A Highlander’s Love: Highlands Ever After Page 2

  It mattered not. She managed to cut across the road, calling out as she did. “Sheriff? Sheriff, I must speak with you.”

  The man scowled as if put upon by her appearance, yet he pulled up on the reins. “What is it, then?” Angry, he was, or upset at having yet one more woman calling to him.

  That was none of her concern. “I must find Iona Douglas, and a woman in the cottage across the road told me to speak with you.”

  The most startling thing happened. Where there had once been a scowl, there was now a faint smile. The man appeared younger now, as well, the lines which creased his forehead smoothing out. “Iona, is it? And who would ye be?”

  “My name is Tyra Fletcher, and I am—”

  “Tis yourself, then!” He grinned. “She has been awaiting ye, lass, and none too patiently.”

  Ice found its way to Tyra’s heart. “You know her, then? Is she terribly cross with me?”

  “Nay, lassie. Concerned, more like. What kept ye?”

  Rather than offering explanation straightaway, Tyra asked, “You know her well?” For he spoke with warmth in his voice, warmth which shone from his dark eyes. Eyes which had been so troubled moments earlier.

  “I should say so,” he chuckled. “We are promised in marriage, after all.”

  The sheer surprise of it all but knocked Tyra from the saddle. “You cannot mean it. Iona Douglas, to be wed?”

  “Indeed,” the scarred man laughed. “I find it surprising that any woman would wish to submit to such torture as a life with this one.”

  “Dinna pay him mind,” the sheriff murmured with a smile. “I am Colin Ramsey. And your mistress shall be greatly relieved to find ye safe and well. She has been anxious, awaiting ye.”

  “Might you take me to her?” she asked, her hands twisting around the reins. She’d caused Iona concern, and for this was heartily sorry. Iona was as a sister to her and had already suffered tremendously.

  Colin’s face fell. “I canna ride out to the estate at the moment—there is much to be done in the village. I canna allow ye to ride on your own, either. There is… concern in the region. Thieves, murderers and the like.”

  Tyra’s breath caught. And this was where she was to make her home? In such a dangerous place? How had Iona managed?

  “Dinna fear,” the scarred man murmured. Alasdair, the woman at the cottage had called him. “They rarely travel in the daylight. The sooner ye are beneath Iona’s roof, the better for ye. We might secure the assistance of a lad from the village to accompany ye.”

  “Or one of my guards,” Colin agreed. He bade her follow him before leading the way to a long, stone structure further down the road. Along the way they passed many buildings—a butcher, a baker. An apothecary, herbs hanging to dry outside the door. A blacksmith, the rhythmic striking of his hammer against iron ringing out even over so many voices.

  Colin called out to one of the two men standing outside the stone building. “Escort Tyra Fletcher to the Douglas estate, where Iona Douglas awaits her,” he commanded. “And make haste that ye might deliver her before night falls.”

  “Is it such a long journey?” she asked, concerned now. They were to live so far from the village? When there were murderers about?

  “Aye,” Colin grunted. “Tis a long ride. I know of a shorter way, but my men dinna. Iona will show ye the way in time, ye may be certain. I must be off now. But I shall see more of ye, ye can be certain. Tis a great relief to have ye here at last.”

  It seemed everything happened so quickly. One moment, she asked herself how she might find Iona in such a large, thriving village of highlanders who would not likely look with favor upon a half-English stranger.

  The next, she rode behind one of the sheriff’s men as he led her away from the village, away from the many voices and the squealing of hogs, the bellowing of cattle as they were driven along the road. Such blessed relief, the silence which descended as they rode.

  It seemed the man who escorted her was not much for speaking, and this came as no small relief after so many days spent riding with strangers. Men who seemed inordinately curious about a woman traveling alone.

  Though there was one question which lingered on Tyra’s heart, one which she could not help but voice. “What manner of man is he? Colin Ramsey? He tells me he is to marry my mistress.”

  “Aye, word spread of their betrothal,” the man nodded. He dressed as Colin had, his cloak the same deep green, his tunic and trousers a better quality than many Tyra had noticed in the village. This was not a man who labored in muck. His sword appeared painfully sharp, the hilt polished to a fine shine. “The sheriff is a fine man, to be sure. Yer mistress need not fear, nor should ye.”

  “I do not fear,” she sniffed. “And I suspect he is a fine man, for my mistress does not suffer the presence of fools.”

  “Word has spread of that, as well.” There was humor in his voice, a wry sort of humor which spoke of a reputation which Iona might have earned. Tyra rolled her eyes, already prepared to scold her mistress for her stubbornness, her immovable nature.

  Though she’d earned herself a husband for all that stubbornness. And she had managed to keep herself safe and well in spite of Tyra’s absence.

  There were so many questions to be asked, so much time to make up for. Tyra prepared herself to explain what had kept her, though she suspected that once she began her tale, all would be forgiven.

  Her heart ached at the memory of watching her mother breathe her last. To think, she’d regretted staying behind to settle affairs for Iona. If she’d sailed for Edinburgh when Iona had, there would have been no knowing of what took place after the ship’s sailing. She would never have known of her mother’s short, terrible illness. And her mother would have died alone, without anyone who loved her seated at the deathbed to witness her final breaths.

  So deep was Tyra in these memories that she did not notice her escort’s abrupt stop until it was nearly too late to avoid colliding with his horse. He held out an arm, the other hand closing over the hilt of his sword. “What—?” she whispered, but the man shook his head.

  “Find cover,” he whispered, gesturing toward the woods to Tyra’s right. “Now!”

  Only then did Tyra notice the blood in the road, and what appeared to be a discarded pack. She dismounted, legs shaking, and led the mare into the woods. What was to become of her? Of both of them?

  Why ever had she left Lindisfarne to come to this place?

  She hid within the tree line, in the darkness, stroking the mare’s neck and making quiet, soothing noises in hopes of keeping the beast from revealing their presence. She could see nothing on the road from where she waited, nor could she hear anything.

  How much time passed before she ventured from her hiding place? Too much, or so it seemed. Clouds were rolling across the sky, dark clouds, and the wind had picked up considerably by the time Tyra crept out toward the road, the mare tied off where she’d hidden.

  There was no one there. Even the pack was gone, though the splattered blood remained.

  Where was her escort? What had become of him? Where was she to go from here?

  She looked back down the narrow road, toward the village. They’d ridden ever so long before reaching this place. Should she return? This was not the road they’d started out on, however—there had been turns, several of them, and she cursed herself for not having paid closer attention.

  There simply had to be a farm or cottage somewhere along the road, up ahead. Someone might be able to direct her to Iona’s home. Certainly, she had better chances of meeting someone should she continue on than she did of finding the village again.

  The first thing she’d do upon meeting with Colin Ramsey again would be to accuse his guard of having abandoned her.

  She went to the mare, untying the reins and leading her to the road again. It could not possibly be such a long ride. With any luck, she would reach Iona or a nearby neighbor before darkness fell.

  3

  He was on the trai
l of the trespasser. Dougal felt it in his bones.

  Royal knew it, too, sniffing the ground, eager to put on speed. “Heel,” he commanded, bringing the mastiff back to his side. The dog whined but did as he was told.

  Dougal had always found it easier to live with dogs than he did with people. Dogs were fine and trustworthy companions, so long as they were carefully trained and well-treated. They did not turn their backs, they did not pass judgment.

  He’d known men who starved their hounds from time to time, thinking it sharpened their instincts and made them all the better at the hunt. A vicious habit, cruel, one to which he could never adhere. He treated his dogs well and expected the same in return.

  They did not disappoint. He patted the dog’s head before continuing to climb in pursuit of the man he’d spotted walking among the hills at the base of the western mountains.

  The ground was rocky, the grade steep, though this was no hardship. He’d scrambled over the western foothills for as long as he could recall—his childhood nurse had once likened him to a goat, astonished at his ability to climb fearlessly and with agility. Here, he’d been a king, aware of every foothold, every loose rock which might send him tumbling. No one could follow him. No one could disturb his kingdom.

  This was no childhood adventure. He would not be able to fend off this threat with nothing but a stick he pretended was a sword.

  He’d seen the fire earlier in the day and now smelled lingering smoke carried on wind which had picked up in strength on the heels of gathering clouds. There was a storm on its way, the dying gasps of a summer which refused to give way to autumn.

  Perhaps he ought to turn back before the storm hit, but that would mean giving the intruder the means by which to escape. Though if they thought they’d escape in the foothills, they were sadly mistaken, for only the most skilled climber could traverse the sharp, steep rocks without injury.

  He’d brought not only his pistol, but his rifle besides. There was no telling what a desperate man was capable of, and they would surely see how hopeless their situation was once he’d cornered them.

  But a cornered animal fought most fiercely. Hence the pistol and rifle.

  Would he receive a reward for capturing this murderer, if it was indeed the escaped murderer who now trespassed upon his property? The thought was nearly enough to make him laugh. The notion of being rewarded, when he’d most certainly never earned a reward for any kindness in his life. Nor had he ever sought reward.

  Nor would he now, for the capture of a dangerous man was reward enough. Knowing this trespasser would no longer dare threaten lives with such impunity would certainly help Dougal sleep better.

  Though there would always be more on their heels. He was no fool. So long as there was even the slimmest chance of taking what another had rightfully earned, there would be thieves on the horizon.

  They would not take what was his. What he’d been born to, what he’d endeavored to maintain. Though it appeared to the casual observer that he cared little for his birthright, nothing could have been further from the truth.

  This was what weighed upon his mind as he placed one foot before the other, cursing the darkness. He’d come too far to turn back now, and so had the pitiful creature he pursued. What would they think by now? What would they do once he’d found them? Beg for mercy, most likely, since he expected them to wish they’d never ventured into the hills.

  And once they found him armed, they would doubly regret having stepped foot upon his land.

  The dog’s growls were louder now, and not only because the wind’s shift in direction carried scent from higher up in the hills to where they currently climbed. He’d found something. Someone. Dougal had hunted with his dogs enough times to know the difference between their growls at having picked up a scent and the growl of having discovered that which they sought out.

  Should he give the dog his head? Allow him to advance? Or should he watch and wait, biding his time until capture was inevitable?

  The intruder made his decision for him. Stones skittered this way and that as a figure darted out from inside the deep shadow, having hidden beneath a natural ledge formed by a rocky overhang. Dougal knew the spot well, having spent many an hour there as a boy hiding from lessons.

  The thought of this stranger taking shelter in what was once his secret, private place only added to what was now bitterness. He might be at home, seated near the fire, watching the dogs fight over the bones and scraps he fed them. He might be warm and comfortable and safe instead of stumbling about in the dark.

  He advanced on the shadowy figure, more determined than ever to bring them to justice. He might drag them behind his horse all the way to the village, that they be brought before the sheriff and his men. Let the villagers scoff at him after that. Let them whisper behind their hands at the sight of him.

  Whoever they happened to be, they were quick. No sooner had they appeared than they disappeared again, ducking behind a boulder before he could make out their face, their clothing, anything about them.

  If only darkness had not fallen so quickly, so completely. If only there were a moon.

  The dog growled, straining, obviously eager to pursue his target. Yes, this faceless intruder ought to know who and what they’d encountered. “Go,” he grunted, and the dog all but yelped with the thrill of being let loose.

  Dougal could see nothing ahead but the vague, dark shape of a large dog poised to attack whatever waited behind the rock. Royal growled—deep, long, threatening. “Steady,” he grunted. A dead man could offer no answers.

  Suddenly, growls turned to yips of pain, and the dog fell back several steps with its tail between its haunches as if wounded and afraid. Dougal scarcely had time to understand what took place before a sharp, stabbing pain exploded high up on his temple.

  A rock. They’d thrown a rock at him!

  “Stop that!” he shouted, nearly amused at this turn of events. But his amusement did not last long, for a well-aimed rock thrown by a strong arm could be just as dangerous as a well-aimed pistol. And whoever happened to be cowering behind the rocks was possessed of a strong arm, certainly.

  This did not mean they were unarmed, either. No one would throw their sword. He wondered if they wished to draw him in, to make him think they were harmless. Armed with nothing but rocks.

  With this in mind, Dougal did not lower his guard. In fact, he withdrew his pistol. “Do not force me to shoot ye,” he warned. “I will do so if given no further choice, but I would rather not take such measures.”

  A lie, but he thought he managed to sound convincing enough. Truly, if this rock throwing trespasser was a murderer, someone who brought nothing but pain and fear, they deserved a lead ball in their chest.

  There was no response. What did he expect? Pleas for mercy? The dog did not back any further from its target, telling Dougal his captive had not thrown another rock as yet—but they had not moved, either, remaining in their hiding place.

  Another rock soon skittered off the rocks just beside him, ill-aimed but thrown with just as much force as before. This was too much to be borne. “I warned ye,” he reminded his assailant, raising the pistol. “I am not a man who makes idle threats.”

  He then fired a shot, one only intended as a warning. To convince the trespasser that he was, in fact, armed and willing to shoot. It did not please him, firing his weapon in the dark, uncertain of where the shot might land.

  When the alternative involved having his head caved in by a rock, however, he had little choice.

  Though he might have aimed higher.

  The shot struck the nearly upright rock face before him, richoeting as a result. He ducked when he heard the sound, certain his stupidity would be the death of him, after all. Just as his father had warned when he was, indeed, a foolish young man who never thought things through.

  The ball did not strike him.

  Though it did strike someone.

  A grunt of pain, perhaps of surprise as well. The sound of so
mething hitting the rocks, something heavy. Dougal cursed himself, running to the place where the dog waited. At least it had not been struck.

  A dark heap lying upon the ground, behind the rocks. The dog sniffed at it, nudging with its nose. They did not stir, this stranger, and for a moment Dougal suspected them dead. Stranger things had happened than a shot missing its mark and taking the life of another.

  He crouched beside the figure, taking notice of a pool of blood slowly growing beneath it. Fresh blood, still flowing, meaning the person was alive. The shot had struck their shoulder, it appeared as Dougal moved his hands over the body. Curiously thin, though one who’d been riding for weeks or even months might find food scarce. He continued to explore, patting gently.

  Until he found something that ought not be there.

  The swell of a breast.

  And now he noticed how his dog sniffed the long, dark hair which spread beneath the head of the unconscious intruder.

  A woman. He’d shot a woman.

  4

  Never had she known such pain. Never in all her life.

  Tyra’s eyes fluttered, faint light greeting her whenever she managed to lift her eyelids long enough. But it was never very long.

  Nor did she try very hard to keep her eyes open, for when they were, the pain all but drove her to madness. It was awareness that left her feeling so. Awareness of her situation, dim though that awareness was.

  Where was she? There was no way of knowing. There was something beneath her head, something soft, which meant she’d been taken somewhere. The last thing she recalled was the rocks behind which she’d hidden, the treacherous foothills where she’d been caught by… someone.

  Who? There was no telling, and no time in which to struggle with the question before darkness consumed her. She gave herself willingly to it, even gladly, for it meant an escape from the pain.

  Her dreams were dark, scattered bits of memory. Unhappy memory. Sitting at her mother’s bedside and watching hopelessly, knowing there was nothing she could do but wait. The dark days when she’d first come to live with Iona, how they’d fought and scrambled for what little comfort and sustenance they could find. Little more than girls, the pair of them, though what they’d lacked in age they’d more than made up for in determination and wit.