Highlander's Honor (Scottish Highlander Romance)

by Barbara Bard

  A tendril of hope wormed its way into the Duke’s heart. “Perhaps you are right. If you are, there may be ways I can get her back.”

  “Exactly, Your Grace.”

  Henry limped toward his horse. “Help me up.”

  Sir Alban bent and laced his fingers together, offering them as a stirrup for the Duke to step into. Once he had his liege lord’s weight in them, he heaved the Duke up and into his saddle. Henry sat atop his mount, breathing hard, his eyes closed.

  “Your Grace,” Sir Alban said, his tone uneasy, worried. “Perhaps we should construct a litter for you.”

  Henry’s eyes opened. “No, my friend, I will be all right. Let us return to the castle.”

  Vaulting into his own saddle, Sir Alban rode at his liege’s side, his horse, already tired, was happy to make a slower pace. Henry felt his eyes on him, his hand ready to steady the Duke as they rode should he need it. The soldiers rode in a long line behind them, their usual chatter quiet and subdued.

  “Are you going to execute those men, Your Grace?” Sir Alban asked.

  Henry eyed him sidelong, breathing hard, sweating. “Should I not?”

  “They were outnumbered, at least fifteen to two,” Sir Alban said. “Had they rushed into battle for Lady Catrin, they would have died, she still would have been kidnapped, and you would not now know what happened to her.”

  “So, you are asking me to spare them? They ran like cowards.”

  “So would any sensible man when faced with such odds stacked against them.”

  “Would you?”

  Sir Alban grinned. “Faster than they did.”

  Henry grunted. “You have never run from a fight in your life.”

  “All I am saying is that they do not deserve to be executed for this,” Sir Alban went on. “Demote them, punish them, but do not kill them. I know those two, they are loyal to their bones. And if I know Lady Catrin, she commanded they ride at a distance from her.”

  Henry cursed under his breath. “I have told her hundreds of times to stop that idiotic behavior. The men are there to protect her, and if they are not, they cannot do their jobs.”

  “Precisely my point, Your Grace,” Sir Alban said.

  “So, you are diverting my rage so I do not execute them, is that it?”

  “Is it working?”

  “Bloody hell, yes. Consider me diverted. You dole out whatever suitable punishment you believe they deserve.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  Full night had fallen by the time Henry, Sir Alban and the soldiers returned to his castle, Castle Linfield. Dogs barked from their kennels as they trotted into the bailey, grooms and pages rushing out to take horses from Henry and Sir Alban. Henry kept the groan behind his clenched teeth as he slid down from his saddle. He held onto Sir Alban with a tight grip even as the knight shouted for Henry’s personal physician.

  “Your Grace, perhaps we can carry you.”

  Shaking his head, Henry grimly limped across the rush and straw strewn bailey toward the postern doors, his men unsaddling their mounts and leading them into the stables to care for them. Servants in plain homespun wool bowed him through into the castle, waiting to serve him his supper, or pour his wine. Torches flared in sconces as he carefully made his way up the stairs to his chambers, leaning heavily on Sir Alban’s arm.

  His personal manservant, James Irwin, helped him to undress and slide under the covers of his bed. Henry sighed, his eyes shut, wondering if he had strength enough to eat. As his physician hurried in and Sir Alban bowed, planning to leave, Henry grasped the knight’s arm, restraining him.

  Opening his eyes, he looked up. “In the town of Linfield, there is a tavern. It is called The Lucky Hog. Dreadful sort of place.”

  “And?”

  “Find a man who goes by the name of Black Charlie,” Henry said, his voice trembling with exhaustion and pain. “He frequents there. Come morning, I want to see him.”

  Sir Alban frowned. “I think I know what you are planning, Your Grace. Are you sure asking the help of brigands is a wise thing to do? There are other ways we can get Lady Catrin back rather than use those black hearts.”

  “They can cross into Scotland,” Henry replied wearily. He closed his eyes. “I cannot. They can kill Thorburn and bring Catrin back to me.”

  ***

  After sleeping with the aid of one of his physician’s tinctures, Henry felt stronger, and rose from his bed well after dawn. Though still shaky, and his joints still feeling as though sand had gotten into them, he broke his fast with a hearty appetite. Upon asking, he learned that Sir Alban had left for the town of Linfield and had not yet returned. “Most excellent. Send him here to my quarters the instant he returns.”

  The sun shone bright and warm through his windows as Henry sat in a chair in the midst of the rays, soaking them up and feeling the pain in his joints ease. Wearing a loose robe over his dressing gown, he dozed, waking occasionally to glance out the window and into the bailey below. Thus, he happened to observe Sir Alban returning with a tall, lanky man in a black cloak with the hood obscuring his face. The man in black rode a bay as rangy as himself.

  “James,” Henry called. “I must get dressed.”

  Freshly washed and dressed, Henry returned to his chair by the window. He did not wait long. Within minutes, his manservant returned to announce Sir Alban. “Bring them in.”

  Henry stood, albeit shakily, his hands behind his back to hide their tremor. Wearing his black and silver tunic embossed with his coat of arms, hose, and his sword and dagger in their sheaths, he watched as Sir Alban and Black Charlie arrived to bow low.

  “Your Grace,” Sir Alban intoned formally. “Black Charlie is here at your request.”

  The tall man flipped back the hood of his long cloak. “Your Grace,” he said with a tight smile. “It has been a long time since we met last.”

  Though he was a criminal and a blackguard, Charlie spoke with the accent and intonations of an aristocrat. Henry always suspected he was the second or third son of a nobleman who eschewed the more respectable means of making a living. A short, puckered scar lay across his left cheek, his shaggy black hair tumbled over his shoulders and brow. Bright blue eyes gleamed from his swarthy face while his insolent half-smile remained in place.

  “Yes, it has,” Henry replied, keeping his tone neutral. “I wish to engage your services, Master Charlie.”

  “Would you now?” He stroked his short dark beard as he paced slowly around the chamber, eyeing the tapestries as though evaluating their worth. “I must tell you, my prices have gone up. Too many expenditures.”

  When Sir Alban’s face darkened and would have ordered the brigand to stand motionless and face the Duke with proper respect, Henry gestured for him to remain still. “This task I have for you will pay quite handsomely, I assure you.”

  Charlie stopped and faced him. “What is the task, if I may inquire? You might recall that the higher the danger levels, the higher the cost.”

  Henry curled his lip. “I remember. My daughter, the Lady Catrin, has been kidnapped by Scotsmen. I want her back.”

  Charlie whistled low. “This will cost you, indeed.”

  His hand still clasped behind his back, Henry paced slowly around the brigand. “I want my daughter returned to me, unharmed, untouched, and her kidnapper slain. You will bring me his head as proof. For all this, I am willing to pay you one hundred gold crowns.”

  “Who took her?”

  “Ranulf Thorburn.”

  Charlie’s eyes widened. He stroked his beard, watching Henry as he paced. “That will not be easy. He is the clan laird now that the old one renounced his chieftainship.”

  “That is why I am paying you more than triple your usual rates.”

  Henry noticed Sir Alban’s brows hike at his statement, and knew the knight wondered how a Duke would know the brigand so intimately. “Will you undertake this task? Or shall I find another?”

  Charlie stiffened. “I will do it, Your Grace
. For twice that.”

  Henry gestured for him to leave. “Thank you for your visit. I know of several others who will leap at this chance to earn a hundred crowns.”

  Charlie did not move, and his blue eyes glittered with something akin to hate. “You asked me here first because you know I am the best, Duke. No one else can get your daughter back with Thorburn’s head on a pike.”

  Henry merely stood, waiting, patient, knowing his man and his greed. Charlie would pay his men a single crown each, and hoard the rest, making him a very rich man. “One hundred,” he said slowly, his eyes never leaving Charlie’s. “Another twenty-five as a bonus if you return her within the week.”

  “Done.”

  Charlie spit on the palm of his right hand and held it out. Henry spat on his own, and the two clasped hands. “Ride hard and fast,” Henry said. “I have no idea how long Thorburn might keep her alive.”

  “She may be dead already,” Charlie commented, his tone dry.

  “If so, you receive nothing. Now go.”

  Dismissed, Charlie offered a short, sardonic bow, then spun on his heel and left the chamber. Henry walked to the window, staring down. Within several minutes, Charlie reappeared, his hood covering his head. Mounting his horse, he galloped out of the bailey and down the hill to vanish.

  “Your Grace,” Sir Alban said, standing beside him to also stare down. “I understand why you are doing this. But are you certain this is the only way?”

  “For Ranulf to die and Catrin to return, yes,” Henry replied, his voice soft. “He could keep her for a while before killing her, or torture her, rape her. I must get her home before that happens, Sir Alban. She is all I have left.”

  Chapter 3

  Stars glittered in the night sky as a wolf howled, far away across the moors. Ranulf cocked his head at the sound, the heat of the fire licking his face and hands, and glanced at his captive. Lady Catrin sat on the ground, her legs crossed, her hands bound in front of her and resting in her lap. She made no indication the beast’s howling disturbed her, her gaze on the fire reflective, as though pondering philosophy.

  By long habit, Ranulf stood to inspect the area around their camp, gazing past the small ring of campfires to the darkness beyond. Two of his clansmen stood watch several hundred paces away, their vision unimpeded by the firelight as they stared outward. He stiffened at the sound of hoof beats trotting toward the camp. But when the watchmen gave the newcomer no challenge, he relaxed.

  Only dimly lit by the campfires, his closest friend, Aswin Campbell, entered the camp, and dismounted at the horse lines. That told Ranulf he had found nothing important in his ride back toward the English border. He would care for his courser before reporting to Ranulf. Ranulf sat back down, observing Lady Catrin watching him.

  “Ye best get yer rest, me Lady,” he said. “We do be havin’ a long ride oan the morrow.”

  She shook her head, her rich auburn locks tumbling over her shoulders to her hips, glowing a deep red in the light of the fire. “How can I sleep when you will likely murder me the moment I do?”

  “Hud I wanted ye dead, lassie, I hae wid hae done the deed. I nae need tae wait until yer sleepin’.”

  “But you are planning to kill me, are you not? Why do you not just get it over with?”

  Ranulf gazed at the flickering flames. “Revenge do be a twisty road tae follow. I hae nae wish to slay ye, but someone must pay fer me brother’s death. Yer da took me brother, so I took his daughter.”

  Catrin also gazed into the fire, nibbling her lower lip. “What do you know of what happened? I mean, you were not there, so how do you know your brother is innocent?”

  “Coz I know me brother,” Ranulf answered simply. “He cannae murder in cold blood, lassie. Aye, he wen’ sooth tae raid yer da’s cattle, but dinnae.”

  “How do you know? Raiding cattle is also a hanging offense in England.”

  “His friens do return wi’ news of what happened. Me brother never raided the cattle, never met yer brother. He be in the town of Linfield when yer brother’s body be found oot oan the moors. Yer da seized him, hanged him without proof coz he be a Scot, and me da’s heir.”

  “My father would not hang a man without evidence.”

  Ranulf’s brow rose. “And yer da cannae be hasty in the heat ‘o grief? My da lies abed, a broken man, coz his son and heir be hanged by a Sassenach Duke. Kyle be a guid man, a man ‘o honor, who wouldnae murder for nae reason, ne’er in cold blood. ‘Tis said yer brother was killed with ne’er a fight, his throat slit.”

  Catrin nodded. “Yes, that much is true. He was in Linfield and was heard quarreling with a man. Then he vanished, and his body found on the moors the next day.”

  “And yer da blamed me brother,” Ranulf went on, “Kyle wouldnae kill over a quarrel, lass.”

  “Even if he was insulted? Enraged?”

  “Aye,” Ranulf said, his tone neutral. “In an open battle wi’ plenty ‘o witnesses.”

  Aswin returned from the darkness, offering his laird a quick half-salute. “The Sassenach turn back at the border, Ranulf,” he said, squatting on his heels at the fire. He offered Catrin a respectful nod of greeting, and went on, “And I saw nothin’ else tae concern us.”

  “Guid, lad,” Ranulf replied, clapping him on the arm. “We must get our rest this night, as we hae a longish ride oan the morrow.”

  Rising from his squatted position, Aswin nodded, and saluted again, then went to another fire where he had set his blankets. All around the fires, the clansmen rolled themselves into theirs, their snores resounding through the darkness. Ranulf tossed more wood on his fire, sparks rising on the smoke. Picking up a rope, he went to Catrin.

  “Forgive the necessity, Me Lady,” he said, “but I must be tyin’ yer ankles. I wouldnae want ye roaming about the moors withoot me.”

  “That is hardly necessary,” Catrin protested. “You have men on guard, so how far can I go without being seen?”

  Ranulf gazed down at her. “I wish, so I dae, that I can trust ye nae tae run. But ye be a clever and brave lass, and I cannae take the chance ye will escape me.”

  Kneeling beside her, he gestured for her feet. Casting him a glare, Catrin unfolded her legs, and permitted him to lash her ankles together. “That wid take ye a long while tae undo,” he said, stepping back and retrieving thick wool blankets. “Ye cannae accomplish it withoot waking me.” He lay a blanket on the ground and encouraged her to lie on it. When she complied, he covered her with the other.

  Catrin folded her arms under her head, watching him as he walked back to his side of the fire and sat down. “Why are you being kind to me?” she asked.

  “I dinnae make war on wimmens and bairns,” he answered, his voice quiet. “It not be yer fault yer da be a murdering scoondrel, and I dinnae wish ye harm unless I must.”

  “So, you will be kind to me until it is time to torture and kill me?” Catrin said, her voice dripping ice. “Is that it?”

  “Ne’er torture. Kill, perhaps, if I must, but should I hae need tae do that, then I be merciful.”

  “I had no idea a Scotsman had anything remotely akin to mercy.”

  Ranulf rolled himself into his pallet of blankets, then propped his head up on his arm, gazing across the fire at her with sorrow. “Ach, lassie, there be so much ye might learn about us Scots that ye dinnae know. Jist remember yer Sassenach people be as bloodthirsty and unmerciful as any heathen. Rest ye well this night.”

  ***

  The next morning dawned, but without the warm sunlight of the previous day. The freshening wind over the moors hinted at rain to follow, and the low, misty clouds hung over the taller peaks. After a cold breakfast of dried meat, apples, cheese and hard black bread, Ranulf set Lady Catrin in her saddle. Rather than roll her blankets and tie them to her cantle, he threw one over her shoulders and tucked it around her. She gazed down at him with questioning honey-brown eyes but did not speak to thank him.

  His clansmen saddled their horses while chewing
their food, tossing bawdy jokes to one another, and kicked dirt over the fires. Thus, just after dawn, Ranulf vaulted atop his own horse, and pulled Catrin’s grey in beside him. Whether due to the dreary morning or her animosity toward him, she refused to speak even as he tried to make conversation.

  The morning waned into early afternoon when one of his two outriders, riding a few miles ahead, returned to the group at a gallop. Ranulf lifted his fist to his men behind to halt, recognizing that trouble lay ahead of them. Catrin said nothing, her bound hands holding the blanket tightly around her. Dark circles under her eyes spoke of a sleepless night, and her rich hair hung lank around her shoulders.