by Alisa Adams
"With everything I have, I love you. I shall not marry another, I shall not love another. It is you, Finlay Dunne. Do not relegate me to being alone in the fight for your life. For I will, if I must. I'll not see you die before I can convince you to marry me. Whether it takes a year or a thousand. I'll not accept a life where I am not your wife...if you'll have me."
"Merith..." What were the right words to speak in this situation? His woman was elegant and effusive and spun words like they were fine pieces of gold. Just how was a common soldier supposed to measure up to that?
"Merith, you are my wife." He reached to hold her face, that roughness of his palm upon the silk of her cheek. Yet she pressed his hand to her, her lips finding his palm. "I see you as nothing less. But if my death would see your life easier, then I would place my head through a noose by choice."
He felt tears against his hand and watched as moisture pooled amongst her lashes.
"I do not want easy," she told him. "I want happy."
"And I want you."
Merith shook the cell gate.
"Then would you move so we can escape? I'll not stand here convincing you to live for my sake."
Finn did not need to be told twice. He wrenched open the door, took her in his arms, and claimed her lips in a kiss that was as scorching as it was desperate. He felt her tongue against his and the way she leaned into him. Perfectly trusting, entirely loving.
Live for her sake? Yes, that was exactly what he was going to do.
In an attempt to prove it, Finn broke a kiss that he was loath to end, and took hold of Merith's hand. Together, they ran to the nearest door that Merith assured him led to the servants’ corridors.
They sped through the darkness, without candle or torch, relying only on Merith's knowledge of the building. Finn ran in her footsteps, placing all of his faith in her.
He trusted her.
Merith was not the soft little angel that he had first thought her to be. She wasn't pretty but impractical, nor twisted by the views of the world in which she was raised. She was no simple little cherub.
She was a warrior.
One of God’s avenging angels of strength, power, and compassion. She might not stamp her feet or scream her wants to the sky. She was too feminine, too kind to be violent in her desires. But she was strong. She was brave.
His angel.
When they reached the stables, Finn didn't bother to look for his saddle. Ajax was locked away in a stall that Merith quickly unlocked with the same ring of keys she had somehow found. Finn simply whistled to see Ajax join them. Leaping onto his back, Finn reached for Merith, his hand out and a smile upon his face.
Despite everything that was happening and the dangers they were facing, right at that moment, he couldn't stop such a smile.
She took his hand, and he pulled her up behind him. She straddled the horse, heedless of the way her pretty green dress rose up her legs. And, when she wrapped her arms around his waist, Finn felt everything within him sigh in the relief of having her once more by his side.
Taking hold of Ajax's mane, the dark locks twisting through his fingers, Finn kicked him into speed, and they rushed for the open gates that no one had yet seen fit to close.
Why would they? The dangerous infiltrator was locked deep in the dungeons.
As they rushed towards the archway, immense and framing the green of the lands beyond, there were shouts. Guards called for the gates to be shut; others screamed for the master of the house. Finn ignored them. Only one voice mattered to him. And Merith was giggling behind him.
In moments, before action could be taken to stop them, the three of them charged through the gateway, darting between half-closed gates and sailing out across the meadows beyond.
Finn was sure that guards would be summoned and hunters sent after them. But it would take them time to secure permission and mounts and supplies. By then, the two of them would be halfway back to his men; back to his brothers.
Even though there was always the threat of what might happen around the next corner of life, Finn had never felt more invincible in his life.
A few miles away from the Mackenzie castle, Finn drew Ajax to a stop upon a raised dune across the way. Looking out to the east, the castle in which Merith had grown up was clear and vivid against the horizon. To him, it looked gloomy and imposing. To Merith, it was her home.
"You're sure about this, my love?" he asked her, looking down over his shoulder at the blonde head behind him. He twisted in his seat to see her looking back at the castle, a firm and determined look in her eye.
She met Finn's gaze.
"Never been so certain of anything. My home is with you."
Finn's smile was blinding.
"I think this is the bravest thing I've ever seen someone do."
Merith leaned up to press a kiss to his cheek and then smiled.
"Finn..."
"Yes, Merith?"
"Nothing..." Finn had never seen an angel smile with mischief. "I just wanted to say your name."
Twisting further, Finn leaned around, seeking her kiss once more, as he would do for the rest of his life.
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Afterword
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Prologue
Rodric Montrose, the heir to the chief of his clan, stood up and turned to Malcolm Stuart, his closest friend. Rodric was a tall, well-made, heavily-muscled man, clean-shaven but with a magnificent mane of reddish-brown hair which hung down around his head and shoulders like the pelt of a powerful animal. Malcolm, by contrast, was a small, dark, wiry fellow with a black beard and a quick eye. They made a formidable pair. He had a troubled frown, however, as he stared thoughtfully into the distance.
“Come on, then, what do you think?” asked Rodric.
Malcolm let out a long breath through clenched teeth. “What can I say, Rodric?” he replied. “I don’t like it, not at all, because I think it’s a desperate idea. But,” he went on, raising a hand to stop Rodric's objection, “I agree that there’s little other choice. I just wish that it could be somebody other than you.”
“Aye,” Rodric said. “I cannot deny it. It is a desperate plan, right enough, but it’s the best option we have. Strong as our clan is, we cannot sustain this border war forever. We must end it once and for all.” his voice sounded deep and decisive.
Rodric smiled grimly down at his friend, then they turned and looked out through the trees again. They were on a little wooded hillside high up on the edge of a glen. Below them, the army of their enemies waited in battle order. There was a multitude of them, too many to hope to defeat in a skirmish.
“Come on,” said Rodric, “let’s get back to camp. Now’s the time, and we won’t get another chance like this again.”
Chapter 1 - The Borderlands
A cold wind drove squalls of spring rain in gray sheets across the mountainous country, which divided the lands of Clan Strachan from those of Clan Montrose. It was mid-March, but in
these inhospitable borderlands in the far Northern Scottish highlands, winter would only grudgingly give up its grip. Heavy clouds the color of granite lowered over the rocky land from horizon to horizon. The wind moaned and howled through the dark evergreen woods that cloaked the lower slopes of the hills, and rattled its way across the bare and rocky moors upon the hilltops. This was a merciless land.
On a low rise overlooking a nameless little glen, the bright blue weave of Adaira Strachan’s woolen shawl shone like a flower among the dark, rainwashed stones. The wind had teased a lock of raven-black hair out from under the dyed blue linen wrapped over her head to keep out the cold. She reached one gloved hand up to push it back distractedly from her cheek.
She was not alone. Beside her, dressed in the more somber colors of a servant, stood Maudie, the young woman who was both Adaira’s maidservant and closest friend. In contrast to her mistress’s dark coloring, she had light brown hair and eyes the same color as evergreen trees. On any other day, the glen below them would have been empty of life, but today the sight that met their eyes was not the peaceful patchwork of green hills and forested glens but something much more grim and dreadful.
In the glen, with their backs to the women, mail-clad pikemen stood rank upon rank, facing out onto the open ground. Mixed units of archers stood behind them, and on either side, protecting the flanks, groups of spear-armed light cavalrymen on their nimble little horses shifted and moved restlessly, as if they were eager for the fight. Everywhere, standards flew in the Strachan colors—forest green and royal blue—and the soldiers' shields were emblazoned with it. There was no sign of the enemy yet, but the women guessed that it would not be long now.
“I dinnae like this,” Maudie admitted to her mistress, shivering and drawing her shawl more closely around her shoulders.
“The weather?” asked Adaira. She knew the answer to the question but was making conversation so that she would not have to think.
“The weather, the land, what’s about tae happen, any of it,” Maudie replied. “This is nae place for us women. I dinnae know why we had tae come.”
“I do,” said Adaira. “We were made to come and watch because my brother wants us to see a battle. He knows that neither of us will enjoy it, and that very fact seems to bring him pleasure. I suppose we should be glad to see our enemies beaten in a fight.” She paused, thoughtfully. “They are the enemy, after all.”
“The enemy, aye,” said Maudie, without conviction, “but ye must know what the word is aboot that.”
Despite the unpleasantness of the situation, Adaira found a smile and a joke for her old friend. “Surely, Maudie,” she said, smiling, “you do not imagine that a noblewoman—a daughter of the clan chief, such as myself—has any knowledge of the idle gossip of commoners and servants?”
Maudie gave a small snort of laughter. She knew well that Adaira took a great deal of interest in what the common folk of the clan thought; she was not haughty and distant like many of her class. Then she became serious again, glancing around warily. A little way off, a group of elite Strachan clansmen stood, holding horses ready. They were to act as Adaira’s personal bodyguard in the unlikely event that the battle should go badly and she should need to flee. None of them were paying any attention to the women, but Maudie lowered her voice before speaking all the same.
“Ye know what I'm talking about,” she said quietly. “The folk have had enough o’ our war wi’ Clan Montrose. They say Clan Montrose seeks an end tae the conflict, once and for a’. Some even say that Montrose has offered peace, but your brother willnae accept it. That is just madness. I just think men love tae fight.”
“Hush!” said Adaira suddenly, glancing around. The clansmen had all snapped to attention. There was a thunder of hoofbeats, and cantering up the hill came a group of armored cavalrymen. Adaira’s brother Duncan, the heir to the Strachan clan, was in the lead.
Duncan was a thin young man, tall and gangly, and at twenty-one, he was only two years older than Adaira. He looked out of place, she thought, in his steel breastplate and clean tabard with the Strachan arms upon it. Around him and behind him were his chief lieutenants, armor-clad, mounted on huge warhorses and armed to the teeth. They were experienced soldiers of the Strachan clan and well seasoned in battle. These older men were tense and wary-looking, but young Duncan was excited, clearly glorying in the experience of being a young lord in command of an army. At Duncan’s right-hand side, the hulking figure of Sir John MacCormick, Duncan’s closest ally, sat silently astride a great black destrier.
The two women instinctively moved a little closer to each other.
“Enjoying yourselves?” called Duncan in a snide voice, as he reined his horse in too hard in front of them, making the animal crow-hop a few steps before coming to a stop. His men stopped behind him, but MacCormick advanced a few steps until his horse stood side by side with Duncan’s. He gazed down dispassionately at the young women.
“Did you not hear me?” Duncan said, sharply, when his sister did not immediately reply to his first taunt.
“I heard you well enough,” said Adaira acidly, “and to answer your question, no, I am not enjoying myself. I do not know why you forced Maudie and me to join you here. You know I have no taste for bloodshed.”
Her brother shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands in a gesture of complacency. His sister was younger than he, a woman, and therefore very much his inferior, so he cared nothing for her opinion.
“Bloodshed is a fact of life, Sister,” he said, as if this was a profound revelation that had just occurred to him. Then he leaned over his horse and glared at Adaira. “It would be good for you to realize it.” His voice was harsh, and despite her determination not to, Adaira felt herself quail at his tone.
She was about to reply, but just as she drew breath to do so, John MacCormick leaned over and tapped Duncan on the shoulder.
“Forgive me for interrupting, Duncan,” he said quietly, “but we should make our way down to the men. I see our scout approaching.”
Duncan twisted his head to look away from his sister and her maid. Reluctantly, Adaira and Maudie also looked in the direction John MacCormick was pointing. There was a murmur from the bodyguard of men behind Duncan. Across the wide-open space in front of the waiting Strachan army, a man was riding a lathered horse pell-mell across the muddy field.
“Aye, you are right,” said Duncan to MacCormick. “We should go down now.” He looked back at his sister. “Enjoy the show, Adaira,” he said coldly.
Adaira had often wished for a man’s bodily strength, and at that moment she was so angry that if she had had enough power in her bare hands she would have killed her brother and smiled while doing it.
Duncan turned his horse’s head and began to make his way down to his army. The rest of the men followed, but MacCormick moved more slowly than the rest. His gaze lingered on Adaira, and he ran his eyes over her in a way that made her feel deeply uncomfortable and dirty. Then, reaching one gauntleted hand up to his helmet, he snapped his visor down and turned away, riding off down the hill with the rest of Duncan’s guard. The hooves of the big destriers kicked the wet mud up into the air as they departed.
As the thunder of the horses retreated, both women let out pent-up breaths.
“It won’t be long now,” said Adaira, and Maudie nodded, pulling her dark shawl closer around her shoulders. Adaira was right.
It was said that the art of battle is nine parts planning and one part fighting. Duncan, with the advice of John MacCormick and the other senior noblemen loyal to the clan, had planned well. A fresh pattering of rain began to fall as Adaira and Maudie watched the scout race across the field. The Strachan pikemen parted their ranks to let him through, and he made his way straight to where Duncan had taken up his position, on slightly higher ground at the left of his army. The outrider leaped from his horse and knelt, then rose and began speaking urgently.
He was too far away to be heard, but his urgency was apparent from the way
he waved his hands about and pointed at the dark woods across the glen from the army. Even as he did so, Adaira and Maudie could see what he was showing them. From their vantage point above the army, they saw a number of dark figures appearing from the trees in the distance. First, there were only two or three, but as they watched, more appeared from all sides.
“They are here,” Adaira heard a man mutter. She glanced around to see Captain Hamish McMahon, the man in charge of her bodyguard, standing nearby. He was a grizzled old veteran, gray-bearded, a common soldier who had risen through the ranks due to his service to Adaira’s father, back in the days when Clan Strachan had been a far more honorable name in the Highlands than it was now.
Hamish was gazing intently into the glen, and suddenly his eyes widened and he spoke again, as if to himself. “It cannae be!” he said incredulously, then, “Aye, it is! I’d know him anywhere!”
“What is it, Hamish?” said Adaira, who liked and trusted the old warrior.
He looked at her as if he’d forgotten her presence. “Look!” he said, pointing. “Dae ye no’ see?”
It took her a moment. Everything had changed in the glen. Where all had been still, now a strong force of mounted men had assembled in the field and were riding toward the Strachan army. They were lightly armored, equipped for speed and agility more than for prolonged battle. As she watched, Adaira saw at the front of the group a man taller than the rest. Unlike the others, he wore no helmet and seemed to be dressed only in a bright plaid and hose. His hair was long, reddish-brown, and it flowed behind him like a banner in the wind. He carried a long sword in one hand, and as she watched, he stood up in the saddle and gave a great bellow. He had a booming voice like a foghorn, and the cavalry behind him all roared in response.
