Her Highland Defender (Scottish Highlander Romance)

by Barbara Bard

  Connor’s cocky expression melted into a vulnerable frown. “Aye,” he said, “I remember that day well.”

  Finlay took another step forward, inching his way closer to Connor. “Then ye ken of the man and his clan who brought him back. Ye were young, but I’m sure ye remember a man carrying yer father in, half-clinging tae life. I’m sure ye recall of the ointments and tonics that same man gave him tae assist him in coming back tae his full self.”

  Connor nearly slid of the horse. “That…was ye…me God. I remember noo. I just…never knew yer name.”

  Finlay held out his hands. “It was me, son. And as cruel as it is tae use that memory in me favor—I ask ye tae spare me and me people from a fight, just as I wish tae spare ye.”

  Connor gripped his saddle, Finlay sensing the intense debate Connor was going through in his mind.

  “Ye saved me father,” Connor said. “That was one of the worst days of me life when we thought we would lose him. I loved me father. He was everything. I thought I lost him…but you ye brought him back. I owe ye fer that. Me family owes ye fer that.”

  One of Sir Ian’s men in the rear, scowling from the change in tone, reached fer his sword. “Ye damn fool!” he screamed we are here tae dae a job!”

  Connor snapped his fingers, his men drawing their weapons, turning, and circling around Sir Ian’s men in the blink of an eye. They drew down on Sir Ian’s men before they had a chance to engage, outnumbered with the tips of swords pointing straight toward their necks, torsos, and spines.

  “Dispense of yer weapons,” Connor said, looking at each of Sir Ian’s men. “Noo.”

  Sir Ian’s men hesitated.

  Connor turned his horse, clenching a fist. “I won’t ask ye again. Next time I snap fingers, yer lives will end where we stand.”

  Sir Ian’s men exchanged glances as they began to dispose of their weapons on the ground, their swords, shields, and spears, clanking together as they fell to the ground.

  “Ride back tae yer master,” Connor said. “Tell him the deal is off. Then flee from here as fast as ye can, otherwise I’ll chase ye down and destroy ye.”

  Sir Ian’s men turned around in a collective hustle, all of them huffing and puffing their defeat as they rode hastily away from the village.

  Connor dismounted his horse, approaching Finlay with a more relaxed composure. “Ye are a lucky man, Highlander. I never back down from a fight.” He extended his hand.

  Finlay glanced down at the young man’s hand, smirking as he slapped his aging palm into Connor’s and shook. “Then let’s hae a drink as speculate as tae who would hae been the victor.”

  Connor and his men followed Finlay into the tavern. The Bairdsmen took a while to settle, jabbing at Connor with their words for a spell before Finlay told them to calm down. After a few drinks, they eventually settled themselves at a table, each man sipping at ale and whiskey as Finlay and Connor took a table to themselves in the corner.

  “How is yer father?” Finlay asked. “I hae nae seen him since that day.”

  Connor took a pull of his drink. “He passed nae that long ago.”

  Finlay held up his drink. “I am sorry.”

  Connor waved his hand through the air. “He was old. It was bound tae happen.”

  “He was a fine man. I only ken of him from that one interaction. I just happened tae stumble across him in the woods.”

  “A fortuitous encounter. As I said, I am grateful fer it.”

  They drank more, speaking of their families, Finlay telling Connor of his uncertainty of his son’s whereabouts, of the whole ordeal.

  “It is a difficult time,” Connor said. “I hae made poor decisions as well. And he’s in love. He’s trying tae preserve it in a time where there are nae certainties.”

  “I appreciate ye identifying with me son. But he is still being a fool, nonetheless. It is bad enough we are dealing with the Hands of God. Him bringing this madness that came about from that women has only increased the weight of the burden.”

  Connor sat back. “What dae ye ken of the Hands of God?”

  “I imagine as much as ye.”

  “Me father ken of the man that leads them. His name is Simon. He kens well of his past. He knew him a long time before he became the man that called himself Simon.”

  Finlay was intrigued, leaning in and desperate to hear more. “What dae ye mean?” he asked.

  “Simon wasn’t always called Simon. It was the name he chose after his wife and child were murdered. The story is that he blamed it on his Sassenach masters, the same one who apparently just perished when his castle was burned to the ground.”

  “Fascinating…so…perhaps he is on a mission of revenge?”

  Connor shook his head. “Naw. I dinnae think so. Simon is committed tae what he feels is a religious crusade. But there is something aboot his past that he does nae ken is still a factor.”

  “I dinnae understand…what dae ye mean?”

  Connor leaned in, lowering his tone as if he were divulging a secret. “Simon’s wife and child are nae dead. They did nae perish in a fire. They were lusted after by a frien of the Sassenach lord that Simon just burned. The Sassenach lord was commanded by his frien, a very wealthy and prominent Lord in the Sassenach hierarchy, tae deliver him Simon’s wife tae him so he could wed her. The Lord that Simon killed ken that if Simon discovered this, being that he had nae choice but tae oblige his Sassenach frien, he would surely lose his most favored and lethal knight. So, he concocted a ruse, thinking that if Simon were tae be led tae believe that his wife and child perished, he would simply grieve instead of seek revenge.” A laugh. “Obviously, this dinnae gae according tae plan.”

  Finlay sat back in chair, absolutely stunned. “How sure are ye of this?”

  “Me uncle was the one who was paid by the dead Sassenach lord tae kidnap Simon’s wife and child. They were then delivered back tae England. He confessed this on his death bed tae me nae mair than two years ago…”

  Finlay looked away, absolutely mesmerized and shocked by Connor’s story. “If this is true,” he said, “then that changes everything. Simon and the Hands of God will continue their campaign…but if he were tae be told this, if this could be proven tae him somehow, it might serve tae our advantage.”

  Connor shook his head. “He is nae a levelheaded man. Reasoning with him may nae work.”

  Finlay held up a finger. “We hae tae try. We possess knowledge noo that may save us from absolute annihilation.”

  Finlay then sensed someone entering the tavern, a presence he knew well. When he looked up, he saw Gavina, and embraced her as she walked up to the table.

  “Are ye well?” Finlay asked.

  Gavina nodded. “I hae much tae tell ye, starting with the fact that I saw Eamon.”

  Finlay squinted. “Where was he going?”

  “East.”

  Finlay closed his eyes, knowing without a doubt that his son was going against his wishes. “Come,” he said to Gavina, gesturing to his table. “Sit. I maist hear this…” He thought of the secret related to Simon that Connor had divulged. “And I need tae tell ye something as well.”

  Chapter 23

  Eamon awoke with panting breaths, his body covered with a thin layer of sweat. Agatha, resting beside him, was stirred from her slumber as he shot up. She rested a hand on his chest, feeling the frantic rhythm of his heart beating through his muscles.

  “What is it?” Agatha inquired. “Why does your heart race so?”

  Eamon ran his fingers through his hair, slick from the amount of perspiration that had accumulated. “A nightmare,” he said. “I dreamt that…” He couldn’t bring himself to say the rest.

  Agatha positioned herself in front of Eamon, cradling his face in her hands and looking him square in the eye. “Speak, my love. Tell me what troubles you.”

  Eamon shook his head. “I dreamt…I dreamt that the village was burned tae the ground. All of me family was inside, and I…I could nae save them.” He pressed his
hand to his chest, trying to slow his breathing.

  “It was just a bad dream, Eamon,” Agatha said. “Nothing more.”

  “But it felt so real. It felt mair like a prophecy than just a nightmare.”

  Agatha embraced Eamon, Eamon resting his head against her chest and taking comfort in the embrace. “You are here with me,” she said. “All is well.”

  Eamon stood up, moving toward the flap of the tent and stepping outside. They had set up camp not far from the village where they had encountered the Hands of God, the early morning mist covering the area in a thin and foreboding veneer. Eamon breathed in the cold of morning, his torso feeling a chill as the wind licked at the perspiration that had gathered.

  Agatha came up behind Eamon, wrapping her arms around his waist and noting the dismayed expression on his face. “Talk to me,” she said. “What is the matter?”

  Eamon closed his eyes. “I am worried, Agatha. I am worried that we hae made a mistake.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Eamon took a moment to muster the words, playing back the events of the last few days in his head and feeling like it was all a sign, indicators from someone, dare he say God, telling him that his plight to flee the Highlands with the woman he loved was a dire mistake.

  “I dinnae think we can keep going,” Eamon said. “I think it is unwise tae continue this journey.”

  Agatha held a hand to her chest. Eamon could tell from her expression that she was concerned at his change of heart. “But what will we do?” she asked. “Where will we go?”

  Eamon turned and faced her. “We maist head back tae the village, tae me people. I fear that the further we travel, the mair we welcome the possibility of a dire fate fer us both.”

  “But we have come so far,” Agatha protested. “Will we not run into the Hands of God if we journey back? They fled in the direction from where we have travelled from.”

  Eamon shook his head. “We hae tae return. The Hands of God are going tae mount an attack on me people. I hae tae be there. I hae tae take up arms with them and ensure the survival of me clan.”

  “And what of me? What will I do? Where will I go?”

  Eamon’s eyes went wide as he placed his hands upon Agatha’s shoulders. “Ye will stay with me, me love,” he said. “That has nae changed.”

  “But what of your father? He gave you instructions to take me out of the Highlands.”

  Eamon hung his head. “Those are repercussions I will hae tae face on me own. I ken that I hae gone against me father’s wishes. I ken that. But circumstances hae changed. War is tearing apart the Highlands. The Hands of God hae disrupted everything. Nae a thing is the same. Perhaps, at least I hope, me father will understand this.”

  Agatha hugged Eamon, squeezing him tight as she shut her eyes and felt them begin to perspire. “I am scared, Eamon,” she said, concern lacing her tone. “I am worried that something bad will happen tae us.”

  Eamon shook his head. “I will nae let anything happen tae ye, me love. I promise ye that. But we maist abandon our original plan. It is naw longer viable. We maist return tae the village. We maist gae back tae me people.”

  Agatha nodded. “I understand. And I know that you will not let harm befall me—but what of the Hands of God? The man that leads them is so treacherous. He is so vile, so evil. There is no anticipating his actions. He is unpredictable.”

  “I ken…I dae…but it is a risk we maist take. We maist gae back tae the village. We maist move noo, afore it is tae late…”

  Agatha wrapped her arms around Eamon’s waist. “Make love to me,” she said. “Make love to me one more time before we go. I fear that we might not have a chance to down the road…”

  Eamon responded by kissing Agatha passionately on her lips, stripping her garb as they moved back to the tent. Once they were naked, Eamon mounted Agatha, pinning her hands above her head as he began grinding on top of her.

  They moved in sync, their bodies moving together… Eamon increased the speed of his thrusting.

  “Yes,” Agatha whispered. “Faster, my love…”

  Eamon obliged, moving deeper inside Agatha with each thrust, her eyelids fluttering as she reached the moment of climax. They completed at the same time, they were kissing each other passionately after they finished. They laid there for only a few minutes to catch their breath, and after redressing and packing up their camp, they mounted their horses and began the long journey back home. They were suspicious at every turn, turning their heads and feeling that Simon and the Hands of God would attack them at any moment.

  ***

  Simon strolled into the Highlander camp consisting of ten Highlander men, all of them bandits, all of them clad in black and standing at attention as the men dressed in gray tunics with the flaming crosses approached them. The leader of the group, a man named Desmond, drew his sword and ordered his companions to stand at attention.

  “Halt!” Desmond shouted, pointing his sword at Simon. “Who are ye? What are ye doing here?”

  Simon did not follow Desmond’s orders. He continued walking toward them, circled by his men and showing no signs of fear or any other kind of emotion.

  “I said Halt!” Desmond said, stepping closer with his sword raised. “I’ll drop ye where ye stand!”

  Simon tilted his head up to the air, like he was sniffing out the situation like a dog. “Are you the one in charge?”

  Desmond gritted his teeth. “I am the one in charge. Aye.”

  Simon removed his sword in the blink of an eye, burying it into the stomach of Desmond and dropping him to his knees. Desmond dropped his sword, keeling over and falling face first onto the ground. His men around him stood back as the Hands of God took out their weapons and held them against the throats of the other men. It was quick. Desmond’s people did not have the time to react.

  “Is he still in charge?” Simon said.

  Desmond’s men trembled, each of them going pale as they felt steel tips being pressed against their flesh.

  “Drop your weapons,” Simon said. “Do it now.”

  Desmond’s men let their swords fall to the ground, their hands held up in submission as the Hands of God kicked their weapons away.

  “On your knees,” Simon said. “All of you. Do it now.”

  Desmond’s men complied, dropping to their knees and awaiting their fates. Simon walked around them in a circle, eyeballing each man, sizing up their frames and build. “Who are you men?” he asked. “What clan do you pledge allegiance to?”

  One of Desmond’s men, through quivering lips, said: “We hae naw clan.”

  “So,” Simon said, “you are outlaws? Is this correct?”

  The man nodded. “Aye. Aye, we are.”

  “So, you only pledge loyalty to yourselves. You don’t pledge loyalty to any Sassenach or Highlander overlords…are you God-fearing men?”

  The man nodded again. “Aye…Aye, we are God-fearing men.”

  Simon came up behind the man and placed his hands on his shoulders. “That is good…That is very good. We are God-fearing men as well. Do you know who we are?”

  The man licked his lips. “Ye are the ones they call ‘The Hands of God’.”

  Simon smiled. “Yes. Indeed, we are. And we are at the tail-end of our campaign to rid the Highlands of evil. But we are short on numbers, and God has seen fit for me to recruit more. The proposition here is simple—join us or die. The choice is yours.”

  The man looked around to his companions, each of them exchanging silent glances of contrition. “We will,” the man said. “We shall join ye. We dinnae wish tae die.”

  Simon patted the man on the back. “Very good, my friend. You have made a wise decision. Now, take up your swords. We are embarking toward a village belonging to the Bairds. Do you know of them?”

  The man nodded. “Aye. We dae.”

  “Then the matter is settled,” Simon said. “Come. We ride. Night will fall soon, and upon this night we shall spill blood. We shall fulfill God’s int
entions to purge these lands. The moment of triumph is upon us…and we will not fail.’’

  ***

  Finlay was in the center of the village, watching as his people and Connor’s set about arming themselves and preparing for the incoming battle they knew would arrive at any moment. He felt tired, weakened from the past few days events, exhausted from the years of fighting, leading, and commanding. He walked over to a bale of hay near the stables, his joints feeling swollen, and the on-set of old age finally getting the better of him.

  Connor, speaking with a few of his men a couple of feet away, glanced at Finlay and saw the older gentleman bracing himself on his knees as he looked on solemnly at the proceedings. He wandered over, hands on his hips as he stood in front of Finlay. “Are ye alright, Master Baird?”