Highland Thief Page 24

  She squeezed his hands. “I am yours, Kerr MacAlister. For now and forever. I commit my life to you, my body and heart to you. There will never be anyone but you. We are one before God. Husband and wife.”

  “Husband and wife,” he repeated, and then dug his hands into her hair and kissed her—soft, excited presses of his lips to hers, and then deeper and harder—more carnal—as he slanted his mouth across hers and took control.

  His strength came back tenfold, and he dragged her across his lap.

  She gasped, her sobs turning into pants as the heat flared between them. He scooped her up in his arms—one arm behind her back, the other under her knees—rose with her, and then strode purposefully toward the cabin.

  Finally!

  All he could think about was her pledge to be with him—and only him—always and forever. He’d done as Gavin had wanted, as he wanted, and now Isobel was his—and he was driven by his need to join their bodies and consummate their marriage.

  “What are you doing?” she gasped.

  “I’m taking you to bed, Isobel.”

  She struggled to get down, and he tightened his hold. “Have you lost your bloody mind? We were just attacked.” She stabbed him in the chest with her finger. “And how can you suddenly walk?”

  “Inspiration, dear wife. Your kisses revived me. Your pledge of devotion invigorated me.”

  “So you lied to me? You weren’t dying?”

  “I ne’er said I was dying. I said I couldnae stand after seeing where that arrow had landed. My words were all true. Six men couldnae take me down, but one arrow too close to your heart cuts my knees out from under me like a swing of Eirik’s giant axe.”

  Her eyes bore into him. “You will ne’er get me into the marriage bed if you doona put me down this instant.”

  He knew that tone, and he knew that Isobel could hold a grudge better than anyone. His steps faltered, and he came to a stop in front of the porch. Slowly, he put her down, keeping his arms around her waist.

  “We are handfasted, Isobel. You said the words.”

  “I thought you were dying.”

  “You said you wanted us to spend our lives together, that there would be no one else for you but me.”

  “I thought you were dying!”

  “So it was all lies?”

  “What? No, I didnae say that.”

  “Then what are you saying, wife?”

  She grasped his hands, pulled them away from her, and then stepped back. “You’re covered in blood, we’ve been attacked, and Diabhla is nowhere to be found…and you want to tup me?”

  “I would ne’er just tup you… well, mayhap sometimes, but you would like it.”

  “Kerr, this is serious!”

  He squeezed her hands. “Aye, love, I know. But you doona have to worry. Diabhla is exactly where I left him—in the woods—and our enemy is defeated.”

  She shook her head, a pinched line forming between her eyes. “You’re not thinking straight. Are you sure you didn’t take a blow to the head?”

  “I’m sure. More than sure.” He stepped closer to her and dropped his voice coaxingly. “Make love with me, Isobel.”

  She stepped closer to him too, but it was to jab her finger in his chest again. “That man who attacked me called me a great Highland beauty, and he quoted part of the song Gregor’s minstrel wrote about me—As I looked upon thee, I saw a Great Highland Beauty. But the lyrics were wrong. It’s not a Great Highland Beauty, it’s the Beauty of the Highlands.”

  “’Tis a good thing I killed him, then. We wouldnae want him singing the wrong words. It may have caught on.”

  “It did catch on. The last person who sang those lyrics to me—the wrong lyrics—was Branon Campbell…right before you came storming up to us at the stables.”

  The hair rose along the back of Kerr’s spine, and he couldn’t help looking around the clearing again. Every instinct he had told him they were alone, but what if he was missing something? He squeezed the back of his neck, and pain shot up into his skull.

  Maybe he had taken a blow to the head.

  She was right. ’Twas insanity to stay here a second longer than they had to. He grasped her arm and pulled her toward the cabin—for different reasons this time. He wanted her under cover.

  “That wasn’t Branon Campbell. I would have recognized him,” he said.

  “I know it wasn’t. The man who grabbed me had horrible scars all along his arm and the back of his hand, and his fingers were deformed. It looked like his arm had recently been crushed.”

  “I don’t remember that, but he’s dead now, so he’s not a threat. You threw the log in his face, and I finished him off. They’re all dead.” They’d entered the cabin, and Kerr moved directly to the bowl of water on the table. He rinsed the blood off his hands and splashed it on his face and chest. Then he returned to the porch, tossed it out, and retrieved fresh water from the rain barrel for Isobel. She did the same, scrubbing hard to get it off her hands. He squeezed her shoulder and kissed the top of her head. “You did well. That man may have killed me, otherwise.”

  ’Twas untrue, but he wanted her to believe it—to ease any conflict she might have about helping him kill the man. She nodded and buried her face in his chest. Her body shook, and he squeezed his arms around her. “You’re safe now. They’re dead.”

  Nay. The word whispered in his head. Move.

  His instinct was always right. He’d missed something.

  He kissed the top of her head. “We have to go.” Her dress lay spread out on a chair in front of the fire, and he handed it to her. “Get dressed,” he said, gathered up his plaid and bag, and made sure the fire was cold.

  He paused at the door and scanned the clearing while he waited for Isobel. When she was ready, he whistled for Diabhla. The stallion appeared, and Kerr quickly attached the pack to the back of the saddle. Isobel reached up to mount him, but he shook his head and grasped her hand. “Not yet. I want to keep him between us and the trees, just in case.”

  “And we need to check the bodies,” she said.

  His desire to get Isobel to safety warred with his need to look for clues to identify the assailants. He wanted to see those scars on the fourth man as well. It was possible the man had been in the cathedral last spring when Deirdre had brought the roof down on their enemy. One man had escaped the cave-in—the man in charge.

  Maybe it was the same man.

  He clicked his tongue to get Diabhla moving and pulled Isobel along beside him. When they reached the lean-to, he directed her into the sheltered area and then positioned Diabhla in front of him, so he could search the bodies of the archers from a relatively protected position.

  He dumped out their sporrans first and found nothing of interest, but when he checked the seams and hem of the first archer, he felt coins inside—plenty of coins. The amount of which would buy someone’s loyalty…or pay them for betrayal.

  He ripped the seam and dumped the coins into his own sporran.

  “Did you find something?” Isobel asked.

  “Gold coins, too many to count. If we needed more proof that these men were not simple brigands, this is it.”

  “I haven’t found anything yet,” she said.

  He looked over and saw Isobel crouched on the ground, her face grim, searching the first man who had attacked them. Her hands were bloody again, and her newly clean arisaid had red smears on it.

  “Sweetling, you doona have to do that,” he protested. “I can do it.”

  “So can I. I tore out the lining of his sporran, turned his boots inside out, and checked his plaid. Is there anything I’m missing?”

  “If his hair is tied back, make sure nothing is hidden in it. It’s an old trick I’ve used before when my hair was longer.” As soon as he said it, he realized his mistake and groaned. The first attacker’s hair was short, bu
t the second attacker, the one he’d almost decapitated, had bushy red hair bound by a thong. She moved toward his head after the slightest of hesitations.

  “Leave it, Isobel. I’ll do it.”

  She didn’t bother to answer him this time. Instead, she released the dead man’s hair tie and sifted her hands through the strands.

  He sighed and returned to the two men he was checking. Neither of them had their hair tied back, but when he checked the first archer’s boots, a piece of parchment fell out.

  “I found something,” he said as he unfolded the page. Writing scrawled across it—brief and to the point—but it was enough to make his heart pound. He breathed in deeply and then cracked his jaw, his anger simmering below the surface.

  So they think they can take my land, my clan, my home away from me.

  He read it twice more to make sure he hadn’t missed anything and then refolded it and put it in his sporran.

  “What does it say?” Isobel asked, standing now by the bodies she’d been checking. She held her hands, smeared with red, away from her clothes.

  “It says I’ve been betrayed.”

  “Truly?”

  “Nay. It says: Clan MacAlister, September first, and a man’s name.”

  She gasped. “That’s only three days hence.”

  He ground his teeth before responding. “I know.”

  “And who’s the man?”

  “My steward, Fearchar MacAlister. He was my father’s man. After I killed my da and uncles, I kept him on to help with the transition. Obviously, that was a mistake.”

  “You couldnae have known. You needed someone. You were barely grown, Kerr, only eighteen.”

  “Nay, seventeen—I’d had my birthday with Gregor and my brothers before coming home. But it doesn’t matter, I should have known. The man’s a coward, and he’s greedy. And he should have…”

  “He should have what?”

  “He could have done more to help my mother. But I forgave him, I forgave them all, because my father was a monster, and to go against him didn’t only mean your death, it meant the torture and humiliation of you and everyone you loved.”

  He grabbed Diabhla’s reins and tugged him toward Isobel, intent on the other two bodies inside the lean-to, especially the one she said was badly scarred. Was he the head of the snake, the lone man Gavin had seen riding away from the cathedral—the only one still alive?

  The body closest to him was the man he’d held up with his sword like a puppet, and he dropped the reins and checked him first. His hair was a light reddish color, and when he turned him over to check his arms, no fresh scars marred the skin, as expected. He turned his sporran inside out and tore out the lining, then checked his shoes and plaid. Nothing useful.

  “Kerr,” Isobel said.

  He looked up to see her crouched over the last man’s body. His hair was dark, and Kerr stepped forward expectantly. She raised wide eyes to his. “He doesn’t have any scars either.”

  His brow furrowed in confusion as his eyes dropped to the dead warrior’s unblemished skin. “But you said the man who attacked you…”

  “…had horrible scars on his arm.” She finished his sentence for him. “I dug my nails into them, tore the pink skin and yanked on his mangled fingers. ’Tis how I got away.”

  Kerr took a steady breath, and then slowly turned his head toward the cabin. He stepped to the hole he’d made in the board earlier and peered into the clearing.

  Movement caught his attention on the other side of the glen—a shaking bush and falling leaves. He listened and realized the birds had fallen silent.

  And then warriors stepped out of the trees.

  Nineteen

  Kerr grabbed Diabhla’s reins, darted toward Isobel, and grabbed her hand. “Run!” he whispered, his tone urgent.

  The lean-to was right beside the tree line—the entrance facing away from the cabin and the approaching warriors. They dashed into the woods, and Kerr hoped like Hades the enemy hadn’t seen them.

  But that would only buy them a small lead. The other men would find the bodies soon, and if they had a good tracker, they would be on their trail in minutes.

  “What did you see?” Isobel asked, her breath heavy as she raced beside him through the trees.

  “More soldiers. The man who attacked you must have run back for reinforcements. I should have checked the bodies immediately.”

  Inside, he raged at himself, furious that he’d delayed and put Isobel at risk. If she hadn’t forced him to listen to her, or if she’d been agreeable to his advances, they’d be caught in the cabin right now.

  “How many men?” Isobel asked.

  “I doona know. I think ’tis an army heading toward my clan. Scattered, most likely, to avoid detection. We’re right in the thick of it.”

  He slowed and then leapt into the saddle and pulled Isobel up in front of him. His first instinct was to get to the creek and try to lose the men tracking them. After that, if they followed in the direction of the current, they’d end up at the beach where Eirik said he’d stashed his longship—hopefully.

  “Where are we going? Do you have a plan?” she asked, her voice tight and worried.

  He squeezed his arm around her waist. “We need to get back across the loch. Then I need to get home.”

  “Not without your allies. Kerr, you canna attack them on your own.”

  “I need to be with my clan, Isobel, to defend against these invaders. I need to lead my people. We have spies inside. Betrayers. I canna wait.”

  “And me?” she asked.

  He hadn’t thought that far ahead. He only knew one thing. “Safe.”

  “I am safe. With you.”

  “As long as there’s breath in my body, aye.”

  A shrill whistle sounded behind them, and men yelled in the distance—from different directions.

  Kerr cursed and guided Diabhla onto the trail they’d walked along yesterday. He let the stallion gallop full out, and they arrived at the creek within minutes. Diabhla leapt into the water, and Kerr directed him against the current—in the opposite direction of the loch—and looked for a way up the other bank that would track the horse’s prints.

  A muddy path appeared, and they climbed it before emerging onto a grassy trail heading north. He scanned the ground as they rode. They needed a place they could veer off the trail again without the warriors in pursuit noticing. When they came across a rocky section, he slowed.

  In the distance, men yelled to one another, and he fought the urge to rush.

  “What are you doing?” Isobel asked, panic in her voice. “Shouldnae we be heading back to our boat? ’Tis the other way!”

  “Aye, we will, but first I want them to think we’re heading this way. The fewer men on our heels the better.” He brought Diabhla to a halt near the edge of the trail. A tall, sturdy oak with long branches hung over it.

  He slid from the saddle and dug into his saddlebag, pulling out four small bags with drawstrings.

  “What are those for?” Isobel asked.

  “To wrap over Diabhla’s hooves. The material will obscure his tracks.” He crouched and quickly moved around the horse, securing the covers.

  When he was done, he laid a few stones back in place that his own feet had dislodged, and then mounted again. This time, however, he rose, stood on the horse’s back, and pointed to the branch above. “If I lift you, can you climb up, move to the trunk, and make your way down? Follow one of the lower branches as far into the woods as possible.”

  She nodded, and he helped her up. Diabhla stood steady as she bent over to tie her skirt up between her legs.

  He’d just lifted her when he heard horses splashing in the water down the trail behind them. Isobel wrapped her legs around the trunk. “Go,” she said as she pulled herself up. “I can manage.”

  A shout fille
d the air, and he glanced over his shoulder. “They’ve found our trail.”

  When he looked back, Isobel had already crawled halfway to the trunk of the tree. He wanted to shout instructions to her, tell her to hide, but she was an intelligent, resourceful woman. She didn’t need his guidance.

  He sat and urged Diabhla forward, breaking into a gallop. Ahead, the trail veered to the right. Kerr leaned forward over the stallion’s neck and held on, his knees pressing tightly to the horse’s sides.

  “Gearr leum!” he commanded, directing the stallion to the left rather than following the trail. The horse jumped a good twenty paces into a small, grassy clearing, and then raced into the woods.

  Kerr found the densest foliage to hide behind and watched, breath held, as fifteen enemy warriors passed by. He couldn’t tell if the man with the scars was among them.

  After they disappeared, he removed the bags from Diabhla’s feet and circled back through the woods to find Isobel. She was still up in the tree, but on a branch, thick with leaves, that extended far into the woods.

  “Do you think that’s all of them?” she asked, as she lowered herself onto the saddle and settled in front of him. She sounded anxious, and for a moment, Kerr considered lying to her. But she deserved to know. And if anyone could handle the truth, it was her.

  “Nay, lass,” he said, as he directed Diabhla toward the loch and spurred him into a trot. “I think we’ll come across small pockets of them throughout the forest. Some will know we’re here and will be looking for us. Some won’t. They’re heading in secret toward my clan. I had hoped more would follow our false trail.”

  “How can we possibly make it back to our boat with so many of them out there?”

  “We willna have to. Eirik told me he left his boat on a beach not far from here. I’m hoping he hasn’t moved it. We should be able to make it there without too much trouble.”

  Now he was lying to her. “Whate’er happens, I’ll keep you safe, Isobel.”

  They moved as swiftly and quietly as possible, staying off the game trails. Oftentimes, Kerr relied on Diabhla to let him know when someone was approaching. His stallion would tense, turn his head, or swivel his ears. Several times they had to hide as enemy warriors rode past.