Page 6 of The Laird’s Guardian Angel (Highland Lairds #3)

5

T hey'd woken at first light after only sleeping with one eye shut.

Without a sign of the enemy, Alistair and his men packed up camp and quietly left as though they'd never arrived, leaving the watch to the next band of warriors commissioned by the Bruce, whom they'd already briefed on the skirmish from the previous day.

Six Ramseys, with the rest to follow. Apparently, there'd been an unexpected delay.

"I'm no' sure we should leave ye alone," Alistair said.

"Never ye fear, Sinclair. Our Chieftain is right behind us."

Alistair had an uneasy feeling about this. Never before had Ramsey sent men to relieve him. He decided to be nosy. "What was the expected delay?"

"Family matters. Clan business."

Alistair grunted, not particularly caring for that answer. Ramsey's family was his clan; his wife absconded with his daughter over a decade ago, and both of them perished in a terrible accident.

"Anything I can help with?" he offered. It was always a good idea to help the clans that surrounded his own. The strength of their borders depended on it.

"Nay. Chief Ramsey will get it sorted and be out shortly. Ye all go off now. The English willna bother us before he arrives."

"We both know that's not especially true."

"Let it be so today."

Alistair narrowed his eyes. Ramsey's men were certainly cocky. But there was some truth to what they were saying as well. His own scouts had reported all was quiet this morning. There didn't appear to be an imminent attack on the horizon, and if Ramsey and the rest of the reinforcements would be there soon, then who was Alistair to remain? He'd only appear as if he didn't trust the Ramseys, and he didn't want to send that message. They were allies. And trust was everything. Their word was their bond.

Alistair would be lying if he didn't say he felt like the castle on the River Tweed was like a wee lad being fostered out from clan to clan to learn the ways of a warrior. The only difference was the big stone walls would never learn to pick up a sword. Nor to take care of itself.

His shoulder burned where it had been stitched, and his fingers tingled, indicating the damage to more than just skin and muscle. Alistair squeezed his hand into a fist around the blade he kept in his boot to ensure he could still handle it. Satisfied that the tingling didn't mean he would lose the ability to wield a weapon, he shoved the knife back into his boot. One of the elders of his clan had lost the use of his hand in a similar injury, being forced to retire from the fight well before his time. The only satisfaction he'd had was sitting at the head of the table on Alistair's council. Augie was a godsend, to be sure, with sound advice Alistair had used often.

They'd be home in three days, but even then, he could not rest. He'd have to write missives and report what happened here to the Bruce and then to his brothers Ian and Noah, who held two other points in the Highlands—Caithness and Orkney?—

sound against the English. Well, English enemies. Both his brothers had crossed the border when it came to marrying. Not that they'd planned to wed English ladies. But ironically, they both had. Fortunately, Alistair's sisters-by-marriage were heartier than some Scots he knew and just as feisty as his brothers deserved. In fact, he got quite a laugh out of the hell they raised.

"We'll leave ye to it. God be with ye," Alistair said.

"With the devil by his side," jested the Ramsey warrior. The exact exchange they had each time.

Alistair gave his men the signal to mount up. The next three days would be long, and he just wanted to be home and sleep in his own bed for at least a night or two. They had to cross through Ramsey lands to get back to Dunbais. They'd probably see Chief Ramsey on the way, and he could relay that the transition went well. Or perhaps they'd have a wee skirmish. One never really knew.

Chief Ramsey was a mean son-of-a-bitch. Sometimes, he sent his men out to spar with Alistair and his warriors just for the hell of it. As if to remind them they were crossing territory ruled over by a powerful man. Or mayhap to just keep them on their toes.

The thing was, the Sinclairs never really took him seriously.

Aye, Ramsey's warriors could be fearsome, but they weren't as well-trained as Alistair's men. And the Chief was half-crazed since his wife had run away to England with their only child fifteen years before.

Rumor had it he'd tried to take a dozen women to bed to beget another heir, only for their wombs to come up empty. It would seem God was punishing him for having scared off his wife. Then again, Alistair recalled meeting the woman as a lad, and she'd scared the hell out of him. He'd always harbored some thoughts that Chief Ramsey had gotten the better end of the deal there.

The irony was not lost on Alistair.

Though he did not always like the man, Alistair did respect Chief Ramsey. The man's lands bordered his own, and so he made sure to be respectful as they crossed. Diplomacy was important between the clans that bordered him. Especially since he and his men had to make these treks to the border every three months to serve the Bruce at the castle on the River Tweed, with the Ramseys following.

It'd been nearly a month since he'd been home, and he longed for the sweetness of his cook's bread and honey and an excellent cold ale by his hearth. Just thinking about it made his mouth start to water. Warm bread, cold ale. Heaven on earth.

There'd be a day of catching up on his correspondence, meeting with his tenants, and getting updates on what had happened while he was gone. He'd make the rounds of his lands and try to speak to each person to see how they fared and how he could help. He'd host a day of trials if necessary, open his great hall for a feast, all welcome. And then it would be back to training his men until three months went by, and he was back at the border, staring across the River Tweed and waiting for the English bastards to dare to cross.

Their horses' hooves barely made a sound as they galloped down the road, softened by the night's dew.

His men were eager to get home, too. The further they were from the border, the better everyone would feel. There was relief in the distance most of the time, but his brothers had seen the English even as far north as they were in Scotland. No land was sacred to Longshanks's men.

Still, they would rest safe for at least a day or two, knowing that they'd either passed zero English on the way or that they'd eradicated those who dared to taint their lands.

Once they got to Sinclair lands, the routine was always the same. Duncan would disappear into his croft with his wife, and Broderick would likely cozy up with one of the many widows who clambered over themselves to lie with him.

Alistair's bed would be cold, but that cold was a comfort to him. The silence at night was what he looked forward to the most. A chance to breathe. A chance to regroup. And with this damned shoulder injury, a chance to heal.

They crossed into Ramsey lands just after the sun reached its peak, melting the frozen dew from the grass and causing it to drip on their heads from the trees.

Alistair stared at the road ahead, his eyes narrowing as he took in the state of the thoroughfare. Disturbed by dozens of footprints and hoof prints. Aye, this was the road the Ramseys took to get here, but there were only six on horseback, and this marring of the dirt did not match.

Raising his arm, he indicated for his men to stop and then dismounted, crouching near the ground, to examine the disturbances in the dirt. He ran a finger along the outline of a footprint.

"Recent," he muttered, rubbing the dirt between his thumb and forefinger.

Duncan and Broderick joined him. The latter traced the outline of a boot print, making note of the point near the toe with a tap of his finger.

"I'd say no' older than a day, if no' less."

"And," Alistair, too, examined the boot print, different from their own in the angles. But more telling was the distinct "ER" pressed into the mud in the ring of a horse's shoe. Edward Rex. King Edward I of England. Also known as Longshanks. His men had been here. "I'd say English."

"How did we miss them?" Duncan growled, standing and whirling around as if he expected a band of English to leap from the trees.

"They went round our us, knew what our perimeter was," Broderick said.

"The English are no' normally so sneaky," Duncan remarked.

"They had a purpose." Alistair immediately thought of Dunbais Castle. Could his holding be their purpose? The battle was often brought to his doorstep, given his position as border guardian. Longshanks had allegedly had his men hang wanted signs of him in local taverns. Of course, the locals laughed and tore them down. The likeness to himself was apparently comical, though Alistair had never seen one of the signs.

Still, he didn't like what he saw, and the sense of unease he'd felt at the border only grew. "We need to hurry."

They remounted, all of them ill at ease now, their eyes scanning for any subtle signs of an ambush.

"Keep your eyes and ears open for anything out of the ordinary. There's no telling how close we are to the band that's passed through here."

His men nodded.

They galloped down the road, keeping their gazes on the surrounding forest that lined either side, listening for the sounds of the enemy. They stopped in a clearing that looked to be where a camp had been made, the vague scents of a fire recently put out still lingering in the air. Even the grass where they'd sat or slept was still flattened.

Alistair found the makeshift firepit, kicking at the ashes and bits of burnt wood. There was nothing left behind to indicate who the interlopers were, but more of the same boot prints and those same "ER" prancing about as if to mock them.

Down the road, they encountered another scuffle in the dirt, only this time, it wasn't as pronounced as before—as if there were only a few riders involved.

"What the devil," Alistair grumbled as he jumped off his horse and bent to examine several footprints that were notably smaller in width and length. "This is a woman's footprint."

"What would a woman be doing with the English?"

"I'm no' even sure they are of the same party," Alistair said, glancing up and staring down the road as if his desire to see who had passed through here would be enough to conjure them from thin air.

"Were they being followed?" Duncan posed.

"I dinna know. But there is something off."

"Mayhap Ramsey's wife has come back to him," Broderick said with a shrug that wasn't too convincing.

"Is she still alive?" Duncan asked. "I heard he fed her to his dogs."

Alistair rolled his eyes. "The woman ran back to England like her cowardly heart demanded that she do. Then she died in an accident."

"I dinna see any woman coming back to the Ramsey, he's meaner than a snake. Then again, if she did die, maybe she's come back to haunt him," Broderick said.

"An English woman's ghost come all this way," Duncan chuckled. "Poor old bastard."

Alistair rolled his eyes. "No' his wife, nor her ghost."

And yet, there, for all of them to see, were the very tiny prints that could have only been made by a woman's shoe, mixed in with the horseshoes labeled "ER."

"There is a chance it's a man's shoe. Or a lad's." Duncan offered with a shake of his head.

"A small chance," Alistair conceded. He touched a print, pinched the dirt in his fingers, and brought it to his nose. There was just the faintest scent of flowers. Likely not from the shoe's owner but the patches of wildflowers that grew all around him. But still… "However, I'm thinking 'tis a woman."

"Are ye wanting to stop by Ramsey's keep to find out who?" Broderick laughed. "I think it worth the fight, just to appease our curiosity."

Alistair grinned. "It could be fun to do so. The man would likely demand satisfaction for our intrusion. But we'd know if Lady Ramsey had returned from the dead."

"Concerned neighbors," Duncan said.

"Aye, we're so verra concerned." Broderick gave an exaggerated nod.

"Ramsey," Alistair playacted, "Have ye got a woman in there?"

The men laughed as they remounted their horses. But as soon as they started to ride over the tracks of dozens of English soldiers, their mood returned somber once more. Alistair worried that whoever the woman was, she was not safe on the road or wherever she was headed with the English out there, too.