“Over here,” Greggor called out as he found another piece of cloth tied to a heather bush. They hadn’t taken a torch, too scared the English would spot them. So they relied on the moon and stars to show them the way. As soon as they cleared Cave Smoo the smoke had lessened, making the sky brighter to see by. But it was damned difficult, and Fleur had never done anything remotely like it, except for playing hide-and-go-seek in the dark.
Fleur jogged to Greggor, to the sign.
“They’re walking through the fields now. It’ll be harder to find them. We’ll have to take our time to find the signs.”
She sighed, her patience already worn too thin. But she knew he was right.
The English, probably fearing being caught by the Highlanders, were marching through the fields. If they had walked through the wheat or oat lands, it would have been easy to spot the broken stalks. But, of course, the English were more clever than that. However, Fleur found traces of the men here and there. It was hard to hide the fact that more than thirty men had stumbled through an area, especially if it had tall grass. She guessed they were following a game trail, but being that there were many men, made the trail wider as they went, made more signs of their presence.
She could almost envision Duncan in chains, tormented and bloody. She’d guessed, since Rory paid her the visit so soon, what leverage Rory had used to force him to submit. They’d used her, probably telling him they’d kill her if he didn’t do as he was told. It yanked at her heart. She hated that she had been Duncan’s weakness. To make him think more of her wellbeing than his own.
But she knew she would have done the same if their positions were reversed.
Maybe weakness wasn’t the right word, especially when thinking of the asshole that had tried to take advantage of Duncan’s feelings for her.
As she searched for the next sign, she thought of the heady, pleasure-filled gift Duncan gave by wanting her. He was the best man she’d ever known. Ever. And he wanted her, had made love to her tenderly and gently and had planned a future with her. She felt so honored. So grateful. And so in love.
The knowledge gave her legs more speed as she raced across a flat field, watching for bent grass, broken heather branches and other marks that her heart had been there.
It seemed like an eternity, running, waiting for Jamie and the others to catch up, hoping to find Duncan. Just as Fleur cusped into despair, she heard the telltale sign of horses. On a hard surface, a horse’s gait can clearly be detected. The clop-clop-clop is unmistakable. However, on a field of grass, she knew the ground had enough absorbency to captivate the impact and sound, but the whish-whish-whish of a horse’s forearm whispering against tall grass was conformation.
The problem was, there were only two horses making the noise with about thirty men walking, some in chains. It wasn’t Jamie coming to her rescue with the other lads. She and Greggor and only twenty boys had caught up to the English soldiers. To her Duncan!
She shushed Greggor as soon as she realized what the noise was. Suddenly appearing like wee ghosts, five lads emerged, confirming with hand signals that over a hill were their men and the English. Greggor knelt, tilting his head the direction indicated, then nodded.
She fumbled to her own knees close to Greggor, as did one of the older boys, Owen.
“What do we do now?” She swallowed, hoping her whisper was quiet enough.
Greggor looked to the boy, probably almost fourteen, like Jamie, but a bit smaller. He swallowed too, but said, “Ambush?”
It had been what Duncan had done to rescue her, Fleur remembered. She thought back to how the men had charged at her kidnappers from both sides of the hill.
Crawling on her belly, she pushed closer to where she could see over the knoll. It took a while to gain a vantage, but there they were. At the front of the line were two men on horses, behind them were about ten soldiers, looking as though they carried pikes. Next, all clumped together in chains, making clanging noises, were their men. Their captive men. Duncan! Duncan was somewhere in that mix. And behind the captives were another ten or more soldiers. She couldn’t see any long weapons, but that didn’t mean they weren’t carrying any.
Fleur scanned for extra-wide shoulders, a head above most other men’s.
There.
At first, she hadn’t caught sight of him, because he wasn’t with the rest of the prisoners but pulled behind one of the horses. He was hunched over. His steps seemed clumsy. More than likely he was hurt.
Venom poured through her veins, clenching her stomach and heart tight.
A hand gripped her arm, and angrily she glared at Greggor.
“We need a plan before we attack.”
She hadn’t realized she’d moved. But after Greggor had whispered, she glanced at where she was. She’d crawled a few feet without even knowing it. So desperate to get Duncan back, she’d almost done something foolish.
Nodding at Greggor, she scuttled closer to him, farther from where the English could see her.
“Owen, take the lads on this side of the hill.” She pointed back and slightly to the side. “Greggor and I will take the other hill over yonder.” Again, she pointed. And everyone nodded. “First, we distract them. Scream as loud as you can after Greggor and I begin. Spread out and scream. They will think there’s a lot more of us.”
Then Fleur felt murmurs of noise in the ground, through the air, but not quite to her ears yet. Thud-thud-thud. Thud-thud-thud. Jamie and the gang were right behind them.
“Jamie’s almost here.”
Owen nodded. Fleur wasn’t too sure if he heard the horses or not, but he was following her lead. And wasn’t that something?
“We go now. Jamie will figure out the plan,” she whispered to both Owen and Greggor, looking at the other boys. She wasn’t going to tell them to attack. She’d try to protect them, keep them innocent as much as she could. Glancing back at Owen, she said, “Spread out. Greggor and I will start yelling, then you all scream.”
“Scream real loud,” Greggor added.
Owen nodded seriously.
If everything went as she hoped, Jamie and the horses would be upon them as soon as they started scaring the English. And then they’d...and then she’d . . .
Shit, she was going to attack English soldiers, carrying nothing but a couple fillet knives she’d fetched from the kitchen. Greggor had an ax and a blade, and Owen and a few of the boys had the swords from the unconscious English guards that had surrounded her house.
God. Shit. Holy hell.
Fleur swallowed her fear though when she started to wonder what Duncan would do if their roles were reversed. He’d be brave and only think of the plan and how to execute it best. That quieted her thoughts, calmed her, then gave her an extra ripple of energy to fight for her man.
Before she realized what she had done, they were in position. Greggor and she had situated themselves ahead of the English caravan, the night slipping away with an angry streak of red in the horizon. It was better for seeing what she was doing, Fleur surmised, but also worrying since it improved the English soldiers’ vision too.
Suddenly one of the leading soldiers on the horses—she guessed they were officers, since they both had a horse—held up a hand and called out, “Halt.” Jesus, had she been spotted already? Greggor and she were behind a giant rock, perfect for concealing two people hunched over. What about the boys? She glanced to the other side of the small valley. She couldn’t see one of the lads. Not one.
Greggor and she were about thirty feet from the soldiers with a few other boulders in the way. Her breathing was too loud, so she tried to hold it. In it’s place was a loud thump—thump, thump—thump, thump—thump of her heart.
“Horses,” Fleur heard one of the soldiers say to the other.
They looked behind the train as did Fleur. She felt the pounding of the horses’ hooves more than heard them. Apparently, she wasn’t the only who could do that, since the one officer had alerted the other.
They both no
dded and spoke to each other, of which Fleur heard only tidbits, like, “...several horses . . .” and “...damned savages, trying to rescue their kin . . .”
That name. That word, savage, stirred her blood even more.
She hadn’t known about the common thread between Native Americans and Highlanders—for hundreds of years the Highlanders had been the savages. If it weren’t for Duncan, she might not have paid attention to that similarity. If it weren’t for the nights when she’d leaned against him, staring up at the profuse black and silver starry night sky, and the way his red-red whiskers glinted from the small fire she’d made. The way he’d tell the stories of his past, his people’s past, eager to listen to hers as well, had captured her heart. His throaty whisper, the way he smelled of clean soap and something spicy masculine, the way he’d touched her. No, he’d tried so hard not to touch her, it had seemed. Then she’d kissed him, and her world had changed.
She remembered the way Duncan felt inside her, always so careful, trying so hard to please her. Her body restlessly recalled with a slick feeling of warmth and loneliness without him.
She needed him.
She loved him.
As the English soldiers discussed what to do, she realized this was her chance, the time to fight for Duncan. Glancing at Greggor, she nodded. Then he did as well.
It was his voice that cut through the lightening night sky first. Manly and angry, he bellowed. The lads on the other hill yelled immediately. Such good lads. They were much louder than just Greggor, and the English horses nervously tore into the ground.
She stood without even thinking and shrieked as she ran straight for those men on the chargers. She’d never heard herself like that. It was a war cry. Two guttural, filled-with-rage screams she rent through the midnight blue sky as her legs carried her to a boulder parallel to the English officers.
Chapter 35
Yelling deafened Duncan’s already sensitive ear. It had been bashed along the way. When he’d gained consciousness, deep searing pain cut along the side of his face. Being dragged behind a horse by his wrists, harsh rope biting into his hands, he’d been hauled over a stone that tore into his ear and cheek. The English officers had stopped the train long enough for him to stand and quickly start marching, while he’d felt warm blood drip down his neck.
As he’d internally questioned his fate once more, he heard the lone scream. It was filled with hostility. Greeting the one shout, were several other loud yells. One of them was filled with such anger he turned in the direction it came, surprised to see a shadow racing toward him. Then several shadows sprang from behind rocks and bushes and like phantoms they floated quickly toward him, toward the English soldiers.
Metal clanging sounded through the night. Some of the soldiers grunted. One of the English guards standing close to him suddenly dropped, and Duncan was fairly certain a rock missile powered by a slingshot had struck the guard. A lad’s toy, the slingshot, but it had been used in the Highlands as a weapon for many a year.
Thinking quickly, he wondered who they could be? Troopers from another clan who happened upon the English caravan? He didn’t think he was far from MacKay country, if not still in it. But there were so few men from his clan, especially so from Durness, and Tongue was just too far away to have been any help.
Whoever they were, he was grateful. The first time in many decades, he gave a silent prayer of thanks for giving him the opportunity to escape, for giving him the chance to fight for his fate. He yanked hard on the rope around his wrists, knowing the mount he was tethered to was already nervous—apparently not war horses, used to ambushes. The steed's head crashed into the other’s neck. The English officers bellowed something, and one of the nearby soldiers on foot backhanded him across his already stinging face.
Suddenly, a shadow was there, only ten feet from him. It was so slender and graceful, and he knew those thin shoulders and hips.
Lord have mercy, that was his Fleur running up a boulder, screaming.
Spirit warriors, fighting ghosts, these were legends so ingrained in him he didn’t think twice about it. However, he knew that otherworldly wee warrior. Intimately. Loved her. His stomach hollowed as he watched her sprint to the top of the boulder, then leap off, flying through the air for all eternity it seemed. She soared and had such height, was so high, only her leg smacked into the officer nearest her, but it was enough for him to topple over. Landing on the other officer, she took him with her to the ground, where Duncan couldn’t see her through the bucking horse. Finally free from its rider, it galloped away. The mount he was tethered to tried to rear, but he pulled it down by the rope around his aching wrists. Catching hold of the steed, he turned to see his shadow warrior already standing over the English soldier she’d taken down.
Little Valkyrie knew how to fight.
The other officer charged after her, and Duncan tore into the knot in the horse’s saddle. Jesus, he’d been gawking for too long. Hearing a gasp, he turned before he untied himself, scared to death of what he would see.
Fleur stood in a defensive stance, her arms slightly turned out. But the officer was gripping at one of his shoulders. Fidgeting with the knot that bound him, Duncan tried to watch as the officer charged again at Fleur only to repeal away, grunting and holding his other arm. That’s when he saw his Fleur held dirks in her fists. Only, she concealed them by having the blade toward her forearm. When the idiotic English officer attacked again, she was ready with a quick blow up and across his jaw. The officer halted and held his surely bleeding face in his hands, groaning in agony.
Finally free from the horse, Duncan clapped it on its rump. It streaked away as he saw an English soldier, pike lowered, jogging toward Fleur’s back. Oh, there was no way in hell anyone would touch his little Valkyrie.
Wearing a helm was always a good protection while in battle. But in hand-to-hand combat it was as useful as a blindfold. Making sure he was in the soldier’s blind spot, he charged, shoving the soldier with a powerful push from his chest and arms. The man collapsed a few feet from impact, and Duncan stole his pike while he kicked his head, ensuring he stayed down. Wheeling about, he saw the English officer Fleur had bettered was on his knees, and she contended with another soldier who tried to strike at her with a mace. With the extension of the mace and the English man’s longer arms, Duncan could see it was no contest. Fleur would have to get in too close to strike a blow, giving the soldier too much an advantage.
Somehow though, as Duncan took aim with the pike, she shivered low when the soldier charged, and cut him across the back of his leg as she rolled past him, straightening within a heartbeat into a defensive stance. It was like watching a trained soldier, and he was in awe of her form. But more than that, he needed to protect her. He took aim again and threw the pike as hard as he could. The English wore the steal helms and thick metal or leather vests. There were few places to strike, save the arms, legs, groin, and...The soldier gurgled as the pike sliced through his throat.
The morning light brightened, helping Duncan see Fleur’s eyes widen as the soldier fell at her feet. Then she followed the trajectory the pike had taken until her eyes landed on him. He couldn’t rip his gaze from her, even though he knew he needed to check his surroundings, ensure they were safe, but once she began to run toward him—her face half terrified, half relieved—he couldn’t look anywhere else, even though he heard the unmistakable pounding of horses nearby and men screaming in agony. She stopped before she embraced him, throwing down her knives, but then she gasped.
“What happened to your face?” Her voice rasped, but was so beautiful.
Along her jaw line was a dark bump that looked as wide and long as a man’s fist. He cupped her face, tenderly assessing her own visage. “What happened to ye, darlin’?”
She smiled, then wrapped her arms around his waist, tucking her head under his. “I was so scared.”
“Ye didn’ look it.” His voice came out so rough, holding her as tight as he dared, hoping he wasn’t b
reaking her ribs. Finally he glanced about, amazed that of the few English soldiers still fighting, they were getting bombarded with rocks. The majority of them were running for their lives, while small forms on horses chased after them. “Whose army is this, Fleur?”
She pulled away enough to look up at him, flinched—he must have looked affright, then smiled. “It’s my boys. Jamie and his gang. And” —she turned around quickly—“shit, where’s Greggor? He’s here somewhere.”
Leave it to the stunning woman to have a man who’d once kidnapped her for bounty to fight for her. God, who wouldn’t love her after a few seconds? Especially love her as she swore, he thought with a silent chuckle.
Duncan looked about and soon enough saw a man he thought was Greggor helping free the rest of the chained troops. Jesus, it was over then. His men were free, the English were on the run—well, one of the officers was surrendering to what appeared to be about five nine year-old lads, all cocking their slingshots at his head. Vicious little urchins. Vicious for her, Duncan knew.
“I know I need to help Jamie,” she said, “but I can’t seem to let you go.”
He glanced down, trying to grin himself, but it hurt like hell on one side of his face. “I can’t let you go either. I was so scared, Fleur, so scared of what to do.” Still, he panicked as he remembered everything prior to getting knocked out. “Rory—‘tis Rory’s doing, all of this. Where is he? How did ye—?”
She touched her cheek, right over the dark bump on her face. Proof enough that Rory had struck her. Duncan could only think of grabbing hold of his throat until the bones ground between his fingers.
“He came to the house . . .” She looked up at Duncan, her eyes so wide.
The air—the bloody air became too thick to breathe, but he couldn’t get enough of it either. “He hurt ye.” Duncan’s stomach and chest clenched tightly.
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