The Highland Outlaw

by Heather McCollum

Alistair chuckled. “There are some words for ye, lad.”

  He could order his men to stop talking to her, but they needed to learn for themselves. Once he’d crossed the line in abducting Alana Campbell, there was no going back. She would hate them all until she died.

  “And here I was about to ask if ye would like to ride with one of us so ye can get some sleep,” Logan said. Although he was likely trying to help the woman, without knowing his pure intent, Shaw could see how wrongly a lass who’d been trussed up and stolen from her tent could take his suggestion. He scratched his ear, waiting to see if Logan would survive her reply. He hadn’t felt another weapon on the lass while carrying her, but she might have one tucked away.

  “I would rather swoon from lack of sleep on a moving horse and fall to my death,” she said.

  Alistair laughed deeply. “Yer viciousness, lass, makes me rather like ye.”

  “Go to Hell,” she said.

  Alistair shrugged, his smile dark. “Already live there, lass.”

  Shaw’s jaw tightened, but he kept his gaze trained on the shadows before him. “As soon as we put another mile or two behind us and get to lower ground, we will stop for the night.” He halted them at the edge of a forest that slanted downhill toward a valley. With the moon full, when the clouds moved away, it was bright as day on the open moor, making their group easy to spot. The forest would be safer despite it being harder to keep next to the lass.

  Alana continued her silence. She was strong in spirit and courage and would likely give them a bloody difficult time through the journey. His right hand came up to adjust the bandage over the stab wound. It ached but had bled freshly enough to wash it clean. Logan was good with a needle and would stitch it when they stopped. Aye, bloody difficult time with a bloody difficult woman.

  Alana Campbell, sister of The Campbell of Breadalbane, cousin to Edgar Campbell, the bastard who insisted that the Campbells owned the Sinclair Clan’s Girnigoe Castle. If the bairn died on the journey, Shaw would use whatever means to secure his family home once more. Even if that meant making the woman hate him even more, if that were possible. She looked like an angel, but she could despise him like any defeated warrior.

  They rode for another hour before he found a dense outcropping of winterberry bramble that could shield them. He signaled to his men to make camp and dismounted, moving carefully with the sleeping bairn against him. She would be hungry when she woke. “We need a fire,” he said to Rabbie. “A small one, between boulders to block the light.”

  He dismounted carefully and walked to Alana who was still seated on her horse. She laid her upper body across her horse’s neck, her face turned away from him. He stared for several seconds at the long fall of her hair down the side of her horse. It had come undone, the tie holding the knot of hair on top slipping free while he carried her. He ignored the ache of regret in his middle. “Ye can sleep in a tent that Logan is setting up for ye after ye show me how to make the bairn’s pap.”

  “Why should I help you?” she murmured.

  “Ye are helping an innocent bairn.”

  “Which in turn helps you.” She turned her head, laying the opposite cheek on the horse’s neck, so she could look at him while still bent forward. “Also, you do not know for certain that I will not poison your charge.”

  The bairn stirred against him, her small mouth opening. Her closed eyes blinked then squeezed tight as she began to cry.

  Alana closed her eyes where she lay on the horse and exhaled with a slight sigh. “Wash out the glove with weak ale,” she murmured. “Mix bits of bread with warmed milk until it is thin enough to flow through the hole in the glove.”

  Damn, she was exhausted. If he didn’t have the child strapped to him, he’d lift her down and carry her to the tarp thrown over a tree limb. He and the men would sleep around it while the bairn and Alana slept within, sheltered from the wind. “Come,” he said, reaching carefully for her. “I will wake ye if I cannot get the bairn to eat.”

  She opened her eyes to stare at him as he gently pulled her toward him to help her dismount. Blinking, she managed a glare. “Do not think for even a second that I don’t completely despise you because you are acting kind. Because I do…completely despise you,” she said, though she placed her hand in his, their palms clasped together as he helped her slide out of the saddle.

  He kept ahold of her, making sure she wouldn’t trip as she moved side to side, turning her feet in small circles. “In fact, given the chance, I will slit the throat of every one of you.” Her words were soft as if she didn’t have the energy to put more volume into them. “Everyone who has a jack,” she corrected, apparently not planning to slaughter the bairn after all.

  Her hand was small and warm with calluses across the base of her fingers. How would it feel to have her palm slide across his bare skin? The thought was fleeting. He frowned, pushing it away. “Understood.”

  …

  Alana barely remembered Shaw looming over her in the tent as he pulled wool blankets up to her chin, a few seconds before sleep swamped her in glorious oblivion. The stress of the day: the flood of hope that her mother might still be alive; the simmering anger at Kerrick for not agreeing to ride immediately with her to the rescue; shock, fear, and fury over being grabbed by Sinclairs; the exhaustion of riding over half the night… It had flattened her as hard as a fever. Dreams were fleeting, leaving her in deep, dark slumber until a vibration shook her. It was low, a tickling kind of sound, deep and thick with warning. It was the warning that gave Alana the impetus to crawl her way up out of the warm comfort of sleep.

  She cracked her eyes open, realizing that dawn was already lightening the world outside the tent. But what made her heart pound was the sharp point of a short sword aimed directly toward… “Robert?” she murmured, her voice rough with sleep. She pushed up next to the gray, shaggy body sitting against her, warming her side, his huge bulk taking up what little room was left under the canvas with her and a woven straw basket for the baby. Had her faithful dog tracked her through the night?

  He growled, the low note of warning aimed at Shaw, who stared intently at the dog. The look on Shaw’s face was restrained brutality. If Robert lunged at him, her friend would be impaled on the blade.

  “Do not kill him,” Alana said, her voice an urgent whisper in the silent, unmoving battle. “He is only protecting me. He won’t harm the babe.”

  Shaw lowered his sword slowly, his gaze slipping to meet Alana’s. “The chances of me killing a loyal beast without provocation are equal to the chances of ye poisoning an innocent bairn.”

  Her breath rushed out on an exhale, and she clutched the large dog’s thick neck, laying her head against him. He smelled of damp dog and grass, and she swallowed hard, squeezing her eyes to stop the tears that threatened. He’d come for her, bringing his love and heat, which had filled the small tent. No wonder she’d slept so deeply.

  “The bairn will need to eat before we leave,” Shaw said.

  “What is her name?” Alana released the dog to peer into the basket where the wee girl was nestled within thick wool blankets. “We cannot just call her babe and bairn through the journey.”

  Robert lay his bulk down as if believing the threat was gone and yawned, his jaws opening wide, making her wonder how much sleep he’d forfeited to find her. Alana pushed out of her warm blankets, and gently lifted the basket into her lap. Aches, from twisting and bucking so hard against her abductors, made her wince, but she refused to surrender a groan before the man.

  “Boudica,” he said. “A warrior through and through.”

  Alana knew all about the legendary Celtic warrior woman from the first century who had rallied and led troops against the occupying Romans. She frowned. “Something a little softer perhaps. What was her mother’s name?”

  His eyes sharpened, not falling for her trick at all. “Boudica,” he repeated.

  Alana rolled her eyes. “I think Violet would suit her better.”

  “A puny, easily
trampled flower?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “’Tis my mother’s name, and she is the strongest woman I know. Definitely the name of a warrior.”

  Shaw stared at her for a moment, but then bent his fingers inward in a motion for her to hand over the basket. With a last peek at the sleeping infant, she held it over Robert for the warrior chief to take. “Refresh yourself,” Shaw said. “We leave as soon as Boudica eats.”

  He turned partway and then returned to her gaze. Holding the basket against his hip, he drew something from the belt strapped at the top of his kilt. “If ye stab someone again with it, it will be gone forever.” He dropped the steel hair spike that he’d plucked from his arm to the ground before her. So, the scoundrel gave second chances—an interesting characteristic for an abducting villain.

  “I am calling her Violet,” she said as he walked away, and turned to Robert, whose tongue rolled out of his large mouth. She hugged him, taking in his warmth and strength, for she needed every bit of it she could muster to survive this. And survive she must, for Violet’s sake. Both of them.

  “Lord help us,” she whispered against his shaggy gray coat. She was a captive, stuck nursing a baby on this journey east when she should be… Alana lifted her face from Robert’s neck. “On a journey east,” she finished the thought out loud. East, toward Edinburgh where her mother was alive. The ruins of St. Andrews Castle, where Shaw said they must take the baby, was just slightly north of Edinburgh, less than a day’s ride in between.

  Chapter Four

  Shaw rode his large bay stallion, Rìgh, at the rear of their small party, his senses alert for anyone who might follow. He had allowed Alana to wear the bairn strapped to her after he’d seen that she was indeed a fine rider now that she wasn’t worn out from battle. It would be easier for him to act as protector and guard if he didn’t have to worry about harming the infant.

  Alana rode in the middle of their group as they worked their way along a windy path down the steep hills at the base of the Grampian mountain range. Like last night, half of her hair sat piled up on top of her head, caught with the weaving of her hair spike, while the rest of her waves swayed down her straight spine with the gait of her horse.

  He ignored the ache where she’d stabbed him. Logan’s handiwork with a needle had pulled the flesh neatly back together, and it should heal without issue unless she stabbed him there a second time. But he wouldn’t have her feeling completely helpless without any type of weapon. He’d felt helpless as a lad, living under the drunken rule of his mother’s brother. It could break a person’s spirit. Alana Campbell hadn’t been harmed physically, but her spirit was surely bruised.

  “The sun will be going down soon,” Logan called over his shoulder toward Shaw. “We will not make it to a village tonight, and we are almost out of cow’s milk.”

  Shaw scanned the woods behind them, his gaze always looking for threats. “We will stop at the bottom of this hillside. There is a river off to the north.”

  The bairn had sucked down the warmed milk they had brought from the festival, but they would need to find more soon or broth with crushed millet or oats in it. After feeding her this morning out of his own leather glove since they’d lost the first one back at the festival, Alana requested to wash the bairn. There hadn’t been time. Traveling at this rate, it would take them another three days to reach the ruins of St. Andrews Castle on the sea where the bairn must be delivered.

  The frosty grass on the side of the hill had melted in the afternoon sun, making the horses step carefully to keep from slipping. Alana kept her hand on the top of the bairn’s head or back and held the reins with the other. She bent her head to whisper to the infant or call “good boy” to her hound, who trotted nearby obediently, weaving between the trees. Other than that, she hadn’t uttered a word to any of them on the ride. Not that Shaw required or wanted to engage in foolish chatter. However, it was more difficult to read the emotions playing inside the woman without hearing her voice or seeing her face. The swaying of her lush, gold-streaked hair didn’t tell him if she was planning to stab him again or break away into a sprint with the bairn when the landscape flattened out.

  As if feeling his gaze, she turned in her seat to find him. Her pink lips were pinched tight. “Violet needs to be changed. Now.”

  “Violet?” Rabbie asked from his horse riding in front of Alana. “Is that her name?”

  Alana ignored the man, keeping her gaze on Shaw. “She has soiled herself and leaving her in it will harm her delicate skin.” Against her, the bairn squirmed in the binding, and Shaw could hear her cries.

  He looked behind over his shoulder. So far, there had been no sign of pursuit even though the Lowland Scot who had handed the infant off at the festival said that the courier from London reported radicals in pursuit, led by the devilish Major Dixon. Shaw turned forward. “At the base of this hill there is fresh water for her bath.”

  He caught the gaze of Alistair up ahead and raised his fingers in a forward sweep through the air. Alistair nodded and lay low over his horse’s neck, riding faster along the path to reach the bottom first, a scout to draw out any ambush. Shaw continued to scan the terrain, which was covered with brightly colored leaves. No tracks were apparent except for the fresh horse and dog prints. Alistair raised his hand, fingers extended, to indicate that he saw no threats, and they continued. When they reached the bottom, Shaw moved up beside Alana and dismounted. He could hear the river off to the left.

  “Take her,” she said from up on the horse, unstrapping the bairn. Logan had already dismounted and quickly grabbed the reins from her just in case she thought to break away once the child was handed off. She glared at him.

  Shaw easily lifted down the small infant, and a foul smell descended with her, thick and pungent. Alana jumped down and looked toward Rabbie, who was the closest on the other side. “I need warm water to wash her, so a small fire is needed.” The lad looked toward Shaw, and he nodded, sending the young warrior off in search of dry twigs.

  Mungo jumped down from his horse, performing his usual bends and jumps that he liked to do. Alana just stared at him, and he came closer to her. He hopped from one foot to the next, his hands raking through his hair to make it stand on end. Damnation. What was Mungo about? He didn’t need to scare the woman any more.

  Shaw was about to intervene when Alana stepped before the man, her eyes narrowed. “Why do you do that?” she asked.

  “He does not talk,” Alistair said from where he took out a package of wrapped bannocks to pass out.

  “Not talking does not make one prance around with wild eyes,” she said, trying to catch Mungo’s gaze. “Have you ever spoken?” she asked him, but he hopped away.

  If someone took interest in him, Mungo would act stranger and stranger until the person left him alone in fear for their lives. “Best ignore him,” Shaw said.

  Alana planted hands on her hips. “Has anyone looked in his mouth? I have known babes to be born with their tongues tethered, stopping them from speaking.”

  Shaw was too busy with the squirming, stench-exuding bairn to answer, holding the swaddled infant away from his body. “I think there is shite up her back,” he said, spying the stains seeping through the swaddling clothes.

  Logan and Rabbie made disgusted sounds while Alistair spit on the ground.

  “I told you she needed to be cleaned,” Alana answered.

  He stepped before her with the infant, but she turned to walk toward the fire that Rabbie was blowing under. “Do we have water to warm?” she asked.

  “I will get some from the river,” Logan said, hurrying away from the smelly bairn. They were near the Tummel River. Streams cut through the countryside, and from the sounds of the burbling water, there was a fast-flowing one nearby.

  The lass tsked. “One would think that none of you have seen a babe. They drink, piss, and shite. That is how they grow. Food and drink in, food and drink out.” She looked at the warriors, who stared at Shaw holding the bairn out from h
is body with straight arms, yet the stench still wafted to him on the breeze. Hopefully it wouldn’t stick to him. There were certain odors that just clung: blood, decaying bodies, vomit, and shite.

  “None of you have ever been around a babe before, have you?” she asked.

  Alistair and Rabbie shook their heads. Mungo just skipped away, leading his horse and Rìgh to find water.

  Alana bent to grab some freshly fallen leaves and stomped over to Shaw. “You do not hold her out from you like she is a diseased leper.” He gladly let her take the fussing bairn, and she lay the clump of leaves along the bairn’s back before cradling her in her arms. “Come along, Violet,” she cooed, brushing her lips over her scrunched forehead. “Let us get you clean.”

  Everything about Alana Campbell softened as she spoke to the bairn. Her frown relaxed into a gentle smile as she loosened the blanket around the wee face. The woman was quite bonny with creamy skin that likely felt like soft doe hide. He remembered her curves in her tight black trousers from the other night, and her dress fit her form well. What would it be like to have her smile at him that way?

  Shaw grunted in the back of his throat and grabbed the bags Mungo had taken off of Rìgh’s back. Alana would despise him until he was dead and picked apart by ravens for carrying her off the way he had. And…her mother was apparently Violet Campbell. His chest tightened.

  “There are more wrappings for the bairn in here,” he said, dropping the bag near the fire where Alana had laid out a woolen blanket. Logan came back, setting a small iron pot of river water over the crackling flames of the small fire.

  “So, her name is Violet?” Alistair asked. “Violet Campbell?” His eyes opened wide as he stared between Alana and Shaw, but Shaw turned to crouch next to the fire, feeding small twigs into it.

  “If anyone asks, yes,” she answered.

  “I named her Boudica,” Shaw said and blew, feeding the flames under the pot. “’Tis a fitting name for a strong lass.”

  “So is Violet,” Alana countered. “And one that she will not hate when she grows up.”