Highland Lady

by Colleen French

  She met his dark-eyed gaze, her jaw set. "Ye should have sent for me."

  "There was much confusion," he apologized. "And I knew ye were due back."

  She strode toward the door that led into the great hall, knowing Donald and Finley followed her.

  "Was she injured?" she questioned, pushing emotion from her voice.

  He knew what she meant. "Raped, nae. Slapped around a bit... perhaps; she was conscious when they took her."

  Elen ground her teeth. "English or Scot?"

  "Scot for certain." Donald scowled. "They fled north."

  A door was held open for her, and she entered a small vaulted entranceway, her boots clanging on the grate that covered the hole to the oubliette where prisoners were held. She went up stone steps and through another door into the smoky great hall.

  Built to compliment the tower house less than a hundred years ago by her great-great-grandfather, the hall was a long rectangular room used as a banquet room and the center of communication for the castle. Above the fireplace on the north wall, in its place of honor, hung the horn of retention passed down to her by her father.

  The vaulted chamber smelled of roasting venison, bird droppings, and unwashed bodies; Elen had little time for concerns of housekeeping. At least a fire glowed in the great stone fireplace. Its warmth felt good. Already the days were turning cool, the nights colder.

  "Ye say they went north." She eyed Donald, accepting the horn cup Finley pushed into her hand. "Have you thoughts on who might have taken my sister?"

  Donald's gaze did not sway. "I canna say for certain, but they had the look of Clan Forrest."

  "Forrests?" She almost spit the ale from her mouth.

  The Forrest clan of Rancoff Castle lived some six miles north of Dunblane, their lands bordering her own. It was acreage between the two properties, called the North Wood by her father, that the families had been fighting over as long as she could remember. After her father's death, she had petitioned the new Scottish king, as her father had requested, for return of the land. She still awaited a response.

  In truth, Elen knew little of the neighboring family. The elder Forrest had died two years before, like so many loyal Scots, fighting the English for Scotland's freedom. Rancoff Castle and its vast properties had been left to his eldest son, Munro, who had fought at his side and survived the civil wars to return home. There was another son, Cerdic, in his mid-twenties; no one else of the immediate family had survived the war.

  At one time, Rancoff Castle, too, had fallen to the English. Unlike Dunblane, it had never been occupied. The Forrest family had reclaimed her a year before the win at Bannockburn, and had fought skirmishes regularly with the English who held Dunblane. Eventually Dunblane had been abandoned. Because of the land dispute, Elen's father had had little good to say of the Forrests, but he had been grateful for the trouble they had caused the English holding Dunblane.

  After her family returned to Dunblane, her father had invited the eldest, Munro, to a celebratory meal. At the last moment he had sent his younger brother Cerdic, an insult to her father. Elen had not cared much for Cerdic, though he was a strikingly handsome man filled with mirth and wile. The evening complete and thank-yous said, her father and Cerdic had parted and returned to being adversaries.

  Elen's mind raced. Munro Forrest knew her father was dead. He had sent condolences, though not attended the likewake. Was this his way now to deal with the land dispute? To steal the virgin daughter of one of the greatest Scots who had ever lived? Did he think that because a woman now commanded the castle, he could get away with this?

  "A fresh mount," Elen ordered, her mind racing. She wasn't certain what she was going to do, but she knew damned blessed well she wasn't going to sit here and wait to hear the fate of her sister.

  Finley and Donald hurried after her as she left the hall, strode out into the bailey, and crossed the muddy courtyard toward the tower house.

  "Divide every able-bodied man we have. Half go with me, half remain here—at your command," she told Donald.

  "Elen, be reasonable." Finley followed her up the stone steps toward her personal chamber, that which had been her father's before her.

  Donald remained at the bottom of the stairs, knowing better than to dispute her order.

  Finley caught the sleeve of her woolen tunic. As a concession to the men, she wore an undertunic, like a woman's skirts, but it fell just below her knee. For her own comfort, her typical garb of the day was a man's tunic or shirt over an undertunic and boots. With the coming of winter, she would soon add a plaid of green and navy thrown over her shoulders to keep her warm.

  "Ye don't even know if it is the Forrests," he said.

  She jerked her sleeve from him. "It's them. They want my land and they'll ransom my sister if I do not agree to give up all claim to it." She shoved open the door to her chamber.

  Her favorite hound, Camille, whined from the rumpled bed, yet made no effort to vacate the feather tick, though she knew she didn't belong there.

  "Let us wait until the men return with more information," Finley pleaded. "Let us—"

  She spun on her heels in the doorway. "I change into more suitable clothing. Will ye follow into my chamber and watch me undress to bare skin?"

  Finley's cheeks reddened and he lowered his gaze. "I simply say I think ye should reconsider. Impulsiveness can be dangerous."

  "There isnae an impulsive bone in my body, Finley, and you know it. Now listen, and listen well." She lifted a finger beneath his nose. "I want my men armed and mounted in ten minutes' time." She met his gaze with a fierce determination, then walked into her chamber and slammed the door shut with her booted foot.

  "We shall have a visit with Rancoff," she murmured to herself. And on the way, she would surely come up with a plan of attack.

  * * *

  Elen studied the entrance to Rancoff Castle with a well-trained eye. Her father had taught her much about battle, about the surprise attack, about outwitting the opponent.

  She doubted her attack would be a surprise, for surely they were waiting for her. But could she outwit them?

  The ride to Rancoff had not yielded a plan. No answers had sprung at her from the trees.

  The bridge was drawn on the Z-shaped stone castle; men could be seen through the flanking slits in the guardhouse tower. No one else was visible, not stable boys, goose girls, nor a goose—unusual for an autumn afternoon.

  "Tight as a water-logged barrel," Elen muttered.

  "Should we return and wait for a ransom note?"

  Ignoring Finley's inquiry, Elen pushed through the brush that hid her from view of Rancoff Castle and joined her men, who remained mounted on their shaggy ponies. "I think they wait for us," she said, her mind churning with possibilities.

  "Do we attack?" one of her young, ill-experienced vassals inquired anxiously.

  Her gaze flickered from the young man to Finley.

  "Or do we wait to be certain they indeed hold her?" Finley finished the thought for her.

  "Oh, they hold her," Elen mused. "The question is, how do we get her back without injury to ourselves or to my fair sister?"

  "From the look of the castle and the number of men we have now," Finley said, "a strike of luck is what we need."

  Elen paced, unsure of what to do. Attacking seemed foolish. Her reserves were still low from the battle three months ago; not enough manpower or munitions. She didn't want to fight unless she had to. Was Finley right? Should she return to Dunblane and wait for the demands?

  But then she thought of her sister. She could only imagine the horrors that could befall the young woman. She didn't believe the Forrests would dare rape her or allow her to be despoiled. It would mean all-out war between the two clans.

  Such outright animosity would surely displease the Bruce. He had made it clear the Scots needed to set aside the differences among themselves and stay united.

  It was the only way they would beat the English in the end.

  Elen
tensed as hoofbeats caught her attention. It wasn't even the sound so much as the vibration beneath her feet.

  "Who is it? From where do they approach?" she asked her men, who were at a better vantage point.

  Finley squinted, peering through the trees into the meadow below. "From the west, a small entourage. Appears to be a hunting party."

  Elen caught Finley's shoulder and mounted her horse. "Where?"

  Banoff pointed.

  Elen spotted a tall, broad-shouldered man leading two others, a stag thrown across the haunches of each of the trailing riders' mounts.

  "Finley," she demanded softly, "who is that?"

  Finley rose in his stirrups and stared in the same direction as the others. "Blessed Virgin," he muttered. "'Tis the Earl of Rancoff, Munro Forrest, come back from hunting."

  Elen drew on her stained kidskin gloves, checked the position of her sword strapped to her pony, and lifted her reins. "The laird, is it? Then let us go have a talk with him, shall we?" She flashed Finley a satisfied grin. "Father always said I was born under a lucky star."

  * * *

  Munro Forrest, Earl of Rancoff Castle, rode leisurely through his meadow. Grasses swayed and partridges took flight as their shelters were disturbed. Behind him, his two companions talked of the size and speed of the roebucks they'd brought down, comparing this chase with past exploits.

  Munro laughed with them, in a benevolent mood. It had been an excellent hunting day and a perfect fall afternoon. A cup of heavy mead, a hock of venison, and a full measure of slap and tickle with the widow Alice would make the day complete.

  The moment he entered the grassy meadow at the foot of the castle, Munro should have noticed the silence and inactivity. But he was so caught up in the pleasure of the hunt and joviality of the conversation that it took him a moment to realize something was amiss.

  Munro jerked on the leather reins and his mount halted so abruptly that its front hooves reared off the ground.

  The men behind him, always attuned to their master, ceased their conversation in midsentence.

  "My lord?" they cried in unison.

  Munro eased his hand backward toward his scabbard, scanning the wall of the castle.

  The drawbridge was closed, yet nary a kinsman could be seen on the stone wall.

  What, by Christ's bones, was going on?

  Before his hand closed over the hilt of his sword, Munro heard pounding hoofbeats.

  The vassals cried out in surprise as they struggled to reach their weapons, all the while fighting to control their startled mounts.

  Munro spotted the horsemen charging at full speed toward them, cutting off the way to the castle.

  Shouts rang out as the swearing Scots fell upon them. Steel against steel resounded in the crisp autumn air. Beyond, more shouting could be heard from Rancoff's wall as the alarm was cried.

  But it was too late. The horsemen had the small hunting party surrounded. One of Munro's vassals fell from his horse, and the frightened beast nearly crushed his rider in its haste to escape.

  Munro raised sword to meet the nearest surging opponent. To his shock, he met not the eyes of a fierce Scot warrior, but ones of glimmering green and entirely female.

  Munro was uncertain as to what happened next. Did he hesitate a split hair of a second? Did someone strike from behind?

  Their swords clashed as the female Valkyrie bore down on him, demanding surrender. Munro lost his balance upon the impact of steel and horseflesh and tumbled from his mount.

  Next thing he knew, he was on his back, gazing upward from the tall grass into the angry green eyes of the heir to Dunblane.

  Chapter 2

  "M'lady." Munro flashed his most charming smile. He had heard tales of Dunblane's heir. Nae, not heard tales, but rather been warned. They said she thought herself manly and carried herself so. They said she rode and lifted a broadsword as fiercely as anyone with a cod. They said that with one bellowing order she could reduce a grown man to a quivering mass of jelly. They had not told Munro that she was beautiful.

  It was difficult to tell by the drape of Elen of Dunblane's boy's tunic and skinned bare knees just what body form lay beneath the dusty wool, but her face... her face was that of an angel. Fiery red-blond strands of hair escaped from a man's wool bonnet upon her head. She had high cheekbones that had pinkened with the flush of fighting. Her eyes were a deep green with flecks of brown, just now nearly flaming with her anger. And her lips... her lips were as rosy as any he had kissed in any dream.

  The lady of Dunblane did not bat an eye. "My lord..." She drew out the last syllable with thick sarcasm as her men yanked his dirk from his belt, removing his last weapon of defense.

  "Fair Elen, daughter of Sir Murdoch Burnard, I take it?" he asked, still grinning, though his back was throbbing from the fall he had taken from his pony. And just where was that blasted horse right now? And where were his men, who should have been defending him from this lunatic woman who wore men's clothes and swung a sword nearly as well as he?

  "Aye, and ye must be Lord Rancoff."

  "Please, my Christian name. I am called Munro to those who love me." He grinned devilishly as he eyed the tip of the sword she pressed to his breast. "And to those who would see me on a pike."

  The corner of her mouth nearly turned up with amusement. Nearly. "My sister. Give her back."

  He lifted a brow. "If only ye would allow me to roll on my side, I could pull her from the pocket that swings at my waist."

  She was not amused.

  "She has been kidnapped and brought here, and I want her back." She gave a push with her sword for emphasis.

  Munro could not help but flinch. The damned tip of her steel had cut his new shirt.

  "I know naught of your sister. Now let me up, ere I embarrass ye here in front of your men by wrestling ye to the ground."

  She laughed and stepped back. "Truss him and throw him o'er Finley's mount," she ordered. "We'll take the stags, too, and sup well tonight." She walked away into the tall meadow grass as two men fell roughly upon him. "We will talk further at Dunblane, where it will be more commodious."

  * * *

  "Commodious? Ye call this commodious?" Munro shouted upward through the ceiling grate in the Dunblane Castle oubliette.

  Elen stood on the grate above her prisoner and took her time in replying. She chewed the delicious hunk of roasted venison, which she had speared with her dagger. The fresh meat was sizzling hot and burned her tongue, but she was too ravenous to wait for it to cool.

  "Commodious enough to me," she called downward, gesturing with the dagger toward the great hall. "A fire to warm my bones, fresh meat, cool ale." She nodded thoughtfully. "Quite commodious."

  "Where are the men who were with me? God bless me, if ye have—"

  "They are well enough. Locked in a feed room, dining on bread and cheese and water as we speak."

  Elen took another bite of the meat. Though she appeared to her clansmen to be calm, inside she was all ajitter. She was concerned for her sister's safety, but right now, it was not her sister who gave her difficulty breathing, but the man directly below her.

  Elen was no innocent. Well past the age of marriage, she knew the ways of nature, knew that men and women were intrinsically attracted to each other. It was as God, the Maker, had intended. But never in her life had she felt this physical reaction to a man. The sound of his voice, the twinkle in his blue eyes, the broadness of his chest all tugged at her, at her mind, at her body. She was drawn to him as a drunk is drawn to his next draught.

  This peculiar reaction to Munro had begun from the moment she'd laid eyes on him. Riding back to Dunblane with her prisoner tied to Finley's mount, she had found her heart pounding and her palms sweaty. Even tied like the fallen deer, this man Munro had her blood pulsing hot.

  It was the most incredible feeling she had ever experienced—and the most frightening.

  "The venison is quite good," she said to Munro. "I thank ye for the contribution to the m
eal. My men thank ye."

  He nodded as if she were royalty. "I am glad to be of service to m'lady." He lifted an eyebrow. "Perhaps a sample for myself?"

  She tore another hunk of venison from the knife with her teeth. "Perhaps." She smacked her lips with exaggerated enjoyment. "After we speak."

  Munro threw up his hands and began to pace. Of course, he could not pace far in the dungeon that was the width of a tall man and only twice his length. "Speak? What is there to speak of?" he demanded hotly.

  She watched the top of his head as he walked back and forth. His hair was dark and silky, though still cropped short, as the Scots wore for battle. He had broad shoulders and a nice neck that was muscular, yet did not make him look as if his head were planted directly onto his shoulders. She liked his neck.

  "Let us see," she mused. "Ah! Perhaps we could speak of my dear sister and why, in God's sweet name, she hasnae been returned to me." She shouted the last words so loudly that a group of clansmen and vassals supping just inside the door of the great hall ceased their chatter to glance her way.

  "How many times must I say I know naught of your sister?" Again, he threw up his hands, obviously fond of that grand gesture. "I have nae even had the pleasure of meeting the fair lady."

  Elen tapped her high deerskin boot on the oubliette grate. "Really, sir?" She made a face. "That's quite interesting, considering my trusted clansmen saw Rancoff men slap her about and then carry her off."

  He stood under her again, looking straight up. "Let me say it again, I nae have your sister."

  Though he shouted so loudly that the grate beneath her boots trembled, she did not react. Shouting men had no impact on her. Her father had been a shouter, and though his harsh words had brought many a lassie to tears and many a man to his knees, she had learned long ago to ignore him.

  Finished with the venison, Elen wiped the blade of her dagger on the hem of her tunic and slid it into its sheath on her hip. "I think I will have a drink. Can I get ye something, sir?" She tapped her forehead. "Ah, that's right. I have forgotten. Ye are my prisoner. Prisoners nae get rations, save for bread crumbs and stale water with filth floating atop." She walked back up the short flight of stone steps into the great hall.