The Savage Highlander

by Heather McCollum

  She breathed in the night wind that rushed by her face, tugging at the knot of hair she’d fastened with two hair spikes. I am strong and armed. I am powerful. I am brave. She repeated the words over and over, although she didn’t feel very strong just then. But the men hadn’t even thought to check to see if she was armed.

  Up ahead, Burdock veered off the road to the left, the horses plunging into the forest along a slim path. They slowed in the darkness, avoiding broad branches that could pluck a man from his horse, though they still scratched Scarlet’s arms. She ducked her head low over the horse’s neck, inadvertently pushing back into the man seated behind her. He leaned forward over her back.

  “Keep wiggling that fine arse of yours, and I’ll pull off the trail for a bit of fun before we make it to camp.”

  “Touch me and die,” she yelled, letting him know that she wouldn’t take his threats silently. She sat upright, her one hand before her face to fend off the branches.

  “Leave her be, Jack,” Burdock called.

  Jack leaned into her ear, inhaling long. “If ye don’t have the proper coin in that bag you brought, I’ll be the first in line to teach ye a lesson about lying. And I know your tricks, lass, after watching how ye kneed poor Finlay.”

  A bile-filled bubble of panic pressed up her throat. Perhaps puking on the man would cool his ardor. She’d add that to her list of weapons, along with two deadly hair spikes, two sgian dubhs, one mattucashlass, and pissing.

  “I’ve more tricks than that, you soon-to-be-damned beast.” She twisted in her seat to glance his way. “And I have no weakness about spilling your blood,” she said through her clenched teeth. “Then God can teach you a lesson,” she said. Scarlet didn’t know how God-fearing Jack might be, but he didn’t whisper any further crude threats during the ride.

  Firelight pierced the night up ahead, and smoke drifted into the trees. Single-file, they rode into a clearing where a squat cottage sat before a small outbuilding for animals. A low murmur of deep voices filled the night as about thirty men waited on foot and horseback. Good Lord. It was an army.

  The men began to trot out. Burdock nodded to them as they passed. “We’ll be joining you soon,” he said, continuing on to the far side to dismount near the fire. Jack pulled her down off the horse. Were the queen and Jacey inside the cottage?

  Two men stood near the cottage door, talking, one in a kilt and the other in… a tailored court costume. Scarlet’s breath stuttered to a halt, her jaw freezing open as Harry Covington turned to gaze at her.

  A frown grew across his face. “Scarlet?” His gaze cut to Burdock. “What the hell are you doing bringing her here?”

  Burdock jumped down from his mount. “She met us with the ransom,” he said, dropping the bag on the ground by his horse.

  “But King Charles said no one was to rescue the queen,” Harry said, stalking toward her.

  Inhale, exhale. Slow breaths. Scarlet repeated the words in her mind, willing the pinpricks of light to vanish from her sight. She squeezed her hands, hoping the feeling in them would return, and swallowed, squaring her shoulders. “He said no man could rescue her. He did not specify for women.”

  “Shite, Scar,” Harry said, grabbing her upper arm to give her a little shake. She swallowed to hide the grimace at the hard pinch. “You shouldn’t be here.” He ran a hand up his forehead to his short hair. “Damnation.”

  “You shouldn’t be here, either, Harry,” she said softly, her gaze sliding to Burdock as he spoke with the man who remained.

  “So, the whole army has gone to Finlarig, since Charles isn’t sending an army to get his queen back,” Burdock called to Harry.

  “Yes,” Harry said, while staring at Scarlet. He lowered his voice. “I came to tell them that the plan had changed when Charles refused to send the Campbells to save his queen, the unfeeling bastard. If she had been with child, he’d have sent at least half the Highlanders after her, leaving the castle with limited protection.”

  Scarlet closed her eyes for a moment then blinked them open. “You planned the queen’s abduction to pull away the defense around the king.” Her heart thumped hard. Harry Covington was the traitor. The man closest to the king. She shook her head. “Why didn’t you kill him?” she whispered, her teeth bared.

  Harry released her arm and tugged on his gold-stitched cuffs, pulling the lace edges free from his jacket sleeves. “And risk being labeled a traitor before taking over a new Parliament? My reputation must remain free of that taint to rule after that Popish liar is off the throne.”

  Good Lord. Her heart beat against her breastbone. Harry’s ambition stretched far. He leaned closer to her until she could smell his dinner on his breath. “You could be my queen,” he whispered.

  His queen? When he would drag her unwillingly to give her virginity to a king he despised? When he would jump upon the king’s mistress without a thought about her watching? When he could act like the king’s best ally while plotting to depose him?

  “You will never be king,” she said out loud, pulling Burdock’s gaze from where he spoke with the four other men who’d brought her there. Harry grabbed her arm, dragging her toward the cottage. Apparently, he hadn’t shared his grand ambitions with the riffraff.

  “Lord Protector, perhaps,” Harry whispered close to her ear. He looked over toward the men. “I haven’t orchestrated all of this for the past year, ingratiating myself with that incompetent blue blood only to have it fall apart because he doesn’t care for his queen enough to send men to rescue her.”

  Scarlet’s mind slid back over the last year, as Harry became a court favorite at the time Philip Sotheby and Captain Cross had been plotting. She stared hard at the man she’d once thought of as the most handsome in London. “You were plotting with Philip and the English captain to lure King Charles up to Campbell land to assassinate him and blame the Scots.”

  Harry’s frown turned into a grin. “And I thought your sister, Evelyn, was the smart one.” He shook his head. “Philip was supposed to take her to heel, yet now his head has been delivered to Whitehall.” He chuckled. “Actually, she did me a favor, as the man was vicious and had wild aspirations.”

  “Like you,” Scarlet said. “Aspirations that will lead you to the Tower.”

  Harry sucked in through his teeth, shaking his head. “A smart girl wouldn’t keep giving me reasons to see that she never leaves these woods.”

  Anger nudged past the fear that twisted in her stomach. “Is that your proposal, then? To your queen? A death threat?” She crossed her arms over her chest and schooled her expression into one of disappointed annoyance, which her father had used nearly every time she approached him. “You are a colossal waste of a gentleman,” she said with as much disdain she could muster.

  Crack.

  Pain, burning and sudden, burst across her cheek, and Scarlet flew backward, her backside slamming into the ground. Pinpricks of light sparked before her eyes, and she curled her fingers into the damp ground where her splayed hands had caught her. Fire prickled the cheek Harry had slapped with brute force. He stood over her, his one hand fisted at his side as he shook the sting from the one he’d used on her. The features she’d once thought handsome were contorted in rage, his teeth stacked in a grimace. He took a step away, only to pivot back to her, offering her his hand.

  She stared at the appendage without moving.

  “Take it, Scar.”

  She met his gaze. “Or what? You’ll kill me?” She narrowed her eyes and spit out the blood she tasted on her tongue. “But you’ve already decided that, haven’t you?”

  He didn’t say anything, and she shook her head, turning away from him to lift herself from the wet leaves and dirt. By the time she stood, he’d stepped back.

  “I really have no idea what to do with you now,” he said, fixing his damned shirt cuffs again.

  “And have you decided what to do with me, Lord Covington,” a woman’s voice came from the cottage door. Queen Catherine stood there, her hair
down about her shoulders, her costume a mere robe over her sleeping smock. Scarlet could see Jacey standing behind her, the young woman’s eyes wide as full moons.

  “God’s teeth,” Harry swore, striding toward her. “Who the hell untied them?” As he stepped up to the vulnerable, yet proud, figure of the queen, a large man, his skin dark as night, came out of the cottage to block her. Titus.

  Arms crossed, standing nearly a head taller than Harry, Titus was a mountain of dark granite. “I did.”

  Harry stopped before the Moor. “You imbecile. Now that they’ve seen me…” He threw a hand out to indicate the women standing behind him. “You’ve just sealed their deaths.”

  A soft cry came from Jacey.

  “No,” Titus said. “You said nothing bad would happen to her majesty and her lady. Yet bad has already happened.” His dark eyes caught the reflection of the torch Burdock held as he came closer, his men with him. Titus ignored them, his gaze moving to Scarlet. “And to the woman you said would be your wife.”

  “You bloody black devil,” Harry said. “You’ve just lost your position and…” He leaned in toward Titus. “You’ve just lost your sister.”

  Titus had a sister? One who he was willing to commit treason to protect?

  The man, Jack Menzies, raised a musket at Titus, obviously waiting for a word from Harry or Burdock. The other three men with Burdock stood ready and silent.

  Scarlet glanced at the perimeter of the clearing, but she saw no one. Had the Roses been left behind? Was this even Cat’s cottage? Was she truly all alone?

  “The word, Covington,” Burdock said.

  Harry threw his hand up with a casual wave of his fingers. “Kill him.”

  Before Scarlet could even contemplate the best form of attack or defense, she whipped the dagger from the pocket built into her shirt, aimed toward Jack, and with a precise shifting of her weight, released the blade through the air. The musket blast shattered the stillness, followed by Jack’s scream. He dropped the smoking gun to the dirt, his hands going to the blade stuck into the center of his throat.

  Scarlet’s gaze whipped back to Titus, and her stomach lurched as the large man doubled forward, falling onto the ground. Jacey screamed behind him, rushing out past the queen. Blood soaked outward, staining the shirt Titus wore, the red a horribly macabre contrast to the white linen. Scarlet’s hands flew to him, yanking at the shirt, but she was suddenly grabbed from behind, her feet lifted from the ground.

  “You little bitch,” Burdock yelled in her ear as he twirled her around, throwing her toward the corner of the cottage. Scarlet landed on her aching backside, her head jarred. She watched the other men run to Jack, trying to help him, but her aim had been true.

  “You can stand before God to be judged now, Jack,” she said, and then realized Harry stared at her next to the ladies bent over Titus.

  He wore a surprised grin. “My, Scar, you’ve become a bloodthirsty barbarian up here in the wilds.”

  She slid a hand against the curls stuck to her forehead and pushed up, yanking her borrowed skirt off her legs. Standing straight, wearing only her black fighting attire, she unsheathed a mattucashlass from her tall boot. “No, Harry, I’ve become a Highland Rose.”

  He laughed. “Is that supposed to strike fear in me?” He shook his head and waved to Burdock, who’d reloaded Jack’s musket. “I hate to say this, my dear. I’d thought to marry you, but now I see you are not lady enough to be my match. You can join your Highlander in death today.” He waved his hand at Burdock.

  Scarlet held her breath, staring at the muzzle of the gun. She was going to die.

  Aiden. Sorrow and remorse for the pain her death would cause him billowed up inside her. Would he ever forgive her for leaving Finlarig to find the queen and his sister? For leaving him alone like his mother had done?

  The night breeze blew, and her heart pounded, forcing Scarlet to inhale. With the cocked musket pointing directly at her chest, there was no escape. Even if she yanked out another dagger, the weapon would fire before she could move. She drew in her last breath.

  A scream, like that of a maniacal banshee, shattered the night.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “He’s my most trusted advisor,” King Charles said to Aiden. They stood inside the keep with Louise and Kerrick, whom he’d called down from the castle wall.

  Aiden glanced at his second in command. Kerrick’s gaze was steely. “Ye watched him, too?” Aiden asked Kerrick, and he nodded but held his tongue. Aiden turned to Charles. “My instincts are telling me that the man is up to something, and now he’s ridden off to give information to whomever his contact is.”

  “Contact?” Charles said. “Harry knows no one in this wild place. He’s a refined Englishman, a constant at the court.”

  Louise placed her hand on Charles’s arm. “Who has been currying favor with some of the more parliamentary-loving members in London,” she said softly. Charles turned, searching her gaze, and she nodded. “Your majesty, he has done everything to find your favor, yet spends his time talking with those who would love to see England run by a parliament without a king.”

  “He’s never given me any indication that he wants me off the throne,” Charles said, his gaze going to the floor as if he was turning inward to examine his interactions with the man.

  “I know nothing of your court,” Aiden said. “But I do know war. And Covington spoke with several of your guards in whispers, at length with the two nearest the door through the wall. After Covington departed, they did not re-lock the door.”

  “What?” the king said. “It’s a direct route into the castle for those who know where it sits.”

  Aiden nodded. “And Covington suggested leaving the rest of my men outside the castle walls when he heard ye wouldn’t send half of them away to find your queen.”

  Charles’s nostrils flared wide as he inhaled. “Arrest those two guards and lock the door.”

  “They have us at a disadvantage,” Kerrick said. “Seeing as how ye’ve given your men muskets, and we have swords.”

  Louise laid her palm flat over her bare chest. “Mon Dieu,” she said softly. “Perhaps I should sit with Lady Worthington and her pupils above.” She tugged on the king’s arm. “And you, Charles.”

  Fury sat in the set of Charles’s jaw as he realized he might have been tricked. He was a king, but he was also a man, his pride craving vengeance. “You go, my dearest,” Charles said. “I would have a word with these soldiers near the door in the wall.”

  Aiden didn’t know if Scarlet and her students were still in the castle. They hadn’t left by either of the means he knew about, so hopefully they were above, still strategizing. It was past midnight, the time when the ransom was supposed to be delivered. So any attack on the castle would come soon. He should probably point that out to Charles.

  Instead, Aiden and Kerrick followed the striding monarch out the front doors and down the steps into the torchlit bailey. Charles traipsed directly toward the door in the wall where two of his English soldiers stood, their muskets lit. His long, ruffled coat flapped as he walked, the slight breeze teasing the stiff curls of his ridiculously long wig.

  “Step aside,” Charles ordered, and the wide-eyed soldiers stepped to either side of the unbarred door. “Why was this not locked after Lord Covington left?” he asked, staring directly at the taller of the two.

  “Your majesty,” the soldier said, not meeting his gaze directly. “We were told to guard it but not to set the locks.”

  “For what reason?” Charles asked. He twisted his hand as if using a key, an order for the other soldier to lock the door. The man made a long show of looking for the large iron key, though he could easily have just lifted the bar that sat beside the door to brace it from the inside. “Speak up,” the king ordered.

  The two soldiers looked at one another, the shorter man sliding his hand to a dagger strapped to his side. Prickles of warning raised the fine hairs on the back of Aiden’s neck. There was desper
ation in the shorter soldier’s eyes, along with a solidifying determination. The two together meant that the soldier had decided to give his life to his cause. His anxious gaze narrowed on the king, his target.

  The soldier drew the dagger, whipping it from its sheath at the same time Aiden grabbed the king’s arm, yanking him back behind him. The king yelled in angry surprise, which turned to a shocked gasp as the blade flew through the air. Its point stuck into the ground where the king had been standing.

  Kerrick came up behind the king with Aiden in front, blocking him on both sides. Not that Aiden was a supporter of anything so blatantly English as the bloody king himself, but the man was unarmed, untrained, and on Campbell lands. Aiden wouldn’t have the clan blamed for Charles’s assassination.

  Everything happened like lightning then—fractured, powerful, and shooting off in all directions. Aiden pulled his claymore, standing before the king, and thrust forward, catching the end of the lit musket as it fired, deflecting the shot to the side.

  The king cursed behind him, and Aiden saw Kerrick grab the man around his middle and drag him, high-heel shoes kicking, across the bailey toward the safety of the keep. But before he could take three steps, the Campbell war cry rose up with mounting voices outside the wall. “Ionnsaigh! Campbells ionnsaigh!”

  With a forward thrust and slash, Aiden sliced off the arm of the shorter soldier, tipping the musket he was leveling to the ground, still clutched by his bloody hand. He screamed, falling, and Aiden leaped over him, his boot kicking off the man’s back as he slammed the hilt of his sword down on the tall soldier’s hand, forcing him to drop his musket. Aiden grabbed the man by the throat, shoving him against the stone wall, his two knuckles pressed into the man’s windpipe.

  “What the foking hell is going on?” Aiden asked, his question a command, yelled in the man’s face.