When a Laird Takes a Lady: A Claimed by the Highlander Novel

by Rowan Keats

  Aiden firmed his grip on his sword.

  The wretched beast had picked a poor night to take his measure. He was angry, and it would suit him just fine to be wearing a new fur cloak come dawn.

  A low growl rose up in the night. And then a second. Neither originated from the wolf in front of him—they came from the other side of the camp. The wily beasts had surrounded them.

  Aiden stepped back. Without taking his eyes off the big white wolf, he kicked his brother’s sleeping form. “Niall, wake up.”

  His brother threw off his blanket and surged to his feet, his sword in hand. “What is it?” he asked, his gaze darting about, his voice rough with sleep.

  “Wolves. Several of them.”

  Niall bent and shook Cormac’s shoulder. “Wolves,” he said to the bowman’s startled face.

  In a moment, the entire camp was awake, each man staring into the woods with their weapons aloft. The big white wolf gave a deep snarl, then edged backward.

  “That’s a bloody big one,” Cormac said, taking aim with his bow.

  “Hold off,” ordered Aiden.

  “No wolf disturbs my sleep and lives,” Cormac said, drawing hard on the bowstring.

  “I said hold.” Aiden loaded the words with chilly authority. He did not enjoy repeating himself. When he gave an order, he expected it to be obeyed. Without question.

  Cormac lowered his bow and his gaze. “Aye, laird.”

  The white wolf stood up, shook its head, then turned and loped off into the woods. Judging by the sudden lack of snarls and growls, the rest of the pack followed its lead. Aiden was about to comment on the strangeness of the encounter when he caught another movement in the shadows, this one much taller and shaped like a man.

  He kept his weapon at the ready.

  As the stranger neared the fire and his facial features became visible, the tension drained from Aiden’s body and he sheathed his sword. “Bhaltair.”

  A white-haired man garbed in an ankle-length lèine and a dark wool cloak strode into the camp. He carried a tall staff and sported a belly-grazing white beard. His face was heavily wrinkled, but he looked no older than when Aiden had last seen him. Some three or four years ago.

  “What brings you here?” he asked the old man.

  Niall added, “We thought you were long gone to the Maker.”

  Bhaltair extended gnarled fingers toward the flames of the fire. “I go where I must.”

  Aiden sighed. The old man was fond of speaking in riddles, no doubt due to his exalted age. He claimed to be a druid, one of the ancient holy men that once roamed the north quite freely, but Aiden had never witnessed him perform any of the so-called miracles that were attributed to such men. “Quite a coincidence, meeting you here.”

  “Not a coincidence at all,” the old man said. “Do you have any tea?”

  “Nay,” said Aiden, a little annoyed. “Are you suggesting you planned to meet us here?”

  “Of course not,” Bhaltair said. “What about ale? I haven’t had ale in quite some time.”

  Niall offered the druid his oilskin.

  “Thank ye,” he said after he’d quenched his thirst. He appropriated some blankets and sat down before the fire. “I’m relieved to find you precisely where I thought you’d be. My legs are weary.”

  Niall exchanged a look with Aiden. They’d told no one where they’d planned to camp for the night. Indeed, they’d chosen this spot only upon reaching it.

  “How did you find us?” Aiden asked.

  “The same way I find all things that I have misplaced,” he responded. “By reading the stars.”

  Aiden glanced at the night sky. It was clear, and a thousand stars competed with the brilliance of the moon, but none of them pointed anywhere. Yet the man had found Aiden’s party . . . assuming he’d actually been looking for them.

  “Why have you sought us out?”

  Bhaltair poured more ale into his mouth. After he swallowed, he said, “There have been signs of trouble brewing. If I read them correctly, dire events are about to transpire.”

  Dire events had already transpired. But what harm could there be in querying the man further? “What sort of signs?”

  Bhaltair threaded his fingers through the thickly curling hairs of his beard. “I spied a two-headed squirrel the day before yesterday, and this morn a wee bird dropped from a tree branch to my feet, stone cold before it hit the ground.”

  “It’s winter,” Aiden pointed out dryly. “It’s not unknown for birds to succumb to the harsh clime.”

  “Indeed,” said the old man. “A bird that dies out of sight is just that—a dead bird. But a bird that dies at my feet is an augury.”

  Unconvinced, Aiden asked, “And what does it foretell?”

  “A death, of course.”

  “Whose death?”

  “That I cannot say.”

  “Then your omen is pointless,” Aiden said. Turning to the other warriors, he said, “Pack up. Since sleep has eluded us, we’ll continue on our way.”

  The men began to collect their belongings.

  “I fear I cannot bring you with us, Bhaltair,” he told the old druid. “We travel light, on a mission of grave importance.”

  Bhaltair nodded. “To rescue the lad and recover the crown.”

  Aiden blinked. A bloody accurate guess.

  The old man got to his feet, grabbing the wool underfoot as he stood. He folded the blanket and handed it to one of the men.

  “Do you need a weapon?” he asked the druid. “If that pack of wolves returns, you might find yourself in need of one.”

  “I have nothing to fear from wolves,” Bhaltair said. “I have my staff.”

  “Take this dirk,” Aiden offered, handing him the knife at his belt. “These wolves are more ferocious than most I’ve seen.”

  The old man opened his cloak and pointed to the sickle strung at his waist. “If need be, I’ll use my own blade. Keep yours.”

  “As you wish.” Aiden replaced the knife. “If you like, you can remain in this meadow, and we’ll collect you on our return trip.”

  “No need,” said Bhaltair. “But there is one further detail of the omen that you should heed.”

  Plucking his saddle from the ground, Aiden carried it to his horse. “Oh?”

  “The wee bird was crested.”

  Aiden cinched the saddle tight, struggling to find the relevance in the old man’s words—and failing. “And what, if anything, am I to make of that?”

  “It’s an obvious reference to the crown.”

  Obvious was clearly in the eye of the beholder. “So the omen suggests the crown might be permanently lost?” he asked, turning to face the old man.

  Bhaltair scratched his head, his brow furrowed in thought. “Perhaps.”

  Yet another ill-defined and uncertain response. How was he to act on such insubstantial advice? And more to the point, why was he even considering the advice of a madman? He sighed. Because said madman had befriended his father, shown him the secrets of the hill fort caves, and tasked him with preserving a legend.

  “I’ll keep your words in mind,” he said, hoisting himself into the saddle. He nodded respectfully to the old druid, then urged his horse into a trot.

  The Black Warriors followed.

  Chapter 14

  Isabail studied the long brown hair and the broad back of the man riding in front of her.

  She’d given up her mount and now shared a horse with Ana. For good reason—their hired warrior, Magnus, was a large fellow with a very large weapon. He clearly needed a horse to himself. Not quite as tall as MacCurran, but blessed with a similar robust build, the man sat his mount with the comfortable stance of a man who’d spent many a long hour in the saddle. Which was curious. How did a peasant living alone in the woods learn to ride? Or wield a weapon—othe
r than a pole—for that matter?

  “How did you learn your craft?“ she asked him, as she ducked beneath a low-hanging branch.

  “Of which craft do you speak?”

  “Swordsmanship.” The bronze hilt of his weapon was quite impressive, certainly not the sort a common soldier would own. “Were you a soldier before you injured your leg?”

  “Aye.”

  Isabail waited for more, but nothing was forthcoming. “At the castle?”

  “Does it matter where?” he countered, slowing his horse to allow her to come alongside. “Even if my talents are limited, a weak sword arm is better than no sword arm.”

  “True enough,” she acknowledged. “And lest I imply otherwise, we do appreciate your willingness to aid us. But it would be remiss of me not to gain some sense of how loyal you’ll be in the thick of trouble.” Then she added hastily, “Not that we anticipate such trouble.”

  “Of course not.” He shrugged. “We struck a bargain. Two deniers for a fortnight of service. I’m a man of my word, so you need not fear I’ll desert you. I’m yours to command.”

  “How long will it take us to reach Tayteath?”

  “At this pace? Three days.”

  Isabail frowned. “That simply won’t do. A lad’s life is in danger.”

  “Alone, I could make the journey in less than two,” he pointed out. “But with women in the party, there’s no hope of traveling that swiftly.”

  “Is there no way to make better time?”

  He shook his head. “I cannot demand the same of you as I would a man.”

  Isabail considered that. Normally, she would agree. But the image of Jamie’s face as she’d last seen it in the tunnel—pale and frightened and trying to be brave—refused to be banished from her thoughts. “We are not men,” she agreed, exchanging a glance with Ana, “but we are willing to keep the pace you set for as long as we are able.”

  Magnus studied them for a long moment. He looked as if he was biting his tongue, but no scathing comment leaked out. Instead, he sat back in his saddle and nodded. “The best gait for an extended push is the trot. The horses can maintain a good speed without tiring excessively. But the trot is hard on a rider, especially without stirrups. If you grow weary, you must let me know immediately. It would be most unfortunate if you took a tumble.”

  “Agreed.”

  He raked a gaze over the two women. “Ensure your cloaks are securely fastened and that your hold on each other and the reins is firm.”

  They did as he bid.

  Ana’s hands shook a little as she grasped Isabail about the middle. “I’m not a skilled rider,” the healer whispered.

  “You’re strong,” Isabail reassured her. “Just hold tight. We’ll take turns in the saddle, and if you ever lose your grip, pinch me and I’ll stop.”

  “Are you ready?” Magnus asked.

  Isabail patted Ana’s hand, then threaded the reins through both hands and nodded. “Aye.”

  Without another word, he urged his horse into a trot and took off through the woods. Isabail sucked in a deep breath and kneed her horse into motion. She could only pray that she had not just made one of the worst decisions of her life.

  * * *

  Aiden and his men reached Tayteath by midafternoon. He brought them to a halt at the edge of the trees and surveyed his target. The castle stood on a narrow jut of land overlooking the sea. Steep cliffs protected the keep on three sides, forcing all access through the heavily fortified front gates. To the northwest, midway between Aiden and the castle, lay a small village that consisted of a kirk and at least twenty stone blackhouses, smoke rising lazily from their chimneys.

  Niall nudged his horse alongside him. “What do you think? Is de Lourdes inside?”

  “The portcullis is down,” Aiden pointed out. Unless the castle was expecting trouble, there was no reason to bar the villagers from the castle during daylight hours. “But I prefer to be certain. Send someone into the village. With any luck, the townspeople noted his arrival.”

  Niall nodded. “Shall we set up camp?”

  “Aye,” Aiden said, still studying the keep. “But no fire tonight.”

  Gaining access to the keep would be a challenge. A full frontal attack wasn’t possible—he didn’t have the men or the equipment required to mount a siege. If they approached the gate, the archers on the walls would cut them down like hay.

  Which really only left one option.

  The cliffs.

  “Cormac,” he called. “I have a task for you.”

  * * *

  Halfway across a wide plain, Magnus slowed the horses to a walk to allow them to cool. One glance at the women and he knew the game was up. Isabail looked weary, but she remained steady and upright. Ana, on the other hand, despite an extended period in the saddle, looked ready to collapse. Pale faced and trembling, she was latched onto the reins with a desperate clutch of fingers.

  “I was a fool to agree to this,” he said, reining in his mount. He handed Ana his oilskin and watched her drink deeply of the ale within.

  Isabail nodded unhappily. “‘Twas unkind of me to demand this of you, Ana.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Ana said as she lowered the oilskin. But her voice quavered as she spoke, belying her words.

  Magnus glanced around. “We’ll head for that copse,” he said, pointing to a small stand of trees to the south. “After we rest a while, we’ll make our way—slowly—back to the glen from whence we came.”

  Isabail also glanced around. “What of the wolf?”

  They’d caught sight of a large white wolf several times over the course of the day, always at a distance, always alone. Isabail’s deerhound had growled upon spying the beast but seemed content to remain at their side rather than give chase. Likely a wise decision.

  “There’s no sign of it,” he said. To reassure the women, he tapped the hilt of his sword. “But if it makes an appearance, I’ll dispatch it swiftly.”

  They walked the horses to the trees and found a small clearing in the center in which to make camp. The remnant of a day-old fire told Magnus that it was a popular place to stop, and he did a careful search of the woods before making camp. They were alone.

  Ana’s legs gave out on her when he helped her from the saddle. “My legs are like jelly,” she said with a laugh, as she fell against him. “I thought myself able, but I was clearly mistaken.”

  He scooped her up and carried her to the blankets that Isabail had laid before the fire pit.

  “The pace we set would pose a challenge even for an experienced rider,” he told her as he tucked the wool about her. “You’ve done remarkably well to make it this far. The return journey will not be nearly as difficult.”

  Isabail paced back and forth as he lit the fire. “How close are we to Tayteath?”

  “Another half day.” He caught a glimmer of renewed hope in Isabail’s eyes and shook his head. “Ana is in no condition to continue. We must allow her to rest.”

  “I’ve no desire to push Ana beyond her limits,” Isabail said. She turned to her companion. “I’ve already asked far more of you than I had a right to, but I cannot turn back. Not when I am so close. Not while Jamie remains Daniel’s prisoner.”

  Crossing to his horse, Magnus removed food from his pack. He broke a round of bread in half and offered a piece to each of the ladies. He tossed a small piece of dried hare to the dog, as well. “Your concern for the lad is laudable, but your menfolk are already in pursuit. You must have faith in their ability to bring him home.”

  “I do not lack faith,” Isabail said. “If it were a simple matter of who possesses the better sword arm, I would hang my favor on Aiden MacCurran’s lance. He is a formidable foe. But it’s not that simple. The castle is mine. I can retrieve the lad without bloodshed. Surely, the sparing of lives is a noble cause?”

  “A n
oble cause, perhaps,” he said gently. “But not a practical one.”

  Isabail flopped onto the blanket next to Ana, clearly unhappy with his response. She picked at her bread with halfhearted interest, her attention elsewhere.

  “Hallo,” called a deep voice from the trees.

  Magnus whipped around, drawing his sword as he spun.

  Out of the shadows stepped an old man garbed in a dark cloak, his white beard and hair shining brightly in the early-afternoon sunlight. He leaned on a long burl-wood staff as he walked.

  The deerhound lifted its head as the man drew closer, but did not growl.

  “Halt there,” Magnus said. “Identify yourself.”

  The old man obediently stopped and gave them a low bow. “Bhaltair of the Red Mountains.”

  Magnus frowned. “You’re a long way from home, old man. What brings you to the Lowlands?”

  “You do.”

  The tip of Magnus’s sword lifted. “I beg your pardon?”

  The old man put a hand to his chest. “I mean that in a general sense, of course.” He unhooked the burlap bag he carried over his shoulder and lowered it to the ground. Opening the drawstring, he displayed the contents. “I sell herbs and unguents to travelers in need. You look as though you might have need of my wares.”

  Ana peered at the earthenware jugs in the old man’s sack. “What sorts of unguents do you have?” she asked.

  He held up a pot. “I’ve this one containing goldes and Saint Johnswort.” He dug deeper, and the jugs rattled. “I’ve also got this one with Saint Johnswort, valerian, and wintergreen.”

  “Let me see,” she said, waving him closer.

  The two of them huddled over the sack, talking in the riddles of herbalism and discussing the merits of each unguent and salve.

  “They seem to have formed a bond,” Isabail said quietly.

  He glared at her. “I know precisely what you are thinking, madam, and I cannot endorse it. He’s an old man. Hardly a reliable champion with whom to entrust Ana’s care.”