Highlander Betrayed (Guardians of the Targe)

by Wittig, Laurin

  “Do you understand?” he growled, pulling her more tightly against him.

  “Aye,” she whispered. “What do you want?”

  Everything, that’s what he wanted, but for now he would be content with what the king wanted. “The ermine sack, and your mother.”

  He could feel her swallow but she said nothing.

  “Where is the sack?” he demanded as he pushed her to sit on the wooden chest at the end of the bed. He brandished his dagger with one hand while he pulled a length of rope free from where it was wrapped around his waist. “Where is it!?” He shoved his dagger back in its sheath and grabbed her wrists, wrapping them tightly with the rope.

  “They are not for you, Archibald of Easton,” she said, her voice surprisingly hard.

  He backhanded her, flinging her from the chest onto the floor with a crash. She lay there, stunned.

  He grabbed her by her hair and pulled her upright. “Where is the sack?”

  “Not here!” There was fear in her voice now.

  Archie smiled, pleased by her fear. “You lie.” He yanked her head backward, extending her neck as he placed his dagger against it once more. An odd grunt sounded from behind him. He pivoted, only to find the old woman flailing an arm toward him, an almost animal growl coming from her. He threw Jeanette to the floor again and turned his attention to Elspet.

  “Speak, woman. Your daughter’s life is in the balance. Where is the sack?”

  She glared at him but said nothing.

  “I spoke the truth,” Jeanette said. She was sitting up, scooting backward, away from him. “The sack is not here. It is not in my mum’s keeping anymore.”

  Archie looked from one woman to the other, assessing the situation. “Who has it?” He held the dagger to the old woman’s throat this time as he pinned Jeanette with his glare. “Who?”

  Jeanette pushed herself to her feet against the wall. She looked at her mother, as if seeking counsel, though no words were spoken.

  Archie pushed the dagger in enough to draw blood. The old woman never so much as whimpered but Jeanette reached her bound hands toward him as if to stop him.

  “I must, Mum,” she said quietly, then turned her airy blue eyes to him. “Rowan. Rowan has the sack. She left here with your friend just a few moments ago.”

  Fury sliced through him. Disbelief curdled in his stomach.

  “Aaaah!” he screamed. “You lie!” Rage consumed him, turning everything red. It could not be true. Nicholas could not have the ermine sack and its keeper.

  Who was not the old woman.

  It was Rowan.

  Nicholas had lied to him again and again. He’d betrayed everything, taking everything for himself and leaving Archie with nothing. Archie’s wrath took over as he plunged his dagger into the useless old woman’s chest.

  Jeanette screamed and flew at him. He backhanded her once more, flinging her halfway across the large chamber, where she fell hard to the floor and didn’t move.

  Archie tore the chamber apart, sure that the woman had lied to him, that the sack, and whatever it sheltered within it, was here, that somehow Nicholas had devised this lie and they were so much in his thrall, so charmed by him, that they had conspired against Archie. They lied. The sack must be here.

  He opened every basket, every chest, rolled the old woman over in the bed, as he searched for the ermine sack that held his destiny.

  At length there was nothing left to ransack, to destroy, nothing left to vent his rage upon. Nothing except Nicholas… and Rowan.

  Nicholas had forgotten his allegiance to Archie, to his king, because of that barbarian wench. But why? What was it about that woman that could shift Nicholas’s loyalties so suddenly, so completely? It must have something to do with the sack and whatever was in it. It must have something to do with riches, power, for the man would not be swayed by something as common as a lusty lass.

  Aye, that must be it. She must be connected to the Targe in some way. She was the keeper of the ermine sack now. Nicholas kept her safe, kept her for himself.

  But she would be Archie’s.

  He would deliver her to the king, her and the sack she possessed. He did not yet know what her part in this mission was, but he was certain she was the key to his future, and Nicholas’s disgrace… Nicholas’s demise… Nicholas’s death.

  He would have the pleasure of seeing Nicholas’s head upon a pike in London. But first he had to find Rowan.

  ROWAN’S HEART WAS beating so hard she could hear it drumming in her ears. Scotia was inside. Nicholas had gone for her, he would find her as he’d promised. They must not perish!

  But what could she do? The clouds were too far away, even if she could bring them here. She searched for an idea, her gaze landing on the large grey stones that made up the foundation and undercrofts of the great hall. She could manipulate stone. She’d done it before she became the Guardian. What could she do now? If she could throw stones, could she hold them in place?

  She abandoned the wild idea of drawing the storm clouds to put out the fire and turned every bit of attention she had to focus the Targe on holding up the vaulted ceilings of the undercrofts. The fire leapt as the force of the Targe’s energy pushed the wind ahead of it. The roof groaned and collapsed. She gasped, feeling the weight of it press against her efforts. Burning timber crashed to the ground around the great hall. Sparks flew, whipped high into the air. She prayed there were enough people tending the other structures in the castle to put out any new fires the embers were sure to cause but she dared not look. She dared not take her eyes from the place where Nicholas had disappeared. She dared not let her focus be distracted lest Scotia and Nicholas die.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  SWEAT RAN DOWN Rowan’s back. Her eyes stung from the heat and smoke. Her teeth were clenched so hard her jaw ached, but she would not give up. The walls of the upper level were beginning to topple, one by one, and still she held her position, Targe stone raised high, all her focus on holding up the undercrofts until Scotia and Nicholas emerged from the impossibly thick smoke, until they were free.

  Suddenly she was hit and sent flying through the air. She landed hard on her side. Disoriented, she realized she no longer held the stone, though the ermine sack was clenched in her fist. She pushed herself up to sit, only then noticing Archie squatting near her, the Targe stone held in his blood-covered hand.

  “Is this what you are looking for, witch?”

  A deafening roar filled the bailey as the undercrofts gave way, sending overwhelming waves of black smoke, burning timber, and ashes over everything and everyone. Over Nicholas and Scotia trapped inside.

  “Nay!” Grief and rage clawed at Rowan even as the ermine sack was jerked out of her hand. The next thing she knew she was lifted into the air and thrown over a hard shoulder. She tried to scream, to kick, to throw herself out of his grip but he held on fast. The smoke was so thick she could barely see or draw breath but she was certain he headed for the gate passage.

  She had to stop him. He had sealed the deaths of Scotia and Nicholas when he broke her focus. He could not have her or the Targe stone. He would pay dearly for their deaths.

  Stone or no, she had fought off Archie once without it, she could do so again. She gathered the energy to her and let it loose upon him. The blast threw them both to the ground, but she was ready for it, rolling away from him as fast as possible, crouching low, trying to see under the smoke, to find him. She reached for a nearby rock, the size of her hand, and gripped it, ready to defend herself if necessary.

  The smoke cleared just enough for her to see Archie as he looked for her. He gripped the ermine sack, clearly containing the Targe stone again, but still he did not see her.

  “I know you are there. You cannot fly away on the smoke.” He backed away, though he still seemed to be scanning about him, looking for her. He lifted the ermine sack as he said, “I shall take my victory this day. It was too easy to bring fire and death to a clan supposedly protected by a feeble old woman
and her pagan relic. But she is dead, and without this in your possession, you will not be able to protect this decrepit castle from me. I can return anytime I wish to take you, too.” He backed up even further, disappearing into the smoke.

  Rowan stayed frozen in place, listening for him, sure he would circle around her and tackle her again. As she waited, his words began to filter through the fog of loss in her mind. She is dead. How could he know if Elspet yet lived or died? And then she remembered the blood on his hand and the answer hit her, knocking her backwards. Dead. Anguish writhed through her. Not Elspet, too. It could not be!

  ROWAN MADE IT to the tower quickly, more by force of will than by any ability to see where she was going. She pulled the tower door open and sped up the stairs, two at a time.

  “Auntie!” she shouted as she rounded the top of the stair and pushed the door to Elspet’s chamber open. The scene before her stopped her heart and stole her labored breath. What had he done?

  Elspet lay flopped like a ragdoll almost sideways across her bed, a crimson stain spreading beneath her like a ghastly poppy flower.

  Rowan stepped through the chaos on the floor. “Auntie?” She brushed grey-streaked hair back from her aunt’s face, only to find a blank stare where there should have been a spark of life. “Nay. Nay. Nay,” she whispered over and over and over. “Why did he do such a thing, Auntie?” she asked, though she knew she would get no answer.

  But she did hear a groan coming from the side of the bed.

  “Jeanette?!”

  Rowan sidled around the bed and only then saw her cousin lying on the floor amidst the ruin of the chamber. Another groan came from Jeanette as she rolled over onto her back. Blood trickled from her nose and the gash on her forehead had opened again. Her hands were tied, but she was alive. Rowan rushed to her side.

  “Rowan?” Jeanette murmured weakly, her eyes fluttering open for a moment before she closed them again.

  “Aye, ’tis me.” She gently untied her cousin’s hands, then grabbed for the cloth and bowl of water they kept by Elspet’s bed, only to find the bowl overturned and the water spilled. The cloth would do. She returned to Jeanette and blotted away the blood from her nose, grateful to find it was no longer bleeding. She did the same to the gash on her forehead, though it bled profusely. Pressing the cloth to the cut, she looked about her for anything she could bind around Jeanette’s head to hold it in place.

  The basket her cousin kept for tending such things lay across the room, its contents dumped on the bench beneath the window.

  “Can you hold this?” she asked, taking Jeanette’s hand and pressing it against the cloth. “Just for a moment.”

  Jeanette didn’t answer but she kept her hand there. Rowan grabbed the basket and piled what contents were easy to identify back into it. Grabbing a rolled length of linen from where it had fallen under the bench, she took everything back to her cousin.

  It took a bit of doing but she managed to bind the cloth in place and get Jeanette sitting up, braced against the wall but still on the floor.

  “Archie did this?” Rowan asked, glancing around the chamber that was as devastated as anything she could do in the grips of her gift.

  “She is dead, is she not?”

  Rowan swallowed and nodded. “I am so sorry I was not here.”

  “You could not have changed what happened, Rowan. He is a madman and he wants to hurt Nicholas.”

  “And me. He came here for the Targe.” A terrible hatred grew inside her, wrapping all her grief and remorse in its tentacles. “He set the fire.” She would not burden Jeanette with the death of her sister and Nicholas yet, though she swore she would have vengeance on the man if it were the last thing she did. “He took the Targe stone, Jeanette. He tried to take me, too.”

  “I am so sorry, Rowan. I did not ken what else to do.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Jeanette looked over at the bed where her mother lay. Tears ran down her cheeks until the remorse and sorrow began to harden in her eyes, leaving a coldness Rowan had never thought to see in Jeanette.

  “I told him,” Jeanette said. “I tried to save Mum. I told him about you so he would leave her alone but he flew into a rage.” She wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Mum was murdered because she was no longer the Guardian. I am sorry. I had to try to save her from that madman.”

  Rowan couldn’t breathe. “Of course you did.” She sat then, reeling from so much loss, so much wasted life at the hands of a single Englishman.

  “You cannot let him get away with it, Rowan. You must avenge her death. I cannot wield any power, but you can.”

  Rowan looked over to where her aunt lay, knowing the bloody, violent image would forever remain vivid in her memory. Grief gripped her in sharp talons. “I will avenge her death, I swear it.” She would avenge Scotia and Nicholas, too, and her own broken heart.

  “I am depending upon you, Guardian,” Jeanette said. She sank back against the wall as if there were no bones left in her body.

  Rowan rose. She must go after Archie before he disappeared too far into the forest. “Will you be all right here alone until I can find Uncle Kenneth?” She was not the only one who had lost too many loved ones this day and she hated that she must bring this news to him.

  “I will be right here,” Jeanette said, pointing at the ground where she sat.

  ROWAN BURST THROUGH the tower doorway into the bailey, already searching for Kenneth when she heard her name.

  “Rowan, there you are!”

  She blinked, sure she was seeing a ghost. Soot had blackened his skin and clothes, but his smile and his voice were unmistakable. Nicholas. She threw herself into his arms.

  “How? I saw the great hall cave in. I held it up as long as I could but then—”

  “You held it up?” He whooped and swung her around just as thunder rolled over their heads and fat raindrops began to fall all around them. “Did you bring the rain, too?” He swung her around again as the cold water began to drench the fire.

  “I did… I think. Nicholas, you need to put me down.”

  He did as she asked. “I know I should not be so happy,” he said, “but I did not think to ever get Scotia or wee Ian out of there alive. You saved us, Rowan.” He held her face between his palms and kissed her softly. “The Guardian saved us.”

  “Scotia is alive?” She covered her mouth with a trembling hand. “I thought you both dead.”

  “She is alive, and wee Ian, too. She was trying to carry him out when a beam fell, trapping them. I managed to clear enough of a path for them to get out but it took time. I do not think we would have made it without you holding up the building. I still cannot believe you did that.”

  She swallowed the tears of relief that threatened. “It is amazing what I can do when people I love are in danger.”

  His eyes went soft at her admission but before he could say or do anything else, she stopped him.

  “Archie started the fire.” She had to get it all out quickly. “He killed Elspet and stole the Targe stone from me—that is when the ceiling gave way. I was sure he had killed you and Scotia. He tried to take me with him.”

  “He killed Elspet? Took the stone?” Nicholas shoved his fingers through his wet, sooty hair. “You fought him off, did you not?” There was a hint of pride this time and it warmed Rowan’s heart that he knew that about her. “My God, love. I knew he was heartless but I did not see this in him.”

  “And Kenneth does not know.”

  Nicholas turned toward the fire and bellowed Kenneth’s name, dragging Rowan with him as he yelled for the chief again.

  Uilliam emerged from the diminishing smoke. “What d’you want with Kenneth? He is a mite busy!” He was as sooty-black as Nicholas.

  “Where is he, Uilliam?” Rowan asked quietly. “It cannot wait. You need to hear the news as well.”

  Uilliam scowled but nodded at her and bellowed the chief’s name until they heard Kenneth mutter one of his favorite curses as he appeared like
a wraith in the smoke.

  Rowan did not waste a moment telling him what had happened, only then noticing that Scotia stood behind him, hearing everything, too. Kenneth was stunned into an unnatural quiet.

  “Uncle, you need to see to Elspet and your daughters. Uilliam, can you spare a few men and come with me to find the bastard who did all this?”

  “You are not going after him,” Nicholas cut in. “It is too dangerous.”

  “It is no more dangerous for me than for anyone else today. Look at what he has already done to us. He has no soul. He’ll not hesitate to kill you, even if you were once friends.” She reached out and gripped his hand. “I do not want to lose anyone else I love this day.”

  “We were never friends, not true friends. I know that now. But the clan cannot risk you that way.”

  “Nicholas, I will not be alone. You will be there beside me. You will be my Protector. I choose you to be my Protector.” She spoke to him, but looked at her uncle, Uilliam, and Scotia.

  Uilliam grumbled. Scotia did not react at all. Kenneth stared at Nicholas, his eyes revealing nothing, then gave a quick incline of his head.

  “As the Guardian wishes,” Kenneth said formally, if reluctantly. “But the bastard is not to be killed.” His voice was like hot iron. “Bring him back to me alive.”

  “We will,” Nicholas said, his voice as hard as Kenneth’s.

  Without another word the chief went to the tower, Scotia following him a few steps behind. Uilliam left to round up men to find Archie.

  It would be far easier confronting the bastard than it was confronting the evil the bastard had wrought.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  LEFT ALONE IN the busy bailey with Nicholas, Rowan was suddenly unsure of herself. No matter how much she wanted to fling herself into his arms or race off after Archie, she knew she could not until Nicholas understood exactly what was required of him as her Protector.

  “How fare you, love?” he asked.