The Highlander's Triumph (16 page)

“What?”

“Is this not what ye planned? To return her?”

Brandon nodded, trying to swallow around the lump of guilt in his throat. “
Aye, but not like this. Not a battle. Not with that bastard Ross tossing her over his horse. She’s hurt.”

Wallace frowned. “We’ll get her back.”

Brandon scraped his hands through his hair. “If they hurt so much as one inch of her…”

“Ye can send them all to hell.” Wallace shouted orders for a few men to remain behind to bury the dead and for the rest of the men to mount up. “His trail is still fresh. Let us follow him.
The maggot will lead us straight to his new camp, and if we’re lucky, to Longshanks.”

“Aye.”
Brandon sheathed his claymore, feeling its weight comforting on his back.

His horse waited dutifully for his return. Brandon wasted no time grasping the saddle and hoisting himsel
f onto Checkmate’s back. Wallace rounded up the men and followed Brandon on the trail through the woods, the divots deep in the ground where Ross had pushed his horse to its full capacity.

The trail zigzagged through the forest, over a burn and onto a road that led up a mountain.

Why would the English hide within the mountains? They had the constitutions of bairns still at the teat—the mountains were harsh, cold, and though he could fare them well, he didn’t like to. He imagined Longshanks shivered in his makeshift tent, demanding his many servants to warm the various parts of his body.

As his horse made the ascent over the steep incline, he was aware that it could be a trap. Longshanks may not even be near. In fact, they could reach the top only to find that Ross had led them astray and gone down again, or a pack of
traitors waited to ambush them once more.

This time, at least, while he had Mariana on his mind, he was also fully aware of his surroundings, listened for any change in the air, and
kept a hand on the sword at his hip in case he needed to pull it quickly from his sheath.

The next rise proved to be j
ust as he suspected. ’Twas a trap.

Not a single person was in sight, and the horse’s imprints came to a halt. Brandon and his men stopped, turned in a circle. But there was nothing. Almost like Ross had simply disappeared, his horse lifted into the clouds. A cloud covered the sun overhead, giving the air a sudden chill, and turning everything grey. An ominous wind swept over him in bursts.

Brandon swallowed, his breath coming hard through his nostrils.

“
Mo creach
,” he growled. This entire plot had been a mistake and an innocent woman—his woman—was going to pay for it.

His woman.

Aye, indeed. Mariana was his, and no bastard traitor was going to take her from him.

There was no denying it any more. She was his. And he was going to get her back. Claim her. Hear her say that she was his. Brandon’s heart constricted, making his ribs ache. He’d not been able to admit before, beyond desire, what he felt for her. And even now he was apprehensive, but if he were honest with himself… He loved her.

As if hearing his personal confession, the clouds opened up, a beam of sunlight seeping through their grey expanse and shining down onto the rise. Brandon’s mouth went dry, his gaze caught by where the sun hit.

A
message. A piece of Mariana’s green gown nailed to a tree—smeared with blood.

Chapter Sixteen

A
swift jolt awakened Mariana. A muffled cry escaped her and she flailed, eyes popping open. Her vision blurred, she made out the white of the sky and a bunch of blobs of black and brown.

A split-second later she landed
hard in the dirt on her hip and elbow. The impact was shocking, and jarred her from head to toe. A metallic taste in her mouth and the sting of her cheek told her she’d bit herself. Thank God, she’d managed to twist in time so that her already injured arm wasn’t further damaged. In addition to the gash from a wayward sword, she was almost certain it was broken. Her hip and elbow were most assuredly bruised, but at least they were still whole.

A cloud of dust surrounded where she’d landed, filling her lungs. She coughed, sneezed, and willed herself to hold back her sobs. Pain throbbed in her injured arm.
She feared moving, not knowing where she was. Nothing about this place looked familiar to her.

“Lady Mariana,” a cool, uninterested male voice cooed. “I see you decided to rejoin us. Tell me, how was your visit with the Scots?”

A shiver of fear curled around her spine. Shifting to kneel, she waved away the cloud of dirt, and slowly raised her eyes to see King Edward standing a few feet in front of her. The sun glinted blindingly off of his chainmail. He looked like a glowing king. A purple velvet doublet, trimmed and embroidered with gold thread gave her eyes reprieve from the striking metal. His shoulder-length silver hair was streaked with sweat. His long, chiseled features also glistened. In his arms he held a shiny helmet. She lowered her gaze to stare at the dust upon his boots.

The king looked as though he’d been out fighting. He
was not afraid to venture out of his camp. Not afraid to take his sword to another man’s throat—though he preferred that his men held that man down while he completed the deed. She prayed whoever he’d been railing against had not suffered overmuch.

“Your Highness,” she managed, though her voice came out sounding strangled.
“’Twas horrendous.”

Her heart lurched when she lied, though she knew it was to protect Brandon as much as
herself.

“Horrendous?” King Edward drawled. He stepped closer to her. Knelt before her, and placed a cold, gloved finger on her chin, lifting her face so that she had to look him in the eye.
“How so?”

His grey eyes were cruel, indifferent. The man didn’t care so much about her answer, as he did that she was here before him. He didn’t take kindly to others
thieving what belonged to him, and Mariana was well aware that she was as much a pawn to him as any other man. But that didn’t matter. He considered her his property.

“Come now, don’t be shy. Tell me.” His voice, though soft, was etched with malice.

Mariana was more afraid of the king now than she’d ever been. Her stomach tightened and gooseflesh rose on her arms. If he didn’t like her answer… Thought her to be lying, there was no telling what his response would be. What cruel punishment he’d have doled out on her.

“They are barbarians,” she said through chattering teeth. She clutched at her injured arm, the limb hanging limp by her side
, and thankfully the bleeding gash had staunched its flow. Moments of numbness made the pain bearable, but right then a searing agony took hold. Mariana squeezed her eyes shut, ground her teeth.

“Are you injured, my lady?” The king’s voice was solicitous, but Mariana knew better than to think he would be kind.

Slowly, she nodded, then opened her eyes, trying to see him through the mist of her tears.

The king scowled over her head,
then stood. “I told you to take care of her, not bring her back to me broken.”

Mariana’s throat grew tight, and she found it hard to breathe
. That tone he used… Chills of dread shook her.

“She was already injured when I found her, Your Highness.” Ross’ voice was confident.
Too confident. The man wouldn’t last long with King Edward.

“And you didn’t think it necessary to tend to her wound? I don’t like my property to be damaged.”

Mariana put her weight on her uninjured arm and tried to stand. The king, most likely sensing her struggle from the corner of his eye, actually held out a hand to her. She gripped it, the leather of his gloves soft and cold. As he brought her to her feet, she tried to keep in mind that though he was a cruel man, he’d once been kind to her. Took her in, clothed her, fed her. The price had been steep—her dignity, her body—but still, she was alive.

That was the hardest part. Hate him she did, but regretfully, for he’d never beaten her or punished her. He never had to.

Once on her feet, she swayed, feeling light-headed. She held her injured arm close to her, afraid if she let go, whatever bone had been broken would shatter further.

King Edward snapped his fingers. “Will someone take Lady Mariana to
a private chamber and see her properly tended?”

Three women, dressed in plain gowns and shoes, hair coiled at the napes of their necks, hurried forward. Mariana recognized the servants from before she’d left. Loyal they were. Odd, but at that moment, their names escaped her.
They snaked their arms around her waist as they clucked about her blood soaked gown, her hair, her injury.

Mariana allowed them to take her away, praying first that King Edward beat Ross with a whip
—almost wishing to stay behind to witness it—and second that Brandon was able to follow their trail. If he wasn’t any good at tracking—or he simply didn’t care—then she prayed she succumbed to fever and never breathed again.

Mariana didn’t recognize the castle she was being led toward.
The air smelled salty. They were near the shore. Surrounding them, the outer wall was high and thick, made of stone, but the interior keep was built of wood, nearly four stories high. The building was sturdy, newer, and terrifying in its raw expression of dominance. A war building, with many thin, arrow slit windows, and great main doors as tall as two men. A thick spiked, deadly iron portcullis hung halfway down the door—as if stilled in time. She feared it would fall, pinning her forever to the ground when they passed through. On the ramparts, dozens of soldiers marched, scanning, ready to fire their notched arrows.

Most likely, they w
ere still in Scotland, but even if they were in France, she wasn’t sure she’d have been able to tell where they were. She’d slept for most of the journey here. Had passed out from pain within a few minutes of being captured, and thankfully her body had forced her to remain in such a state until they arrived at King Edward’s camp.

Just as they reached the doors to the castle, she heard
Edward’s voice, filled with disdain, demand, “Get off that horse you bloody fool and bow to your sovereign, before you find your head rolling at your feet.”

Mais oui,
Ross would be a lucky man to make it through the next few days in Edward’s company. The king was in a foul mood. A vengeful mood.

The castle was dark, no candles lit. The women led Mariana u
p the circular stair, and even with three holding her up she found it difficult to stay steady on her feet. On the second floor, they led her down another dark corridor, opened a door, and bustled her in. Once in a chamber, they laid her on the bed. One lit a few candles, another the fire and the third carefully undressed her down to her chemise, which was thankfully without sleeves. Her arm was misshapen and discolored, dark purple and blue around a bulge that hadn’t been there before. The gash, covered in dried blood, didn’t look as deep as she’d thought.

Her stomach flipped and rolled.
Mariana leaned to the side, gagging. She’d not had any food or drink, which made her convulse instead of forcing out the non-existent contents of her stomach.

“Oh, my lady, look at your arm.”
A tender hand probed at the wound, only making her more nauseas as the pain pervaded.

One of the other maids w
iped a cool cloth on her brow. She was pretty, young, whereas the one who undressed her had been older, withered looking. “We’d best get it set and wrapped, else you damage it further, my lady. Need to get this cut cleaned and treated as well. Could set in with fever too.”

“I’
ll have a tisane made,” chimed someone from across the room.

Mariana tried to look, but pain made her eyes squint and seeing was getting harder.

“And an herbed poultice to go within the bandages. Doesn’t look like the bone broke through the skin. A knife or sword most likely.”

“Who will set it?”

“Get the surgeon.”

Their voices all collided and made Mariana dizzier than she already was. As they clucked around her, the room swirled.
The walls and ceiling looked like they were moving toward her, ready to suffocate her. The room smelled musty and sweet like herbs. She was close to fainting again. Felt so tired and weak.

A door opened. A door closed.

Footsteps.

More murmuring.

Mariana’s head rolled from side to side as she fought to remain conscious.

Someone gripped her arm and yanked. Bone ground against bone.
Searing pain stabbed through her limb. Her eyes rolled back in her head, her stomach churned. A shriek sounded from somewhere.

“Oh, my dear, I’m sorry.”
A woman’s voice. She didn’t know whether she recognized it or not.

The shriek…it was her own.

“All set now, my dear. The healing can begin.”

Healing.
Nay, she would never be healed. Mariana moaned, her eyes rolling in her head. “Brandon…”

“Hmm?
What did you say, my dear?”

Thankfully, Heaven saw fit to pull her from consciousness
before she had the chance to answer.

Sweat poured in an ungodly flood over Brandon’s temples, his spine
. Even his knees and elbows seemed to perspire. The end of winter chill did nothing to cool his burning blood. He was in a frenzy. A madness consumed him.

The men followed him,
Wallace allowing Brandon to take the lead on the mission. On horseback, they’d torn up and down the mountains, over burns and through marshlands, for the past several hours. But they’d found nothing. No one.

He would tear the highlands apart if he had to. Push his horse to the point of dropping if that’s what it took. They had to be here.
She
had to be here and he wouldn’t stop until he found her. They returned to the site where their enemy seemed to have simply vanished, in hopes of picking up a clue they’d missed. Wallace bellowed, halting Brandon.

“Do ye see this?”

Brandon slid from his horse and ran to where Wallace kneeled, nose to the ground. “Someone covered up their tracks.” Wallace pointed. “They pick up once again on the other side.” He put a comforting hand on Brandon’s shoulder. “We’ll find her and Ross.”

The bastards had tried to fool them, but they’d not done a very good job.

Urgency permeated his every move. He had to get to Mariana. With each passing minute, the clues to her whereabouts depleted and her safety was a constant, distressing question in his mind.

Was the blood on the
torn fabric hers? Had he cut her and smeared it onto the gown? Was she conscious? Where was she? Was she alive? Had she been hit with an arrow? Trying to remain calm, he prayed the blood on the gown was simply left over from her horse, that Ross used it to frighten him—knowing Brandon would automatically assume the blood to be hers. The man hoped to play a game with them.