by Barbara Bard
“I am, Laird,” she replied. “I came to talk with you. You must not go to war with the MacEilish Clan.”
Astounded, he glanced at the two men at his sides, then back at her. His brows lowered in anger, his lips thinned. “Just how dae ye ken about that? What dae the Sassenach hae tae dae wi’ it?”
Now that she was there and talking face to face with the laird of the enemy clan, Myra stumbled over how to begin her tale. “I reside with the MacEilish,” she told him, her eyes on his. “I am in love with Greer MacEilish. As you know, your clansmen attacked us, grievously injured Greer. Now Kerr MacEilish has declared a blood feud with you.”
McTavish nodded. “I received three corpses wearing the red banner o’ war,” he snapped. “Those corpses were nae my men!”
Those were the words Myra prayed to hear. “Thank God,” she murmured. “Then I was right to come here, Laird,” she said to him. “Then someone is trying to set you and Kerr against one another. I am hoping you will hear me out, and I beg you to not go to war.”
“But if Kerr MacEilish rides o’er the moors wi’ an army at his back, I wi’.”
“If you are innocent of attacking Kerr, Laird,” she said, “we must convince Kerr of this. He is a reasonable man, as are you. You have been allies in the past. Please, Laird. Ride back with me. Talk to Kerr, inform him you did not attack unprovoked, and these men were not yours.”
“Ye ken little o’ the Scots, lass,” McTavish said. “Kerr can be hard one. If I ride tae him, I might just seal me own death.”
“Not if I’m with you,” she insisted. “If I act as an emissary between you both, there can be peace. Please, will you not try? Is going to war with a friend worth your pride?”
McTavish gaped. “Now I ken ye ken little o’ Scots.” A wide grin bloomed across his rugged features. “Come, lass, ye need rest and food, and I wish tae hear more aboot ye.”
Turning his horse, he beckoned her to ride at his side. “Ye be in love wi’ Greer, eh? I always considered him a fine lad. Hoped tae marry him tae my daughter, ye ken.”
With her mare cared for, Myra was given a warm welcome in the castle, and sat at Laird McTavish’s right hand at supper. Starved for fresh hot food, Myra gobbled her supper while explaining to McTavish about the Earl of Primshire trying to kill her, how Greer saved her life and she fell in love with him, and Greer with her. She spoke of Primshire stalking the moors and killing Scottish women, and how she defended herself against him.
“Sae it be Primshire murdering the lasses doon sooth,” McTavish said thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. “Perhaps he be the one setting Kerr and me at war.”
Myra nodded. “That occurred to me as I rode here. He hates all the Scottish, and I am under the protection of the clan. He needs me dead rather desperately.”
“And still ye rode all the leagues a’tween there and here wi’ a Sassenach noble wanting yer head. Ye be a brave lass.”
Myra shrugged, still shoving food into her mouth. “He does his killing on the MacEilish lands, and doesn’t travel north. He doesn’t dare, for if he’s caught, he’s dead. I was more concerned about bandits.”
“I still must admire ye, Myra. Taking this intae yer hands.”
“Kerr wouldn’t listen to me, nor to anyone. I hoped you would.”
“Aye.” McTavish nodded. “Though those dead men nae be mine, I suspected Kerr o’ deviltry, o’ wanting a war, a feud. It dinnae make sense tae me, as we be friendly wi’ one another. Now wi’ ye here, I understand better.”
“So you’ll ride back with me, Laird?” she asked. “Tell him to his face you didn’t attack his castle or hurt Greer?”
McTavish grinned at her. “How can I nae? If I refuse, I wager ye’ll find a way tae drag me there.”
Chapter 20
Making his slow way down the castle stairs, Fiona at his side, Greer felt relief to be walking around again. Though his wound still pained him, Sondra had long since returned to the village after declaring him on the mend. Knowing if his shoulder healed without his moving it, it would never serve him well again. Thus, he had spent his days in bed exercising his left arm and lifting light weights with it. Even as he walked, he continually stretched the muscles, and raised his arm over his head.
“It be six days since she been gone,” he muttered. “Surely she nae be killed out there?”
“She be a smart lass,” Fiona replied as they reached the main level of the keep. “If she made it tae McTavish, he wi’ protect her.”
Once Kerr discovered Myra had vanished in the night, the black mare gone as well, his rage toward the McTavish Clan deteriorated. Understanding that Myra rode out alone to try to stop a blood feud from happening, he directed his rage at her foolishness. Over and over he demanded from Fiona, “Ye sure she went tae him? How can ye be certain? If she believes him innocent, then perhaps he be. After all, she be risking her life tae prove it.”
Even as Greer’s own anger at the risk Myra took grew and all but consumed him, Fiona managed to calm them both. “She did ask me if she should gae,” Fiona told them several times, “she knew she could negotiate a peace a’tween ye. Calm yerselves doon. She be back and wi’ McTavish. That I can promise ye.”
Now outside and glad to feel the sun on his face, Greer stood in the bailey gazing out over the moors. Clansmen practiced their swordplay in the meadows, young lasses watching them and giggling. With Myra gone, his heart ached, and he craved to see her out there with her wooden knife, slashing at his vitals. Once his anger toward her passed, he fretted and feared, his sleep haunted by nightmares of her lying alone under the cold moon, her throat cut.
From the nearest hill where Kerr had placed watchers shouts broke out. “Riders approaching from the north! Riders!”
Greer glanced at Fiona. “Could it be?”
“One way tae find oot. Can ye ride, lad?”
“I plan tae.”
Hurrying as fast as he could to the barns, he found Jared and Gavin saddling horses, one of them his bay. Kerr and Leith, too, ran from the keep, shouting for the grooms to ready their mounts. “This be exciting times, eh?” Jared said with a grin as Greer strode up to them.
“I just hope she be safe,” he replied, mounting up.
Though riding pained him greatly, Greer grit his teeth and rode out of the bailey behind his father, twenty or so clansmen following on their heels. Cantering north across the moors, his spirits climbed as he thought of Myra being with them, alive and safe. In the distance, topping a hill, he saw a small number of horses cresting it to rein in.
And a clear white banner flying above them.
Kerr half turned in his saddle. “That be McTavish. If he come with just a small number under a flag o’ truce, he be innocent of wrongdoing against us. He be placing his trust in me, thereby he be worthy o’ trust.”
As they drew closer, Greer recognized Myra on that stout black mare that Fiona gave her, waving down at them. Her loose hair blew in the wind like a flag, and she trotted halfway down the hill toward them. Kerr kept pace with him, but called over his shoulder. “Only Greer, Leith, Jared and Gavin wi’ me. The rest o’ ye stay behind.”
Greer quickened his horse’s speed, riding ahead of his father, his joy at seeing Myra healthy, alive and grinning from ear to ear infected him with haste. “Myra!” he yelled, his horse striking the slope and galloping uphill. “I swear I wi’ beat yer bottom black and blue.”
“Try and I’ll have your guts for garters.”
Reining in beside her, Greer leaned out of his saddle to hug her, all but dropping them both into a heap on the ground, laughing wildly, kissing every portion of her face he could reach. “Myra, I worried sae,” he said between kisses. “I love ye.”
“I love you, too,” Myra said, her spilling over them both in a shroud. “I had to, Greer, Kerr wouldn’t listen, and I knew Laird McTavish would never attack like that. It never seemed right.”
Kerr, Leith, Jared and Gavin halted around them, stating up at the Laird McTavish on
the hill. “McTavish?” Kerr called. “Ye here tae attack me castle again?”
“Aye, MacEilish,” McTavish replied. “If ye hae such bonny women in it, I hae tae take it fer me own.”
“Ach, ye auld bastard, ye hae nae need fer me castle. Keep the lass, she ne’er be nothing but trouble fer me.”
Myra swung around, her arms still around Greer, to gape at Kerr. “What an ungrateful wretch you are. I risk my life to stop a feud, and I’m nothing but trouble?”
“I see what ye mean, MacEilish,” McTavish said, walking his horse down the hill toward them. “Women should be silent and obedient. I dinnae think I want her. Nae doot she drive me tae drink, ye ken.”
Myra sniffed. “Obviously, my efforts are not appreciated. I’ll sit back and watch you two kill each other, then the ladies and I will move in after you’re gone. It’s a woman’s world now.”
Greer grinned. “Ach, you have a saucy tongue oan ye.”
“She fair split my skull wi’ it.” Kerr shook his head, then glanced at McTavish as he stopped beside Kerr. “Well, ye daft bugger, ye gonna stay and get drunk wi’ me?”
“Ye still got that nasty bull piss ye be calling ale?”
“Aye. It be improved these days. Come on, get yer lads on doon here. Fiona be itching tae say hello tae ye.”
Greer chuckling as the two lairds insulted one another, riding side by side down the hill, Myra watching them go. She grinned into his face. “That is a very good thing to see,” she commented. “And worth every moment.”
“Aye.” He turned her face toward him with his finger under her chin. “We owe it tae ye, lass.”
He kissed her on the lips, breaking away when he felt a sharp slap on his wounded shoulder. Starting up, grimacing in pain, he found the McTavish brothers, Lundy and Roland grinning at him. “I scarce believed Myra when she said she loved yer ugly face, Greer,” Roland said. “Ach, she deserves better.”
“Aye,” Lundy added. “We both proposed tae her, but she will nae hae neither o’ us. But one o’ us be the better catch.”
Greer took his hand from Myra to clasp hands with them, chuckling. “Ye care tae put yer blades where yer mouths be, lads? I could use the exercise.”
Lundy made a kissing noise. “I would’nae want tae scratch ye, ye might cry tae yer maw.”
“Ach, I wi’ just hae Myra here gut ye, and serve ye right fer insulting me pretty face.”
Turning his horse in the midst of them, Greer then took Myra’s hand as they rode in the middle of the laughing group, unable to stop looking at her. The McTavish brothers noticed, hooting with laughter, their unbridled teasing making him blush. It was all worth it to have Myra safe at his side again and a clan war averted.
***
Later that night after a feast to honor the McTavish Clan, Greer sat beside Myra at a table in the vast hall. Kerr, Fiona, Leith, McTavish and his sons sat with them, drinking mead and ale, discussing how to deal with the murdering Earl of Primshire. Under the table, Greer held her hand, Myra squeezing it now and then.
“Dae we hae proof he were the one tae attack yer castle?” McTavish asked, half drunk on Kerr’s ale.
“Nay, I sent the proof tae ye,” Kerr replied, sagging on the bench. “Wearing yer badge and Scottish dress.”
McTavish scowled. “And I bloody burned them.”
“He might try again,” Myra offered. “Since this feud didn’t work.”
“I think he wi’ try something different,” Greer said. “He still needs tae kill Myra tae keep her silent.”
“That would be the only way,” Kerr said with a sly grin and a wink in her direction.
Myra rolled her eyes. “Go to bed before I hurt you, Kerr.”
Kerr snickered into his ale, McTavish joining him as both Myra and Fiona eyed them sourly.
“We can still set a trap for him,” Myra went on, taking a drink of her mead. “Send a message to the Duke of Greenbriar about his wife’s infidelity, and put more pressure on Primshire. He won’t be thinking straight.”
“And thrice as dangerous.” Greer shook his head. “I dinnae like it.”
“Unless we catch him in the act of killing someone, we won’t have the proof we need.”
“The King o’ England commanded him tae hang the beastie doing the killings,” McTavish said. “Let him stick his head in the noose.”
“I say we let him rot down south,” Kerr declared, pounding his fist on the table. “Keep our own safe, let him slay his own, and let the Sassenach deal with him.”
“And what if he tries to incite another clan war?” Myra asked.
McTavish shook his head. “He cannae, lass. We are on our guard now. He attack one, he attack us all. We be ready fer him now.”
Greer squeezed her hand. “They be both right, Myra. There is little he can dae now. Our people be safe, ye be safe, his urge tae kill next wi’ be his undoing.”
McTavish raised his mug to Greer. “Exactly, lad. He be a rabid mongrel, Myra. He wi’ destroy himself.”
Chapter 21
Feeling as though the dark forces within him were close to ripping him apart, Primshire rode from his castle’s bailey out into the night. Under the knowledge that his secret no longer was, he tried to resist the urge to kill. He lasted two sleepless nights, tossing back and forth on his great bed, sweating until the sheets beneath him were drenched. The harder he fought, the worse the urge got. No longer able to think coherently, he set his heels to his roan’s hide and galloped north.
Kill the Scots, kill the vermin, kill the Scots, kill the vermin.
He hardly realized that he chanted the phrase under his breath as he rode, the refrain dancing in his head like a wicked imp. The healing wound on his cheek itched abominably, adding to his overall misery, to his rage. He wanted to scrub at it with his hand, but a small sensible part of him knew that if he did, he would open it back up again. The next time, it wouldn’t heal.
The thought of his wound, his terrible scar, made him think of the black-haired wench. She saw me with Jessica. She knows I killed the Scottish women. Kill her, I must kill her. In his mind’s eye, he saw her terror, saw her blood splashed across her face, his ears rang with the sounds of her screams. Kill her, kill her, kill her.
Cantering across the moors, he rode from village to village, frustrated once again that the Scots had locked their women away, guarded them like jewels. Tall palisades of spiked poles he could not cross. Mounted clansmen eager to take his head as a trophy patrolled around them. Watchmen paced atop the fences, listening for him, waiting, stout spears or bows with arrows nocked, hoping to be the one who killed the Sassenach earl.
No strays crossed his path as he rode, spurring his lathered mount. No young woman, or man, hurried home in the dark, running over the moors. Only the lonely cries of the wolves in the distance called to him. He howled in response, only to listen to them fall silent, as though they recognized he was not one of them. I am, I am, I am a wolf, a predator, call to me, run with me.
The wolves failed to oblige him, as did an unwary victim. Desperate to kill, Primshire rode south, crossing the border into England, his urge blinding him, his spurs coated with his roan’s blood. His insides churned, threatened to explode, spilling out of him in a burst. His brain on fire, he noticed the twinkling lights of a village. A village, yes, a village, people, kill, drag her from her bed, I’ve done it before, yes, yes.
His predator’s instincts taking over, guiding him, Primshire dismounted near a coursing river, and tied his horse to a small tree. Walking toward the village, keeping to the shadows, he ran forward, keeping his body low to the ground. The gates of the palisade stood open, as though in welcome, and he ducked through them. A few peasant men walked through the dirt street, but as he hid himself in the shadows, they failed to see him.
There.
A young woman, laughing over her shoulder, left a small hovel with a bundle in her arms. Not knowing she was now the target of a killer, she walked down the lane, steeping into the l
ight of a window, then out of it to vanish from his eyes, only to appear again in yet another. Primshire followed, drooling, grinning, his excitement of the chase filling him. He hustled forward, half fearing she would enter a hovel and be gone from him.
The hilt of his dagger in his hand, he closed the distance between them, his body low to the ground, slipping from shadow to shadow, a predator better than any wolf. His victim paused, hesitated, glanced over her shoulder, her instincts warning her she was being stalked. Primshire froze in the doorway of a tiny shop.
Her gaze passed him without seeing him, then she turned and continued to walk. Primshire followed, knowing he had little time. He must grab her, and get out of this village. Hurrying, eager, his body lusting for the kill, his blood surging through his veins like a wave. Now only a short distance separated them. Dashing forward, silent, he watched for any threat even as he pounced on her.
