The Outcast Highlander

by R. L. Syme

  “There could also be another boar, or something worse than that,” Malcolm warned. Robert nodded enthusiastically. As with most people groups, the Highland Scots had their own traditions, as well as their own mythology. The sparse population of this area of the world lent itself easily to the creation of wild, fanciful tales of beasts that might roam the mountainside. There were even tales of beasts that lived in the lochs themselves. None of it, Kensey thought, had any validity.

  “There is no mythic creature in these hills,” she assured them. Two pairs of wide eyes looked back at her. The worst thing you could do, if you had a superstitious mind, was speak about the creatures aloud. Surely, neither of these boys had ever done it. And they were loathed to see her do it, she could tell. “Nothing with hair so thick you could make a coat out of it that stands upright and is twelve feet tall and eats babies for supper. But there may be a man or a woman, or even a child out there, bleeding and dying, searching for help. And we could easily follow the trail and offer that help,” she finished. Malcolm looked at her with appreciation, Robert with apprehension. She decided she would take her cues from Malcolm this time.

  “We’re going to follow the trail.”

  Malcolm returned to the site of the boar’s demise and rode up the hill in the direction that the bloody trail led while the rest of them made slow progress behind him. When he’d crested the hill and disappeared, they continued for a few minutes, until he came back and stood atop the hill, pointing northwest.

  “It appears to be heading in the same direction we are,” Malcolm yelled as they approached.

  “It leads toward Castle St. Claire?” Kensey called back.

  “How can you tell where it will lead?” Robert yelled.

  “The only habitation to the northwest of this location is Castle St. Claire, and then it’s the sea.” Malcolm returned. He stood atop the hill, and looked to the northwest, straining. “I do not see a body, but the trail is unmistakable.”

  “How is it unmistakable?” said Kensey. She came to stand beside him, looking over the valley that led almost straight in the direction that he pointed. The hills rose on either side of it, as though the valley itself had been carved between them.

  Malcolm pointed down, and Kensey saw a small puddle of blood that had been partially trodden into the earth. “There are prints from a horse, and the blood pools here, as though he paused right where we now stand, and plotted his course. See, then, how the prints of the horse continue down into the valley. Straight to the north and west. If you follow that valley until it ends, then cross the hills and ford the river you’ll find there, you will be just at the edge of Sinclair holdings. And within sight of Castle St. Claire.”

  “So you think that because he went in this direction, his destination was likely ours?” It was quite a leap, she thought. There may not have been much up here, but the man or woman or child who sat this horse, bleeding so heavily, may not have been conscious. In fact, they may not have been familiar with the terrain enough to know that they had any particular destination in mind.

  “It seems that if we keep to our course, we may either come upon the man and assist him, or perhaps recover his body.”

  Kensey shuddered at the thought, imagining the condition the body may be in. Robert joined her and they all surveyed the land before them. “How far is it yet?” she asked.

  “Probably another hour,” Malcolm estimated, looking both behind and in front of them, then up at the moon. “We should arrive just as the sun rises.”

  “I suppose we have no choice, then, but to continue our course,” Kensey said, “and pray that we come upon the body if there is any help to be given.”

  Malcolm took up the lead, bringing them down into the valley. His estimate had been just about spot on, for as Kensey watched the moon sink lower into the sky, she also began to smell the salt of the sea water, and knew that they would soon be at Castle St. Claire.

  They would be approaching from the same direction that her strange rescuer had gone when he left her last at Castle St. Claire. Perhaps he was up here and would come upon the wounded man. Or perhaps he’d picked up the wounded man and took him toward Castle St. Claire, just as he’d taken Kensey herself once upon a time.

  She felt a rush of anticipation at the possibility of seeing him again. It had been nearly two months, but he’d not been far from her thoughts through the course of the time. This time, she would be certain to ask his name.

  When they came up out of the valley, just as Malcolm had promised, they could see the black sea with shimmering reflections of the moon off in the distance. Closer than the sea, jutted the familiar face of Castle St. Claire.

  Kensey saw something in the fading moonlight and squinted at it. Just down the face of the hill to their left, there was something in the shadows, but she couldn’t make it out. She pointed. “I see something.”

  “What is it?” Robert wondered. This made both Malcolm turn to look as well.

  “There’s something crouched in that bush, lad,” Malcolm warned Robert, reaching behind him for his sword. “We’ll be well clear of it…” but he never finished.

  Kensey shot off on her horse, galloping straight down the hill toward what Malcolm thought to be another boar. They had all forgotten, in the long trek, that they were searching for an injured man, but Kensey remembered. But she recognized the weathered cloak that covered the unmoving body.

  When she was close enough, she slowed Brid, and then stopped altogether, running the last fifteen yards with her skirts in her hands. As soon as her feet hit the ground, her heart seized up and she realized she was hoping he would call out, hoping it would be him, hoping he was alive.

  His head jerked up as Robert called her name, but she couldn’t see his face, covered by the dark hood of his cloak. He did not look toward her, and his head slumped back down as quickly as it had gone up.

  “Sinclair!” she cried out, rushing to his side. She knelt quickly and took off her cloak, placing it under his head and onto her lap. Cradling his head in her hands, she looked into his face and whispered his name again. His eyes fluttered and he took in a sharp breath. “Talk to me,” she begged, searching his face for recognition.

  “A real lady shouldn’t run like that,” he moaned, nearly inaudible. She pulled the hood back and untied the cloak from around his neck to give him some room to breathe.

  “Oh, you fool,” she said, trying to soothe him with her voice if not her words. She wiped away the sweat from his forehead and eyelids with the sleeve of her green dress. His face was long, his jaw line and cheekbones very sculpted, almost as if a hammer had chiseled them at the deft command of an artist. His lips were dry, the bottom especially so, and Kensey had the urge to trace their outline with her fingertips, but resisted.

  She pulled the cape ties away and let it flutter to the ground around him, and finally saw what was ailing him. The missing black horn of the dead boar protruded from his side and was covered with blood—some was undoubtedly his, but the flesh of the boar still clung to it. He wore no shirt under his cloak and his bronzed skin was feathered with light brown curls of hair, matted with blood. Kensey reached her hand down to touch the hair on his chest and he flinched.

  “What’s wrong?” She sought out those captivating gold-brown eyes. What was it with Sinclair men and gold eyes? She’d never seen so many in her life.

  “Do not attempt to save me, lass.”

  “But it will be easy to heal,” she assured him. Truthfully, it would much more difficult than she made it sound. But she would not have him resist her care, even if the outcome looked dire.

  “I am beyond repair.”

  “You will survive.” She surveyed the wound and then looking around, trying to decide what the best course of action would be.

  “I cannot be saved.”

  “Stop saying that,” urged Kensey.

  His eyes fluttered again, but he kept his gaze on her face. “You came back for me,
lass.”

  Behind her, Malcolm pulled up his horse, dismounted quickly, and stalked the ground until he stood at her back. Once he came in view of the man whose head lay in Kensey’s lap, she heard his sharp intake of breath, and he loosed an oath. She turned to look up at him, and his face had gone white, his mouth open in shock.

  “Sweet Mother of Holy Jesus,” he swore again, after staring at the strange man for a full minute. Kensey saw more than shock in his dark eyes, but before she could decide what it was, he turned around and yelled for Robert. “We have a man here who needs assistance.”

  “We’ll need to put him on your horse,” she said to Malcolm. It has the widest back and I don’t see his horse.” She looked ahead on the trail to the castle and spied the outline of his giant stallion, loping toward Castle St. Claire.

  “It’ll take all three of us to lift him.”

  “You’re right, of course,” she said. “We must hurry, though. The blood loss will be so great already.”

  “Can we bind it somehow right here?” Malcolm asked, moving around in front of her to get a better look at him. “Perhaps we can lay him out.”

  They spent the better part of half an hour laying the stranger on the ground, careful of the rather large wound in his side, and continually watching for signs that it started bleeding again.

  Kensey unthinkingly reached below her dress and was pulling off her underclothes and ripping them into long shreds, which she used to put pressure on the wound, trying to stay well clear of the horn itself. But Malcolm’s eyes on her made her suddenly aware of what she was doing and she made sure her skirts still covered her body. There wasn’t much blood coming away, which was either a sign that the wound had begun to heal itself, or that there was no more blood to lose, and he would soon be dead.

  “Is that one of the Sinclair Runaways?” Robert asked as they finally bound what they could of his wound. Kensey looked up at him and nodded, and Robert’s eyes opened so wide she could see the whites all the way around their deep green centers.

  They gathered around him and Kensey nodded. “I don’t know much about him, but he belongs to the Sinclair family.” Malcolm forced out a long breath and Kensey stared up at him.

  “He doesn’t?” she asked.

  He shook his head and the two braids that ran down the sides of his face kept moving when he stopped. “Oh, he does. We just haven’t seen him in years.”

  Kensey knelt at his hips and directed Robert to his feet. “Can you take his shoulders, Malcolm?”

  He nodded, but couldn’t stop staring at the stranger’s face. “We thought he was dead,” Malcolm added.

  “Quickly, now,” she said to Robert as they lifted the stranger atop Malcolm’s horse with grunting slowness. “This man is in grave danger, and every minute will make a difference in whether he lives or dies.”

  ***

  Broc could feel little more than the throb of the open wound in his side. His head was so light, he couldn’t even be sure that what he was seeing was the truth of the matter. For if he’d been able to conjure any image at will, he would have wanted only to see Kensey’s face so close to his, one more time before he slipped into the Otherworld.

  The Fae had been good to him to grant him this last dream.

  He lay sprawled on the back of a horse, yet just near the end of his nose was the beautiful face he’d loved all these years. She walked alongside, touching him at intervals and smoothing his hair out of his face.

  If there hadn’t been so much pain, he might have imagined himself to be in heaven. Not that he would be going to heaven, but it would have been a nice dream, all the same.

  He tried to speak, but all he could manage was to keep repeating that she’d come for him. He’d prayed she would come, for what felt like days, he’d prayed. And she had come.

  Perhaps to usher him into hell, perhaps to take him away like the magic creature she must be. But as long as he got to spend these moments with her before the pain took him completely, he could die a happy man.

  The light of the sunrise was his first clue that he wasn’t dreaming or under an enchantment. Why would the sun be rising in his last vision? Surely, he would rather it be dark, if only so that Kensey might think him the nobleman he desired to be, and not the castoff he was.

  Broc saw many faces in his vision. His brother Malcolm, his sister Brigid, his brother by law, Alec. Then Kensey. His sister Alana and brother Duncan. Then Kensey. All he wanted was to keep seeing Kensey. These other faces clouded his last moments with memories of his father and his past that he’d prefer to forget.

  He saw many strange faces, as well. Some closer than others. All staring at him. Then, there was the rising sun again, and the familiar stone walls of a castle. It was fitting that hell would look like Castle St. Claire. It had been like hell to him for so long.

  How many times had he tried to tell his father that he hadn’t knowingly killed his mother? He had been too much for her to bear, his nurse had told him as a young child. But getting his father to believe it had been nature, or even God, who had ripped his mother open to bleed on her birthing bed, and not Broccin himself, was a challenge no one could undertake.

  From the day he could remember, Magnus Sinclair had treated Broc like one lower than a reaver. He was surprised he’d ever made it to adulthood. Not surprised his father’s madness had eventually driven him away. Only sad.

  And even though he’d met Kensey in Castle St. Claire and loved every one of his siblings beyond words, Broc felt that only Castle St. Claire would do for his own private hell. His only consolation was that if it were indeed hell, then Satan himself would set it on fire.

  Then Kensey would fade into his utter desolation.

  Yet as they went deeper into the castle courtyard, the flames did not begin, and the sun continued to rise. Broc’s confusion mounted and a panic began to fill his chest. As the words the people around him spoke began to take on meaning, everything began to come together.

  For one clear moment, he realized what had happened. The boar. It gored him and he rode for hours before Gaidel dumped him on the hillside and waited for him to rise. But Kensey had found him.

  And she brought him home.

  Mother of God. No.

  Chapter Nine

  Duncan and Alec pulled the injured man from the horse before Kensey could give them instructions, as soon as he started to struggle. The hushed whispers that had followed them through the castle gates stopped as soon as he was on the ground.

  They all stared at him like he was the Son crucified and resurrected before their eyes. Or a two-headed pig. Somewhere between the last thing they expected to see and something they couldn’t believe existed.

  Kensey knelt next to him on the ground and looked at his wound again. It didn’t appear to be bleeding again, but that could very well be because he didn’t have blood left to give, which would mean sure death.

  “He needs to be somewhere he can be for an indefinite time.” She put her hand on his forehead and looked up at Duncan. “I’m sorry to bring him to you, but we found him on the road and he needs immediate care.”

  Duncan nodded, his mouth a red “o” in the midst of his bearded face. His eyes were nearly as round. “Take him to the solar.”

  Alec started to protest and Duncan silence him with a simple gesture. With the same hand, he pointed up toward the bowels of the castle. “The one place he’s likely not to be disturbed. Take him to the solar,” Duncan repeated.

  Alec bent down near his shoulders and cleared his throat. Duncan stopped staring and took the stranger by his feet. Kensey followed close behind, reminding them always to be careful. But otherwise, no one spoke.

  When they reached the entrance to the great hall, they took a steep set of stairs up into the tower. Kensey followed them, watching the man’s face for signs of pain and calling out instructions if it appeared that the men were not taking appropriate care of his wound or his condition. They contin
ued down the unlit hallway until they reached the very last door.

  “Set him down gently,” Kensey ordered as they neared the huge bed. “Please be careful not to touch the wound.” As they laid him down, she removed his cloak, setting it aside, and noted that the fabric of his plaided tunic had been torn in several places. The swath that used to cover his left shoulder hung in shreds, as though it had been severed. She could see another, smaller wound on his shoulder, and hoped that the men had similarly noticed it. Kensey moved to the side of the bed and looked more carefully at the wound in his side.

  “Malcolm, could you fetch Robert and ask him to bring my healing satchel?” Malcolm nodded and left the room with haste. With the unease that only men could have in the sick room, the others followed his speed and his exit, until only Duncan remained.

  “Can you cure him?” Duncan asked, leaning over her shoulder and at the bloody mess of the man’s torn side.

  “I think I may be able to.” She took Duncan by the shoulders. “Could you get me some clean rags and two pans of hot water, please? Oh, and bring some whiskey.”

  “Aye, lass,” Duncan said, placing a firm hand on her shoulder. “I will return shortly.”

  Now that she was alone with him, Kensey set about removing his tunic. Somehow, it seemed easier to do when there were no prying eyes about. She started by unhooking the binding of the shoulder swath out from underneath him by carefully lifting his left side. Once that was done, she pulled the remaining fabric down several inches, well clear of the wound. So much of his naked skin was visible, and she could not help herself taking in every inch of him.

  Having a younger brother and assisting Ete as a young lady, she had seen men and women in their nakedness many times. But there was something different about the way she studied this man’s near to naked body. It was not only to search out injury or sign of illness. She drank in his skin, his hair, his every feature, as though she meant to ingest it. Even in his woundedness, she couldn’t help but marvel at him. She reached up a hand to run her fingers along the scar on his arm, and traced it from one tapered edge near his wrist to the other more knotted edge near his elbow. His eyes fluttered for a moment, but he did not wake.