The Highlander’s Hellion

by Eliza Knight

  “Come now, tell the story right.”

  Greer pretended she didn’t hear and took a long swallow of water, and then with great dramatics, agreed. “I wanted to make my mother’s mushroom pasties, but as a surprise for her birthday. So I foraged for the mushrooms myself.”

  “First mistake,” Liam piped in.

  Greer pinned him with a glower. “Hush, brother. I was only ten or twelve at the time, so ’tis not like I had a vast amount of experience. Not like Strath’s wife.” She glanced at Roderick and explained about her eldest brother’s wife and her uncanny ability to find edible things in the forest and make a delicious meal out of them. “I am not her, and never will be. In any case, I found some mushrooms, got some eggs from our chickens, and went into the kitchen, where I rummaged to find flour and butter. The flour was a bit off, chafed my skin even, but I didn’t think anything of it until I lit the fire and started to bake my pasties.”

  “’Twas lye powder she found! On top of that, the mushrooms were poisonous! She quite literally baked my mother a poison pie. But that’s not the worst of it.” Liam was cackling again.

  Greer considered shoving her brother off the log he was perched on.

  “When Cook found me, the kitchen was filled with smoke, to which I’d already succumbed. He found the source of the fire, but the strength of the poison from the smoking lye burned his eyes. And he stumbled around blind, screaming for help until several other servants roused from where they slept in the great hall and came to our rescue.”

  By now, her father and brother were in fits of laughter, but Roderick had barely cracked a smile. Even though no one else noticed his stony expression, she did, and it made her mortification all the more complete. She avoided eye contact with him as she finished the last bite of her pasty and then held out the cloth to him.

  “These are my mother’s pasties, and I assure ye they’re nae poisonous. Would ye care to try one?”

  Roderick started to protest, but her father cut in. “Aye, ye must try some, even just a bite. Though once ye have a bite, I dinna think ye’ll be able to stop. Even after a few days, my Arbella’s cooking satisfies.”

  He muttered an agreement.

  With Roderick’s gaze on hers, he brought the pasty to his mouth and took a bite. As his teeth cut through it, and his lips clamped on the crust, Greer had the distinct impression it was his way of biting into her. She suppressed a shudder, wracking her brain to figure out what she’d done to offend him, and coming up empty. Unless he was still mad that she’d walked away from him in the priory kitchen.

  That could be it, although she’d assume he would move on from that fairly quickly. It wasn’t as if walking away from him had been worse than arguing with him in front of his men, and he’d forgiven her easily for that. It seemed like something deeper troubled him, and she desperately wished she could pull him aside to ask him. But doing so would only garner the attention of her brother and father, who were both watching her like a mother hawk guarding her nest.

  The rest of the night was quiet. Some men took shifts, while the rest of them lay down to sleep. But Greer had a hard time falling asleep. The ground was harder than it had been the previous nights. She was cold despite the two extra plaids she’d been given. She missed the warmth of Roderick behind her. When he was not at his watch station, he perched himself against a tree on the opposite end of camp—as far away from her as he could possibly get.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Roderick woke with a jolt.

  He jerked forward, hand instantly on the sword at his hip, expecting to see a hoard of Ross men either descending upon them, or to feel the steely edge of a dagger at his neck. But there was nothing save for the sweat trickling down his back and the hairs on his arms raised on end.

  The camp was mostly quiet, with warriors sleeping huddled around the banked fire, and Greer curled up in a ball. Soft snores reached him, and the occasional snort or scuffing hoof from a horse. The few Sutherland and MacCulloch warriors on watch were standing at attention, their gazes focused on something beyond their sight. They were camped in the woods with no discernable clearing, but it was enough of a good spot that they could hide from their enemies.

  Dawn was just awakening. The sky was hazy and pink, the sun a ball of fire on the horizon, and a mist curled around their feet. An ordinary sight in the Highlands, but somehow, this morning, it felt like a warning.

  A drop of water fell from a leaf above him, splashing on his nose, but it was only the remnants of rain from the day before mixed with morning dew. The rain and clouds had gone, thank the saints, because his leg had ached something fierce by the time he’d gone to bed last night. The massage Greer had given him had helped him sleep through the night they slept at the priory, but as soon as dawn had broken, a dull ache had started up again. After a full day’s ride, he’d been ready to tear into anyone who spoke to him.

  Lord, he’d even been a bear when she’d told the charming story of the poison pie. He’d not even been able to quip that he’d be sure to run in the other direction if she ever offered him a homemade meal. The ache in his leg and the knowledge she was already taken by someone else left him in a murderous rage that was barely banked beneath his skin.

  With his free hand, Roderick rubbed the drip of water from where it dangled on his nose. He wasn’t certain what had woken him other than a warrior’s instinct, for there was nothing that seemed to have alerted him or his men, and yet his skin prickled, and clearly the men were also aware of something.

  Roderick came swiftly to his feet and pulled out his claymore at the same time the men on watch did the same. A glance at Greer assured him that she was safe, eyes wide with fear. Even from this distance, he could see her throat bobbed as she swallowed. Och, he wanted to go forward and comfort her himself, but he had to be satisfied with her father and brother providing that.

  He raised his finger to his lips, indicating she should be quiet, and she silently nodded, coming to stand on her own.

  With his gaze outside their camp, he sidestepped slowly to the first warrior around the campfire and nudged him awake with his foot. The man was instantly alert and rousing the rest of those still asleep.

  He bobbed his head toward Greer to Angus, indicating without words that the warrior was to protect her at all costs, even though she had the protection of her family and clan. Even if he was angry she’d not told him she was betrothed to another, he couldn’t begrudge her safety. Besides, she’d not promised him anything, nor indicated to him any sort of attachment other than kissing and needing him for a protector. But now was not the time to be thinking of such things.

  Knowing that Angus would take care of Greer, Roderick headed to where Magnus stood, claymore drawn and gripped in his two massive hands. The morning air was chilled, and the warriors’ breaths came out in clouds to match the mist around their ankles.

  Then he heard it. Swift footfalls. They were quiet, but the sheer number of them combined grew loud and distinctive to a warrior’s ear. They were coming from one direction, or at least that was what it seemed like. Even still, the MacCulloch and Sutherland men formed a circle, swords drawn, and in the center were Liam and Angus with Greer. They’d covered her head with a plaid, but it was still obvious she was a woman.

  There was no time for her to be whisked away, and he wouldn’t have wanted her to be anyway since they were about to be ambushed, and there was no telling where the enemy was.

  No one spoke. Everyone stood still and listened as the whistles in the wind picked up the hurried steps and the faint whisper of armed bodies cutting through air.

  They were coming, any second. Tension crackled the air. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. Gooseflesh rose on his skin, and from every angle he could sense the eyes of the enemy on him. The men held themselves motionless, waiting. This was not the first time he’d fought beside a Sutherland, and though he was a laird in his own right, Magnus Sutherland was an earl who had fought beside Robert the Bruce for longer
than Roderick had been alive, so he would follow the great man’s lead.

  It seemed the world was still and quiet, and then a sudden piercing whistle came from the left, and with it, men were leaping from what seemed like thin air, their swords raised, eager and angry faces painted with black pitch. The Ross colors of their plaid were unmistakable. Though they’d yet to cross onto Ross lands, they were close enough.

  “Hold the circle,” Magnus bellowed.

  And the men complied, keeping the fighting sphere tight, unbreakable, even as they fought off the attack. The air sang with the sounds of iron clashing against iron, and moaned with the sounds of men falling.

  “Where is your laird?” Roderick bellowed. “At home with her Sassenach lover?” He crushed a man with a hacking blow. “Does she not command her men? Ye’re all traitors to your country. Ye might as well flee to England where ye belong.” Another warrior rushed him, and their swords clashed hard enough to jar the length of his arm.

  His words were meant to goad, to insult, and did the trick, drawing more warriors from the woods like ants on thick, golden honey.

  While fighting, Roderick tried to keep an ear perked for sounds coming from Greer. Despite her having already been claimed by another man, he couldn’t help feeling concern for her. He cared about her more than he wanted to admit. More than he should. And damn it all, he was going to make sure she made it out alive, even if it was only to fall into the arms of another.

  Three Rosses rushed him, their swords raised, but Grim hadn’t earned his name simply because of his frown. He may not have fought for many years, but he was known as the bringer of death, and he did it with a face masked to match. Roderick let out a war cry that thundered against the trees. He swung his claymore with all his power, cutting through one, slicing into another, before he yanked it back to hit the third in the center of his forehead with the butt of his sword. He kicked the bodies away, making room for the next onslaught.

  The men continued to come at them, but the line held until the enemy stopped coming as swiftly as they’d arrived. The eerie silence was deafening. And the prickles on Roderick’s skin remained.

  They might have ceased their attack, but they were still out there.

  “Dinna run!” Magnus shouted to the forest. “For we will find ye.”

  The MacCulloch and Sutherland men stood in formation for a quarter of an hour, but there was nothing but the silence of the forest to answer. It would seem the Ross men had retreated, but Roderick didn’t trust it. Nothing where the Ross clan was concerned could be trusted. Even a truce or a signed treaty.

  “They’ll be back,” he murmured. “That was only the beginning.” He swiped the bloody blade of his claymore against lichen on a tree to clean it.

  “Aye. I’ve a feeling ye’re right. Let’s get across the River Conon. We’ll be on Ross lands then, and we need to make haste to leave their lands. The farther we can get today, the better. For the longer we remain where they can claim we trespass, the more danger we’re in.” Magnus nodded toward the west. “Their castle, Dingwall, is not far from here, and they’ve got enough reinforcements to supply the English king with his own traitorous guard.”

  “If not more,” Roderick mused.

  “Aye,” Magnus agreed. “Bloody bastards.”

  The men gathered quickly, mounting their horses. Magnus asked that Angus continue his protection of Greer by taking her onto his horse, and Roderick found it hard not to argue—even if it made him jealous.

  They picked their way slowly, weapons drawn, so as to hear any approach from an enemy. The scouts rode ahead, circling back to keep them informed of any sightings. Just as swiftly as they’d attacked, the men had disappeared. But Roderick was certain they followed. They had to be following. There was no way the Ross men would have recognized the MacCulloch and Sutherland colors, and not attempt a second attack. Perhaps they’d gone back for more reinforcements, though they could have kept on fighting with the numbers they’d had. An increase in enemy cavalry, however, would likely crush the small MacCulloch and Sutherland contingent, no matter that Roderick could state with confidence they were the most skilled warriors in the Highlands. Even a great wolf could be taken if enough foxes bit into its flesh.

  Throughout their quick escape, he snuck glances at Greer. Her expression never changed, nor did her stance. She kept her eyes straight ahead, and her back rigid. And he was thankful to see that her stance was not as relaxed in Angus’s lap as it had been on his own.

  When they arrived at the River Conon, the water was much smoother than their passage at Beauly, and they were able to find a spot that was not as deep as their previous crossings. They made it across swiftly. Instead of stopping to dry before well-built fires, they continued, soaked through to the bone. It would be a damned miracle if none of them fell ill from it. But being ill and being dead were two very different situations. He’d take the former over the latter any day.

  The sun shone down on them. Though it wasn’t particularly warm, it helped to dry their clothes as they rode.

  They trekked for hours, until the late afternoon when the horses needed to stop. Luckily, they’d reached the edges of Sutherland lands, and the threat of the Rosses crossing paths with them had grown smaller, though the risk was not completely gone.

  They stopped in a small village. Magnus wanted his daughter to sleep under a roof and for all of them to have a hot meal. Roderick completely agreed. The men needed to dry out their water-logged clothes and get a real meal in their bellies. They’d been going full force for days and then had to flee after a battle. The rush of battle had powered their flight, but it wouldn’t last.

  The local tavern offered Lady Greer one room, and her father another, though he declined, preferring to sleep with his men. When that same room was offered to Roderick, he also declined.

  They took up all the benches in the tavern, squeezing around the tables. Those who couldn’t fit stood. The proprietors worked as hard as they could to gather supplies in the town to give the men ale, a stew, and fresh-baked brown bread.

  “Highland hospitality at its finest,” he said to Magnus.

  “Sutherland hospitality.”

  “The measure of a leader is his people’s respect, aye?”

  “Aye.”

  “I am honored.” Roderick bowed.

  “Och, stand up.”

  Roderick grinned, trying to lighten the mood. “They may call me a legend for walking with my leg wide open, but I dinna do the moniker justice when compared to ye.”

  Magnus clapped him on the back in a manly show of appreciation. “I like ye, lad. I really do.”

  Roderick chuckled. “Glad I am to hear it.”

  They clinked their mugs of ale, and dug into their stew, but the meal felt oddly empty without the smiling face of Greer and her jovial chatter nearby.

  The lass had remained in her room to sup. Roderick had overheard a bath had been ordered for her along with her meal. If anyone deserved it, ’twas she. He was surprised she’d not completely collapsed in a heap yet. And indeed, as she’d climbed the steps in the tavern an hour before, he’d watched the way her knuckles had whitened as she gripped the rail. She was exhausted. If he could, he’d suggest they stay a few days until she had time to recuperate. But there was no time. Likely, she’d sleep for a fortnight when they finally reached Dunrobin.

  There was a pang in his chest at not being able to join her. To talk to her. To ask why she’d not mentioned her betrothed to him. Did she think he’d judge her? Or had she avoided the topic on purpose in hopes he’d never find out? Was it too much to hope that she’d kept it hidden because she wasn’t happy with the arrangement?

  Was marrying someone else the reason she’d escaped her house to begin with? He wanted to pose all of these questions to her father as well. Did Magnus Sutherland know why his daughter had risked her life for one last thrill?

  But with his daughter out of earshot, the man was laughing and jesting boisterously with his men a
nd the MacCullochs, and he deserved it. The poor laird had thought his daughter was dead, had found out his old enemy had resurrected herself, and then had been attacked on the road. The last thing he needed was to be interrogated by a man who had no claim, nor place to do so.

  He listened while the men joked and a few strummed on a lyre they passed around and chanted a bawdy ballad. Others pulled out their sets of knucklebones or cards. He stared into the flames, trying to understand why he found the ambush by the Rosses so familiar. The sense of foreboding made his head feel hazy.

  “Laird.” Angus sat down heavily across from Roderick on a stool he’d dragged over. “What troubles ye?”

  Roderick glanced up at his clansman, seeing the concern on his face. Angus had known him since he was born, and he trusted him with his life. But he wasn’t certain he wanted to entrust him with his worries now. Not that he thought Angus would betray him, but only that he wasn’t certain exactly how to put his troubles into words. On the other hand, there was something that bothered him about the ambush. The style the men had taken, descending on them in hoard, disappearing, and not returning… There was a tiny niggle of an idea that had started to form in his mind and needed fleshing out. Might Angus be able to help him do just that?

  “There was something familiar about the ambush. The way the men stalked us and then swept in and out, as if taunting us.”

  Angus set down his ale and crossed his arms over his chest, his brows furrowing in thought.

  “When my da was attacked upon the road, the one warrior who survived long enough to talk about it said the men had come from nowhere. He was certain they were nae outlaws. There had been no time to escape. The men were there and then gone, and they didna make certain to not leave anyone to tell the tale. What’s more, nothing was stolen. ’Twas as if the attack was made simply to inflict pain or create fear, not to accomplish anything else. Much like today.”