The Mammoth Book of Scottish Romance

by Trisha Telep

  “Now if I’m to introduce ye as a … guest at Druim, I must know yer name, lass. Prisoners doona fair well in the dungeons. It be dark, cold and skittery down there.”

  A threat or a fair warning? “Rachel Brindle. And you will return me to my father, William Brindle, please.”

  “Ah, now Miss Brindle, how is it that ye have so much blood on ye?”

  Rachel glanced down at her hands. They were streaked red. So they hadn’t found the man she’d saved. “I … I must have cut myself,” she murmured.

  “I see no gash upon yer lovely skin, lass. Not even a bump from falling off yer mount.”

  Rachel’s mind whirled. “I don’t remember.” She shook her head and noticed that the torturous velvet cap at least was gone. Would her father find it amongst the ferns and know she’d been taken? Or would she be lost forever at Druim?

  I’ll come for ye. The barbarian’s words came back to her. Would he? Rachel let out a long sigh. She wouldn’t count on it.

  The cost of her name was so incredibly worth the warm water enveloping Rachel in the deep bathing bucket in the room she’d been given at Druim. “Guest” was certainly better than “prisoner”. Angus Riley had kept his word and introduced her to the tall, grim-faced leader of their clan as a damsel in distress. She’d been given food and drink and a small room above the main hall.

  What would happen to her tomorrow was unknown, but for the night, she was told she could bathe, sleep and recover from her obvious ordeal. Bathing and eating played a part in Rachel’s plan, but not sleeping. She intended to escape. For despite their gentility, she knew her current protectors would turn captors once they confirmed her connection to their enemy.

  Rachel rubbed the floral soap along her limbs but resisted the urge to relax. Escape was a priority, before Druim realized just how capable she was. Her bedraggled and exhausted appearance upon arrival had lowered their defences. There wasn’t even a guard outside her door.

  Rachel dried and dressed in her stained green gown. It was still damp from her attempt to wash away the blood. Rachel fingered her clean hair. It was dark outside the window slit. She cracked open her door to an empty corridor dimly lit. She walked with purposeful stealth. The main stairway would lead to a great hall filled with warriors. Her eyes studied the shadows. This was a huge fortress. They needed at least one other exit. Rachel nearly fell into a rectangular hole cut into the floor at the end of the corridor. Her heart thudded as she gathered her long kirtle.

  The ladder within the hole led down into a low-ceilinged hallway. The earthy smell of roots and grain indicated that it was a storage area. Perfect. Rachel crept along the dark, rough wall into a kitchen. Several cloaks hung from pegs. She threw one over her dress and pulled the hood up. Could she disguise herself as a servant and sneak out the gates past the guards?

  Rachel whirled around at a muffled gasp. A woman stood in the doorway, a bit older than she. Evelyn, if Rachel remembered the woman’s name from her earlier introductions – the maid who watched the chief’s young children. Evelyn’s eyes were wide in her round face. Rachel grabbed her stiff hand. She poured just enough power into it to warm the servant. A blue glow surrounded their clasped hands.

  “Holy Lord our Father,” Evelyn murmured and passed the sign of the cross over her chest with her free hand. Rachel stared into her frantic eyes.

  “I have powers. They are good powers, but if you don’t help me I will turn them against you.” The woman didn’t say anything. Did she not care what happened to her? “I can turn them against your young charges.” Evelyn’s eyes nearly popped at the lie. She bobbed her head nervously. Rachel smiled. “Good. I think you want me gone as much as I want me gone now. So you’re going to walk me out of here, past the guards, past the gate to where I can find a horse.”

  The night was cool as they left the building and it felt good against Rachel’s flushed face. As much as she dreamed about adventure, the actual participation in it was stressful. Perhaps she would agree to settle down with a docile Englishman like her father wished. She and Evelyn walked arm in arm, like two young maids heading home for the evening.

  “Wave with me,” Rachel whispered, and Evelyn lifted her hand to the watchman. He tipped his head at the girls and walked the other way along the wall. “You’re good at this, Evelyn,” Rachel murmured and patted the girl’s rigid arm. Evelyn passed another sign of the cross before her chest. Rachel frowned. She didn’t like scaring the woman.

  Evelyn hurried with her through the streets towards a corral. “You know, I fibbed back there,” Rachel said in the dark. “My powers only heal. I can’t hurt you or your wards. And I wouldn’t anyway.”

  Evelyn stopped before a low barn. “There are horses. Now go.” She turned a fierce expression on Rachel. Evelyn certainly wouldn’t be inviting her over for supper anytime soon.

  “Not a word, Evelyn.” Rachel held a finger against her lips then lowered it quickly. Could the girl see her finger tremble? “You’ll look guilty if you admit helping me get away.”

  Evelyn fled. Rachel entered the barn and went to work. She selected a horse and worked a bridle between its teeth. It wasn’t her horse, but it was a fair swap. She led the beast through the darkness, keeping to the rear of all the houses. She knew exactly where she was headed. The moor that stretched wide and bare in front of Druim would allow no hiding and a single rider out at night would arouse suspicion. No, the mountains behind the castle were the best way to go. “Holy God, please guide my way to safety,” she whispered into the hazy mist floating down along the ledges of granite.

  Rachel led the horse along a narrow path between the castle wall and the rock face. Thunder rumbled and Rachel tipped her head upwards with a soft groan. The horse nickered. “Shh,” Rachel whispered. Rain began to tap the summer leaves overhead just as she spotted a fairly large ascending path. She tramped up it, under the trees. Lightning sparked across the moor behind followed by a deafening clap of thunder. She jumped at the noise and the horse easily yanked the reins from her grip.

  “Bloody horse,” she hissed after its retreating tail. “Please. Come back here,” she called weakly. She spent a full minute trying to decide what to do. Go after the horse or continue on foot? In the end the rain decided it for her. Under the thick canopy, Rachel was dry. She gathered her skirts and started to climb.

  She walked blindly, her thin slippers barely protecting her feet from sharp rocks. She wanted to put some distance between her and Druim before finding a safe place to sleep for the night. Rachel wondered what type of animals roamed these woods. She glanced up nervously as God lit up the forest with another flash of lightning. The deafening crack of thunder barely registered in Rachel’s shocked mind for, standing on a boulder just above her, was the barbarian. He had come for her.

  The light retreated, leaving her blind until her blinking eyes adjusted again to the shadows. He stood staring down at her as if cut from the rugged granite around them, a fortress like the mighty castle behind her. Curiosity and shock mixed on his face. As distant lightning lit up the trees again, she watched his eyebrows rise and the corner of his lush mouth crook upward into a lopsided grin. Rachel’s heart danced, flushing her with heat that, luckily, he couldn’t see in the dark. He’d come for her. A man who kept his promise.

  Rachel wasn’t sure what to do. Should she walk to him or wait in the dark? What was the protocol for a rescue? She huffed. Some rescue. She’d done most of it herself. And for all she knew she was being rescued by someone much more dangerous than those at Druim.

  The man’s shadow moved in the darkness and Rachel jumped, frowning at herself. Even if she could barely see, she definitely could hear.

  “Who are you?” she asked, her voice sharp in the stillness.

  “Alec Munro.” His deep voice, drawn rough and strong, reflected his Highland heritage. Rachel released her breath and nodded in relief. He was a Munro. Thank the Holy Lord. “And ye are?”

  “Rachel Brindle. I was travelling with my fa
ther and sister to Munro Keep when the Macbains attacked.”

  “And ye circled around into the fight to …”

  Rachel felt guilt bubble up inside. She certainly hadn’t meant to ride back and distract him. “My sense of direction is quite poor,” she murmured. “I did not intend to disturb you.”

  “Yer father travels to meet with The Munro?”

  A flash of lightning showed him much closer than she’d thought, his gaze assessing. She refused to back away even though her foot lifted involuntarily. “My father trades with Hamish Munro.”

  “Hamish Munro is dead.”

  “Oh … I am sorry. My father did not know. I suppose he will want to discuss trade with your new chief.” The man remained silent and still. Rain dripped on Rachel’s head and she wiped at it.

  “Do you have a horse?”

  She took two stumbling steps past Alec before he placed his hands on her shoulders and gently turned her in another direction, laughing softly. Rachel ignored the thrill that shot down her arms at the solid hold.

  She sniffed, irritated at his amusement. “If you plan to help in my rescue at all, please lead the way.” Her words were terse and her frustration was growing to the point she just might choke on it. She’d done the hard work of escaping a fortified castle without alerting the guard. The least the Highlander could do was lead her to Munro Keep.

  Alec’s hand slid down her sleeved arm, his strong fingers wrapping around her wrist. He stepped close as they walked along a twining path upwards into the forest. Rachel nearly screamed when she felt his warm breath against her chilled ear. His words were quiet but as firm as his hold. “I am not rescuing ye, Rachel Brindle.” Rachel’s breath caught in her chest as she stared out into the dark shadows flickering sporadically with brilliant lightning. She shivered as his lip grazed her skin. “I am capturing ye.”

  Three

  The cave was cool and the lass even cooler, in body and in mood. Alec Munro draped a wool blanket around the girl’s wet shoulders where she sat against the rough, curved wall. She ignored him. He bent to the small pile of brush and scraped flint into it. Sparks caught and soon a flame snapped upward. He blew gently, feeding the fire.

  He glanced at Rachel. Even in her exhaustion she was bonny, her soft brown hair curling wildly as it dried around a heart-shaped face. A lovely English lass, smooth skin, long lashes, small and delicate. He smiled – “delicate”, but also able to escape Druim single-handedly. His smile faltered. Able to heal the mortal wound he’d taken earlier in the woods.

  When Alec had spotted the small group winding their way through Munro territory, he’d been surprised to see the two lasses riding with the English bastard who had been swindling his father for years. Hamish Munro had fallen to a Macbain sword during a bloody battle at Loch Tuinn three months ago, leaving Alec, his remaining son to lead the huge Munro clan.

  His father had never allowed anyone to view the family accounts, and now Alec knew why. His father had been a mighty warrior, but he had no accounting education. The books were a mess. Alec doubted that Hamish even realized that William Brindle had been giving him far less than promised for Munro wool over the years.

  Rachel took a crumbly oat cake he offered. For a moment, Alec thought she’d refuse or even throw it at him. “Thank you,” she gritted out and took a bite. His eyebrows rose in silent astonishment. Manners, even to one’s captor. He shook his head. He’d never understand the English.

  Alec spitted a skinned hare over the fire. Wind and rain thrashed outside. Thunder rumbled and shook. There was no journeying to Munro Keep tonight. His horse was safe enough, tied farther down the mountainside in the shelter of another cave he’d found. These three mountains running behind Druim all the way to Munro Keep held numerous caves and conduits. He’d explored them as a child and still didn’t know where they all led.

  “We’ll wait out the storm here,” Alec commented, though Rachel didn’t look his way. Alec ran a finger over the puckered skin across his heart. “So …” he watched Rachel closely. “I had a hole through my chest this noon.” Rachel’s bannock dropped into her lap. “Yet it is healed and I’m alive.” He paused, but she didn’t answer. “Not what I expected when that arrow took me down.”

  “You hit your head.” Rachel met his eyes. “That is just one of many scars you seem to have received in the past.”

  Alec shook his head. “A warrior knows each one of his marks.” He extended a leg and turned it so that his flexed calf showed. He ran a finger down a six-inch scar. “The winter of 1501, raid on the moor before Druim.” He ran a palm along the jagged line down his side. “Summer of 1503, Loch Tuinn.” Alec pushed his hair back from his forehead revealing a small divot. “A rock from a Macbain slingshot, fall of 1508.” There were others, but he’d made his point. Rachel stared. He reached over his shoulder to touch the matching hole on his back. “Macbain arrow, Munro woods, noon today.”

  Alec rubbed the back of his neck. “It would have been my last mark if ye hadn’t …” he gestured to her hands clenched in the folds of her green gown. “What exactly did ye do?”

  Rachel looked at her hands. “I prayed,” she whispered. “It’s a gift from God.” She looked up, her eyes fiery. “I am no witch. I only do good.”

  Alec nodded. He wasn’t superstitious but understood her concern. Witch hunters revelled in finding anyone who was different – especially weak, unprotected lasses who they could brutalize and eventually kill. “Praying is good,” he commented and watched her inhale slowly. “So this ‘praying’ … it can heal injuries. Can it do anything else?”

  Rachel shook her head, but then stopped. “Well I can tell if someone is ailing,” her voice lowered. “By touching them. So I know what to fix.” Her head was bent, but she watched him from under long lashes.

  “A blessing.” She smiled just a bit. Alec’s breath hitched in his throat at the gentle curve of her lips. She was stunning. He cleared his throat and turned the hare. “I mean, that’s beneficial. Ye could save a lot of lives.”

  She nodded. “That’s what I do. I try not to let anyone see, but I must help people when they are sick. It would be cruel not to.” The words tumbled out of her as if she’d held them back for a long time.

  “Does anyone know about yer … praying?” Alec asked and then wished he hadn’t because her eager smile faded.

  “My sister knows and cautions me. My father knows and commands me not to help people.”

  “Yer mother?”

  “She had the power, but she died. An accident. She fell from a horse and hit her head. She died before I could reach her.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. The shine of unacknowledged tears glistened in her eyes. There was a long pause. “Thank ye for your aid today.”

  “I … I didn’t mean to distract you. It was my fault you were hit.”

  Alec snorted. Her fault? “It was my own bloody fault for letting a bonny lass pull my attention from battle.”

  She looked confused. “Why then am I your prisoner?”

  Alec poked at the fire. “Because yer father has been cheating my clan for the last ten years, making the Brindles enemies to the Munros.”

  Rachel’s forehead furrowed. “The wool?”

  “Aye, William Brindle has promised a fair price, but then not delivered.”

  Rachel’s eyes moved back to the fire. “Mother was always Father’s conscience. When she died …”

  A low moan saturated the dark tunnel. Rachel’s head snapped around to stare into the darkness. Lightning splashed white light into the cave for a long moment, illuminating what looked like the long, ridged throat of a beast. Alec heard her gasp as the thunder ebbed.

  “’Tis just the wind, let in through a hole to the outside somewhere down the tunnel.” Rachel nodded but edged closer to him. “Although some say,” he began and her wide eyes swung his way. “That it’s the wretched sobbing of Lady Elspet as she weeps over the deaths of her two suitors, Jamie Macbain and Morgan Munro.”


  “Macbain and Munro?”

  “Aye, ’twas the start of our feud nearly a hundred years ago.”

  Rachel looked incredulous. “You are battling over … a woman … dead a hundred years?”

  Alec’s anger simmered, narrowing his eyes. What did this English woman know of loyalty and justice? “I battle to avenge my father, my brothers, my grandfather, my great-grandfather, all the way to Morgan Munro who died because he loved a little Englishwoman. We’ve fought ever since, and one day we will be victorious.”

  Her lips were still tight. She shook her lovely head. “I’ll never understand men.” She snorted. “You create a tradition based on hate and death.”

  “Of course ye doona understand,” he said. “Ye are a woman, an Englishwoman, and a healer. My ways are foreign to ye.” He shrugged as if he didn’t care about the condemnation in the set of her lips. Did he care? Bloody hell – no. He frowned and rose. The lightning had moved farther off but the rain continued to pelt in slants.

  Alec was tired of smelling like blood and death. He grabbed a thin slice of soap from his satchel and headed out to the mouth of the cave. “Doona try to escape through the caves. They are dangerous,” he spoke without looking back.

  He pulled his kilt from his hips, dropping it at the edge of the dry cave, and walked out into the storm. The cool rain felt good against his heated body. The air refreshed him after sitting in the stuffy cave. Alec rubbed the soap over himself and through his hair, scrubbing his own blood from his chest and limbs.

  His own blood. If he’d died today, would the Macbains have considered it a final victory since he was the last of his father’s sons? He grimaced. A distraction had nearly cost him everything. He could easily blame the girl as she seemed ready to take it on. But the truth was that she’d captured his usually unwavering attention simply with her presence.

  She’d stared at him through the trees without a sound, without a hint of fear. He’d looked wild, yet she sounded no alarm. Rachel Brindle may be English, she may be the daughter of a swindler, she might even be a witch, but she was no coward. Cunning and courage delivered her from Druim. Alec rinsed the soap from his body and shook the heavy rainwater from his hair. He turned just as Rachel’s scream shot out of the cave and straight into his heart.