Trouble with a Highland Bride (2 page)

The iron door cracked open.

“Lady Isabelle!” a breathless gillie gasped as he reached the top of the ramparts where Isabelle and Gwyn stood. “Come quick, the cook’s young daughter is dreadful sick.”

Isabelle followed the gillie down to the kitchens with Gwyn at her heels. Isabelle’s renown as a healer had spread, and now anytime anyone was sick or injured, she was called for. In a hut next to the kitchens, where the extended family for the kitchen staff lived, a little girl lay on a pallet.

The girl could not have been more than three years old, with blond hair and blue eyes to match her blue lips. She coughed and wheezed and coughed some more, her little body racked with the effort. Isabelle knelt beside the child, put a hand to her forehead, and checked her mouth and nose.

“What can we do, milady?” asked the girl’s mother, her eyes wide and desperate as the child gasped for breath.

“Gwyn, fetch me some elder bark tincture,” said Isabelle with soothing confidence. “I believe she has the croup.”

Gwyn hiked up her skirts and ran for the ladies’ solar, where Isabelle kept the medicines. She grabbed a small brown bottle with a little cork and ran back down. She arrived breathless but pleased that she had taken very little time.

Isabelle shook the bottle with a frown. Gwyn had noticed it too. It was almost empty. Isabelle administered the dose while the mother, father, brothers, sisters, and a host of extended family looked on. Their eyes all asked the same question.
Will
she
live?

“Boil some water and bring a bowl of it here for the steam,” said Isabelle. “Gwyn, could you pick more of the elder? We need young shoots, still green. There should be plenty this time of year.”

“Where is the elder bush?” asked Gwyn, ready to make another run.

“Oh, no!” said Isabelle, standing up. “All the bushes are outside the gate, and we cannot leave the castle now.”

“Surely there is at least one inside the gates,” pressed Gwyn.

“No, I fear there is not.” Isabelle had lived in the castle most of her life. She knew every plant, every shrub the castle walls housed. “But no matter,” she continued reassuringly to the mother. “We have given her one dose, and we shall provide some steam, then take her outside for the cold night air.”

Gwyn closed her eyes a moment but could not erase the picture of the limp little girl. “I shall look around the castle courtyard. Mayhap there is a new bush that has been overlooked.”

“Be safe,” whispered Isabelle, leaving Gwyn to wonder if she guessed what she was about to do.

Gwyn nodded and strode out of the hut with long strides. None of the Campbells were of short stature, and despite being one of the youngest sisters of fifteen siblings, she was taller than any of her older sisters. She knew that she shouldn’t do what she was about to do, but she also knew she had to try. She snuck into David’s private chamber, where he kept the ring of keys. She prayed she was in luck and was relieved to find the ring hanging on a peg behind a tapestry, where she had seen Isabelle put it once.

She walked sedately across the courtyard to avoid suspicion. The side gate was rarely used since the main gate was all that anyone needed. Mostly concealed from view, the side gate led nowhere, except to precisely where Gwyn wanted to go—an area of trees and brush…and elder bushes.

First, she had to unlock a heavy wooden door which opened into a little-used storage room, the dust indicating it had not been occupied in years. On the far side was an iron gate with a thick metal lattice, forming metal squares through which she could see a dark expanse—the black corridor to the outside. She had to try several keys before she found the one that turned the lock. She muscled the heavy gate open while it protested the movement with a loud squawk. She put the torch she was carrying on a wall mount; she did not want to take a light into the forest to alert anyone of her whereabouts. She needed to rely on stealth and speed to get what was needed and return to the castle before anyone discovered she was attempting such a thing.

She pulled the gate shut behind her and locked it. It would not do to leave it unlocked during a siege. She may be foolhardy, but she certainly wasn’t a fool. She continued down a long passage, the light growing dim as she reached the second locked gate, this one solid iron. She tried a few keys and again got lucky as this lock turned also.

Opening the door a crack, she scanned the dark forest in the dim light of the sliver moon. An elder bush was not twenty feet from the gate. This should be a simple, quick job. She would grab the plant and run back to the castle. No one would ever know.

She pushed the heavy door and it swung open without a noise. She set the lock so that when she ran back to the castle all she had to do was close the door and it would lock automatically. She sprinted up a small hill, toward the elder bush. She reached the bush and cut off several branches with her dirk. She had done it. She smiled with her success. The little girl would be saved.

She turned to run back to the castle, but the sharp snap of a breaking twig made her freeze. She spun around and a tall man stood before her, his face concealed by a silver helm. His armor marked him a knight—his surcoat marked him an Englishman.

***

Jack flattened himself behind a tree trunk and took a hesitant peek. A young woman opened the small iron door and crept stealthily into the forest. He could not believe his luck. What would his uncles say when he delivered the castle to them? All he had to do was capture her, secure the key to the castle, and return with his soldiers to take the castle by surprise. If done well, they could capture the castle with a minimum of bloodshed and that would be the end of it.

He smiled at how his uncles would have to acknowledge his worth—and then leave him alone. And not kill him. All of which would be a decided benefit.

He crept closer, careful to avoid the sharp spikes he had left on the ground. He realized the woman was rather young, probably a few years younger than himself. He stopped for a moment to watch her. She had long, straight blond hair, a pert nose, and pink lips, twisted into a determined expression. She was undeniably attractive. He indulged himself, watching her hips sway and letting his eyes roam over her figure. He would most likely have to take her as a temporary captive, just until things were sorted with the castle. Jack smiled. Of all the things he did out of loyalty and duty, this was one he was going to enjoy.

The girl cut a sprig off one of the elders, an odd thing to do, and turned to return to the gate. He could not let her reach the door, and he quickened his pace. He almost had her when he stepped on a twig and it snapped. He lunged, but she spun, a long dirk in her hand, ready to attack.

Jack skittered to a stop. Where did she learn to use a knife? Were all Highland ladies skilled fighters? His sword was strapped to his side, but he did not draw. He did not wish to fight the girl. He wanted to capture her. Take her to his tent. Tame the wild Highland lass.

“Put down the knife,” he said in his most commanding voice. “You need to come with me.”

She raised one eyebrow at him as if to say she thought him touched in the head. She turned and ran for the gate. He ran after her; it should have been a simple thing to run her down—if she weren’t so fast. Increasing his speed, he caught her around the waist, slamming them both to the ground. He thought he had her, but she was made of sterner stuff and instead of struggling to get free, she twisted to attack. She turned on him quickly, knife in hand, stabbing at his neck for the gap in his armor.

He parried the attack with some difficulty. He was not unfamiliar with warfare—he had been taught since he was old enough to hold a stick—but he was caught off guard by this young thing. Who would have guessed within this adorable, young package beat the heart of warrior? Under normal circumstances, he would have fought back, striking at his opponent’s face, but he stayed his hand. She was simply too fair of face to hit.

Seizing on his hesitation, she broke free and again ran for the gate. He cursed himself for his charity and rolled up to his feet, chasing after her. He caught her again, just as he stepped on one of his own caltrops. He hollered in pain and frustration as the nasty spike went through the leather of his boot and into his foot.

“Let me go!” she cried.

He was angry now and held on, taking her to the ground once more. This time he was prepared for her dirk and grabbed her wrist as she slashed, wrenching the weapon from her hand. He thought the fight was over, but once again she surprised him by drawing his own golden-handled knife from the sheath that hung around his waist and attempting to thrust it under his hauberk. He had to release her to avoid the blow, and she scrambled up again.

He roared with frustration and pain as he regained his feet. The hot, searing pain of his foot was only rivaled by his frustration that this simple task was going so horribly wrong. And now she had his golden knife. It had been a present from his father, one that his uncles had muttered had been too extravagant for him. Jack would not, could not, return to camp to say he lost it. Worse yet, the Scots could show it to his uncles to gloat that they had disarmed one of their soldiers. No…no, he could not let that happen.

He raced to the girl, ignoring the pain. She opened the gate, but he was right behind her. She shrieked and ran from him. He staggered in the gate, the hilt of his sword catching on the iron door and slamming it shut behind him. He did not care; he would catch this Highland wench if it was the last thing he did.

***

Gwyn sprinted to the second gate, her heart pounding, a silent scream on her lips. The English soldier was staggering toward her at a fast clip. If he caught her…if he caught her he would have the keys. He could storm the castle and kill her and everyone she loved. And then her brother would strangle her in the afterlife for being so colossally stupid as to unlock the gate while their enemy was camped outside it. He would have a point.

She reached the locked gate and searched for the right key on the ring with shaking hands. Behind her, the inhuman grunts and groans of the soldier grew ever louder. He was right behind her. The key—she must find it! Which one was it? Which one?

She found the one and tried it on the lock; it would not turn. Wrong key! She swallowed down fear and forced herself to focus on what she was doing. She must get through. She must. She jammed another key into the lock. The man was so close behind her, she could almost feel his breath on her neck.

The key turned and she pushed open the gate even as he grabbed for her. She slipped past and tried to push the gate closed, but he leaned on it, preventing her from shutting it. She pushed with all her might, but he was stronger and was slowly opening the gate, forcing her feet backward on the dirt floor. He wedged a foot between the wall and the gate. She stomped on it, and he surprised her by howling in pain.

Unsure how her boot had caused such agony, she quickly took advantage of the moment and shoved the gate shut, locking it. The English knight was breathing hard, leaning against the wall. She backed away from him, unsure if he would attempt to throw something at her through the iron lattice. The knight stared at her through his helm without speaking. Finally, he pushed himself off the wall and limped toward the outer gate. When he reached it, he pushed at it, but it would not budge. He rattled the iron door with a howl. It was locked tight. Gwyn stared at the keys in her hand.

She had trapped an English knight.

The trapped knight rammed into the solid iron door with his shoulder several times, trying to break through. It was a hopeless exercise. He leaned against the door for a moment. She could hear his labored breathing all the way down the corridor. He turned slowly and limped back to the gate where she stood.

Gwyn instinctively stepped back, though she knew he had no more hope of getting through the second gate than the first. He rattled and shook the gate, the loud clanging of iron on iron echoing down the corridor.

“Let me out!” he demanded with a growl.

“Are ye daft?” Gwyn would not come near the gate for anything. Her heart pounded in fear and excitement, and she put a hand to the stone wall to steady herself. She had trapped a knight. An English knight!

The man rattled the gate again, and Gwyn covered her ears. “Will ye stop that racket? Yer English castles are built strong, I give ye that. Ye have no hope of shaking yer way free.”

The man slumped against the gate. “I might appreciate it more if I were not locked inside.”

Gwyn backed away to the door. She would tell her brother she had trapped a knight. He would be so pleased and proud and…

Gwyn stopped, her hand on the door latch. David would not be pleased. If her brother discovered she had gone outside for an elder plant, he might kill her.

The knight took off his helm and Gwyn’s hand fell from the latch. It was the young knight who had spoken during the parlay. She thought him handsome from afar, but now she knew he was the bonniest man she had ever seen, with dark brown hair, brown eyes, and chiseled, Romanesque features. “Ye’re Sir John Lockton!” she cried without thinking.

He looked at her from between the iron bars, his eyebrows raising high. “And who might you be that you know my name?”

Gwyn paused before answering. “I…I am Gwyn Campbell, sister o’ Laird Campbell.”

“But how do you know me?” he asked, his brown eyes surprisingly intense.

She was trapped now. There was very little point in denying her involvement. “I saw ye during the parlay. Ye removed yer helm and introduced yerself.” Her only hope was that, with all the other excitement, he would not realize—

“But how could you see me from the castle?” His eyebrows clamped down over his eyes. “You were one of the mounted party come to parlay.”

“I was there only to rescue the poor folk that were caught in the valley when ye marched in,” defended Gwyn. “There were children playing in the fields.”

“Rescue them from what? It was not as if we would slaughter innocents in our path,” argued Lockton.

“Dinna try to deny it. I saw a scout trying to attack a young lass. And ye attacked me yerself!”

Lockton opened his mouth as if to argue, then shook his head and leaned against the wall. “I did not intend to hurt you. I only wanted the key to the gate.”

“Ye dinna intend to hurt me? Look at me!” Gwyn motioned down her gown. It was dirty and torn. In truth, she had done worse to her gowns and she cared little for it, but it was the principle of the thing. It was one thing to get dirty herself. It was another to be knocked down by an English knight—even if he was undeniably attractive.

“The gown looks fine,” said Lockton.

“Are ye daft? Look at these stains? How am I to explain to Isabelle I ruined another gown?” She stepped closer to show him the damage.

“Naught but a little dirt, it will brush right off.”

“This is a tear!” Gwyn held out the injured gown.

“Where?”

“Here!” Gwyn stepped up to the gate so he could see. He bent over as if to look, then quick as a snake reached though the bars and grabbed her around the waist, pulling her against the gate. He thrust his other hand in her pocket and pulled something out, releasing her before she could even think to scream.

“Ha!” He held his hand aloft, grasping the sprig of elder. His triumphant grin vanished when he realized what he had. “That is not the key.”

“Oh, no! I need that,” cried Gwyn, suddenly remembering why she was outside to begin with.

“Give me the key to the far gate and I’ll give you the twig,” said Lockton, his eyes gleaming at her with intensity.

Gwyn’s heart twisted with the sudden remembrance of the urgency of her mission, the reason she had braved going outside in the first place. If she lost the elder branch now, everything she had done would be for nothing. “I canna give ye the key. But please, I do need the plant.”

“And I truly need out of here, with my knife if you please.”

“Here, take yer knife. I’m no thief.” Gwyn threw the golden knife through the bars of the gate, and it landed with a soft thud on the packed-dirt floor. “Now ye give me the elder twig.”

“What I need is the key. I promise to let myself out and leave it on the ground. All I want to do now is return to my camp.” Lockton’s eyes were open and honest. But she knew she could not give their enemy the keys to the castle, even if he did look like an angel from heaven above.

Gwyn’s mind spun trying to figure out how to get the plant from the knight’s hand. In desperation, she turned to the truth. “I need the elder branch to make a medicine, a tincture for a wee lass wi’ the croup. She struggles with every breath. That twig ye hold may be the only thing that can save her.”

Lockton’s lips tightened into a thin line. “And it was on an errand of mercy that you were outside that castle?”

Gwyn nodded.

The knight held the elder twig out through the bars of the gate. Gwyn took a step forward but hesitated. He had tricked her once before.

“And what is yer demand in return?” she asked.

“If your mission is one of mercy for an innocent, then as an honest knight, I am honor bound to support your efforts. I ask you for nothing.” His eyes were strong and deep, pulling her closer.

She stepped toward him, swallowing on a dry throat. She stopped just outside of his reach. Could she trust him? No, definitely not. But she would do it anyway. She took one more step, snatched the elder branch from his hand, and jumped back to safety. She spun to leave, reached the wooden door, and paused, turning back.

“Thank ye. I dinna expect chivalry from a Sassenach. Ye surprise me.”

He shook his head. “If somewhere in those insults was a compliment, then I thank you kindly. Farewell, Gwyn Campbell, sister of Laird Campbell.”

“Farewell? Ye winna be going anywhere,” Gwyn said with a slight smile.

“But you will tell your brother, and they will come to find me here. And then I fear I will never see you again.”

Gwyn’s smile faded as fast as it had come. She gave a short nod of acknowledgment and fled. She should not feel anything for this knight, her enemy. But he had given his only leverage to save a child. Why would an English knight show mercy? And not just any knight, but the next in line to inherit Alnsworth Castle.

Gwyn shook her head to banish such confusing thoughts and ran to the huts by the kitchens, hoping she was not too late. Isabelle sat on the floor next to the little girl as she tried to breathe.

“Isabelle, here. The elder plant.” Gwyn all but shoved it in Isabelle’s face.

“Oh, thank heavens! You are an answer to prayer, Gwyn.” Isabelle stood and threw her arms around Gwyn.

Gwyn returned the embrace with a guilty conscience. If Isabelle knew what she had done and who was trapped in the cistern gate passageway, her reception would be decidedly different. “Isabelle, I have a question.”

“Yes, I will show you show to make the tincture, but not right now, darling. I need to do it as fast as I can. You understand, yes?”

“Aye, o’ course.” Gwyn backed away from the scene. She had done everything she could for the little girl. Now Isabelle needed to do what she did best. If there was any hope, Isabelle would find it. Gwyn walked back out into the upper courtyard. Her eyes returned to the plain wooden door that led to the side gate.

She knew what she needed to do, but it was with heavy feet that she mounted the stairs to the Campbell solar. She needed to tell her brother what had happened. And in doing so, she would return the mercy shown by the English knight with condemnation. And bring judgment down on herself as well. She sighed, but she had never been one to run from problems and took perverse pride in owning up to her mistakes, as many and as grievous as they may be.

She walked into the solar only to find it packed with leaders of the many clans who had come for the May Day celebration. As she entered, the conversation stopped and all eyes turned to her.

“Gwyn!” David addressed her with the terse voice he used when he was conducting important business. “We are having a meeting o’ the clans. I will speak with ye later.”

“But I need to tell ye—”

“Nay, no’ now. I will speak wi’ ye later.” His tone brooked no opposition.

“But David—”

“Later, Gwyn. Ye will leave now.” David folded his arms across his chest. The conversation was finished.

Gwyn had little choice but to curtsy and leave the room. She left the main keep with feet that flew over the stone steps and danced across courtyard. It may only be a temporary reprieve, but she had more time before the inevitable. The cause of her delight at the delay she did not wish to contemplate. Somebody had to guard the prisoner after all…