Highlander Redeemed (Guardians of the Targe Book 3) (29 page)

Duncan was thoughtful for long moments. “You warn them,” he said to his companion. “I will track the Sassenachs to make sure they are going where we expect them to. It would seem this Lord Sherwood may be better at tactics than Nicholas gives him credit for. I would not care for us to be taken unawares by underestimating him. Get the Guardians and Scotia to safety, and I will return to our rendezvous camp as soon as I am able.”

“’Tis a wise plan, Duncan. Take care, and do not engage them on your own.”

“The same to you, my friend.”

Uilliam quickly turned to retrace their steps while Duncan took off at a ground-eating lope, following the English into Glen Lairig.

A
S IF A
dam broke within Scotia, a deluge of
knowings
pressed against her, vying for her attention. They came so fast and so furiously that she could not pull one from another to make a coherent thought. She
knew
so much that she knew nothing.

“Try to think of Da.” Jeanette’s voice filtered through the torrent, and Scotia grabbed onto it like a lifeline in a storm.

“Da?” She wasn’t sure her voice worked, but she felt a hand give her knee a squeeze in answer—Rowan.

Scotia tried to calm her clattering heartbeat, to slow her breath, to call the face of her father into her mind, but instead she suddenly
knew
. “He is seated on a dead log. One of Malcolm’s kinsmen, Jock, has a sword to Da’s neck, but there is neither fear nor anger. Da never was any good at feigning that which was not true.”

Neither Guardian said anything, so they must have known about this—a test of her gift, no doubt. And then she let her mind roam, searching for something they could not have prepared for
her, something no one could have foreseen. She searched for the unexpected something that would prove that her gift could be accentuated by the power of the Targe, a
knowing
that would prove she was a Guardian, though none could doubt it now that she was joined with her sister and cousin in its power.

Duncan would be so proud of her . . .

D
UNCAN RAN AS
fast as he could while still slow enough to read the signs of the English detachment’s passing. He had not gone far when he spied a side trail that was so well hidden he almost missed it. He followed it a short distance and determined that it was made by a small group of five soldiers peeling off the main force, heading south. He calculated how far he had come, and the general direction of the trail, and determined that if this group went due south they might skirt the meadow without ever realizing it was there.

But they might also cross paths with Uilliam, and, Duncan realized, if he had not wandered about quite so much before Uilliam caught up with him, he might have crossed paths with the soldiers long before now. He had been so consumed by thoughts of Scotia he had not bothered to take more than the basic care in hiding his tracks or paying attention to what was around him.

He weighed the need to warn Uilliam against the need to learn if more of these small groups had detached themselves from the main force. Uilliam was a seasoned warrior and knew the enemy was amongst them. He would be vigilant, and there were plenty of MacAlpins and their allies at the Story Stone meadow to keep the Guardians and Scotia safe.

Duncan loped down the trail left by the main English detachment, leaving Uilliam to fend for himself.

Twice more Duncan found side paths with small groups of English veering off—one to north, and another to the south, but this time he followed the southbound group. It did not take long for him to be certain that this group would come upon the Story Stone meadow with ease, and he could not let that happen. Not only would it put the Guardians in peril but, if the soldiers understood what they saw and lived to report back, the MacAlpins’ advantage—that they had not one but possibly three powerful Guardians—would be lost, and they could not afford that.

Duncan raced down the trail of the soldiers without care that he would give himself away in his haste. He must draw their attention before they arrived at the meadow. He must distract them, hold them, loudly and long enough for his kinsmen to hear and find them. He could not let them reach the meadow, but he needed to let them get close to the outer ring of warriors to ensure they would hear him. He ran full out, his lungs working like the bellows in a blacksmith’s forge, until he caught the flash of a helm through the foliage.

“Halt!” he yelled, as loudly as he could. “Do not take another step. You are surrounded, and we will not hesitate to kill each and every one of you!” he yelled again. He settled his targe on his left arm and pulled his sword free of its scabbard as he put everything out of his mind but stopping these soldiers from finding the meadow and the Guardians. He dared not think of what might happen if they saw the Guardians at work.

A
T THE THOUGHT
of Duncan it was as if Scotia’s gift was yanked away from her, dragging her attention so hard and so fast she felt as nauseous as she had once when she had been out on the loch in a small boat during a summer storm, tossed and
pitched about on the waves until she could do naught but lean over the side into the tempest and empty her stomach.

Just as she felt sure she would do that same thing, the sensation stopped, and she knew Duncan was in peril.

She knew the English soldiers were upon him, but she might as well be blind and helpless, for though she knew exactly where he was, she could not see exactly what his peril was. If only she had Jeanette’s second sight . . .

And suddenly she could see him, Duncan, fighting for his life with five English men-at-arms. She could see his mouth opening, as if he called out to someone, but she could not hear him. She could feel Jeanette’s surprise and her dismay at what they were seeing, as if they were one.

And then there were MacAlpins converging on the scene, three, four, five. She could feel Duncan’s relief and
knew
, though she could not hear, that he directed the fight, even as he battled for his own life.

Then suddenly the soldier he fought missed a block to Duncan’s thrust and crumpled to the ground. She could see Duncan yell something to his kinsmen, then he took off at a run. Suddenly there was a long shafted arrow that shot past his head, so close it seemed impossible that it had not hit him. He spun around, raising his shield to protect himself at the same time, but he was not quick enough. A second arrow hit the edge of his shield and sank itself into his shoulder. He stumbled backward, fell, and did not move again.

Scotia screamed, Jeanette’s voice entwined with hers, though she knew not if it was out loud or only in her head. Duncan was down. He was hurt. The archer was running toward him, another arrow already nocked, and still Duncan did not move. She had to do something. She had to do something now! At the same moment, Scotia felt a new power surge through her, an almost painful sizzle under her skin, and she knew Rowan was also there, lending her gift to Scotia. Scotia lashed out with a burst of
Rowan’s ability to move things, and knocked away the archer who was almost upon Duncan, sending him flying until he landed hard on his back and lay still. Quickly she/they threw up a small protective barrier over Duncan in case there were more English soldiers close at hand.

Scotia yelled for Nicholas and Malcolm, though she never broke her connection to the Targe and its Guardians, but she did not ken if she spoke the words or only thought she did. She yelled again and heard Jeanette’s voice nearby.

“What are you saying, Scotia? We cannot understand you!”

Scotia never took her “eye” off Duncan. If she were to help him, she must calm herself enough to tell the chief where he was and that there were still English soldiers battling with MacAlpins. She drew on all that Duncan had taught her to calm her mind, slow her heart, to think clearly, but the need to get him immediate help thwarted her efforts. Nonetheless, she tried again to tell the chief where Duncan was and what was happening, but before she could tell if he understood her this time, another
knowing
slammed into her.

Uilliam was also fighting for his life with another small knot of English soldiers. Without a moment’s hesitation she forced Jeanette’s vision to her will once more, grabbed Rowan’s gift defensively, and one by one, with great precision and guided by the tactics she had learned from Duncan—the pain in her chest at the thought that he was lying hurt, perhaps dead, made her stomach roil again, but she forced her mind back to Uilliam—she protected Uilliam while flinging away the soldiers, one by one, until he was the only man standing. The look on his face was one of both consternation and wonder, and she was just glad he was alive.

She abruptly pulled herself free of the Targe and found Rowan and Jeanette sitting limply by her. Rowan looked stunned. Jeanette’s pale eyes were just as astonished.

Scotia looked up at Nicholas and told him everything she had seen and everything they had done, as quickly as she could.

“We must get to Duncan, Nicholas,” she commanded. “I do not ken if he is alive or”—her voice was so thick in her throat she almost couldn’t get the last word out—“dead.” She tried to rise but found her legs less than dependable. “We cannot let him die!” She knew her voice was rising, growing more strident as Nicholas and Malcolm pulled Rowan and Jeanette to their feet, just as Scotia’s legs finally responded to her command. She reached for her sword, drawing it from her scabbard. Rowan bent to retrieve the Targe and sack, tying it securely to her belt, while Jeanette dumped the water from her cup and put it in a sack she had made for it.

“Hurry,” Malcolm said, pushing the three women back to the wood, but in the opposite direction from where Duncan lay.

Scotia was confused for a moment, then realized they were not going after Duncan. “Nicholas!” she screamed, “We must help Duncan!”

Jeanette grabbed her sister by her shoulders. “You are a Guardian, Scotia. First the Guardians must be taken to safety. You ken this. ’Tis the way it has always been. Duncan will live or die, but he kens it, too, and would be the first to get you to safety before he found his own.”

Scotia looked over her shoulder, back to where she knew he lay. She knew Jeanette was right, though she did not like it. She knew Duncan would tell her that the sooner she did as she was told, and found safety, the sooner the warriors could retrieve him, find Uilliam, and chase down the English.

She nodded, both to Duncan’s voice in her head and Jeanette’s words.

“Let us hurry,” she said. “But,” she said to Nicholas, letting the knowledge that she was a Guardian, just as Duncan had said she would be, lend weight and expediency to her voice, “I expect you to send someone for him as soon as we are safely away. He is alive,” she managed to say, “but has not moved since the arrow
found him and he fell to the ground. Find him, please, Nicholas, bring him back safely,” she said. “I could not bear it if he lost his life because of me.”

Nicholas nodded and Malcolm gave a grunt of agreement, then pushed the women to a run as they fled the Story Stone meadow.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

A
S SOON AS
the Guardians were clear of the Story Stone meadow the small group slowed and made their way with great care away from the open area. Scotia wanted to take the rear of the group, watching for anyone who might follow them but also minding any tracks the others left that were too easy to find, but Malcolm had insisted she walk ahead of him.