Highland Hero

by Hannah Howell

  “Ah, me, Stoutheart,” she murmured to her little pony after several hours of riding. “Is this madness?”

  Her little pony snorted, and she smiled faintly. As she glanced around she saw little save the occasional crofter’s hut and cattle. It appeared as if she had inadvertently picked a very isolated trail. It was going to be very hard to make a living if she never saw a village or a keep. Tatha decided that she would give it one more day, and then she would turn east. If she rode in a straight line she would eventually reach the coast, and there would be more than enough people there, from small fishing villages to larger port cities.

  It was just as she was thinking that she should find someplace to camp for the night that Tatha saw the keep. For hours she had been feeling an increased reluctance to turn east as had been her plan, even though it was a good one. Despite the emptiness of the land, her heart urged her onward, north toward the Highlands. Now, suddenly, as she looked at the dark hilltop fortress ahead, that urge made sense, yet she would be hard-pressed to explain why.

  As her pony cautiously picked its way through the bogs and the marshes that protected the approach to the keep, she noticed the river that bordered it on the north side. An admirable protection against raiders, she mused. In fact, everything about the keep promised one safety from the dangers of the world. And yet, she thought, frowning, that did not fully explain why she continued to ride toward its high, iron-studded gates.

  Tatha suddenly smiled as she realized what pulled her ever forward. It was the call of the old ways, as Mairi had loved to refer to it. There was something or someone at that dark tower house, behind that high, dark curtain wall, that called to her knowledge, to her understanding of the old ways. Nudging her pony forward and keeping a close watch for the dangers all marshes held, Tatha prayed the holder of the tower house would allow her the chance to answer that call.

  Chapter 2

  Sir David Ruthven scowled down at the small figure riding toward his keep. He did not really have to see the long flame red hair swirling around the tiny rider to know that a female trotted toward his gates. In the five years since his mother’s death it had become a somewhat common sight. If he had known how many women would seek refuge at Cnocanduin, he would never have made the vow he had to his dying mother. The last thing he wished to do right now was give refuge to another troubled woman, but, he thought with a sigh as he moved down off his walls, he knew he would yet again accede to his mother’s wishes. He wondered crossly if some herald had been sent out to tell the world about the vow he had made.

  “There is a—” began the tall, lanky young man who met David at the base of the curtain wall.

  “I ken it, Leith. I saw the lass,” David replied as he strode toward the tall gates, his cousin Leith quickly falling into step behind him.

  “Mayhap this one isnae fleeing a husband.”

  Wincing as he recalled the trouble caused by the last woman to seek refuge at Cnocanduin, her evil-tempered husband hot on her heels, David nodded. “I cannae believe my mother intended Cnocanduin to become a refuge for wayward wives.”

  “Weel, mayhap ye ought to just ask the lass if she has a husband first, ere she even asks for refuge and ye are forced by your vow to bid her welcome.”

  “Aye, mayhap. ’Twould save us a lot of grief, but I would probably suffer a bellyful of guilt o’er it.”

  Although he felt the first pinch of guilt even as he stood blocking the way through the gates with his body, David decided to try Leith’s suggestion. The last woman had nearly set him in the middle of a bloody clan war. He simply could not believe that had been his mother’s intention when she had wrested that vow from him. Then again, he would have sworn to almost anything she had asked as he had stood by her deathbed, watching her life’s blood slowly flow out of her broken and battered body.

  The woman reined her pony in but a foot from him and, to his astonishment, frowned at him. There was no fear or sadness on her small heart-shaped face, no look of helplessness in her beautiful blue eyes. David wondered if she was simply a traveler who sought no more than food and shelter, or even was simply lost. If she was not running from something, it seemed odd that such a slight, delicately built lass would be riding over the dangerous countryside unescorted. What was puzzling at the moment, however, was the way she was looking at him as if he annoyed her. He had not even spoken to her yet.

  Tatha started to order the man to get out of her way, but a flicker of good sense kept the words back. The closer she had drawn to the keep, the stronger the pull of the place had grown. Once past the danger of the bogs she had urged her little pony into a faster gait. If the man had not suddenly appeared directly in her path, she suspected she would have heedlessly galloped right through the huge, imposing gates. Tatha forced herself to calm down. She could move with a little more caution and still find out what was drawing her to this place.

  She studied the man blocking her path and wondered if it was him. He was certainly handsome enough in a dark, somber way. Thick, black hair fell to just below his broad shoulders. He was tall and leanly muscular. Rough deer-hide boots were laced around a pair of well-shaped calves. The plaid he wore swirled gently in the breeze, giving her brief glimpses of smooth, muscular thighs. His white shirt was unlaced, revealing a broad, dark chest. His form was fine enough to cause her heart to beat a little faster, but it was his face that truly held her fascinated when she finally took a good look at it. It was a beautiful face. The lines sharp but not too sharp, lean but not too lean. High cheekbones, a long, straight nose, a firm jaw, and a nicely shaped mouth, the lips holding just a hint of fullness. His eyes, set beneath faintly arched brows, were dark, appearing almost black, and were thickly lashed. One of those dark brows was suddenly quirked upward, telling Tatha that she had been staring at the man for just a little too long.

  “I am—” she began.

  “Are ye wed?” he demanded.

  Slowly, Tatha blinked, confused by his abrupt question and somewhat bemused by his deep, rich voice. She started to wonder why he should wish to know that, then quickly stopped herself. There were simply too many possibilities.

  “Nay,” she replied cautiously. “Ye dinnae wish wedded lasses behind your walls?”

  “I dinnae wish the trouble wedded lasses fleeing their lawful husbands bring along behind them.”

  Tatha wondered if that would include lasses fleeing a betrothal. Although she felt a pinch of guilt, she decided that, since he had not asked, she did not need to tell him. She dismounted, marched up to him, and held out her hand, trying to ignore the fact that she reached only to his chest.

  “I am Tatha Preston. I was wondering if I might seek refuge here for a wee while.”

  David stared down at her small, long-fingered hand, sighed with resignation, and shook it. “Aye, come along.” As she grabbed hold of her pony’s reins and followed him through the gates, he said, “I am Sir David Ruthven, laird of Cnocanduin. As long as ye feel a need to, ye may shelter here.”

  “That is verra kind of ye.”

  “I promised my mother on her deathbed to always shelter troubled lasses.”

  The tone of his voice told Tatha that it was a promise he was beginning to heartily regret. “I shall say a prayer for her.”

  “That would be kind. Aye, and needed. There were some dark lies muttered about her ere she died.”

  “I am sorry. I shall say several prayers.”

  He waved a stable hand over to take her pony. “Your mount’s name?”

  “Stoutheart.” She shrugged when he looked at the pony, then at her, amusement lightening his dark eyes. “He got me through the bogs,” she said as she took her bags off the pony’s back.

  “True. Ye are from the north?” he asked as he took her by the arm and led her to the tower house.

  “Nay, from south of here. The pony was a gift from an uncle when I was just a lass.” When Tatha caught him looking down at her, the hint of a smile on his lips, she briefly thought about trying to
stand taller, then inwardly shrugged. The only way to do that would be to stand on tiptoe, and that would look silly. “Six years ago, when I was but three and ten.” She tried not to feel insulted when his beautiful eyes widened briefly with surprise, indicating that he found her not so great age of nineteen a shock.

  “Jennet will show ye to a bedchamber,” he said as he stopped near the foot of a steep, narrow flight of stone steps and waved over a young, dark-haired maid. “She can get ye all ye may need. We will be gathering in the great hall for a meal in but two hours.”

  David watched the woman follow Jennet up the stairs. Tatha Preston was a tiny, delicate woman. She was almost too slender, but, recalling how her small, high breasts shaped the front of her deep green gown, and watching the feminine sway of her slim hips as she climbed the stairs, he decided she had curves enough to tempt a man. With each step she took, her thick, flame red hair brushed against her hips, and David found himself wondering how it would feel in his hands or how it would look spread out beneath her body. That taste of lust struck him as odd, for she could not really be called beautiful. Her wide, bright blue eyes, heavily trimmed with long brown lashes and set beneath delicately arched brows, were her best feature, were in truth incomparable. Her nose was small and straight with a faint smattering of freckles, and it pointed to a slightly wide, full-lipped mouth that was very tempting indeed. There was a lot of stubbornness in her gently pointed chin. Her skin was a soft white with the blush of good health, and, David had to admit, it begged to be touched.

  “She is a bonnie wee lass,” murmured Leith.

  Startled, for he had not realized that his cousin had followed them inside, David turned to look at Leith. “I was just thinking that, and yet, at first glance, I would ne’er have said so.”

  “Aye, she takes looking at, but ’tis often those lasses who wear weel. At least she isnae a wedded lass.”

  “Nay, and yet I think she may be trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “I dinnae ken, Leith. I just dinnae ken. ’Tis nay more than a feeling in my innards. If naught else, one must wonder what such a bonnie wee lass is doing riding o’er the countryside all alone, and I dinnae think the answer to that question is one that will please us.”

  Tatha watched the door shut behind the little maid, then flopped down on the huge bed with a heavy sigh of relief. She was inside the walls of Cnocanduin and, by what the laird had said, she could be staying until she chose to leave. Sir David had, in many ways, offered her sanctuary. The deathbed oath to his mother was a vow he would be loath to break.

  She felt a twinge of guilt. He had asked her if she was married and she had been able to reply with a truthful no. But it was not the whole truth, and she knew it. Her father had sold her into a betrothal, promised her hand in marriage to Sir Ranald, and most people would consider that as binding as a marriage. Tatha doubted she would have an easy time finding someone to agree with her opinion that her consent was needed, or even that she should at least have been consulted.

  Suddenly aware of how dusty she was and the strong smell of horse on her clothes, Tatha scrambled off the bed and began to undress. Even as she stood in her shift and started to unpack her bags, Jennet arrived with fresh, heated water and a tub, other maids quickly following with enough water to fill it. Tatha was barely able to wait until they had all left the room before she flung off her shift and climbed into the tub. With a sigh of pure enjoyment she sank down into the warm water, took a deep breath of the lavender-scented soap, and began to scrub away the scent of travel.

  It was as she slipped on her clean shift and began to brush her hair dry that her guilt returned. She was accepting all of this grand hospitality under false pretenses. Tatha tried to soothe her unease by promising to tell Sir David the whole truth if he asked, but that helped only a little. Finally, she vowed that, if there was any sign of trouble due to her fleeing a marriage to Sir Ranald, she would leave Cnocanduin immediately. That restored her confidence, and she began to dress for the meal in the great hall in a much improved mood.

  Her newly restored confidence wavered a little when she stepped through the heavy doors leading to the great hall. It struck her quite forcibly that she did not know any of the people now looking at her. She knew only the name of the laird.

  To her relief, Sir David stood up and waved her to a seat on his left. As she smiled her gratitude and sat down on the bench, she promised herself she would spend the next day getting to know some of the people of Cnocanduin. For that reason, she smiled brightly when he introduced her to his cousin Leith, who sat on his right, and hoped that the dark young man’s very brief smile in return did not mean her welcome was already wearing thin. She needed to find a few companions aside from the laird. Sir David undoubtedly had better things to do than to become her sole source of entertainment and conversation.

  Although, she mused, as he placed some tender roast beef on her trencher, he was welcome to spend as much time with her as he pleased. Tatha surprised herself a little with that thought, for, until now, she had found little about men to interest her. His beauty of face and form was unquestionable, but she did not know the man at all. Thus far, he had offered her little to really hold her interest, yet she felt herself wishing that he would try, and even worrying that she would never be able to hold his.

  “I find it curious that ye are riding o’er such dangerous country all alone, m’lady,” David murmured, glancing at her and deciding that Leith was right, that Tatha Preston was a lass who wore very well on the eyes.

  “Do ye? Why?” Tatha decided there was nothing to gain in questioning his form of address. Although her father was a laird, she was not sure titles of any sort should be used for the seventh of fifteen children.

  “Ye are weelborn, are ye not?”

  “Weel enough.”

  “And yet your kinsmen allow ye to trot about Scotland unguarded?” David frowned, the flicker of unease he had felt upon her arrival returning and growing stronger. “Ye have run away from something, havenae ye?”

  Tatha sighed and took a deep drink of wine from her wooden goblet to steady herself. “I am neither a murderer nor a thief, so what does it matter?”

  “It matters because whatever or whomever ye have run from could weel come pounding upon my gates.”

  “I dinnae believe anyone will come looking for me. Howbeit, if someone does, I shall leave. Is that nay fair?”

  “Aye, fair enough, but why dinnae ye just tell me what it is ye are running from?”

  Her reprieve had been a very short one, she mused, and sighed. “My father, Sir Malcolm, laird of Prestonmoor, has fifteen children,” she began, her reluctance to explain clear in her voice.

  “The mon is blessed. Your mother?”

  “Dead. She was the second of his wives. He has just wed his fourth wife who, thank God, appears to be barren.” She winced. “Nay, that was most unkind. She may weel wish for a bairn of her own. ’Tis nay her fault that her kin wed her to a mon who needs no more.”

  “Why so many?” asked Leith. “Does the mon plan to breed his own army?”

  “If so, he had best work harder, for, much to his oft-announced dismay, thirteen of those fifteen children are females.” She smiled faintly at the brief looks of horror the men could not hide. “My two eldest sisters were easily settled, betrothed at cradleside, if nay whilst they were still in the womb. Howbeit, that took all the dower money and dower land. There are nay so many men who are eager to bind their family with ours when there is no dowry to be had with the bride. So, depleted of dowries and unable to gain any more, my father realized that he was still burdened with eleven daughters. He has thought up what he believes to be the perfect solution—he is selling us.”

  “Selling ye?” David was relieved that she had not lied about being unwed, but it was beginning to look as if she was not exactly free either.

  “Aye. If there is a mon who feels in need of a wife, he can buy one from my father. I was being sold to
a Sir Ranald MacLean.” She was pleased to see the grimace of distaste on David’s and Leith’s faces, although disappointed when they quickly recovered their composure. Their swift attempt to hide their sympathy indicated that they did not want to give in to it. “I warned my sisters, but the two who are older than me are verra worried about becoming spinsters. They didnae care how a husband for them was found. They also held sway o’er the others, although only Elspeth, who is eighteen, and Jean, who is sixteen, are in any immediate peril.”

  “And, so, because ye didnae approve of your father’s choice, ye left,” David said, trying to sound disgusted even though he fully understood why a woman would flee Sir Ranald.

  “I did and, unless my father changes his mind on this matter, I willnae return to Prestonmoor.”

  Tatha could tell he was displeased, but he said nothing more. It was courtesy alone that made him offer to walk her around his keep and the inner bailey. She knew it but she accepted anyway. Perhaps, if he came to know her better, Sir David would cease trying to smother the sympathy she knew he felt for her. Tatha also admitted, with a mixture of sadness and alarm, that she was strongly tempted to spend some time with him. That attraction was most unwise. Even if she were not toting a lot of trouble along with her, Sir David Ruthven was not a man who would look favorably upon a skinny, left-handed redhead.

  An instant later all thoughts of Sir David were pushed from her mind as he pointed out the well where his people drew their water. It was in a sad condition, tempting complete ruin if it was not seen to soon, but Tatha saw its beauty through the dirt, rubble, and tangled undergrowth that nearly obstructed all paths to it. She tried to go to it, but Sir David impatiently pulled her along as if he was anxious to leave the place. She allowed him to lead her away, but swore that she would return at first light. Suddenly she knew exactly why she had been drawn to Cnocanduin. It was not the promise of refuge. It was not a tall, dark-eyed man who made her blood flow warm. It was a neglected well that called to her, and Tatha was determined to find out why.