Page 19 of The Laird’s Guardian Angel (Highland Lairds #3)

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A blood-curdling scream stopped Alistair and his men in their tracks, weapons and shields raised.

"What the hell was that he growled?"

Shadowy figures rushed on the battlements toward where the scream had originated. One of the English had fallen? But how? He scanned his men. All accounted for. The Drummonds and Buchanans were also still within ranks. But Alistair didn't believe in coincidences. There was no way that one of the English had fallen to his death at the precise moment they were about to attack, if not for their presence.

That was when Alistair spotted her climbing over the wall and disappearing into a window.

Either it was a bloody ghost, or so help him, God, Calliope Ramsey was scrambling up the castle wall like something out of a nightmare. A cascade of curses rushed through his mind, so savage even he was offended.

"How the hell did she get up there?" he growled.

"Did I just see what I think I saw?" Duncan sounded as shocked and appalled as Alistair felt.

Broderick hissed an expletive under his breath that matched the dialogue in Alistair's mind. This was absolute madness.

"A specter," Drummond said.

"The castle is haunted," Buchanan said.

From his mates' reactions, and those of his allies, it was clear that Alistair had not been hallucinating at all, and the damned woman had somehow managed to leave his castle, follow them here, and climb the foking walls.

"Bloody hell," he said. "That was Calliope Ramsey. She's going to get herself killed," he growled again, anger seizing his chest, and something more. Something akin to fear.

"The woman from your holding?" Drummond asked.

"What is she doing here?" Buchanan huffed. "And how did she get here before us?"

"I think the question is, how did she bloody climb up there?" Duncan asked. "Without a foking rope?"

Alistair ground his teeth hard enough that they almost cracked. "That's beside the point." When he got his hands on her…

By now, the English soldiers were peering over the side to whomever it was she'd tossed off and pointing to Alistair and his men as if they'd somehow managed a magical spell that had gripped the soldier, tugging him over the side. No one had seen her. And why should they? Who in their right mind would expect to see a woman climbing the bloody walls?

"They're too stupid to realize we lack the power to kill from here?" Broderick said with a disgusted snort.

"Probably think it was an arrow," Alistair said. "Either that or they think we're all pagans consorting with the devil."

Duncan shrugged. "We might be. This means the wee lady is a murderer."

"'Tis her castle," Alistair said. "I'd have done the same. 'Tis self-defense. Though I wish she bloody hadn't." All of their plans were out the proverbial window now. Or rather, tossed off the ramparts like rubbish.

They, too, had planned to climb—with hooks and rope, unlike the lass who was otherworldly in her talent for ascending. They had planned to infiltrate the castle quietly and take them out from the inside. Less death, less damage. Not an option now.

"Think it was her back in the forest that distracted us?" Duncan asked.

"Aye." Alistair scrubbed a hand over his face. The hinges of the iron portcullis squealed as the men inside sought to raise it. How had he not seen her? The woman was not a warrior, a spy, or anything other than a lady, and yet she'd managed to outwit him and get the first kill of battle. Alistair was well and truly baffled. "The Sassenachs will meet us out here soon. Everyone be prepared for battle."

"Should we disappoint them, my laird?" Broderick asked.

Alistair grinned. "Never. I hate to disappoint an enemy."

"And what of the lady?"

"I have a feeling she'll be just fine." Alistair nodded toward the window, where her head had popped out as she took aim with her bow, and started to fire on the men who still stood staring over the side of the battlement at their slain fellow.

Her arrows hit home, and two more bodies fell over the side. The few others there looked up, their shouts of shock and outrage ricocheting off the stone walls.

"Should we go home then?" Broderick jested. "She appears to have everything under control."

Alistair wished he could laugh along with them, but he was bristling with anger, irritation, and, goddammit, worry for the unthinking chit. He didn't know if she was the bravest woman, Hell human, he'd ever met, or if she was as damned addled as he'd thought upon first meeting her.

"I'm still surprised she's English," Duncan added with a low whistle.

"I dinna understand how she got here," Buchanan was still trying to puzzle it out.

"She's using a goddamned bow to take out the enemy, and we haven't even had a chance to swing our swords. I came here for a fight, and yet the lass appears to be beating us to it," Drummond added.

"Our swords will no' thirst tonight. But it's clear the lass has issued an ultimatum. This is her castle. Her plan. We are but the army." Alistair frowned, not liking how things were turning out and yet feeling immensely proud of her for having done it.

A strange combination of conflicting feelings, considering he would have punished one of his men for doing the same, washed through him in a torrent he couldn't parse.

The portcullis raised, the gates opened, and men thudded across the already lowered wooden drawbridge.

Finally. Couldn't let Calliope Ramsey have all the fun.

"Shall we, lads?" Alistair said with a grin as he tossed his claymore into the air and caught it by the leather-wrapped handle.

"A bit of fun to round out the night," Broderick grinned.

"We certainly didna come here to watch her have all the fun," Drummond said.

"How is she doing that?" Buchanan appeared to still be quite unable to work it out in his mind.

Alistair shook his head. "Aye. A bit of fun." He pointed his sword toward the moon and let out a bellow of a battle cry, his men following suit as they pressed their horses into full gallops.

For the briefest of moments, the English soldiers paused, as if suspended in time. Their eyes widened, taking in the sight of the Sinclair, Drummond, and Buchanan warriors, and Alistair couldn't blame them. There was absolutely zero doubt in his mind about the terrifying image they created. They made it so on purpose. Every time.

But the interlopers' feet found footing, their own bellows ripping from their throats as they figured out that advancing was the next step.

Too bad for them.

Alistair never looked back in battle. Never felt sorry for the lives he was destroying. Nor the ones he was taking. That all came afterward. In the midst of it, it was kill or be killed. Maim or be maimed. Surviving meant winning. Losing meant dying.

And Alistair always survived.

The first clash of his Scottish steel against English metal sent sparks into the air. He was well matched, though not evenly, and was quickly onto the next. And the next. In between swings, arrows whizzed past him.

Battling was often like dancing. Not that Alistair spent much time swaying to music, but he'd done it enough to understand that it required a coordinated effort, just like sword fighting. In fact, enough so that he'd had his men learn to dance on purpose, noting that each of them moved more fluidly when they were training afterward.

As the Sinclair warriors moved through the English soldiers, felling one after another, Alistair noticed it wasn't just their swords that took down the enemy. In fact, there were several who dropped after an arrow hit him square in the heart. There wasn't time to look up into the window, to see her there, face serene in concentration, to ascertain if she was the one. And he didn't need to. He knew she was, and though it irritated him that she'd not followed orders, he was also extremely proud.

Calliope Ramsey was mad, to be sure.

And with every second that passed, he grew more and more mad about her.

One of the men took note of Calliope, pointing, shouting, and trying to alert the soldiers on the battlements to the trespasser. But no one seemed to hear him, thank goodness. Alistair charged, not wanting him to succeed in getting the attention of those inside who might attack her. So far, she'd been lucky to keep her presence unknown.

"Ye want a fight?" Alistair bellowed at the man. "Fight me."

The soldier whirled on him, the grin of a madman curling his scarred lips. "With pleasure," he sneered. "Ye look like a better target than the old man."

Alistair replied by raising his sword. There was only one old man this bastard could be referring to—Ramsey. This had to be his killer.

The man was skilled. Damned skilled. Sweat beaded on Alistair's brow. Not a drop before now despite the number of men he'd engaged with. They parried left, right, blocking. The clang of their swords sent sparks of heat to land on Alistair's cheeks. The man's armor creaked as he moved, but despite the ridiculous chain mail on his body, he moved as though it weighed hardly anything.

Alistair was shocked that the English had bred a man nearly equal to him in strength. He ducked a wicked blow, and twisted, swinging his sword. The tip glanced against his opponent's armor, sending another shower of sparks. While he fought this Sassenach, his men took care of the rest.

He wanted to glance toward the window to see if the man's bellows had alerted anyone to Calliope's presence, but as quick as the bastard was, Alistair didn't want to risk it.

"Who's the bitch?" the man asked at the same time he tried to kick Alistair in the knee.

That was a move Alistair could have blocked with his eyes closed and legs tied together. A cheap shot he'd mastered when he was a lad barely off the teat. Idiot. Alistair swung his sword one way, but kicked the other, landing his blow on the English soldier's kneecap. That was how it was done.

The man cried out, his knee snapping. As he fell to his knees, he thrust his sword forward, a glancing blow against Alistair's bare thigh. The cut wasn't deep, and luckily, several inches from the sacred blood-filled lifeline he'd watched take too many men away as it drained.

Alistair kicked the killing bastard in the chest, and the man fell backward with the tip of Alistair's sword at his neck. The Englishman smiled up at him.

"Well met."

"Who sent ye?" Alistair demanded.

"Who sent me?" He had the audacity to laugh.

"Neither of us has time for games. Answer the question."

The man licked his lips, which were peeled into a smile. "I have no time for games or answers. You might as well kill me now."

"Why did ye take the castle?"

"Why not?" Even on the ground, he managed a casual shrug.

Alistair grimaced his gaze toward the window, which was now empty. Somewhere in his chest, his heart dislodged itself, pounding against the cage of his ribs. Where was she? Had they gotten to her when he wasn't looking?

"By now, they'll have reached her," the Sassenach said as if he could read the fear in Alistair's mind. "You're too late. They'll kill the bitch, just like I killed her father."

There was a blood-curdling scream as another man's body fell, but this time from the window, landing near the other sentry. Thank the heavens above. Relief washed over Alistair in such a stark release that it was nearly euphoric. She was alive.

"I think ye've underestimated her," he said to the dead man.

And Alistair had, too. Calliope might have spoken with an English accent, but she was just as brutal and willing to fight as the best Scots he knew. She truly was her father's daughter, even if she didn't know it yet. Her father may have only had an influence on the first several years of her life, but it had been enough to make his daughter strong, fearless, and a woman not to be trifled with. Wherever he was, Alistair was certain that Ramsey would be proud.

Before Alistair could stop him, the soldier grabbed Alistair's sword by the blade and thrust it into his own neck. Blood rushed out in a torrent.

There was no chance to get answers now from the Sassenach , who seemed to be the leader of this army. And there was no sense in trying to save a dead man. Alistair muttered a curse.

He never saw the soldier behind him coming.