Highlander's Honor (Scottish Highlander Romance)

by Barbara Bard

  “There be nae doubt who be responsible,” he said to Ian, sitting his horse beside him. “That fiend who done killed Donald and Jasper. That black guard outlaw.”

  “Aye,” Ian agreed. “Bloody Sassenach ambushed them, laird. Nae honor among them.”

  “I wi’ rip oot his throat when I catch him,” Ranulf vowed. “He dae want tae play dirty, then I can get me hands jist as dirty.”

  Glancing at the twenty odd men with him, the clansmen he took with him when Catrin and her escort had not returned from their daily ride, Ranulf beckoned to one of them. The man nudged his horse over to him, saluting. “Ride back tae the castle,” Ranulf told him. “Gather servants tae collect the dead and see tae their burial. Then bring back as many men as ye can get. I ride sooth, but I wi’ go slow till ye catches up.”

  “Aye, laird.”

  Wheeling his horse, his man set spurs to silky hide and galloped back toward the castle. Dismounting, Ranulf left his reins on his stallion’s neck as he walked around, peering at the torn and trampled earth. He studied the tracks left behind by the outlaws who slayed his men and took Catrin, hoping they will lead him to her. Glancing up at Ian, who had followed him, he said, “No more than ten ‘o them. But they be ridin’ hard. Let us be after them.”

  Striding back to where he left his horse, he vaulted into his saddle and kicked the animal into a swift canter. His men riding hard on his heels, he followed the clear tracks in the churned heath. As he needed his clan to catch up, he kept the pace at a trot or slow canter and tried not to worry about what may be happening to Catrin.

  “If they be Sassenach men loyal tae her da,” he muttered to Ian riding beside him, “then I nae worry fer her safety. But these be brigands, withoot honor. Be they despoiling her, ye think?”

  Ian shook his head. “Nay, laird. Think ‘o it. They be determined tae hae Lady Catrin. Why? Coz they be paid tae bring her home. They ne’er be paid should they bring her tae harm.”

  “I dae hope and pray ye be right, Ian,” Ranulf replied, his grief and worry easing a fraction. “Still, men like this be unpredictable. Perchance they cannae control themselves.”

  “Be easy, laird. We wi’ catch up tae them soon. And bring Lady Catrin home.”

  By nightfall, Ranulf’s hundred plus clansmen caught up to him, and he lit torches to follow the trail that led ever southward into the darkness. He knew he could not cross into Sassenach lands with all of these men if he failed to catch up to the outlaws who had Catrin. Permitting only the shortest of stops to rest the horses, and give them water and a little grazing, he pressed on.

  Dawn found him staring down at the corpse of a dead man. Glazed eyes stared blankly into the new sunlight, and by the stench of the body’s opened belly and stained breeches, Ranulf knew the man had been dead only a few hours. “This lad took a long time tae die,” he said, studying the white entrails wrapped in the thicket. “He did this tae his own man. They camped here fer the night, then come the mawning he done this.”

  “Why, laird?”

  Ranulf glanced up. “Me guess, it be over Catrin. Perhaps he wished tae despoil her.”

  “This be a cruel man we be after, laird. Cruel and despicable.”

  “Aye.”

  He swung back into his saddle and nudged the horse into a gallop. “The border be only a few leagues ahead,” he said to Ian. “I cannae take all of ye wi’ me when I cross.”

  “How many ye wish tae accompany ye?” Ian asked. “I plan tae be one ‘o them, laird.”

  Ranulf shot him a quick grin. “That be grand, Ian. I wi’ take a dozen stout lads wi’ me. The rest wi’ hae tae gae home.”

  As the trail he followed did indeed cross into England shortly before nightfall, he stopped. Mounted on his horse, he addressed the clansmen not picked to go with him. “I cannae take all ‘o ye wi’ me,” he said, his voice raised to reach all of his men. “Gae home but stand ready. Patrol my lands, lads, and keep a sharp watch o’er them. I be back as soon as I can.”

  The band of more than a hundred strong saluted him, then turned their horses back north. Ranulf did not watch them go, but kicked his horse across into England, still following the trail. Only ten leagues to the south west lay the Duke of Whitewood’s estates, and to the west were Gilbert of Hargrove’s lands. The trail appeared to stop after heading for less than a league due west. Dismounting his stallion, he studied the tracks, puzzled.

  “More riders,” he said, pointing. Lifting his head, he gazed west. “Some went that way. Most rode sooth. But they stayed ‘ere fer a bit, I see boot prints among the horse tracks.”

  “Which way dae we ride, laird?” Ian asked, gazing around.

  “Sooth.” Ranulf swung aboard his horse. “West lay Gilbert ‘o Hargrove’s lands and we nae wish tae tangle wi’ him oan his own turf. He hae more men than we. I think the outlaws rode sooth, and we can catch up if we ride noo.”

  Striking a hard gallop, Ranulf calculated that the outlaws would stop for the night at dusk, and hoped they thought themselves safe from him. If Ian was right and the brigands took Catrin for pay, then perhaps they turned her over to the Earl of Hargrove. Though he despised the Earl right down to his blood and bones, he knew she would be safe in his hands, and Gilbert would take her home to her father. “I cannae come after ye, Catrin,” he murmured, staring westward where he hoped she now was. “I will come fer ye, lass. I promise ye.”

  Hours later, past full dark, Ranulf and Ian crept on their bellies to the top of a hillock and peered through the thickets shielding them from the camp below. Three fires he found, which he guessed were seven men around them. “Dae ye see Catrin?” he whispered to Ian. “Yer night eyes be better than mine.”

  Crawling further into the thicket and under it, Ian whispered back, “Nay. The fires light them up guid, laird. One man at one fire, then four and three.”

  “The leader at his own,” Ranulf muttered. “Dae ye see a watchman?”

  As Ian scrutinized the low-lying hills and short stone walls around them, the single man tossed more wood on his fire. The blaze sprang up, revealing his black cloak and short beard. Ranulf cursed under his breath. “’Tis you, bastard,” he hissed through his teeth. “Ye goan meet yer maker this night.”

  Ian crept soundlessly backward. “As far as I can tell, laird, they set nae watch.”

  “Guid.”

  Crawling soundlessly back down the hill, Ranulf gave swift orders. “Thirteen ‘o us, seven ‘o them. Split up into four groups and spread out. The terrain be in our favor, we hae surprise oan uir side. We all hae bows, we use them. Ian, ye and two lads cut them off from their horses. Neal, ye take two lads tae the sooth, you hae the longest distance, gae noo.”

  As the selected men rode off, Ranulf pointed to the others. “Ye three ride in from the west, me and the last four lads, we ride straight doon the hill. If Catrin can ride and shoot, as can we. We gae noo.”

  Ranulf’s band split apart to ride around the hill and surround the black cloaked outlaws. Mounting his horse, he and the men selected to ride with him walked their beasts up the hill. Ranulf felt only partially worried their horses would snort and potentially give them away, as Ian was only minutes from riding around the hill. If the brigands were spooked, and ran for their animals, they had little chance of escaping.

  “We be within range at the top ‘o the hill,” he whispered, nocking an arrow to his bow. “Shoot them doon, lads, remember what they did tae uir friens. We gie nae quarter.”

  Well trained and well disciplined, his clansmen did not reply, instead they dropped reins to their mounts’ necks. Drawing their bows to their ears, they awaited his signal. Ranulf slowly counted, measuring the time necessary for Neal and his men to get south of the bandits. Then, nudging his horse, he rode to the top of the hill.

  Down below, nothing had changed. While wanting to laugh aloud at their foolishness in not setting a watch and setting so many brilliant fires, Ranulf remembered how easily the tides of battle could change. He was also sup
erstitious enough that he would never challenge the fates by believing he had the fight won before the first arrow left its string. Patient, he waited and watched, his stallion as silent as himself.

  Drawing the bowstring to his ear, he aimed down at the bearded man. The scents of woodsmoke and cooking food tickled his nostrils. The outlaws served themselves and their master food, talking and laughing, and Ranulf checked again to make certain Catrin was not down there. If she was indeed still a captive, none of the men appeared to indicate it. The leader’s chest sprang into his view as he sighted down the arrow.

  He relaxed his fingers.

  The arrow flew true.

  It sank deep into the bearded man’s chest. At the same instant, Ranulf whooped his war cry. Kicking his stallion into a powerful gallop down the hill, he nocked another arrow. All hell broke loose among the men below. As his own lads screamed their challenges, arrows from all directions flew through the darkness to find targets, the Sassenach men ran for horses. Ian’s lads rode in, whooping, firing their arrows, striking chests, shoulders, throats.

  Ranulf’s horse reached level ground even as his selected clansmen loosed their arrows into any Sassenach still standing or thrashing on the ground. The bearded man lay where he had fallen, his hands frantically trying to pull the arrow from his chest. Leaping from his mount even before the beast came to a halt, Ranulf pointed his arrow down into the man’s agonized and furious face.

  “Where be the lass?” he asked, standing over the face he knew so well, the man he fought that day by the lake. “Tell me and I be merciful. I slay ye quick, nae sufferin’.”

  The outlaw leader’s mouth worked, spittle coated his lips. As did blood. With the arrow in his lungs, he slowly bled into them, and would soon drown in it. But his defiant eyes told Ranulf that he would never speak. Looking up, he found his clansmen riding among the dead brigands, checking for any still alive.

  “Search them,” he called. “If they sent Lady Catrin into Hargrove’s clutches, they would hae gold. Find it.”

  He stared down at his victim again, then crouched down to better stare into the dying man’s eyes. “Mayhap I should yank my arrow from yer chest,” he said conversationally. “Then ye die, drownin’ in yer own blood. That be a bad death, laddie. Or I could leave ye, die slower, and still drownin’. Or I shoot ye in yer eye, slay ye quick. As ye slew me lads, I should let ye pass into yer devil master’s hands slow like.”

  The bearded man coughed, hacking up blood that pooled around his mouth and dribbled onto his throat. His dark face twisted in agony, and he once more tried to speak. “Har –” he gasped. “Har –”

  “Ye sold me lady tae Hargrove?” Ranulf asked.

  His chin dipped once, his shadowed eyes pleading. Ranulf sighed and stood. “Ach, as much as I wish ye tae die slow fer yer crimes, I gae me word tae ye. I wi’ show ye mercy, more than ye showed yer oan lad. Aye, poor fella died hard, he did.”

  Nocking an arrow, Ranulf aimed it at a point between the man’s eyes. The dying man closed them, and his agonized face relaxed, accepting his fate. “Say hello tae yer evil master.”

  His arrow killed the outlaw instantly. With a sigh, Ranulf found his clansmen taking weapons and saddling the brigands’ horses. “As they stole from our lads, we take back what they took,” he said. “Take all weapons wi’ us, all valuables.”

  “Ranulf.”

  Ian trotted through the ring of fires, holding out his hand. “They all hae gold.”

  He showed Ranulf the several gold pieces taken from the dead men. Casting about the fire he stood beside, Ranulf found the leader’s saddlebags. Opening them, he pulled out spare clothing, a sheathed dagger, dried food, some jewels, and a very heavy leather pouch. Meeting Ian’s wide eyes, he untied the string and opened the mouth. Kneeling next to the fire for better light, he found gold coins winking back at him. He stood.

  “He be paid in good gold, he was. Put that in here, I wi’ share wi’ all me clansmen later.”

  Retying the bag, he placed it in his own saddlebags, then walked amid the dead, satisfying himself that everything of value had been stripped from them. “Mount up, lads,” he said. “Take their animals, we ride back across the border noo. We nae rest until Lady Catrin be back wi’ us.”

  Chapter 16

  “I will take you back to your father in the morning,” Gilbert of Hargrove said.

  Catrin sat across from him at his table, a cup of wine in her hand. He had treated her well in the hours since Black Charlie turned her over to him in exchange for a very large bag of gold crowns. While grateful to be safe from the black guard’s clutches, the memory of the dead shepherd boy remained with her. “I must thank you for rescuing me from those brigands,” she said. Though exhausted and famished, she only picked at the huge selection of delectable foods on her plate in front of her.

  Gilbert inclined his head. “You are very welcome, My Lady.”

  She nibbled on some bread with butter, her stomach tied in too many worried knots for much appetite. She had slept little over the last few days and knew it would soon take its toll. “You paid these, er, men, to bring me from Scotland?”

  “I did.”

  “Might I inquire why, Lord Gilbert?”

  “Do you not remember?” he asked, leaning back in his chair, his full wine cup in his hands. He had eaten lavishly, nearly everything on his platter, and watched her toy with her own food with a strange look in his eyes. “You saved my life, My Lady.”

  “Oh.” Catrin gazed down, fingering her bread. “Right.”

  “That barbarian Thorburn would have slain me that night,” he said. “You promised to not try to escape if he let me live. I have not forgotten it.”

  “Thus, you return the favor by paying those outlaws to bring me out.”

  “I had to do something,” he replied, twirling the stem of his metal goblet between his fingers. “Your father, nor I, could ride into Thorburn’s lands and demand your return. That could start a new war between England and Scotland. Brigands cross the border all the time.”

  Catrin gazed at him across the table and the flickering candles. “Do you realize what those men did, Lord Gilbert?”

  “Dare I hope they slew that bastard Thorburn?”

  She shook her head. “They cut down the clansmen guarding me from ambush. Ranulf Thorburn will never forgive that. He will cross the border with everything he has.”

  “Then we will slaughter him on our own ground.”

  “Your friend, Black Charlie, murdered one of his own men,” she said, shuddering at the memory of the man’s innards tangled in the thicket, his anguished screams. “He cut him open, and with his own hands pulled his intestines out. He left that man to die, Lord Gilbert.”

  Gilbert winced. “That was no doubt drastic,” he said, his tone almost amused. “Tell me, Lady Catrin. Did he – or they – molest you?”

  “No. That was why Black Charlie killed his own man. They were talking about – you know.”

  “I see. Well, that is one less monster in the world you need worry about. Black Charlie is now long gone with his gold, and you need never worry about him, or his men, er, ravishing you. Ever.”

  Catrin tried to smile and knew it for a false one. “That is good to know.”

  Gilbert lifted his goblet up and squinted at it, as though admiring its pewter color in the candlelight. “Did Thorburn, er, touch you, Lady Catrin?”

  She stiffened, growing angry at this line of questioning. “As in, rape me, assault me, or sleep with me? Are you asking if I am still a virgin?”

  “Er, well, yes.”

  “Might I ask why such a personal topic is of interest to you?” Catrin had her suspicions as to why he asked, and his answer would give her an insight as to his true motives for paying Black Charlie to fetch her from Ranulf. She suddenly suspected he planned to ask her father for her hand in marriage. When he only gazed at her, a small, secretive smile playing across his lips, she knew.

  “You plan to deliver me
to my father and ask for my hand.” Catrin felt beyond incredulous. Stunned, she stared at him, her gut sinking. Father just might be grateful enough to say yes, and that is what this bastard is counting on.

  Gilbert shrugged lazily. “The thought did cross my mind.”

  Thinking fast, Catrin sipped from her own cup. The wine was quickly going to her head, and with the lack of sleep over the last few days, she knew her wits would quickly depart her. “Why me?”

  “Why not you? You are beautiful, young, of child bearing years. I have no wife yet, and am in search of one. Our respective estates border one another and can easily become combined. It is to both your father’s and my benefit.”