Her Highland Protector (Scottish Highlander Romance)

by Barbara Bard

  “Girls murdered? What happened to them?”

  “It be right gruesome, lass,” he replied. “Cut and sliced open like they were deer.”

  Myra gaped. “Oh, dear Lord. How many?”

  “This makes fourteen.”

  “What? Who could do such a thing?”

  “I dae believe it be the work o’ the Earl of Primshire.”

  Glancing down at her when she said nothing more, Greer found her biting her lower lip, her face drawn. “Myra? What dae ye ken o’ him?”

  “Very little,” she answered after a pause. “He was – is – the lord. Folks like me did our work and seldom spoke to him.”

  “Does he hae a reputation fer doin’ evil?”

  “Not that I have heard,” she whispered, her face down, her lengths of black hair hiding her expression.

  Suspecting she knew something more that she refused to speak of, Greer wanted to press her, demand answers. He recognized the fear in her, the terror she still owned even after the time spent in safety of the MacEilish castle, and he relented. While he felt deep in his bones that Primshire was behind it, he had no true proof. And if the servants’ paths seldom crossed his, then why would Primshire try to kill one? And why was she not eviscerated like the others?

  “I wi’ be back soon,” he told her as he passed the mare into the hands of stable grooms, then bent to kiss her lightly on the cheek.

  Myra nodded, her face wan, and made an effort to smile. “Perhaps your mother will help me find a sheath and a belt for this.”

  Holding up her prize, she waggled the blade in Greer’s face. “Perhaps you will teach me to use it? I might one day have to defend myself.”

  “I wi’. Now I must find me da and ride out.”

  “Go. And I hope you find who is doing this terrible thing.”

  After giving her fingers a quick squeeze, Greer ran across the baily, holding the hilt of his sword, into the castle. Upon making a few inquiries of servants and clansmen inside, he found Kerr engrossed in conversation with a merchant and two village headmen.

  “Forgive me, Da,” he said, arriving at his father’s side. “There’s been another killin’. You should come see fer yerself.”

  Kerr’s lips thinned as he eyed his son from under bushy silver brows. “Another one, lad? This make what? How many dead?”

  “Fourteen, Da.”

  Kerr nodded. “Aye, saddle me horse. I be right doon.”

  Returning to the bailey, Greer saw no sign of Myra, but discovered Jared and Gavin had not just saddled his own big bay, but also Kerr’s dappled grey gelding. “Right, lads,” he said, swinging up. “Da wi’ be along.”

  He didn’t have to wait long, for Kerr, cloaked and armed with his sword, appeared shortly afterwards. Once he mounted up, the two clansmen led the way southwards toward the small village of Coombs. Greer listened intently as Kerr questioned the pair of them, learning the villagers discovered one of their young lasses had been taken from her home. When they began their search, they found her body a few miles away.

  Greer glanced askance at the clansmen. “She were abducted from her home?”

  “Aye. Lass o’ maybe fifteen years was there the night before,” he answered, his voice terse. “Then gone in the mornin’.”

  “That’s different from the other killins’,” Greer said. “He usually hunts them, stalks them, makes them run.”

  “With everyone fearing tae be out at night,” Jared added, “maybe he cannae find his prey. Takes a lass, then maybe makes her run to enjoy the hunt.”

  Kerr shook his head, the wind generated by his mount’s fast gallop making his grey and black hair stream out behind him. “Bandits would’nae steal a lass from her home.”

  “Da, this be the work o’ one man,” Greer said.

  “I be starting tae believe ye.”

  A flock of ravens circled over the line of rolling hills, marking where they would find the corpse. A small cluster of peasant villagers stood in a semi-circle on the moors as Greer, Kerr and the others rode toward them, the local priest intoning prayers over the lass’s body. As Greer swung down, his father beside him, he strode through the tall grass and purple heather to gaze down at the corpse. Half hidden under a thicket of bramble, she lay on her back, her glazed eyes staring at the clouds above.

  Like all the others, she had been cut with precision, murdered as though she were nothing more than a hunted animal. Kerr swore under his breath, his eyes narrowed and furious. Greer felt his own familiar rage rise at the senseless slaughter of a young person, whose life and future were ended at the blade of a madman.

  “They are all like this?” Kerr asked without looking up.

  “Aye.”

  “All young and bonny?”

  “Aye.”

  “And all Scottish.”

  Greer merely nodded even though his father didn’t actually ask a question. “We think it be the Earl of Primshire,” he said, his voice low, for Kerr’s ears alone.

  Kerr swung toward him. “What proof hae ye?”

  Greer met his eyes squarely. “None. Yet.”

  “Ye must hae proof, lad. Ye cannae accuse great lairds, even Sassenach, o’ such crimes without evidence.”

  “I ken, Da. I wi’ get proof.”

  Kerr nodded, his eyes back on the mangled corpse of what had once been a vibrant and beautiful life. “Gae wi’ God, lass,” he murmured. “Saints preserve ye.”

  Greer touched his father’s arm, then jerked his head to the side, silently asked Kerr to follow him. Kerr obeyed, following until Greer stopped out of earshot of the villagers. “Da,” he said slowly. “We must protect these people. ‘Tis our duty.”

  Kerr nodded. “We cannae guard every village, lad.”

  “Nay, we cannae,” Greer agreed. “But we can hae all the village lasses stay near the castle till we hang this murderer.”

  Silent for a time, staring in the direction of the body and the grieving villagers, Kerr finally gave a shrug. “Aye. Start escorting vulnerable women from this village, hae Gavin and Jared gae tae others nearby. I wi’ return, and send armed lads tae aid ye.”

  Striding back to the villagers and the weeping women, Kerr spoke to them for a few moments before remounting his horse. Gavin and Jared wandered to Greer’s side, watching him.

  “What are ye planning?” Jared asked as Kerr urged his horse into a gallop and vanished north.

  “Take the young lasses and keep them close to the castle,” Greer answered. “Take the fiend’s prey away from him.”

  “Then what?” Gavin asked. “He stops killin’ while they be gone, then start again when they gae back home.”

  “But we be searchin’ fer evidence that Primshire be our killer while they be out o’ his reach,” Greer replied with an evil grin.

  Jared shook his head. “How dae we find proof?”

  “I be workin’ oan that. Now, ride tae other villages and start the lasses to the castle. Some wi’ stay in the village while others in the bailey.”

  “Right, then,” Gavin replied, offering him a half salute. “We be off.”

  As the pair of them mounted their horses and rode in different directions, Greer trod toward the cluster of people. A wagon drawn by mules approached from the village at a jingling trot. Reining in, the men driving it jumped down from the seat with white linen, then they, with the help of the others, wrapped the lass’s body in it. Greer muttered his own prayer for the lass’ soul as they carried it past him to the wagon.

  Touching the headman’s arm, Greer said, “Now ye be sending yer young lasses tae the castle fer their protection.”

  The villager nodded. “We thank ye fer yer kindness, laird.”

  “I wi’ find who be doin’ this and hang him.”

  “I wish tae be there when ye dae,” the headman replied, spitting on the ground. “I wi’ drag him tae the gallows meself.”

  Taking a moment to watch the corpse loaded onto the wagon, her family with her, Greer finally gestured for the two
clansmen to accompany him. Mounting his horse, he reined the bay south, thinking to find the tracks the killer may have left behind. Trotting his mount toward the Earl of Primshire’s castle, studying the ground, he found nothing at first. Upon crossing a small shallow stream, he discovered hoofprints.

  “Would ye look at that,” he said to his companions.

  “He walked from the place he killed her tae here?”

  Greer dismounted, handing his reins up to the clansman. “Aye. Keeps his horse hidden. He likes tae run them doon, feel their fear, before killin’ them.”

  Pacing around, he found the footprints of what he suspected was a big man in the soft, damp earth near the water. Following them, he thought they went into the stream, then came back out. “Did he get a drink?” Greer mused. “His horse be tied there,” he went on, pointing to the thicket, “then he gae intae the water, and come oot.”

  Trying to put himself into the killer’s head, Greer walked back and forth along the stream, thinking hard. “There be something strange aboot this.”

  “What is that?”

  Glancing up, Greer found one of his clansmen pointing to something caught on a stone several yards downstream. Going to it, he picked it up, finding it was a heavy cloth stained thickly with blood. Though it had been partially submerged, enough blood remained that Greer now understood what the murderer had been doing.

  “He came here tae wash,” he said, his tone disbelieving.

  “Wash?”

  “Aye.” He gazed up at his men, brandishing the cloth. “Think o’ it. Ye dinnae want to gae back tae yer castle soaked in blood. Killin’ like that, he be drenched in the lass’s blood. His people see him like that, they talk, fear him. How dae ye not ride back all bloody?”

  “But his clothes would be wet, and ye cannae get blood out that easy.”

  Greer nodded grimly. “He kills them while he be naked.”

  The clansmen’s jaws both dropped. “Nay, laird. That cannae be true.”

  “Strips himself afore he slaughters them,” Greer continued, staring at the cloth. “Walks here tae his horse, washes wi’ this, then dresses himself tae ride home. No one be suspicious o’ their laird then.”

  “That’d be sick.”

  “Aye. But this nae be proof it be the Earl o’ Primshire.”

  Mounting back up, Greer and the two clansmen followed the hoofprints further south, discovering they led straight to the Primshire estates. Sitting in his saddle, staring at the distant castle, almost invisible under the lowering grey clouds, Greer knew the tracks leading were not evidence enough that it was the Earl himself who killed the women. Though he knew deep in his gut that it was.

  “It could be a lord in his household,” Greer muttered. “A soldier, even. We must hae proof it be him.”

  Reining his horse around, Greer and his clansmen rode north, back into Scotland and toward home.

  ***

  Riding into the castle bailey, deep in his thoughts about finding the murderer, he was both surprised and delighted to find Myra there awaiting him. Dusk had fallen, and she carried a tallow candle that illuminated her beautiful face. Around her slender waist was a simple leather belt, and the dagger she’d won from Jerod in a sheath at her hip. Only a few grooms were present to take his horse, as the rest of the castle occupants were headed indoors for supper.

  Dismounting, he grinned down at her. “Ach, lass, ye be a goodly sight for these troubled eyes.”

  Myra stepped closer to him. “Was it – was it bad?”

  Nodding, his grin fading, he replied, “Aye. ‘Twas.”

  “That poor girl.” Myra bowed her head. “This is just terrible.”

  “I dinnae want to press ye, Myra,” Greer said softly. “Please tell me what happened to ye.”

  “It’s not important,” she replied, with a tearful sniff, gazing up at him with a smile that trembled. “What is happening to those women is.”

  “Ye dinnae ken if it be important or nae,” he said, trying his best to persuade her. “Fer all we ken, ye be the only lass that be attacked and survived.”

  For a long moment, he thought he had won, that she would tell him who had hit her in an attempt to kill her, then left her for dead. Myra shook her head, her hair tumbling around her shoulders. “I cannot. It brings back the horror, the terror. I cannot relive it, Greer. Please understand.”

  Greer nodded, and tucked her under his arm to head into the castle. “When ye be ready, I be here ready tae listen.”

  As the vulnerable women of the southernmost villages trickled in under the guard of armed clansmen over the next few days, Greer found himself too busy to spend much time with Myra. She did her best to help find places in the barns and sheds inside the bailey for the women to stay in, creating comfortable pallets under shelter. Other rooms in the castle were filled to overflowing as was the closest village with hundreds of young lasses around the age the killer targeted were brought in for their safety.

  Kerr sent to other villages north for provisions to help feed the hungry, extra mouths, thus Greer spent much time directing the wagons for unloading food into storerooms. All the castle’s and the village’s occupants helped make the women as comfortable as possible. The lasses themselves promised to work in exchange for their protection, and Kerr, with Fiona’s help, found them duties to perform.

  Finding Myra in one of the barns creating a soft pallet in a stall, whose previous occupant had been evicted to the pastures, Greer beckoned to her. Smiling, Myra obeyed, glancing curiously from him to the golden haired lass at his side. “Myra,” he said, “this be Idina. She be happy tae be yer personal maid.”

  Myra’s smile slowly faded. “Well, I’m pleased to meet you, Idina, but I really don’t need a maid.”

  “Ach, lass,” Greer replied. “She wi’ look after ye. And Idina be needin’ a place tae stay as well as work. We hae so many lasses that are needin’ work fer their bread. Surely ye can agree tae hae her wi’ ye.”

  “Of course, Greer.” Myra’s smile returned. “Just don’t call yourself my maid and we’ll get along just fine.”

  Idina grinned. “If that be pleasin’ tae ye, Myra, I willnae.”

  Myra held out her hand to the blonde lass. “Then come along. Fiona and Kerr insisted I take these huge guest apartments, so there’s more than enough room.”

  Chatting away happily, the two left Greer to watch them depart, feeling satisfied. From the way they looked at each other, he suspected they’d be fast friends within hours. Myra had the sweet nature that infected most anyone who met her with instant friendliness. In the short time she had been in the castle, she already had a passel of young lads following her wherever she went. People smiled upon seeing her, called her by name.

  Turning, Greer went in search of Jared and Gavin, and found them idling, leaning against the wall of the bailey and staring at the small army of young women inside it. “Come on, lads,” he told them. “We need tae hae a talk.”

  He took them to his own sumptuous quarters in the castle, poured them ale as they sat in chairs near the small fire on the hearth. Seating himself with them, he said, “We need tae plan a strategy fer findin’ this killer, whether it be the Earl o’ Primshire or nae.”

  Jared drank from his pewter mug and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Ye got anything in mind, Greer?”

  “Find a volunteer tae gae intae Primshire Castle and watch the Earl.”

  Jared and Gavin glanced at one another in disbelief. “Ye think it be that easy dae ye?” Jared exclaimed.

  “Aye.” Greer drank his own ale. “We dress our man as a Sassenach man-at-arms, blends in wi’ the others.”

  “But we Scots hae a distinct accent, Greer,” Gavin protested. “Primshire be rabid about us Scots. He ne’er permit it.”

  Greer nodded. “I ken it. Could we find a Sassenach willin’ tae help us?”

  “None that we can trust.” Jared shook his head. “Can a man-at-arms be a mute? Ne’er talk?”

  Greer rubbed his scar
thoughtfully. “Unlikely. But what if our man hae an Irish accent?”

  Jared nodded. “That may work, Greer. But who here can talk like an Irishman?”

  “I think I know a good lad who can,” Gavin replied, frowning slightly. “Name’s William Murphy, his da be Irish. When he talks, he sounds more Irish than Scots.”

  Greer brightened. “And he be a solid lad, loyal?”

  “Aye. But he nae be a soldier, Greer. He be a blacksmith in the village.”

  “That be all right,” Greer replied, thinking that his plan might actually work. “He just need tae dress like one, and spy on Primshire, follow him, but he has tae think oan his feet. He needs tae be smart.”