Finding My Highlander

by Aleigha Siron

  Shortly after Rabbie departed with the girls, one of the scouts returned with information on the location of the enemy’s camp. He reported their numbers at perhaps a dozen or more than the number of men currently with Kendrick.

  “No doubt Richardson will set a score of men along the ridge above the camp. They can easily shoot down warriors approaching from almost any direction. If we can get a few archers behind the men on that ridge, it will be to our advantage.”

  He called to several of his archers giving them instructions. “Once you reach the edge of the forest, flank the ridge. Don’t head in on the main path. Leave the horses under the cover of trees and climb the remaining distance on foot, staying close to the boulders that are scattered over the hillside. If possible, do not announce your arrival until you hear us engage them in battle in the camp. Then move swiftly, and take out as many as you can. We’ll give you a half-hour advance to get into position.”

  “Aye, my laird, we will nae fail you or your lady.” It was Michael, the lad who had sparred with Andra in the bailey, who addressed him. He was one of their finest archers and Kendrick knew the man’s skill would provide an advantage in this skirmish.

  As he walked away, Struan could not hide his chuckle, a rare sound from his lips. “They are all besotted with your lass. ‘Tis a good thing you’ve decided to claim her properly. That is your plan?”

  He could not take back the words he’d spoken, nor did he wish to. Still, Kendrick could hardly believe his ears to hear Struan once again championing her. “What are you blathering aboot? I’m just getting the lass out of the clutches of two of the worst whoresons this land has ever seen.”

  “Och, to be sure of that.” Struan scowled. “Yet, did you not just say you were claiming what belongs to you? And if not, well then, it seems more than one of the men may have aspirations toward claiming the lass.” Struan grumbled and tugged on the straps securing his weapons. “Though if you ask me, she’s a bit too feisty for most of them, don’t you ken?”

  “If you keep needling me, Struan, I’ll knock you on your arse again.” He could not deny the fact that Andra had charmed her way into the hearts of many of his clan, despite being a Cameron. Moreover, the crushing fury he felt at the thought of her in the hands of his enemies, or any other man for that matter convinced him he must reach her swiftly.

  Kendrick’s men busied themselves checking their weapons, strapping on claymores, mace, dirks, and sgian dubhs. Some had donned mail under their plaids; others donned hardened-leather jerkins. As they readied for the coming battle, they grunted encouraging banter to each other. His men were outspoken against the Camerons’ continued reiving, plundering, raping, stealing of women, and the murder of their clansmen and allies. This latest kidnapping was the final insult. Settling the score should be swift and final, and to a man, they agreed with him that the coming battle was long overdue.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Though Andra had fought against falling asleep again, tension and exhaustion won out, and she drifted into nightmare realms while leaning against the pole to which she was tethered. The clash of metal on metal, warrior cries, and the harsh neighing and screeching of horses in battle drifted into her nightmare.

  Only it wasn’t a nightmare. She woke to the sounds of battle emanating from everywhere at once. Grabbing hold of the pole, she sprang to her feet, shaking the last vestiges of sleep from her brain. She pressed her body against her bound hands, and managed to retrieve her sgian dubh. Holding the hilt with her teeth, she furiously worked the blade against the ropes. She nicked her wrist several times, but ignored the pain and trickles of blood. A few more scratches under the present circumstances held no significance. The blade was quite sharp and quickly severed the binding.

  Clutching the dirk in her hand, she entered the fray. Fog swirled under her feet and through the trees where the first shimmers of light created a ghostly scene of horror. The noise was deafening, yet strangely muffled. Fear froze her to stone as bile rose in her throat.

  Then, Kendrick charged through the trees on a huge, dapple-gray horse, rushing the enemy like an avenging angel. The beast reared and instantly killed the man charging them. Her eyes locked on his for a brief moment, his mouth opened in a scream or command, but she could not make out his words.

  Suddenly, Cormag’s filthy breath filled her nose and he twisted the sgian dubh held in her hand, deftly turning it against her throat. “I’ve got you now, m’lady, and your hero will not be taking you from me. You’re my retribution, and I intend for Kendrick to witness your degradation and demise. It is me due for all he took from me.”

  Sliding the blade along her collarbone and under her shift at the shoulder, he slit the fabric cutting her in the process. She felt a sharp sting and the warm rush of blood but the pain didn’t fully register in her mind. The material of her gown slipped down her arm and exposed one breast.

  Had he cut her throat?

  All feeling had fled, replaced with a scalding fury. Her thoughts drifted, and she seemed to separate from her body, barely cognizant of the heinous, clutching bastard dragging her across the compacted dirt.

  She looked to where she’d last seen Kendrick, but he was no longer on his charger, and the animal had moved from the center of the melee. Then she saw him—engaged in violent battle with the colonel some yards away from where she stood. Their swords slashed and clanged, sparking the misted air. The smell of churned mud and blood mingled to become a coppery tang that permeated everything. The whoosh of arrows whizzed through the air from the ridge above, finding their targets on occasion, but just as often hitting a horse causing the beast to rear and scream in agony, or hitting a tree with a dull thud. Shouts of Gaelic rose as a group of warriors accosted the men on the ridge from behind.

  Cormag mumbled something incoherent in her ear while attempting to push her toward the heart of the battling men. Then he screamed in frustration trying to gain Kendrick’s attention. “Look at me, ye bastard, I have your woman, and she’ll be mine for the rest of her days, however long I decide to allow her to service me. Think on that as you breathe your last.” The colonel reacted to Kendrick’s momentary distraction to the taunt and managed a slice against Kendrick’s thigh. The wound did not stop him.

  The colonel, quick footed, maneuvered away from Kendrick’s thrusts while still brandishing his sword, and yelled, “Dammit, Cormag, draw your sword, and enter this battle. Leave the woman for now.”

  In her peripheral vision a flurry of motion moved swiftly toward them. Lucas slammed into Cormag knocking all three of them off their feet. She hit her head on a rock about the size of a football, briefly knocking her senseless. When she looked up, Lucas and Cormag engaged in hand-to-hand combat with long dirks. She couldn’t find her dirk in the dirt around her. Attempting to stand, she became woozy and lost her balance, falling and rolling from beneath the men’s scrabbling feet and through the front of the colonel’s tent.

  Her head pounded, and she found it difficult to catch her breath, but she would not let them take her unarmed again. Rolling to her side, she rose to her knees and reached a hand to touch the warm wetness on her face.

  “Damn and double damn, if this keeps up, I’ll end up addlebrained for life,” she hissed. Her hand came away covered in blood. She wiped it across her bodice and pressed against the knot on her head in an attempt to staunch the flow.

  After a moment, she looked around for weapons. A bow and quiver leaned against the side of the tent wall. Rising on shaky legs, she gulped in air and steadied herself as she lifted the weapon. Though larger than the ones she’d recently practiced with, she could manage it; she had often used her father’s bow.

  “Dad, if ever you are with me, be here now, I need your strength.” Andra strapped on the quiver, notched an arrow, and slipped out of the tent. Lucas lay in the dirt not far away, bleeding profusely from a wound on his side; Cormag was gone. The young man’s wide eyes took in her appearance.

  “Oh my God, you are bleedin
g, my lady. I am so sorry I did not get to you sooner,” he rasped. “Run to the horses by the river; get away from here.”

  “Lay still, Lucas. My thanks once again for your aid, but do not worry. I believe I shall live.” Why she thought that she could not say.

  While searching the battle scene for Kendrick, she moved quickly toward the stream to provide enough distance for accuracy with her shots. Finally, she located him. He and the colonel were still engaged in combat. Each man managed to match the other’s thrusts, blocks, and lunges with a corresponding move. Sweat coursed over their faces. Then she saw Cormag rushing forward behind Kendrick. He raised his sword to deliver a fatal blow.

  “Bastard!” she spit through gritted teeth. A hot rage tore through her; she would not allow him to kill her man.

  Without hesitation, she raised the bow, aimed, and released. The arrow flew true and thudded into Cormag’s chest, throwing him back against a tree where his sword slid from his hand. She turned to her side and vomited, whether because she had just killed a man or because of another head injury, she had no clue, and didn’t take a second to examine that thought.

  The colonel saw Andra shoot Cormag, and failed to repress his shocked expression. The momentary distraction allowed Kendrick to lunge a fatal thrust and twist it into the man’s belly. The colonel fell, dead before his face hit the ground. Unfortunately, two of Cormag’s men moved in to challenge Kendrick just when Struan maneuvered to his side.

  She notched another arrow and looked up. Following Kendrick and Struan as they fought back to back against three men, she waited for her shot. The battle began to slow as men succumbed to their wounds. Blood soaked Struan’s left arm slowing his sword swings in that direction.

  One of the men moved to his injured side. Andra took aim and managed to bring down that dragoon. This time she held down the bile and firmed her resolve. If they survived, she could contemplate her actions later; meanwhile, she must fight. She couldn’t get another clean shot because their battle had moved too close to her position, and she feared hitting one of her own men.

  “One of my own? My man?”

  She absorbed these thoughts through the haze of her brain. Yes! They were her own fierce Highlanders; whether or not they claimed her, she claimed them.

  Several of MacLean’s men battled around her. Her woozy head caused difficulty concentrating. Her arms ached and her ears rang. She felt as though she stood outside of herself watching the skirmish and her own movements in slow motion.

  Notching another arrow, she looked to the ridge from where a clash of weapons cracked above her and saw Michael engaged in hand-to-hand combat with one of the colonel’s archers. Brushing the blood and muck out of her eyes with her forearm, she raised her bow, took aim, and held her breath. Michael fell and she loosed her final arrow along with her breath, striking the other man under his arm as he raised his sword. She didn’t know whether her shot struck too late to save young Michael, but she prayed it was not. Turning back toward Kendrick, her arrows spent, she could no longer hold onto the bow and dropped it at her bloodied feet.

  * * *

  Kendrick, with Struan’s help, dispatched the last of the men they were fighting. He turned toward Andra, who stood several yards away. Her hair hung in damp tangles, tears streaked white tracks down her cheeks. Blood covered her face and one shoulder, streaks of dirt and blood lashed across her bodice. One shoulder and breast was exposed, also covered in blood, but saints be praised, she was standing. To him, she looked like the most glorious warrior goddess ever regaled in myth or legend. It was as if he had come out of the pouring rain and darkness for the first time in his life, and she was the sun that warmed him, body and soul.

  The battle near over, shouts of “MacLean” filled the morning air. Kendrick moved purposefully toward her, this bloodied, wild version of the Huntress Diana. Nothing else filtered through his vision. He burned to hold her in his arms, to claim her as his. She took a tentative step toward him, then another, then sprinted forward with her arms flung wide.

  He swung her into his arms and crushed her against his chest. His lips touched her hair, her ear, and he whispered breathlessly, “Andra, a chuisle mo chroi.” “Pulse of my heart.” “Mo chuisle, mo muirnin, Andra,” he continued while kissing her damp cheek, lips, and neck. “My love, my darling Andra.”

  Andra lifted her face to his, gripped his thickly muscled arms tight, and pushed away, “Mo chuisle,” she said in response. She opened her mouth to say more when a movement at their side caught her attention. One of the warriors stood above Lucas, about to deliver a final deathblow.

  She wrenched out of Kendrick’s embrace. “Nooo,” she screamed, dashing forward, “Hold!” Her hand splayed in the air as if she could thrust it across the distance and stop his action with her force of will.

  “Do not strike that man!” It was not a subtle plea, but a full-throated ferocious command, issued like the warrior she had become.

  Her vehemence startled Kendrick and a flash of jealousy tore through him. What did she know of this man? What was he to her that she should rush to save his life? A Sassenach lover? No, it occurred to him this might be the Sassenach Isabel had mentioned, the one who had assisted in their escape. He raised his hand, “Step back John, we will see to this dragoon.”

  She dropped into the dirt beside Lucas and took his cold hand in hers. “Please,” she cried, “please, don’t die.” Brushing damp hair off his forehead her fingers slid down below his jaw searching for a pulse. A whisper escaped her lips. “He lives.”

  Kendrick knelt beside her and moved the lad’s hand from his side. The blood still flowed, albeit slowly. Cutting away the jacket, he saw a puncture wound between two ribs. He called to one of the men for a wad of linen to staunch the wound.

  “Will he survive?” Andra pleaded, her eyes brimming with tears.

  “I don’t know. He is young. If the lung wasn’t punctured and there is no damage to his organs, he might survive. Is he the one who helped you, lass?”

  “Yes.” She swiped at the tears streaming down her face. “Yes, and at great risk to himself, he managed to keep me safe from that miscreant, Cormag.” The mention of that name made her shake and gasp with great heaving sobs. She turned her face into Kendrick’s neck, desperately clinging to his shoulders.

  “Shush, mo chroi, ‘tis over now, you were verra braw, mo chuisle, verra brave.” He ran his fingers through the tangles of her hair, pressing her to him, aware that his own heart thudded in his chest like a bodhrán. She had captured him, mind, heart, and soul; she was everything he’d never known he needed. Lifting her into his arms, he ordered John to tend the young soldier as if he were one of their own.

  The sound of thundering hooves drew their attention to the trees and ridge above. He quickly set her down, pushing her behind and removed his sword in one swift motion. A contingent of men led by Rabbie tore into the center of the camp and another led by The McDuff rode over the ridge above them dispatching the last of their enemies.

  “‘Tis aboot time you showed your ugly face, now that we’ve won the battle.” Struan rumbled loudly. Another warrior was tending the wound on his arm.

  “I didn’t want to spoil your sport, you old mangy dog,” Rabbie laughed and swung off his horse to check Struan’s arm.

  “‘Tis but a scratch. Check on your cousin and Lady Andra, she’s looking sorely injured if you judge by the mire covering her.” His eyes gleamed with respect as he nodded toward the couple.

  A gust of air and a soft thud sounded on the ground behind Kendrick. When he turned, Andra was sprawled unconscious in the dirt. He had a half-second of panic before he swooped down and lifted her against his chest. Calling for whisky, water, and bandages, he carried her into the tent behind them and laid her on the table.

  “Andra! Andra, open your eyes.” Gently tapping her cheeks, he kept calling to her, but she didn’t respond. Dousing some strips of linen with water and whisky, he started to clean away the debris while checking
the many wounds marring her delicate flesh. Rabbie did the same standing on the opposite side of the table. They spoke no words for a few moments while they attempted to assess the damage.

  “Her head and shoulder wounds need stitching.” Kendrick cursed a blue streak at every wound attended. “The wrist cuts and foot wounds appear minor. The head wound is my biggest concern. She is barely recovered from her last ordeal and illness.”

  “God, they sorely treated our lass.” Rabbie washed the numerous nicks at her wrists, which had clotted over. He also found deep bruises, rope burns from the bindings she had cut away, and finger bruises on her neck and upper arms.

  “Those bastards,” Kendrick hissed.

  “I assume you finally killed those rotten excuses for men—miserable good-for-nothing whoresons?”

  Before he responded, John and Struan entered the tent. “The dragoon lad is fair agitated aboot the lady’s condition,” said Struan approaching the table. “Keeps mumbling he was too late, and it was entirely his fault; which makes me question why we are not killing the man?”

  “The lady commanded it,” John whispered, his awe apparent.

  Another of MacLean’s trusted knights, Alec, entered alongside The McDuff. “How fares the lady?” McDuff inquired.

  The man beside him spoke up then. “Beggin’ your pardon, MacLean, but she was the bravest lass I’ve ever witnessed; as true and fierce as any warrior on the battlefield today. I’ve never seen the like of it.”

  Struan grumbled, “What are you blathering on aboot, Alec, and why are ye standing here ogling the lass’s injuries?”

  The man lowered his gaze, “Forgive me sir, but you should have seen her when she exited this tent. I could see both her and Cormag as he rushed, hell-bent, to strike a death blow to you, MacLean.” Nodding in the direction of the woman lying prone on the table he continued, “She amazed me!” He spoke with unrestrained admiration.