Highlander Medieval 06 - Her Highland Hero

by Terry Spear

  “Aye, we will take the best of care of him. Come on, old man,” Finbar said as he and Rob helped Marcus to sit up.

  His head swam as soon as he did, his stomach roiling, his back raging with pain.

  “He is going down,” Rob warned and caught Marcus before he fell off the bed and onto the floor.

  When the darkness faded, Marcus realized he was sitting up in bed against the pillows and sunlight no longer shown through the window but was replaced by nightfall.

  He groaned. “How long have I been out?”

  “Three days.” Rob poured him a tankard of mead.

  “My horse…”

  “He is being cared for at the stable in the village.” Rob handed him the tankard.

  Marcus noticed then that Finbar was no longer in the room. “Where is your brother?”

  “The word has spread that you were attacked by the Sassenach. Because of the incident, skirmishes at the border have begun. Finbar is watching the situation and trying to negotiate with Isobel’s da.”

  Marcus swallowed several gulps of mead to soothe his parched throat. “Isobel?”

  “From what we have learned, she is safe, locked up in the castle, but fine.”

  “Does she know about…” Marcus let out his breath in exasperation. “About me?”

  “I am certain that her da and his staff will attempt to keep the news from her. How are you feeling?”

  “Better.”

  Rob looked skeptical.

  “Like I have been run over by a hundred galloping horses ridden by the MacLauchlan clansmen, if you must really know, but I am not as dizzy as earlier. And my appetite has returned.”

  “Good. We will return home as soon as you are able to travel. We have sent word to our kin and they will help to escort you home in case we have any more trouble along the way.”

  Marcus grunted. But he knew Rob was right. He wanted to fight every last one of the brigands with his own sword. The way he was feeling, he didn’t think he could ride anywhere very far and still stay upon his horse, or even stand still and swing his sword.

  He wished more than anything to get word to Isobel, and yet he knew there could never be anything more between them as much as he wished it were so. It was best if he never returned to see her. The notion made him ill. He wanted her more than he wanted anything else in his life.

  “She must be yours, Marcus. Somehow we must make it happen.”

  How? That was the question he had pondered ever since he was a lad and never had he found a solution to make it happen.

  Footfalls tromped up the stairs and then headed toward his room and Rob drew his sword.

  “‘Tis me,” Finbar called out. “With more of our clansmen.”

  Rob unbolted the door.

  Finbar walked in and Marcus could see at least six of his men hovering about the door, peering in, seeing how he fared. He was heartened by the sight of them.

  Then redheaded Alroy, his green eyes sparkling with good cheer, slapped a fellow clansman on the shoulder. “I told you he would be ready to fight.”

  Marcus managed a small smile and his men cheered him.

  Chapter 4

  Unable to sleep, Isobel had tossed and turned in bed, or paced across her bedchamber floor, wanting to tell Marcus how sorry she was that her father had forced him to leave the dance.

  Isobel refused to break her fast the morning after the dance, nor would she attend the nooning or evening meals. Her father would not permit her maid to have a tray brought to her chamber, although Mary sneaked a bit of cheese and bread to her.

  It did not matter. Isobel couldn’t have choked down a meal if she’d tried. She couldn’t sit in her room for another whole day in silent protest either. She had to oversee the household staff. For two more days, she had no appetite, and she would not break her fast, but when she went to the kitchen with Mary to check on the meal, she noted Cook and her assistants seemed troubled, worried looks cast her way, though no one said a word.

  Maybe they thought she would try to eat in the kitchen and not with the rest of their people in the great hall. But she had no intention of eating either place. Once she was done with the kitchen staff, she said to Mary, “I wish to take a ride.” Isobel headed for the corridor that led out to the inner bailey. “You do not have to ride with me. I will have a knight escort and you need to break your fast.”

  “Nay, I will eat later.” Mary looked ill at ease, but only followed her and said not another word.

  Isobel intended to take a ride to the loch—with her unwelcome escort. She wanted to remember the kiss she had shared with Marcus there and pray that he would return to see her soon and not wait another long year. But what if her father forced her to wed by then? A fortnight, he had warned. She was certain he would, too. She had to leave before that happened, and…and find someplace she could live for a time until her father gave in and let her wed the Highlander who held her heart hostage.

  Sir Travon silently trailed them as she made her way down the corridor past one of the rooms. Men’s voices inside caught her attention, and she abruptly stopped when she recognized them. All of them were her suitors. What were they still doing here?

  “No doubt he has already forced himself upon her,” Lord Neville said, sounding annoyed.

  Were they talking about her? Isobel suspected so. Furious beyond reason, she knew the men probably thought as much, but she had not expected them to discuss it among themselves in her father’s own castle.

  “Forced himself. Nay. She offered herself willingly, of that I have no doubt,” Lord Erickson said. “All anyone needs to see is the way she behaved at the dance. The way she pulled him closer. The way she looked up at him so…wantonly.”

  She was ready to march right in and break Lord Neville’s and Lord Erickson’s noses this time.

  Sir Travon cleared his throat, and she looked back at him, having forgotten all about him. He motioned for her to continue on her way as if saying this was a man’s matter, and she should not be listening in. She glared at her father’s knight and stood her ground. And listened to hear more of what her suitors thought of her. Because she had no doubt they were discussing her behavior toward Marcus.

  “Mayhap she needs a firmer hand,” Lord Hammersfield said, his voice disdainful. “We have been polite, mayhap overmuch, trying to win the lady over who wishes not what polite society dictates. ‘Twas obvious to anyone who watched her and the Highlander that more has been going on betwixt the two. We must remember what her mother was.”

  Sensing her fury, Sir Travon stepped forward and reached for her arm, but not quickly enough. She threw the door open to the room and stormed in.

  Startled, the men all glanced in her direction, their eyes widening. All three men had been lounging on benches, but they all bolted from them and stood, looking like they’d been caught stealing from the kirk and were at once rendered speechless.

  “What exactly was my mother?” she demanded of Lord Hammersfield, the English baron’s blond hair, long and twisted into ringlets like King Henry’s as it hung over his shoulders, though he did not wear the beard. His cold gray eyes were fixed on her, his mouth surly. As usual, he was dressed impeccably, the finest wool tunic reaching to the floor, the over tunic, resting at his knees, and both heavily embroidered.

  The men could discuss her all they wanted, but when it came to her mother, she would defend her honor to the death.

  “A clan chief’s daughter. That was what she was. He was an earl, too, if you did not know this. So what did this make her, Lord Hammersfield? You tell me,” Isobel growled.

  Though she glared at the baron, she noted the other men had taken a step away from him as if distancing themselves from the lord and her anger.

  “I beg pardon,” he said coldly.

  He was not cowed by her sharp tongue, nor would he think any better of her or her mother if he wed Isobel. Most likely he would make her pay for her insolence if he took her to wife. She could see in his narrowed eyes he woul
d love to do just that.

  “And you, Lord Neville,” she said, turning her wrath on the next of her suitors, his blue eyes just as narrowed, his black-bearded chin raised a notch as if he wouldn’t be submissive in front of her, his thin lips pursed in annoyance. His garments were just as richly embroidered, but instead of wearing colors of the forest like Hammersfield did, Neville’s clothes were brighter like one of King Henry’s peacocks. “When I take a husband to my bed, he will be the first to lay with me. You can believe all you wish, but Laird McEwan has always been most honorable. Whoever my husband is, he will find me a virgin wife.”

  The men cast each other glances. She couldn’t read their veiled expressions. Were they glad the one who got the prize would not be taking a wife who might be breeding a savage bastard, or that the chosen husband would be the first to plant his seed in her? Or mayhap they’d prefer that the initial bedding had been done, that she might even be a more experienced wife rather than a green girl. Maybe they thought she lied.

  She turned her wrath on Lord Erickson next, his red hair wild in massive curls, making his head seem twice its size, his green eyes rounded as if he couldn’t believe she’d speak her mind thus. Like the others, he wore clothes fashioned similarly to their king, his garments in varying shades of green that matched his sage green eyes. “If I were to wed you, sir, you would have to force yourself upon me as I would never comply willingly.”

  They stared back at her red-faced, jaws taut, but none said a word. Though she suspected Lord Hammersmith was fighting the urge to speak his mind from the way he was keeping his jaws clamped together and his hands curled into fists. She could just imagine what he’d say. Whether she came willingly to his bed or no’, she would have his heir. Then he would find pleasure in a whore, an English whore, not a Scottish one, when the duty was done.

  “Oh, and my father has dismissed one of my suitors, already,” she added sweetly as she turned to leave, “if you did not know—per my recommendation. My father’s advisor, Lord Wynfield has offered suit. Never has he said an ill word about my mother or me. You might remember that in the future.”

  Her cheeks hot with anger, she stalked out of the room, not bothering to shut the door.

  Waiting for her, Sir Travon raised his brows at her, but he didn’t dare say a word. He’d tell his fellow knights all about her outburst, she was certain. And she didn’t care. Mary’s cheeks were red, her eyes round, but other than being mortified and probably shocked, she didn’t speak a word to her either.

  Lord Erickson said to the other suitors, “Now where were we?”

  The door shut and Lord Neville said, “Changing tactics.”

  If she could not wed Marcus, she knew her future here would be bleak. As much as she admired her father’s advisor, at thirty-nine, he was twenty years her senior. He was more her father’s age than a husband’s. If she could find no way out of this nightmare, she would concede…

  She shook her head. She could not wed the baron. Ever. She loved Marcus and would never marry any other man than him.

  Mary and the knight followed Isobel outside the keep. The day was awash in gray—the sky, the clouds, and every space in between. She felt swallowed up by the dreary bleakness, unable to shake off an impending doom.

  “Lady Isobel?” Mary said as Isobel continued toward the stables.

  His expression stormy, Lord Wynfield, her father’s senchanal, and two knights crossed the baily to stop her. He wore his blond hair cropped short like many Normans did, when she loved Marcus’s longer hair and wished someday to run her fingers through the strands.

  “You must remain inside today, my lady,” Lord Wynfield said, his voice firm but gentle.

  She knew then something was the matter and wondered again about Cantrell’s bringing him some disagreeable news at the dance. “What is wrong?”

  “Skirmishes again at the border. Your father has left to try and talk some sense into those who are fighting.”

  Scots. Like her father, around her, the baron was careful not to call them barbarians or savages.

  “Father,” she said her heart wizening. She had not seen him since the night of the dance. What if she never saw him again? He had always been successful with negotiations in the past, but as dangerous as the fighting could be…

  “He will be all right, my lady. He left word that he did not wish you to venture outside the keep until he returned.”

  “Who is instigating the border fight?” she quickly asked, praying Marcus was not involved because her father had sent him away.

  “McEwan had nothing to do with this. At least we do not believe so,” Lord Wynfield said, understanding her fear, and attempting to set it aside.

  Which she more than appreciated.

  “He would not,” she said adamantly. He was an honorable man.

  Lord Wynfield guided her back into the keep, dismissing the two knights who had accompanied him. Though Sir Travon still trailed close behind them and her maid continued to stay nearby.

  Her father’s advisor cleared his throat. “Laird McEwan was wounded, Lady Isobel. If some of the Scots thought this had anything to do with us, some may have retaliated. As far as we know, his clan members are not involved.”

  She barely heard anything beyond the words, He was wounded.

  She seized Lord Wynfield’s arm, her heart pounding furiously. “How…when…he was not fighting. I do not understand.”

  “He was set upon by…a thief, and the brigand wounded him. But we have word Laird McEwan lives.”

  She clung to Lord Wynfield’s arm, more to keep her knees from buckling than to keep him from going anywhere now, as she felt lightheaded, her stomach queasy. He reached out to take hold of her arms to steady her, but she shook her head and took a step away from him. She didn’t want to be comforted by him or anyone else on her father’s staff. Any of them who could have been involved in sending Marcus away from the castle during the dance.

  She had to see Marcus.

  “When did this happen?” she asked, her eyes narrowed. It had to have been when he left her castle, but somewhere close to the border if the Scots there were fighting.

  Lord Wynfield looked ill at ease to have to mention it.

  “After the celebration? When he was forced to leave here?”

  He glanced at Sir Travon and appeared to be trying to decide whether to tell her the truth or not.

  “I will learn the truth, or some wildly exaggerated version of it. Which would you rather me hear?” she asked, her tone cold.

  “After the dance, only a short distance from the castle.”

  “That was the news Cantrell brought to you?”

  “Aye. We do not know the exact circumstances. Your father wishes to speak to Laird McEwan to determine what had happened, but no one of his clan will permit it.”

  “Take me to see Marcus.”

  “Your father would not permit it. ‘Tis too dangerous for you to cross the border to the village, not with the fighting going on, my lady.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “This is all your fault.” She didn’t mean him personally, but she knew he would not want her wedding the Highlander any more than her father would.

  When Lord Wynfield did not deny it, she knew then—her father had given him the order, and he had given word to the men who had escorted Marcus out of the keep.

  “How bad is he?” She fought valiantly to keep the tears at bay, to believe he was not wounded badly, and that the man who did this to him would pay with his life.

  “He is recovering, so I am told, from the little word that we could get concerning his condition.”

  “Has father’s physician seen to him?” Considering that Marcus was injured on her father’s land while being forced to leave the castle through no fault of his own, and now the Scots had retaliated, wouldn’t peace come easier if in good faith her father sent his own physician to care for Marcus?

  “I have had word that a healer has seen to his injury.”

 
“I want to see him for myself.” And she would, no matter the obstacle that stood in her way.

  “‘Tis not possible, my lady.”

  She would make it possible, one way or another.

  ***

  In the small tavern room, Finbar offered Marcus another bowl of fish broth. “Fortunately, you will live,” Finbar said cheerfully, but then his happy countenance darkened. “Which will not be the same for whosoever paid to have you murdered. I am certain he will be surprised to learn that it will take more than three burly men to kill you, however.”

  “Then he will try again.” Rob leaned against the wall, his arms folded across his chest, appearing ill at ease.

  “The dead men were paid well, I hope,” Marcus said wryly, still confined to the bed at the tavern, feeling out of sorts and in too much pain. Every muscle in his back ached, and he had not the strength to leave the bed since he had been struck down two days ago.

  “Aye,” Rob said. “We collected the gold from each of the three men for your safekeeping.”

  “Did you learn anything about the lord who ordered my death?” Marcus tried to take another sip of broth, wanting to mend as quickly as he could so he’d be able to fight again when necessary.

  “Nay,” Finbar said. “A few Scots took offense to the notion that Englishmen attempted to murder a clan chief when he was only traveling through the area, at the invitation of Lord Pembroke. They have started several skirmishes along the border.”

  “The Scots will pay with their lives. For what?” Marcus asked.

  “Honor. Pride,” Rob said. “One of their own. Even if they are not Highlanders. Well worth the dying for. You know how it is with some men. Any excuse and they will take it.”

  “Aye, which is the same for the other side as well. What of Isobel?” Marcus wanted word about her most of all, but not wanting to hear what he suspected would be the way of things now. Her father would push the wedding forward, forcing her to make the choice between any of the suitors who had come forward.

  “Mary sent word that Lord Pembroke said she would wed in a fortnight. He has offered her a choice of seven men,” Rob said.