She took in a deep, shaky breath, and tried to clear her mind. “Find Daividh and save him and then we can discuss the rest.”
Donnchadh nodded. “Aye. Come, there is a lot to plan.” He took her arm and led her to the door, pausing only briefly in surprise when he saw the crowd outside.
“Simon, gather the men. We have a man down we mun’ bring back home.”
Simon’s face brightened visibly and he nodded determinedly. “Aye sir. Right away.” He hurried off towards the courtyard as Donnchadh led the rest to his war room.
“Ye mun’ understand that he willnae let ye go easily my dear. I think he has been planning this since ye were born.” Donnchadh shook his head.
“Aye weel, I willnae play his game. So let us plan how to get Daividh back and then we will deal with Padraig Hunter. By the by, I am coming wi’ ye, and I will need a weapon.”
To her surprise her uncle did not protest. “Aye. I have just the thing.”
Simon rallied the men as fast as he could. Daividh was generally well-liked and when the men learned that he was taken, they did not need much persuading to follow. In an hour the courtyard was full of warriors on their horses, awaiting the laird. There was some murmuring when he came up from the stables, riding his black mare, with Lady Fiona at his side on a brown horse. Nobody said anything to her directly as they all rode out, but there were many sidelong glances and raised eyebrows.
They rode fast, following their best trackers.
“Looks like they’re headed towards Glendale,” Simon said.
“Aye. Makes sense,” the McCormick agreed. Fiona cast him a bleak glance. Simon knew she was thinking the same thing he was. The man clearly wanted to be in his own jurisdiction so that whatever he decided to do to Daividh, nobody could challenge his authority.
“God, I hope they ride slow,” she whispered.
“Daividh will slow them down if’n he can.” Simon said it just to console her. He knew his friend had fought as they dragged him away, but it would be the matter of a moment to knock him out for the count. He had some hope that they would find him whole...but it was a small hope. He at least wanted to be able to bury his friend on Campbell land.
Daividh was tired. The wagon he was lying in seemed to aim for every pothole they passed, jarring his body from side to side. With his hands and feet tied, he could not even brace himself against the impact. His body ached as if someone had spent hours beating him up. Still, he tried his best to relax, knowing that when they stopped he would be fighting for his life. He had listened to the men talking and knew these were Hunter’s men. Whatever he meant to do with Daividh, the soldier knew he was not meant to survive it.
He could not entirely blame the man. If their places were reversed, he too would have done whatever he could to keep Lady Fiona. Somehow though, he did not think the laird was doing this out of love for her.
He felt a moment’s regret that he had not at least been able to say goodbye to her and tell her that he loved her, that he was happy to have met her and been blessed with the opportunity to feel this way. That in this world or the next, he would never forget her.
That if there was anyone worth dying for, it was her.
Suddenly the wagon came to an abrupt stop and he was thrown against the wooden side with violence. Rough hands grabbed him and pulled him out of the wagon, dragging him along with them. He fought to get loose, digging his heels in the dirt to keep them from moving him. Suddenly the covering over his head was removed and he blinked into the brightness of sunlight.
Hunter stood in front of him, a triumphant smile on his face. He inclined his head to the side, surveying Daividh from head to foot. “Ye dinnae really think ye would get awa’ wi’ deceiving me did ye?”
“Get awa’ wi’ it? That wasnae the intention.” He shrugged as nonchalantly as he could. “Ye cannae help who ye fall in love wi’.”
The laird reached out and slapped his face, hard. Even as his cheek burned, he narrowed his eyes, glaring at Hunter. “Ye hit like a girl. Is that the best ye can do?”
Hunter growled, gesturing roughly to his men. “Take him, tie him up. Let the ants have him.”
The soldiers holding him began to drag him to a tree. He dug in his heels, trying to pull his shackled hands from their grip, but they were inexorable. They pushed him against the tree and began to bind him with thick ropes. They started with his feet, winding the rope around his ankles and then his thighs before unshackling his wrists and forcing them around the tree. They shackled his hands together at an awkward angle and then wound the rope around his neck twice. It was so tight he could hardly get a breath to pass through. He could feel himself begin to panic as the thought of strangling to death became a reality. Hunter did not mean to make it quick.
He thought about pleading but knew that the cold man before him would only relish breaking him before he killed him. There would be no mercy to be had.
So he tried to be stoic, closing his eyes and thinking of Fiona. He tried to regulate his breathing so that he could get a bit of air into his lungs. When they were finished with him, he realized with horror that if he relaxed his hands even a little bit, the rope around his neck got tighter. He was forced to hold his hands up at an awkward angle if he intended to breathe at all.
Hunter laughed. “I would say I’ll see ye in hell but I dinnae intend to see ye again.”
Daividh said nothing. He was saving his energy for keeping his hands elevated so he could breathe.
18
Confrontation
They arrived at Glendale as the sun was setting. Fiona was expecting there to be some fanfare. At the very least, someone should have stopped them at the border. But they rode in with no hindrance and her heart dropped with every mile that they covered. Why was Hunter not expecting any attack? Was he that sure that her uncle would simply take his behavior lying down?
Fiona did not want to think about why that might be. She was too worried about Daividh. They spotted a shepherd by the side of the road, leaning on his staff and chewing tobacco. Uncle Donnchadh came to a stop beside him.
“Hail fellow. We’re new tae yer lands. Can ye help us find the manor hoose?”
The man spat a fat black blob onto the ground before looking over them, seemingly unimpressed with their show of weaponry.
“I can do tha’. But the man ye’re looking fer isnae there.”
“How d’ye ken who we’re looking for?”
The man looked over them again. “He is dressed in yer colors. I ‘spect ye’re too late. But ye can cut him doon anyways.”
Fiona screamed as the meaning of his words penetrated her mind. “Noo!” She doubled over her horse, who started at the sound that came out of her mouth. Her uncle put out a hand and closed it over her wrist.
“We shallnae despair just yet. And at the very least, if’n we cannae save him, then we shall avenge him.”
Fiona concentrated on her breathing. She could not think of Daividh dead.
Not yet. God please, not yet.
She prayed silently as they rode, not paying attention to the direction, trusting that the others knew where they were going. They rode into a clearing and she looked up. At first, her eyes could not understand what she was seeing. She blinked a few times, her eyes falling on his hair, falling over his face in chestnut waves, blending so well with the tree bark that for a moment she thought he was a tree nymph, having grown out of the branches like an omen. But now she saw it was a man, tied with brown rope, his flesh flecked with dirt as if he’d been rolling around in it.
She let out a gasp, flying off her horse without care about whether it had stopped moving or not. She ran to the figure, ignoring her uncle’s shouted warning. Skidding to a stop in front of him, she hesitated to touch Daividh. He was so still; clearly, he had not heard them approach.
Simon walked around her, sgian dubh in hand, and began to saw at the ropes. She could see tears trailing down his face and her heart quailed.
“Noo,” she wh
ispered. “He’s no dead. He cannae be dead!”
Simon just continued to saw the binds until he got Daividh’s hands free. His hands dropped bonelessly and his body slumped down. Fiona leaped forward and caught him so that he would not hurt himself further. She was close to him, holding him up, hands around his waist, her body flush against his. She was close enough to hear the small exhalation of breath as his binds loosened.
“He’s no dead! He’s no dead!” She was screaming in excitement and did not care a fig what anyone thought.
Simon was looking at her with red bleak eyes, shaking his head as if he did not believe it. “We mun’ accept tha’ we were too late,” he whispered, his voice breaking on the last word.
“No. No. Help me, Simon. Help me to carry him. I swear t’ye, he is alive!”
Simon came forward, eyes still skeptical, and took some of Daividh’s weight.
“Ye see?” Fiona said softly. “Ye see, he’s still warm. He still lives.”
They laid him down on the grass gently, and Simon leaned over his mouth, trying to feel the warmth of breath. There was nothing.
He shook his head.
Fiona did not care. She had heard him!
Her uncle squatted down to her, staring compassionately into her eyes. “Fiona, sometimes dead bodies make soun—” he began to say.
“No! He is alive!” Fiona snapped, looking away from him. She lay down on the grass next to Daividh as tears rolled down her face. She rubbed at his chest, staring bleakly at him. “We just have to get him to a healer.”
The fortune-teller’s words reverberated in her head like a claxon call.
Did I make the wrong choice? Have I lost him, forever?
Leaning over him, uncaring of her somber audience, she pressed her lips against his, breathing into his mouth. She was startled when the body beneath her wheezed and Daividh began to cough, weakly. Scrambling up to her knees she stared intently down at him. “Daividh?” Putting her hand over his mouth, she felt his breath. The warmth of air on her knuckles had her almost weak with relief. If she was not already on her knees she might have fallen down.
“He’s breathing!” She looked up at Simon, who was staring at Daividh in disbelief. “He’s breathing!”
Simon dropped to his knees. “Quick, we mun’ get him on the wagon and find a healer.”
“Weel weel, see who is shedding tears ower a lowly soldier. My bride-to-be. How dare ye disgrace me in such a way? Have ye no shame?”
Fiona looked up to see Laird Hunter standing a few feet away, his garrison arrayed behind him. She snorted, looking back down at Daividh. “Help me lift him,” she told Simon.
“And ye, Donnchadh, I am truly disappointed. D’ye no care aboot yer reputation anymore?” he sneered.
“Some things arenae worth my soul, Padraig.”
“Yer soul?” Padraig threw back his head and laughed. “Did ye no sell it off a long time ago? What makes ye think ye have it back?”
Simon snaked his hands under Daividh’s back, intent on lifting him up.
“Leave him!” Padraig thundered. “Ye have nae authority tae take him off my land. He has been tried and found guilty and punished appropriately. Ye shallnae take him away.”
Simon looked around at the laird, his eyes murderously narrowed. “Weel then, why don’t ye try and stop me?”
He lifted Daividh up in his arms, getting laboriously to his feet. Fiona had a second to admire his strength before whipping out her sword and darting around him to face the two soldiers who had come forward. They hesitated, surprised, and that gave Simon enough time to cover the few steps to the wagon. Donnchadh’s soldiers formed a barrier between the wagon and Padraig’s soldiers, swords drawn. Fiona stood in front of them, refusing Padraig’s soldiers passage forward.
“Get him back!” Padraig screeched, and his men surged forward. “Do not touch the girl!” he continued just as one of his soldiers raised his sword. They all froze, unsure how to get around Fiona without touching her. Clearly she wasn’t just going to let them pass.
They tried to go around her but she jumped in front of them like a maddened frog. Finally, one of the men thought to grab hold of her arm holding the sword. She struggled against him but as they tussled, the other men went around her to attack the rest of Donnchadh’s men.
Fiona lashed out, slicing a wound into her captor’s arm. He grunted with pain and she pushed him away. Looking up, she saw Padraig Hunter smirking viciously as he watched his men fight with Donnchadh’s, while Daividh lay weakly in the wagon bed. A red film came over her eyes and before she knew it, she was rushing at him, sword held aloft.
He saw her coming a little too late and lifted his hand like a shield as she slashed her sword viciously downward. She opened a cut in his hand from wrist to elbow and immediately, he was bleeding profusely. He cried out, calling his men to come and help. She drew back and slashed forward into his gut, surprised at how much vicious satisfaction she took from the action.
One of Padraig’s men ran at her, pushing her out of the way. She stumbled, falling to the ground; her sword flung from her hands as she reached out to catch herself. The soldier bent over Padraig, helping the already unsteady laird to his knees. He sat the laird down and leaned him against the very tree that Daividh had been tied to. He picked up the laird’s hand, staring helplessly at all the blood flowing from the wound.
Fiona backed away, feeling a dim horror at the knowledge that she caused such damage, and yet also a curious satisfaction.
Who knew you were so bloodthirsty?
The thought made her jerk with shame and she wheeled around and ran to the wagon, carelessly dropping her sword as she went to Daividh. Simon had propped him against a bunch of hides and she could see how shallow his breathing was. His lips were blue and his hands were cold.
She leaned down and blew into his mouth again, remembering how her kiss had awakened him before. She lifted her head and examined him, trying to see if it made a difference. His eyes were fluttering but his lips were still blue, so she did it again, and again. She put her hand on his chest and felt it expand as she breathed into him.
“Stay with me, please. Dinnae leave me the noo,” she murmured softly to him. “Not when I just found ye.”
Daividh opened his eyes, looking around him curiously. He breathed in, his nose assaulted with the strong smell of lavender, thyme, and mint.
Is this heaven?
The thought ran through his head even as he dismissed it. If he was in heaven, he would not have a body to hurt as much as his was right now. Besides, the beddings beneath him, though unfamiliar, were too solid for him to be in some spiritual realm. One thing he knew for sure, there was no more pain when one died, and he was suffused with it.
Unless you’re in hell.
That insidious voice continued to taunt him. He blinked, trying to remember what had happened. He remembered being tied to the tree, his hands behind the tree linked to the rope around his neck. He was forced to keep his hands held up at an awkward angle in order not to choke himself. He remembered worrying about how long he could keep it up. The shooting pain that began at the shoulders and went down to his wrists as he tired. Every time he sought respite from holding his hands up, his vision would darken as the rope pressed against his throat. Each time he lifted his hands, the rope stayed a little tighter around his throat, choking him a little more. He remembered thinking that it was a horrific way to die, to choke slowly like that, and wished that they had just ran him through with a claymore.
He did not lose consciousness for a long time but when the darkness fell upon him, he went towards it with relief. He had been so tired.
Now he was waking up to this strangely luxurious room.
Slowly, he turned his head, blinking in the dim light of the fire in the grate. A tiny snore drew his attention to the armchair by his bed. There was somebody in it, asleep. The small movement he’d made had caused pain to shoot from his neck to his head and he froze.
I am
most definitely alive, he thought as he recognized that full head of fiery Titian curls, because there is no way that she’s dead.
19
New Alliances
It was three weeks before Daividh was able to make any sound without immediately choking. Fiona tended to him as she would have for any of her sisters, riding roughshod over her uncle’s protests of impropriety. She had come too close to losing him to risk leaving him in the hands of uncaring healers, and her uncle was in no position to scold her about honor.
“How are ye feeling today?” she asked him as she carefully fed him lukewarm chicken soup.
“I feel as if I can feed mysel’,” he rasped resentfully as she moved the spoon out of his reach.
“Aye weel, ye’re going tae have tae bear wi’ me a bit longer until the healer declares ye’re hale enough tae do it.”
He opened his mouth to answer and she stuck the spoon in it, forcing him to swallow or choke. He swallowed, unable to hide the flinch of pain as he did so.
Fiona’s eyes softened. “D’ye need some more salve before ye finish yer meal?”
He shook his head. “I’m fine.”
Fiona sighed with frustration. Daividh really did make a very difficult convalescent. Fiona spooned some more soup and held it out to him. He refused to open his mouth.
“Please Daividh. If ye eat all yer soup I promise to tell ye wha’ happened. The whole truth.”
Daividh narrowed his eyes. “I thought ye awready told me the whole truth.”
“I lied.” Fiona caught his gaze and held it, the spoon steady in her hand. Daividh leaned forward and licked all the soup from the spoon, still glaring at her. He finished the rest in silence, not taking his eyes off of her.
Highlander’s Tempted Guard (Scottish Medieval Historical Romance) Page 13
