The Highlander's Folly (The Novels of Loch Moigh Book 3)

by Barbara Longley

  Oh my God, they’re just children, barely preteens if even that.

  She drew in a deep breath through her nose and blew it out slowly through her mouth. Flip, flip, flip—she tossed the dagger in her right hand. Thump, thump, thump pounded her heart against her rib cage. She gasped at the sound of breaking brush to her right. Two men on foot charged out from the trees. One held a large, heavy-looking club; the other brandished a rusty axe. Both men were filthy, ragged and fierce.

  Tieren strode forward and engaged the man with the club. The one with the axe headed straight for Allain. Hunter’s page trembled, but stood his ground, ready to defend himself and their horses. The other two boys inched closer to help him, but they wouldn’t get to him in time. Besides, none of them would be a match for the enormous thug.

  A streak of wetness darkened Allain’s hose as his bladder let loose. Rage exploded within her at the injustice. Meghan stepped out from her place beside the horses. “Hey,” she shouted. “Pick on somebody your own size, asshole!”

  The thief’s gaze shifted her way. His eyes traveled over her, and he snarled, dismissing her as a threat. He turned back to Allain, kicking the kid’s sword from his hands far too easily. Allain raised his arms to cover his head. The brute hefted his axe to deliver the killing blow. Meghan snapped. She could not let this creep kill Allain! Instinct took over, and her focus narrowed to the bully’s most vulnerable spot—his bare neck. Flipping her dagger in the air once more, she caught it by the blade and hurled it through the air with all the force she could muster.

  The thug staggered back and clutched at the knife protruding from his throat. Eyes filled with hatred and shock turned her way as he pulled the blade out by the hilt. He threw it to the ground and stalked toward her with his axe raised. A gurgling sound emitted from the wound, and frothy blood spilled down his chest to stain his tunic. She must’ve severed an artery.

  She stepped back, unable to take her eyes off of the thick red stream spurting down his front with each pulse of his heart. Less than a yard away, he dropped the axe and fell to his knees. Then he toppled over face-first on the ground. A pool of crimson stained the mud beneath him.

  All the air left her lungs at once. Spots danced before her eyes, and she collapsed to her hands and knees. Crawling away from the corpse, tears dripped from her cheeks to the ground, and the awful taste of bile rose to her throat. She shut her eyes tight in an effort to block out what had just happened, but the image was as real with her eyes closed as it was with them open—and the memory every bit as terrifying.

  I killed a man.

  Her gut lurched. She sucked in huge gulps of air and concentrated on breathing, on the feel of the wet ground beneath her palms and knees. She focused on anything other than the gruesome images flashing through her mind.

  Strong hands lifted her to her feet. Alarm lit her nerves on fire, and she tensed to fight. Her eyes flew open. Hunter had her. All the fight left her with a whoosh of air from her lungs.

  “Are ye hurt, lass?” His voice came out a gruff rasp, and he gripped her arms so tightly he’d leave bruises. His worry-filled gaze traveled over every inch of her.

  “No.” She shook her head, and a tear slipped down her cheek. Next thing she knew, she found herself crushed against his broad chest, his strong arms banding around her with such force that all the energy she had left was squeezed right out of her. Good thing he held her up, because she couldn’t have stood on her own to save her life.

  Aunt Betty’s Jell-O had nothing on her. She shook uncontrollably. Placing her palms on Hunter’s chest, she closed her eyes again and rested her cheek against the wet wool of his tunic. Somehow, finding his heart pounding as rapidly as hers gave her comfort.

  “You should ha’ seen it, Sir Hunter,” Tristan cried. “The lass popped out from behind the rouncies and felled the man with a single toss of her wee dirk.”

  “Aye,” Allain squeaked and cleared his throat. “Do ye ken what she said to him afore she smote him dead?”

  “Nay. What did she say?” Hunter asked, his voice hoarse. He rocked her back and forth in a soothing motion.

  “She told him to pick on someone his own size,” Allain answered, his tone filled with incredulous awe. “His own size, sir, and she’s nae bigger than I! Then she had the ballocks tae call him an asshole.”

  Hunter grunted and cradled her head against his chest. She heard him swallow a few times. Her heart rate slowed a bit, but the shakes still gripped her. She was safe. Somehow she’d managed to live through the ordeal, thanks to a lifetime of training at her father’s knee.

  Lord, how she wanted her dad right now, and her mom. Hell, she wanted to go upstairs to her own bedroom—after a long, scalding hot bath, that is—crawl into her bed and sleep for a week. In clean sheets and wearing her favorite flannel jammies. She hiccupped against Hunter’s chest.

  “She saved Allain’s life, and that’s the truth,” Harold said. “Here, my lady.” He nudged her shoulder. “I cleaned the dirk for ye.”

  “Keep it.” She burrowed closer to Hunter and gripped handfuls of his tunic. “It’s not mine anyway.”

  “’Tis now,” Allain crowed. “A war trophy, my lady, tae recall the deed. Mayhap I’ll compose a ballad for ye, in honor of yer bravery.”

  She groaned, gagged and slipped her arms around Hunter’s waist.

  Hunter stiffened. He removed her arms from around him and stepped away. “I’ll take the dagger for now, lad. We must be off. Open your eyes, Meghan. ’Tis over and done.”

  Wait. Who’d flipped his switch? Why had he shifted from caring, comforting protector to brusque commander? She wasn’t finished with being comforted. Not by a long shot. “I prefer to keep them closed.”

  “Aye, but ’tis far more difficult to see where you’re going that way.” He made a grunting sound deep in his throat. “Allain, the rain has caused a small burn to run from the wood yonder. Clean yourself up, lad, and be quick about it. Tristan, Harold, help me remove the hobbles and take the canvas from the horses’ hooves. We won’t need to muffle our passing any longer. The enemy has been routed and vanquished.”

  Oh Lord. She’d vanquished one of them herself. “You were right. Killing is a messy business,” she muttered. “I don’t ever want to have to do that again.” She opened her eyes but kept her gaze on the path ahead. “Where are Tieren and Murray?” Her heart pounded again, and panic stole her breath. “John and George aren’t . . . Tell me everyone is OK.”

  “Everyone is indeed OK. The others are ensuring our way ahead is clear.” Hunter unfastened the nearest horse’s hobbles. “We dinna have much farther to go. Once we’re in Aberdeenshire, we will remain there until my kin sends a guard to escort us the rest of the way. You will be safe.”

  “Safe? In fifteenth-century Scotland?” She snorted. “You’ve got to be kidding me. I’ve read a book or three about your century, and there’s nothing safe about it.”

  “And yet, have you no’ insisted more than once that you have no need of my protection?” He met her gaze, his steel-gray eyes deadly serious.

  “Touché.” Heat surged to her cheeks. “I’m beginning to see that we all need each other’s protection.” She hiccupped again and reached for the gelding’s reins with a shaky hand.

  “Aye. ’Tis the way of it.” Hunter moved to her side and cupped his hands. “I ken you are able to mount on your own, but accept my aid all the same.”

  “Gladly.” She placed her muddy boot in his palms and hoisted herself onto the horse’s back. “My legs are like rubber bands right now anyway.”

  “I dinna ken what rubber bands are, but I’ve oft felt what you are feeling now, Beag Curaidh. A good hot meal and a day or two’s rest, and I trow you will recover well enough.” He patted her leg, leaving a muddy handprint behind. He smiled up at her, his expression filled with understanding.

  She frowned. “What does beg coo-r
ee mean?”

  “’Tis but a sobriquet to honor your bravery. It means ‘wee warrior.’”

  “Oh.” She blinked back the tears filling her eyes again. “I don’t think I was brave, Hunter. Everything just kind of happened at once, and I acted on instinct.”

  He smiled at her again, and a flush of heat suffused her insides. “Will I be able to bathe in Aberdeenshire and clean these clothes maybe?”

  “Aye.”

  “Good.” Grief and a bone-deep weariness overtook her. She wanted to put her arms around the horse’s neck and fall asleep on his back for the rest of the trip. Could she do that? Too bad they’d abandoned the wagon. “Does this horse have a name?”

  “Aye. Nevan called him Mìlidh, which means ‘champion.’ He’s a fine destrier.”

  “He is.” She patted the bay’s neck. “But Milly? Where I come from, that’s a girl’s name.” The gelding tossed his head as if she’d insulted him.

  “Och, but you are no’ there. You are here, and here ’tis a strong name for a horse that has proven himself in battle more than once.”

  “Point taken.” She yawned, and her mouth opened so wide, it made a popping sound. Tristan and Harold finished removing the canvas from the hooves of their ponies. Allain returned from the brush wearing a kilt of plain brown wool. His hose were dripping wet. He wrung them out and rolled them before stowing them with the rest of his things. Still babbling on about the battle, the younger boys mounted and took their places in line. Meghan scrubbed both hands over her face in an effort to wake herself up. Man, what would she give for a mocha latte about now, with extra whipped cream and chocolate shavings on top. She sighed heavily.

  “Are you able to ride, lass?” Hunter wiped his muddy hands on a patch of wet grass before swinging up on Doireann.

  “To tell the truth, I don’t know how long I’ll last.” She glanced at him. “I’m still adjusting to all the changes.” The constant dampness, the cold, traveling and the tension from the last few days had definitely taken a toll. “Seems like I’ve been tired ever since I got here.”

  “Why did you no’ tell me? You could have rested upon the wagon as we traveled.”

  She lifted her chin. “I can handle it.”

  He drew his mount up beside her. “You must give up this ridiculous notion that you possess a man’s strength and stamina.” He reached over and snatched her off her horse like she weighed nothing. Settling her in front of him with his arm around her waist, he called over his shoulder, “Allain, take her mount’s reins and lead him. You”—he gave her a shake—“rest.”

  Too tired to argue, she opted for the easiest retort. “You are so arrogant.”

  “Aye, but I’ve earned the right to be thus, and the sooner you accept that I am your superior in every way, the better we’ll get along. Sleep now, and hold your tongue whilst you’re at it.”

  “Superior?” Her eyes widened, and she straightened away from him. “Bring it, buddy. I demand a rematch. Anytime. Anywhere.” She twisted around to glare at him, stunned to find his eyes twinkling with amusement and one corner of his mouth twitching up. Her insides melted, and she studied him for several seconds before settling back against his chest. “You’re teasing me. Why would you do that?”

  “To divert your troubled thoughts.” His arm tightened around her waist.

  “Oh.” She nodded. “Sleep and hold my tongue at the same time, eh? I’ll give that a try.”

  “Do,” he commanded. Leaning close, he whispered, “You ken I was raised by a twenty-first-century lass and a twenty-first-century foster cousin, aye? Both have proven themselves a man’s equal in every way. You’ve been through much these past few days. Take your rest now, whilst I watch your back. ’Tis the MacKintosh way.”

  His breath against her neck and the way he held her sent shivers of pleasure coursing through her center. But the moment she stopped talking, the horror of what she’d done came flooding back. She preferred talking to the pictures in her head. “What happened to your last squire?”

  “Randolph caught his thigh upon a rusty scrap of iron whilst on the ship carrying us home. The wound festered, and he grew feverish. My squire perished at sea.”

  What was she doing in this place where life was so utterly fragile? She shuddered. “I’m sorry.”

  “As am I. He was a good lad and would’ve been knighted this summer. I dinna look forward to sending word to his kin. Randolph was a Sutherland. They’re close allies to the MacKintosh.” He gave her another slight shake. “Did I no’ just tell you to rest, Beag Curaidh?”

  “Yep. You did.” With another huge yawn, she snuggled against him. Despite how wet and cold they both were, a luxurious warmth spread where her back pressed against his chest. The contact and the heat lulled and soothed her. She felt protected, cherished. Sleep took her away from the damp chill, the never-ending mud and the day’s trauma. For right now, she was safe in Hunter’s arms.

  “Meghan.” Hunter’s deep voice penetrated her sleep. “We’re in Aberdeenshire. A meal and a bed await us within.”

  She yawned and straightened. They were on a cobbled street with charming stone cottages crowding either side and the North Sea sparkling to the east. Before her stood an impressive two-story inn built with a massive timber frame and some sort of material like the stucco familiar to her from the twenty-first century.

  Hunter slid off Doireann and reached up to help her dismount. She set her pride aside and placed her hands on his broad shoulders. He lifted her to the ground, and their bodies touched for an instant, setting off a host of whirligigs inside her. All too quickly he stepped away and began issuing orders. Already she missed being sheltered in his arms.

  “Once the horses are unloaded, Allain, Tristan and Harold, take the horses to the stables in back,” Hunter said, untying the packs fastened to one of the ponies. He hoisted the load to the cobbles. “The rest of us will transport our belongings inside. Wait here, and I’ll see what is available in the way of lodging.”

  He disappeared into the inn, and Meghan helped with the unloading. Oh, how she looked forward to sleeping under a roof. What were inns like in the fifteenth century, anyway? For the past week she’d been sleeping on the ground between Tieren and Hunter and surrounded by snoring, farting males. Was it possible she might have some privacy while they were here?

  “How do you fare, my lady?” Tieren asked, his tone low. “Though we will no’ be addressing you as ‘lady’ for the foreseeable future, aye?” He grinned.

  She smiled back. “Other than being weary to the bone, I’m fine. It’ll be nice to be dry and warm for a change, won’t it?”

  “Och, aye.” He took the bundle of blankets from her hands and set them on top of the casks already on the ground. “The lads sang your praises all the way here. Allain has sworn to become your champion once he’s earned his spurs. I am greatly indebted to you.”

  She shrugged. “I only did what any of you would’ve done.”

  “Aye, but ’twas my duty, no’ yours. I was charged with protecting you, and I feared the worst when I saw that miscreant approaching you with his axe raised. You saved Allain’s life and defended yourself as well as any warrior. You truly are a braw and canny lass. ’Tis a blessing indeed that you have come to us.” His expression turned somber. “I hate to think what would have befallen Allain had you no’ been so handy with a dirk.”

  “I’ve secured two private chambers for the duration of our stay,” Hunter said, appearing at her side. “Let us take these things inside lest prying eyes take note.” He covered one of the small trunks with a leather satchel and lifted it. “Come, lads,” he said, his eyes resting on her for a second, “the sooner we are settled, the sooner we can sit by a warm fire with tankards of ale and a fine hot supper.”

  With a quick backward glance toward the sea, she inhaled the cool, salt-tinged air and followed her crew inside. Hunter led th
em up the stairs and down the dim hallway lit only by the daylight coming through a single window at the end. He opened the first of two doors. “Squires and pages here.” He motioned for George and John to come forward. “We have the room next door.”

  Meghan followed the squires. Hunter took her by the arm and tugged her toward the second door.

  “Nay, lad,” he said. “I want you close where I can look after you.”

  “Aye, here where we can look after you,” Tieren added, his tone firm. “What shall we call him?” He winked at her.

  “’Tis up to him.” Hunter shot her a questioning look.

  “Kevin.” Her throat tightened, and a tidal wave of homesickness washed over her. “It’s my oldest brother’s name. Call me Kevin.”

  “Come, Kevin.” Tieren gestured for her to enter. “Let us put these things away and go to our supper.”

  Curious, she surveyed the interior. The room resembled a dormitory, with six wooden bed frames strung with rope. Thin wool mattresses were rolled at the end of each bed, and all of the beds were pushed up against the walls, leaving the interior space open. At least it had a fireplace. Not lit, but kindling, split logs and peat bricks stood ready to heat the room. Pegs lined the walls, and the men were already hanging their wet cloaks up to dry. She stood where she was, her hands full of their camp food and waterskins and her damp clothing chafing her skin. Which cot should she take?

  “You will sleep here, Kevin.” Hunter pointed to the cot between the one he had chosen and the one where Tieren had dropped the bundle of blankets.

  “I guess a room to myself is out of the question,” she grumbled, approaching her assigned spot.

  “Ye’ve slept amongst us for three nights without complaint.” Murray’s brow lowered. “What objection can ye have now to such an arrangement? Ha’ we no’ looked after ye well enough fer yer liking . . . Kevin?”