“Bah. She should have poisoned the demon the first chance she got.”
The light had waned considerably since they’d started scouting, and the shadows were almost full upon them. Movement atop the east wall caught Lachlan’s attention, and he strained to make out what it was. “Did you see that?” he asked.
Callum squinted. “Someone’s climbing over. A man by the looks of it. Maybe a lad.”
Whoever it was attempted to descend the outer wall using the rope but lost their grip and fell, landing in a heap at the bottom. The horse lifted its head and moved toward him, revealing a bridle attached around its neck.
“An escape, then. The horse wasn’t just grazing, it was placed there deliberately.” After rising, the man limped toward the horse, led it to a rock that had fallen from the wall, and used the stone to mount. “Must be just a boy if he doesn’t have the strength to pull himself up.”
Lachlan cursed as horse and rider turned in their direction. “Hell and damnation, he’s heading right for us.”
Callum glanced over his shoulder and looked at the tree line. They’d crawled forward on their bellies as close as possible to get a better look at Murray’s defenses. “We’ll ne’er make it back in time. We’ll have to wait, and pray the lad turns.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“I doona know, but we canna let him spot us and sound the alarm.”
“Aye. Watch the castle and see if the patrol notices him escaping while I get in position.” Lachlan edged forward until he lay in a small dip beside the trail and spread his dusty plaid over his body.
Callum also moved lower, his gaze searching for the perimeter guard. “Even if they doona see him, they’ll be sure to see the rope he used.”
“We’ll have to move fast. I’ll bring down the rider. You grab his horse and head for the trees.”
Lachlan studied the lad as he approached, rumpled and filthy with jagged, amber-colored hair that hung just past his chin. The horse kept slowing, a lazy, old nag, despite the lad trying to increase its speed with soft kicks to its belly and slap of the reins on its sides. The boy wasn’t much of a rider and the horse knew it, taking full advantage. If Lachlan were on its back, the nag would be running full tilt.
Waiting until the animal was almost past him, he jumped and dragged the lad from the horse, one hand clamped over his mouth, the other arm wrapped around his torso.
The lad screamed into Lachlan’s palm, more a high-pitched whine, and struggled to get away. Lachlan slammed him into the ground facedown and lay on top of him, hoping the guards hadn’t been looking in their direction. Ahead of him, Callum had pulled the horse down the rise and headed swiftly toward the trees.
The first thing Lachlan noticed was how determined his captive was, keeping up the fight when it was obvious he was defeated. The second thing he noticed was how soft he was.
The notion jolted him. Christ Almighty, where in hell had that come from? He hesitated, then rolled the lad beneath him to see a mud-covered face, hair sticking out in all directions and blood smeared below his nose. When he lifted his gaze to Lachlan’s, darkly lashed, violet-colored eyes stared up at him. Lachlan sucked in an audible breath at the sight—just as the boy bit down on Lachlan’s hand and smashed their foreheads together.
Lachlan cursed under his breath but didn’t let go, and they rolled to the bottom of the hill. He made sure he landed on top, his weight bearing down on the boy. Another time, Lachlan would have admired his determination, his resilience. Now it was just damned annoying.
’Twas obvious he was young and untrained in formal fighting, but he knew enough to go for Lachlan’s weak spots: eyes, hair, nose, fingers, and groin. And when he pinched the nerve on the inside of Lachlan’s elbow, Lachlan barely contained his bellow.
Flipping him over, Lachlan jammed his knee into the small of the lad’s back and pressed sharply on the vein below his ear, just long enough for him to weaken, before wedging a gag in his mouth and tying his hands together over his belly.
He roused seconds later as Lachlan finished.
“You’re done, lad,” Lachlan whispered in his ear. “You put up a good fight, but you’ll ne’er get out of those knots. We’re going to crawl to the tree line or I’ll drive a stake into the ground and leave you tied to it for the wild animals to eat. Do you understand?”
The lad nodded, fear and panic in his eyes as he looked at his captor, and for the first time, Lachlan felt bad for assaulting him. “I didn’t intend to hurt you, but you were riding right toward us and we canna be seen yet.” He tried to pat the boy’s hair in a reassuring manner and couldn’t help but notice how soft it was. When he realized he’d gone from patting his hair to running his fingers through it, he stopped, heat rising up his neck. “It looked like you were trying to escape the castle. Is that right?”
On the boy’s hesitant nod, he continued. “I’ll get you to safety and away from whoe’er is chasing you, but not till my forces have gone in undetected. That’s if you haven’t compromised our attack already. Now crawl for the tree line, keep your head and arse low, and make no sound!”
* * *
Amber used her knees to dig into the ground and push forward toward the trees, trying not to lift her bottom into the air. Every time she did, the large man with the muddied-up face would cover it with his big hand and shove it back down.
To “help” her, he’d grabbed her plaid between her shoulders and hauled her along beside him.
“Christ Almighty, lad,” he said as he squashed her bottom down yet again, “get your knees to the side, dig in with your elbows, and push with your feet. Have you ne’er crawled across the fields hunting game before? The quail and pheasants would see your arse waving in the air and be long gone before you could e’er shoot them. You wouldnae bring home any supper for your mother.”
He’d said all that in an exasperated whisper, and Amber grunted around her gag, her furrowed brow and angry eyes telling him exactly what she thought of him. Maybe if she’d been able to use her hands to help propel her body forward she wouldn’t have to lift her backside, but her wrists were still tied together.
Earlier, when the candle had blown out halfway along the hidden stairway in the keep, she’d known it would be a difficult escape. But she’d managed to make it to the end by feel alone and push the stone out of her way. The cart had been easy to find, and she’d made it to the top of the wall, only to fall as she climbed down the other side, twisting her ankle—another reason she was having a hard time crawling right now.
Still, that was naught compared to being dragged from her horse by the big, demented ape who’d loomed up from nowhere and practically killed her. When he’d pressed the side of her neck and almost knocked her out, she’d thought surely she was about to die. Only to rouse trussed up like a pig.
The worst part of it was that she thought he was enjoying himself. Aye, he’d liked fighting with her, dragging her about like a sack of oats.
Ignorant oaf.
His light-brown hair was pulled back in a leather tie, and his dark-blue eyes had laugh lines at the corners. She’d looked at his plaid, noting the blue-and-green weave, maybe from the dye of the blaeberry and heather, and tried to narrow down the region in which those plants grew abundantly.
He was neither a Murray, with their predominantly red plaid from the dye of the tormentil, nor a MacPherson, with their more colorful red, yellow, and blue plaid, with the added yellow dye from the bog myrtle. Perhaps he was a MacKenzie or a MacLeod—their plaids were both mostly blue and green, although why they’d be here, she had no idea.
When they finally reached the tree line, she sighed with relief. Her knees and ankle were sore beyond belief, her face scratched and bruised from being dragged through the brush, and there was dirt in her teeth. A few feet in, the man hauled her up and pulled her farther into the trees. A moment later, she saw three horses—t
wo big, braw stallions and her smaller nag—held by a second man. He was as tall as her captor, both of them broad-shouldered, but this one slightly leaner and with a different plaid.
“Did he give you any trouble?” the second man asked.
“Aye, he almost took out my eye and near paralyzed my arm. Gregor would love to get ahold of him. I had to almost knock him out to get the ties on him.”
To Amber’s surprise, her assailant smiled as he spoke of her transgressions and looked almost…proud.
The second man stepped close and studied her face and eyes. She recognized his expression. She’d worn it many times when examining a sick child—concern. He was worried the pressure on her neck might have done permanent damage. She would have told him she was all right—just weakened—but she still had the gag in her mouth.
“He’s not hurt, Callum,” the first man said. She waited to hear his name too, hoping Callum would respond and say it, but her captor kept talking. “I squeezed just long enough to weaken him.”
“Aye,” Callum agreed. “His gaze is clear and bright. And would you look at the color of his eyes—not quite blue, yet not quite purple either. The lasses will be after you in droves soon, lad. Once you get the muck off your face. You doona smell poorly, so you mustn’t have been held for long. Is it the laird who’s after you?”
She hesitated, then nodded. ’Twas obvious they meant her no harm, other than what had already been done. But who was this Gregor and what would he want of her?
“Can we untie him?” Callum asked.
“Nay, not until we reach camp. He’s a right scrapper. He’ll make a break for it as soon as he can and head straight back to the MacPhersons now he knows we’re attacking, won’t you, lad?”
Amber was annoyed at his insight and tried not to let it show, but she obviously failed when he grunted and nodded.
“As I thought. All right, up with you, then.” He grabbed her waist, lifted her as if she weighed no more than a bairn, and placed her on the huge brown stallion with a black mane and tail. The beast barely moved, it was so well trained.
He pulled himself up behind her and urged the horse forward. Muscled and sinewy arms closed around her, and Amber found herself holding her breath. Her heart raced and her stomach fluttered as if a handful of butterflies were trapped inside.
And not out of fear. Nay, the strange thing was she felt safe with him, safer than she had in a long time—which made no sense as she was trussed-up, gagged, and his prisoner. He’d pulled her from her horse, almost knocked her out, dragged her through the brush, yet she felt no worry for herself, just for her clan.
If he meant to rape or kill her, he could have done so any time after entering the woods. Instead, he and this Callum had been almost gentle, even concerned for her welfare. She could trust him long enough to find out what he was planning to do next.
And why were they attacking the castle anyway? Did they want it for themselves, or were they warring with Machar Murray? She didn’t think the MacPhersons had a grudge against anyone other than Murray, who wasn’t really their laird. Naught could be proven, but she knew he’d murdered their old laird and his cousin, along with several of the experienced men of the clan. Including her father.
Somehow Murray had just taken over—living in the castle, giving orders, controlling the people. The only person he’d been afraid of was her grandmother, whom he thought a witch—a lie she’d encouraged, making good use of her knowledge of herbs, her irascible manner, and strange, vivid eyes. Amber’s eyes.
When she died, Amber had kept up the ruse, knowing Laird Murray would come for her if he thought her in any way vulnerable.
She sighed in frustration. There was naught she could do right now to escape, and the men were taking her farther away from the village and castle. If she could just get the MacPhersons out, she’d be more than happy to leave Murray and his band of thieves—for that’s what they really were—to be killed. The world would be a better place without Machar Murray in it. Father Odhran, the wee shite, too.
But there was no way she’d reach them in time.
The man gave her a squeeze. “We’re not looking to harm any but those who did us harm, lad. We’ll leave the village in peace, unless they hide Machar Murray from us.”
Which left the castle…and all the MacPhersons guarding it. And Niall—oh, dear God, Niall. Plus all the cooks, maids, stable hands, and the housekeeper. All of them innocent of any wrongdoing.
She knew it was futile, but she struggled again in earnest. The man cursed and squeezed her tight to his body, so she slammed her head backward. He’d anticipated her move this time, and she bashed into his hard chin. Lights burst behind her closed eyelids as pain thrummed in her head. His arm wrapped along her middle, his hand just above her elbow, and his fingers found the same nerve she’d pinched on him earlier. He pressed down on it—enough to get her attention but not enough to really hurt.
“Cease, lad. If you move, I’ll jab my thumb in—and you know what that feels like because you did it to me first. We’re almost there. When we arrive, I’ll take out the gag. You can yell and scream all you want. No one will hear you there.”
They cantered quickly along the river now, and Amber knew exactly where they were headed—the waterfall. Aye, her screams would go unnoticed once they were in its vicinity, close to the roar of the raging rapids and the splash of the water as it plummeted over the cliff.
A whistle sounded above them, and she glanced up to see a man in a pine tree, wearing a similar plaid as her captor. She scanned the other trees and saw more men, some wearing the same colors as Callum.
Whoever these men were, their forces had joined together against Machar Murray.
The roar of the falls started softly but picked up volume as they approached, the river beside them running fast and deep. The waterfall came into view as they rounded a large outcropping, the sound now loud enough she’d have to yell to be heard.
She knew the area well, had spent much time here as a lass, exploring the caves behind the falls and swimming in some of the calm pools created by the rocks. That’s not to say the river and falls weren’t dangerous—they were. It seemed almost every few years some poor child fell in and died. A few she had managed to save.
The horse picked up speed as it anticipated its dinner, jostling her and causing her captor’s thumb to dig in. When Amber jumped and yelped against the gag, he pulled his hand away. “Och, lad, I’m sorry. ’Twas an accident.” He pressed his palm against the stallion’s neck and commanded, “Easy, Saint.”
She glared at the man, shooting him full of imaginary daggers. Accident or not, the jab had hurt like hell. And she saw the way his eyes danced as he looked at her.
“I’m not laughing at your pain,” he said. “’Tis just you look so fierce—you are fierce—despite how wee you are. You’re determined, aye, but small. If you like, I’ll ask Gregor MacLeod to take you in. He’ll treat you fairly and teach you how to be a good man and a strong warrior. You couldnae choose a better laird.”
Gregor MacLeod? She knew that name. Everyone in the Highlands knew that name. His clan was large and prosperous and had several unbreakable alliances. She’d heard he’d fostered the sons of his enemies and raised them as his own sons. They were men now, and lairds of their own clans. ’Twas said they fought for all good people in the Highlands.
Could her attacker belong to one of those clans?
Horses and a few wagons were scattered about the clearings on either side of the waterfall. Some men cooked over low fires, others fletched arrows, still others practiced their fighting skills, using their hands and bodies as weapons. Other weapons were strapped to hips and down backs or leaned against rocks within close reach—swords, axes, stout poles. Even a huge hammer.
A fighting force of considerable size and skill by the looks of it—and well-armed. It would be a massacre against the untraine
d MacPherson men, and she felt bile rising in her stomach, burning away that momentary sense of safety. The people she loved, had cared for most of her life, were about to be annihilated.
A man strode toward them as they approached the waterfall. His old, puckered battle scars gave him a fearsome look, which only frightened her more. He gripped the horse’s bridle.
“Laird MacKay, your cousin’s here.”
The name startled her, and she glanced back at her captor. He was a laird? Laird MacKay? She knew that name too, one of Gregor MacLeod’s foster sons for sure. He didn’t look like a laird, with his dirty, scratched, and bruised face, dried blood under one eye, and a tear in his plaid. With a jolt, she realized she had done that, fighting with him when he’d pulled her from her horse. He even had twigs and leaves in his tangled hair, which had come loose from his leather tie to hang in messy waves almost to his shoulders. ’Twas longer than her own locks, now, and for the first time, she felt ashamed that her hair was a sawed-off mess.
“Airril?” he questioned. “What’s he doing here? Last I heard, he was in Inverness.”
The man hesitated. “Not Airril. Adaira.”
Laird MacKay stiffened and his face turned thunderous. “Adaira? How in God’s name did she get here?”
“She hid in the food cart, Laird, under the canvas. We found her about an hour ago. She ran and we trapped her up a tree. She’s not going anywhere.”
“Good. She can stay there for now.”
The laird dismounted, and Amber squeaked as she tumbled off after him. He caught her, keeping a firm grip on her arm as he marched them toward the waterfall. Callum fell in on her other side, the warrior next to Laird MacKay.
“Prepare the men, Hamish,” MacKay said. “We’ll attack in four groups—one at the gate to the north, two over the castle walls on the east and west side, and a smaller force from the back under a ditch. We’ll have to widen it so two men can crawl through at a time. We leave immediately.”
Highland Conquest Page 2
