A Highland Knight's Desire (A Highland Dynasty Book) (4 page)

He keeps a secret
.

The chapel door screeched open. Fast as a bullwhip, Duncan spun the priest around and snapped a hand over his mouth while shoving a knife against his neck. “I do not want to kill you, but one word and I’ll spill your blood across this very floor.”

Father Chamberlain nodded, his breathing shallow.

Holding the knife firm to the priest’s neck, Duncan eyed John. “Bind his hands and legs.”

“Brother Julius” worked quickly, then shoved a wad of cloth in the priest’s mouth and used a clergy’s stole to gag him.

John frowned. “We bound a man wearing holy vestments?”

“Wheesht.” Duncan’s eye wouldn’t stop twitching. “I’ve a mass to chant.”

John clapped his hand to his forehead. “Heaven help us, you should have let me dress as the priest.”

“Aye? If I had, Father Chamberlain would be blasting his gob to the rafters about now.”

John paced. “We’re all headed for hell.”

“Not before we finish this mission.” Duncan straightened his robes. “Stay here and make sure the bastard doesn’t make a sound.”

John cringed. “Do ye have any idea what you’re doing?”

“I’ve listened to mass enough. How hard can it be?”

The naysayer crossed himself. “God save us.”

Duncan stepped into the nave and cleared his throat. A petite woman sat in the front pew, a blue woolen veil covering her head. Red curls framed her face, almost bouncing as if they wanted to spring from the confines of her veil.

A guard at the back of the chapel stepped into the light. “Where’s Father Chamberlain?”

Duncan swiped a hand across his mouth. “He was called to the abbey on short notice.” He then cast his gaze to the woman—it had to be Lady Meg. She kept her eyes downcast. He launched into the only Latin litany he knew. Thanks to the tutelage of his stepmother, he could recite Sunday mass almost error free.

The lady’s eyes snapped open when Duncan’s voice filled the chapel. God in heaven, her eyes were bluer than the veil she wore. They assessed him critically. Was he too loud? Had he mispronounced something? He quickly made the sign of the cross and sped his delivery.

Moving to her knees, Lady Meg mouthed the words, crossing herself over and over. Had he not done that enough? Duncan crossed himself hastily while he willed away the relentless tic above his eye.

When she drew her eyebrows together, he turned his back and proceeded to chant the communion prayer, blessing the wine and the bread. The heat of her gaze blazed into his back. He could still picture the vibrant blue of her eyes contrasting with her red curls. Jesus, her iridescent ivory skin made them appear all the more intense. God’s teeth, Arthur Douglas hadn’t mentioned a word about his sister’s beauty.

Duncan picked up the plate and walked to the rail. She stepped out of her pew and knelt before him, holding up only one hand. Odd. He would have thought she knew to cross her right palm atop her left. He blinked. This was no time to think of formalities. “
Am bheil thu
Meg
?” he asked in Gaelic.

Again she knitted her brows. “
Tu es sacerdos?
” she whispered in Latin.

He could have kicked himself. Obviously, a Lowlander wouldn’t understand Gaelic. But his charade hadn’t fooled her. “
Fortis
—a warrior.” He placed the host in her palm.

“What are you talking about, priest?” the guard shouted while marching forward. “I may not be able to speak Latin, but I know you’re saying things you oughtn’t.”

Meg crossed herself yet again. “Dear Lord, please deliver me from my oppressors,” she said.

Stopping at the rail, the guard glared and pounded the shaft of his poleax into the flagstone floor.

Duncan stole a quick glance at Lady Meg. “As you wish, m’lady.” He flung the silver plate at the guard and snatched a knife from his left sleeve.

Smacked between the eyes, the sentry flinched and stumbled backward.

With a flick of his wrist, Duncan threw the dagger.

The guard scarcely blinked as it hit him in the neck. “Help!” he croaked. Falling to his knees, he clutched the knife while blood poured down his hauberk. “Our walls have been brea—” He fell flat on his face, his body convulsing in the throes of death.

Though Duncan’s heart thundered in his ears, he paused to listen for the creaking hinges of the chapel doors. With any luck, the guard’s voice hadn’t carried outside the thick walls.

Meg clasped her hand over her mouth.

“Do not scream.” Duncan held up a hand. “How many are guarding the chapel?”

“One, I believe. Two escorted me.”

John stepped out from the sacristy. “You killed a man in God’s holy church?”

Duncan glanced at the misfortunate guard, a river of blood streaming toward the altar. “He gave me no choice.”

“Who are you?” Meg asked, and stood.

He bowed. “Sir Duncan and Sir John Campbell at your service.”

“They’ll know you killed the guard as soon as you open the door.” John stepped beside him. “How to you expect to walk out now?”

Duncan eyed Meg and winked. “Have faith. We shall take a wee stroll the same way we came in.”

John snorted. “Have you lost your mind?”

“You must excuse my brother, m’lady. He’s the grandest naysayer in all of Glen Orchy.” Duncan smacked John’s shoulder. “Give her your robe.”

John stepped back. “What?”

“Do it quickly, then put on the priest’s vestments.”

“But she’s at least two hands shorter than I.”

“Aye, and I’m banking they’ll figure that out after we’ve passed through the barbican. Hurry.” Duncan yanked the knife from the dead guard’s neck and wiped it clean on the man’s chausses.

John shrugged out of the brown habit and handed it to Meg. She blinked twice at the knives strapped to his arms and legs before he sped back to the sacristy.

She hastily wrapped the oversized garment around her petite frame and tied it at the waist. “Who sent you?”

“The Earl of Angus. Who else?” Duncan eyed her baggy habit and tugged it up over her rope belt.

She swatted his hands away and gasped. “Arthur? Why did he not send the Douglas guard?”

Duncan shrugged. “My reputation, I suppose. Now hide your tresses beneath your hood and stay close behind me.”

Meg shoved her veil back from her crown and pulled the brown hood low over her brow. Though the audacious knight had tugged it up, the robe still dragged on the floor. She held up the hem as they crept to the chapel door. Standing between Duncan and John, she prayed they would escape alive.

Aye, she’d known the big man was no priest as soon as he stepped into the nave. Not only was his head unshaven, he recited the mass like he was auctioning a herd of cattle. But she didn’t laugh—not when he looked at her with eyes so intense they could claim her soul. Never in her life had she seen a man so virile. Jaw set, she had no doubt he could exude complete command over anything he desired. His fingers had brushed hers when he placed the host in her hand. She’d nearly gasped at the tingling sensation shivering up her arm.

But Arthur had sent him as her deliverer, and she thanked the stars he was powerfully built. If anyone could spirit her from Lord Percy’s grasp, this Highlander might have a good chance—if his brash confidence was any indication.
My stars, he killed the guard without a modicum of hesitation
.

Duncan placed his hand on the latch and turned—his dark eyes almost black, deadlier than nightshade. “Stay back. I’ll take care of the guard first.”

Cracking open the door, Duncan grasped the sentry by the neck and yanked him inside. “Sorry,” he said with a growl.

Before she could blink, he grabbed the guard’s chin and yanked his head sideways. A sickly crack of bone echoed off the stone chapel walls. It happened so fast, Meg wasn’t sure if the man was dead or had fallen. One look at his twisted head and stunned eyes confirmed it. “My God. Why did you kill him?”

“Better than the other way around.” Those nightshade eyes grew darker.

And why did Duncan’s voice have to sound so deep? So utterly dangerous? Her savior could be more devil than saint.

John pulled the priest’s hood over his head. “My brother would never settle with words that which he can accomplish with a claymore.”

Duncan held up his palms. “I used my hands, for Christ’s sake.”

Meg cringed at his vulgar language, especially in a church. “Mind your mouth.”

Smirking, the knight appeared impervious to his crudeness and gathered them at the door. “We’re going to attempt to walk out of here.” His gaze met hers. “If there’s a skirmish, move your arse out of the way and hide. Understood?”

She nodded, positive her shocked eyes were about to spring from their sockets. “Aye.”

“Walk with purpose and let me do the talking.”

John coughed. “He always insists on talking.”

“Only because you sound like a Highland sheep herder bleating after the flock.” Duncan turned and poked John’s shoulder. “I mean it. Our very lives are in peril. One misspoken word could see us all killed.”

He focused his gaze on Meg. “Act like a monk and you just might live, m’lady.”

She shuddered down to the tips of her slippers. “You’d best know what you’re doing, sir.” Meg wasn’t sure if Sir Duncan would kill her or if Percy’s guard would, but she absolutely planned to walk through the barbican doing her best impression of a monk.

Folding her hands, she clasped the robe in her palms and held it up as inconspicuously as possible. No self-respecting monk would shuffle out the gates whilst tripping over his habit. Duncan opened the door and stepped outside.

Head bowed so the hood hid her face, she followed the gruff Highlander, with Sir John close behind.

Thank the stars it was dark. No one noticed while they made their way to the gatehouse.

But once there, Meg’s stomach flew to her throat when a guard sauntered up to Duncan. “Your business accomplished, I see.”

The knight continued walking. “Yes.”

The guard stepped toward John. “Where are you off to, Father Chamberlain?”

Duncan stopped. Meg almost stumbled into him. “His presence has been requested by the abbot.”

The guard turned. “Is that so?” Then he sauntered to Meg. Her heart now pummeling her chest, she squeezed her trembling hands against her stomach while she kept her head down and watched his booted feet step toward her. “What? Did they cut you off at the knees?” He plucked her robe with his fingers. “It looks like two monks could fit inside all that wool.” He tried to push back her hood.

Meg clapped her hands to her head and jerked away. “No.” Her high-pitched voice pierced through the air.

“Christ.” Duncan shoved her aside. Baring his teeth, he pounced like a feral cat. Before the guard could move, Duncan snatched the pike and plunged it into the man’s heart. Stunned, the guard grasped the shaft and tottered backward before he crashed to the ground.

Shocked at more blood spreading across the cobblestones, Meg froze.

“Run!” Duncan boomed.

Without thought, she took two steps. Her slippers caught in her robe. She tried to tug the heavy folds aside, but they twisted around her legs. Toppling out of control, she fell face first. Her hands slapped the stone as an arrow skimmed past her ear. Ignoring the pain jarring her wrists, Meg covered her head with her arms.

This was the end. She was going to die.

Duncan glanced over his shoulder.
Bloody hell
. Lady Meg sprawled facedown on the cobblestones, protecting her head with her arms. Rescuing a woman brought more trouble than it was worth. In two bounds, he crouched at her side and hefted her into his arms.

He’d expected the lass to carry a bit of bulk, but she weighed no more than eight stone. Speeding ahead, he cradled her in his left arm and fished for his dirk beneath his cumbersome robes. John raced beyond, nearly to the barbican. Towering battlements surrounded them. Duncan didn’t need to look. From the shouts above, sentries were amassing toward the outer gateway along the wall-walk. His only hope was to outrun them.

An arrow hissed over his head. Meg latched her arms around his neck and crushed into him. Instinctively, he crouched over her body to shield her from being shot.

“They’re gaining on us. Put me down. I can run.”

“Robes . . . too . . . long.”

“Then run faster!” she yelled.

Easy for her to say
. “Aye,” Duncan huffed. He would have liked to ask her if she preferred to use a crop to lash his backside, but hadn’t the wind for sarcasm.

Ahead, John made quick work of the next guard. Picking up the dead man’s sword, he slipped under the protection of the barbican, waving his arms like a spectator at a finish line.

Duncan’s thighs burned. He couldn’t keep this pace much longer. Meg might be light, but she still weighed more than his armor—which would have come in handy about now. Another arrow whooshed. The feathers brushed his shoulder.

Only a few more paces and he’d reach the shelter of the barbican.

Swords clashed in the dark shadows. More arrows flew past and clattered on the cobblestones. Duncan clenched his teeth and kept running.

Sprinting under the protection of the stone archway, Duncan counted five dead Northumberland guards. Eoin held the horses on the far side.