Taming a Wild Scot: A Claimed by the Highlander Novel (15 page)

“To stay alive,” she said. “And tying my wagon to yours would be a poor way to achieve my desires. You are a dangerous man with dangerous goals.”

He couldn’t deny her assessment. But, for some reason, he felt compelled to argue the facts. “Any man worth his salt could be labeled as dangerous.”

“Not every worthy man is plotting to steal a valuable necklace from a powerful baron.”

“True,” he agreed. “But once I reclaim the necklace, all will be well.”

“Will it?” She turned in his arms, facing him. Their legs instinctively entwined. “Will you then settle into a simple life of working the land and providing for your family?”

Nay, he would not. He would return to his task of guarding the perimeter of Dunstoras, fending off any and all who would dare unearth her secrets. Normally, a fairly peaceful existence. But of late, it had become more dangerous work.

He shook his head. “I am a soldier, not a farmer.”

She laid a slim finger on his lips and favored him with a bittersweet smile. “Exactly.”

Then she let her hand fall to his heart, relaxed against his body, and closed her eyes. “Sometimes,” she whispered, “no matter how much you wish it could be different, the only answer is no.”

•   •   •

Aiden fed a dull winter apple to his horse. He had paid a pretty price for the fruit in the village, thinking to consume it himself, but the knots in his stomach made eating impossible. They’d spent the last two days trying to find some opportunity to waylay Lady Isabail, to no avail. “Our only recourse is to snatch her on the road to Edinburgh.”

Duncan and Graeme both frowned.

Duncan, always the more outspoken, said, “Did you not hear Sir Robert say he and his men would be accompanying the lady to Edinburgh? That means there will be seven well-trained soldiers, along with her usual guard.”

He nodded. “But their path will take them south through Gildorm Pass. The ravine near the waterfall is narrow and rocky—perfect for an ambush.”

“They’ll outnumber us four to one,” Graeme pointed out.

“And we’ll be fighting mounted men on foot—the horses will not be able to climb the walls of the ravine.”

Aiden stared at Niall’s two men. He’d never heard them naysay his brother in such a manner. Enough was enough. He’d let morose thoughts hold sway for too long. Aye, it was his fault Wulf’s wife and son were dead and the necklace was gone. He’d failed to protect his clan. But clinging to his guilt would not win him the day. It would only prevent him from reclaiming Dunstoras. He couldn’t let that happen.

“It
can
be done, and it
will
be done. Gather your belongings. We ride for Gildorm.”

•   •   •

The king arrived in Duthes amid great pomp and ceremony.

Alerted by the trumpets to his impending arrival, the villagers lined the streets, many of them carrying one of the colorful red and gold banners sewn in haste by the wardrobers and distributed by the steward. As the king passed, the people cheered with enthusiasm, awed by the splendor.

Ana stood just inside the manor gate, as enthralled as any.

Riding at the head of his huge entourage, swathed in a sable cloak and perched upon a pure white steed, Alexander III was everything she had imagined, and more. His gold crown was simple, but he wore it with such natural confidence, no one could take him for anything but a king. As the king rode under the inner gate and halted in the close, the baron’s stable boys rushed to place a gaily painted mounting box next to his horse.

Baron Duthes and his young wife stood at the head of the greeting line and, as the king dismounted, both bowed deeply. Ana prayed that Elayne would right herself without incident. The poor woman had worked day and night to ensure all the preparations went smoothly, and her exhaustion was evident. Dark smudges lay under both her eyes, and her skin was as pale as bleached linen.

“Welcome, Your Grace. My humble home is yours for as long as you require.”

“Your hospitality is welcomed,” the king said.

The baron waved King Alexander into the manor, and then followed him inside. The rest of the people in the courtyard quickly followed suit.

The crush of attendees for the feast was so great, Ana was pushed to the back of the line. By the time she filed into the great hall, almost every table was full. She was lucky to claim a spot by the door, which had a very poor view of the king. Were it not for the fact that the high table was mounted on a dais, she’d have seen nothing but the plump, balding head of the village swineherd.

The high table was draped with fine white linen, and the table set with pewter wine goblets and silver spoons. Ana couldn’t see the spoons, but she’d heard Elayne speak of them. The baroness had made a special request of the blacksmith to craft them, and sacrificed a pair of silver candlesticks to make it so.

A warm body slid onto the bench next to her, and she glanced up.

Niall smiled at her. “You neglected to mention that you were attending the feast.”

“
Everyone
is attending the feast.” Ana ducked as a page leaned over the table and quickly filled every horn with a splash of ale. “They are serving venison,” she said, saliva pooling in her mouth even as she imagined the roasted meat.

“And why are we sitting so far at the back?”

She shrugged. “I’ve not the social standing to demand a closer table.”

Niall edged closer as a last-minute straggler begged a corner of the table. Ana felt his thigh press against hers, the heavy firmness of his muscles warm through her skirts. She picked up her ale and took a cooling sip.

“He’s surprisingly young,” she said, staring at the king.

“Two score and five.”

“Do you think the rumors of Yolande being with child are true?”

He grimaced. “I sincerely hope they are. ’Tis a bitter shame that all his previous children found an early grave.”

One of the king’s knights, a large raven-haired man draped in ring mail and a red tabard, strode down the aisle toward the dais. Niall lowered his head as the fellow passed and diligently studied a knife mark etched into the wooden tabletop.

“Do you know him?” she whispered.

“The king’s half brother, William Dunkeld.”

“The bastard?”

He pitched her a hard look. “Careful how you throw that word around, lass.”

She flushed. “My apologies.”

A red-faced, sweating gillie dropped a heaping platter of roasted venison on the table, then leapt out of the way as everyone grabbed for a portion. “Bloody rooting pigs,” he muttered as he turned away.

Ana’s arm was gouged repeatedly as she tried and failed to score a slice of meat.

Frustrated, she sat back. Niall held out his dirk, upon which was skewered a sizable chunk of venison. He smiled faintly at her look of awe. “The advantage of long arms and legs,” he said. “And a childhood spent wrestling the hounds for table scraps.”

He placed the meat on Ana’s trencher and cut it into several bite-sized morsels. “Eat,” he said. “I’ve likely eaten venison more recently than you.”

“Then I feel no guilt at all for robbing you.”

She took her time consuming the meat, savoring every chew. Although cold, it was the best tasting meat she’d had in months.

The meal was a long but merry affair. Lady Elayne outdid herself, serving twelve removes to the high table, including an elaborate marzipan subtlety that no doubt cost the baron a year’s supply of almonds. But if the smile on King Alexander’s face was to judge, the effort was worthwhile.

The outer tables filled their bellies with bread and cheese and watched the foods delivered to the high table with wide-eyed wonder and applause. The ale flowed freely, which led to a raucous but celebratory air.

Late into the evening, the baron stood up and spoke to the crowd before him.

“In honor of His Grace, King Alexander, there will be a hunt in the western wood on the morrow. Sir William Dunkeld, one of the king’s men, spotted a splendid twelve-point stag there just this morn. A hunt truly worthy of a king.”

The crowd dutifully applauded, although few of them had ever been on a hunt.

Niall scowled.

“Isn’t that where your men are camped?” she asked quietly.

“Aye.”

“How very unfortunate.”

He pushed to his feet. “Indeed.”

Ana felt the chill of his departure and frowned. “You can’t mean to go now.”

“I must. The baron’s huntsmen will be up at dawn, flushing the game toward the western wood.”

She swallowed the last of her ale and stood, her legs a wee bit wobbly. “I’ll go with you.”

He put out a hand to steady her. “I think not.”

Ana shook off his hands. “A short walk in the fine Scottish air and I’ll be right as rain.”

“Will you now?”

“Aye.” She headed for the door to prove her point. She stumbled over someone’s boot and scowled at the offending appendage. “Bloody bampot.”

“Drunken wench,” came the rejoinder.

“I am
not
drunk,” she said hotly to Niall. “I had only one horn of ale.”

“Filled repeatedly to the brim by the baron’s very able pages,” he pointed out.

“True.” Ana grabbed the great iron door latch with both hands and tugged, but the door wouldn’t budge.

Niall reached past her and pushed it open. “I’ll walk you back to the bothy before I head into the woods.”

“I would be vexed, were I you.” Ana halted at the top of the steps, trying to make them stop spinning. “The king is ruining everything.”

He wrapped an arm around her middle and lifted her down the stairs. At the bottom, he carefully released her. “I find myself strangely lighthearted about it all,” he said.

“Well,” she said, gripping his lèine with a tight fist. “That’s good.”

“How’s your head?” he asked sympathetically.

“Not so good.”

“Would you like me to carry you home?”

Ana sagged against him. “It’s quite a distance.”

A laugh rumbled through his chest. “Are you suggesting the task is beyond me, lass?”

She ran her hands up his arms, squeezing the thick bands of muscle that hid under his lèine. “Nay. I think you capable of just about anything.”

“That’s a fine answer.” He scooped her up and started walking.

Ana tried closing her eyes and resting against his chest, but the rolling gait of his stride made her dizzy. She opened her eyes and studied the solid shape of his chin. It was a very fine chin. “Did I ever offer you my thanks for freeing me from that stinking dungeon?”

“Not in so many words,” he said, amusement thick in his voice.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

They walked for a while in silence. Then Ana said, “I’m very tired.”

“A gallon of ale will do that to you.”

“Aye,” she sighed. She tried closing her eyes again. This time they stayed shut.

N
iall poured Ana into bed.

He’d done the same for his maither more times than he could recall, and removing Ana’s boots invoked the same fierce feelings of protectiveness. Not that the two women were anything alike. Ana never shrank from her problems—she confronted them or she moved on. He could not envision her regularly drowning her sorrows in a cup of ale.

He covered her with the blanket, then stared down at her for a long moment. The longer he spent with her, the harder it was to imagine leaving her behind. Holding her felt as natural to him now as breathing, and caring for her when she was lost and defenseless stirred the very heart of him.

It was an exercise in self-discipline to walk away from her.

But walk away he must. He had to alert his men to the royal hunt. With a bit of warning, they could elude the baron’s huntsmen. They might have to temporarily disband the camp, but it could be rebuilt in short order.

Returning to the camp might also provide him with the identity of his traitor—whomever had shot him must think him dead. A surprised face would tell a valuable tale. It was also long past time he checked on Jamie.

Niall left the bothy and slipped into the woods.

He had to act swiftly. Soon after the hunt, the king would depart for Edinburgh. Upon his arrival at the palace—or perhaps after a brief respite—he would hold court and dispense honors to his faithful lords and ladies. Those honors would include Dunstoras. To have any hope of clearing Aiden’s name, he had to trace the necklace back to Lochurkie and prove the jewel lay in Baron Duthes’s coffers.
Today
.

It would simplify his task enormously if he could name the traitor.

The fletching on the arrow that struck him pointed to Cormac. But the inaccuracy of the shot made him think twice—Cormac never missed. If the bowman had wanted him dead, the arrow would have gone right through his heart. And poison wasn’t Cormac’s style. He took great pride in a quick death.

Which suggested someone else—Ivarr or Leod. Both men were good archers and both would have had access to Cormac’s arrows. Leod’s injury would have hampered his escape through the woods, but Niall had not been able to give serious chase, so perhaps that wasn’t relevant. Ivarr had a volatile temper and was the easiest to imagine holding a grudge, but Niall was at a loss for why any of his men would desire him dead.

Niall approached the camp quietly and downwind.

He stood in the lee of a large oak tree and spied on the occupants for a short while. All but Ivarr were seated around the fire, enjoying a late-night meal of bread and ale. Even young Jamie. Ivarr was on watch, slowly walking the perimeter of the camp, listening intently to the noises of the forest.

Niall wanted to see the faces of all as he walked into the camp. One of the three men did not expect him to return, and with any luck, surprise would give the rat away. With Ivarr so distant, however, it would be difficult to judge his reaction.

The only option was to draw the big warrior out first.

Leaping carefully from root to rock to snow-covered patch of moss, Niall slipped through the trees. When he was about twenty paces from Ivarr’s position, he purposely snapped a twig.

The big warrior frowned and his hand immediately dropped to the hilt of his sword. Peering into the thicket, he held himself perfectly still. Niall knew what he was doing—using the corners of his eyes to detect movement. But Niall did not move. He waited.

After a long moment, Ivarr stepped toward him. His multihued brat of browns, grays, and white made him difficult to spot amid the winter trees. But not impossible. Niall waited until the warrior was nearly on top of him, before revealing himself. He stepped out into the open. With the sparest of movements, he drew his sword and settled into a ready stance.

The instant he spotted movement, Ivarr reacted. He drew his sword and his powerful arms swung the blade in Niall’s direction. As recognition dawned, his eyes widened. He grinned and pulled back on his sword.

“Bloody fine way to get yourself killed,” he said with a laugh.

“Good to know you’re awake,” Niall said, smiling. Ivarr did not seem overly shocked to see him, just a little miffed to have someone slip past his guard.

“Did you get the necklace?” Ivarr asked, sheathing his weapon.

“Nay,” he answered. “I’ll explain all in camp.”

No longer caring whether he made any noise, he marched through the brush toward the glow of the fire. He eyed the group steadily as he broke from the trees.

Jamie sat on the fallen log, chewing his bread with a melancholy expression. Cormac was describing a pair of foxes he saw cavorting down by the stream. All three looked up as he crossed the camp.

Only Jamie looked shocked to see him. Paling, the lad leapt up from his seat and dove for the horses. Niall did not suspect the lad of trying to kill him, so he directed his attention to the two men seated before the fire. Cormac did not display any emotion whatsoever. He simply ceased talking and waited for Niall to reach the fire. Leod, on the other hand, stood and smiled. He was still favoring his wounded leg, and one hand unconsciously rubbed his thigh.

“Good news?” asked Leod.

Niall let his gaze drift from Leod’s face back to Cormac. Of the three, Cormac seemed the least eager to see him. Perhaps he’d been too hasty in deciding the arrow wasn’t his.

“Nay,” he confessed.

“Have you been sitting on your arse the whole time, then?” asked Cormac, breaking his bread in half and offering the dark rye to Niall.

Niall took the bread. After the bowman bit into his half of the round, Niall tore off a chunk and ate it. Leod offered him a swig of ale, and he washed down the dry bread. “The baron’s men were waiting for me when I attempted to break into his coffers.”

Cormac looked over Niall’s shoulder and frowned. “Are they chasing you still?”

He shook his head. “But come morning, there will be a veritable sea of soldiers in the woods. The baron is hosting a hunt for the king.”

The bowman snorted. “The baron’s huntsmen are fools. They talk while they hunt and they make no effort to disguise their movements. It’s no bloody wonder why that poacher is still on the loose.”

“The king’s men will not be so easy to elude,” Niall said. “We’ll have to pack up camp for a time. Walk with me, Cormac.”

The other man rose to his feet. He tossed what remained of his bread to Jamie, who was watching them from behind the horses. Then he followed Niall to the edge of the clearing.

Niall held nothing back.

“Two days ago, on my way back to the village, I was shot with an arrow.”

Cormac’s eyebrows disappeared beneath his mop of curly hair. “You look fit enough.”

Digging into his pack, Niall produced the arrow. He thrust it at the other man. “This arrow.”

All expression left Cormac’s face. “This is mine.”

Damn the man for being so difficult to read. “Did you shoot it?”

The bowman’s gaze lifted. “I’m insulted that you need to ask, but I’ll answer it true just the same. Had I shot you, I’d be standing over your grave at this moment, not exchanging pleasantries in the merry woodland.”

The same conclusion Niall had already reached. But could he be certain? “You might miss apurpose if you wanted to shift the blame.”

Cormac ran a finger along the gray fletching. “Then I’d have likely chosen a different color of feather, as well. Leod uses black feathers. Ivarr uses spotted. ’Twould have been easy enough to raid their belongings.”

Niall stood silent. A valid point.

“It begs the question of who among us would want to see you dead.”

“Indeed.”

“We’ve stood alongside each other a long time.” Cormac’s gaze slipped to the other two men. “It makes no sense.”

“The facts speak louder than our history together.”

Cormac shook his head. “We were as solid and sure as can be until last summer.”

Niall stiffened.

Cormac glanced at him and grimaced. “It was not my intent to lay the blame at your door.”

“And yet, there it lies.”

The bowman handed the arrow back to Niall. “You had a brief lapse of faith. It happens to the best of us.”

If only the truth were as kind as Cormac’s words. When his father passed away at midsummer, the chains holding Niall to Dunstoras had finally been broken. Always on the fringe of the family circle, never truly accepted, he’d felt no allegiance to Aiden, despite their common blood. It had been surprisingly easy to turn his back on his role as the captain of the Curaidhnean Dubh and make plans to join the gallowglas mercenaries in western Scotland. “You need not soften the truth,” he said quietly. “I broke my vow.”

The bowman shook his head. “Nay. You returned the moment you learned the necklace had been stolen and the clan was in jeopardy. And you freed the laird. You did all that needed to be done.”

“It matters not,” Niall dismissed. “Until we right the wrong done to our clan, until we prove our honor intact, we cannot rest. Nothing can be allowed to interfere.”

“Even a traitor in our midst?”

Niall pinned the other man’s gaze. “Especially that.”

“Do you still believe it could be me?”

His gut said no, but his gut had led him astray before. “I cannot discount the possibility.”

Cormac nodded slowly. “Well, it may not mean anything, but you have my word that I did not loose that arrow. And if I glean any information that suggests who did, I’ll inform you immediately.”

Believing him was tempting. Of all the Black Warriors, save Aiden and Wulf, he respected Cormac the most. He honed his craft for endless hours, never resting on his laurels. He consistently offered excellent suggestions for the defense of Dunstoras, and never wavered in his resolve, even against challenging odds.

Niall accepted the bowman’s promise with a nod, then crossed the camp to the wooden cage that held a half dozen cooing pigeons. There was another source of information he must pursue—the merchant caravan that had likely brought the necklace to Duthes.

“Sending a message to Dunstoras?” Cormac asked.

“Aye.” Using a quill and a small strip of parchment, he scribbled the descriptions Ana had provided and asked his men to search for the merchants. “To urge them to be vigilant. Someone willing to murder an entire camp of thieves may be seeking a bigger prize than one necklace.”

“You think the secrets of Dunstoras are at risk?”

The contents of his message was a lie, but not the concern. Niall truly did wonder whether the theft of the necklace was part of a larger plan. “It’s possible.”

“But the caverns beneath the old keep are well hidden. Who would know they exist?”

“Our traitor, for one.” Niall opened the cage, selected a pigeon, and tucked the parchment inside the band on the bird’s leg. Then he tossed the gray bird into the air and watched it wing across the cloudy sky, headed west to Dunstoras.

Cormac flushed. “I suppose that’s true. But even the Black Warriors do not know all the secrets of Dunstoras.”

“For good reason, it would seem.” Surely, such a flush of embarrassment could not be faked? If Cormac was
not
the traitor, he was left with Leod or Ivarr.

Both men were formidable warriors when healthy, but Leod was the weaker of the two at the moment. His injury was real enough—Niall had gotten a good look at it the last time he supped with the men. The gash was healing slowly, the flesh still red and angry. Ivarr, on the other hand, was as fit as Niall had ever seen him. Big as a brown bear and able to swing that sword of his with enough power to make the air hum. As for his ability to handle a bow—it had been Ivarr who downed the boar that gored Leod, with a shot right through the eye.

Niall helped the men pack up the camp. As he dismantled the lean-to, he caught a glimpse of Jamie behind the rump of Ivarr’s roan. The dirk Niall had given him was hanging on his belt. Straightening, he turned. “Come here, lad.”

Jamie edged out from behind the horses.

“I need you to do something for me,” Niall said.

Jamie’s gaze lifted, a hint of curiosity in his eyes.

“You’re ten and three in a month, are you not?”

The boy nodded.

Niall was far from a traditional knight. He’d earned his spurs just as Aiden had and served his required days in the service of the king, but beyond that, he had little tolerance for formalities. Rather than take on a squire or two, as was the custom, he trained newcomers to the ways of the Black Warriors. He neither needed nor desired the attendance of a young lad. But if Wulf had been here, he would have taken the boy under his wing. Niall could do no less.

“Time to move on from tending the pigeons,” he said. “You’re of an age to start training in the art of soldiering.”

Jamie’s eyes widened.

“From this moment on, you’ll be my squire. Start by ordering all my belongings. Put everything in its proper place and clean my weapons. Can you do that?”

The boy nodded.

“If you don’t know what an item is or where it ought to go, ask Cormac.”

Jamie nodded again.

“If you do a fine job, on the morrow I’ll teach you some basic combat skills,” Niall said, pointing to the dirk. “A knight must be as skilled at close combat as he is with a lance. Your father is the best knife-wielder I’ve ever met.”

The stiffness of the boy’s shoulders eased, just a little. He said not a word, but his hand slid to the hilt of the dagger and Niall knew the gesture had meaning. What boy did not aspire to be just like his da?

“In a short while, the forest will be teeming with soldiers,” he told the lad. “Cormac will keep you one step ahead of the huntsmen; your job is to look after the horses. Remove all their trappings and keep them from snorting at the first sign of trouble. I’m counting on you, lad.”

Jamie stood a little taller. For the first time, his gaze lifted higher than Niall’s chest. “Yes, Uncle.”

He wasn’t the boy’s uncle. He was his second cousin, actually. But
Uncle
was the title Jamie’s younger brother had bestowed upon him, and Niall acknowledged the honor with a nod. “Good lad.”