Highland Hearts 03 - Crimson Heart (2 page)

He had a birthmark, a sinewy line that looked like a pointed tail. It wrapped around his left forearm. Could it be a sign of the devil? His mother didn’t mention the mark because she knew he thought it evil.

He looked to his da. “Better talk to Caden and Meg about their son, Kincaid, especially if he has a mark like mine.”

Alec nodded once, his face grim.

“Another reason you must stay, to help your cousin,” Rachel quickly followed. “If the red magic comes to the men in the family, you need to help us figure out how to use it properly. Kincaid is a man of eighteen now. He will need you.”

“No one speaks of any magic in the lad.” Alec’s voice was low. “Malcolm and Alasdar didn’t have any.” The look in his da’s eyes was dull, as if he were accepting that Searc was alone, an aberration of the healing blue magic for which Rachel was revered.

Searc met his gaze for a long moment, then turned to his mother and shook his head. “I leave at dawn.” He pivoted on his heel before her water-filled eyes could pierce his heart further.

…

Rain dripped from the gray clouds hunkered down over the moor, mirroring Searc’s foul mood. White and gray rocks broke through the green landscape like bones pushing through ripped skin. The call of a hawk cleaved through the thick clouds that nearly touched the land and hid the low hills that were so very different from the crags of the Highlands. Faithful Cheò
loped beside Searc’s horse, his gray coat nearly blending in with his namesake, the mist. Tiny pearls of water dotted his coat and Dearg flicked droplets off his ears. Searc breathed in water with each inhale.

Och!
Two weeks of traveling without a clean pallet reminded him that he much preferred a hearth to a campfire. He would stay in the next town he came upon, at least until he could figure out where he was going. Edinburgh was the center of all the political and religious struggles going on between Marie of the French House of Guise and James Hamilton, the second Earl of Arran. Marie’s daughter, the young Queen Mary Stewart, was safely tucked away in France, but her mother strategized here in Scotland to keep her daughter’s throne. The mother had just been officially named regent to rule Scotland for her daughter, but many still sided with Lord Arran, including the English.

All that danger and intrigue would surely tempt his cursed magic to push its way out into the open. Best to avoid it.

Cheò raised his snout, the black tip flexing to inhale the distant tang of damp wood smoke. A village might lay ahead, perhaps with ale, an ample bosomed widow, and a dry bed. But then Searc’s gut tightened. Something tugged at his core where his power stewed, piquing his magic. His da had always called it Searc’s amazing instincts for survival, but now his sire knew it had been his cursed magic that alerted him to danger before others.

The wolf kept pace at the horse’s flank, his ears flattened. Searc slowed as they entered the shadowed copse of tall oaks. Just like in the Highlands, ferns sprouted everywhere, a cover for animals and marauders alike. Late summer had broadened the canopy of fluttering leaves on the trees above so that the rain only tapped sporadically through to the forest floor.

Searc slid a dagger from his boot and used knees to guide the horse between the thickly wrinkled trunks. He tipped his head back to spy the high limbs, having learned to look above for ambush. In the distance he heard a man’s voice and a bark of rough laughter. Someone was brimming with fear. It was the fear that drew him.

Four men stood in a clearing dressed in rags and rich clothing that didn’t seem to fit. Thieves. They stared up at a tree with shields at the ready.

“I think she’s a wee fairy lass.” One man glanced around his shield to smile wickedly up the tree.

“Now there, lassie, where did ye come from?” a second asked.

“Come down now.” The third thief shuffled to the base of the tree, keeping his head covered with his shield. “We’ll be kind to ye.” He glanced at his friends. “I can see under her skirts.” And he whistled low. The first lowered his shield to spy up the tree.

Searc pressed his knees into Dearg’s side, and the horse leapt forward. “
Stad
!
” he demanded they stop. He glanced overhead and caught the flash of an arrow as it shot downward.

“God’s balls!” The thief grabbed the shaft of an arrow where it had sliced through his sleeve to pierce his arm, blood darkening the dirty linen. Searc dismounted. Two more arrows shot from the tree to lance the wooden shields over the men.

“What goes on here?” Searc glanced up into the thick foliage above. A flash of torn material and shapely bare legs moved amongst the branches and leaves. Small, dirty toes curled around a limb. He repeated his question in English in case the archer or the men didn’t speak Gaelic this far east.

“She’s ours. We found her first,” a greasy-haired fob with a fancy blue jacket yelled, jabbing his shield upward.

Searc whistled and Cheò jumped at one of the men, knocking him down and pinning him beneath his snapping muzzle. He screamed and shut his eyes, surrendering to the beast. Two of the others cursed and moved well away from Cheò. When one notched an arrow to shoot Cheò Searc whistled two short blasts. The wolf dodged away behind a tree. He growled low, waiting for Searc’s signal to spring back into the fray.

“Go away.” The woman shook the limbs hiding her. “I’m no one to trifle with.” The voice held a decidedly English slant.

“Finders keepers.” Still holding his shield the rough man kicked the trunk, possibly in hopes of knocking her out.

A bag of coin fell from the branches. “My life is not for sale, but take the silver and leave, thief,” the woman called.

Searc waited, but he knew the thieves would pocket the coins and still try to take the lass. Bloody scoundrels didn’t bargain when they felt they held the upper hand.

“Drop yer bow.” The bastard with a bald patch on the top of his head turned his gaze to Searc. He redirected his bow to aim the arrow toward the tree while his friend guarded his head. He smiled showing brown teeth. “The lass has no shield.”

There was little hope that the woman could maneuver quickly enough in the limbs to dodge the arrow if he fired. She must have deduced the same. With a muted curse the bow fell from the tree to bounce against the packed moss.

Searc felt the prickly tension in the clearing. His magic searched for release. If he could just focus it, funnel it out enough to use it without losing control. He’d done it before, once when trying to stop a wolf from killing Cheò as a pup. It was just enough power to take the large beast’s strength without taking his life.

“I said drop yer sword, Highlander!” The balding man spat on the ground. “Or she dies.” He sneered. “I have a clear shot through her breast, so kick over all yer weapons, man, and any gold or coins ye happen to have on ye too.” He glanced sideways at the one who’d lowered his shield. “Turning out to be a lucrative day, I’d say. I believe we’ve just found a mount as well.” He laughed as Searc dropped his dagger and sword into the leaf litter. He was too far away to reach the bastard before he released the arrow.

The balding one picked up the woman’s pouch and bow while another motioned for Searc to kick over his blades. “Go on, mountain man, throw over yer monies too.”

“I have none.” Searc’s power roiled up within him, begging for release. “Though ye are welcome to search me.”

“Geoff,” the thief with the crooked nose called, and the leader followed the man’s line of sight.

“What’s wrong with ye, man?”

“Leave the woman and ye will live,” Searc warned, his voice low, letting his power show in a hardening of his eyes. Could the bastard see a faint spark of red there too? The forest around them waited, the very air holding its breath. The green canopy of the trees seemed to contain his words, causing a slight echo, like they were in a great hall instead of a forest.

“Bloody devil.” The balding one, named Geoff, sneered and pulled back tighter on his bow string. A low curse came from the tree and the leaves shook. Was the lass trying to move out of range? Searc held his hands up as if surrendering and cast his glance downward.

“That’s it, darlin’. Climb down here or I’ll shoot ye through.” Geoff moved backward, his arrow still cocked.

“I’d rather die.”
Brave lass.
He could feel her fear, but she refused to give into it.

The man wiped a dirty sleeve across his wet lips. “I said get yer lovely arse down here or we won’t be so nice with ye.”

Searc’s blood boiled at the man’s threats. He took his own bag of coins out of his cinched pouch on his belt. “Oh look, I do have gold after all.”

Geoff smiled. “I think we will take it all. ’Tis four against one.”

“Ye are three—” Searc tilted his head to the shot man sitting against a tree, “—against a Highlander and his wolf. The odds are hugely in my favor.”

The leader chuckled darkly.

Searc slowly shook his head without breaking the stare with the man’s blood-shot eyes. “Ye’ve been warned.” His words grated from between his teeth.

“Ahh!” The lass cried out as her bare foot slipped on the damp branches. She plunged slowly, her arms grasping for branches. She fell in a tangle of wet hair and ripped skirts to the feathery wet ferns below. Geoff leapt forward and hauled her up against him, as the other two bandits charged Searc. With a snapping growl, Cheò jumped in front, knocking down the one he’d pinned earlier. Searc easily slammed the other one down hard enough that the man lay still, face in the dirt and groaning. Searc pivoted toward the woman.

The man with the arrow through his arm joined the leader. The bastard pinned her to a large trunk with his good hand against the base of her throat. Her tangled, dark hair swayed as he shook her. She kicked at his shins, but he just laughed. “Ye’ll pay for this, all night long.” He pressed his nose against her turned cheek. He tried to kiss her and she spat in his face.

“Ye bitch.” He tightened his hold on her throat. She gasped and scratched at his fingers. Searc was on them in two strides, his power surging upward. Geoff cut him off by stepping between them, a blade in his hand.

Searc let his magic flow out from its prison in his gut into his palm and out into Geoff. He could feel it sink into and pull out the man’s essence, his strength, his stamina, sucking it back along the same line into Searc. The thief dropped to his knees and Searc lunged past him to grab the other bastard. The world flooded with red through Searc’s gaze. He jerked the thief away from the woman. She fell to the ground, gasping. Under Searc’s hold the man’s face sunk in around his nose and cheeks as he swore, his words warbling in his collapsing throat. One heartbeat, two, three. The thief’s chest caved under his shirt, making him round forward, until he crumpled into a heap of clothing, dry bones, and ash.

Geoff skittered backward from the pile, his heels churning up wet leaves. He grabbed his chest where surely his heart pounded with early decay.

“Leave here,” Searc growled. Cheò snapped viciously.

“Bloody demon,” Geoff croaked and stood. He passed the sign of the cross furiously before him as if brandishing a sword. The thief that Searc had knocked in the dirt rose too, eyeing the pile of clothing. The three men ran off into the forest, the newly aged leader stumbling to keep up.

Searc breathed deeply, erecting the walls once more, waiting for the deep thudding of his heart to slow. The telltale sensation of new power ached in his muscles.

As if watching through a sheet of water, he saw the woman wrap slender arms around herself. She breathed heavy and stared at him with beautiful, wide eyes. They stood out in her fair face, shaped like almonds, fringed by dark brows and lashes. He blinked, his breathing ragged. Her delicate features came into focus, straight nose, pink lips and cheeks. Her hair lay wet in angled slopes of ribbon over her breasts. One side seemed shorter than the other.

She held his gaze as the rain dropped through the forest canopy, the only sound over his fast breathing. Dim light through the leaves cast the forest in varying shades of green. The silence accentuated their stillness where they stood across from one another, the pile that was the thief off to the side. Large, lovely eyes stared at him. She didn’t move but her whole body seemed poised for action. His attuned senses could almost hear the rapid flight of her heart, like that of a bird. Bewildered and afraid.

With a silent spin, she ran.

Duchess of Suffolk, Catherine Willoughby,

Have you heard the terrible news of my daughter’s execution? Jane was queen for nine days before Mary Tudor’s supporters forced Jane and her husband, Lord Guildford Dudley, down from the throne. They made Mary Tudor queen despite the edict signed by Edward before his death giving my Jane the throne. King Edward would not have passed England into the hands of a Catholic and Jane had become a very pious Protestant, just like her cousin, King Edward.

My husband, Lord Suffolk, was executed shortly after and now I and my two remaining daughters are at Queen Mary’s mercy. She has ordered us to court to hear my pleas and will either send us to beg in the streets or keep us to wait upon her in perpetual service. I can only pray for the latter and hope that fortune will be more kind to my remaining family.

I pray too that you remain apart from this vicious turmoil, but be warned. I fear Queen Mary will be suspicious of any Suffolk, especially one known to practice Protestantism. I must go to London, but if you are still free, leave for the continent before Grimsthorpe is taken by force.

Forever your friend and beloved step-daughter,

Frances Brandon Grey

Elena’s heart slammed behind her breasts, her gasps feeding her quivering muscles to move her legs.
Lord protect me!
She leapt over a fallen log and sprinted. Her torn chemise flapped open, allowing her legs to stretch, propelling her from the lethal, mountainous warrior behind her. What had he done to that man? How had he killed him so completely?

Elena heard a deep voice calling behind her. Was he chasing her? Acorns bruised the arches of her bare feet as she ran, the low bushes scratching her shins and ankles, tearing even more of her ragged shift. Like a frightened doe, she bounded through the ferns, her toes squishing into what must be those large, black slugs she’d seen everywhere in the forest.
Ugh!
She stopped and wiped her foot in the soggy moss as she gasped for breath. Her gaze shot left then right, looking for a hiding place. The
crack
of a breaking limb spurred her forward. She darted toward the gurgling sound of a stream and catapulted over another log. Her foot landed, crunching through something. Pain shot immediately along the bottom of her foot and she screamed.

Elena snatched her foot back out of the fallen hive, but it was too late. The roar of angry black honey bees billowed up around her as she shrieked and batted at the swarm-filled air. She tried to run, stumbling in her panic. Bees flew toward her eyes, brushing her nostrils, jabbing into her hair as she swatted wildly.
Oh God! Save me!
She opened her mouth.

Bam!
A large body slammed into hers, lifting and carrying her out of the cloud. The warrior, she thought, but didn’t have time to worry before he charged with her into the raging stream. Icy cold drops splashed up around her as he ran through the water toward a deeper pool farther on. The water soaked up her backside, making her gasp as they sunk in.

“Hold yer breath.” His words reached her ear and she gulped in air as he plunged them both into the dark pool. Bubbles blew around her on an exhale and she squeezed her eyes shut, the feel of his heavy body pulling them both completely under. The water was freezing. The warmth of the man’s body was the only thing to cling to in the murky iciness. She began to struggle, needing air. He propelled them up from the bottom, heaving through the surface with her. She gasped.

“Take a breath, quick.” She followed his instructions and he pushed them back down. Elena blinked open and saw the watery sky past the line that separated them from the open air. Bees wavered above the surface, some of them getting caught in the water and shooting with the rain-swelled current downstream.

Again she and the warrior surfaced and gulped, only to submerge again. Elena blew bubbles from her nose and mouth to keep the river water out. It stung her eyes. The current tugged at her linen shift and the man used his heels to push them further along the stream. Up and breathe and down again. They crawled, wrapped around each other, underwater, gasping and sinking several more times. The stream opened up further, the fast water slowing into small eddies. The man brought them up and she sucked in air, but he didn’t pull her back down. She felt like a dirty gown that had been beaten and scrubbed in and out of the wash basin.

Elena blinked and squinted past the sting of water. The man’s solid arms held her, his body radiating life-giving heat, a beacon in the cold. Their breaths came hard as they stared closely at one another. His eyes were blue and surrounded by thick lashes spiked together by the water. A shadow of a beard accented his firm jaw under full lips. His nose was straight and a dark curl lay plastered to his forehead. Her heart pounded at his intense gaze. She could feel his broad chest pressed against her breasts, his hands cradling her back. She’d never been held by a man before.

Her feet slid helplessly around his unmoving legs. His gaze scanned her form. “Are ye hurt?”

“I…I don’t know.” She breathed in and out quickly, panting.

“Whoa, lass, slow down, else ye swoon.”

He continued to embrace her tightly. She should try to struggle, but the run and the gasping for air in the water had taken all her strength.

He loosened his grasp on her but still kept her from sinking. “Can ye swim?”

“I don’t know that, either.” There’d been little chance to explore that ability at Grimsthorpe Castle. Lady Suffolk kept a tight household and Elena had walked a fine line between her unspoken lineage as lady and her outward role as servant.

“If ye don’t know, then ye can’t.” He drew her back in to his broad chest and stroked across the short space with one arm to bring them to shore. “Did they sting ye?”

“My foot for certain.”

“Hold still.” He plucked a drowned bee from her tangled mess of hair then helped her climb up the sharp incline. She ached from the cold but her foot hurt the most. She limped a step and turned. Elena’s shift was completely sodden and clung to her body. She plucked at it so the stained white linen wouldn’t stick to her taut nipples. She crossed her arms over her chest and groaned inside. Freezing, practically naked, and without her bow or dagger, she was at the mercy of the stranger who could kill with a touch. She shivered.

“Are you…?” she started and stopped, her breath still coming in shallow pants. “Are you…a demon?”

He stepped forward before she could retreat and lifted her, his arm under her legs. He strode briskly back toward the clearing he’d found her in. “I do not know.”

“How can you not know if you are a demon?”

“How can ye not know if ye can swim?”

She frowned at him, but he’d looked away. He set her on a log near the wet remains of her tiny campfire, knelt before her feet, and raised the sore one to inspect the stings. Taking a flat piece of bark, he scraped over the bumps to remove the needlelike stingers that might still be embedded after their swim, and set it back down gently. He balanced on the balls of his feet and examined the other. When he lifted his gaze to her neck his frown intensified. She touched the sides that must be bruised.

His jaw looked tight and a lethal glaze hardened his eyes. She leaned backward away from him, and he breathed deeply. His blue eyes connected with hers and softened.

“I am sorry for frightening ye.” He rubbed a hand down his face, leaving a look of vulnerability that made Elena want to assure him that all was well when it clearly was not. She kept her lips tightly closed and shivered. He stood to retrieve a wool blanket from his horse. Amazing. The steed had remained in the woods right where he’d left him. Why hadn’t her horse possessed the same loyalty?

The man lowered the dry blanket around her shoulders. His rugged dress marked him as a Highlander and the large muscles, displayed in lustful detail through the wet linen shirt, marked him as a warrior. Just following the thick curves of his arms made her heart pound, surely from appropriate fear. Dark, damp hair stuck out, cropped, a fitting frame for his sinfully handsome face. With looks to muddle a woman’s mind, he must surely be a demon. But would a demon save her from bees and warm her with his own blanket? Would a demon apologize?

“I live with a power that is like a curse.” His eyes scanned the woods around them.

“Your hands and eyes glowed red when you killed that man.” Elena glanced to the pile of clothes by the far tree.

The Highlander nodded. “Dark emotions, anger, fear, hatred—they bring it out of me. I have learned to control it…mostly.”

Mostly?

The man brought a wad of leaves out of his bag, bee balm from the look of it. He stuck some between his white teeth and chewed. She watched wide-eyed as he applied the mashed leaves to the stings on her foot. He tugged a bit at the ragged edge of her shift. “May I?”

She nodded and he tore a length and wrapped it around her foot to hold the poultice in place. His hands raked his hair, making it stand about in damp disarray that seemed incredibly endearing, making him more handsome than any of the polished, powerful men visiting Grimsthorpe Castle.

“You are cursed? Who cursed you? Was it a witch?” Curses were just in tales to frighten children. What an insane conversation to be having in the middle of the forest. But what she’d witnessed certainly wasn’t natural.

His tortured face relaxed, though he kept a frown. “I was born with the curse, and my mother does not like to be called a witch.” Did he jest? He looked back at her swelling foot. “Ye have nothing to fear from me.”

Well, she doubted that. There was much to fear in her life as her sorry state showed clearly. Although for someone who had just reduced a man to ash, the warrior’s touch was very gentle as he applied a bit of balm on one sting on her arm.

“I have nothing for the bruise on yer throat.” He continued to examine the stings on her foot.

“It will fade.”

The rush of rain picked up, hitting the wet leaves with such force that they pelted the ground in heavy drops, but the water rolled off the woolen blanket draped around her.

“What happened to yer gown?” He moved about the clearing with calm, slow gestures as if she were a spooked animal. Well, that would rightly describe her. A spooked girl without a weapon or food or a mount or most of her dress.

“It has been a long journey.” She yanked his blanket tighter around her. “A disastrous journey.”

He raised one eyebrow and looked down at the blackened bare toes of her good foot. “And one made without shoes.”

“I started the journey with them.”

When she didn’t elaborate he pulled some dry peat from his bag and began to build a new fire. He glanced up at the increasing rain, but spoke to her.

“Ye are traveling alone.”

The less strangers knew of her, the better, especially a stranger who could be a demon, though he was seeming less like one by the moment. But then again she’d never met a demon. She also didn’t need word of an Englishwoman traveling alone to reach back to Lincolnshire. She’d put over a fortnight behind her, but only God knew if English soldiers would search this far north for her. Her mind whirled and she breathed deeply to press the panic aside. Perhaps this Highlander could help her. He seemed the honorable sort.

“I am traveling to Edinburgh.” Lord, she hoped her instincts were better than her survival skills.

“Who is in Edinburgh that would draw ye away from yer country?”

Mere curiosity or was he trying to ferret out her secrets? “I have a cousin there.” Or rather the queen dowager Katherine Parr had an illegitimate nephew. Lady Suffolk had sent word to him about Elena right after she told Elena, quite directly, that she couldn’t accompany her household to Germany. Now, this false cousin, Roger Lyngfield, was Elena’s only hope.

“Foolish to travel without escort or mount.” He tossed her small sack of coins back to her.

Foolish not to be running away screaming
. But she didn’t say anything. Her foot throbbed.

“There are thieves everywhere preying on the helpless.” He pulled some oat cakes from his pouch and handed her one.

Foolish? Perhaps. Unlucky? Definitely. Helpless? She frowned. She might be a woman, but she was far from helpless, otherwise she wouldn’t have survived these last weeks.

“I have a mount,” she defended. “And a bow.”

“A mount?” He raised an eyebrow and glanced around.

“Hidden.” Actually lost, but he didn’t need to know that she hadn’t tied a good knot and the horse had wandered off during the night. “And I am
not
helpless. I shot that man.” Her defense steadied her, but she swallowed hard as she again took in the man’s rumpled pile of clothing.

“They would have climbed up to get ye once ye ran out of arrows, or that Geoff would have just shot ye down.”

Just the thought of those lewd men with their taunts made her blood ice over and her stomach churn. She’d barely managed to scurry up the tree when they tromped into her camp. Elena wrapped her arms around herself, saving the oatcake for later when she couldn’t recall the smell of ale and unwashed bodies.
God help me
. She was nearly out of wits after dodging men and beasts for three long weeks of cold, hunger, and worry.

It was truly a blessing that she wasn’t given to hysterics. Stalwart breeding, her surrogate father, Thomas Seymour, used to say. Sadness welled in her chest when she thought about his laughing eyes. He’d been executed. Lady Suffolk said he was a traitor with his own foolish ambitions, but to Elena he’d been the closest she’d had to a family.

A cold raindrop struck Elena’s forehead and dripped down to her nose, where she wiped it away.
I hate rain!
She’d catch the ague by the time she reached the Scottish capital. If she made it.

The warrior nodded at the wolf, his companion, and called him by some name in the guttural Scots language. The large beast trotted up beside him, its tongue hanging out as he panted. He was like a tamed dog, except large and lethal. Who traveled with a wolf? A demon who could kill with a touch, that’s who.

The man’s sword slid into the scabbard strapped across his back, the sound ringing out against the patter on the leaves. “Do ye have no other clothes?”

“No. I have not been to a town to purchase more. I do have coins.” She held up her little bag, her frown fierce.

“’Tis not safe to go about so unclothed.”

She couldn’t contain the little huff that escaped her and narrowed eyes at him. “Do you think I don’t know that? I may be a woman, a tired, wet, mess of a woman, but I am not an idiot. I’m doing the best I can to stay alive.” Tears pressed against the back of her eyes and she looked up so they wouldn’t leak.

He paused, studying her. “I have another shirt ye could use. I am Searc Munro. What is yer name?”

“I…I am Elena.” She’d never given her family name before. She didn’t even really have one.

He bowed slightly, then tilted his head to the side. “Do ye know that yer hair is shorter on one side than the other?”

She pulled the blanket up higher around her head so he couldn’t see the mess that had once been her glorious red-gold hair. “Yes.” Under the blanket Elena’s hand wound around the short strand on one side where it stopped just below her shoulder. The other side reached her waist.