The Highlander's Folly (The Novels of Loch Moigh Book 3) (25 page)

He trusted Tieren and his men. He did. Still, the need to guard her himself thrummed through him, turning his bannock to ash in his mouth. His senses alert, he kept an ear cocked in case she should call out.

Ridiculous.
A MacKintosh man would never lift a hand against a lady. None would assault her, and he’d best turn his mind to something else.

A twig snapped, and hurried footsteps approached. Hunter’s attention returned to the path. Meghan strode into camp. Her expression tight, she clutched her things to her chest. She kept her eyes on the path and headed straight for her place in the circle they’d formed. Tieren followed a short distance behind. His shoulders were curled in, and his head was bowed in defeat. Instead of stopping once he reached their camp, Tieren continued walking in the direction of the horses. Hunter could easily read his friend’s hurt and the deep sting of rejection.

Hunter made his way to Meghan’s side. “What happened between you and Tieren?” he asked in a low tone.

“Nothing.” Fresh color bloomed in her cheeks.

“I can see by your blush that you do no’ speak the truth.” He leaned closer to peer into her eyes. “Something happened. Tell me.”

She fussed with her gear, rearranged her blanket and gave a little shrug. “Tieren asked me again if I would marry him.” Her eyes darted to him and away just as quickly. “I told him no, and that I don’t love him. It wouldn’t be right or fair to him.”

“Ah.” Hunter nodded. “I see.”

She met his gaze, hers searching. “Do you?”

“Aye. ’Tis never pleasant to deliver news we ken will cause hurt. He’ll mend, Beag Curaidh. Before long the two of you will once again be easy in each other’s company.”

“Of course.” She went back to laying her sheepskin and blankets as if readying herself to sleep. “You can go now. I’m fine. Tieren is fine.”

Her tone carried a bite, and it puzzled him. Clearly she wished for privacy. “Good eve to you, my lady.” He bowed and took his leave. In the face of Tieren’s pain, he should not feel such relief. He should not, yet he did, and he could do naught to prevent the flare of triumph from igniting within him.

He moved his sleeping blankets to the side of camp directly opposite Meghan’s, then set out for the loch. A thorough dunking in the frigid water would do him good.

Your enemies are near!
Hunter went from deep sleep to fully alert in a trice. Was it Giselle’s voice in his head that woke him? His skin prickled with the warning. Never before had the faerie spoken to him thus, but he suffered not a moment’s doubt. Silently he crawled out of his blankets toward Tieren.

The sun had just begun its ascent above the eastern horizon, casting enough light that his friend would be able to read his signing. He poked him, motioning for silence when his commander tensed and woke.

“Wake the men and have them ready their weapons,”
he signed.
“Bunch blankets and whatever is to hand in our beds to give the appearance we still sleep. Our enemies approach.”
Tieren set about his task with quiet precision.

Hunter gave three soft whistled calls of a warbler, a warning to their guards to return to camp. Then he crept to where Meghan slept. He covered her mouth to prevent her from crying out as he shook her. Her eyes grew wide as she startled awake, and he caught her hand as she gripped one of her daggers. She blinked when she recognized him. He motioned for her to be quiet and leaned close to whisper in her ear. “Gather your weapons and head due east. Hide in the hills until I come for you.”

“Why?” she whispered back, her eyes clouded with confusion.

“We are about to be ambushed.”

“I can help,” she hissed. “You know I can fight.”

“Aye, I ken well enough you can defend yourself.” He couldn’t help himself; he drew her into his arms. “I canna bear the thought of . . . of . . . Grant me this request, Beag Curaidh. Hide in the hills where I ken you will be safe.” He crushed her to him and inhaled her sweet, clean scent. “I beg this of you.”

“All right, Hunter.” She stroked his shoulders. “I’ll go if it will ease your mind.”

“
’Twill ease my mind considerably.” He blew out a shaky breath and let go of her. “Stuff something under your blankets to give the appearance that you are still there. Load our supplies upon the packhorses and take them with you. I dinna want the rouncies to run off, nor do I wish to lose our food.” She nodded, and he backed away.

He watched to be sure she did as he commanded before readying himself for battle. Once he and his soldiers were prepared, they hid behind the ridge of stone forming a natural enclosure for their camp. Twenty paces from where they had slept but a few moments ago, he and his men hunkered down to watch—and to wait. It didn’t take long.

A dozen shadows crept toward their encampment, followed by two men on horseback. One of them wore a tunic emblazoned with a crest—
MacKenzie
. The other man was far too familiar—Cecil.

The enemy snuck into their camp like the dishonorable curs they were. They spread out and positioned themselves above the lumpy forms under the blankets. Just as they reached to pull the blankets back, their swords ready to commit murder, Cecil called out, “Dinna kill the woman. She is mine.”

A chill ran down Hunter’s spine, and he ground his teeth. He gave the signal to wait. In that moment of chaos, when the enemy discovered they’d stabbed naught but blankets and brush, Hunter gave the war cry. He, Tieren and his six warriors charged over the ridge of stone and into their camp with swords drawn—eight against twelve.

“There,” Cecil shouted, pointing at Hunter. “There is the new baron of DúnConnell.”

“Kill him,” the commander ordered, his voice dispassionate.

Tieren took up his place beside Hunter. Soon the two of them were surrounded. The sounds of battle filled his head, and battle lust thrummed in his veins. The MacKenzies formed a wedge, separating Tieren from him. It took all of Hunter’s concentration to defend himself. Rage fueled his blows as he drove his attackers back. He needed to get to Cecil. He longed to drag him from his mount and separate his worthless head from his shoulders.

Awareness coursed through him like a river as another warrior approached from his right. Three against one was one too many. He needed help and gave a shrill whistle. Blocking blow after blow in defense, he couldn’t get off any offensive strikes. He sensed the sword rising above his head from the third warrior. The two soldiers before him increased their efforts, distracting him from the death blow to come.

He caught a blur of movement in his periphery. She moved so fast he could scarce believe what he saw. Meghan ran with her sword drawn. She kicked out at the warrior about to deal his deathblow. Her boot connected with his enemy’s chest. A grunt, the rush of air, and the warrior was on the ground. Meghan drew her sword from the dead man’s chest and came to stand with her back to Hunter’s and her bloody blade raised.

“By all that is holy, woman,” he snapped. “I told you to hide in the hills until I came for you.” Her presence frightened him enough that he forgot his fatigue and made a desperate sweeping arc with his sword. One of his attackers fell, and he turned all of his effort toward the second.

“You’re welcome,” Meghan huffed just as two more took the place of the sla
in warriors at thei
r
feet. She engaged one of them, her blade flashing out beside his ear.

“Tieren, lads,” Hunter called out. “To me!” Fear for Meghan’s safety clogged his throat. Where were the MacKintosh men who followed behind them? Now would be a good time for them to appear. He cast a glance about him. His soldiers were fully occupied, and Tieren was hemmed in.

“Shite.” Desperate, he sucked in a deep breath and sent a plea to his ancestor. After all, ’twas she whose voice in his head had warned him of the ambush.
“Giselle, Áine . . . Granddam, I need your help. I beg of you—keep Meghan safe.”

He received no answer. No help came to him. Hunter’s muscles screamed, and his lungs burned as he deflected the strikes coming at him from all directions. Meghan’s sword rang out as she fought, guarding his back.
God, keep her safe!
he prayed. Pounding hoofbeats approached from behind him. A thudding sound, Meghan’s moan, and suddenly the place where her warmth had radiated against him went cold.

Panic surged through him. He snatched a second sword off the ground and lunged, attacking mindlessly any soul unfortunate enough to get in his way. Slowly he gained ground, inching ever closer toward the edge of the battle—closer to the horses.

Two more MacKenzies fell. Finally, the battle turned in his favor. He could not walk without stepping over the bodies of their foes, and the air held the coppery scent of blood. Hunter raised his eyes just in time to see Cecil riding over a distant hill, Meghan draped over the betrayer’s lap, still as death. Fear such as he’d never before experienced exploded in his chest. “Nay,” he cried out.

“Hunter,” Tieren shouted. “Go after her. The enemy commander has hied off like the coward that he is. MacKenzie filth, drop your weapons—or die,” he commanded.

At his statement, the few remaining MacKenzies ran off in the direction from whence they’d come whilst sneaking into the camp.

“Go after the cowards. Tieren, ’tis up to you. I’ll no’ have a single one of them escape the consequences of their perfidy this day. Once you’ve routed them all, gather our belongings and return to the road toward Inverness. Make camp by Loch Dún Seilcheig. Meghan and I will rejoin you there.”
If he were not too late to save her, that is.

His chest heaving, he ran toward the place where they’d hidden their horses. Doireann, saddled and ready, tossed his head when he caught sight of Hunter. The battle had excited the destriers, and their eyes showed white around the edges. They pawed the ground, and their ears pricked back and forth at the sound of their masters coming toward them.

Hunter could think of naught else but getting to Meghan. Aye, getting to Meghan and running his sword through Cecil’s black heart. He swung up onto his stallion’s back and urged him into a gallop in the direction he’d seen Cecil last. Over hills and culverts he sped, heedless of his mount’s footing. When he crested the hill where last he’d seen Cecil, he brought Doireann to sudden halt. Searching frantically in every direction, dread lodged itself in his gut. He could find no sign of Cecil or Meghan. The rocky terrain beneath him held no imprint of their passing.

He shouted to the heavens, fear, anger and desperation chasing through him in equal measures. This very morn, Áine had spoken to him in the way he and True oft communicated. Yet the faerie did not answer him earlier when he’d pleaded for her help. Would she answer his pleas now? What choice did he have but to try? His lungs worked like a bellows, and his heart nearly pounded its way out of his chest. He struggled for control.

Opening his mind completely, he centered himself and poured out his energy, pleading for all he was worth,
“Áine, if you bear me any true affection, guide me now.”
He waited, certain that she would again refuse him.

But then his limbs began to tingle. Fatigue vanished, and an unnatural strength coursed through him. Somehow, Áine had joined herself to him. He felt it to his very marrow. Her magic arced along his nerves and rushed through his blood. Blue fire limned his body, but it did not burn his skin. Awash in wonder, he stared at the flames.

Why did he feel no fear? He’d always recoiled from anything having to do with the fae in the past. Yet now that he was engulfed in magic, he kent naught but relief. He was not alone. Hunter spurred his mount into a gallop certain that his fae ancestor would guide him.

Áine, in the guise of Madame Giselle, had spoken truly when last they’d met at the fair she’d conjured. She truly
did
care for him. Her maternal love swept through him in a surge so powerful he nearly wept. In his hour of greatest need, his ancestor had answered his plea, lending him but a small portion of her power to aid him. The soul-deep bond humbled him, and for the first time in his life, he let go of the constant control he held over himself. Meghan’s life depended upon him, and he would not fail her.

The blue fire receded, whilst the strength remained. He reined Doireann in and searched the ground again for any sign of Cecil’s passing. The rocky terrain gave nothing away. Hunter had no idea what direction Cecil might have taken once he’d ridden. His stallion veered to the south, and Hunter allowed him his head, sensing Áine held the reins.

Touching his spurs to his destrier’s sides, he raced to reach Cecil, praying once again that Meghan would be protected from further harm. Once he found the two, ’twould be up to him to dispatch Cecil to hell, and oh, how he looked forward to the deed.

C
HAPTER TWELVE

D
isoriented, Meghan struggled to assess her situation as she came to. How had she come to be draped over somebody’s horse—over a man’s lap? Nausea roiled in her gut, and panic tightened her chest. Her head ached so badly she could hardly string a coherent thought together. Out of instinct, she pretended to remain unconscious. Clearly Hunter didn’t have her, or she’d be held in his arms. So . . . who?

Opening one eye a mere slit, she took a peek.
Damn.
She recognized that boot and the bowlegged little weasel who wore it.
Cecil.
It all came back to her in a rush, and she had to swallow the groan rising in her throat. Cecil had come at her on his horse while she defended Hunter’s back. The coward had hit her in the head with the pommel of his claymore. After that, everything went black.

Pinched as it was against the saddle, her right arm had gone to sleep. She shifted with the next bounce so the pressure point eased. A prickling tingle began at her shoulder and traced down to her hand. She flexed her fingers. Thank heavens the idiot hadn’t tied her arms or legs. The hilts of her daggers bit into her midriff, so he hadn’t disarmed her either. Did the arrogant jerk think his skills were superior to hers? He probably believed he could overpower her just by virtue of his gender. Dumbass.

Still, if he was convinced she was a witch or a faerie, binding her would’ve been useless. If that’s what he thought, why risk having her cast a spell over him? Why take her at all? She didn’t intend to stick around long enough to find out. She had to get away and soon, before Cecil took her farther from Hunter.

Oh God! How would she find her way back? What if Hunter . . .
No
.
Don’t go there.
By the time she’d joined the battle, four of the MacKenzies had fallen. The MacKintosh must have won the skirmish. Of course they had. Tears stung at the back of her eyes. Hunter had to be all right, because she couldn’t bring herself to touch upon any other possibility.

She inhaled slowly through her nose, gathered her reserves and pushed herself off the horse’s back, slamming her elbow into Cecil’s nose on the way. She landed on her feet and ran, taking one of her daggers from its sheath as she went. A muttered curse and the sound of hooves eating up the ground behind her spurred her on.

A hillock rose to her left, offering a defendable position. She altered her course and headed straight for the summit. A large rocky outcrop jutted up about fifteen feet at the center, surrounded by craggy shards of smaller broken boulders at the base. If she could manage to climb to the top, Cecil couldn’t get near her with his sword. No way could he reach her before she had the chance to throw her blades.

Scrambling over the fragments of rock, she searched for footholds in the hard surface and inched her way up the side. Each movement sent jarring pain through her head. Her boot slipped on loose gravel. She fell to her knees and slid back a full yard before she could stop herself. Her hose tore, and both knees were raw and bloody where the skin had been scraped away.

“You canna escape, witch. I have you now,” Cecil crowed. He rested his forearm on the gullet of his saddle and stared up at her as if he had all the time in the world.

Meghan shoved her pain aside and clawed her way to the top of her stone perch. She stood on shaky legs, widened her stance and balanced herself on the smooth, slanted surface. “Seems to me I have the advantage, Cecil, but I’ll play along.” She flipped the dagger in her hand. Catching it by the blade, she readied herself to pitch it into his evil heart. “What do you want with me, now that you
have
me?” she asked in a mocking tone.

“Why, you will become my wife, of course.” His horse pranced at the base of her island of safety. “Witch or fae, it matters no’ to me. Either way, I will take advantage of whatever it may be that you can provide, or . . .” He shrugged. “You die.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” She shrugged back with all the indifference she could muster. “But I’m not a witch or a faerie. I’m just an ordinary human being—a regular lassie with mad skills when it comes to daggers and swords. Besides, if you are so certain I’m one or the other, why would you risk having me cast a spell? What if I decide to make you disappear into thin air like the fair?”

He fished a bundle out from under his shirt and waved it at her. “Think you I come to you unprepared? I had a ward made against such magic. There is naught you can do to me.”

She caught a glimpse of movement in the distance. A rider crested the hill to the west, and she nearly fell to her skinned knees in relief.
Hunter.
He was alive, and he’d come after her. Oh man, did she love that stubborn, honorable, gorgeous idiot.

She blinked the sudden tears of relief away and brought her focus back to Cecil. Best keep him occupied and unaware that her champion was on his way. “I don’t get it. You accuse me of being fae or a witch. You wanted to dispose of me the day we first met, and now you want to marry me. What changed?”

“The MacKenzies tell the tale of how the fae aided the MacConnell clan in years past. The association made the MacConnells powerful, undefeatable.” He snorted. “I want that power for myself. I
will
have what aid you can provide to me, and with the wards I have in place, you canna harm me.”

“I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last bowlegged little weasel on earth. I sure hope you have a plan B.”

“Ah, but you will become my wife.” He snarled. “There are ways to force your compliance, my dear. I can always turn you over to the church for the heretic you are. Do you no’ ken what will become of you then? You will be burned at the stake. Now be a good lass and come down, lest I am forced to lay siege until you grow too weak from hunger and thirst to refuse me.”

He grabbed the waterskin from the cantle of his saddle and took a long drink. Smacking his lips when he was done, he held the skin out to her. “Come now, lass. Dinna be foolish. As my wife, you will be well provided for. Indeed, thanks to the new baron of DúnConnell, I will soon come into a holding of my own.”

Her stomach lurched. What was he talking about? “I hate to be the one to break it to you, but you aren’t the sharpest spear in the rack. I could kill you right now if I wanted to,” she said, smirking back, “but
I won’t. I wouldn’t want to deprive Hunter of the pleasure.”

“Och, he’s dead by now. Those wee daggers you carry will no’ find their mark, no’ when I can see clearly when you intend to throw them.”

“We must agree to disagree on that point.” She was sorely tempted to demonstrate. A blade in his thigh to distract him, followed by another right between the eyes. She reached for another dirk. Hunter’s bellow stopped her hand.

Cecil’s expression was priceless. Shock etched his face. His sword raised, he raced to meet Hunter. Doireann reared, striking out with his sharp hooves at the other horse’s chest. Cecil’s gelding screeched and backed away, putting space between him, the stallion and the very enraged baron—her knight without his shining armor.

Meghan half scrambled, half slid down the granite slope, scraping the base of her thumb in the process. Adrenaline pumping through her veins was the only thing keeping her upright as she drew closer to the two knights. She took another dagger from her belt and stood at the ready, just in case Hunter needed her help.

“Are you all right, Meghan?” Hunter spared her a glance. “Did he hurt you, lass?”

“Skinned knees and a bump on the head, but otherwise I’m fine.” She met his eyes and smiled. “I take it the MacKintosh defeated the MacKenzies?”

He nodded, and then he pointed his broadsword at Cecil. “What are you to the MacKenzies?” Hunter circled around the other horse and rider. Doireann snorted, tossed his head and laid his ears back. His front hooves minced the ground as if he wanted nothing more than to take another shot at the enemy. Hunter kept a tight rein on him.

“It makes no difference whether or no’ you ken now, since you will soon be dead,” Cecil boasted. “My sister is wed to their earl. One of the MacKenzie spies learned of the MacConnell clan’s search for the old baron’s grandson, an orphaned lad whose father disappeared afore he was born. The bairn’s mother, a commoner, returned to her village on the shores of Loch Moigh. ’Twas
you
who handed me the information the MacKenzies sought.” Cecil chortled.

“I passed along what I’d learned, and the earl granted me the task of keeping an eye on your whereabouts. ’Tis why I journeyed to Loch Moigh. Once you are dead, I have been promised a portion of
your
land, my lord. I
will
have your witch as well.”

Hunter let out a roar and attacked. Seeing him handling his powerful stallion, battling the creep who had threatened them both—that did something to her insides. A gut-level, primitive exultation filled her—and pride followed fast in its wake. She didn’t suffer a moment’s doubt about the outcome. One-on-one there was no way Hunter could lose. Still, her heart pounded like a kettle drum.

Hunter’s sheer physicality turned her insides to mush. The strict code of ethics and chivalry he lived by, the way his clan adored him . . . after this, how could she ever settle for less?

Since the day he’d dragged her through time, she’d never doubted she had his protection. Hunter had shared things with her he’d never shared with anyone else. She melted under his gray-eyed gaze and went weak in the knees whenever he turned his dimpled smile her way. She swallowed the lump in her throat and sheathed her daggers. She was hopelessly in love with an arrogant fifteenth-century Scottish lord.

He would be surrounded by treachery when he took his place at DúnConnell. Hadn’t Cecil just told them the MacConnell clan was riddled with spies? Hunter needed her. She needed him. The only man she would ever love was too thickheaded to ask her to stay. Even if he did ask, she didn’t know if she had the guts to leave her family, the fencing club or her century behind forever.

The battle was over quickly, and Cecil lay still on the ground. Hunter faced her, his expression a thunderous mask. He kicked Doireann’s sides and cantered toward her. Leaning over in the saddle, he extended his hand. She ran to meet him, grasped his outstretched forearm and swung up behind him. He turned Doireann and spurred him into a gallop.

She put her arms around his waist and buried her face against his back. Judging by the tension emanating from him, he was still caught up in the adrenaline rush of battle. That or he was really pissed at her.
Or . . . both.
Yep. Probably both.

They continued on in silence for what seemed like forever. She glanced around his shoulder to see where they were heading, and then she checked the sun’s position in the sky. How could it still be morning after so much had happened? The shimmer of water in the distance caught her eye. “Is that Loch Mór?”

“Aye.” He veered to the right, following a narrow path into a forest of pine and yew. He reined Doireann to a stop in a small clearing at the north end of the lake.

Meghan sucked in a breath. The scent of pine permeated the air, and sunlight breaking through the canopy of evergreen boughs dappled the bed of reddish needles blanketing the forest floor. The stallion’s sides heaved, and the sound of his breathing broke the stillness surrounding her.

Hunter swung his leg over Doireann’s neck and dismounted. Turning an angry scowl her way, he dragged her from his horse by her upper arms. He held her aloft in his bruising grip with her feet dangling above the ground. Her face was close enough to his that the anger directed at her from his storm-gray eyes set off a cascade of shivers down her spine.

He shook her. “I
begged
you to hide in the hills until I came for you. I
begged
you to stay out of danger. Lass,
I
dinna
beg
anyone for
anything
anymore.”

The contained anger edging his tone raised goose bumps at the back of her neck and down her arms. “I did . . . I—”

“Nay, you did
no’
.”

“Yes I did, I just didn’t go very far.”

“Dinna speak, woman.” He shook her again. “Do you have
any
idea what your disobedience put me through?”

Her eyes went wide. “What
you
went through?” Anger chased the shivers away and brought hot tears to her eyes. “I saved your life. I had to stay close enough to watch over you, in case you needed me. I—”

“I nearly lost you.” He set her down, and his gaze roamed over her in a frantic search. He touched the goose egg at her temple and growled at the sight of her torn hose and bloody knees. “Did I no’ tell you I canna bear the thought of anything happening to you?” He dragged her into his arms with such force she couldn’t breathe.

“I could ha’ lost you,” he rasped out again. “I canna lose you, lass. ’Twould be the death of me if aught were to happen to you.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. He stroked her hair and nuzzled the tender spot below her ear.