My Fierce Highlander (5 page)

“Your shirt and doublet were ruined. Your
plaid fared better but ’tis still bloody.”

“I thank you, but I would have it back now.
As well as my shoes, belt, sporran and
sgian dubh.
”

“Of course.” She frowned. “You are not
thinking to leave now, are you?”

“Nay,” he lied. “I but wish to have my
belongings.”

She eyed him suspiciously, then left.

Combating dizziness and disorientation, he
limped forward, pain shooting through his foot with each step. He’d
walked from many a battlefield more broken up than he was now.

She returned a few minutes later, carrying
his possessions. “I suppose you need help with your plaid.”

“If you would be so kind.” He hated asking
for her assistance with anything.

She set his shoes, sporran and dagger aside.
He was thankful to have at least one weapon left with which to
defend himself.

She laid his wide leather belt on the earth
floor, flung out the four-yard-long blue and black plaid on top of
it and quickly gathered it into pleats. She had done this before
and plenty. For Baigh Shaw, the venomed whoreson.

“There now.” She rose. “Can you do the rest
yourself?”

“Aye and I thank you.” Cursed kilt. He
should’ve worn trews on the day of the battle, but he hadn’t
expected to be fighting.

When she disappeared out the door, he limped
over and lay down naked on the pleated material. No easy task with
pain wracking his body. He grasped both sides of the belt and
fastened it around his waist. Teeth clenched together, he pushed
himself up onto his feet and adjusted the kilt until it hung to his
satisfaction. After finding his brooch in his sporran, he fashioned
the top ends of his
plaide
into a sash. He wished he had a
shirt. He didn’t relish going about like a bare-chested
barbarian.

Pulling the seal ring from his sporran, he
frowned. No doubt Gwyneth knew its significance, but no time to
worry about that now. He replaced it and strapped the pouch around
his waist.

Being careful of his broken toe, he slipped
on his shoes. His injuries were not severe enough to stop him from
escaping this godforsaken place as soon as he could.

Nighttime would be the best time to leave,
but he would have a harder time finding his way. How he wished he
had a sword.

Gwyneth returned a moment later. Her gaze
stroked over his bare chest. He knew it wasn’t so appealing with
its bruises, cuts and scars. But her face flushed just the same.
Did she see him as a man now, since he was dressed, rather than
just her patient?

“I see you had no trouble dressing. You are
more recovered than I thought.”

“Aye. Why did you not tell me Baigh Shaw was
your husband?” His question came out harsher than he’d
intended.

“You knew him?”

“Indeed.”

Her eyes rounded. “Did Rory tell you
that?”

“Never mind how I figured it out.”

“I take it you were not fond of Baigh.”

“Canny lass,” Alasdair muttered, then
narrowed his eyes, gauging her fearful expression.

She took one step back and clenched her hands
before her. “What did he do?”

“I don’t wish to speak of it.” Hell, why had
he said anything.

“Very well. I’ll leave you alone then.” Her
wary gaze remained locked on him until she disappeared out the
door.

Long minutes later, Alasdair limped to the
door and peered out at the surroundings. The byre and cottage sat
in a tiny sheltered cove just off the glen. A stand of black pines
grew thick on the sloping hills behind the cottage, and a few
shaggy black cattle grazed further down toward the glen. He spied
no one around. It was time to take his leave of this place.

Holding onto the rough stone wall of the
byre, he limped outside. The fresh air, washed clean with the rain
the night before, pushed back a bit of the fogginess in his
throbbing head. The sun warmed his face and lightened his mood. He
said a prayer of thanks that he had survived. Glancing around, he
made sure he was alone.

Pain shot up from his foot with each step,
but he continued on his way, hobbling toward the edge of the wood.
God’s truth, if he was going to limp like an old man, he’d need the
staff of an old man. He would sharpen the top and make a spear.
More cumbersome than a sword, but still highly effective for
defense.

After choosing a small oak tree to his
satisfaction, he whittled at the wood with his dagger. Inhaling the
scent of green tree sap, he wondered if Gwyneth could have provided
the powdered meadow saffron Shaw had slipped into Alasdair’s
father’s ale. Why, then, had she saved his life? Perhaps she was
trying to appease her own guilt.

Since Rory was almost six, obviously she’d
been married to Shaw at the time.

His spear sharpened, Alasdair didn’t have
time to linger and discover the truth. He glanced back to make sure
no one watched him. All remained silent and still. He limped deeper
into the cool forest, his footsteps releasing the scents of
moldering leaves and black dirt.

By the sun, he gauged he was traveling east,
toward his own land. He would never be so glad as to see MacGrath
sod, and his clan. He listened for the sounds of hidden enemies,
but the high-pitched calls of crossbills feeding in the pine
branches overhead thwarted his efforts.

Hearing a different sort of bird, this one
screeching in the distance, he paused. The MacIrwin call, he would
recognize it anywhere. It sounded again, closer this time.
Searching out a place to hide, he crept down an embankment, careful
not to disturb the brown pine needles, and hid below a gigantic
decaying tree stump, one of many that littered the area.

Minutes later, a MacIrwin strode by, humming
a ballad, his rawhide shoes padding over the damp leaves.
Crouching, Alasdair held his breath and watched. He did not want to
kill a man this day.

Once the other man moved on and the sounds of
the forest returned to normal, Alasdair crawled from his hideout
and continued on his way.

The more steps he took, the more intense the
agony from his toe—stabbing pain that shot halfway up his leg. He
ground his teeth. The exertion spiked the aching in his head as
well.

The trees thinned and gave way to scrubby
bushes and tall gorse. He paused at the edge of a moor swathed in
heather and other short vegetation. Only a couple boulders and
larger bushes dotting the land would provide any sort of cover.
Crossing without being seen would prove a hellish task.

Perhaps he should wait for nightfall before
attempting it.

Keeping a close watch on the landscape spread
out before him, he rested for a spell between gooseberry
bushes.

The gash on his abdomen smarted and burned.
He glanced down and found it bleeding again despite the fine
stitches. The bonny healer would’ve scolded him over that.

He’d never gotten the chance to ask her what
an English lady was doing here in the Highlands. Likely, she
wouldn’t have told him anyway. And it was just as likely he’d never
see her again. He didn’t care for the feel of that, despite her
possible guilt.

Something about her had held his attention,
not just her clear, vivid blue eyes that met his with courage and
intelligence. She was a wee, slight thing but appeared to possess
the hidden strength of a mighty oak. Perhaps he had enjoyed too
much making her blush with his compliments. He glanced back in the
direction of the woods and her cottage, some small aching spot
within his chest making him yearn to see her one more time. To
thank her again for saving his life.

Sometime later, thick gloaming settled over
the land along with a faint gray mist. Surely it was murky enough
that he wouldn’t be seen easily. His predominately blue and black
tartan was dull in color, and he wore no light-colored shirt that
would glow at a distance in the twilight.

His gaze scanning the deserted moor, he stood
and limped forward. Though he had to be careful where he stepped
among the rocks and heather so as not to further injure his toe, he
made good progress across the damp ground until a distant noise met
his ears. Hoof beats.

He turned. A horse and rider approached at a
trot from behind. God’s bones! He’d been spotted. Glancing about
for cover, he found no bushes nearby. Only a large rock. Teeth
gritted against the piercing pain in his foot, he limped forward
and crouched behind the rock.

“Who are you?” the rider called out in
Gaelic. Too close, the man drew up, but Alasdair dared not peer
out.

The horse clomped closer. A sword swished
from a sheath in a metallic hiss.

Chapter Three

After returning from a visit to a sick
clanswoman, Gwyneth stepped inside the byre and found it empty.

Good lord! Where was MacGrath?

She darted outside again and surveyed her
surroundings. Nothing moved but the cattle and sheep. Had Donald
captured MacGrath while she, Mora and Rory had been gone? Or had he
left? Surely if Donald had come, he or his men would have tracked
her down and asked questions. Or worse.

Since there was no sign of a struggle,
MacGrath must have left on his own power. How could he journey with
a broken toe? He was a madman to think he could cross that many
hills and moors without a MacIrwin seeing him. She and Mora might
have saved his life, only to have him limp about like a clumsy toad
and get himself killed anyway. Such a blunder would put all their
lives in danger.

Shaken, she ran to the nearby wood and
searched for him in the deepening gloom. Maybe he had staggered out
here and passed out again.

No, she didn’t see him.

Gwyneth hoped MacGrath was already on his
clan’s land. Perhaps he’d been wise to leave. At least she wouldn’t
be found guilty of harboring the enemy.

But she would miss the charming way his
obsidian eyes sparkled when he was thinking of a bit of devilry. It
had been years since a man had teased and complimented her as he
had.

I am a daft woman, always a fool for a
handsome man.
They were all the same—pretending to be
considerate one moment, and lapsing into hatefulness the next.

“’Tis better that he’s gone.” She strode into
the byre again to clear away the last traces of his presence—the
blanket and herbal supplies.

Rory skipped in, halted and scanned all the
corners. “Where’d he go?”

“Home, I hope.”

“Oh.” A glum expression weighted her son’s
features. And in the deepest part of herself, Gwyneth felt the
same.

“I wish he’d stayed,” Rory said. “He was
going to teach me to be a warrior.”

No, he will not!
She glared at her
son. With the education she was giving him, he would become a
learned man, perhaps a scholar, steward or merchant. She wanted him
to live a long and happy life. Not be killed in some senseless
skirmish.

It was best for them all that Angus MacGrath
was gone. And since no one else had known he was here, they’d be
safe now. At least she didn’t think anyone else knew.

“You didn’t tell the boys at Finella’s about
him, did you?”

Rory’s eyes widened. “Only Jamie. But he’s my
best friend, and he won’t tell anyone.”

Dear heavens! What have you done?

***

Crouched behind the rock, hiding from the
MacIrwin clansman stalking him, Alasdair tightened his grip on the
spear. In his other hand, he picked up a stone the size of his fist
and waited.

Strength infused his muscles as it did when
he charged into battle. The pain slid away and his attention
focused. He gauged the horse’s distance by the sound of its hooves
among the rocks.

He sprang upright, aimed at his enemy and
hurled the rock. It hit the hulking man on the side of the head
with a thwack, toppling him from the horse.

The horse whinnied and scuttled sideways.

Alasdair prayed he hadn’t killed the man, but
he had no time to find out. Pain lancing his foot, he limped
forward. This MacIrwin was out cold, certain sure. Alasdair tossed
his primitive spear, snatched the man’s basket-hilted sword, which
he was far more skilled with, and heaved himself into the saddle.
The animal shied from an unfamiliar rider. Alasdair controlled him
with the reins, his legs and murmured Gaelic words.

He kicked the horse into a gallop across the
moor and headed toward MacGrath land. No time to tarry. The
MacIrwins would find their injured kinsman soon enough. The thin,
cold mist dampening his face smelled of soggy peat and freedom. The
horse’s gait over the uneven terrain snapped Alasdair’s teeth
together. Clenching his jaw, he leaned forward.

Too late, he glimpsed a group of what
appeared to be MacIrwins on a nearby trail, some on horseback. By
St. Andrew, they’d already spotted him. His only option was to race
toward his own land.

The men called out and charged forward on
their horses. The wind whipping his hair into his eyes, Alasdair
glanced back and counted five in pursuit. “God’s teeth!” He dug in
his heels, urging his mount to a full run.

Two shots exploded behind him. He lay over
the horse’s neck, expecting the lead balls to tear into him…but he
felt nothing. Thank God the MacIrwins were bad shots and pistols
were not as accurate as they should be.

A good warrior he was, but not against five,
and him injured besides.

The horse beneath him was sweating and near
winded. He hated to push the animal more, but his own life depended
upon it.

He darted another glance back. The cursed
MacIrwins advanced from the white mist, their swords poised to run
him through.

“
Iosa is Muire Mhàthair!”
Kicking his
mount’s flanks, he held his own pilfered sword at the ready. He
could off two or three of them before they dealt him fatal injury.
But the last two worried him.