Chapter Four

The Present ~ 1475

Rough Bounds, Scotland

"Damn clot-heid Highlanders," Brus Stone cursed when a scream of terror filled the silence of the forest of the Rough Bounds. He glanced to his left where Conall Douglas sat upon his horse.

"We're Highlanders," Conall replied, amused.

"Aye," Brus agreed, listening, waiting for another scream to lead him in the direction of the leader, that clot-heid Errol MacLaren, who for some absurd reason had decided to venture into the forest without waiting for the aid he'd requested. "We're Highlanders, but we're nae clot-heids."

"Ye think the scream is coming from someone in the MacLaren party?"

"Aye. We've nae received any other request for passage through the forest."

"Good point," Conall said. "I dunnae ken why the man sent the request and then did nae wait for us."

"Because he is clearly an impatient fool." They hadn't been even half a day late to meet them. They were to rendezvous when the sun was directly overhead, and it was barely past that. In his experience, the king's favored men were a cocky, foolhardy lot, and Errol MacLaren had thus far proven to be no different. No one knew these woods, the clans who warred here, or the Wolf Warriors—who were the main source of problems for travelers—better than the men of the Northern Watch, and when people went about their business as if they were invincible, they became easy prey.

"Why would MacLaren have a woman with him?" Conall asked into the silence. Before Brus could respond, Conall spoke again, which didn't surprise Brus at all. His friend had a habit of asking questions he usually answered himself. "Seems foolish for MacLaren to take a woman to Niall MacDonald's stronghold when it's under attack."

"Aye, but ye and I both ken how foolish great lairds and their sons can be."

"Aye," Conall replied with a chuckle. "Do ye think the king will grant the request for warriors that Niall asked for?"

Brus scrubbed a hand over his whiskers, and they scratched against his cold fingers. He needed to set a blade to his face, but he'd been kept too busy even to sleep, let alone trim back the growth so he didn't look barbaric. "Who kens the mind of the king," he replied with a shrug. "MacDonald asked for aid many a fortnight ago, and since nary a word has come from the king saying he was granting or denying it, I'd wager it's likely that he is weighing his options carefully."

"I hope the king sides with the MacLeans," Conall said.

"I'm certain ye do," Brus replied. "I would to, given yer history with the MacDonald."

Conall nodded, and they both stood in silence for a moment, each contemplating Conall's past.

"I did nae mean to maim the MacDonald's brother," Conall muttered, as he had been doing for years, and Brus knew just how true this was. Conall was not a murderer, but he was the victim of very unfortunate circumstances, having been orphaned at the age of ten by the Ceàrdannan with a sister to protect and feed. Summer Walkers were not like a clan. They did not feel an allegiance to one another, so when Conall's parents had been murdered, the Summer Walkers they had been traveling with simply left Conall and his sister to fend for themselves rather than be burdened by two more mouths to feed.

"I would have done the same," Brus replied, thinking it. If his sister had been ravished by a man, Brus would have stabbed him, too, if it was the only way to save his sister. And Brus believed Conall's story that it had been the only way. Unfortunately, the Lord of the Isles' word that his brother had not been attempting to ravish Conall's sister had held much more weight than Conall's. And Conall's sister could nae speak any words in his defense because she had disappeared after the incident. Whether willfully or by force, Conall did not know.

"Nay any man should have so much power that he can alter an innocent man's life," Conall said, his words tight and strained with years of anger. Brus didn't blame him. Conall didn't have the option to walk away from the Watch as Brus did. Brus had been found as a bairn and brought there, but Conall had been forced to trade his freedom to keep his life.

"I dunnae think the king will side with the MacDonalds," Brus said. "I believe he's beginning to see that the Lord of the Isles is forgetting who's king."

"Aye," Conall said with a vigorous nod. "He controls the trade in the Highlands because his brother controls Loch Shiel, and he denied passage to some of the king's own favorites."

"Aye, and that was a mistake. Mark my words, the king will side with the MacLeans, and unless the Lord of the Isles is prepared to war with the king, he will retreat and let the MacLeans take his brother's castle."

Conall rubbed his hands together as he grinned. "I hope he dunnae retreat. I hope the king orders us to aid the MacLeans in forcing MacDonald to his knees."

"I hope so, too," Brus responded. Not only because of what had happened to Conall but because Brus had a particular liking for the MacLean laird. MacLean had always treated him as an equal, even though Brus was a no-named bastard.

The woman's scream rent the air again, and this time he sensed the direction from whence it came: northeast. He urged his horse into a gallop as another terrified scream filled the woods, making his blood run cold.

He prayed they reached her before the Wolf Warriors had their way with her. Not only was it his duty as a brother-in-training of the Northern Watch to serve the king in the north, but it was now their appointed duty to drive the remaining Wolf Warriors from these woods. They had sent a great deal of them to their graves and had driven away another contingent thus far, but there was a stubborn score that remained, vowing to take back the land they claimed the king had stolen from their ancestors. But even if none of that were the case, he would always come to the aid of a woman in need.

Conall caught up to Brus as he reached the path and they began to climb up the hill with their destriers. Brus notched the arrow on his bow as he reached the top of the hill, as did Conall, but a movement from the left caught his eye. A fair-haired slip of a lass ran toward them, eyes wide with tears streaming down her cheeks and the edges of her fine silk gown clutched in her dirt-stained hands.

She ran straight at Conall's horse, who neighed and kicked up his front legs, almost smacking her in the head. Brus watched as Conall pulled hard on his reins to keep the horse under control. The frightened beast snorted and jerked up his nose, but settled as Conall dismounted and went to the woman.

She practically fell into his arms. For a moment, she stood sobbing, and then she pulled back, looking at them both. "My sister!" she cried, and Conall set a finger to her lips with one hand. She started to fall into him once more and he caught her with his other hand.

Brus looked in the direction she had come from, wondering, as Conall must have been, just how close the enemies were and how many. "Ye stay with her," he said, to which Conall nodded. The last thing they needed was a lass's protection to contend with in the midst of fighting. Brus would rather go alone than be responsible for her being injured or killed. "I'll whistle when I've taken down the enemy."

"There are two of them!" the girl exclaimed.

Brus nodded. "And how many MacLarens remain standing?"

"How did ye—"

"Because I do," he interrupted. Time was of the essence.

"Ye're the Northern Watch who did nae show up," she said, her voice and look accusing.

"Nay, lass," he replied. "We showed up. Yer clot-heid leader did nae wait."

"He's nae a clot-heid, and he's the only one standing," she said, but it was to his back, because he'd dismounted his horse, handed the reins to Conall, and was already walking toward the screams when the lass spoke.

The screams of the woman's sister changed so abruptly, he halted his progress for one breath with confusion.

"Pig-sucking devil's spawn," she spewed in a bellow loud enough it had to be heard all the way to Edinburgh.

Then a man's voice pierced the silence. "I'll kill ye!" he raged. "I'll kill ye if ye touch her—"

Brus crested the hill just as the man fell silent, and he could see why he had done so. He'd taken a nice hard blow to the face from the butt of a sword, which had knocked him out and caused his head to lull forward. Brus paused long enough to assess the situation. The was man kneeling—Errol MacLaren by the plaid he wore—with a noose around his neck and his hands tied behind his back. A Wolf Warrior stood in front of MacLaren and started to pull on the rope to hoist him into the air and hang him. Another Wolf Warrior straddled someone, who Brus was certain was the bellowing woman. He didn't see skirts at her bare ankles and that filled him with rage for the woman and what might have already been done to her.

The bound man's feet came off the ground and dangled in the air, making the decision of whom to save first a simple one. Brus released his arrow, and it swished through the air, splitting the rope around MacLaren's neck. He fell to a heap on the snow-covered forest floor, and Brus's concern with the man's welfare stopped there. He was already releasing a second arrow toward the warrior who now turned toward Brus with his sword drawn. That arrow pierced the man directly in the heart. He dropped beside MacLaren and lay unmoving.

The ravisher was crawling off the woman, and as he stood and reached for his sword, Brus released an arrow, piercing his right arm. A howl of pain left him, and Brus started toward him, drawing yet another arrow that he released without pausing. It hit the man's left arm, but he turned as if to bend and take hold of the woman, so Brus released yet another arrow into the man's right calf and a fourth into his left. Howls of rage rang though the woods, and birds took flight from the trees. The Wolf Warrior rolled on the ground, writhing in pain, and Brus had the thought that he deserved that and much more for trying—or possibly succeeding—to take something from a woman only she had the right to give. When he stooped over the man, Brus drew a final arrow and aimed it at his heart, before sparing a moment to glance toward the woman to make certain she was all right.

Emerald eyes glowing with fire met his. She had blood trickling from her nose and her lip was cut, and those two small injuries were enough to make him want to plunge his hand into the Wolf Warrior's chest and pull out his black heart. But it was not his right to end his life; it was hers if she wished it, and if she didn't have the stomach for it, he'd do it for her. He stared for half a breath at a smear of blood across her high right cheekbone, because the ruby color against her milky skin left him momentarily speechless. She sniffed, swiped a delicate hand across her nose, making another streak of red on her otherwise flawless skin, and shoved back mounds of blazing hair that was in wild disarray over her shoulders. He inhaled sharply, realizing that the front of her gown had been ripped open to expose the tops of her breasts.

In another circumstance, he would have undoubtedly felt a surge of desire for such a perfect display of god's creation of the fairer sex, but instead, hot anger coursed through his veins for her. He averted his gaze and locked it on the man he would kill if she didn't. "Lass, yer gown—"

"Ye think I dunnae ken?" Embarrassment and anger shook her words. She was up and beside him, tugging her gown closed.

"Nay, sorry," he responded. "I thought ye might be in shock."

"Shock is for those who have the luxury of it," she said, her tone vehement. "I dunnae have the luxury in this moment."

"Yer breasts were mighty soft," the Wolf Warrior snarled.

"Shut yer mouth or I'll make it so ye beg for me to end yer life," Brus said.

"I dunnae need yer mercy," the man spat.

"I dunnae want him dead," the woman inserted, surprising him. He would have glanced at her, but he didn't intend to take his attention off the Wolf Warrior until he was dead.

The vile man sneered. "Liked my hands on yer breasts, did ye?"

Brus reacted swiftly. He kicked the man hard in the gut, which left him doubled over and gasping for air. "What would ye have me do?" he asked the lass.

"Take his bollocks, please."

He did look at her then, if only for a breath, but he'd never forget her face for as long as he lived. She was furiously beautiful. Her thick dark eyebrows slashed downward into a V in anger, her full lips pressed into a hard line, her nostrils flared, and grim resignation settled on her face. She had come up with a punishment worse than death for a man such as this one—or most men, really—but her eyes told him she knew, as he did, that this was fitting.

"For what he did to ye, 'tis fair."

"Nay, for what he attempted to do to me," she said, spitting on the ground right beside the Wolf Warrior's head. "Grendel, here"—she motioned to the man who had turned onto his back and was glaring up at them—"wanted to play a game with me, but he found me nae so easy to trifle with."

"She's a damned she-wolf," Grendel said. "Ye best be careful with that one."

"I wish ye to take his bollocks to protect other women."

"Do ye want to turn away?" he asked her, fully expecting her to say yes.

"Aye, but I'll nae. I kinnae ask ye to do such a thing and then leave ye to the task by yerself. I'll stay by yer side."

Grendel rolled to his left in a useless attempt to escape. Brus whipped out his dagger at the same time he shoved a foot into the man's injured leg. Grendel stilled immediately, bellowing, and Brus let out a whistle to summon Conall to him, but it was of no need, for Conall's voice came from behind him. "I'm here."

"Grace! Oh my god, Grace!" The high-pitched, near-hysterical female voice made Brus's spine arch slightly. "Have ye been ravished? I should nae have left ye! I'm so sorry! Oh my god, Errol! Is Errol dead?"

The questions kept coming, and Brus stole a look at the lass Grace once more. She appeared to be struggling under the barrage of questions, but she pushed her shoulders back, turned to her sister, and opened her arms. The light-haired lass ran into them, and Brus found himself thinking how soft and comforting her embrace looked.

Grace gave her sister a hug and patted her head for a moment while making a shushing sound as the woman babbled on. Then she said, "Errol's been knocked out, 'tis all. Go on and tend to him. Put yer back to this man."

Brus stopped stuffing his plaid in Grendel's mouth and glanced once more to Grace, assuming she was speaking of him. She was. She, her sister, and Conall were staring at him.

"What the devil are ye doing?" Conall asked, inclining his head toward Grendel.

"His bollocks for his sins," Brus replied, matter-of-fact.

Grace's sister's loud gasp almost drowned out Conall's response of, "Is that a fact."

"Aye," Grace replied. "'Tis by my insistence."

"Grace," her sister said on yet another gasp, "did the man—"

"Nay," Grace interrupted, pulling her gown tighter across her chest as her lips pressed into a thin hard line. "But only because I fought him hard. Another lass may nae be so lucky, so turn around, Arya. I dunnae want the image stuck in yer mind."

Arya immediately did as her sister bade. She turned around and kneeled beside MacLaren, who still lay unmoving on the ground. Brus gave Grace a long look, trying to judge if she'd faint or not when he took the man's bollocks. He couldn't decide. She was the picture of delicate beauty, but there was a steeliness in her eyes and a tilt to her chin that spoke to an inner core of iron, and she had fought for her innocence as well, proving her mettle. "What about having the image stuck in yer mind, taking yer sleep?"

"It will be worth it to ken I've saved other women from this man," she said without hesitation, to which Grendel grunted and mumbled in a failed attempt to speak with the strip of material in his mouth.

"All right, then," Brus replied, determined to make quick work of it for Grace. He jerked Grendel up long enough to yank down the man's braies, and from the woman's sharp intake of breath, he judged she'd never seen a man's equipment. "Ye're certain ye wish to watch?" he asked once more with a glance at her.

She was pale as the snow on the ground, but she nodded.

Brus put his entire weight into his right knee, which was sitting on the Wolf Warrior's chest, and took the first bollock, which elicited a gasp from Grace and a sudden gushing of blood from Grendel, who quickly passed out. Brus didn't hesitate to take the man's other bollock, and when the deed was done, he stood, wiped his blade on his braies, then turned to Grace, half expecting to see her swooning, but she wasn't. She was still upright, though she swayed slightly where she stood.

"Are ye all right?" he asked.

She looked offended by the question, but without a word, she dropped to her knees and doubled over, palms hitting the ground as she began to lose the contents of her stomach.