A Merry Medieval Christmas: Historical Romance Holiday Collection

by Laurel O'Donnell

  “I’ll nae let a child of mine grow to be a surly oaf.” She approached a shallow burn that barely bubbled beneath a layer of ice. Just beyond was a thick patch of trees where she could tend her private needs—and was also blissfully out of earshot of the men.

  “I cannae wait to get home.” She slipped on a patch of ice and windmilled her arms for balance. “’Tis about time Michaell had someone at his side who appreciates him.” The matter of her betrothal to Richard gave her pause, but then she shrugged.

  “It doesnae matter. He’s a man like any other who can be bought. He doesnae want me.” The admission stung. “Only the land. Mayhap something can be done to ease his decision to abandon the betrothal.”

  She lingered over her time alone, happy to not be cheek-to-jowl with over-bearing men.

  I dinnae wish to be protected so much. I can protect myself.

  . . . yer skills will be well-rusted . . . William’s words drifted to her on a chill wind.

  “Och! I remember what I was taught.” She frowned and rubbed her arms. She’d been gone from the fire long enough.

  The snap of a twig halted her. Scarcely daring to breathe, she listened intently for a clue to the sound. Had a dead branch fallen? She had not heard the soft swoosh of falling snow. Was there an animal nearby?

  She racked her brain. Could it have been one of the ponies? No. They were tethered on the opposite side of the fire.

  A faint rustle caught her ear. She ducked, squatting close to the ground, hoping to avoid detection. A shadow slipped from one tree to another with the same slow, easy sway as a tree branch. Only, the wind had died down, and the limbs were too burdened with snow to move without cause.

  Her heart thudded wildly. A man stalked them—her. Was there only one? More? A lone hunter? It seemed unlikely. At Yule, few would be outdoors, the feasts prepared days ago. She did not think she’d been seen, but she had no doubt her uncle and the others were in danger.

  Her hand slipped inside her cloak and gripped the pouch at her waist. She’d returned the crystal-bound sliver of cross to the brooch earlier, and she felt the tug of the relic.

  “Protect them,” she breathed, the words little more than a pale mist that slipped between her lips. The sturdiness of the brooch soothed her, its form as timeless and satisfying as a prayer. With a soft sigh, she rose slowly, eyes sharp on the shadow between her and the camp.

  I can go around—at least, she was fairly certain she could. She gathered her skirts to minimize their brush against the snow and slowly turned.

  A hand slapped across her face, shoving a wadded rag between her teeth as she opened her mouth to scream. She gagged as the cloth pressed deeper inside. Another strip wrapped around her head. She clawed frantically at the binding, but her attacker pulled it tight, securing it in place.

  Mhàiri ducked, trying to slip out of his grasp, but it was too late. She stepped to one side, then slammed her elbow backward, hoping to drive it into her assailant’s belly. The man kept an arm about her waist and moved with her, easily avoiding her blow. She drove her body up and back as hard as she could. The back of her head connected with his nose, sending a warm stream of blood over her shoulder.

  “Shite!” He grabbed her shoulder and wrenched her around. Startled, Mhàiri gasped at the sight of a heavily bearded face, eyes narrowed with hatred, blood dripping through his beard onto the snow at his feet. Before she could react, his fist landed on her jaw, and her world went black.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Michaell spurred his mount to reckless haste across the snow and ice, unable to remain at the keep when Mhàiri was in such danger. The Scott and Kerr soldiers kept apace with him, carried forward without incident through sheer momentum and force of will. He knew of William’s hiding spots—most of them—and aimed unerringly for the closest, a half-day’s ride from Claver Hill under normal circumstances, though only a couple of hours’ travel at their current break-neck speed.

  The ground at the reivers’ camp was churned with the imprint of numerous hooves. Remnants of a small fire still fizzled beneath a scant cover of snow.

  “They havenae been gone long,” Euan remarked.

  Michaell reined his pony in a tight circle, searching for clues of what had happened. There was no sign of battle, only of a hasty retreat. He jerked his mount to a halt and rose in the stirrups, extending his sight.

  “Here!” A soldier beckoned excitedly.

  Michaell dismounted, covering the ground in great strides. He knelt beside the man who’d called out, touching his finger tips to the disturbed snow. A smooth path dented with small booted imprints showed where a woman had strolled from the camp. Other, larger boots tracked beside them. They forded a frozen burn and led to a copse of trees.

  Snow churned with underlying leaves and mud. She’d fought.

  A deep trail led away.

  Not enough.

  Michaell rose and raced back to his mount, pointing to the fresh hoofprints leading away. “Follow them.”

  Crossing a ridge some miles later, they came upon a group of men on horseback. With a shout, they circled their mounts, forming a protective line, seven abreast. Michaell instantly recognized his brother and five Kerr soldiers. The seventh man had to be Gregor Scott. Their ride to Barnard Castle had been a success. Until now.

  “Where is Mhàiri?” he demanded.

  “I believe Henderson’s men have her. The tracks, however, lead back toward Claver Hill. He must be taking her back to her grandfather and an early wedding.”

  “Shite!” Michaell glanced about for his bearings. The Henderson keep was west of their current path. Lord Scott’s home lay almost straight ahead.

  “We found where they must have joined their main group a short distance back. At least we’re gambling they dinnae take her to Henderson’s keep.” William snared Michaell’s gaze. “I am sorry, Michaell.”

  Michaell gave a curt nod but did not trust himself to answer.

  A man on a dapple gray rode alongside. “If he plans to wed her, he now has the upper hand.” His look turned grim. “I am Gregor Scott. She wouldnae be in this predicament were it not for me.”

  “She isnae wed yet,” Michaell growled, jerking his pony’s head around. “Are ye with me?”

  * * *

  Mhàiri woke and tried to focus. Pain shot through her neck and she feared it would snap. She stiffened, afraid of falling as her world shook in all directions. Her hands grabbed at a wooly pelt and she realized she straddled a pony, locked tight in her captor’s arms.

  She squirmed, but the restraints did not lessen. The ground rushed by and she knew a broken back would be her fate if she slid off the pony at this speed. She settled for yanking the gag from her mouth and taking deep breaths to help clear her head.

  The ride came thankfully to an end. Her captor relaxed his grip and she was able to take stock of her surroundings for the first time. She flinched at the sight of Richard Henderson astride his horse only a few feet away. He sent her a pained look.

  “I really dinnae know if marrying ye is worth the bother.” His gaze lingered on her a moment longer, then sighed. “Had I not seen ye earlier in yer grandfather’s home, neat and clean, I would charge him with attempting to foist off a penniless orphan—or worse. Ye smell of too many days without bathing, and yer clothing isnae fit to be used for rags.”

  His voice grated on Mhàiri’s ears. “I willnae marry ye,” she spat. “And if my current state is enough to make ye think twice, I’ll not sit a bath again.”

  “Och, I will enjoy taming ye, lass.” Lord Henderson’s silky-smooth voice sent a shiver of fear through Mhàiri’s belly. She fumed against her helplessness.

  “I dinnae tame easily,” she snarled.

  Lord Henderson chuckled. “I certainly hope not.”

  The man holding her grunted his amusement. Enough! Mhàiri jerked away, falling in a heap on the far side of the pony. Six men bristling with swords and ill-will hemmed her in, denying her freedom.

  �
��Get her,” Lord Henderson snapped. “We’re wasting time.”

  The man who’d held her dismounted. Seeing his feet hit the ground on the opposite side of the pony’s legs, Mhàiri grabbed the reins and yanked the animal about, using his hindquarters to knock the man off-balance. He shouted and grabbed at the beast, causing it to rear in alarm and bolt forward.

  As if she’d planned the sequence, Mhàiri stepped with the pony’s stride, using the small amount of momentum to help swing her onto the animal’s back before giving him full rein. With a squeal of anger as a man tried to crowd him to a stop, the pony flattened his ears and snaked his head out to any in his reach, large yellow teeth bared threateningly.

  Mhàiri slipped to one side as she gained the saddle but dug her hands into the pony’s mane and hauled herself upright. Bending low, she urged the animal on, weaving through the mass of sturdy beasts jostling and whirling to fence her in. Her pony, only lightly burdened with its rider, edged past those carrying full-grown men, and for a glorious moment, Mhàiri was free.

  Shouts rose, soon covered by the thunder of hooves. The sound drummed closer and frustration surged as she realized her pony was not the fastest of the lot. One man drew his mount alongside, letting her run as he kept pace. His teeth showed white in a taunting leer, telling her she would not escape. She was his the instant he tired of the game.

  Her pony’s breath began to labor and she did not balk as her new captor took the reins. They rattled to a halt, both animals blowing hard. A few moments later, Lord Henderson and the rest of his guard surrounded her. Mhàiri stared straight ahead until the long silence compelled her to meet Lord Henderson’s gaze.

  “Ye will receive naught but bread and water for the time it takes to determine ye dinnae carry a child by yer lover.”

  Mhàiri stiffened, leveling a furious look at the equally angry lord.

  “After that, I will make certain any child ye bear is my own.”

  * * *

  Mhàiri endured the ride as best she could with her feet tied beneath the pony’s belly and her hands bound behind her. Nothing more than her balance and the man in front of her kept her upright as they raced across the moors. Her back and sides ached with the struggle as Claver Hill came into view.

  Sunlight broke through the clouds, the only bright spot in the dismal landscape that was her future. Her grandfather’s pennant flapped atop the tower house. Lord Scott’s betrayal rolled sour in the back of her throat. Lord Henderson’s party reined to a halt a safe distance before the gate.

  A man rose in his stirrups. “Lord Henderson and Lady Mhàiri Burns!”

  The gate opened slowly, almost reluctantly, and Mhàiri’s heart broke to realize Michaell’s plan had failed. What had happened? Had her grandfather recovered enough to deny Michaell? Had Lord Scott’s men refused to allow Michaell authority?

  With deepening despair, she imagined Michaell imprisoned, possibly even dead. Tears clogged her throat as she rode into the keep. Would William arrive in time? Would the rest of their plan succeed? Or fail?

  They stopped before the stairs leading up to the first floor. Guards bristled at every door, lined the parapet above. Mhàiri searched for the Scott captain, for Euan had always had a kind word for her. But she did not see him. Bewildered by his absence, she stumbled as she was dragged from the pony’s back. A ripple of disturbance—anger?—slid through the assembled Scott guards.

  “I have arrived for my wedding,” Lord Henderson announced. “See to it my bride is prepared.” Without so much as a glance in her direction, he climbed the steps. With a hesitation bordering on insult, the two guards at the top drew back, granting him entrance. Curious to see what—or rather, who—awaited inside, Mhàiri followed.

  * * *

  Michaell and his men galloped over the trampled ground, churning muddy slush from beneath their mounts’ hooves. They thundered through Claver Hill Keep’s open gates as the sun began its descent toward evening. Horses milled about as stable lads collected them from their riders. Michaell and his men appeared to be only minutes behind Richard Henderson’s arrival.

  Michaell flung himself to the ground, leaving his winded pony in the yard. His cloak flapped about him, his sword slapping his leg as he bolted up the steps to the first floor. Recognition dawned on the guards’ faces and they stepped adroitly to one side to grant him entrance. Shouts rang across the yard.

  “Lord Gregor Scott is home!”

  “Gregor Scott!” The chant was taken up, spreading rapidly.

  Men lowered their shoulders against the great gate to push it closed.

  “Let them in!”

  Michaell paused on the doorstep at the shouted command and spun about. Ponies bolted through the partially open gate, creating even more of an uproar in the yard. They came to a halt at the foot of the steps. Nine faces fixed on him, three of which he knew all too well.

  “We heard ye might need a wee bit of help,” the red-haired man called. “And we thought we’d have a look.”

  “Our wives were glad for the excuse to send us out,” the stouter of the three admitted with a grin. “Said we were underfoot.”

  The third merely sat his pony, gaze leveled on Michaell. The eldest of the brothers, Andrew was known to say the least.

  Too caught up in the immediate problem to bemoan his brothers’ interference, Michaell gave them a quick nod and ducked inside the hall. It took a moment after the brilliance of the setting sun to adjust his sight to the relative gloom of the interior. Too early for candlelight to make much difference, most of the light came from torches lining the walls and a fire filling the hearth. Tables were stacked along the perimeter of the room, leaving the center clear. Michaell recognized Lord Scott slumped in the heavy chair on the dais at the front of the room. His claw-like hand rested on the table, and he peered from beneath bushy brows, chin resting on his bony chest. A guard stood on either side of his chair.

  People clustered in the corners, gazes moving from Michaell to Lord Scott, then to the group stalking the length of the floor. Four men with Mhàiri in the center.

  “Stop them!”

  A gray-haired man whipped about. Mhàiri fought the soldier’s grip on her arm, dragging him to a halt. She stumbled and gasped as she met Michaell’s gaze. A sneer thinned the older man’s lips, his gaze sliding past Michaell to the men spilling through the door. Gregor, William and Andrew arranged themselves on either side of Michaell.

  The older man faced Michaell, his men taking up a similar stance behind him. Shouts and clanging steel heralded Duncan’s and Thomas’ struggle on the stairs. The Scott guards at the door slammed the panel shut and dropped a sturdy bar in the iron bracket. Silence settled over the room.

  “I am Lord Henderson. What is yer business here?”

  “I am Michaell Kerr. Turn Lady Mhàiri free this instant.”

  “Lady Mhàiri, is it?” he mocked. “Familiar terms for a lass ye have nae tie to. Has my young bride had a change of heart? Preferring a lad such as yerself to a more experienced man for a husband?”

  “Her heart lies elsewhere,” Gregor boomed. “Turn her loose.”

  Lord Henderson dismissed Michaell, giving Gregor his attention. “Och, Gregor Scott. Has de Percy slipped his wits? Releasing a dangerous man such as yerself without his ransom paid?”

  “It has been paid,” Mhàiri chimed in. She lifted one booted foot and slammed it down the inside of her guard’s leg. He yelped and yanked her backward, trapping her against him. Her eyes flared. She slammed her elbow low in his belly. The guard groaned and flung her away, one hand clenching his groin, his face turning green.

  One of the other guards grabbed Mhàiri before she could escape and pinioned her by slipping the hilt of his spear over and through her bound arms. She surrendered with bad grace, wincing as he casually tweaked his hold.

  Michaell growled. Gregor clapped a hand to his shoulder in warning.

  Appearing unruffled, Lord Henderson peered over his shoulder. “Well-meaning of ye, la
ss, but of no consequence. Our betrothal has been signed which makes it legally binding.” He smirked at Michaell. “Though ye are welcome to stay for the ceremony.”

  Michaell shrugged off Gregor’s hand, fury blinding him. “Release her.”

  Lord Henderson arched an eyebrow. One of his guards advanced on Michaell, but Lord Henderson halted him with a raised palm. “I will deal with the unruly pup.”

  The insult slipped past Michaell. He’d heard worse. Shrugging his shoulders to warm and loosen the muscles across his back, he crossed the length of the hall.

  Lord Henderson calmly unfastened the clasp of his cloak and held it to one side. A soldier swiftly accepted it, backing away to give the pair room. Clad in wedding finery, Lord Henderson nonetheless wore his war sword at his belt. He drew it slowly, showing his teeth in a grin of anticipation as the blade hissed from its sheath.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The heat of a hundred candles robbed the room of air as the two men stalked each other. On the hearth, branches of evergreens bound with twine lent their scent to that of roast meat, sweated bodies, and spilled wine. The pungent aroma of dried rosemary mixed with the rushes on the floor drifted up from beneath booted feet.

  Anticipation filled the room. Mhàiri flinched at the clink of a goblet against a wooden surface.

  “Turn tail now, lad, and save yerself and yer da the trouble of a burial,” Henderson taunted. “The lass needs a man to control her, not a wean.”

  Mhàiri clenched her fists against Michaell’s anticipated response, but he simply shrugged off the jeers as he circled the older man. Unable to free herself from the guard, she glanced frantically at her uncle. He gave her a slow nod and she was reminded Michaell was once Muckle Alan’s student, younger and more agile than Richard Henderson.

  And more hot-headed. Lord Henderson’s calm mocked Michaell’s deadly intent.

  Light raced along the length of Michaell’s sword as it flashed upward, deflecting Lord Henderson’s sudden attack. The failed strike clanged loud in the hall and the blades screeched in angry protest. Mhàiri wanted to clap her hands over her ears—or her eyes—but she dug her nails into the palms of her hands and gave Michaell whatever support her heart could.