Highland Hawk: Highland Brides #7

by Lois Greiman

  Lord Hogshead!

  Gone was the foolish smile and vague expression, replaced by a narrow-eyed wariness and a twisted grin.

  Something glinted in the setting sun, and she realized it was the very dirk she had seen during MacKinnon’s battle with Drummond. The very dirk that she had, weeks before, mistaken for a medallion. The very dirk that had told her that the innocuous Earl of Harrowhead was really a blackhearted villain. He fingered the blade as he rode along, stroking it as another might caress a lover, then slipping it beneath his doublet and hugging it adoringly to his side.

  Drawing nearer, he glanced about. Catriona held her breath. Fear sliced through her, quaking the leaves of the branch on which she sat. But he did not see her and finally he crested the hill and moved on.

  Below her, the road twisted away mile after mile, hidden here and there by a turn or a hill. She held her breath when he disappeared. What if he turned off the trail while out of sight? But no. There he was again, until finally, just at dusk, she saw him stop his horse, glance down the road in both directions and turn beside a trio of boulders into the woods.

  No time for fear. No time for second thoughts.

  Slipping down the tree, she ran toward where Bay was hidden.

  The gelding’s footfalls seemed inordinately loud when he stepped out of the cover of the woods and onto the road. Terror splashed through Catriona like a cold tide, threatening to drown her. Her hands shook on the reins.

  She now knew Blackheart’s identity, but Lachlan wouldn’t be lightly guarded. ‘Twas a plot against the king planned by a man of wealth and power. For how many years had Blackheart convinced all that he was a harmless gentleman? Only a twisted but clever mind could do such a thing. What chance did she have against him and his minions? None. ‘Twas not too late to return to Blackburn, to alert the guards…

  But Haydan had long ago set out in the opposite direction with Drummond’s medallion, and the guards’ loyalty was to the king. If she informed them of this plot it would be their duty to capture the villains. Lachlan’s safety would be secondary at best. And if there was a raid on the camp, the brigands would surely kill Lachlan first to eliminate any who might spill their story.

  Nay. ‘Twas safest to go alone, for she could be silent, stealthy, quick. Years of training assured that, if only she could control her panic.

  Turning Bay back around, she pressed him into a walk, but she felt as if a thousand eyes watched her from the woods. Still, no one jumped from cover to accost her. Bay worried at the bit, eager to catch the horse ahead of him. With shaky uncertainty, Cat urged him into a trot and then a canter.

  Miles slipped by beneath Bay’s steady hoofbeats until finally she reached the three boulders where Blackheart had turned off. And there, with soul atremble, she reined her mount into the woods.

  It was dark as sin beneath the leafing boughs. The gelding stepped into the forest. A branch snapped. Catriona jerked at the noise, yanking her mount to a halt. But in a second she realized it was only the sound of her own passing, and so she pressed on.

  Fear smothered her. There was no trail, but Bay moved easily along, following his own gregarious senses.

  Minutes ticked by. A half hour passed. They came to a vague trail that wended through the underbrush, but perhaps her mount only followed that course for the sake of ease and not because another had passed there.

  Fresh doubts assailed her, but finally they came to a small clearing. The wind scattered the clouds from the moon, and there, upon the ground was a steaming scattering of horse dung. Overhead, she heard the faint flutter of wings.

  Catriona pressed on with a modicum of new hope.

  But finally all certainty fled. The trail dwindled away, and her mount stopped to pull at a frond of bracken.

  Panic seized Catriona in an icy-cold fist. She was lost—she had failed. But Lachlan’s laughter echoed in her mind. She pushed her mount on. He turned of his own accord, seeming to know the way. Though hopelessness still gnawed at her, fear would not allow her to stop until she came to the crest of hill. Again the gelding halted.

  ‘Twas then that she saw the spark of light far off. She started as if the tiny speck of flame had burned her, but in a heartbeat it was gone. She stared until her eyes watered and ached, but only darkness surrounded her. She’d imagined it, she thought, her stomach churning.

  But no. There! A spark of firelight, not more than a mile or so to the northwest.

  She pressed Bay on with shaky limbs. Eternity stretched before her, and the night went on forever until finally a campfire winked at her through the trees.

  Her legs threatened to spill her to the ground when she slipped from her mount’s back, but she braced her knees, clung to the mane for support, and prayed for strength. Strength did not come, but weakness faded a bit until she was able to stumble to a tree. There, she tied her mount and crept forward.

  She could smell the smoke of the fire now, could hear the crackle of the blaze. Crouching down behind a molding log, she prayed for courage. But that too had abandoned her, for it took all her strength to peek over the rotting timber.

  Three men stood before her, but she could not recognize the two who faced her. The other was Arthur Douglas, the Earl of Harrowhead, Lord Hogshead—Blackheart! She knew him even from behind, could feel his presence in her soul, for he had thrown aside his false mantle of decency.

  “We told you there was to be no fire.” His voice was soft, low, a purr of purest evil. It shivered down Catriona’s spine.

  “The boy was cold. We thought we’d best dry him off, and ‘tis no place for a fire in the cottage.” The roughly dressed man nodded toward the ramshackle building to his left.

  Absolute silence.

  “Ah. And did you fetch him herring pie too, Pitt?”

  Pitt shuffled his feet. “He fell in the burn, Your Lordship. A dead lad would do you little good.”

  “Neither would a dead guard,” Blackheart said. “And yet…” His hand struck out. Firelight flashed momentarily along a crest of stone set in steel. There was a rasping hiss of pain and then the guard doubled over, stumbling toward the fire. Sparks flared, illuminating the dying man’s shocked expression. “We have many more at Harrowhead.”

  The guard tottered sideways. Then, holding his gut, he fell to his knees before collapsing slowly onto his face.

  The body twitched. Blackheart watched him, his eyes dreamy in the flickering light. From beneath his doublet, he pulled out a cloth to gently stroke the length of his blade.

  “Very nice, my love,” he murmured. “Not as wondrous as the old man’s death, but satisfying just the same. We were undisciplined, were we? We were weak?” He chuckled. “Well now we are earl and soon we will be—” He paused, turning his head abruptly to find the second guard staring at him in wide eyed horror.

  “Discipline is very important,” Blackheart said, tipping his dirk toward the body. “Get rid of him.”

  “Shall I…” Sweat stood out like the cold dew of morn on the man’s brow. “Shall I douse the fire?”

  Blackheart smiled, his expression sleepy and sated. “Clever lad.”

  The guard stepped forward to do as bid, but Blackheart raised his knife. A trio of colors danced in the stones.

  “But not yet, Bramble,” Blackheart added, admiring the blade before turning his gaze to the body. “I wish to watch.”

  Bile rose in Catriona’s throat. She pressed her mouth to her arm and squeezed her eyes closed, but the sound of the body being dragged from the clearing echoed in her ears until she found the strength to fight down the nausea and lift her head again.

  “And how is our bonny lad?” Blackheart asked.

  The one called Bramble had returned. “He sleeps.”

  “Has he attempted to escape?”

  “Nay.”

  Silence, but for the crackle of the fire.

  “Nay?” Blackheart’s tone was dark, filled with mild surprise.

  Another man stepped from the shadow of the
tumbled cottage. “Where is Pitt?” he asked, his tone suspicious, his eyes bright as he searched the clearing.

  A corner of Blackheart’s mouth lifted. “Ah, Clive, so you have decided to join us.”

  “Where is Pitt?”

  “He is resting. Bramble here was telling us of our lovely boy.”

  Bramble flit his gaze toward the woods, where he had left his dying companion. “The lad says we feed him well, thus he will wait until we tire of the game and set him free.”

  “The old earl would have seen him hanged from his heels for such disrespect. But we have a softer touch, don’t we?” Blackheart stroked the dirk. “And we like the pretty boy.” He smiled. “What of the traitor?”

  “He is causing no trouble—” Bramble began, but just then a noise exploded overhead.

  Catriona’s stomach twisted violently as she dropped her head onto her arm and waited for death.

  But nothing happened.

  Above the battering of her heart, she could hear no talking.

  ‘Twas then that she recognized the sound. Greenfinches!

  Had Blackheart noticed the birds? Was he coming? She dared not move, dared not breathe, and then she heard it. Footsteps crackling the leaves on the forest floor.

  Dear God, no! She could not be caught. Not yet.

  Bickering twitters issued from the treetops and then the finches took flight.

  ” ‘Tis only birds.” ‘Twas Clive’s voice that issued toward her from some yards to her right, then faded as he returned to the fire. “Buntings, I think.”

  “At night?”

  “I do not control the birds.” The guard’s tone was terse as he sheathed his sword.

  She could not hear Blackheart’s response.

  From a tree some dozen rods away, the birds began to squabble once more.

  Footsteps again. Two pair. Were they coming closer?

  “Why is he here?” Blackheart purred.

  “He had to take a piss…Your Lordship,” Bramble said.

  “Tell me, if he wanted swan for supper would you ride to Blackburn and request the king’s own?”

  Youthful laughter rang through the darkness, sparking through Cat’s senses. Lachlan! She would know his voice anywhere, and yet she could not resist rising to her elbows to fill her soul with the sight of him. The fire shone in his glittering eyes and along his slanted grin. He was alive and he was well. For a moment fear was forgotten, replaced by a hope so powerful it nearly overwhelmed her.

  “I do like swan,” Lachlan said, his voice clear and bright in the night. “I’ve only tasted it once, and it was at the king’s court.”

  “Why are his hands not tied?” Blackheart asked, his voice low.

  “They were,” Bramble said, then paused to lift Lachlan’s arm to show the dangling ropes. “But he needs—”

  “I believe you told me of his needs,” Blackheart interrupted.

  “There is none here who wished to hold his willy while he dribbles,” Clive said. “Leastways, none till now.”

  Blackheart’s eyes sparkled in the firelight as he turned them on the one called Clive.

  “I’ll not escape,” Lachlan said, his tone bright as if he did not feel the strangling tension. “I’ve no idea where I am and nothing to eat should I get away. Nay, I’ll wait—”

  But his sentence was interrupted again by the birds’ squawking.

  “In fact,” Lachlan said. “If someone would shoot those bunting I could make a fine stew.”

  The guards and Blackheart turned toward the birds, and Lachlan flit his gaze sideways to skim the darkness of the woods.

  He knew! Though their gazes never met, though she was certain he couldn’t see her, he knew she was there. His attention turned for one fire-quick instant to Blackheart’s horse. It stood off to the side between her and the men, its reins trailing. ‘Twas now or never. Now, while Lachlan was free of the cottage.

  For a moment her knees were too stiff to allow her to rise. But she forced them into submission, creeping along, her heart so loud she was certain they would hear.

  “Why are bunting out at night?” the first guard asked.

  “Clive does not control the birds,” Blackheart said, his tone silky.

  “Pitt does.” Lachlan’s tone was effervescent, his expression cheery again. “I’ll wager he could skewer them both with one arrow. Where is he?”

  She was nearly within reach of the horse. Crouched in the bracken, she reached for the reins. Her fingers closed over the leather. She tugged the animal closer.

  He came, snatching bits of fodder as he shuffled along. Closer. Another step. Another. He was shielding her view of the clearing now, but that meant they couldn’t see her—at least she prayed that was true.

  The reins trembled as she slipped them over the steed’s neck. She turned the closest stirrup. It wobbled in her hand, but her foot found the opening as she crouched behind the steed. She reached for the pommel.

  “What was that noise?”

  Rory! ‘Twas Rory’s voice. Catriona froze.

  “‘Tis naught but buntings.”

  “Not buntings. Finches!” Rory said, but in that instant, terror broke free in Cat’s chest.

  There was no time for cowardice. She leapt into the saddle and slammed the horse into a gallop.

  “Lachlan!” she screamed, but he was already running, sprinting across the clearing.

  Men yelled; someone called her name. But there was no time. No thought.

  Lachlan threw himself at her horse. His fingers tangled in the mane. Cat grappled, catching him by the tunic and hauling him up, never stopping. He was almost aboard, his hand on her waist, his leg behind the cantle.

  Suddenly a guard appeared before her. He reached up, grabbing Lachlan.

  “Nay!” she screamed, trying to pull him back. A few more feet and they would be hidden in the woods. But he was falling—she could not hold him. “Lachlan!” she screamed, but suddenly she was wrenched from the saddle.

  The earth rose like a dark boulder and she fell, striking her head.

  Chapter 30

  Darkness swirled for an instant then a guard’s sneering face swooped through the fog toward her. Catriona kicked wildly with both legs and the brigand careened backward. She scrambled to her feet, pulling Lachlan with her.

  “Get them!” Blackheart screamed.

  She was yanked to a halt; Lachlan was ripped from her fingers. Her back slammed against something hard, slapping the air from her lungs. An arm was pressed tight across her throat. She struggled to breathe, to think.

  “Let her go.”

  She heard the words through a growing haze. The arm eased away from her throat. She gasped for air, painfully pulling it into her lungs.

  “So you saw through our little disguise.” Blackheart stood directly in front of her, his fingers light on the blade of his dirk. “How clever of you.”

  “Why?” It was the only word she could find. The only one she could force out.

  “Why what, Princess Cat? Why would we seize the king? Power, of course. ‘Tis what every man lusts after. ‘Tis what our father wanted. ‘Tis what our brother wanted. Indeed, they thought themselves quite powerful. And Arthur? We were naught but a frail bit of a thing with an eye for the lads.” He laughed silkily. “Disgusting, they said. Worthless. Soft. They did not know us well.” He stroked his knife. The stones on the hilt glittered in the light of the fire and he smiled. The expression looked eerily benevolent. “They are dead now, you know. But ‘twas an important lesson they taught us: One must never underestimate an adversary. And yet it seems we may have done just that with you. Mayhap we owe you our thanks for the reminder.”

  She must have croaked a sound, though in truth, she could not tell. Beyond Blackheart, she saw Lachlan, his arms locked behind him by the guard called Bramble.

  “What say you, lady?”

  “Why me?” she rasped.

  He raised his brows and stepped forward as though mildly amused. “Do you not reme
mber?”

  She stumbled back, but a brigand was still behind her and more had appeared from the cottage.

  “Remember what?”

  “You performed for us some years ago.” He was close now, within inches. “Aye. You danced. But ‘twas more than a dance. You were enchanting us. We offered you money. Indeed, we offered to take you as our mistress. Our lads were quite offended, were they not?” He chuckled, then reaching out with the point of his dirk, he lifted a curl of hair from her breast. He was so close she could feel his breath on her face, the press of his body against hers. “But you turned away. From us! As if we were nothing. Just as our father had. ‘Twas then we knew.”

  She tried to formulate a question, but she had no strength.

  “You are a witch.”

  “Nay.”

  “Aye. You are a witch,” he said, and pressed his crotch against her hand, his knife against her breast. She staggered back, but the guard behind caught her arms. “But unlike the other fools who lusted for you, we knew what you were. Sacrifice is what was needed. I could have taken you then, but nay. ‘Tis sacrifice that gains our ends.” His eyes burned with an insane light. “If you could bewitch us, you could bewitch anyone—even the king. All we needed do was to delay the pleasure of having you and your pretty brother in our bed. And then you would entrance the king for me. And you have done it, have you not? All you need do is execute the plan.”

  “Nay, I—”

  “Aye, you will. But you have gone back on your promise, and we have kept ours. So now we think ‘tis your turn to make a sacrifice,” he said, and leaning forward, licked her neck.

  She recoiled, but her arms were caught behind her, so she spat. The saliva hit him directly in the face. For a moment he froze, and then he struck her. She reeled out of the guard’s grasp, hitting the earth hard. Blackheart came slowly after her, moonlight flashing off the stones in his dirk.

  She would die by the very dirk that had led her here. But suddenly Blackheart stumbled sideways and fell to his knees.

  “You vowed she would not be hurt!” Rory growled. He stood over the earl, his legs spread, his fist curled around his own blade.