The Highlander's Stronghold (Searching for a Highlander Book 1)

by Bess McBride

  “Then the food is to yer liking?”

  I nodded.

  “Oh, yes, it’s delicious!” And it was, hearty and filling.

  “Are ye finished?”

  I nodded.

  “Yes, I’ve eaten plenty.”

  John pushed back his chair and opened the door.

  “Andrew!” he called out.

  Andrew, as if he’d been standing guard, appeared instantly at the doorway.

  “Ye can take the food away, there’s a good lad.”

  Andrew nodded, picked up our dishes and loaded the tray before leaving of the room.

  John remained standing, and I rose.

  “I shall bid ye good night then,” he said with a bow.

  “You’re leaving?”

  Well, of course he was leaving. He certainly wasn’t going to stay in the room, was he?

  “Aye, I think ye could use some rest. I will see ye in the morn. Sleep well.”

  I wasn’t ready to say good night, but I couldn’t think of any reason to stall John’s departure. An after-dinner walk? Cards? Ghost stories around a campfire? Didn’t they do anything after dinner?

  But all I said was, “Good night.”

  John hesitated as if he wanted to say something, but he must have changed his mind. He nodded with a half smile and left before I could think of anything to say.

  I didn’t hear the wooden latch slam down on the door, and I waited for about sixty seconds before I tried the door. It eased open. A small peat fire had been set in a stone ring on the floor of the keep, dispelling some of the darkness that spiraled upward to the tower. I heard male voices above. One of those voices was John’s, the language Gaelic.

  Restlessly, I looked toward the now closed doorway of the keep. I dared not wander out of the keep in what was truly nightfall—especially without a flashlight. I wasn’t in some sort of Gothic novel where I could saunter across the flat top of the island, holding a burning candle aloft, without the flame being extinguished by the coastal winds.

  No, I supposed I had better stay safely inside rather than inadvertently wander off the edge of a cliff. I had already noticed that the perimeter wall did not extend all the way around to the western side of the island. I assumed the guards in the tower above and the sheer cliff face on that side prevented invasion.

  I shut the door and turned toward the bed. Feeling insecure and vulnerable, I opted to remain fully dressed as I lay down. I pulled the tartan over me and settled in to watch the lantern flicker on the table across the room. I had no intention of blowing that precious object out to send the room into complete blackness. In the absence of a good book to read, television to watch or the comforting arms of a big strong Highlander, I planned to watch the candle within the lantern burn down and wonder what the following day had in store for me.

  I awakened to complete darkness amid a cacophony of shouts and screams. I rose and scrambled for the door, tripping on my skirts and the edge of the bed on the way.

  With no time or ability to light the lantern, I bypassed it and wrenched open the door. The peat fire burned brightly, but the entrance to the keep was ajar, and I ran toward the doorway.

  The peaceful village that I had seen by daytime seemed suddenly to have gone berserk. Flames shot through the roofs of several of the crofts. The lights of torches moved in chaos across the tabletop, as if the people who carried them ran amuck. I heard the clash of steel on steel. Swords? Swords?

  Small booms that sounded like gunshot sounded. Who was shooting?

  I wanted to shout out, to ask what was happening, but I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. I backed up and huddled just inside the doorway of the keep, turning to look upward. Were the guards still there?

  Where was John? Mary? Mistress Glick? What was happening?

  “Mistress!” a young voice spoke behind me. “Come. His lairdship bid me to keep ye safe in yer room. I was up in the tower and did no see ye emerge. His lairdship will have my head if I dinna get ye back within.”

  I turned and looked at Andrew, who had hold of my arm and was trying to pull me from the doorway. I stood fast.

  “Andrew!” I cried out thankfully. “What’s happening? What’s going on?”

  “Macleods,” he spat out. “Come, mistress. Ye must come back to yer room.”

  “Is the laird safe?”

  Andrew shook his head. “I dinna ken, mistress. Please come!”

  I wanted to comply, but I couldn’t. I had to know if John was all right. I peered out from the doorway to watch the horrific spectacle.

  What could I do?

  “Mary! The children! Mistress Glick! Your family, Andrew! Are they safe? Are those gunshots?”

  “Och, mistress! Please come.”

  “No, not yet, Andrew! I have to know. I’m sorry.”

  I stuck my head out the doorway again. The fires from some of the crofts highlighted several men engaged in combat, the ringing of their swords terrifying.

  “John!” I whispered.

  “Mistress Macleod and her children are hiding in the boathouse. Most of the women and children are there. The laird kent ye would be safer in the keep. He bade me lock the door, but I forgot and hurried up into the tower. Please, mistress, come!”

  I almost let Andrew pull me back toward the room, when the light from a burst of flames highlighted John’s golden hair. I saw him clearly, swinging a gleaming sword back and forth against his opponent, an equally tall dark-bearded and kilted man.

  I wanted to run toward him, but even in my terror, I understood that would only get him killed. This wasn’t a reenactment or a performance. These men were trying to hurt each other, if not kill each other.

  “Andrew, I can’t. I can’t hide in the room knowing that John is out there fighting for his life.”

  “Mistress, if he looks toward the tower and sees ye, he is likely to lose his life!”

  Andrew’s heated words struck my heart. I backed into the darkness.

  “You’re right. You’re right! I’m sorry!”

  I let Andrew pull me back toward the room, where he almost pushed me inside.

  “Wait! Where are you going? You can’t go out there. You are way too young to be out there!” I grabbed Andrew’s arm when he tried to leave.

  “Och, mistress, where do ye come from? I am no a child.” He extricated his arm from my grasp and moved away from me.

  “Stay here. I will bar the door.”

  “No, wait! If they burn the keep, I’ll die in here! I need a fighting chance. Don’t lock the door!”

  Andrew hesitated and shook his head and ran out. I didn’t hear the latch fall, and I pulled at the door to check. He had not trapped me in the room after all.

  I peeked out. Andrew had disappeared. The stone stairs clattered as footsteps ran either up or down it. The light of a fast-moving torch reflected against the stone walls up above. Andrew hadn’t had a torch on him, but that didn’t mean the clattering footsteps weren’t Andrews.

  I eased shut the door, quietly settled the latch from my side and felt my way in the darkness toward the far corner of the room. Dropping to the floor, I hugged my knees to my chest and waited, holding my breath.

  Through the window, I could hear continuous shouting, the occasional reports of gunshots. My heart pounded in my chest, and I struggled to breathe.

  A loud banging on the door shocked me, and I jerked, slamming a hand to my mouth to prevent a scream. I had known someone else was in the keep and had been expecting something, but still the pounding startled me.

  Terrified, I buried my face into my bent knees and covered my head with my arms and hands, as if bracing for an airplane crash. No fist could make that horrible thud on the wooden door. Someone hammered at the door with a metal object. The hilt of a sword? A pistol? An axe? Were they trying to break through the heavy wood?

  The hammering continued, and I couldn’t hold back. I cried out in my huddled position as I clutched at my arms. One particular set of sharp staccato
blows almost made me scream.

  I heard the latch give way, and the door flew open, hitting the wall. I lifted my head and scrambled to my feet, unwilling to die in such a defenseless position. Torchlight filled the room, and a dark-bearded Scot entered. Though I had seen him only from a distance, I recognized him as the man who had been fighting with John.

  If John’s opponent stood before me with a sword in one hand and a torch in the other, then John had fallen.

  I screamed then.

  “Help! Help! Help me!” My heart ached for John. My senses reeled in terror.

  “Stop yer yammering, woman!” the man shouted. He sheathed his sword, strode toward me and grabbed my arm, seemingly all in one movement. “Why are ye here in the keep and no hidden with the other women?”

  “Help!” I continued to shriek, attempting to wrestle out of the vice grip he held my arm in.

  The flames of his torch revealed a big, brawny middle-aged man wearing a grayish bonnet over stringy dark hair. Even as I struggled, I noted the blue-and-green woven pattern of his kilt, so unlike the red that the Morrisons favored.

  He pulled me to him with little effort, pinning an arm around me and bringing his face down to mine. When I thought he meant to kiss me, he only stared at my features. His teeth were in terrible shape, his breath most foul.

  I twisted my face away from his, but he didn’t seem to care.

  “Who are ye?” he asked. “Ye are no a Morrison, of that I am sure.”

  I struggled in his arm, but to no avail. I couldn’t budge. I kept my face from him and my lips sealed. For about ten seconds, until he squeezed me so tightly that I couldn’t breathe.

  “I’m not! I’m not a Morrison. I’m just visiting.”

  “Visiting? Whom?”

  My chaotic thoughts prevented me from understanding whether I was more worried about John or myself. Where was Andrew? Had the Macleods killed everyone? I couldn’t bear the thought. I really couldn’t.

  “Where is John Morrison?” I ground out, partially in pain, mostly because I couldn’t control the trembling of my jaw.

  “Ah! John Morrison is it? Are ye his lady? I didna ken he had taken a wife.”

  “No!” I snapped. “I’m not his wife. Where is he? What did you do with him? Who are you?” I spoke with courage I didn’t have.

  “Angus Macleod, chief of the Lewis Macleods, at yer service,” he said in a horrible parody of a gentlemanly introduction.

  I wasn’t surprised by the news. Andrew had said the attackers were Macleods. It followed that Angus might have led the attack. A deep hatred formed in my heart, and I let all that I felt pour out through my eyes.

  “Where is John? Is he hurt?”

  “I dinna think I killed him,” Angus said with a self-satisfied grin, “but perhaps I should have done, especially if ye are his lady. I think ye must come with us as well.”

  As well?

  “What?” I shrieked. I twisted, but his vicelike grasp on my body left me no room to maneuver. “No!” I shouted. “No, you’re not taking me anywhere!”

  “Aye, ye are coming!” Angus pulled me from the room with one hand while holding the torch aloft with the other. The movement gave me a few more inches to maneuver, and I kicked at him and struggled against him. My skirts, far too long for such activities, tripped me up, and Angus half carried, half dragged me from the keep. Once outside, he threw down his torch and shouted something in Gaelic, as if calling for someone.

  Wildly, I searched the dun for John, for his body, but I couldn’t see him. The flames had subsided, leaving less illumination on the scene. Shouts continued, but I heard no screams. Had they killed the women? The men?

  I screamed for help. What did I have to lose?

  “Help! Help!”

  “Cease!” Angus said. With his free hand, he slapped me with an open palm. Pain shot through my cheek, my head. My ears rang. My eyes watered from the smack.

  I sagged against him, with a woozy promise to myself that I wouldn’t scream again. I had never been slapped in my life, and the shock of it stunned me.

  Two men, one carrying a torch, ran up to us. I knew they weren’t Morrisons. Like Angus, they both sported dark beards and wore kilts similar to his.

  Angus barked at them in Gaelic before thrusting me in their direction. The men, both brawny like Angus, grabbed my arms and hauled me off across the tabletop. I dragged my feet, trying to forestall whatever horror was about to come. On the point of screaming again, I looked over my shoulder to see Angus following us. He had gathered up his torch and pulled his sword from its sheath once again, keeping it at the ready. I swallowed my screams, wanting no more searing smacks across the face. Angus strode past us, leading the way.

  We seemed to be headed toward the gate. Ahead of us, I saw a large wave of torches massing. Twenty? Thirty? I didn’t have the presence of mind to count.

  They were taking me off Dun Eistean! Of course. Hadn’t Angus said he was going to take me with him?

  Out of the corner of my eye, near one of the crofts, the remnants of a burning roof reflected a body on the ground. John’s body. Lifeless.

  I stopped struggling. The fight left my body, and I sagged. No, no, no. Oh, please no!

  The Highlanders dragging me paused and barked at me in Gaelic, probably ordering me to move. I couldn’t. With an exchange of words between them, they released my arms, and one moved to slide an arm around my waist to carry me.

  A banshee-like scream erupted behind us. I swung around to see young Andrew running toward us with a sword. In a wild move I had only seen in films, he flew into the air and sliced through one of my captors. I screamed then. As did the injured Highlander, who grabbed his arm.

  Angus whirled around and yelled something. I didn’t know which way to turn, what to do.

  “Andrew!” I shrieked, with no particular message. I think I was warning him to run for his young life, not begging him for help.

  Chapter Eight

  My little Highland warrior roared again and attacked the captor to my left. He thrust his sword at the man’s midriff, but the bigger Highlander managed to sidestep him. In doing so, he inadvertently released me. Somehow, my legs came to life. I grabbed my skirts and pivoted away from him.

  Suddenly, a small army of kilted, screaming bearded men emerged from the darkness of the tabletop and ran toward us—Morrison men, brandishing swords, battle-axes, pistols and torches.

  Angus shouted again, and my captors turned and ran for the gate. I swung around to find Andrew, who now joined his older brethren in chasing the Macleods from the island.

  Even amid all the shouting, the sound of crying children caught my ear, coming not from the dun but from somewhere beyond the gate. I ran forward in the wake of the Morrison men.

  Flames from torches on the path leading to the mainland lit the blond hair of a woman and two children, all three being dragged up the steep cliff by Macleod men.

  “Mary!” I screamed. She couldn’t hear me, of course. They were too far. “They’ve got Mary and the children,” I shouted to anyone who would listen.

  Andrew, his thin chest heaving under his tartan sash, turned back to me.

  “Aye, we ken. They will no hurt the bairns. Angus Macleod always said he would come for his grandchildren, and he has made good on his word.”

  Even in my terror, my grief, I noted the weary adult tone of Andrew’s voice. No, he was no child, not if he had to live like this.

  I put a trembling hand on his shoulder, at a level with my own.

  “Thank you for saving me, Andrew. I need to find John!” I turned then and ran for John’s body, hoping and praying that he was still alive, that his wounds were not fatal. Angus had said he hadn’t killed him.

  I found John in the faint light cast by the rooftop embers of Mary’s house, and I dropped to his side. Unconscious, he did not move. Thankfully, Andrew followed me with a torch, because I couldn’t see John clearly, couldn’t see where he was wounded.

  “Where
is he hurt, Andrew? Can you see?”

  A welcome voice sounded above me.

  “Let me see to the lad, lass.”

  I sobbed to see Mistress Glick standing over me. Behind her, women and children gathered, having emerged from their hiding places in the boathouses. Some carried torches.

  Mistress Glick slowly lowered herself to her knees beside me and ran a hand along John’s body while Andrew and the women held their torches aloft. Her hand, when she finished her examination, dripped with blood. I gasped and reached for the pulse in John’s neck. A steady beat reassured me that although he was wounded, he hadn’t lost a great deal of blood...yet.

  “He has a wound to his head and one to his trunk,” Mistress Glick said. “Andrew, go fetch two of the lads to help carry him to the keep.”

  Andrew hurried away, and I took John’s hand in mine. Thankfully, his skin was warm to the touch, not cold as if life ebbed from him. I worried about his head injury though. I couldn’t see it on the opposite side, and I didn’t want to go digging around on his scalp. Mistress Glick seemed to know what she was doing.

  “They’ve taken Mary and the children,” I whispered, trying to keep the other women and children from hearing.

  “Aye, we ken,” Mistress Glick said with a nod. “Angus said he would have them. He was no happy when Mary took the bairns and left.”

  Andrew returned with several men in tow.

  “The Macleods have gone,” said one of them, a tall, husky ginger-bearded man. “They have what they came for. They will no trouble us again this night.”

  “They did no get all they wanted though, Torq,” Andrew said, his voice deep, somehow more mature than it had been at the beginning of the night. “The Macleod took a fancy to Mistress Borodell. He was taking her with them until I attacked them. He might return for her.”

  I heard some gasps from the women.

  “Is that true, lass?” Mistress Glick asked.

  “I don’t know what he wanted with me. He definitely intended to take me with them though, until Andrew intervened.” I flashed him a weak but thankful smile.

  “Will he live?” Torq asked in a hushed voice.

  “Aye, he will,” Mistress Glick answered. “Lift him with care. Take him to the keep. I will tend to him there.”