The Highland Chief

by Dana D'Angelo

  “Aye,” Griogair agreed. “We have already lost many men tae the greedy whoresons.”

  “Those men couldnae be saved,” Rory said more harshly than he intended.

  His gut wrenched with pain and torment over the senseless massacre of men who fought for Gertrude, Queen of Scots. For centuries, the kings of England had placed their focus on bonny Scotland, and when King Harold came to rule, he was no different. In fact, he was more ruthless with his greed and ambitions than his predecessors.

  When Harold decided to attack Scotland, Gertrude put a call to all clans to unite. Suddenly petty wars between the many clans ceased.

  As Clan Chief at the time, Eanruing was adamant in sending help to Gertrude. Rory had no qualms about driving out the English scum. But he did have reservations over supporting a weak queen who favored dancing and festivities over the welfare of her people. But as Tanist, heir to the chiefdom, he had no choice but to follow the dictates of his father, and lead his clan to war.

  And while Rory wasn’t the one to butcher his kin, he ignored his instincts to retreat, which resulted in the deaths of many of his clansmen. But his gut told him that Eanruing’s life could be saved. This time he would listen.

  “If we dinnae act on this, we’ll lose Da as well,” he said, compressing his lips into a firm line. “I’ll leave now. Ye can come with me or nae.”

  A silence fell over the group.

  “I’ll go,” Griogair said, stepping forward.

  Duncan let out a sigh. “Though I think ‘tis a foolish idea, I’ll go too.”

  “Well I cannae go,” Blane said, his features twisted in anger at the very idea. “I cannae stand tae be near the scum who killed my friends,” his voice cracked with emotion, and he swallowed audibly, “and my family.”

  Rory nodded. “Ye can stay then.”

  “What do ye propose that we do?” Griogair asked quietly.

  “Aye, what’s your plan, Rory?” Duncan said, studying his face.

  “I will appeal tae her as a Scot. A true Scotswoman will find it within her heart tae assist our plight. It will take us two days tae cross the border, and another day tae reach Lancullin Castle. Then the task of bringing her here should be simple enough.”

  Unfortunately, the mission wasn’t easy at all.

  He rolled back his shoulders, trying to loosen the tension that settled there. The act provided no relief. That weight sat on Rory shoulders ever since Eanruing fell ill, and he took over as the new Chief of Clan MacGregon.

  “’Tis far enough, dinnae ye think, Rory?” Griogair asked, interrupting Rory’s heavy thoughts.

  The lass who was almost dozing became alert.

  Rory shook his head. The pondering of war and clan government would have to wait. Right now he needed to focus on getting them home safely. And that meant sneaking past the English cavalry and bypassing the hostile Scottish clans along the way.

  Up ahead the forest was already in shadows. If they didn’t set up camp soon, they would be hard pressed to see anything past their noses.

  He turned to stare in the direction in which they had come. The sound of rushing water was much louder here. The wind was starting to pick up as well, causing the leaves to rustle in the tree tops.

  “Aye,” he said, stopping his horse. They were far enough from the main road that their cooking fire wouldn’t be detected. Duncan would also have no trouble finding them. “We’ll halt at this spot.”

  They dismounted and Griogair went to tether the horses to a nearby tree.

  His brother pulled off a sack of oats from one of the horses and fed the beasts. Meanwhile Rory grabbed the sack that contained all of their provisions and cooking tools. They had brought just enough food to allow them to cross over the border and back.

  He glanced toward the river, and the idea of eating fresh fish made his stomach rumble.

  “Griogair,” he said. His brother looked up from his task. “When ye are done with that, go tae the river and catch us some fish tae eat.”

  “And me?” Darra asked. “What will you have me do?”

  Rory looked at her, startled by her question. “Ye will sit on that rock, lass.”

  “I have done nothing but sit all day,” she said, frowning.

  Something in the tone of her voice made him soften slightly. She was the first English noblewoman that he had met, and it surprised him that she wanted to perform menial chores. He shrugged, seeing no harm in letting her help him. Rummaging through the sack, he pulled out a small pot.

  “Ye can fetch some water for cooking,” he said, beckoning her to follow him.

  They walked in silence, although the roar of rushing water could be heard even before they reached the river bank.

  Behind him, darkness had engulfed the thicket, while over the watercourse, the sun was only beginning to set over the trees. Numerous rocks of varying sizes scattered along the bank and within the rushing river itself.

  Birds called from the trees tops, their voices alerting other critters that there were foreigners in their midst.

  An alder tree which grew right at the river’s edge was damaged by the previous night’s storm. A bolt of lightning had stuck it, and it leaned gracefully over the currents.

  “Here, use this,” he said, handing her the small pot. “I’ll be over there searching for wood.”

  Darra took the pot and walked to the river’s edge. She stood there, scanning her surroundings with the bleak realization that she had no idea where she was. Turning her head, she saw that Rory was busy gathering wood. But then he bent over, his form unexpectedly disappearing behind the shrubs.

  Her lips twisted with the irony of it. Here was her one chance to flee, but there was nowhere to run. She could go up or down river, but then what? She couldn’t run aimlessly through the forest. Another idea was to cross over the river. But she struck that notion down since she wasn’t an experienced swimmer, and the river currents appeared treacherous.

  She let out a frustrated sigh. Her best option was to get the pot of water as Rory had asked. Last night’s storm had caused the banks to become soft and muddy. In order to get to the water that was less murky, she had to traverse over the boggy slope. However she loathed the thought of getting her slippers or any part of her dirty. But how could she to get to the water without touching the sludge?

  Looking up, she assessed the splintered tree that leaned over the river. Her eyes followed the length of the bole, and she noticed that it braced against a large rock. Except for the damage to the trunk itself, it was still attached to the base of the tree. From her angle, the log seemed sturdy enough to support her weight. If she went on it with bare feet, she would have a better grip on the tree limb. In the end, she could solve two problems at once — avoid getting her shoes soiled, and scoop up clean water for cooking. Aye, she would complete the task, and lull Rory into letting down his guard. When the next opportunity arose, she would be ready to take it.

  With that resolve, she took off her slippers and climbed onto the broken tree. Grabbing a hold of the bough beside her, she inched her way closer toward the center of the log. The roar of the river seemed much louder here, while the wind whipped her hair across her face.

  The water below her feet hurtled against the rock, causing an icy spray to spatter her. She paused and bit her lip in concentration. Without meaning to, she peeked down at the vigorous currents that churned and bubbled beneath her.

  She could die at any moment, she thought wildly. This would be her ultimate means for escape, except she didn’t want to perish. Her nails dug into the tree limb while she stood frozen in one spot, her heart trapped in her gullet. Even as the cold, wet air lashed around her, she was conscious of the sweat that beaded on her forehead and that ran down her back. This was not a good plan, and she needed to retreat.

  Her grip on the branch tightened even more, as she pulled on it; she had every intention to get back to solid ground. But her desperate purchase on the branch caused it to snap, throwing her off balance
.

  A scream tore from her lips as she fell down, down, down.

  The impact of the freezing water immediately cut off her scream, and stung her eyes. She was forced to shut them just as the murky water closed over her. But as quickly as she plunged into the raging water, the current hauled her back to the top. Darra burst through the surface, gulping a lungful of air before coughing and sputtering. She had only enough time to gasp another breath of air when she was pulled under again.

  Flinging her hands out, she blindly, frantically searched for something concrete to anchor her. Somehow her fingers brushed against some leaves, and she instinctively latched onto them. Then with strength that she didn’t know she possessed, she yanked herself up until she broke through the surface again. The water sprayed in every direction.

  “Help!” she cried, praying that Rory would hear her. But any chance of being heard was drowned out by the thundering water flow.

  Chapter 7

  Rory picked up a piece of wood. He twisted it around in his hand, inspecting the moss covered branch before tossing it aside. It was impossible to find decent kindling since last night’s storm made everything damp.

  He started toward the small overhang that was off to his right. That area at least didn’t seem as wet, and there was a possibility that he might find dry wood there. When he bent down to pick up another piece of kindling, he heard something odd, something that sounded almost like a scream. It was likely some wild animal screeching in the thicket, but for some inexplicable reason, the hairs at the back of his neck rose. He heard it again, and this time there was no mistaking the clamor of someone in distress, someone who was Darra.

  Rory had been more lax with Darra since he was certain that she had no means of escape, but now he cursed himself for allowing her out of his sight. Truly he couldn’t see how she would have gotten herself into trouble. All he asked her to do was to fetch some water. It wasn’t a difficult task, and it benefited her as well as everyone else.

  Dropping the stack of wood that he carried onto the ground, he looked around him. Obviously, the forest was teeming with various animals. Since she was a skittish lass, perhaps some wee beastie had frightened her.

  But she was nowhere to be seen. He crashed through the shrubbery, and looked over to where he last saw her. Perhaps she was fooling with him, and would emerge from her hiding place soon. However his hope vanished as soon as he caught sight of a pair of small leather slippers that sat neatly next to a storm ravaged tree trunk. The damage to the tree was extensive. Lightning had stuck it straight through, and the entire trunk leaned precariously into the rapid flowing river.

  He could feel his heart accelerating even though the sound was almost drowned out by the noise from the river. Racing over to the river’s edge, he pulled aside the nearby shrubs and peered down into the cloudy water. The fierce wind ripped up the currents, pulling broken branches and other debris along as if they competed in some sort of contest.

  Did she fall in?

  “Darra!” he yelled, trying to make himself heard over the surging water.

  He shoved aside the bushes, and caught sight of her, clinging desperately on to a tree branch that dangled in the water.

  “Dinnae move!” he shouted. Even from this distance, he could sense her heartrending fear. And he realized that if he didn’t get to her in time, she would be swept away. “I’m coming tae get ye, lass!”

  In his haste, his foot caught in a tangle of roots, and before he could free himself, his worst fear came true. The branch that she clutched made a sickening crack, snapping into two. The river took her away, its greedy waves swallowing her up.

  “Nay!” He scrambled down the muddy bank, slipping and sliding in his rush to get to her. Suddenly it seemed all too certain that death hovered nearby. Although he didn’t want to admit it, he was starting to like the wee hellion, and he definitely didn’t want to see her killed.

  ***

  Darra yanked hard on the tree branch, fighting to break through to the surface of the water so she could breathe. But it was too much for the branch to both support her weight and resist the strong current. And when the tree limb snapped, she was dragged back in; the water carried her away, pushing her through its turbid depths.

  Even with fear choking her, her body managed to avoid crashing into the obstacles and debris in her path. Her skin was raw from scraping against the jagged rocks, although that was the least of her worries. She was getting tired, and she recognized that in order to survive, she needed to somehow overcome her exhaustion. However this proved to be a difficult task. The turbulent water rippled around her, and pulled her under time and again.

  Please God, I do not want to die! She squeezed her eyes shut in a desperate prayer.

  She let out a small whimper when another wave crashed over her head, making her sputter.

  But just when she was about to surrender all hope, she caught sight of an object sticking out of the water. Allowing the river flow to drive her closer, she saw that it was a tree that was wrecked by the storm. It was as if God had answered her prayers. The lightning had split the tree, although a large section of it was still attached to a trunk which stood firm along the river bank.

  Darra started to swim toward it, using the last of her strength. If she didn’t make it to the log, she was doomed. But she couldn’t think of that now. Pushing forward, she kicked her legs and swam hard in the direction of the broken tree. Once she was in line with the log, she allowed the current to propel her to the target. It was coming closer and closer. Then she grabbed one of the branches and held on tight.

  The freezing water made her teeth clatter, and she started to fight with exhaustion again. Instinctively she saw that she could reach safety if only she could heave herself onto the broken tree.

  “Move closer tae me!” a voice shouted, above the punishing water.

  She looked up, half thinking that she was dreaming. But Rory’s familiar countenance filled her vision, and hope flooded to her chest. He was on the river bed, stretching out his hand for her to grab. But a gap still existed between them. She either had to move closer to Rory, or he would have to come to her. It was a dangerous undertaking in either circumstance.

  Darra gripped the log, afraid to let go. What if the river swept her away again? She was fatigued. The course ahead seemed even more riddled with sizable rocks. If she smashed into one of those boulders, she would likely be injured or killed.

  “I cannot,” she cried.

  Then he did something that she didn’t expect him to do. He took off his boots and came down the muddy bank. While holding tightly onto a branch attached to the damaged tree, he carefully maneuvered in her direction.

  “Take my hand,” he yelled.

  She stared helplessly at his outstretched hand, although she was well aware that she couldn’t stay in the water forever. Rory gave her an encouraging look. And this time, she decided to trust him. Putting out a trembling hand, she reached for him. His warm, strong grip enclosed over her wrist as he pulled her toward him.

  “I will lift ye, but ye have tae grab the shrubbery and pull yourself up, understand?” he said.

  “Aye,” she said, giving a tired nod. She was shivering and her teeth clattered uncontrollably.

  He hoisted her up so she could reach a shrub and drag herself onto dry land. Finally, she was safe, and her heart could cease its frantic pace.

  A moment later Rory followed her, clambering onto the bank. He threw himself down beside her, his breath coming out in harsh spurts.

  She glanced over at him. “Th — thank you,” she said, barely able to get the word out.

  “Ye gave me quite a fright,” he said.

  “I — I was fri — frightened as well,” she said, hugging her arms to her chest, and rocking to and fro.

  “Ye are shivering,” he said, frowning. “Let me warm ye.”

  “But I will get you wet,” she said.

  Ignoring her protest, he picked her up as if she weighed no more
than a flower petal, and placed her on his lap. Unpinning his brooch, he loosened the top section of his great kilt. He reached behind him, dragging the surplus fabric over his shoulders and wrapping it around them. His heavy arms then gathered her close, pressing her against his muscular chest.

  “There, that should warm ye,” he said.

  Indeed, she felt the warmth emanating from his chest, although she was still cold. For too long, she was caught in the icy water, and the memory of it sent another shiver through her. She tucked her head underneath his chin, and his powerful arms tightened in response.

  Rory held her like this for a long while, and she was grateful for it.

  With her ear pressed to his torso, she could hear the solid, static beating of his heart. Except for her father, she had never sat this close to a man before. Snuggling against Rory, she breathed in his musky male scent. She was comforted by their intimacy, and for some peculiar reason, she felt content too. Perhaps the horrid ordeal had changed her, but it no longer mattered to her that Rory was a Scot, and that her people saw him as the enemy. All that mattered was that he cared enough to save her. And when he rescued her, he gave no thought to his own safety. Was this a sign of a callous savage who didn’t have a heart?

  She had never really examined Rory before, but now that he held her in his arms, she studied his rugged beauty. He seemed to belong to the wilderness since the air of untamed power enveloped him like a second skin, making him appear dangerous, ruthless. Unable to help it, his proximity caused her to shudder, but she knew it wasn’t from fear or from the cold.

  His tousled red hair fell slightly above his shoulders, framing a narrow, handsome visage. It was almost sinful that he should look so fair. But he seemed unaware or unconcerned about his physical attributes. At the moment, his forehead was creased with worry, and his beautiful green eyes were tempered by gentleness. She really didn’t know what to make of his expression, since he declared that he despised everything English. Well, she was English; there was no disputing that fact. Still, his manner seemed to suggest that he liked her. Or at least liked her enough to see to her comfort.