Mhàiri’s Yuletide Wish Page 9

  “Ye dinnae believe I plotted with him?”

  “Nae. Ye are to be reprimanded for fighting in the hall, but likely yer punishment will be amended to testifying to what ye know.”

  “He wasnae verra clear. But he said he was to open the gate if it was closed to him once Lord Henderson arrived with the lass.”

  “What lass?”

  “Lord Scott’s granddaughter.”

  Michaell sent Euan a puzzled look. “She is with William—”

  Albert glanced from Euan to Michaell. “Duff said Lord Henderson knows where she is. And has sent men to find her.”

  * * *

  Wind whipped snow about, covering their tracks as they fled the English, though it was clear enough where they headed. Only the side trails to small, hidden camps to give them a chance to thaw out and give their ponies a rest were a worry as William and Gregor were loath to lead anyone to their hideouts. But the weather seemed determined to cooperate.

  Mhàiri shivered and stretched her hands closer to the undersized fire. They had searched diligently for dry wood that would produce little smoke. The thin, pale gray wisp trailing off the end of the tallest flame mingled into the snow’s swirl of equally gray clouds. The scent would not carry far through the damp air, and William had deemed a fire necessary to keep fingers and toes from freezing solid.

  Robbie pulled a hot poker from the coals and plunged it into a mug of snow. After a moment the resulting water was warm enough to drink, and he handed it to Mhàiri.

  “So, ye and the Kerr’s youngest son wish to wed.” Gregor’s statement did not require an answer, and Mhàiri merely nodded as she sipped.

  William lifted a bushy eyebrow laden with frost. “Aye. Otherwise, I cannae see me finding much interest in rescuing ye from the hands of de Percy. Normally, I have a better sense of self-preservation than to attempt something so foolish.” William’s dry response blended with a grin and shake of his head and Gregor didn’t seem to take offense.

  “With both yer ma and da gone,” Gregor continued, ignoring William, “it falls to me to ensure ye stay out of trouble, lass.”

  Mhàiri grimaced at his reminder of her loss, and the assumption she needed a keeper. “I have done well enough so far. I’ll even point out ye are now out of prison because of me.”

  William hooted and clapped Gregor’s shoulder. “She has ye there, Scott!” He sent Mhàiri an admiring look. “Canny lass. I’d marry ye myself, though I’m rather fond of my wife and am happy enough to keep her.”

  Mhàiri rolled her eyes and took another sip, relishing the small warmth it provided.

  “I am only sorry,” Gregor continued, “that I dinnae retake the keep for ye. Though I’ll admit it crossed my mind many times during the long days I sat in de Percy’s cell.”

  “Och, look at how much better ’tis now,” William argued. “This way my wee brother can tempt the lass of his dreams with the return of her childhood home. I would have thought a handful of posies or a pretty bauble would do, but Michaell is a man with a big heart.”

  “Better a man with a big heart than a lout with a big mouth,” Mhàiri growled. She rose and tossed the bits of ash and bark in her mug on the fire. The fire hissed and sizzled, and a spiral of smoke danced upward.

  Mhàiri leveled a finger at William. “He deserves yer admiration for putting up with the likes of ye. And heaven knows he deserves far more with three more brothers like ye.” With a flip of the hem of her cloak, she pivoted and stalked into the trees.

  “Dinnae get lost,” William called.

  “Mind ye dinnae stray far,” Gregor added.

  Mhàiri squared her shoulders and did not answer.

  Louts. All men are louts. Och, Michaell is different. Kind. Thoughtful. Mayhap his mother had more of a hand in his rearing than the others did.

  “I’ll nae let a child of mine grow to be a surly oaf.” She approached a shallow burn that barely bubbled beneath a layer of ice. Just beyond was a thick patch of trees where she could tend her private needs—and was also blissfully out of earshot of the men.

  “I cannae wait to get home.” She slipped on a patch of ice and windmilled her arms for balance. “’Tis about time Michaell had someone at his side who appreciates him.” The matter of her betrothal to Richard gave her pause, but then she shrugged.

  “It doesnae matter. He’s a man like any other who can be bought. He doesnae want me.” The admission stung. “Only the land. Mayhap something can be done to ease his decision to abandon the betrothal.”

  She lingered over her time alone, happy to not be cheek-to-jowl with over-bearing men.

  I dinnae wish to be protected so much. I can protect myself.

  . . . yer skills will be well-rusted . . . William’s words drifted to her on a chill wind.

  “Och! I remember what I was taught.” She frowned and rubbed her arms. She’d been gone from the fire long enough.

  The snap of a twig halted her. Scarcely daring to breathe, she listened intently for a clue to the sound. Had a dead branch fallen? She had not heard the soft swoosh of falling snow. Was there an animal nearby?

  She racked her brain. Could it have been one of the ponies? No. They were tethered on the opposite side of the fire.

  A faint rustle caught her ear. She ducked, squatting close to the ground, hoping to avoid detection. A shadow slipped from one tree to another with the same slow, easy sway as a tree branch. Only, the wind had died down, and the limbs were too burdened with snow to move without cause.

  Her heart thudded wildly. A man stalked them—her. Was there only one? More? A lone hunter? It seemed unlikely. At Yule, few would be outdoors, the feasts prepared days ago. She did not think she’d been seen, but she had no doubt her uncle and the others were in danger.

  Her hand slipped inside her cloak and gripped the pouch at her waist. She’d returned the crystal-bound sliver of cross to the brooch earlier, and she felt the tug of the relic.

  “Protect them,” she breathed, the words little more than a pale mist that slipped between her lips. The sturdiness of the brooch soothed her, its form as timeless and satisfying as a prayer. With a soft sigh, she rose slowly, eyes sharp on the shadow between her and the camp.

  I can go around—at least, she was fairly certain she could. She gathered her skirts to minimize their brush against the snow and slowly turned.

  A hand slapped across her face, shoving a wadded rag between her teeth as she opened her mouth to scream. She gagged as the cloth pressed deeper inside. Another strip wrapped around her head. She clawed frantically at the binding, but her attacker pulled it tight, securing it in place.

  Mhàiri ducked, trying to slip out of his grasp, but it was too late. She stepped to one side, then slammed her elbow backward, hoping to drive it into her assailant’s belly. The man kept an arm about her waist and moved with her, easily avoiding her blow. She drove her body up and back as hard as she could. The back of her head connected with his nose, sending a warm stream of blood over her shoulder.

  “Shite!” He grabbed her shoulder and wrenched her around. Startled, Mhàiri gasped at the sight of a heavily bearded face, eyes narrowed with hatred, blood dripping through his beard onto the snow at his feet. Before she could react, his fist landed on her jaw, and her world went black.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Michaell spurred his mount to reckless haste across the snow and ice, unable to remain at the keep when Mhàiri was in such danger. The Scott and Kerr soldiers kept apace with him, carried forward without incident through sheer momentum and force of will. He knew of William’s hiding spots—most of them—and aimed unerringly for the closest, a half-day’s ride from Claver Hill under normal circumstances, though only a couple of hours’ travel at their current break-neck speed.

  The ground at the reivers’ camp was churned with the imprint of numerous hooves. Remnants of a small fire still fizzled beneath a scant cover of snow.

  “They havenae been gone long,” Euan remarked.

  Michaell
reined his pony in a tight circle, searching for clues of what had happened. There was no sign of battle, only of a hasty retreat. He jerked his mount to a halt and rose in the stirrups, extending his sight.

  “Here!” A soldier beckoned excitedly.

  Michaell dismounted, covering the ground in great strides. He knelt beside the man who’d called out, touching his finger tips to the disturbed snow. A smooth path dented with small booted imprints showed where a woman had strolled from the camp. Other, larger boots tracked beside them. They forded a frozen burn and led to a copse of trees.

  Snow churned with underlying leaves and mud. She’d fought.

  A deep trail led away.

  Not enough.

  Michaell rose and raced back to his mount, pointing to the fresh hoofprints leading away. “Follow them.”

  Crossing a ridge some miles later, they came upon a group of men on horseback. With a shout, they circled their mounts, forming a protective line, seven abreast. Michaell instantly recognized his brother and five Kerr soldiers. The seventh man had to be Gregor Scott. Their ride to Barnard Castle had been a success. Until now.

  “Where is Mhàiri?” he demanded.

  “I believe Henderson’s men have her. The tracks, however, lead back toward Claver Hill. He must be taking her back to her grandfather and an early wedding.”

  “Shite!” Michaell glanced about for his bearings. The Henderson keep was west of their current path. Lord Scott’s home lay almost straight ahead.

  “We found where they must have joined their main group a short distance back. At least we’re gambling they dinnae take her to Henderson’s keep.” William snared Michaell’s gaze. “I am sorry, Michaell.”

  Michaell gave a curt nod but did not trust himself to answer.

  A man on a dapple gray rode alongside. “If he plans to wed her, he now has the upper hand.” His look turned grim. “I am Gregor Scott. She wouldnae be in this predicament were it not for me.”

  “She isnae wed yet,” Michaell growled, jerking his pony’s head around. “Are ye with me?”

  * * *

  Mhàiri woke and tried to focus. Pain shot through her neck and she feared it would snap. She stiffened, afraid of falling as her world shook in all directions. Her hands grabbed at a wooly pelt and she realized she straddled a pony, locked tight in her captor’s arms.

  She squirmed, but the restraints did not lessen. The ground rushed by and she knew a broken back would be her fate if she slid off the pony at this speed. She settled for yanking the gag from her mouth and taking deep breaths to help clear her head.

  The ride came thankfully to an end. Her captor relaxed his grip and she was able to take stock of her surroundings for the first time. She flinched at the sight of Richard Henderson astride his horse only a few feet away. He sent her a pained look.

  “I really dinnae know if marrying ye is worth the bother.” His gaze lingered on her a moment longer, then sighed. “Had I not seen ye earlier in yer grandfather’s home, neat and clean, I would charge him with attempting to foist off a penniless orphan—or worse. Ye smell of too many days without bathing, and yer clothing isnae fit to be used for rags.”

  His voice grated on Mhàiri’s ears. “I willnae marry ye,” she spat. “And if my current state is enough to make ye think twice, I’ll not sit a bath again.”

  “Och, I will enjoy taming ye, lass.” Lord Henderson’s silky-smooth voice sent a shiver of fear through Mhàiri’s belly. She fumed against her helplessness.

  “I dinnae tame easily,” she snarled.

  Lord Henderson chuckled. “I certainly hope not.”

  The man holding her grunted his amusement. Enough! Mhàiri jerked away, falling in a heap on the far side of the pony. Six men bristling with swords and ill-will hemmed her in, denying her freedom.

  “Get her,” Lord Henderson snapped. “We’re wasting time.”

  The man who’d held her dismounted. Seeing his feet hit the ground on the opposite side of the pony’s legs, Mhàiri grabbed the reins and yanked the animal about, using his hindquarters to knock the man off-balance. He shouted and grabbed at the beast, causing it to rear in alarm and bolt forward.

  As if she’d planned the sequence, Mhàiri stepped with the pony’s stride, using the small amount of momentum to help swing her onto the animal’s back before giving him full rein. With a squeal of anger as a man tried to crowd him to a stop, the pony flattened his ears and snaked his head out to any in his reach, large yellow teeth bared threateningly.

  Mhàiri slipped to one side as she gained the saddle but dug her hands into the pony’s mane and hauled herself upright. Bending low, she urged the animal on, weaving through the mass of sturdy beasts jostling and whirling to fence her in. Her pony, only lightly burdened with its rider, edged past those carrying full-grown men, and for a glorious moment, Mhàiri was free.

  Shouts rose, soon covered by the thunder of hooves. The sound drummed closer and frustration surged as she realized her pony was not the fastest of the lot. One man drew his mount alongside, letting her run as he kept pace. His teeth showed white in a taunting leer, telling her she would not escape. She was his the instant he tired of the game.

  Her pony’s breath began to labor and she did not balk as her new captor took the reins. They rattled to a halt, both animals blowing hard. A few moments later, Lord Henderson and the rest of his guard surrounded her. Mhàiri stared straight ahead until the long silence compelled her to meet Lord Henderson’s gaze.

  “Ye will receive naught but bread and water for the time it takes to determine ye dinnae carry a child by yer lover.”

  Mhàiri stiffened, leveling a furious look at the equally angry lord.

  “After that, I will make certain any child ye bear is my own.”

  * * *

  Mhàiri endured the ride as best she could with her feet tied beneath the pony’s belly and her hands bound behind her. Nothing more than her balance and the man in front of her kept her upright as they raced across the moors. Her back and sides ached with the struggle as Claver Hill came into view.

  Sunlight broke through the clouds, the only bright spot in the dismal landscape that was her future. Her grandfather’s pennant flapped atop the tower house. Lord Scott’s betrayal rolled sour in the back of her throat. Lord Henderson’s party reined to a halt a safe distance before the gate.

  A man rose in his stirrups. “Lord Henderson and Lady Mhàiri Burns!”

  The gate opened slowly, almost reluctantly, and Mhàiri’s heart broke to realize Michaell’s plan had failed. What had happened? Had her grandfather recovered enough to deny Michaell? Had Lord Scott’s men refused to allow Michaell authority?

  With deepening despair, she imagined Michaell imprisoned, possibly even dead. Tears clogged her throat as she rode into the keep. Would William arrive in time? Would the rest of their plan succeed? Or fail?

  They stopped before the stairs leading up to the first floor. Guards bristled at every door, lined the parapet above. Mhàiri searched for the Scott captain, for Euan had always had a kind word for her. But she did not see him. Bewildered by his absence, she stumbled as she was dragged from the pony’s back. A ripple of disturbance—anger?—slid through the assembled Scott guards.

  “I have arrived for my wedding,” Lord Henderson announced. “See to it my bride is prepared.” Without so much as a glance in her direction, he climbed the steps. With a hesitation bordering on insult, the two guards at the top drew back, granting him entrance. Curious to see what—or rather, who—awaited inside, Mhàiri followed.

  * * *

  Michaell and his men galloped over the trampled ground, churning muddy slush from beneath their mounts’ hooves. They thundered through Claver Hill Keep’s open gates as the sun began its descent toward evening. Horses milled about as stable lads collected them from their riders. Michaell and his men appeared to be only minutes behind Richard Henderson’s arrival.

  Michaell flung himself to the ground, leaving his winded pony in the yard. His c
loak flapped about him, his sword slapping his leg as he bolted up the steps to the first floor. Recognition dawned on the guards’ faces and they stepped adroitly to one side to grant him entrance. Shouts rang across the yard.

  “Lord Gregor Scott is home!”

  “Gregor Scott!” The chant was taken up, spreading rapidly.

  Men lowered their shoulders against the great gate to push it closed.

  “Let them in!”

  Michaell paused on the doorstep at the shouted command and spun about. Ponies bolted through the partially open gate, creating even more of an uproar in the yard. They came to a halt at the foot of the steps. Nine faces fixed on him, three of which he knew all too well.

  “We heard ye might need a wee bit of help,” the red-haired man called. “And we thought we’d have a look.”

  “Our wives were glad for the excuse to send us out,” the stouter of the three admitted with a grin. “Said we were underfoot.”

  The third merely sat his pony, gaze leveled on Michaell. The eldest of the brothers, Andrew was known to say the least.

  Too caught up in the immediate problem to bemoan his brothers’ interference, Michaell gave them a quick nod and ducked inside the hall. It took a moment after the brilliance of the setting sun to adjust his sight to the relative gloom of the interior. Too early for candlelight to make much difference, most of the light came from torches lining the walls and a fire filling the hearth. Tables were stacked along the perimeter of the room, leaving the center clear. Michaell recognized Lord Scott slumped in the heavy chair on the dais at the front of the room. His claw-like hand rested on the table, and he peered from beneath bushy brows, chin resting on his bony chest. A guard stood on either side of his chair.

  People clustered in the corners, gazes moving from Michaell to Lord Scott, then to the group stalking the length of the floor. Four men with Mhàiri in the center.

  “Stop them!”

  A gray-haired man whipped about. Mhàiri fought the soldier’s grip on her arm, dragging him to a halt. She stumbled and gasped as she met Michaell’s gaze. A sneer thinned the older man’s lips, his gaze sliding past Michaell to the men spilling through the door. Gregor, William and Andrew arranged themselves on either side of Michaell.