Highland Scoundrel (Highland Brides) Read online

  The realization that she was looking for him irked her to no end.

  “Surely there must be one of our guests who interests ye,” Flanna said.

  “Can Kelvin be considered a guest?” Shona asked, finding the lad amongst a group of boys.

  A drum roll sounded loud and clear in the morning air. The crowd hushed again. Bullock, a broad man and one of Flanna’s most faithful warriors, stepped forward with a banner in one hand.

  “Line up, lads,” he ordered.

  The men did so, jostling each other as they found their places.

  “At the ready…” Bullock called, then, lowering the banner with a sharp sweep of his hand, he yelled, “Run!”

  The pack lunged away as a unit. Plaids swirled, bagpipes skirled, tassels twirled. People shouted for their favorites, their sons, their fathers. Twas a fairly short distance, no more than thirty rods, but the group broke up early. The sprinters burst ahead, their legs galloping, their arms pumping.

  And suddenly, as quickly as it had begun, the race was ended as Hadwin burst across the finish line.

  Grinning, he raised his fists high in gleeful triumph. The others scowled and paced and puffed.

  “Well done! Well done, lads!” folks shouted. Ale and other intoxicating refreshments were poured and guzzled with parched relish.

  A trio of musicians took the field and entertained them with a gusto that revved the crowd to further enthusiasm.

  But soon the next heat was about to begin. Again the runners lined up, eyeing the finish line marked with stones, setting their heels, some bare, some booted, firmly into the dirt. The distance was farther this time, nearly a quarter of a mile and most of it uphill.

  The drums rolled. The competitors grew still, their faces taut, their bodies tense.

  “Run!” Bullock shouted. Again the runners launched themselves across the green, scrambling for distance. Hadwin pistoned ahead early on, but the course was longer and steep, making his bulk a detriment. Stanford and a handful of others galloped up, running level. In desperation, Hadwin glanced sideways and pressed himself to greater effort. The two fervent rivals ran side by side.

  Turning his head to glare at his competitor, Hadwin veered slightly, pushing Stanford into a patch of mud.

  Stanford slipped, nearly falling to his knees, but Hadwin, too, had ventured too close to the mire, and though he did not fall, he was left behind as the others galloped toward the finish line.

  The winner’s triumph was somewhat lost in the boisterous moment as Stanford screeched accusations at Hadwin. The smaller man puffed out his chest and declared his innocence.

  Seeing trouble afoot, Flanna motioned to a number of her men and Roderic rushed forward to keep the peace.

  In a matter of moments, the quarrelsome fellows were dragged apart, and the music began anew, accelerating in tempo and growing in volume in an attempt to hush the noise of the combative competitors.

  Drawing a deep breath, Shona all but rolled her eyes to the heavens.

  “How exciting,” Rachel said. Shona refrained from giving her an elbow in the ribs as Magnus, the ancient toy maker, was hustled into view.

  He was old beyond even an estimate of age. His face was shadowed by a battered broad-brimmed hat, and his bent body covered by a nondescript tunic, doublet, and trews. Although his left arm seemed paralyzed, marionettes came to life in his hands, and soon he had the crowd entranced.

  Finally, when the competitors had been given time to cool off, another heat was run. Though Shona’s most ardent suitors strove valiantly, the race was won by a young man named Marcus, newly married and beaming in humble pride as he accepted the congratulations of the crowd.

  The nooning meal followed, but soon the crowd wandered back out to the green for more games. The next race was won by Fiona’s son Graham; the second, by a jubilant Stanford.

  Refreshments followed again. Shona and her cousins watched as ale was swilled and voices rose. The day was wearing on, and most of the revelers had spent it drinking.

  Finally it was time for the determining race to begin. Again the competitors lined up. The banner was dropped, the runners bolted. The distance was approximately four furlongs set in a rough circle that ended where it had begun.

  Women cheered, men shouted. The runners raced on, tightly gathered, led by Hadwin and Stanford and a half dozen others. But Stanford seemed to be pulling ahead. Red faced and desperate, Hadwin put on a burst of speed as they rounded the final bend, but suddenly he faltered and bumped into Stanford. They wobbled unevenly. For a breathless heartbeat it seemed as if they would find their footing. The crowd rose to its feet, straining to see, and suddenly the pair went down in tangle of plaid and flailing limbs. Behind them the rest fell like sheaves beneath a scythe, tripping and careening in a pile of cursing, groaning chaos.

  Onlookers roared in dismay or laughter, officials shouted, and Stanford, apparently beyond control, threw himself at Hadwin.

  Before anyone could stop them, they were tearing at each other like game cocks while the rest of the fallen field rose to the spirit and began throwing punches at whoever might be in the way.

  Mud flew, women shrieked, babies cried, and from the sidelines, Shona stared in open-mouthed horror.

  “However do you manage it, Damsel Shona?” someone asked.

  The voice was almost lost in the ribald chaos, but even without turning, Shona knew it was Dugald Kinnaird’s.

  Chapter 7

  The games had turned into a battle, with fists flying and mud splattering. Shona watched it in open-mouthed fascination. “Tis not my fault,” she murmured.

  “Of course not,” Dugald agreed. “In fact, I am quite impressed. You made it nearly to the end of the day without causing a fight.”

  “Tis not my fault,” she repeated, her temper rising as she turned to glare at him, but when she did, his mocking blue gaze struck her with lethal force. His crooked smile stole her breath and his nearness seemed somehow overwhelming.

  Beside her, Rachel and Sara were suspiciously silent as they looked on, but somehow it seemed beyond Shona’s ability to turn away from her tormentor.

  “Might ye introduce me to your friend?” Rachel asked.

  “Friend?” Shona questioned.

  Rachel laughed as she turned to Dugald. “Ye must be the one they call the Dragon.”

  His attention turned away to rest on Rachel’s petite features. “Tis a title I have oft regretted, I assure you,” he said, his posture perfect, his costume the same, without a drop of sweat or a smudge of dirt.

  Off to Shona’s right, grunts and curses and wails rose skyward.

  “Where did ye come by such a name?” Rachel asked.

  “I fear the story is not all that interesting,” Dugald demurred.

  “I have found the tale a man is most loath to tell is oft the one most worth the hearing,” Rachel countered.

  He grinned. His teeth were exceptionally white against his dark skin, Shona noticed, and though she tried to stop herself, she couldn’t quite help but wonder why it was that when he looked at her dark-haired cousin, not a tad of his cocky condescension showed in his expression.

  “If you are truly interested I would be happy to tell you the yarn while we sup.”

  “Tis impossible to separate Sara from her husband,” Rachel said. “And it appears that Shona will be sharing a trencher with…” She glanced toward the track, searching the mob for an unscathed body. “My brother Graham, I believe, since he is one of the few still standing.”

  Dugald laughed. Then, offering his arm to Rachel, he led her across the drawbridge to the great hall.

  Shona wasn’t sure what woke her, but she lay immobile in the darkness, her heart pounding with fear. Why? Had she experienced a frightful dream? Had a noise startled her? But she remembered no dream, and just now the night seemed as silent as stone.

  She lay still, calming herself with logic. She was safe here at Dun Ard. All was well.

  But just then a noise whispe
red in the darkness, so quiet it seemed to be no more than a thought.

  Yet she was certain she hadn’t imagined it.

  She forced herself to sit up while her mind foolishly told her to lie still, that if she didn’t move, she would be invisible.

  But invisible from what?

  She glanced stiffly about, her heart beating hard against her ribs, and her lungs forgetting to breathe. The room was tiny, containing no more than a single trunk and her bed. There was nothing frightening there, nothing at all. Swinging her legs carefully, over the edge of the pallet, Shona rose to her feet.

  It was not like her to be afraid, not here in Dun Ard, where she had always been safe. And yet the night seemed filled with a thousand evil things. Evil things that snarled at her from the darkness, that threatened her very soul. She stood paralyzed with an unknown fear.

  A miniscule scrape came from the hallway. With a soft pant of fear, Shona grasped Dragonheart in her fist. The amulet felt cold in her palm, but the feel of it in her hand brought back a thousand memories—vows made in a high tower on a stormy night, bonds forged long ago, promises to be bold and brave like the Flame and the Rogue.

  Without another thought Shona slipped to the door and wrenched it open.

  The narrow hallway was empty. But there was something, a terror so frightfully sharp it seemed difficult to draw a breath.

  Her fingers tightened on the dragon. Twas not the way of the MacGowans to hide, she reminded herself, and very silently, very carefully, she slipped along the wall to follow something or someone she could neither see nor understand.

  The night was as silent and stifling as death, but Shona forced herself to move on down the hall until she had reached Kelvin’s door. Pressing the portal carefully open, she peeked inside. He lay in happy exhaustion, his limbs tangled with those of the other boys who shared his bed. All was well there.

  Shona moved on, skimming down the darkened hallway. Her feet were bare and made no noise against the wooden floor. But her gown was white and utterly visible in the darkness. Still, she could not turn back, could not return to her room. Someone had been at her door. Someone had planned to enter her room. She was certain of it, though she had no idea how.

  Stairs spiraled downward. She stepped onto them. The stone was cool against her feet. It was impossible to see to the bottom, to make certain no one lay in wait for her, yet she had little choice but to continue, for something drove her on.

  The stairs opened onto the great hall. Shona let out a single breath and glanced about. Sleeping bodies were sprawled everywhere, but not a soul moved. Whoever had been at her door was not there. But he was somewhere, somewhere close.

  She must know who it was, and therefore she must be absolutely silent. Without making a sound, she skirted the bodies and slipped along the wall toward the door.

  A passageway opened on her right and from there she heard an indefinable whisper of sound.

  She turned with a start. A shadow flickered at the edge of her consciousness, but in a moment it was gone. She squinted into the darkness, and there, far away, she thought she saw a faint line of light.

  Quiet as nightfall, her hands damp as she pressed against the wall, Shona slipped down the darkened hall. It seemed like an eternity before she realized that the glow she saw was nothing more terrifying than light shining from beneath a closed door.

  She moved closer still. Whoever had been at her door must have come this way, but the numbing terror was gone now, replaced by the rush of excitement such clandestine adventures always caused.

  She tiptoed closer still.

  Voices murmured from the far side of the door.

  “The king is little more than a babe,” someone said. She did not know the voice but remained perfectly still, holding her breath and listening. “Do ye not see the trouble in this?”

  “Aye.” Uncle Leith’s voice was distinctive. “The trouble is clear, Archibald. What is not so clear is what steps to take to assure Scotland’s success.”

  Archibald! Archibald, the Earl of Angus—the husband of their exiled queen, and King James’s stepfather? Shona wondered. When had he arrived? She should have known. She should have kept better track. After all, she had responsibilities now. What did he want here? And where was the queen?

  “Tis certainly clear that our success does not lie in the hands of a French regent who does not even remain on Scottish soil,” said Archibald.

  “In all honesty, ye must admit that the regent has used all good wisdom to rule our land.” Her father’s voice was solemn and thoughtful.

  “All good wisdom!” said Archibald. “Good God, man, the regent does not even speak lowland Scottish, much less the Gaelic. What can he know of our needs? I would think ye would be the first to be offended by his lack of interest.”

  “And what is your interest in this?” Leith asked.

  “My interests lie with the interests of Scotland,” Archibald said.

  “Do they? In truth, it seems that your interests sometimes lie with those of England.”

  A movement jerked Shona’s attention away. A shadow off to her right! Or was she imagining it?

  No, it was there. Fear prickled up her spine, but she could not entertain it.

  A noise scraped along the edges of her consciousness, calling her on, down the narrow passageway, across the great hall. Not a soul moved there, but when she focused on the door, it seemed she could see it shift ever so slightly. Had someone just exited there?

  She glided swiftly across the open area, skirting the sleeping bodies of men and hounds. In an instant the latch of the huge, arched door was beneath her hand. It creaked in quiet protest, but she did not delay. Outside the air was still and damp, eerily silent. Nothing moved. She hurried out into the bailey, but still nothing caught her eye.

  But someone had been at her door, and someone had been near the room where the men talked.

  Who had it been?

  Gathered at Dun Ard were her kin, her friends, her…

  Kinnaird! His face appeared suddenly in her mind—his knowing smile, his eerie eyes. Where had he been during the games? Maybe her wild idea hadn’t been so far-fetched; maybe he truly was a spy.

  And if that was the case, twas her job to find out. Through careful questioning, she had learned, amongst other things that he slept in a private barracks above the stable, for she had fully intended to search his belongings. But the time had never seemed right. Surely, she had thought, she couldn’t do so at night, for then he would be in the very room she meant to search. But what if he had been the one at her door? Then his room would be empty and she would know that he had been prowling about.

  Shona glanced back at the great hall. It would be wise to change her clothing, at least, but there was no time. If she was going to learn the truth, she must go now.

  Dragonheart lay warm and approving against her breast, and somehow its reassuring presence pushed her on. It was no more than a piece of metal and stone, of course, but it reminded her who she was—a MacGowan, a Forbes: invincible.

  Hence, she hurried forward through the darkness, past the herb garden and the mill. Inside the barn it was darker still. A horse nickered from its stall, but no one questioned her purpose for being there, so she crept, quiet as thought, up the ladder.

  Above the stables the loft had been divided into individual barracks. She hurried past the closed doors, counting them as she went then stopped at the fourth.

  What to do now? She could hardly just barge in and demand to know where Dugald had been, for perhaps he had been there the whole while—or perhaps he wasn’t there at all.

  The hair prickled on the back of her neck. If she were wise, if she were prudent, if she were a lady, she would hustle back to her own chambers.

  She lifted the latch to the room. It moved as silently as if it had just been oiled. She held her breath. Her heart pounded. She pushed the door quietly open.

  But suddenly something smacked against her back. She was thrown inside. The doo
r swung shut behind her, pitching her into absolute blackness. She tried to scream, but something struck her head and she was flung sideways. She landed diagonally across a bed and tried to scramble away. But a blanket was yanked over her head and wrapped tight about her throat, muffling her screams, cutting off her breath. She clawed to escape, to breathe, but darkness as black as hell filled her head. Terror found her. Reality escaped, fleeing beneath the oncoming unconsciousness.

  She was going to die. She knew it. There was no use fighting, and yet she did, scraping frantically at the cloth. Her fingernails met flesh. Skin curled beneath her nails, but it gave her no satisfaction. She was dying, fading, going limp. Of course—limp.

  It took every whit of discipline Shona had to force her muscles to loosen. But she did so, stifling the desperate terror of dying, and forcing herself to drift flaccidly toward oblivion.

  An eternity of screaming silence passed before she heard a scratchy hiss of satisfaction. The blanket let up a tad. She felt the rush of air against her face. Sweet, so sweet, but she did not take it into her lungs. She did not move. Instead, she waited, one second, two, three, a lifetime. And then, like a striking snake, she jerked up her knee.

  It slammed against something solid. Her attacker stumbled backward, but she had no air, no strength left, and already he was returning, lunging at her, something raised in his hands.

  She felt it descend, heard the hiss of air as it rushed toward her head. She rolled across the pallet, but not soon enough. It grazed her skull and struck the mattress, spinning her toward oblivion.

  Malevolence drew nearer, and she was powerless to escape. There was nothing she could do.

  She had failed.

  But suddenly the door was yanked open.

  Someone leapt into the room on a pale shaft of light.

  A hiss of noise cut through the night air, and then all was silent.

  She tried to see who had arrived, tried to clear her vision, to speak, to warn him as he stepped toward her. She felt the newcomer’s presence more than saw it, imagined him leaning over her then imagined her assailant slipping behind him.

  “Careful!” she croaked.