Journey to the Highlands: Robbie and Caralyn (Clan Grant Series Book 4)
Read Journey to the Highlands: Robbie and Caralyn (Clan Grant Series Book 4) Online
Authors: Keira Montclair
JOURNEY TO THE HIGHLANDS
Keira Montclair
Table of Contents
1263, Autumn
Ayrshire, Scotland
Caralyn of the Crauford House stilled, shushing her lass of eight summers to silence with a swish of her hand. Laughter echoed across the land—not the happy sound so loved by her clan, but the ribald guffaws of invaders hell-bent on doing their worst. That sound inched up the back of her neck, raising the hairs there.
Norsemen
. Rumors of the pillaging already done by the men on those Norse galley ships had spread through the small coastal villages of Scotland like wildfire, but she had hoped they would somehow miss her small fishing village, tucked away at the edge of her clan. Caralyn peeked out through the fur coverings across her window and saw her worst nightmare—men with torches running up the paths between cottages, hollering in a foreign tongue.
Caralyn whirled to face her daughter and whispered, “Ashlyn, get your sister.”
They tore through the two room cottage for the wee lassie, her beloved wean. “Gracie? Gracie, where are you?” As they stepped into the bed chamber, her blonde haired, blue-eyed daughter waddled toward her, her arms raised in the usual manner to entice her mama to lift her up. At just over two summers, she spoke little, but understood everything.
Caralyn picked Gracie up and moved toward the back door. “Get the sack, Ashlyn.”
They had been warned the Norse could come. King Haakon of Norway, furious at the actions of the Scottish King Alexander III, had sailed up the Firth of Clyde. Rumor had said the enemies were headed to the royal burgh at Ayr, but given the number of longboats and galleys anchored off Arran, they could stop anywhere along the way. Men at war could be ruthless; that much she knew, especially after the tales she had heard about their plundering in other seaside villages. The raven banners of Haakon’s fleet had already been seen off Kintyre, where his men had ravaged the mainland.
Why had Malcolm taken her guards with him the other day? Now they were completely without protection. Caralyn had done what she could to prepare, forcing her daughters to practice hiding over and over. Simply put, the Norsemen would have to kill her first before they touched her lassies.
Ashlyn appeared around the corner, tying the small sack to her waist. “Mama, come with us?”
Caralyn put her fingers to her daughter’s lips. “Shush, love. I will follow as soon as I can. Now do as we practiced. Take your sister and run until you find the rocks, then hide. Do not come out for any reason. I will find you.”
The look of terror in her daughter’s eyes wrenched her gut. Someday, she vowed she would eliminate the fear in Ashlyn’s eyes, but today, she had no choice but to send them ahead without her. She knew what she had to do to protect her bairns. If she were to go with the girls, the Norseman would follow them. Caralyn would draw the attackers away and distract them; she knew what they wanted.
Caralyn knelt and kissed both girls. “Promise mama. Do you hear me, Ashlyn? Mama could not bear to have anything happen to her sweet lassies.” She pushed them out the back door and followed behind them. “Go.”
As soon as she stepped outdoors, her ears rang from a sharp war whoop. She turned to see a large man with a flaming torch race for her cottage. Only a few had made it this far, but her home could be brought down with a single torch. He touched the edge to the corner of the roof and the thatch roared to life, burning and smoking in a fury.
The man’s gaze caught hers and he grinned before he yelled in exultation, throwing his torch in the dirt and beating his chest as if she were a glorious prize. Aye, she knew what he wanted. She yelled, “Run, Ashlyn. Run!”
Caralyn took off in the opposite direction, hoping she’d caught his attention enough for him to leave the girls and follow her. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Ashlyn running toward the beach as they had planned. Caralyn fingered her dagger in the folds of the pocket she had sewn into her skirts. A last resort.
Lord, help me be strong, I will fight. I will fight for my girls. Please help me.
Her boots carried her down the path toward the center of the village where the fishermen kept their boats. Was anyone around to help? She glanced over her shoulder and noticed the Norseman had fallen for her plan and chased after her, his long strides bringing him closer every instant. Peeking to her right, she thanked God that her girls could no longer be seen and she prayed they were safe. Ashlyn was a strong lass, as she had been forced to be. The Lord would keep them in his hands.
A large paw grabbed her hair and wrenched her backward. She landed with a grunt and her assailant chuckled. The raw odor of filthy flesh assaulted her nostrils as she glanced up to see the smile on his dirt-encrusted face. She recognized that look. It was an expression of sheer, perverse desire; this man hadn’t been with a woman for so long that sexual need fueled his every move. He craved her body for what it was, a means to an end, with flagrant disregard for her soul and her emotions. Licking the side of her face, he palmed her breast through her wool gown. He was no different than any other man. He wouldn’t stop until he raped her.
So be it. He could do as he wished with her as long as he stayed away from her lassies. She would do anything to guarantee their safety. Rape her, beat her, she could handle anything as long as he didn’t touch her daughters.
One meaty hand clutched a death grip on her arm, and he pulled her up and turned to the side of the path as if looking for a spot to bed her. But he stilled, listening to his surroundings, glancing all around. She guessed he looked for his comrades, but none were visible.
As if having made a decision, he yanked her arm and tugged her behind him toward the coastline. She struggled to keep up as he took an alternate route through a thick group of trees. What in hell was he planning? Caralyn had been able to calm herself when she’d expected to be thrown into the bushes and forced to submit to him. She dreaded his touch, but she understood such a fate. She could handle it. Now she swallowed in an attempt to slow her pounding heart because she had no idea where they were going. The unknown frightened her and she knew not what he was about. His demeanor had transformed, subtly, but enough for her to know his goal had changed. As soon as they broke through the trees onto the vast shoreline, he yelled down the beach to his friends. Caralyn stumbled along beside him, but froze when her gaze settled on their destination, realization smacking her hard between the eyes.
A longboat. He was dragging her to his ship. He wanted to take her on his galley to service all his comrades, too. Not another female was in sight, though she saw one unmoving clump of wool not far away. A shock of hair stuck out from the pile. Who was it, someone she knew? Was she already dead?
Calm yourself, Caralyn, you can beat them, but only if you are in control
. She forced several deep breaths into her lungs, willing herself to relax.
But she couldn’t. A longboat, he was taking her to the longboat, and he would tear her away from her girls. And what would become of her once she stepped onto that ship? They would use her as they saw fit, then toss her overboard. She could swim, but not from the center of the firth.
Never. Never would he get her onto that ship. She had to think and act quickly. She thought of her girls, of Gracie’s big blue eyes staring at her. Who would care for them if something happened to her? They were her life, quite simply. The only thing she valued in this entire world sat hidden between rocks down the beach. Even though she hadn’t been able to provide the best of lives for them, she was determined to change that if she survived this ordeal.
Unleashing the pent up anger for all the injustices she had been dealt, she corralled that fury, directing it toward this one man in front of her. The foreigners could beat her, have their way with her, but she was not leaving her daughters, not now, not ever. They were still quite a distance from the ship, enough for her to fight and get away. And fight she would.
Caralyn screamed and grabbed her dagger from her hidden pocket, sinking it into the brute’s thigh. He bellowed and let go of her arm for an instant, just enough time for her to dart away. She scurried back toward the path, but didn’t make it far before he grabbed her plaited hair, swung her around, and slapped her.
Cheers went up from the galley ship, but no one came to the man’s aid, thankfully. This would be a performance for his shipmates to watch. The lass against the Norseman, and she would fight with everything she had.
“You vile brute, leave me be!” She screamed and clawed, spit and bit. He hit her in the belly, but the pain didn’t sway her. When he looked away from her for a moment to remove the dagger from his thigh, she kicked him in the groin and he crumpled to the ground, losing the knife in the sand. Hoots from the galleys continued. Pivoting, she tried to run, but he grabbed her ankle and she toppled face down into the gravel. He pulled her back slowly toward him, running his hand over her bare leg under her skirts. She flipped onto her back and kicked him in the jaw with her other foot.
He cursed and released her.
Caralyn searched for her dagger in the sand, but didn’t see it. The lout managed to get to his feet and swayed over her. Pushing herself upright, she grabbed the biggest rock she could find and swung it straight at his head. When she connected with his temple and a resounding thud rang out in the air, she hoped he would fall, but instead he stared at her, a low growl tearing through his throat and settling into a furious expression. He picked her up by both arms and tossed her in the air. Unable to catch her fall, she hit the ground at an odd angle, twisting her ankle under her. She screamed in pain as she landed in the dirt. He jumped on top of her, pulled his fist back, set to demolish her face, and the last thing she recalled before darkness enveloped her was Gracie’s sad eyes.
Captain Robbie Grant led his group of warriors down the coastal path, through small villages and cottages. Naught. Alexander of Dundonald, King Alexander III’s steward, had sent them south of Ayr in case King Haakon of Norway’s galleys were coming ashore to pillage and steal. Desperate to establish his sovereignty over the Western Isles, the Norwegian ruler had sent multiple ships and many men to Scotland. Now they were anchored off Arran, waiting for instructions. It would be easy for him to send a few over to the coastal villages to wreak havoc and commandeer for food and supplies.
He split his men and sent half down a different path while he headed straight for one of the fishing villages speckled along the beautiful coastal waters. Before he saw anything, his nose warned him of impending trouble—smoke, billowing toward them from the south. Spurring his horse, he led his men in a charge, hoping to discover the source of the pungent odor. As they neared the village, they passed a few huts already in flames.
He yelled to his best friend, Tomas. “I don’t like the looks of this.”
“Aye, could be bad.” Tomas nodded, his gaze raking the area for foreigners.
Robbie pointed toward the flaming huts and nodded to a group of warriors. “Check for survivors. We’ll continue on.” Driven by an unknown force, he headed to the coastline. He yelled to Tomas as his friend rode back to join him. “Do you see any Norse yet?”
Tomas, who had led some of Robbie’s men on a wide route of the small village and through the forests, shook his head.
That was when Robbie heard it—the keening sound of a lass in pain.
He glanced at Tomas. “Saints above, they’re attacking ahead of us.”
Bringing his horse to a full gallop, he followed the lass’s screeches to the beach. In a moment, he assessed the situation. One galley ship full of invaders sat on the distant edge of the shoreline, yelling and hooting about something on the beach. A few seconds later, he understood. A lone Norseman was battering a Scottish woman nearby to the cheers of his comrades. Robbie sent several warriors down the beach toward the boat with orders to use their bows to take the invaders out.
The dark-haired lass on the beach fought the lout with all she had, pummeling and kicking him in every place she could reach. Robbie unsheathed his sword and headed straight at the fool, the girl’s screams fueling his fury. Not noticing Robbie, the brute pulled his fist back and punched her square in the face, knocking her out before turning to his companions with his fist in the air and shouting his satisfaction at his achievement.
Robbie headed straight toward the fool, hoping to take advantage of his momentary distraction. Even though his friends yelled at the lone man to try to warn him, he ignored them, too busy celebrating his victory over the wee lass. When the lout turned back around, he was just in time to watch Robbie’s sword skewer him straight through his belly, the shock in his face visible before he crumpled to the ground.
The rest of the surviving Norsemen scrambled onto the galley as soon as they saw the Scottish warriors headed their way along with multiple arrows in flight. They shoved off, not willing to risk an attempt to retrieve their comrade’s dead body from the beach. Robbie jumped off his horse and knelt down next to the lass, praying he wasn’t too late. The woman’s eyes were closed, but her comeliness did not escape him. She had dark brown hair, blowing in the wind around her like billowing silk. Only a few strands were still held back—a testament to how hard she had fought. Her face had a haunting beauty beneath the bruising and the pale coloring. He settled both hands on the stone and sand next to her, then bent down to see if he could hear her breathing. A slight sigh escaped her lips and he sat back on his haunches, grateful she still lived.
His warriors, who had sent the Norse rowing furiously from shore, returned to assist him. He waved his men on, giving instructions to check down the shoreline for more galleys while he tended the wounded woman.
How he wished his sister Brenna, the healer, was at his side. She would know exactly how to help the woman. He surveyed the girl as she lay on the beach, wondering if she had any broken bones. Her left ankle was swollen, but it didn’t appear broken. Multiple open wounds were spread across her skin as if she had been towed across the stone. Grit and dirt sullied most of them. The lass had clearly been dragged from one of the nearby cottages, and the brute who’d taken her had been intent on hauling her onto the retreating galley.
The saints above must have been watching over the young lady, and it was a good thing Robbie and his men had arrived when they did. He cringed at the thought of the treatment she would have received at the hands of a galley full of lonely, battle-crazed shipmates. Had she not screamed and fought with such bravery and persistence, she’d be on that ship.
Tomas came by to report to him. “We have found no more Norseman ashore, Grant,” he said from atop his horse. “There are no galleys south, and no evidence of any more pillaging. The only cottages in flames are those near here and they are contained. Too far gone to stop. Many of the other cottages are empty.”
“Get me a skein of water, Tomas. I want to see what I can do for the lass before the others find their way back to report to me.”
“She’s still alive?” Tomas asked.
“Aye, she lives, but I don’t know for how long.”
“He did a fine job battering the beauty, aye?” Tomas grabbed the skein from his horse before joining Robbie on the seashore.
“Aye, she will be one sore lass when she awakens.” He couldn’t help but sigh. “
If
she awakens.”
Tomas handed his skein of water to Robbie. “She isn’t alert enough to drink.”
“Och, I know. Can you not see all the crystals of gravel and pebbles in her torn skin? My sister is mad about cleaning wounds.” Robbie said. “Hold her leg up for me so I can rinse the grit off as much as possible. Better to do it now while she is unconscious.”
Tomas did as he was ordered and then let a slow whistle out as soon as he spied the long legs beneath her skirts. “A magnificent one, aye? ‘Tis sad to see her so mistreated.”
“Keep your eyes off her legs, Tomas,” Robbie barked.
“Och, so you are taken with her, old friend? Haven’t seen that in a while.” Tomas’s grin stretched across his face.
“How in hellfire can I be taken with one I haven’t spoken to? You are a loggerheaded dimwit sometimes.” Robbie tore a piece of cloth from her skirt to scrub the dirt away as much as possible.
“’Twould be good for you to find a lass to relieve your stress. You spend too much time forcing yourself to work harder.”
“Aye, but ‘tis the only time I have been offered the chance to prove myself. You know how often I have been left at the keep to protect the clan while my brothers are out battling.” Robbie switched to clean her other leg.
“’Tis no easy job protecting a clan the size of the Grants.”
“Och, aye, but there has never been a need to use my battle skills since we have never been attacked.”
“And ‘tis a good thing, too.” Tomas smiled at his friend.
“Aye, but this is my chance to prove my mettle. And I won’t allow a lass to distract me from my purpose. I fight for the Scots and I lead the Grant warriors. I can’t lose my focus.”
“We shall see, my friend. What will you do with her?” Tomas quirked his brow at him.
“Send a couple of men to the few occupied cottages and see if she has family nearby. If not, we head back to the camp at the royal burgh. She’ll travel with me.”
Tomas’s eyes widened. “Travel with you?”
“I can’t leave her here, now, can I? Where in hell did you leave your brain, Tomas?” Robbie shook his head in frustration.
Tomas chuckled, his eyes twinkling. “Och, can’t wait to witness this. ‘Twill be entertaining, for sure. I hope to be by your side when you ride up to the Dundonald with a lass across your lap.”