But he didn’t, and Breta rode out of the courtyard with the group, unbelieving that she had gotten past the first hurdle of her journey.
The caravan made its way through the village. Breta said her silent goodbyes as she passed through, keeping her emotions inside. She was a warrior and would follow her sister’s advice to act like one. If she were found out before they crossed the border into McDougal land, she would be escorted back to her father, perhaps even delaying his arrival to the games. It would look like the McLeish clan wasn’t participating, and that was the last thing Breta wanted.
So, she kept her head down. Once they crossed into the woods, she finally drew in a breath, the cold air cleansing her thoughts. The warriors were talking amongst themselves, the horses’ breathing intermingling with the sounds of the woods around them. Breta reached under her cloak and touched the dagger strapped to her waist for comfort, hoping that no one would notice she didn’t have a sword at her back. Ferra had tried to do so but the bloody thing was so heavy that Breta was afraid she would topple from the horse, so she had decided to stick to the dagger instead.
Breta just hoped she didn’t have to use it on her own clan.
With a sigh, Breta fell into the steady rhythm of the rest of the group.
So far, things are going as planned.
Things were not going as planned.
Breta shivered under her cloak as the storm raged around them, wishing she would have never left the keep for this infernal plan. The first few days had gone well. Breta had been able to break apart from the group whenever camp was set up for the night, choosing to tuck her bedroll as far away from the fire as she could so nobody would have any reason to be interested in her. She had nibbled on the bread, cheese, and dried meat that Ferra had packed for her instead of the stews and charred meat that were passed around.
She also ignored the ale and whiskey, feigning sleep if anyone came too close. The one thing she had done right, apparently, was travel when there was a large presence of warriors, as it was easy to go unnoticed.
That was, before the rains hit. The skies opened up this morning, after heavy grey cloud cover for hours, and had not let up.
Worse than that, the air temperature around them had dropped as well, so not only was Breta wet, but she was cold as well.
“Here, lad. Take a sip. It will warm yer bones.”
Breta watched as the silver flask appeared just inside her periphery of the hood. “Nay,” she grumbled, hoping that her voice was deep enough. To her, she sounded like herself.
“Go on,” the warrior pushed. “’Tis not going tae bite ye.”
Breta reached out with her gloved hand and took the flask, taking a small nip of the fiery liquid so that she wouldn’t start coughing and reveal her true identity. The liquid burned a path down to her stomach, but it did warm her bones.
“Thank ye,” she said, passing it back. The warrior grunted, and Breta was left alone, wishing she didn’t have to be in the same tent as the others. The storm outside was far too harsh to remain there so they had erected one of the tents for shelter.
Now she was crowded in with at least thirty other warriors, her cheeks burning at their ribald conversations and jesting.
At least she would have something to tell her sister when she did return home to the keep.
Breta felt the whiskey start to warm her from the inside out, and gradually relaxed as she sat on the dirt floor. Her thoughts turned to her task at hand. In the next day or so, they would be on McDougal land, and the keep was not far from the border. She had seen the keep once before in her youth, meeting the laird and her warrior husband during Garia’s betrothal ball. Garia included in her letters how generous her new rulers were, and Breta was looking forward to seeing life outside of the keep.
After all, if she did not do this now, she would not have much of a chance once her father found her a husband—unless he was a laird. It would be what her mother would want, for her to marry a laird. As a laird’s daughter, she was expected to marry someone who could benefit the clan. Garia had not, and while her parents had eventually forgiven her for doing so, Breta knew that it was now up to her to find a worthy husband that could bring some sort of alliance to their clan.
Even better if it was a wealthy one.
Being displayed around and ogled like a prized mare was not something she was looking forward to.
Breta pulled the edges of the cloak around her tightly, the musty smell wafting in the air. Oh, how she would like to be in her warm bedchamber right now, with her bed furs piled on top of her and a warm mug in her hands! That was likely what her sister was doing right now.
Well, Ferra was going to be jealous about this moment and all the others that Breta was about to experience. She was already thinking of the games and how she would display her skills and impress the other clans. Before it was all over, they would know that the McLeish clan had made their mark amongst the great clans of Scotland.
“Wot aboot ye, lad? Did ye leave a willing bed for this?”
Breta cleared her throat, realizing that they were talking to her. She could ignore them, of course, but they would grow suspicious and she would be found out before the rains quit that evening.
“Nay,” she answered, making her voice deeper and raspy. “I dinnae have a lass.”
One of them chuckled; Breta could barely make out their boots from under her hood. “Ye dinnae need a wife, lad, just a willing lass!”
The others laughed alongside him, but Breta didn’t, keeping her head down.
“Maybe he’s never had a lass before,” another called out as the rain pounded the tent. They had been lucky to find a rocky outcropping that kept the rain from seeping in under the tent, and most were perched on those rocks. Breta was wedged between two of them, choosing to sit lower so she could see those around her.
“Wot say ye lad? Have ye had a warm lass before?”
Breta snorted. “Of course I have.”
The tent grew silent. She wondered if she had said something wrong, but then they all started to laugh again. One even slapped her on the back, nearly knocking off her hood.
Breta let out a sigh of relief because they had accepted her answer and were leaving her well enough alone.
I can survive this. All I hae tae do is get tae the games, and once I win them, I will remove my cloak and show everyone, including Da, my true identity.
I just hae tae get there first.
6
“How are ye sure this is going tae work?”
The Scot stood from his seat at the table, bracing his hands on the scarred surface. “Because,” he stated, “they will never expect an attack from the inside. We will blend in with the games, flying our colors proudly along with the rest.”
“That still doesnae explain the plan,” another said, unbelieving that they could go through with this nefarious plan.
The Scot growled. “Are ye denying that we deserve a seat at the table?”
“Of c-course not,” the man stuttered. “We all want a seat at that table. We want tae be considered clansmen again.”
The Scot looked at the others, wondering if he had chosen his partners wrong. For years he had labored on other clan’s lands, working his fingers to the bone, but never once being offered his own patch of land. His laird had disavowed him when he was only in his twenty-fifth year. It was after his lady—the lady that had promised he would be laird one day—declared that he had taken advantage of her.
He had barely escaped with his life.
“Then this is wot we must do,” he stated, pushing away from the table. “The clans have not gathered in some time. ’Tis the best time tae get revenge on them all.”
There was a murmur of agreement amongst those in attendance. The Scot smiled, knowing he was starting to win them over. For months he had plotted his revenge and had finally gotten it, but as he traveled afterward from tavern to tavern, he learned that he wasn’t the only one who had been wronged. He wasn’t the only one who had been shunne
d by his own clan, with backs turned that had once welcomed him into their homes.
Now he had a group of Scots in the same room, wanting the same thing as he did.
They wanted revenge.
“Wot if it doesnae work?” another asked, frowning. “We will hang from the gallows.”
The Scot banged his fist on the table, causing some in the room to jump at the sound. “Dinnae tell me it wilnae work!” he bellowed, tired of listening to the reasons that they shouldn’t go through with this attack. “I have labored for years on these lands, never getting anywhere! Do ye not want tae have yer clan back? Do ye not want tae have a home?”
There was banging on the table as most of the group agreed with his words and he smiled.
“We will leave in the morn. Make certain that ye bring yer swords, for there will be a battle in which we will be victorious!”
A chorus of ayes followed the Scot as he walked out of the dilapidated hut he had been using as a meeting place, breathing in the cold night air to clear his mind. His thoughts went to his former laird and to the woman that he had loved once upon a time, the same woman that had made him go down this path of vengeance. She had been a beautiful lass, with long curling hair and a buxom body to boot.
Her laugh haunted his dreams, and when she approached him one evening while her husband was out on the battlefield, he could scarcely believe that she was inviting him into her bed.
Her bed is where he remained for months after, visiting her every chance he got. When he told her how he felt, she coyly asked him if he would be willing to take on the brute that was her husband.
He had agreed, for he would do anything for her.
Yet it seemed that she grew tired of him after that. Soon he was being roused from his sleep in the stables and hauled before his laird, surprised to see his lady love teary-eyed and pleading with her husband to save her from his brutality.
It was the hardest blow to his heart, and the laird had condemned him to death for touching his wife.
A twist of fate had him escaping the guards. For months he hid in the woods, hoping to catch a glimpse of the lady so that he could find out why she had turned on him.
He did catch that glimpse, but only to see her in the throes of passion with another Scot. She had played him for a fool, and he vowed never again would they do so.
That night, he set fire to the keep while they slept, walking away as her screams rent the air. Afterward, he had heard in the seedy taverns that the laird and his wife had both perished in the fire, and the seed was born. He had gotten his revenge. But there were so many others that had similar fates that had not.
Now he had amassed an army of Scots looking for similar fates that had driven them from their homeland. What better way to get revenge than to attend the Highland games and wreak havoc on those clans that were there?
In order to protect themselves and carry out their plans, he had banded the group together and pillaged smaller clans, villages, and farms that were vulnerable to attack. Together they had grown their weaponry, provided means so that they would not starve, and even fashioned a tartan banner that would help them blend into the other clans present. No one would question them.
Grinning, he looked up at the starry night sky, already thinking about the clans that would fall at these games. No, he didn’t mean by being defeated at the games themselves, but because his band of thieves, murderers, and pillagers would take them down.
These games would end in bloodshed, and finally, those that had thrown away their clansmen would feel the pain of what they caused.
7
Will sat on his horse and watched the caravan make its way to the grassy pasture, the first of many to arrive on this day. His warriors had already checked out the caravan, ensuring that it was one of the many clans that had been invited to the games, and seeing that the threat was low, allowed them passage to the pasture.
Will knew that most wouldn’t care so much about the clans or what weapons they brought. The games were more than just games to the clans. They were a time to make alliances, make trades in goods, and even a few marriage contracts could be brought to light. He knew that some would bring the things they were known for, such as weapons, horses, and the like, to trade with another clan. Even Will was looking forward to meeting with one clan that was known for their swords, looking to replace the one that was strapped to his back.
That would have to come much later, if even at all. Now that the first clan had arrived, his warriors would step up their movements, ensuring that when the next arrived, they would be ready.
It was all in a day’s work.
He nudged his horse forward until he was at the site himself, dismounting so that he could address the laird and find out who his second-in-command was. It was Will’s business to know who would be the person that he would call upon if things got out of hand.
“Mah lord,” he stated, bowing to Laird Cavendish from the northern border.
The laird eyed him. “Och, William McDougal! Yer sword fighting is well known in mah parts.”
Will was surprised. It had been over a year since they had been engaged in battle, and even then, it had been a short one. “Ye flatter me, mah lord.”
The laird, a tall Scot with a long white beard, stroked that very same attachment on his face. “Nay, I only tell the truth. Wot brings ye over here?”
“I’m in charge of these games,” Will responded. “I would like tae speak tae yer second-in-command if I may.”
“Wot for?” the laird asked, clearly intrigued as to why Will was even conversing with him.
Will cleared his throat. “I want tae guarantee yer safety if it comes down tae it, mah lord.”
The laird arched a brow in surprise. “Ye think there is going tae be some sort of attack during these games? Are we not safe on yer land, William?”
He hadn’t expected such pushback. “Nay, mah lord. ’Tis why I am here—tae ensure that there isn’t any bloodshed during these games.” It was the last thing he wanted, no matter how much he enjoyed swinging his sword. If he wasn’t so wrapped up in making certain his clan was protected, he might have entered into the games himself just for the battling.
Laird Cavendish eyed him a moment longer before he waved an equally tall Scot over to him, one that had a good head in height over Will himself. “This is William McDougal,” the laird boomed as the two Scots clasped forearms.
“I am Gareth.”
“Welcome,” Will said, releasing his forearm. “I take it that ye are in charge here?”
The other man grinned. “Aye, when the laird allows me tae be.”
Will returned his grin. “I can understand that.” It was hard enough that his laird had married a former warrior, but he also had Trevor, who kept tabs on him constantly. Will likened it to the fact that Trevor was not ready to give up his sword, but hell, the Scot looked happy as a clam when he left to go home afterward.
“Is there news of an impending attack?” Gareth asked with a frown. “I havenae fought in ages.”
“Nay,” Will stated. “And I intend tae keep it that way for as long I can. Mah warriors will be available for whatever ye and yer laird needs. Dinnae hesitate tae ask.”
“Generous,” Gareth said. “Are ye participating in the games then?”
Will shook his head. One of his other warriors was going to participate on behalf of the clan. “I will be watching this year.”
“Too bad,” Gareth laughed. “I would have liked tae see those sword skills put tae the test.”
The men discussed a few other things before Will walked away from the camp, watching as the next caravan crested the hill.
They would be coming in fast now, and he would have to go through the same type of discussion with each one until he was sure that he had touched them all.
So he did. Repeatedly, he had discussions with the named second-in-commands, getting the same reaction that he had gotten from Gareth in the beginning. Most wanted to know what he thought w
as going to happen, with a few offering up their own warriors if there was a need.
There wasn’t, however. Not yet.
Finally, the pasture started to fill up, the banners and tartans flapping in the breeze. There were all sorts of tents erected; some big, some small depending on the size of the clan that was represented. Will walked through the space, listening to the murmur of conversation all around him. After the clans were settled, they would come out to meet their neighboring clans. Ale would be brought out from the stores that he had hidden in a nearby building meant for hay and grain, a present from the laird that was hosting the games. Cameron and Katherine would not make their own appearance until after the sun went down, where they would address all that had come and give them well wishes to successful Highland games.
That would be when Will’s anxiety would move up a notch. Not only would his laird and lady be out in the open, potentially in the midst of enemies, but they would also be introducing the warriors that would be participating in the games. He would have to ensure that there were none that shouldn’t be. It was one reason for visiting the clans now. He wanted to see which ones to keep an eye on based on a conversation, and which ones were truly here for the games.
It was a lot to take in.
Trevor found Will in the late afternoon, whistling as he took in the numerous tents in the distance. “’Tis filling up rather quickly.”
“Aye,” Will said, crossing his arms over his chest. There were a lot more clansmen than he had anticipated coming.
“I hear ye have been meeting with the second-in-commands.”
Will sighed. Word also traveled fast. “Aye. I am taking stock tae see wot we are up against.”
Trevor chuckled. “Och, Will, this isnae the battlefield! These are the games, and ye are going tae scare them all away with yer questions.”
“If they cannae answer them, then I dinnae want them on our land.” None of the clans should have anything to hide.
“I suppose ye are right,” Trevor sighed.
Highlander’s Phantom Lass: A Steamy Scottish Medieval Historical Romance Page 4
