Return of the Highland Laird: A Highland Force Novella

by Amy Jarecki

  Every muscle in his body tensed.

  Steeling himself for a fight, Alex sped his pace and slipped his fingers around the hilt of his sword. His gaze darted over his right shoulder, then left. He counted only two. Heart thundering in his chest, he bellowed and whipped around, swinging his blade in an upward strike.

  The two bastards crouched and trained their blades in a deadly challenge. The tallest one emitted a nervous laugh. “Give us your purse and we’ll merely take your boat and be on our way.”

  “What if I say no?” Alexander lunged.

  The man deflected the blow. The other attacked from the side. Whipping his blade in an arc, Alex defended. Using his sword’s momentum, he advanced, driving his blade toward the thief’s flank. The man skittered aside, but not far enough. Alex’s strike sliced open his leg.

  The brigand backed away. “The giant Scot’s trying to murder me!”

  The tall one cackled a hideous laugh and swung his blade in a circle. “The only beggar who’ll be murdered this night is this flea-bitten sheep reiver.” With a quick jab, the man advanced. Alex defended the blow in a battle of swords.

  Just when he’d gained the upper hand, footsteps slapped the mud. Out of the corner of his eye, the bastards from the tavern approached. Alexander delivered the killing blow, planted his legs firm and prepared to face them. Armed with swords and battleaxes, a dozen men barreled toward him bellowing like skewered bulls.

  A trained knight, Alexander fought with verve, but the blackguards wouldn’t stop coming. Just when he’d cut one down, two more replaced him. His muscles burned as he fought, slowly backing toward the birlinn. But Alex was no fool. He’d be lucky to make it that far.

  The pole from an axe crashed into his side with a jarring thud. A fist slammed into his mouth, another, his gut. The wind whooshed from his lungs with a grunt. Alex spun—right into the blunt end of a swinging poleaxe.

  The world reeled. He tried to maintain his stance, but he could no longer discern up from down. His body crumpled to the ground. Out of control, the back of Alexander’s head hit a rock. Before he could move, blackness shuttered his mind.

  ***

  Alexander clapped a hand over his mouth and choked back a heave. The relentless pounding in his head was unbearable. The hard floor beneath him jostled and creaked. Horse hooves clomped upon a wet road.

  Alex opened his eyes to be splattered by raindrops. He swiped a hand across his face. Jesus, that hurt. He touched his lip. That stung too. He tried to sit up, but a sharp jab in his ribs made him grunt.

  “We can use a new fishing boat. This might be a good year for us after all,” a deep voice said.

  A reedy voice cackled. “What are you going to do with your share of the coin?”

  “Don’t know about you, but I’m heading to Whitehaven to find me a wench.”

  “Always thinking with your cock, are you not?”

  The cart turned and the hoof beats muffled as if they’d moved from a stony road onto a path. Above, a covering of trees quelled the rain, though sloppy drops plopped around Alex.

  “I hate this forest—it’s been haunted ever since the monks were burned by the king’s men,” the deep voice said.

  “We’d best dump the body afore the ghosts get after us.”

  “Just a bit further. Don’t want the stench of rotting flesh to foul St. Bees. He’s a bull of a man—he’ll stink to high heaven.”

  Alexander tensed and felt for his sporran. Of course it was gone, as was his birlinn, and this miserable pair thought him dead. He reached inside his sleeves for his daggers. Blast. They’re gone, too.

  He’d have to fight the thieves with his fists. The cart hit a bump and jostled his body. His head throbbed so excruciatingly, stars crossed his vision. Again he tried to sit up, but dreaded blackness overcame his mind…

  When Alexander next woke, the men had hold of his arms and legs.

  “Jesus, the bastard’s heavy,” a straining voice said.

  The fingers gripping his ankles dug in like a tourniquet. “Dump him in in the brush and let’s be off.”

  “This place makes the hair on my arms stand on end.”

  His body swung and crashed onto the mossy forest floor with a thud. A stick protruded into his side. Alex grunted and opened his eyes. The miserable louts had dumped him without a second look. They hastened back to their cart, leaving him suffering and exposed to the elements.

  Alexander could no sooner stand and fight than if he were dead—perhaps he was even closer to death.

  It mattered not. He’d receive no sympathy from a pair of murderous thieves. He curled into a ball and cradled his pounding head between his hands while inhaling shallow pants to allay the pain breathing caused. Heaven help him, he mightn’t survive the night.

  Chapter Three

  Jane finished the evening chores and sat in her rocker, emitting an enormous sigh. She held her hands up to the candlelight. At one time, she’d been proud of her smooth skin and her nicely manicured fingernails. But now, a different sense of pride filled her. The jagged nails and rough, callused palms were a testament to her new life. Never had she considered she would be living alone deep in a forest, but the solace it brought and the freedom from battering empowered her.

  Yes, she had taken her husband’s life and would probably be sent to the bowels of hell on Judgment Day, but given the choice, she would do it again. Eight years she’d survived under the tyranny of the Earl of Whitehaven. He’d beaten her until she could take no more.

  Jane didn’t even mind the water dripping from the soggy rafters above.

  Max stirred on his rag rug in front of the hearth. The spaniel’s ears pricked. Her heartbeat quickening, Jane held her breath and listened. The wind still blew with such force, the trees popped and rustled. A noise boomed. Jane jumped in her seat.

  Max turned his head and growled.

  Jane listened again, but her thundering heartbeat consumed her ears.

  “Stop, Max. You’re making me as nervous as a finch.”

  The dog hopped to his feet and barked—not a yip, but a ferocious, rumbling, growling roar.

  Jane’s heart nearly hammered out of her chest. She stood and spun full circle. Snatching the poker from the nail on the hearth, she then held it up like a sword, hands trembling out of control.

  Max barked.

  “Hush! I cannot hear a thing with your racket.”

  Slowly, she tiptoed toward the door with Max growling at her heels. Her breath rushing in her ears, Jane tried to listen for any unusual sound.

  Max whimpered.

  She glanced down. “What is it, boy?”

  With a resounding bang, the door burst open. A crazed man gaped at her with piercing and anguished blue eyes. Grunting, he staggered inside and collapsed face first to the floor.

  Max launched into a cacophony of barking, racing around the man as if the spaniel had made a conquest.

  A cold wind chilled the cottage while Jane tried to steady the poker with both hands and point it at the burly form. He didn’t move.

  Max whimpered and licked the man’s face. Then the dog curled up beside him.

  Jane gaped. “Merciful father.”

  The wind continued to whip in through the doorway, blowing in leaves and spitting rain. Jane steeled her nerves, skirted around the beast and slammed the door. Standing with her back against it, she regarded the man leaking water onto her floorboards. He wasn’t dressed like a local. He wore a plaid and a black leather doublet, hose to his knees with muddy boots. She tapped the sole of one with the poker.

  He remained flaccid, all except for his calf muscle. It bulged and relaxed. She tapped again and his muscle bulged as large as a pumpkin. Afraid to try to touch him once more, she pressed her back to the door and cleared her throat. “I beg your pardon, but you cannot possibly stay on the floor…or anywhere nearby for that matter.” She clutched the poker to her chest, terrified he might jump up and wallop her like Roderick would have done.

 
; But the man, the Highlander, remained quite unconscious.

  She’d heard stories about plaid-wearing barbarians from the north of Scotland. They were the most feared savages in all of Christendom. But that wasn’t her first concern.

  Whatever am I to do? If he recognizes me, I’ll be burned at the stake by morning. She turned to the door and squeezed the latch. Peering outside, she saw no horse. How did he come to be here?

  She closed it and regarded the Scot over her shoulder. He had a strong back and thick auburn tresses strewn across his face. He wore no sword belt, not even a dagger in his stockings. Jane tiptoed to his head. Stooping down, she brushed the hair away from his face and gasped. It was a handsome face, yet weathered and ruddy with lines etched deep at his eyes as if he spent a great deal of time working in the sun. Blood smeared across his temple and he had a split lip. She’d suffered such injuries in the past.

  Jane smoothed his hair from his forehead and her fingers connected with a raised knot. He’s been beaten. Badly. She held her breath and listened for a moment. If he was traveling with companions, they’d be nearby for certain.

  She clasped praying hands to her lips. Heaven forgive me, he cannot stay.

  Placing a hand on his shoulder, she shook him. “Excuse me, sir. Can you hear me?”

  The Highlander did not respond, though his breathing became shallower.

  Perhaps if he remains here until he wakes I can then send him on his way. After all, I cannot very well tie him to an ox and drag the poor soul back into Abbey Wood. Besides, I cannot in good conscience leave him to the elements in his condition. She emitted a long sigh. I, myself, know what it is like to weather a blow to the head with a fist or worse.

  With resolve, Jane strode to her bedchamber. She retrieved a blanket and a pillow. After she’d stuffed the pillow under the Highlander’s head and draped a blanket over his body, she turned the rocker to face him and sat.

  With her poker in hand, she watched the sturdy male form. When he wakes, I’ll send him on his way, and that will be the end of it. Surely he will not try anything untoward, since I am armed and he obviously is not.

  ***

  Alexander opened his eyes. A dog licked him, leaving slobber across his lips. Grunting, Alex pushed the mutt away. The scruffy, liver-colored dog was too small to be of use to anyone. Alex rolled to his back and grunted again. Ballocks, everything hurt. His head throbbed and a sharp pain jabbed his ribs every time he took a breath. He licked his bottom lip. That stung too.

  A creak came from his right. Alex raised his head slightly to find a woman sound asleep in a rocking chair. She clung to a fire poker resting across her lap. Her mouth slightly parted, she had high color in her cheeks and her linen coif sat askew atop her head, giving him an eyeful of flowing tawny tresses.

  He glanced down at his disheveled plaid, doublet and shirt. I must have given her an awful fright.

  Around him, water dripped from the rafters, collected by a half-dozen pots or so. My oath, she’ll nay have a cottage if the roof is no’ repaired soon.

  He rested his head upon the pillow and closed his eyes. Heaven help him, he’d hit bottom. Not only had he lost his sea birlinn, he’d lost his weapons and his coin—definitely not a good position for a laird to be in when alone on foreign soil. Worse, his body was so stiff from injuries, he wouldn’t be able to defend himself against the mangy mutt now curled beside his hip, let alone a human being.

  He needed to heal and find a way back to Raasay to face his horrid past. Perhaps he could hire on as a hand and work on a transport until he reached home. The pain in his ribs jabbed like someone skewered him with a dagger. Alexander ground his molars. What the blazes have I done?

  “You’re awake?”

  The woman’s shrill voice made his eyes fly open. She jumped to her feet, brandishing the poker like she was about to beat him with the blasted thing. “Who are you?”

  Alex grimaced as he pushed himself up and stood on wobbly pegs. He held his palms high. “Forgive me intrusion, madam. I am Alexander…ah…from the Highlands.” He couldn’t reveal his identity. If anyone discovered he was the Chieftain of Raasay, they might very well hold him for ransom.

  She raised the trembling poker higher. “Have you no family name?”

  “Nay—’tis oft the way in the Highlands,” he hedged. “And what are ye called?”

  She scooted back. “La…ah…Mrs. Howard.” She seemed none too sure about it, but Alexander cared not. It was best if they kept things unfamiliar. Her damned poker shook at his nose. “How…how did you come here?”

  Bloody oath, she had penetrating acorn eyes. He swiped his hand across his pounding head. He had not just allowed his miserable self to admire the woman’s bonny eyes. He had no business admiring any woman ever again. “I had a wee skirmish by the St. Bees Inn. It seems the local folk do no’ take kindly to Scotsmen.”

  “You have not been in these parts long, then?” Her clipped accent was high English, he was certain of it—all the more reason for the quandary—a bonny highborn woman alone in the wood, in the northwest of England?

  “Nay, me wee birlinn was blown onto the beach by a nasty tempest. I tried to let a room at the inn, but none were to be had.” He tenderly licked his split lip. “Then a mob of murdering bastards attacked, thieved me boat and coin and dumped me in the wood for dead.”

  She studied him as if trying to decide whether to bludgeon him or not, all the while the poker shuddering in her hands. But, Jesus, she looked too thin. Alexander again held up his palms to prove he was no threat, his legs still wobbly beneath him. “Ye have anything to eat?”

  She shook her head along with her ridiculous poker. “Oh no, you cannot stay. You must leave straight away.” Her voice warbled like a skittish bird.

  He glanced around the shabby cottage. “From the looks of things, ye could use a hand.” I’ve got no other place to lick me wounds.

  “Absolutely not.” She pointed the poker at the door. “Please, go.”

  Alex gave her a sidewise glance and scooted toward the hearth. A kettle hung over the embers. “Could ye offer a poor beggar a mere bowl of oats? Even the most miserly landowner wouldna turn a man away without a morsel of food.”

  That must have hit a chord with Mrs. Howard, because her eyes trailed to the cast iron pot too. “I’ve some pottage. But you must promise to leave immediately after you’ve broken your fast.” Then her gaze shifted to a crest above the mantel.

  Seems an odd place for such an extravagant coat of arms. But that, too, was none of Alexander’s concern.

  “My thanks.” Stiff and aching, Alex grunted while he moved to the table with the dog on his heels. There wasn’t a spot on his body that didn’t hurt, and spending the night unconscious on the hardwood floor only added to his pain. He sat on a rickety bench. Good God, was everything in this cottage in need of repair? “From the looks of yer roof I’d reckon ye could use a strong back.” Where in devil’s name is her husband?

  Mrs. Howard set a bowl of gooey-looking mush in front of him. “Spring’s nearly upon us. I’ll be able to make repairs once the weather turns.”

  “Aye?” He inhaled—the pottage smelled a wee bit better than it looked. “Do ye have someone to lend ye a hand?” He grimaced at a jabbing pain in his side.

  She sat across from him, resting the poker in her lap. “Ah…of course.” Lifting her spoon with a display of refined manners, she took a delicate bite. The dog jumped against her leg. “No, Max.”

  Alexander scooped a bite of pottage and nearly heaved. He glanced at the mutt and forced himself to swallow. “He’s a puny lad. What breed is he?”

  “A spaniel.”

  Och, the lass is full of information. “Ye dunna talk overmuch, do ye?”

  “I daresay I am no longer used to talking.” She clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide as if she’d just revealed a treasured secret.

  Alex shoveled in another bite. The second was more palatable—barely. “Ye wouldna have a spare sw
ord or dagger ye could lend me?”

  “Afraid not.”

  More clipped conversation, aye? Another sharp pang stabbed him in the ribs and made him jolt with a grunt.

  “Are you in pain?”

  Alex smirked. “I’ve been bludgeoned within an inch of me life, ye expecting me to jump up and dance a jig?”

  “No.” Snapping her eyes to her bowl, she stirred her mush. “Your breathing sounds shallow.”

  “’Tis because I’ve a busted a rib or two.”

  “Oh my heavens.” She clapped a hand to her chest. “I am sorry.”

  I’m bloody sorry meself. “Ye wouldna have a roll of bandages to bind it with?”

  Mrs. Howard’s eyebrows drew together as if she were thinking. “I’ve a spare length of heavy holland cloth I use for a wimple.”

  He scooped his last spoon of pottage and forced it down. “I’d be grateful for a lend of it.”

  Her gaze met his for a moment. Something flickered deep inside his gut, a sensation he hadn’t experienced since…since…God knew when. The look was followed by a sad smile, one that announced she’d been suppressing untold pain. Alexander resisted the urge to reach out and pat her arm, as he would do when consoling a soul from his clan. He must keep two things in the forefront of his mind—this was not Scotland, and he must conceal his true identity lest he put the whole of Clan MacLeod in peril.

  The lass disappeared through a small doorway—the bedchamber, Alexander imagined. Alex glanced around the cottage, his gaze resting on the royal crest above the mantel. Must represent the local noble family, I suppose. Max rubbed against his leg and whined.

  “Are ye hungry, mate?” The dog wagged its tail and spun in a circle. “Can I give Max a wee bit of yer pottage?” ’Tis most likely not fit for a dog either.

  Mrs. Howard stepped into view. “I’ll do it.” She crossed to the table and held out the heavy linen cloth. “With luck, this should wrap around your torso twice.”

  Standing, Alexander reached for it and his fingers lightly brushed hers. A subtle gasp escaped Mrs. Howard’s lips. With a stare of alarm, she stepped back. Watching her eyes, the stirring in Alexander’s gut churned faster. He quashed his unbelievably errant response by quickly clenching his muscles and bowing. “My thanks, m’lady.”