He felt the tight pull of his arm and back muscles as he strained under the hot glare of the sun. His face and neck grew hot. He glanced at his hands. They were turning red. Alexander shaded his eyes with his hands and glanced at the sky. The sun was much lower than when he'd begun. Bending down, he splashed water on his face and neck then set the oars in place and began again. Dip, pull. Dip, pull. Dip, pull.
The commands ticked off in his head as he went through the motions without stopping. Sweat soaked his shirt. His knotted, overworked muscles cried for relief. It didn't matter. He must keep trying. Dip, pull. Dip, pull.
The sun was lower still. Its rays didn't burn as harshly as before. Or had his flesh simply stopped feeling? His body ached with weariness. He dared a glance at the Eilidh. Nothing had changed. God in heaven, her sails lay like lifeless shrouds against the masts. No matter how desperately he'd labored, his efforts had been to no avail.
His soul cried out. He was defeated, humbled by the power of nature. Alexander sat in the small boat, with the oars now motionless in his hands and looked out over the endless stretch of sea. He thought of the pleasant evening when Katherine had sung for his family. He remembered too, assuring Gillian she wouldn't spend her life pining for a lost love as in the words of the song. Now, he saw the irony of his fate. 'Twas him. He was the one left to pine for his lost love. A single tear ran down his sunburned face.
He hadn't prayed since he was a young lad. He remembered going to mass in the chapel with his family many years ago and watching his mother at her earnest devotions. Perhaps it was time he admitted he couldn't control everything. He needed help. He needed Katherine.
Bowing his head, he prayed. "Almighty God, I beseech you to hear my plea. Grant that I may find Katherine and bring her home safely to Scotland. On my soul, I vow I'll love and care for her for all the days you give me life." Crossing himself, he bent over the oars again.
At first, he didn't realize the change had taken place. Then, suddenly, he noticed a cool, tingling sensation on his face where his tear had traced a salty path down his sunburned cheek.
He rubbed a blistered palm across the cool wet patch of his skin. Air wafted across his damp cheek like a spoken breath. He blinked and looked up. Above him, the sky had clouded over and it felt as if the winds were beginning to pick up. He sat perfectly still and tried to discern if what he had prayed for had truly happened.
A loud clamor on the deck of the Eilidh drew his attention. The sailors and his men were shouting and pounding on the sides of the ship. Surely, it was his imagination, but the ship seemed closer than it had been only a moment ago.
As he stared at the large vessel, he saw it was, indeed, inching towards him, its towrope going slack. Looking up, he saw the ship's sails start to billow and fill with the wind he had prayed for, the wind to carry him to Katherine. Grinning like a drunken reveler, he stood up in the boat, overjoyed in being given another chance. He yelled and swung his arms about.
The next thing he knew, he was rising to the ocean surface and spewing out a great mouthful of water. Even the shock of the water couldn't wipe the sheepish grin from his face. He felt like he had once when he was a wee lad and fell in the loch, knowing he would have to walk home wet. But his mother had been there waiting for him, to forgive him and surround him with her love.
It seemed fate was going to help after all. With luck, they would make France in the next two days, and he would once again hold Katherine in his arms! Before clambering back, dripping, into the skiff, Alexander silently thanked God and swore to keep his vow.
In minutes, he was aboard the Eilidh and once more sailing swiftly across the water.
**
Alexander watched the shore come into view in the morning light. It had taken two days for them to reach Wimereux as the captain had predicted. Time to set things in motion. Scanning the busy deck, he spotted his head-man-at-arms. "Malcolm, come with me to the captain's cabin. We need to go over the plan. I want naught to go amiss."
Nodding, the older man followed him below deck.
The captain's quarters were small but neat. Charts and maps were rolled and stored in a trunk at the foot of his berth. A shiny brass lantern hung over a worn table and two chairs in the middle of the room. Additional light poured into the cabin through the large window cut into the stern of the ship above the bed.
Alexander and Malcolm sat at the table as the captain rolled out a large map. The seaman studied it for a moment then pointed to a spot with his callused finger. "Laird MacGregor, we'll land there. See the road goin' off to the northeast? I trow 'twill take ye in the direction ye need. Wimereux is not a large town, but I've heard tell of a rich manor house just beyond the fork in the road. Ye will surely find it if ye continue along this way." He traced a thin line leading away from Wimereux on the map before lifting his hand.
Alexander looked at the map then back at him. "Aye, Captain Hume. Since we'll be arriving at midday, only Malcolm and I will leave the ship to search for Ja Bier's estate. I don't wish to call attention to our presence. Did you find some old clothes that will fit us as I asked?"
At the captain's nod, he continued. "The clothing will conceal our identities while we search. At nightfall, the rest of my men will leave the ship under cover of darkness. We'll wait for them near the estate."
The captain rolled up the map and placed it in the trunk. "Aye, m'lord. My crew will take on whatever goods are needed and be prepared to sail immediately on sight of yer group returnin'."
**
Over two hours had passed since they disembarked, slowly leading their horses away from the dock. Malcolm shifted in the saddle and looked back over the dusty road behind him. "I dinna see aught. Yer plan seems to have worked well." He sniffed the sleeve of his borrowed shirt and frowned. "Och, I'll be glad when we change back into our plaids. I could scarce hide my claymore beneath this rag they call a cloak and the fishy reek near makes me retch." He shook his head. "The saints save me from bein' a seafarin' man. Give me the hills and glens of home."
Alexander grinned. "And here I thought I might have a hard time convincing you to return with me to Ironwood."
Malcolm snorted. "Not bloody likely." He pointed ahead of them. "Look. 'Tis the fork in the road that the captain mentioned. I trow we'll see the estate beyond that next bend."
The teasing tone left Alexander's voice. "Aye. When we reach it, we'll learn if 'tis Ja Bier's, then look for the manor house. We'll search the area then ride back up the main road to await the rest of our men. While we wait, we'll change into our plaids."
The manor house lay at the end of a long tree-lined drive; a drive flanked by an ornate iron gate with a coat of arms and the name Ja Bier worked into the metal. The dwelling was large, but not built for defense. If this had been Scotland, he and his men could have easily taken it. Aye, but this wasn't home and Katherine's life depended on him making no mistakes.
Alexander and Malcolm left their horses in a small copse of trees near the manor house. They scouted the surrounding land and the layout of the dwelling, then stood in the shadow of the trees and watched the people come and go from the manor. Alexander fought the urge to draw his sword and attack without the aid of the rest of his men. Though he and Malcolm were superior warriors, he doubted they could capture the place alone. But the waiting was nothing less than torture.
Suddenly, he gripped his friend's arm and pointed. "By God, Malcolm, 'tis the bloody tinker!" Though the man wore no plaid, Alexander still recognized him. Had he not watched him long enough while he waited hoping to see Katherine from his window that morn? Alexander gripped the hilt of his broadsword until it bit into the palm of his hand. Remaining in the shadows instead of running over and putting his dirk to the bastard's throat while he forced him to lead him to Katherine was the hardest thing he'd ever done.
Malcolm and Alexander watched from the trees until dusk in hopes of learning anything of Katherine but learned nothing but the tinker's whereabouts. As the sunlight began
to fade, they rode back the way they'd come to await his men. Finding a spot near the road with good cover, they stopped to change their clothes and wait. As Malcolm dismounted, he stretched then grinned at the sound of tearing cloth of his borrowed shirt. "There now, do ye see? A fightin' mon would ne'er be able to move in such garb. 'Tis glad I am we can put on our plaids now."
Within minutes, they sat clothed in MacGregor tartan underneath the branches of the trees to await the arrival of their men. Alexander silently sharpened his dirk for several minutes before he spoke. "Malcolm, old friend, you have fought alongside me and served me faithfully for many years. If aught should go wrong tonight and I am not able to escape with Katherine and you, do not delay. Ride for the ship with all speed. Give this to her when you reach safety."
Reaching into his sporran, he withdrew a small rolled up parchment, sealed with a circle of sealing wax and stamped with the MacGregor crest. "I haven't proved myself worthy of Katherine's love. If fate should choose to separate us, I want her to know how I feel. That I love her and only her."
Malcolm took the message and dropped it into a small leather pouch that hung from a drawstring around his neck. He nodded as he pushed the pouch to the inside of his shirt. "Aye, Alexander. If the need arises, I'll do as ye ask. But ne'er have I seen a Frenchman who was able to out fight or outwit a braw Scot." He tapped his chest. "I'll hold it fer safe keepin', but perhaps I willna return it to ye at all. I'm thinkin' a lass such as Lady MacGregor, would want to hear it from yer own lips."
Alexander smiled and clapped him on the back. "'Tis a difficult task it may be to convince her, but I will gladly spend the rest of my days in the attempt." Sighing, he sat back in the shadows and waited for his clansmen.
As the moon rose high in the sky, sounds of mounted riders approached. Alexander nodded silently, then he and Malcolm rode out toward the noise, staying under cover of the trees along the roadside. When the men's red and green tartans came into view, he sighed in relief and nudged Tursachan out into full view. He called out to the man nearest him. "Did you have any trouble leaving the town?"
The rider shook his head. "Nay. These French devils take to their homes and drink early. When we left, the streets were as empty as a cattle pen after the reivers ha' been through. 'Twas nay hard fer us to slip away."
"Good. Then let us ride. We'll pay our debts to the bastards who killed Fiona and stole Lady MacGregor, and with God's good grace, be on our way back to Scotland before the sun rises!" He led his men to a knoll not far from the manor house. There, Malcolm, two of his men and he dismounted and silently crept forward to the outer walls surrounding the dwelling.
The remaining men held the horses, while the silent foursome scaled the walls. As they lowered themselves to the ground on the other side, one man mimicked the cry of an owl; the signal they were inside, and for the rest of the men to take the horses and station themselves just beyond the gates.
Alexander motioned to his man-at-arms and the two clansmen. "Lads," he whispered, "Malcolm and I will go in alone. You two open the front gates and wait with the rest of the men. If the household sleeps, we may be able to do what we came for and leave without causing alarm. If you hear a cry, storm the manor, find Lady MacGregor and get her away to safety. Malcolm, you go in by a window on the front side. I will go in from the back."
Nodding, they split off from each other.
Alexander watched as the three men spread out and were swallowed by the darkness. Circling to the rear of the manor, he reached a lightless window and climbed inside; knowing Malcolm would do the same.
As he crept through the dim room, he drew his sword from its sheath. Eyeing a door, he hesitated. Hoping the servants kept them as well oiled here as his people did at home, he slowly pulled it open. The iron hinges creaked faintly. Holding his breath, he waited. Would anyone come to investigate the slight noise?
Long moments dragged by. Nothing moved. No one called out an alarm. Apparently the French didn't prepare for attack in the night as all wise Scots did. Perhaps Malcolm was right and defeating this bloody Frenchman would be an easy task. But he would not risk Katherine's safety by being careless.
Cautiously, he peered across the threshold. The corridor was empty, lit only with a single torch at the far end. It appeared the area held nothing of importance, for it was totally unguarded. Nonetheless, he proceeded with stealth, looking in each alcove and room.
Grateful for the continued silence in opening the door at the end of the passageway, he raised his broadsword and quickly stepped through the doorway. It was naught but a stairwell leading to the next floor. Darting a glance about the small empty area, and seeing nothing suspicious, he climbed the stone steps, holding his sword ready.
The next door opened onto a brightly lit hallway on the second floor. Damn. They would light this one up like the fires of Beltane. One, two, three, four. Four bloody rooms to check with the place lit like a summer's day. Slipping into the nearest chamber with a quick silent stride, he turned and pushed the door almost closed, leaving only a thin ray of light to guide his way.
Nothing there but dimly lit pieces of furniture and shadowy corners. Returning to the door, he listened then cautiously stole into the corridor once more. Moving methodically from room to empty room, he continued his search for Katherine. 'Twould seem this floor wasn't used in the evening. Only one room left. And it was as silent as the rest.
He actually had his hand on the doorknob before he noticed the slight difference. Food. He could smell the aroma of food lingering there. He froze as his mind berated him for his lack of caution. Cocky fool. Were you just going to saunter in sure the room was as empty as the last? And did you think they would invite you to dine with them?
Drawing a silent breath, he listened for any sounds coming from the other side of the door. The faint crackle and hiss of a fire penetrated the wood, but nothing else. He waited for another moment, listening, and then slid into the room as silently as a windless night on the moor.
It was empty, but didn't look as if it had been vacated for long. A fire burned in the fireplace. Two wine glasses sat on a small dining table. One was still partially filled. He glanced across the room lit only by the firelight. Another door stood at the far end of the chamber. A thin line of light spilled out from beneath it. Although he couldn't hear any sounds emanating from it, his warrior's intuition told him this might well be the one he sought.
Cautiously, he started toward the door. As he silently swung it inward, a scuffling sound erupted into a noisy commotion. Raising his sword in front of him, he charged through the opened doorway.
Bright light blinded him for a moment as he stepped into another well-lit corridor. Then the blurry movement a short distance ahead of him, crystallized into two men wrestling on the floor. A dirk lay just outside of their reach. He immediately recognized Malcolm as one of the men, and hurried to his aid.
Apparently hearing Alexander's movement behind him, Malcolm looked away from his opponent for a fraction of a second.
The assailant lurched out and grasped the knife.
As Alexander ran forward, he watched the struggle play out in front of him. The grisly scene seemed to pass by in slow motion, enabling him to see each detail, as if time had slowed down. His feet couldn't carry him fast enough to his friend's side. He saw the gleam of the knife as it flashed, arcing through the air, and sank into Malcolm's chest.
"No!" Alexander's voice seemed to echo from a distance, as he watched his friend sink to the floor.
The assailant turned at the sound of his voice, scrambled to his feet and started toward him, the bloodied knife held high. It was the tinker!
An overwhelming fury consumed Alexander. First Fiona, now Malcolm. Dear God, what of Katherine? "Damn you to Hell!" he bellowed and ran to meet the attack. Slashing out with his sword, he sliced the tinker across the throat. A bright shower of blood ran down the man's neck and chest and splashed onto Alexander, spattering his shirtfront. The tinker crumpled lifelessly
to the floor with the knife still clenched in his hand.
Alexander tightened his grip on his blood-coated sword and ran to where Malcolm lay. Reaching him, he heard the man's labored breathing and knelt by his side. "Forgive me, old friend! I didn't move fast enough."
"No, laddie, dinna blame yerself. Ye were too far away to stop the bastard." A cough rattled in his chest and he took a wheezing breath. "I… I came upon him spyin' through that door, yonder. He drew his knife, but I had nay time to draw my own. I… was too busy tryin' to relieve him of his."
Malcolm's voice broke into a ragged spasm of coughing. Bubbles of blood oozed at the corner of his mouth. He smiled weakly. "I vowed I'd keep yer message so ye'd have to tell Lady MacGregor of yer feelins', Alex, but I didna mean to do it quite so well."
His fingers, slowed by the loss of his life's blood, fumbled inside the neck of his shirt. He withdrew the leather pouch that hung around his throat. It was covered with blood. A jagged tear was sliced through one corner.
Malcolm dropped his hand to his side, his voice faint. "Go fetch yer lady. The way that bastard was guardin' the door and spyin' through it, I trow she may be within." His voice became a mere whisper. "Dinna fash o'er me, laddie. 'Tis my time…have a fine wake fer me, when ye are home in Scotla—" Silently, his head slumped to the floor.
Alexander's eyes burned and he swallowed against the tightness in his throat. Pain flooded his chest as he gripped Malcolm's shoulder one last time. "God be with you, old friend. I will never forget you." Then he bent over the silent figure and pulled the old Highlander's broadsword from its sheath. "Do not fear. I will not leave your sword to the enemy."
Lifting his plaid from his shoulder, Alexander slid Malcolm's sword into the leather sheath across his back. Then he dropped the tartan back in place. With God's grace, he would pass it on to his own son one day.
Gripping his claymore, he ran to the nearby door. The latch was still ajar and all was silent within. He kicked the door open.
Highlander's Bride (Heart of the Highlander Series Book 1) Page 30
