Highlander Enchanted (27 page)

John’s features flushed and his eyes sparked with anger. “Did he behave thusly before I left?”

“John, it is of no –”

“Isabel.” His tone startled her. “Did he behave thusly before I left?”

“No,” she snapped. “Only when you did not return!”

“You did not think to mention this?”

She sighed. “I have other matters this night in need of my attention.”

Niall and Brian had both gone quiet and were watching the siblings curiously.

“We will speak of it upon your return.” John’s low growl left her no doubt as to his sincerity.

She said nothing and instead, motioned to Niall.

“Doona worry,” Niall said to John. “Cade has protected her since we found her.”

John’s face shuttered at the mention of Cade. Isabel recalled his guilt when he spoke of how Cade had saved him from the madness only to go mad himself.

“Come, Niall,” she said softly. “We cannot tarry.”

He took the writ from Father Adam and rolled it carefully.

“Take Laird Cade’s horse, m’lady,” Siobhan said and motioned to one of the riders. “Ye ‘ave a hard night of riding ahead of ye.”

Isabel dismounted and went to the familiar tan destrier. “Hello, my friend,” she murmured, rubbing its forehead. “We will share another adventure.” She tried hard not to think of Cade, of what he faced in Laird Duncan’s clutches. The sight of his horse comforted her.

She mounted the large warhorse. Niall had taken the other horses and motioned to the boy who would guide them.

With one last look at her brother, Isabel turned the powerful destrier towards the dark night and urged it forward. For the first time since leaving Saxony, she was driven by more than anger and hurt. With Cade and John standing with her, she was eager for a second chance at life with those she cared for. Hope flooded her with warmth and strength.

Since her father’s death, she had been lost, uncertain and scared. She had born no hope of discovering what was missing here, in the Highlands, on the very land where her mother had been born, and she never once considered Black Cade would quickly become the man she admired most.

At last, I know where I belong,
she thought. She breathed a silent prayer for strength, not about to fail Cade and his clan when she had the power to help them.

Chapter Twenty Two

Cade’s goal had been to stall Laird Duncan and to that end, he was successful. When his injuries did not slow the ambitious laird chasing his clan, the weather did. He awoke between storms, at times lucid and at others not, but always aware of whose prisoner he was and the rain battering the shelter around him.

The fifth time he awoke, he was soaked with sweat in place of rain, and his mind was clear. He smelled heavily of the poultices and herbs Laird Duncan’s desperate healer had used upon him. The older man with worn clothing was hunched in a corner of the wagon, hugging himself for warmth in the cool autumn weather. Cade felt his bandages and grimaced, recalling how he had not been so weak or injured since his long stay in a Saracen dungeon.

The wagon lurched, and Cade peered through holes in the canvas covering at a grey sky. His seillie magic danced within him as it did each day at twilight. He counted how many times his sorcery had danced within him since he was captured.

Three nights. His magic had turned the two day trip into three at least. Was it long enough for his cousins to prepare his people? Were they close to the MacCosse lands or not yet arrived?

The voices of men outside the sheltered space came from the rear, and the snap of a whip from afore. Another lurch, and the wagon broke free from the mud trapping its wheels.

They moved forward at a crawl. He listened to ensure the men were gone before beginning to test his body.

He had little strength – but the fever was gone. His wounds had begun to heal. In the Saracen dungeon, he had grown accustomed to counting the days before an injury was no longer a threat to one’s life. The bad wound in his stomach was grown over with skin yet sensitive to the touch, as was the wound in his thigh.

I am in no danger of death,
he decided.

Restless for knowledge, he nudged the healer with his foot. The man remained asleep, so Cade pushed him harder.

Bleary, bloodshot eyes opened, and the healer righted himself. “You are not dead,” he observed in a bland voice telling of his exhaustion.

“Not yet,” Cade said with a grunt. “Where are we?”

“I doona ken. Close, I believe,” came the tired reply. The healer pushed himself up and went to Cade’s side. He checked the bandages and felt Cade’s head. “I saw the sea ‘fore I slept.”

Cade was relieved to learn his magic was protecting his clan, even if he was unable to.

“Ne’er seen so much rain this season,” grumbled the healer. “Yer healing and no longer fevered. No infections. I must inform Laird Duncan.”

“Can ye not wait?” Cade asked quickly.

“’Tis yer head or mine.” The healer pushed off the canvas covering and exposed Cade to the fading light of evening filtering through a thick layer of clouds.

Determined not to confront Laird Duncan on his back, he maneuvered into a sitting position then stood. The walls of the wagon reached his waist, and he breathed in the scent of rain, ocean and earth.

The healer leapt out of the back of the wagon and navigated through the mud to the bank of the road.

Cade carefully observed the columns of men behind and then afore him. The wagons were struggling to traverse the mud, and many men were walking their horses on higher ground rather than keeping to the road. He spotted Richard’s knights and the tartans of the different clans supporting Laird Duncan’s attempt to overtake the Highlands. Farther ahead, men had begun to circle wagons and horses as they marked where they would sleep the night.

The longer he stood, the more concerned he became.

His clan had a dozen warriors, if that, and with the MacDonald’s perhaps double the number.

Laird Duncan marched with hundreds of men.

He glimpsed the grey waters of the ocean as they rounded a hill. The wagon he rode in was pulled off the road to the side and stopped beside several more. Servants and warriors alike were unloading supplies from the neighboring wagons.

Having never visited the MacCosse lands, Cade had no way to know if the expanse of hills beside the ocean was his or not or how far they were from his clan. Niall and Brian would have arrived midway through his imprisonment, assuming they road quickly and were not troubled by the storms.

Dizziness crept up upon him as he stood, and Cade knelt in the back of the wagon. He closed his eyes, bowed his head, and rolled his stiff shoulders back. He was sore and weak – but alive. In such a state, it was difficult for him to ignore the whispers of madness, the slithering of unseillie magic in his blood. Both fed off his worry and the knowledge his kin were vulnerable to the army Laird Duncan brought to crush them.

He meditated in silence, centering his thoughts and stilling his magic. Thunder grumbled in the distance. He debated attempting to control it before deciding his strength was best used to try to escape, once he discovered where he was. His mind went to Isabel, and he prayed his cousins were able to find her and protect her as well as the rest of his kin.

Dark magic strained to be free when he thought of her in danger, of her falling ever again beneath Richard’s fist. If he had learnt anything between the bouts of fever, it was that she was not a prisoner of Duncan or Richard’s. The English knight was too angry for him to possess the woman whose lands he intended to claim.

When he opened his eyes, twilight had faded into night and bonfires lit the flat area between two hills where many of the men were resting.

Cade recognized Duncan’s booming voice before the chieftain reached his wagon. He tensed, disturbed by his weakness when he needed strength.

The back of the wagon slammed open. Cade made no effort to resist the two men who grabbed him and roughly hauled him out of the wagon. They forced him to his knees before Laird Duncan and Lord Richard, whose armor was muddied from travel.

“Yer alive!” Laird Duncan sounded happy.

“’Twill be an honor to destroy your clan tomorrow,” Lord Richard added coldly. “Shall I tell you what I plan to do to your wife?”

Cade forbade himself from reacting though lightning slashed the sky nearby. He needed them to believe he was weaker than he was and posed no danger. The less they feared him, the easier he could fight them.

“These tempests are maddening,” Richard complained with a look at the sky.

“I’m disappointed in ye,” Laird Duncan said and squatted near Cade. “Isna Black Cade made of stone? Stone doesna fever or weaken.”

“He is a man,” Richard said dismissively. “Come morn, the last of his clan.”

Fire built in Cade’s gullet. He glared at Richard, unwilling to show the knight any form of respect.

“Black Cade isna dead yet,” Laird Duncan said. “He need not be standing t’see his kin die.” He stood with a grunt. “He’s weak enough for yer
duellum
, Lord Richard.”

“Nay,” Cade replied. “At my weakest, I will always best ye, English.”

“I see no use for single combat when we are to be victorious tomorrow,” Richard replied. “I prefer to tie him down and whip him.”

“Ye allow these cowards t’fight with ye?” Cade asked Laird Duncan.

The chieftain was grinning. “Lord Richard, we will have a
duellum
this night!”

The English lord appeared ready to refuse.

“Or ye can leave this night, without yer wife and her lands,” Laird Duncan added.

“Very well, Laird Duncan. I will face the savage.” Richard turned away, trailed by two of his men.

Cade assessed himself and determined he was in very real danger. But, he had a weapon Richard knew nothing of: the storms. If he lost too much ground or risked death, he needed only to strike Richard down with lightning, though it was not the preferred death he had in mind for the English lord.

“On yer feet!” Laird Duncan bellowed.

The two warriors on either side of Cade hauled him to his feet.

“Get him a sword, if he can lift it!” Laughing, Laird Duncan strode away, towards the center of the encampment.

Cade did not need to pretend his first step was weak. He nearly toppled to the ground when the mud gave way beneath his foot. His captors yanked him back onto his feet, and he focused on placing one before the other. His footing returned, and he began to feel firmly part of the world, until he was handed a sword.

Cade wobbled, his balance once more thrown.

Men were gathering in a wide circle around him, and several jeered when he failed to lift the sword without disrupting his balance. The weight and movement made his stomach wound feel as if it were tearing. He lowered the sword and tugged up his tunic to check the wound. Despite the pain, it appeared sound.

He hefted the sword again. It was easier this time, as if his sluggish body were remembering every other time he had carried a weapon. He swung it lazily as he became accustomed to the feel of it, aware of both the taxing of his weak body and the strength he did not expect to retain after such wounds.

“Are ye ready, Black Cade?” By the mirth in Laird Duncan’s tone, he had no faith in Cade at all.

Cade looked up from the sturdy blade. The circle around him was several men deep. A cold drizzle did not dissuade the muddied warriors and helped sharpen Cade’s thoughts. Richard wove a path through the Highlanders, trailed by several knights, and stepped into the circle across from Cade.

Anger gave him strength. Richard had always left him wishing he were not so concerned about falling to his unseillie nature.

“Ye ‘ave a chance t’defeat the great chieftain, Black Cade, this very night, English!” Laird Duncan called to Richard. “And his clan on the morrow. Ye will do what Saracens only dreamt of.”

Laughter went around their audience.

Cade ignored it. He tested his strength. He was going to have to rely on pure power as opposed to agility, for he had none of the latter.

“Fight!”

Thunder growled. Cade hefted the sword and adjusted his balance.

Richard circled him, his sword drawn and eyes pinned to Cade. Cade turned with him but did not make the first move as he had in the Great Hall. A hushed silence fell over those witnessing the bout. At least, until Richard struck.

Cade deflected, assessing his ability anew upon blocking the jarring blow. He allowed Richard to lash out at him several times. The knight was well trained, if a bit slow, perchance because of the weather and travel.

The men around them were soon shouting and cheering.

Cade’s first strike nearly ended in disaster. A breath before Richard lopped off his hand, Cade adjusted his stance and managed to avoid the blow. He smashed to the ground on his stomach and shook his head, now aware of what strategy he needed to employ against Richard. Moving quickly, even in striking, was going to end poorly. He had to wait for Richard to expose a weakness before he was able to risk his own life with another blow.

“Black Cade.” Richard said mockingly. “How did I fear facing you before?”

Cade ignored the barb and climbed to his feet in time to block another strike. With a better sense of his ability, he gripped the sword with both hands and settled into a comfortable stance.

Richard smashed into him with a series of blows that drove Cade back at first. He found his footing and pushed Richard away. The knight did it again, this time locking hilts with Cade.

“You are weak. Pathetic.” Richard sneered. “Would that she could see you now!”

“Better weak than a coward,” Cade returned with a grunt. He shoved Richard back.

The English noble began to attack in earnest. To Cade’s dismay, he soon discovered his plan to remain patient and await his opening was derailed by the weakness of his body. If he were well, he would have beaten Richard at the onset. But he was not, and his blocks became slower, his footwork unsteady. Richard’s attacks were growing labored and less frequent, but he had the benefit of no injury to dull his movements.