Once she made the top, she crossed a burn that rushed into the ravine not far below where she had fallen, then ran hard to put more distance between her and her pursuers. As she ran, she searched for the perfect place to turn up the benside, a place where her tracks would simply disappear. She found such a place in a recent tumble of rocks that reminded her of the curtain wall at Dunlairig Castle after it had fallen, a pile of rubble and nothing more. She hopped quickly from stone to stone, taking time only to check with care that she had left no print, no broken leaf, no overturned pebbles to mark her passing, until she reached the far side of it, where she purposely left the faintest mark for them to find, a single partial footprint where she let her heel touch down as she stood on a small stone.
With even greater care, she managed to return to the rubble field without leaving any sign that she had doubled back, and crossed the stones once more, heading up the ben this time. As she reached the edge of the stone-strewn area, she found enough rocks to make her way up the ben a short distance without leaving any sign of her passing. From there she stretched to get up on a fallen tree and picked her way further up the ben on it. When she reached the end of it she climbed off and crouched down in the lee of its roots that had been pulled out of the ground when it fell, and listened for the men who followed her.
After long moments she heard nothing but the usual sounds of the forest, birds twittering overhead, rustlings in the undergrowth, but none of the sounds of people, especially of men who had tried to keep up with her as she ran.
So where were they, and how could she find out without putting herself in jeopardy?
“I am a warrior,” she whispered, reminding herself of all the things she had learned and needed right now. “I am skilled at tracking and at hiding my trail. I am a creative strategist. I have a gift of . . .”
Of course. Her gift! ’Twas her greatest weapon though not reliable when she needed it—it certainly hadn’t told her Duncan had followed her to the pass, and it had not warned her of the English soldiers, either, but she had been so wrapped up in her anger, in Duncan’s betrayal, that she might not have noticed if she had known either.
She took a long, slow, calming breath, quieting her mind and her body. She prayed that she could call upon her gift now, when she needed it so badly, but as she listened for the soldiers both with her ears and with her mind, nothing came to her. Nothing. Had her gift truly deserted her as much as Duncan had?
As she thought of him she knew that he waited for her below the pass inside the Glen of Caves. If he had followed her she would not be alone now. Anger threatened her focus, so she took another slow breath and turned her thoughts to the soldiers and to her gift, remembering only then that her gift was drawn to things and people she had an emotional connection to—like Duncan.
But the only emotional connection she had to the English swordsman and the Welsh archer was that she wanted to escape them. It would have to be enough.
She closed her eyes and brought to her mind exactly what the two scouts looked like, but then focused on the archer and his skill with the bow, even in the thick forest, and she realized ’twas likely he was the one who had killed Brodie as he sat high in a tree. ’Twas likely he was the one she had vowed to kill, and with that thought and the burst of determination that came with it, she knew.
SCOTIA MADE GOOD time getting back to the main pass into the Glen of Caves while still being careful to make herself hard to follow. As she drew close, she gave the tawny owl call and slid behind a tree where she would not be seen from outside the glen, even though she knew the two soldiers were backtracking her original careless trail as she had feared, and would quickly end up at her private, unguarded pass. She shifted from foot to foot, trying to keep her impatience at bay so that her gift would not be hampered by it, waiting for whoever was guarding the pass to approach her.
“Why are you here, lassie?” Denis asked as he stepped onto the path that led into the glen. He looked about, as if only then taking note of the direction from which she had come. “How did you come to be outside the glen on your own?”
“I left by another pass, over the bens that way.” She pointed south. “Two English soldiers are on their way there now. We must send guards to stop them. They will find the pass, but they must not be allowed to live to tell of it.”
Denis moved closer to her in his odd side-to-side steps that spoke loudly that his knees were ailing him. She tended to forget that ’twas not just the women and weans who were kept here. Living in the wood could not be any easier on him and his old bones than was living in the caves for Peigi. Both needed to get back to the comforts of a real shelter, a real home.
“And how do you come by this information?” he asked. “Have you snuck out of the glen without your keeper and brought more trouble to us, Scotia? We’ve no time for more trouble than we already have.” He stopped in front of her, a scowl that looked to be part pain, part irritation, pinching his face.
She started to deny what he clearly understood, then stopped. Denial would serve no one, not even herself, as she knew the soldiers would find their way to the other pass very soon.
“Aye, that is exactly what I have done, though ’twas not what I meant to do. You must send men to guard the tiny steep pass where the twin peaks of the next ben meet. If they do not go now, ’twill be too late.”
Denis stared at her.
“Denis, if you do not believe me, ’twill mean the death of all you seek to keep safe.”
“Why should I believe you, Scotia? What scheme are you about?”
“None, I swear it. What is the worst that will happen if you send men and I am wrong? They will have trekked there for naught but the discovery of a pass unguarded? But if I am right, then you will serve the clan as you always have, watching the gates and keeping them secure. I ken you have at least five men guarding this pass—I got past two of them without being seen, and with your knees—”
He winced, but she thought it was more irritation that she had noticed his pain than pain itself.
“—with your knees you must have at least two men who can fight for you if the need arises.”
“Duncan has taught you too well.”
“Aye, he has, and not well enough, or we would not be having this problem right now.”
Denis stared at her, then shook his head. “Conall! Angus!” he shouted, then he whistled, three sharp notes. Conall and Angus arrived from either side of the pass, while she heard a third warrior coming up behind her. She refused to turn around, though, even when he said, “You did not pass unseen.”
She looked over at him and found he was one of Malcolm’s kin who had come here to help them fight the English, though she could not remember the young warrior’s name.
“Tell them what you want them to do, lassie,” Denis said, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning a little away from her.
Scotia looked at each one, only then realizing that she did not know if she was sending them to defend the clan or to die, perhaps both. Her breath caught in her throat, and she found it suddenly hard to breathe. But as she was getting so good at, she pushed that thought, that possibility, to the side and quickly told them how to find the pass and everything she could remember about the two soldiers, then Denis sent Conall and Angus on the way. As soon as they took their leave Denis turned to the MacKenzie man.
“Hector, take her to the chief,” Denis said, “and make sure he kens exactly what has happened here.” He gave Scotia that pinched scowl again. “And why.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
DUNCAN RAPIDLY PACED the same stretch of a deer trail he’d been pacing for hours, as he watched for Scotia to return from her secret pass, as he waited for her to do the right thing. But she did not come. Each time he paced north he decided he needed to return to the pass, find her, and drag her back to the caves before her rash actions caused more harm, but then, as he turned back southward, he reminded himself that he had washed his hands of her.
He had
an actual ache in his chest at that thought. He’d abandoned her, and even though she deserved it with her return to her impulsive, selfish decisions that might put someone else in danger of dying, it was not something he did easily. She had been his to watch over for as long as he could remember.
A heaviness settled over him. He had failed in so many ways. He thought he had guided her to a real change, given her a purpose that focused her vibrant energy and challenged her sharp mind. He had believed her feelings had changed—for her purpose, and for him—but he had been wrong. It was as if everything they had done together these last weeks was a lie. She claimed he had only wanted to keep her close, but he knew now that she had only wanted him to blindly support her quest for vengeance.
He could not fathom what had possessed him to tell her of his feelings. He could not fathom why he had such deep feelings for her, or why it had been such a shock when she had denied them so vehemently.
He heard the horn blast once, and his first thought was that Scotia had returned, but if she came from the main pass that meant she had left the glen after all. In truth, he had known she would, if for no other reason than that he’d told her not to. Nothing good could come from such an expedition.
And then three long blasts of the horn made him forget everything except his duty to the clan.
Three blasts meant trouble.
SCOTIA LED THE way down the trail into the Glen of Caves with Hector right behind her, her sword, dagger, and shield now in his possession.
“Ye are a right wee eedjit,” he muttered.
He was right.
“If Conall and Angus find their deaths this day because you brought the English right to this glen, ’twill be a mark against yer soul the likes of which you cannot redeem yourself from,” he said.
“I ken that,” Scotia replied. Never had she knowingly caused someone to be put in such a place of danger before. Conall was sweet, if not too smart. He did not deserve to die before he found a lass to love him better than she ever had, to give him bairns, and keep him warm on a cold winter’s night. And Angus’s bairns and his wife needed him. What would she do if either man died because of her folly this day?
“If yer chief has any ballocks he shall lock you in chains and keep you somewhere where you can never cause trouble again,” Hector grumbled. “’Tis what I would do with you, were it my decision.”
Scotia stumbled at the thought of being so helpless, but caught her footing before she fell. After being held captive by the English at the Story Stone she had sworn to herself she would never be held in such a way again, that she would never allow herself to be put in such a helpless position.
If Nicholas commanded this, would she be able to do as her chief ordered? Duncan would say it was her duty to do as Nicholas said, even if it meant a certain death.
She swallowed hard, pressing back the panic that just the thought of being tied up again raised within her. She should run, flee, before they had a chance to do such a thing to her, but—Duncan’s voice whispered in her mind—if she allowed it, or any other punishment without a fight or an argument, it might show her contrition and her understanding of what she had done.
“I might add in a flogging, just to make sure you remembered the lesson,” Hector said. A note of satisfaction in his voice made it sound like he’d just said they would have honey cakes for dinner.
The trouble was, she knew he was right. ’Twas what she deserved. She could not deny that she had failed in every one of her lessons.
She had failed to keep her temper in check. She had failed to think of others before herself, or how her actions might cause harm. She had failed to cover her tracks. She had failed to kill the soldiers herself, running instead. She had failed in every way possible, letting down everyone she loved.
She had failed Duncan most of all.
He had been right. She was not ready to be a warrior or she never would have left the glen when her mind was so full of anger and betrayal. If she were truly ready to be a warrior, she would have afforded him the respect to listen to him, to heed his warning. But she didn’t.
She could see all too clearly now that he was not the one to break faith with her. She was the one who had broken faith with him. He had always been clear that when he deemed her ready, he would champion her right to join the warriors in battle, and she had agreed. She had broken the pact between them, all because her pride was hurt and her drive for vengeance was stymied. No wonder he was so angry with her. No warrior would go back on his, or her, word. For all her accomplishments with sword and shield, she had failed to learn this most basic lesson.
And now, not only was she not ready to be a warrior, she had thrown away the man who believed she could become one. She had betrayed the trust of the one person who was her constant champion, the one person who truly loved her.
The one person she loved above all others. The thought almost stopped her heart. She loved him. And now she realized that she had been lying to herself for a long time. She loved Duncan. He was always in her mind, by her side, encouraging, teaching . . . hoping she would grow up enough to one day return his love, despite what everyone thought of her, despite her own behavior. And it was only now that she had lost his love that she realized she had loved him all her life.
She was a selfish chit.
If she had listened to him, to allow him to explain the lesson she had just learned the hard way, none of this would have happened. If she’d only trusted him she might be folded in his arms now, telling him of her feelings for him, instead of facing her family and revealing yet another failure on her part.
They should bind her to a tree.
They should banish her to a lonely life where she could bring no more harm to anyone she loved.
It was what she deserved.
It was exactly what she deserved.
DUNCAN SKIDDED TO a halt as he arrived in the cave clearing just as the Guardians emerged from the path that led to their bower by the burn. Nicholas and Malcolm, along with all the lads they had been training, stood at the far end of the clearing, weapons at the ready, while the women and the weans scattered into the forest, all except Peigi, who sat in her accustomed place near the cookfire.
He looked at her with raised brows, asking without the need for words why she remained.
“I am too auld to caper off into the forest, lad,” she said, waving a wooden ladle in his direction. “If ’tis the English they will find a fight on their hands from more than you warriors and Guardians!”
Duncan laughed quietly, grateful to the old woman for reminding him that sometimes a person just had to stand one’s ground, no matter the consequences.
“If it comes to that, Peigi, I will gladly fight at your back.”
“Of course you will.” She leaned a little to the side to look behind him. “Where is your charge?”
He sighed. “I dinna ken. I fear she has gone off and caused whatever trouble is coming into the glen, and ’tis my fault for leaving her alone.”
Peigi rose to her feet and stood before him. “She is no child, Duncan.” She accentuated each word with a poke of her finger in the middle of his chest. “For all her foolish tempers, she is a woman grown, and it is she who is responsible for her actions, not you.”
He nodded and rubbed at the place on his chest, where he was certain a bruise would form. “I ken that, but still I feel responsible. I thought she had changed. I was certain of it, but she has not, and in my anger and disappointment, I left her.”
Peigi clucked her tongue against her teeth. “You canna see the lass clearly, Duncan. She has changed these last weeks, but perhaps not enough. Not yet. Do not give up on her altogether. She just might surprise you.”
“She surprised me today when I discovered she has thrown aside all I have tried to teach her and retreated back into her selfish ways.”
Peigi twitched a gnarled hand toward the far end of the clearing. “It seems she has returned.”
The clenched fist in Duncan’s g
ut loosened. She was alive and appeared unharmed, but Malcolm’s cousin, Hector, accompanied her.
“Go, laddie!” Peigi gave him a push. “Find out what trouble our Scotia brings with her.”
SCOTIA STOOD SILENTLY next to Hector, facing Nicholas and Malcolm, as Hector relayed what had happened. She dared not look at Duncan as he pushed through the line of lads who still held their weapons—swords, dirks, and rocks—at the ready behind the chief and his champion. If she saw the disappointment still there in Duncan’s eyes, or worse, hatred, she would ken that she had truly lost him. She pressed her lips together and fought to keep her composure.
He stopped just behind Malcolm.
“Denis sent Conall and Angus to watch the pass this one”—Hector glared over at her—“did not tell us of, but they will need help. The archer will make it impossible for our lads to attack them in the open of the pass, and they cannot guard the pass and hunt down the soldiers all alone.”
“I ken where the other pass is,” Duncan said, his voice harsh as if he, too, fought to contain his emotions. She glanced up, unable to keep herself from looking at him, but he did not look at her. “I can follow Scotia’s trail out of it and find the soldiers faster than anyone else can.”
Malcolm and Nicholas both looked back at him. “You ken where this pass is, and that she had left by it, and you said nothing?” Nicholas almost snarled at him.
“He only learned of it today.” Scotia took a step forward to defend Duncan, then stopped when he took a step back, the reality of the loss of him, of his support, of his love, only then really sinking in. She stepped back, squared her shoulders, and looked only at Nicholas. “’Tis my fault alone that this has happened. He tried to stop me”—she took a deep breath but did not let her gaze falter—“but I refused to listen to his good counsel.”
Highlander Redeemed (Guardians of the Targe Book 3) Page 17
