The Age of Knights and Highlanders: A Series Starter Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “Your wound!” Mercy pulled back enough to cradle his face in her hands and stare at him with such panic and concern that his heart nearly burst. She yanked at his tunic, wiggling in his lap to bare his midriff and examine him for herself. If she maintained such behavior, it wouldn’t be the stab wound concerning her. His man parts ached with the need for such attention and concern. She smiled and blew out a relieved sigh. “You are bandaged well.” She returned her hands to either side of his face and pressed her forehead to his. “I was so afraid for you,” she whispered. “I feared you lost to me. I feared my Highlander lost.”

  “Lore a’mighty, woman, ye feared for me when all I feared was that I’d lost ye.” Graham smoothed both hands up her back and pulled her to him, his lips brushing hers as he whispered, “I feared ye dead, Mercy. My heart near broke when I saw ye lying there in the weeds. So still. So pale.”

  She kissed him, soft lips nibbling at his, pulling and tasting with a frantic urgency. “We are found. All that matters is we are found.”

  Graham tangled his fingers up into her hair, cradling her close as he responded to her kisses with all the passion, fear, and madness that had nearly drowned him over the past two days.

  Ryū whinnied and snorted then, from the sounds of it, the stallion bucked and stomped in a circle.

  Mercy broke the kiss and held aside the grasses, revealing her beloved horse’s inquisitive nose. “Ryū…my guardian dragon. He must have found me and watched over me after I collapsed.”

  “Aye.” Graham held out his knuckles for the horse to snuffle. “That he did. Wicked, devoted beast that he is. Thank God he loves ye as he does.”

  “Brother!” Duncan’s concerned shout made its way to them. “Is she well? I can’t get any closer for this damned horse.”

  “Aye, she is well,” Graham called out. “And she is mine,” he added as he pulled Mercy into another kiss.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “What is that?”

  “A poultice of plantain and knitbone.” Mercy pressed the cool, soggy mash of herbs to Graham’s wound and secured them with a fresh bandage. “Drink your herbal. It will help.” She cast a nervous glance around the area. Every noise, every rustling branch or fluttering leaf sent a fresh charge of panic coursing through her. The only thing giving her strength and control to get through this situation was the fact that Graham appeared to be faring well despite his injury.

  “Easy, lass. Duncan and Marsden stand watch. We’re a damn sight safer than we were.” Graham took a sip of the meadowsweet and pine needle tea she’d prepared and made a face. He spit it out, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and handed the cup back to her. “I’d rather have whisky, aye? No more of that swill.”

  Mercy pushed the cup back into his hand. “All of it. And swallow this time. Then whisky.” She rose from beside him and tossed out the remains of the pine bark brew she’d steeped to clean out his wound. The angry redness around the cut concerned her. Infection could set in and steal Graham from her. Who knew where Gobs had used that knife before burying it in Graham’s side?

  She walked a few feet ahead of the wagons and looked around, searching both the road and woods for any sign of Tracker and his men. They’d be back. She’d overheard them say so whilst hiding in the shallow fissure that had saved her life. Greed pushed them to find her. Mercy knew all too well how dangerous greed could be.

  The touch of a hand on her arm made her jump to one side.

  “Mercy,” Graham said in a hushed tone with hands held aloft. Concern and heartache filled his gaze. “Come back to the wagon, lass. Ye promised me ye’d eat if I let ye tend my wound first.”

  “They said they’d be back.” She shuddered as she spoke the words aloud, the murderers’ voices echoing through her mind like the ominous tolling of a death knell. She hugged herself as she nodded toward the end of the pass. “If they don’t come here to find me, they’ll lay in wait for us at the mouth of the glen.” She swallowed hard. “Maybe even both. There’s five. They could split up to better their odds.” She shook her head, panic mounting and threatening to drown her. “We are trapped, Graham, trapped for certain.”

  He gathered her close, tucked her head to his chest, and held her, shushing and stroking her hair as though she were a child suffering from a bad dream. She closed her eyes and fisted her hands in his tunic, clutching the material tight to her face as she hugged against him. She pulled in a deep breath. He smelled of pine, herbs, and safety. A tentative sense of calm flickered within her, strengthening with every thump of Graham’s heart against her cheek. She no longer fought alone. She must not give up now.

  “Come. Ye must eat.” Graham shifted her into the curve of his arm and walked her back to the wagons.

  Janie shuffled toward her with a lowered head, a small metal platter holding bread and a cup clutched between her hands. “Bread, m’lady,” she said with a subdued curtsy, bowing again as she extended the platter. “And Cook made a cup of herb tea for yourself with what little hot water was left after you mixed Master MacCoinnich’s poultices.”

  Graham had ordered no fires, but Mercy had insisted on heating water with the small brazier Cook had in her wagon. They couldn’t risk the telltale smoke of a campfire but using the brazier inside the wagon had been safe enough. They’d covered the chimney with a wet cloth to capture what little smoke the coals generated.

  Mercy stared at the platter. All she wanted right now was for Graham to hold her.

  He picked up the cup and pressed it into her hands. “Drink, lass—please.”

  The warm liquid, strong and bitter, settled her better than she thought it would. She cupped the tea between both hands, leaning into the safety of Graham’s embrace. If not for his arm around her, she’d surely shatter into a thousand pieces and scatter across the winds. She took another sip, swallowed, then pulled in a deep breath. “Forgive me for such weakness,” she whispered. “Mama would scold me for having so little strength.”

  Graham selected the largest chunk of bread from the platter Janie held extended, then waved the girl away before pressing the crust to Mercy’s mouth. “Ye’re a braw, canty lass, and I’d have ye no other way. Eat now. I promise ye, your mother’s smiling down from Heaven right now. Proud of the daughter she raised to be such a fighter.”

  Graham’s words triggered a smile, strengthened her. Mama would be proud of her escape. Akio would have cheered her and shouted, “Well done!”. Now all that remained was to foil the snare Tracker and his men had laid.

  “They said they’d watch the mouth of the pass. Tracker said it when he gave up the search for me because of nightfall.” She forced herself to finish the chunk of day-old bread even though it tasted dry as dust. Washing down the final bite with what was left of her herbal tea, she pressed a hand to her chest and inhaled a calming breath, praying the basic sustenance would stay down. More of Tracker’s conversation came back to her. “He knows of your clan. He fears your brother.”

  “Good.” Graham guided her to sit on a wooden crate that had yet to be put back in the wagons. “He should fear all MacCoinnichs.”

  Raking her fingers through her tangled hair, Mercy picked out sticks and leaves as she spoke. “But that also means he knows where we’re headed whether we go forward or turn back. He knows our destination to be Tor Ruadh or London. All he has to do is place men at either end of the pass.”

  “I can tend to your hair, m’lady,” Janie said with a cautious easing out from between the wagons. She stood a few feet away with Mercy’s hair combs in one hand and a brush in the other. “If you see fit to allow it.”

  Mercy studied the girl, debating the safety of Janie being anywhere close. She no longer trusted anyone she’d brought from Claxton House other than her horse.

  “I would never hurt you, mistress,” Janie whispered, her face pale and eyes filled with sorrow. “I swear it.”

  Mercy looked to Graham, at a loss for what to do. She wanted to trust Janie, but would such trust endanger
them all again?

  “Show me what ye carry, girl. Open your hands.” Graham waved her closer, then picked through the combs and ran his thumb across the white bristles of the brush. He turned back to Mercy. “She appears safe enough if ye wish to allow her to help ye with your hair.” He gave the girl a stern look and patted the butt of the pistol tucked in the front of his belt. “Ye will die if ye harm her. Understood?”

  Janie jerked her chin downward in a quick nod as she curtsied. “Yes, sir.”

  Mercy felt some better but not much as she motioned Janie forward. Giving Graham a smile, she sat straighter and resettled her long, tangled locks down her back. “A simple braid, Janie. Down my back to keep the length out of the way. There’ll be no more pinning it up in the latest coiffure.”

  “Yes, m’lady,” Janie whispered as she set to the task.

  “No fire means little for supper,” Cook announced from the doorway of her wagon. “Two days since I cooked proper. Meat’s gone but there’s bread and cheese. Some vegetables. An apple or two, as well.”

  “’Twill be plenty,” Graham said, then cupped Mercy’s chin in one hand and gave her a smile that filled her heart and sent a tingling warmth through her. “I have all I need right here.” He brushed a light kiss filled with promise across her parted lips.

  Mercy pressed a hand to her chest. Such words. Such an intimate touch. As though no one else around them existed. And it was real—not a guise to fool the others. She smiled up at him, nestling her face deeper into his calloused palm as she pressed his hand closer to her cheek. “Yes. I as well.”

  Cook blew out a disgruntled huff, rolled her eyes, then closed herself up in her wagon.

  Janie gave a pat to her hair, then stepped away. “All done, m’lady.” With shoulders slumped and eyes downcast, she shuffled over to Cook’s wagon and rapped on the door. “’Tis Janie. Let me in.”

  The door latch rattled. “Let yourself in,” Cook barked.

  Janie climbed into the wagon and closed the door. The hardware rattled as the lock settled in place.

  Percy and Doughal appeared from around the wagons. “Horses and wagons are ready as they’ll ever be. Leave here now or wait ’til morning?” Percy asked.

  “Leave now,” Graham said as he held out a hand to Mercy. “Wagons only,” he added.

  Mercy held tight to Graham’s hand. “We’re staying here?”

  “Aye,” Graham said, his tone vague. “For now.”

  Percy glanced at his son, then pointed a narrow-eyed glare at Graham before turning to Mercy. “Which way, your ladyship?”

  “Graham?” Mercy wasn’t quite sure what Graham had in mind, but she sensed he had a plan in the works to ensure their successful escape from the pass. He’d had her bundle a change of clothes in a blanket and strap it to the back of her saddle. It was almost as though he expected the wagons to end up at a different destination.

  “Through to the glen,” Graham said. “Tor Ruadh lies to the northwest. Once ye pass the crofts at the other side of the glen, look to Ben Nevis. Ye canna miss it.”

  “Through to the glen,” Percy repeated. The old man swallowed hard and scrubbed his hand over his mouth as he glanced back at the wagons, then over at the road. “And what of those men? The highwaymen?”

  “That’s between you and them,” Graham replied in a chilling tone.

  A gnawing uncertainty filled Mercy as a range of unreadable expressions flashed across both Percy and Doughal’s faces. Those two had never been disloyal—at least not so far as she knew. But they had been with the household for as long as she could remember. She faced Graham, turning her back toward the wagon drivers to shield her words. “Are you certain?” she whispered. The thought of sending the two into the clutches of Tracker and his men weighed heavy upon her conscience.

  Graham lowered his chin in a single nod.

  Duncan and Marsden rejoined the group, their looks grim as they lead their mounts by their reins, weaving in between the three wagons.

  “Three wait at the entrance to the glen,” Duncan reported. “Robbie and the skinny, rat-faced man were on the east side of the road. A few miles from here. Found them walking the ditches and headed this way.”

  Praise God that Graham had found her first. Mercy clenched a fist to her chest, pressing hard to calm the pounding of her heart. She swallowed and forced herself to remain calm. “How long until the two of them reach here?”

  “They willna reach here, m’lady,” Duncan said with a reassuring smile.

  Marsden gave her a nod as he clapped a hand on Duncan’s shoulder. “Young MacCoinnich here turned out to be quite the archer with the bows and arrows the dead men from the attack no longer needed. I assure you, m’lady, those two are returned to the dust from whence they came.”

  Before Mercy could comment, Graham held up his hand and turned to old man March and his son. “On now. To the glen, aye? Take Cook and the girl with ye.”

  “But, Janie.” Mercy squeezed Graham’s arm. Uncertainty filled her. Had Janie really been a part of her betrayal? What if she hadn’t? What would happen to her? “Surely, not Janie. Are you—”

  Graham cut her off with a curt shake of his head, his gaze intent on the senior March. “All of ye. Now.”

  The old man glowered at him, hands fisted, then jerked away. “Yes, sir,” he shot back over his shoulder. As he passed Cook’s wagon, he thumped a fist against the wooden boards.

  A small square window hinged in one of the doors popped open, revealing Cook’s scowling face. “What?”

  “On our way,” March said with a wave toward the road. “To the glen.”

  Cook’s gaze shifted to Mercy and Graham. “The girl and me, too?”

  “Aye,” Graham ordered. “Now.”

  One by one, the wagons lined up on the road. Mercy watched them until they disappeared around the bend, the rattling of Cook’s pots and pans still echoing back to her through the trees.

  Guilt and frustration filled her, sending the nauseating burn of bile into the back of her throat. How could things have come to this? Tossing innocent people to those who would do them harm. Struggling to tamp down the doubt Graham’s decision triggered, Mercy turned and faced him. “I assume it’s safe to speak openly now? What is your plan?”

  Graham nodded. “Higher ground for us. A better view of the glen that way, ye ken?”

  “The wagons are bait.” Mercy wound her horse’s reins around one hand and started toward the far side of the road, the injustice of what they’d done choking her. What if they had judged them all wrong?

  “Aye.” Graham took his place beside her, pulling his mount behind him. He took hold of her arm and stopped her. “But dinna fash yourself, lass. If my instincts are right, those wagons will get through the glen unscathed. We didna feed your people to the wolves—we returned them to their own kind.”

  “You feel certain they all conspired against me?”

  Graham gave her a sympathetic look and brushed the backs of his fingers along her cheek. “I believe so.”

  Lifting her chin, Mercy swallowed and stared ahead. She’d been snubbed and cast aside all her life, but the disloyalty still stung, especially from Janie. But she knew Graham, or thought she did after all these days together. He wouldn’t make such a decision without reason. “How are you so certain?”

  Jaw tightening as he scowled at the difficult route ahead of them, Graham paused and faced her. “Those men that took ye lashed me, Duncan, and Marsden to the wagon wheels of the flatbeds. Gagged us as well. The Marches, Cook, and Janie were put inside Cook’s wagon with a bar across the outside of the rear door. The one called Gobs made out like they’d run out of rope.”

  “Locked in a wagon with food and water,” she observed. The burden of Mercy’s guilt grew lighter. It disappeared completely when revelation hit. “Janie or Doughal, either one, could have shimmied out the front door behind the driver’s seat. Janie did it to escape Cook the day the woman lost her temper and threatened to boot her out th
e back of the wagon.”

  “Exactly.” Graham marched onward, huffing and grimacing as he strode across the rough ground. “I dinna ken if they were instructed to wait until we were dead to seek out the horses and leave or what. All I know for certain was they were well accommodated by their captors.”

  Mercy stomped forward, more determined than ever to overcome her father’s vile plan.

  Marsden took his post on the other side of Graham, but Duncan moved to take lead of the group. “Pardon me. ’Tis my hope to get within arrow range of the enemy, m’lady,” he said as he pushed past Mercy. He looked over at Graham. “Three of them. Four of us. The odds are with us, brother.”

  Mercy held up a hand and brought them all to a standstill before they continued the arduous climb of the rough hillside. “Please. Let me have the spare bow you found.” Akio had taught her to shoot, even said her accuracy had to be a gift from the ancestors. Her brother was a critical tutor. He never would have said such if he didn’t feel it was true. “I promise you, I can shoot.”

  Duncan glanced at Graham before answering, then rounded his horse and pulled free one of the longbows tied to the side of his saddle. With it, he handed her a dorlach, a quiver full of arrows. “Betwixt the two of us, m’lady, perhaps we can better our odds still.”

  Mercy pulled the strap of the dorlach over her head and slung the longbow over one shoulder. She felt better with a weapon. Empowered.

  “I dinna care much for that plan,” Graham said as they resumed their journey, trudging through the rugged terrain.

  Mercy didn’t answer, just concentrated on picking her way up the side of the mountain and leading Ryū across the dangerous ground. Once they reached the peak of the ridge, they continued leading the horses rather than riding due to the hazardous footing.

  As the sun slipped below the horizon, Graham held up a hand. “We’ll bed down here ’til sunrise.”