DARE THE WILD WIND

DARE THE WILD WIND

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Kaye Wilson Klem

Copyright
2011 Kaye Wilson Klem

All Rights Reserved

Scotland, 1746

Chapter 1

Brenna had to slip her brother's net.  If Malcolm could be called a brother at all.  Traitor would be a better word.  Betrayer of all Gordon Dalmoral had fought for and believed in, and her ja
iler since their father's death. 

In the shadow of the castle's wall, hard by the postern gate, she stroked Gypsy's neck to soothe the mare.  Brenna's heart thudded at the ring of booted feet on the stone walk of the parapet above them.  If the sentry looked directly down, he would see them, though she had reined Gypsy close against the towering wall.

Braced for a hue and cry, she let out her breath as the steps moved on.  Forcing herself to wait until the sound of the guard's footsteps faded, Brenna kneed the mare to a quiet walk across the narrow bridge that spanned the moat.  Then, as soon as she reached a spot where the crag the castle stood on briefly cut off sight of anything below, she urged the mare into a gallop, and then a run across the moor.

A
raw wind off the loch clawed at her bright hair as she raced over the ravine carved barrens for the cover of the wood beyond.  Pulling Gypsy in at the first line of trees, she plunged into the  forest, bare branches of alder and oak slapping at her arms and face, leaning low on her horse's neck to dodge their stinging blows.

Th
e trail ahead offered only slippery, rocky footing for the mare.  Still scattered with patches of melting snow, it was half choked with thickets and too steep and narrow to permit any horse but her surefooted Gypsy to pass at a pace faster than a walk. 

But she had to make haste. 
Cam's cousin and their closest childhood friend, Iain MacCavan, waited for her in the glen overlooking the Inverness road.

The message
Cam had sent urged Brenna to meet Iain at the ruined abbey on the highroad.  Iain would wait as long as he could risk, but he had ridden from the camp of Bonnie Prince Charlie, and English soldiers were abroad in the countryside. 

The track she traveled would take her to the abbey faster than the highroad along the turbulent, swift
running river that cut between the mountains.  And she could too easily encounter one of Malcolm's men if she chanced the road. 

The trail climbed swiftly.  When Gypsy mounted the towering ridge that overlooked the moor, Brenna stopped for a precious second to let the mare blow.  With slender fingers, she brushed her tangled cascade of auburn hair back from her slanting smoke
blue eyes, catching her own breath.

Then, relying on Gypsy's heart and stamina, she urged her horse forward again, and they began their descent toward the mountain glen.  The leafless hardwood forest had given way to thick stands of
Highland fir before they reached the crest, and the spreading arms of the trees blocked the watery April sun.  Above Brenna, they gave off a pungent, spiced perfume in the chill shade they cast over the stony track. 

When she reached the clearing where the remains of the abbey stood, Brenna could catch no glimpse of Iain.  The stone walls of the convent had been breached and all but pulled down in Cromwell's time, and its broken and blackened shell barely offered concealment for a man and a horse. 

Iain might well stay hidden until she rode into his line of sight.  And haste to greet him might prove dangerous if someone passing on the highroad saw her riding at a fast gait toward the abandoned abbey.  Reining Gypsy into a walk, she let the chestnut wander into the boggy meadow as if they had come there by chance, waiting for the shrill whistled signal they had used since childhood. 

But it didn't come.  Was Iain in the shelter of the trees?  Brenna twisted in her saddle, searching for some sign of him.  Surely he wouldn't desert her.  He knew how much word of
Cam meant to her. 

If he was only tormenting her with his teasing tricks, she would box his ears roundly when she caught him.  If she could.  A reluctant smile pulled at Brenna's softly curving mouth.  Iain had grown tall and agile, no easy task to punish, even in play.     

Where was he?  Had she arrived too late?  Guiding Gypsy with her knees, she let the mare crop at shoots of wet new grass as they drifted toward the old gate of the abbey.  Brenna could hear nothing but birdsong above the roil of the swift tumbling stream next to the road below the abbey.  She wished Iain had picked their old private lair, despite its greater distance from the castle. 

Then, stiffening, she heard horses and the jingle of bridles.  By the sound, a large party advanced at a brisk pace on the road on
the other side of the abbey.  

Other than a clansman dispatched to a nearby village by Malcolm, Brenna had expected to meet no more than a lone stroll
ing harper or a poor crofter, barefoot despite the cold, herding a few sheep still swaddled in a rough winter's coat of wool.  Her first instinct was to melt quickly with Gypsy back into the trees.  But she was almost midway from the screening shelter of the firs and the abbey.  And the approaching horsemen were too close.

Brenna blessed one small stroke of luck.  The party of horsemen didn't approach from the direction of
Lochmarnoch Castle.  They couldn't be Malcolm's men. 

In her simple gown and the tartan belted to her slim waist, she could be mistaken for the daughter of a steward or tacksman, young enough to dally on some errand for her mother or the mistress of the keep.  Brenna would just have to brazen it out if the horsemen called out to her when they passed. 

But the mounted travelers who rounded the bend were heavily armed, and no common band.  A column of English dragoons rode toward her, the first halting at the sight of her. 

The sergeant major at their head lifted a hand to the soldiers who followed.  They pulled up to rein out of their closely
ordered ranks, but none of them stretched or felt in their pockets for tobacco or a pipe.  Brenna could feel every eye fixed on her. 

The sergeant major spurred his horse a little nearer.  His gaze crawled over her, lingering on the high swell of her breasts.

"A morsel, I'll be bound, even if she is a Scot."  There was a rumble of ribald laughter from his men.  "What good fortune brings you our way?"

He swung down from his horse to start toward her. 

"I ride on an errand for my mistress, Lady Dalmoral."

"And cannot tarry awhile?"  He smiled, showing rotten and missing teeth.  "So fair a
maid is wasted in such service. 

Brenna could wheel Gypsy and put her heels to her sides, but his troop would soon be after her.  He strode on across the boggy ground, confident she would despair of taking flight. 

"Not in the service of a baron loyal to the King," she called out tartly.  "Lord Dalmoral receives an emissary from the Duke of Cumberland on the morrow."

He moved steadily closer, and Brenna knew his aim was to catch hold of the bridle of her horse.  She felt for the dirk sheathed at her waist.  Could she shed even this man's blood?  If he tried to drag her from her horse, her only other choice would be t
o turn and run, with Gypsy half winded from their climb. 

"Are you as loyal as your master to the Crown?" he asked with the grin of a cat for its prey.  "Do you show your allegiance to both the King and his men?"

Would he back away if she revealed her rank?  Malcolm had forbidden her to leave the castle walls, and Brenna was loath to reveal who she was, certain word she had defied him would quickly get back to him.  Would any of them believe her after her claim to be a servant, dressed as she was, and riding without an escort?

Now the sergeant major was only a few paces away.  Her fingers curled around the hilt of her dagger, and she pulled Gypsy a little away from his advancing figure. 

"My allegiance is only to the King," she said in truth.  "And to my lady, who waits on my return at Lochmarnoch Castle."

He laughed at the chill in her voice.  "The
Highlands breed haughty pieces.  Your lady will have to wait on the pleasure of His Majesty's dragoons."

He lunged toward her horse's head, and at Brenna's touch, Gypsy reared, snatching the reins out of his reach. 

He cursed.  "Will you trample me?"   He made for her again.

Brenna drew her dirk.  "Come closer, and I'll cut you down."

He laughed again, undaunted by her threat.  Then a voice cracked across the meadow.

"Leave off."  The words had the ring of command, and Brenna's attacker hesitated and then froze.   A tall wide
shouldered horseman in a redingote cantered toward them, three other richly dressed men in his wake.  Curtly, he waved them back, and they pulled in their mounts halfway across the meadow.  He didn't speak again until he was within a rod of Brenna. 

"You forget yourself, Sergeant Major."  The words were low, but clipped and cutting as steel. 

The sergeant didn't mask his resentment.  "She's naught but a country wench, your lordship.  Fit for a roll in the grass."

Grateful, Brenna turned her gaze to the man who intervened.  But her relief quickly died.

"Tempting enough to warrant the thought," he said, hazel eyes flickering as he took in the lush lines of her body.  "But a bog makes a poor bed."

Brenna's glare defied him, and he glanced at the weapon she gripped in her hand.

"A dagger is small protection against an English regular," he told her in a dry tone.  "I advise you to sheath your toy."

"When your man steps away," she shot back.

"You're scarcely in a position to parley."

Brenna recoiled inside.  He could easily decide to take his pleasure with her in the sergeant's stead.  And now, with two men in close reach of her, she stood almost no chance to escape. 

She had no faith conscience would weigh strong enough to stop him.  A titled Englishman would see little wrong in making sport of any Scottish girl who caught his fancy.     

Though his coat and breeches were spattered with mud, they were of the finest cloth, and he wore a massive ruby signet ring on one ungloved hand.  Yet there was nothing of the fop or dandy about him.  He wore no wig or powder in his hair.  It was the color of wheat, paler than skin much exposed to the sun, and tied back from a strongly
modeled face.  Deep set eyes and prominent cheekbones counterbalanced a hawkish nose set above a full lipped, sensual mouth, and his height made him even more imposing. 

On horseback, he towered above the other men in his party.  Brenna judged him to be half a head taller than the rot
toothed sergeant, topping even the stature of most of the Scots in her clan.  And he was well enough made, with broad powerful shoulders and a lean muscular body.  But he was arrogant and English to the bone, and speaking to him in a tone of reason grated on her pride.

"Sir, I see you're a gentleman, and I appeal to your chivalry.  I ride to Lochmarnoch, and no Scot in the
Highlands would hinder me."

He responded with a short laugh.  "Then your countrymen have manners they don't display south of
Solway Firth," he said bluntly.  "And you ride a fine horse for a simple country wench."

"From Lochmarnoch's stables, I'll hazard," the sergeant major broke in.  "Likely traded for her favors in Dalmoral's bed." 

Brenna had forgotten him for the moment, and he captured her wrist with a rough hand.        "Say the word, my lord, and I'll pull her down and strip her for your pleasure."

In panic and fury, Brenna twisted to break free.  Then the explosion of a musket split the air.  The sergeant staggered away from Brenna, his fingers convulsively releasing their grip.  A gout of blood bubbled from his shoulder, and he dropped to his knees in the swampy grass.  Iain MacCavan's voice rang from the trees.

"Stand away, Englishman, or the next shot will be for you."

The man beside Brenna didn't flinch.  Quickly, fearing he would use her as a shield, she dodged aside on her horse.

"Do you think one Scot can hold back a troop of dragoons?" the tall Englishman challenged in a cold voice.

"Will you gamble only one musket is aimed at your heart?"

The Englishman's friends and the first of the dragoons had started toward them.  Now they halted, fearing certain blame if hasty action brought a man of rank to harm.  Even Brenna couldn't pick Iain out among the trees, though she alone knew no more muskets or men lay hidden with him.

Iain's voice sliced across the meadow again. 

"Ride, Brenna.  The way you came."

Brenna needed no urging.  She wheeled Gypsy, kicking her into a dead run back across the meadow, racing to reach the trees before any of the dragoons lifted a flintlock to drop her from her horse.

Cha
pter 2

Lashed by the slicing branches of the firs, Brenna galloped recklessly back up the thicket grown trail.  Behind her she could hear the pounding hooves of a pursuing horse, close on Gypsy's heels.