Rowan's Lady

by Tisdale Suzan

  There seemed to be a direct correlation between her weighted limbs and the heaviness of her heart. She had nowhere to run to, no place to seek refuge, nowhere to hide. With those glaring facts staring her in the face, she did the only thing she could think of. She plopped down on her rump, hung her head in shame and cried.

  If she froze to death, she’d have no one to blame but herself. ’Twasn’t Rowan’s fault she was sitting in the cold snow. ’Twasn’t Rowan’s fault she was nearly five and twenty and never kissed.

  Many times over the years, she had been complimented on her good sense. Her good sense seemed to fly out the window each time she was near Rowan Graham. He could not help it if he was a perfect specimen of God’s good work. He could not help the fact that he had been blessed with a magnificent form, perfect teeth, or a gorgeous smile that always made her stomach flutter whenever he cast one her way.

  Large tears left icy trails down her red cheeks. Her shoulders shook as she sobbed without restraint. She was freezing, cold, and filled with anguish and there was no one to blame but her own ridiculous pride.

  The men behind her continued to shout, indecipherable words that were lost in the winter air. She could hear Rowan’s deep voice shouting something, but her pride kept her from looking back just yet. He could wait a few moments more.

  Her fingers and toes began to sting from all the snow. Recognizing it would serve no purpose to remain seated in the snow for she could cry just as easily within the warm confines of the castle, she took a deep breath and made the decision to quit acting like an inglorious fool and head back to the keep. Rowan would undoubtedly be furious with her and she couldn’t rightly blame him. Governesses were probably hard to come by.

  She started to roll sideways when she heard something as it flew past her ear. “I’m no’ dead yet yet blasted buzzards,” she muttered. They were probably circling her thinking she’d soon be dead. The thought of buzzards feasting away on her dead corpse gave her a burst of energy. She rolled to her hands and knees and pushed herself up.

  “That’s odd,” she said out loud as she looked at the curtain wall. It seemed Rowan had called every one of his men to the wall. They were waving their arms and shouting. “What in the world?” she whispered.

  It took only another short moment for it to become clear that something was wrong. Whatever it was, instinct told her not to tarry, to run as fast as she could back to the keep.

  As she raced back to the keep, she noticed archers taking positions along the wall. Were they going to shoot her? Seriously doubting that Rowan would order her shot for deserting her position as a governess, she tried to pick up speed. They weren’t aiming at her, but something behind her.

  Her first thought was mayhap they had seen a pack of wolves encircling her to make a meal out of her. Not wanting to be any animal’s dinner, she ignored the stinging sensation in her feet and legs and did her best to pick up speed. Mayhap the wolves were going to take the same route in as she had planned on taking out. Little did it matter! She had to get back inside the walls of the keep.

  She bunched her heavy wet skirts and cloak in her fists, not caring if the men on the wall could see her bare legs. She would have torn off every stitch of clothing she wore if it meant she could run faster and get away from the wolves!

  The image of wolves and buzzards fighting over her dead body propelled her forward. Thinking she’d climb the small mountain of snow and re-enter the keep the same way she had left it, she headed in that direction.

  Someone on top of the wall called out for her to head to the gate. Thank God! She thought as she ran through the deep snow. She’d not have to try to scale the wall with a pack of wolves on her heals.

  She veered left and could hear Rowan’s men shouting words of encouragement and barking out orders. Chastising her ignorance and ill-conceived notion of running away, she did her best to keep moving toward the gate. She had not realized how far away from the keep she had been able to get until she had to race back to it.

  The gate soon appeared in her line of vision and relief began to build in her belly. Whatever punishment Rowan planned to inflict, she’d gladly accept it if she could make it through the large wooden gate without wolves tearing at her skin.

  Just as the gate began to swing open, she felt another bird whoosh past her ear. It caught her off guard, which in turn caused her to lose her balance and stumble again. Taking no time to try and figure out why birds were flying around her, she picked herself up and moved forward.

  The gate had not opened completely, just enough for her to slip through, if she made it that far unscathed. It wasn’t until the third bird flew past her ear that she finally realized it was in fact not a bird, but an arrow.

  Her heart leapt into her throat when she felt the arrow pierce her cloak from behind, tearing through the thick wool, before landing a foot in front of her. The sudden awareness that it was not a pack of wolves chasing her but someone hell bent on piercing her skin with an arrow made her blood run cold. The sound of arrows as they flew overhead was both terrifying and a relief. Hopefully Rowan’s archers were much better with their aim than the fool behind her.

  She was almost to the open gate, mayhap only twenty or thirty feet left before she could squeeze through to safety. She peered through the opening and saw Rowan coming toward her. He was mounted on a large grey, his broadsword drawn, a look of utter fury and bloodlust painted on his face.

  She knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that his fury was not directed toward her, but at whomever it was that was shooting arrows at her.

  Rowan was racing across the snow-covered courtyard to save her! Why she had that particular thought at that particular moment proved the depths of her insanity. I am an eejit! She thought as she gave her shoulders a mental shake. She had to make it through the gate.

  Rowan headed toward her, the grey struggling through the heavy snow. He let out a blood-curdling yell as he kicked at the grey’s sides, urging the horse forward.

  She was almost to the gate when the last arrow from the bastard behind her found its mark. Tearing through her cloak, then through skin, it pierced her upper left shoulder. Stunned, she gasped, unable to cry out. The pain was so immense, so unbearable that she could not utter a word or a sound.

  The world began to spin as her vision blurred and dimmed. She fell to her knees and looked down. The arrow had pierced clean through. She could see its tip quite clearly, dripping with blood and bits of flesh.

  The last thing she remembered before the world went dark was thinking what a bloody fool she was.

  Twenty Four

  There were only three times in Rowan Graham’s life that he could recall feeling this afraid and this furious at once. The first was when Kate had succumbed to the Black Death and then again when he had learned Lily had been taken.

  The third occurrence happened when he saw the attacker’s arrow had pierced Arline’s back.

  Had he not been chasing the angry redhead through the deep snow, he would have heard his men shout the warning cry the first time. As it was, he had not heard it until Arline began to climb over the first wall. Had he continued to chase after her, to climb over the wall, chances were great that the arrows that came flying in from south too would have felled him.

  There was no time to contemplate a plan of action. Rowan called out for someone to bring him a horse -- and to forget saddling it -- and for the children to get back inside the keep.

  His men on the wall had seen the riders as they approached. Later, Rowan had learned that his men at first had thought that it was either Daniel or Frederick returning from the mission they had left on yester morn. Once they saw that the riders did not carry Clan Graham colors draped from their saddles, they instinctively called out that riders were approaching. Still, they thought it possible the five mounted men might be travelers only seeking shelter from the harsh winter weather.

  Rowan had missed that first call for he’d been trudging through the blasted snow, pursuing a tet
ched redheaded woman who had gradually taken possession of his heart. The possession of his heart turned into all out control of his good and common sense.

  When the men on the wall saw one of the men retrieve a bow from his back, they gave the warning cry of attack. That call brought Rowan’s pursuit of the object of his ire to a complete halt and sent him flying into defensive action.

  As his men tried to gain Arline’s attention by waving their arms and shouting their warnings of possible impending attack, Rowan scrambled back down the large mound of snow, calling out his orders as he made his way toward the stables.

  The snow had made things quite difficult and had slowed him down considerably. If he were slowed by the damned white stuff, then the attackers would be having trouble as well. God willing he would be able to get to Arline before the bastards outside could.

  Men poured out of the keep to answer the battle cry. Many had not even bothered to don cloaks or gloves. Women were ushering the terrified children in doors.

  Red John came running as fast as he could, holding the reins to a grey gelding. Rowan did not wait for the horse to stop or even settle down from the excitement of having been removed from his warm stall. Grabbing a handful of its main, Rowan pulled himself up and flung a leg over the grey’s back. He grabbed the reins from Red John and headed toward the gate. Someone tossed him a broadsword as he kicked the horse and pushed forward.

  His feeling of relief when the gate opened and he saw how close Arline was to safety was short lived. He was just beginning to pass through the gate when one of the dozen or so arrows the attackers had sent flying finally hit its mark.

  The arrow had pierced somewhere in her back. Time came to an abrupt halt, as did the beating of his heart when he saw the tip of the arrow come through the front of her cloak.

  Time started up again, wretchedly surreal and horrifying. Rowan could remember little else after that point. He could not recall moving forward and only knew that he had when he reached her, slid down from his horse and crawled to her.

  Arline lay on her side, motionless, but still breathing, as the snow darkened to a hideous shade of blood red. Chaos had erupted all around him as men came flooding out of the gate and arrows from his archers flew over head. Battle cries were muffled by the pounding of his heart.

  Thomas had come to his aid and was shouting at Rowan over the din of the attack. Long moments passed before Rowan could make any sense out of what Thomas was saying.

  “I’ll take her back to the keep, Rowan!” Thomas shouted. “Ye go get the bloody bastards!”

  He did not possess the ability to think at the moment, he could only feel. Anguish, loss, fury, pain. He wanted to direct it all at Thomas, for had the man not repeatedly insisted that Rowan could not ask for Arline’s hand, she’d not have an arrow jutting through her shoulder. The snow would not have turned red with her blood this day. Instead, it would be stained with the blood of the attackers.

  Rowan blinked away the anger and frustration. He’d deal with Thomas later. Now he had to get Arline to the keep. He could not allow the man in whose fault this all lay touch the woman he loved.

  “Get yer hands off her!” Rowan seethed through gritted teeth as he pushed Thomas away. “Stay the bloody hell away from her!”

  Thomas was by no means stupid or feeble minded. He understood all too clearly that Rowan blamed him for Arline’s injuries. He also understood how Rowan would come to that conclusion for he had thought the very same. This however, was not the time to lay or take blame. It was time to act.

  “Damn it, Rowan!” Thomas shouted back. “Go after them! Ye’ll never forgive yerself if ye don’ go after the men who did this!”

  Rowan regretted the fact that Thomas knew him all too well. As they had argued, several of his men passed by on horses in fast pursuit of the attackers. Rowan bent and tenderly kissed Arline’s cheek and whispered a promise in her ear.

  I shall avenge ye, lass, I swear it. Please, do no’ leave me.

  A moment later, he was scrambling onto the back of the grey gelding and heading off to kill every last one of the bastards who had done this.

  Ora and Thomas had successfully removed the arrow from Arline’s shoulder before Rowan returned to the keep. Her clothes had been cut away and she lay semi-conscious on a trestle table in the gathering room, covered up to her breasts with a linen sheet. She mumbled incoherently as Ora went about cleaning the blood from the still bleeding wound.

  He had arrived just in time to help with cauterizing her wounds.

  “I think the snow helped slow the bleedin’,” Ora told Rowan as she tended to Arline. “But it be too soon to ken how she’ll fare.”

  Ora had been the clan’s healer for more than ten years. She had tended to every conceivable illness and battle wound. Rowan trusted her implicitly. He could not speak just yet, his worry over Arline paralyzing his voice. Helpless to do anything but offer her comfort, Rowan stepped to the table and held Arline’s hand.

  Ora had given Arline a potion to drink to help knock her out so that she would not be awake during the process. Unfortunately it hadn’t taken full affect when Thomas placed the red-hot iron to her wound. Her scream would forever remain branded in Rowan’s memory as one of the most horrific wails he had ever heard. He prayed she would soon wake and speak to him. He did not want that the sound of her scream and subsequent curses and cries to be his last memory of her.

  Thankfully, she had lost consciousness and remained that way during the rest of the procedure. Once the wound was cauterized and Ora agreed that Arline could be moved, Rowan carried the sleeping lass to his room. With great care and devotion, he placed her in his bed, covered her with furs and stayed by her side.

  It would be some time before anyone could answer the question of who in his right mind would attack a keep in the middle of winter with only five men. The men who had attacked were of no use to anyone. Their frozen corpses waited burial in the dungeon below the keep.

  It had taken little time for Rowan and his men to catch up to them and even less time to slay all five. His only regret was not being able to glean any information from them. They had foolishly chosen to attempt to defend themselves against fifty of Rowan’s men.

  Two long, distressing days passed by slowly. Rowan would not leave Arline’s side but for a few moments at a time and only to take care of the most pressing business -- finding out who was behind the attack. Besides Arline, the most urgent matter at hand was the missing Frederick and the seven men who were with him. They had not been seen nor heard from since the day Rowan had sent them to check on the men at the borders.

  Dawn arrived peacefully on the morning of the third day. Arline was kept heavily sedated to keep her from harming her injury or from feeling any amount of pain. Arline rarely moved and at times it was difficult to tell if she still breathed.

  Lily was beside herself with grief. The nightmares had intensified, making it difficult for her to sleep for more than an hour or two at a time. No one was able to comfort the child. Worried that Lily might become exhausted and over wrought with worry, Rowan had a pallet brought to his room and placed between the fire and his bed. He and Lily slept side by side, under several thick furs. She slept fitfully throughout the night at first, but thankfully had finally been able to sleep for longer stretches.

  Rowan had not shaved and had barely eaten over the course of his bedside vigil. On the morn of the fourth day, he dozed in a chair he had pulled next to the bed. He held Arline’s hand, though he doubted she was aware he was even in the room, let alone holding her hand.

  He was roused awake by the sound of many heavy boots and excited utterances taking place outside his room. Moments later, Frederick rushed in with Daniel, Thomas, and several other men fast on his heals.

  Frederick halted just inside the doorway, his eyes immediately going to the sleeping form on the bed.

  “Christ,” he muttered as he rushed to stand beside Arline. Daniel and the others followed suit. The room seemed
to grow much smaller when it was filled with so many big Highlanders.

  Rowan rose to his feet, relieved to see his missing men. They looked like hell, with wind-burned faces and disheveled clothes. “Thank God!” Rowan said as he came around the side of the bed to shake Frederick’s hand. “What the hell happened?”

  Frederick drew Rowan in and slapped his back. “I could ask ye the same question,” he said as he withdrew and turned back to look at Lady Arline.

  Rowan sighed heavily and ran a hand across his several days growth of beard. “Ye look like hell, Frederick.” He had noticed what looked like dried blood on Frederick’s green tunic.

  “Och!” Frederick smiled as he looked down at his chest. “I look better than the bastard I gutted. And ye do no’ look too well yerself, Rowan.”

  Rowan ignored the comment. He took Frederick by the arm and led him away from the bed. The group of men followed and huddled together. Speaking in hushed tones so as not to disturb Lady Arline, Frederick began his tale.

  “When we left we went first to our borders on the East. All was well there. The men were able to seek shelter in the hut. They received a good amount of snow and were glad to see us. We spent the night there and headed back the next morn. I left their replacements and brought Aaron, Sam, and Brown Thomas back with us. All was well until we reached the southern borders.” He paused for a moment, shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. Rowan bade him to continue.

  “Rowan, it was a massacre. A damned bloody massacre!” he said angrily. He caught himself and lowered his voice. “Derrick, young Phillip, and Red Daniel were dead. The bastards had left their heads on spikes. Flung their innards in the trees. God only kens where the rest of them be.”

  Rowan swallowed back the bile and anger that rose in his throat. They had been good men, young men. Red Daniel was married and had two wee bairns. Phillip was barely old enough to shave and Derrick was not much older. Rowan hung his head, dreading the thought that he would have to inform the families of these good men that they were not coming home.