Highlander Redeemed (Guardians of the Targe Book 3) (22 page)

A
S SOON AS
there was light enough to show the difference between the dark shadows of the trees and underbrush, and the clear spaces between them, Scotia crept out from the thick bushes she had sheltered under all night, brushing pine needles and bracken from her trews before settling her targe on her arm. Quickly she resumed the task she had set herself the night before: getting out of the glen and joining the battle without Duncan stopping her.

Despite what he thought, she had learned his lessons well, so she spent a lot of time moving slowly through the wood, first down the ben, then slogging back up in the frigid water of a burn, then across a rocky ledge, back down a ways, then finally, when she was
sure even Duncan could not follow her, she stopped to catch her breath and drink from the burn she’d been following for a while. When her thirst was slaked, she looked up, peering through the leafy canopy where she could just make out a shallow dip between peaks, though it was almost completely blanketed in rain-heavy clouds. She had found this poor excuse for a pass soon after she arrived in this glen, an almost impassable way out of the valley and back into the world beyond. Almost. She told herself she was well pleased with her decision to keep this pass to herself, her own secret bolt-hole should she need it, but a tiny, niggling whisper of a thought dimmed the pleasure with the hope that Duncan would find her, stop her, before she did something that she would rue.

Nay, she would rue nothing. She had kept her part of their bargain, training hard, reining in her emotions, doing everything Duncan required of her, and it had gained her nothing.

Never again would she fall for his lies.

She grabbed the round shield from where she had laid it by the burn and set out again, trudging up the ever steeper benside as fast as her tired legs could take her, justifying her every step with his betrayal, his damning silence when the time had come for him to step up and keep his word. She would show him. She’d show them all that though she might not be a Guardian, she was a warrior, and she would have her part in the battle to protect her home.

The sudden sound of something, or someone, moving quickly toward her through the dense underbrush had her whipping around, her sword in hand and her shield in place.

“Do not take one more step if you wish to keep your head.” Each word sliced through the quiet of the benside like a claymore parting flesh, the strength of her roiling emotions lending each one the weight of certain death.

“You do not want another death upon your conscience, Scotia.”

Duncan. Damn the man.

“I have no deaths upon my conscience!” She knew her voice was louder than necessary but she could not control it.

“May I approach you?” His voice was calm, lacking any emotion to tell her what he was thinking, or what he might be planning. “May I?” he asked again.

Everything in her head, in her heart, in her gut screamed
nay
, yet she found herself nodding, though she knew not if he could see her, unwilling to expose her raw feelings by speaking again.

But he must have been close enough to see her, or he simply knew she would not harm him, at least not with her sword. Her words, if she let them fly, could hurt him as much as his silence had hurt her, and she would not show him mercy while she eviscerated him with them.

“You cannot leave like this,” he said as he drew to a stop a few steps out of her sword range. No one could call Duncan uncautious.

“I will leave how and when I wish. You broke your promise to me, so you have forfeited your right to any say in what I do.” She waved her sword in his direction for good measure.

“I have not broken my promise—”

“Am I to join the battle as a warrior then?” she asked, knowing full well she was not.

“Nay, but—”

“Yet you espoused my skills, that I had learned your lessons well, that my gift of knowing . . .” It was only then that she realized she had not
known
he was the one following her. Why had she not
known
? Had her gift fled her, too?

“What is it?” Duncan asked. “Is there trouble?”

“Nay, not for me. There will be for you if you try to stop me.”

He threw up his hands, as if surrendering to her. “I am not here to stop you.”

“You lie.” She narrowed her eyes, glaring at him, and tried to see if she could
know
if he lied, but there was nothing, as if she had never had a gift at all. She took a shuddering breath at the thought that she had lost the one thing that really set her apart and made her an asset to the clan who probably wished she’d never been born.

“I would never lie to you. I am not here to stop you, only to explain why I did not . . . do not believe you are ready to go into battle with the warriors.”

“I need no explanation for betrayal. It does not matter why you betrayed my trust, only that you did.”

“It matters greatly if you will but listen—”

“If you are not here to stop me from leaving, then turn around and go back to the caves.”

“I cannot. If you leave, I will go with you, though you ken as well as I that this is not the way to get what you want.”

“You are wrong. This is the only way to get what I want. It is not battle that I thirst for, Duncan. Surely you ken that.”

“Vengeance. You want vengeance above everything else.”

“Aye.” With that made clear she sheathed her sword and spun away from him. “Go back, Duncan. You have no taste for vengeance.”

She had not taken two steps when she was grabbed at the shoulder and found herself facing an angry Duncan, who gripped her hard by both shoulders.

“No one should have a taste for vengeance, Scotia.” He shook her hard, accentuating his words, as if the shaking would rattle the vengeance out of her head. She wrenched herself free of his grip and stepped back.

“Have you learned nothing from me this last fortnight?” he continued, matching her glare with his own. “Vengeance is all about emotions running amok, and that is not the right mind to face battle. A mind fixed on vengeance is not capable of thinking through the ramifications of rash action. A mind fixed on vengeance is not capable of any soft feelings. Do you not have a single soft feeling within you, Scotia? Do you not have the ability to see how this choice you are making will cause trouble for all you claim to love?”

“Then it should cause no trouble for you, Duncan of Dunlairig.” She notched her chin up and cut him in the only way she knew would truly hurt him. “I have no love for you.” He winced,
as if she’d slapped him hard across the face, and she knew the lie in her words, for her heart twisted at his pain.

“’Tis unfortunate,” he said, his voice low and thick with an emotion she did not want to think about. “For though it shames me to admit it, I have loved you for a long time.”

Shock took her breath. Loved her? He could not. He was Duncan . . . he had kissed her, touched her, but both had been in the heat of the moment. And yet, if she thought about the time they had spent together, his patience, his rare smiles and the compliments he had paid her skills even as he betrayed her. And her gift, at least until today when she was so angry she could not think straight, it had let her find him, always.

He drummed his fingers on his thighs, then shoved his hair out of his face. He paced back and forth along the path, then stopped in front of her, close enough that she could feel his breath upon her face, but he did not touch her.

“How I could ever love anyone so childish, so self-centered is beyond me. How could I ever have believed that you would grow out of your spoiled behavior? And now,” he scoffed, “now your need for personal vengeance even at the risk of your entire clan . . . I must be daft. Or stupid.

“I thought you were changing, that you were embracing the things I was teaching you. I thought you would be able to take those lessons and use them in service to your clan, but you still fixate on vengeance. Vengeance is not worthy. Vengeance is born of hatred, and as long as hatred is your motivation, rather than the well being and prosperity of those you claim to love, your need for vengeance will only continue hurting everyone around you.”

She stood there, desperately denying everything he said, though doubt hovered over her like the rain clouds overhead. And yet, she could find no words to defend herself.

“The thing is, Scotia, I think the one you hate is not the English. You blame them, but the one you really hate? That is yourself. I do not understand it, but it is the only thing that makes sense to me.”

Silence stretched between them.

“Will you stop me?” she asked.

“Have I ever successfully stopped you from doing anything you really wanted to do?”

She thought of all the times he had come to her defense, even as he’d berated her for whatever folly she had fallen into at that moment. She thought of the times she had disappeared into the wood after a row with her sister, or a reprimand from her father, and how Duncan had followed her, watching over her, but never forcing her to return to the castle until she was ready. She remembered how he had stood ready to do whatever she needed in the days after her mother had been killed. And she thought of how he had helped her learn the skills needed if she ever went into battle.

“Nay, you have always looked out for me, even when I did not see it. Even when I did not want it.” She looked away from him, as she struggled with what she wanted, and what he expected of her. “If I go, will you look out for me now?”

“Still you do not see that you cannot go into battle. Not now. Not this way. No warrior will trust you if you go against the wishes of your chief. No warrior will stand beside you in a fight when he cannot know if you will risk your own life for his.”

“Not even you?” She saw a chasm opening up between her and Duncan, and was surprised at how lost she felt, knowing he stood on the far side. “You said you loved me. Would you not go into battle with me?”

He shook his head and stepped away. “I wash my hands of you, Scotia, as the rest of the clan was smart enough to do after Myles’s death.” He put more distance between them. “I have been blinded by my feelings for you.” He took a long breath. “If you do this, no one will ever trust you again. If you do this, you will be beyond redemption.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

S
COTIA STOOD WHERE
Duncan had left her for a long time, her mind both full and blank, unable to form a coherent thought. She stood there long enough that the sun broke over the ben, burning away the clouds and casting warmth upon her back as if beckoning her to turn and walk into the sunshine, and out of the Glen of Caves. She stood there waiting for Duncan to come back to her.

Duncan always came back.

But as much as she wished it were true, in her heart she knew this time was different.

Anger surged, and she fought the need to stomp her feet and shriek at the unfairness. He had trained her. She had done everything he demanded of her. He was the one who had betrayed her trust, and yet he threw that in her face.
No warrior will trust you if you go against the wishes of your chief
, he had said.

“The wishes of my chief would be different if Duncan had but kept his part of the bargain,” she muttered to herself as she turned and climbed the short distance to the shallow pass. “The wishes of my chief would be different if Duncan had but told him that I am well prepared in every way to take my rightful place in the coming battle.” She clambered over the broken stones that littered the pass, and began her descent over the slippery scree that covered this side of the ben, her concentration consumed for the moment by the need for care. She’d never join the warriors if she broke her neck.

When she reached the more sure footing of the wood, partway down the ben, she dusted her hands off on her trews, and set off toward the castle. She knew not where the warriors were positioned, but she knew there would be guards near the castle who could direct her to . . .

It was only then that she remembered that her da and Uilliam were in charge of the warriors in the glen until Nicholas and his champion, Malcolm, could bring the Guardians closer to where the battle would be joined. If they beat her to the warriors, she knew her da would deny her the right to kill their foes, just as he had the day he took the life of the English spy who had killed her mum before she could ask for the honor for herself.

But it did not matter. She would simply hide close enough to watch the warriors, and when the battle began, she would take her place on the battlefield.

With luck her skills would be apparent before anyone realized who she was and tried to force her from the battlefield. Her conscience flinched at sneaking into the fight when she wanted their trust, but it was the only way. Once she had proved herself in battle, regardless of how she came to fight with them, they would have no choice but to let her continue.

She was a warrior. She had a gift of
knowing
—

“And what do we have ’ere?”

Scotia skidded to a stop.

“A woman in pants? I knew the Scots were barbaric, but that is more than I expected.”

Scotia stared into the eyes of a large English soldier not twenty feet away, dressed in a dirty padded gambeson, a helm with enough dents in it to speak to much time in battle, and a sword like her own, drawn and pointing right at her. A slighter man stood a little behind him. This one was dressed in a parti-colored tunic, half a dirty white, half a faded blue. He held a bow already nocked with an arrow.

All the angry, hurt thoughts and feelings that had been wheeling through her head and gut ceased instantly as she slipped into the warrior-mind that Duncan had trained into her, saying nothing until she must and quickly assessing her opponents.

The older one was clearly in charge, both from his demeanor and his position in front of the other man. She judged she could not take him in a sword fight, for he was both taller than her and outweighed her, but she could outrun him with ease. Then she looked at the younger man. She had seen firsthand what an archer could do to a man perched high in a tree. He carried the longbow of the Welsh, and she doubted he would miss hitting her at such close range even if she were running away from him.