Beneath a Dark Highland Sky: Book #3 (10 page)

When they reached Sorcha’s door, she set the rush light in a pin on the wall.

As soon as she shut the door behind them, Nessa wretched into a basin. Sorcha wiped her face with a cloth and helped her out of her soiled gown and leather boots and into a night dress. She slipped the bone bracelets from her wrists and tucked them away in her trunk.

“Yer in no condition to ha’e yer hair brushed, so just lie down.”

Nessa fell onto the bed and curled onto her side as Sorcha placed another basin by the bed for good measure. She stoked the fire in the hearth and then pulled the gold coverlets up to Nessa’s chin.

“Such a grand room, Sorcha, and such a soft, warm bed. If only the Highlander were in it with me. What was he like naked? I bet ‘twas a glorious sight. Did he take ye, in Gordon’s room, when ye gave him a bath?”

“It will be a cold day in hell before there’s a Highlander in
my
bed!”

It was a grand room and Sorcha felt a pang of guilt, for Nessa usually slept on a pallet on the floor. Sorcha slept in the ornately carved four post bed that had belonged to her parents. In addition to the gold canopy and matching plump golden pillows, it was covered with fur blankets. The small beside table displayed the silver candlesticks her mother had brought to the keep as a new bride. Her trunk contained not only clothing but weapons of various sorts, and the princess puppet her father made for her sat propped on a chair, the paint on her face faded and chipped now, the strings frayed. Rich tapestries adorned the walls and the room contained a private garderobe.

Tonight Sorcha would sleep on the pallet, as Nessa had done many a night. Sorcha had offered on many occasions for Nessa to sleep on the other side of the bed, but Nessa always refused. At least she agreed to use one of the fur blankets Sorcha offered her.

Nessa began to snore and Sorcha shook her gently. “Dunna fall asleep! A priest travels to the keep in two days’ time! We only ha’e two days to prevent the marriage. I thought we would ha’e more time.”

“Two days?” Nessa sat up slightly and almost immediately wretched over the side of the bed, nearly missing the basin. “Clean that slop up at once,” she said and giggled.

“In yer present state, ye dunna seem to grasp the serious nature of this situation.”

“Can we talk about it in the morn?” Nessa whined. Soon she was snoring again.

Resigning herself, Sorcha cleaned up the basin and changed into her night dress. She doused the candles on the table and lay on the pallet on the stone floor, beneath the fur blanket, but sleep would not come. She stared at the flames writhing and twisting in the hearth.

She could not stop thinking of how the path of her life had been determined long ago by a power-hungry king and a stubborn, arrogant, dark-haired Highlander with piercing amber eyes—a devil in cleric’s clothing.

She finally closed her eyes and her dreams were not peaceful, for even in sleep she could not escape the Highlander’s dark, virile visage and unnerving gaze.

She dreamt of him and his hot, searching kiss, of the way his lips had moved over hers, causing an unexpected warm ache in her being. But in the dream he judged her harshly for her lack of honesty, for lying to him, and he plotted a brutal revenge. She also dreamt of the raging Black Burn of Sorrow and saw her mother’s ghostly form, standing waist high in the dark waters, reaching a hand out to Sorcha, silently beseeching her to join her….

11

The next morning, Sorcha woke with a start.

Nessa still snored loudly, occasionally murmuring something unintelligible in her sleep.

Sorcha rose and splashed water on her face and arms and dried herself with a linen cloth. She used the garderobe and then changed into a tunic and slipped her boots on her cold feet. She sat on the edge of the bed.

“Nessa, ye goose, get up. Ye need to take the Highlander on a tour of everything he thinks he’s inherited.”

Nessa moaned. “Nay, let me sleep!”

“Ye must get up. Ye must be there to see me best him with my bow and arrow.”

Nessa half opened one eye and closed it. She turned over, presenting her back to Sorcha. “I dunna feel well. Let me sleep, ye saucy wench.”

“Ye must get up!”

“Ye can show him the chapel and the village and the stupid auld stones and the caves.”

“Nay. I am a maid with duties, remember?”

“Tell him I ha’e given ye special permission to be his guide. Martha and the others can take on the serving duties this morn. Ye ken the land so much better than I do anyway, given yer hunting and swimming and exploring the woods and caves as often as ye do. I dunna like horses and they dunna like me. I would make a terrible guide.”

“But ye’ll miss the contest, when I humiliate the Maclean. At least roll out of bed for that.”

She turned over, stretched, and opened her sky-blue eyes. “Yer vera good with yer bow and arrow, Sorcha, but are ye sure ye want to challenge
him
? The Macleans are rumored to be some of the best archers along the Scottish coast. He could probably put an arrow in someone’s eye from two hundred paces!”

“An inflated reputation, no doubt spread to strike fear in the hearts of his enemies.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I dunna fear facing him. Kendrew has taught me well.”

“So be it,” Nessa said, and there was a different sort of light in her eyes. “What Sorcha wants Sorcha gets.” She turned her back again. “I willna be leaving this bed any time soon. My absence is another rudeness for the Highlander to bear, do ye nae agree? Another disagreeable side of his drunken betrothed.” Nessa sighed as she curled up in the soft coverlet.

“Aye, it will seem quite rude. Ye do ha’e a point. But ye canna laze a bed
all
day and leave me to entertain him.”

There was a knock and Martha entered carrying a goblet. “Aye, ‘tis as I thought. The lady will need this if she’s to feel better any time soon.”

Nessa dramatically threw an arm over her forehead. “Och, by the Saints, will ye all just let me sleep!”

Martha bustled to her side and made sure she drank what was in the goblet—all of it.

“’Tis bloody awful!” Nessa cried, gagging.

“It will make ye feel better. Many a time I brought this drink to yer brothers, and to yers Sorcha, after a night of too much whisky and wine. Nessa, do ye remember the time Tomas awoke in the rain in a field full of sheep? He had so much whisky he had no memory of how he’d gotten in the field in the first place! I fixed him up with a pinch of cornflower mixed with buttermilk and salt.”

Nessa moaned and pulled the cover over her head.

“It could be worse,” Martha said. “Do ye ken what the bloody Sassenach eat when they feel like ye do? Slithery, raw eel.”

“I ne’er meant for ye to go this far, to make yerself sick with drink,” Sorcha said softly. “If there is any time ye wish to call this off, and ye dunna wish to continue the ruse, ye must tell me. I will understand. I will confess our ruse and tell the Highlander who I am….”

“Ne’er say it. Now go. Leave me be. Humiliate the Maclean with your bow and arrow. Then take the horse’s arse round the Douglas land. Tell him stories about fairies and witches and ghosts and auld women turned to stone in summer. Scare him with tales of ragged and blood-thirsty Sassenach raiders who hide in the woods and two-headed giants who live in sea caves and roast wee bairns for their dinners. Better yet, take him to the Cave Where Time Stands Still. The one no one will enter for fear of being frozen forever in time. Maybe he’ll get stuck there.”

Sorcha frowned. “I dunna think there is anything the Maclean fears.”

12

Even though some of the guests were lying half drunk on the hall rushes, what Sorcha found in the great hall below made it seem the drinking, eating, and merry making from the night before had never ended.

There was the animated zing of blades as Malcolm and Nathair were challenged by man after man to clash swords, and they were victorious each time. Men and women from both clans mingled at the tables and benches, breaking their fast and watching the good-natured entertainment with interest and glee.

“Ye swing a sword like a dung shovel!” Nathair cried, quickly knocking Tomas’ sword from his grasp.

“Ye wield yer blade like a kitchen scullion wields her broom!” Malcolm cried, besting another Douglas man who lunged wildly. Malcolm pinned his sword against his thigh and shoved him forcefully, sending the man and blade sprawling.

The women watched Nathair and Malcolm, frank admiration in their eyes. Their movements were so graceful and coordinated they almost seemed like brothers who had come fighting together out of the womb. They probably had fought side-by-side from the time they were bairns.

Sorcha found a bench and nibbled on bread and cheese. She drank a mug of watered wine, coming to the conclusion that the Maclean reputation with a sword was well-earned indeed. She could find no fault with Malcolm’s or Nathair’s techniques. At all times they were aware of their opponents and left no parts of themselves vulnerable to a thrust from the enemy. Their stamina never wavered. Their movements hefting and thrusting the heavy longswords were so fluid they appeared to have no bones in their brawny arms.

Sorcha had seen firsthand the devastation that could be wrought with the fearsome weapon. In battle, it was swung with both hands and capable of delivering devastating wounds. Parries were made with the flat of the blade, and the cross-guard could be used to block, bind, or trap an opposing weapon.

A memory welled up that she could not ignore—the sound of men-at-arms beating the flats of their sword blades against their shields while pike men thumped the ground with the butts of their long weapons and others beat great drums. She’d heard those sounds far off and she’d heard them close, far too close for comfort. She still heard the heavy drums in her dreams, somber now as men came marching over the hill, without her father and Gordon and Tavish, who would never come home again.

Malcolm’s eyes fell on Sorcha. “The Douglas men could stand improvement in their sword technique, eh?” Her clansmen grumbled at his remark but were impressed by the Maclean’s skills and those of his war advisor Nathair.

“That may be so, Highlander,” Sorcha said, “but everyone kens reputations are nae solely made fighting on foot. Reputations are made with bow and arrow. And I am keen to find out how skilled ye are with the devil’s instrument.”

A hush fell over the hall as Kendrew, chief huntsman, threaded his way through the crowd and challenged Malcolm. Kendrew was a short, muscular man with legs like tree trunks. His weathered face was grey-bearded and dark from time spent on the wind-swept moors and battlefields, his thick tufts of hair mostly silver threaded with red. His nose was wide and flat from being broken several times and he bore battle scars on the lower half of his chin and above his right brow. “I’m twice the age of ye ducklings,” he said, “yet will I show ye the purpose of a blade.” He brandished his gleaming sword, the weapon he’d carried for decades, the one he could often be found rubbing with an oilcloth.

“I will try nae to embarrass ye, auld man.”

“Anyone who duels with a Douglas usually ends up boned and gutted, like an unwitting fish pulled from a loch. But I willna go so far as to kill ye, Maclean, as this is nae a battle to the death. If it were, I’d skin ye alive and send ye roasting to hell with the other canker-blossomed Macleans.”

Malcolm’s eyes were a heated gold and danced with the excitement of the challenge. “Aye, well, there are certainly enough Macleans in hell to keep the devil in great company. But I doubt ye’d ha’e the strength to dispatch
me
to the nether regions, auld man.”

Kendrew addressed the Douglas lads and men he trained. “The mistake ye made is nae remembering offense and defense at the same time, and that e’ery stroke sets up three thrusts hence.” He tapped his thick skull with a finger. “Ye always ha’e to be thinking ahead.”

Everyone watched, entranced, as the men raised their swords, metal clashing on metal. Sweat poured down their faces and muscles strained, yet no ground was given on either side. The fight wore on and the cheers grew more boisterous. Strong arms trembled with each new blow of steel on steel. They circled and struck, circled and struck, blade upon blade, parrying and thrusting until it was finally determined to be a draw and both weapons were sheathed.

Malcolm bowed. “Thank ye for the steel dance,” he said. “I underestimated ye, auld man. Yer nae the be-slubbering beef-witted moldwarp I took ye for.”

              Kendrew chuckled. “And I underestimated ye. Apparently ‘twould nae be as easy as I thought to send a cockered, rump-fed, jack-a-nape like yerself to hell.”

They grasped each other’s forearms in a gesture of respect. Malcolm’s eyes searched the shadows, coming to rest on Sorcha’s small frame. “I grow tired of swords,” he said, addressing the crowd. “’Tis time I tested my skill with bow and arrow against the boastful maid’s.”

              Louder cheers arose.

Malcolm looked at Kendrew. “What ha’e ye in way of targets?”

“There’s a field just outside these castle walls with mounds at each end as tall and fat as a an auld Scotsman. Attached are wreaths made of braided vine, with oyster shells in the centers.”

Sorcha stood and faced Malcolm. “I suggest we shoot two arrows each. We must hit the shell inside the ring. The one closest to the center of the ring wins. If at any time one of us splits the other’s arrow, it is an immediate win, no matter how many shots we’ve taken.”

“But what shall be the prize for this test of skill?”

Sorcha bit her lower lip thinking about it and his eyes noted the movement, a different sort of tension in his jaw now. “If I win, I want yer weapon, Maclean.”

There were gasps from the crowd. Malcolm simply nodded in agreement.

“What would ye demand in the unlikely event ye should win?” she asked.

He lips curled in a wolfish smile. “Ye will accompany me and the Lady Douglas to the Maclean keep, indeed anywhere I desire, without a single complaint or act of stubbornness.”

“That will be the day,” she said softly.

“What did ye say? I’m afraid I couldna hear ye, lass.”

Sorcha nearly laughed out loud at the thought of meekly submitting to any of the Highlander’s wishes. But she knew ‘twould be folly to laugh now. She inclined her head. “Aye, if ye win, I will accompany ye and the Lady Douglas to hell and back if need be.”

“Without a single complaint.”

              She gritted her teeth. “Aye, without a single complaint.”

His eyes glittered with the triumph he already assumed would be his.

Sorcha fervently hoped the many hours she’d spent practicing with her bow and arrow, her knees and arms aching as she sighted the targets and let arrow after arrow fly, would be enough to best the seasoned Highland warrior. Over the years she’d practiced until her string fingers bled; until she no longer thought when she drew the string back to her ear; until using the bow was almost as instinctual as breathing. For what had Kendrew taught her? “The secret is not to aim,” he’d said. “Ye look and ye let the arrow fly. And ye pull the string all the way back, not just to the eye.” He had also shown her how to use a longer string so the bow didn’t need as much strength.

Sorcha had determined long ago she’d lost enough. Too much. If her clan were attacked by English
or
Scottish enemies, she would not be unprepared. She would not let them take anything else. Not without a fight.

“I look forward to owning yer weapon, Highlander. I hope yer nae too attached to it.”

Gold lights danced in his eyes. “We’ll see about that, Lowlander.”