Highlander's Ransom (2 page)

She shivered at that. Although she was none too happy
to be married off to some man she had never even met, at least he was English.
She clung to the idea that he would adhere to knightly codes of honor, and even
if he wouldn’t let her help run the manor or make decisions beyond her
wardrobe, at least he wasn’t likely to physically hurt her. That much couldn’t
be said for Scots, or so she was told. She had never met one, but she had
overheard tales from some of the men-at-arms who had been involved in
skirmishes. They were truly savages, according to these men. They were ruthless
and lethal on the battlefield, dressed in strange clothes, and had no honor to
speak of.

Warren had confirmed such stories when he had insisted
that she not travel to him by carriage, but instead conceal herself in a wagon
surrounded by his guardsmen. He was sure that if any Scottish rebels saw a carriage
fit to transport Lord Raef Warren’s future bride to him, they would instantly
attack and either kidnap her for ransom, or kill her on the spot. She shivered
again, tucking her knees up and pulling her cloak down over her slippered feet.
She hoped that the disguise worked. Although the soldiers surrounding the cart
were Lord Warren’s trained men-at-arms, there were only a dozen of them—enough
to provide the illusion that they were protecting a load of supplies, not a
noble lady.

To further carry on the ruse, Alwin had been forced to
leave behind all of her trunks, and even sweet old Betsy. The parting with her
had been bitter; Betsy was Alwin’s only true ally in her father’s manor. Many a
night, Betsy had sat with Alwin as she cried herself to sleep, sometimes out of
grief for her mother’s passing, others out of frustration and anger at her
father’s treatment, and lately out of worry for the future she was heading
toward. Betsy was the only one whom Alwin let see her true fears and hurts.
Lord Warren had apparently assured Alwin’s father that upon her arrival, she
would have new clothes made to fit her new station as his wife, and that after
the wedding, a few of her personal affects would be sent along with the dowry.
She would also be granted another maidservant, but none could replace her dear
friend.

She supposed that some would consider her fortunate
for such a marriage, but it did little to alleviate her sense that she was
being shipped like cargo rather than a bride. She again tried to push these thoughts
aside and remind herself to be strong; this represented a new beginning for the
new year and her life ahead. But somewhere in the pit of her stomach she knew
that she was terrified, not just of this day-long journey, but of what awaited
her at the end.

Once again, she chided herself for giving into her
fears for a moment, and reminded herself that she could find ways to resist her
future husband should he try to control her as her father had. She refused to
be broken.

As she rearranged herself yet again, the wagon rolled
to a stop. They had stopped a few hours back, but she had been told by one of
the guardsmen that they wouldn’t stop again for several more hours. Her skin
tingled as she strained to hear what was happening beyond the canvas-covered cart.
The silence stretched, and then just when she thought she would go mad from the
quiet, all hell broke loose.

Chapter 2

Robert glanced off to his right, making sure he and
his men were still moving parallel to the road, but far enough back to be swallowed
from sight by the forest. They moved nearly silently, quite the feat for ten
men on horseback to accomplish while navigating through the underbrush. The
cold rain that had just begun to fall helped to baffle their noise. It hadn’t
soaked through his thick wool plaid yet, but judging by the deep grey of the
sky visible through the trees, the rain wasn’t going to let up any time soon.
The men didn’t notice or mind, of course. He had been leading covert patrols,
raids, and intelligence gathering missions just like this one for nearly four
years in the lowlands. Ever since the battle at Roslin, he and the allied clans
knew that the English wouldn’t lick their wounds for long before they began
plotting another assault. Despite having plenty to do back home as Laird, he
had volunteered to lead several of these covert missions, feeling personally
responsible for his clan’s well-being, and longing to be a thorn in the side of
the English war effort.

These days, he spent more time on these secret Lowland
patrols than he did back in the Highlands. And it had been worth it. Over the
years, he had intercepted countless supply trains, weapons transports, soldiers
being relocated, and missives regarding the English’s plans. The loot he had
secured in the process was only a bonus; the real reward had been knowing that
he thwarted their efforts to further subject and oppress his people. Aye, he
thought with an inward smile, he had been a thorn alright. He even knew that
some of the interceptions he had made had been headed toward Raef Warren’s
holding. His mirth slipped at that. It still made his blood boil that the man
had gotten away unscathed so many years ago, and to add further insult, the
snake held land in Scotland. The borderline between the two countries hadn’t
been clear for years, but the castle Warren held was one of the farthest north
into the Lowlands that the English had managed to secure. Robert knew a direct
attack on Warren now would be foolish, of course. He could wait, though, and
bide his time. Instead, he would have to settle with a slower form of Warren’s
undoing, where it really hurt him the most—his ledgers. Robert couldn’t guess
at how much his attacks along these roads had cost Warren and the English, but
trying to calculate it was one of his favorite activities to pass the time
during the quiet moments. He suppressed another vicious grin at the thought.

Suddenly, the mirth left his mind and before even
realizing what he was doing, he threw up his fist, the signal to halt his men.
They responded immediately to him, the only sound the pattering of rain through
the winter-bare trees. After several tense seconds, he registered a faint sound
along the road south of where they were concealed in the crisscrossing
branches. His instincts had served him yet again. He motioned for several of
his men to go farther north and cross the road out of sight of whoever traveled
toward them, so as to be able to attack from both sides. He positioned himself
and the remaining men on their side of the road.

“What do you think?” Burke’s whisper was only audible
to Robert.

“Small group—sounds like ten, fifteen armored men at
the most, and only a few horses. Supplies?”

Burke gave a quick nod, and though he remained tense
and ready to spring into action, a small smile quirked the corner of his mouth.
Robert knew what he was thinking. This would be easy pickings.

As the sounds of the travelers grew louder, Robert
caught several glimpses of the procession through the trees. Twelve soldiers on
foot, and one on horseback in the front, surrounded a canvas-covered cart drawn
by two draft horses. Their clunky armor gave them away as English. Robert
squinted at their coat of arms and had to stifle a noise.

They bore Warren’s coat.

He ran a hand down his bay stallion Dash’s neck,
reassuring the animal and himself. He was going to enjoy this, but he had to be
patient. Each step the procession took seemed to stretch, and it felt like ages
before they drew near enough. Robert deepened his breathing, trying to calm his
body and clear his mind. He forced himself to focus only on this moment, his
hands loosely holding Dash’s reins, the soft patter of the misty rain on the
bare branches overhead, and the anticipated weight of his sword resting in his
palms.

Just as the party on the road came parallel to its
awaiting trap, the rider at the front seemed to sense something and halted the
wagon. Not giving them time to figure out what was afoot, Robert let out a
piercing whistle and he and his men came crashing through the forest and onto
the road to surround the procession.

The soldiers wasted no time in drawing their swords,
but the Highlanders were already falling upon them. The clang of metal and
screams filled the air, and time seemed to slow again as Robert swung,
connecting his sword to the foot soldier in front of him. His strike found a
weak spot in the soldier’s armor where the helmet met the shoulder. The soldier
barely had time to scream in agony before he was dead. Even through the haze of
battle, Robert could tell within a matter of seconds that the Highlanders’
element of surprise, their advantageous position atop horses, and their lack of
cumbersome armor made the outcome inevitable. Robert let out a guttural growl
as he dispatched another soldier toward front of the train, and somewhere in
his mind he registered the sure swing of Burke’s sword to his right.

The man that Burke had just run through fell backward
and toppled lifelessly onto the two horses pulling the supply wagon. The horses
spooked, reared, and tried to bolt, but got tangled in their harnesses. As they
lurched forward in confusion, the cart began to tip precariously onto two
wheels. The horses continued to struggle and rear in the mayhem of blood and
noise, and with a groan, the whole cart rolled over to rest on its canvas top,
the wheels spinning slowly.

Robert pulled his attention away from the sight and
back to the battle, which appeared to be over already. His men had made
handiwork of the soldiers, but at a shout from one them, Robert turned to see
the lone mounted soldier disappear in the distance farther up the road. The
coward must have bolted the second the skirmish began, Robert thought with
disdain. Although he could tell that his men wanted to give chase, Robert help
up a hand to stay them.

“Let the deserter deliver a message,” he said in a
clipped tone. “And let us hope that he goes straight to Warren to tell the tale
of how yet another one of his supply routes has been intercepted!”

At that, his men gave a hearty “Aye!” and began
dismounting and cleaning their blades. Robert had his eye on the upturned
wagon, though. The draft horses had managed to get their feet under them, but
were twisted in their harnesses and spooked from the battle. Robert motioned to
Burke to see to the horses, never taking his eyes off the wagon. What prize
would he find inside this time, he wondered as he approached the rear of the
cart and threw back the canvas cover.

Chapter 3

A sharp whistle cut through the muffling canvas. Then
Alwin’s ears were met with a cacophony of war sounds—the clang of metal on
metal, the battle cries of the victorious, and the screams of the dying. Panic
seized her as she got on all fours and began crawling toward the back of the
cart. She didn’t know what she planned to do, but she was sure as hell not
going to remain trapped in here. As she reached the back flap of the cart’s
canvas covering, she stopped herself, however. Which was better: stay hidden
inside the wagon, or walk right into a battle? If her guardsmen won the
encounter, then the wagon was best. If they lost, it didn’t matter, and she
could count herself dead already. She attempted to scoot back toward the front
of the cart, when the whole world seemed to tip on its side.

She felt her body hurtling into first the side wall of
the wagon, and then its hooped canvas top. Pain shot through her, but it seemed
distant as her panic increased. She tried to right herself, but more pain
seemed to radiate from her body, and her legs got tangled in her dress and
cloak. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she registered the fact that the
noise outside was dying down. Fueled by sheer terror, she again tried to crawl
toward the rear of the wagon. The battle must have been decided, and she had to
face her fate.

Just then, grey light flooded the dim interior of the
cart as the canvas flap was pulled back. She heard a sharp intake of breath,
and then saw a large shadowy figure reach inside the cart toward her. Unable to
see who it was, she tried to struggle backward, but two enormous, strong hands
closed around her arms and dragged her forward. As she was pulled through the
canvas door and into the weak grey afternoon light, she felt a scream rising in
her throat, but it never came out.

On the ground in front of her feet, the bodies of the
soldiers guarding her were strewn, their metal armor bloodied and dull under
the misty sky. Her eyes traveled from the bodies to the men who stood over
them. A band of fierce-looking Scotsmen stood wiping their blades and speaking
quietly to each other in what she assumed was Gaelic. Unlike the English
soldiers, they wore no armor, but instead had belted kilts of red wool around
their waists, with a length of the same material draped over their shirted
shoulders.

Her worst fears had come true. Her head spun and bile
rose in the back of her throat at the sight of the dead bodies and the Scotsmen
standing over them. With the realization that she would now probably be
murdered by these savages, she felt her knees give out beneath her. The hands
on her arms jerked her upright, though, preventing her from collapsing, but
also bringing her attention to the man in front of her.

She felt the color drain from her face and her eyes
widen as she gazed up at the man holding her. He towered over her by at least a
head. Like the others, he wore a bright colored plaid around his waist and over
one shoulder, the fabric splattered with mud and blood. She could see that his
frame beneath his shirt was heavily muscled and battle-honed, the build of a
true warrior. Hair as black as night settled around his wide shoulders, and the
iciest blue eyes she had ever seen bore into her with a look of menace.