Her Highland Protector (Scottish Highlander Romance)

by Barbara Bard

  Kerr gazed at her admiringly. “Ye be a clever lass. Sae, Myra, what are ye thinking?”

  “Well,” she replied slowly, gazing around at each of them, “what if we were to send a message to King Edward about Primshire and the Duchess. But the messenger lets the letter fall into Primshire’s hands. He reads it, knows we plan to tell Edward, now he has to act.”

  “That would lure him in, certainly,” Greer said, grinning. “But how dae we direct him intae our trap? He most certainly would be in disguise, come in broad daylight. Only way tae enter this castle withoot getting’ shot.”

  Leith shook his head, troubled. “But Myra’s cut on his cheek marks him now. He would ken he’d be recognized.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t have to enter the castle,” Myra said. “What if we surround the hills with warriors, and I go ride with a small escort. Would that be enough to catch him?”

  “I will nae put ye at risk like that, Myra,” Greer said, his tone firm. “That be the end o’ it.”

  “I agree wi’ him, Myra,” Fiona went on, eyeing her sternly. “There has tae be a better way.”

  “I suppose we hae time tae ponder it,” Greer said. “Our lasses be safe, and he cannae kill Scots. If he slay Sassenach, well, that be the Sassenach problem.”

  ***

  Reminding himself not to bark orders, Greer rode with Myra just out of bowshot of the castle, teaching her basics of horsemanship while permitting her the freedom of riding on the moors. By her delighted expression, and how she turned to him often in order to kiss him, he found the best way to teach her.

  “Now canter her in a circle around me,” he said. “Give her a little o’ her head, but keep a firm hand on her reins.”

  As Myra complied, he discovered that she moved in harmony with the black mare, her buttocks seated firmly in the saddle, her shoulders up. However, when the mare broke to a trot, Myra fell forward over the pommel.

  “That’s expected while ye learn,” Greer said at her dismayed expression. “Soon, ye will learn tae stay in the saddle even as the horse slows doon or speeds up.”

  “I feel so awkward,” she complained, setting herself back in the saddle.

  “Dinnae think that,” he replied. “Ye sometimes stumble when ye walk, eh? It wi’ happen as ye ride, as well.”

  “Fiona rides incredibly well,” Myra said. “Was she born to the saddle like you and Kerr and the clan?”

  “Nay. She learned tae ride after she married me da.”

  Myra suddenly brightened. “Then that leave some hope for me, doesn’t it?”

  “Of course,” he replied, chuckling. “Now, try it again. Focus on keepin’ yer bottom in the saddle.”

  With the hours spent riding at the walk, trot and canter, Myra gradually learned how to keep her backside in the saddle, yet Greer also knew she had yet to be tested on a beast that was less docile than the black mare. In honor of his promise to not be overprotective of her, he informed her she could graduate to a horse that might test her skills.

  “But nae yet,” he said, his tone a warning. “Soon.”

  “But how testy are we talking?” Myra asked as they rode their horses side by side in a wide circle around the castle.

  “I hae a bugger in mind,” he told her, by habit scanning the moors around them with his eyes. “Nae as docile, but yet nae one tae try tae kill ye, either. He may buck, he may run away wi’ ye.”

  “Oh,” Myra replied, her voice small. “Maybe I’m not ready for that bugger.”

  “What?” he asked, his green eyes bright, teasing. “Me brave lass is afraid tae get dumped in the dirt?”

  That did it. Myra’s determination rose in her countenance. “I want to ride him right now.”

  “Nay. I said soon, not instantly. I put some challenges tae ye on that lass first, then we try him.”

  Movement atop a hill caught Greer’s attention. “Stop,” he ordered swiftly, his eyes staring at the moor, reining his bay in.

  Gratified that Myra obeyed him immediately, halting the black mare, he also appreciated that she didn’t pester him with questions that might distract him. Peering intently, he didn’t see movement again, yet his instincts didn’t lie quiet, either. “Ride on,” he said, knowing he ordered her again, and hoped she understood the reason for it.

  Myra nudged the black forward again, Greer’s bay beside her. “What did you see?”

  “I nae sure,” he replied, turning his head slightly, searching for anything else that may be amiss.

  “Someone’s watching us.”

  Greer glanced sharply at her. “Ye feel something?”

  “Yes. I’ve never felt this before, at least not that I know of.”

  “It be yer instincts warning ye o’ danger. We pick up the pace now.”

  Nudging his bay into a canter, Myra’s black beside him, Greer constantly watched his surroundings, seeking the source of both of their inner warnings. It concerned him that they currently rode on the back side of the castle, the bailey being nearly a mile away. Only the guards on the walls might be able to help if they were attacked.

  “If I tell ye tae run,” he said, “then ye run, fast and hard tae the castle gates. Ye hear me, Myra?”

  “I suppose your next order will be to not look back,” she replied, her own eyes scanning the hills around them.

  “That and dinnae stop.”

  Myra had no time to answer. Riders wearing the Scottish brigandines and brandishing Scottish broadswords charged out from under the hills. Others bearing bows and arrows race out from behind them, loosing their arrows even as they galloped. Greer, hesitating in shock that clansmen attacked himself and Myra, almost didn’t react in time. Myra, however, kept her wits and her head, kicked her horse into Greer’s.

  “Ride, damn your eyes,” she screamed.

  That broke his stasis. Spurring his horse into a dead run, and Myra’s gallant horse kept pace. From above him, Greer dimly heard the shouts of his clansmen on the ramparts, firing their own arrows down upon the attackers. Whether they struck true or not, he didn’t know. Reaching across the space between them, he seized Myra by the back of her neck and shoved downward, forcing her against the saddle’s pommel. Hoping she understood that she made less of a target that way, he felt grateful she stayed down.

  Whoops and war cries broke out in their path as his own clansmen charged around the castle’s walls to attack the enemy. “Into the bailey,” he yelled at her, then wheeled his bay.

  Joined by his clansmen, Greer spun his sword into his fist. Screaming his challenge, he charged into the oncoming attackers, his blade striking flesh, knocking men from saddles. His horse, trained for battle, pinned his ears, his teeth biting, his hooves slashing at the enemy mount. Around him, his clan warriors cut into the others, facing the arrows that were fired at them from the Scots that charged.

  Greer caught sight of an arrow shot from the ramparts take out a clansman that had attacked him, the warrior tumbling from his saddle. Two more fell, while still others were cut down by Greer’s sword or by those who followed him. Wheeling their horses, the attackers suddenly changed course, and fled. Riding hard for the hills to the south, they struck their mounts with the flats of their swords to gain greater speed. Whooping, screaming, Greer gave chase.

  A piercing pain shot through him, and a force like a tremendous punch hurled him from his saddle. His breath knocked from him, Greer lay on his back, gasping for breath, staring up at the arrow that had punched through his left shoulder.

  “What?” he asked, confused, stunned.

  “What?”

  Then Myra was there, her deep blue eyes staring into his, her mouth moving but he could not understand what she said. It was as though she spoke while underwater. His vision blurred. More faces joined hers, gazing down at him, their mouths moving, but nothing made sense to him. The sounds ceased to exist, and then he lapsed into nothingness.

  Chapter 18

  “Greer!”

  Myra disobeyed Greer’s command to ride t
o the bailey. Instead, she yanked her dagger from its sheath, and spun the black mare on her rear quarters. MacEilish clansmen surged past her, screaming war cries, joining the fight. Greer led the charge on the attackers, even his horse acting as a second weapon to his sword, rearing to flail hooves at the other horses, bared teeth biting. She watched the other Scots turned tail to run, to escape the barrage of arrows shot from the ramparts, to flee Greer’s wrath.

  Then an enemy arrow, shot from over the rump of a retreating horse, struck him. In horror, Myra watched Greer as he tumbled from his saddle to fall to the ground. She didn’t think twice. She didn’t think at all. Kicking the black mare forward, Myra raced across the battleground to her beloved, not caring that the battle was still fought all around her. Beneath, the flying arrows she rode, heedless of them, seeing only Greer on the earth.

  She threw herself from the saddle before the mare stopped, hitting her knees and feeling the jolt rise from them to her jaws to instantly click together hard enough to hurt. “Greer,” she yelled, her hand on his cheek turning his face toward her.

  Greer’s mouth moved, but no sound emerged. “Greer,” she cried. “Talk to me, damn your eyes, talk to me.”

  Myra sensed other around her, peering over her shoulder, asking questions, but she only had eyes for Greer. His eyes slowly closed, and he relaxed, his body slumping to the earth beneath him. “No,” she screamed, her fingers frantically searching for a pulse at his throat.

  There. She found it. Slow, yet still firm. He was alive. Alive. Relief spread through her, but she knew that if he was to remain in that state, he needed care. She noticed little blood oozing from under the arrow lodged in his shoulder, and feared he bled inside him where she couldn’t see it. Glancing around at the MacEilish warriors who stood around doing little except talk and stare, she issued orders.

  “Get something to carry him with,” she barked. “Find Kerr and Fiona. Now.”

  Her voice cracked like a whip. They obeyed her instantly. As four ran to their mounts and leaped into their saddles, they then galloped toward the bailey. Six others gingerly picked Greer up in their arms, and carried him as she strode beside them, reached between their bodies to feel Greer’s throat. He was still alive. More seemed to need instructions from her, though she had no idea what to order them to do.

  “Those were Scottish, were they not?” she demanded. “Collect the dead bodies and the horses. Find out what clan they belonged to. Take care of any other of our wounded.”

  Men scattered to obey her. “And find my mare,” she shouted after them.

  Watching the men bolt, she half wondered if those were the correct instructions under the circumstances. To her relief, Kerr and Fiona ran toward them, knowing they would know what to do. Then she recognized the distress and anguish in their faces, and suddenly knew they were in no condition to snap orders. “He’s alive,” she called to them. “But he’s hurt bad.”

  “Greer,” Fiona cried, rushing to the men who carried him. “Me lad.”

  Myra grabbed her by the shoulders. “He’s alive, Fiona. He’s alive.”

  Fiona clutched her, weeping uncontrollably. “Greer,” she sobbed. “Greer, oh, Greer. Is he gonna die?”

  “Look at me, Fiona. Look at me.”

  Myra shook her gently, forcing the older woman to gaze into her eyes. “Greer will be all right, Fiona. Calm down now. Please, calm down.”

  For a long moment, Myra feared she would lapse into hysterics. Yet, Fiona nodded at last, taking a deep, shaky breath. “I be all right. Aye, I be all right.”

  Calling to the men who carried him, Myra said, “Take him to his chambers. Fiona, who is your best healer?”

  “Uh, best healer, uh, that be Sondra, in the village.”

  “Someone ride fast to the village,” Myra ordered. “Fetch the healer Sondra.”

  A warrior saluted her. “Aye, mum.”

  As the men carried Greer up the stairs, Myra glanced at Kerr, and found him nearly as useless as his wife. He stared at the body of his son, his face waxy pale, his lips trembling, clearly unable to take command of this very dire situation. “Kerr. Kerr.”

  Kerr finally glanced at her. “Myra.”

  “Take Fiona,” Myra commanded gently. “Go with Greer and sit with him. Where’s Leith?”

  “Leith? Why, I dinnae –”

  “Take Fiona.” Myra urged Fiona toward her husband. “Go sit with Greer. I’ll find Leith.”

  Watching them climb the stairs behind the men who carried Greer, their arms around each other, Myra longed to be with them. While she assured Fiona that Greer would be all right, she also feared that she’d be wrong. Even so, she needed to find Leith. He was the only one who might be able to make sense of this chaos.

  Seizing a running clansman by his arm, Myra spun him neatly around. “Have you seen Leith?” she demanded.

  “I think he be out there, mum.”

  He pointed toward the bailey. Hiking her skirts so she could run faster, Myra hurried out of the keep amidst the shouting, running clansmen and the panicked servants, she scanned the area for Leith. He was there, directing the warriors to ride into the hills and capture or kill more of those that had attacked the castle. He saw her running toward him, and stopped to wait for her.

  “Greer?” he asked, his face ashen.

  “He’s alive. I sent for a healer.”

  He closed his eyes. “Thanks be tae God.”

  “Kerr and Fiona are out of their minds,” Myra said. “I sent for a healer named Sondra, in the village.”

  “Good, she be the best.”

  Myra grabbed his arm. “Those were Scottish, weren’t they?”

  Leith grimaced, his expression grim. “Aye. ‘Twould appear sae.”

  “Why would Scots attack us?” she asked, clenching her fists. “Do you know what clan they’re from?”

  “I dinnae yet. But I aim tae find oot.”

  “I told the men to collect the bodies and horses,” she said, gazing around at the riders racing into the hills, at the peasants on foot who ran for the protections of the bailey and the keep. “And help any of our wounded.”

  Leith grinned, resting his gnarled hand on her shoulder. “Ye be a fine leader, lass. Now, gae wi’ Greer. I wi’ send the healer when she comes.”

  Turning, Myra ran into the bailey, dodging men on horseback, urging the fearful people to take shelter inside, wondering if this was the start of a blood feud between the MacEilish Clan and whoever attacked them. Greer and Fiona had told her stories about feuding clans, and how the hatred and divisiveness often lasted for generations.

  The door to Greer’s quarters were open when she arrived, the six men who carried him up were still there, murmuring in low voices. Beyond their tall bodies, she found Kerr and Fiona standing by Greer’s bed as he lay upon it. Stepping lightly around the warriors, Myra paused to gaze at Greer’s parents. She touched a clansman lightly on the arm.

  “Will you send for mead?” she asked. “I think Kerr and Fiona will need it.”

  “Aye, mum.”

  She walked into the bedchamber and glanced first at Greer’s face. Pale, with a waxy hue, his eyes were shut and his breathing slow and even. Blood seeped slowly from beneath the arrow still stuck in his shoulder, staining his tunic. Myra then put her arms around Fiona, who clung to her in desperation. “The healer is coming,” she murmured. “He’ll be all right.”

  Kerr scrubbed his face with both hands. “Aye, lass. It dinnae appear tae hae struck a vital.”

  As though hearing them speak, Greer stirred on the bed. His eyelids fluttered, and his right arm reached toward the arrow. Acting faster than Fiona, Myra grabbed it before he could touch it, and perhaps cause more damage if in his semi-conscious state he tried to yank it from his body.

  “Easy, Greer,” Myra said, kneeling on the floor. “Don’t touch it.”

  His eyes, dull with pain, found hers. “Myra,” he muttered thickly. “Ye dinnae dae what I told ye.”

  Smiling, My
ra brushed his red hair from his brow. “Overprotective boor. You should know better by now I don’t do what you tell me.”

  Kerr stepped closer. “Did ye recognize the badges oan them, lad? Who were they?”

  Greer nodded. “Clan McTavish.”

  Myra watched the worry drain from Kerr’s face as dark fury replaced it. “McTavish. They goan regret attacking me and mine. I wi’ tear their castle doon stone by stone and slaughter e’ery man and woman in it.”

  “We ne’er hae problems wi’ them afore,” Fiona protested. “Why would they attack fer nae reason?”