance. Protection.

But first, they had to safely cross the
moor.

***

For hours, Gwyneth and Rory trudged through
darkness, with only the moon for light, and picked their way
through the gorse and heather not yet in bloom. A movement up ahead
at a lone tree caught her attention. She recoiled, breath held. In
the dimness, her eyes strained to identify the movement—a horse
swishing its tail. Where was the rider?

“Shh,” she hissed at Rory, and gave the tree
a wide berth.

The horse snorted and stamped its hooves.

Gwyneth’s skin prickled. She crouched and
pulled Rory down beside her.

A man grunted, groaned, then strode out into
the moonlight to relieve himself. Once finished, he returned to the
shadows, and a screeching birdcall sounded from the tree. Some
distance away, an answering call responded. Her blood chilled. The
men were communicating. What were they saying?

Gwyneth and Rory sat hunched for an
immeasurable time, until her legs cramped. If they moved now, the
watchman was certain to see and capture them. Vigilant to all the
sounds and movements around her, she seated herself into a more
comfortable position upon the damp ground and waited for the man to
fall asleep.

A mist floated above the ground like a giant
cloud, obscuring the moon, and the first glimmer of dawn brightened
the horizon before her. Indecision tormented her. They had to leave
now or be discovered in the daylight. If only the mist was lower it
might conceal them.

“Shh,” she whispered to Rory. “We must move
quickly but quietly.”

Rory blinked sleepy eyes at her, seemingly
half aware of where they were.

“Are you awake?”

He nodded. Her poor, sweet child. She hated
that he had to go through this.

She rose and tugged him along with her. They
slipped toward a distant hill, her skirts snagging on heather and
gorse. Cold water from the peaty soil seeped through her rawhide
slippers. The cool, damp air around them vibrated with tension. She
tried to ignore the knotting pain in her stomach and the weakness
of her whole body from lack of food.

She had no notion where the border to
MacGrath holdings was, but surely they would reach it soon.

The birdcall echoed from the tree behind
them. But this time the sound was different—an alarm.
“
Jesu!
”

A horse galloped forth, a menacing black
silhouette advancing from the white mist in the distance.

“Run, Rory!” She tugged her skirts off her
shoes and broke into a sprint.

He dashed several paces ahead of her.

“Faster!”

She glanced back. Two horsemen thundered
close behind, one chasing on her heels.
Oh, dear God, protect
us!
She switched directions, gasping, lungs burning, desperate
for more air.

Where is Rory?
Her legs wouldn’t move
fast enough. The air around her thickened like water, and she
couldn’t get through it.

Spotting Rory, she chased after him. “Run!”
She slipped in a puddle but righted herself before she fell.

They will kill us. They will kill my precious
Rory.

More horses joined in the chase. They
surrounded her, their demon riders yelling in Gaelic. Two hemmed
her in. Trapped, she dashed headlong between them. Something caught
her by the belt and yanked her into the air. Her legs flailed on
nothingness. She landed hard on her stomach across the front of a
saddle. The breath whooshed from her constricted lungs.

“Ma!” Rory yelled.

Chapter Four

“Rory!”
God, help me, I must get to
him.

Gwyneth’s vision grew fuzzy. How could she
free herself from this rider without getting herself killed? She
gasped for air that refused to enter her lungs.

The ground beneath the horse hurtled past at
dizzying speed. She fought to escape, tried to grab her captor’s
sword or dagger.

The kilted Scot—probably one of her own
clansmen—shoved a strong hand against the back of her neck,
restricting her movements. She couldn’t reach her own dirk either.
Her throat tightened and tears streamed from her eyes.

Where was Rory? He still screeched nearby,
though she couldn’t tell where with all the jostling. If one of
these brutes hurt him, she’d take her dirk to the blackguard and
damn the consequences.

The bare, hairy leg of the Scot flexed in
front of her face. She could bite him. But this would only anger
him, and he might toss her from the galloping horse.

More hooves pounded close-by, and eerie war
cries resounded. Her captor yelled in Gaelic. The ding of clashing
metal rang out.

What’s going on?
The MacIrwin men
wouldn’t fight amongst themselves. Were the MacGraths challenging
them? Had she and Rory made it to MacGrath land? A ray of hope lit
the thick blackness that had near smothered her.

Gwyneth turned her head and, upside down,
watched the men slashing at each other in the misty dawn light. The
pop of a pistol shot echoed. Her captor jerked and growled a
curse.

He slowed the horse and unsheathed his sword.
Steel blades clanged over and behind her. The man’s body tensed.
The muscles of his legs under her bunched and flexed hard as iron
as he engaged in swordplay with someone she couldn’t see.

The horse beneath them danced about, reared.
Gwyneth’s head spun in the turmoil of movement.

Her captor shrieked. His body convulsed. The
horse reared again. She slid with the man, but tried to grab onto
the saddle. Her hands clasped air. With a scream, she tumbled over
the animal’s hindquarters and hit the ground.

The hard impact jarred Gwyneth’s teeth and
every bone in her body. Pain radiated from her left side. At least
the man had broken her fall a bit.

The horse fled. She scrambled away from her
captor—one of her distant cousins with red hair, a bushy beard and
a grimace such as she’d never seen. He grabbed at his neck where
blood gushed.

Glad to be free, but at the same time, hating
to see anyone die, she rose and stumbled further away from him.

Pausing a short distance from the main
skirmish, she frantically scanned the turmoil for Rory. The meager
light revealed less than a dozen men on horseback and some on foot.
They cut and jabbed at one another.

A man on foot, a good friend of Donald’s,
spotted her and stalked her way. He wielded a claymore, bloodlust
gleaming in his eyes.

Panic spurred her into a full run.

Where is Rory? Where is Rory?

A horse approached, chasing her.
God
protect me.

Yet again, a rider grasped her belt and
yanked her off her feet. She screamed. Her new captor slammed her
across his saddle. Pain throbbed in her abdomen.

She struggled to draw breaths. Her
black-speckled vision cleared by slow degrees. This man’s kilt was
of an unfamiliar tartan. She prayed he was a MacGrath.

Her strength drained away. Her whole body
trembled with weakness.

I must find Rory.

The Scot urged his horse up an incline. They
were not traveling toward Donald’s holdings. This territory was
foreign to her.

“Ma! Ma!”

“Rory!” she yelled. Thanks be to God, he was
alive. She glanced about upside down, but couldn’t see him.

At the top of the hill, the man slowed his
horse. Other men surrounded them.

She squirmed, attempting to escape. “Let me
down!”

“What do you have there, Fergus?”

“He’s gone out and captured himself a bonny
bride.”

Masculine laughter erupted around her.

Her captor grasped her belt and dragged her
backward. “Hold her.”

She slid toward the ground, flailed about,
but strong hands caught her arms.

The blood rushed from her head. Dark spots
obscured her vision, and she grew lightheaded. She swayed and
jerked against the hands that held her. They tightened like
ropes.

“Ma!” Rory called yet again.

Her vision cleared, and she glanced around in
the pale dawn light. The man who’d snatched Rory handed him down to
another.

Rory kicked, punched and screamed like a
wildcat.

“Rory!” she warned, not wanting the man to
hit him. With a trained eye, she searched his body for blood or
wounds and thankfully found none.

Her son stilled, looking about wide-eyed.

“Shh,” she said when his gaze met hers. She
turned her attention to the men around her. “Are you
MacGraths?”

“Aye.”

She almost collapsed with relief and
gratitude, but she still didn’t know what kind of reception she’d
get.

Her rescuer, the one they’d called Fergus,
dismounted and faced her. “Are you MacIrwin?”

His appearance startled her for an instant.
He held a strong resemblance to the man whose life she’d saved days
ago. His long dark hair reached his shoulders. He had a
clean-shaven face and a square jaw, but his eyes were of a
different shape and light color.

“I’m Gwyneth Carswell, and this is my son,
Rory. The MacIrwins are trying to kill us. We seek refuge.”

“And why would they be wanting to kill you,
Sassenach?” he asked in a derisive, disbelieving tone.

“They learned that I helped save the life of
one of your clansmen, Angus MacGrath.”

Fergus frowned and glanced at another man.
“Angus, do you ken this woman?”

She scanned the men standing about, expecting
to see the man whose life she’d saved. Where was he? And why had he
not stepped forward?