by Laurin Wittig - Guardians Of The Targe 02 - Highlander Avenged
“Aye.”
“Is Rowan of her line, too?”
“Nay. Rowan’s da was the brother of my da. Her mother was no kin of any of us.”
“Then why?”
She looked at him. “If I tell you, you must promise me never to speak of any of this to anyone, ever.”
“You would trust me so much?” he asked.
She trusted him with her life, and perhaps with her heart. Was there more trust she could have for him?
“Promise?” she said.
“I do. I vow upon my honor to keep all that I ken of the Highland Targe and its Guardians between us alone.”
She stared at him for long moments, trying to decide why she was telling him this secret. Was it to reassert her right to tell it? Or was it because she knew, somewhere deep inside her, that her destiny and his were inextricably entwined? If she was honest about it, it was both. She needed him. The clan needed him, and he would be of more use to them if he understood exactly what motivated the English to hunt them down.
“Each Guardian has a natural gift that is enhanced by the Targe when she becomes the Guardian,” Jeanette said quietly.
Malcolm drew breath as if he already had a question, but he did not ask it.
“Rowan has a very powerful gift, one passed down to her by her own mother, though none of us realized it until she was chosen as the Guardian.”
“Your mother chose her?” The question popped out as if he couldn’t stop it.
“Nay,” she answered. “Nay, my mum thought ’twould be me next and worked hard to make that so, as did I. Whatever power there is in the Targe chose Rowan and her gift for moving things with her . . .”—she looked at him, wondering if he would believe her—“with her mind. Whatever that force is, it took the Guardianship from my mum and forced it upon Rowan, though she fought it.”
He was quiet for long moments. She held her breath, waiting for him to claim her daft, deranged, or simply a liar.
“You do not have such a gift?”
Giddiness overtook her at the simple question so at odds with what she expected. She shook her head. “We thought my aptitude for healing was my gift, but it seems not.”
He rubbed the healing gash on his arm. “You do have a remarkable gift, regardless of whether you were chosen or not, my angel. It has only been a few days and my arm has moved from fester and pain to the gash closing quickly and itching.” He leaned over and kissed her sweetly. “ ’Tis already more than I could have hoped for, and yet I have confidence ’twill heal fully very soon because of your gift.”
“That healing came from the wellspring.” She almost added “my love” but stopped herself before it came out. She was truly falling too fast for her golden warrior. She smiled a little. “Perhaps I have some skill, but not enough to be chosen.”
“And ’tis usually the eldest daughter chosen?”
“Aye.”
“Just as I have a duty and destiny, you did, too.” He raised her hand and placed a sweet kiss on her knuckles. “We are alike more than we knew,” Malcolm said quietly. “I, too, have trained my whole life to take up my duty and my destiny. If not for your gift of healing, I might never have been able to take up that mantle and become chief after my father.”
“Are those all your questions?” she asked.
“Nay.”
“But you do not ask them.”
“You have shared more than you are comfortable with already this day.”
As he had, she thought.
“If I need to ken more,” he continued, “you will tell me when the time is right.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I have had no one to speak to about any of this and you have lifted a burden by listening, as I hope I lifted some of yours.”
“You did, angel.” Though he did not look unburdened. His brow was still furrowed and his eyebrows drawn down low. “I would not see you sad, Jeanette, nor worried if there was aught I could do to prevent it.” He reached for her pale braid hanging over her shoulder, and ran his hand down its length before pulling her into his arms and holding her.
She wrapped her arms around his waist, tucked her head in the hollow of his shoulder, and peace settled over them. The rain was lessening now and she found, despite being cold and wet, she did not want to leave their rustic shelter just yet. Being held by this man, and holding him, was a different sort of intimacy than they had shared earlier this day, but its effect was every bit as profound on her heart, calming and settling her with a feeling that this was exactly where she was supposed to be.
A bark sounded from just outside the wall they leaned against, but Jeanette did not pay it much mind. The bark came again, but it was not a dog. It was a roe deer. Jeanette lifted her head, listening as the bark came once more, closer now, more insistent.
“ ’Tis a roe deer,” she whispered.
“Aye.” His voice was quiet as if he was drifting on the edge of sleep.
“I dreamed of a stag last night,” she said, rising and immediately missing the feel of Malcolm’s arm around her, his cheek resting on her head, but she had to look.
A stag with one bent antler stood—not ten feet away from the break in the wall that was once a small window—looking directly at her. Jeanette’s breath caught.
“What is it?” Malcolm asked. He was immediately by her side.
“I have dreamed of that deer.”
The deer gave that odd, almost doglike bark once more and looked behind him, then back at Jeanette.
“We must go,” she whispered. “Someone approaches.”
“The deer told you that?”
“Aye.” But she was as puzzled by her words as Malcolm looked. She had no idea why she felt so strongly that the deer was here to warn her, but she was certain that that was exactly what he was here for.
MALCOLM AND JEANETTE crouched within the deep shadows of the forest, not far from the tumbled-down cottage, listening intently. The stag had fled in the same direction as soon as they had begun to move, disappearing as easily as he had appeared. They had shed their baskets quickly when they made it into the wood and hid them in a thick copse of evergreen bushes.
“Perhaps your deer friend was wrong,” Malcolm said quietly, only half in jest. Whoever or whatever came this way would not get past him if they offered any danger to Jeanette or her kin.
“Wheesht!” She looked over at him. “I dinna understand it either, but I know he was here to warn us,” she whispered, her mouth so close to his ear, he could feel her breath upon his skin. “Someone comes!” Her words were very nearly silent now, but the tension in her body spoke loudly.
Malcolm was grateful for the need to focus on something other than the woman next to him. As they waited, distinctly English voices filtered through the trees, not close enough to make out their words yet, but moving steadily toward them.
“I tell ye, ye worthless bit of offal”—their words became clear as they neared Malcolm and Jeanette’s hiding place—“the grazing area up here will not work for us. ’Tis too open, it is. And ’tis clear the blasted Scots bastards frequent the nasty little hovels regularly. They will discover us there far too easily, even for the daft likes of them.”
There was another man, but all Malcolm could make out was a deep grunt, no words.
He and Jeanette held perfectly still, hidden by a thicket of prickly brambles between them and the path the English soldiers followed, and they watched as two men passed them, followed by four more dour-faced and dirty soldiers.
“We need to choose one of the deep valleys that run through these mountains,” the first voice was saying just as the front two men stepped into a pool of dappled sunlight.
Jeanette gasped, but covered her mouth so quickly, the English soldier didn’t seem to hear her. She grabbed Malcolm’s arm with her other hand to pull his attention to her.
&n
bsp; “ ’Tis the English soldier we met on the ben,” she mouthed at him, no sound accompanying the words.
Malcolm nodded, and quickly turned his attention back to the soldiers, his mind racing through attack scenarios. Instinct screamed at him to take these men out now.
“Nay,” another of the soldiers said. “Valleys are traps, no matter how well hidden they are from our enemies. I’ll not risk the king’s men being cornered like rats in a trap.”
All six of the battered and tattered soldiers hurried past Malcolm and Jeanette, five following close behind the soldier who appeared in charge, their gazes constantly shifting about them, as if they knew they were watched, or they feared attack, as well they should.
“Angel,” he whispered, “stay here.”
“Where are you going?” There was no fear in her voice.
“I will take them out one by one. We cannot have the English wandering these bens.”
“Nay.” She grabbed his arm to hold him by her side.
“I need to position myself nearer them before they move too far away,” he said.
“I agree, but not to attack them.” She looked pointedly at his right hand. “Your arm and hand are not strong enough to be of much use in a fight.”
Anger rose in him like a dark tide. “I am a warrior,” he hissed.
“I do not question that, but in truth you ken you are not ready to fight six English soldiers without a sword and on your own.” There was no pity in her eyes, nor in the touch of her hand upon his shoulder. There was strength in both, revealing an iron will he had not thought the beautiful and dutiful Jeanette possessed. “But that does not mean we cannot turn this to our advantage.” She raised a delicately arched, pale eyebrow at him in challenge.
“What do you have in mind?” he asked.
“You ken Nicholas, Rowan’s husband, was a spy for the English when he came here?”
“I heard the tale, aye.”
“He was able to accomplish much in his craft by simply listening. Perhaps these English curs will reveal something of their plans if we but listen for them?”
If any of his compatriots had said such a thing to him, he would have called them cowards, or worse, but given that the lass knew all too well that his arm was not ready for battle, much less a battle of six to one, he weighed her words with more consideration.
“Very well. Let us move close enough to spy upon these men and see what we can learn, though I do not like leaving them alive.”
A hard glint in her eye told him she was as anxious for their demise as he was. “Their deaths will come soon enough.”
CHAPTER NINE
JEANETTE’S LEGS WERE starting to cramp and her feet were falling asleep where she knelt behind a tree, but she refused to move. She barely breathed, which might have contributed to her discomfort. Nearby, four English soldiers stood, just beyond the tree line at the edge of the meadow that served as the clan’s summer shieling. Its grasses were already lush with summer’s onset. Malcolm was situated across the path the English had followed to the shieling. The two of them had been in these positions for nearly an hour, waiting for the two English soldiers—whom she thought of as the scout, the gap-toothed man they had confronted on the trail the first day she met Malcolm, and who seemed to know about the shieling before they got there, and the leader, who was clearly in command of this group—to finish their inspection of the huts and surrounding large upland meadow.
Her thoughts drifted back to that moment in the abandoned cottage when she had seen the stag and known, though she knew not how, that he was there to warn her. Chills raced over her skin, raising the hairs at the nape of her neck as she realized this was twice in less than a day that the stag with the bent antler had come to her—once while dreaming, once while awake. She had read of animals acting as guides in the chronicles of the Guardians but she could not remember which of the Guardians had them, nor what their particular gifts were.
Gifts. Was it possible? Was she finally manifesting a gift? Elation burst in her chest like the sun coming out from behind stormy clouds, but she quickly tamped it down. It no longer mattered if she had a gift. Rowan was the Lady of Dunlairig. Rowan was the Guardian of the Targe. ’Twas too late for Jeanette to take up the role for which she had trained her entire life.
Still, Rowan’s gift was important for the defense of the clan in this trying time. Perhaps . . . Jeanette refused to allow herself to hope, but it would not hurt to look to the chronicles to see if anyone who was not a Guardian had ever shown a gift of warning, for that was the only thing she could think it could be. Which would mean her dream was a warning, though it had felt more like the stag had guided her somewhere important.
She looked to where she knew Malcolm was hidden, though she could not see him. He had not questioned her when she said she’d dreamed of the stag, and he had not hesitated when she told him the stag had warned them to get them safely hidden in the wood . . . and just in time to escape being found by the English patrol. Would he help her find the place the stag had led her to in the dream? Perhaps she’d find some answers there.
Voices pulled her from her musings.
“Did I not say this would not do?” The gap-toothed soldier’s voice was harsh, with just a hint of a threat in it. “You have wasted time. There is a better place, as I said this morn. ’Tis plenty big, and it is hidden from the usual travels of men in these parts.”
The leader scowled at the man, and Jeanette could only wonder what they meant to hide.
“Show us,” was all he said and they all turned to descend the ben.
When the English had passed by their positions, Malcolm rejoined Jeanette.
“ ’Twould seem you were correct,” he said under his breath, grinning at her. “There is much to be gained by spying.”
She was surprised that he thought so, but pleased. Without another word they followed the English, determined to find out where they were bound this time. She would have to wait a little longer to find out exactly what her dream meant.
MALCOLM FOLLOWED ALONG behind Jeanette as he had done for hours now. The pleasure of watching the sway of her hips no longer distracted him from the fatigue that weighed him down. They had left the caves early this morn and now it was nearly dark, which, this time of year, meant it was late indeed. The day, which had started out so promising, had ended up proving to him that he was no longer as strong as he’d once been. He’d lost more than the use of his hand and arm in that battle.
Irritation flared, breaking through his exhaustion long enough to remind him that the English were responsible for his injury, for the troubles that had come to Jeanette and her clan, and for spoiling a day that had gifted him with Jeanette all to himself. He watched her as she moved quietly, like she was more creature of the forest than woman of the castle, following a trail that was becoming increasingly difficult to see in the deepening darkness. Her pale hair almost glowed, as if she were moonlight itself. He remembered how soft it was, silky and fine, and wondered when he would get the opportunity to run his fingers through it again.
Damned English.
If he’d known ’twould take so long to discover what they were about, he would have been less open to spying on them and more insistent that they simply kill all the bastards immediately.
He rolled his right shoulder, imagining the bunch of his muscles as he hefted his claymore once more—the claymore he had left behind in the cave in spite of his instinct and habit to keep it ever with him.
But he could not wield it with only one strong hand. He tried to make a fist again, as he had been doing during this whole mad scramble after the English, but the more he forced his fingers to curl inward, the more they cramped. Frustration had him cursing under his breath. How could he be of any use to Jeanette if he could not defend her and her people, never mind his own? What sort of chief would he make with only one useful arm? What
sort of husband, or father?
He used his left hand to force his right into the fist he needed but he could not keep that hand tightened.
Useless.
He was useless as a warrior so he was forced to play at spy. What had seemed a brilliant alternative earlier now rankled. ’Twas no way to be a chief, to Malcolm’s way of thinking. A chief needed to be a leader in all things, especially war. He would have to work even harder than he had been to regain his strength. He would regain the use of his hand, and then he would once more be a warrior unsurpassed by any other. He would once more be worthy of his duty as future chief of his clan.
Jeanette stumbled in front of him, falling to the ground with a strangled cry before he could even reach out to her.
“Angel, are you all right?” He crouched beside her, helping her to sit up. Up close, he could see the exhaustion in her face and realized that she had been pushing herself as hard as he’d pushed himself. If he’d not been so wrapped up in his thoughts and injured pride, he might have noticed and used his own fatigue as an excuse to make her stop and rest.
“Aye,” she whispered, pushing herself into an awkward sitting position. “I am sorry. I was trying to be careful but I think I tripped over a root.”
The sound of men crashing through the wood caught the attention of both of them.
“ ’Tis the English,” he whispered, pulling her quickly to her feet. “Can you walk?”
“I can.” Her voice matched his in volume but with an edge of panic. “They must have heard me cry out. We must run!”
“If we run, they will hear us, and we shall both likely hurt ourselves. It is too dark for quick travel now.” He looked about them but could see little in the almost complete darkness. The sound of men moving rapidly through the forest sent him into the same focused state of mind as when he enjoined a battle. But he was no longer a warrior rushing into the fray. He could not charge his foes, claymore drawn. Jeanette needed a warrior in this moment, not a sham of a spy. The need to protect her screamed through him, and yet he had never felt so powerless in all his life.
