by Alisa Adams
Highlander of the Woods
Alisa Adams
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Highlander’s Heart of Steel
Prologue
Chapter 1
A Free Thank You Gift
Also by the author
Prologue
Rory Murdoch was the kind of man that people noticed. Indeed, it was difficult to miss him. At six feet six inches tall in his bare feet and impressively muscled, he attracted attention wherever he went.
He had gentle brown eyes and a mane of thick shaggy auburn hair that fell to his shoulders and looked red in the sun. He might have been fearsome to look at, but inside, as the Wise Woman Betty McColl said, he had the heart of a childr.
His wife Elisaid was a small woman who had to tilt her back to look at him, but he would simply lift her up so that he could look into her blue eyes. He did this more often than not because he loved to have his arms around her.
“I am made for you, my wee angel,” he would say, his deep voice soft and loving.
“You are indeed,” she would agree, laughing fondly. “And I am made for you, Master!”
“Master” was a little joke between them, for Elisaid had Rory wrapped around her little finger. Rory would have done anything to make his wife happy; they were completely devoted to each other.
However, it seemed that this devotion was doomed. A silent killer was stalking the area around Gairloch, passing from one person to another with a touch or a breath. Its name was measles, and it loved to strike the very old and very young.
It passed many people with no more than a rash and a high fever; indeed, Rory had been sick with it at the age of seven and recovered, but it spread like wildfire and took some unfortunates in the prime of their lives.
It took Elisaid. Rory watched the bright red rash on her smooth white skin spread onto her chest and the rest of her body with distress but not alarm. Betty McColl had given her a salve for the itch and told her it was not serious.
“This is a pest o’ a sickness but it willnae kill ye, hen,” she said fondly to Elisaid. “An’ when ye have had it ye can never catch it again.”
“I am that glad tae hear it, Betty!” Elisaid said irritably as she scratched her arm, which was already bleeding in some places. She was unable to go outside because of the risk of infection to the other villagers, so she was confined to bed—hot, sweaty, and bored.
One day about a week after she had become sick, Rory came in proudly bearing a great salmon that one of his fishermen friends had caught. He was horrified to find that Elisaid had slipped out of bed and was lying with her head on the floor and her feet still under the blankets.
Tenderly, he lifted her back into bed and called one of the local children to fetch Betty. Elisaid was flushed, sweating, and her head was thrashing from side to side on the pillow. She was mumbling, but the words were so incoherent he could not make them out, and when he touched her damp skin it was burning hot.
Betty rushed in and summed up the situation at once. “We must bring doon this ragin’ fever, Rory,” she said firmly. She began to coax some willow bark tea into Elisaid’s mouth, but it took a long, long time, and Betty could see that she was fading, although she dared not tell Rory in case there was a tiny scrap of hope.
Rory was frantic. He could not lose her. He could not lose Elisaid, the love of his life; he would rather be dead himself. When Bettie had dripped the last of the tea into his wife’s mouth, she instructed him to begin putting strips of linen soaked in cold water all over her.
“That should dae it,” Betty whispered. She stood up. “I must go an’ see tae somebody else, Rory. I will be back soon.” She patted his shoulder.
Rory dutifully did as he was told, applying the cold cloths and replacing them when they were warm, praying all the time.
His heart leaped when Elisaid opened her eyes. They were bloodshot and red-rimmed, and her fair hair was soaked with sweat, but at that moment she had never looked more beautiful to him.
She smiled at him wearily.
“How are you feelin’?” he asked tenderly.
“Terrible,” she replied. She tried to laugh, but it turned into a hacking cough instead. Rory tipped a little water into her mouth, then she lay back, taking in wheezing, labored breaths, but her eyes never left his, and they were shining with love.
He was holding her right hand in his, then he brought it to his lips and kissed it softly. “I love ye, my wee angel,” he murmured.
Elisaid gave him a tiny, tired smile and her eyes drifted closed. “Love you too,” she whispered, so softly that her words were barely audible.
An awful premonition seized him as her breathing began to become harsh and grating. He shook her in panic, but it achieved nothing. “Wake up! Wake up, angel!” he cried, and just at that moment, the door of the cottage opened to admit Betty and Father McGuire, the local priest. He knew what this meant.
“Naw!” he screamed. “She is no’ going tae die!” Then he looked down at Elisaid, opening his mouth to speak again, but she was no longer breathing. For a moment he stared at her numbly in disbelief, then he shook her again. “You are no’ leavin’ me, Ellie!” he cried desperately. He was weeping openly now.
“Rory,” Bettie said gently. “She is dead. Gone tae the Lord. Ye must let her go.”
While they were talking, Father McGuire had begun to say the Last Rites. Now Rory leaped at him, took the prayer book from his hands, and ripped the thick volume in half. He was about to bring his hands down on the cowering Father McGuire’s shoulders to throw him out of the cottage when sanity returned and brought him to his knees, sobbing.
It was Bettie who helped him to his feet again. She was immensely relieved that he had allowed her to since it would have taken at least three men to move him otherwise. “Come, Rory. We must let the women lay her oot.”
He nodded, then went over to Elisaid and kissed her still-warm lips. He wanted to tell her he loved her again, but he could not speak. He turned away and left the cottage followed by Betty, but he had only taken a few steps when he stopped, raised his huge fists, and roared his rage and grief to the sky.
Elisaid had no family, and neither did he. He was utterly alone. He stumbled into the woods, threw himself on the ground, and cried until he had no tears left.
1
Laird John Weir was smiling with self-satisfied glee as he dangled four rabbits from his hands and held them up for his daughter’s inspection. Vanora put her hand over her mouth and turned away, disgusted.
“Father,” she said in a strangled voice, “must you do that? You know how the sight of blood upsets me!”
“So you won’t eat them then?” he asked hopefully. “Oh, good. All the more for me!” He gave her an evil smile and hooked the little carcasses onto his saddle, and then he grinned at Vanora, who was shaking her head and sighing.
“I will eat them of course!” she replied, laughing. “I do not like eating them if I can see their eyes, that is all. I have no problem if they look like meat and not rabbits.”
“Women!” John cast his eyes heavenward and sighed. “If we did not have rabbits, fish, deer, sheep, pigs, and cattle, what would we eat?”
“Each other, probably,” she replied dryly, making him laugh and give her a playful punch.
These sorts of exchanges were common between Vanora and her father since they had the same sense of humor and the same likes and dislikes. Vanora loved coming rabbit hunting with him, even though she did feel heartbroken for the poor little creatures. She loved these expeditions especially because she could leave behind her irritating little sisters for a while!
Vanora’s eyes were an extraordinary shade of light gray ringed with a darker gray around the edge. They were mesmerizing, and her waist-length golden-brown hair gave her an almost angelic appearance, but that illusion was dispelled by her generous bosom, tiny waist, and curving hips. At just seventeen years of age, Vanora was very much a woman and standing at five feet eight inches, she was a very tall woman. Her sisters resembled their mother and were short and fair.
John Weir resembled his daughter in height and coloring, although his hair was showing streaks of gray now that he was approaching middle age. His beloved wife Davidina had died five years before, so his whole life revolved around his daughters.
They were riding on a well-worn path that would shortly enter a thick pine forest, leaving behind the grassy hillsides. These were grazed by rabbits and the black-faced Scottish sheep that looked as if they had dipped their feet and faces in soot. Vanora, Marion, and Ella had always found them quite comical to look at.
“I think it is time to go—” John never finished what he was going to say. His face twisted into a grimace of pain and he made a long, groaning gasp as he fell forward in the saddle, an arrow protruding from his back.
Vanora watched, horrified, as he tumbled from his horse. As he hit the ground the arrow, having passed through his body, pierced his chest, and in an instant, a bright bloom of red appeared around it. John’s eyes were still open and fixed on Vanora, who was in the grip of a shock so profound that she could not move.
“Go!” John’s voice was no more than a choking gasp. “Get away!” His eyes were wide and terrified, but as she watched, helpless, she saw the life go out of them.
Four horsemen were galloping towards Vanora, all of them wearing masks, and she could hear their gleeful, mocking laughter above the noise of their horses’ hooves.
The bandits were heading straight for her.
Suddenly, even though the shock of her father’s death was still with her, her mind shook free of it as her will to live became paramount.
The bandits were riding line abreast, but not too close together. Clearly, they were going to split up and then surround her. They expected her to either freeze or stay where she was, turn right or left into the forest, or turn around and go back the way she had come.
She did none of those things. Her gray stallion, Bokkie, was not a huge horse but he was muscular, fast, and very fit, and now Vanora took advantage of all those qualities. Without even thinking about it, she aimed him at the gap between the two middle riders and urged him into his swiftest gallop.
The two men cried out in panic as Bokkie charged towards them, and when they swerved to avoid him they nudged the other two outlaws sideways as well so that the neat line of four became a tangled mêlée.
Vanora turned sharply right into the forest, knowing that it was only a matter of seconds before the bandits regrouped and rode after her again. She could hear angry, indignant shouts from behind her, but she dared not risk a glance over her shoulder.
She could hear the hoofbeats coming closer, and the hoarse, furious voices of the bandits becoming louder and louder. Their cries were full of obscenities and threats, and Vanora knew exactly what would happen to her if they caught up with her. Very likely they would kill her, but not before each one had his fun with her first.
Then, just as she was about to give up hope, she heard the sound of an ax echoing through the wood, and she felt a surge of hope. Perhaps there was someone there who could help her; after all, an ax made a fine weapon. She looked back, saw that the bandits were gaining on her, and her heart gave a lurch of fear. She had to get away!
She headed towards the sound, and as she rounded the thick trunk of a pine tree she saw the biggest man she had ever seen. He was naked from the waist up, showing a mighty set of chest and arm muscles. A massive ax, with which he was felling a small spruce tree, was gripped in his enormous hands. He looked up and his brows lowered in a fierce glare.
Hearing the sound of many hoofbeats, Rory looked around and saw the slight figure of a woman being pursued by four masked men, all shouting curses and obscenities at her.
* * *
Seeing the fear on the face of the young girl who was being chased by a crowd of thugs, he reacted instinctively.
* * *
Stepping forward, he swung the ax with all his strength just as the first rider reached him, lopping his head from his shoulders as if he was chopping a twig from a tree. He ran towards the next one, then reached up and hauled him out of his saddle. The man screamed, but the sound was abruptly cut off when Rory brought one booted foot down on his chest with enough force to cave it in, and he died instantly.
The other two riders paused indecisively for a moment, then decided to ride over the big man, reasoning that even someone as big as he could not stand up to being trampled under the hooves of two big horses. They spurred their mounts into a punishing gallop, but their moment of hesitation would cost them dearly. Rory stood up to his full towering height, then hurled the ax with all the force of his well-muscled arm towards the taller of the two. It spun around and around in the air, gathering momentum as it went, and hit the horseman squarely in the middle of the forehead, cleaving his skull in two.
The last man decided that he would rather escape with his life than face the might of the giant, but just as he was turning his horse around Rory ran at him and pushed him from his horse, then stood looking down at him as he cowered on the forest floor.
“Get up,” he growled in a deep rumbling voice, “while I am still feelin’ merciful, or I will make yer head and body strangers tae each other, just as I did tae yer friends. You will no’ harm a lady while I am here to stop you, worm. Understan’?”
The man nodded frantically. He was a fellow of medium height and build, but beside the giant, he looked like a dwarf.
“I will no’ kill you,” said Rory, “but you are comin’ wi’ me to the justices. They will deal wi’ you.”
“They killed my father,” Vanora’s voice was so faint it was almost a murmur. “I had to leave him behind on the road.” Then she burst into tears.
Rory was speechless for a moment as he looked backward at her weeping face, then he saw red as a wave of anger swept over him. He began to turn back to the bandit just as the other man was about to drive a dagger from an arc above his head down into Rory’s heart.
Rory had fast reactions, and now he reached out and grasped the bandit’s wrist so tightly that they could hear the nauseating sound of the bones being crushed before Rory grasped his throat and choked him. He went down without a sound.
Looking at the carnage, Vanora felt many emotions at once—gratitude that this big man had been there to save her, disgust at the corpses all around her, and amazement that one man could do all this. However, overshadowing all of these was fury over the needless death of her father. Very likely, all the outlaws had wanted was whatever money John Weir carried on him, probably only a few shillings if she knew her father.
Presently, the big man, having ascertained that all the bandits were dead, came and put a hand on each of her shoulders. “Mistress, you are shocked an’ upset, an’ in no fit state to go hame. What can I dae for you?”
She looked up into his soft brown eyes and began to weep again. “I cannot bring Father back, but I can take his body from the road, or the wolves an’ boars will start to eat him.”
“I can take my cart,�
� he suggested. “If ye tell me where he is.”
She nodded listlessly.
“I am Rory Murdoch,” he said, bowing. “What is your name?”
“Lady Vanora Weir,” she replied. She began to weep again, and moved slowly towards his huge body. Rory hesitated for a moment and then he put his arm around her shoulders, then waited for her tears to stop.
It was good to feel needed again, even for just a moment. No one had depended on him for anything since Elisaid had died eight years before, and it brought home to him how much of a loner he had become during that time. He shunned company, and the only creatures he allowed close to him were his horse Davie and his dog Jamie. Both were comforting in their own way, but they were no substitute for the gentle presence of a woman in his bed at night to keep him warm. Then he shook himself inwardly.
“I am sorry for that” Vanora said releasing a hug was inappropriate.
“Tis all right, lady.”
He would help her to get her father’s body off the road—that was common decency—but that was all he was prepared to do. He had no buisness with the girl and he knew that.
Rory led her into the forest and after about a quarter of a mile, they came to a little thatched cottage with a vegetable garden and a few goats and chickens penned outside. A cart stood there, piled high with logs. Rory hefted them off, seemingly without effort, and Vanora stood mesmerized, amazed at his strength. He piled the cart with hay and fetched a blanket; then, before she could protest, he leaped up on the single seat of the cart.
“This will be too upsettin’ for ye, mistress,” he said gently. She nodded again, too weary to argue. “Stay here. I will no’ be long.”
