скачать книгу бесплатно
“Someone should teach that female she cannot meddle in men’s affairs,” Kieran growled.
“Seems I’m the one who’s lessoned you,” the very woman in question called out from the bottom of the stairs, her soft voice laced with sarcasm as it echoed in the stairwell.
Kieran whirled and bounded toward her. Stopping one step above so he towered over her, he set his features into a mask that had made battle-hardened warriors tremble. She gasped, eyes dilating with fear, but didn’t retreat. It made him even angrier. “You haven’t even the sense to flee one such as I?”
“I have faced down a worse man than you and survived.”
Who? he wanted to ask. What man had caused the shadows that clouded her clear gaze? Unbidden came a wave of protectiveness, the urge to shelter this tiny, brave woman from harm.
As though sensing his pity, she lifted her chin. “Well, do we ride out or stand here trading insults?”
Kieran shook himself, wondering what strange magic she possessed that had him acting the veriest of fools whenever she was about. “We ride to the pass. The defenses along the river are key, yet seem inadequate. I’d strengthen them before taking stock of the rest of Edin Valley,” he said, lord to squire.
“Inadequate,” she sputtered as he pushed past her. “I’ll have you know—”
But Kieran didn’t pause to hear the rest. He was too busy trying to outrun the light scent that clung to her. Why had he never noticed before that heather was such a seductive fragrance?
The air was so still Henry Percy could hear his own heart race as he stared at the mountains that hid Edin Valley from the rest of the world. Behind him lay the rolling backs of the Lowther Hills and the thick forest that hid his band of raiders, handpicked for this, the first step in Henry’s grand scheme. Ahead lay the flat, grassy plain bordering the river Tweed and across the treacherously swift water, the tumble of rocks that concealed the only entrance to the valley.
This was by no means the Englishman’s first foray across the Border, for the Percys were a riding family, and he’d been harrying the Scots for most of his thirty years. But this time he hadn’t come for anything as paltry as lifting cattle or burning crofts. He’d come after far richer game. Excitement tensed Henry’s body beneath his woolen tunic and expensive French body-armor. He looked up into the branches of the sturdy pine against which he’d been leaning while he waited for night to fall. “How much longer before we can attack?”
“Curse the luck. We’ll have to wait.” His spy dropped to earth, landing on the balls of his feet like a cat.
Henry frowned. “What now?”
“They’ve set a guard outside the pass,” he croaked. The unnatural hoarseness of his voice drew Henry’s eye to the puckery pink scar that bisected his throat, giving the appearance that someone had tried to carve him from ear to ear. Likely a MacLellan, given the Scot’s willingness to betray that clan.
’Twas a measure of Henry’s desperation that he’d hired a man whose name he didn’t even know. “You said they never did that.”
“Nor do they.” The Scot’s mouth twisted beneath the ruins of his nose, another mark of the vile life he’d obviously led. Above it, his eyes gleamed with a fierce, predatory light.
Henry’s uneasiness increased. “Why have they done so now?”
“How should I know? Mayhap they’re expecting us.” The Scot wrenched open his threadbare cloak to reveal a dented sword and brace of dirks. The garments he wore were, as far as Henry had seen, the only set he possessed. Though of fine quality wool, they were thin and tattered, the gold thread edging the neck and hem of the tunic tarnished. Either he’d stolen them or he was a nobleman down on his luck. Whichever, he was dangerous. “If so, they will not find me unprepared this time,” the Scot grumbled.
“’Tis obvious from the defense they’ve mounted thus far that you didn’t kill old Duncan,” Henry said with asperity.
“’Twasn’t for want of trying.” The Scot scowled. “If ye’d sent those reinforcements more quickly, we’d have taken them—”
“I came as soon as possible, though I could ill afford the time away from my own preparations,” Henry retorted. Because he didn’t trust the Scot, he’d come with these troops, leaving Captain FitzHawk in England to raise the rest of the army.
“The MacLellans are such milksops, I wouldn’t have thought they’d fight us so fiercely. We were near captured ourselves. But we’ll get inside this time, and it’ll be just as I said.”
Henry looked toward the mountains. “It had better be.”
“Never fear, m’lord. I’m as good as my word. Before the fortnight’s out, ye’ll be the next king of Scotland.”
“What?”
The Scot smiled. “I know what ye’re about.”
Henry started. Impossible. No one but FitzHawk knew the true extent of his ambitions. “How could you?”
“Why else would ye be so interested in getting across Scotland to Edinburgh in secret with an army? Rest assured I won’t fail ye. Our goals are closely matched. I, too, want what should have been mine... Edin Valley.” He paused a moment. “Edin’s perfect fer yer needs. Ye can march up the valley through the pass at the other end and come out a day’s march from Edinburgh without alarming the countryside and rousing the clans.”
“Another pass? Mayhap we could get in easier that way.”
“’Tis a secret, known only to the laird. I searched the hills for months looking for a way in, but couldn’t find it.”
“How do you know it exists, then?”
“I came close to being that laird,” the Scot muttered.
Henry scowled. “Why have I not heard of this place before?”
“I told ye the MacLellans keep to themselves like a clan of hermits. They raise most of what they need in the valley. They’ve a mill to grind their grain, trees hanging ripe with fruit, game aplenty in the forests. For salt, spices and such, Duncan goes once each spring and fall to trade at the market in Kindo.”
Which was how the Scot had waylaid the old man...with the aid of Henry’s troops. But so many of Henry’s men had been wounded in the skirmish that the Scot had not had the troops to press on and capture Edin Tower. Especially since the cursed MacLellans had vigorously patrolled the entrance to the valley.
Henry scanned the quiet landscape. Thankfully no one outside Edin was aware of the ambush. Stealth was critical to his plans, and Edin Valley was just what he’d been looking for. A place where he might mass his forces in secrecy, then launch his attack on Scotland before the alarm could be raised. By the time old Robert roused the clans, Henry would be sitting on the throne.
Still there was the problem of getting into the valley without causing a stir. “Mayhap I should have approached Duncan and paid him for the right to pass through his lands.”
“He wouldn’t have agreed.” The spy slanted Henry a sly glance. “Duncan doesn’t hold with outsiders, claims they’ve been left alone because he doesn’t meddle in politics or other people’s affairs. And, too, he’s a Scot through and through. He’d rather die than help an Englishman conquer his country.”
“Half English.” Henry’s mother had been a Percy, seduced by the old Scots king. For years Henry had suffered the shame of bastardy and the sting of not belonging on either side of the Border. Now he’d found a way to turn his Scots’ blood to his advantage. “You do not share Duncan’s loyalties?”
The Scot’s smile was as dark and menacing as the austere mountains. “All I want is what ye promised me—lairdship of Edin Valley and free rein to do as I will with its inhabitants”
Pity for the MacLellans stirred in Henry’s chest. He suppressed it. Conquerors couldn’t afford consciences. “How do you suggest we get inside?”
“I’m going to sneak across to the river, hide in yon trees and see if I can make out the strength of their guard.”
“I’m with you.” He wasn’t letting the Scot out of his sight till this campaign was over.
Chapter Four
By the time the scouting party from Edin neared the pass, the sun had been blotted out by a ridge of clouds. The threat of impending rain seemed small compared with the storm brewing among the members of Clan MacLellan. ’Twas all Kieran’s fault, Laurel thought, for he’d done naught but criticize. First because she’d insisted on leaving Collie behind, then about things in general.
“’Tis a mistake to rely solely on Edin’s natural defenses,” he’d growled when the hapless Ellis had tried to explain. “Guarding the entrance to the pass isn’t enough. They can lay siege to it, wear you down with repeated forays. Though you haven’t lost many men yet, the raiders have robbed you of sleep and taxed your resolve. Tired, frightened men make mistakes. The reivers need only wait, picking you off at their leisure.”
Grudgingly Laurel had admitted he had a point, but ’twas the way he made it that rubbed them all raw till even the easygoing Ellis had fallen back, leaving her to ride alone with the surly mercenary. Kieran had no tact, no care for others’ feelings. Why did he act so, she wondered, glancing sidelong at him. He’d removed his helmet the better to study the valley. Seen in profile, his handsome features were as harsh and unrelenting as the surrounding mountains. What forces had so cruelly shaped him?
Beneath that prickly hide of his, she’d glimpsed another man. A man who’d administered a lashing on principle yet had been more hurt by it than his victim. A man who could have crushed Collie with one blow but hadn’t raised his hand to the lad.
In fact, when Collie had entered the master chamber with her medicine chest, he’d immediately sought out Kieran and announced he was going to ask his grandfather for a sword.
Kieran had quietly said he’d had a wooden sword when he was seven and suggested Collie ask for one instead.
“I want a real sword. I want to kill like ye do.”
Kieran had shaken his head. “No man enjoys killing, but if your grandsire approves, I’ll teach you to wield a wooden sword.”
Collie had accepted this with a sigh and gone off to corner Duncan, but Laurel had watched Kieran. Did he dislike killing? If so, why did he make his living with a sword? What sort of man was he? The urge to find out was more compelling than it should have been, given her horrible marriage and Kieran’s harshness.
Nay, she wasn’t doing this for herself; ‘twas for her kin. The MacLellans needed Kieran if they were to survive, and the way things stood, her people would not willingly follow him. “’Twould salve Ellis’s pride did you suggest instead of demand and find fault,” she said, testing the waters.
He snorted. “I’m here to save his hide, not his pride.”
“Prettily said. Are you a poet?”
He looked appalled. “Nay. I’m a mercenary.”
“A knight may be both warrior and poet.”
Another snort. “Not me.”
“Why did you become a mercenary?”
“Because I’m good at killing people. I enjoy it.”
Liar. “Have you been doing it long?” she asked as sweetly as though he’d said he was a wood-carver or a blacksmith.
“Since I was five and ten.”
Young. Too young to embark on such a hard life. “Was your sire a mercenary, too?”
“Nay.” He snarled and turned away, but Laurel wasn’t done with him. It took her several minutes and dozens of questions—most answered by a grunt or a single word—to pry loose the facts that he had no siblings, his father had been the eldest son of a noble house, his mother a Highland lady. Both were dead.
“My parents are dead, too,” Laurel said softly. He didn’t ask for details, but she supplied them anyway, ending with how she and Malcolm had been raised by Duncan and Nesta. “Who had the raising of you?” she innocently inquired.
He started so violently that his stallion balked and pranced forward. “Easy, Rath.” Kieran’s tone as he quieted the horse was so gentle and patient he seemed like another man. So, he could be kind when it suited him. Talk of his upbringing was painful and she wondered why he was estranged from his family. By the time he had Rath calmed, Laurel had decided on a new line of questioning.
“He’s a fine beast. I’ve never seen so large a horse. He makes three of our shaggy little ponies,” she said.
Kieran’s lips twitched in what for him must be a smile, and he leaned forward to pat the stallion’s glossy black neck. “My English cousins, the Sommervilles, have been raising such horses for years. When I could afford to, I bought Rath from them.”
Laurel stored away the information. “Wrath as in anger?”
“Nay.” Another twitch. So, he had a sense of humor under all that surliness. “Rathadack. ’Tis Gaelic for—”
“‘Lucky omen.’ How come you to speak the ‘old tongue.’ ”
“I fostered in the Highlands with Lucais Sutherland, the husband of my Aunt Elspeth. How come you to speak the Gaelic?”
Laurel was delighted he’d asked a question. “We MacLellans keep many of the old ways.” She’d learned Gaelic from Nesta as preparation for the day when she’d be seeress of the MacLellans, but unless her gift improved, that day would never come.
What pained her? Kieran was concerned to see her lovely mouth turn down. What is it, he longed to ask, but keeping his distance was too ingrained. Already he knew too much about her for his own peace of mind.
Suddenly she straightened and shook off her sorrow with a force of will he admired, for he knew what strength it took. Her too-bright smile touched him even more. “I inherited my mother’s knack at weaving,” she said. “Though I haven’t her skill with details. Actually—” she leaned close, tone low and confiding “—my deer look like pigs, my people like sticks with hair, but I’ve a good eye for color.”
Kieran tried to close his ears but her clear, sweet voice slipped between the chinks in the wall he’d built around his heart, beguiling him with her mix of wit and self-deprecation. “And what did you inherit from your sire’s family?” he found himself asking.
“Naught I’ve the skill to use.” She turned away, but not before he caught the sheen of tears in her eyes.
“What is it?” he asked, he who’d steeled himself not to care for another’s feeling—except mayhap Rhys’s.
“’T-tis naught. I—I have something in my eye.”
“Let me see.” He angled closer. She pulled her mount away.
“Nay. I can look to myself.” Aye, so she could. She had as much pride and courage as most men. Her strength of character impressed him against his will.
“Will ye go up onto the rocks and get the lay of the land?” Rhys asked, reining in beside them.
Kieran scowled, conscious of how perilously close he’d come to opening himself up to Laurel. A serious mistake. Furious, he growled, “Take ten of our men and scout the cliffs for any trails that might offer access from the outside. I’ll take the other twenty along the river and do the same.” Studiously ignoring Laurel, he asked Ellis when the raiders attacked.
“In the dead of night when we are drowsing at our posts,” Laurel replied, angered by his snub. “We?” Kieran challenged.
Laurel lifted her chin. “I lead them in Grandda’s place.”
His black brows slammed together in clear disapproval. “The battlefield is no place for a female.”
Laurel couldn’t have agreed more. But... “If I didn’t go, Collie would. ’Tis my duty to act as Grandda’s eyes and ears.” She read grudging respect in his eyes before he urged Rath forward. It warmed her more than another’s effusive praise, for he didn’t seem to think much of her sex. Was a woman responsible for the ghosts that haunted him? She should let them rest, but she’d been born curious, and he was a mystery she longed to plumb.
When they cleared the tunnel through the cliff, she paused to study the broad plain that stretched between the mountains and the Lowther Hills a mile distant. Brooding clouds hung low in the sky, bringing with them an early dusk. The wind that stirred the trees along the river’s far bank held a promise of rain to come. As she watched the branches twist and bend, Laurel fancied she saw something...someone lurking in the shadows.
Shivering, she drew her cloak closer around her. ’Twas just her imagination. There was naught in the woods save birds and wee animals. She’d been affected by Kieran’s wariness, that was all.
He’d halted several paces ahead of her, back straight as the pines bordering the water, head up like a hound scenting the air. Then he unbent enough to lean toward his squire and comment on what he saw. It took her a moment to realize he was lessoning young Jamie in the art of soldiering, much as Father Stephen had taught her to read and cipher. ’Twas totally unexpected in a man who kept discipline by beating a man for breaking one order. Grudgingly she admitted Kieran could teach Collie things she couldn’t. Things her brother needed to know. They’d been wrong to shield her brother from the rougher side of life.
“Kieran has a canny knack for bringing out the best in others,” Rhys commented, walking his horse up alongside hers.
“Not in me, apparently?
Rhys chuckled. “Nay. But then, the path we are destined to tread is not always evident from the first.”
“What does that mean?”
“’Tis a thing my da used to say.”
Likely intended to convey some twining of her fate and Kieran’s. Well, she was having no part of it. “When you mount the cliff, have a care for loose stones.”
Rhys grinned but accepted the change of subject. “I take it ye’ve been up there?”
The memory of the last time she’d climbed the heights, scrambling for her life in the dead of night with Aulay hard on her heels and Freda baying after them made her belly clench. “Aye, ‘tis a fearsome drop straight down to the rocky riverbed.” As Aulay had discovered. “A deadly fall.” Especially when a wolfhound had ripped open your throat As Aulay had also learned. ’Twas a lesson he’d taken from this life into hell.
“If you’re through dallying with her, we’ve work to do,” Kieran called out.
