Gather the Stars

by Kimberly Cates

  "Give them to me!" Gavin roared, grabbing up the first child, heaving it into Adam's waiting arms. The little one wailed, its arms scrabbling desperately to cling to its mother. Gavin grabbed a girl of about ten, the weight of her slamming like a fist into his side as he hefted her out.

  The smoke melted his vision, turning the cottage into a swirling mass of insanity. The heat seared his nose and throat, as sparks from the roof ate through the thick layer of turf beneath the thatch, raining stinging sparks down over his shoulders and neck, and singeing his hair as he battled to help them escape.

  God, there couldn't be much time. Though the mothers had fought to get their own little ones out, none of them attempted to push from the building themselves. Courage—never had Gavin seen it more blatantly displayed than in these women.

  When the last child was out, Gavin began helping the mothers, his hand braced upon the slight bulge of a new pregnancy as he lifted one onto the ledge, his ribs bars of pulsing agony in his chest. His own head swam with the smoke, his lungs straining as he managed to help one after another, the fire hissing and crackling like some hideous dragon coiling about them.

  His lungs felt ready to explode as he grasped the waist of the last woman, attempting to lever her up into Adam's arms. But though the woman was no giant, his knees nearly buckled, his ribs stabbing deep into the cavity of his chest.

  Gritting his teeth, he tried again, this time managing to get her onto the ledge where she could scramble out.

  The instant her skirts disappeared, Gavin hauled himself up and out, gasping for the clean air, a sick dizziness dragging at his senses. "Adam," he croaked, "head for the bog—hurry."

  Adam, with three of the littlest children clutched in his arms, another clinging to his back, raced for the wilds. The women, spilling all around him, followed him. The ceiling of the building gave a horrendous groan, but at that instant, something made Gavin freeze—a thin, high wail from somewhere inside the cottage.

  A baby lost somehow in the confusion? God in heaven! Gavin hurled himself back into the room, groping, desperate, trying to discern where the sound was coming from. He scrabbled along the floor, plunging deeper into the inferno. His fingers skidded over the top of a splintered table, overturned chairs, stools, and God alone knew what.

  Just as the smoke sucked the last breath from his lungs, a high shriek of pain erupted from a babe a mere arm's length from where he was. Strength jolted back into Gavin's limbs as he dove for the child. It was a tiny bundle, arms flailing, fighting with all its small will to live, and in that instant, it was as if that tiny, squalling, squirming life was a symbol of everything he'd lost—as if this babe, in all its courage and frailty—could somehow redeem him.

  Gavin grasped the baby, tucking it into his shirt as he raced for the window, knowing he'd need both hands to get them out. The timbers supporting the roof shook, the far corner beginning a slow, shuddering collapse. Gavin grasped the edges of the window frame, hauling himself onto his right side so as not to crush the baby. The rough clay scraped him through his shirt and frock coat, the baby beating against his chest with its little fists, almost as if it were attempting to batter its way into the world of the living for a second time—but this time it might be a birth by fire.

  A horrendous creaking sounded, and Gavin ripped himself from the window, hurling himself out into the sweet air just as the roof caved in with a hellish crash. Gavin hit the ground hard, curling his body about the infant in a protective cocoon, all his efforts bent on its safety, rather than breaking his own fall.

  Tangled rose vines tore at his clothes but he struggled to his knees, scrambling away as the building belched smoke and spit fire, an enraged Fury robbed of its sacrifices.

  Bracing his hands against the ground, Gavin struggled to his feet, the babe still tucked tight against him. Yet before he could take a staggering step to follow those who had disappeared into the tangle of vegetation that led to the bog, his gaze locked on a burly figure rounding the corner of the cottage, the crimson of the king's uniform straining against the heavy muscles of the soldier's chest.

  "Halt! Who goes there?" The man's eyes were filled with blood lust, his hands stained from the slaughter. A sword, gleaming through a sheen of blood, shimmered evilly as the man glared at the open window, the smoke billowing from it.

  Rage stormed across the man's florid features. His face contorted with hunger for Gavin's death— Gavin's, and the babe who still clung to the most fragile thread of life. "Bastard! What have you done?" the man snapped. "We'll only hunt them down again—to the last one."

  It was true. The instant this soldier sounded the alarm, every soldier in the village would swarm after their escaped prey. The women and children would be slaughtered, with no chance to flee. Wild anger surged through Gavin at his own helplessness. He had nothing but an empty pistol to defend himself. With an oath, he dove for the only weapon he could reach, the thick wedge of wood that had blocked the window.

  Gavin scooped it up as the soldier charged. Rolling to his feet, Gavin wheeled to block the lethal sword blow at the last possible moment.

  The steel blade bit deep into the wood, narrowly missing Gavin's fingers. A maelstrom of suffocating hatred exploded in Gavin's chest. Blood—he thirsted for it, hungered for this man's death with as much vengeance as any warrior who had ever faced a foe.

  He flew at the soldier, heaving the thick wood against the onslaught of his sword, knowing it was hopeless, not caring about anything except this man's death. The weight of the baby made him awkward, shifting his balance forward; the infant tore at him with desperation.

  Twice, the sword slashed flesh, a stinging bite in his arm, then a grazing line of fire in his thigh. Still Gavin battled on. He stumbled, driven until he crashed backward over a tangle of roots, certain the death blow was about to be struck. The soldier hauled back his sword, triumph blazing in his eyes, and slashed with all his strength.

  At the last possible moment, Gavin ducked, rolled, protecting the baby with his arms. The sword cleaved deep into the bark of the tree. The soldier was hurled off balance, yanking it free. But before he could regain his footing, Gavin was on him, his fists hammering the man's jaw, his knee buried in the man's stomach.

  The soldier struggled, wild-eyed, but Gavin could see nothing, feel nothing except the explosion of rage each time his fist found its mark. The man made one last grab for his sword. Gavin wrenched it from his hand. Grasping it in both fists, Gavin plunged the blade down into the soldier's chest, felt flesh split, the grinding of steel against bone.

  Triumph shot through Gavin like cannon fire-overwhelming, primal, drawing a roar of animal victory from his throat.

  He yanked the sword free, and wheeled, running with one arm bracing the babe against him. His lungs were sacks of fire, his head swam, and his throat was thick with the stench of blood and flame. He stumbled, staggered, aware that at any second, another soldier, a dozen of them, might come hurtling down on him. The bog seemed a hundred leagues away.

  Even the baby was horrifyingly still. Gavin's greatest terror was that somehow in the fighting, the child had been wounded. His injured ribs felt like knives cutting into his side. His eyes were half blind with smoke, his whole body shook so badly he wasn't sure he could reach the break that led to freedom.

  Twice, he went down on his knees, picked himself up, and ran again. Just as his strength gave out, he felt someone grab him—Adam's massive arm braced his back, half dragging, half carrying him into the border of the bog.

  A cacophony of voices thundered against the roar of pain in his head as Gavin crashed to the ground on his bad side, agony bursting, dragging a moan from his parched lips. He curled his body about the baby, in an instinctive need to shield it as it kicked feebly against him. Alive—the babe was alive. A maze of faces swam above Gavin, children's soft sobs echoing around him.

  Women's faces—soft oval portraits of courage, pain, and sanity in a world men all too often made mad—floated above
him. In that instant, Gavin felt as if a huge stone had been dropped into his gut, the knowledge that there was one female face he would never look into again.

  Rachel—she was gone.

  It shouldn't have hurt, that knowledge. Nothing should have been able to hurt him more than the crushing physical agony. Nothing should have hurt more than the knowledge that for the first time since Gavin had done battle, he could not remember the face of the man he had killed.

  Why, then, did the pain of losing Rachel pulse and writhe and twist inside him? A feeling so overwhelming and empty swept through him, making him unable to breathe.

  "Gavin, you goddamn fool!" Adam raged. "I thought you were right behind me! Why the devil did you go back in? Nearly went out of my mind when I looked back and realized—"

  A thin wail from the region of Gavin's chest made Adam's jaw drop, the glittering outrage in black eyes shifting to disbelief. If a fledgling god had sprung from Gavin's chest, it would have stunned Adam no more than did the tiny bundle of baby. Gavin tore back the edge of his shirt, lifting the little one in his bleeding, soot-blackened hands.

  The baby's cheeks were darkened by smoke, its tiny mouth pink and wide as it began to squall. It kicked weakly at the blanket that swaddled it.

  "Dear God! Poor Margaret's babe!" One of the women cried. "In the madness, we forgot him!"

  Arms reached for the child, lifting him from Gavin's hands. Gratitude streaked through Gavin as that slight, pain-inspiring weight was taken from him.

  A face leaned near to him, a face whirling into focus, robbing Gavin of breath. His heart stopped as dark, silky hair fell about the features of a most militant angel, regal, unspeakably beautiful. Real. Yet the cheeks that had turned red with outrage and white with suppressed fear now shone with something he'd never expected to see... tears.

  "Rachel." Her name broke in Gavin's throat. "You didn't—didn't run away from... me. You came... back."

  "Someone has to stitch you up and... help you pretend that you're just fine. Someone has to..." Her voice quavered, and she bit down hard on her bottom lip. "I didn't know, Gavin. I didn't understand."

  "This blasted reunion is heart warming, but I'd like to point out that there are a dozen blood-hungry Englishmen who might discover at any moment their quarry has slipped the net. We need to put as much ground between them and us as we can."

  Gavin attempted to lever himself up on one elbow. "Take them to... Glen Lyon's lair. They'll be safe."

  "No!" A young woman with moon-wide blue eyes and cinnamon hair protested. "My family would be wild with worry. If the lot of us can just reach the hills—three days' walk from here—we'll be fine."

  Gavin ground his teeth, cursing the exhaustion pulling at his limbs and the throbbing pain in his chest. "You'll have to take them, Adam. I'd just... slow you down."

  Adam swept his gaze across the batch of women and children, his brow furrowing. "I doubt you could even make it to the lair, the kind of shape you're in."

  "I'll see to him." Firm, cool, Rachel's vow made both men gape at her. Gavin grimaced. Maybe a timber from the burning roof had fallen on his head.

  "Rachel—"

  "These women are going to need someone to see them across the moors. I wish there was someone else to send besides Adam, but considering the options, they're just going to have to deal with the irritation."

  She startled a bark of laughter from Gavin, and he gripped his side. "Don't! Hurts... to..."

  "It wasn't meant to be amusing," Rachel said.

  "How do I know we can trust you?" Adam's anger blazed. "How do I know you're not just going to lead him into the jaws of some accursed trap your betrothed, Sir Dunstan, has set up? Perhaps you'd want to see a little more of his handiwork."

  "Sir Dunstan wasn't involved in this," Rachel said stubbornly. "There's no way that you can prove he knew."

  Adam swore. "He probably planned the whole thing himself—"

  "Adam! Enough!" Gavin warned, managing to sit up. "She's right. You have to go. There's no other choice."

  "And leave you with this bloodthirsty little witch? She already shot you. Ran away. An hour ago, you were chasing after her like a madman. I'll carry you if I have to, Gav. You're coming with us."

  "Somebody has to go back to the cave."

  "The men will stay with Mama Fee once they realize something is amiss," Adam grumbled.

  "They deserve to know what happened," Gavin said. "And to know that we're alive. I'd not have them risking their lives in some ill-planned attempt to rescue us when we're not even in danger. And you know that they would."

  "Blast it, Gav—" Adam started to sputter, then stopped.

  "There's no time to argue," the red-haired woman argued. "With the children, we'll be moving slowly enough as it is."

  "Fine. Fine, then, blast it!" Adam said, throwing up his hands in total frustration.

  Gavin whistled low, and after a moment, Adam's mount trotted through a break in the trees, the horse Rachel had stolen behind it. Manslayer danced, still half hidden by the trees, his intelligent eyes wary, wild, fixed on Gavin. One more soft signal, and Gavin knew the beast would have plunged into the burning building itself at his master's command, but there was no need to force the animal to come nearer as yet.

  "Take the two horses, to carry the little ones," Gavin said. "I wish to God you could take Manslayer as well."

  "As if anyone in his right mind would attempt to ride that beast! That fool horse would trample the lot of them to get back to you."

  The red-haired woman walked over to Rachel and held her arms out for the baby. "Poor Margaret has a sister where we're going. She'll care for the wee bairn."

  Rachel glanced down at that tiny face for a heartbeat, bemused, wary, yet with a glimmer of the longing that was buried so deep it made Gavin's throat ache. After a moment, Rachel handed the child over with endearing awkwardness, and Gavin was certain she'd never held a little one before—no tiny brothers or sisters or cousins to practice tenderness upon.

  The woman turned to Gavin, a rare nobility in her features, like a Celtic warrior queen. "May God grant you peace for all you've done here today."

  Gavin winced. If only the woman could see the truth—if only she knew... Why, then, did she look at him so, with the earth-goddess eyes of Fiona Fraser? As if she understood—understood in a way that Rachel de Lacey never could.

  "I wish that I could help you further still on your journey," Gavin said.

  "You have your own journey to take. May you find your way." With that, she turned to the rest of the children, lifting them onto the horses, mustering the others to begin their escape.

  "If any of you want to sail from Scotland, there will be a ship leaving in a week."

  "We'd heard of it from some men who rode through," one of the women said. "We're staying behind. Someone has to take care of the stories and the moors."

  Gavin nodded, then turned to his brother. "Adam, keep your wits about you," Gavin warned, wishing he could say so much more.

  Adam stalked over to glare down into Gavin's face. "Is it enough, now, Gavin?" he demanded, his dark eyes stormy with emotion. "You saved all these people; you plunged into a burning building for this babe. It's a goddamned miracle that you weren't killed. Have you finally paid enough? Please God, let this be enough!"

  Gavin looked away. "Godspeed on your journey, Adam." Gavin sensed the wild anger, the anguish in Adam, knew the feelings of helplessness that beset his warrior brother.

  He watched Adam gather up the reins of the two horses and stride away. The women and children of the shattered village melted into the bogs that had shielded their ancestors from enemies since the first invaders plunged onto Scotland's soil.

  Let this be enough... Adam had implored.

  But it would never be enough. Never, until... Gavin swallowed hard, knowing the stark truth, unable to turn away from it. Only one sacrifice would redeem him.

  He started as he suddenly felt the drift of fingers on his sho
ulder, an aching throb of anguish inside him at Rachel de Lacey's unexpected touch.

  He angled his face toward her, barren, bereft. "You should have run away..." he whispered, seeing the trembling in her.

  "I couldn't. I..." She hesitated, her eyes wide and full of an emotion that terrified Gavin, exulted him. "When you plunged back into the fire... that was the most... most courageous thing I have ever seen. And that—that soldier—you fought him with nothing... with no weapon. You won, Gavin."

  Gavin closed his eyes, shutting out visions of a hundred possibilities that could never be. "I lost, Rachel."

  "No!" She dropped to her knees beside him, her cool, smooth hands enclosing his battered, bleeding ones. "You saved them all, even the babe everyone else had forgotten! You killed that hideous man who wanted to hurt them. How can you say that you lost?"

  "Because I can't remember." Gavin clawed through his memory, seeing only a scarlet blur of uniform, the wicked gleam of a sword, the hate-filled tempest of his own beast unleashed. "I can't remember his face."

  Slowly, Gavin managed to drag himself to his feet. He took the arm of the woman he'd kidnapped, the innocent he'd dragged into his own private hell.

  Manslayer edged closer, and after a moment, he allowed Rachel to mount him. With the greatest effort, Gavin then dragged himself into the saddle— the restive horse still, equine eyes filled with devotion. White-faced, his soul parched into a wasteland of regret, Gavin rode with Rachel into the land he fought so hard to save.

  CHAPTER 11

  Rachel tried to keep her balance upon the massive horse, struggling to keep her weight from making Gavin Carstares's impossible task even more difficult. It was a miracle the man could keep himself in the saddle, let alone hold her as well, yet she knew he struggled to do so. His sinewy arms cradled her, his thighs braced hers. Only his hands on the reins were white-knuckled, his breath in her ear rasping with misery, catching with pain she knew he'd never admit.