The Eternal Highlander

by Lynsay Sands

  It did not surprise Bridget when she and Nan had to clean up after the meal, but she felt as annoyed as Nan looked. Bridget had no objection to hard work, but, Nan was right. These men had been paid to care for her, not the other way around. By the time the moon was high in the sky, Bridget was feeling too irritated to sleep.

  “I am going into the wood, Nan,” she told her companion.

  “I dinnae think that would be wise, or safe,” Nan said, frowning toward the thick, shadowed forest.

  “Weel, I cannae relieve myself here. Nor do I wish to have a wash where these men could see me.”

  “Ah, nay, that wouldnae be wise. Such things could rouse their base, monly lusts.”

  Bridget had to bite back a giggle. She doubted exposing any part of her too-slim body would rouse any man into a dangerous state of lust. While she had told Nan the truth about her need to slip into the shelter of the wood, she had not told the whole truth. For just a few moments she wanted to be alone. After three days of close confinement with Nan and the men, Bridget desperately needed some time to stand alone, to breathe the night air, and hear the sounds of the night and her own heart.

  “I best go with ye,” Nan said.

  “Nay, I will be fine. I willnae wander too deep into the wood, just far enough to be private.”

  After staring at Bridget for a moment, Nan nodded. “I will give ye some time alone, then, but nay too long.”

  “Thank ye, Nan.”

  Bridget quickly gathered a full skin of water, clean clothes, and a cloth for washing. She hurried into the trees even as Nan sharply informed the men that she did not need one of them trailing after her. When Bridget reached a place where the trees thinned out a little to allow the light of the moon to shine through, she set down her things and shed her clothes. After a quick visit to the bushes, she stood beneath the moon and washed away the dust of a day’s travel. She undid her hair and used the last of the water to rinse away the dust that clung to it.

  Once dry, she quickly donned her clean shift, suddenly a little too aware of her nudity. Bridget stared up at the bright moon as she used the shift she had changed out of to rub her hair dry. She had always loved the night, especially when the moon shone full. She loved the smell of the night air, the feel of it, and the sounds that whispered on the air, even the ones that were occasionally loud and sharp enough to shatter that soft peace. Spreading her arms wide, she sang an old song in a quiet voice and danced in the moonlight, giggling now and again at her own foolishness. The freedom of dancing nearly naked in the moonlight, of being a part of the night, would be brief, but she would savor it to its fullness while she could. It was a pleasure she tried to steal for herself as often as possible.

  Suddenly she stopped and crouched slightly. It felt as if every hair on her body stood on end. Bridget quickly dressed, straining to listen for some noise, some hint of what had so abruptly stolen her peace. She used her cloak to wrap her possessions up into a rough sack and tied it around her waist. After tying her hair back, she drew her dagger from the sheath at her waist and cautiously started back toward the camp.

  After only a few feet she stopped and shivered. There was the scent of blood in the air. Bridget took a deep, slow breath to both calm herself and confirm her suspicion. Silently, she made her way through the trees, halting just inside the shadows edging the camp.

  They were all dead. The bodies of her guards were sprawled upon the ground, their killers busily stripping them of clothes and weapons. Bridget could not see Nan, however. Even as she continued to search for some sign of Nan, alive or dead, Bridget silently drew up her skirts, tucking them firmly into the rough belt made by the cloak tied around her waist. It all made for an odd lump at her waist and hips, but it freed her legs for running, and she knew she would soon be running for her life.

  Even as she sheathed her knife and took a step back, one of the thieves saw her and cried out. There was nothing she could do for Nan now. It was time to save her own life. Hissing in fury, she turned and bolted back into the depths of the woods. One thing she could do well was run. Bridget prayed she could run fast enough and far enough to escape the men now thrashing through the forest behind her.

  Curses and shouts from the men pursuing her cut through the quiet of the night she had savored only moments ago. The moonlight she loved helped her find her way, but it also helped the men chasing her. Bridget wished it was a dark night now, one filled with deep shadows, for she would have had some advantage then. Few could find their way in the dark like a Callan.

  A pain was beginning to grow in her side by the time Bridget realized the trees were thinning out. The ground she ran over was becoming thick with stones and slowly rising. She had no idea how long or how far she had run, only that the men chasing her must be blindly tenacious to still be at her heels. The only reason she could think of for their unexpected determination to catch her was a fear that she could find someone to hunt them as they now hunted her. It was a sweet thought, but she began to fear such justice would elude her. As trees gave way to shrubs, heather, gorse, and rocks, she knew she was reaching the end of her race.

  When she reached a place that was flat and clear, Bridget stopped to study what lay ahead of her. It was all uphill from this point and she cursed. Most of it looked like an easy climb, but she already shook with exhaustion. From the time of her first bleeding, she had been increasingly restricted in her activities, pulled into training to make some man a proper wife. Such training did not prepare a woman for a lengthy fight to stay alive. Her body could take no more without a rest and there was no time for one.

  Bridget turned to face the way she had come. She could hear the men and knew they would soon draw near. She hastily collected up a pile of rocks. It was a pitiful collection of weapons she drew around her, but she had very good aim and might get lucky. If nothing else, she could make the men suffer a little before they got her.

  “There she be!” cried one of the men as he stumbled to a halt only a few yards away, panting loudly.

  “Aye, here I be.” Bridget threw a rock, catching the man in the chest and knocking him onto his backside. “Stay back,” she warned, picking up another rock as the man’s companions stumbled up to him.

  “Now, lass, we mean ye no harm,” said the largest of the men.

  “Just how dull-witted do ye think I am?” She got ready to throw another rock. “Ye didnae chase me all this way just to introduce yourselves, I vow. Aye, and your blades still stink of the blood of my people.” She threw her rock, catching another of the thieves on the side of his head, sending him to his knees. “Leave me be. Fly away like the thieving carrion ye are.” She picked up another rock, never taking her gaze from the men.

  If the way the men were glaring at her was any indication, her defiance infuriated them. She had not routed her attackers, only made them more dangerous. Inwardly, she shrugged. Dead was dead and she had no doubt in her mind that they intended to kill her. Quick or slow, now or later. They had to kill her because, left alive, she was a noose about their murdering necks. She was cornered. They knew and she knew it. The only thing in doubt was whether or not she could take some of them down with her. Bridget intended to do her best to make her death cost them dearly.

  “Now, lass,” said the big man, “we intend only to hold ye for ransom, aye? Where is the harm in that?”

  “If ye were as poor a thief as ye are a liar, ye would have been rotting on a gibbet by now and I wouldnae have to suffer the stench of ye.”

  The big man cursed viciously. “Ye havenae got a chance, ye stupid bitch.”

  “Probably not, but, the question ye must ask yourselves is—How many of ye will still be alive when the battle is o’er?”

  They all stared at her as if she was a madwoman. Bridget felt a little like one. She should be terrified and, deep down, a part of her was. Another part of her wanted to howl and throw herself upon these men, nails, teeth, and dagger all slashing away at them.

  For a brief moment she
wondered if she could hold them off long enough to regain enough strength to start running again. She was feeling a little stronger, the pain in her side had eased, and she was breathing normally again. Then Bridget inwardly shook her head. It was a false strength, one that would be quickly depleted. There was also nowhere to go but up and she had no idea if there was any shelter or safety for her there.

  One of the men started to move toward her and she threw her rock, striking him on the shoulder. She quickly picked up another rock, idly noted that she had only four more close at hand, and then tensed. Someone was coming. Bridget looked at the men below her, but they were still standing there watching her and talking low amongst themselves. Yet, she was certain something or someone was swiftly, silently moving ever closer.

  Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, one of the surrounding shadows became a slender, beautiful young man. She forced herself not to look right at him. He grinned briefly and she nearly gasped, but, before she could decide whether or not she really had seen that wolfish smile, he was gone. A heartbeat later she felt a rush of movement. Dark shapes seemed to fly by her. The men below her looked horrified as the shadows closed around them. Their screams hurt her ears. Bridget felt overwhelmed by the scent and sight of blood for one long, desperate moment, then fell into blackness.

  Two

  “Ye said ye were wanting a bride.”

  Cathal glared at his cousin Jankyn who was perched on the thick, heavily carved footboard of the bed like some raven, one pale slender hand curled around the bedpost. “I didnae expect ye to steal me one.”

  “We didnae steal her. We saved her.”

  “Saved her from what?”

  As he waited for Jankyn’s reply, Cathal studied the woman his cousin had brought into his bedchamber and set upon his bed. She was sprawled upon his furs like a broken doll. Not much bigger than one, either, he mused. Young, he decided, studying her soft, unlined features more closely. Young and stunningly beautiful. A sweet, oval face, a slender straight nose, faintly slanted eyes and light brown brows, luxurious gold-tipped lashes, and a full mouth that was pure temptation. Her figure was slender from her somewhat small breasts to her slim hips. A tiny waist and surprisingly long, beautifully shaped legs were qualities any man with blood in his veins appreciated.

  He reached out to touch the thick tangle of hair spread out beneath her. It was like silk, the color a rich, tawny gold, and it flowed in heavy waves to her slender thighs. He was astounded that such a long slim neck could support such a bounty of hair. Then he frowned, noticing a suspicious bruise on the side of her neck.

  “Who did this?” he demanded, his fleeting touch enough to assure him that the skin had not been broken.

  “It matters not, Cathal. I stopped it. Twas but the bloodlust of the moment, nay more.”

  Cathal was not sure he believed that, but would not openly accuse his cousin of lying. “Tell me what happened,” he ordered as, with as soft a touch as possible, he began to remove what appeared to be a lumpy cloak from around her middle.

  “I saw her running. She runs like a young doe, all grace and speed. She came to a halt not far beyond where the forest ends. Not long after, a group of men stumbled out of the trees. It was clear that they had chased her a long way. By then the rest of the pack had seen her and we all began to move closer.”

  “These men were a threat to her?” Cathal tossed aside her cloak and started to gently remove her soft boots.

  “Aye, nay doubt about it. They tried to get her to surrender, but she refused. Three times she hurled a rock at them. Three times she sent a mon to the ground. Then she saw me.”

  “Are ye sure?”

  “Verra sure. She didnae turn to stare at me, but she looked to the side. Aye, she saw me. I got the feeling she had already sensed our approach. Then, when we set upon the men she called murdering thieves, she swooned.”

  “Set upon them?”

  Jankyn nodded. “They are all dead.”

  “How much do ye think she saw?”

  “Enough to send her into a deep swoon, but nay enough to be certain.”

  “Did the men deserve their fate?”

  “Och, aye. We followed their trail back and found six dead men. There were signs that there might have been another victim of their greed, but we couldnae find the body. We left them where they lay, took what those thieves had already piled up as their prize, and put it in the wee carriage. We hitched the horses up and Raibeart drove it here. I carried the lass here o’er the hill path.” Jankyn briefly grinned. “She doesnae weigh much.”

  “Nay, I suspect she doesnae.” Cathal leaned against the bedpost, crossed his arms over his chest, and scowled down at his unexpected guest. “The question is, what to do with her?”

  “Wed her. Ye wanted a bride from the Outsiders. Here she is. She is fair enough to look upon, young, and, I can vow it heartily, strong and brave. I am nay sure it would be wise to just send her on her way.”

  “Nay alone, that is for certain. I cannae just wed myself to the first wee lass through my gates. For all we ken, she is already wed, or betrothed. She may nay feel inclined to wed with me, either.”

  “Then give her no choice. The moment I brought her within our walls, she didnae really have one anyway.”

  “Ye said she didnae see much.”

  “Nay, she didnae, or so I believe. I wouldnae swear to it.” Jankyn nimbly leaped off the footboard, walked over to a table near the fireplace, and poured himself a goblet of wine from the decanter set there. “I am sure she saw me.” He gracefully returned to his perch, sipping his wine as he studied the unconcious woman. “What else she saw, I truly couldnae say, but it matters not. She is a weelborn lass and she is now alone, without kin or older female at her side. Just pausing one night beneath your roof will taint her reputation. There isnae an older, respected kinswoman at Cambrun to stand in place of her kin, leastwise nay one ye could send with her to finish her journey.”

  That the woman was of good birth or, at least, from a wealthy clan, could be easily read in the quality of her clothing. More proof could be seen in her soft, clean skin, uncalloused hands, and long nails. If she was not married or betrothed, and he saw no ring to indicate that she was, this visit to Cambrun could cost her dearly. He had never understood why, but certain circumstances could swiftly have people questioning the chastity of a woman, and this was one of them. Cathal doubted there was any way to get her to her destination in utter secrecy. He did not want his clan’s name whispered in connection to the suspected loss of some wellborn lass’ honor, either. They did not need any more rumors swirling about them.

  Jankyn was right, although it galled him to admit it. Wedding the woman would solve many problems. It would end any chance that she might find her honor impugned and it would give him the bride he sought. It would also ensure that she did not tell people about anything she had seen, the sort of things that could enflame the fears and suspicions about his clan. Even better, he would gain the bride he sought without having to leave Cambrun. The advantages were almost too numerous to list.

  A soft noise from the woman on the bed pulled him free of his thoughts. Even as he straightened up to look at her face, her eyes opened. Cathal drew his breath in so sharply he nearly choked. Her eyes were the most beautiful eyes he had ever gazed into. They were an enticing mixture of blue and green, the color growing more dramatic as the haze of unconciousness fled.

  As her now clear gaze went from Jankyn to him and back again, Cathal watched her sleek body grow tense. He stepped back in astonishment when she suddenly hissed and scrambled back to crouch on the pillows, her back against the headboard. Her slender, beautiful hands were slightly raised in front of her, her long slim fingers curled as if she was preparing to claw his eyes out. For a brief moment, there was something intensely catlike in her face, but the look faded so quickly he decided it must have been a trick of the unsteady light from the candles.

  “Who are ye?” Bridget demanded, struggling to contro
l the fear surging through her.

  “I am Sir Cathal MacNachton, laird of Cambrun,” replied the tall man at her bedside. “That mon at the foot of the bed is my cousin Jankyn MacNachton. We mean ye no harm, mistress.”

  The man had an attractively deep, smooth voice, Bridget decided. His tone was gentle, almost soothing, but she fought its effect. She could not be sure she could trust these men. It was important to remain wary. She did not immediately recognize the clan name or the name of the place. Since he had said the word mistress in a soft, questioning tone, she decided to reply. It might help to see if there was any reaction to her name.

  “I am Lady Bridget Callan of Dunsmuir.” She very slowly began to relax her muscles, seeking to calm herself enough to think clearly.

  “Where were ye traveling to, m’lady?”

  “My cousin Lady Barbara Matheson’s. How did I get here?”

  Suspecting the next few minutes of explanations could prove upsetting for her, Cathal fetched her a goblet of wine. She looked a little less frightened, but he was not sure she was calm enough for the ordeal ahead. When he handed her the drink, he almost smiled at the subtle way she sniffed it first, then took only the smallest of sips, obviously trying to judge the safety of the drink.

  “I brought ye here,” said Jankyn. “Ye had swooned.”

  “I never swoon.”

  “Weel, ye did this time.”

  Bridget sipped her wine and watched the two men. She could sense no threat from either man, yet there was a strangeness about them that roused her curiosity and a hint of unease. A lot of questions needed answering, but she needed a few minutes to think of the right ones. She was not all that eager to hear some of the answers, either. A few minutes to gather her wits, soothe her nerves, and study these men could only benefit her.

  The laird was tall, quite possibly a foot or more taller than she was. He was lean yet she was certain there was an impressive strength beneath his slim elegant appearance. She had seen a hint of it in the way he moved as he had fetched the wine. His hair was a deep black and hung in soft waves several inches past his broad shoulders. His skin was a lot paler than she would have expected in a man with such dark hair. Not a wan, sickly pale, either, but a rich, lovely creamy tone that many a woman would envy. The lines of his face were cleanly cut, elegant perfection from his long, straight nose and high cheekbones to the firm jaw. There was a slight fullness to his lips that she found far too attractive. His eyes were strangely beautiful. Set beneath faintly arched brows, rimmed with enviable long lashes, they were a pale golden brown. He was, without doubt, one of the most beautiful men she had ever seen.