by Victoria Zak
Even though King Robert took him off the battlefield to protect his daughter, it didn’t mean he couldn’t aid in the king’s rebellion against England. He would always do what he had to do to rid Scotland of the English. Furthermore, there was always a battle to be fought and he would be prepared when the time came.
James led the way north toward the Great Glen. Mounted on his black mare, James looked very much the natural-born leader he was. The horse was massive, unusual for a female warhorse, but she was just as dominant as James. James and Conall took the dirt path deeper into the glen, while Rory and Magnus followed the trail to the loch. A flawless strategy was set in motion to draw out the prey, surround it, and move in for the kill.
James sensed that Conall needed to get something off his chest. They walked their fine steeds at a steady pace along the forest path, keeping alert, searching the thick vegetation for signs of deer.
“Abigale seems to be a fine lass,” Conall said.
James adjusted himself in the saddle. “Aye. Alice is verra fond of her.”
“Ye know, James, it might not be all that bad to have a wife warming yer bed every night.” Conall dared a glance at James, arched a black brow, and grinned.
“Ye can stop right there. I know what ye are doing. I took a vow to protect King Robert’s daughter and that I intend to do, for he has been nothing less than a father to me. I owe him for helping me get my lands back. I didnae ask for her to be my wife, nor do I want her.” For Christ sake, was he ever going to escape the lass?
Halting their horses, Conall tried to reason with James. “But ye have a wife, a verra beautiful one.”
James shot him a stern look, warning his friend to tread softly. “Did ye forget? We are Dragonkine, Conall! How do I explain this to her?” James pointed to his eyes as they turned to reptilian slits.
“Och—”
“Nay, I’m sending her to Bothwell Castle and that’s final!” James kicked his horse forward, ending their conversation.
The more Conall brought up Abigale, the more aggravated James became. After he’d left his bedchamber last night, he pondered ways to solve his problem. Sending Abigale to Bothwell was the best plan. They could still go on as husband and wife but would live separate lives. She would be close enough to protect, yet far away from him. ‘Twas a plan he was sure Abigale would favor, for she would be able to keep part of her dowry and he could keep his honor with the king.
He was letting her go. The realization hit his heart like the muscle was being squeezed by a steel-plated gauntlet. He felt the coldness of the steel bite deeper into his lifeline. James rubbed his chest as he felt his dragon mourn their loss.
“James, listen to me.”
James shook off his thoughts. It was apparent he had to listen to Conall because his best friend wasn’t taking no for an answer. God’s teeth, he could be a persistent nag.
“Think of it like this…like a battle. Ye fight for what’s right. ‘Tis a long hard battle, ye dinnae like it, but ye know at the end there will be peace. A woman is no different. Ye fight for her love, ye dinnae like the feelings she brings out of ye at first. But my friend, if she’s the one, trust me when I tell ye to let go and ye’ll find there’s nothing like a woman’s love to soothe yer dragon side.”
James thought for a moment. Had his friend gone daft? How could a ruthless, bloodthirsty dragon feel peace? Nonetheless, how can ye bring peace when ye’re no at ease with yerself?
“Conall, are ye daft? Did ye leave yer ballocks back home?”
It looked as if a huge boulder crashed down on Conall. “Rest assured, my laird, my balls are fine. I thank ye for yer concern.” Conall nodded and rode toward the sandy trail leading to the loch.
James let out a heavy sigh and continued through the glen, finally alone. Hellfire, his blood burned with irritation. His best friend talking about love and women…he had to have been bewitched. Conall Hamilton hadn't fallen under a lass’s spell—had he? “Nay.”
The squawk of a flock of blackbirds fleeing from a thicket on top of a hill caught James’s attention. He watched the birds as they scattered. There was no time to move as James saw an arrow fly through the air from the thicket and plunge into his heart with precise aim.
A wise man once said that patience was not a virtue, but a vice. A wicked moral, testing the true heart of a man. When fortitude was tested, it separated the weak from the strong and the faithful from the faithless. The man cloaked in black knew this all to be true; he lived it every day. Now as fate would have it, he would seek out what was rightfully his and gain its benefits. Not only did he have to possess patience, but he had to know when to strike and to push a little harder to achieve his goals. Perched high on top the hilltop hidden behind a thicket of dense blackthorns, he waited for his glory. If fate would allow, the Gods would bless him this day.
He reached behind him and pulled a long shaft from the leather quiver on his back. Memories of battle filled his mind. On the battlefield, James had been on bended knee as the King of Scotland knighted him, a banner was given in his honor, and the king’s daughter as a reward. It should have been him on bended knee being honored, not James. He should be the one with a banner to his name, with men aplenty behind him. His blood had been shed on the battlefield just like James. Shouldn’t he reap the benefits of land and a pretty princess to warm his bed? All his life, he had been second to James, but not today. He would outwit the clan’s chief, uproot the house of Douglas, and become a legend: the man who slayed the Bogeyman.
Dull, green leaves littered the blackthorn bushes on the hill. The blackberries tempted him and he picked one. He studied it for a moment before placing it on his tongue. A bitter taste shot through his mouth, reminding him winter was on its way. After first freeze, the berries would taste much sweeter.
He spat out the remainder of the sour berry, then walked over to the spot that would give him the best vantage point. Looking down upon the trail, he knew it wouldn’t be long; his target would approach soon. He felt in his bones that his time was now. He grabbed his longbow that was resting by an autumn-stricken tree and paused for a moment. As he looked at the misshapen, black skeleton of a blackthorn tree, he found they had similarities. He’d become as twisted as its branches.
To him, a traitor was nothing more than an actor upon the stage, only revealing what seemed fit at the moment. A master of lies and deception, he had played his part well. Just like patience, betrayal had become second nature. He wore a coat of many colors, but his purpose stayed true. Friend or foe, he did not care. He waited to make his move, showing no mercy to the fools who stood in his way.
Much more than retaliation for his misfortunes was on the line. He fought for someone more precious to him than the air he breathed. An innocent victim handpicked and strategically placed on the game board to be played by someone else for their gains. Nay, there was no turning back.
Feet planted true and firm like the excellent archer he was, he raised his bow and notched the shaft. He surveyed the trail once more as he drew back the poisoned arrow. The feathers on the shaft lightly brushed his jawline, reminding him of how sweet Abigale’s kisses would be and how sweet victory would taste. Soon, my pet, verra soon.
All thoughts pushed aside, he took aim and released the string, sending the arrow straight to his target. James’s heart.
9
Were it not for hope, the heart would break. ~ Scottish Proverb
A powerful force knocked James from his horse. He landed firmly on his back on the forest floor. Air rushed out of his lungs. He grabbed the arrow that had been plunged deep into his chest. Blood rushed over his hands and arms.
The smell of dirt and blood invaded his senses. He arched in pain, but there was no escaping the blazing heat burning through his veins like fire. Confusion hit him hard. One arrow shouldn’t cause this much pain; after all, he was immortal. Even after a fatal blow he could fight off death and regain his strength but this was different. This was sheer agony. Blood se
eped from his wound. A mere grunt was all James had left in him as he tried to yell for help.
Darkness was closing in. As he drifted in and out of consciousness, a vision of Abigale floating in the loch flashed before him. Long auburn hair splayed out around her flawless face, a thin wet shift clung to every curve as the water licked at her delectable body. James remembered how he itched to touch her, to taste her sweetness. Her body beckoned to be touched. Now it was too late…too late to tell her what a fool he had been…too late to claim her.
Abigale was up and ready for the day. She had planned to keep herself busy and rid herself of all thoughts of a certain Highlander. First thing this morn, she had helped in the kitchen, preparing the vegetables for the night’s feast and staying clear of anything that involved fire. By midday, she had crushed some lavender into a mixture to bathe the smelly dogs. If the hounds from hell were going to be regular visitors in her bedchamber, they had to be bathed, for they smelled like a dung heap. As she crumpled the lavender into a bowl, a little harder than needed, she vowed a few times to hate James Douglas for as long as she lived, especially after last night. It was a good thing he was nowhere in sight, because he would have received the sharp end of her tongue. “Barbarian,” she thought out loud.
After the challenging experience of bathing Lennox and Mahboon, Abigale made her way into the solar where Alice and Effie sat by the hearth, working on their embroidery. Abigale plopped down in a chair with a huff.
Concern creased Alice’s brows. “What be the worry, lassie?”
Effie spoke up before Abigale could respond, “Didn’t yer night go well with Laird Douglas?”
“Effie!” Alice scolded.
“Nay Alice, ‘tis alright,” Abigale reassured her. It was obvious her friends had been worried about her. In fact, she hadn’t said a word to them all day. "Nothing happened, I assure ye.” She crossed her arms and blew out a hard breath. “Alice, I dinnae like to be made a fool. My chambermaid said ye’d had told her that the laird wanted me in his bedchamber. ‘Tis no’ true. Ye tricked me.
Alice’s face saddened. “Och, I be so sorry. I was trying to help.”
“I’m no’ mad, Alice. At least no’ at ye.”
“What happened?” Alice asked.
“James had too much mead and passed out.” Purposely, she’d left out the small, yet mortifying detail of how foolish she’d felt having to sleep out in the horse stall with Fergus. No need to mark herself a total fool.
Alice snorted and held back a laugh.
“Alice, dinnae laugh, Abigale is devastated.” Effie jumped out of her chair, rushed over to her mistress, and embraced her with a sympathetic hug.
“Effie, I appreciate yer concern, but I’m more angry than devastated. When we first met, he told me he didnae want me as a wife. I guess…I mean…I just thought maybe he would change his mind.” Abigale shrugged and plucked at the hem of her apron. Looking up sheepishly, she revealed, “I spent the night in the stables with Fergus."
All of a sudden, the women broke out in laughter. Abigale joined in, for she had to laugh. Frankly, she was too flustered by James’s behavior to break down and cry. How could James be jealous of another man when he had no feelings for her? Why should he care whom she danced with or chose to talk to? It didn’t make sense to her.
Alice set her embroidery down and shook her head. “Highlanders. They’re so damn stubborn.” She turned to face Abigale. “Dear Lady Abigale, he’s trying to push ye away because he likes ye and he does no’ like how it is making him feel.”
“Oh Alice, I do wish it to be true, but he has made it clear where I stand.”
“Nonsense, lass, ye are a beautiful woman. A princess of Scotland. He should be so lucky to be wanted by ye.”
Abigale huffed and blew a strand of hair from her eyes. James brought out her curiosity, that was certain. She wanted to know how it would feel to be loved by a beautiful, intimidating Highlander. After seeing him naked, she wanted to kiss him and explore every muscled inch of his body, but most of all, she yearned to be loved or at least desired by this man.
Mayhap these feeling were stirred by her insecurities as a result of her father abandoning her at the abbey. Was she that desperate for a man’s love?
Alice held Abigale’s hands and sincerely looked into her eyes. “Sometimes a man needs a little push in order to see what he really wants and frankly, I’ve seen it in his eyes. He likes ye, lass. Laird Douglas might no’ show it but he does.”
“So, what am I to do then? That man is driving me daft.”
“Ye seduce him.” Effie casually said as if she had done this type of thing before.
Abigale’s eyes grew wide with shock. “Seduce him?”
Effie stood up from her chair, unlaced the front of her dress just enough so her breasts teased. She uncoiled her red hair from its bun and flicked it free. “This is how it’s done.” Effie sauntered seductively over to Abigale.
Abigale could feel her cheeks blush in embarrassment. What was Effie up to?
The redhead placed a hand on the back of Abigale’s chair and leaned forward until the tops of her breasts bulged from her dress. With her free hand, she playfully rubbed her neck and trailed her fingertips down toward her chest. “My laird, do ye see anything ye like?" she purred.
Abigale’s cheeks blushed. She playfully pushed Effie away and started to giggle.
“Effie!” Alice reprimanded.
“What?” Effie stood and shrugged. “If she wants to get the laird’s attention, she must have some tricks up her sleeve."
Abigale tried to stop laughing. She could see why the men took a liking to Effie. Unlike herself, Effie was confident, beautiful, and bold. If only she could be. Finally, she caught her breath. “I’m afraid, lassies, no matter how much I show my bits, the laird does no’ desire me.”
Alice picked up her needlework and tugged a needle through the fabric with a sly grin. “Rubbish,” she harrumphed. “The laird watches ye like he wants to tear yer dress off yer body. Dinnae worry about a thing.”
Abigale’s mood started to lighten. It felt good to talk freely with Alice and Effie. This must be how it felt to have a sister—someone to jest with, someone to confide in, someone to love unconditionally. The sisters at the abbey were friendly but this was different. Without judgment or punishment, she could be herself.
Thunderous footsteps and loud voices rang throughout the great hall in panic, sending the women to their feet. They rushed to the hall to see what the ruckus was about. What she saw scared her more than being captured by the English. Conall held a bloody, lifeless body in his arms. With haste, she hurried over to Conall. “Blessed Mary!" Abigale’s hand flew over her mouth in horror. “James?”
Conall pushed past Abigale. “Alice, fetch the healer,” he roared. “He’s been shot with an arrow in the chest.”
“Wait, I can help,” Abigale pleaded.
“We dinnae have time to spare, my lady. Our chief needs the healer.”
Blood poured continuously from his chest and splattered on to the stone floor. Abigale’s instincts took over.
“Conall, take James to his bedchamber and Alice, bring me blankets, lots of them. Effie boil some water.” Abigale began to make her way to the stairs, but when she looked back, Conall still stood looking confused. “Conall Hamilton, if ye dinnae move yer arse, I’ll see it hung!”
Taken aback by her sternness, Conall shot up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
James’s bloodied body lay on the bed. Abigale started to rip his tunic off and examine the extent of his wounds. “How did this happen?”
“My lady, we were out hunting…we split up…and…"Conall rubbed his hand through his hair and started to pace a trench in the floor beside the bed. “He was shot with an arrow. I had to snap the shaft off at his chest.
In her experience mending wounds, she had never seen a man survive with this much blood loss. “We need to stop the bleeding.”
Alice came bolting throug
h the door with arms full of blankets. Abigale grabbed a small cloth and blotted the blood away from the wound. If only she could stop the bleeding long enough, she might be able to find the arrowhead.
Lifting the blood-soaked cloth, she saw an inch of the shaft poking through his flesh. “Alice, go into the top drawer of my nightstand. There’s a satchel… in that satchel ye'll find a reddish-purple flower… I need it worked into a paste with boiling hot water. Can ye do that for me?”
“Aye, my lady.” Before Abigale could finish her request, Alice had already rushed out of the chamber with the purple flower in her hand.
“James.” Abigale touched his face and he moaned in pain. “I have to remove the arrow. Bite down on this.” Abigale placed a rolled-up cloth in James’s mouth and motioned for Conall to assist her.
“Rory, Marcus, hold his body down. Magnus, give me yer whiskey.” Abigale took the whiskey and poured it over the wound, which caused James to arch in tremendous pain. “Sorry.” Abigale winced.
As the whiskey washed away the pooling blood, Abigale had a good view of the wooden shaft. Thank God, the head had not punctured his heart. Gently, she pulled on the shaft, testing how deep its barbs had set in. “The head is stuck.” Abigale turned to the men. "Do ye have an arrow spoon…an arrow puller?”
The men looked at her like she had gone daft. Arrow spoon?
Abigale took that as a nay. Continuing to blot away the blood, she noticed more of the arrowhead was showing than before. Unbelievable. She paused and observed James’s wound closer. ’Tis like his body is pushing the arrow out from his chest.
Gently, Abigale wrapped her hand around the arrowhead and maneuvered it out of his chest, causing James to jerk with such force that his arm slipped free and threatened to hit Abigale. Rory strained to gain control again. “Sorry…my lady," he grunted. “’Tis like trying to hold down a hogget during a shearing.”
As the blood rushed over her hands, Abigale didn’t have much time to think. She needed to seal up her husband’s wound, but which plan of action should she take? If she used a hot poker, the pain alone could kill him, or she could place her faith in healing herbs. One wrong move and she could become a widow.
