Читать книгу Highlander Claimed - Juliette Miller - Страница 9

CHAPTER ONE

THE BRUTE WAS UPON ME.

His clawing hand lashed only inches from the rough fabric of the men’s trews I wore. I skittered out of his reach, thankful that I’d chosen the unfashionable training garb this morning, instead of a servant’s dress, which would have been far easier to grab.

But Laird Ogilvie was quick for a large, slightly overweight, middle-age lout. Blustery determination reddened his face.

“Your mother escaped me only through death,” the laird said callously. “You’ll not be so lucky.”

Lunging again, his fingers caught the back of my shirt and yanked, causing the tunic to choke me around the neck. He took the opportunity to push me facedown into the plush furs of his expansive bed. I turned my head and gasped for breath, struggling against his hold.

“Why do you insist on wearing the clothing of men, lass? ’Tis most unbecoming. I’ll get rid of them for you, shall I?”

I had timed my visit to the laird’s chambers poorly. It was my job to tidy up his rooms each morning and return all the cups and bowls from his evening’s revelries to the kitchens. And I had carried out my duties faithfully for almost five years, always careful to avoid his presence. Yet today, he had waited for me, keeping himself hidden until he was sure we were alone, and the door was closed. Now it was too late to escape him.

“In this keep, my word is law and you’ll not forget it,” he spoke gruffly. His hands continued to push the cloth of my tunic higher up my back as he held my wrists with his other hand. “You forget the change in your status. You are no longer the daughter of a landholder, nor entitled to the privileges that accompany such a position. Your mother was equally forgetful. After your father’s death, she, too, had difficulty coming to terms with her demotion. She could have continued to live in your farmhouse. But she refused me. Stubborn, she was. Desirable, aye, but mightily stubborn.”

I struggled against the pressure of his body, bearing down on mine.

“I stripped her of her land, aye, in the hopes she would submit to me. Still, she fought me.” One of the laird’s hands held my own in his viselike grasp while the other smoothed along the bare skin of my hip, following the curve of my waist, roaming higher. “It was only when I used you as my pawn, not long before her death, that she finally gave up her futile resistance. You should be grateful to her, lass. She would agree to anything to keep me from pursuing you. Anything. But now that she is lost to us, there is nothing to stop me. I have been watching you for some time. But you already know that, do you not, Roses?”

Aye, I knew it. My mother had offered me a sad warning as she lay dying. It was one of the reasons I hid myself under loose, men’s clothing and avoided the laird at all costs.

“You’re a kitchen servant,” the laird continued, “but you could be so much more. ’Tis time for you to make yourself useful. A mistress of the laird is afforded special privileges, you realize. Private chambers, lightened duties, fine dresses, time and protection to stroll the gardens freely.”

Were these the same words of enticement he’d whispered to my mother?

“Nay.”

“Nay?”

“I’ll not agree.”

He was silent and still for a moment, then I heard his soft chuckle. “I didn’t ask for your agreement, lass. I own you, and I intend to take what is mine.”

I heard a soft whimper and realized it was I who had uttered it. The sound of it gave clarity to my choice—the choice that was nestled uncomfortably against my front pocket, in a rough leather pouch. A knife. I was allowed to use it for kitchen and garden duties but kept it with me for protection, though this was the first time I needed to use it for that reason. Knowing it was there now, digging into my hip, gave me but small comfort as the laird pulled on the waistband of my trews. His grip on my wrists slackened as he focused on his goal, pushing my shirt up to my neck where it bunched against my hair.

The laird froze. There was a note of shock in his voice when he spoke again. “What is this? This mark?”

I didn’t answer. I concentrated on making my movements as inconspicuous as I could as I grasped toward the knife with my left hand.

Ogilvie’s fingers brushed across the skin near the middle of my back, drawing a circular pattern. He seemed distracted, almost amazed, before his harsh tone returned.

“Who put this ink to you? Answer me!”

“I know not what you speak of,” I gasped.

But it was a lie.

I had spent most of my life attempting to keep the tiny tattoo between my shoulder blades hidden from sight. I bathed carefully when others were around. I wore my hair long. And I covered myself with bulky clothing. Now, I squirmed wildly, equally terrified by the exposure of this small inked mark and the rest of my body. My mind whirled to a shadowy memory that had instilled a lingering fear into the mind of a lost child.

An ancient, superstitious healer had been summoned by my parents when I’d been ill with measles as a very small child. A wizened face. A crooked finger, pointing and accusing. A shrill warning, never forgotten. “A witch’s mark! She’ll be beaten, flayed, burned at the stake! Keep this hidden! At all costs—keep this hidden.”

Laird Ogilvie continued his study, drawing across the ink with his fingertip. “It looks like a seal of some description. A seal of—”

The chambers echoed with a sudden, weighty silence. It was the type of silence Ogilvie and his officers typically employed when a servant interrupted one of their gatherings just as a critical piece of information was about to be revealed.

I didn’t know if he was considering my flaying, my burning or something else entirely. Whatever the laird had been contemplating, his renewed enthusiasm for carrying out his task was now making itself felt. He fumbled with the fastenings of his trews.

And it was then that I made my move.

The force of my strike embedded the sharp blade into the side of his abdomen. My many months of discreet sword training with the young clan warriors had left me ill-equipped to aim small. Luckily for the laird, the knife was not a large one. If he’d had a chance to consider it, Laird Ogilvie might have rejoiced at his overindulgent mealtime habits: his extra padding would most probably allow him to live.

I withdrew the knife and was able to use the laird’s shock to slide out from under him and step away. He touched his stomach and considered the blood pooling in his hand with confusion, not believing that his own servant would dare react to him as I had just done.

I took advantage of his stunned silence and, with haste, fled the room.

Surprised by my own rebellion, and the calmness with which I had carried it out, I felt a lurch of genuine panic boil in my heart. What had I just condemned myself to? Death, severe and vengeful punishment, at the very least, or the life of a clanless vagabond. I decided on the latter.

My fear gave me wings. I flew down the staircase, following the halls to the kitchen. I paused only for a moment before entering. Realizing I was still holding the bloody knife, I returned it to its pouch, quickly making sure that no blood was visible. Rearranging my clothing, I forced myself to appear as calm as I could manage. After all, the kitchen servants were used to my strange outfits and my rushed execution of tasks. In the kitchen, I hastily grabbed a large bag and stuffed several loaves of bread into it. I took a small wooden bowl. On a whim, I also took the needle and stitching thread, and a lidded cup of the healing paste I’d made for Ismay only the day before.

Ismay stood near one of the tables, organizing her herbs. My closest friend, my secret mentor in the ways of healing. She looked at me, alert now to my unusual behavior. I gave her a brief hug. It pained me greatly to realize I might not see her again. She returned the hug with some confusion, her brown eyes questioning.

Matilda, the lead cook, paused in her task of doling out instructions to her underlings. She eyed me with her usual disapproval as I passed by her, glancing at the bag I carried.

“The laird requires assistance,” I told her as I exited to the out-of-doors, before she could ask me to explain.

I ran to the stables. It was midmorning, so the men of the keep were occupied with training, hunting or tending the fields. I grabbed a bag I had hidden among the stalls, carefully filled over time with items I could use in case the need arose: a fur-lined coat, several lengths of rope, a flint and a small sword. It was this sword I used when I practiced with Ronan and Ritchie, the redheaded brothers of my own age who had found my interest in soldiers’ training amusing. They’d spent many an hour teaching me how to fight and how to ride. Skills I was blessed now to possess.

I had known all along that my destiny lay elsewhere. Most of my clan had long forgotten about my mysterious arrival as a child of three or four, accepting me as another daughter of a clanmember, and then as a servant and pair of hands. My unusual looks were occasionally commented on: hair so fair it was almost white, and light green eyes, not at all like the darker hues of my parents and friends. But there was too much work to be done to ponder excessively over the details of my foreignness. With mouths to feed, walls to build and crops to tend, there was little time left over to dwell on the origins of an outcast child.

I had not forgotten. The questions visited me daily. They resided in my dreams. And they made me less willing to accept my fate as the servant of a tyrannical laird whose intentions for me had been written in every glance in my direction since I came of age. But I’d known this was coming. I’d known it all along. I had waited for this day.

And here it was.

At the last moment, I grabbed a war helmet and stuffed it into the remaining space in my bag.

Several horses were grazing near the stables. I slipped a bridle onto a chestnut pony that I had ridden before—and draped a saddle blanket into place. I used a tree stump to mount the horse and climbed on. He could sense my frantic state, and it unsettled him. I was profoundly grateful that the stable hands were used to seeing me ride. They glanced up from their chores but didn’t dwell on what I was doing.

My immediate concern was to put as much distance between myself and my crime during this calm before the storm. The laird was, perhaps, weakened by loss of blood. He might be unconscious, not yet able to issue orders to have me followed, caught, beaten, killed. But that wouldn’t last long—I felt certain he would recover if a fever didn’t set in. I knew firsthand that Ismay was a highly talented healer. After all, she’d relied on me to gather the herbs she needed to make the healing paste, a good strong brew.

I skirted the horse around the loch, gaining speed, at full gallop by the time I reached the open gates of the keep.

I never looked back.

Riding faster than I’d ever ridden before, I pushed my horse until his coat was lathered with white sweat. I was fortunate that the ground was dry and a slight breeze stirred the air; the horse’s prints would not be deep, and the wind might erase them before they could be followed. I rode until the sky bled purple, then black.

Still I rode until the horse stumbled, almost spilling me onto the ground. Only then did I let him carry me forward at a slower pace, until we walked almost silently but for his soft-struck footfalls through the star-laden night. We neared a small brook, which cut through the wooded land like a snake of silver, illuminated by the dappled moon and a splash of bright stars.

I dismounted then, to drink and let the horse rest for a time. He found a small patch of grass, which he snatched up in greedy mouthfuls, reminding me of my own hunger. Glad for my stolen meal, I ate most of the bread I’d taken from Matilda’s kitchen. I wondered what the scene there would look like now, busy with the scandal of my crime and my desertion.

I lay on the ground for a moment, using my bag as a pillow, and wound the horse’s reins around my hand. I slept for a time, waking with a start when my horse pulled on the rope clasped tightly in my fist.

There was no sound, save the light splash of the stream nearby and the soft rhythmic chewing of the horse. No far-off shouts or thundering hoof beats. No sign that the laird’s henchmen were on my trail. But my sense of security was hardly robust. Here I was: alone, homeless, an outcast. With blood on my hands and now only one small loaf of bread in my bag. I had no shelter to seek out, no clan to rely on.

Yet I had considered where I might go if I found myself forced to flee. None of the options were entirely appealing, but I had decided I would travel to the Macduff clan, far to the north. Laird Ogilvie’s niece, Una, had been married to one of their upper-ranking clansmen, several years before. I could seek her out; she might remember me and allow me to remain with her clan, to work in their kitchens. But it would take several weeks to reach their lands.

I led my horse to a fallen tree and remounted to resume my journey. I was fairly certain I was traveling northeast. I tried to recall the maps that the laird and his men often displayed on the grand table, as they discussed skirmishes, gatherings, marriages and disputes. There had been days when I’d been cleaning the meeting room, polishing the pewter of the candlesticks, and the maps had remained in place, unrolled. The names were familiar enough, from the discussions over the tables I had served. Ogilvie. Machardie. Stuart. Macduff. Mackenzie. Buchanan. Campbell. Macsorley. Morrison. Munro. Macintosh. Macallister. What I was less familiar with was the placement of the clans’ territories.

Searching the memory, I tried to picture the map and the configuration of the boundary lines across the landscape in my mind. I’d tried to read the maps, to decipher the shapes of the letters, to match them to the names of the clans I knew. But it had been too difficult. My mother had begun to teach me to read as a child, but there had been little time to practice it, so my knowledge was limited. Instead, my education had consisted of garden work, household chores, cooking and cleaning. Once my father died, the most important skills required of my fallen status were to remain meek, mild and appropriately subservient at all times. I’d never mastered any of those arts, I’d be the first to admit.

It was much easier to recall the stories Laird Ogilvie and his ranks told about the clans and the strengths and weaknesses of their lairds. They’d discussed these things often, and I, pouring their ale, refilling the quickly emptying platters, attending to their requests, artfully dodging the grasp of their hands, had been privy to a wealth of information.

From their stories I knew that the Mackenzie clan lands were due north of Ogilvie’s, spreading widely to the east. Laird Ogilvie had said the Mackenzies presided over a large territory—larger than Ogilvie’s—of rolling fields, craggy terraces and richly stocked forests. Their lands would be closest to where I found myself now, I guessed.

Mackenzie.

The name made me uneasy.

I recalled one session where Laird Ogilvie and his highest-ranking officers had spoken of the Mackenzie men in particular. The hour had been late and the conversation loose.

“’Twas last year, in the skirmish at Ossian Lochs, over the coveted king’s lands,” one of Ogilvie’s men had said. “Absolutely deadly, that Laird Mackenzie. He watched his father die at the end of an enemy’s sword. And in response, he cut a line through Campbell’s troops that ran my blood cold. Mad, he is. Wickedly lethal.”

“Aye,” agreed another. “He’s huge, and that wild black hair does nothing to tone down the menace of him.”

Laird Ogilvie had agreed. “Knox Mackenzie is dangerous, guarded and altogether sour. It might be true that his clanspeople are gifted in the ways of the land. Their fields and orchards are rich with crops, aye, and their harvests are bountiful enough to feed not only their entire clan but also to trade with other clans for valuable commodities. But he’s gruff and entirely lacking in the diplomacy of his father.”

“And what’s the next brother’s name? Wilkie, is it? If you ask me, his swordsmanship skills are overstated.”

“But the women surely do fall at his feet. They flock around him like birds. He’d be easy to defeat—he’s too distracted.” This had inspired laughter.

“Aye, and the youngest brother, Kade—a savage. Always armed to the teeth and eyein’ a man up like he’d as soon kill him as pass the time of day.”

“The sisters, however,” one of the men had slurred, “are quite pleasing to the eye.” More familiarly lecherous laughter.

Laird Ogilvie had continued, “I’m sorely tempted to overrun their keep and take a bit o’ that food for myself.”

“Aye. And I’ll grab the sisters while we’re at it.”

The thought of running into one of the Mackenzie brothers as I passed by their keep was less than appealing. But one key detail stuck fervently in my mind. Their fields and orchards are rich with crops.

My empty stomach rumbled at the thought. No matter how intimidating the Mackenzie brothers may have been, the plan that was playing out in my head didn’t involve meeting them or in any way alerting them to my presence. But it did involve their bounty. Such was my hunger, I decided I would head in the direction of the Mackenzie keep. If I could pilfer some resources from their crops, I could sustain myself for the coming days and weeks of travel to the north. It was risky, aye, but I had little choice; there was no other food to be found on the windswept Highlands. Now, I sorely regretted not asking Ritchie and Ronan to teach me archery. At least then I could have hunted along the way. As it was, I had no choice but to avail myself to the Mackenzie gardens, if I could find them.

This is what I had become, I reflected bitterly—an aspiring thief, a vagrant, a homeless wretch. All because I couldn’t stomach the advances of Laird Ogilvie. Was I completely foolish to choose the fate of a wanderer over the fate of a mistress? Very likely so. I had considered this question many times since I began to suspect the laird’s intentions toward me. And I’d unconsciously made the decision: in my bones and my soul, I just couldn’t make myself submit.

There was no point wallowing in my predicament. After all, I’d seen it coming. I’d surprised myself at my speedy, well-crafted and—as yet—successful getaway. Neither self-pity nor self-loathing would better my situation. What I needed was to reach the outskirts of the Mackenzie keep, to fashion a ladder or find a tree to climb to scale the walls, and to wait for the cover of night.

Before I could do any of these things, I heard the unmistakable rhythmic beat of galloping horses, coming from the south, the same direction I had traveled.

A group of Ogilvie’s men, no doubt, and hot on my trail.

I kicked my horse into a faster pace, through a lane of sparsely dotted pine trees. One side opened out to vast fields of scrubby purple heather. On the left was a sharp incline rising up to rocky cliffs. It was too steep for a horse. But there was no way I could ride across the open fields; I would be easily seen. If I rode straight ahead, I knew I would be overtaken—my pursuers’ steeds would be larger and faster. Warriors’ horses, not a field horse, like mine.

Without warning, my horse neighed loudly and reared, throwing me to the ground. I landed on the hard, painful edges of my pack. But I jumped up quickly, too frightened to dwell on bumps or bruises.

I heard men’s voices getting closer. “Spread out!” one of them shouted.

I reached for the reins of my unsettled horse and slid my saddle blanket off the horse’s back. I waved it at him. The horse immediately galloped off, in the direction of the approaching search party. I took the opportunity to run and began to climb the incline of the lower cliffs.

“The horse!” a man yelled, too far into the distance, I hoped, to yet see me.

But there was another pursuer who was closer, galloping straight toward me. And I was not hidden enough. The shrubby trees were too sparse.

It was only seconds before the warrior reached me. I armed myself with my small sword and turned to face him. I knew resistance was futile, once he called out to the rest of the search party. I would be surrounded, beaten, taken back to Ogilvie to be punished.

But the warrior did not reach for his sword. Instead, he removed his helmet, revealing disheveled, very-red hair. “Roses. ’Tis me, Ritchie.”

Ritchie. My friend and my trainer. The one who had taught me how to fight and how to hold a sword correctly, as I was doing now.

“Nice technique.” He smiled briefly, a quick flash of mirth. Then his face grew serious. “I’ll not reveal you, Roses. But you must be quick. Do whatever you can to escape, and don’t come back. I know nothing about what you did to anger Laird Ogilvie, but he’s hell-bent on getting you back. He has dispatched search parties in all directions. He wants you found.” He turned to look behind him at the approaching soldiers. “Go! Before the others catch up.”

“Ritchie,” I said, gasping for breath, with relief and gratitude.

“Go!” he said, more forcefully. “Be safe, Roses.”

The furtive warning in Ritchie’s voice charged me, and I turned from him. I looked back only once to see his horse vanishing into a glade, wishing I could thank him, but he was already gone.

I climbed as fast as I could up the craggy terraced cliffs, farther and higher for what felt like a long time, until I reached a sheltered grassy cove. My lungs and legs burned with my exertions, and I sat for a moment to catch my breath. I could see that I was high above the vast rolling grasslands now. So high that I was afforded a magnificent view, across the heather fields.

My heart skipped a beat as I looked over the rise of a nearby hill to see the grand central stone castle of the Mackenzie keep—Kinloch, if I remembered correctly.

Within the confines of the keep, I could see tiny people milling about. Spaced cozily across the castle’s grounds were smaller stone and wooden buildings, and acres of farmland, striped with green and gold crops, artfully decorated with fruit trees, vines and gardens. The landscape was richly colorful, dotted with the tiny orange, red, green and yellow shapes of the laden orchards and gardens that looked on the verge of harvest. It was far more lush and skillfully tended than the Ogilvie keep. And it looked wildly inviting, especially considering the emptiness of my stomach, which twisted and growled at the sight of such plenty.

The stone wall that circled the central area of the keep’s castle and gardens looked as tall as two men, at least. If I used a ladder—which I hoped I might be able to build with some wood and the rope I had brought—I might be able to scale it.

I would use the daylight hours to scout for a place to find a shelter to sleep tonight, after I returned from my raid. To my intense relief, I found one easily. The hillside was steep and gouged with small caves, shielded from the wind by massive boulders and packed tree glades. I found one that was not too cramped, extending deep into the smooth rock. At the back of the cave, a slit extended up to a thin crack of daylight, giving warmth and soft light to the cozy space.

Delighted by my find and feeling hopeful at the prospect of food, I went in search of wood for my ladder. What I found first, farther around the western back of the hillside, was a picturesque waterfall splashing into a clear pool. I took a long drink. I washed my hands and my face before continuing to gather lengths of sturdy, thin branches.

I returned to the cave and wound the lengths of rope I had brought around the rungs of my makeshift ladder, fashioning what I hoped was my portal into the Mackenzie gardens.

The only thing left to do was wait until darkness veiled then settled thickly around the landscape of my new—and quite comfortable—temporary home. I prepared my bag, checked my ladder once more for weight-bearing consistency.

I strapped my belt, strung with my knife and sword, around my waist. Figuring that a disguise would be the best course of action, I wound my hair into a loose braid, coiled at the back of my neck, then fastened the war helmet onto to my head and set off on my way.

The stone wall of the keep was farther away than I’d estimated. It may have been as much as an hour before I reached it, and by then, my lack of sleep and lack of food was beginning to take its toll. Attempting to ignore both, I positioned my ladder, waiting atop the wall, listening for sounds of stirring in the near vicinity. My eyes had adjusted by then to the spare light offered by a sliver moon and some cloud-veiled stars. I could see no one. I adjusted my weight on the thick surface of the wall and pulled the ladder over, placing it against the inside wall so I could make my escape. I climbed down to the ground and found myself on the far side of a small loch from the looming castle and within sight of the silver-edged silhouettes of garden hedges and gnarled, fruit-heavy trees. I sneaked around the water’s edge toward my goal. I fingered the first pear of my harvest, taking several bites before I could continue. Its sweetness was indescribable. I picked as many fruits as I could carry.

As I walked past the edge of the smooth expanse of the loch toward the wall, I was surprised to notice that the yellow hue of morning had just begun to creep above the horizon. I’d taken too much time. Soon, people would begin their day’s chores. And I was still inside the wall. Taking quick steps now, I secured my helmet and approached my ladder. Just as I started to climb, a sound drew my attention.

A splash.

I turned to see a man walking out of the loch.

A very big, muscular, naked man. Very naked.

And he was looking right at me.

We were both stunned into frozen silence. But then he tensed and moved in my direction, jolting me into action. I clambered up the ladder as fast as I could, pulling it up behind me and jumping heavily down to the ground on the far side, my bag of fruits and vegetables secured to my back. I left the ladder where it lay and ran for my very life. I didn’t look back, but I knew he was coming.

I ran and ran until my legs threatened to buckle under me. My back had gone numb with the weight of my load as I struggled farther and farther up the hill.

I could hear him gaining on me.

“Halt!” he yelled, and his voice reached into my body and grabbed my heart, such was the fear I felt. It wasn’t just the strength of the command but the closeness of it.

And I did halt.

On the other side of the sharp jutting rock was my shelter. I dropped my bag and turned to face him. I pulled my sword from its belt.

And he was there, not ten feet from where I stood, fully clothed now and holding his own—much bigger—sword.

As far as I could see, he was alone. Would he have told others about his chase?

The first thing that struck me about him—aside from his size, which I already knew about, in every regard—was his captivating looks. His black hair, still barely wet, hung to his shoulders, and he wore a small braid stitched back from each temple, as was customary for clansmen. Despite the small distance between us, I could see that his eyes were a vivid shade of blue. His face was fierce not only in expression but also in countenance: fierce in beauty. I was dizzied by my fear and by my reaction to his dazzling presence.

“Who are you?” he asked, his broad chest heaving as he breathed heavily from the chase. It was a command, that I supply him this information.

I did not speak. I had no intention of giving up my identity. He might return me to Laird Ogilvie.

He held up his sword and asked the question again, this time more quietly but no less commanding. “I said, to whom am I speaking?”

I held up my own small weapon. It was far less impressive than his own, but I knew how to use it. I’d been training with men for months and had learned how a quick jab could be just as effective as a long swing.

“You want to fight me, aye?” he asked. There was a note of jeering confidence in his question. I allowed him this. My call to arms was clearly foolhardy. I did not want to die here on this hilltop, at the hands of this beautiful warrior, but I had no other option than to fight.

“Show your face,” he said.

I did not.

“Please leave me,” I said, attempting to deepen my voice.

A slight crease appeared between his eyebrows, as if he was having trouble making sense of the situation and my request. He almost smiled. “I’ll not go until you reveal yourself,” he said, and his tone sounded patient, if I was placing it correctly.

“I cannot.”

“Then we shall have to fight. You’ve been caught stealing from our lands. ’Tis punishable by death, thievery. If there’s a reason for your actions, give it.”

“I was hungry,” came my falsely stern, muffled reply.

To this he smiled, clear confusion written across his heartbreaking face. “That’s a fair reason, then. Reveal yourself and you can keep your bounty. If you agree never to return to thieve from us again. Show your face.”

“I cannot.”

His mild amusement irked me. “You cannot,” he repeated. “Why is this?”

My fear, and something else, was causing my control to weaken, to slide. I willed myself to hold it together. “Leave me! Here, take your food! I’ll go, and not bother you again.”

His smile faded, and I realized that I’d forgotten to disguise my voice. He said slowly, as though to make sure I understood, “I’m afraid I’ll not be leaving. Not until I know who I’m dealing with.”

We stood, swords raised, at an impasse of sorts.

Would he show me mercy? Would he force me to return to Ogilvie? Or would he kill me?

As if in partial answer, he stepped closer, clearly not intimidated by me. He lifted the tip of his sword to my chin, as though to use it to tip my helmet backward.

I struck his sword with my own.

He was surprised by my hit, and he lashed back with his weapon, so quickly I barely had time to react. And we were close now, so close that his returning strike sliced across my arm, ricocheting pain throughout my body. My sword, as I fell to the ground, slid across the muscle of his side. He growled and struck my weapon with such power that it sent a jolt of fire through my already bloodied arm. My sword went flying, so I could hear the wo wo wo of its spinning flight before it landed with a clang far out of my reach.

Stunned, pained, grasping to maintain consciousness, I lay still on the ground as he stood over me. Blood was flowing freely from the wound on his torso. He kneeled and removed my helmet. My hair had loosened and spilled onto the ground as he freed it.

When he saw my face, his jaw dropped. He stared for many moments, surveying me with his eyes. He fingered a lock of my hair, rubbing it gently between two fingers for several seconds, as though fascinated by the feel of it, or the color.

“You’re a lass,” he finally said.

“Aye.”

His expression colored with a strange sort of awe that reached to touch me in places I had never before been touched. Inexplicably, I felt a part of myself open to him, like a flower when it first sees the sun. I craved more of this connection. My senses wanted to touch, to feel, to drink in the scent and the sight of his magnificence. His face was too beautiful, too glorious. I was blinded and dazed. And he, as well, looked momentarily overcome.

A long moment passed before he continued, clear notes of disbelief rasping his words. “You’re an angel.”

“Nay, not that.”

“An angel so lovely she stuns my mind. Wearing the clothing of men.”

He sat down next to me, somewhat heavily. The cloth at the front of his tunic was now saturated with blood.

“Why did you strike me?” I asked. “Now I’ve injured you.” In the aftermath of our battle, I felt appalled that it was my own hand, my own sword, that had damaged this unearthly creature.

“I wouldn’t have,” he countered. “If you’d heeded my command.”

My eyelids felt unusually heavy. “Aye,” I admitted. “’Tis a weakness of mine. I’m not very good at heeding commands.”

His hands were on my arm, where my wound was dripping a crimson puddle onto the dirt. “You’re injured, too.”

“Not so badly as you, I think.”

He would need stitching, that was clear enough. Had I brought the stitching thread and the needle? I couldn’t recall. My memory seemed fuzzy at its edges.

“The cave,” I said.

He eyed me skeptically, that hint of amusement still lingering in his eyes, despite our circumstance. “Which cave is this, lass?”

I motioned toward the cave, and he moved to help me sit up. The scent and heat of him seemed to swirl all around me and inside me. The heat of his solid thigh burned through the layers of our clothing as he supported me. Feebly, I led him toward the cave, and he, too, for all his size and ferocity, swooned slightly as we walked.

“There,” I said, not at all sure I wouldn’t black out and crumple helplessly to the ground at a moment’s notice.

I crouched onto my hands and knees at the entrance of the cave and crawled into its interior, sliding onto the welcome warmth of the bed I’d laid. The bloodied warrior crawled in after me, lying down beside me. We held each other’s gaze, and the blue of his eyes seemed to pour into me; it fed me a comfort the likes of which I had not known for a very long time, or maybe ever. I was profoundly grateful, if death was upon me, that I could at least die in the glowing presence of this glorious warrior.

“I’m Wilkie Mackenzie,” he said.

So this was Laird Mackenzie’s notorious brother. I could now understand why it was said that women fell at his feet.

Emboldened by his confession, I told him my name. “I’m Roses.” I had been an Ogilvie for most of my life, but now, I had severed myself from that clan irrevocably. I was on my own.

“Roses,” he said, as though wholly satisfied by my introduction. He did not prod me for more. “An unusual name.” His eyes glimmered in the half-light. “The pleasure is mine, Roses.”

“You exaggerate, warrior,” I whispered. “I’ve hardly given you pleasure.”

“If we live,” he said, his eyes drowsy now from his blood loss, “that is something we will have to remedy.”

“Aye,” I heard myself reply. “It is.”

And darkness overcame me.