Highlander Betrayed (Guardians of the Targe) (4 page)

When the kiss grew more heated, Rowan was pretty sure they had forgotten she was there. She rubbed her forehead, the pain of the headache spreading from the pounding there to a growing pressure behind her eyes.

“Be a man, Conall. Go.”

He broke the kiss, and stepped back from Scotia. Scotia held his hand until their arms were stretched between them.

“Scotia, I have to go.”

There seemed to be genuine distress in his voice and on his face, and for a moment Rowan thought she might have misjudged the pair’s relationship.

“We do not want Rowan telling your da I was here.” He looked a little green, as if the thought of facing the chief was more than he could handle.

“No, you do not,” she said, assured by his color that the tryst had been Scotia’s idea. It was hard to say no to Scotia when she set her mind to something.

Scotia shook her head and let go of his hand and they watched Conall turn and run down the path toward the loch until he disappeared around a bend where the bushes grew high.

“I hate you.” Scotia’s voice cracked through the air at Rowan as effectively as her slap had.

“That’s too bad since I just saved Conall’s life.” She crossed her arms and waited for the usual capitulation from her cousin, swallowing down the bile that rose with each pound in her head. As soon as she got Scotia to her mother, Rowan promised herself, she’d lie down in the dark bedchamber she shared with her cousins for a little while.

Scotia didn’t turn around. She balled her fists and everything about her seemed taut, about to snap, like a bow pulled back too far. She whirled about, fury in her eyes.

“Why cannot everyone leave me alone?” She stomped her foot and the ache in Rowan’s head ratcheted up another notch. “I know what I’m doing.” The ground seemed to tremble with her words and all the birds in the bushes around them took flight. She grabbed Rowan by her upper arms, squeezing hard enough to leave bruises in her wake. “Why?!”

Every hair on Rowan’s body rose with that tremble and an odd pressure pulsed under her skin. A tremendous
crack
slashed through the air, followed by an ominous rumbling, as if the mountain were speaking to them.

“What is it?!” Scotia gripped her arms even harder, as an unnatural wind pushed down the hillside and over them.

Terror gripped Rowan. As she looked up the hill toward the rumble, a horrible memory she’d buried long ago hurtled at her. “Nay,” she whispered. “Not again.”

Everything went silent in Rowan’s head as the pain reached a crescendo. She wrenched her arms free from her cousin’s grip and squeezed her hands to her scalp, her head feeling as if it was going to split asunder.

Another loud crack, as if the very ground beneath their feet was breaking wide open, though it barely trembled. Rowan looked up just in time to see the curtain wall above them burst, like heavy storm water through a dam, sending blocks of stone and rubble down the steep embankment.

“Run!” a deep male voice shouted at the same moment.

Rowan whipped around in the direction of the voice but didn’t see anyone.

“Run, now!” Suddenly a stranger burst onto the path not far up the hill and hurtled down toward them.

Scotia screamed, “Which way?” but didn’t move.

Rowan grabbed her skirts with one hand and Scotia’s arm with the other and pelted up the path toward the stranger. The path angled back toward the curtain wall but it was the shortest way to safety.

Rowan did not want to think about what would happen to them if they were caught in the avalanche of falling stone.

Scotia shrieked and ripped her arm from Rowan’s grip as they drew even with the stranger. Scotia raced past him, leaving Rowan behind as the first pebbles bounced across the path. Rowan glanced up toward the castle as she and the stranger followed Scotia. She could see nothing but a looming wall of grey dust, the sharp scent of it crowding her already straining lungs. The ground shuddered again.

Rocks the size of her fist bounced all around her, clattering against one another with a sound like heavy rain. One of them hit Rowan hard in the shin. She stumbled, nearly losing her footing, but the man running ahead of her seemed to have eyes in the back of his head. He reached back, caught her arm and pulled her upright and forward.

Massive blocks of stone tumbled past them, end over end, some launching high into the air, then falling with deadly thuds all around them. A river of gravel raced down the hillside, adding its din to the tumult while making the path treacherous and slippery. Scotia had disappeared ahead of them and Rowan could only hope she’d already made it to safety.

A sudden sharp catch in Rowan’s side made it even harder to breathe but the man kept a grip on her hand and she had no choice but to keep running.

The dust cloud enveloped them, adding even more difficulty to the uphill run, making breathing more labored, and seeing almost impossible. After a lifetime of coughing and gagging on the dust, the two of them burst out into blinding sunshine where the path finally cleared the corner of the castle. Scotia stood there, bent over at the waist, her hands braced on her thighs, gasping for breath. Rowan fell to the ground, as did the stranger, their sides heaving as the last of the wall gave way, its stones thundering down the hill with a deafening roar, covering the path behind them, destroying everything in the way.

Darkness tried to close in around her but she would not give in to such a weakness. She lay back upon the ground and tried to slow her gasping breath, tried to steady her heart, tried to clear the dust from her face. As her vision cleared she gradually became aware of faraway shouts probably inside the castle.

Stunned, Rowan sat up gingerly, the pain in her side growing stronger. She winced and looked about. The wall… huge stones… destruction. Impossible. And yet, as the breeze began to clear the dust, she could see it was true.

She couldn’t catch her breath. Her heart pounded in her chest, harder now than when they had sprinted to safety. Terror and relief warred with a vague sense of remorse, though she knew not why she should feel that. She closed her eyes, blocking out the sight of the ruin, but not the sound of shouting, of stones still shifting, sliding down the slope, not the sharp scent of stone dust mixed with the fresh scent of torn and bruised plants, not the pain in her side that
pulsed with her heartbeat, or the barely noticeable echo of her headache keeping pace with it.

She forced herself to open her eyes. The ruined remains of the wall sat at the top of the slope and a river of rocky destruction flowed downward, leaving a harsh scar on the hillside right to the edge of the loch and beyond.

The curtain wall was down, leaving the castle, and the clan, vulnerable. Leaving them exposed.

CHAPTER TWO

N
ICHOLAS TOOK LONG
pulls of fresh air into his lungs as he counted himself a fool. What had he been thinking to run toward the women? Self-preservation was rule number one in his line of work because with a certainty no one else would put themselves in harm’s way to save his hide. Not even Archie. Nicholas had glanced at their hidey-hole when he ran by and Archie wasn’t there. He was nowhere to be seen.

Nicholas ran a hand over his face, knocking away enough dust to create another small cloud around him. He sneezed, then looked about him from his place on the ground. Clearly Archie had not been as stupid as Nicholas. His partner had done the smart thing, running away from the danger, looking to his own safety first. After all, you couldn’t finish an assignment if you were dead or maimed, but where was Archie now?

A cough gripped Nicholas, clearing more of the dust from his burning lungs. When the wracking cough subsided he took the opportunity to take stock of his situation: He was unharmed, Archie was likely fine, and he’d helped a pair of the clan’s lassies to safety. Perhaps his impulsive act would smooth their way into the castle? It was an angle he was not above exploiting. He buried the grin that wanted out and made sure his face held nothing but concern before he pushed himself up to sitting.

The lass with creamy skin and hair that had glinted copper in the sunshine, before the dust had covered its wildly curling glory, sat a few feet away facing him. She had big eyes of the palest green he had ever seen, trimmed by cinnamon lashes. When she had passed him going down the hill, she had moved with grace. Her voice had been low and angry, yet it had slid over him like fine silk.

She coughed and groaned.

“Rowan?” The black-haired wench’s voice was high and tight. “You are bleeding!”

Rowan slowly looked down at her leg, where Nicholas could see a bruise already spreading purple and red across the shin and wrapping around her lower leg, but he could see no blood, only a finely shaped calf.

“Where, Scotia?” she asked, her voice oddly devoid of emotion as she glanced at their companion. She touched her face but there was no blood there, either.

Scotia moved to Rowan’s side. Nicholas stood and angled closer to the women.

“Do not move.” Scotia’s voice was still high and tight, but there was a command in it that had Nicholas reassessing his first impression of the girl. She had acted like a spoiled wean when Rowan had confronted her and the lad, but there appeared to be more to her.

Rowan froze, but there was still no emotion. Scotia lifted Rowan’s left arm gently, revealing a thin shard of stone stuck in Rowan’s side. Rowan’s eyes went wide. What little color had remained in her face faded to grey and her breath grew even shallower than it had been. She reached for the shard as if to pull it free.

“Nay!” Scotia grabbed her arm to stop her. “You ken what Jeanette always says. Do not pull something out until she is there to tend it if it bleeds too much.”

“Of course,” Rowan said, her voice steady but her hand dropping to her lap. “I remember.”

Nicholas crouched beside the injured lass, concerned more by her calm and glassy gaze than anything else. “Who is Jeanette?”

“My sister,” Scotia said at the same time Rowan said, “My cousin.”

“And she is a healer?” He looked first to Rowan for confirmation, then at Scotia.

“Aye,” Scotia answered. “The best for many miles around.”

“Tell me where to find her and I shall fetch her.” Nicholas made note of the women’s relationships. He did not yet know who they were beyond their names, but that did not mean they couldn’t be
useful in his task here. After all, the best information he and Archie had been able to glean was that the MacAlpins of Dunlairig, the clan that resided in this castle, were the keepers of the Highland Targe. And even though his story was good enough to gain entrance to the castle, anyone who could aid him in his endeavor was useful. Helping an injured member of that clan seemed likely to not only gain him entrance, but would make him welcome, too. That she happened to be very pretty—bonny, he corrected himself—was a boon. He smiled at Rowan.

Before she could give him directions, Scotia took charge. “You stay with Rowan,” she said. “I’ll send the guards out, then fetch Jeanette. It will be better if I break the news to her than if some stranger does.”

Pride filtered across Rowan’s face and Nicholas felt something ease in his chest as emotion began to animate the lass’s face again. But the pride was chased away quickly by a grimace of pain. Nicholas fought the peculiar urge to comfort her, even though he knew her not at all.

“ ’Tis a good plan,” Rowan said to Scotia, her voice tense but calm and the glassiness in her eyes all but gone. “Denis is in the guardhouse. He will know who to send out. Tell Jeanette ’tis nothing bad but to bring her basket with her. Kiss your mum while you are there and reassure her that I am well.”

Scotia nodded solemnly and took off at only a slightly slower run than her dash up the path.

“Her mother is your aunt, aye?” he asked, lifting her hand and cradling it between his own. He had learned early in his life that such a gesture often encouraged trust in a woman, and a trusting woman was a valuable source of information. But he was not prepared for the surge of awareness that rushed through him, sending his heartbeat skittering the moment he touched her icy hand.

“Aye, and my foster mother, Lady Elspet,” she said, watching him slowly chafe warmth into her hand. After a moment she pulled her hand from his.

He didn’t reach for her hand again but did not back away either. “Lady” was usually reserved for the wife of the chieftain in the clans.
It seemed his luck was with him. Rowan and Scotia were kin to the chief. “Is there aught I can do to make you more comfortable until Jeanette gets here?”

She looked down the hill. “Will you help me stand?”

“I would not do that were I you,” he said.

“But I must.” She made to stand but a sharp intake of breath told him how much it hurt her.

“Why, lass?” he asked, helping to ease her back down to the ground.

Rowan looked down the path at the rubble-strewn hillside again. “I need to check beyond where you saw us. Make sure no one was caught in the rubble.”

“Was there someone with you?” He knew there was. He also knew the lad had been out of sight before the wall fell so he was likely well clear of the damage.

She caught her lower lip between her teeth and looked him square in the face, catching his gaze with her pale eyes. His breath caught at the intensity of her scrutiny, as if she could see into him and judge his worth.

“Who are you?” She pushed a stray tendril of coppery-brown hair out of her face, but did not break her gaze.

“Nicholas”—he pronounced it as his mother had,
Neecolas
—“of Achnamara.” The tendril flew back across her cheek and he could not stop himself from reaching out and smoothing it behind the shell of her ear. A shiver ran up his spine as he touched her and he thought she felt one, too.

She took a deep breath, gasping again as she did so, breaking the moment. “There’s a lad I’m worried about. If he was caught in the wreckage, Scotia will be in more than one kind of trouble.”

“Ah, a tryst you interrupted?” The idea of a tryst with this woman slammed into him so hard he sat back, landing hard on the ground. The image of her long, creamy limbs tangled with his sent his heart hammering, and desire to parts that should remain neutral at the moment.