To Love a Highlander Read online

  He dragged one leg, secretly proud of his inspiration to do so.

  His best plans came when he was angry.

  Rarely had he been so furious. He worked his way past hopeful villagers, many thrusting sickly bairns before them. Others fell to their knees, their arms raised in supplication.

  “Gracious monk!” Sorley reached the edge of the rug and used the voice of a weary, pain-riddled man. “Can you heal a poor leper? I’ve lost toes dragging myself into your sainted presence.”

  As he’d hoped, his words sent the crowd running.

  Even Lockhart appeared to blanch beneath the thick white paste he’d painted on his face. But he caught himself quickly, lifting his free hand, palm outward in the accepted gesture of a blessing.

  “I can heal all men, even you.” His voice boomed, surely so that his words would carry down the miserable little road, now so deserted. “It is not my power that casts out ills and demons. The saints use my words and my breath, spending their miracles with grace.”

  “Their grace must be great, as they allow you to fly.” Sorley huddled deeper in his cloak, letting his hand search through the voluminous folds, seeking his sword hilt. “I have ne’er seen such a sight.”

  Unaware of Sorley’s loathing, Sir Henry tipped his cowled head toward the river. “As thon waters roll, my son, so does God’s mercy. All things are possible when one is chosen to perform His benefice.”

  In the shadows of his cloak’s hood, Sorley felt his lips twist hard. He turned briefly to the river, gliding silently past on the far side of the sad little market square. If he faced Lockhart now, the bastard would surely sense his anger and disgust.

  And the King, in his goodness, had made him swear he wouldn’t act unless Lockhart’s treachery was proven beyond a doubt.

  His guise as a floating monk would be forgiven, the King’s mercy generous.

  Betraying Scotland to weight his own purse was unpardonable.

  So Sorley schooled his features into a semblance of hope and humility and limped closer to the colorful rug with its coin-filled cauldron.

  “Such as I dinnae have much,” he murmured, dropping a coin atop the others.

  “Soon, lad, you’ll have all you desire.” Lockhart nodded sagely, his free hand rising in another blessing. “Your health restored, and your prosperity.”

  “I am grateful.” Sorley nodded thanks, then moved slowly around the carpet, limping less with each step. He stopped in front of Lockhart, meeting his eyes with a gaze that was steady and calm.

  Sorley let a small smile quirk his lips, then lowered his voice, speaking in the clipped tones of the English. “It is said that heather blooms sweeter on the south side of the Tweed.” The damning words tasted bitter on his tongue. “And ale flows more freely, the women…”

  “Are a pleasure untold,” Lockhart finished, the coded answer sealing his fate.

  Sorley just looked at him, not surprised the courtier recognized the secret phrases used for identification between spies, men who acted in the name of their own English crown and the Scottish vermin who served them, selling their souls for coin.

  “A shame you’ll ne’er again know such delights.” Sorley switched to his own voice. “Your days are done.” Stepping closer, he threw back his hood, revealing his face. “The King’s wolves are hungry.”

  “You!” Lockhart jolted, his eyes rounding.

  “Nae, the Fenris.” Sorley gave a slight bow. “You have heard the name?”

  “See here…” Lockhart’s demeanor changed, turning sly. He glanced up and down the empty road, across the deserted market square. “All know you appreciate good living. There’s a fine sum for—”

  “For what?” Sorley moved quickly, clamping his hand over Lockhart’s tight-fisted grip on the staff. “Posing as a miracle-caster to meet with the English King’s spies? Betraying Scotland? Turning my back on the country I love more than life itself?

  “There is no recompense for such treachery. Less”—he kicked the carpet, scattering coins—“for putting false hope in the hearts of innocents. There is only one way to deal with such perfidy.” Sorley squeezed Lockhart’s hand, stopping just short of breaking the traitor’s fingers. “It’s the reason King Robert keeps ravening wolves. Men known as the Fenris, my lord.”

  Lockhart’s bravura faded. “You can’t mean to…” He didn’t finish, clearly too cowardly to voice his doom.

  “I can and shall.” Sorley whipped aside his cloak, drawing Dragon-Breath.

  Lockhart began to sweat, perspiration melting the white paste on his face. “Wait, hear me. We can work together, a collaboration to benefit—”

  “Keep speaking and you’ll only fire my urge to wade in your blood.” Sorley lifted his sword, holding its tip to Lockhart’s face. “Admit your villainies and I’ll give you one mercy. A boon the King has granted you: that your innocent lady wife and family shall be told you fell from your horse, breaking your neck. Deny the charges and all Scotland will know of your treachery.” Sorley narrowed his eyes, his gaze unblinking. “Your name forever damned, your lands and titles reverting to the crown.”

  “You’re drawing a crowd.” Lockhart glanced down the road, hope flickering in his eyes. “Lower your blade lest men challenge you for accosting a helpless monk.”

  “Think you?” Sorley pressed Dragon-Breath’s tip more firmly against Lockhart’s cheek. “The villagers won’t near me. They’ll want to keep their fingers and toes. Let them look, whoe’er they are.”

  But when he followed Lockhart’s gaze, his heart almost stopped. A mounted party of three, two young women and a strapping, sword-hung Highlander, had halted in the village road, near the ruined gate to St. Mary’s burial yard.

  They were staring at Sorley and Lockhart, seeing, he hoped, only a beggar and a monk. Sorley prayed his broad back and voluminous robes would hide his sword and the airy space between Lockhart’s perch and the ground.

  Sorley saw the riders clearly. Only the red-faced, big-bellied man selling stewed mutton and ale loomed between them, having pulled his cart farther up the road. Even so, the newcomers stood out sharply against the rough-stoned cottages and the burial ground’s crumbling gate.

  They were Lady Mirabelle, Maili, and a MacLaren guardsman.

  A large basket of flowers affixed to the Highlander’s saddle hinted Mirabelle hoped to lay blooms at someone’s grave. Shadows hid her face, but suspicion rolled off her in waves. She recognized Sorley.

  Maili also knew, clearly. Working with William Wyldes she was privy to much, and sworn to secrecy.

  The MacLaren guardsman, apparently sensing trouble, rode forward, placing himself before the two young women. He tossed back his plaid and was about to reach for his sword hilt when a large, hulking shape lurched into the road from the direction of the abbey’s watergate.

  Staggering drunkenly, the cloaked wretch drew up before the mounted Highlander. He grasped the man’s leg, appearing to babble. Whatever he said must’ve alarmed the Highlander, because he roared and shoved him away. As quickly, he jerked his horse around and snatched the reins of the other two beasts, leading them swiftly into the burial ground, out of sight of the market square and men he surely deemed unfit company for the two young women he escorted.

  When they disappeared, Roag wheeled about, now standing tall and straight. He touched his robe’s cowl in a salute before he sauntered away down the muddied road.

  Sorley would take any bet Roag was grinning. Rarely had he put on a better performance.

  “Thon folk are gone.” Sorley returned his attention to Lockhart, his sword tip still at the traitor’s face. He didn’t let on he’d recognized Mirabelle and her party. He hoped they wouldn’t reappear. The last thing he wanted was having her near when he cut Lockhart to ribbons.

  But that was what he was here to do.

  So he jiggled his blade, drawing a bead of blood from Lockhart’s cheekbone. “I gave you a choice.” He met the noble’s eye. “Admit your treacheries or deny them.�
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  Lockhart set his jaw, saying nothing.

  “Speak true, and your family will no’ suffer for your evil deeds.”

  Lockhart only stared at him.

  Sorley slid his sword tip from the noble’s face to his throat. “I shall count to three…”

  “I deny naught,” Lockhart spat the words. “My wife, my family—”

  “They will aye remain in the King’s good graces. You…” Sorley drew Dragon-Breath along Lockhart’s shoulder, then down his sleeve, slicing the cloth, exposing the iron-worked frame that held his perch aloft.

  Just as the English ironmonger’s daughter had sworn, the contraption was cleverly crafted. The monk’s staff, heavy iron painted to look like wood, bent at the top, the curve hidden by Lockhart’s hand. The iron then disappeared inside his robe’s sleeve, forming a metal frame that provided a stable seat. The massive base stayed out of sight beneath the colorful carpet and bronze cauldron.

  Once it was in place, the monk’s robes carefully draped, anyone sitting in such a structure would appear to float high above the ground, unless the robes were cut away to reveal the trickery, as Sorley now did with great pleasure.

  He gave Lockhart a cold look as the cloak fell to the ground. “Spare yourself the shame of me dragging you away. Come now.”

  “The hell I will.” Lockhart sprang from his perch, darting between two close-lying cottages.

  Sorley threw off his beggar’s cloak and tore after him, leaping over a low stone wall to catch up with him in a kale patch behind the hovels. “That’s where you’re headed, aye.” Sorley lunged, using the flat side of his sword to strike Lockhart behind the knees. Lockhart’s feet flew out from beneath him and he landed hard, grunting as his breath left him. “A shame your journey there will be a long one.”

  “You’ll not cut down an unarmed man?” Lockhart gasped the words, glaring up at Sorley from where he sprawled in the dirt. The linen tunic he wore beneath the now-gone monk’s robe fluttered in the rising wind. “Even you will have that much honor.”

  “Dinnae sully such a fine word on your fouled tongue.” Sorley slammed his sword into the ground, rested his hands on the vibrating hilt. “I should lop off your head and leave it dripping on thon wall.” He jerked his chin toward the mossy stones that were all remaining of the village boundary. “King Robert gave me leave to have done with you any way I wish. As I’m thinking your sword is back in the square, hidden beneath your magical carpet, I’ll fight you with dirks. I’ll hasten no man to hell without giving him a chance to send me there first.” Leaning down, Sorley grabbed Lockhart’s arm and yanked him to his feet. “After I’m done with you, for I’ve no taste to die this day, I’ll fetch your blade if a village man hasn’t claimed it. If it’s still there, your lady will receive it.”

  “You can’t do this.” Lockhart blanched. “I’m a lord—”

  “You disgraced the privilege.” Sorley pulled Dragon-Breath from the ground and wiped her blade on his jerkin, then sheathed her. “Be a man and die with courage.”

  Lockhart glanced toward the village road. “Wait—”

  “I have waited, longer than you deserve.” Sorley pulled him out of the kale patch and down to the river. “The Forth is thirsty.” He made for a stand of birches that would shield them from the village. “Your blood will quench that need.”

  As they neared the water, Lockhart stumbled, his feet catching in the knee-high grass. He began to pray. Sorley ignored him, sure the gods, by any name, didn’t look kindly on traitors.

  Sorley stopped near a jumble of rocks, once part of the abbey’s outer wall.

  It seemed a good place for a turncoat to die.

  Lockhart shrieked when Sorley released him. Backing away, he held out his hands, palms outward, his eyes terror-filled.

  “This is crazed.”

  “I say it is the King’s due.” Sorley pulled a dirk from beneath his belt and plucked another from his boot, tossing it to Lockhart. “Fight well and I’ll make your end faster.”

  Lockhart ignored the dagger when it dropped by his foot.

  Sorley retrieved the blade, pressing its hilt into the noble’s hand. “Have you no belly for bloodletting?”

  “Dirks make clumsy killings.”

  Sorley shrugged. “You should’ve thought of that before you hid your sword beneath your gypsy-rug. Though”—he eyed the dirk in his hand—“a quick knife thrust through the ribs is fair painless.

  “If a man pierces the heart,” he added, taking up a fighting stance. “I’m only oath-sworn to kill you, I cannae promise such mercy.”

  The threat worked, causing Lockhart to leap at him, slashing wildly. “You are dirt beneath my feet,” he screamed, his blade slicing air.

  “So some say.” Sorley countered Lockhart’s frantic swipes effortlessly, backing him to the river’s edge. “Loving Scotland as I do, I see no slur in being likened to our blessed soil.”

  Lockhart leapt at him, his dagger high. “You should’ve been dashed against the hearthstone at birth!”

  “Perhaps.” Sorley sidestepped him.

  In that moment, somewhere in the distance, a woman screamed. Sorley tensed, his amusement gone. The cry came from the village.

  The voice sounded like Mirabelle’s.

  Terrible images flashed across his mind, turning his world red and tilting the earth beneath his feet. He whirled about, glancing through the trees, seeing nothing beyond their bounds but the slow-rising slope of the water meadows and a few scrawny sheep munching grass.

  No further cries rose, but one was enough.

  Lockhart dashed away. Sorley wheeled about to see him running along the river’s shingled beach. The tide was out and he’d hitched up his long tunic to scramble over the rotten, waterlogged planks of a ruined quay. He didn’t look back, racing as if the devil were on his heels.

  Sorley sprinted after him, sure he could run even faster.

  Gaining on him swiftly, Sorley leapt over a seaweed-draped piece of the old wharf and caught Lockhart by the scruff of his neck and the back of his tunic, tossing him roughly into the shallow water.

  “Aggggh!” Lockhart shrieked, scrabbling backward across the shingle.

  Sorley tackled him, pressing his dirk hard against the noble’s gullet. They grappled, rolling over the wet stone and mud at the river’s edge. Lockhart raised his arm, Sorley’s spare dirk still clutched in his fist. Sorley let him draw blood, even welcomed the glancing slice across his shoulder. It was no more than a flesh wound, but enough to redden his sleeve.

  To stem the guilt he’d have felt otherwise.

  He never struck down a man who wouldn’t fight.

  No matter his sins.

  And Sir Henry Lockhart’s were great. The King wanted his head. Or rather, he wished Lockhart removed from the land of the living.

  How that happened, he’d left to Sorley.

  So-o-o…

  He glanced up at the clouded heavens, the silence of the village loud in his ears as he thrust his dirk point deeper, Lockhart’s blood red on the blade.

  “I’ll give you my sword,” the noble pleaded, shaking. “My oath—”

  “As you swore to King Robert?” Sorley remained hard. “I think no’. I will make this swift. You can thank a lady for that mercy,” he vowed, arcing the long blade, letting it plunge downward to spear the traitor’s throat. “Without her scream, I’d no’ be so kind.”

  A terrible gurgling answered him, the soul’s last cry when it leaves this earth.

  Lockhart’s blood fled, too. Hot, red, and streaming, it poured forth to drench the shingle and stain the muddied water at the tide line. Repulsed—such was never a fair sight—Sorley jerked his blade free and cleaned it on a mossy rock. He leapt to his feet, leaving the King’s enemy to be claimed by the river’s swift-running current.

  Mirabelle was in trouble and now naught else mattered.

  So he tore down the narrow foreshore, almost flew up the river’s slippery bank, and then ran across the
water meadows and through the birches, not stopping until he reached the deserted village road.

  Lady Mirabelle was nowhere. Sorley frowned, glancing about. The burly MacLaren guardsman and Maili were also gone.

  The village appeared emptied, nothing stirring except the cold, damp wind off the river and the ever-present gulls wheeling above. Somewhere a sheep baaed, and a few chickens pecked near someone’s doorstep.

  “Mother of all the gods!” Sorley shoved a hand through his hair, not caring that his fingers were covered in blood.

  Breathing hard, his chest on fire, he bent forward, resting his hands on his thighs. His heart thundering, he glanced up and down the road, hoping he’d imagined Mirabelle’s cry, trying to believe a cat had yowled or that the shrill tone had come from a troubled ewe.

  He discarded the possibilities as soon as they crossed his mind.

  His gut told him who had screamed.

  The knowledge chilled his blood as he sprinted down the road, making for the watergate and the bastard he’d tear apart with his bare hands if he’d witnessed Mirabelle’s distress and done nothing.

  “Damnation!” Sorley ran faster, barreling around the bend in the road only to skid to a halt before the body of the big-bellied, red-faced man who’d been selling stewed mutton and ale. Clearly dead, the wretch was sprawled facedown in a pool of blood, his toppled cart a few paces away, resting at a weird angle against a cottage wall.

  It was then that Sorley heard a grunt and the clank of steel on steel.

  He also caught a curse, recognizing the voice as Roag’s in the same moment the fiend burst into view, sword in hand and fighting a man Sorley didn’t recognize.

  They were evenly matched.

  And Sorley knew Roag wouldn’t appreciate his interference.

  He also knew his archrival would win.

  But there was one thing he didn’t know.

  “The lady!” Sorley shouted above the clashing steel. “Where is she?”

  “No’ here!” Roag waved his free hand in Sorley’s direction, as if brushing off his concern. “She’s safe,” he yelled, leaping aside when his opponent slashed forward in a lightning-quick arc meant to kill.