Her Highland Hero

by Terry Spear

  The men stopped far enough away that they were not a threat unless they were armed with bows and arrows.

  “Marcus McEwan, hand over the lass, known as Lady Isobel, and we will leave in peace,” one of the men said, his hair and beard black.

  At once, Marcus recognized the man’s voice. “Tearloch, Laren’s right hand man. If Laren sent him to fetch the lass, he means business.”

  “Now do we shoot them full of arrows?” Niall asked.

  Marcus smiled at Niall, then shouted out to Tearloch, “The lass prefers to stay with her husband. You have come on a fool’s errand, Tearloch. Tell Laren that he has no claim to Isobel.”

  “Since he is her da, he begs to differ with you. ‘Twas a travesty that Pembroke claimed her as his own. Now that he is dead, ‘tis time to rectify that.”

  To Marcus’s surprise and concern, Isobel joined him at the entryway to the stone structure. He quickly took a protective stance at her side, hoping she didn’t intend to offer herself up to Laren’s men in an attempt to protect him and the rest of their escort. One of the men serving as archers, moved to protect her also.

  “How can he claim me now when he never did before?” Isobel called out to Tearloch, her tone angry. “My father was and will always be the one who raised me, loved me, and provided for me. I know not who your laird is, nor do I care to. I am wed to Laird Marcus McEwan. So as Marcus has said, you have been sent on a fool’s—”

  An arrow shot out of the fog toward the opening of the stone enclosure, and Marcus scooped Isobel up in his arms and dove for cover as everyone else ducked behind the boulders. Retaliating, the archers in Marcus’s party shot arrows at the quickly retreating Tearloch and his men. Two went down after their horses reached the mainland and the wounded men landed in the grasses. Tearloch and the other three managed to escape.

  “The archer was aiming for you,” Angus said to Marcus.

  “Good thing he is a lousy shot,” Marcus said.

  “He cannot believe that if they killed you, I would go willingly with the men, can they?” she asked with such incredulity, Marcus had to smile.

  “Nay, lass.” He frowned then. “They know I lead the party here and if they were able to eliminate me, mayhap the rest would feel leaderless.”

  Angus and Gunnolf snorted.

  “Aye, my feelings also,” Marcus said. “Any of the men here would see to your safety. But to Tearloch and his men’s way of thinking, it would be one less man that they would have to deal with. They dinna know how many strong we are. Until more of my men can arrive, we will just have to wait them out. They may think of attacking at nightfall, which would be my tactic, but my men will arrive well before that.”

  “I hate the waiting. I wish we could do something,” Isobel said.

  “Aye, I agree,” Marcus said, sitting beside her again and taking her in his arms to keep her warm. “Sometimes the waiting is worse than the fighting.”

  Isobel was already chilled again and trembled either from the cold or from the fright of what had just occurred. Thankfully, the stones in the form of walls provided protection from the most chilling winds. But the air around them was still cold.

  “What was this building used for?” she asked.

  “A place to weather a storm, a semi-defensive structure. At one time it had a thatched roof, but a gale tore it off and no one has had the time or need to replace it. Though if we had a roof like that now, archers could burn us out and that wouldna bode well.”

  “Aye. You…you dinna mind if we wait until Mary joins us before we have a wedding, do you?”

  “Nay, lass. Whatever you wish.”

  “I wish Tearloch and his men to go away.”

  “As do I.”

  “More riders are approaching from the southeast,” Angus warned.

  “What the devil are they doing?” Marcus said, leaving Isobel and peering between the boulders.

  “I canna see who they are as the fog hides them from us. More of Laren’s men, mayhap?” Gunnolf said.

  “I would think he would have had them with him all this time,” Marcus said.

  Then the sound of fighting began in the fog.

  Everyone inside the enclosure was tense, waiting for an order.

  “We come in peace!” a man shouted.

  “Lord Wynfield!” Isobel cried out.

  Marcus glanced at her.

  “He must have come with an escort of men to see if I had been brought here. He has not fought since he was a young man. Tearloch and his men will kill them,” Isobel said with tears in his eyes.

  Marcus had thought it was Wynfield, but seeing the stricken look on Isobel’s face, he knew it was for sure.

  “I will take a dozen men with me. The rest stay here and protect Isobel.”

  “There are at least thirteen of their men out there,” Angus warned. “I will go with you.”

  “And me,” Gildas said.

  “And however many men Wynfield has.” Marcus hoped they were fighting men.

  “I will go,” Niall said, and Gunnolf was already getting their horses to stand.

  Halwn and Kayne also volunteered, though Drummond wished to go as well.

  “Nay, I wish Isobel well protected. That leaves the three of you brothers, two more of your men, and Finbar.”

  “Aye,” they said, acknowledging that their job was just as important.

  Marcus mounted his horse and led the party toward the sound of shouting and he and the others rode half a mile into the fog before they could see the men who were fighting. Lord Wynfield had eight or nine men with him, it appeared and he was holding his own.

  Marcus rode up to dispatch the man who was fighting him and wheeled around to fight a new attacker. Marcus still had not seen Tearloch, but as soon as he was able, he would fight the man. Marcus was certain that if he killed Tearloch, his men would indeed feel leaderless and scurry home to their laird.

  “These are not your men?” Wynfield called out, sounding winded and surprised.

  “Nay. They claim kinship to Isobel and want to take her with them. But I have married the lass and she isna going anywhere.” Marcus swung his sword at a MacLauchlan clansman, connecting steel against steel in a loud clang.

  “Her father would have to approve.” Wynfield took another swing at one of MacLauchlan’s men.

  Marcus struck at the man fighting him and dealt him a killing blow. The villain fell from his horse and the animal ran off. He turned to fight the man Wynfield was struggling to defeat and saw that the baron had been cut across his leg. Marcus again rode to his aid.

  “Go, Wynfield. Directly west, cross the peninsula to the crannog. Isobel is there. She will care for your wounds.”

  “You need me…”

  “Nay. You can protect her there.”

  Marcus killed the man who had been fighting Wynfield, and the baron said, “Her father lives.”

  He rode off in the direction Marcus told him to ride and Marcus stared at him in disbelief.

  Chapter 16

  His thoughts in turmoil as he considered Lord Wynfield’s words, Marcus watched the baron ride off. He couldn’t believe Lord Pembroke was truly alive. Had Wynfield lied about the earl? That Isobel’s father, or at least the one who had raised her, had not died?

  Marcus had to concentrate on the fighting at hand. He hoped that he, his men, and Wynfield’s killed Tearloch and enough of his people that the rest would realize they were defeated and return home. If Lord Pembroke was truly alive, it wouldn’t make any difference to Marcus. He had rescued Isobel and married her in good faith, believing Pembroke’s nephew would take over the earldom and John had no need to decide matters for her. Marcus and Isobel had done what they had wanted to all along, and he wouldn’t give her up for any reason or anyone.

  Lord Wynfield shouted off to the east in the direction of the crannog, “‘Tis me! Lord Byron Wynfield. Marcus sent me here to help protect Lady Isobel.”

  Marcus prayed no one would kill Lord Wynfield by accident,
and that the baron would recover from his injuries. Which made Marcus wonder again what had truly become of Lord Pembroke. Had the baron hoped to still wed the lass and used that as a ploy to return her home?

  “Nay!” Isobel shouted, her voice frantic with fright.

  “God’s wounds,” Marcus swore, fearing for Isobel’s safety, and broke off the fight with another man he had engaged. He turned his horse around and galloped back to the stone enclosure. The man he’d been fighting and another raced after him.

  When he reached the peninsula, he saw Tearloch on foot, his sword at Wynfield’s throat, the two of them facing the crannog, both men’s horses nearby.

  Marcus cursed again and rode toward Tearloch as Finbar held Isobel tight in his grasp, not letting her leave the enclosure. Her face was red and frustrated, her eyes narrowed as if she would kill Tearloch herself for threatening Wynfield.

  “Tearloch!” Marcus shouted, “Let the old mon go and fight me! A Highlander. Not someone who hasna held a sword in his hand for a good ten years.”

  “Send Isobel out to me and I will let the Sassenach go,” Tearloch snarled.

  Two of the Chattan clansmen were ready to release arrows, but they didn’t and Marcus knew they were afraid to hit the baron.

  As soon as Marcus was near enough to Tearloch to engage in combat, two men came out of the fog to fight Marcus. The archers targeted them instead and the three brothers charged out of the enclosure to help Marcus fight the new arrivals, leaving only three behind with Isobel—the two archers, and Finbar who was still holding her tight, not allowing her to go to the baron’s aid.

  All at once, it seemed the battle had come to Marcus, though he still could hear fighting in the distance, so he knew it was not so. Five more men appeared and began to fight with him and the others while Tearloch finally shoved Wynfield into the loch, turned, and attacked Marcus.

  Wearing heavy chainmail, the baron struggled to keep afloat, sputtering and flailing his arms, unable to make it to shore and would surely drown.

  “Let me go!” Isobel said to Finbar. “Lord Wynfield will drown.”

  “Stay,” Finbar ordered, and then he ran out of the enclosure to reach the baron.

  Marcus prayed Isobel would stay put as Tearloch attempted to injure Marcus’s horse. Marcus jumped down from his saddle and engaged Tearloch face to face. The Highlander had a strong swing and he was fast. But Marcus struck just as hard and quickly as his opponent, one gaining ground and then the other.

  Finbar was still struggling to pull Wynfield out of the water when Gunnolf slayed his opponent and sprinted to help him, knowing one man would never be able to save the baron from drowning in the lake, wearing the heavy mail.

  Isobel screamed, and Marcus turned his attention for a slip of a moment toward the enclosure. Tearloch slashed at Marcus’s belly and he only just managed to block the blow that could have killed him.

  Still, he had to reach Isobel and protect her.

  Two of Chattan’s men were still in the enclosure with Isobel, he thought. Then the sound of swords clanking inside the walls made Marcus’s blood run cold. He slashed again at Tearloch, but he dodged the slice of Marcus’s sword.

  Then she screamed again, and Marcus thrust his sword at Tearloch, then fell back, trying to get closer to the enclosure. Tearloch lunged forward and Marcus jumped back, stumbling over a dead body and went down.

  ***

  To Isobel’s horror, dripping wet and armed for a fight, four MacLauchlan clansmen climbed over the barrier from the back side. The two guards left behind to protect her rushed to fight them. Three of the MacLauchlan men quickly engaged them.

  The fourth MacLauchlan clansman forced her into a corner so that she would not get in the way of the fighting or help the guards. His blond-bearded face stern, his blue eyes narrowed, he held her at bay with his sword. Angered and frustrated, she could do nothing to help the other men. Should they kill the other men, she couldn’t fight four men with just a sgian dubh when they were armed with much longer swords. With her heart thundering and her skin chilled, she watched the man keeping her pinned against the wall, hoping for an opening where she could attack him and get away. To her alarm, she saw both of her guards collapse in bloody heaps before the remaining MacLauchlan men turned to face her, their chests heaving and their bearded faces flushed with exertion.

  At least her back was pressed against the wall, and they couldn’t reach her without her slicing at them. Everything happened so fast after that, it was almost a blur.

  The blond-bearded man risked getting close to her and grabbed her left arm and yanked her away from the wall, exposing her back. She slashed at his arm, slicing it. He cursed, released her, and fell back. The other men moved in so quickly, that though she swung around to cut another, one maneuvered behind and seized her by the waist. Another captured her right wrist, twisted hard, forcing her to loosen her grip on her weapon, making her cry out in pain. Before she dropped her weapon, he yanked it out of her hand and tossed it to the earth. Two of the men fought with her to shove her over the rock wall, away from the entrance, and away from the battling men. Isobel screamed to alert Marcus or anyone she was in trouble.

  They intended to steal her away while everyone else was fighting. Neither she nor the men protecting her had heard them coming.

  No matter how much she struggled against the brigands, she could not break free to grab the blade. Nor could she stop them from hoisting her over the wall. She landed hard on her knees, smacking the rocks strewn there. Her pursuers heaved themselves over the wall and onto the other side, landing beside her, just as she gained her footing and ran to the other end of the peninsula. She nearly reached the loch and intended to jump into the water and swim away.

  She was a good swimmer, though wearing a brat, léine, chemise, and shoes would weigh her down in the frigid water. Not to mention the cold could quickly affect her, but she couldn’t let these men spirit her away.

  She ran into the loch, but her gowns dragged at the water. She dove in and shivered as the cold water closed around her.

  “Grab the woman,” one of the men said.

  Splashes behind her assured her that she was not swimming as fast as she needed to. Not with the way her garments were weighing her down the wetter they got. Then someone grabbed the edge of her brat, and it tightened around her throat, forcing her to stop swimming. Her fingers stiff from the cold, she fumbled with the brooch to unfasten it, but she couldn’t manage it and stay afloat, too.

  The four men suddenly surrounded her, grabbing at her arms, forcing her to go with them to reach a closer shore. She then saw their horses tied up to trees near there.

  If they managed to get her to shore and onto one of their horses, they could ride off with her and rendezvous with the others, leaving Marcus, his cousins, and kin behind before they even realized she was gone.

  She cried out, “Marcus!”

  She hoped that he would realize she was in the loch and no longer in the enclosure. That she needed his help or his men’s if anyone could even hear her voice.

  She scuffled with them, trying to hit them with her fists, attempting to kick them. But she was having a time keeping her face above water, choking on it, gasping for breath. They kicked and swam and attempted to get her to the shore as quickly as they could. Every stroke brought her closer to their horses, and every stroke made her panic more. Kicking and trying to yank her arms free did nothing but make them angrier as they tightened their grips on her arms and dunked her to half drown her and make her behave.

  “Once we reach the shore, knock her out,” one of the men said.

  If they knocked her out, she’d never be able to escape, she feared, as she coughed, and tried to catch her breath, but she didn’t stop fighting them, praying she’d still manage to get free.

  ***

  Sweat pouring off his face red with exertion, Tearloch nearly smiled with dark intent as he thrust his sword at Marcus, who was scrambling to get off the body of one of Mac
Lauchlan’s men and ready his sword.

  Tearloch stabbed at Marcus’s chest, but he managed to roll to the left and gain his feet. He was about to thrust at Tearloch, when they both heard Isobel cry out from the direction of the loch. The whoreson broke off the engagement with Marcus and ran off.

  Marcus’s heart beat even harder at hearing Isobel’s cry of distress from the location of the loch. He sprinted to where his horse had taken refuge in the enclosure, remounted him, and raced him back to the mainland. Four MacLauchlan men were in the lake, trying to swim to shore with his wife, who was fighting them as much as she was able.

  He galloped around the loch to reach them. The men were still a long ways from the shore, attempting to swim with a reluctant hostage. He cursed again under his breath, seeing red he was so angered.

  Before Marcus reached the men and Isobel, someone rode after him. Hoping it was one of his own kin, he turned, only to see Tearloch on horseback, getting ready to swing his sword. God’s knees! Marcus needed to rescue his wife!

  Turning his horse, Marcus swung his sword with such force, Tearloch nearly lost his weapon. Marcus thrust for the kill, but Tearloch jerked his horse to the side to avoid the impact.

  The blade sliced across Tearloch’s side and stained his brown tunic red. He cursed bloody murder and turned his horse again to strike at Marcus.

  For the tromping footfalls of their horses, the clashing of swords, the sound of fighting in the distance, of men yelling and crying out, of swords clanking and horses neighing, Marcus couldn’t hear what was going on behind him.

  Isobel was too quiet and he feared someone had knocked her out to make her compliant. He was ready to kill the bloody bastard. But he was trying to concentrate fully on the menace before him and hoped he could run him through before the men reached the shore with Isobel.

  Where were Marcus’s men?

  When he heard the sound of men splashing on the rocky shore, grunting, trying to make it to their horses, Marcus wanted to swing around and kill them all now. But he couldn’t turn his back on Tearloch.

  “Angus! Finbar!” Marcus called out. If any one of his men or his kin could hear his voice he would know Marcus was in dire need of help or he would not ask them to come to his aid when he knew they had to be in the thick of battle themselves.