The Courageous Highlander

by Lily Baldwin

A curious smile curved his lips. “Do ye know me, lass?”

  She closed her eyes. Her head ached. “I...I think I do,” she said weakly.

  His soft chuckle encouraged her eyes to open. She met his gaze.

  His face came into focus. “I’m quite certain we’ve never met before. To which clan do ye belong?”

  Clan?

  She searched her mind for an answer, but only vague images came to her. “I...I don’t know,” she murmured. Her head pained her so badly, and her stomach hurt, and thinking was so hard. “I cannot remember.”

  His brows drew together. “Can ye tell me anything about yerself?”

  She closed her eyes, searching her mind for something clear amidst the haze. “My...my name is Gwynn.”

  Brows drawn, he seemed to study her for a moment. “Ye told me so already,” he said gently.

  “I’m sorry,” she replied, believing she’d disappointed him.

  His face softened. “Nay, lass,” he crooned. “Ye’ve done nothing wrong. I only wish to know more so that I can better help ye.” He took a deep breath. His expression held a serious note. “Ye must have been separated from yer kin, traveling west to the Hebrides. Whatever horrors ye lived through to have been abandoned on Beinn Dìomhair of all mountains...I dread to think upon.”

  She lifted her shoulder. “I remember nothing.” Pressing a trembling hand to his chest, she smiled slightly. “That’s not true. I remember yer heartbeat. It’s been drumming in my ear.”

  He cleared his throat. “We’ve been lying like this for nigh on two days.”

  She closed her eyes while absently playing with the hairs on his chest. “Have we now,” she said softly, still feeling as if she were in a dream world, but one so unlike the harsh place in her nightmare that had pulled her from her sleep.

  She breathed deeply, inhaling his musky scent. She felt so warm and safe. Nuzzling into the heat, she closed her eyes.

  “Gwynn,” she heard her protector say.

  “Aye,” she rasped as she slowly raised her head to meet his gaze. “Ye’re blushing,” she observed lazily.

  A smile broke across his face. “I’ve been wanting to introduce myself, but I’ve never had to give my name to a woman with whom I’m lying naked.”

  “’Tis understandable that ye would—” Her words stuck in her throat.

  Naked!

  She sat up with a jerk, grasping the fur to cover her breasts, leaving her back exposed. “Why are we naked?”

  No sooner had the question fled her lips, than the chill in the air bit at her bare skin. In a rush, she lay back down, burrowing beneath the fur and pressing her shivering form against the heat of his body.

  “Question asked, question answered,” she managed to say while her teeth chattered.

  His strong, rough hands rubbed her arms and back. “When I found ye, ye were nigh frozen to death. We’ve no way to build a fire. I did what I had to do to keep ye alive.”

  She peered up at him from beneath the fur, her head angled but still resting on his warm, broad chest. “I’m grateful to ye...” She cleared her throat. “I...er...still don’t know yer name.”

  He held her tighter. “My name is Owen. I whispered it to ye while ye slept so that we wouldn’t be strangers.” He looked at her curiously. “Ye’ve had a lot of nightmares.” He paused, again giving her an assessing look. “Do ye remember how ye came to be alone high up on this mountain? ‘Tis a hard one to climb, even for me. Few men have dared attempt its icy slopes.”

  She closed her eyes, trying to remember...

  In her mind’s eye, she saw herself, tall and beautiful with gleaming hair. She saw a cage and breaking chains, a vibrant glen, and a man, a human man, the very man within whose arms she now lay.

  And then everything came rushing back.

  She remembered it all—lifetimes of regret, her lost beloved, the beckoning pool, and the fairy’s promise that all could be made right.

  But she could tell none of this to Owen.

  “I don’t remember,” she answered simply.

  And then her stomach growled so loudly it startled her.

  “What was that,” she blurted, her eyes widening.

  He chuckled. “Either ye’ve swallowed a wild boar or I’d say ye’re famished.”

  His words made her happy. “I’m hungry?”

  He nodded.

  Her smile broadened, cracking her dry lips, causing her to wince from the pain.

  “Ye’ve likely never been so thirsty, I’d wager,” he added.

  “I’m thirsty,” she said in awe, touching her mouth.

  Pain twisted her stomach, and her lips were sore; in fact, her whole body ached—but it didn’t matter.

  She had done it—she was hungry and thirsty and sore, which meant...

  She was human again.

  “Here,” he said, pressing a costrel to her lips. She drank several sips, savoring the feel of ale rushing down her parched throat. “’Tis delicious,” she exclaimed. “Never has anything tasted so fine.”

  “After the two days ye’ve had, I’m not surprised.” He cleared his throat again, his voice taking on a serious note as he continued. “Gwynn, how are ye feeling? I mean, are ye well enough to travel? Ye see, we’ve only what’s left in this costrel for ale and a few scraps of dried meat. The going will not be easy. ‘Tis dangerous, to be sure...” his words trailed off, but his meaning was clear. If they remained in the cave much longer, they would die.

  She hated to throw off the fur. Long had it been since she had known cold. The fairy had warned that being human again wouldn’t be easy. She met Owen’s concerned gaze and took a deep breath.

  For him, she would trek through the fires of Hell.

  Sitting up, clutching the fur to her chest, she clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. “I’ll do it,” she said firmly.

  Admiration filled his gaze. “All right then, lass. Yer tunic and underdress are spread out over there. On the count of three, ye must rise and dress quickly. I’m afraid yer tunic might be stiff in places with ice. It will likely be painfully cold. Ye must push through the discomfort. Are ye ready?”

  She swallowed hard and nodded.

  “One. Two. Three.”

  It was worse than she could have imagined. The frigid cold raked over her flesh. She jumped to her feet heedless of her nakedness—there was no time for modesty. This was survival.

  She pulled her kirtle over her head and cried out from the shock of the icy fabric. “I think I might be better off naked!”

  “Ye’ll think differently when we’re out in the open and the harsh wind can reach ye.”

  Tears stung her eyes from the pain. Her hands shook as she fumbled with her tunic. Wearing naught but his hose, he walked toward her. In the dim light of the cave, the corded muscles in his chest and stomach tightened and shifted with his movements. Her gaze was drawn to the defined lines of his hips that disappeared beneath his hose. More than anything, she longed to be beneath the warmth of his fur, pressed against his rugged strength.

  The wind howled beyond the cave. She cringed at the sound.

  “Here,” he said gently, helping her pull her tunic over her head. And then he wrapped his heavy fur around her shoulders, which he fastened in place with a large, ornately carved brooch.

  “Thank ye, truly, but I cannot. Ye need this.”

  He smiled down at her. “I will do just fine with yer cloak,” he said before pulling on his own tunic.

  She was glad that his body was now shielded from the cold but regretted no longer having a view of his strong arms and powerful torso. She continued to watch him while he folded his plaid, buckled it around his hips, and spread the fabric over his shoulders. Next, he strapped his quiver of arrows to his back and slung his bow across his chest. Then he swung her cloak around his broad shoulders. On his tall, muscular frame it looked more like a cape that a fine lady might wear in the spring. Finally, he picked up a small satchel.

  She held out her hand
. “I can carry that.”

  He shook his head slightly as he crossed the satchel over his head. “Save yer strength for the descent.” He turned about to face the cave entrance. “I’m not worried about a small bag. I’ve a much bigger load to take down the mountain.”

  She looked around the cave, then raised her brows in question.

  “Tis the reason for which I hiked up this forsaken summit in the first place,” he said as his only answer. Then he took her hand. “Brace yerself.”

  They walked the few steps to the mouth of the cave. She squared her shoulders, determined to be strong.

  How much colder could it really be? Out there at least the sun was shining.

  She followed him out into the bright light. The frigid blast of wind stole her breath and stung her eyes. Shoulders raised around her ears, she cast her gaze downward to escape the biting wind, but the sun’s light reflecting off the snow was blinding.

  “Yer eyes will grow accustomed to the sun,” he called above the roar of the wind. She watched him squat down in front of a large mound. He dug into the snow with his bare hands, revealing a mighty stag, which he seized and lifted, growling from the strain. “’Tis frozen,” he snarled. She watched as his brow furrowed with determination. When the animal was settled across his shoulders, he said, “Come. We must hurry. Ye cannot withstand this cold for long.”

  Chapter Six

  Owen gazed back at the petite woman carefully scooting down a bare, flat rock on her bum. Stands of brown hair escaped the hood of his fur, licking at her freckled cheeks. She looked particularly small enclosed in the voluminous folds of his cloak, but she exuded determination with her furrowed brow and firmly set jaw. She had all the grit of a true mountain lass.

  “Ye can do it,” he said encouragingly.

  “I’ve no doubt that one day I will die, but this is not that day,” she vowed before sliding the rest of the way down and landing with a slight thud in the snow.

  He walked the few steps back up the mountain to her side and helped her to her feet, smiling. “Ye’ve gumption, lass.”

  “Gumption, or is it that I’m too stubborn to let the mountain win?”

  “Bravery often arises out of the need to cheat death,” he answered. “’Tis why most of us are still alive.” He considered her weary eyes. “We can rest awhile.”

  She shook her head. “I will sit when there is a fire beside me and a warm bowl of food in my hands.”

  He nodded his approval. “Spoken like a true MacArthur.”

  A smile slowly spread across her face. “A true MacArthur. I like that.”

  He cupped her cold cheek. “Until we find out who ye truly are, ye may consider yerself an honorary MacArthur.” Dropping his hand, he took a deep breath. “Now, let us continue down. The hardest stretches are not yet behind us.”

  Worry for her tightened his chest. She had strength of will, to be sure, but it would take more than stubborn determination to ensure she made it safely to where MacArthur lands began.

  It would take Heaven’s blessing.

  Their path was treacherous and the cold unforgiving. More than once she slipped, her cry renting the air. In the lead, with the stag on his shoulders, he knelt quickly to the ground to block her way, saving her from plummeting into an icy abyss. On these occasions, they both stayed motionless while they caught their breath.

  After a particularly terrifying slip, she asked, “Why do ye live in such a hostile place?”

  He glanced around at the icy rocks and sparse pines and the steep incline still before them. Then he met her questioning gaze. “Here, within the mountains, we are free.”

  Shivering, her only answer was to raise a brow at him.

  Clearly, she believed their mountain life came with a great price, and she wasn’t wrong. Every year, he lost kin to cold and disease.

  He nodded. “Ye’re right. ‘Tis a hard life we’ve chosen, to be sure. We must defend ourselves against months of scarcity. But, up here, our weapons are used only for hunting.” He gestured to the land stretching out beyond the treetops for leagues. “Men down below kill each other to possess the finest lands.” He lifted his shoulders. “We would rather work harder at living with what we have and know peace.”

  Her teeth chattering, she nodded. “Despite current appearances,” she said, her shoulders huddled around her ears and her body shaking, “I believe ye’re very wise, Owen of the mountains.”

  Her words brought a memory to the fore of his thoughts. “My mother, may God rest her soul, used to tell me that bottom dwellers thought us mad, and then she would chuckle and say, ‘I’ll remember those poor, deluded souls in my prayers’.” He laughed softly, then shrugged. “For me, ‘tis all I know. Clan MacArthur is part of these mountains, no less than the ice or snow.” He stood, and balancing the stag with one hand, he offered his other hand to help her to her feet. “Come. We’ve not far now.”

  “At last,” Owen breathed with relief when he spied a broad, round cliff below them. Then he turned and gazed up at Gwynn. “’Tis MacArther’s Bluff and marks the true beginning of our lands.” Turning back, he scanned the cliff with interest as he renewed his descent.

  Although tradition did forbid his warriors to climb beyond that place—only the laird had the secret mountain’s blessing—having been delayed, he fully expected some of his men to be camped beneath the bluff, awaiting his return with fresh supplies.

  Just as new hope filled his heart, he faltered and drew to a stop.

  “What is it?” Gwynn asked behind him.

  From his vantage point above the bluff, he saw no tracks leading to or away from the cliff. Nor did campfire smoke coil in thick ribbons toward the sky. His chest tightened with apprehension.

  Something must have happened while he was away.

  He turned to Gwynn whose drawn face carried a bluish tint. “I know ye’re weary, wearier than ye’ve ever been, but we must make careful haste.”

  Her brows drew together. “I see yer worry. What fresh folly has befallen us?”

  “My fear is not for us as we’ve made it through the worst. I fear something has befallen my people.”

  Her chin lifting with fresh resolve, she looked him square in the eye. “I’m stronger than ye know, and I owe ye my life. There is nothing I would refuse ye.”

  His nostrils flared as a deep gratitude filled his heart. “Come then,” he urged her. “And hurry. My village is not far.” His heart hammered in his chest. “I only hope we’re not too late.”

  Chapter Seven

  Gwynn’s heart began to pound harder when Owen’s village came into view, but not from fatigue, for their destination was in sight. Rather, what she could see from their greater height was the cause of her trepidation. Looking down at the village carved into the mountain, there was a tall gate, marking the northernmost entrance. Past the gate, broad stairs, cut into the rock face, curved down both sides of a keep that jutted out of the mountainside in the shape of a crescent moon. Beyond that, she could see a wide courtyard, surrounded by a thick, retaining wall. At the center of the courtyard burned a massive bonfire. Tall flames danced wildly in the frigid wind, blowing thick ribbons of scented smoke in their direction.

  She inhaled deeply, and her heart sank. “Rosemary!”

  Clan MacArthur burned a prayer to the Heavens, and not just any prayer—a prayer of remembrance.

  “Death has come to my people,” he cried as he hastened down the path, leading to the gate.

  Despite how her frozen legs screamed from the effort, she charged after him, slipping occasionally, but she managed to stay on her feet.

  As they approached the wooden gate that marked the northern most entry into the village, guards positioned on the battlements spied their descent and lifted horns to their lips to announce Owen’s return.

  A creaking sound soon replaced the blare of horns, and she imagined thick-armed, Highland warriors on the other side of the gate, dressed in furs, pushing a wheel in unison to open the way. As soo
n as the gap was wide enough for Owen and the stag slung across his shoulders to pass through, he did so, and Gwynn hurried just behind.

  Not unlike what she had envisioned, she spied several warriors changing direction to begin pushing a wheel that would close the gate behind them; meanwhile, scores of villagers rushed up the stairwells built into the rock on either side of the keep to greet their laird. Gwynn’s already pounding heart sped up as she listened to the chorus of voices beseeching their laird.

  “A fever came.”

  “I’ve lost my son, my sweet lad!”

  “My wife is gone!”

  “Why does God punish us?”

  Sliding the stag off his shoulders, Owen held his hands out, silencing his people. “Where is Moriag? Where is our healer?”

  “Dead,” someone shouted.

  “She was one of the first to go!”

  Owen raked his hand through his hair. “How could we lose so many so quickly,” he exclaimed.

  A woman stood on the step just below Owen. She was draped in stag hide and had sorrowful blue eyes and wore a careworn expression. “The smitty’s wife awoke not four days ago, delirious and burning hot. Moraig did all she could, but poor Ainslee died only hours later. By the next day, another nine had taken ill, including Moraig. Hamish, Mary, and Finn have died. Chrissa’s wee bairn, Elspeth, and Kenneth and Ol’ Mack seem to be over the worst, but one still suffers.”

  Owen made the sign of the cross and closed his eyes. Gwynn could not see his face, but she could feel his sorrow. When he opened his eyes, he glanced back at her, his nostrils flared with determination. Her heart filled as she watched him rise above his pain to fulfill his responsibility to his people.

  He reached for her, gently pulling her onto the step next to his. Then he called out for all to hear. “We shall tend to the dead when we’ve rid our clan of this plague. Who else yet suffers?”

  A silence fell over Clan MacArthur.

  After several moments, the same woman placed her hand on her laird’s arm. “Lady Margaret,” she said softly.

  He sucked in a sharp breath and seized Gwynn’s hand. Everyone stepped aside to allow them passage as he set off running down the wide stairs. The stairs forked, one set continuing down to the courtyard, the other curved around to the side of the keep, ending in front of a large wooden door.