Highland Warlord (The King's Outlaws Book 1) Read online

  “What are you doing?” asked the knight.

  “Helping my m—I mean Sister Coira mount.”

  “Not on my watch.” Sir James handed her the reins of his enormous warhorse and laced his fingers together. “Come, we haven’t all day.”

  Waggling her shoulders, Coira patted Ailish’s cheek, then placed her boot in his makeshift step. “Thank you, sir.”

  James glanced to Ailish. “Now you.”

  Rather than blatantly obey, she returned his reins. “I thought I’d start the journey by walking.”

  “Walk? It’ll take us a bloody week if you walk.”

  She gaped at his vulgar tongue. “But the mule’s stamina will last longer.”

  He rolled his eyes. “You are riding, and I’ll entertain no argument on the matter.”

  Before she had a chance to object, he grabbed her waist and hoisted her in front of Coira. Then he slapped her thigh, the rogue. “You will last far longer up there.”

  Sir James looked none too happy as he marched over and climbed aboard his enormous palfry—a horse far more capable of carrying two than the priory’s mule. “We ride.”

  As Ailish slapped the reins, Coira whispered in her ear, “He’s rather arrogant, is he not, you being the daughter of an earl and all?”

  Letting the mule fall back a few paces, Ailish cupped her hand to her mouth and kept her voice low. “He thinks me a nun.”

  Coira shifted in the saddle. “And I’m a cabbage. Good heavens, he admitted to seeing you at the coronation. And you were quite a vision, I’ll say.”

  “Would you leave it be? Clearly, he has no idea why I wasn’t wearing a habit last eve. We are traveling as nuns for our own safety. The fewer people who ken our identities, the better.”

  “Och, have it your way, m’lady. But I reckon the only person you’re fooling is yourself.”

  Sir James turned and beckoned with a wave of his gauntleted hand. “Keep pace, Sisters.”

  ***

  The sun had traversed below the western horizon when James steered his mount toward a copse of trees. “We’ll rest the horses and make camp ahead,” he said, though he could hardly call the old mule a horse. First of all, it truly was no horse, and secondly, Sister Ailish had been right about walking. They might have made better time if the animal had been carrying only one of them.

  Regardless, there was no chance in hell he’d ever allow a woman to bloody walk. If need be, he would be the one to take to his boots, but if James had his druthers, they’d all be riding at a fast trot, not ambling along like an old crofter taking a wagonload of hay to market.

  “Do you ken where we are?” asked Sister Ailish.

  “Three miles from Dunblane near enough.” He glanced over his shoulder seeing they’d fallen back once again. Bloody hell, he could crawl to Lincluden faster than the mule. “Come. There’s good cover ahead and we’ve enough daylight to set up a shelter and have a wee bite to eat.”

  “Oh, thank heavens, I’m half-starved,” said Sister Coira, who was as round as a heifer’s rear end. If anyone looked famished, it was the younger nun.

  Nuns? I’ll burn in hell afore I believe the sable-haired lass has taken her vows. First of all, she had to be a maid, else she would have had her head covered last eve—especially when attending the coronation of a king. Besides, if she were merely a nun, the king wouldn’t have mentioned her importance. Neither would he have taken such an interest in personally seeing to her protection.

  Whatever the reason for her disguise, James wished she’d be forthright with him. He’d been appointed by the King of Scotland to see to her care and either Robert the Bruce wanted James out of his craw, or that lass was no nun. And by the sizable amount of coin the steward had given him to raise an army this morn, he reckoned it was the latter. James’ orders were to deliver the woman to the priory and then set to recruiting men and forming an army to operate out of Selkirk Forest—Wallace’s old den. Aye, the legend hadn’t set up camp in the caves for his health. It was a brilliantly secluded location from which to orchestrate raids on the English.

  Only a handful of Scots knew how to negotiate the thick wood—men James needed to find and recruit to the Bruce’s cause. Such a task would take coin for certain.

  After he led the women to the clearing, they dismounted and Sister Ailish released the girth strap on the mule’s saddle.

  James stilled her hand. “What are you doing?”

  “Removing his saddle, of course.”

  “Nay, this is a time of war. Loosen the girth a wee bit, but the nag’s saddle stays in place. I’m certain I don’t need to say the further south we go, the more likely we’ll encounter English spies.” He set to hobbling both animals. “I’ve a chicken from the abbey’s kitchens. We’ll need firewood but cannot risk smoke afore dark. Can one of you fashion a spit whilst I set up a tent?”

  “Do we need a tent?” asked Ailish.

  James looked to the sky. They’d been blessed with fine weather this day, but clouds were rolling in. If there was one thing about Scotland that was a surety, good weather never lasted. “Mark me, we’ll see rain afore dawn.”

  Sister Coira picked up a sturdy branch. “I’ll fashion the spit, m’lady.”

  Ailish shot the woman a heated glance. “I’ll fetch the firewood, Sister.”

  James sniggered to himself. He kent the novice was a lady. And he highly suspected the other woman was her servant. Coira certainly was built for labor. But he wasn’t about to concern himself overmuch. Once he left them at the priory’s gates, he’d most likely never set eyes on the wee sable-haired lass again, no matter her station.

  As he went about his task, stringing a rope taut between two trees, he watched Ailish out of the corner of his eye. She collected sticks and good-sized pieces of wood without a word of complaint. And by the stars, she was bonny. Even beneath the drab woolen habit, her form was lithe, just as he’d remembered from last eve.

  If only her hair weren’t covered with that hideously drab veil. It wasn’t hewn of finely spun wool either. The weave was coarse and had to be scratchy even though she wore a white linen under veil.

  Why was the lass staying behind the walls of a nunnery and where was she from? Was her father still alive or had he been a victim of Edward’s tyranny as James’ da had?

  He grew more curious as he worked, draping his leather oilcloth over the rope, and securing the edges with stakes. Inside, he cleared out stones and spread some rushes on the ground to ensure Her Ladyship’s comfort.

  Once he’d finished, it was nearly dark. “I’ll set to lighting the fire.”

  “The kindling is ready with a handful of flax tow beneath, and we’re ready to start working Coi—ah—Sister Coira’s spit.”

  James frowned. “I’ll crank the spit.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” said Ailish, producing a flint and rod and efficiently lighting the fire, blowing at the base to encourage the flames. God’s bones, the lass was independent for a noblewoman. Though in truth, he ought to respect her more for it.

  By the time James had the chicken ready to roast, the blaze was crackling. He couldn’t have built a better fire himself.

  Coira rubbed her belly. “It will be the witching hour afore the meat is cooked.”

  Ailish started for the mule. “I’ll fetch a few oatcakes from my satchel.”

  “Good heavens,” said the older woman, barreling past the younger. “I’ll fetch them and spread our bed rolls as well. You need your rest.”

  The wee novice impersonator harrumphed and crossed her arms, her hip jutting to the side. “Very well. If you insist.”

  James patted the grass beside him. “May as well sit. Sister Coira is right about resting. We’ll have a long day on the morrow.”

  The lass eased down beside him and tucked her legs beneath the folds of her habit. “We all need a respite.”

  “Agreed.” The breeze brought with it the scent of woman, sweet like honey and mulled wine. James leaned toward the
lass and breathed in. Och aye, this was no commoner. She smelled too good. He plucked a yellow primrose, twirled it between his fingers and offered it to her.

  “What’s this?” she asked, accepting the gift.

  “A wee bit of beauty in the midst of turmoil.”

  She drew it to her nose. “Thank you. I love primroses.”

  “They are my favorite.” He plucked another. “My mother said they symbolize underappreciated merit.”

  “Mm hmm.” James reckoned she would look ever so bonny with a crown of primroses, but he’d risk sounding like a lovesick bard if he owned to it. “Ah…how long have you been a resident of Lincluden Priory?”

  “Six years,” she said, her voice taking on a faraway tone. “When…”

  “What happened…ah…to your kin?” he asked, his mind reflecting back. Edward’s raids into the borderlands had been particularly savage in the year of our Lord thirteen hundred.

  “I do not wish to speak of it.”

  “I ken exactly how you’re feeling, lass. ’Twas a bitter pill to swallow when Edward murdered my da and the English took my lands. I was just a lad at the time, else I’d either be dead or the blood of Clifford’s army would have fertilized my crops.”

  Ailish smiled. Albeit sad, her wee grin made her face more radiant as the amber glow from the fire sparkled in those crystal eyes. “I’ve oft wished I were a lad so I could take up my father’s mantle and ride with…” She wiped a hand across her mouth before she continued, “Scotland’s army.”

  Pursing his lips, James put a piece of wood on the fire and resumed turning the makeshift crank. Obviously, she continually caught herself, hiding what she really wanted to say. Why didn’t she trust him? Hadn’t he proved himself worthy? Was not being knighted and appointed by the king enough?

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” said Coira coming into the fire’s glow. “But your bed roll is in the tent.”

  He looked up, his hand continuing to spin the chicken. “Aye, and what of it?”

  “I thought the shelter was for Sister Ailish and me.”

  “It is.”

  “Where do you plan to sleep?”

  “Beneath the oilcloth.” A raindrop splashed James’ nose. “There’s ample room for the three of us.”

  The woman planted her fists upon her hips. “Pardon me, but—”

  “I’ll entertain no argument. The Bruce told me to escort you safely to the priory, and that is exactly what I will do.”

  “Very well, then I shall be sleeping between the pair of you.”

  “As you wish.” James turned the chicken faster. Wonderful. Coira most likely snored louder than a saw in a forest of hardwood.

  Chapter Four

  Ailish startled awake with a gasp. She wasn’t only freezing cold, several drops of water splattered her face in quick succession. But the rain wasn’t what woke her. Through the cobwebs of latent sleep, she shivered, not caused by the chill, but with a clammy dread crawling across her skin.

  Something’s out there.

  Sitting up, she gasped again as she realized she was staring at the immense form of Sir James crouched at the tent entrance. “What is—?”

  “Sh!” He commanded in a pointed but very audible whisper.

  As Ailish clamped a hand over her mouth, rain pattered upon the oilcloth above. Through the blue light of dawn, only the whites of Sir James’ eyes pierced through the shadowy tent—and the glint of the sword in his hand.

  Soggy footsteps squished the wet earth beyond.

  Oh, no!

  Ailish’s heart hammered, thundering in her ears. She clutched her fists beneath her chin, willing herself not to move.

  “This horse is a beauty,” came a low rumble from a man with an English accent.

  Beside her, Coira snored and blubbered, making every muscle in Ailish’s body tense all the more. James’ gaze snapped back, his eyes now wider and far more menacing.

  The air around Ailish grew charged as swelling silence beyond the safety of the oilcloth made Coira’s breathing sound like the bellows in a smithy shack. Even the rain stopped pattering.

  “Quickly, let’s spirit away before they wake,” whispered another Englishman.

  With Ailish’s next blink, James burst out of the tent, bellowing like a madman. “Back away from the horses or I’ll cut you down, ye worthless curs!”

  Coira jolted awake, with a shocking gasp. Ailish wrapped her arms around the woman. “Wheesht!” she squeaked, unable to stop the fear from warbling her voice. “We’re under attack.”

  The metallic sound of a sword being stripped from his scabbard hissed. “I’ll sever your cods and stuff them down your gullet,” growled one of the English.

  Another laughed. “And we’ll take your women.”

  “No!” Ailish screamed in a hushed whisper as the clang of iron meeting iron screeched in her ears.

  She darted for the opening, only to be pulled back by Coira’s powerful grip. “What the blazes are ye up to?”

  “He needs my help.”

  “Nay! We’ve seen that man fight. He can hold his own.”

  Grunts and clangs resounded outside, merely paces away. “But he’s outnumbered by Lord kens how many men!”

  The dawn sky grew a tad lighter as Ailish pulled her dagger from her sleeve.

  Coira tugged her elbow. “Do not go out there!”

  She wrenched her arm away as a man grunted followed by a thud. “I must do something!”

  Gripping the knife with both hands, Ailish ignored the pleas of her maid and lunged outside, ready to strike. “Leave us be!” she shrieked so loudly, her throat burned.

  Sir James whipped around, his eyes wild as he yanked his sword from the chest of a brigand. Good Lord, another lay dead beyond. “Quickly,” he snarled. “We ride.”

  She stood for a moment and clutched her dagger to her squelching stomach. So much blood spilled into the soil. Gripped by the onslaught of memories from the siege of her father’s keep, the death cries of the Maxwell men rattled in her head. The fear, the fires, the night she’d run for her life with Harris in her arms.

  “Sister Ailish!” the big knight boomed.

  The sound jolted her from the terrors of her mind. With a new wave of courage, she returned her dagger to its hiding place and turned to Coira. “Roll up the bedding. I’ll tend the oilcloth.

  “There’s no time.” Hefting Ailish over his shoulder, Sir James carried her to the palfry and hoisted her onto the saddle. “You’re riding with me.”

  “You mustn’t treat Sister Ailish like a sack of grain!” Coira hastened toward them with her arms full of sodden woolens.

  Sir James frowned yet gave her a leg up. “Your first concern is to keep pace. Ye ken? And the bedding stays.”

  “I can tie these in place as we go.” Clenching her bundle tighter, the lady’s maid bobbled in the saddle. “Aye, sir?”

  James grumbled under his breath as he mounted behind Ailish and kicked his heels. “Those were English scouts, mark me. We’ve no choice but to ride hard.” He steered the palfry beside the mule and pulled away Coira’s reins. “That means this fella stays at my flank.”

  “But—”

  “Do as he says!” shouted Ailish as James demanded a trot.

  Westward.

  Good Lord, they needed to travel south. But she knew better than to correct him. Instead, she closed her eyes prayed the big knight knew where in heaven’s name they were headed.

  ***

  They’d ridden all morning through sleet and driving rain before James’ blood finally cooled. Killing men was never easy, even Englishmen. Though he refused to admit how much taking a life disturbed him. After what Edward and his bloodthirsty savages did to his father, he’d personally flay every last man in Longshanks’ army. God’s bones, he hated the English to his core.

  James had been trained by the best swordsmen in Scotland. And now he was stronger than he’d ever been. Faster, smarter, and hungrier for vengeance. Moreover, in Scone, he’
d proved himself to the king.

  Though now he was on a mission that galled him to no end.

  In front of him, the wee lass shivered. But despite the damp and cold, she sat erect and held on to the horse’s mane for balance—mighty uncomfortable posture for a day-long ride.

  He closed his arms tighter around her and tilted his lips toward her ear. “Rest against me. I have enough warmth for the both of us.”

  Ailish glanced back toward Sister Coira who was hunched over as if she were dozing. With a nod, she rubbed her hands and relaxed into his chest. “I’m so c-cold.”

  James closed his eyes and drew in a deep inhalation. Even soaking wet, she smelled like a field of wildflowers. “With a bit of luck, the sun will dry us soon. Either that or this ghastly wind.”

  “’Tis the wind that is cutting through to my bones.”

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  “You have no power over the weather.”

  “Nay, but I should have insisted we ride farther last eve. I thought we’d be safe in the copse.”

  “Have not Edward’s scouts infested all of Scotland?”

  “All but the Highlands and the far north. Certainly, West Lothian, where I hail from, is crawling with miscreants and I’ve a duty to rid the vermin and reclaim what is mine.”

  “Me as well,” she whispered.

  “You’re from a highborn family, are you not?”

  To his question she provided no response.

  “Och, lass,” James pressed. “You do not need to hide your identity from me. I ken you’re of noble blood. And Sister Coira is your lady’s maid. ’Tis as clear as the nose on my face.”

  “Aye.” Ailish groaned and looked up, her blue eyes meeting his, making his breath catch. They weren’t only blue, they were shocking like the color of the sea just before the foam rolls onto a beach. God save him, he’d never forget such eyes.

  “My father was Johann Maxwell, murdered and hung from the walls of Caerlaverock Castle by Edward and my imposter of an uncle.”

  Maxwell? James knew the name well. “Your da was an ally of the Douglas.”

  “I remember. I’m sure your father dined at our table when I was but a wee lassie—before…”