Highland Rogue

by Dana D'Angelo

  “I dinnae think anywhere is safe now that the war is approaching,” he declared, confirming her suspicion of what topic it was that held his interest. “And I’m weary of hiding in town and nae doing my part.”

  “Mother made me promise tae look out for ye,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him. “Ye are sixteen years old, and are nae yet a man. Besides, ye have tae consider your ill health.”

  “I fell ill two years ago,” he said, making a face. “I’m fully recovered now as ye can see.”

  “Recovered, aye, but your full strength has yet tae return,” she pointed out. “Your place is tae stay here with me and Father Cormac,” she paused. “I think our parents would have wanted that.”

  “I think our parents would have wanted more for me,” he said stubbornly. “Think on it. If I become a mercenary, I could send ye and Father Cormac money. Ye can live comfortably too. Finlay tells me that a professional soldier can make a lot of money...”

  Alisha cut him off. “I dinnae want tae hear about what Finlay tells ye.” She put on her most authoritative tone in an attempt to mimic their mother. “I also dinnae want tae hear any talk about going tae war either.”

  Father Cormac came over to join them. “I think I’m ready tae go now.”

  He glanced at the basket and frowned slightly when he noticed the missing piece of bread.

  Alisha suddenly felt guilty. She was so caught up in arguing with Seamus that she forgot to mention the reduced food portions.

  “I’m sorry, Father,” she winced and looked down at the container. “I gave some of your bread and cheese away tae Widow Aggie...”

  “Dinnae think more of it,” he said gently, and took the basket from her hand. “The Lord will provide. I’m sure that I’ll have more than enough sustenance for the two days I’ll be in Bracken Ridge.”

  “I thought ye were going up for only one day,” she said, confused.

  “Nae any more it seems,” he said glancing at the desk that he had just vacated and sighed. “I have many more translations tae do but Alexander Rosstone requests that I go tae the encampment tae give a sermon. His men are itching tae assault one another. Apparently all these months of inactivity have made them restless. And then there are those men who come here and create havoc in town. Something must be done.”

  “Can I go with ye?” Seamus asked.

  Alisha looked sharply at her brother. “Why do ye want tae go tae Bracken Ridge?”

  “Tae watch Father Cormac give his sermon, of course,” he said, blinking innocently at her as if this was a natural request.

  “I dinnae think that’s a guid idea,” she said, frowning.

  “Of course ‘tis a guid idea,” he said, contradicting her. “I can possibly learn a few things from Father Cormac when he preaches tae the warriors. Isnae that right, Father?”

  She expected the cleric to refuse him outright, but instead, he said, “I see nay problem in ye accompanying me.” Father Cormac gave her brother a thoughtful look. “Aye, ye might be able tae pick something up from the sermon. ‘Twas by observing a beloved priest that I was influenced tae take up the cloth.”

  “Then ‘tis settled,” Seamus said, and sent his sister a triumphant smile. “I’ll put this in the cart.” He took the basket from the preacher and started for the door.

  “I would like tae go too,” she blurted out as she followed them. Alisha had never felt any desire to visit Bracken Ridge, however if Seamus was going, then someone needed to go keep an eye on him. She suspected that he would do something she wouldn’t approve.

  “Ye do?” Father Cormac asked, looking a little overwhelmed by their sudden interest in the work of God.

  “And why do ye want tae go?” Seamus said, his dislike of the idea showing plainly on his face.

  “Perhaps I could learn something as well if I go,” she said lying.

  “All right,” Father Cormac said, appearing pleased. “Let’s get into the cart and head out.”

  Alisha and Father Cormac climbed into the cart, and made themselves as comfortable as possible.

  Seamus took control of the reins, and they made the trip through the rugged terrain. Her brother had a talent for controlling the packhorse, and soon the rocking motion of the vehicle caused Father Cormac to lean his head on the wooden railing and doze off.

  “What are ye up tae?” she asked as she climbed to sit next to Seamus on the driver’s seat.

  He pulled at the reins, slowing the cart down as they rounded a curve.

  “I dinnae understand what ye mean.”

  Alisha glared at him. “Seamus MacTellnor, I’ve helped raise ye since ye were a wee bairn; ye cannae hide anything from me.”

  “I’m just curious of what ‘tis like at the encampment,” he said. “I’ll tell ye right now, I dinnae want tae farm for the rest of my life. But think of the possibilities if I become a professional fighter. I could travel the world and have grand adventures...”

  “Ye can have grand adventures in Newtonburgh.”

  “Surely ye jest.” He cast his eyes scornfully toward the town. “There has never been anything for me in that town.”

  “A mercenary’s life is hard.”

  “How would ye ken?” he shot her a challenging look. “The only thing ye understand is town life.”

  She frowned at the truth he spoke. She racked her brain to come up with a good rebuttal. The only things she could draw to her mind were things that she had heard.

  “Those men dinnae care about anything other than money,” she said.

  “And what’s wrong with acquiring funds for doing a job that ye are hired tae do? If I become a mercenary, I’d be able tae make enough money tae support ye sae ye willnae feel beholden tae Father Cormac.”

  “’Tis different,” she said, frustration entering into her voice. She drew more upon her limited knowledge of the soldiers of fortune. “They are nae honorable. And wherever they travel, they bring destruction and looting.” She let out a shudder. “They dinnae care about anything and have nay qualms about ravishing the land or the women in it.”

  He made an impatient sound. “Ye cannae say that all mercenaries ravish land and women,” he said.

  He had a point, but she decided to remain silent.

  Two hours later, they made their way into the main camp. Several men had stopped what they were doing and watched their arrival.

  “Make sure that ye dinnae wander off. And most of all, dinnae speak tae any of the warriors,” she cautioned Seamus. “They’re dangerous men.”

  Alisha glanced over at him to determine he understood the seriousness of her warning, but he appeared to be only half listening to her.

  “This place is enormous.” Seamus looked around the campsite with wonderment.

  He shifted his observance to the training field. Claymores and lochaber axes slammed and smashed into each other as if the men fought in a real battle. All at once, she wanted to cover his eyes and shield him from the view. But she refrained, knowing that the behavior would irritate her sibling.

  When they stopped, Seamus dismounted from the cart, and secured the horse and contraption to a nearby tree. Father Cormac came off the vehicle, and walked over to a small cluster of men who were honing their weapons. Interest piqued their faces when he announced his purpose at the camp. The men followed him to the center of the main camp.

  She turned to say something to Seamus, except she discovered that he had already run off.

  “Come back here, Seamus,” she called. But she might as well have spoken to herself, for he quickly disappeared into the throng of men.

  “’Twas a terrible decision tae visit here,” she muttered to herself. She stared at the packhorse, but it paid her no mind.

  From where she stood, she could hear Father Cormac’s voice rising as he began to preach. He had found a medium-sized rock and stood on it so that he could raise himself above the growing audience.

  Father Cormac was a gentle man, but when he was caught up in his sermons, his passion
ate speeches swayed grown men to tears and euphoria. Soon more men from the satellite camps gravitated toward the clergyman’s powerful speech. They seemed captivated and hungry to hear the words of God. Perhaps Alexander Rosstone was right, and his men needed spiritual guidance.

  But as much as she was glad that Father Cormac was able to do his godly work, her main concern involved Seamus. She went on her tippy toes to see whether she could spot him in the crowd, but he was lost in a sea of tartans and brawn. Finally when she located him, he was standing next to Donnell MacKelon. With dread that weighed on her heart like a stone, she realized that this was the most animated that she had ever seen her brother.

  Marching over to Seamus, she tapped him on his shoulder. Donnell also turned to study her, but she pretended not to notice him.

  “I told ye tae stay with me,” she said through clenched teeth. She gripped Seamus’ sleeve, intending to drag him back to the cart.

  “Ye would allow a lassie tae tell ye what tae do?” the warrior beside Donnell said, smirking.

  Seamus turned a beet red and yanked out of her grip. He gave her a narrowed look. “Nay lass can tell me what tae do. I’m my own man.”

  Then before Alisha could offer a retort, Seamus broke away and went further into the crowd of men.

  She let out a frustrated breath, and tried to push away the sense of dread settling in the pit of her stomach. Any influence she had on her younger brother was slipping fast.

  Chapter 4

  The various clan leaders had taken their seats when Donnell arrived at the war council with Blane Cunningtoun. Alexander Rosstone, the high commander, had yet to appear, and the men spoke among themselves by the firepit.

  As they moved to find a spot to sit, Donnell could sense the varying degrees of interest, curiosity and hostility directed at them. He could almost hear their thoughts: mercenaries didn’t belong at the meeting. This attitude wasn’t new to him. They had to attend the war councils for every campaign that involved their Company. It was on the orders of their employers. But this didn’t stop their distrust of them. Still, this attitude didn’t bother Donnell. He understood their views and for the most part, they were right. Men like him were employed by powerful rulers that included kings, queens, popes, and bishops. If they had the funds and were willing to hire them, then the Black Targe Company would wage battles on their behalf.

  Knowing how mercenary companies operated, Donnell, like other fighters, found it was more beneficial to be apolitical. The only real loyalty he and his peers had was for money and for themselves. Of course this meant that they could be bribed. In the last company that Donnell joined, they changed sides if they were offered more money from the opposing forces. To him, as long as he got his combat experience and was paid for his efforts, it didn’t matter who they fought against. In this particular war, he was set to fight against the English. He didn’t really have anything against the English since he acknowledged that many of the people were just puppets in the game played by the elites. Nay, he only had a problem with one man, and when he finally met him, his nemesis would pay for what he had done to his parents.

  As thoughts of his enemy entered his mind, the darkness that followed him since this morning started to overwhelm him. He had told one person of the turmoil that Eadwig Gorbidshire had caused.

  “Forget about the past,” his friend Cinead had advised him. “Ye cannae change it nor can thinking about it bring back your family.”

  Cinead had wise words to tell him, but he had died in battle. Not only did Donnell lose a friend, but he still couldn’t forget the past. The knowledge that Eadwig was alive ate away at him like poison.

  Donnell scanned the assembly when his regard suddenly settled on a lass, jarring him from his thoughts. The woman was familiar somehow, and when she turned to speak to the person beside her, he discovered that it was Alisha MacTellnor — the same lass he had met in Newtonburgh. There was no mistaking it. He could recognize her from anywhere, even when she tried to hide herself under her plaid. There was something about her that was attractive, alluring, and undeniably feminine. With the coarse men about her, she appeared like a blooming rose among a thorny bush.

  His eyes shifted to her companions and he noticed the old priest and a youth that sat on either side of her. Even from the meeting at the church, he sensed there was a little distance between her and the priest. His only conclusion was that Father Cormac wasn’t her sire. The younger lad, however, bore a striking resemblance to her. But they were town citizens, and it didn’t make sense that they attended the war council. This meeting was for the various clan leaders that converged at Bracken Ridge. So what were they doing here?

  As if somehow she heard his question, she turned her head in his direction. Her brows drew together when she saw him. Until she showed up at the encampment, he hadn’t thought about her, yet seeing her again brought back his curiosity and intrigue. Twilight had just fallen and the soft lighting made her appear almost ethereal. Suddenly, he wished that it were a different time and place that he met her. This war assembly wasn’t a place to interact with a bonny lass.

  “There’s the bastard who took my horse!” someone yelled.

  The shout abruptly jerked him out of his reverie. Donnell swore under his breath as he remembered the voice. It was the man who owned the steed — Niall MacRell. When they headed back to the encampment, Erik filled him in on what he knew about the son of Alasdar MacRell. Their clan was a powerful and influential one, and it was his terrible luck to have borrowed one of their steeds. He had cursed himself for his misjudgment.

  Blane looked sharply at him. “Is this true?” he asked, his voice low.

  “I returned the horse I took.” But Donnell had no time to provide further explanation. The two men approached them.

  Blane let out an irritated hiss. Turning to the men, he crossed his arms in front of his chest. “We’re here for the meeting just like ye and dinnae want trouble.”

  Donnell turned to confront his nemesis. The man’s right eye was a deep shade of red and would likely turn purple by the next morning. He stood next to a man that could only be Alasdar MacRell, the clan chief. Three other men rose from their seats and stood behind the men, their grim faces already showing whose side they supported.

  “Your man started the trouble when he stole my mount,” Niall said coldly. He raised his voice so that everyone in the vicinity heard him. “I expect him tae be punished, Cunningtoun.”

  The younger man’s tone visibly rankled Blane, and he straightened his spine. He leveled his gaze on the other man. “Ye dinnae tell me how I deal with my men, Niall.”

  Niall’s lips curled into a sneer. “Fine, I’ll punish him for ye.”

  “Niall,” his sire said in warning.

  But the warning came too late. With surprising speed, the younger man pulled back his fist and slammed it into Donnell’s torso.

  The unexpected blow caused Donnell to bend over, the air whooshing out from his lungs. He straightened and faced Niall. “That was a despicable move,” he gasped.

  Niall smirked as if he enjoyed fighting unfairly. Meanwhile, Donnell rubbed at the area that was punched, taking half a second to regain his equilibrium. It was the other man’s unfortunate luck that he wasn’t opposed to fighting unfairly either. He started to turn as if he were about to walk away from the struggle. But then in the last moment, he spun around and let out a roar as he launched himself at the other man. He wrapped an arm around his neck, placing him into a headlock. Next, he bunched his fist and began to throw several solid wallops to Niall’s head.

  Donnell vaguely heard the sound of running feet as the other men from allied clans came to circle them. The dogs barked while shouts of encouragements and insults from the men surrounded him. But he was used to tuning out external distractions.

  The cleric rushed forward, pushing some men aside. “Stop this!” he shouted, his arms waving frantically above his head. “Stop this fighting!”

  But the words fell on
deaf ears. This fight between Donnell and Niall continued, and no one wanted to interfere.

  They continued to spar for several long minutes, exchanging one hard pounding after another. Niall was filled with a terrible temper and hatred; Donnell suspected that the outrage had little to do with the borrowing of his horse.

  The hits were coming hard and furious at his head and torso. Donnell knew better than to resist the charge, but each connection jarred his entire body, and his concentration was starting to crumble. At the moment all he could do was to lift his arms to ward off the incessant blows. He took a step back, and lost his balance when the rock beneath his foot shifted. Niall barreled into his midsection, causing him to fall to the frozen ground. In his vulnerable position, his opponent immediately straddled Donnell’s chest and began to rain his fists down on his head.

  Donnell brought up his forearms, holding them defensively over his head. Clearly, he was losing this fight. He knew that he was a damn good fighter, and he hated that this man had shown him up. He raised his knees and letting out a grunt, he lifted his hips to buck him off. But that was the wrong move to make since it gave his adversary a greater angle to attack.

  The other man’s knuckles skimmed across his forearm and landed at the side of his cheek. Donnell’s breathing came out harshly as he let out a loud curse. But that oath wasn’t directed at his opponent. It was directed at himself. He had made the serious offense of letting his emotions get the better of him. He had been through his share of fights, and in the heat of the moment he had almost forgotten a cardinal rule: patience won fights. Drawing on his many years of combat experience, Donnell perceived that his opponent would soon show signs of weakness. And once he spotted the weakness, he could turn the strikes against him.

  Forcing himself to relax, Donnell took the brutal hits. At the moment, Niall was consumed with rage, and Donnell knew that a few minutes more the other man’s energy would be depleted. And if he continued to allow his anger to fuel him, he was well on his way to losing this fight. Although he allowed Niall to throw his punches, he let the impact pass through him like a gust of wind. Every once in a while he threw in a few wallops to take the other man off guard.