Her Highland Protector (Scottish Highlander Romance)

by Barbara Bard

  “Try it.”

  Pressing harder with her heels, Myra found the little mare breaking into a smooth lope, carrying her up and away from the rest of the group. Climbing a hill at a gallop, she felt how the mare used her rear quarters to add power, impelling her upwards. At the top, Myra reined in, whooping with joy and laughter. “I did it,” she yelled down to the others.

  “What have you done, little girl?”

  Her hands on her reins spun the mare toward the man’s voice behind her. A tall blond man on a big roan horse stood watching her from a few yards away, three men-at-arms at his back. Myra recognized him instantly.

  The Earl of Primshire.

  “You!” she gasped.

  “You!” he exclaimed. “I killed you.”

  Though her fear rose, her temper rose faster. “You tried,” she snapped. “You failed.”

  His eyes narrowed. “How dare you talk to me like that, wench. I am your master.”

  “Not any more.” She reined the mare back as he nudged his horse forward, trying to loom over her. “I no longer belong to you. I’m with the Scots now. Clan MacEilish.”

  “Vermin,” he spat. “I’ll crush them like the cockroaches they are.”

  “You’re just a coward, killing innocent women, and shepherd boys who never did a thing to harm you. Filthy scum.”

  The instant the words left her mouth, Myra knew she had made a very bad mistake. Primshire’s eyes narrowed, his flesh darkened, his lips thinned. “So you know about that, eh? Then perhaps I will put you on my list for slaughter.”

  Despite her terror, Myra yanked her knife from its sheath. “I’m under the protection of Clan MacEilish. Touch me, and die.”

  Primshire sat back in his saddle, roaring with laughter. “You think you can threaten me, wench? You are coming back to the castle with me right now.”

  Forcing his roan upside her much smaller black, Primshire reached for her. As she had been taught, Myra moved fast, yet felt it awkward to fight in the saddle. She slashed at his hand that reached for her, and missed. Bringing her blade across her body in a backhanded motion, she caught him across his cheek with the razor keen edge as he leaned forward to seize her.

  She had never heard a man scream before. Astounded, she gaped as he dropped his reins and tried to staunch his blood gushing from the wicked cut in his left cheek with his hands. His soldiers spurred their horses in, swords drawn, yet hesitated to stab a woman. At the same time, Fiona, Idina and the six clansmen cantered to the top of the hill.

  “Myra!” Fiona yelled. “Get back!”

  Obeying, Myra reined her horse around and kicked the mare in the ribs, galloping away. At the same time, the clansmen drew their swords and charged forward, swarming over Primshire and his guard of three. Steel rang against steel as Myra reined the mare in, turning in the saddle to watch. Curses abounded when the English soldiers knew they were outnumbered and out fought.

  Even Primshire, his face, neck and tunic coated in blood, knew he stood in desperate peril of being killed. Yelling to his men, he lashed his reins over his roan’s neck and galloped down the hill. Seeing him flee, his soldiers disengaged from the clansmen and set spurs to hides. Within minutes, only a small cloud of dust remained from where they had been a moment before.

  One of the guards trotted to the edge of the hill. “They be gone, mum,” he called. “Fleeing back tae the border as fast as their nags can gallop.”

  “As dae we,” Fiona snapped. “Myra, Idina, ye hold onto those manes as tight as ye can, fer we are gonna ride fast tae the castle.”

  “But they’re gone,” Myra protested.

  “And he might have fifty Sassenach in hiding,” Fiona replied, kicking her red gelding down the hill. “We gae now.”

  Riding downhill at a dead run was not something Myra felt ready for. She clung to the black’s mane with both hands, not bothering to guide her as the mare followed the others. Gripping with her legs as she had been taught kept her in the saddle and balanced as the mare hit the flat and really began to run. The wind whipped tears to Myra’s eyes, half blinding her, but the exhilaration of her victory over Primshire as well as riding fast made her whoop for joy.

  Taking her hands from the tangled mane, Myra put her hands to the reins once more. The mare slid to a neat and tidy stop in the bailey at Myra’s request, not because the others halted. Laughing, crying from reaction, Myra rested her head on the panting mare’s neck and stroked her silky mane.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “Aye, she be a gallant lass,” Fiona said, walking her chestnut back to Myra. “Now what in the devil happened up there? Who was that Sassenach?”

  Myra lifted herself upward. “He was the Earl of Primshire.”

  Fiona gaped. “That murdering devil.”

  “That murdering devil,” Myra agreed.

  Their headlong galloping return to the castle had not gone unnoticed. Clansmen, swords drawn, leaped aboard horses and rode a short way from the bailey, watching for any enemies who may have followed them. Greer, Kerr, Gavin, Leith and Jared ran from the keep, blades in hand, shouting questions. Myra stayed in her saddle as the men surrounded them, eyeing Greer as he strode toward her.

  “Myra?” he asked, his green eyes worried as he stared up into her face. “What is happenin’? Ye rode like yer tail be oan fire.”

  She opened her mouth to reply, but Fiona answered first. “The Earl o’ Primshire be trespassing. We run intae him a few miles sooth. Kerr –”

  “Aye,” Kerr replied, his tone grim. “We be running his arse back tae his own lands. Leith, help me gather the clansmen.”

  Greer glanced at his father barking orders for his horse to be saddled, warriors gathered, then back at Myra. She saw he was clearly torn, wanting to stay with her, yet knew his duty lay in riding with his father. “I cut him, Greer,” she said quietly. “He tried to grab me, to take me back, and I cut him across his face.”

  Greer stepped back, his jaw hanging loose. “Ye did?”

  “He were bleeding like a slaughtered pig,” Idina said, her voice proud. “Screaming like a lass wi’ a spider oan her dress.”

  “He was the one who tried to kill me,” Myra said, her lips twitching in a smile. “Go on. I’ll tell you more about it later.”

  Snatching her hand to his lips, Greer kissed it, then bolted for the barn. The bailey boiled with activity as warriors dodged servants and barking hounds, chickens flapping to get out of the way of boots and hooves. Mounted men, armed with bows and arrows as well as swords, awaited their laird in the meadow. Within minutes, Kerr and Greer led the way from the bailey at a gallop. Myra watched them go with pride in her heart, yet also no little envy.

  “I be right proud o’ ye, Myra,” Fiona said.

  Myra whirled back. She hadn’t heard the other woman approach. “Ye hae a Scottish heart, ye dae.”

  Myra gazed out over the moors, at the men galloping away in search of a fight. “He terrorized me before,” she admitted slowly. “He frightened me so much I couldn’t even tell you it was him who tried to kill me.”

  Myra looked back at Fiona, Idina behind her. “But out there, he frightened me, but he also made me furious. He wanted to take me back and he would have killed me.”

  “And ye acted wi’ courage,” Fiona told her with a smile and a fierce nod. “Being afraid is nae cowardice. Acting in the face o’ yer fear is courage.”

  Myra snickered. “He ran from me, us. Does that mean he’s a coward?”

  “Aye. Ye ken it already. Any man who kills helpless women be nothing but a coward.”

  “I’m not afraid of him any more.”

  Fiona frowned. “Dinnae make the mistake that he nae be dangerous because he be a coward, Myra. That make him thrice as dangerous, as cowards are ne’er predictable.”

  Myra recalled Greer’s words to never become overconfident in battle, and never believe she won the battle till her enemy lay dead. “He knows I know he’s the murderer, Fiona. Now I’m a danger to
him.”

  “Indeed ye be, lass. He be hunting ye now. I gie me blessing tae ride, but ye ne’er ride out o’ sight o’ the castle and ye hae an armed escort. Swear tae me now.”

  Myra smiled and bowed her head. “I promise.”

  ***

  Greer, Kerr and the small army that rode out to chase Primshire back to England returned by late afternoon. With all the fighting instructors gone with them, Myra, Idina and the other women spent some time practicing against each other. Matched with Idina, her blade clacked against the blonde woman’s as she fought to keep Idina’s knife from her. In a swift move, Idina twisted hard and sent Myra’s blade sailing out to land in the grass.

  Myra gazed in astonishment as India held her wooden blade to Myra’s neck. “Show me how you did that.”

  Grinning, Idina demonstrated how she caught Myra’s cross-guard with her own, then twisted, thus effectively disarming her opponent. After several tried, Myra watched in triumph as Idina’s wooden blade fell to the ground. “I did it!”

  “Aye,” Idina answered, picking up her weapon from the grass. She paused, gazing at something behind Myra.

  Myra turned, as did the other women, halting their practice as the warriors, led by Greer, Kerr and Leith rode across the moors toward them at a trot. As they had no captives with them, Myra suspected Primshire had escaped back across the border and into the safety of his castle. While disappointed he hadn’t been captured, she also knew the Earl had an excellent head start.

  As the warriors on horseback split to go around them and enter the bailey, Greer reined in his big bay at Myra’s side. “The Earl scooted back across the border afore we could catch him.”

  Myra nodded. “He had a running start.”

  “Sae ye truly held yer own against him?”

  “I expect that’s what you call it,” she replied. “He told me he was taking me back, and that he was going to kill me.”

  “I be guessin’ he were the one who left ye fer dead?”

  “Yes.”

  Greer gazed around at the moors, the castle, the warriors dismounting and unsaddling their horses, his bay shifting under him. “Now ye ken ye are a danger tae him.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  At last Greer sighed, his eyes once more on hers. “I expect ye need more trainin’ then.”

  Myra’s eyes narrowed and her lips firmed. “Are you finished with the overblown, overprotective bull headedness?”

  “Is that what I am?” Greer chuckled. “Aye, then. I wi’ dae me best tae nae be overprotective. It be hard fer me, Myra, but I wi’ dae me best.”

  “And you’ll really teach me to ride, not just have me walk in circles?”

  “Aye.”

  Myra grinned. “Then get down here and kiss me.”

  Matching her grin, Greer stepped down off his bay and swept Myra into his strong arms. With nearly everyone in the meadow and bailey watching them with interest, Greer firmly kissed Myra until she was left giddy and breathless. Resting her head against his chest, her arms around his waist, she sighed. “Now it’s a real pity.”

  “What is?”

  “Now that I can truly ride, Fiona has forbidden me from leaving sight of the castle.”

  Greer’s chest rumbled under her ear as he laughed. “Dinnae worry. There be plenty o’ ridin’ tae be had e’en within sight o’ the castle.”

  Myra sighed in contentment, happy to be back in his arms once more, their quarrel past them. “Greer?” she asked.

  “Aye?”

  “What would happen if the English Duke of Greenbriar were to learn that his Duchess was being unfaithful with the Earl of Primshire.”

  Chapter 16

  Cursing fluently, his wounded cheek on fire, the Earl of Primshire rode hard for the English border. His escort of three galloped on his heels, their own muted swearing told him how much they feared the Scottish, who no doubt hunted them even now. Cresting a fairly tall hill, Primshire reined in long enough to gaze back northwards. Sure enough, a sizeable group of riders showed up black against the green and purple hills perhaps three miles away.

  “That bloody bitch,” he muttered under his breath, spurring his roan into a headlong flight down the far side of the hill. “She was dead, I swear she was.”

  With her alive, she posed a terrible danger to not just his life, as he all but confessed to her that he was responsible for the killings of the Scottish women and the English shepherd, but she witnessed him having sex with the wife of the very powerful Duke of Greenbriar. Sweat broke out on his brow despite the wind of his passage drying his face, and his horrible pain was not the entire cause. If the Duke were to learn I was having an affair with his Duchess, he could make war on me. And King Edward just might let him.

  He knew the King and the Duke were close personal friends, and that Edward took a dim view of extramarital affairs. Though he had forbidden his nobles to fight one another, Primshire suspected Edward might just support Greenbriar. If that happened, he had not the manpower nor resources, political or otherwise, to fight the Duke and the King. Though Edward respected Primshire’s father, but despised the current holder of the title. Lord Marsden Pratt had no illusions about how the King felt about him.

  “She has to die,” he swore to himself. “But how do I get to her inside the MacEilish castle?”

  Relief consumed him as he crossed into England, suspecting the war band following him would not dare cross it. To do so, in such armed numbers, would be considered an act of war upon England. Though he privately hoped they would, so he might then turn on the Scottish vermin with the whole of England behind him, he knew MacEilish would never be so foolish. I will have my revenge, MacEilish. You will feel my wrath.

  Reaching his own castle, his lathered mount clattered over the cobbles of the bailey. His cut from the girl’s dagger pained him greatly, as the blood congealed on it cracked at every twitch of the torn muscle. He knew the wound was deep, from the corner of his jaw nearly to his nose. Even with stitching it, he would have a livid scar for the remainder of his days.

  “Where is my healer?” he roared as a groom held the roan’s bridle. He dismounted, feeling every nerve ending in his face.

  Lord Avery walked from the keep toward him, his brow lifted in question, and bowed. “My Lord, what happened?”

  Never would Primshire admit that he had been grievously wounded by a tiny female serf half his size, and that he had turned tail and run at the sight of two Scottish women and a band of six warriors. “Beset by Scottish raiders,” he gritted, gingerly touching his sliced cheek. “We killed three of them, left their bodies for the ravens.”

  “I see.”

  Primshire couldn’t determine from the man’s expression if he believed him or not. Doesn’t matter. I’m the Earl and none dare question me. “I need my healer, and ale. Lots of it.”

  “Do you wish to go to your chambers, My Lord?” Avery asked. “I can send both healer and drink there.”

  Primshire nodded and bit back a groan of agony the motion wrought. “Yes. Do that.”

  “Oh, and My Lord,” Avery began as Primshire moved to step past him. “The Duchess of Greenbriar has returned. She wishes to see you.”

  Primshire stopped but did not turn around. That woman will be the death of me. Yet, I can never resist her body. “Inform her that after I have rested, I will receive her at supper.”

  “Very good, My Lord.”

  Making his slow, careful way into the keep, passing bowing servants and men-at-arms, Primshire mounted the stairs toward his chambers, every portion of his face screaming at him in agony. Inside them, he closed the door, finding James at his elbow to help him into a chair and out of his blood-caked tunic. Though the man tried to be gentle, every movement caused him enormous pain.

  “Be careful, you idiot,” he roared as James lifted his tunic from his shoulders over his head.

  Pouring water from a pitcher into a basin, James took a cloth to wet it, then began to wash the crusted blood from his lord’s
face, chest and shoulders. Keeping the groans behind his teeth cost him an enormous effort, as did not screaming his rage into James’ face. By the time the castle’s healer, an elderly serf, knocked on the door, much of the gore had been cleaned.

  She entered with a small try in her hands, and curtseyed. Though Primshire had seldom needed her services, she, like everyone else in his service, didn’t dare talk to him. As the servant with his ale arrived on her heels, Primshire had ale to drink as the woman disinfected his wound, then began to sew it closed.

  “Make me pretty again,” he sneered, taking a long pull from his pewter mug.