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

by Barbara Longley

  “Nay.” Tieren huffed out a breath. “Someone has to guard your back, and that onerous task falls to me. The earl and your foster father made it abundantly clear where my responsibilities lie, little brother.”

  “Onerous, eh?” Hunter said with a frown. “When did Malcolm and the earl speak to you thusly?”

  “Shortly after you asked the earl for the loan of his soldiers. After everyone left, they kept me back to discuss the matter at length. I owe them a great debt. Had it no’ been for Malcolm’s sponsorship, I’d be knee-deep in barley and hops right now. I’d be brewing ale with no hope of rising above my station.” He reached out and gave Hunter a friendly shove. “Onerous indeed, for as we’ve already established, you are oft blind to what is directly before you. You need me.”

  Meghan rode up between them. She glanced at Tieren, then at Hunter. “What are you talking about?”

  “Och, we were discussing what needs doing once we reach DúnConnell.” Hunter couldn’t help but notice the way her face fell at his words. Why might that be? Her place was in the future where she would be safe. Surely she did not want to stay, not for him. She must have suitors aplenty in her century. She’d marry, have bairns and forget all about him. His heart wrenched at the thought.

  How would he fare without his most valued advisor, his respite from emotional onslaught—his . . . love? Nay! He would not lose his head or his heart. Men who allowed themselves to be caught up in passion and romantic love were fools, and he was no fool.

  “Thank you for sending Cecil away,” she said. “I would’ve been on pins and needles this whole trip if he’d been with us. Now I can enjoy my last few days in Scotland in peace.”

  She sighed, and the sadness carried upon that single exhalation cleaved his heart in two.

  “Leaving our time and Scotland saddens you, my lady?” Tieren winked at her. “If so, my offer for your hand still stands. Come to DúnConnell with me.”

  Meghan said naught, but her cheeks blossomed with color, and she bit her lip. Once again jealousy and possessiveness trapped Hunter in its iron jaws. Never had he been so at odds. He wanted her for himself, and that bedeviled him more than any enemy he might face. The passion she alone elicited, the soul-deep longing to have her by his side . . . Nay, such wrenching emotions would be his downfall. He had a responsibility to his clan and to his title, and he would not be diverted.

  “Of course leaving Scotland upsets me.” Meghan sighed again. “Leaving all of you, the earl and his family, never knowing how things turn out for the two of you at DúnConnell . . . It’s tearing me up inside, but the thought of never seeing my family again makes me sad too.” Her shoulders slumped. “At least in the future I’ll be able to look you up in history books. Then I’ll know whether or not . . . I’ll find out . . .”

  “Tell me you dinna doubt the outcome, lass.” Tieren laughed. “I’m insulted.”

  “You are not.” She grinned. “You’re way too cocky to be insulted.”

  “’Twill take a good deal of sweat and blood to turn things ’round at DúnConnell, to be sure.” Hunter grunted. “If credence can be given to the words of the wisewoman Edward spoke of, the MacConnells will prevail. I will build up our defenses so that none think to trouble us again.”

  “I wonder what shape your keep is in,” Meghan mused. “Do you have any idea how many MacConnells there are, or how many soldiers you have in your service?”

  “Nay.” Hunter shook his head. “My clan has been without their baron for several months. Before traveling to Loch Moigh, Edward journeyed to Stirling to inform our king of my grandsire’s demise and to register my patents with the record keepers. I imagine my holdings are in a sorry state by now.”

  “I don’t know.” She tilted her head as if giving the matter a great deal of thought. “If Edward is any indication, I suspect he placed good men in positions of temporary leadership in his absence. I’ll bet he’s the current commander of your garrison. Did you think to ask him?”

  “I did no’.” Hunter cast her a wry grin. “I wonder about his sons. Neither of them entered into any of our conversations, but I could no’ detect any enmity from them.” He turned to Tieren. “If indeed he is the present commander, your challenge may come from one or the other of Edward’s sons.”

  “If you’re smart,” Meghan said, “you’ll form a council of elders, including Edward. That will gain your clan’s loyalty and their respect. Plus, the council will help you get to know the lay of the land.”

  “’Tis sound advice, Beag Curaidh.” Hunter gave her a slight bow. “Rest assured I will do as you suggest.”

  “’Tis a shame we did no’ spend time in the lists with Edward’s lads,” Tieren said. “’Twould have been advantageous to gain some measure of their skill.”

  Meghan flashed them both a pointed look. “After so many years defending themselves against the MacKenzies, you’re going to find the MacConnell soldiers are either a well-oiled fighting machine or in total disarray.”

  Hunter frowned. “A well-oiled fighting machine, like a trebuchet?”

  She blew out a breath. “Your soldiers are either going to be a well-trained, tightly coordinated unit, or you’re facing a hot mess.”

  “Hot mess?” Tieren’s brow rose. “Did you no’ say you found me hot? Now I dinna ken whether you praised or maligned me that day.”

  Meghan laughed, and the sound caused a familiar tumbling sensation in Hunter’s chest. ’Twas easy enough to grasp her meaning, and he liked it not at all that she’d told Tieren she viewed him as such. “Am I hot as well?” He scowled at her.

  She chuckled, touched her mount’s sides with her heels and cantered ahead. “Definitely, my lord,” she called over her shoulder. “Steamy hot.”

  Pleased, he smirked at Tieren. “Steamy.”

  Tieren arched a brow. “Aye, steaming like a fresh pile of—”

  “Dinna say it.” He spurred his horse into a canter. “You go too far ahead of us, Beag Curaidh,” he warned, once again admiring her horsemanship. When the time came, how would he manage to part with her?

  Hunter surveyed the spot he’d chosen for their camp. They were close to the shores of Loch Mór, and nestled in the foothills of the Monadhliath Mountains. Well hid, and without Cecil’s presence, he worried far less. Still, he would not allow a fire. He saw no reason to tempt fate.

  They’d been riding hard for two days, and in two more he and his small band would reach Inverness. “Oatcakes and jerky for supper. I dinna wish to risk a fire.”

  With quick efficiency, Meghan and the men each did their part to set up camp and unsaddle their mounts. Hunter removed his gear from Doireann’s saddle, and then he placed his things where he planned to take his rest. Each night Meghan had slept betwixt him and Tieren, as she had on the journey to Aberdeenshire. Having her so close whilst not being able to make love to her was wreaking havoc upon his mood.

  He’d awakened before dawn this morn, facing her with his arms around her and her head nestled against his neck. His tarse had been as hard as stone against her hip, and he’d been thrusting against her. Good thing she’d been sound asleep—even better that he’d been able to disentangle himself before anyone else noticed. He scrubbed his hands over his face and heaved a sigh.

  ’Twould be best to sleep a good distance from her for the rest of the journey. He had enough men to stand guard. She didn’t need to be sheltered betwixt him and Tieren any longer. Come to think on it, he didn’t want Tieren that close to her either. He sighed and returned to unsaddling Doireann.

  The spot he’d chosen provided fodder for the horses and a natural enclosure of rocky outcroppings to keep their mounts from wandering. He moved to unload one of the packhorses. “Give the horses a measure of grain this eve. They’ve earned it, but form a guard to take them to the loch for a drink first.”

  “I’d like to bathe in the lake if I could,” Megh
an said. “Would that be possible?”

  Tieren came to her side. “Whilst we water the horses, I’ll look for a likely spot. We canna let you go anywhere without a guard.”

  “Fine, so long as I have my privacy,” she said.

  “A screen of sorts can be fashioned with blankets and branches,” Hunter offered. “I expect we’ll all want a good wash. Take your turn first, lass.”

  She nodded and went back to stowing her things and procuring her evening meal. Tieren and two other men led the horses down the path to the loch for a drink. Once the men and horses returned, Tieren picked up a few blankets, rope and a hatchet. “Gather what you need, my lady. I have chosen a place for bathing.”

  Hunter fought the urge to follow. ’Twould only torment him further to be so close to Meghan whilst she bathed. Would she remove all of her clothing? His groin tightened. Growling low in his throat, he dug into his pack for jerky and a bannock. He settled himself on the ground to eat, keeping his eyes trained upon the path Tieren, Meghan and the two guards had taken to the loch.

  He trusted Tieren and his men. He did. Still, the need to guard her himself thrummed through him, turning his bannock to ash in his mouth. His senses alert, he kept an ear cocked in case she should call out.

  Ridiculous. A MacKintosh man would never lift a hand against a lady. None would assault her, and he’d best turn his mind to something else.

  A twig snapped, and hurried footsteps approached. Hunter’s attention returned to the path. Meghan strode into camp. Her expression tight, she clutched her things to her chest. She kept her eyes on the path and headed straight for her place in the circle they’d formed. Tieren followed a short distance behind. His shoulders were curled in, and his head was bowed in defeat. Instead of stopping once he reached their camp, Tieren continued walking in the direction of the horses. Hunter could easily read his friend’s hurt and the deep sting of rejection.

  Hunter made his way to Meghan’s side. “What happened between you and Tieren?” he asked in a low tone.

  “Nothing.” Fresh color bloomed in her cheeks.

  “I can see by your blush that you do no’ speak the truth.” He leaned closer to peer into her eyes. “Something happened. Tell me.”

  She fussed with her gear, rearranged her blanket and gave a little shrug. “Tieren asked me again if I would marry him.” Her eyes darted to him and away just as quickly. “I told him no, and that I don’t love him. It wouldn’t be right or fair to him.”

  “Ah.” Hunter nodded. “I see.”

  She met his gaze, hers searching. “Do you?”

  “Aye. ’Tis never pleasant to deliver news we ken will cause hurt. He’ll mend, Beag Curaidh. Before long the two of you will once again be easy in each other’s company.”

  “Of course.” She went back to laying her sheepskin and blankets as if readying herself to sleep. “You can go now. I’m fine. Tieren is fine.”

  Her tone carried a bite, and it puzzled him. Clearly she wished for privacy. “Good eve to you, my lady.” He bowed and took his leave. In the face of Tieren’s pain, he should not feel such relief. He should not, yet he did, and he could do naught to prevent the flare of triumph from igniting within him.

  He moved his sleeping blankets to the side of camp directly opposite Meghan’s, then set out for the loch. A thorough dunking in the frigid water would do him good.

  Your enemies are near! Hunter went from deep sleep to fully alert in a trice. Was it Giselle’s voice in his head that woke him? His skin prickled with the warning. Never before had the faerie spoken to him thus, but he suffered not a moment’s doubt. Silently he crawled out of his blankets toward Tieren.

  The sun had just begun its ascent above the eastern horizon, casting enough light that his friend would be able to read his signing. He poked him, motioning for silence when his commander tensed and woke.

  “Wake the men and have them ready their weapons,” he signed. “Bunch blankets and whatever is to hand in our beds to give the appearance we still sleep. Our enemies approach.” Tieren set about his task with quiet precision.

  Hunter gave three soft whistled calls of a warbler, a warning to their guards to return to camp. Then he crept to where Meghan slept. He covered her mouth to prevent her from crying out as he shook her. Her eyes grew wide as she startled awake, and he caught her hand as she gripped one of her daggers. She blinked when she recognized him. He motioned for her to be quiet and leaned close to whisper in her ear. “Gather your weapons and head due east. Hide in the hills until I come for you.”

  “Why?” she whispered back, her eyes clouded with confusion.

  “We are about to be ambushed.”

  “I can help,” she hissed. “You know I can fight.”

  “Aye, I ken well enough you can defend yourself.” He couldn’t help himself; he drew her into his arms. “I canna bear the thought of . . . of . . . Grant me this request, Beag Curaidh. Hide in the hills where I ken you will be safe.” He crushed her to him and inhaled her sweet, clean scent. “I beg this of you.”

  “All right, Hunter.” She stroked his shoulders. “I’ll go if it will ease your mind.”

  “’Twill ease my mind considerably.” He blew out a shaky breath and let go of her. “Stuff something under your blankets to give the appearance that you are still there. Load our supplies upon the packhorses and take them with you. I dinna want the rouncies to run off, nor do I wish to lose our food.” She nodded, and he backed away.

  He watched to be sure she did as he commanded before readying himself for battle. Once he and his soldiers were prepared, they hid behind the ridge of stone forming a natural enclosure for their camp. Twenty paces from where they had slept but a few moments ago, he and his men hunkered down to watch—and to wait. It didn’t take long.

  A dozen shadows crept toward their encampment, followed by two men on horseback. One of them wore a tunic emblazoned with a crest—MacKenzie. The other man was far too familiar—Cecil.

  The enemy snuck into their camp like the dishonorable curs they were. They spread out and positioned themselves above the lumpy forms under the blankets. Just as they reached to pull the blankets back, their swords ready to commit murder, Cecil called out, “Dinna kill the woman. She is mine.”

  A chill ran down Hunter’s spine, and he ground his teeth. He gave the signal to wait. In that moment of chaos, when the enemy discovered they’d stabbed naught but blankets and brush, Hunter gave the war cry. He, Tieren and his six warriors charged over the ridge of stone and into their camp with swords drawn—eight against twelve.

  “There,” Cecil shouted, pointing at Hunter. “There is the new baron of DúnConnell.”

  “Kill him,” the commander ordered, his voice dispassionate.

  Tieren took up his place beside Hunter. Soon the two of them were surrounded. The sounds of battle filled his head, and battle lust thrummed in his veins. The MacKenzies formed a wedge, separating Tieren from him. It took all of Hunter’s concentration to defend himself. Rage fueled his blows as he drove his attackers back. He needed to get to Cecil. He longed to drag him from his mount and separate his worthless head from his shoulders.

  Awareness coursed through him like a river as another warrior approached from his right. Three against one was one too many. He needed help and gave a shrill whistle. Blocking blow after blow in defense, he couldn’t get off any offensive strikes. He sensed the sword rising above his head from the third warrior. The two soldiers before him increased their efforts, distracting him from the death blow to come.

  He caught a blur of movement in his periphery. She moved so fast he could scarce believe what he saw. Meghan ran with her sword drawn. She kicked out at the warrior about to deal his deathblow. Her boot connected with his enemy’s chest. A grunt, the rush of air, and the warrior was on the ground. Meghan drew her sword from the dead man’s chest and came to stand with her back to Hunter’s and
her bloody blade raised.

  “By all that is holy, woman,” he snapped. “I told you to hide in the hills until I came for you.” Her presence frightened him enough that he forgot his fatigue and made a desperate sweeping arc with his sword. One of his attackers fell, and he turned all of his effort toward the second.

  “You’re welcome,” Meghan huffed just as two more took the place of the slain warriors at their feet. She engaged one of them, her blade flashing out beside his ear.

  “Tieren, lads,” Hunter called out. “To me!” Fear for Meghan’s safety clogged his throat. Where were the MacKintosh men who followed behind them? Now would be a good time for them to appear. He cast a glance about him. His soldiers were fully occupied, and Tieren was hemmed in.

  “Shite.” Desperate, he sucked in a deep breath and sent a plea to his ancestor. After all, ’twas she whose voice in his head had warned him of the ambush. “Giselle, Áine . . . Granddam, I need your help. I beg of you—keep Meghan safe.”

  He received no answer. No help came to him. Hunter’s muscles screamed, and his lungs burned as he deflected the strikes coming at him from all directions. Meghan’s sword rang out as she fought, guarding his back. God, keep her safe! he prayed. Pounding hoofbeats approached from behind him. A thudding sound, Meghan’s moan, and suddenly the place where her warmth had radiated against him went cold.

  Panic surged through him. He snatched a second sword off the ground and lunged, attacking mindlessly any soul unfortunate enough to get in his way. Slowly he gained ground, inching ever closer toward the edge of the battle—closer to the horses.

  Two more MacKenzies fell. Finally, the battle turned in his favor. He could not walk without stepping over the bodies of their foes, and the air held the coppery scent of blood. Hunter raised his eyes just in time to see Cecil riding over a distant hill, Meghan draped over the betrayer’s lap, still as death. Fear such as he’d never before experienced exploded in his chest. “Nay,” he cried out.