The Highlander's Secret Vow

by Eliza Knight

  Was it a sin to pray for someone’s demise?

  Guilt riddled her at wishing ill health on someone; then again, he had murdered her father, and heaven help her, she prayed he’d not done the same to her mother. It was self-defense, she was certain, for if she did come out now, he would be quick to see to her end. Actually, she was certain he would not be quick at all.

  “Where did you hide it?” the man shouted.

  Cora looked up in the dark of her cell, half expecting to see him staring through at her, accusingly. Hunger, fear and lack of sleep were making her brain fuzzy. He couldn’t be speaking to her. He didn’t even know she was in here. Nay, he was asking the spirit of her father.

  She shuddered again, rubbing at the gooseflesh on her arms.

  She wanted to shout for him to leave her father alone. Hadn’t he done enough when he’d run him through?

  They’d not even been able to give him a proper burial. For all she knew, her father still lay in the center of the bailey in a pool of his own blood. Fresh tears sparked, but this time they weren’t filled with sadness or self-pity; instead, they were filled with righteous anger. She curled her fingers into fists, her nails digging into her palms, and she bared her teeth in the dark.

  Unfurling one fist, Cora reached for the dagger strapped around her thigh right above the knee. The firmness of the weapon tucked into its sheath was reassuring. She tugged it free, letting the cool flatness of the side of metal blade slide over her fingertips. She touched the tip, reassured of its sharpness. If they discovered her, at least she could use this. She’d fight to the death if she had to. Injure them, at the very least.

  Cora wasn’t naturally a fighter, but she had no problem protecting herself. She’d made sure of that after what had happened in her youth. Never again had she wanted to be left helpless. Well, at least, she wanted to hurt whoever dared harm her first.

  Every landowner had to deal with skirmishes, and her father was a wealthy baron on the border of an enemy country. There’d been plenty of battles. But her father had always won. That was likely what had made him confident enough to believe them safe when their castle had been besieged all those years ago. Either that, or he’d been naive to expect it not to happen. Though there had been warnings. There had to have been. He’d gone to meet the king, taking his wife and young sons with him. Cora had been recovering from an illness and had not been strong enough to travel.

  Because he’d had his heirs with him, her father had taken the majority of his guards. He’d wanted his legacy safe should they be attacked on the road, which was not uncommon given they were so close to the border, and the English and Scots had been fighting for as long as anyone could remember. But to understand that, and not that a castle left nearly defenseless was open to attack…

  Cora had never been able to wrap her head around that logic.

  Only a few days had passed before an army of Scots had lined up outside the gates demanding entry. Her few men had fought valiantly, but it wasn’t enough. They’d been besieged, and she was about to become a feast for the beasts when a distraction, and attack from beyond the castle walls in the woods had allowed her enough time to escape. And that was when she’d first met Liam Sutherland. He’d whisked her up off the ground where she ran through the fields and taken her to safety. Never mind that he was Scots and she was English. Never mind that they should be enemies. He was clearly not with those who’d attacked.

  From that day forward, she’d promised herself she would never be vulnerable again. She’d enlisted the help of her father’s most trusted guards, and they taught her quietly—for her parents would never have agreed that a woman should learn skills to protect herself. She wasn’t good with a sword, nor a bow. But she could jab the blazes out of anyone who dared come too close. Perhaps the guards had pitied her since her father had thought so little of her safety when he’d left her vulnerable all those years ago.

  It didn’t matter. She considered everything that happened to her a lesson, a way to build upon and improve herself.

  A large crash and the floorboards shaking beneath Cora tore her from her thoughts.

  The madman on the other side of the door was bellowing now, words she couldn’t comprehend. His booted heels were dancing around the room in hurried and furious leaps, and more men were coming. Running. Shouting.

  And then she smelled it. Smoke.

  The man had lit the room on fire somehow.

  “Mary, Mother of God…” Cora groaned.

  She was going to die here, hidden in her little nook, burned up where no one to ever find. Nay! She wasn’t. She would escape. Push past them. Stab them if necessary. Maybe in the chaos, they wouldn’t notice the wall moving and a woman slipping out. Maybe they would be too worried about the flames to care if they did spot her. Would ignore her as she went to the dungeon to free her mother.

  Her limbs, too long cramped in one position, screamed as she stood.

  With the dagger still clutched in her hand, Cora dragged in a deep breath. It was now or never. Escape or die, and she wasn’t in the mood for dying. She’d hidden here to begin with in order to survive, even if hiding for a little while made her feel like a coward.

  She swayed on her feet. A reaction to the smoke, the lack of food and water, the blood rushing all around her body when for so long she’d hardly breathed.

  A few feet from her, men were in a mad dash to put out a fire—the same men who could also mean her death.

  Biting her lip and clutching the dagger in one hand, she felt along the paneled wood for the latch that would open the door to her hiding place and let all the demons inside.

  Chapter 4

  They smelled the thick smoke rising in the air before they saw the flames that licked at the castle like a ravenous wild beast. Orange-flamed tongues slithered through the windows, stroking up the sides of the stones. The thatched roof was ablaze, and it lit up the night sky.

  From deep within his chest, the messenger let out a strangled sound.

  Liam’s gut clenched, but no sound came out, for he was no longer breathing.

  At this distance, they couldn’t hear anyone screaming, nor could he make out whether anyone was attempting to put out the fire. Either it was because they were truly too far to tell, or…

  They were too late.

  In the valley below was a quaint castle, from what Liam could recount from memory. Its moderate wall was surrounded by a moat, and as they drew closer, he could see in the light of the flames that the drawbridge was down, the portcullis raised, gates wide open, inviting in anyone who wished.

  Blast it all!

  Liam had held out hope he’d be able to rescue Cora when they arrived, that she would be well hidden… But a fire?

  And this wasn’t a small blaze, it was a wicked and untamed demon.

  The keep itself was perhaps only four or five stories high and narrow with outbuildings pressed up against the walls. Two other low and long buildings sat on either side of the keep. Perhaps the stables and the kitchen. And just outside the wall stood the kirk, as though God’s house would protect those inside the walls should the enemy come.

  What little good it did them now.

  What little good any of it did her.

  A barrage of self-deprecation pummeled inside him—his biggest regret being that he hadn’t insisted on bringing her back to the Highlands with him all those years ago. Though he’d not been the one to seize her castle or start the fire, he was partially to blame for her death by not claiming her as he should have.

  Grief the likes of which he’d never experienced lanced his insides. Mo chreach… He’d not known he possessed such depth of feeling. Liam urged his horse faster over the darkened fields, rushing headlong toward a castle filled with an unfamiliar enemy.

  As they drew closer, he could make out the sounds of men shouting and the occasional scream of a woman or terror-filled child. Men flooded from the keep into the bailey.

  Perhaps they weren’t too late after all.


  “The flames are fresh,” Liam said, his voice sounding tight. “We need to help.”

  As they urged their horses into a flying pace, he wondered if those in the bailey were the inhabitants of the castle or the enemy Cora had spoken of in her letter. From what he understood, she’d sent the messenger out only a few days before.

  The scent of smoke grew stronger, enough to constrict Liam’s throat and burn his eyes. No matter how many water buckets they possessed, they would not have enough to put out the blaze. The castle would be consumed.

  To the Devil with the castle. He only cared about Cora. If there was any chance she was still alive, he had to know. Had to get to her. Save her.

  Their horses thundered over the drawbridge, stunning those in the bailey who were frantically tossing water at the flames, as if trying to spit on the hearth and bank the fire.

  Liam couldn’t decipher those who belonged from those who didn’t, save for those few dressed in armor. One thing was certain though, they were all English.

  Though he and his men might not appear Scots in their plain garb, it was evident to anyone who might look at them that they were deadly warriors. And more than one person tossed fearful looks their way, as though they weren’t already in hell and were about to be besieged all over again.

  Liam didn’t bother with pretenses. He drew his sword and bellowed over the roar of the inferno, “Where is she?”

  Everyone stilled, shocked not only by his demand, but probably also by his very Scots brogue. Perhaps they didn’t know whether they should draw their own swords or run. One thing was clear, none of them appeared concerned with putting out the fire anymore, not that their efforts had done much anyway.

  No one answered.

  Rage ignited in Liam’s gut, flaming out hotter than the blaze devouring the castle before him. He leapt from his horse, grabbed the first armored Sassenach he could reach, easily towering a foot over him. He lifted him off the ground, growling.

  “Where is she?” he bellowed again, this time enunciating the words. He tossed the bastard to the ground and marched toward the next. Right when his fingers brushed the cool mail of his collar, someone called out.

  “In the dungeon!” This only appeared to gain a few grumbling acknowledgements, including a frantic nod from the man he was now holding up in the air.

  “Go get her,” Liam demanded of the Englishman closest to him.

  The man shook his head. “I’ll die doing it.”

  “Ye’ll die if ye dinna.”

  The man dropped to his knees. “Better to die by the sword than to die by the flames.”

  Liam’s mouth fell open in exasperation. Quick as a whip, Liam knocked the hilt of his dagger against the man’s temple and tossed him aside.

  “Tad,” he shouted, “dispatch of the besiegers.”

  Liam could feel the heat of the fire on his skin, causing sweat to pool on the surface of his limbs, his brow. The roar and crackle of the flames was loud, echoing in his skull and bouncing off the one thing he kept repeating. Find her, find her, find her.

  “Where is the dungeon?” He didn’t demand of anyone in particular, his glower enough to get mouths moving.

  The messenger lad hurried to his side, tugging on Liam’s sleeve as he attempted to march toward the flaming keep. “Just in there, sir. Through the doors and to the left, there’s a hole in the ground covered by an iron grate.”

  With the smoke rising into the air rather than settling near the ground, Liam hoped the lass was safe in the dungeon, at risk only of anything falling through the grate.

  Liam grabbed a soaked leather bucket of water from the ground where someone had abandoned it and doused himself over the head. The moisture soaked into his hair, shirt and trews. Better to be wet when in the presence of flames than dry as kindling.

  Tad took control of the situation outside the castle, and Liam was confident his friend would be able to handle anything presented to him.

  “I’ll come with you,” the lad bravely offered when Liam shook off his hold on his sleeve.

  “Ye’ll do no such thing. Your lady bid ye only deliver a message. Your duty is complete, and I’ll not have ye killing yourself on my watch. Go and help your people.”

  Liam didn’t wait to argue with him further, and so he ignored the sputtering from the lad. He rushed up the stairs of the keep, his feet pounding the stones drowned out by the roaring of the flames and the moaning of the castle as it succumbed. From within, he could hear beams and floorboards crashing. This was madness. He could die. But he’d made a promise, and he was nothing without his word.

  He ducked into the keep, and heat immediately surrounded him. Flames leapt from everywhere, the smoke attempting to suffocate him. Floorboards from above splintered, caving in and spilling the contents of the upper floors onto floors below, creating massive piles of flaming furniture. It was a raging inferno. The worst he’d ever seen. What the bloody hell had started such a fire?

  The only thing not burning was the stone floor he stood on and the outer stone walls, though they blackened in long swaths of dark from the base upward.

  Following the lad’s directions, he went to the left. Visibility was low. Smoke burned his eyes and scorched his lungs. He lifted the collar of his shirt over his mouth in an attempt to keep the heat from searing his insides as he breathed. He searched the ground for the grate with his feet, hoping to scrape the tip of his boot on something that wasn’t stone or wood. When he found it, the covering had already been slid open. Had someone got to her already? Had she somehow managed to climb out herself? Was it possible? Nay, it wasn’t. He would have seen her. He had to believe that despite all this time apart, if she saw him racing into a burning castle, she wouldn’t simply allow him to keep going.

  The weight of the covering alone would be enough to make a grown man strain, let alone a woman, not to mention it had to be sizzling to the touch. Just to check his theory, Liam knelt and touched the tip of a finger to the iron. It singed his skin, sending a jerk of pain up his arm.

  “Ballocks,” he ground out.

  The dungeon was nothing more than a hole in the ground, the abysmal chasm yawning wide and daring him to leap inside.

  A groan sounded from deep within the dark cavern. Even the blinding light of the flames didn’t illuminate the hole of death. A specter or a person? He guessed the latter.

  Pressing his hands to either side of the hole, he let his shirt drop from his face and dipped his head below. “Cora!” he shouted into the cavern.

  He could see nothing, but he was relieved to find the smoke was less here.

  A groaning came once more from below. His only answer. Was it she? Dammit, he didn’t know. And it didn’t matter. He was here, and someone was down there. It was his duty to protect, a sacred oath that every warrior knight across all realms took to heart. Unless, of course, they were vile rotten bastards like the one who’d taken her castle and set it to flames.

  Well, if it were Cora in the hole, she’d not have been able to move that crate on her own, which could mean a rescue attempt had already been made and failed. There was no ladder and no rope, nothing that wasn’t on fire that he could grab hold of. So, the opening of the grate was only a jest of Death.

  Unsure of how deep the chasm went, Liam couldn’t very well leap into it without a rope or ladder to get back out. Which meant he had to leave for a moment.

  “I’ll be right back. I’m here, Cora! I’m going to get ye out.” With an expletive, Liam ran back outside. Tad had put an easy end to most of the enemy. One man knelt before him tied at the wrists. He had to guess this was the ringleader. Why else would Tad and his men have spared the man’s life unless they were saving the kill for Liam? Good lads they were.

  “Tad,” Liam shouted.

  Without further explanation to his friend, Liam ran back inside toward the grate—toward Cora.

  “I’m going to get ye out of there,” he said.

  There was no answer.

&nb
sp; Tad appeared a breath later, his shirt over his face, and concern etched in the crease between his brows.

  “I’m going in,” Liam said. “Help the lass out when I hand her to ye.”

  “Aye.”

  “I’m coming down,” Liam called into the darkness. “Move to the side so I dinna crush ye.”

  Though no shuffling sounds were made from below, neither were there any more groans, so he continued with his plan, hoping he didn’t end up dropping on top of someone.

  With his feet dangling inside, and his hands braced on either side of the man-sized hole, he lowered himself down. Even with his great height hanging from the top, his feet didn’t touch. Ballocks. He had no idea how far down it went, and he just had to hope it wasn’t another ten feet.

  He let go, bracing for the fall and praying it wasn’t more than ten or twelve feet, so he couldn’t jump up to take hold of Tad’s extended hand. Thankfully, he only fell perhaps a foot or so before landing on his feet. A height just enough to taunt any man or woman tossed down deep with the idea that if they jumped high enough, they might be able to get themselves out.

  Liam drew in a steady breath and coughed. The air was dank and smelled of human waste and despair.

  “Cora?” he said, followed by another cough.

  Liam bent forward, swishing the air with his hands, intent on finding her in the dark. He couldn’t see a damn thing. With slow, shuffled steps forward, he felt for her. And finally, his fingertips brushed a soft head of hair and petite, feminine shoulders.

  “I’m going to help ye,” he said.

  A crash sounded from above, and Tad shouted a curse. A whoosh of smoke filled the room. The castle was falling down around them. Bloody hell.

  Liam wasted no time. He wrapped his arms around her waist and hauled her up over his shoulder as he stood up straight. The lass was heftier than he recalled, which didn’t mean much since he’d last seen her when she was a girl. She let out a groan. He trudged back to the light of the hole where Tad waited with his arms dangling down.