With Love from the Highlands : A Highlander Love Story Duet, One

by Suzan Tisdale

  Albert!

  17

  Albert had never been so happy to see another being in his life.

  They had been following the trail left behind by Laurin’s kidnappers. It soon became quite apparent that the fools were lost, going in circles. Then they heard much shouting and thundering of hooves coming from the east. As Albert, his brothers and men set off in that direction, they caught sight of a lone rider heading toward them. ’Twas barely discernible, but the white fabric, the speed of the horse, led him to only one conclusion; the rider was Laurin.

  How she managed to escape, he did not care at the moment. All that mattered was getting to her. Then the horse reared. When he saw her slight form flying through the air, he nearly fell from his own horse with terror.

  Racing to her, his heart did not beat again until he saw her struggling to get to her feet. Not bothering to wait for his horse to come to a complete stop, he dismounted, rushed forward, and picked her up.

  Now he had her in his arms, felt her draw in a deep breath to scream. Clamping a hand over her mouth to keep the bastards chasing her from hearing, he whispered, “Wheest, lass.”

  It took the briefest of moments for recognition to set in, then she collapsed against his chest.

  There was no time to check for wounds or injuries. Scooping her up in his arms, he headed toward his father and brothers, who were mounted and waiting for battle just steps away.

  He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Ye be a sight for sore eyes, lass,” he told her. “But we’ve no’ much time.” He handed her up to Marcum, who placed her on his lap and wrapped his arms around her.

  “Nay!” she pleaded, her mind dizzy with fear, relief, terror. “I want Albert!”

  Marcum started to pat her hands comfortingly when he realized her wrists were bound.

  He removed his dirk and began to carefully cut away the leather straps. “Where do ye hurt, lass?” he asked.

  Laurin gave a rapid shake of her head. “Everywhere, but I do no’ think anythin’ is broken,” she told him through chattering teeth.

  Making certain she’d not fall, he removed his cloak and draped it around her shoulders.

  “Where is Albert?” she implored as she searched for him. “I want Albert!”

  “Och, lass, Albert be a wee bit busy at the moment,” he explained. “He has a few men to kill.”

  Helmert, as all good cowards often do, lead the charge against the MacAulay men from the rear. While his men withdrew their swords, let out fierce battle cries, ready to kill anyone who lay between them and the riches promised them, Helmert stayed at the rear, watching and encouraging.

  “Kill the bloody bastards!” he screamed.

  The MacAdams men charged forward while Helmert shouted orders. The sounds of metal glancing off metal, grunts, the pounding of hooves, tore through the quiet, mist-covered glen.

  Helmert knew they were sorely outnumbered, but his thirst for wealth kept him from making any kind of intelligent decision. He’d get that bloody sword, or he’d die trying.

  Angered to a near frenzied state, he blamed his current lot on Laurin. The stupid wench! He had warned her, told her exactly what he would do to her if she did anything foolish. Too stupid to know he had spoken the truth, had not made any idle threats, she had managed to escape. Just where she was at the moment, he didn’t know. There was a very distinct possibility that she was now back in the hands of the MacAulays.

  Cursing her to hell, he lead his horse around the melee taking place in front of him, to go in search of her. As the battle raged on, he paid no attention to the number of his men that fell. So focused on finding her, he didn’t care if every last one of them died.

  As he circled around, he caught sight of two people riding away. Kicking his horse, he surged forward. That has to be her! He told himself. With a bloody MacAulay.

  “Ye may try to take her to safety,” he whispered harshly, “but I’ll no’ let that happen!”

  Keeping a wide birth, he passed by the battling warriors at a high speed. Unsheathing his sword, he rode hard and fast. As soon as he was close enough, he swung out hard. His blade scraped across the back of the MacAulay, cutting deeply enough the man cursed and screamed as he pulled rein.

  When the MacAulay pulled his horse around to see who had attacked, he unsheathed his sword. Laurin’s wide eyes, filled with fear, stared into his.

  Helmert urged his horse toward them, lifting his sword high and bringing it down again, missing his intended victim by a hair. The MacAulay was trying to keep his seat, to keep Laurin out of harm’s way. His horse whinnied excitedly as it stomped its feet in protest.

  “Give her to me!” Helmert screamed as he aimed once again for the MacAulay’s head. This time, his blade landed hard against the man’s shoulder, but bounced off his chainmail.

  Marcum spun his horse around as he tried to protect Laurin and fend off Helmert at the same time. The only thing she could do was hold on to the saddle with both hands and pray Helmert did not kill them.

  “Give me the wench!” Helmert demanded again. “Or I swear I’ll kill ye!”

  She knew that Marcum would not be able to defend himself while trying to protect her. “Set me down, Marcum,” she pleaded. “Ye need both hands.”

  Unwittingly, she had drawn his attention away from Helmert, who took advantage of the distraction. He thrust his sword forward and plunged it into Marcum’s arm. The blade tore through the under part of his sword arm that was not protected by chainmail. He bellowed a curse as blood spurted and ran down his arm and torso. Losing the grip on his sword, it fell to the ground in a dull thud against the mud.

  “Bloody hell!” Marcum cursed. Pulling his horse away from Helmert, he headed toward a small copse of trees.

  Helmert was fast on their heels, his steed thundering behind them. Without his sword, Marcum would not be able to do much against the madman’s assault.

  Nearing the trees, he slowed his horse and all but tossed Laurin to the ground. “Run! Hide in the trees!” he commanded. Without waiting for a response, he turned his horse around and headed straight for Helmert.

  Taking the reins tightly betwixt his teeth, he pulled his dirk from his belt. Like two opponents in a joust, they headed towards one another. Marcum with only a dirk, Helmert with his already bloodied sword.

  Frozen in place, Laurin could only watch in terror as the two men headed for one another. Her heart seized momentarily when she saw them meet.

  Marcum had waited until the last possible moment to extend his uninjured arm out like a thick tree limb. Helmert was unprepared for the maneuver and ran headlong into it. Marcum’s arm hit his chest with such force that it knocked both men from their seats. They flew through the air for what seemed like an eternity to Laurin, before landing hard on their backs.

  She held her breath, praying for Marcum’s well-being and Helmert’s end.

  Her prayers went unanswered.

  Stunned, she watched as Helmert scrambled to his feet. Marcum lay unmoving in the mud. For a long moment, her heart felt lodged in her throat as her blood pounded in her veins.

  Their eyes met for a brief moment before instinct took hold. Lifting her sodden chemise, she spun and headed toward the trees.

  ’Twas sheer terror that propelled her forward as she raced toward the trees. Low-lying bramble bushes tore at her clothes, slowing her forward progression. Though the sun still shown behind her, she was met with inky darkness within the copse.

  Before she could find any safety within, Helmert was upon her, wrapping arms around her waist and pulling her back. She let loose with a deep, long scream that angered him further.

  “Shut up!” he growled. “I warned ye what would happen should ye do anything stupid!”

  She screamed again, as loudly as she was able. “I’ll no’ be yer victim again, Helmert!”

  Kicking and screaming, he pulled her out of the trees and brambles. “Scream all ye want,” he taunted. “None will hear ye. None will find ye!” />
  Breaking through the line and into the gloaming, he headed toward his mount. Before he could get close enough, they were met on all sides by a group of very angry MacAulay men.

  “Put her down.”

  Laurin stopped struggling at the sound of Albert’s firm, deep voice. Even in the low light of dawn, she could see the unadulterated fury alight in his eyes.

  Helmert pulled a dirk from his belt and pressed it to her neck. Reflexively, her hands went to his arm in an attempt to pull the blade away. “I do no’ think I’ll be doin’ that,” he said. “Back away now or I’ll slice her throat.” His arm squeezed around her torso as he pressed the cold blade harder against her neck.

  Albert did not so much as bat an eye. “I warn ye, if ye do that, ye’ll be dead before she hits the ground.”

  Laurin knew ’twas no idle threat he made. Helmert, however, was not intelligent enough to understand that. Frustration was settling in as he watched the MacAulay men draw nearer. “I only want the Gladius,” he told Albert as he took a cautious step backward. “Give me the Gladius and I’ll let the wench live.”

  Graeme stepped forward, then and withdrew the Gladius from his belt. “Do ye mean this?” he asked sarcastically.

  Briefly, Helmert’s eyes widened in awe and wonder. Tightening his hold around her waist, he gave a quick nod. “Aye, that be it,” he said with a smile. “Sheath it in me saddle and we’ll be on our way.”

  “Ye’re no’ leavin’ with her,” Albert said.

  Helmert laughed maniacally. “That where ye be wrong. I’ll be leavin’ with her and the sword. Ye will no’ follow and neither will yer men. I’ll leave the whore ye seem so fond of on the shores of Stornaway.”

  In the span of one frantic heartbeat, Albert’s face turned purple with rage. “Give me the sword,” he told Graeme without taking his glaring eyes from Helmert.

  Graeme nodded and tossed the sword in the air. Helmert looked on fearfully as he watched the sword fly through the air, worried that it might be damaged.

  ’Twas as if a graceful dance played out between the brothers. Laurin thought it almost graceful, the way Graeme threw the sword and Albert caught it.

  So astonished was Helmert that he lessened his grip on Laurin, more concerned for the sword’s safety than his own neck. Albert caught the Gladius in one hand as he stepped toward Helmert.

  The instant she felt his grip loosen, Laurin pulled hard on his arm, ducked low and fell to the ground on her hands and knees.

  A moment later, the blade of the Gladius was thrust fast, hard and deep into Helmert’s chest and into his heart.

  There are times in a man’s life where his luck changes. Either from bad to good to blissful, or from good to bad to worse.

  Helmert’s arrogance and greed caught up with him.

  His luck, simply put, had run out.

  He sank to his knees, into the cold, black mud. The expression of disbelief was forever frozen on his face.

  18

  Laurin had no recollection of what happened after Albert thrust the Gladius into Helmert’s chest. Overwhelmed with terror, exhausted and frozen to her bones, she had collapsed into the mud.

  She had the vague sensation of being lifted up, then held against a warm broad chest she assumed was Albert’s. On horseback once again, she kept her eyes closed, her face turned toward his chest, as they headed back to the keep.

  Numb, unable to string a coherent thought together, she uttered not a word. Clinging to him for dear life, for the heat his body offered, she remained silent, wanting nothing more than to be back at the keep, out of her wet clothes, and under at least a dozen furs and blankets.

  By the time they reached the keep, her teeth were chattering so ferociously she worried they’d come loose from her gums. The cold was so intense it was painful.

  Albert carried her up the stairs to her room, barking out orders and commands she did not understand. Everything sounded muffled, as if he was speaking through a thick blanket.

  Josephine was there waiting to help. Her eyes were red, swollen from crying. “Joie,” Laurin murmured as Albert placed her on the bed.

  Someone pulled her out of her wet, muddy chemise. The next thing she knew, she was being placed into a tub filled with warm water. It stung at first, her arms and legs feeling as though they were being pricked with a thousand bone needles.

  Josephine washed her hair, working all the bits of dried mud free from the knots. Kathryn soon came into her line of vision, washing her feet and hands.

  Someone lifted her out of the water, the air feeling far too cold for her liking. A clean nightdress was tugged on over her head as the women took great care stuffing her arms in the sleeves.

  “I be so sorry,” Josephine kept repeating as she draped thick wool blankets over her. “I be so very sorry.”

  “I be glad ye’re here,” Laurin murmured before giving in to sleep.

  “This be no’ yer fault,” Graeme told Josephine as they sat before the hearth in Laurin’s room. “The fault lies at Helmert’s feet.”

  Josephine could not rid herself of the tremendous guilt she carried. She had been in such a hurry to leave her home all those weeks ago, that she had left behind her mother’s journal. She had only realized it when she had gone through the trunks the MacAulay men had brought to her. With a certainty, she knew that Helmert had found the journal, thereby discovering the secret of the Gladius. That in turn led to the deaths of many a good men as well as two she had despised for years, and Helmert, the nightmare of her life.

  Without Helmert as their chief, the future of the clan hung in the balance.

  Out of the battle that took place on that misty summer eve, all but six of the MacAdams men were killed. The MacAulays had lost five good men. All because of Helmert’s insatiable desire for a treasure that Josephine was certain did not exist.

  Marcum was healing nicely from his wounds, much to everyone’s relief. Kathryn fretted over him while she nursed him back to health. He groused and complained for her to quit hovering over him like a bairn with an ague.

  Laurin, however, was not fairing as well. Plagued with a seemingly relentless fever, she had not awakened. Restless, haunted by nightmares, she tossed and turned frequently, crying out incoherently.

  Josephine rarely left and then, only at short intervals.

  Albert refused to leave her side. A true testament to the deep feelings he had for her.

  When she lay quietly, covered with blankets, Albert would read to her from old tomes his mother had brought to him. Though he read the words in hushed, soft tones, he paid very little attention to what he was actually reading. Overwrought with worry, he read only to keep from going mad.

  “Albert, ye should rest,” Josephine pleaded softly. “Ye’ll do no one any good should ye collapse.”

  Ignoring her plea, he continued to read to Laurin. ’Twas a tale of a brave Scottish warrior’s attempt to win the heart of a fair lass.

  Albert knew that Laurin did not love him. At the moment, he cared not. He only wanted her to wake again, long enough so he might tell her what was in his heart. Even if she did not love him, he needed her to know that her life had meaning, that he fervently believed God had put her in his path for a reason. Mainly, to prove to him that he’d been wrong all these many years; there did in fact exist a woman who was perfect for him. That he’d not live the rest of his life alone without someone special to share that life with. In his heart, he believed Laurin was that woman.

  Perfectly content to live out the remainder of his days simply being her friend, he would be forever grateful if some day she might love him in return.

  Just before dawn broke across the horizon on the fourth day of her illness, Laurin’s fever broke. She awoke slowly, groggily, soaked in sweat. Kicking the blankets away, panting as if she’d been chased by an angry bear for miles, she lay there in the still and quiet room.

  The first thing she saw when the fog of sleep lifted, was Albert. Slumped with his chin on his ches
t he was fast asleep in a chair next to her bed. Several days’ worth of beard on his handsome face, his hair disheveled, his clothing crumpled, he did look a fright.

  In a chair on the other side of her bed, sat Josephine. She was also fast asleep.

  Unable to hazard a guess as to how long she’d been abed or even what the hour was, Laurin lay still and quiet. Straining to remember why she was surrounded by the two people who meant the world to her, her head throbbed.

  The memories flooded in, colliding with one another nonsensically. Closing her eyes, she fought to make sense of it all. She could remember Helmert, Clarence and Darvord by the loch, threatening her. They wanted the Gladius. Then a man had been killed right before her very eyes. Darkness, fear, terror surrounded her. Then she had managed to escape. Her heart sank with the memory of plunging a dirk into Clarence. Her stomach roiled as the image assaulted her mind.

  Tears fell from her eyes, dripping softly onto her pillow. I killed a man.

  ’Twas Josephine who woke first. Uncertain if her friend was being plagued by another nightmare, she took her hand in her own. “Wheest, Laurin, I am here.”

  Shaking her head she swallowed hard, her mouth feeling horribly dry. “I killed a man,” she scratched out.

  Josephine was relieved when she heard her friend speaking. Even more relived when she pressed her hand to her forehead and felt cool, damp skin. “Thank God,” she whispered. “Yer fever has broken.”

  “I killed a man,” Laurin repeated. “I killed Clarence.”

  Josephine grabbed a cloth and dipped it into the water basin. “Nay, ye did no’ kill him,” she said. Wringing out the cloth she began to gently wipe Laurin’s forehead. “Ye only wounded him. Helmert killed him.”

  She let out a relieved sigh, though in truth, she still felt guilty for her part in his demise.

  “Now why would you feel guilty?” Josephine asked. “Helmert, Clarence and Darvord are dead because of the choices they made.”