Page 31 of Highlander Redeemed (Guardians of the Targe #3)
S COTIA STOOD WHERE Duncan had left her for a long time, her mind both full and blank, unable to form a coherent thought.
She stood there long enough that the sun broke over the ben, burning away the clouds and casting warmth upon her back as if beckoning her to turn and walk into the sunshine, and out of the Glen of Caves.
She stood there waiting for Duncan to come back to her.
Duncan always came back.
But as much as she wished it were true, in her heart she knew this time was different.
Anger surged, and she fought the need to stomp her feet and shriek at the unfairness.
He had trained her. She had done everything he demanded of her.
He was the one who had betrayed her trust, and yet he threw that in her face.
No warrior will trust you if you go against the wishes of your chief , he had said.
“The wishes of my chief would be different if Duncan had but kept his part of the bargain,” she muttered to herself as she turned and climbed the short distance to the shallow pass.
“The wishes of my chief would be different if Duncan had but told him that I am well prepared in every way to take my rightful place in the coming battle.” She clambered over the broken stones that littered the pass, and began her descent over the slippery scree that covered this side of the ben, her concentration consumed for the moment by the need for care.
She’d never join the warriors if she broke her neck .
When she reached the more sure footing of the wood, partway down the ben, she dusted her hands off on her trews, and set off toward the castle. She knew not where the warriors were positioned, but she knew there would be guards near the castle who could direct her to ...
It was only then that she remembered that her da and Uilliam were in charge of the warriors in the glen until Nicholas and his champion, Malcolm, could bring the Guardians closer to where the battle would be joined.
If they beat her to the warriors, she knew her da would deny her the right to kill their foes, just as he had the day he took the life of the English spy who had killed her mum before she could ask for the honor for herself.
But it did not matter. She would simply hide close enough to watch the warriors, and when the battle began, she would take her place on the battlefield.
With luck her skills would be apparent before anyone realized who she was and tried to force her from the battlefield.
Her conscience flinched at sneaking into the fight when she wanted their trust, but it was the only way.
Once she had proved herself in battle, regardless of how she came to fight with them, they would have no choice but to let her continue.
She was a warrior. She had a gift of knowing —
“And what do we have ’ere?”
Scotia skidded to a stop.
“A woman in pants? I knew the Scots were barbaric, but that is more than I expected.”
Scotia stared into the eyes of a large English soldier not twenty feet away, dressed in a dirty padded gambeson, a helm with enough dents in it to speak to much time in battle, and a sword like her own, drawn and pointing right at her.
A slighter man stood a little behind him.
This one was dressed in a parti-colored tunic, half a dirty white, half a faded blue.
He held a bow already nocked with an arrow .
All the angry, hurt thoughts and feelings that had been wheeling through her head and gut ceased instantly as she slipped into the warrior-mind that Duncan had trained into her, saying nothing until she must and quickly assessing her opponents.
The older one was clearly in charge, both from his demeanor and his position in front of the other man.
She judged she could not take him in a sword fight, for he was both taller than her and outweighed her, but she could outrun him with ease.
Then she looked at the younger man. She had seen firsthand what an archer could do to a man perched high in a tree.
He carried the longbow of the Welsh, and she doubted he would miss hitting her at such close range even if she were running away from him.
She held her hands up, away from the sword she so wanted to draw. She did not drop her shield, but with her hands up, they could see that she carried no hidden weapon behind it.
“Have you nothing to say for yourself?” the older one demanded.
“What are you saying?” she asked in the Gaelic, buying herself time to figure out what to do.
“Who are you?” The younger one spoke for the first time, and her suspicions were confirmed. He spoke a variation of the Gaelic, but the accent was not any she had heard before. Welsh, fighting for the English.
“Speak English, both of you!”
She looked at the younger one, with her eyebrows raised and what she hoped looked like confusion in her eyes.
“I do not think she speaks English, Adam,” the younger man said. “Do you?” he asked her in the Gaelic.
“Do I what?” she responded as if she had not understood what he had said in English, not falling for his trick. The two men looked at each other, and she took a quick step backward. ’Twas little extra room, but it was better than standing still.
“How are you called?” the Welshman asked.
“Mairi,” she replied, “Mairi of Kilfillon.” They would not ken that she made up such a name or such a place. “I am lost. Can you tell me where I might find shelter and a meal?”
“I think you are MacAlpin,” the Welshman said to her.
He translated what he had asked and how she had replied for his companion.
She took a quick glance around her while their attention was off her, looking for something that would help her escape, for she would die before she would allow herself to be taken prisoner by English soldiers again.
She had skills this time, knowledge, and some experience at fighting, though not as much as she wished.
If only Myles were standing at her back now , they would have a chance . ..
She stopped herself from thinking of that, of his death and her part in it, and focused only on getting away.
“What should we do with her?” the younger one asked Adam.
Adam looked over at Scotia, who did her best to look like a woman who knew nothing.
“She carries no food, no travel sack, and she did not approach us as if she were lost,” he said, clearly thinking out loud, which was useful for Scotia, though it made it difficult to continue to feign ignorance of English.
He motioned for the archer to circle around her, and the man slowly moved to her left, as if moving slowly would not scare her into running.
“She carries weapons like a Scots warrior,” Adam continued.
“I did not know they armed their women.”
Scotia moved closer to a tree, the only cover she could find with a quick glance about her. It would stop an arrow, though it would only be a moment before the archer was in position, so the tree was no hindrance to him, and the swordsman could easily slash around the trunk if he had to.
She expected the man to keep talking, to tell his partner that they could not take her prisoner because it would only slow them down, though they could torture her to find out what they needed about the MacAlpins. The one thing she was sure of was that they had no intention of letting her go .
Adam lunged for her with his blade, and she barely had time to lower her shield to stop the blow.
Without thinking, she spun around and sprinted off into the wood.
An arrow flew so close she could hear the faint whistle as it cut through the air.
It struck a tree just in front of her with a solid thunk.
She darted off her course, cutting into a denser growth of trees.
The arrows followed her. With each one, she changed directions, like a rabbit evading a wolf.
If she could get far enough ahead of him the trees would protect her completely, but the man was quick both of foot and with his bow.
She could not stop to make sure, but she thought she heard the other man crashing through the forest behind her and the archer.
Her mind raced through all the possibilities she could imagine.
She needed to draw these two as far away as possible from where they met her in the hope they would not be able to find that place again.
If they did find it, ’twould not be difficult to follow her trail right back into the Glen of Caves, for in her anger and hurt she had not remembered to hide her tracks.
Duncan was right about her ... The words ran through her mind, but she refused to think about them. Not now.
She slowed, just enough for the archer to glimpse her through the trees.
She watched as he loosed another arrow, judging where it would land but forcing her legs to move faster than ever, before it could hit exactly where she had been standing.
She sprinted through the forest, her lungs burning, her mind focused on finding the best path, sometimes running down felled trees, as Duncan had her do so often, leaping over small burns without hesitation.
She raced down a ravine, only to trip on a tree root, and tumble the rest of the way to the bottom.
She lay there, looking up at the sky as she tried to get her breath back, but a shout from nearby had her scrambling to her feet and up the other side.