Temptation in a Kilt (26 page)

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The Highlander’s Prize

By Mary Wine

Scottish
Lowlands, 1487

“Keep yer face hidden.”

Clarrisa jerked back as one of the men escorting her hit the fabric covering the top of the wagon she rode inside of. An imprint of his fist was clearly visible for a moment.

“Best keep back, my dove. These Scots are foul-tempered creatures, to be sure. We’ve left civilization behind us in England.” There was a note of longing in Maud’s voice Clarrisa tried to ignore. She couldn’t afford to be melancholy. Her uncle’s word had been given, so she would be staying in Scotland, no matter her feelings on the matter.

Better
to
avoid
thinking
about
how
she
felt; better to try to believe her future would be bright.

“The world is in a dark humor,” Clarrisa muttered. Her companion lifted the gold cross hanging from her girdle chain and kissed it. “I fear we need a better plan than waiting for divine help, Maud.”

Maud’s eyes widened. Faster than a flash, she reached over and tugged one of Clarrisa’s long braids. Pain shot across her scalp before the older woman sent to chaperone her released her hair. “You’ll mind your tongue, girl. Just because you’re royal-blooded doesn’t give you cause to be doubting that the good Lord has a hand in where you’re heading. You’re still bastard-born, so you’ll keep to your place.”

Clarrisa moved to the other side of the wagon and peeked out again. She knew well who she was. No one ever let her forget, not for as long as she could recall. Still, even legitimate daughters were expected to be obedient, so she truly had no right to be discontented.

So she would hope the future the horses were pulling her toward was a good one.

The night was dark, thick clouds covering the moon’s light. The trees looked sinister, and the wind sounded mournful as it rustled the branches. But Clarrisa didn’t reach for the cross hanging from her own waist. No, she’d place her faith in her wits and refuse to be frightened. That much was within her power. It gave her a sense of balance and allowed her to smile. Yes, her future would hold good things, because she would be wise enough to keep her demeanor kind. A shrew never prospered.

“Far past time for you to accept your lot with more humbleness,” Maud mumbled, sounding almost as uninterested as Clarrisa felt. “You should be grateful for this opportunity to better your lot. Not many bastards are given such opportunities.”

Clarrisa didn’t respond to Maud’s reminder that she was illegitimate. There wasn’t any point. Depending on who wore the crown of England, her lineage was a blessing or a curse.

“If you give the Scottish king a son—”

“It will be bastard-born, since I have heard no offer of marriage,” Clarrisa insisted.

Maud made a low sound of disapproval and pointed an aged finger at her. “Royal-blooded babes do not have to suffer the same burdens the rest of us do. In spite of the lack of blessing from the church your mother suffered, you are on your way to a bright future. Besides, this is Scotland. He’ll wed you quickly if you produce a male child. He simply doesn’t have to marry you first, because you are illegitimate. Set your mind to giving him a son, and your future will be bright.”

Clarrisa doubted Maud’s words. She lifted the edge of the wagon cover again and stared at the man nearest her. His plaid was belted around his waist, with a length of it pulled up and over his right shoulder. The fabric made a good cushion for the sword strapped to his wide back.

Maybe he was a Scotsman, but the sword made him look like any other man she had ever known. They lived for fighting. Power was the only thing they craved. Her blood was nothing more than another way to secure what the king of Scotland hungered for.

Blessing? Not for her, it wouldn’t be.

***

Lytge Sutherland was an earl, but he ruled like a prince on his land at the top of Scotland. Plenty of men envied him, but the wiser ones gave him deference gladly, because they knew his life was far from simple. At the moment he was feeling the weight of ten lairds, only half of whom he called friends.

“If the rumor is true, we must act,” Laird Matheson insisted. “With a York-blooded son, that bastard James will pass the crown on to an English puppet.”

“Or a king who the English will nae war with because they share common blood,” Laird Morris argued.

The room filled with angry shouts as men leaned over the tables in front of them to give their words more strength.

“Enough!” Lytge snapped. There were several cutting glares, but Matheson and Morris both sat back in their chairs. The tension in the room was so tight the earl knew he had to find a solution before the men assembled before him began fighting one another. “Let us not forget how important it is for us to stand together, or James will get his wish to disinherit his first son, a young man worthy of our loyalty. If we squabble among one another, we will have to be content with James remaining king.”

Laird Matheson snarled, “That bastard has no’ done what a king should. He gives riches to his favorites and refuses to punish thieving clans like the MacLeods! It’s his fault we’re fighting Highlander against Highlander.”

“Which is why we’re all here, united against him despite half our own kin calling it treason.” It was a younger man who spoke this time, and the earl grinned in spite of his desire to appear detached.

“Young Laird MacNicols says it clearly. We’re here because we’re united—a bond that needs to remain strong. The York lass must be eliminated before she can perform the function James desires of her. We do nae need England’s war on our soil.”

“We’ll have to find her first,” Faolan Chisholms said. “Such will nae be a simple task.”

The old earl looked around the room. There was plenty of spirit in the lairds’ eyes, but thinking the deed done would not gain them success. It would take cunning and strength, along with a healthy amount of arrogance for the man willing to try and steal from the king. Such a man would have to believe himself above failure. The earl was sitting in the right place to find him, for they were all Highlanders.

“I’ll find her and steal her.” Broen MacNicols spoke quietly—too quietly for the earl’s comfort.

“Ye’ve got vengeance in yer eyes, young MacNicols. Understandable, since James has slighted yer patience by refusing ye justice concerning the death of yer father.”

The earl’s son, Norris, slammed a fist into the table, sending several of the goblets wobbling. “James neglects us and leaves good men no choice but to feud when their neighbors commit crimes, since he will not dispense judgment upon the guilty.”

“I tried to respect the king instead of falling back on old ways,” Broen snarled. “I took the matter of me father’s murder at the hands of the Grants to the king. The man would nae even see me, much less send an envoy to Donnach Grant to demand me betrothed be returned.” He flattened his hands on the tabletop, leaning over it. “I made a choice, sure enough, for I’m here, and I tell ye I will make sure the king does nae get the lass he wants while he refuses me justice for the murder of the woman I was contracted to. She died on Grant land, and I deserved more than a letter telling me she’s dead.”

Lytge Sutherland nodded and heard several of the other lairds slap the tabletop in agreement. “We place our faith in ye, Laird MacNicols. Find the York bastard, and ye’ll have me at yer back when ye demand that explanation from Donnach Grant.”

There was a solid ring of endorsement in the earl’s tone. Broen didn’t enjoy it. His father had been dead for four months, but he still felt the sting of the loss like a fresh wound. He reached up and tugged on the corner of his bonnet before quitting the chamber.

“Ye’re in a hurry.” Broen didn’t lessen his pace as Faolan Chisholms caught up with him. They’d been young boys together, and now fate had made them lairds in nearly the same season.

“There is no reason to sit at a table drinking and talking like old men. I’ve an Englishwoman to find, since that is the only way I’ll possibly see an explanation to me father’s death that will nae require spilling blood when the snow melts.”

“Aye, Sutherland will nae be giving ye his assistance otherwise, but ye need to know where to look for her before ye ride out,” Faolan insisted.

Broen stopped and faced Faolan. “If ye want to come along, ye should have stood up when the earl was looking for men to take on the burden.”

Faolan grunted. “Ye did nae give me a chance.”

By Amanda Forester

Scotland, 1355

Morrigan McNab silently drew her short sword, careful to remain hidden from the road. She checked to ensure her black head-scarf was in place, concealing her nose and mouth. The target of today’s villainy clopped tow
ard them through the thick mud. Twelve men were in the mounted party, their rich robes identifying them as wealthy, above the common concerns of daily sustenance… in other words, a perfect mark.

Concealed by the tree and thick foliage, Morrigan scanned the party for weapons. It appeared to be a hunting party, since all had bows slung across their backs and long knifes at their sides. The dead boar they carried strung between two riders was also a clear sign of a hunt. Despite their alarming arsenal, most looked complacent, paying more attention to the flask they were passing around as they laughed and joked amongst themselves. One man, the one carrying a metal-tipped pike, scanned the woods around him as if he sensed danger.

Morrigan glanced at her brother Archie, only his eyes visible over the mask he wore. He pointed to her then to the man with the pike. Morrigan narrowed her eyes at her brother. He always gave her the hard ones. Morrigan gave a curt nod and turned her focus back to the pikeman. He looked fit and vigilant. She preferred fat and careless. The war horse was a fine specimen too, tall and strong, trained to stand his ground in battle. It would not be easy to take him down.

The hunting party clomped closer, and a man walking behind the riders came into view. Morrigan wondered why he was left to slog through the mud behind the hunting party. Many of the horses would carry two men with ease. The walking man was dressed in a worn traveling cloak and a brightly colored tunic with a lyre strapped to his back. He must be a minstrel. Those wealthy hunters must not consider him worthy of a ride. Damn rich bastards.

Archie gave a bird call, the signal. Morrigan tensed in anticipation, coiled, ready to strike, and counted. The men jumped at twenty; she always leaped at nineteen.

Morrigan sprung onto the road and charged the man with the pike, screeching like a fey creature from hell. Archie and the men surged into the fray, the men’s shouts blending with the surprised cries of the beset hunting party. The pikeman lowered his weapon toward her with a snarl, but Morrigan dropped to the ground and rolled under the nicely trained war horse, which was obliging enough not to move.

Regaining her feet on the other side of the horse, she pounded the hilt of her sword into his elbow holding the pike, now fortunately pointed the wrong direction. The man howled in pain, his black teeth showing, and swung to hit her. She anticipated the move, ducked out of the way, grabbed the pike and flipped it out of his hand. She had her sword tip stuck under the edge of his hauberk before the pike sunk into the mud. She applied just enough pressure to give him pause.

Her fellow bandits had likewise subdued the rest of the party. It was quiet for a moment, an odd silence after the explosion of sounds a moment before that had terrified both man and beast into mute submission.

“Good afternoon, my fellow travelers.” Archie McNab stood before the hunting party, a scarf covering his nose and mouth. He gave a practiced bow with an added flourish. Morrigan rolled her eyes. Her brother liked to think of himself as a gentleman thief. True, he was laird of his clan, but Morrigan had little tolerance for petty niceties. They were there to rob them. What was the point of being genteel about it?

“I see ye are burdened wi’ the evils o’ worldly possessions. But ne’er fear, my brethren, we have come to relieve ye o’ yer burdens.”

Morrigan held out her free hand, hoping the man would readily hand over his pouch of coins like the other wide-eyed members of his party. He did not comply and instead nudged his horse, causing it to step sideways.

“Grab the reins,” Morrigan commanded a young accomplice. The lad took up the reins of the war horse and holding the animal’s head while Morrigan kept her eyes and her sword on the black-toothed man. He snarled at the lad, who balked and stepped back.

“Hold its head!” Morrigan snapped. The last thing she needed was this man making trouble.

“Now if ye fine gentlemen will make a small donation to the fund for wayward highwaymen, we shall set ye on yer way in a trifle,” said Archie.

On foot, Morrigan mentally added. The warhorse Black-tooth sat upon was a fine specimen. She reckoned she would look better than he on such a fine animal. The rest of the hunting party readily handed over their money pouches and weapons easily, but not Black-tooth. He glared a silent challenge. Morrigan sighed. For once, just for the novelty of it all, she’d like things to be easy. It was not to be on this day. Not any day, truth be told.

Morrigan stabbed her mark harder but other than a scowl, he made no move to comply. She could kill the man, but Archie was firm in his orders not to kill unless necessary, and Morrigan had to acknowledge the wisdom of it. Robbing folks was one thing, murder was another. The last thing they needed was a band of Highlanders come to rid the forest of murderous thieves.

The man still refused to hand over his money bag so Morrigan grabbed the pommel of his saddle with her free hand and put her foot on his in the stirrup and hoisted herself up. It should have been a quick move. She grabbed his purse and pulled it free. Suddenly he shouted and kicked the horse. The lad dropped the reins and the horse lunged forward, throwing Morrigan off balance. One punch from Black-tooth and Morrigan fell back into the mud.

The black toothed terror charged the horse in front of him, causing the mount to spook and rear. The result was chaos, as the remaining horses broke free, urged on by the hunting party who sensed a chance to break free.

“Grab the horses, ye fools!” Morrigan jumped up shouting. “They be unarmed, get them ye bastards!”

But more than one thief, having secured the desired reward, melted back into the shrubbery rather than face the angry hunters. The hunting party broke free and galloped away down the path they had come.

“Damnation!” Morrigan yelled at her thieving brethren. “What is wrong w’ ye cowardly knaves?”

“We got the coin,” grumbled one man in response.

“But not the horses, ye fool! Now they can ride for their friends and come back for us. And ye,” Morrigan turned on the spindly-legged lad who had dropped the leads of the warhorse she had coveted. “Ye ought to be more afeared o’ me than any bastard on a horse.” Morrigan strode toward the boy with the intent of teaching a lesson that would be long remembered, but her brother caught her arm.

“Let him be, he’s only a lad.”

“I was younger than that when I joined this game,” Morrigan shot back.

“Aye,” Archie leaned to whisper in her ear. “But we all canna be heartless bitches like ye.” With teasing eyes he straightened and said in a louder voice. “Besides we have a guest.”

Standing in the middle of the muddy road was the colorfully dressed man with a lyre slung on his back. Damn hunters had left him with a bunch of thieves. Morrigan cursed them once again along with their offspring and their poor mothers for general completeness. She was nothing if not thorough.

Despite being surrounded by thieves, the man appeared surprisingly calm, though perhaps after their pathetic display of incompetence he rightly felt he had nothing to fear.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” the stranger said with a seductive French accent and an equally appealing smile. “I am Jacques, poor traveling minstrel, at your service.” He gave a polished bow that put Archie’s attempts at gallantry to shame. Morrigan caught her brother’s eye to make sure he knew she had noted it.

“And what brings ye to be traveling with such cowardly companions that they would leave ye at the first sight of trouble?” Morrigan asked.

“The hunters I met on the road, and they invited me that I may walk behind them to their hunting lodge.” Jacques gave an impish grin. “I can only assume my services are no longer required.”

“Ah, then they are doubly fools, for a minstrel is a rare prize indeed,” said Archie.

“You mean for me to be ransomed?”

“Nay, nay, ye are our guest. We are but humble thieves, but we shall take ye to…” Archie swallowed what he was going to say and coughed. “We shall take ye to the doorstep o’ the great Laird McNab. We dare no’ cross the border o’ his domain for he has no tolerance for our kind, but I am assured he will welcome ye. And he can pay for yer services,” said Archie McNab jingling his ill-gotten gains.