Blue Bells of Scotland: Book One of the Blue Bells Trilogy (48 page)

"He'll kill children?"

Brother David spoke softly over the hum of night insects. "He'll no give them the chance to grow up and avenge their fathers' deaths."

"How does he kill children?"

"Surely you remember the massacre after Falkirk!" Allene exclaimed. "Some were stabbed with dirks or cut down by men on horseback as they fled to the forest. Some were hung beside their parents. Babes were torn from their mother's arms and thrown from the tower."

Shawn shuddered. "Sorry I asked."

"He'll kill livestock or take it for his own," Brother David continued. "Anyone who survives his slaughter will starve. He'll take back castles and give every bit of Scottish land to his nobles and those Scots who fought with him."

Something rustled in the brush. They fell silent. Shawn's insides tightened, wondering if Edward's men had found them. Allene became still. Soft footsteps crept nearer—something large, something heavy, moving with delicate deliberation.

Branches whispered against a body. Immediately behind him, a footstep fell, brushing his back. Shawn jackknifed to his feet, spinning and wrenching the dagger from his boot. His breathing came fast, searching for the soldier in the dark. He saw none.

Then ragged, stinking breath caught his nose. He searched downward, and met yellow eyes glinting in the moonlight. Allene screamed. He heard a scramble of branches as Brother David dragged her from harm's way.

Arrrgh!

A guttural battle cry erupted in the night; Shawn stiffened for battle, before realizing it was he, himself, bellowing at the wolf. The beast growled deep in its throat. Shawn's world shifted into slow motion; his senses heightened. Moonlight glinted silver off the wolf's fur. Its haunches lowered, bunched; its lip curled, baring yellow daggers in a frothing mouth; its eyes gripped his. The haunches sprang, rocketing the wolf toward his throat.

Shawn threw himself back at the animal, snarling. His right hand shot up, digging the knife into the animal's ribs, blade scraping bone. He jerked back. The wolf breathed heat in his face; incisors the size of fingers slashed at his eyes. He stumbled under the animal's weight, falling in thick, jabbing brush; the wolf on him, lunging for his throat.

Allene screamed.

He yanked back on the knife. It came free, but his hand was pinned between himself and the wolf. His left hand caught its throat; pushed, trembling with effort, squeezing the jugular. The animal thrashed, snarled, scraped its front paws, scrabbled with its hind legs for footing. A claw tore down Shawn's thigh, ripping a bloody trail the length of it. Shawn arched, screaming, glaring into the ugly face, pushed his foot back and leveraged both their bodies into a roll.

His knife hand came free. He jabbed, yanking back swiftly. He fought to grip the wolf's throat, through slippery, sticky streams of blood. He stabbed again, over and over, quick, sharp thrusts to ribs and belly. Hot blood soaked his shirt, and flowed down his legs. The wolf clawed again, digging deep.

He snarled, furious, blood pulsing through his temples, gave a hard thrust with the knife, and heaved the wolf off with a powerful thrust of his left arm. It sprawled, still fighting, in the vegetation a foot away. Shawn bellowed a murderous cry and launched himself on the thing, stabbing and stabbing and stabbing and stabbing, till Brother David's voice broke through.

"It's dead."

"You'll ruin the pelt," said Allene.

He fell off the animal, kneeling beside it panting and furious, no longer himself. He turned to her in disgust. "It tried to kill us! You think I care about the pelt!"

Allene fell back a step, a glimmer of fear and doubt in her eyes. "Only that it will keep someone warm of a winter night."

"What! We're taking this thing with us?"

"'Tis good meat for Hugh's men," Brother David said. "And good fur. Give me the knife. I'll skin it. My lady, gather leaves to wrap the meat."

Shawn braced his hands on his thighs, gripping the knife in his bandaged hand, head down, breathing hard. The wolf twitched, death rattling in its throat.

The adrenaline subsided in Shawn. He settled back into himself. What animal had risen in him, screaming blood curdling cries like a man demented?

He studied the wolf now lying motionless before him. He prodded it with a fist. It must be a hundred and fifty pounds of murder he'd just fought off. His pulled his hand away; his arms began to tremble. Stinging pains screamed down his thigh.

Brother David took the knife from Shawn. "'Twould be better if you could help me drag it to the river to work," he suggested.

Shawn did not move. He did not speak.

"You are hurt," Allene murmured. New respect lined her voice like velvet. She dabbed at his cheek. He winced, jerking away. "Without you, he'd ha' killed us," she said. "I canna fight a wolf, nor can Brother David with his injuries."

Shawn said nothing.

Allene's hand fell on his shoulder. "You saved our lives."

He suddenly threw his head back and laughed; huge, belly-shaking, hysterical, bellowing laughs.

"Niall! Niall, stop it!" Allene yanked her hand away, then moved in again, trying to dab at the blood on his face. "You're making it bleed more. Let me tend it."

Shawn laughed again, looking at the wolf. He'd done it. He'd fought the bastard off. He'd done something good.

"Leave him be," Brother David said.

Shawn vaguely noticed him pulling Allene away. The two of them began tugging at the wolf, inching it down to the stream. He laughed and laughed till he cried, tears streaming down his cheeks until he sobbed openly, thinking of Amy and all the rotten, lousy things he'd done to her, the way he'd pushed and pushed till he got his way with her, all the times he'd lied and cheated, and the ring he'd stolen for his own selfish reasons.

...the baby she'd wanted so badly. He'd all but dragged her away to rid himself of it. He thought of the children ripped from their mothers' arms and thrown from the towers. He was no better.

His head sank to the ground, where the wolf had lain. The earth was warm from its body and wet with its blood. He pushed himself up, tore the bandage from his hand, and stared at the jagged reminder of Allene's knife.

He'd deserved so much worse.

Amy.... He remembered now. He'd been drunk, he'd told her all about his father. Heat flushed his face even now, remembering that night. She'd held his head, cleaned the vomit, wiped his forehead and cheeks time after time, and never said a word about it.

Amy had deserved so much better.

Inverness, Scotland, Present

Amy, Niall vowed, would be cared for as she deserved. Still forming his plans, he rose from his early morning prayers beside the curtained four poster bed. He found a serving woman in the hall, who went to fetch Amy. While he waited, he paced the sitting room, under blue-toned paintings and cornflower walls, past the periwinkle cushion in the window seat, and around the high gloss of the wooden table.

He needed the money from the walls, but only one of thousands of numbers would release Shawn's wealth. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, seeking a solution, but none came. And time was slipping away. The concert and battle were fast approaching. He had to at least try.

She arrived in his rooms, her cloud-white shirt and knee-length jeans complementing the paintings and wallpaper, only after he'd paced it several times, considering and dismissing multiple solutions.

"I need the card that takes money from walls," he said, abruptly. "I need to know the number."

"It's your card." She pulled it from her back pocket, and flipped it onto the table. It skidded across, its shiny colors contrasting with the wood. "How would I know?"

"Only four numbers, right?" He snatched it up, waving it in her face. Spewing his frustration on her was unjust, but he felt powerless to stop. "There are always patterns. What kind of patterns do people use?"

She backed away, eyes narrowed. "Back to your same old arrogant self? Why are you angry at me?"

Niall sighed, his body deflating. He lifted his gaze to the frescoed ceiling, hands on his hips. "I'm sorry." He met her eyes again. "I'm not angry. I'm frustrated. I need to get at hi...at my money, and I can't remember. What patterns do people use?"

"Patterns." She tested the word. His apology had mollified her. She took the card from him, studying it as though it would give her the answer. "I don't know. Sequences, four in a row. Everyone says not to use them, but some people do anyway."

"No." It didn't sound like Shawn.

"No? What, you remember now?" she demanded.

"No. He just wouldn't do that."

"He, who? You picked the number."

Niall pressed his palm against his forehead, screwing his eyes shut. He couldn't slip back into talking about Shawn as if he was someone else. "The Shawn you've spoken of seems like a different man to me. I don't think he'd do that. What other patterns do people use?"

"Dates. Years or dates that are important to them."

"Show me," he commanded. He yanked paper from the printer and thrust it, and a pencil, at her. "What dates were important?"

She took the pencil, keeping the table between them. "We already tried your birthday. Your mother's?" She jotted a number. "The year you graduated from high school? From college? No, anyone could find that in Wikipedia."

He almost asked wiki-what? But it didn't matter. "Write it down. What else?"

"The date of your audition? Shawn, I don't know. I'm completely guessing." At his commanding look, she wrote it down. "You know, you can just get a new card when we get home."

"No. I need it now."

"What's going on? What's the money for this time?"

Niall sighed. His frustration drained. "Sit down," he said. Amy perched on one of the dainty chairs, on the edge of the needlepoint seat as if waiting for her doom to be announced. He pulled a chair up, facing her, and sat knee to knee. "Amy, I talked with Rob."

Her face drained. Her gaze flashed over the bruise on his jaw and darted away. She licked dry lips. "I was going to tell you." She twisted her ring. "How does he know?"

"Rob fancies you. He sees everything."

She reached up, brushed her fingers against his bruised jaw, sending flutters along his skin, then dropped her eyes and bit her lip. "I let him think.… Well, I meant it, I wasn't leading him on. That's why he hit you, isn't it? I told him it was over between you and me, unless you finally proved you were really the man I thought you were. Now he thinks you've taken me from him. I didn't know...I would have been more careful if I'd known he felt so strongly."

"Don't blame yourself." Niall pushed himself off the table and dropped to one knee in front of her. "About the baby. I'll take care of you, Amy. I can't make promises for a week hence, but now, today, I'll do what I can. But I need your help." He wrapped his fingers in hers, wondering what the future held for them. "Don't ask questions. Just do it, while I take care of some things before the concert."

She listened as he listed off what he wanted, shaking her head. "This makes no sense," she said. "I don't understand." Her fingers lay still in his; her eyes scanned his doubtfully.

"I'll explain after the concert. Trust me until then."

"Conrad will have a fit," she said softly.

"Don't tell him. As soon as possible after the concert," Niall insisted.

She took the pencil he held out to her, hesitated briefly, then wrote the list, biting her lip as she did. He handed her Shawn's wallet, sliding his fingers around hers.

She met his eyes, rested her lips against his fingers. He leaned his forehead on hers, touched her hair and cheek. Two futures hovered before him. Only one would happen. He let his hand slide from hers, and headed for the door with a backward glance.

Central Scotland, 1314

Allene turned sharply at a stone roughly in the shape of a horse's head, and pushed from the dirt path onto a trail hidden amongst the foliage. The trees seemed a mile tall, dark and glowering overhead, shutting out all but patches of the western sun. Thick ferns rose to their waists. Berries and sprays of wildflowers splashed color over the palette of forest greens. Mosses and animal musk and the meat they carried gave a rich, humid scent to the air. Despite Allene's efforts at bandaging his leg, the deep wounds left by the wolf stung with each step. His Robin Hood tights hung in shreds under his tunic.

By unspoken agreement, they fell silent in this dim sanctuary. They heard only the rustling of branches as they passed, and occasional birdsong. Their soft leather boots fell silently on the humus rich earth.

Shawn's spirit soared: they needed him. He trekked through the forest cathedrals, past streams and over boulders, hour after hour, with energy he'd never felt. He would see them to Hugh and then, somehow get out of fighting this lost-cause battle and back to the castle. The injuries from the wolf ought to excuse him. They'd see he couldn't fight. Allene would be safe with Hugh. And he'd go to the tower and wake up in his own time, find Amy and ask her, beg her, to give him another chance.

The forest thinned. They left it behind to climb a boulder-strewn monroe, pausing at the pass in exhaustion, breathing heavily. Heavy mist clung in their hair and obscured what might have been an expansive view. They crossed another stream on the way down, and entered another forest silver-green with mist. Shawn chewed his tongue to keep from making a sound at the pain shooting down his leg.

"Are we there yet?" he whispered, once. The stillness and sense of hidden danger kept every sense alive. Allene and David glanced back dismissively, returning him to monastic silence; but even without their looks, he felt he'd violated something sacred, attempting levity in this place. He gazed up at the soaring pines. He breathed in their heady scent. Amy would like it here. He wanted to wrap her long, thick hair around his hand, draw her close and kiss her here under these trees, in this mist. He had an image, an insane image of the two of them, a boy on his shoulders, hiking these hills.

Maybe a child wouldn't have been fun.