Highland Barbarian (Highlander Series)

by Langan, Ruth Ryan

  “There are those who say that Douglas Mackay’s son was too frail to live, and that the village wench gave up her own son in order to ensure that he would be laird of the manor. Others even whisper that Douglas Mackay’s son was murdered by the woman in order to place her own son in the laird’s castle. Whatever the truth, she carried it to her grave. But until the day she died, Holden Mackay was devoted to her. It was she who was his adviser; she who taught him greed and avarice and spurred him on to achieve even greater wealth and power than his father before him.”

  Meredith was too stunned to speak. That might explain Mackay’s cruelty. If he was raised from birth to lie and steal another’s inheritance, he would become the kind of man who would stop at nothing to succeed.

  “Why did Holden Mackay ride with Brice Campbell?” Meredith asked suddenly.

  “My lord Mackay boasted that it was his intention to befriend the Highland Barbarian and discover his weaknesses. In that way, he could overthrow Brice Campbell and claim his land and titles.”

  “Titles?”

  “Aye, my lady. Did you not know that Brice Campbell is also Earl of Kinloch? His father was held in highest esteem by King James, until he fell into disfavor just before his death. Despite the blot on his name the queen considers Brice Campbell to be a noble man.” Her voice lowered. “But there are those who would disgrace him and force the queen to award his land and titles to others.”

  Meredith sensed the hand of another in all this. “Could it be that Gareth MacKenzie and Holden Mackay have joined forces in order to destroy Brice and divide his wealth between them?”

  “There are many who covet the land and titles of Brice Campbell, my lady.”

  Meredith was aware of the warmth in Rowena’s tone when she spoke of Brice.

  “Do you know my lord Campbell?”

  “Oh, aye,” Rowena said softly. “He was one of the few at Court in France who treated me with kindness.” Her tone betrayed her pain. “There are many who fear those who are different. And many more who are merely offended by my appearance.”

  Meredith felt a wave of compassion for this woman. If only there were some way to erase her pain.

  “When Catherine de’ Medici ordered me returned to Scotland, it was Brice Campbell who gallantly offered to accompany me. And when I first returned to the Highlands, Holden Mackay promised Brice Campbell that I would be taken care of as befits a royal seamstress.” Rowena’s voice hardened. “But when Brice Campbell returned to his own castle, I was told that the only thing I would be given was the humble cottage where I was born. I have been forced to accept whatever scraps my lord Mackay tosses to me. I am no better than a beaten dog. It is the way Holden Mackay keeps all of his people obedient to his every wish.”

  Meredith’s earlier resolve returned. She must escape this madman. At any cost.

  “Here, my lady,” Rowena said, lifting the white gown in her hands. “You must hurry and prepare for your laird. He will be coming for you soon.”

  When the woman crossed the room, her eyes widened in surprise. In Meredith’s hand was the small, deadly dirk.

  “My lady...”

  “Be still.” Meredith moved closer, lifting the knife in a menacing manner. “Put down the gown and remove your clothes.”

  “My...”

  “Quickly.”

  When Rowena had removed her clothes, Meredith pointed to the white gown. “Now put it on.”

  “But my lady, it will never fit.”

  “Do it.”

  Meredith watched as the woman, with trembling hands, pulled the gown over her head.

  “You will sit there,” Meredith ordered, pointing to a bench in front of the fire.

  When Rowena was seated, Meredith hurriedly pulled on her shirt, tunic and breeches, then stepped into her boots. “With your cloak to hide beneath, the guards will not stop me.”

  “Perhaps. But they will know that I am not you,” Rowena protested.

  “Aye.” Meredith paused, then lifted a lacy shawl from the bed and placed it over the woman’s head. With her hair covered, and the folds hiding the slight hump on her back, the guards would be fooled if they were given only a glimpse.

  “Hold out your hands,” Meredith commanded.

  “My lady, there is no reason to tie me,” Rowena said softly as Meredith tore the ribbons from her chemise to use as cord. “I would gladly take your place in order to help you escape this prison.”

  Her words came as a surprise.

  “I thank you.” Meredith looked into the woman’s eyes and could read her sincerity. “But think about your own safety. If it looks as though you gave me aid or comfort, Holden Mackay would have every reason to kill you. If, however, he finds your hands tied and your mouth covered, he will believe that I overpowered you.” She smiled. “As I nearly overpowered him in the forest.”

  The woman nodded at the wisdom of Meredith’s words.

  “Forgive me,” Meredith whispered as she tied Rowena’s hands. “And thank you for not fighting me.” She smiled then, and Rowena realized how truly lovely she was. “As desperate as I am to escape Holden Mackay, I know that I could not have used this dirk on you.”

  “Godspeed.”

  “Thank you.” Meredith tied a strip of cloth across Rowena’s mouth, then fixed the folds of the shawl until she was satisfied that the bindings could not be seen from the doorway.

  She tucked the dirk into her waistband, then bundled up the gowns that were strewn about the bed. When all was in readiness she drew the hood of the cloak about her head, took a deep breath, hunched herself over and pulled open the door.

  The guards caught a glimpse of the woman, gowned in white, sitting quietly on a chair before the fire. As Meredith pulled the door shut behind her and started toward the stairs, she could hear the guards laughing and speculating about the fate of the poor wench.

  With her heart pounding and her palms damp with sweat Meredith descended the stairs. Just as she reached the bottom she found herself face-to-face with Holden Mackay.

  His steps were slightly unsteady as he approached her. In his hand was a tankard. He reeked of ale.

  “Have you made the wench ready for me?”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  As she began to move past him his hand snaked out, forcing her to stop. Her heartbeat began hammering so loudly in her chest she was certain he could hear it. He had seen through her disguise. She had not hunched herself over far enough. Perhaps a strand of her hair peeked out from beneath the hood. Something had given her away.

  “Ten gold sovereigns,” he said. “The sum we agreed upon.”

  “Aye.” Her throat was so constricted with fear that the word came out as barely more than a croak.

  She opened her palm and prayed that her hand would not tremble. He dropped the coins with hardly more than a glance, then stalked up the stairs.

  It took all her willpower to keep from running. But if she was to fool the guards at the door, she must behave as Rowena would.

  With halting steps she approached the huge front doors. A servant removed the bracing timber and pulled the heavy doors open. When the guards outside spotted her, one of them retrieved her horse, and even secured the bundle of gowns behind the saddle.

  With the guard’s assistance, Meredith pulled herself up and nudged the horse into a trot.

  As she rode across the courtyard she spotted two riders approaching. Again her heart began a painful hammering in her chest. If Holden Mackay had already reached his chambers, he would discover Rowena in her place. And if he were to call out now, these two riders would seize her and return her to certain death.

  She nudged her horse into a run. As she passed the two riders, she kept her face averted.

  The two, intent upon their mission, barely noticed the old hunched crone who passed them in the courtyard.

  Chapter Nineteen

  As the hunched woman approached on her horse, Brice felt a prickly feeling at the base of his neck. Something was very wrong. S
omething he couldn’t quite place. Then, as horse and rider drew nearer, a name came into his mind.

  Rowena. Of course. The young hunchbacked seamstress who had been cruelly banished by Catherine de’ Medici had been from the Mackay clan. He had accompanied her from France to her home in the Highlands, where Holden Mackay had promised to see to her care. Brice felt a momentary stab of regret. He had been too busy to see if Mackay had lived up to his promise.

  Rowena had always been an open, friendly woman. That would explain her warm reception by the guards in the courtyard. The soldiers, if they were a decent sort, would take the time to chat with her, assist her.

  With hasty movements he pulled the plumed hat low on his head and kept his gaze downcast. If she was familiar with all the soldiers at Mackay’s fortress, she might recognize that he and Angus were imposters. Worse, if she were to recognize him from their days at the French Court, she would call out his name. All their carefully laid plans would be for naught.

  From the corner of his eye he watched as horse and rider galloped past. She had not even given him so much as a glance.

  For another moment he continued to feel that tingling sensation, as though something was not quite right. He shrugged it off. The worst thing a warrior could do before going into battle was to allow himself to be distracted.

  He and Angus approached the guards. He experienced the rush of energy he always felt just before battle. Their plan was going to work. He knew it. He felt it.

  As their horses drew near, one of the guards called out to a servant inside the house, announcing their arrival. The timber bracing the doors was thrown aside and the doors swung open. Even as a stable boy was reaching for the reins of their horses, Brice and Angus, heads lowered, hats pulled low, were swinging from the saddle and striding toward the open doors.

  Once inside, they waited as the servant greeted them and began to close the heavy doors. A movement in the shadows of the courtyard alerted Brice and Angus that their men were in place and already overpowering the unsuspecting guards outside.

  Drawing a dirk from his waist Angus held the blade to the servant’s throat.

  “Step away from the door,” he ordered.

  The wide-eyed servant obeyed.

  “Where is your master?” At the man’s momentary silence Brice pulled his sword from the scabbard.

  The servant stammered, “My lord Mackay has gone to his chambers.”

  “Where?”

  The servant pointed up the wide stone stairs.

  “And the woman?”

  The servant blinked, then stared transfixed at the sword in Brice’s hand. “With my lord Mackay.”

  Brice’s hand tightened about the sword. He would kill Mackay. With his bare hands if necessary. “And where are his men?”

  “In the great hall, my lord.” The servant pointed again, then trembled in fear as Brice’s men poured through the open front doors.

  “Go to Meredith,” Angus whispered. “We will take Mackay’s men.”

  “Aye.” With his sword drawn, Brice started up the stairs.

  Just then the door to the great hall opened and several of Mackay’s men, obviously drunk, stumbled out. For a moment they simply stared at the dozen strangers who advanced on them. Then, with a shout, they drew their weapons.

  Within minutes the rest of Mackay’s men spilled through the door of the great hall and joined the battle. Though Brice longed to go to Meredith’s aid, he knew that his men were greatly outnumbered.

  Without a thought to his own safety, he leaped the several steps that separated them and joined in the fighting.

  The air was filled with the sound of sword striking sword as every man fought for his life.

  Two men advanced on Brice. With flashing blade he disarmed the first, then traded thrusts with the second soldier, backing him to the wall. As the soldier brought his arm high for the final thrust, Brice was a step quicker, and his blade pierced the man’s heart. Clutching his chest the man dropped to the floor. Before Brice could catch his breath the first man, now armed with another sword, took up the fight. Again Brice was forced to defend himself.

  This man was a far better swordsman than the other. It took all of Brice’s skill to evade his thrusts. But at last he left the man gravely wounded.

  Turning away, Brice found himself facing three more opponents. As they fought, Brice felt his energy flagging. The wounds from which he had so recently recovered had left him too drained. Had he possessed less skill with a sword, he would have joined the others who lay on the floor of the great hall, writhing and twisting in pain.

  “Behind you,” Brice shouted to Angus.

  Angus turned to find a swordsman about to land a deadly blow. With agile steps Angus managed to evade the man’s blade. With one quick thrust, the man joined his comrades who lay dead and wounded.

  “My thanks, old friend.” As Angus turned his head he saw two swordsmen behind Brice, about to attack while he fended off a third.

  Immediately Angus leaped to Brice’s aid. But even while he and Brice fought the three, he could see what a terrible effort this battle was costing his friend. Though Brice’s thrusts with the sword were still straight and true, there was a sheen on his forehead and his eyes were glazed with pain.

  Two men cut between them, dueling until one of them fell. The other quickly joined in the fight against Angus, and he found himself unable to worry any longer about Brice. It would take all of his concentration and skill just to stay alive.

  While Brice continued fighting off the attack of two men, a tall, massive figure filled the doorway. While Brice stood, sword to sword with his opponents, he glanced up and saw Holden Mackay, his sword at the ready, a look of murderous rage in his eyes.

  All feeling of weakness vanished. For Brice there was only a wild, churning hatred for this vicious monster. With a few skillful thrusts Brice disposed of his opponents and advanced upon Mackay.

  “What have you done to Meredith?”

  For a moment Mackay could only stare at Brice with hate-glazed eyes. Could it be that the fool did not know? His lips curled back in a sneer of contempt. “I do not answer to the likes of you, Campbell.”

  He raised his sword and brought the blade down with a vicious swipe, tearing open the shoulder wound that only days ago had finally mended.

  With blood seeping through his tunic Brice stood his ground, exchanging thrust after thrust with Holden Mackay. And although the man was not the swordsman Brice was, he had size on his side, and the wound that was draining Brice of precious strength.

  “I warned you that one day you would rue the day you banished me from your castle.” Mackay advanced, again and again, until Brice felt the cold stone wall at his back. “You should not have tried to keep the woman for yourself. The spoils of war should be shared by all.” He thrust his sword and watched as Brice dodged, and the blade pierced only the fabric of his tunic. He pulled his sword back and advanced again, determined to pin Brice. “Now,” he said through gritted teeth, “I will have it all. Your titles, your lands and your woman.”

  In an unexpectedly agile move, Brice leaped aside and turned, pinning Mackay to the wall. With his sword pointed at Mackay’s chest he hissed, “What are you talking about, man? What is this nonsense about titles and lands?”

  Holden Mackay’s eyes narrowed. “I will tell you, if you promise to let me live.”

  “I make you no such promise. Now,” Brice said, bringing the point of the sword closer, until it pierced Mackay’s tunic and shirt and drew a faint thread of blood, “tell me what nonsense you speak.”

  Mackay began talking quickly, as if hoping to postpone the inevitable. “Gareth MacKenzie offered to share half your land with me, and give me all your titles, if I would but penetrate your castle and discover your weaknesses.”

  “MacKenzie. So you have been in this with him from the beginning.”

  “Aye.” Mackay’s eyes glittered. “I have long coveted the title Earl of Kinloch.”

 
Brice thought of his own disdain for such things. “The title was my father’s. He earned it. What good would it do another?”

  “It would make me a titled gentleman. I would be as acceptable at Court as you.”

  “All the titles in the world will not make you what you can never be, Mackay.” He ignored the man’s look of hatred and pressed the tip of his sword over his opponent’s heart. “What has any of this to do with Meredith?”

  “Nothing,” Mackay snapped. “The woman was a personal prize that I decided to steal from you the way you stole her from MacKenzie.”

  Brice’s eyes narrowed. “You knew all along that I killed the wrong MacKenzie?”

  “Aye.” Mackay threw back his head and laughed. “You killed the puny brother, Desmond, whose only crime was obeying his eldest brother.”

  Brice felt a terrible urge to plunge the sword through this monster’s heart. But he cautioned himself to hold his famous temper in check. He still did not know the fate of Meredith.

  “Is the lady in your chambers?” Brice asked softly. Mackay’s eyes suddenly burned with a feverish light. By the gods, the man did not know. What a wonderful irony.

  “The lady is someplace where you will never find her.”

  “You will tell me or I will make your life a living hell.” As Brice shouted, Mackay suddenly brought his hand upward, revealing the razor edge of his sword. He would have severed Brice’s head had Angus not stepped in and thrust his blade through Mackay’s heart.

  A look of shock crossed Holden Mackay’s face as he realized he had been mortally wounded. As Angus pulled back his sword, Mackay slumped to the floor. A great gush of blood spilled down Mackay’s tunic, the brilliant scarlet spreading in ever-widening circles. His face grew ashen.

  With a sense of horror at the turn of events, Brice knelt beside Holden Mackay and whispered, “Before it is too late, tell me what you have done with Meredith.”

  Mackay’s lips curled into a smile. His eyes stared straight ahead. And when Brice touched a hand to the man’s throat, he realized there was no pulse.