Taming a Wild Scot: A Claimed by the Highlander Novel (8 page)

That was a rabbit hole of a comment, if ever he heard one. Niall tightened his grip on her arm and guided Ana around a large gray pig standing in the middle of the road basking in the afternoon sunshine. “Can you read?”

“Aye, my father taught me. Why do you ask?”

The tension in Niall’s gut eased. Reading the steward’s books would be much easier than stealing them. Of course, relying on her to aid him meant he’d need to share a few details about what he sought. . . . “After you’ve ministered to the needs of the villagers, I’ve a task for you.”

“What sort of task?”

They stepped to the side to allow a farmer with a creaking wagonload of hay to pass. Once the fellow was out of earshot, Niall said, “I need you to enter the steward’s chambers and go through his records.”

Ana glanced up at his soot-darkened face. “I beg your pardon?”

“Enter the steward’s chambers and—”

“You cannot truly be asking that!”

“I am. I’m interested in a particular entry. It won’t take but a moment to determine if the record is there. The risk of discovery is very low.”

In
his
mind, perhaps, but not in hers. She was already under scrutiny. The last thing she needed was to get caught sneaking into the steward’s rooms. “Absolutely not. I will not do it.”

His eyebrows angled sharply. “You’ve no choice in the matter. If you do not fulfill my demand, I’ll be meeting with the constable.”

“You would threaten that, even after the kiss we shared?”

He returned her stare, not a hint of warmth to be found on his handsome face. “Aye.”

A pang of something unnameable rippled through her chest. Well, there it was—the bitter truth. He felt nothing for her, not even a wee spot of fondness. What a fool she was. Once again she’d dyed the wool of reality with the colors of her imaginings. “Your threat is not as powerful as you think. If I am caught, I will find myself at the mercy of the constable anyway.”

“One offense will get you a day in the stocks, the other a dance on the gibbet. I think your options speak for themselves.”

She grimaced. “You are a miserable, lowborn wretch.”

He released her arm. “I’m a man on a mission. That’s all that need concern you.” Pointing down the lane, he said, “Let us waste no more time. Walk.”

Ana tightened her brat about her shoulders and walked.

It was all so simple for him, the solution so clear. But Ana could not contemplate playing the spy without her stomach rolling in protest. Ask her to clean and lance a putrid wound, and she would do it without suffering a twinge of nausea. This? Nay, she could not do it.

There had to be an alternative, some other way to review the steward’s records.

She just had to find it.

“You’re a popular lass today,” Niall murmured.

Lifting her head, Ana studied the small crowd huddled around the door of her bothy. A mix of unwed mothers with children, lame beggars, and old men bent by long years of labor, they waited patiently for her return. Some stood, some sat, and some leaned on roughly hewn canes. All wore an empty expression forged of endless despair.

Ana took a deep breath.
This
she could do. Ease pain, apply poultices, soothe coughs. Maybe even coax a smile to a weary face.

“Is there anything you require?” Niall asked. “Any help I can provide?”

“Nay, I have all that I need.”

“I’ll leave you to it, then.”

He spoke the words, but didn’t move. Ana glanced at him. He was staring at the treetops visible above the thatched-roof huts to the west, and her stomach sank. Although the circumstances were decidedly different—and he’d given her no cause to worry—she was transported back to the woods outside Lochurkie, to that night when he’d disappeared into the darkness. The question slipped out before she could stop it. “Will you be back?”

“Aye. Before dark.”

Relieved to have escaped a comment on her odd query, Ana nodded sharply and waded into the crowd. “Do what you will.”

“I always do, lass. I always do.”

When she reached the door of her bothy and turned, he was gone.

•   •   •

A very somber group greeted Niall when he strode into the Black Warrior camp. No one spoke and no one smiled. Leod and Ivarr were engaged in a fierce mock duel that was unusually absent of taunts and slurs.

“What news?” he asked Cormac, who was seated on a boulder by the fire, fletching an arrow with pale gray goose feathers.

The bowman looked up. “We found the thieves.”

Niall waited for further explanation, but got none. “Did they refuse to aid us?”

Cormac shook his head. “Nay. They were dead.”

“Some kind of quarrel amongst them?”

Cormac tossed his partially fletched arrow to the ground and rose to his feet. “I think not. Every soul in the camp was slain—men, women, and even the wee bairns. None were spared.”

Niall’s belly knotted at the image. “Any hint of what befell them?”

“No blood and no injuries to be seen.”

So, they were back to poison. And once again, the finger of blame could be pointed at one of his men. Who else knew of the thieves’ camp and had reason to see them dead? Niall panned the clearing, studying the faces of his men, one by one. Cormac. Leod. Ivarr. Jamie was nowhere to be seen. Did one among them hide a bitter, blackened heart? “Did all of you go?”

Cormac shook his head. “Leod remained behind with Jamie.”

As he had requested. “And did any leave the camp earlier in the day?”

The bowman frowned heavily. “Do you suggest it may have been one of
us
?”

“Only we four knew our intention to query the thieves.”

An angry flush rose in Cormac’s cheeks. “Every man robbed at knife point in the past several months had cause to see them dead.”

“Perhaps,” acknowledged Niall. “But how many would murder women and children over a lost purse?”

The bowman had no answer. He simply tightened his lips and looked away.

“Were you able to give them a decent burial?”

“Nay,” said Cormac, stooping to pick up a loose feather from the ground. “We had not the time. The constable and his men were scouring the nearby woods for poachers. Instead, we allowed them to catch a glimpse of us through the trees, then led them to the camp.”

Niall nodded. So long as the dead were properly laid in the sod with a few words for their souls, it did not matter who lifted the shovel. “Good.”

“Have you another plan to acquire the necklace?”

“Aye.”

“That’s the whole of it?
Aye?
” Cormac twirled the feather adroitly in his fingers. “Do you keep your plans close because you believe I’m the blackguard?”

Niall met the other’s man’s gaze. “What would you do in my boots?”

“Trust in my men.”

“I think not. You’re the least trusting fellow I’ve ever met. You insist on seeing every sign for yourself when we’re tracking game through the forest, and you carry your coins on your person at all times, never leaving them behind in camp.”

Cormac shook his head. “This is a far more serious matter.”

“Indeed.” A foe willing to slay an entire camp of thieves was a
very
dangerous man. If he was right and that foe was living among the Black Warriors, then the safety of Wulf’s young son was at risk. A minor risk, surely, as the lad posed little threat, but . . . “Where is Jamie?”

The bowman stared at him for a long moment, clearly reluctant to drop the subject. But in the face of Niall’s firm resolve, he eventually said, “Down by the pond. I tasked him with finding me a clutch of goose feathers.”

Niall nodded sharply, then headed through the wood toward the pond.

As he walked between the trees, he unbuckled his belt and slid his dirk sheath free. The blade was a tad long for a boy, but it was light and well balanced. In a battle for his life, it would do the lad proud.

He swept aside a yew branch and stepped onto the muddy shore of the pond.

Jamie was halfway around the ice-crusted basin, foraging through reeds flattened by long departed geese. A posy of gray feathers filled his left hand. The task had seemingly distracted him from his worries, as his usual sad countenance had been replaced by a faint smile. Niall was loath to banish it, but time was short.

“Jamie.”

The lad’s head popped up, his eyes finding Niall on the opposite shore. As anticipated, the smile fell away and the loose excitement fled his frame. He stood stiffly, waiting on Niall’s command.

“Come here, lad.”

The boy circled the pond and approached.

“I’ve a gift for you.” Niall held out the knife. “A lad your age should have a blade to call his own.”

Jamie stared at the knife but did not take it.

“It’s a hunting dirk,” Niall said. “Excellent for carving a fish or a rabbit.”

The boy’s gaze dropped to his boots.

“Very helpful when faced with a tight bind, as well.”

Jamie still did not reach for the weapon.

Frustration surged through Niall. He could not take the lad with him to the village. The knife was the only way to keep him safe. “You will take the dirk, and you will keep it with you at all times,” he ordered crisply. “If I see you without it, I’ll take a paddle to your arse. Understand?”

He thrust the sheathed blade into Jamie’s hands.

Then he turned on his heel and marched back to camp.

Ivarr and Leod had completed their mock duel and they met him as he entered. Leod’s limp was improving, but he still used his practice sword as an impromptu cane. Both men were sweating profusely, despite the coolness of the day.

“Cormac told you about the thieves?” Ivarr asked.

Niall nodded. “Take extra care. There’s clearly mischief afoot.”

“Were you able to open the lock?”

“Nay. But I’m not ready to give up just yet.” Niall found his long sword amid his belongings. He drew the weapon and studied the fine steel edge with a critical eye. He’d not polished or oiled it in more than a sennight, which in his mind was a serious failing. A warrior who did not take proper care of his blade was not a warrior at all. It was sorely tempting to strap it to his back. If he slipped into the village after dark, who would note its presence?

Ana, of course.

He could already anticipate her annoyance at having the battle blade in her home, but was that cause enough to leave it behind? An image of the lecherous French soldier rose to mind. Nay, it was not. He sheathed the weapon and wrapped the leather baldric around its length.

“I’ll sup with you this eve,” he told his men. “Ana is tending her flock. I trust you’ve snared a hare or two of late.”

Cormac grinned. “Better than that—a stag. Downed with a single arrow, right beneath the constable’s nose.”

Niall frowned. “So you’re the reason they’re combing the woods in search of poachers?”

“Nay,” the bowman protested. “They never saw me. ’Twas some other fool who raised their suspicions. We saw the leavings of his campfire near the double-trunked oak—ashes and bones strewn everywhere.”

“Nonetheless, it’s not wise to taunt the constable.”

Cormac shrugged. “I aim to keep my skills sharp.”

“A worthy notion,” Niall acknowledged. Cormac was a formidable archer, and he’d not developed his talents sitting on his hands. “But hunt only rabbits from now on.”

A
na knew the wound was festering before she lifted the old man’s lèine. She could smell it. Easing the rough cloth over his bony hip as he lay on the ground, she peered at the jagged tear in his flesh. Red and swollen, the injury was seeping pus.

To distract the man from what she was about to do, she asked, “How did you get this, Rory?”

He promptly launched into a wild and woolly tale involving a small pig, a fence, and a bramble bush. The tale was long and rambling, and he lost track of the story threads too often for the words to be true. But he appeared to believe them.

Ana soaked a linen square in chamomile and willow-bark tea. Ever so gently, as the old man recounted his tale, she used the sodden cloth to cleanse the wound. He winced once or twice, but did not stop talking. Much of the infection came away, but some still remained, so she filled the wound with a poultice made from ramsons, calendula, and yarrow, and then carefully wrapped it in linen bandages.

“I’ll need to see you again in a day or two,” she told him. “This poultice will draw out the pus, but I’ll need to apply some healing unguent when it’s clear.”

He accepted her help in rising to his feet and leaned heavily on his oak branch cane, his face pale, his eyes dark with worry. “I’ve nothing to trade for your care.”

“Come anyway. If we don’t treat the wound properly, you’ll lose the leg.”

“Thank you, Goodhealer,” he said gratefully, squeezing her hand. Tears formed in the corners of his eyes. “You’re a kind soul.”

She smiled.
Tell that to the village friar,
she wanted to say
.
“Don’t wait so long next time. Have your granddaughter fetch me if you fall again.”

He nodded and hobbled off down the lane.

Fearing the old man’s failing memory would distort her instructions as surely as it had the story of his wound, she made a mental note to seek out the granddaughter herself. She tossed the remains of the tea on the dirt path, then gathered up her collection of linen squares, salve pots, and dried herbs, and entered the bothy. The sun was low on the horizon, and only a faint half light lit her way. The peat fire still burned strong, and the warm hut smelled like herbal tea.

The cauldron of pottage sat off to the side, unheated.

Exhausted by the steady stream of patients she’d seen since midday, Ana did not bother to hook the stew over the fire. She simply took a piece of bannock and some cheese from her larder and flopped down on the bed. The ropes groaned under her weight, but she was too tired to care. Her fingers ached, her hands were chapped, and her eyes were dry and gritty.

Sleep was an enticement too powerful to resist.

She closed her eyes and was instantly gone.

•   •   •

Thanks to a blanket of heavy clouds, there was no moonlight to guide Niall’s way. His only cues came from the larger landmarks along the trail—the yew stump, the half-fallen tree, the granite obelisk. But the route was becoming increasingly familiar, and he made good time down the sloping brae toward the road. The evening was young and the woods were silent, save for the occasional screech of an owl.

He never heard the arrow, only felt it plow into the flesh of his left shoulder, ripping through sinews and tendons with careless abandon. It went deep, the metal tip piercing the front of his chest just below the collarbone. The searing pain stole a ragged gasp from his throat, but it was self-preservation, not weakness, that took him to his knees. A good archer could launch another arrow in seconds.

He dropped behind a fallen log and drew his sword. The lack of moonlight would work in his favor, hiding the gleam of the steel. Forcing his thoughts away from the blood trickling from his wound, he listened for any rustle of leaves or brush.

Nothing, not even the owl. His attacker was patient, waiting.

He peered through the trees to the road. There lay the quickest path to safety, but also the quickest path to the grave. Out in the open, he’d be an easy target. The only way to survive this day was to do the unexpected. But whatever he chose to do, he had to act swiftly—he was already becoming woolly-headed.

His free hand sought the slippery metal tip of the arrow.

The shooter’s aim was high, thank the gods. He might yet live. Better yet, he could tell by the angle on the arrow that his attacker was up the hill and to the right. To land an arrow in the dark, the archer would by necessity be close—perhaps as little as thirty paces.

Niall tied the bottom of his brat about his waist and quickly stuffed the loose folds with anything in easy reach—bark, moss, and dried leaves. He made low moans as he worked, suggesting his injuries were dire. A padded brat was a sorry replacement for a breastplate, but any protection was better than none.

Once he deemed the stuffing sufficient, he didn’t hesitate.

He sprang from his hiding spot with a deep, guttural roar and tore up the hill in the direction of the archer. Leaping rocks and ducking under branches, he churned through the brush as erratically as possible. His legs felt like lead. Every heartbeat felt like his last. But still he plowed forward, his sword at the ready, driven by a burning desire to know which one of his men was a contemptible blackhearted traitor.

To his surprise, the second arrow never came.

He drove farther and farther up the hill, meeting no resistance. None at all.

Light-headed and at the end of his endurance, he stopped. A quick glance around verified that he was alone, and he sank to his knees in the winter loam, every breath a lance in his chest. His attacker had run. All that remained were a few broken branches indicating the haste of his departure. Bloody coward.

Niall licked his lips, his mouth dry as paste.

He was growing weaker by the moment. He had to find Ana.

Using his sword for leverage, he pushed to his feet. Thighs atremble and head lolling, he turned to make his way back down the brae. The thick root of a towering oak proved his downfall. Literally. He caught his boot tip in a deep groove and lost his footing. His sword hit the tree and tumbled from his grip, even as the darkness closed in around him and the earth rose up to meet him.

That was the last he remembered.

•   •   •

Everything in the windowless Crimson Kettle was dark, dreary, and dull. Aiden took a sip of his drink. Including the ale. A dozen lit torches tried but failed to brighten the hazy interior. Even the colored threads of the namesake tapestry on the wall, depicting a bubbling kettle over a fire, were lost beneath a layer of smoke and grease.

Nonetheless, it was a popular place.

From the entrance to the tapped ale kegs stacked at the back, the room was awash with laughing, cheering, ale-swilling bodies. Most were village men celebrating the end of another hard day, but several wore the green and black tabard of a castle guard, and a trio of fat merchants sat at a table near the door.

Angling his stool to give him a clear view of the front door, Aiden leaned against the wall and extended his legs. “So, none of the lads you befriended had anything of value to share?”

Duncan and Graeme shook their heads.

“We heard plenty about the quality of the last harvest, but not one word about a visitor to the castle around Samhain,” Duncan said.

A sturdy, red-cheeked barmaid carrying six pitchers of ale in each fisted hand wove adroitly between the patrons, plunked one down on their table, and moved on. Aiden watched the foam on the top of the ale slosh back and forth, slowly settling. “So the lady remains our only hope.”

Graeme frowned. “Did you not say her guards were formidable?”

“Aye,” Aiden admitted, topping up his horn of ale. He took a long draught of the tasteless brew. At least it wet his tongue. “She’s very well protected.”

“Then how is she a hope at all?”

Aiden had no answer to that. But his commitment to his goal was unshakeable. “She knows who the man in black is. I’m convinced of it.”

Duncan exchanged a glance with Graeme, then said, “That won’t help us if we can’t speak with her.”

“Perhaps we can lure her out of the castle.”

“How?”

“Offer her new information pertaining to her brother’s death.”

“But we have no such information.”

Aiden sighed. “Hardly the point. Her eagerness to avenge her brother’s murder will entice her outside the castle walls.”

Graeme frowned. “Is she likely to come without her guards?”

“Nay, but if the time and place are of our choosing, we can arrange an ambush.”

The door to the alehouse swept open and a group of men entered, brushing snow from their cloaks. Aiden recognized the tallest among them—the sandy-haired knight who’d been speaking to Lady Isabail in the orchard. Two guards from the castle hailed the newcomers and waved them toward their table.

“The difficult task will be getting the message into the lady’s hand,” Aiden said. The knight scanned the crowd with a slow, narrow-eyed gaze before following his brethren. Whatever he searched for, he didn’t seem to find it.

“Can we pay a village lad to run it to her?”

“The risk is high. If the message is waylaid, we lose our opportunity.”

“What alternative do we have?” Graeme asked drily.

“None,” Aiden admitted. He traced a deep gouge in the tabletop with his finger. They might find an older, more determined person to carry the message, but a lad would ask fewer questions.

“Then I say we—”

“Move your feet.”

Aiden looked up. The sandy-haired knight stood before him, his lips set in a grim line, his eyes cold as a north wind. ’Twas possible the fellow was simply making his way to the piss pots at the back of the room—this was certainly one route to take—but Aiden had a feeling the knight had come looking for him.

Based solely on a comparison of their attire—a leather-trimmed wool tunic versus a ragged lèine—the fellow had every reason to believe Aiden would move his feet. A common man did not impede his betters. But the look in the knight’s eyes dared Aiden to remain right where he was. So he did.

“Step over.”

The knight did not immediately react to Aiden’s insolence. He smiled. “I remember you. The orchard keeper with an unfortunate talent for badgering ladies.”

“Badgering?” Aiden drawled. “From a distance of twenty paces? I think not. At best you could say I was admiring from afar.”

“A lady is above your station, cur. Your admiration is better directed at the pigs in the sty.”

Aiden placed his horn of ale on the table. The knight was clearly spoiling for a fight. Perhaps the fool had expressed his hopes for a marriage alliance with Lady Isabail and been summarily rejected. The cause mattered not. He shrugged. “A sow, or a lady. Can you fault me for being unable to tell the difference?”

The man came at him before the last syllable left his lips.

But Aiden was ready for him. Blocking the knight’s clawing hands with a purposeful forearm, he landed a solid punch in the man’s midsection, just below his ribs. Air chuffed from the knight’s chest, and he lost his balance. Aiden took advantage. One hard shove, and the knight was on his knees, gasping for breath.

But he didn’t stay down.

With a furious roar, he surged to his feet, drawing his sword with a cold slither of steel.

The patrons around them scrambled for safety.

“Sir Robert! Put your blade aside immediately.” A pair of men wearing the telltale black leather hood of the constable’s company flanked the knight, their hands on the hilts of their own weapons. “The law forbids the drawing of a weapon in the alehouse.”

Sir Robert glared at Aiden, his anger unabated. “This wretch insulted your lady. His insolence cannot go unpunished.”

Still seated at the table, Aiden met Sir Robert’s stare. One carelessly tossed insult did not warrant this level of rage. He must truly be in love with the woman.

“Many things are said in the alehouse,” one of the constable’s men said calmly, “most of which should be forgotten. As I am willing to forget your current breach, sir. Put down your weapon.”

The muscles in Sir Robert’s jaw worked furiously for a moment; then he lowered his arm.

“I will bow to the law,” he said, sheathing his weapon.

The constable’s men nodded and returned to their table.

Sir Robert favored Aiden with another hard stare. “As for you,” he said quietly, “best stay out of my way until I accompany Lady Isabail to Edinburgh in two days time. The constable’s men won’t always be about to save your sorry arse.”

He kicked Aiden’s boots aside and strode off toward the piss pots.

•   •   •

Ana woke with a start.

The blanket of nightfall still lay heavily over the room, broken only by the faint orange glow cast by the fire. She lay much as she’d fallen, the bread and cheese still in her hands, her boots still on her feet. There was no way to know how long she’d slept, but sating her hunger was no longer her primary concern. Worry nagged her instead.

She put aside the food and rolled off the bed.

Niall was yet absent, despite his assurance that he’d be home before dark. She barely knew the man, but her gut insisted his failure to return was ominous.

She tossed another peat brick on the fire.

Why did she feel such a burning need to act? No one had made her the man’s keeper, and he’d likely not welcome her concern. Half the time, he made her so angry she lost all semblance of good manners. And the other half . . .

A sigh escaped her lips.

Well, the other half gave her reason to worry.

She wrapped her brat about her shoulders and lifted her satchel from the hook by the door. Opening the flap, she peered inside. Bruise salve, pain relief tea, and wound liniment. Linen strips for bandages. Calendula, comfrey, and garlic. Without knowing what had befallen him, she couldn’t be sure she had what she needed. He might not have taken ill at all. Although the knot in her belly said otherwise.

Ana stepped into the lane and shut the door quietly behind her. She knew what direction she was headed—Niall’s gaze had given her that much—but her ultimate destination was a mystery. It was a little mad to wander into the forest in the dark without a journey’s end in mind, but doing nothing was the only alternative—and that wasn’t in her nature.