Highland Thief by Alyson McLayne

Eighteen

Kerr shoved Isobel behind him, his claymore held in an upright position in front of him, and stepped back into the lean-to, squeezing her against the pile of wood inside. Her body heaved and shook against his spine, and when she wrapped her arms around him, he quickly removed them.

“Wait,” he ordered, his tone sharp. He returned both hands to his sword hilt and balanced his weight on the balls of his feet.

He was fully in warrior mode now and had men to slay—three of them coming from the woods, possibly more, plus the man at the cabin who’d put his hands on Isobel. The timing of the first kill was critical to sustain the least amount of damage to himself, keep his lass safe, and take them all out.

Let them come to him.

Three, two, one…he stepped forward, thrusting his sword through the first man who tore around the corner of the lean-to. A killing blow. When he pulled back his sword, blood splattered across his bare chest and arms. He lunged forward onto his left foot and arced his blade sideways, almost taking off the second warrior’s head. He died instantly, blood spurting up from the wound.

The third warrior was upon him almost before Kerr had time to react, and he dropped to the ground and rolled as the man swung his sword. Kerr rose fluidly and struck back, the blades clashing as the men fought—once, twice, three times. His enemy was fast and skilled with his weapon, but he wasn’t strong enough against a warrior as powerful as Kerr, and on the fourth blow, Kerr knocked him off balance, and he fell into the lean-to beside Isobel. She screeched and climbed the pile as Kerr stabbed the man through the stomach and dragged his blade sideways. His intestines spilled out in a bloody mess.

“Behind you!” Isobel yelled.

Kerr darted sideways and heard the whistle of the other blade as it swung past his ear. Close. Too close. These were elite warriors, not huntsmen or simple travelers.

He rose as a log flew past his shoulder from behind and hit the fourth warrior in the face. The man stumbled back, and Kerr shot forward and speared him through the heart. The last warrior fell to his knees and clutched his chest, his mouth open, his eyes wide with shock and horror.

Kerr shoved him back with his boot, clearing the space in case more men came at him. When none appeared, he moved cautiously to the edge.

Releasing one hand from his huge sword, he smashed his elbow into the wall beside him, creating a jagged crack in the board just big enough to see through. He scanned the cabin and surrounding trees—the glade appeared empty.

But if a sniper were in the branches, he wouldn’t show himself until it was too late.

His gaze fell on a bushy tree on the other side of the clearing. The angle was perfect for the glen and the cabin, but not good for the lean-to where Kerr and Isobel were hunkered down.

If Kerr were the sniper, and his focus was the cabin, that’s where he would hide. They hadn’t expected Isobel to escape.

He turned and scanned the bodies before choosing the smallest warrior, who lay crumpled on the ground by the wood pile. Kerr tucked up the man’s plaid to cover the blood stains on his shirt, and then rolled him onto his side.

“Doona look,” he said to Isobel as he straightened.

“Why? What are you going to—”

Lowering his sword, he carefully pierced the tip through the dead man’s neck, so it entered and exited below the ears.

Isobel gasped and slapped her hand over her mouth.

With a grunt, Kerr hefted the body until the warrior appeared to be standing upright. Muscles straining, he moved carefully to the front of the lean-to again, and then looked through the jagged hole. Slowly, he pushed the body out of the lean-to until the sniper, if there was one, could see it but not the blade.

Either the archer would shoot thinking the body was an enemy and reveal his position, or he would climb down from the tree, believing his friends had won.

Or he wouldn’t react at all, and Kerr would have failed to protect Isobel.

Not an option.

Every second seemed like an hour, and eventually Kerr’s arms began to shake. He whistled, a little desperate now, as if calling for the other man. Finally, he saw the leaves tremble, and he stared intently, looking for an arrow tip—anything to pinpoint the sniper’s exact position. He’d only get one shot with his dagger, but at that distance he wouldn’t be able to hit his enemy, anyway.

How can I draw him out?

When no one appeared, he brought the body back in, carefully swinging his sword around, so it looked like the man turned and entered the lean-to. He couldn’t keep propping the dead man up and depleting his strength—he may have to fight again.

When the puppet was out of sight, Kerr tilted his broadsword, and the body slid off the point and hit the ground with a thud.

Behind him he heard Isobel gag. “’Twas necessary,” he said curtly, still eyeing the tree through the hole he’d made.

“Why did you do that? Is someone else out there?” she asked.

“Aye.”

“Who? I hate it when you get like this, Kerr. Tell me what’s—”

“I want you to scream,” he said as curtly as before, his focus on the tree. “Loudly, like you’re being assaulted.” When she didn’t respond, he pointed his sword behind him in her direction, and said, “If you want to stay alive, Isobel, do as I say. Now!”

She screamed. And cried. And screamed again. “No. Get off me! Please!”

Movement in the trees. A man stepped into the clearing with his bow raised in their direction. He walked toward the lean-to cautiously.

“Keep it up,” he said to Isobel, and then after she screamed and pleaded some more, he forced a loud laugh like he was Isobel’s assailant, having fun with her. It turned his stomach.

The archer lowered his bow slightly. Good lad. A little farther.

Kerr had just unsheathed his dagger, when another archer stepped from the tree line, his bow raised.

“Bloody hell,” Kerr cursed under his breath.

“What is it?” Isobel whispered from close behind him.

“More men. Keep doing what you’re doing, it’s drawing them out.”

She continued to cry and beg, and he laughed a few more times and whistled.

The second archer almost ran across the clearing toward them. It didn’t take long for him to overtake the first archer and drop his bow completely.

Kerr wasn’t worried about him; he could take him out easily. But the original archer was another story.

The man looked angry and frustrated, and he spoke sharply to the second archer, who ignored him. He knew they could be walking into a trap.

Pausing, he raised his bow a few more inches then began walking in a sideways arc, so he could see into the lean-to while he was still far enough away to kill someone from a distance.

Kerr needed a shield—fast! The man could probably release two shots in the time it took Kerr to reach him…after he’d killed the other archer.

And he was out of time. He put the dagger between his teeth again, pointed his claymore straight ahead, and braced his feet.

“Stay low and keep back,” he whispered around the blade to Isobel.

“Be careful,” she whispered back, and laid her hand lightly along his spine.

Moments later, the careless archer hurried around the corner with an excited leer on his face that Kerr was more than happy to wipe off. He thrust hard into the man’s chest, so his claymore went all the way through, before lifting the body off the ground—one hand on his sword hilt, the other fisted around the man’s neck to keep him upright…and then, shielded by the body, ran straight at the other archer.

Arrows thudded into the dead man’s back in quick succession—one, two, and then a third one flew by, grazing his scalp. But Kerr was close enough now, and with a loud grunt, he heaved the body forward, sword still protruding from the man’s back. The body hit the archer hard and knocked him backward, the tip of the claymore embedding in his thigh.

The second archer screamed, but Kerr was on him in seconds, his dagger in hand…and he drew it across the man’s throat, from ear to ear. Warm blood gushed from the wound and over his hand.

Standing, he yanked his sword from both bodies and glanced around the clearing, his breath sawing through his lungs. No one emerged to continue the battle. In his bones, Kerr knew the fight was done.

But for how long?

Six highly trained warriors had attacked them. They were here for a reason—and it wasn’t a good one.

“Kerr!” Isobel cried out. He looked over his shoulder. She was as white as the linen of his shirt she still wore, but she was safe.

“Are you hurt?” she asked.

“Nay. All is well, lass.”

He scanned the clearing again to make sure, and then walked toward the lean-to, a little wobbly as usual in the aftermath of battle. His boots squished with each step and when he looked down, he saw blood covering every inch of his body.

None of it was his.

Isobel had never seen him fight before, never been so close to the gore of battle before. Would she see him differently now? For the better…or for the worse?

She was standing in front of the wood pile, her head lowered and her hand tugging on something at her side. “I canna get it out,” she said, sounding on the verge of tears.

It was a miracle she wasn’t a sobbing heap on the ground. She’d kept it together admirably and had been an asset during their fight. Memory rose of how she’d thrown that log into the fourth warrior’s face, and pride surged in his chest.

That was his lass. And she would soon be his wife; he’d make sure of it.

No one will take her away from me.

“Kerr, I canna get it out, and I doona want to tear your shirt.” Her eyes kept jumping around her to the dead bodies on the ground before darting back to her side.

“Get what out?” He slowly drew near, finding it harder to put one foot in front of the other, his legs as heavy as boulders. “What are you pulling on?”

“The arrow. It went through the material, and it’s stuck in the wood.”

He came to a halt, his eyes widening in shock as horror smashed through him. She pulled her hands away, and he saw the feather end of the arrow poking out right next to her waist, so close to her body, it had pierced the linen of his shirt. A single drop of blood, a scratch at most, marred the white material.

That arrow, meant for him, had almost killed her.

His knees buckled beneath him, and he crashed to the ground.

Her head jerked up. “Kerr!”

She yanked frantically at the material, trying to get to him. Finally, it ripped, and she raced to his side and onto her knees. Grabbing his shoulders, she rubbed her hands over them and then down his chest. Blood smeared all over her as well. “Where are you hurt? Oh dear God, Kerr. Where are you hurt?”

He grasped her arms and tried to reassure her, but he couldn’t catch his breath to speak. His heart raced so fast, it pounded in his temples and caused flashes of black in his vision.

In trying to save her, I almost killed her.

“Get up, Kerr! Get up!” she yelled, slipping her arm around him and trying to lift him. “I’ll take you back to the cabin. You can tell me what to do there. You must have some special herbs in your pack.”

“Nay, I canna rise,” he puffed out. “I doona think I’ll e’er rise again. Not after that.”

He meant it facetiously, and was referring to the arrow hitting so close to her side, but she burst into tears and threw her arms around him, sobbing.

“What can I do? Tell me what to do! You canna die on me, not yet. We have our whole lives ahead of us.”

“You mean that?” he asked, cupping her head and pulling it back so he could see her face. “You want to be with me?”

“Yes! Of course I do.”

“Then say the words.” He grasped her hands and held them between their bodies. “There is nothing I want more than to hear you commit to me right now. Say the words, Izzy. Please. Especially since…”

“Since what? You are not dying, do you hear me, Kerr MacAlister? I will not let you die.” She glared at him so hard, her face turned pink.

“You canna stop it, dearling. No one can. But when I do die, I want to know that you’re my wife.”

She nodded fiercely, tears streaming down her face and her chest heaving. He knew that he was tricking her, even though he hadn’t said anything untrue. But at this point, after the way things had ended between them at the cabin earlier, he felt like he had no choice.

He was a desperate man, and desperate men did desperate things.

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, but 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.