by Ruth Langan
Her old nurse hurried toward her, carrying a shawl of exquisite lace, which she tossed over Leonora’s shoulders.
“Ye’ll catch a chill without this, child.”
“What would I do without you, Moira?”
“Aye, what indeed? I’ve been dressing you, spoiling you, pampering you, since the day you were born. Ye’d be lost without old Moira.”
Leonora gave her a gentle smile. “I thought you were too afraid of the Highlanders to come below stairs.”
“That I am. The heathens,” she growled contemptuously. “But ’tis too early for the likes of them to be showing their faces. I’ll be safely in my chambers before any of them can see me. Now let me look at you, child.” She gave a sigh that could have been pleasure or exasperation. “Ye’re growing up too fast. In no time ye’ll be leaving your father’s home and making a life with some handsome nobleman.”
Leonora hugged the old woman. “If I do, Moira, you shall be coming with me.”
At that, her old nurse beamed and turned away, then gave a little gasp and stopped in midstride. Leonora turned, and felt the heat rush to her cheeks at the sight of the three Highlanders standing in the doorway. She immediately cursed her reaction. Why did the sight of Dillon Campbell always cause that little flutter in the pit of her stomach? He was only a man, after all. And not even a particularly handsome one.
Dillon strode forward, trailed by his brothers.
“Good morrow, my lady.” He lifted her hand to his lips, ignoring the jolt that danced along his limbs as soon as they touched.
Flustered, Leonora found herself staring at his mouth. She could still taste him. Earthy. Overpowering.
To deflect his attention, she said, “This is my nurse, Moira, who has been with our household since before I was born.”
“Madame.” He nodded to the old woman and watched with amusement as she immediately crossed herself and moved closer to Leonora like a mother hen protecting her chick.
His gaze settled once more on the young woman standing before him. He noticed the color of her gown brought out the deep violet of her eyes. “I trust you slept well, my lady, after your walk in the garden.”
“Aye. Very well, sir.” She would not give him the satisfaction of knowing that she had tossed and turned the entire night.
“I hope you encountered no more snakes, my lady.”
“None,” she said haughtily. She saw Moira cast a suspicious look in her direction and silently cursed Dillon Campbell. The old woman had heard her pacing through the night and had inquired about her disturbed sleep. Now that she knew that her young charge had met this Highlander in the garden, the questions would never end. Leonora could never bring herself to tell Moira about the kiss she and the Scotsman had shared. It was far too intimate a secret. And much too troubling.
They looked up as Lord Waltham and the other English nobles entered the great hall. While their host greeted his guests, several serving wenches approached with trays of goblets.
Accepting a goblet, the Duke of Essex said, “Tell us about your first night under an English roof, Highlander. Were you able to sleep? Or did the thought of our soldiers standing guard keep you awake throughout the night?”
Dillon gritted his teeth at the smug look on the Englishman’s face. “I trust those soldiers are here for my protection as well as yours. Having come here in the name of peace, my sleep was undisturbed by the thought of English soldiers.”
“I am pleased to hear that.” Lord Waltham stepped between the two men and hoped his daughter would prove a pleasant diversion. “Does not my daughter look as fresh as a rosebud?” Drawing her close, he pressed a kiss to her cheek. “It does my heart good just to look upon you, Leonora.”
She felt Dillon’s gaze burning over her and knew that her cheeks were suffused with color. “Are you ready to break your fast, Father?”
“Aye.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Dillon saw the wench, Verda, whisper to Sutton. The lad smiled broadly, then followed her a short distance away before he stopped and leaned down to whisper in her ear.
Though thus distracted, Dillon heard James Blakely say, “Perhaps the younger lads, Sutton and Shaw, would prefer to join my son at our table this morrow.”
Before Dillon could refuse, their host nodded his head enthusiastically. “It would do them good to befriend one another. I thank you, James.” Lord Waltham turned to Dillon. “You will join my daughter and me, while Sutton and Shaw break their fast with Alger Blakely and his father.”
Dillon gave a curt nod of his head, annoyed that he had been manipulated so easily. But to refuse now would be a display of bad manners. He could not insult his host. With little enthusiasm he said, “Shaw, if you would be good enough to fetch your brother.”
“Aye.”
Shaw crossed the room and dropped a hand on Sutton’s shoulder. While Dillon followed Leonora and her father to the table of honor on the raised platform, the twins walked a short distance away to sit with the English noblemen. Though Dillon tried to keep both brothers in his line of vision, he soon found it impossible. The soldiers entered the hall and took their places at table. Dozens of servants milled about, offering food from steaming platters. It was a scene of great confusion.
Forcing himself to relax, Dillon turned to Lord Waltham, who began plying him with questions.
“Tell me about your clan, Dillon. As clan leader, are you like a king?”
“Nay, I am no king,” Dillon replied honestly. He sipped his ale and wondered how he could describe a life so vastly different from what this man knew and understood. “In the Highlands,” Dillon went on, “a clan leader is as dependent upon the people as they are on him. He must be a fearless warrior, but he must also be the father of his people, governing the territory for the benefit of all, dividing the land in such a way as to provide for each member, including the elderly and the sick.”
“Is that not what our king does?” Lord Waltham asked gently.
“It is said that your king rewards his friends with vast estates, while stripping his enemies of everything they have ever owned.” Dillon’s voice lowered. “Worst of all, when he dies, his heir assumes the throne, without having to prove himself fearless in battle, or even honorable in his dealings with other men. Why should your people have to accept such a man as king?”
“It is his right because he is of royal lineage,” Leonora said as patiently as if she were lecturing a child.
“Aye. But such lineage does not guarantee that a man will be worthy of the crown. Often the heir is a tyrant, and the people must suffer until he dies and another, perhaps even crueler, takes his place.”
Leonora was scandalized. “What you speak is treasonous.”
Dillon smiled at her. “Only the English must guard their tongues, my lady. Since Edward is not my king, I need not fear his wrath.”
“If the son of a clan leader cannot inherit his father’s title, how is a new clan leader chosen?” Lord Waltham asked.
“In my land, when one clan leader dies, another is chosen by the clan. They must choose wisely. In times of peace, he is the final arbiter of any dispute, and in time of war, he must lead his clan to battle. In return, the members of the clan give him utter and undying loyalty.”
“You make your leaders sound like gods.” Leonora couldn’t hide a trace of sarcasm.
“Nay. Far from it, my lady. We are mere men, with all the faults, all the failings of men. But our loyalty is unquestioned. I am here, not out of personal choice, but because Robert the Bruce commanded it. Though he is not king, he is the acknowledged leader of all the Scots and a trusted friend. And no matter how difficult, I will work out the terms of peace, as long as those terms are honorable for my people.”
“And if they are not?” Leonora asked.
“Then I shall—”
They looked up at the sound of a scuffle. The English noblemen had surrounded Sutton and Shaw and pinned their arms behind their backs. The soldiers were already preparin
g to join the fray.
Dillon cursed his carelessness. Ever since their arrival, he’d sensed danger. But he’d allowed himself to ignore the warnings. Pushing away from the table, he scrambled to his feet. Before anyone could stop him, he leaped upon the head table and ran, scattering food and drink as he jumped from the raised platform to the tables below. As he ran he pulled a knife from his waist.
From his position at the head table, Lord Waltham thundered, “Unhand those men! They are guests in my home.”
“Nay.” Seeing the Highlander bearing down on him, the Duke of Essex held a knife to Shaw’s throat, while beside him, both James Blakely and his son, Alger, struggled with the kicking, biting Sutton, who was not going to be subdued without a fight. “The lads drew weapons from a place of concealment and threatened harm.”
“’Tis a lie, Dillon,” Shaw shouted. “We did not draw our weapons until we were forced to by the man who attacked us.”
“Who attacked you?” their host asked.
“It was—” A hand covered Sutton’s mouth, stifling any further attempt to speak.
Dillon’s eyes flashed in fury as he swung into the crowd. By now, a hundred soldiers hurried forward, swords at the ready. Those closest to the Scot fell back at the sight of the knife glinting in his hand. They had expected him to be an easy mark, without weapons. All had heard the rumors of the skill of the Highlanders with both sword and dirk.
Leaping onto another table, Dillon turned to Lord Waltham and cried, “My brother Shaw has pledged himself to the Church. He would never utter a falsehood. If he says this thing is a lie, then it is so.”
“I am also a man of the Church,” the Bishop of York cried, getting to his feet so quickly the bench upon which he’d been sitting fell backward. “And I saw these lads draw their weapons.”
“As did I,” the Lord John Forest said calmly. “In my capacity as counsel to the king, I demand that these men be taken to the dungeons, in order to secure the safety of all.”
“This is a trick. Unhand my brothers,” Dillon shouted as he moved menacingly closer. All in his path fell away, eager to avoid his wrath.
“Do as the Highlander asks,” called Lord Waltham.
Immediately, the Duke of Essex countered Waltham’s order with one of his own. “Blakely,” he shouted, “I command you to summon your soldiers at once.”
Alger Blakely and his father looked from one man to the other for direction. The elder Blakely asked, “By whose command, my lord?”
“By order of the king.” Essex’s voice rang with authority.
“Forgive me, Lord Waltham,” James Blakely shouted. “But all loyal Englishmen must put the orders of their king above all else.”
Instantly, the two signaled to the soldiers, who drew their swords and advanced. Though he had nothing but a knife, Dillon leaped into the throng. Despite their fear of him, their sheer numbers made them bold. And though he fought like a man possessed, his knife was no match against so many English swords.
His two brothers, held fast and unable to join him in the fray, were forced to watch helplessly.
Leonora clutched her father’s arm and watched in horrified fascination as the Highlander lashed out at those who would disarm him. The sight of one lone man standing against an army of swordsmen left her breathless. Despite her loyalty to the soldiers who confronted him, she could not help but admire the magnificent warrior.
At last, with his shirt hanging in tatters, and his arms and torso bloodied from a dozen wounds, Dillon’s knife dropped uselessly to the floor and he was pinned against the wall by a dozen sword tips. The soldiers, angered by his display and shamed by his superior skill, now took every opportunity to inflict further pain with their blades. The floor beneath his feet ran red with his blood.
Leonora covered her mouth with her hand and turned away in shock and revulsion. He had fought nobly. He deserved better treatment at the hands of her father’s soldiers.
Lord Waltham, equally sickened by the violence, held up his hands as the soldiers formed a circle around the Highlanders, while Essex and the Blakelys, father and son, held knives to their throats.
“Even though the peace has been broken,” Lord Waltham cried, “we will find a way to settle this thing now and continue as we had planned.”
“Nay!” Essex shouted louder, drowning out the voice of moderation. “Before we speak of peace, these three savages must be taken to the dungeons and stripped, to see that all their weapons have been removed from them.”
“This is a trick, Dillon,” Sutton shouted. “Once they have separated us, we will never see each other again.”
“Aye.” Dillon, seeing the attention of the soldiers focused on their host, grasped at the last chance to escape, no matter how slender. “But it will not work.”
With what remained of his strength, he thrust his elbow into Alger Blakely’s midsection, knocking the wind from him with such force that the young soldier dropped to his knees in agony. While the younger Blakely writhed and moaned, Dillon again leaped across the tables and vaulted to the platform. In the blink of an eye, he pulled a knife from his boot. When he straightened, he wrapped an arm around Leonora’s neck and held the razor-sharp blade to her throat.
There was a collective gasp from everyone in the hall. That the Highlander should sully a fair English maiden was unthinkable. The sight of his bloody hands leaving their mark upon her flesh subdued the entire crowd into stunned silence.
All eyes were on them as Lord Waltham shouted, “You will unhand my daughter at once.”
“Only when my brothers are released,” Dillon said in a dangerously soft voice.
In desperation, Lord Waltham turned to the soldiers. “Release the Highlanders.”
The soldiers fell back, but the noblemen who were holding the twins prisoner refused to follow suit.
“Essex,” Lord Waltham called. “Did you not hear me? Release those men at once so that my daughter will suffer no further indignities.”
“The Highlander may be a fool, but even a fool knows he cannot escape this castle, even using the Lady Leonora as a shield. He must first answer to the swords of a hundred English soldiers. And if that is not enough, he must travel a hundred miles across English land.” Essex gave a laughing sneer. “Do you not see, Waltham? If we release his brothers, he will be free to take his revenge against your daughter. You saw these three. Though they made a pretense of relinquishing their weapons, they kept their knives. How many other weapons do they still have concealed upon them?”
Lord Waltham turned to the Highlander, who continued to stand as still as a statue, holding the precious Leonora at the point of his knife. “By all that is holy, I beg you to release my daughter, and this thing between us will be forgotten.”
“That is what you say, Lord Waltham.” Dillon’s voice was deadly calm. “But I would hear it from the others.”
Lord Waltham turned toward the Duke of Essex. “I beg you, Essex. Stop the madness.”
“We will release his beloved brothers,” Essex stated, “when the Highlander affixes his mark upon this peace treaty that has already been prepared.”
He tossed down a scroll, which was picked up by the bishop and handed to their host.
Lord Waltham read the scroll, then looked up sharply. “Who is responsible for this?”
“’Twas written at the request of the king,” Essex said.
“Nay. Edward would not have brought the Highlanders here under such falsehoods.” Lord Waltham’s face was a mask of outrage. “This is a trick.”
“It is no trick. Now, Highlander, affix your mark to the scroll…” Essex tightened his grasp on Shaw, and held the blade of his knife against the lad’s tender flesh until a trickle of blood stained the front of his tunic. “Or you will be forced to watch me slit your beloved brother’s throat.”
Dillon’s fury was a terrible thing to behold. His dark eyes flashed with a deadly fire. His voice was as cold, as cutting, as the knife in his hand.
“Englishman, you have sealed the woman’s fate.” Before anyone could stop him, Dillon flung Leonora over his shoulder like a sack of grain and raced up the steps leading to the door of the great hall. Turning to face the stunned noblemen, he shouted, “Whatever you do to my brothers will be done to the woman. And unless they are returned to me unharmed, you will never see her again.”
With Lord Alec Waltham and the others watching helplessly, he and his captive disappeared through the archway.
Chapter Five
A cold, dark terror welled up in Leonora’s throat, threatening to choke her. This could not be happening. It was all some terrible, horrible nightmare.
Everything Moira had told her flashed through her mind. Heathens. Savages. Drink the blood of English children. One Highlander can defeat an entire English army.
Leonora’s last glimpse of her father, before she disappeared up the stairwell, was his face contorted in shock, his eyes wide with fear.
Fear? His fear fueled her own. She had never before seen such a look in her father’s eyes. He had always been the proud, strong, capable man whose life was well ordered, disciplined. Since her childhood, she had taken her safety for granted, as befitted the daughter of a trusted friend of the king. No one would dare to harm her. No one, until this…Highland savage.
In the courtyard, Dillon dropped her unceremoniously in the dirt and whirled as a stable boy approached. The boy, seeing the knife in the Scot’s hands, released the reins of the horse he was leading and took a step back.
“I wish you no harm, lad,” Dillon growled as he seized the horse’s reins. “But if you do not turn and flee now, I will be forced to kill you.”
“But the lady—”
“Is of no concern to you, lad.” Dillon brandished the knife. “If you value your life, you will leave us.”
His features were so hard, so fearsome, they could have been carved from stone. Seeing this barely controlled fury, the boy clamped his mouth shut on the protest he was about to issue. Without another look, he turned and fled.
