by Nora Roberts
Seeing the way Fitzroy struggled against those holding him while glancing at his fallen sword, Rothwick threw back his head and laughed. “I wish you had the strength left to try it. It would give me such satisfaction to duel with you. Alas, I have more important things to see to.” He nodded to his men. “Hold them while I kill them both. Then we return to the MacLish fortress, where we will burn it, and all who lay dead inside, to the ground.”
Fitzroy’s voice was a choked sob. “God forgive me, Royce. I should have forced you to run.”
Royce’s eyes filled and he blinked furiously, refusing to allow even that small weakness. “I’d have defied you with my last breath.”
“You fought like a man, Royce.” His older brother’s voice trembled with emotion. “I was proud to stand beside you.”
“Enough,” came the rough voice.
Royce heard his brother cry out as Reginald Rothwick drove a sword directly through his heart. Moments later Fitzroy’s crumpled body lay in the grass, in an ever-widening pool of blood.
“Now the lad,” Rothwick shouted.
While strong arms held him upright, Rothwick drew his arm back and drove a lance into Royce’s chest with such force it went clear through, the tip protruding through the outer flesh of his back between his shoulders.
Royce heard someone’s voice, high-pitched in agony, and realized it was his own. When his captors released him, his legs buckled, dropping him to the ground as his body was consumed by a white-hot blaze that seemed to go on and on until he was certain his flesh and bones had been burned away. Slowly the world around him turned gray, then black.
He heard the hoofbeats retreating. An ominous silence seemed to creep over the land. He embraced the darkness and prayed for death to take him quickly.
Chapter 1
The Highlands—Six years later
“LET’S hasten, lads.” Alana Lamont led the way along the lane that snaked through the village of Dunhill, toward the village green. “If we’re to fetch the best fowl, we must get there before the crowds.”
She was still upset by the fact that the walls of their fortress had been breached yet again, and this time the thieves had taken the last of their chickens and geese. That meant that poor old Brin, their cook, would have to barter eggs from nearby villagers until the chicks Alana intended to purchase today would grow big enough to lay.
At least, she thought, the only things taken had been livestock. The tales she’d heard from those left widowed and orphaned by Laird Reginald Rothwick’s warriors as they swept across the Highlands in a reign of terror had her wondering how much longer her household could survive.
As they neared the center of town, Alana looked around with a feeling of dismay. Its village square should have been bustling with people. Instead, there were only a couple of elderly farmers huddled by the side of the road, displaying their wares in wooden pens.
Alana knelt down beside an old woman. “What has happened? Where are the people?”
The old woman sniffed into her apron, avoiding Alana’s eyes. “Have ye not heard? The village of Roxburgh was attacked last night. We fear our village will be next.”
“Can the villagers not band together and fight these attackers?”
The old woman looked at Alana as if she were addled. “Do ye know what happens to those who stand up to the laird’s warriors?” She stopped speaking when she caught sight of the three lads.
“We know.” Ingram, the tallest of the three, with pale yellow hair, spoke for the others. “Our village was attacked, our families murdered in their beds.”
The other two lads nodded.
“Yet ye survived.” The old woman lifted her head to study them more closely.
“Aye.” Jeremy picked up the thread of their tale. “We forded streams, hiked across mountains, slept in deserted sheds . . .”
“Until Lady Alana Lamont found us and took us to her father’s fortress,” added the third lad.
“That’s kind of ye, my lady.” The old woman pinned Alana with a dark look. “But if ye value yer life, and the lives of these lads, ye’ll prepare to run.”
“Where would we run?” Alana asked softly.
“To the Lowlands. To England, even. Anywhere that the devils can’t find ye.”
Alana took the old woman’s hand. “Why do you stay?”
“ ’Tis too late for us.” The old woman glanced at her husband, bent and stooped, skin leathered from a lifetime in the fields. “We’re too poor to have a horse and cart. But those villagers strong enough to walk or ride are preparing to flee.”
Alana stood and shook down her skirts. “I’ll buy all the stock you have to sell. Perhaps the money will be enough to persuade a neighbor with both horse and cart to take you and your husband along when they flee.”
The old woman’s eyes filled with tears. “Thank ye, my lady.” She spoke to her husband, who handed over to the lads a pen of chickens and a cow.
Alana counted out all the coins she had and watched with a feeling of sadness as the couple hobbled away.
Turning to the lads, she called, “We’d best not tarry in this place.”
They moved quickly and were halfway across a meadow when they saw something moving in the grass. When they drew closer they could make out the figure of a tiny lass, dark hair matted, clothes smeared with blood. When she saw them she started to run in the opposite direction.
“Wait,” Alana called out. “We mean you no harm.”
The child paused.
Alana stepped closer. As she did, she let out a gasp when she saw what had been hidden from her eyes in the grass. A man and woman, their mangled bodies bloodied beyond recognition, lay side by side.
Alana looked away. “Are these your parents?”
A tiny head nodded.
“Were you fleeing the warriors from the village of Roxburgh?”
Another quick nod.
“What is your name?”
There was only silence.
Alana pointed to the others. “These lads and I are on our way to my home. Will you come with us?”
When the lass hesitated, Ingram knelt down so that his eyes were level with the little lass’s. “We lost our families as well. Lady Alana took us in and has kept us safe. If you come with us, she’ll see that you’re safe there as well.”
To Alana’s amazement, the lass flew into his arms and wrapped her chubby hands around his neck.
As they started toward the distant fortress, she gave the lad a smile. “Well done, Ingram.”
He looked pleased with himself and a little dazed at the lass’s trust. By the time they reached the fortress, she was snuggled against his shoulder, clinging to him as to a lifeline.
Inside the fortress, the old housekeeper washed the terrified young lass, as she had all the others Alana brought home, soothed the little girl’s fears as best she could and set a pallet near the fire where she could watch until the child fell into an exhausted sleep.
“I’M cold, Alana.” With several animal hides wrapped around his shoulders, and white hair streaming around his still-handsome face, Laird Malcolm Lamont looked more like an old lion than a Highlander.
“I know, Father. As soon as I’ve finished feeding you, I’ll bring more wood for the fire.” Alana lifted a bowl of clear broth into which she’d cut up chunks of meat.
The old man ate slowly, allowing her to mop at his mouth between each sip or bite. “Leave that chore for Lochaber. He won’t mind tending the fires.”
Alana smiled at the thought of her father’s ancient warrior, husband to Brin, going about the countryside searching out wood for their fire. Like the rest of their aging household staff, most of whom were incapable of doing more than dressing themselves, the old man spent much of his day in his chambers like his laird, recreating in his mind the battles of his youth.
To spare her father the pain of their desperate situation, Alana had taught herself how to do everything that had once been done by dozens of servants. It was Alan
a who hunted their food, and Alana who stripped the nearby forest of dead wood for the fires, hauling it back in a cart that had once been pulled by a pony, until the poor creature had been stolen in a nighttime raid.
To add to her burden, she’d opened their fortress to the half a dozen widows and orphans she’d found wandering the Highlands, often dazed and brutalized after an attack by Rothwick’s army. Unless a man vowed allegiance to Reginald Rothwick, he forfeited his life, and risked the safety of his women and children. So many hovels had been torched, fields stripped of crops, animals stolen, the Highlands had become a place of bitter hopelessness and despair.
“What’s Brin putting in the broth these days?” The old man propped up on his pallet with several hides mounded at his back for support, made a face.
“Just a bit of gristle, Father.” Alana thought about how carefully she and their old housekeeper rationed every portion in order to feed so many, and wondered, as she did daily, where their next meal would come from. “Still, it satisfies your hunger.”
“Barely.” The old man sighed and studied the daughter who looked so much like her dead mother, Amena, that it never failed to touch his heart, for Amena had been the great love of his life. From the green eyes ringed with gold-tipped lashes, to the red hair that fell in glorious curls to below her waist, Alana was, like her mother, a rare beauty. “You’re looking thin, child. You should eat more.”
“I will, Father.”
“Good. Good.” The old laird lay back against the hides and pushed aside her hand. “No more food now. I’m weary. I believe I’ll rest awhile.”
Alana kissed his cheek and let herself out of his chambers. Once downstairs she tied a threadbare shawl around her shoulders and started toward the door.
“Alana.” The door opened and the lad with golden hair and a mischievous smile darted inside. Beside him was the tiny, dark-haired lass who had become his ever-present shadow.
Because she still refused to speak, they’d had to learn her name through a series of trials and errors. Eventually she’d responded to the name Meara.
“We just ran into a lad from Dunhill, who said all who could travel have now fled. Those who remain believe it will be invaded by Laird Rothwick’s warriors within days. He said the village of Roxburgh lies in ruin.”
Alana shooed Meara across the room and waited until Brin distracted her with a biscuit before asking softly, “Was it the same as before, Ingram?”
He nodded and his voice lowered to a whisper. “Aye. Almost a score of warriors came through looting and killing. Before they left, the huts were burned. Even the fields were torched. They have made camp on a high meadow to avoid the forest.”
Ingram and Alana shared a knowing look. There had been so many of Rothwick’s warriors killed in the forest, his men refused to go there alone. Now they traveled with a full compliment of warriors for protection. But even that failed to save them. Those who rode at the rear of the column, or those who rode ahead, were often found dead along the trail, their throats slit, their bodies left as a warning to the others.
Ingram lowered his voice, having been warned by Alana that the women and younger children, traumatized by what they had suffered, must be spared anything that might cause them fear. He was especially careful of young Meara, who had become his favorite. “Rothwick’s men were entertaining themselves with a lass they’d stolen from a crofter’s cottage.”
Alana shivered.
“Their bodies were found early this morrow. All had their throats slit.”
“The lass?”
“Like the others who’ve seen him, she told her family that the man who saved her wore the skins of animals and had coal black hair that hung to his waist. He spoke in a whisper and carried her as tenderly as a bairn until they reached her cottage. Once there he set her on the stoop, waited until her family embraced her, then disappeared into the darkness before they could thank him.”
“The Dark Angel.” Alana spoke the name on a sigh.
“Aye.”
For years now, there had been tales of a wild creature that lived in the forest. It was said that he never slept, but watched and waited for Rothwick’s warriors. Dozens had been killed. So many now that Rothwick and his men lived in constant fear. There were those who believed him to be the reincarnated soul of one of Rothwick’s innocent victims, back from the grave seeking vengeance. Alana half believed it herself, since everyone in the Highlands knew that the souls of the dead returned to their bodies to walk the earth on the night of All Hallows Eve. Why should that be the only night when the dead could return?
Seeing Alana’s shawl, Ingram held the door. “Where are you going?”
“To the forest to gather wood.”
“I’ll go with you.”
She nodded. “Come along then. I’ll be glad for your help.”
Before the lad could step outside, little Meara was beside him, clinging to the tail of his ragged tunic. Because of his tender heart, he never refused the lass. This time was no exception. “Can Meara go with us?”
Alana nodded. “I’ll take all the help offered.”
As they began to push the cart across a field, Alana waved at two lads who were using sticks like swords, thrusting, parrying, dancing around each other, in the innocent belief that one day they might be skilled enough to face Rothwick’s warriors.
“Jeremy. Dudley. ’Tis time to gather wood for the fires.”
At once the two ceased their swordplay and joined Alana and Ingram and Meara as they headed toward the distant forest.
The three boys carried on a lively conversation, teasing, laughing, and even managing to elicit a smile from little Meara until they entered the darkness of the woods. At once all fell silent.
“Do you think he’s watching?” Dudley’s voice was hushed.
No one needed to ask what he meant. The thought of a dark avenger living in the forest had enthralled the entire Highlands. Whether man or myth, the Dark Angel was the only one with the courage to stand up to Rothwick. It was rumored that Reginald Rothwick was so fearful of this creature, he now refused to leave his fortress without an army of warriors to protect him.
And now they were in the creature’s lair.
Alana felt the tingling along her spine that she always felt in this place. Not that she had to fear the Dark Angel, since his only victims had been Rothwick’s warriors. In the years since he’d begun his siege, not a single villager had been harmed. None except those he saved had even seen him. Still, it was intriguing to think he might be watching from a place of concealment.
“Come, now,” Alana called. “Let’s see how quickly we can fill this cart with firewood.”
Alana and the children fanned out, filling their arms with twigs, branches, and limbs before returning to the cart to toss them inside.
As she worked, Alana could hear the lads’ voices nearby. Occasionally they would drift away until, their arms filled, they would return to the cart.
Spying a fallen log some distance away, she hurried over and struggled to lift it. It was impossible to budge. Still, she had to try. It would make a grand blaze in her father’s chambers. Enough to keep him warm an entire night, without having to rouse herself to add more wood. The thought was too enticing to give up without a struggle.
She sat down with her back to a tree trunk and brought her feet to the log, hoping to dislodge it from the moss and vines that had grown around it, anchoring it to the spot. Though she shoved with all her might, it barely moved.
Using a boulder and a heavy branch as a lever, she set the tip of the limb beneath the log and leaned all her weight on the length of it. Feeling it move slightly, she huffed and grunted and pulled, but the moment she let up on the lever, the log settled back into the same spot.
With a sigh she tossed aside the tree branch, ready to abandon her plan. As she turned, she saw something move in the shadows.
Only a deer, she thought. But when she turned back, she found herself staring up at a man so tall
she had to tip up her head to see his face.
She was so startled, she thought about bolting, but her legs refused to move. She stood frozen to the spot.
She had to blink several times to convince herself that it truly was a man. And what a man. Unlike any she had ever seen. She was vaguely aware of animal skins stretched tautly across shoulders wider than a crossbow. His long legs were encased in fur. On his feet were mismatched brogues, and it occurred to her that she’d heard the dead warriors were often missing their boots as well as their weapons. A sword was strapped at his hip, and the hilt of a dirk could be seen tucked at his waist.
Long black hair spilled around a face hidden in shadow.
He took a step toward her and she caught sight of his eyes. Bright blue, they were. As blue as the sky on a summer day, fixed on her with a look so intense, so piercing, it had her heart leaping to her throat.
For the longest time he merely stared at her, as though he’d never seen a woman before. His gaze moved over her, starting with the hem of her skirts that brushed the tall grass, pausing for a moment at her tiny waist, then moving upward to her bosom, heaving as she fought for breath, and lingering there so long she felt her cheeks grow warm.
At last he brought his gaze full on her face, and something flickered in his eyes as he studied the curve of her lips, the set of her chin, the flare of nostrils.
Without a word he moved past her and picked up the log as though it weighed no more than a twig. He dragged it toward the cart and lifted it up and over, tossing it on the top of the pile.
