To Marry a Scottish Laird

by Lynsay Sands

  Gritting her teeth, she closed her eyes briefly, then pushed herself to her hands and knees. Her arms shook, weak from that small effort, and the bottom of the cart seemed to swim before her eyes, but she took a deep breath and managed to ease back to sit on her haunches. Raising her head determinedly, Kyla peered around as the clang of metal against metal joined the shouts and shrieks already filling the quiet glade they had been passing through.

  The miserable burning in her back and her pounding head were immediately forgotten as Kyla took in the activity around her. They were under attack. What made her mouth drop open and her eyes widen incredulously was the unbelievable fact that the mad savages attacking her chain-mailed escort actually appeared to be winning!

  Several members of her escort had already fallen from their mounts. The rest were attempting to urge their horses closer to the wagon to form a tight circle around it to defend from, but their attempts were hampered by the panicked rearing of the now-riderless horses that suddenly seemed to be everywhere.

  Swallowing the fear tightening her throat, Kyla peered slowly around the glade with a sort of stunned apprehension. Her men were dropping like flies at summer's end. Already a third of them lay injured or dying on the muddy ground.

  A roar drew her eyes as a great mountain of a man slammed into the back of the cart, struggling with one of her men-at-arms. With no time to prepare herself for the jolt, Kyla was sent sprawling onto her stomach again in the bottom of the wagon, her chin slamming hard into the floor of the cart despite the cushioning furs.

  Cursing, she started to push herself back to her haunches again, but had barely lifted her head when one of her escort rode up to the side of the cart. He forcefully shoved her down again, ordering her to be still before riding off into the fray once more.

  Frowning and muttering under her breath, Kyla did as she was told . . . for all of a heartbeat. She popped back up into a sitting position again.

  "What's about?"

  Remembering the woman who had been resting beside her throughout this journey, Kyla tore her gaze reluctantly from the fray and sank slowly back into the wagon. Rolling carefully onto her side, she peered worriedly at the wrinkled, old face of the woman who had been a maid, nurse, and mother figure to her for as long as she could recall, then lied, " 'Tis all right. 'Tis nothing. Go back to sleep."

  A bloom of pale color tinged wrinkled old cheeks with anger and Morag's black eyes narrowed. "Yer lying, girl. Ye never could fool me."

  The maid began to rise, determined to see for herself, but Kyla quickly pressed her back down. "Nay, do not rise."

  "Then tell me!" she ordered sharply. "And the truth this time."

  "Aye." Kyla sighed, searching briefly for a way to lessen the old woman's imminent terror, then shrugged. There was none. "We are under attack."

  "What?!" Gasping in horror, Morag began to struggle upward again.

  Kyla was trying to push the woman back down into the safety provided by the sides of the cart when a second jolt gave pause to them both. Stilling, they spun to stare at the warrior now standing on the back of the wagon. He was the same man who had first landed in the cart and as she had before, Kyla found herself memerized by the sight of him. Tall. Strong. Magnificent. He stood poised for a moment surveying the battle, the sweat on his body gleaming in the sunlight, then, just as suddenly as he had arrived, he lunged off the cart again, sword swinging ferociously.

  "Gor!" Fanning herself with her good hand, Morag collapsed back against the skins in the bottom of their cart. "Savages!" she muttered crossly. "Highlanders. And 'tis one of them yer Catriona is wedding ye to. Yer dear departed mother must be rolling in her grave."

  "Aye," Kyla agreed, then scowled as Morag pushed herself back up so that she could peer over the side of the cart.

  "What are you doing?" Kyla hissed, sitting up to pull her back.

  "Watching to see if we win."

  Kyla opened her mouth to say that it mattered little--even if Catriona's men won, she would not be the winner--but before she could comment on that, two battling Scots crashed into the side of the wagon sending both women tumbling sideways against the far wall. Just as Morag would have raised herself again to continue her watch, a sword swung over their heads, then caught in the wood of the wagon. A man cried out in agony.

  The Scot who had landed briefly in the wagon earlier peered over the side at them, a fierce glare on his face. "Keep yer heads down, ye lack-witted harpies!" he bellowed in Gaelic.

  When Kyla's eyes widened in confusion, the man then repeated the order in English. Obviously he'd thought she had not understood the order the first time, but in truth, her confusion was due to the fact that he had given it at all. He was not one of her escort, but one of their attackers. What the devil did he care if she lived or got herself killed?

  Frowning, she peeked over the edge of the wagon again, dismay overwhelming her as she saw that every single one of her mail-armored escort had fallen. Not one still stood among the battling men. Even the driver of the wagon was now sprawled on his seat, bleeding badly from a shoulder wound. The only warriors between herself and capture were the Scots her betrothed had sent to meet them at the border. There seemed few of them left.

  Peering around at the fighting men, she estimated that perhaps fifteen of her escort still stood. Fourteen, she corrected as another man fell. Thirteen.

  "What's about?" Morag rasped anxiously. Kyla bit her lip as she glanced down at her companion. Once the last of their defenders were slain, the attackers would no doubt turn their attention to them. Kyla was not willing to contemplate what would happen then. These savages bore no resemblance to the knights of her brother's court.

  Muttering under her breath, she ignored Morag's question as well as her own aches and pains and began to move. Climbing over the lip of the cart, she crawled onto the seat beside the slumped driver, grabbed the reins from his slack hands, then gave them a sharp snap. Unnerved by the smell of blood and the battle that raged around them, both animals were more than happy to fulfill her silent order. After a brief spate of snorting and wild rearing, the beasts set out, hooves tearing into the moist earth beneath them as they drew the cart quickly away from the melee.

  Movement to her side brought Kyla's eyes around in time to see the previous driver tumble from the bench seat, dislodged by the lurching motion of the wagon. She winced at the thud as he hit the ground, but set her teeth and snapped the reins over the horses again, urging them to greater speed.

  "Damnation!" Pushing herself up weakly, Morag peered out the back of the cart. Behind them, their attackers seemed not even to notice their escape.

  Kyla scowled and reached back to push her gently down onto the floor of the cart. "Stay down, Morag. You are not well."

  The woman snorted at that, but sank down among the furs willingly enough, though not before muttering, "Oh, aye, but ye are, I suppose?"

  Disregarding the sarcastic comment, Kyla concentrated on steering their cart through the trees they had entered. They hadn't gone far when she spotted the horses. About twenty of them. No doubt belonging to their attackers. She was just worrying over the idea that they may have left someone to mind the animals when Morag's earsplitting scream rent the air from the back of the cart. Kyla turned just in time to see a figure drop from a tree branch.

  He was huge. A veritable mountain that made the whole wagon shudder as he landed in the back of it. Kyla's gaze found the shiny blade he held in one hand and she panicked. With a broken arm and cracked ribs, her nurse maid was helpless against such a brute.

  Dropping the reins, she stood, turned, drew her own dirk from her waist, and lunged--all at once. It was really quite amazing that she hit her target, but not only did she hit him, she sent the attacker backward right off the cart.

  It had been an incredibly stupid thing to do, Kyla realized. With nothing to hold on to but the person she was tackling, she went tumbling off the wagon with the man. Driverless, the cart continued on its merry way, Morag sc
reeching frantically from the back.

  The savage's body cushioned Kyla from the worst of the fall. Yet despite this bit of luck, her landing was jarring and, for a moment, she could only lie atop the man, trying to regain her breath. It was the shine of sunlight reaching delicately through the summer leaves overhead to touch the tip of the blade she had dropped that moved her to action. She had just managed to grasp the dirk when the brawny man she lay on suddenly released a loud roar and rolled her onto her back, a move that sent all of the air rushing out of her lungs.

  Gasping in agony, Kyla blindly jabbed her knife at him. Much to her relief, the great bear cursed and moved off her at once. Taking advantage of that, Kyla rolled quickly away from him and onto her stomach, sighing as the pain that had been ripping at her immediately eased a bit. Still, her vision wavered slightly as she eyed him where he now sat, gaping at her with amazement as he grasped the wound she had made in his side. It really wasn't much of a wound from what she could see; once he got over his surprise at her aggressive action, he would no doubt come at her again.

  Turning her head, Kyla peered about, her gaze fastening on a good-sized fallen branch a few inches away from her right hand. It was leafless and pale brown from time spent in the elements. The bit nearest her was obviously the tip, but it widened out as it went, growing until it was thicker around at the end than her upper arm. Stretching, she closed her fingers over it, dragging it toward her even as she began to struggle to her hands and knees. Then, grasping it in both hands, she used it to help lever herself back to her feet.

  The man recognized her intent the moment she lifted the stump of wood in her trembling arms and turned toward him. He immediately started to rise, but Kyla was already swinging for his head. The wood connected with a crack, the dead branch snapping in half as it slammed into his head. For a moment, Kyla feared all she had managed to do was anger the man further, then, a gurgle of surprise slipped from his lips and he sank back to lie in the leaves and grass.

  Kyla felt nausea rise up inside her, then Morag's screams reached her through her dismay. Turning away from her enemy, she hurried after the fleeing cart, her heart nearly stopping when another figure dropped from the trees directly in front of the wagon. Spooked, the horses reared, the cart tipped, and Morag tumbled out with a cry that turned Kyla's blood cold. The cart righted itself and the horses stopped, stomping fearfully at the ground.

  All she could see was Morag's frail body lying on the ground as she rushed forward. Forgetting the other man, she rushed to her maid's side, the knife slipping from her limp fingers as she dropped to her knees and gently touched one leathery cheek. "Morag? Morag!"

  The flickering of those old, white eyelashes seemed the most beautiful thing in the world to Kyla. Releasing a gasping sob, she hugged the frail body close and silently offered up a prayer of thanks.

  It was only then that she recalled the other barbarian. Glancing up, she saw with some surprise that he was a mere boy. And that he wasn't paying her the least bit of attention. He was looking past her.

  Following his gaze, she immediately understood his lack of concern. The battle was over. The warriors were approaching, expressions grim.

  Laying Morag quickly back down, Kyla snatched up the dirk she had dropped and got to her feet, moving instinctively between the prone woman and the approaching men. But, like the boy, the warriors paid her little heed. Instead, they hurried to their fallen comrade and encircled him, hiding him from view.

  Clenching the dirk tighter in her sweaty hand, Kyla set her gaze darting about the area. It seemed obvious there was no escape, for she could not leave without Morag. Standing and fighting was her only option. In truth she wished it were not. She had never thought to die this way. Nor so young.

  The men began to turn their attention to her now. Expressions forbidding, they moved forward, forming a half-circle in front of her as they took in her stance and the dirk in her hand.

  Kyla expected an immediate attack, men coming at her all at once. It was a bit unnerving when they merely continued to stare at her, then began to discuss her in Gaelic, unaware that she understood the language.

  "Bonnie," one commented, drawing her wary gaze to him. He was tall. Good God, they were all tall. She was of average height herself, and these men seemed giants. They stood, looming like a forest of trees before her. Broad-chested, solid, strong, and terrifying.

  "Aye. Bonnie. But wee." The man who said that seemed to be the leader. She had noticed that the others had deferred to him as he led the way to stand before her. He was the red-haired man, the same one who had stood on the back of the wagon, then called her a harpie and ordered her to keep her head down. He was one of the tallest of them. He also seemed to be one of the brawniest, though the man directly beside him, the one who had originally called her "bonnie" was a good deal larger. Good grief, that man could be mistaken for a small building from a distance, she thought, frowning briefly at him before turning her attention back to the leader. She realized that the men were agreeing with him and not very flatteringly.

  "Aye. Puny."

  "Pulin'."

  "All bones."

  "Frail-lookin'."

  "Pale as death, too and swaying on her feet. I be thinkin' she won't survive the trip home, let alone our harsh winters."

  The leader nodded at that observation and they all eyed her gloomily. A dark-haired man behind the leader brightened. "Mayhap 'tis not her. Mayhap we attacked the wrong party."

  Those words brought a round of hopeful looks from the other men, but the leader shook his head. "Nay, Duncan. 'Twas the MacGregors we fought with the Sassenach. I recognized at least two of them."

  Kyla's sigh of disappointment joined that of the men. For a moment she had glimpsed freedom; surely if they had erred, they would have let her go. Alive? But, aye, it was the MacGregors that had been escorting their party. Twenty of them had met them at the border. It had been an added precaution, though Kyla had thought it unnecessary at the time, since forty of Catriona's men had already been escorting her. Now she saw how wrong she had been; the English men-at-arms had been slow and awkward in their mail. They had fallen quickly against these savages, leaving the MacGregor men alone to protect her. She supposed she was who these men were looking for, though she could not for the life of her figure out why. Unless the entire betrothal had been a ruse to get her away from the castle and assassinate her. That was a possibility. And not beyond her sister-in-law's nefarious mind.

  "Well, we'd best be collecting her and moving on," the leader commented finally, drawing her attention back from her thoughts. He did not seem eager to accomplish the deed. In fact the only move he made was to shift his feet as he eyed her. Still, even that was enough to make Kyla stiffen warily. She would not go down without a fight.

  "Careful of that blade of hers. 'Tis verra sharp. She gave me a fair nasty scratch with it."

  Her gaze turned at once to the speaker, the man she had noted could be mistaken for a building. Shock covered her face now as she took in his features rather than his bulk; he was the one she had stabbed, then knocked out. The man was now standing tall and strong, no discomfort on his face and little to show that she had hurt him except for the blood on his shirt and plaid. And there was not very much of that either, she noted now with disgust.

  Mouth tightening, Kyla braced her feet farther apart and bent her knees slightly in the manner she had seen her brother take during hand-to-hand combat.

  Tipping his head to the side, the leader eyed her briefly, then suggested in English, "Ye'd best be dropping the blade, lassie, ere ye hurt yerself."

  Kyla's only response was to lift her chin grimly. When the leader moved calmly forward, she was ready for him. Or so she thought.

  He took two steps in a slow, meandering pace, then suddenly lunged. Grabbing her wrist in one hand, he forced it into the air, snatched the knife from her fingers with embarrassing ease, then tossed it to the man she had stabbed.

  Screaming in frustration, Kyl
a kicked at his legs. She screeched even more furiously as she found herself picked up and slung over his shoulder like a sack of wheat.

  "Calm yerself!" The stern order was accompanied by a slap on the behind that shocked her into silence. "We'll not hurt ye or the old witch."

  Cursing roundly, Kyla thumped her fists ineffectively against his wide back, then paused to watch anxiously as one of the other men stooped to survey Morag. She nearly sobbed with relief when the fellow seemed to realize the woman's fragile condition and took care to lift her gently before following the man carrying herself.

  When the barbarian transporting her suddenly paused, Kyla knew instinctively that they had reached the wagon and that he would most likely drop her into it. She tried to brace herself for what was to come, but no amount of preparation on earth could have readied her for her landing in the back of the cart. 'Twas not that he was unduly rough. Simply that he knew not of her injury and set her flat on her back in the bottom of the wagon with a small bump. It had the same effect as if she had been dropped on a wide board with nails poking out of it. The pain took her breath away, leaving not even a small gasp for her to cry out with. Lights danced briefly before her eyes before everything went black.

  About the Author

  LYNSAY SANDS is the nationally bestselling author of the Argeneau/Rogue Hunter vampire series, as well as numerous historicals and anthologies. She's been writing since grade school and considers herself incredibly lucky to be able to make a career out of it. Her hope is that readers can get away from their everyday stress through her stories, and if there are occasional uncontrollable fits of laughter, that's just a big bonus.

  Please visit her on the web at www.lynsaysands.net.

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  By Lynsay Sands

  TO MARRY A SCOTTISH LAIRD

  AN ENGLISH BRIDE IN SCOTLAND

  THE HUSBAND HUNT

  THE HEIRESS