Highland Scoundrel (Highland Brides) (12 page)

"A babe, mayhap," Sara said. "But our king nonetheless."

"Aye," Shona sighed. "But it should not be so. His shoulders are not broad enough for the burden placed upon them. Have ye heard of the attempts on his life?"

"I hoped they were but rumors."

"They are far more than rumors," Shona said, her voice low. "I was there during the first attempt. The poison that killed his guard was meant for him. Since then there have been two other attempts, and there will be more, of that I am certain. In fact—" A whisper of a noise disturbed her concentration. "What was that?"

"What?" Rachel asked.

"That noise."

"I heard nothing," Sara said, but Shona gripped Dragonheart and stared silently at the door. It stood open, and though no sound now disturbed her peace, the noise had come from just outside the solar.

Quiet as nightfall, she slipped across the room and out into the hall.

Something moved in the darkness, something no more defined than a shadow. But she could feel its life. Heart pounding, Shona flew down the passageway, but already the shadow was gone, had disappeared into nothing.

She returned more slowly and closed the door behind her.

"What was amiss?" Rachel asked.

"There was someone listening to our conversation," Shona said.

"To us? Why?"

Shona stared at the door, still listening, still alert. Why indeed?

Morning came quickly. Surprisingly, breakfast passed without mishap, and finally the assemblage roamed from the hall and outside to a broad open field where the first of the Highland games would take place.

Shona spread a woolen on the ground and watched as Sara urged her children onto it. Thomas, the foster son of a distant duke, waddled quickly onto the plaid and plopped down. But Margaret delayed. Even now, after being in Sara's care for some years, she rarely talked. Perhaps her past experiences with people made her more comfortable with her animals—her silver gray hound, her weasel, which was forever close at hand, and any of a dozen other creatures that she nurtured in the folds of her gown.

"Come hither, Maggie mine," Sara said.

The small girl approached finally, her dark eyes wide. "Did ye need something, Mum?" she asked in her quiet voice.

"Aye. I missed...Dog," Sara said, smiling into Margaret's eyes.

The girl's expression couldn't quite be described as a smile. It was something more subtle. "He misses ye, too," she murmured, and sat down close by her mother's side.

"Will Boden be running in the footraces?" Rachel asked as she sat down beside Shona.

"I dunna think so," Sara said.

"Whyever not?"

"It seems he believes the competition might be quite fierce."

"Tis only a footrace," Shona said.

"Aye, but there is talk that the winner will share a trencher with ye this eventide."

"I've heard nothing about this."

Rachel laughed. “Do ye think the prize gets a choice of whom it is rewarded to?"

"And what of ye?" Sara asked, irritated despite herself. A lass liked to be sought after, but if the truth be known, this was becoming somewhat tiresome. "Why are ye not on the marriage block? Ye are, after all, older than I."

"Me?" Rachel motioned to herself. "The truth is, Cousin, I give Father no reason to want to be rid of me."

"Da is not trying to—"

"Shh," Rachel said, watching as Roderic and Flanna, resplendent in their ceremonial garb, stepped forward to address the assemblage. "I think your parents are about to give ye away to the highest bidder."

"Really, Rachel, ye are too cruel," Sara said, but in a moment she laughed.

"I dunna know why I missed either of ye," Shona mumbled.

"My Lady Flanna and I welcome ye all to Dun Ard," Roderic began, shushing the crowd with his raised voice. "In these days of unrest, tis good to know our friends and kinsmen can band together in times of merriment as well as in times of need. But today let us not dwell on the troubles of our Scotland. Today is for pleasures of every sort, for feasting, and—"

"Get on with the races," someone shouted, sloshing ale over the brim of his mug, "so we can get back to the drinking."

Roderic laughed. "Spoken like a true MacGregor," he quipped. Folks chuckled. "But I canna argue. Let us begin the races without delay. It has been decided that there will be nine different courses."

He went on to explain the distance and path of each. The prospective runners paced, some shaking their legs and setting their plaids to waggling as they warmed up.

"What prize for the winner?" someone yelled. The voice sounded quite gleeful and suspiciously like Sara's husband, Shona thought.

"I say the winner shares a meal with the fair Shona," Hadwin suggested, his voice loud. He was a muscular fellow and quite cocky, despite his short stature.

"Very well, then." Roderic said. "The winner shall share a trencher with the maid of his choice, unless there are objections."

A refusal would surely be unseemly, Shona thought, and remained mute with the rest of the crowd.

"Tis agreed, then, Hadwin," her father said. "If ye win the most heats, ye may share a trencher with my daughter." He paused. A spark of mischief gleamed in his eyes. "And if ye survive the evening, ye will be allowed to compete in the games tomorrow."

There was general laughter.

Roderic joined her a moment later, still grinning as he and Flanna settled on the blanket behind her.

Shona turned to scowl at him.

"Ye would not wish me to send a braw young man into battle without warning him of the consequences, would ye?" he asked.

"I have not killed a single one yet," she muttered.

Roderic threw back his head and laughed.

"Mayhap that dubious good news would warn them better," said Flanna. "But tell me, Husband, why is the Rogue not competing? Long ago I heard a rumor that he could outrun a horse for a hundred paces."

Roderic leaned close to his wife's ear. "Since my marriage I save my energies for more important duties."

"Hush," she said, glancing toward Shona, then, “Whom do ye favor amongst our bonny visitors?''

Shona scanned the gathering of runners. William glanced her way and nodded gallantly. She smiled in return then hurried her gaze away. Hadwin of Nairn was strutting around in circles and Stanford was standing, hands on his hips, glaring at the shorter fellow. A couple dozen other men did the same sorts of things, but amongst the lot, Dugald Kinnaird could not be seen.

The realization that she was looking for him irked her to no end.

"Surely there must be one of our guests who interests ye," Flanna said.

"Can Kelvin be considered a guest?" Shona asked, finding the lad amongst a group of boys.

A drum roll sounded loud and clear in the morning air. The crowd hushed again. Bullock, a broad man and one of Flanna's most faithful warriors, stepped forward with a banner in one hand.

"Line up, lads," he ordered.

The men did so, jostling each other as they found their places.

"At the ready..." Bullock called, then, lowering the banner with a sharp sweep of his hand, he yelled, "Run!"

The pack lunged away as a unit. Plaids swirled, bagpipes skirled, tassels twirled. People shouted for their favorites, their sons, their fathers. Twas a fairly short distance, no more than thirty rods, but the group broke up early. The sprinters burst ahead, their legs galloping, their arms pumping.

And suddenly, as quickly as it had begun, the race was ended as Hadwin burst across the finish line.

Grinning, he raised his fists high in gleeful triumph. The others scowled and paced and puffed.

"Well done! Well done, lads!" folks shouted. Ale and other intoxicating refreshments were poured and guzzled with parched relish.

A trio of musicians took the field and entertained them with a gusto that revved the crowd to further enthusiasm.

But soon the next heat was about to begin. Again the runners lined up, eyeing the finish line marked with stones, setting their heels, some bare, some booted, firmly into the dirt. The distance was farther this time, nearly a quarter of a mile and most of it uphill.

The drums rolled. The competitors grew still, their faces taut, their bodies tense.

"Run!" Bullock shouted. Again the runners launched themselves across the green, scrambling for distance. Hadwin pistoned ahead early on, but the course was longer and steep, making his bulk a detriment. Stanford and a handful of others galloped up, running level. In desperation, Hadwin glanced sideways and pressed himself to greater effort. The two fervent rivals ran side by side.

Turning his head to glare at his competitor, Hadwin veered slightly, pushing Stanford into a patch of mud.

Stanford slipped, nearly falling to his knees, but Hadwin, too, had ventured too close to the mire, and though he did not fall, he was left behind as the others galloped toward the finish line.

The winner's triumph was somewhat lost in the boisterous moment as Stanford screeched accusations at Hadwin. The smaller man puffed out his chest and declared his innocence.

Seeing trouble afoot, Flanna motioned to a number of her men and Roderic rushed forward to keep the peace.

In a matter of moments, the quarrelsome fellows were dragged apart, and the music began anew, accelerating in tempo and growing in volume in an attempt to hush the noise of the combative competitors.

Drawing a deep breath, Shona all but rolled her eyes to the heavens.

"How exciting," Rachel said. Shona refrained from giving her an elbow in the ribs as Magnus, the ancient toy maker, was hustled into view.

He was old beyond even an estimate of age. His face was shadowed by a battered broad-brimmed hat, and his bent body covered by a nondescript tunic, doublet, and trews. Although his left arm seemed paralyzed, marionettes came to life in his hands, and soon he had the crowd entranced.

Finally, when the competitors had been given time to cool off, another heat was run. Though Shona's most ardent suitors strove valiantly, the race was won by a young man named Marcus, newly married and beaming in humble pride as he accepted the congratulations of the crowd.

The nooning meal followed, but soon the crowd wandered back out to the green for more games. The next race was won by Fiona's son Graham; the second, by a jubilant Stanford.

Refreshments followed again. Shona and her cousins watched as ale was swilled and voices rose. The day was wearing on, and most of the revelers had spent it drinking.

Finally it was time for the determining race to begin. Again the competitors lined up. The banner was dropped, the runners bolted. The distance was approximately four furlongs set in a rough circle that ended where it had begun.

Women cheered, men shouted. The runners raced on, tightly gathered, led by Hadwin and Stanford and a half dozen others. But Stanford seemed to be pulling ahead. Red faced and desperate, Hadwin put on a burst of speed as they rounded the final bend, but suddenly he faltered and bumped into Stanford. They wobbled unevenly. For a breathless heartbeat it seemed as if they would find their footing. The crowd rose to its feet, straining to see, and suddenly the pair went down in tangle of plaid and flailing limbs. Behind them the rest fell like sheaves beneath a scythe, tripping and careening in a pile of cursing, groaning chaos.

Onlookers roared in dismay or laughter, officials shouted, and Stanford, apparently beyond control, threw himself at Hadwin.

Before anyone could stop them, they were tearing at each other like game cocks while the rest of the fallen field rose to the spirit and began throwing punches at whoever might be in the way.

Mud flew, women shrieked, babies cried, and from the sidelines, Shona stared in open-mouthed horror.

"However do you manage it, Damsel Shona?" someone asked.

The voice was almost lost in the ribald chaos, but even without turning, Shona knew it was Dugald Kinnaird's.

The games had turned into a battle, with fists flying and mud splattering. Shona watched it in open-mouthed fascination. "Tis not my fault," she murmured.

"Of course not," Dugald agreed. "In fact, I am quite impressed. You made it nearly to the end of the day without causing a fight."

"Tis not my fault," she repeated, her temper rising as she turned to glare at him, but when she did, his mocking blue gaze struck her with lethal force. His crooked smile stole her breath and his nearness seemed somehow overwhelming.

Beside her, Rachel and Sara were suspiciously silent as they looked on, but somehow it seemed beyond Shona's ability to turn away from her tormentor.

"Might ye introduce me to your friend?" Rachel asked.

“Friend?'' Shona questioned.

Rachel laughed as she turned to Dugald. "Ye must be the one they call the Dragon."

His attention turned away to rest on Rachel's petite features. "Tis a title I have oft regretted, I assure you," he said, his posture perfect, his costume the same, without a drop of sweat or a smudge of dirt.

Off to Shona's right, grunts and curses and wails rose skyward.

“Where did ye come by such a name?'' Rachel asked.

"I fear the story is not all that interesting," Dugald demurred.

"I have found the tale a man is most loath to tell is oft the one most worth the hearing," Rachel countered.

He grinned. His teeth were exceptionally white against his dark skin, Shona noticed, and though she tried to stop herself, she couldn't quite help but wonder why it was that when he looked at her dark-haired cousin, not a tad of his cocky condescension showed in his expression.

"If you are truly interested I would be happy to tell you the yarn while we sup."

"Tis impossible to separate Sara from her husband," Rachel said. "And it appears that Shona will be sharing a trencher with..." She glanced toward the track, searching the mob for an unscathed body. "My brother Graham, I believe, since he is one of the few still standing."

Dugald laughed. Then, offering his arm to Rachel, he led her across the drawbridge to the great hall.

Shona wasn't sure what woke her, but she lay immobile in the darkness, her heart pounding with fear. Why? Had she experienced a frightful dream? Had a noise startled her? But she remembered no dream, and just now the night seemed as silent as stone.