Highlander Avenged (4 page)

Perhaps distracting her would help her break free.

“I still do not ken your name, angel, and after what we have done together this day, I feel it only fair that you share it with me.”

She sighed and sat back on her heels. She gave him a formal head bow. “I am Jeanette MacAlpin, daughter of Kenneth.”

“It is my great pleasure to make your acquaintance, Jeanette MacAlpin, daughter of Kenneth,” he said formally, returning the head bow with an ill-concealed grimace and a small adjustment of his right shoulder.

“I need to tend your arm,” Jeanette said.

He pulled off his tunic without a word and turned so his injured arm was close to her, the linen bandage fallen to his elbow and the moss now on the ground. He could not stop the sigh that escaped him when she laid her hands on either side of the wound, calming the ache with just her touch. He looked down at her and was pleased to find the haunted look now completely replaced by one of deep thought. At least some good had come of his damned wound.

“Have you had this fever before?” she asked, her voice once more that soft but firm tone he had heard when first she’d seen his arm.

“Aye, off and on for months, though it seems stronger now than it has been in some time.”

She nodded and caught the side of her full bottom lip between her teeth. “Sometimes the fever works with the wellspring to burn out what cannot be washed away.” She dipped another cupful of water for him. “Drink. You need to drink a lot when you have a fever lest it burn right through you.”

He took the cup from her, but she deftly avoided his fingers this time. He drained it again, while she wet more of her moss and used it to gently wash the greenish mess speckled with pink droplets of blood that oozed from his wound. When it was clean, she bade him to stay where he sat by the burn. He was glad to comply. As she moved away from him, he couldn’t help but admire the way the end of her pale braid just brushed the small of her back, drawing his attention to her gentle curves, and the graceful way she moved, as if she were in her element here in the forest. He’d thought her an angel but perhaps she was more of a wood sprite, or one of the fey, the fairy folk, lulling men into her underground world where everything was beautiful and no one ever died.

She leaned down to gather some newly greening moss from the forest floor and glanced back at him, catching him staring at her. Their eyes locked and he could not look away. Curiosity and concern showed in her crystalline eyes and then she gave him a shy smile as if to ask why he was staring at her. He dared not think what she saw in his eyes while his imagination had been heading in directions it should not. She was just a beautiful lass in the greenwood, and he an injured warrior with fever dreams catching him even while he was awake. He looked away, unsettled by the powerful pull this woman he’d only just met had upon his thoughts and his body. He needed to stay focused on healing his arm so that he could return to the king, and eventually so he could return home to take his place as the next chief. A beautiful woman would only be a distraction from his duty.

She startled him when she laid a large portion of the moss over the wound and bound it in place with the long strip of linen she had used before. She had him back in his tunic almost before he knew what she was up to. When she stepped back from him he immediately missed the feel of her hands, even though there had been nothing even slightly flirtatious in her touch.

“We should away,” she said, and he was glad to notice that the trembling was completely gone and only a ghost of the haunted look was left in her eyes. She was truly a strong lass.

“Aye, you are surely missed by now.” He awkwardly tucked his tunic back into his belted plaid. “Does your family always let you roam the bens by yourself?”

The last wisps of sadness left her eyes, and were replaced now by a snap of temper. He grinned at her, which won him a scowl.

“Aye, they do. Until lately there has been no danger to us on our own land.”

“And yet they let you wander by yourself now that things are indeed dangerous?” He could not stop himself from asking, any more than he could stop the spurt of anger at her kin for not protecting her better. It was a good thing he was with her when they’d met that soldier. He did not want to think what might have happened to her if she had been alone upon that path.

And then he remembered the screech she had let out as she felled the man. The woman . . . Jeanette . . . was stronger and more cunning than she looked. His anger was replaced by a warm feeling that had him smiling at her. He stood, a little more wobbly on his feet than he was comfortable with, but he held his good hand out to her. She looked at his hand, then placed hers in it, palm to palm. He closed his fingers around hers and gently pulled her up to her feet, holding on to her for just a moment longer than was necessary.

“Let’s away, then,” he said.

The lass had her lip caught between her teeth again and Malcolm had to stop himself from reaching out to touch her. He tried to fist both hands, and pain shot through his arm, reminding him forcefully of where his attention needed to be.

“Do you think it safe to take the trail again?” she asked, looking across the clearing at a small path. “It will take us far less time to reach the castle that way than it will by cutting through the forest.”

He considered how far they had come from where they had met the soldier, but those other voices he had heard made him uneasy that the soldier Jeanette had felled was not the only one nearby. “Let us go to the trail, but we will listen and watch before we step out of our cover, and we must be ready to abandon it at the first hint of anyone else about.”

She nodded and led him down the path, stopping just before they reached the main trail again. He edged out, looking up and down the trail and listening for long moments. Finally, he nodded and they silently set out on the trail.

Not long afterward, they came to a spot in the trail that opened up, revealing a long, narrow loch, a deeper blue than the late-spring sky, and, sitting before it, the battered remains of a ruined castle.

“That is not—,” he said, stopping in his tracks.

Jeanette stopped beside him and, for a moment, stared into the distance, though whether she looked at the ruins or somewhere else, he couldn’t tell. He took a moment to look more carefully at the place. One whole side of the curtain wall, nearest the loch, was gone, though he could not see the foot of it to tell if it was a rubble pile, or was removed completely. And on the left, inside the wall that still stood, were the burnt-out remains of a large building—probably the great hall. A single tower stood opposite the burnt building and it at least did not appear damaged, but closer examination might prove him wrong in that estimation. There was no way this castle could support anyone, let alone keep them safe.

“That cannot be your home,” he said, keeping his voice low.

She turned her back to the devastation and faced him. Her eyes were filled with sadness, but her raised chin and stiff posture spoke loudly of anger, if not rage.

“Aye, it can be,” she said, challenge now burning the sadness from her gaze, “and it is.” She abruptly turned back to the castle and strode down the path.

He pushed himself to catch up with her. There were too many questions raging in his head.

“Who did this?” he asked.

“The wall?” She shrugged but did not slow down. “We do not ken why it fell. But the fire, that was set by an English spy. He killed my mum, too. Murdered her in front of me as she lay in her sickbed.”

She looked back at him then, and he suddenly understood why a woman such as she, a healer dedicated to saving lives, would have attacked that English soldier so fearlessly. Vengeance was the strongest of motivators, even for a woman like Jeanette MacAlpin.

“I am surprised you did not slice that Sassenach bastard’s head off today,” he said, meaning every word.

“I would have, if I could have managed the sword better.”

His gaze snapped to hers and he could feel a rage that matched hers, rolling off of him like storm-driven waves on the loch. Here was something he could give her, something he was well schooled in after more than a year in the king’s army. Once his arm was fully healed, he could give her vengeance against her enemies.

“Next time, I shall do it for you,” he vowed.

CHAPTER THREE

A
S THEY DREW
closer to the castle, the nearest part of the curtain wall obscured the devastation Malcolm had seen from higher up on the ben. If not for the strong odor of burnt wood, far stronger than those caused by the usual fires kindled within a castle, he might doubt what he had seen. They veered around the castle to the west and still all looked well, until they neared the gate.

An old, grizzled guard yelled over his shoulder, back into the castle, “She is here!” Then he strode toward them, his eyes narrowed and his hand upon his dirk, Malcolm clearly the target of his gaze. “Who is this, mistress?” he demanded.

“I am Malcolm, son of John, chieftain of the MacKenzies of Blackmuir.”

The guard glared at him. “What business have you with us?”

“He is injured, Denis,” Jeanette said. “He is in need of my help. Let us pass.”

“How do you ken he is not an enemy to us? He could be another English spy.”

Jeanette looked over her shoulder and gave him the slightest shake of her head as if to say he should not react to such a question, but Malcolm would not let his honor be smeared with such an implication.

“I am a Highlander, a Scot. My home is west of Inverness and my clan is sworn to fight for King Robert. I fought with the king at Methven and Dalrigh and I shall fight with him again as soon as this kind lass mends my arm. I am no bedamned English spy!”

“I believe him,” Jeanette said to the guard, whose dirk was half-drawn now. She turned and glared at Malcolm. “You are not making this easy, Malcolm MacKenzie.”

“Aye, you are not,” the guard added.

“Denis,” she said to the old man, “there
are
English soldiers on the ben. At least one, maybe more. We did not linger to find out. I need to speak to the chief and I do not think it wise for any of us to stand about in the open like this.”

Denis looked from Malcolm to Jeanette and back several times, not budging from his spot between them and the gate.

“Denis?” Jeanette prodded. “ ’Tis of great import I speak to Nicholas immediately.” Malcolm could hear the strain threading through her words, though clearly she tried to hide it.

“Did you not understand her, man?” Malcolm said.

The old guard grumbled but turned and led them to the gate, then through the short passage. Just as they stepped into the bright bailey, a tall auburn-haired woman strode toward them.

“Oh, thank the heavens,” the woman said, “you are returned.”

“Aye, I am returned. Did you think I would not?” Jeanette asked.

Malcolm noted the tension that sprang to life between these two as they spoke. He had the urge to touch Jeanette again, as he had when they had entered the clearing by the burn. That time she had visibly relaxed. Would it happen again?

He reached forward and laid his hand upon her shoulder, but this time she shrugged it off and stepped quickly away.

“We were worried,” the woman said, stopping just in front of Jeanette.

“I needed some air, Rowan,” Jeanette said.

“Aye, is that not what I told you?” the guard said to Rowan.

“ ’Tis,” Rowan said, “but still, you were gone too long and though I made the men leave you be, I was worried.”

As if seeing Malcolm for the first time, she met his gaze. Jeanette quickly made the introductions to her cousin, this time stressing his experience in the king’s army.

“He is in need of a healer. We can offer him shelter, such as it is, while I care for him, can we not? And in exchange, he can give what assistance he can as we prepare to fight the English again.”

Rowan did not respond right away, nor did she give her thoughts away. After a long moment she nodded. “Denis, you shall wait with them while I find Nicholas.”

As they waited, Malcolm got a better look at the damages he had glimpsed from the trail. The length of curtain wall on his left was nothing but rubble, offering up a spectacular view of the loch and the distant mountains but leaving the castle vulnerable to any attack that might be launched against it. Men toiled there, clearing the rubble away. To his right he could now clearly see the source of the smoke stench.

The blackened and broken remains of a large building lay like a corpse rotting in the sun. The women and weans working to clear the remains were like insects cleaning the body. Scorch marks on the curtain wall surrounding the blackened heap gave testimony to the intensity of the fire.

Questions spun through him, but he set them aside for the moment, too intent on assessing the strategic impact of such destruction.

He glanced now at the outbuildings scattered along the edges of the bailey. All of them showed evidence of fire damage, too, though most suffered only blackened patches to their thatched roofs. The single stone tower he had seen from the trail stood across the way, the only defensible structure from the looks of the place, and it was not large. The devastation to this small castle hit him like a punch to the gut, as his mind spiraled through all the dangers such wreckage presented.

The only good thing he could see was that the English had left the castle in such ruins that there was no way they would want more from this place or these people, though he did wonder what the clan had done to merit such destruction. And then he remembered the English soldier skulking about in the wood not far from this very spot and his questions multiplied.

“There is no hospitality to offer,” the guard said just loud enough for Malcolm to hear. “You will have to earn your way if you intend to bide here.”

Malcolm nodded absently, for his mind was still busy solving the problem of how to defend such a broken castle. No matter how many ways he looked at the problem, there was only one conclusion he could reach: the castle could not be defended.

A rumble of men’s voices rose from the crowd working on the rubble heap and Malcolm saw several men separate from the workers and head toward him, Rowan leading, hand in hand with one of them.

He turned his attention back to Jeanette, who stood a few feet away from him, watching the approaching group. Her shoulders were lifted just enough to betray the tension she must have felt and that made him wonder exactly what her place was in this clan. Her cousin Rowan was clearly the chatelaine, but that said little about Jeanette’s position.

Three men arrived with Rowan, and Malcolm only noticed another woman when she stepped out from behind the youngest of the men. She was shorter than the willowy Rowan, with dark hair and eyes snapping with distrust.

“I am Nicholas, chief of the MacAlpins of Dunlairig,” the dark-haired man who had been holding Rowan’s hand said, that same hand now resting on his dirk.

Before he could continue, Jeanette spoke. “We encountered an English soldier on the trail to the wellspring, just at the big boulder. I do not think he is dead and we are not certain if there are more, but Malcolm heard voices and it seems unlikely one would be here alone.”

To his credit, the chief did not question any part of Jeanette’s statement. “Duncan, take a few men with you and see if you can pick up their tracks.” The youngest of the two men standing just behind the chief nodded, then headed for the rubble pile again, shouting names as he went.

“You said you do not think he was dead?” Nicholas asked Jeanette. “Did you find him that way, or were you responsible for his injuries?”

“
We
are responsible for his injuries,” she said. “Malcolm engaged him and I hit him on the head.”

“She knocked him out cold,” Malcolm said. “You should have seen her.”

“You should have killed him,” the dark-haired woman said, her words like a snake’s hiss. “If he is English, he deserved to die.”

“She could not kill him, Scotia,” Rowan said to the lass. “Jeanette
could never do that.”

“I could,” Scotia said.

“I doubt it not,” the chief said, shaking his head. “Perhaps one day soon you’ll have no choice but to prove you are so bloodthirsty.” He turned his attention back to Malcolm. “My wife says you are a warrior in King Robert’s army.”

“I was until I was injured.” He shrugged his right shoulder to indicate where. “I will be again when Mistress Jeanette has healed me.”

“As you can see,” Nicholas said, raising his hands to indicate their ruined surroundings, “there is little we can offer you for hospitality, but you are welcome to stay here and partake of what little we have in exchange for any information or insight you can give us about the English and their tactics.”

“I thank you,” Malcolm said formally, though he thought it odd that a chief would not be well versed in such things. “I will share what I can, though why they would return here when they have already done so much damage, I cannot fathom.”

There was a look that ran through all the people gathered around him but he could not tell what it meant.

“Suffice it to say that we are certain they intend to return and soon, given your meeting with one of their soldiers this day so close to the castle. Defending the clan is paramount.”

Malcolm felt his eyebrows rise. “Defend?” Was the man daft? Was the entire clan daft? “If what you believe is true, and the English are returning here soon, there is no defending this place.”

“If we were to defend this castle,” Nicholas said, “I would ask your opinion of how that might be done.”

“There is no defending. The curtain wall will trap you in an attack by anyone coming over the broken part of the wall. You have only the tower to retreat to, and it does not look big enough to keep many safe within.” He shook his head. “There is only one thing you can do if you wish your clan to survive another English attack.” He paused, knowing what he was about to say would not sit well with these proud Highlanders.

“If you stay here, you will all be caught like birds in a cage, easy prey for your hunters. I can see no other outcome. You must abandon this castle.”

E
VEN THOUGH THEY
had been preparing for the need to abandon their home for almost a fortnight, Jeanette knew she was not the only one who had been holding out hope that their efforts would not be necessary. But the English were back and the MacAlpins could not defend the castle without the curtain wall being repaired unless Rowan could call upon her gift to raise a barrier, as Jeanette’s mum, the previous Guardian, had done. Yet Rowan could not perform the simplest of blessings, as she’d demonstrated just this morn. She could not protect the entire castle.

“Denis, keep our guest company,” Nicholas said as he turned and headed for the tower, Rowan by his side and the older man in their wake. “Have Duncan join us when he can,” he said over his shoulder.

Malcolm started to argue but Jeanette pressed her hand to his arm.

“You are not wrong. It is just that we have been hoping it would not come to this,” she said to him.

“I thought you wished my assistance.”

“And you have given it.”

“Jeanette, Scotia!” Rowan called over her shoulder. “You, too!”

Scotia’s eyes went wide, then narrowed with suspicion.

“Why now?” she asked her sister.

Jeanette had no idea, but she would take advantage of the opportunity to press Rowan to take up her training again. Her cousin could not refuse in front of others, especially under these dire circumstances. She would not.

“I suspect we shall find that out anon, sister. Denis,” she said, turning her attention quickly to their guest’s comfort, “see that Malcolm gets something to eat and have Mary make up a sorrel tea for him.” She looked at Malcolm. “ ’Twon’t be much to eat, I’m afraid, but the tea will cool your fever.”

“No need, lass,” Malcolm replied. “I shall partake of my own rations until they are gone, and the fever will pass on its own, as it always does.”

“We are not so bad off that we cannot feed a guest and offer him a simple tea.” She cast a determined look at Denis. “I shall come find you when we are finished. I want to check your wound again,” she said to Malcolm, though she knew it was only an excuse to seek him out.

Jeanette and Scotia hurried after the others and when they were all standing in the confines of the chief’s small chamber, one floor up in the tower, silence settled over the five of them.

Nicholas sat in the only chair. He glanced at Uilliam, the black-haired, heavily bearded bear of a man who stood at the back of the room near the door. Nicholas said, “It would seem we can no longer stay in Dunlairig Castle.”

Uilliam’s voice rumbled over them: “Unless Rowan can raise a defense.”

Jeanette nodded at his assertion.

Rowan bristled, but Nicholas nodded. “She cannot
yet
, and we dare not allow ourselves to be—how did Malcolm put it?—‘caught like birds in a cage’? The time has come to evacuate the clan.”

He looked at each of the women, Rowan, Jeanette, and Scotia. “The caves are ready?”

“Ready enough,” Rowan said. “Peigi and her sisters returned from the Glen of Caves two days ago and reported that the necessities are in place, though it will not be a comfortable home and more work will be required once we arrive.”

The Glen of Caves was hidden away in a deep fold of the mountains, far enough from Glen Lairig to be safe, but close enough to get there in a few hours’ time on foot.