Highlander Redeemed (Guardians of the Targe Book 3) (2 page)

She took one more look about, satisfied for the moment that no one was paying her any attention, and slipped away into the refuge of the trees.

D
UNCAN OF
D
UNLAIRIG
shifted on the cold stone that served as a seat in the makeshift council “chamber,” a circle of downed tree trunks and large stones set up at the far end of the clearing from the cook circle. Though it had only been a little more than a fortnight since Malcolm returned with his kin, it seemed every morn of Duncan’s life had been spent in this circle listening to plans being debated and adjusted that had only been set in place the day before. He had nothing to add to what had already been said. He had no specific role on this council now that Malcolm MacKenzie had been named the chief’s champion, along with being an unprecedented second Protector of the Guardians once he and Jeanette had married. There was nothing special required of Duncan that the Guardians and other council members couldn’t provide now that Nicholas had settled into his role as chief.

Duncan tried to pay attention, but found it hard to stay focused on the debate as it bounced from person to person around him. Nicholas and Rowan, the chief and a Guardian, seemed always in accord with each other, though Rowan would at times defer to her uncle, Kenneth, the previous chief who now served as an advisor. Jeanette, also a Guardian, and her warrior husband, Malcolm, each held strong opinions about what the clan should do to prepare for the impending English push into Glen Lairig, hers based on the abilities and lore of the Guardians, his on firsthand experience fighting the English in King Robert’s army. Uilliam sat next to Duncan, no doubt feeling every bit as useless as Duncan did now that Uilliam was no longer Kenneth’s champion. He grunted his agreement or dissent periodically, and it was only because Duncan had known the great bear of a man most of Duncan’s five-and-twenty years that he could discern the difference.

“The warriors are well prepared, would you agree, Duncan?”
Malcolm’s question drew Duncan back to the conversation, though he was surprised Malcolm asked for his opinion.

“Aye.” He sat up a little straighter and tried not to look startled. “The younger lads still need to train daily, but the men are very well prepared. Malcolm’s experience with English hand-to-hand tactics has been very useful. I have learned much from him so far.”

Uilliam grunted his agreement just as Peigi’s voice rang out from the mouth of the main cave. “Och, that wee devil.” Everyone looked in her direction as she strode as fast as her aged legs would carry her to the council circle. She started talking before she was halfway across the clearing. “She’s gone again, Kenneth! That daughter of yours will not do as she is told, and I am mightily vexed. Something must be done!” she declared as she came to a stop between Rowan and Jeanette, her knobby finger wagging in the air at Kenneth across the circle.

Rowan and Jeanette shared the same scowl, but it was Jeanette who said, “She promised me she would not slip away again. I vow, if she were a wean I would beat her.”

“Or we could just truss her up and tie her to a tree,” Rowan said.

“I’ll not see her tied up”—Kenneth actually glared at Rowan—“but I agree something must be done.”

“Aye,” Uilliam said. “None of the lads I’ve set to watching her can find her once she gets into the forest. ’Tis Duncan’s fault for teaching her how to track when they were weans.”

Duncan started to defend himself when Peigi started to laugh, or maybe
cackle
was a better term for the sound that wheezed out of the old woman.

“He did, did he not?” Her head was bobbing up and down hard, and a disturbing glint was in her eyes. She turned to Nicholas, who sat on the other side of Rowan. “It seems Duncan has little to do here at this time.” To hear his own thoughts from her mouth made him wince. “Why not set him to minding Scotia, at least until she can be trusted to keep her word?”

“Do you think that will really happen?” Rowan asked Peigi.

“Aye, my lassie, I do, but it will take some time . . . and the right kind of patience, which it seems is in short supply from all of us of late. But Duncan has always had more patience with her antics than the rest of us, even if he scowls over them.”

Duncan realized he was scowling now. ’Twas bad enough that he had no particular role in the clan, but ’twas worse that Peigi wished to set him to minding Scotia, as if she were a bairn in need of a nursemaid.

Duncan watched as Nicholas polled everyone but him with only a look. Each one nodded.

“Very well. Duncan, I know it seems I ask you to take up a menial task, but we cannot allow her to get away with this sort of behavior any longer. Already she has caused one death by slipping away. The lads have been instructed to follow her but to keep a good distance so they would not fall into the same fate as Myles, but she clearly uses that distance to her advantage to evade them. We cannot risk that she is putting the clan in danger”—Rowan started to interrupt him, but he took her hand in his and rested them on her thigh. “I ken she does not mean to put us in danger, but she has, and she may do so again if we are not careful with her.”

Rowan sighed but did not argue.

“As you wish,” Duncan said, rising from his stone seat, the old adage
be careful what you wish for
whispering through his head. He’d wanted to be useful, to have a role in the clan’s preparations, and now he did. Scotia’s mood would not be improved when she discovered he was her new shadow.

L
ORD
S
HERWOOD, COMMANDER
in King Edward of England’s army, dragged himself up the ladder as waves crashed on the deck above then sluiced down over him and into the bowels of
the pitching ship. It took all the fortitude he could call upon not to humiliate himself by vomiting as he struggled to pull himself onto the deck of the storm-battered vessel. It was one thing for the men he commanded to spend their days and nights retching into a bucket in the fetid cargo area below, but it would not do for the son of the Earl of Walesby and the leader of this expedition to show such weakness. He grabbed for a rope and braced himself as another of the unending waves broke over the side and tried to wash him out to sea.

“Release that line afore I slice yer hand from yer arm!”

Sherwood glared through the dim light and frigid rain that sliced at him like tiny, icy knives. A sailor with the squinty eyes of a rat was making his way toward him.

“I said let go of that line!” he said, grabbing Sherwood’s wrist and wrenching it as if he thought that would be enough to make Sherwood release his hold on the one thing that was keeping him from washing overboard.

Sherwood swallowed bile as the ship pitched hard, and he was surprised that the man who gripped his arm seemed to need no other help to keep his feet.

“I said, let go and get yer arse back below where it belongs—”

“Release me,” he said, trying to hold on to his dignity as the ship’s deck bucked and tried to toss him into the sea again.

Sherwood had put up with too much disrespect from the crew of this ship already, spending days and nights shut in the dark below with his men when the captain should have had them to Scotland a full week past. This latest storm was more than anyone should have to bear, and he was in no mood for further excuses. The king had sent him to find the Highland Targe, take the head of the spy who had betrayed the king by keeping the Targe for himself, and retrieve the red-haired witch who, if the stories were true, controlled the damn relic. The stakes were high if he succeeded, and he’d not let the captain’s fears of storms and roving Scottish and Irish ships keep him from his destiny any longer.
Perhaps a purse filled with silver would get the captain to finish this journey with alacrity where strong words and threats had not.

“You will release me and take me to the captain this minute,” Sherwood said, letting all his years of command lend gravitas to his voice.

“I’d sooner toss meself into the drink than take ye anywhere. Get below afore you cost someone his life!”

Sherwood shook his head at the belligerent jackanape, drew his dagger and sank it deep into the man’s gut before the sailor knew what he was about.

He leaned in close but still had to shout over the gale, “I give you my word, I shall see that you make it into the ‘drink.’” He was pleased at the mix of surprise and pain that suddenly glazed the sailor’s eyes as his grip weakened. “I am on the king’s business, and none of you shall keep me from it any longer.” It was past time he took control of this poor excuse of an armada.

Sherwood quickly looked about to see who else he might have to deal with, but there were only a few sailors on the deck, and those who weren’t struggling up on the yardarm to lash down a loose sail were focused on the fight. He pulled his dagger from the sailor and watched as the man crumpled, one hand to his gut, the other reaching as if he searched for something to hang on to just as another wave crashed over them, swamping the deck. Sherwood barely kept his feet. When the water fled back into the sea, the sailor lay where the deck met the railing, either stunned or dead. Sherwood didn’t care. He took one more look about to make sure none of the others were bearing down on him, intent to send him back below, then took advantage of the relative calm between the crashing waves to move toward the quarterdeck. He made slow progress though it was not far, stopping every few steps to hold on as a wave broke over the ship and swept off the deck. The third time he looked back the sailor’s body was no longer to be seen.

Sherwood always kept his word.

CHAPTER TWO

D
UNCAN MOVED THROUGH
the forest like a deer, quickly and silently, stopping only to examine Scotia’s tracks when he could find them. The wily lass had doubled back on her own trail, then veered off through a burn a short way, then out on the same bank and down the ben. He did not know whether to be irritated that she worked so hard to hide from her own kin, or proud of her for making it difficult to track her. Instead of debating his own feelings he braced himself for an argument as he continued to follow her obscure trail down the ben.

Scotia would not come back to the caves just because he told her to. Nay, he’d likely have to carry her back over his shoulder or drag her back, hissing and scratching like a cat. He did not look forward to it. He did not like the idea of humiliating her that way, but she gave him little choice since she had once more put her own selfish desires before those of the clan, and if that meant he had to treat her like a wean to get her attention, then that was what he would do.

After more back tracks and false trails than he had anticipated, he heard an odd sound, along with quiet muttering, and knew he’d found his quarry. He crept up to the edge of a bright area in the wood, too small to be called a clearing, and discovered Scotia standing in a narrow beam of sunlight. It glinted off her night-black hair, reflecting iridescence, like the sun on a raven’s wing. She held a stick in her hand like a child’s play sword. A real targe, a round shield, was strapped to her left arm,
and she gripped a dirk in that hand. Irritation sizzled through him. He knew she had to have pilfered the targe and dirk from somewhere, perhaps denying them to someone who needed those weapons. He touched the dirk at his hip, just to make sure she had not taken his. If only he could convince her to think of someone other than herself for a change, then he might be able to help her redeem her past behavior. He might be able to convince the clan to forgive her.

If he could not, he feared the clan might choose to take more extreme steps than shunning her in their midst. They might banish her altogether. Such an action, though justified, would tear her family apart and put Scotia’s life at risk. The Highlands was no place for a woman alone. It was no place for anyone alone. Duncan might not have the role he wished in the clan, but if he could avert the need to send her away, ’twould serve the clan well.

He braced himself for the verbal battle to come, but before he could make himself known, Scotia began to move, hesitantly and without her usual grace, but so focused on her task he could almost taste her determination. She watched her feet, letting her weapons go slack in her hands. Even so, he quickly recognized the exercise Malcolm had been teaching the lads a few days ago. She shook her head, then started the series of moves again, talking to herself just under her breath. She repeated the process over and over until, all of a sudden, she flew through the short exercise as if it were a dance she had known her entire life, thrusting, parrying, spinning, attacking the dirt-clad roots of a toppled tree. The sharp sound of wood on wood reverberated through the forest like a woodpecker hammering on a hollow log.