Highland Vow

by Hannah Howell

  Elspeth, fighting to keep pace with him, her skirts held up in one hand, knew he was right. All that mattered now was that five men were swiftly getting closer and the swords in their hands heralded their deadly intentions. Cormac had his sword at the ready in case one of the men drew dangerously close, but there really was not much chance of him thwarting this attack without the help of Paul and Owen. Now was the time to prove that their presence was worth all the frustration she and Cormac had suffered for three days.

  It was an eerily silent pursuit and once Elspeth chanced to look behind her to make certain the men were still there. They were close enough to see that they were sweating. The lack of any hoots, of taunts and jeers, or even of commands to halt made the men seem all the more dangerous to her. If these were Sir Colin’s men, he had finally found himself some with a little skill and determination.

  “Owen! Paul! ’Ware, attack!” Cormac bellowed and one of the men at their heels cursed viciously.

  Elspeth nearly screamed when a large knife slammed into a tree just ahead of them and to the left. Someone behind them had made an attempt to cut off Cormac’s warning to his friends. She really did not need to see such chilling proof that her troubles had put Cormac and anyone else who helped her into deadly danger. And she knew these men would not give her the chance to graciously surrender herself to save the lives of Cormac, Paul, and Owen. Elspeth prayed that Cormac and his friends were good in a fight—very, very good.

  As they ran into camp, Elspeth saw that Owen and Paul were ready to meet what followed them. Cormac nearly threw her to the far side of the camp. Elspeth knew her part now was to sit quietly and pray, to stay completely out of the way of the battle, and not to distract the men now trying to protect her. She had always found that galling. It was one reason she had tried to learn as much about fighting as possible. In a sword fight, however, she had finally had to concede that she lacked the strength to endure for very long. She also knew that, if she jumped into the fray now because she needed to prove herself, she would undoubtedly do no more than get her friends killed, quickly.

  The sharp clash of swords that came within a breath of the attackers reaching the camp made Elspeth flinch. She crouched at the far edge of the camp, her knife in her hand, and Muddy hiding behind her back. Cormac and his friends were in a tight little circle, swords and daggers slashing at the men who surrounded them. Elspeth cautiously inched back into the undergrowth. If one of the five men facing Cormac and the others decided to look around, she did not want to catch his eye.

  One man screamed, staggered back, and fell to the ground a few feet away from her. Elspeth took a look at the wounds in his chest and stomach and felt bile sting the back of her throat. She prayed the wound to his chest had killed him or would do so quickly. The slash to his belly would make him linger in torturous pain for a long time. When he made no other sound and did not move, she said a brief prayer for his soul and turned her full attention back to the fight.

  Her gallant defenders were not unscathed, but her knowledgeable gaze found no cause for alarm yet. Another of the attackers fell and the three remaining men stood back just a little. A subtle crackle of underbrush behind her caught her attention, but intent upon watching Cormac, she shrugged it aside as unimportant. Muddy was probably exploring, she thought absently, and then winced as Paul took a shallow cut on his arm.

  Just as Cormac killed the man he faced, Elspeth found herself grabbed from behind. She had the wild thought that Muddy was a very poor watch cat; then she gathered enough wit to hide her dagger in a pocket secreted in the folds of her skirts. The man wrapped his arms around her, lifting her slightly off the ground, and took a few steps toward the men still fighting.

  “Best ye stop now,” said the man holding her.

  Even as he spoke, Paul killed the man he faced. The only one of the attackers left still standing staggered over to the man holding her. Elspeth saw the looks of dismay on the faces of Cormac, Owen, and Paul and watched as they quickly turned to ones of cold, hard fury. At least there were not enough men left to kill Cormac and his friends. The two who now held her would only be interested in fleeing and all they needed to do to halt any possible pursuit was to steal the horses. Knowing that, this time, no one had died trying to protect her was almost enough to make Elspeth face her captivity with calm resignation. Almost. She drummed the back of her heels against her captor’s shins and savored his curses.

  “Cease that, ye little bitch,” the man snapped.

  “Let me go.” She managed to bend her pinioned arms just enough to drive them back into his ribs.

  “I am warning ye,” he growled as he tightened his hold on her until it hurt.

  “Ye cannae kill me. Sir Colin wouldnae like it.”

  “Nay, I cannae kill ye, but I can put ye into a verra hard sleep.”

  That was true and Elspeth was not sure she would gain enough from her struggles to make them worth that promised pain. She had at least confirmed that these were Sir Colin’s hirelings. It was more than she could understand when she realized that four men had just died so that Sir Colin could have her. She sincerely doubted that those four men really wanted to die for such a reason, but they had to obey their laird. Sir Colin obviously had no respect for life. It would be nothing short of pure torture to be touched by such a man.

  “Let the lass go,” demanded Cormac, fighting to control the rage he felt as he watched Elspeth being handled so roughly by Sir Colin’s man.

  “After all it has cost me to catch her?” The man holding Elspeth laughed, the sound filled with scorn and anger. “Nay. Sir Colin wants the wee bitch. He wants ye dead as weel, but he will have to wait for that treat.”

  “If ye hand her o’er to that bastard, I will hunt ye down. Ye will ne’er ken another moment of peace until I give it to ye at the point of my sword. I will make it my quest.”

  “Oh, aye? And if I dinnae get her back to Sir Colin, I will ken that peace e’en sooner at the tip of his sword.”

  “This is enough to bring the Murrays and all their kinsmen to your gates screaming for your blood. Ye are sowing the seeds of a long, killing feud with this foul act.”

  “Not my gates. I give this wench to Sir Colin, collect my purse, and leave. Ye are spitting into the wind, laddie. Ye have lost. Accept it.”

  Cormac inwardly cursed. The man was a mercenary; a man like him had no clan loyalty. All a feud would mean to him was more opportunities to gain coin for the use of his sword. It was also clear that he did not really care that capturing Elspeth had cost him the lives of four men. That just meant that his share of the purse would be greater. Italso meant that there was nothing short of killing the man that would make him release Elspeth.

  “Now,” the man continued, “ye and your friends will just toss your swords aside. Will here will collect them and then we will be taking your horses.”

  “Dinnae kill them,” Elspeth said, hoping her words sounded more like a command than the plea they really were.

  “No coin offered for their deaths, lass. Sir Colin badly wants your laddie dead and gutted, but he hasnae offered to pay for it yet.”

  Even as Cormac tossed his weapons down, his friends quickly doing the same, he tried to think of some way to stop this. If the man got away with Elspeth, the horses, and their weapons, it would be a long time before he could give chase. Long enough for Sir Colin to hurt Elspeth and to get her secured behind the walls of his keep, where it could prove impossible to rescue her a second time. Reading that knowledge in Elspeth’s wide eyes, he felt an urge to beg her forgiveness.

  Will was just stepping over to collect the weapons when something fell out of the tree directly over the mercenary and landed on his head. It took a second before Cormac realized that something was Muddy. The mercenary screamed and let go of Elspeth, who had the good sense to quickly scramble away. Cormac was not sure if the cat was flailing around in an attempt to hurt the mercenary as much as possible or if it was simply trying not to be flung off. As h
e made a hasty wish that the animal did not get badly hurt, Cormac rushed to retrieve his sword.

  Still winded from being thrown to the ground, Elspeth paused in her clumsy escape only when she felt she had put enough distance between herself and her captor, and then she looked to see what had made him scream. She gaped, unable to believe the hissing, growling, scratching mass of gray fur on the man’s head was her cat. Blood was streaming down the man’s face and she dazedly wondered if she should rethink her opinion that a cat could do one no real harm. Elspeth cried out in alarm when the man finally yanked Muddy off his head and, ignoring the way those sharp claws and teeth were slashing at his hands and arms, held the cat only long enough to fling it away. If Cormac had not been in her way fighting with the man named Will, she knew she would have heedlessly run to her cat, who now lay at the far edge of the camp. Instead, she sat praying that Cormac would win and that Muddy was only knocked out.

  Cormac killed Will even as Owen and Paul finished collecting their weapons. All three of them then turned to face the man who had briefly held Elspeth. Although Cormac suspected a lot of the blood on the man’s face was from scratches on his scalp, the sort that always bled freely, he still looked painfully savaged. There might even have been some damage done to one or both of his eyes. When the man drew his sword, Cormac cursed. He did not really want to fight a man who probably could not see clearly. In truth, now that Elspeth was safe, he simply did not want to fight anymore. Five men lay dead and he really did not want to make it six.

  “Give it up, mon,” Cormac said as the mercenary swiped his sleeve across his face in a vain attempt to clear the blood away.

  “Is it dead?” the man asked.

  “What?” Out of the corner of his eye, Cormac saw Elspeth start to edge across the camp and, with one slashing movement of his hand, silently ordered her to stay put.

  “Is that hellborn beast dead?”

  “The cat?” It was hard to understand how or why, when facing three armed men and certain death, the mercenary would concern himself with the fate of the cat. “He willnae be leaping on ye again, if that is what worries ye. I think ye should give more thought to the fact that three swords face your one and none of us has blood streaming into his eyes.”

  The mercenary stared at them for a long moment and Cormac wondered if he was waiting for his vision or his wits to clear. Then, suddenly, the man threw both his sword and his dagger. Cormac and his friends dodged the weapons, which landed in the dirt right where Cormac had been standing a moment before. The man wasted no time in running off, disappearing into the shadow of the trees.

  “Should we run him down?” asked Owen.

  “Nay.” Cormac wiped his sword clean on Will’s jupon and resheathed it, feeling a little sickened as he grimly noted the toll Sir Colin’s lust for Elspeth had taken. “’Tis done.”

  “He could get back to Sir Colin and set the mon on your trail.”

  “Possibly, although he implied that Sir Colin is treating failure verra harshly. Also, he is bleeding, unarmed, and, I suspect, on foot, so he willnae reach Sir Colin too quickly even if he decides to face the mon.” He glanced at his friends and smiled crookedly. “And none of us is in the condition needed to hunt a mon down.”

  “Aye, true enough.” Owen winced and lifted his shirt high enough to study a cut low on his right side.

  “Jesu, Owen, that nearly gutted ye,” muttered Paul and he shook his head. “Best have Elspeth look close at that.”

  Cormac looked toward where he had last seen Elspeth, but she was not there. He then saw her running across the camp just behind them. Her steps faltered a little as she neared Muddy’s body until she was almost creeping toward the cat. His two friends followed his gaze and sighed.

  Later Cormac knew he would find some amusement in it all, but he was too concerned about Elspeth and too weary of fighting to do so now. Yet he almost smiled at the way he and his friends stood, unable to move and exchanging wary glances. They were battle-hardened soldiers. They had just fought and killed five men. Each one of them stood with blood trickling from several minor wounds. Yet each one of them hesitated now, afraid to face a tiny, green-eyed woman who might be about to discover that her ugly cat was dead. Cormac took a deep breath to steady himself and started toward Elspeth, faintly aware of his friends reluctantly shuffling along behind him.

  Elspeth knelt by her cat. It was impossible to tell if he was breathing, but she knew that did not mean he was dead. She could see no blood, could see nothing twisted or broken. After clenching her hands tightly for a moment, she then tentatively reached out one hand. She sensed the three men gathered behind her, sensed their taut air of watchfulness, and was touched by their concern, even if it was probably more for her than for the cat. Taking a deep breath, terrified that the body beneath her hand would be cold, she stroked her cat.

  Chapter Eight

  Muddy purred.

  Elspeth felt tears sting her eyes as she more thoroughly checked the cat for any injury. The three heavy sighs of relief from behind her almost made her smile. She endured the three heavy pats on the head she got before the men moved away. When Muddy staggered to his feet and shook his head, swaying a little, she sat down and coaxed him onto her lap.

  As she stroked the cat, idly using her hands to check yet again for any serious wound, Elspeth watched the men remove the bodies from the camp. Five deaths. She could not comprehend it. There was a touch of sadness in her heart for the dead men themselves, but not too much, for they would have killed Cormac, Owen, and Paul without hesitation or guilt. What she struggled and failed to understand was why Sir Colin would send men to kill or be killed just to drag her into his bed. He would find no delight there, for she did not want him and had made that very plain. And he had to know that she would spend every hour of her life fighting to be free of him.

  When Cormac and his friends sat around the fire, Elspeth realized that they had wounds that needed tending. Carrying Muddy over to the fire, she set him on a blanket Owen hastily put down, then fetched her herb bag. For what felt like hours, she cleaned wounds—small ones that needed only salve and larger ones that required a few stitches. Weary and feeling utterly depressed in spirit, she gathered up Muddy and sat down next to Cormac, settling the cat on her lap.

  “Is the brute hurt at all?” Cormac asked, wondering at the sadness in her eyes.

  “Oh, nay.” She stroked the cat, letting his rythmic purr soothe her tattered feelings a little. “He is but weary.”

  Cormac laughed as did Paul and Owen. “That cat does little else but sleep, Elspeth.”

  “He likes a good sleep,” she said and was able to briefly return the men’s smiles. “Cats do. And mayhap because he has had such a rough life until now, he wasnae able to enjoy it like this.”

  Suddenly noticing the blood on Muddy’s claws, she shivered and quickly tugged a cloth from her herb bag to wipe it off. It struck her as odd that, after seeing five men die, and cleaning the wounds of three men, she should find the sight of a man’s blood on her pet so gruesome. Dampening the cloth with a little water, she quickly removed it.

  “I ne’er thought a cat would try to protect anyone,” said Owen.

  “Weel, ’tis nay their usual way and they arenae really made to be verra good at it, are they?” She tossed aside the cloth and resumed petting the cat. “My mither was helped once by a wee cat, so wee it didnae e’en have a mew, just a squeak. Followed my mither everywhere. Just before my mither was supposed to go to her childbed with my youngest brother, she went out looking for some herbs she would need. She fell and wrenched her ankle so badly she couldnae walk, and that is when the child decided ’twas time for it to come into the world.”

  Elspeth saw how eagerly all three men listened and realized they were as anxious to forget about the deaths they had just seen as she was. “There she was, out all alone, and too far away to call for help and be heeded. Mither said it was some odd madness that made her tell that wee cat to fetch my fither.
Wee Amber—which is what we called her because she was all that color, eyes and fur—went trotting off. It took her a while but she got all the way back to the great hall, climbed up my fither’s leg, batted him on the cheeks, then jumped down and trotted away. He didnae follow, so she did it again, then again, until my fither got up and followed her. Said he felt foolish trailing after a tiny yellow cat as if she was some fine hunting dog, but he couldnae ignore the way she was acting. Wee Amber took him right to my mither. Oh, she was a verra, verra spoiled cat for the rest of her life and has a tidy little grave in the verra fine pet graveyard.”

  “The verra fine pet graveyard?” asked Paul.

  “Aye, ’tis the place where we laid to rest those animals we felt true affection for. Consecrated ground, too.”

  For a while, as they picked at their simple meal, they exchanged stories of their childhoods. At least, Elspeth noticed, she, Owen, and Paul did. Cormac had very little to say. Elspeth wondered if his childhood had really been that barren or if he was one of those men who found it difficult to talk freely of personal things like his family. She hoped it was the latter, for she hated to think of him having had a sad childhood.

  “I think we must send word to your family now, Elspeth,” Cormac said abruptly.

  “’Twould be wonderful to let them ken how I fare and”—she took a deep breath to steady herself—“to find out how Payton fares. Sir Payton Murray,” she clarified for Owen and Paul when they frowned slightly. “My cousin.”

  “Sir Payton, of course,” muttered Owen. “The bonny brave knight who makes even sensible, pure women swoon with longing.”

  “What do ye mean?”

  Owen blushed, realizing that he had been complaining and sarcastic about her kinsman—one who might well have died protecting her. “Weel, Sir Payton Murray is much honored. I have ne’er met him himself, glimpsed him in passing only, but many speak weel of him. Minstrels have sung about him.”