I Left My Heart in Scotland

by Samantha Holt

Inverness, 1297

  Rory MacPherson grimaced as he eyed his dilapidated keep. The outer wall had taken a serious battering and the portcullis had been knocked in so that it hung at an odd angle. Of course, half of the destruction had been caused by his own men as they attempted to claim back the castle from the English. Thankfully the siege hadn’t lasted long but who knew what damage they had done? Not to mention his household was scattered to the winds.

  His gut twisted. Isla’s brown eyes flitted through his mind, warmed by the fireplace as she sat in her usual chair. Had she got away in time? Or had she still been in there, defending his castle when the English broke through? He gripped his sword and swiped the sweat from his brow as he pushed past the twisted gate and raised his head to view the castle. The shutters were torn from their hinges, chunks of stone were missing from the walls. Blood soiled the bailey.

  With a shake of his head, he hurried up the outer steps and into the Great Hall. He should never have left her to deal with this. A lass had no place fighting men’s wars. And seeing such bloodshed. Especially a lass like Isla. His wife was delicate, sweet. Not made for battle.

  But still, they had kept the English at bay for several sennights. His men must have fought hard for fear of what the English might do to them and their lady. Rory swallowed the knot in his throat as he studied the hall with its upturned tables and the smell of death lingering in the air.

  Ach, he should never have left Dunmuir. Should never have left Isla. He clenched his fist and considered what might have happened to her. His heart flipped as he realised he’d have to scour the keep for her. When they’d forced the English out, there had been no sign of his wife. He prayed she had fled. She was a beautiful woman—a tempting prize for any man.

  He kicked aside a chair and began his hunt of the lower floor. Men entered the hall behind him and did the same, scouring the place for the enemy or any of their kin left standing. Who could have predicted the English would come up the coast? While he had joined the Scots on the border, the English snuck around them and took several castles, including his own. By the time he got word of the attack, it was too late. Only days before he arrived, the English succeeded in breaking through their defences and taking his home.

  And mayhap his wife…

  Poor lass. She deserved so much better. He took the stairs up to the gallery and continued his ascent to the solar. Once his chamber, it now looked no better than a peasant’s home. His grand bed was torn and filthy, his furniture tossed aside. Some of Isla’s gowns had been thrown about, a stark reminder of what might have happened to her.

  In truth, he might never see her again. She was either captured or dead. Or by some miracle, she had escaped in time. He prayed for that but the sickening beat of his heart told him otherwise. Rory picked up a pale blue gown and fingered it. It looked strange against his blood stained hand. So small and feminine. Whereas he was big and rough. A primitive warrior. He sighed as he dropped the gown and studied the chamber once more.

  Since his marriage to Isla, he barely set foot in here. After that one night—their wedding night—he hardly dared to. He clenched his teeth as need stirred. It proved too hard to muster the control to keep his desires at bay around her and he’d hurt her enough the first time. Sweet Isla deserved much more. If only the lass wasn’t so wee and fragile. But she wasn’t the first woman who’d told him he was too big for her. His first lover had said much the same, claiming him to be too rough and inconsiderate. Ach, but he’d been so nervous it did not surprise him. But then with Isla… It had been the most astounding experience of his life. Never had a woman made him feel that way and yet, afterwards, she’d cried.

  Concluding he wasn’t going to find anyone hiding in his chamber, he took the spiral stairs back down to the hall. Swiping a hand across his face, he numbly helped with clearing the hall. A lump sat in his throat as he righted the chair Isla liked to sit and do her embroidery in. Although they did not behave as man and wife, they had a pleasant sort of relationship. When he kept his desires under control that was. He enjoyed watching her sit with a needle and thread on her lap and she had a keen mind. Often he turned to her for aid. Rory recalled the way her deep brown eyes would narrow as she considered his words and offered a solution.

  A shiver trailed through him and he turned. “God’s teeth, Donny!”

  His younger brother stood in the doorway, his plaid torn and blood-stained. Rory dashed to his side and wrapped an arm around him. Donny leaned heavily against him as Rory led him to the chair in front of the unlit fire.

  “Get some clothes,” Rory barked at whoever was around. “And light the fire. Have we a healer?”

  Donny shook his head. “Nay, I dinnae need a healer. This blood isnae mine. I am weary though. Some ale would be good.”

  “Ach, the Sasannach bastards drained our supplies. We’ve little left. What happened? I feared the English captured ye.” He rested an arm against the fireplace as he studied his brother. Donny had short, dark brown hair like his but was not as strong nor as tall as he. Why had he left him in charge? Ach, but he was a fool.

  “Nay, though they put up a strong fight. But yer lady wife did a fine job of seeing them off. The keep would have fallen sooner had it not been for her.”

  “Isla?”

  Donny chuckled. “Do ye have another wife I dinnae know of?”

  “Isla defended the keep?”

  “Aye, why? A Highland lass is plenty capable of scaring off the English, you should know that.”

  “Aye, but… Isla…?” He scowled. Isla organising the men-at-arms or rationing their supplies…surely not?

  “Much good it did us. They overran us eventually. Isla had us put up a last stand and we killed many but there were just too few of us.”

  “Lord Almighty,” Rory breathed. “And what of Isla? What became of her? Dinnae lie to me, Donny, for ye know ye cannae.”

  “Ach, I know ye always see through my tall tales but I truthfully dinnae know. She got away but how far she got I cannae tell ye. And I cannae say whether she fell into the enemy’s hands.” He lowered his gaze. “Forgive me, brother, I’ve failed ye. I should have taken better care of her.”

  “Nay, I failed ye all. I should have been here, protecting what’s mine.” Protecting Isla. “I have to find her, Donny. Did she say what she would do should the keep be overrun?”

  “Aye, she spoke of seeking refuge with her father. But, Rory, I dinnae know if she even took a maid. The battle was fierce and I cannae be sure of anything. If she made it out, I think it likely she’s alone.”

  A chill swept through him, so that even his bones were cold. Wee Isla all on her own. Even if she didn’t fall into the hands of the English, it did not bode well for her. He scraped a hand through his hair as he considered what he needed to take with him. If she was on foot, mayhap she hadn’t got far. Hopefully he would catch up with her in no time. If she was alive. And free.

  “Rory.” His brother drew his attention back to him. “Isla said if that ever happened to tell ye…to tell ye not to worry. She’d no’ be yer burden any longer.”

  Rory scowled. “What does that mean?”

  Donny shrugged. “Ye’d know better than me, Rory. She’s yer wife.”

  Hell fire. The sickening sensation that had plagued him since they’d claimed back the castle increased. His burden? Did she believe he’d just let her run off to be killed or captured? Did she think he wouldn’t care what happened to her? He ran a hand through his hair again and clasped the back of his neck. Aye, mayhap she did. He was no loving husband and they’d yet to sire an heir. There was little to keep her with him.

  He glanced at his brother and drew in a breath. “Donny, I am going to find Isla and bring her back.”

  His brother gave him an uncertain look and lifted his shoulders in resignation. “I cannae stop ye but I dinnae think she wants to come back, Rory. Mayhap ye’d be better off letting her go. And ‘tis dangerous out there at the moment. Ye might be captured by the enemy.
Think on that, Rory. Is she worth that?”

  The cold within him dissipated, replaced by a burning fire in his belly. Aye, Isla was worth that but was he selfish enough to bring her back to a loveless arranged marriage? Loveless? Nay, mayhap not loveless but certainly affectionless. The disappearance of his wife had taught him one thing. He cared for her more than he ever realised. Now he just needed to figure out how to prove as much.

  ***

  Isla swiped furiously at the tear that escaped as she continued the climb. The jagged rocks and rolling mountains meant the journey to the village would be a hard one but she had little choice. Thankfully the weather was on her side. Though a chill seeped through her, the clouds remained white with little threat of rain. Hopefully she would find shelter before it turned on her.

  Her heart did a little jump as her thoughts turned inevitably to her husband. Word of the attack on the keep had been sent to him. Had he returned? And if he had, was he well? The English had proved to be harder to defeat than they’d realised. If Rory fought them, she feared he might not survive.

  She straightened her shoulders and drew in a restorative breath. Nay, Rory would endure. He was the biggest, strongest warrior she knew. No Englishman could defeat the laird. She just hoped he wouldn’t be too disappointed with her for allowing the keep to fall. Still her absence would be a comfort to him. He wouldn’t have to worry about her any more. Now he could take a lover. Or mayhap take up with the one he already had.

  Surely he had one for what man as virile as Rory would not if he did not find satisfaction with his wife? She shuddered and wrapped her arms about herself as she allowed a sad smile to creep across her face. It was a shame because she so enjoyed his company and even her very brief taste of love-making. For a large man, he had been surprisingly tender. Aye, she had been unbelievably nervous, for who wouldn’t be when faced with such an intimidating man? A man she barely knew at that, but once the pain had passed, she had been overcome by such pleasure, it shocked her to her core.

  Sadly Rory hadn’t felt the same. He left her as the feelings overwhelmed and made her a quivering mess. Mayhap she had been a disappointment or he did not find her attractive and had done his due just to ensure their marriage was binding. Aye, a shame indeed for the large, dark-haired man was surely the most striking man she had ever met. Even with his heavy brow and long curling hair, he stole her breath.

  It would have been easier to bear, had he been a bad man, she thought as she hitched her skirts and stepped over a rock. But Rory was the best of men. Honourable, chivalrous, quiet and caring. He actually asked her advice and listened to her. How many other men would listen to a mere lass? And he showed interest in her work, always querying how her embroidery was coming along or whether the household was running smoothly. If it were not for the fact he did not want her in bed, they would have the perfect marriage.

  She let out a sigh when she spotted the thatched roofs of the nearest settlement. It was at least another two miles away but the sight proved reviving and she found herself walking faster. She needed to find shelter and safety quickly for who knew how many English were still roaming the hills.

  No more regrets. She would continue on to her father’s keep. Hopefully he would not send her back to a place that had proved dangerous, and when he discovered her husband had little intention of giving her a child, mayhap he would take pity on her. Her father was a kindly man and would want her safe from the English.

  As she continued her journey across the moors, flickers of memories taunted her. The way Rory looked at her sometimes as she sat by the fire, absorbed in her embroidery. Or how he took her hand occasionally, the coarse warmth more comforting than a wool blanket. How she longed to feel that now. But no more. No more suffering the sharp stab of disappointment. No longer, would she lie in bed and wonder with whom he was finding his pleasure.

  When she finally reached the outskirts of the village, Isla was weary but almost jubilant. For a woman who spent little time outdoors, she had done well locating the settlement. Considering she was entirely alone—she tried not to think on what might have happened to her maid—the journey could have been far more treacherous.

  Isla knocked on the door of the first cottage, apprehension making her stomach churn. She let herself relax as a young woman answered, just a few seasons older than her. Or mayhap the same age. The rough living aged the peasants quickly. Isla glanced down at her attire, almost glad to see it was mud-stained and creased. Hopefully she wouldn’t stand out too much.

  “Can I help ye…” The fair-haired woman narrowed her eyes. “Is that ye Lady Isla?”

  “Aye, aye ‘tis I.” Isla sagged a little.

  “Lord above, what’s happened to ye? Did they take the keep? Are we to expect an attack?” The woman paused and smiled, wiping a hand down her coarse brown gown. “Pray come in, milady.”

  Isla ducked into the small hut. It was one room with a dirt floor. Several pallets occupied one side while two sheep remained on the other. A small bench and table rested against the back wall and the fire pit cast the only light in the cottage. The odour of sheep dung made Isla want to wince but she managed to keep her face straight.

  She clasped her hands in front of her and eyed the young woman. She didn’t recognise her but then they saw many visitors at the keep.

  “My brother is tending to the rest of the flock at the moment. Are we in danger?”

  Isla shook her head. “I dinnae think so. Laird MacPherson was to return and take back the keep though I was forced to escape before he did. But the English willnae be interested in the small villages.” In truth, she did not know that for sure but there was no point in scaring the lass. If the English really wanted to attack then there was little the villagers could do.

  The woman nodded. “Well yer welcome to seek shelter here, milady, though I fear ‘twill no’ be as comfortable as yer castle.”

  “I thank ye. I willnae stay long. I intend to seek refuge with my father.”

  “Aye, a good idea I think. Yer a fine prize for an Englishman, milady. But ‘twill no’ be long before the laird sees them off and ye can return home.”

  Isla smiled vaguely. “Yer very kind. Pray tell what is yer name? I’ll be sure to tell the laird of yer kindness.” By missive of course, but she did not wish to mention that.

  “I’m Kate, milady. Pray sit, ye must be weary after yer travels. Did ye come alone?”

  “Aye, I did. My maidservant and I were separated during the battle. I barely escaped unscathed. I only pray she is unharmed.”

  Kate gave her a sympathetic pat on the hand as she motioned for Isla to sit on the rickety bench. “I’m sure she is well though I expect the laird will be worried for ye. Not many a lady could make such a journey unscathed.”

  With a chuckle, Isla sat and folded her skirts around her. She was used to people underestimating her. She was short and very small boned. And she looked younger than her four and twenty years. Her quiet conduct and soft voice didn’t help matters either. But her mother had been a strong character, and time running her father’s household and now Rory’s had taught her much. A gentle manner often helped rather than hindered as people went out of their way to help her.

  If only Rory appreciated that about her. But clearly she was not the sort of wife he longed for. Aye, he would surely be happy to be rid of his quiet, unassuming wife.

  ***

  “Milady!”

  Isla groaned and rolled, landing on the mud floor. She blinked as gloom greeted her and rubbed a hand over her face, groaning as she discovered the dirt from the ground embedded in her palms. Kate lifted a candle and Isla caught her desperate expression.

  “Milady!”

  Sore muscles pulled as Isla came to standing. She was not used to sleeping on a straw pallet and her body was telling her so. “What it is?”

  “The English…they’re here,” Kate hissed.

  “What? Here? In the village?”

  “Nay, on the outskirts. My brother has
gone to sound the warning but we must run, milady. If they see ye, they’ll surely know yer a noble lady.”

  Isla straightened her skirts. The damned English. First they’d taken her home and now they were forcing her to run once more. But they were not that courageous. She’d held them back for long enough. Surely there were enough villagers to see them off? “Can we no’ fight them?”

  “With what?” Kate shook her head. “We have no swords or walls to hide behind.”

  “But to run? ‘Tis hardly…very Scottish is it?”

  Kate puffed out a frustrated breath. “Milady…pray, we must go. Yer in danger.”

  “How many men?”

  “Milady?”

  “How many men was there, Kate?”

  “Ach, I dinnae know. My brother cannae count but he reckoned a dozen.”

  Something had snapped inside of her. Isla wasn’t sure why but a wild anger brewed inside. She’d spent so long doing her duty. First marrying the man of her father’s choosing, then tolerating her husband’s night time antics, whatever those were, and finally holding back the English for many sennights only for them to break through. Her inability to defeat them severely rankled. She had so hoped to prove to Rory what she was made of.

  “How many villagers are there? Not including the children?” she asked Kate.

  “Not including the children? We number at about five and thirty.”

  “We outnumber them,” Isla said thoughtfully.

  “Aye but they have weapons. They could cut us all down.”

  “‘Tis dark though. They dinnae know that. If ye saw a gathering of angry Scots that clearly outnumbered ye, would ye go up against them?”

  Kate laughed. “Nay…nay I would not.”

  “Come, we dinnae have much time. We must send word and gather everyone on the edge of the village with anything they can shake angrily. Harrows, scythes, anything.”

  Kate thrust something into her hand. A fork, she realised, and they hurried to spread the word. Isla was grateful the villagers did not argue. Most had already gathered to make an escape but no Scot relished the idea of not fighting for what was theirs. Whether it was because her idea was a good one or because they were just obeying their lady, she did not know nor did she care. They were to fight back. A thrill rolled through her. Was this what Rory felt before he went to battle?