The Age of Knights and Highlanders: A Series Starter Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Janie wilted to one side, almost rolling into the water, one hand submerged in the edge of the pool.

  She had to go to her. Mercy scanned the area one last time. There had been no other movement. Mercy ran to the narrow end of the spring and leapt across it. Hurrying to the maid, she knelt at the girl’s side and hovered over her.

  “Janie?” She held a hand in front of Janie’s parted lips and nose, praying to feel the girl’s breath across her fingers.

  A strong, calloused hand slammed across her mouth. Raging panic shot through her as an arm snaked around her waist and yanked her upward. Mercy flailed against her captor, ripped the dagger from between her breasts, and stabbed upward. The blade made hard contact but glanced away. She had to have hit bone.

  A horrific yowl confirmed she’d done some damage but apparently not enough. The man’s hold on her tightened as another figure appeared, grabbed her wrist, and twisted the knife away. Janie came into view, pressing her face close to Mercy’s and gifting her with a chilling smile right before she spit on her. “Whore,” she said in a growling tone filled with hatred. “Just like your mother.”

  Janie pranced around in front of her as the two men wrangled her toward a group of waiting horses—one of them with a rider. Janie shook a club-like object in Mercy’s face. “You’re goin’ to get yours now, m’lady. I been waiting a long time for this.” She struck the side of Mercy’s head with such force, sounds grew distorted. Just as her sight cleared, Janie struck her again.

  “Enough!” One of the men cuffed Janie away. “Ye can torment her in a bit. His lordship is waiting with the horses.”

  His lordship? Her father? Mercy screamed loud and long, praying her muffled shrieks would be heard. The hand across her mouth tightened and the arm around her middle clamped upward, cutting off her air. “Ye keep it up, and we’ll gut your husband like a felled deer. We’re all over these woods. Ye just didna ken it because we didna wish it.” The knife pricked her skin again. “Remain silent, and we willna kill him ’til we lay siege on Tor Ruadh. That can be your last gift to him. The peace of dying with his brothers.”

  An enraged roar shook the trees.

  “Mercy!”

  Graham. Her beloved husband. Mercy flailed and fought her attacker as he dragged her closer to the horses. She could not allow him to get her on a horse. With one well-placed, backward kick, she managed to trip him. They both went down, the heavy brute landing hard on top of her. She didn’t care. Elbows flying, she fought and clawed, the chance of escaping charging her with the will to fight.

  “Graham! Here!” she screamed.

  The man caught hold of her ankle, yanked her back down, then rose above her. Burying one hand in her tangled mass of wet hair, he jerked her along on the ground beside him, stumbling across the rugged terrain.

  Mercy caught hold of his leg and bit hard. She clamped down until she tasted blood. The man howled, then knocked her away. Mercy twisted around and bit him again.

  The man clubbed her in the face, then whipped her around by her hair whilst trying to kick her forward. He backhanded her again just as Graham, Alexander, and Duncan burst through the trees. She prayed they had truly burst through the trees. The strikes to her head had scattered her senses. Her vision blurred in and out of focus, grew dark, then lightened again. All sounds were muffled, and she couldn’t make out words. She lost her hold of the man’s leg and landed hard at the base of a tree.

  Gunshots. More shouts. Horses screaming. All she knew was the safety of the tree. She held on to it for dear life. The rough bark scraped against her cheek as she clamped her arms around it and hugged hard.

  Someone pulled her hair hard enough to make her cry out. Cursing in a high-pitched voice sliced through the fog of her miserable confusion. It had to be Janie. A hand took hold of the back of her head, yanked her head back, then slammed her face into the tree. Janie attacked her as though possessed by demons.

  Gunfire split the air again. Close. Then a body fell across her and didn’t move. It wasn’t as heavy as the man’s had been. A warm wetness seeped into her clothing and trickled down her sides and back. The weight on her didn’t move. Whoever it was, was dead.

  Mercy prayed it wasn’t someone she loved. She couldn’t look. It wouldn’t do any good to open her eyes, anyway. Every time she did, all she saw were nauseating swirls of darkness and light.

  Then, gentle hands touched and tugged at her. She pulled in a deep breath. Someone had taken the body off her. Now she could breathe so much easier, but she had to keep a tight hold on the tree. Just in case…

  Fingers pried at her hands, at her arms. “No!” She held on tighter, dragging herself closer to the tree.

  Someone spoke close to her face. She couldn’t make out what they said. She couldn’t even tell if it was a voice she knew. But it sounded calm. She recognized the feel of the voice. The intent behind the tone.

  Suddenly, shouting surrounded her again.

  Someone pulled her upward.

  A new voice hit her like a punch in her stomach. Her father’s voice. She’d recognize that dreaded voice no matter her condition. A horrendous sense of loss hit her. If her father stood above her, then Graham had to be gone.

  Gunfire exploded close by. Acrid smoke filled her nostrils. She hit the ground, but the pain in her heart far outweighed the thudding in her head.

  Sobbing overcame her. Graham must be dead. Her greatest fear had come to fruition.

  “Please, God, take me, too,” she cried out, going limp as she gave herself to the darkness.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Graham held Mercy close and brushed a kiss to her bruised, bleeding forehead, then lowered her to the pallet. Her head rolled to one side, and her arms splayed across the blankets. Graham eased an arm under her shoulders and lifted as Marsden slid an additional folded blanket beneath her head. Tucking her arms in close to her sides, Graham knelt beside her.

  Shame and gut-wrenching guilt twisted so hard within him, he yearned to roar out his remorse. How could he have been so careless? How could he have been such a fool? How could he have let this happen to her? He bowed his head and closed his eyes.

  “Forgive me,” he whispered. Hot tears stung his eyes as he rocked in place beside her.

  If Mercy died, it would be no one’s fault but his own.

  “With your permission?” Marsden paused, speaking in the hushed tones used by those in the presence of the dying.

  Graham forced open his eyes and lifted his head. Marsden stood beside him with a pot of water in one hand and a cloth in the other.

  “We should clean her wounds and apply cool cloths to reduce the swelling above her eyes.” Marsden held up the items. “I shall tend your lady whilst your brother wraps your shoulder. Yes?”

  “Nay.” Graham took the items from Marsden, set them beside the pallet, and dipped the cloth in the cool water. With the gentlest of touches, he dabbed the linen across the angry scrapes across Mercy’s forehead, temple, and jawline. That damned Janie had done a great deal of damage. He felt no remorse at all for killing the bitch for all the pain she’d caused his beloved.

  “Well then,” Marsden said with a nod. “I shall leave you to it. But when you are done, you must let Alexander or Duncan bind your shoulder. The bleeding must be staunched until a healer can remove the bullet.”

  Graham still had use of his left arm, so the bullet hadn’t damaged any bone. Nor had it exited his body. The shot had burrowed into his chest, close to his shoulder. Painful but nowhere near bad enough to put him down. The pair of Campbells and Edsbury had soon discovered the error of their aim and the consequences such a mistake incurred. All were dead, Edsbury by Graham’s own hands.

  “I willna leave my wife’s side.” ’Twas as simple as that. The rest of the group could do whatever they damned well pleased.

  “Brother.” Alexander paused until Graham looked up. “I ride to Tor Ruadh to increase the guard and prepare for attack. I’ll send back a wagon with addition
al men to guard ye on your journey and Gretna with supplies for Mercy. I doubt old Elena can make the trip—especially not all the way to London.”

  Graham pulled in a deep breath and looked back down at Mercy. “She liked Gretna. Mentioned her more than once.”

  Crouching beside him, Alexander took hold of Graham’s uninjured shoulder and squeezed. “Dinna speak as though she’s already gone. As long as she breathes, there is hope.” He clenched Graham’s shoulder tighter. “Ye must hie yourself to His Majesty, Graham. For the sake of your wife, yourself, and our clan. ’Tis most urgent that ye seek the king’s mercy or else ye’ll hang for killing the duke.”

  “I willna leave her side, brother.” Graham wet the cloth again and wiped down Mercy’s scraped and scratched arms, her bruised knuckles, her torn and bloody fingernails. “Besides—think ye truly that King William will listen to a Scot?”

  “We shall stand at your side and testify to what happened here this night,” Crestshire said.

  “You have two of the king’s finest willing to testify on your behalf,” Marsden added. “We will not stand idle whilst you and your lady are in need.”

  Duncan moved to Graham’s injured side, strips of cloth clutched in one hand. With a grim look, he motioned toward Mercy. “If we get both of ye well enough to travel, I believe your wife will be the key in settling this. From all she said, her father was the bastard behind this plot. Ye and Marsden both said the king seemed truly fond of her. Do ye think he’d approve of the way her father treated her?”

  Graham pushed him away as Duncan moved to cut away his bloody tunic and tend to his shoulder. “Leave me. All of ye. I canna reason about anything other than her right now.” His foolish choices had cost his wife dearly.

  “Hold him, Alexander,” Duncan said.

  Alexander sprang into action and twisted Graham’s good arm behind his back, holding him in a firm but brotherly headlock. “We willna listen to mumblings of misplaced guilt. Tonight was no’ your fault, ye stubborn arse.”

  Graham arched against Alexander’s hold, renewed rage pounding through him. “I’ll whip your arse! Let me go! Give my wife the respect she deserves.”

  Shifting Graham around, Alexander faced him toward Mercy’s still form. “She’s no’ dead! Stop mourning her and concentrate on saving what ye have left. Ye rid her of her bastard-of-a-father, now all that’s left to do is convince the king to leave us in peace.”

  Duncan ripped away the sleeve of Graham’s tunic and poured a splash of whisky into his wound.

  Searing pain burned through his shoulder. “Damn ye, Duncan!”

  Alexander released him and stepped back. “I’ll leave ye to bandage him.” He paused, stared down at Mercy’s still form, then crossed himself, his lips moving in silent prayer. Lifting his head, he gave a curt nod to Crestshire, then to Marsden. “Help Duncan guard him, aye? I willna contemplate a world without my brother in it.”

  “Take this wee squirrel wi’ ye afore he strangles me with these damn bandages!” Graham shoved Duncan back and attempted to return to ministering to Mercy’s wounds.

  Duncan laughed and yanked him back. “Now, there’s my brother full of piss.” He snugged a length of torn linen even tighter around Graham’s shoulder and chest. “Use that anger to fight for your lady, brother.”

  A faint moan interrupted them, and Mercy stirred, scowling as she lifted shaking hands to her head.

  All else ceased to exist for Graham. “Oh, dear love, thank God for bringing ye back.” He wet the cloth again and pressed it to her face.

  She batted his hands away as she rolled to her side and clutched her head in her hands. A sobbing moan rose from her. Cradling her head, she rolled back and forth, wrestling with her pain.

  “Can ye hear me, love? Mercy, can ye hear me?” Graham leaned close, keeping his voice low, forcing himself not to touch her. “Ye’re safe, lass.”

  Mercy didn’t respond, just continued the pitiful moaning and thrashing that tore at Graham’s heart.

  Stab wounds, he understood. Broken bones. Gunshot wounds. He’d had them all and knew well enough about their stages of healing. But Mercy had taken more than one severe blow to the head and had been unresponsive until now. And this responsiveness was more like that of a blinded, wounded animal fighting its last before it died. A sense of helplessness overtook him. He stared up at his brothers and friends. “What can we do to help her?”

  Captain Marsden gave a sad shake of his head. “Keep her as comfortable as possible and pray.”

  “Mayhap, Gretna will ken a better way to help her. I’ll prepare her with a description of Mercy’s injuries,” Alexander said. “I’ll get her here, and more protection, as fast as possible.”

  Graham reached up and clasped Alexander’s forearm. “God be with ye, brother. Race the wind, I beg ye.”

  Alexander squeezed his arm in return, then strode to his horse, mounted, and galloped away.

  “Marsden, stand guard. I shall circle about and search the woods to see if any others remain.” Crestshire nodded to Marsden, then looked to Duncan. “Between the three of us, we can rotate until reinforcements arrive.”

  Duncan nodded, picked up one of the larger water skins, and held it aloft. “I’ll fill it with the spring water straight off the falls. It should be coldest. She can rest her head on it, aye? Cooler and softer than the blanket.”

  “Ye always were the most cunning of our brood.” Graham wrung out the cloth and eased it across Mercy’s hands still clutching at her temples. As soon as the coolness of the cloth touched the backs of her fingers, she snatched hold of it and clamped it tight across her eyes.

  “She needs easing in the worst way. Hurry, Duncan.” Graham had never felt more useless in his life. He prayed Gretna would know of some way to ease Mercy’s suffering.

  Scuffling through the underbrush yanked Graham away from his musings and forced him to his feet. He drew his pistol and pulled back the hammer. “Who goes there?”

  “Stand down, man,” Marsden called out as he breached the line of trees. “All appears quiet. It is my hope Lord Crestshire shall bring news of the same farther out.”

  Graham lowered his pistol and returned it to his belt just as Duncan reappeared with the swollen skin of water.

  “I didna fill it tight, but it should support her head well enough. Can ye lift her without throwing her into more distress?” Duncan held the skin aloft, staring at Mercy, fear and worry creasing his brow.

  “I dinna ken.” Graham shook his head. He leaned down beside her and whispered, “Duncan made ye a wee pillow, m’love. It should help with your pain.” He watched for any reaction, any sign she had understood him.

  Mercy ignored him, just kept fingering the damp cloth against her eyes and crying out.

  Graham looked to Duncan. “Get ready. When I lift her, she’s certain to set to thrashing, but it is my hope that once she feels the cool of the skin, she’ll calm down.”

  As soon as he slid his arms beneath her shoulders, she fisted her hands and fought him, wild and flailing as the cloth fell away from her swollen eyes. Graham’s heart ached with every pitiful strike, not even closing his eyes as she slapped and clawed at him.

  Duncan yanked away the folded blanket and slid the water skin in place, nodding to Graham to lower her.

  Graham eased her down, then hurried to soak the cloth for her eyes and draped it across her face.

  The cooling worked as planned. Mercy calmed almost immediately, nuzzling her head against the water bag and clutching the wet cloth back against her face. Even her crying ceased, and she grew still. Whether sleeping or unconscious again, Graham didn’t know, but at least she seemed at peace and breathed.

  “Praise God,” Duncan whispered.

  “Aye,” Graham replied. “I’m also thankful He gave me such a wise brother.”

  The rest of the night and through the following day, Graham stayed by Mercy’s side.

  Head propped in his hands as he sat beside her pallet, the sou
nd of approaching horses jerked Graham awake. Duncan was already on his feet with pistol drawn, and Crestshire stood beside him.

  “Marsden’s on watch. He’ll see them and report,” Crestshire said.

  Graham rose from the ground, drew his pistol with one hand, and his dagger with the other. “Help him. I dinna wish them close to Mercy. I’ll stand guard over her.”

  Both men took off toward what sounded like a large group, the thundering hooves growing louder by the minute.

  “’Tis safe!” Duncan’s shout echoed back through the misty gray of the woods still shrouded with the gloaming before sunrise.

  “Put away your guns, Graham MacCoinnich! I’m a coming to ye!”

  Graham exhaled and bowed his head. Gretna had arrived. If anyone could help Mercy, she could. He holstered both pistol and dagger. “Over here!”

  A glance down at Mercy told him it was time to switch out the water skins again. Whenever the water bags warmed too much, Mercy grew restless. He feared she’d gone feverish. Her flushed coloring didn’t bode well, but it disturbed her when someone touched her so, he didn’t ken for certain. But Gretna would know. Some said her talents even surpassed Elena Bickerstaff’s when it came to the healing arts.

  An unholy crashing through the woods soon revealed Gretna stepping high and fighting through the underbrush, cloth sacks over both shoulders and clutched in both hands. “Where is she?” she asked, still gasping from her struggles.

  “Here.” Graham motioned toward Mercy who was growing more agitated. “We’ve been keeping skins of spring water beneath her head. Seems to help with the pain.” He knelt down, lifted Mercy’s shoulder, and slid a fresh, cool water skin in place of the warm one.

  She didn’t fight him as much now. It seemed as though she finally understood he meant her no harm. He moistened the cloth and pressed it to her face. Looking up at Gretna, his voice cracked, weariness and worry threatening to break him. “Help her, Gretna. I beg ye.”