Highland Secrets

by Elizabeth Rose

  “King Richard is only our age,” Maira pointed out. “He is not more than a boy and doesn’t even know how to be a king yet. Why should we want to serve him?”

  “Aye, he is not Edward,” Imanie agreed. “However, he is headstrong. I am not sure he will even listen to his uncles serving as his council. He knows nothing about the Followers of the Secret Heart. And just like his grandfather before him, he will never know. What we do, we do for our country.”

  “Countries,” said Fia, not wanting to stay in England forever. She missed her homeland and someday hoped to marry a Scot and settle down near her parents to raise a family of her own. “What about Morag?” she asked. “She will probably give us trouble.”

  “Morag has her lessons to learn, but they do not involve us. The road ahead of her is rocky, but she will learn to be just as strong as the three of you in time.”

  “You sound verra wise, in more than a learned way,” Fia told her.

  “My, you are the observant one.” The old woman winked and nodded her head. “I have insight, my dear. But even without insight, I can see that Philippa made a wise choice. The three of you will in some ways be even stronger than your fathers.”

  “Stronger than our fathers? That is impossible,” Maira objected. “Our fathers are powerful. They were once the Demon Thief, and raided the king,” she bragged.

  “Aye, they were strong in physical ways, but you three are women. Your strengths come mainly from in here.” Imanie put her hand over her heart. Fia felt as if she knew exactly what Imanie meant. This must be what the heart brooch symbolized.

  “I feel it in my heart that the three of us have missions,” Fia announced. “Aye, I will honor Philippa, too. I can only hope to one day be as strong as she was when she went in secret behind the king’s back to save our faithers’ lives.” Fia reached out and took Imanie’s hand in hers.

  “Me, too,” said Maira, adding her hand to the pact.

  “And me.” Willow clasped her hand atop the others. That sealed the promise they made that day to follow in the footsteps of the noble queen, who had not been afraid to do what she felt was right.

  The three girls rode back toward the castle, seeing Morag just up ahead. Fia was at the rear and slowed down when she heard the snap of a twig from behind her. Looking over her shoulder, she noticed someone move from behind a tree. If she wasn’t mistaken, it was a flash of plaid.

  “Scots,” she said aloud, stopping her horse and turning around to look. She missed Scotland dearly, longing to talk to people from her homeland. Even though she was half-English, Fia’s mother was a full-fledged Scot.

  The others didn’t notice she had stopped and kept riding through the forest following Morag. Then someone jumped out from behind a tree, scaring her mount. Her horse reared up and threw her to the ground. A whoosh of air released from Fia’s lungs as her back hit the ground hard.

  “I’ve got the horse,” growled a burly-looking Scot. “Kill the wench.”

  “Nay, dinna hurt me,” she begged. “I am a Scot like ye. Canna ye tell?”

  Another man joined the first, and then two more. Each of them was just as frightening as the first. They looked nothing like the Scots of the Lowlands, but somewhat more rugged and fierce and unkempt. Aye, they had to be Highlanders!

  One man raised his dagger, meaning to plunge it into her heart. She froze in fear, not able to react. With a whizzing noise above her head, a dagger split the air and embedded itself into the man’s shoulder.

  “Och, God’s eyes, that hurts!” cried the man, ripping the dagger from his shoulder and throwing it to the ground. Fia’s eyes opened wide when she saw the handle of the bloody blade right next to her on the ground. It was Maira’s dagger; there was no mistaking it.

  “There are more of them,” announced the first Scot, still holding the reins of her horse. “Kill them all.”

  “Fia!” cried Maira from atop her horse, riding to Fia’s rescue. Willow and Morag were mounted on their horses, bravely following right behind her. This wasn’t good. They would all be killed. Fia had to do something fast or they would all die at the hands of these murderous Highlanders.

  Noticing the rest of the men being distracted in one way or another, she took the chance of reaching out for Maira’s dagger. Once her fingers closed over the hilt, Fia rolled under the horse, coming up on the other side. She was just about to mount the steed when the first Scot grabbed her wrist. His iron fingers clenched her so hard that it felt like he was going to break her wrist. “Drop the blade,” he ordered.

  “Go! Ride! Get help,” she cried out to her sister and cousins, hoping to at least save their lives, even if hers would be sacrificed to do it. Maira hesitated to go, but Willow and Morag rode off quickly. Finally, Maira turned and followed.

  When Fia was sure the Scot would kill her, another hand shot out and pushed the man away. She looked up to find herself staring into the mesmerizing silver eyes of a handsome Scot with long, black hair tied back in a queue. The hilt of his sword peeked out over his shoulder from the scabbard attached to his back. He was younger than the rest of the men but older than her. He looked to be just over twenty summers.

  “Dinna touch the lass,” the man warned in a deep voice.

  “Alastair, ye fool. She has to go,” spat the burly Scot. “She’s seen our faces and our plaids and can identify us.”

  Fia studied the brown and red colors of their plaids, not sure to which clan they belonged. However, by the way they spoke and the ruggedness of their composures, she was sure they were from the Highlands. Then her eyes focused on the badge pinned to her rescuer’s plaid at his shoulder. It was that of a wildcat with its paw raised in the air. The clan’s motto was written on it, but she had no time to read it. The man they’d called Alastair reached out and lifted her chin to bring her focus back to his face.

  “Ye’re a bonnie lass. Who are ye and why are ye here?”

  “I’ll no’ tell ye anythin’,” she snarled.

  “Ye talk like a Scot but are dressed like a bluidy Sassenach so ye must be a traitor.”

  “I’m no’ a traitor,” she protested.

  “Then tell me yer name, lass.”

  She was going to deny him but figured if she kept them talking, it would give the girls more time to escape and possibly find help.

  “My name is Fia,” she told him, staring directly into his eyes.

  “Fia?” asked Alastair. “What clan are ye from, lass?”

  “It doesna matter. My faither and uncles will hunt ye down like a dog if ye so much as harm a hair on my head.”

  Alastair chuckled. “Now, we wouldn’t want to harm a single lock of yer bonnie reid hair, would we?” He reached out and caressed it slightly. She watched as his eyes suddenly became softer and he no longer seemed so frightening. Then his hand trailed lower, stopping atop the heart brooch pinned to her chest. He pulled away from her with a jerk. Clearing his throat, he took a step backward to make distance between them.

  “Look what I found,” said one of his men with a low whistle. The man pulled her crown out of the travel bag tied to her horse. “This will bring in a lot of coin.”

  “That’s my crown given to me by Queen Philippa. Put it back,” Fia cried.

  “No queen, especially a dead one is goin’ to give a Scot somethin’ like this,” said the man. “I think we’ll hold on to this little trinket. It should prove to be verra valuable.”

  “Let me see that.” Alastair reached out and took the crown from the man. He held it up in the sunlight, turning it slightly. His eyes fastened to the jewels that winked in the sun. Then a look that Fia didn’t understand crossed his face. It was an expression somewhere between surprise and sadness.

  “We’ve found a treasure,” spat the first Scot, chuckling lowly. “It is our lucky day.”

  “Nay.” Alastair shook his head and shoved the crown back into the other man’s hand. “Put it back,” he commanded with force to his words. “And give her back her horse.”
/>   “My laird, what do ye mean?”

  “Ye heard me. Do it!”

  “Ye are making a bad decision,” complained more than one of the men.

  Fia didn’t need to hear the men call Alastair laird to know he was in charge. She’d seen the badge that depicted him as chieftain of the clan. It was odd that he was so young and already a chieftain.

  “Let me worry about that,” he said. In two strides, he was next to the man and pulling the crown out of his hand. He quickly shoved it back into the travel bag. “Now step aside, men, and let the girl go.”

  “Nay!” shouted Fia’s attacker, reaching out for her once again. Alastair reached behind his back and drew his sword. In a flash, the tip of his sword rested against the man’s throat.

  “Dinna make me slit yer throat, Brohain. Because if I have to, I swear I will,” growled Alastair through gritted teeth.

  Brohain glared at his laird, then turned around and spat on the ground.

  “Time to go, lass,” Alastair told her. “Dinna say a word about this to anyone if ye ken what is guid for ye.” Alastair slid his sword into the scabbard on his back. Before Fia knew what was happening, his hands were around her waist, helping her mount her horse.

  An arrow came whizzing through the air next and lodged itself into a tree. Brohain was going for his sword but jumped in surprise when it landed just next to his head.

  “Let the girl be.” It was Imanie from atop her horse with a bow in her hand and a quiver of arrows on her back.

  “First a bunch of wenches and now an old hag?” spat Brohain. “What the hell is this? No wench is any threat to me.”

  At that, another arrow released from Imanie’s bow. This time it landed very close to Brohain’s foot.

  “Think again,” said Imanie. “The next arrow is aimed right for your groin.” The old woman nocked another arrow and pulled back the bowstring.

  “Nay. Put the bow down. We are leavin’,” Alastair called out.

  “Leavin’?” spat Brohain. “Ye canna mean to tell me we are bein’ scared off by a young wench and a crone?”

  “We have no quarrel with them. This time,” added Alastair, slapping his hand against the rump of Fia’s steed and sending her away.

  Fia rode hard through the woods, with Imanie at her side. They didn’t stop until they met up with the rest of the girls who were frightened but waiting for them up ahead.

  “Imanie, thank ye,” said Fia. “Ye, too, Maira. Ye both saved my life.” Fia handed Maira’s dagger back to her.

  “Are ye sure about that?” asked Imanie. “After all, it seems to me that the Scot was the one who saved ye from the rest of his clan.”

  “Who were they?” asked Maira, stretching her neck, looking back into the woods, but the Scots had vanished.

  “They are Highlanders,” said Imanie. “They sometimes come across the border. I think they are spies. They have been in the king’s forest before.”

  “Why didn’t they kill us?” asked Willow with a tremble in her voice.

  “It was their young laird, Alastair who saved me,” Fia explained. “Imanie is right. If it wasna for him, the rest of his clan would have done away with me in the blink of an eye as well as stole my horse and crown.”

  “They let ye keep the crown?” asked Morag in surprise.

  “That’s odd,” said Maira.

  “Aye,” said Imanie, looking back over her shoulder. “And my intuition tells me this is not the last you’ve seen of them either.”

  Fia became excited to hear Imanie’s prediction. Perhaps it was wrong of her but, after looking into Alastair’s eyes, she felt as if she wanted to see him again. She noticed something in his gaze when he’d touched her hair. And the way he caressed her locks had been gentle and caring . . . almost like a lover. The man had stood up to his clan and, against all odds, he saved her life.

  “Imanie, we need to train with ye more than ever now so we can be strong,” Fia told her. “And the next time they return, we will be ready.”

  Chapter 1

  England, Castle Rothbury, 1385

  If birthday celebrations were going to continue to be as harrowing as this one, Fia Douglas swore she was going to hide away where no one could find her until her birthday was over. A long line of knights and lords waited to greet her, but not one of them interested her in the least. Some were old, and others were ugly or fat. Even the handsome ones didn’t catch her fancy. Perhaps it was because they were all English, and she felt more attracted to Scots.

  Fia didn’t like the way Lord Walter Beaufort paraded men in front of her whenever he had the chance. She and two of her cousins were granted permission from the late King Edward III to be able to approve or disapprove of a man before their betrothal. Lord Beaufort seemed adamant that she choose one of these men to marry. By right, Fia’s father, Reed, should be the one to suggest a man for her to wed – not Beaufort. But since her father lived in Scotland with her family and she resided in England by the late queen’s wishes, the earl decided to take that task upon himself.

  When would this torture end? Being a ward of one of the most prominent men in all of England didn’t seem to have many advantages. For over an hour now, since the meal had finished, she had to stand here and pretend to be interested, when all she wanted to do was run.

  “Fia, this is Lord George Peydon of Devon.” Lord Beaufort introduced her to the uptight man, making Fia want to cry out when she saw him. He might be rich and also a noble, but the man had a face like a donkey and the ears to match. He’d been eyeing her the entire evening, following her everywhere she went and acting like nothing more than an ass.

  “How nice to meet ye, Lord Peydon.” She curtsied slightly and smiled politely. Instead of holding out her hand for a kiss as was proper, she busied herself straightening the elaborate crown upon her head. It was her grandmother’s crown. That is, the late Queen Philippa, and she didn’t want these men to forget it.

  Lord Peydon’s body odor was so strong that it could probably be smelled by the servants all the way over in the scullery.

  Her eyes shot back and forth as she frantically searched for her cousins, Maira and Willow, hoping they would save her. They said they had a special present for her. In all her eighteen years, she had never needed more of a reason to leave than she did right now.

  “My dear, Lord Peydon is waiting to kiss your hand,” said Walter’s wife, Ernestine, from his side. Walter was a tall man with gray hair, but his wife was very short and probably as wide as she was tall. Still, they were both kind people. Fia didn’t want to disappoint them. She was grateful for all they had done for her during her stay at Castle Rothbury.

  Her eyes shot back over to Lord Peydon. His smile from ear to ear about turned her stomach. Spinach stuck out from between his crooked teeth and foam from his ale clung to his mustache. At times like this, she wished she wasn’t so observant. Begrudgingly, she extended her arm and held her breath as the man slobbered his lips against the back of her hand.

  From the corner of her eye, she spotted her sister, Morag, crossing the great hall. Pulling her hand away from the cur, she held it high in the air, pretending to wave back. “Morag, yes, I will be right there,” she called out.

  Morag looked up in surprise and flashed her a bewildered expression accompanied by the shrugging of her shoulders. Hopefully, Lord and Lady Beaufort hadn’t noticed.

  “I do beg yer forgiveness, my lords and ladies, but I must depart,” Fia excused herself. “My sister and cousins have a special present planned for my birthday. I regret that I have already caused them to wait so long.”

  “But Lady Fia, there are still so many more lords and knights waiting to meet you,” complained Lord Beaufort as she slipped away.

  “Walter, let her go,” mumbled the man’s wife. Fia nodded her thanks and lifted her skirts, hurrying across the great hall to join her sister.

  “Morag, get me outta here,” whispered Fia.

  “What for?” asked Morag. “Ye have an ent
ire line of noblemen waitin’ to meet ye.”

  “I dinna want any of them. I just want to get away from all this.”

  “Well, Maira and Willow are waitin’ for ye in the stable. We have a present for ye, Fia.”

  “I canna wait. Let’s go.” She grabbed hold of her sister’s hand, and they made their way through the stuffy crowd, not stopping until they were across the courtyard and had entered the stable.

  “There you are,” said Maira, looking over as her sword clashed with that of Branton’s. Branton was a fourteen-year-old boy who was still a page, hoping to become a squire soon now that he was of age.

  “Put down the sword,” said Fia. “I’m here for my present.”

  “Not shy at all about asking for it, are you?” Willow sauntered over gracefully, having been standing far away from the sword practice. As usual, she wore one of her best gowns made of satin and silk for the party. She always dressed this way even when doing naught but sewing in the ladies solar. But this gown, Fia recognized as one of Willow’s favorites. It had brass buttons all the way down the bodice. One of those buttons seemed to be missing today, showing off the girl’s cleavage more than usual. Fia didn’t doubt Willow had torn it off herself, trying to catch the eye of any lord there. Willow liked to be the center of attention, especially in a group of men.

  “That’s good for today, Branton, thank you.” Maira lowered her sword, looking flushed in the cheeks. While Willow was all lady and didn’t like to get her hands dirty, Maira was just the opposite of her cousin. Maira loved weapons and wanted to know how to use as many as she possibly could. It wasn’t a ladylike trait at all, and neither did she care. A little dirt or a few scrapes never seemed to bother Maira.