“Please, Alys.
Please
.” Cait Campbell was not above begging. Not when it came to something important like the contents of her breakfast.
“Nay, m’lady. What would yer brother say?” Alys braided Cait’s blond hair into a sensible plait for traveling.
“Fie on my brother. ’Tis no concern of his. I promise I’ll switch back before we reach Laird Graham at Dundaff. All will look as it should. What could it possibly hurt to switch places for a bit of the journey?”
“’Tis hardly proper, m’lady.”
“I’ll hardly look proper wearing my last meal. Please, Alys, ye ken how riding in that dreadful litter upsets my stomach.” Cait turned to face Alys, her lady-in-waiting.
“And what about the guards? Surely they would note the difference.” Alys stood with her hands on her round hips. She was several years older than Cait and had a curvier figure. Her dark brown hair hung in natural ringlets, which frequently escaped her headdress, a considerable contrast to Cait’s straight blond tresses.
“Nay, I’ll ride wearing yer cloak with the hood drawn over my face. Please, Alys, they will ne’er know the difference.”
“Nay, m’lady. It would no’ be right. I’ll no’ be a party to it.”
Cait looked at her with wide eyes brimming with tears. It was an art form she had practiced over the years.
“Och, verra well then,” conceded Alys. “But dinna blame me if it all goes bad.”
***
Archie McNab leaned against a tree waiting for the messenger at the appointed time. His life was pathetic. Years ago, Archie had decided that he was born under a curse. Whether his sire or dame was to blame was uncertain; one thing he did know was that he was destined to live out his life a failure and general embarrassment. It was a powerful shame, but he was accustomed to it.
It started to rain, filtering through the leaves and hitting him in the face. He could have put up the hood on his cloak, but what was the use? He had long ago stopped trying to avoid misery. His only hope now was that he might contract the plague or a fever and leave this godforsaken world. Or perhaps with any luck, someone would do him a favor and run him through. In his current occupation of mercenary, it seemed likely that his end would be sooner rather than later.
He heard the sound of horses through the dense forest and motioned his men to hide. They disappeared into the brush. It was too many riders, not the lad they were waiting for. A heavily guarded litter was being carried down the road. He considered for a moment if this good gentleman needed to have his purse lightened for their journey. But McNab noted the Campbell banner and thought better of it. This was not a clan to aggravate, best to leave them alone.
Before the party could pass him, they came to a sudden stop and one of the Campbell guards called for someone to quit blocking the road. McNab peeked around a tree. His messenger stood in the road, blocking the path of the caravan. McNab hoped that the lad would have the good sense to move aside.
“Ho there!” shouted the messenger. “Why dinna ye move yerself o’er to the side? I’ve got important business to attend to.” McNab rolled his eyes. What an idiot. Just his luck, he could not get even a simple messenger to do his business without somehow finding a way to make a muck of it.
“Move aside, ye addlepated whelp,” came the response of the Campbell guard.
“Nay, I’ve an urgent message, let me pass,” called the messenger with all the false self-importance of youth and whipped out a sealed parchment, brandishing it with a flourish.
McNab groaned softly. The lad must be daft. What did that hothead think he was doing challenging a Campbell guard? McNab kept his eye on the parchment. That little missive must not fall into anyone else’s hands but his. If something like that were to be brought before Campbell… McNab shivered.
The lad kept babbling his bravado at the main guard, oblivious to the soldiers who dismounted and quietly flanked him. The guards were no fools; several had nocked an arrow and were keeping a close eye on the lad and the bushes around them, wary of an ambush. This was going to get ugly. McNab sighed and gave a silent command to the man next to him, knowing it would be passed along. He wrapped a black cloth around his nose and mouth, preparing for the worst.
The Campbell guards snuck up behind his daft messenger and knocked him clean from his horse. He was trussed and the missive placed in the captain’s hands before the lad could make a sound. It was nicely done, but now it was McNab’s turn. He needed to retrieve that message before anyone did something stupid like read it.
Fortunately, when it came to acting the part of a highwayman, McNab was a master. Not a skill to be proud of, but a skill nonetheless. McNab drew a short sword, a better and more precise weapon for close combat. He wore dark brown breeches, a linen tunic worn gray, and a black cloak, pinned at the shoulder. Lowlander’s clothes. Whenever he went out to do mischief he wore the clothes of a Lowlander. He wore those clothes a lot.
He whistled a bird call, counted to ten, then leaped for the litter. His men jumped in concert with him, some falling from the trees on the soldiers with their bows drawn, a prime consideration for bandits. He grabbed the man out of the litter, held him firmly against his body for protection and had his short sword to his throat before anyone could say Holy Saint Andrew.
“Hold or I’ll slice his throat,” commanded McNab from behind his black mask. It had been his considerable experience that soldiers traveling with people in litters became quite cooperative and docile when said person in litter was threatened.
“Hold!” yelled the captain of the guard. The Campbell soldiers drew back and McNab’s men let them. McNab’s men stood, weapons in hand, ready for action, which they generally hoped would not be necessary.
It was then that McNab realized two things. First the man he was holding was not a man but most definitely a woman, and second that there was another woman who had dismounted from a horse and was screaming like a banshee for him to release the first.
“If ye please, lass, quit yer screeching,” McNab tried to reason with the woman, though experience had taught him that negotiating with the fairer sex was a pointless exercise.
“Get yer bloody sword off o’ her,” the lass growled at him.
“Madam, please, ye shock me wi’ such language. I’d be happy to oblige ye if it were no’ for the fact that yer guards would kill me if I did.” He smiled, a useless gesture from behind his mask. “Now if ye would be so generous as to make a small contribution to the fund for wayward highwaymen I shall release this lady and be on my way.”
The screeching lass drew back her hood, revealing a pretty, young face and a long, blond braid. McNab heard a collective gasp from the Campbell guards. Curious.
“Ye hold the Lady Cait Campbell. Release her at once or feel the wrath of Campbell,” said the fair-headed lass who must be the lady’s maid.
McNab appreciated her courage, but he would rob them just the same. He nodded at one of his men who grabbed the disagreeable lass and held a knife to her throat. It succeeded in quieting her into mute compliance. Most of all he needed that missive without revealing how important that parchment was. With any luck, which of course he had none, the soldiers would be so preoccupied by the robbery that they would forget about the missive.
He nodded to his men, and they began to relieve the Campbell soldiers of their tools of the trade. McNab could use the addition to his armory. He would not have chosen to rob Campbell, but he was at it now, and it would hardly do to let opportunity slip through his grasp.
Speaking of, the woman in his arms felt… nice, which was awkward since this was hardly the time to have lustful thoughts. It had been a long time since he held a woman in his arms, and this Cait Campbell was soft and curvy in all the right places. With a quick jerk he removed her linen headdress, revealing a mass of brown curls, falling in ringlets. Very nice.
McNab began to form a rather foolish plan. He was not an idiot, despite what others might say, and he readily identified the scheme as being profoundly stupid. One that would surely end poorly, probably in his own death. But, being cursed from birth, he never met a bad idea he didn’t like.
He maneuvered himself and Lady Cait past the soldiers down to the open road, keeping the blade at her throat so as to minimize protest. His messenger was still bound on the ground. He kicked him to the side and left him there. Served him right for starting all this trouble.
“Take the horses.” He gave one of his men a look, who grabbed the missive from the captain’s hand. The captain had time to look at the seal, which meant he should kill the captain. Truly he should. A wise man would. But, as many would confirm, he was not wise.
“And now I shall take my leave, my fine gentlemen. I thank thee for yer generous contribution to our less-than-worthy cause.”
“Ye’ve got what ye wanted, now release them.” The captain spoke in a voice of a man trying to stay calm. The man was worried and scared. McNab must be holding something of value. Something Campbell would pay dearly to retrieve.
McNab continued to back up and waited for his men to mount until the only two still standing were himself and the man holding the maid. Two of his men held the heads of horses ready for a quick departure, so important in any robbery. This was the difficult part, the part that you had to do just right or you ended up dead.
“I’ll be taking them for ransom. Good day to ye!”
Both women screamed in protest as he sheathed his sword, threw Cait Campbell over his saddle, and jumped up behind her. He dug in his spurs to encourage a hasty retreat. Behind him he could hear the roar of protest from the guards who rushed him. He raced down the road, knowing he would have to ride far and fast to evade the guards behind him. Even on foot he would not risk underestimating the Campbell guards. Only a fool would do that.
Except that he had just abducted Campbell’s sister, so indeed, he was that fool.
McNab rode hard for an hour, the rump of Cait Campbell a lovely place to rest his hand. He had to hold the poor lass on the horse after all. Had he been a chivalrous man, he could not have enjoyed it as much as he did, but no one had ever accused him of gallantry. At the point her screams turned into low moans of pain he decided it was time for a brief respite.
He called for his men to pull up by the shores of a small loch. It continued to rain and the air smelled fresh and green. McNab dismounted and pulled Lady Campbell down. She glared at him, but allowed him to assist her to a stone where she could sit. His man did the same for the other. He looked at his prizes with some satisfaction. They should earn him a nice fortune.
“Sir,” said the lady, trying to smooth back her wayward curls. “Release my maid. She can have no value to ye.”
McNab rubbed his unshaven jaw and considered the idea. He certainly would not get a single coin for a maid. But… his mind devised a plan even less likely to succeed than holding them for ransom. He liked it instantly.
“Nay, my lady, I wish ye to be comfortable, and we poor beggars have little to give ye. Keep yer maid and yer comforts. Ye’ll thank me for her later.”
“I assure ye, ’twill no’ be so,” said the lady. Her brown eyes were wide, but her voice was calm. McNab liked it. He felt relaxed with her.
“What the hell do ye think ye’re doing?” demanded a familiar voice behind him.
McNab’s stomach clenched and his shoulders hunched. He turned to face his sister.
“Have ye gone completely daft?” Morrigan McNab was mad as fire and coming for him.
“Wheesht!” McNab grabbed his sister’s arm, and forcibly moved her out of hearing of his two captives.
“Leave them where they are and let’s be gone. Bringing them to McNab Hall will only destroy us all.”
McNab regarded his sister with resignation. She was dressed in a man’s costume, Lowlander’s, as were the rest of his men. This irritable lass was McNab’s biggest failure. Instead of finding his sister an eligible match, as he should have done, Morrigan had become an outlaw. He had tried to prevent her from joining his men, goodness knows he had tried. She said she would stop when he could best her in the lists. To his eternal shame, she was still here.
It was not that he was inept in the martial arts. No, it was just that, well, not one of his men could best her either, so he was not alone in his failure. Not that a shared defeat was any better. But it was.
“Enough, woman,” McNab addressed her as female because he knew it grated on her. Not the most politic thing to say, but it was his sister. It was his job to be irritating, just as it was hers to aggravate him. They were both well versed in their occupations.
“Dinna speak to me—”
“Listen, Morrigan, have ye thought o’ what a ransom she would bring? Or, better yet, if she would consent to marry me or Andrew we could be rich off her dowry.”
Morrigan stared at him like he had just claimed to be the Queen of France. “Ye’re mad. ’Tis yer only excuse.”
“Nay, think on it, she would certainly come with a substantial dowry.”
“Have ye no’ done this once before, ye addlepated fool?”
McNab winced at the memory of the last time he kidnapped an heiress and tried to force her into marriage. MacLaren had not taken kindly to the abduction of his wife.
“That was different, she had already married MacLaren.” McNab tried unsuccessfully not to choke on his name. There was nothing in the world that scared him as much as MacLaren. “This time I’ll do it different. I’ll woo her, get her to agree to the marriage.”
Morrigan rolled her eyes. “Ye’re daft.”
“Nay, I have a plan. I’ll get her to agree to the wedding, then we’ll send a message saying I rescued her from horrible bandits and I’ll ask for her hand. She will confirm the story and Campbell, being grateful for my assistance, will grant me her hand in marriage.”
“Archie, listen to me. This will ne’er work. She’ll ne’er agree to marry ye, and even if she did, Campbell would ne’er agree to the marriage.”
“I’ll handfast wi’ her then. If she bears a child before the year is out, Campbell will have no choice.”
“Of course he’ll have a choice. He’ll put yer head on a stake.”
“Nay, no’ if I was the one who rescued her.”
“This will end badly, mark my words, Brother.”
McNab sighed. She may be right, but his whole life he had been waiting to do something big, something unexpected, something that would shatter this curse. He could not afford to be cautious. He must be bold. He must take chances. Maybe meeting Cait Campbell in the forest was fate.
Or maybe his sister was right. He was daft.
***
“I told ye this was a verra bad idea,” hissed Alys.
Cait slumped forward, not looking at Alys. “Ye can hardly blame me for being abducted.”
Alys muttered something that did not sound like an agreement.
“Up now,” called the bandit.
Cait found herself riding pinion behind a wiry man with weather-beaten skin. He smelled like he avoided water like the plague, and instead rubbed himself with dung for his morning ablutions. Cait tried hard not to fall off the backside of the horse without touching him, and would have held her breath for the entirety of the trip had her lungs not demanded an occasional gasp of air. Her only consolation was the mental image of what her brother would do to these knaves once he caught them.
After spending most of the day on a horse with her aromatic companion, the little band of robbers trotted into the gate of a tower house. The tower was square, about three stories high, and unadorned. Around her was evidence of poverty and disrepair. Even the wooden gate looked like it had been broken at some point and poorly patched back together. The people in the courtyard wore clothes that had seen better days, some no better than rags.
Even the poorest of her brother’s men dressed better than these. The people stopped their work and stared at Cait and her maid with suspicion. Cait was uncomfortably conscious of the difference in attire.
The leader of the ragtag band led them into the tower house and up a circular staircase to a solar. It was sparsely appointed and had a small peat fire smoldering in a large fireplace, giving the room an earthy, smoky smell. Perhaps these bandits were squatters in this tower whose original owner had fallen on desperate times.
Another thief entered the room after them, a thin, lanky fellow who ignored Cait and Alys and slumped into a wooden chair by the fire, putting his feet up against the fireplace stone. The thieves had long since removed their masks, revealing dirty, hard, resigned faces.
“Please, make yourself at home, my lady, I wish ye to be at ease,” said the leader. He addressed himself to Alys, her lady-in-waiting. Since Alys had been in the litter, he now believed Alys to be Cait. It was a confusing day all around.
The leader’s clothes marked him as a Lowlander, but his speech was that of a Highlander, and far beyond the class his clothes would suggest. He was a tall man with black, cropped hair. He removed his black cloak, revealing dark breeches tucked into black leather boots and a thick, woolen tunic.
“Ye’ve had an arduous journey. Here, please sit down.” He looked at his reclining friend and said, “Morrigan, get up, give yer seat to the lady.”
Morrigan glared in return and made no effort to move.
“Well, here now,” said the tall leader, dragging a bench by the fire and motioning Alys to sit. “I hope ye are feeling comfortable, my lady.”
Alys sat cautiously and looked at Cait, questioning. Cait knew she was waiting to know what to do, not sure if this thief’s mistake was in their favor or not. Cait was not sure either.
“What is all this, then?” A young man entered the room. He looked at Alys and Cait and stopped short. “’Tis true. Ye’ve abducted a lady?” The lad went pale.
“Aye, let me introduce you,” said the leader of the bandits. “Ladies, may I have the honor of presenting my brother, Andrew McNab. I am Archibald McNab, laird o’ the McNab clan. I hope you both will have a pleasant stay.”
“Archie, nay, ye must no’ do this,” said Andrew.
“Dinna worrit yerself, I’ll handle everything,” said Archie.
“That’s what he is afeared of,” snorted the man in the chair.
Cait did a double take at the lounging figure. The voice, it wasn’t right. Looking again at the face, she realized the lad was really a woman.
The woman glared at Cait. “Quit yer staring,” she snapped. “I dinna take disrespect from anyone, especially no’ servants.”
Cait gasped at her harsh language. How dare she speak to her like that? Even if she mistook her for Alys, her maid was a lady-in-waiting from a respectable family, not a servant. She opened her mouth to tell her so, but was distracted by McNab’s younger brother.
“Nay, we must give them back,” said Andrew to his older brother.
“Too late for that now, they know who we are.”
Cait’s eyes snapped back to McNab. That statement sounded ominous. He was regarding Alys, tapping his fingers together, looking eager to please… and desperate. Desperate enough to do what, she did not know.
“Ye mean to ransom us, then?” Cait asked the leader.
“Aye.”
“Well then, I suggest ye provide my lady with suitable accommodations.”
“Lady Cait will have every possible comfort.”
“Which does not appear to be much,” said Cait, rising to the role as her own handmaiden. “Lady Cait requires a chamber now so she can rest. She is not accustomed to this type of treatment and has a weak constitution, ye ken how ladies are. I’m sure her humors have been put out of alignment.” Cait sighed dramatically, embracing her performance. “I only hope it will no’ be too late.”
Andrew McNab turned from pale to green. Even Morrigan eyed her with caution. Cait felt she was on to something.
“She may have my bedchamber immediately,” said McNab.
“Nay,” said Cait, looking at each McNab with a critical eye. “Give us Andrew’s. He’s the cleanest o’ the lot o’ ye. I’ll need wine for m’lady and a pallet of fresh straw for myself.”
“Ye can take what ye get,” said Morrigan with contempt.
“Moldy straw will cause an inflammation o’ the lungs in m’lady,” said Cait, doing her best to sound imperious and succeeding dramatically. “Unless ye dinna care whether m’lady is still alive when Laird Campbell comes to claim her.”
Cait had the satisfaction of seeing her three captors look ill at ease.
***
Archie McNab leaned against the mantel in the dimly lit solar. After tearing his house apart to find suitable furnishings for his lady captive, he had finally gotten them fed and settled into Andrew’s chamber. The maid was right about one thing, it was the cleanest room in the tower.
It was late, the light from a single tallow candle cast flickering shadows into the dark room. McNab took the folded parchment from his tunic. He was finally alone with the missive that had been the start of this tumultuous day. On the parchment was the telltale red seal of two knights riding a single horse, their shields emblazoned with a single cross. Around the edge of the circular seal were the words
Sigillum
Militum
Xpisti
followed by another cross.
The
Seal
of
the
Soldiers
of
Christ.
How he had ever gotten himself into so much trouble? He could only hope the Campbell captain had not had time to note the seal and realize it was the symbol of the Templar Knights.
The man who sent him this message was ruthless without end. McNab held the parchment for a moment longer, almost afraid to open it. There must be another way to provide for his clan other than to work for this man. He closed his eyes and sat down in the chair beside the hearth. But his people… McNab sighed and broke the seal. If there was another way to feed his people, he was too dense to figure it out.
McNab opened the parchment and held it up to the light of the single candle. On it was a single command written in the bold hand of the abbot.
Kill
the
Bishop
of
Glasgow.
McNab jerked forward in his chair and held the missive closer to the candle. The parchment glowed orange in the flickering light, but the message remained the same.
“Hell and damnation,” McNab muttered, his pulse rising. He leaned back in his chair and put his hand over his eyes.
“What are our orders now?” asked Morrigan, entering the room.
McNab bolted forward and held the corner of the parchment to the candle. The missive burst into flame and disappeared into ash.
“There be no orders,” said McNab, speaking too quickly. “He says he’s pleased wi’ our work, ’tis all.”
“Dinna speak me false, Brother. ’Tis insulting beyond words.”
“How do our guests?” McNab changed the subject. He had done little to protect his sister, but he knew she would be safer if she did not know from whom their orders came.