The Highlander’s Tempting Touch

Chapter 27

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

A listair woke the morning of October nineteenth with a feeling of tension in his shoulders, and a buzzing sense of unease in the back of his mind. There was no reason for it that either - the weather was clear, with just a few clouds sliding across the sky. The air was chilled, but not frigid, and the breeze that whispered across the Highlands was bracing rather than cutting.

It was the perfect day for a hunt, and one of those rare days in October when the weather was exactly how it should be. By the time he’d dressed, eaten his morning meal, and prepared for the hunt, the guards were practicing, the smith and the leather-workers were busy with their trade, and the women assigned to work on soaps and candles were already preparing for a full day.

Niamh departed shortly after the morning meal, citing duties of her own. Alistair was content to let her go. It seemed that, despite the reservations of some of the older Council members, his chosen bride was fitting in well with her new clan. He’d seen her laughing with the women in the courtyard the day they began the meat-curing, and yesterday he’d heard several female voices, hers among them, in the ladies’ solar.

He’d been half-tempted to take a look inside, but every man knew it was bad luck to spy on the women’s preparations for Samhain. They’d be making their dresses with different colors and patterns to symbolize their hopes and make their wishes come true. For a man to watch could spell disaster.

And, of course, there was the more practical issue - he was likely to find pins in his chair or a set of fabric shears chucked at his head by Catriona if he dared to try and peek at their efforts.

Ewan met Alistair at the stables, and the two of them saddled sturdy horses. Both of them were carrying bows and a quiver of twenty arrows apiece, plus blades. Alistair had opted to add a heavy boar spear to his gear as well, just in case. There weren’t many such animals in this area of the Highlands, but it was wise to be cautious. If there were any about, they were just as likely to charge a hunter who entered their territory as they were to shy away.

The weather was still fine as they rode out of the castle and into the Highlands, and yet, Alistair couldn’t shake the feeling of unease, as if a storm was about to break. He would have liked to think it was an excess of caution, or the result of an uneasy night’s sleep, but he knew better than to disregard his instincts. If his gut insisted something was wrong, then something was. He just didn’t know enough to be sure what was causing the feeling.

By unspoken agreement, he and Ewan rode along a sweeping path, not too different from the one they might use when riding patrols. There were signs of deer, and game trails, but nothing that showed itself to the two hunters, not until crossing the moors, where each of them took down a pheasant.

He dismounted to get his bird and tie it to the saddle. He was preparing to remount when he spotted marks in the soft earth of the moors. He frowned, then bent for a closer look.

They weren’t boar tracks, nor deer. The soft damp earth had made the trace hard to see, and it was partially wiped away by the weather of the day before, but it was still clear.

Horses. Horses that belonged to someone, rather than the wild moor ponies that sometimes roamed the hills. Alistair felt something in his gut tighten. “Ewan.”

Ewan was at his side in an instant, crouching to take a closer look. “Shod horses… nae many o’ them, perhaps a half-dozen or a dozen, but nae more. Bein’ ridden, but nae heavy laden, as travelers would be. But the marks are all wrong tae be a messenger on the road.”

Ewan raised his head, and their eyes met in unspoken agreement. Horses and riders on the Highland moors this late in the season - there were only two things it could be. Raiders from another clan, likely MacTavish, though it wasn’t impossible for it to be someone else. Or else, it was bandits, out to steal what they could before snow sealed them into their hideaways.

Alistair stared at the tracks, knowing to his bones that this was the source of his unease. And he knew why as well. With Samhain and winter closing in, he’d expected something to happen. Bandits had been scarce, but with the harvest almost over, they’d be hoping to rob the storehouses. Alistair hoped that was the case, because a small band like that would be easily managed.

What he truly feared, though, was that it was Fergus MacTavish, making another move against him - a final gambit before winter thwarted him as well.

Alistair watched Ewan rise to his feet. “We’ll follow the tracks. I dinnae ken who this band is, nor where they’re headed, but I’m nae o’ a mind tae let them reach whatever goal they have.”

Ewan nodded and swung into his saddle. “Trackin’ willnae be easy.”

Alistair scowled. “I dinnae care if ‘tis easy. So long as we catch them.”

Together, the two of them nudged their horses into an easy walk, following the faint trail across the moors.

The morning’s smoking preparations passed easily enough, but when noon came, they were almost out of fennel and wild garlic. Niamh recalled having seen several patches near the river. She was also in need of a walk to stretch her legs. She hadn’t left the castle since she’d arrived, and she was beginning to feel the weight of the stone around her and the need for green grass and soft earth under her feet.

The Samhain dress she was making with her chosen colors and flower pattern was coming along well, and Niamh was confident she’d have it finished in time for Samhain night. She was also preparing an armband as a surprise for Alistair, with all the colors that represented what she hoped for in their marriage. However, there were other things on her mind, and those worries were not so easily dismissed. She hoped a walk would help her clear her mind and order her thoughts.

Catriona offered to accompany her, but as the healer was occupied for the afternoon with preparing herbs for her tonics and tisanes for winter, Niamh told her she was confident enough in her ability to manage. Besides, she had no intention of going too far.

It took some convincing, but eventually, she got her way. Once that had been settled, she gathered up her basket, cloak, shears, and a dirk for protection, and went in search of herbs.

The patches she remembered seeing were indeed by the river, but not as close to the castle as she’d thought. Nearly half a candle-mark passed before she found what she was looking for, and the afternoon was passing far more quickly than she liked as she picked, clipped and gathered the plants she needed. More than once, she was tempted to simply return with what she had, but each time, a sense of duty stopped her. The herbs were needed - she couldn’t skimp on her efforts just because she might be cold or nervous.

She then found wild sage and sorrel, and she collected those as well. She had about half a basket full, perhaps a little more, when the sound of hooves and a horse-bridle made her look up.

A loose group of riders was emerging from the trees. At a first glance, they might have been hunters from a nearby village. But they wore no clan colors, and their clothing was ragged and rough, their hair matted and tangled around wild, almost feral faces. Their horses were in little better condition than the men themselves, and all of them were carrying unsheathed weapons.

Niamh shivered, but it had nothing to do with the chill in the air as the afternoon inched its way toward evening. The men looked dangerous, and it was clear they were watching her.

She bent to grasp a last bunch of herbs, determined not to show fear, and heard them come closer. She looked up.

That seemed to be some sort of signal, or else they were simply far enough away from the treeline to act. With a wild yell from one man, the entire group sprang forward, weapons upraised as they charged at her.

Niamh did the only thing she could do. She turned and ran for it, looking for a place where she could have a chance of fending them off. The castle was too far away for her to reach before the men reached her. Not when they were mounted and she was afoot.

She spotted a large, stony outcropping, high enough that she might get her back to it, and they’d have difficulty coming around behind her. Niamh sucked in a ragged breath and forced a little more speed from her aching legs.

Her foot hit a loose stone and she stumbled, a sharp burst of pain slashing up her leg. Niamh gasped, but managed to stagger the rest of the way to the outcropping before she dropped her basket and turned to face the oncoming brigands, dirk in one hand and shears in the other.

Whatever they wanted from her, be it gold she wasn’t carrying, or something worse, she was determined to make them pay as dearly as she could for trying to take it. And if, at the end, she thought she might lose her honor, she could pierce a large vessel and deprive them of the sport.

The first rider came close, and she slashed at him, aiming for the legs and belly of the horse, or the knees and calves of the rider. Hurt the horse, it might fall or throw its burden. Hurt the rider, even better.

There was also a chance she could cut the cinch cords and have the saddle slide free, or the stirrup ties. Any damage would do.

She missed, but her stab came close enough to make his horse dance back with a whinny. The men laughed, the sound cold and ugly in her ears. “Looks like we have ourselves a wild one here, lads!”

“Is she as wild under a man as she is facin’ one?” Someone shouted the words, a sneer in their voice. Niamh shuddered.

“Bring ‘er down, mayhap we’ll fin’ out, afore we gut her an’ take everythin’.”

Another man feinted at her, and Niamh stabbed at him with the shears. She caught cloth, but did no true damage, and his boot kicked the implement out of her hand and left her fingers numb.

The circle closed in tighter, and she saw an ugly sneer on a man’s face as he prepared to charge at her. He raised a crude spear above his head…

The rider collapsed in a spray of blood as a long hunting arrow slammed through his throat. Another went down at the same time to a second arrow. Niamh had just enough time to see both men fall before a wild roar split the air, and two more riders crashed in among the brigands like a pair of avenging angels.

Alistair was holding a hunting spear in hand, and before the bandits had time to react, he rammed it through two of them, sending them both off their horses in a fountain of crimson that splashed across face and clothing alike.

The smell was enough to madden the horses the brigands rode, and many of them reared and tossed their riders. The three bandits that turned to escape were ridden down in an instant. Another tried to run across the moors, but an arrow from Ewan’s bow cut him down before he’d made it fifty paces.

Alistair had left the spear in the two brigands and drawn his sword. He cut down two, then booted the third in the head, while Ewan dealt with the fourth. Then he pulled up, panting hard and looking like a madman. “Tie him up. We’ll tak’ him back tae the castle and find out what he was about, and if there are more o’ them.”

Silence fell, except for Niamh’s shuddering gasps and the rough breathing of the two MacDuff men, along with the wheezing of the downed bandit. Then Alistair swallowed hard, and swung down off his horse to approach her. “Are ye hurt?”

Niamh stared at him, wide-eyed, and at the blood covering his hands, arms, and clothing, and couldn’t utter a single word.