Chapter 10

Arran was discussing the next training session with Hamish instead of gathering the harvest. Both men found the repetitive exercise of bending and cutting mind-numbingly boring and stopped to chat at every chance they got.

"It's time to see if the lads handle their weapons well while they are wearing armor." Arran suggested to Hamish. "How many gambesons have the seamstresses finished?"

Hamish screwed up one eye as he calculated. "We have a round ten dozen finished, Sterling, but they are sleeveless?—"

A wailing yell came from the road. The field they were harvesting was only a mile away from the Cunningham cottage, and therefore closer to the MacKenzie border. Arran and some of the men had brought their swords with them. As the village army increased their fighting skills, they had begun copying Arran's method of carrying a sword everywhere with him. The rest of the men raised their scythes in a defensive position. Were they under attack?

David MacMillan came staggering down the lane, covered in cuts and bruises, his face distraught. "Help us! Help us! The laird has Colleen!"

The young man was close to collapsing. He fell into Arran's arms when the mercenary caught him.

"Tell me what happened and make it quick!" All the men gathered around David frowned down at him. He had left a woman with the enemy.

David babbled out what had happened. "I–I went to see Colleen—bring her flowers…I got captured by MacKenzie soldiers. They…they forced me to tell them aboot me plans—how I was going to Colleen. She opened the gate, her face smiling, so trusting…they left me tied up in the barn…so I cut the cords on the plough coulter and…and ran all the way here!"

Always a man of action, Arran removed his sword from behind his back and handed it to Hamish, saying, "Take care of this for me. I will go faster withoot it."

Hamish gaped. "B–but ye will need yer sword to fight…"

"The only thing I need is for no one, I repeat no one, to follow me to the cottage. Storming in there will only put Colleen in danger. Wait for me to send word."

The mercenary started running toward the cottage. For such a tall man, he was remarkably swift. Two blinks of the eye and Arran was gone from sight.

He approached the cottage with caution, bent over beneath the waving wheat stalks. He knew any lookouts would be able to see the dark outline of his head clearly standing out against the golden crop. Getting down on the ground and using the dark soil as camouflage, he got the lay of the land. After spying the two heavily armored soldiers on horseback outside the gates, Arran ran back around the bend in the road, doubling back to approach through the woods. The thick undergrowth was no match for his strength and force. Pushing his way through the bracken and bushes, Arran approached the homestead from behind.

Never taking his eyes off the cottage, he saw four soldiers loading hay onto a handcart. One was using a wooden pitchfork while the others were using their hands. They seemed relaxed, cracking jokes with one another as they worked. "D'ye think yon lassie is keeping oor Laird sweet in there?" one man sniggered.

"M'Laird has some freakish notions aboot what it takes to keep him sweet, lad. I dinnae relish the lass her task. But she's brave, I'll give her that. Most lassies would be begging to tell the truth by noo."

Arran picked up a rock and threw it into the pigs' byre. The contented animals squealed and grunted. The soldiers stopped loading. "Ye two," the captain said, "go and see why the animals are moving around. And then check that wee Davy is still tied up in the barn."

The two soldiers drew their swords and crept towards where Arran was crouching. The byre fence narrowed and the men had to go through it single-file. Moving smoothly, Arran trod softly around the byre, his soft leather boots making no sound as he came up behind the last man. Wrapping his arm around the man's neck to stop him from screaming, he stuck a dirk deep into the soldier's neck, laying him carefully down on the ground to bleed out. The soldier in front had not even noticed he was alone because of the pigs' loud grunting and squeals. Reaching the back of the byre and checking behind the sty, the man grunted. "The blasted pigs are rooting in the muck as usual. Nothing to see here?—"

When he turned, he saw the person behind him was not his comrade. The soldier opened his mouth to shout in shock, but the air had left his chest and he could not breathe. Looking down at his chest, he saw a dirk hilt sticking out under his metal cuirasse. It had been slid up into his ribcage with deadly precision and skill. Like his comrade, he collapsed and died without a sound too.

The captain waited for his men. He stopped loading the hay to tap his foot with impatience. "Go and check what those blethering fools are up to, lad! If they have found an ale casket, I will tan their hides."

But like his comrades, the man did not come back. Too confident to be afraid, the captain went into the barn to check if David had not escaped and his men were chasing after the apprentice. The last thing Laird MacKenzie would want was to be interrupted by a horde of angry, pitchfork-carrying villagers.

Only when he saw the empty severed cords did the captain react. His eyes wide with panic, he turned to go back to the cottage. But he hesitated a fraction of a moment because he did not want to be the one to give Torquil the bad news: the laird must stop his ravishing dalliance with the bonny healer and make all haste to get away before the villagers arrived.

Looming out of the shadows, a huge arm with enormous strength snaked around his neck and a deep voice whispered into his ear. "Where are they? Which room?"

"The bedchamber—" were the last words the captain said.

Letting the man fall and bleed out, Arran wiped his dirk blade on a handful of straw and walked into the cottage slowly, his eyes sweeping the corners and furniture for a trap. But there were none. The two guards behind the gate were none the wiser about the events playing out inside the cottage.

Torquil's reign of terror against the villagers had made him so confident, that Laird MacKenzie had no idea what was waiting for him behind the cottage's bedchamber door. He was mesmerized by Colleen's beauty. He had ordered her to strip naked slowly for him.

"We have all the time in the world, lassie, ye and I. The more I see o' ye, the more I realize that ye must come back to the castle with me. I have been looking for a comely maiden like ye for many a long year." He licked his lips, rigid with anticipation.

Weeping softly, Colleen pulled the smock off one shoulder and then the other to expose her breasts. She shuddered with disgust as Laird Torquil's greedy gaze devoured her. His voice was hoarse as he rasped. "Aye, aye, do it nice and slow. Reveal yerself to me."

Colleen lifted the hem of her tunic. She would not remove her clothing for this man. Not now, not ever. If he wanted access to her, he would have to go under her tunic and smock.

Her legs were shapely, sunkissed from her work in the harvest fields where the womenfolk tucked their skirts so that the chaff did not stick to the flounces. Slipping her little feet out of the clogs, she grimaced when they touched the cold flagstone floor. "Och, if ye're feeling the chill, lass, ye should climb up on the bed here with me and let me warm ye…"

Losing the last piece of her self-possession, Colleen burst into tears. Her distress only made Torquil MacKenzie more excited. He believed her tears proved that she was a maiden. He was too dense to see that Colleen cried because she could not bear the thought of another man touching her since she knew she was in love with Arran.

Using his hand, he indicated she must obey him or else suffer the consequences. When Colleen quivered and hesitated, Laird MacKenzie threatened her. "There are two men at arms at yer gate and four men pillaging yer wee homestead, lass! Let's not make it any worse. Dinnae make me go ootside and cut meself a switch from yon tree."

She knew he was speaking the truth. Only well-trained and highly skilled soldiers were allowed to wear full armor with the laird's crest on it. With them guarding the gate, there was no hope of anyone coming to rescue her. The forest was too overgrown for anyone to cut through it. Biting her lower lip to stop it from trembling, Colleen climbed onto the bed and lay down.

Grinning from ear to ear, Laird Torquil slithered on top of her. He prepared to lift his plaid when a noise made him crane his neck to look behind him. A dark shadow had somehow materialized in the dimly lit bedchamber. The tall shape had its back to the window so it was impossible to see the man's face. The tip of the dirk pressed down at that point where the spine gave way to the skull. When Torquil moved his head, the sharp tip followed his movement, creating a terrifyingly ticklish feeling with its cold steel.

Colleen opened her terrified eyes when Laird MacKenzie went limp and quiet on top of her. It was not Torquil's leering face she saw above her, but Arran's beloved features. He was not the caring, sweet-natured Arran she knew from their time together at the tavern inn, however. The mercenary's expression was deadly as he never took his eyes off the laird. The dirk tip was already stained and dripping with blood up to its hilt.

In one fluid movement, the laird knelt on the bed with his hands in the air. Sobbing with relief, she crawled off the mattress and ran to stand next to her rescuer. After giving her a comforting pat, but without taking his eyes off Laird MacKenzie, Arran told her to check Torquil for weapons.

She could not. Colleen shook her head and bit back the bile that rose in her throat. Arran seemed to understand her revulsion. "Och, lass, he cannae hurt ye noo. Very well. Cut the sheet into strips so that we might bind him."

This time, Colleen obeyed. Losing a linen sheet was a better option than being ravished on top of them. Biting the fabric with her teeth, she tore off one hem and then promptly moved to rip off the next one. Spitting out flax fibers, she said, "What of the four men ootside?"

Arran did not answer her. She drew her own conclusion. Colleen tried to hand a strip of sheet to Arran, but he shook his head, never wavering in the dirk's contact with the base of the laird's skull. "Bind him, lass. Be brave for yer man." Arran buried the dirk tip a fraction into the laird's neck to show him how close he was to death if he did not comply.

Colleen tied the bindings around Laird MacKenzie's wrist so tight that the man's hands immediately began to turn purple. Arran grinned and gave her a wink. "That's me bonny lass. Noo do the rascal's ankles."

She willingly obliged, wrapping the strand of sheet around the laird's boots. "We dinnae want him to run oot and alert those two horsemen he left guarding the gate," Colleen told Arran.

A triumphant voice came from the bedchamber door that had been opened silently. "I am afraid it is too late for that. The two guards behind the gate are already here. Lower yer dirk, lad, and then drop it. Let's be seeing those hands o' yers pointing to the ceiling."

But Colleen was the only one who obeyed the armed guard as the man opened the door and stepped into the bedchamber with his sword drawn. Dropping the length of cloth she was using to bind the laird's ankles, she lifted her hands in the air. Arran, however, did not. Spinning around like a whirling dervish, he attacked.

Even though the soldier was wearing a metal breastplate and a full helmet with a nose and cheeks guard, not to mention that he was holding a heavy broadsword in his hands, the soldier still stepped back to avoid the lethal swing of Arran's dirk. It was so unexpected. No man in his right mind would take on an armed guard with only a dirk to defend himself. The two men stepped out into the front room, Arran swinging his dirk and lunging forward while the other man backed away and fumbled with the hilt of his sword, trying to find a stance where he could make a stand without feeling the dirk bury itself into his chest first.

There was another fully armed soldier standing back in the room. Instead of rushing to help his comrade in arms defend himself, the soldier edged around the two fighters and went to grab Colleen. "Drop yer weapon. Or else I will kill the girl."

Arran had an excellent understanding now about how Laird MacKenzie's soldiers operated. He dropped his dirk and held his hands out at the side. It seemed like the skirmish was over and the cottage residents had lost. Nodding to his comrade to kick the dirk out of Arran's reach, the soldier in the bedchamber knelt down and began untying Torquil. It was not as easy as the soldier had imagined. The binds were so tight he struggled to find a purchase on them.

With Colleen free and one of the soldiers occupied with the laird, Arran saw his chance. Shouldering the soldier out of the way, he picked up the sharp dirk again and flung it at the kneeling soldier trying to untie the laird. The man squawked and keeled over, shrieking in agony as the dagger lodged in his thigh.

But this time, the soldier with the sword did not hesitate. Running headfirst across the room as fast as he could, the man thrust his weapon into Arran. The blade entered the mercenary's stomach, but only slightly. It was as if there was an invisible barrier that halted the blade's progress. Or maybe it was because the muscles on Arran's washboard stomach were so well-defined and hard.

Colleen screamed, rushing towards Arran to help him stand, but she did not have to clamp a kerchief to his wound—the hole was already looking far better than it had only moments before.

She held her hands out in front of him so that the soldier could not land another blow, but the man was standing stock still, convinced that Arran would have to bow to the laws of nature and fall to the ground. Colleen yelled at the soldier, "Leave, Ewan! Leave now! Ye and yer poxy laird are nae welcome here. Ye are a craven and a poltroon. Ye are a traitor. Be gone!"

It was an eerie tableau playing out in the healer's cottage. The laird stumbling to stand up because his hands were tied. The soldier lying on the floor at the laird's feet, moaning and blubbering with the dirk sticking out of his thigh. The mercenary calmly holding the wound on his stomach, the frown on his face clearly showing that the injury was only a minor inconvenience to him. And the healer facing off against the helmeted soldier.

He was the same captain who had stopped the two Cunningham sisters in Farmer Tavish's wheat field and ordered them to deliver Laird MacKenzie's message to the village council. "It has been a long time since we met, Colleen. Ye should be honored to have captured our laird's attention." The captain gave her his familiar wink. Turning to his injured comrade, the man raised his voice. "I say we get out of here before the entire village's ragtag mob arrives thirsting for blood."

After glancing at Colleen standing with her arms around Arran, the captain grinned. "I see ye have gotten yerself a swain, Colleen. Give him a good burial. He's worm meat noo. But I applaud him for his courage and strength."

The healer said nothing, hugging Arran even tighter, still not sure if the wiley captain would not try to harm the mercenary further. The helmet-wearing man ignored her and went to help his laird in a calmly practical way.

Using the sheet strips to bandage the soldier's wound, the man assisted his comrade to the horse outside. Then he returned to cut the laird loose and help him stand. The lack of blood supply in his arms made Torquil MacKenzie flail his hands around like a hysterical woman. "Ye took yer sweet time in helping me up, ye wee whelp!" Laird MacKenzie spat out the words to the fully armored captain. "Be quicker next time!"

At the door, the laird turned to look at Colleen. "This was not oor time, sweetheart. Until a better opportunity comes up, I will dream of yer honey lips every night."

Taking the four dead soldiers and laying them over their horse saddle, the three men rode away out the gate. When they were on the road, Torquil and the captain shot sideways glances at one another. "Did ye see that?" The laird wanted to check that his captain had observed the same thing as he had.

The captain nodded and replied. "Aye. It's a miracle we were able to get oot o' there before he healed completely. I didnae believe ye, Laird, when ye told me aboot the rumors. About the immortal men who bear powerful talismans and could never die. But by the time we reached the door, his wound had stopped bleeding! His guts dinnae even spill oot of his belly when I pierced it! Witchcraft, I have nae doubt."

Laird MacKenzie shook his head, still amazed at what he had seen with his own eyes. "In the time it took us to collect oorselves and leave, the mercenary was looking lively and ready to start fighting again. I say we should take a closer look at the fellow—get him to spill his secrets and maybe take the talisman away from him. D'ye ken the best way to get him to come back to the castle?"

The captain nodded, but the only thing he said out loud was, "What d'ye think aboot the Fair Maiden Colleen? Her heart might not be for sale, but her face and body most definitely are. I guarantee it. The Cunninghams come from good farmer stock and can trace the family roots back to King Raibeart an Bruis…and ye need a new wife…"

It was true. Laird Torquil had highly enjoyed the wee taste he had had of the healer. She was youthful, shapely, and bonny as a summer's day. He liked his women with spice and Colleen promised to offer him a lot of it. "What settlements will the family require for me to make her me bride?"

The captain grinned. "Let me arrange everything, Laird. Ye will nae be disappointed, I promise ye."