The Highland Outlaw

by Heather McCollum

“Yet he hasn’t tried to stop the French ship?” she asked.

  “The commander who has our papers outranks him. Dixon likely wants to kill the bairn before she gets on the ship,” Alistair said, his gaze going between them.

  Alana hugged Rose closer, as if her love and body could shelter her from musket balls.

  “Shaw,” Alistair said, drawing out his name. “Ye don’t think the bastard has been tricking us from the start, setting up Clan Sinclair to be the murderers of the king’s infant bairn?”

  “From the start?” she asked. “From the battle at Stirling? Has he been chasing you since then?”

  Shaw’s gaze snapped to her, but then it turned on his friend with a deep, seething fury spreading across his face. “What the bloody hell have ye been talking to Alana about?”

  “Shaw,” Logan called from the corner of the street. “There are more English.” He jogged back toward them. “They are not dressed in their reds, though. Common clothes.”

  “If they get the bairn before we deliver her to the ship, Dixon will blame us for her death,” Alistair said, grabbing Shaw’s arm. “All we have to do is get the bairn to the French captain. Then we will have done our part to help the king. Take the document with the royal seal, and we will have our lands back.”

  Shaw’s hands curled into tight fists. Alistair let go and took a step toward Alana, his arms out. “I will take the bairn. Dixon will be looking for the two of ye.”

  “Nay,” Shaw said, shoving him back. “We will take the bairn.”

  “Shite,” Alistair said, righting himself. He threw his arm out. “Then go. We will guard your backs.”

  Alana hugged Rose and strode quickly away down the narrow street with Shaw, the others behind them moving slower, keeping watch.

  “What is going on between you two?” Alana asked.

  “Later,” Shaw answered, his gaze surveying the buildings as they passed as if someone might fire down upon them with muskets.

  Alana angled closer to one side, under the eaves, so she only had to look up at one set of windows. The street sloped down toward the bay. Her legs moved fast in her trousers, hitting her skirt with her long, urgent strides. Her heart thudded with worry and the race as she held the baby against her. Robert followed, his tail down as if he could tell something sinister was afoot. A low growl grumbled up from his chest.

  Alana wanted to demand to know everything, the questions and odd glances between him and Alistair reaching a tipping point. Last night she’d wanted to hide in the dark warmth of ignorance, but not now. Now, she needed to be the leader of the Highland Roses and do whatever she could to keep the babe safe.

  Rounding a corner, Shaw gripped her arm to lead her down another short path to the water. Dock workers heaved barrels and pallets, hooking them up to thick hooks to lift onto their ships. Their voices were brusque, peppered with crass curses. An occasional bark of laughter mixed with the caws from the seabirds, and the wooden planks squeaked as the water shifted beneath.

  They ducked out from the buildings to hurry across the narrow dock. But instead of stopping there, Shaw ushered her toward the rocky ruins of what could only be St. Andrews Castle way at the far end and up a short grassy knoll. As they neared, Alana saw one of the hired wet nurses from the common room, the younger woman who said her name was Bess. Bess held her charge and talked with a man in military dress in the shadows before the stone walls of the main keep. Off to the side, two men crept closer to them. Dixon’s men.

  “Mo chreach,” Shaw cursed, and they broke into a run toward the castle, Alana cradling Rose’s little head against her. “Traitors at arms,” Shaw called out, and Bess jumped, pulling away from the man in red dress to disappear into the castle grounds while the man drew his sword.

  With the baby before her, Alana couldn’t fight, but she could protect. Her hair stick was in her hair, and she wore the sgian dubh in her boot beneath her skirt. “I will hide in the castle,” she said to Shaw as they neared.

  He drew his sword. “Keep Robert with ye.”

  “Come,” Alana said, patting her leg to get the large wolfhound to follow her as she broke into a run toward the interior of the castle. Time and weather had broken through the main wall, and she hopped over it instead of seeking a door. Where had Bess gone? They should stay together.

  She stuck close to the wall, hearing the clash of swords and curses from the men behind her. As she ran into the exposed courtyard she stopped, her eyes riveted on another woman standing opposite Bess and the baby. The other woman had a blade in her hand.

  Breath frozen, Alana took several seconds before her mind could find the word. “Màthair?” For there in the ruins of St. Andrews Castle, standing with determination and what seemed like vigorous health, was Violet Campbell. Hair long and dark and worn in her usual braid, Violet whipped around, confusion and shock in the lines of her face. Robert went prancing into the center, sniffing at her mother’s shoes. He hadn’t been born before she left Finlarig.

  “Alana? What are ye doing here?” she asked, her eyes locking onto her face. She shied away from the huge dog, and Bess ran toward the far side of the ruins, disappearing inside the half-deteriorated walls.

  “Màthair,” Alana cried out again as emotion tumbled inside her. To see her mother strong and alive. “You have sight,” she said, running toward her.

  She grabbed her mother to her with one hand, still holding Rose between them. Her mother was stiff, breaking the awkward hug to touch Alana’s face. “Why are ye here?” Violet asked, her gaze dropping to Rose in her arms.

  “I was on my way to save you in Edinburgh,” she said. “I only just found out that you were there, that you were even alive. We thought you dead when they brought Da’s body home. Grey is the chief now. He is married and has his own son and daughter.”

  Her mother’s eyes swelled with tears. She blinked and one fell out to cut a path down her cheek. “Ye should not be here, Alana. ’Tis dangerous.”

  “Why are you not in Edinburgh?” she asked, her hand resting on top of Robert’s head as he came to sit next to her. “Did you escape on your own?”

  Violet looked over her shoulder toward the main part of the ruins. “I am still earning my freedom.”

  “And you are not blind? A man told me at the Samhain Festival that you were alive but blind, and I came right away. Grey does not even know yet. Kerrick sent word.”

  Violet turned back, her face pinched. “No one cares what a blind woman is up to. It was easy enough to act after one of my fevers that first winter.”

  Lord, what had she gone through over the last two years? Alana’s stomach clenched with guilt.

  Her mother’s gaze shifted to Rose. “Is that one of the three babes James is sneaking away to France?”

  Alana’s mind went blank for several seconds. Instinct to protect made her twist away as her mother grabbed for Rose. “What are you doing?” she gasped as Major Dixon, wearing hose and short trousers, jogged into the courtyard from the side facing the sea. She tucked Rose against her and felt the babe squirm. Robert stood, growling low. “We need to go,” she said to her mother. “He wants to kill her.”

  “Give it to me,” her mother repeated.

  “Màthair, we need to run.” Alana’s face turned back and forth between Dixon and her mother. She swallowed over the hard thud of her heart and wrapped both of her arms around Rose, sheltering her with her body. Her mother reached out and grabbed her arm, anchoring her there in the beaten grass.

  “What are you doing?” Alana asked as the weight of horror dropped down upon her.

  “I am freeing myself,” her mother said, her words spitting from her clenched teeth. “Now give it to me.” The silver edge of a sgian dubh slid free of her mother’s skirt, and she held the dagger, her knuckles turning white with the force. “The babe must die.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Shaw yanked his sword free of the Englishman’s gut, and the man crumpled to the rocky path. He twisted to see Alistair yank his
own sword from the soldier who had attacked him. Apparently almost getting skewered had shaken off the last of the effects of Fiona’s tart. Shaw nodded and spun around to shove the Englishman fighting against Logan, throwing the man off-kilter so that Logan could easily finish him. The two soldiers who had held muskets at them had been the first to fall under Shaw’s blade, their weapons awkward and slow up close.

  Shaw heard Robert’s barks inside the ruins. Nay! He ran in the direction of the dog. Where were Alana and Rose? Were there more of Dixon’s soldiers hiding around the half-toppled walls and along the shoreline? There might be even more traitors against King James, willing to doom their own souls by killing innocent bairns. They could have met up with Dixon, adding to his numbers. Where the hell was Colonel Wendall? His men could help.

  “Alana,” he yelled, running into the dark interior of the main keep, his bloody sword before him. “Alana!” An image of her lying across the rocks, bleeding from musket balls or slashes from a blade, sickened his stomach, his leg muscles contracting to push him even faster.

  Out into the courtyard beyond the keep, Shaw saw Dixon tugging her through the broken back wall. “Shite.” He ran across the rough weeds, leaping over fallen blocks of granite from the toppled walls. Where was the dog? “Dixon!”

  Jumping down through the opening, he dodged, crouching down, as musket fire chipped the wall next to his head. Damnation! Dixon had a lit musket with him. But he’d just fired, which gave Shaw a good thirty seconds before he could reload, and that was if he didn’t have to fight with a stubborn Highland lass protecting her bairn.

  They disappeared from sight, and Shaw threw himself forward, grabbing the edge of a wall as he pulled himself around it. A deep cut in the bank plunged to the sea where the boulders dumped directly into the freezing depths. Farther to the right, the boulders gave way to a slip of sand where the French ship was anchored at the dock closest to the ruins. Horses were being led aboard, and men stood on the deck. None were within firing range, even if they thought to help save the bairn and Alana.

  On the rocks, Shaw spotted Robert as he lunged at one of Dixon’s men. The man screamed as the dog’s large maw clamped down on his arm that held a musket. Shaw cut his gaze to the right where Dixon threw Alana onto the sand. He set his musket end down to reload the ball. A second woman ran over to Alana, grabbing her arm to help her stand. She wasn’t one of the wet nurses.

  “Hold on, lass,” Shaw murmured as he watched Dixon raise the gun level. As soon as the he saw the tiniest twitch in Dixon’s hand, Shaw dropped to the ground before he even heard the shot. The bullet hit somewhere behind him, shattering rock, and Shaw jumped up, hurling himself the rest of the way down to the beach, his feet churning up the sand as his legs and arm pumped, his bloody sword held ready in his other hand.

  He kept his focus on Dixon but saw Alana struggle to pull away from the woman, shouting at her. Realizing that he wouldn’t get the musket loaded in time, Dixon dropped the weapon and pulled his sword. Along the ridge above, Shaw saw several other soldiers running toward the castle, but Shaw’s men and…

  What the bloody hell? Alana’s students and Kerrick were also there, plunging into the fight to keep the Englishmen from running down onto the beach to help their commander. Behind him, Robert barked and growled, perhaps at more English traitors creeping out onto the rocks.

  “The infant needs to die, Sinclair,” Dixon yelled, holding out his sword. “The one you have is the real princess, is she not?”

  But Shaw wasn’t going to be baited into discussion and swung his blade, the vibration singing through the air. Clang! Dixon met his attack, barely redirecting the force past him.

  “James and his popish witch will raise the baby Catholic, especially in France,” Dixon said, his teeth clenched as he stared at Shaw from between crossed steel before their noses.

  Shaw shoved him back, bringing his sword around. “Leave the bairn and Alana, as well as the other innocent bairns, and I will spare your bloody life,” he said.

  “They are not innocent, Sinclair,” Dixon yelled back. “They are all Catholic, sent by Catholic families to support the continuance of James’s religious line.”

  “Sinclair?” Shaw heard the woman behind Dixon yell. Dread slammed into Shaw as her face came into focus. Fok. It was Violet Campbell, the Campbell chief’s wife from Stirling, Alana’s mother. He hadn’t placed her face in all the commotion. She wasn’t a prisoner in Edinburgh? And her round, angry eyes did not look sightless.

  Dixon spun, his razor-sharp blade coming around. Shaw jumped back, his instincts propelling his legs to keep him in one piece. All the training he’d done to meet Edgar Campbell’s attacks would save his life against the obviously skilled English swordsman.

  “Lady Campbell?” he heard Kerrick yell from the top ridge. The Campbell warrior ran down the boulders flanking the beach. This was a catastrophic mess. Was his English contact even still here with the royal seal on the papers to give the Sinclairs back their lands? By now, the local magistrate would have been notified of a sword fight, especially one involving warring women. Which side of the royal and religious debate the local law fell on would either help Shaw or find them all tossed in the gaol. He needed to finish this quickly.

  “James will never honor his promise to give you back your lands,” Dixon said as he deflected Shaw’s blow. “He did not when you turned against your own countrymen at Stirling, joining me to stamp out the Covenanters, and he will not after you have helped his daughter flee the country.”

  The words, loud with force, slammed into Shaw’s chest. Alana had to have heard the bastard. He glanced toward her, and his heart clenched. Her lips were open, her face numb with shock. There was no time to utter a single true word to refute Dixon’s statement. He must continue with his mission and hope that Colonel-Commandant Wendall would uphold his end of the deal when they brought James’s daughter to the French ship. There was no other way to save his people this winter, to save Bren and set Reagan’s headstone.

  He pressed his sword against Dixon’s, level between them. “Turn with me, Sinclair,” the English major hissed, spittle coming from between his yellowed teeth. “We will overthrow the Catholic throne, and I will help convince the government to give back Sinclair lands.”

  “Lies are bitter on the tongue,” Shaw said. “Like the ones ye told at Stirling that none of the Covenanters would be harmed. Do not expect me to ever believe a foking liar and turncoat ready to spill the blood of three innocent bairns.”

  Dixon’s eyes narrowed. “You will die today along with the babes, then, and I will report to the king that it was you who did the deed, turning against him. Thanks to your uncle, Sinclairs are known miscreants. James will believe me, his loyal major who led the attack at Stirling.” Dixon grinned wickedly. “Sinclairs will never have a home again.”

  Fury tried to sink its claws into Shaw, but he kept his focus. Dixon was talented with a sword and was purposely trying to bait him into a vengeful attack to tire him. When emotions raged within, they clouded his judgment, and right now, even a small mistake would be lethal. With the practiced discipline of a man raised on the knife’s edge of violence under his uncle’s brutal reign, Shaw inhaled, waiting, using his patience to prepare for Dixon’s next move.

  Dixon’s grin pulled back into a snarl, and he shoved hard at Shaw. But Shaw had anticipated it and yanked back his sword to throw him off balance. He slid his short dagger free with his other hand and thrust it into Dixon’s side, the force throwing the man to the rocky beach. The major’s eyes went wide, his mouth opening. Shaw slammed his boot down on the handle, jamming the dagger completely into his middle until the hilt stopped it. A gurgling groan came from the evil man. “Sinclairs…will never…have a home…”

  Shaw pivoted on his heel, bending in his stride to grab the hilt of his family sword. Standing a few feet away was Alana, holding the bairn against her. From the pain on her face, the tears streaming down her cheeks, he knew that she’d hear
d Dixon’s words.

  “Alana,” Shaw said, coming forward.

  “Do not touch my daughter with your dirty Sinclair hands,” her mother yelled while Kerrick held the woman around the waist.

  Alana shook her head, her lips opening to pull in a ragged breath. She closed her eyes for the first few words. “My mother was working for Dixon to win her freedom from Edinburgh prison. Rose is not safe here. Let us get her to the French ship.”

  Alistair ran down the slope, jogging up to them. “Dixon’s men have been thrown over the other side. We best hide the major’s body before the authorities get here and the lass’s Highland Roses become outlaws with us.”

  “Alana,” Shaw said again, but she wouldn’t look at him. He tried to take her arm, and she turned away. “Lass, I need to explain. I would have last night.”

  Her gaze swung around to his, and in the evergreen eyes he saw such sadness, such pain, that it physically pierced through his chest. He nearly looked down to see if someone had stabbed him through. “We have had a week together,” she said. “Do not blame me because I wanted one more night.”

  “I do not blame ye for anything,” he said.

  “One more night? Ye slept with him?” her mother screeched, twisting with Kerrick’s lock around her waist. Fortunately, the woman seemed weaker than Alana’s dog, and Kerrick managed to hold onto her.

  “Lady Campbell, please,” Kerrick said. “Calm down.”

  Logan and Mungo ran up to grasp Dixon’s arms, dragging him toward the far side of the ruins. Robert ran with them, barking at the fallen man.

  “Ye slept with the man who ordered his clan to help the English kill your father and imprison your mother,” Violet Campbell yelled, her wild eyes making her look like someone afflicted with the insanity of grief and fury.

  Shaw knew that look. Had seen it before in his own reflection after he found his mother pale and sightless in a puddle of blood at the base of the castle walk. There would be nothing said that was strong enough to break through Violet Campbell’s hate. Did Alana share it?