Page 17 of The Laird’s Guardian Angel (Highland Lairds #3)

16

O n the stone steps in front of the keep, Alistair stood before the neighboring allies, armed to the teeth for battle. His claymore was strapped to his back, daggers in the braces on each of his wrists, tucked into his boots, and a few more through the braided loops of his belt. A targe was strapped to one arm to take the blows of an enemy, and he also had strapped to his belt an axe.

If there was one thing Alistair took seriously in life—it was survival.

The dozens of men before him, too, came similarly outfitted. For most of their lives, they'd been fighting. Trying to keep the lands they'd been born in from being taken by the English enemy.

This was a fate they had accepted from childhood, a promise to both their ancestors and their descendants that Scotland and its people would not be wiped out by the Sassenachs who dared claim ownership.

Alistair was not one to beg for help. Not because his own army was formidable enough—which it was—not out of fear—because he wasn't scared. The reason he didn't have to be was because when these men, his allies, called for his help, he answered, and vice versa. Petty squabbles aside, they called a truce when it came to their one common enemy.

"My gratitude for your swift arrival," Alistair called out over the crowd. "The Ramseys have come under attack. Their castle, besieged. They need our help."

Beside him, Calliope cleared her throat and gave him a little jab with her elbow.

Alistair couldn't help but raise his brows as he stared down at her. Gone was the muck that had smeared her face. Her skin was as flawless as he'd imagined. Even her golden hair was brighter now that it had been washed. If she'd been beautiful before, now she was radiant.

And the little chit had no problem whatsoever telling him what to do, questioning his tactics. That was clear by the way she nodded at him as if to say, "Now, remember what I said."

Rather than be annoyed by it, Alistair found it rather… interesting. The first thought that came to mind was charming, but how in the hell would he find a woman who didn't listen, one who dared to tell him what to do, to be charming?

Then again, his youngest sister, Iliana, was very much like Calliope, and he found her to be the most interesting person in their family.

Figured the first woman he felt stirrings around, after the fiasco that was his undoing with the healer, was one that wasn't going to sit idly by and let him rule the day.

Alistair nodded at Calliope and turned back toward the horde of armed men. "This is Lady Calliope Ramsey."

She jabbed her elbow into his ribs again. He knew what she wanted. To be called Chief, The Ramsey. But there was a risk in calling her that to an army of a hundred men, which he'd already explained to her. Three times.

English And female. Two strikes against her, maybe more if they counted her being English as doubly bad. They might turn around and go home. Alistair couldn't risk that. And she shouldn't either.

"My father," she started to speak, and the entire crowd reared back—including his own people. Calliope's words stilled on her tongue, and she glanced up at him in question.

That wasn't exactly how he'd wanted to inform them of her heritage. Alistair kept his face a mask of nothing, nodding in support at her for all to see.

She winged a brow at him in question.

"Ye're English," he murmured with a shrug.

"Ah, so I have offended them." She licked her lips, smoothed her skirts, and straightened her shoulders. He'd seen his sister Matilda do the exact same thing right before she boxed one of their brothers' ears and even his own. She might have been younger than the three brothers, but she was a wee bossy hen. "My father," Calliope started again. "Was Chief Ramsey. Aye, I'm half English, but I'm half Scots, too."

"Did ye say, was, lass?" This came from The Drummond, an ally of the Sinclair clan, bordering their lands on the north.

Calliope narrowed her eyes. "Was?" she scrunched her nose, then her face smoothed. "Aye. My father was Chieftain of the Ramsey clan, which means?—"

"He's dead?" shouted Buchanan, their ally on the western border.

Before Calliope could answer, Alistair cut in. "We have no' yet confirmed his death. Calliope escaped the siege to find help."

She glanced up at him sharply, and hissed, "I heard his murder with my own ears. Don't give them hope."

Alistair nodded grimly, what he heard her really say was: don't give me and impossible hope. "We need them, my lady."

"What does that mean?"

"They will fight for Ramsey."

"But not me?"

"Ye've yet to gain their trust."

Calliope glanced toward her booted feet, but not before he saw a sadness about her eyes that made him oddly want to comfort her. "That is no fault of my own."

"None at all." There was no way of knowing if the allies would fight for her even if she had grown up in Ramsey's stronghold, but the odds were a hell of a lot better that they'd fight if they thought Ramsey might still be alive.

"Well, lass?" called out Drummond with impatience. "Is he dead or not?"

Alistair wanted to march over to his ally and have a word, telling him to reign in his temper or else. But he opted to glare at him instead, which Drummond ignored.

Calliope shook her head, tears making her eyes shine. The poor thing had been through so much. Alistair wanted to shield her from the prying eyes, the questions, and the truth—the horrible, terrifying truth of what could have happened if she'd not escaped. But despite those tears, her spine straightened, and some of the fire he'd seen on the road flushed her cheeks.

"We were attacked," she said, her voice stronger now. "My father was injured. I… I pray that he has not…" But her words were cut off by a strangled sound in her throat. "I pray that he is alive."

Alistair did put his arm around her shoulders then, and she leaned against him, keeping her eyes on the crowd. "Ye need no' say another word, lass," he murmured. "They will get the vermin out of your castle."

"What if he's not dead?" she whispered. "What if I left him there to die?"

"Ye did the right thing," Alistair said. "Never doubt that. Ye could no' take on an entire army all on your own. Ye need us, and we will fight for ye."

"For me?" Her hopeful eyes studied him.

"For ye, for all the Ramseys. For your father, who was well respected by his neighbors."

Calliope nodded. "Thank you."

"We're allies," Alistair said. "Now and forever." Somehow, tying himself to her that way, as his ally to the south, wasn't enough.

The lass from his youth, who'd gifted him with a token that had been his talisman for over a decade, was standing next to him now. That had to be Fate, didn't it?

For the first time in a long time, he considered breaking his vow of bachelorhood.

Calliope stared at the sea of hard-looking men. Hard in body, hard in face, hard in mood. She'd be lying if she didn't feel a little terrified looking out at them. These warriors would be her salvation. They were covered in weapons. Walking armories. Did they truly need so much? Perhaps taking one look at them might be enough to make any man run in the opposite direction.

She knew she certainly would.

Alistair's arm around her shoulders was a comfort. And leaning against him when she didn't think she had the strength to stand another minute was a gift. She only prayed that she didn't seem weak for having to do so. There were no weapons on her, save for the dagger she'd stuffed in her boot.

He seemed to understand the men well, and they appeared to respect him. She'd not believed Alistair when he said they might not fight for her. She was a Ramsey, after all. But their questions had started before the story could even be shared. Trust from her was not easily won, especially after finding out recently all that she had. The secrets her mother had kept. Edgar’s betrayal. The father she'd barely known slaughtered just out of sight. And yet, trust was what she had to give Alistair. Trust was what she had to give these men who claimed to be her allies, too.

Strangers.

And yet, hadn't they established in his study with the beautiful map of Scotland laid out before them, that she and Alistair weren't strangers? That he was the lad she'd admired and gifted with her rebel linen all those years ago. Never one to think much in the way of Fate of signs before, this seemed like a sign to her. As though God, the world, or someone else wanted her to trust Alistair. That he was the man who had come to her rescue when she'd trusted him with her secret as a child had to mean something.

She glanced up at him, the hard angles of his face, the battle scar thick on his chin. A man who'd fought countless times since she'd met him when they were young. A man who had been victorious just as many times considering he was standing there before her.

"We will return soon, my lady," he said. "And when we do, I'll take ye back to your castle myself."

"Wait, nay." She shook her head. This was not how it was supposed to go. "I'm coming with you."

He sighed the heaviest exhale as if she were a child throwing a tantrum, which was completely the opposite of the truth. She was a grown woman, and she'd spoken quite clearly and without emotion—a statement of fact. There was no way in hell she was staying behind.

"Ye canna, lass. Ye must stay where ye're safe."

Like hell… "But it is my castle. And if there is a chance, my father…"

The way Alistair's face changed then, she knew the idea he'd suggested of her father not being dead had only been to quell the men's questions. And she knew that. She'd heard the carnage, heard his life drain away as he spoke. Imagined more than a hundred times the way they'd dropped him there on the floor as if he were nothing more than rubbish. Her father was dead. She didn't need to see that to know it.

"My lady?—"

Calliope shook her head and held up her hand for him to stop speaking. She didn't want to hear the truth from his mouth. The horror of knowing it was bad enough. She was all alone in this world, this land that was as foreign to her as she was to them if the shock of her English accent was any indication.

"Please do not say it, Alistair. Knowing is enough."

He nodded grimly.

"I know the truth," she admitted, her gaze on the tips of his boots. "But I still want to come."

"Nay."

"I can help. I'm very good with a bow."

"Absolutely no'. The men will be distracted by your presence, lass, that's the truth of it. They will be worried ye'll be hurt, that they need to protect ye, which will take some of their attention away from the battle."

"What if they do not know I'm there?"

He looked at her as if she'd suddenly started to speak French. "Ye're hard to miss."

Calliope didn't know whether to take that as a compliment or not. "I will remain hidden."

"That's even more dangerous. And given we've had this conversation, I will know, and I also dinna want to be distracted, lass. Allow us to fight, and when we're done, I'll come and fetch ye at once. Ye have my word."

Calliope knew from the stubborn set of his jaw and from the very honest answers he'd given her that Alistair was not going to agree. She nodded in acknowledgment of what he'd said. But, the truth was, she didn't plan for him to know she was there either.

The bow would be her savior, and given she was also quite adept at healing, having trained with the healer at Edgar’s castle, mostly out of boredom and fascination, she felt confident that her presence would be helpful. Alistair need not know a thing.

"Ye'll stay where 'tis safe then?" He was staring at her so hard she imagined he was trying to see inside her brain.

Calliope smiled, but not too widely. She didn't want him to realize what he'd just said. He had not asked her if she'd stay put. He'd asked if she'd stay where it was safe. And that was what she planned to do. A safe enough distance so as not to distract his men. A safe enough distance to keep herself from being attacked. A safe enough distance to be a help with her bow. And last, but not least, when it was over, she'd have access to the healing supplies she'd brought with her from England, to tend to the men and their injuries.

"Safe, aye," she said with a sturdy nod.