Thankfully, the midges couldn’t fly as swiftly as Maggie’s feet could run. She soon outpaced them, leaving the wee bloodsuckers back by the burn. Slowing down, she dragged in air that scraped at her throat. All the guidness of Maggie’s cool drink soon melted away in the face of the heat rising beneath her leathers. Licking her lips, she had to spit out the mouthful of midges drawn in with each gasp as she ran after her mount.
Thankfully, Star had come to a halt, attracted by the look of some leaves, calm as ye please she began nibbling as if she hadn’t just made Maggie chase through water and tussock to catch up with her.
“Let me remind ye, Star that this is the hand that feeds ye. Biting it has to go against yer better judgement,” she sang out, a lilt to her voice designed to calm the beast who had nae notion she had just issued a warning.
Chest heaving, she slapped a palm against her thigh to attract Star’s attention, which it did, but only long enough to send the horse prancing farther into the trees. “Do ye hear me ye daft gowk? Come to me!” she uttered a demand strung with threads of desperation she hoped Star couldn’t recognise.
View hidden by trees, she could nae longer see the worn path she had left, the one leading to the coast and thence to Cragenlaw and home. Nhaimeth would become anxious at her disappearance, and Rob would be fit to skelp her round the ears for what he would nae doubt call playing a prank on his friend.
Rowena, on the other hand, would be her calm, sensible self, and do her best to set Nhaimeth’s mind at ease. If there was aught to worry about, she would have known, since they all believed that Nhaimeth’s wee wife could see into a person’s future.
Hadn’t Rowena raced out of the chapel as soon as the priest named her and Nhaimeth man and wife, through knowing that the twins were in danger?
Aye if there was any threat lying in wait for her, Rowena would have given her a warning. Satisfied there was naught to worry about other than Rob, and mayhap her father, giving her the rough edge of their tongues, Maggie began a game of catch as catch can with her horse. Every time she got within an arm’s length the poor benighted creature skittered away with a wee snort and took a nip of the leaves frae another tree.
It was the snort that niggled on Maggie’s last nerve. The blasted animal was having a May game with her. She would have to fool the horse into believing in her mistress’s disinterest and depend upon Star’s innate curiosity to make the beast follow her.
With a snort of her own Maggie felt a moment’s regret for the dried apple slices she had nibbled on as she rode. Star would have come to her for a handful of yon tasty morsels if they weren’t still inside a pouch on Star’s back.
Too late to remember now how Rob had warned her that the horse was young, barely trained. As a warning, it hadn’t carried much weight. She had been careful how she handled the beast and not even he could have known that a cloud of midges would set Star off—that and Maggie waving her arms as she shooed them away.
Turning her back on Star, she set off in a slightly different direction, winding betwixt the trees—one that might bring her ahead of her mount and have Star actually following her wake. She took but a few steps, brushing twigs and leaves aside and came face to face with a rock. Nae, smoother—a huge boulder obscured by the trees. Granite she supposed, like the walls of Cragenlaw.
She slid her palms over the stone and thought of the rock her cousin Rory had told her of on the west coast, the one that bore the footprint of Kenneth McAlpine—the first Scot to cross the sea frae Ireland and settle lands that until then had known only Pictish folk. Rory knew a lot of stories like that.
The boulder was half a body length higher than her head, but the trees she stood amongst were taller still. That’s why she hadn’t noticed its bulk while she took her own time dawdling behind the others. For a moment, she let thoughts of the auld gods playing skittles in the sky that sounded like thunder, mayhap they had bowled and lost one—imaginings forgotten when Star’s black nose and feathery white mane drooped over Maggie’s shoulder. Slowly she reached up a hand to pat Star’s silky black cheek, murmuring, “What do ye make of this then?” A smile curled her lips. “As if ye would know.”
Slipping her fingers up under the harness, she pulled Star with her, slowly edging her way betwixt the boulder and the trees, counting her blessings that she nae longer had to tempt the horse away frae the sweet green willow leaves. Obviously, naughty Star had eaten her fill. Trailing the fingers round the curve of granite as she walked, she speculated on a way she might clamber to the top and take her bearings.
She had learned her lesson, though. Afore she attempted any such feat, she would tie Star to a tree, so she couldn’t wander.
Nae sooner thought than done. Looping the reins around a slender branch, she walked back to the boulder and took her measure of the hollows carved into the granite. On the other side of the boulder, she found a break in the trees. Frae there it was simple to make out indents in the hard surface—proof she wasnae the only person to come up with the notion of climbing to the top. Ready, she slid the toe of her damp leather boot into the first indent. Reaching overhead, the fingers of her right hand gripped the edge of the next. She glanced down as her toe scraped on the rock—new boots already dulled frae her dash through the burn—but then, as she had already learned, life had a way of taking the sheen off aught she really liked.
Chapter 2
Dhugal was about to have a visitor. He might have known the young lad would be trouble, the way he hung back frae the others. Boredom. It showed in the lackadaisical way he rode his braw black and white horse, as if the whole procedure of moving betwixt one point and another was simply monotonous.
He’d laughed to himself when the midges got the lad. That had made him shift his wee arse. Then his horse ran off and the lad had to splash through burn chasing after the flighty beast, a picture worthy of a belly laugh.
Dhugal couldn’t remember when he had last had this much amusement … a long while. There was naught to laugh at in bluidy southerners poking their noses in where they didn’t belong, such as the overgrown path to Skene Hall.
He should have known the nosy wee bugger would find his way to the back of Dhugal’s hiding place. Frae above he could hear the lad clicking his tongue at the horse as he looped its reins around a tree—a vantage point allowing Dhugal to note the lad was finely dressed—like a southerner, mayhap? Most highlanders made do with a plaid, which had to be the most versatile strip of cloth known to mankind, while this lad wore a shortened version draped across one shoulder.
Sizing up the fine leather short coat and trous, Dhugal decided the circumstances were as he had supposed earlier, this was naught but a bored, wealthy lad ripe for mischief.
Cannily, quietly, he eased up off his belly onto his hunkers at very moment the lad let the first of the foot and handholds take his weight—so quietly that his voice, saying, “That’s a fine beast ye have there”, had the desired affect and startled his visitor.
But not for long…
“Cateran!” the lad shouted, nimbly leaping backwards.
The big surprise for Dhugal was the way the lad swirled around, loosening his shield in one smooth movement. By the time he finished, his shield was held head high and he already had a grip on his sword. Dhugal heard it spring free, making the cauld, shivery sound of steel sliding against a silver topped scabbard.
“Just who do ye think yer calling cateran, lad? Would that be me or yerself who’s trespassing on Skene land?” Dhugal taunted frae his safe position atop the boulder.
“Bah! If ye have been watching, then ye know fine that I simply came to retrieve my horse.” The lad sneered at him, and a fine sneer it was for one so young.
“I don’t see yer horse beside ye. It seemed ye were intent on joining me,” he returned, trying his hand at a bit of sarcasm.
“What did ye expect? The steps carved into that great lump of stone yer standing on are temptation itself. I merely thought to take a look at the view. Selfish
to keep it all to yerself. And now I think on it, isn’t Skene the King’s land? Ye don’t have the look of any king I’ve ever seen. Nae, ye look exactly like a cowardly cateran in a tattered plaid, casting aspersions and taunts frae on high but too scared to come down where I can feed ye a taste of the steel.”
The rush of hot blood to his head dislodged layers of cold anger, built through long days and nights of being on his own, years with naught to do but attempt to come to terms with the heart-wrenching loss of all he once held dear: family, friends, home.
What impudence, this wee scrap of humanity calling him—Dhugal Robertson Skene—a coward. Did he believe Dhugal would merely let him stand there rubbing salt in the wound that the King had made with the one swift stroke of a quill. Aye, that is how the King confiscated the Skene lands and set what was left of the clan adrift.
Anger gave Dhugal nae time to consider, he drew his sword and through force of habit leapt easily frae the top, both feet touching the soft turf in unison, landing directly in front of his wee tormentor. “If it’s a taste of cauld steel yer after, lad, I’m yer man.”
No slowpoke, the lad was ready for him.
***
Maggie’s insides rose in her throat begging for release, but she had nae time for that nonsense—her father had trained her better. Acting swiftly she raised her shield, her one advantage since, at ground level, it became obvious that it wasnae only the height of the boulder that had made him look tall.
The blow landing on her shield might have pummelled her into the ground if she had been standing around to let him have it all his own way. She stepped forward. Pushing up against his weapon with her shield, she thrust her sword at ribs left vulnerable and open. Caught by surprise, he leapt back just in time and she laughed, enjoying herself.
Once more he used his sword as a battering ram and as he lifted it away she followed, pushing her shield higher and the sound of the sword scraping across the metal bosses decorating the shield’s face was like a scream. “Out of practice are ye?” she taunted, hooking the metal rim of her shield under his sword’s guard, catching him unaware a second time. His height gave him the advantage, allowing him to retreat afore she could hook his sword out of his grip.
“Almost had ye there,” she goaded, poking out her tongue to add insult to injury. What else would he expect frae the wee bit of a bairn he thought her. “A quick lesson will do ye guid,” she said, then realised her mistake.
By the look on his face, he was breathing fire, but too much temper could make one careless. Over the edge of her shield, she saw him leap towards her and, as she’d been taught, twirled away. Unfortunately, his sword must have nicked the metal rim. Why else would her bonnet have caught the edge of her shield, sending her knitted head covering flying. Aye, it took flight, the pin and her hair with it, tumbling loose frae its long twisted strands and suddenly she was looking through a black veil until at last it hit her shoulder and freed her vision.
The look on his face was worth all the treasure her uncle Gavyn had hidden away under Dun Bhuird. She swiftly took advantage, thrusting her sword at his ribs. He didn’t defend, didn’t have a chance. He fell. She glanced down, saw the clump of tussock under his heel and might have withdrawn if her blade’s tip hadn’t already slid into the curve of his shoulder. She ended up with nae choice but to withdraw the blade. His own momentum saw to that as he fell backwards sprawling at her feet. Blood bloomed on the sleeve of his shirt, leaving her with naught to laugh at this time around.
Thankfully the wound didn’t look o’er-deep, and she couldn’t let the sight of his blood overturn what her father had taught her. Pointing the reddened tip of her sword at his throat she demanded, “Do ye yield?”
He clutched at his shoulder, eyes screwing up as though in pain or so she thought, till his mouth gaped in amazement as he gasped, “Yer a wee lassie.”
Her lip curled, “Not much of an excuse for being beaten.”
She edged closer, protected behind her blue and silver shield, not feeling particularly amused by the way he was staring but keeping the tip of her sword in contact with the hollow under his Adam’s apple, marking the skin as she kicked his loosened sword away frae his hand. “Do ye yield or should I let my sword finish its work?”
“Did ye pick that bonnie blue colour for yer shield because it matches yer eyes?”
Maggie swallowed her annoyance; it was obvious he wasnae taking her seriously.
Her father had taught her all the tricks a man might attempt to save his life. The pity of it this time was that his amber eyes held a twinkle of gold and he was as handsome as—nae more handsome than—any of the men the McArthur had brought to Cragenlaw for her inspection.
She sucked in a breath and held her stance. “I have nae time for flirting, so don’t waste yer flattery on me. Yield or die?”
“I yield, on the condition that ye never let this story get around. It’s too embarrassing to be bested by a lassie. That’s a fine trick ye have there, lass, letting yer hair come loose to float around yer head. I’ve never heard of it being attempted afore, and I’ve fought many. However, until now, none of my opponents were of the female persuasion.” He put the hand of his uninjured side behind him, asking, “Can I sit up?”
“Aye, but easy now. Dinnae try aught tricky or I’ll finish ye off.” As soon as he put his weight on his hand, she swiftly dipped down, picked up his sword and threw it into the trees.
“That was my father’s sword,” he said, panting as he sought to gain leverage, digging one heel into the sod to assist him up into a sitting position, though she noticed he winced slightly when he went to move his other leg.
“He should be more careful whom he lends it to,” she sniped at him, suddenly aware of what might have happened if the fight had gone the other way. Her father would have killed her, if she weren’t already dead.
“Ach aye, he reached out frae under his cairn and handed it to me as I was leaving this morning.”
“Ye can come back and fetch it another day.”
“And what are ye going to do with me in the meantime? Presuming ye intend to take me prisoner,” he mumbled his hand pressing against his wound with a moan as he dipped his chin to admire her handiwork and the blood flowed through his fingers. “I’m bleeding like a spiked pig.”
And whose fault is that? she asked herself, but told him, “Ye brought it upon yerself by acting like one.” It was years since she had seen the damage a sword could do, how terrible a wound it could leave. When Brodwyn Comlyn’s lover tried to kill her and the bairn growing in her belly, she never walked again, though she lived for three years after her daughter Merida was born, leaving Kathryn to take her cousin’s bairn under her wing. All Maggie truly remembered of that time was going to Brodwyn’s room to see the wound while Kathryn tended to it and, with that in mind, she asked him, “Can ye still move yer arm?”
Holding her breath, Maggie watched him try raising his arm, but he hadn’t got far afore a grimace of pain twisted his finely shaped lips. “A fine time” she muttered under her breath, “to be noticing his lips.” And his nose and chin, she thought, casting a glance over the braw straight blade of skin and bone sitting betwixt his thick dark eyebrows, which went to show how fortunate he was that some lassie hadn’t already punched it, knocking it out of shape for being over forward.
Shaking such thought out of her head she asked, “Are ye carrying a knife?”
“What, are ye after cutting a strip off yer shift to bind my wound? Ach, my mistake. Yer not wearing one.”
“I am, too, but mayhap I could cut the end off yer plaid,” she said casting her eyes over the mix of green, brown and grey that must keep him hidden while he sneaked up on innocent folk like her. “However, I have my own sgian for that. I was merely interested in not getting stabbed while I sought to tend yer wound.”
“It’s in my boot.” He lifted a strong muscular knee on the same side as his useless arm.
Pushing her shield betwixt them Maggie
knelt and, with her sword sheathed, slipped her finger down the side of his boot and retrieved his sgian dhub.
She balanced the sgian across her palm. A plain piece with a thin blade that looked as if it was the result of many meetings with a whet stone. She heard him suck in a sharp breath and eased her shield away as if she had been pressing on his wound, but that wasnae the cause as she soon found out when he gasped, “Don’t throw that away. It’s the original sgian the place is named for, the one my great-great-grandfather used to kill a wolf and save the King—the blade our place is named after, Skene Hall.”
She tucked it in the back of her leather belt. “Now do ye promise on yer honour not to hurt me while I tend to yer wound?”
“I promise, but my clan nae longer has any honour. Ye see afore ye a broken man.”
Chapter 3
If Nhaimeth could have reached high enough he would have skelped the big lummox of a housecarl’s ears. “I thought ye said Maggie was coming up behind us. Where is she now?”
“The wee yin waved me away and said she wanted a bit of room to gallop up behind us. Next thing, I turned round and there was nae sign of her. I should have kenned better. She’s always been a troublemaker, nearly shot me with an arrow once at training,” he mumbled, showing his aggravation.
Nhaimeth growled and Rowena reached out and laid a hand on his elbow, if anyone could calm him it was his wife. “Mind yer own business and ne’er let the McArthur hear ye refer to her like that,” she chided the housecarl.
Shug coloured up and ducked his head as to hide it, telling Nhaimeth, “She dresses like a lad, so dinnae blame me for treating her like one.”
With a curl to his lip Nhaimeth said, “Aye, and ye dress like a warrior, but that would appear to be a mistake as well. Help the others make camp.”
The Chieftain's Daughter Page 2
