Highland Heaven

  Dillon had no doubt that between them, these two young giants, who stood head and shoulders above even the tallest Highlanders, could handle any problem that might arise.

  “I leave our people in your capable hands, my brothers. Sutton, pay a call upon Upton Lamont, and see if the old thief is hiding any flocks taken from our kinsmen. If he is, I charge you to mete out justice and see that the sheep are returned to their rightful owners.”

  “With pleasure,” Sutton replied.

  Seeing the dangerous gleam in his brother’s eye, Dillon added, “But I would caution you to temper justice with mercy, Sutton. Lamont was a lad when our father was young. He’ll be no match for the likes of a strong young bull like you. And I charge you, brother,” he said, turning to Shaw, “to storm heaven with your prayers for our safe return.”

  “Aye, Dillon,” Shaw answered. “And I’ll pray for the lasses who live between here and Lamont’s land. For Sutton will surely try to bed as many of them as he can.”

  “And what of me?” Clive challenged. “Shall I accompany Sutton to Lamont’s fortress? Or do you trust only your brothers to lead in your absence?”

  “Cousin,” Dillon said gently, “if Flame is correct, there is a lady causing you great distraction lately. By absolving you of all duties, I give you leave to pursue her.”

  “And pray she does not meet up with Sutton,” Shaw muttered, dropping an arm around his cousin’s shoulders.

  For a brief moment Clive’s eyes flared with temper, before he visibly relaxed.

  At once Shaw squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. “I jest, cousin. Whatever Sutton’s flaws, he is an honorable man. He would never bed another man’s woman. Would you, brother?”

  “Nay. I have trouble enough keeping up with my own to ever consider taking on another’s.”

  With a laugh Dillon signaled for the journey to begin. Amid a cloud of dust, two columns of horsemen moved smartly out, led by a standard-bearer, proclaiming to all who approached that this party was under the protection of the Clan Campbell. The columns of soldiers were followed by the women and servants. After them came the procession of wagons and carts laden with food and household goods. Dillon and more than a dozen of his finest soldiers, including his old man-at-arms, took up the rear.

  As their party descended into a green valley and faded from sight, Sutton turned to Shaw with a grin. “As of now, brother, we are the lairds of Kinloch House.”

  He glanced up suddenly as a groom appeared leading Clive’s horse. “You leave so soon, cousin?” To his brother he said laughingly, “You see? He cannot contain himself. Already he flies into the waiting arms of his woman.”

  Clive gave them both a wide smile before saluting smartly and riding off without another word.

  Sutton turned away, draping an arm around his twin’s shoulders. “Come, Shaw. The first thing I intend to do is order Mistress MacCallum to bake me her finest tarts. Thus fortified, I intend to seek out Upton Lamont and his band of cutthroats.”

  “You intend to ride alone?”

  Sutton nodded gravely. “Twould be dishonorable to leave the fortress unprotected while Dillon is away. Besides,” he added, touching a hand to his sword, “I need only this to stand up to the Lamonts. I’ll teach them the proper respect for the name Campbell.”

  It had been raining all day, beginning with a fine mist, gradually increasing to a steady downpour. Shivering in his cloak, Sutton dismounted and tethered his horse, then crawled to the top of a hill overlooking the Lamont fortress, Inverene House. The buildings, a timber manor house and chapel of dull gray stone, loomed out of the mists like shrouds. They were well fortified by nature, with steep, forested cliffs behind and a loch flowing in front, making a surprise attack impossible.

  From his location it was difficult to see beyond the walls, but Sutton imagined that life inside Inverene House was much the same as life at Kinloch House. The laird would be supping in the great hall, attended by servants. But there the similarity would end. Old Lamont would be perhaps laughing at the poor peasants who had been boldly robbed of their precious flocks. If the old laird had carried out even half the raids attributed to him over the years, he was indeed a blackhearted lout.

  Sutton shivered again and wished for a fire. Instead, he took shelter beneath an outcropping of boulders and devoured the last of the tarts Mistress MacCallum had baked especially for him. That done, he hunched deeper into his hooded cloak and waited.

  It was a good night for thieves to ply their trade, he thought, glancing heavenward. Clouds obscured the moon and stars. Rain would mute the sound of hoofbeats. Peasants, weary after a day of backbreaking labor, would seek the comfort of home and hearth.

  Aye. A good night for thieving. And a better night for catching them.

  “Good even, Father.” A beautiful, dark-haired young woman kissed the bewhiskered cheek and lifted a candle from the nightstand beside her father’s bed.

  “Good even, Sabina.”

  Across the room a slender figure straightened from the hearth, where a roaring fire had been laid. “I’ve added another log, Father. It should last until the morrow.”

  “Thank you, Merritt.” The old man smiled as his younger daughter lifted a tangle of red curls from her eye before crossing to him and brushing a kiss across his lips.

  The two young women fussed over the old man, setting a goblet of ale beside his bed, tugging the furs up to his chin, before taking their leave.

  In the next room they went through the same ritual, except that the figure in the bed was small and slight, with a cap of shiny red curls and bright, inquisitive eyes.

  “Here is the sword you requested, Edan.” Merritt handed her little brother a weapon that was so heavy he could hardly lift it with both hands.

  As her sister deposited a goblet of goat’s milk on the nightstand she added, “Though why you’d want it, heaven only knows.”

  The little boy shrugged. “I like the feel of a weapon in my hand.”

  Merritt grinned at him. “Mayhap you would like a dirk, as well.”

  Edan reached beneath the covers and retrieved a jewel-handled knife, which glinted in the firelight. “Father gave it to me. He said it belonged to his father.”

  “Then I would say you are well fortified.”

  “Aye.”

  His two sisters laughed and tousled his hair before brushing kisses over his cheeks. With a wave of their hands, they walked from the room and drew the door shut behind them.

  As they made their way to their own rooms, they could be heard calling out loudly to each other, “Good even, Merritt.”

  “Good even, Sabina. Sleep well.”

  “If ye’ve come for the gold...” The peasant shuffled to his feet at the sight of the one known as the Black Campbell.

  “Aye.” A cloaked figure snuffed out the single candle, plunging the hut into darkness. “And to hear news of the latest attacks.”

  The peasant was grateful for the gloom that hid his discomfort, for his news was, as usual, not what the other would welcome. “We’ve done as you bade, m’laird. Your secret pastures are filled with sheep and horses taken from y’er enemy. But we cannot rid ourselves of these cursed Avengers. Each time we succeed in securing fresh bounty, they discover our hiding places and retrieve them from under our very noses. There are some in the Highlands who hail them as chivalrous warriors.”

  There was an ominous silence, before the leader said, “Then we shall use their reputation for our own purposes. Commit even more evil deeds, and spread the word that all are the work of these Avengers. That will free us to do as we please, without fear of retribution.”

  The peasant’s eyes lit. “Ye are indeed blessed with a facile mind.”

  “Aye. And a restless sword. So see that you follow my instructions carefully, or you will feel its sting.” His voice lowered. “Now hear me. I have a most urgent chore for you and your men.”

  The peasant listened intently as his leader spoke of old enemies, of ancient hatreds,
of the latest who must die. But, though the peasant claimed few loyalties, the name of his victim shocked him, for it was one he knew well—Sutton Campbell. A short time later the two left the hut and disappeared in opposite directions of the dense forest.

  The night was black as pitch, with no moon or stars to ease the darkness. Through the misty rain, a large, flat- bottomed boat moved silently across the loch. Even before it touched the far shore, two cloaked figures jumped over the side into the water and secured the boat, then led their horses from the boat to the marshy shore. As soon as they had pulled themselves into the saddles, the horses took off at a run.

  Sutton sat up and rubbed his eyes, cursing himself for having fallen asleep. Straining to see into the darkness, he watched and listened. Already the sound of horses’ hooves was fading into the distance. Drawing his cloak around him, he made his way to the loch. There he found the boat, hidden among some rushes along the bank.

  So, he thought with a grim smile, his predictions had been accurate. He settled himself in the tall weeds, determined to remain awake and alert. For there was nothing Sutton enjoyed more than a good battle. His blood was already hot at the mere thought of it.

  If old Lamont was out thieving, he would have to pass this way to return home. And when he did, Sutton would be here to catch him in his dark deed.

  In the rain, the two figures dismounted and picked their way carefully over the mossy ground of open meadow until they came to the edge of the forest. Slipping between trees, they inched closer to the crofter’s cottage, until they were so close they could hear the soft snoring from within. For several minutes they listened, then, content that the crofter and his sons had not been disturbed, moved on to the high meadow that sheltered the animals.

  Weaving quickly among the clusters of sheep and cattle, they tied as many as they could. Within minutes the two were headed back across the open space, leading dozens of protesting animals.

  As they ran past the cottage, a candle suddenly blazed in the darkness.

  “’Twas the bleating of the sheep. It has awakened those inside,” came a tense whisper.

  “Aye. Run.”

  They continued running even when the door opened, spilling light into the darkness. A man’s voice could be heard swearing impatiently.

  One of the thieves stumbled and nearly fell, but at the last moment remained upright and limped on. That slight delay gave the crofter and his sons a chance to gain some ground. They could be heard directly behind, shouting orders to stop or be killed.

  At a whispered command, half the animals were released. At once, sheep and cattle milled about in confusion. The crofter and his sons were shouting and swearing as they fought to make their way through the maze of dark shapes.

  By the time the thieves made it to the place where their horses were tethered, their breathing was labored. One was limping badly. They vaulted onto their mounts, still keeping a grip on the lead ropes.

  As they whipped their horses into a run, an arrow sang through the air, missing one of the cloaked figures by mere inches. More arrows followed as the two dropped low, hunching over their horses’ backs. They sailed across an open meadow, then disappeared below a ridge. Behind them could be heard the sound of horses, running hard and fast, keeping time with their own.

  Despite the lack of light, their mounts moved unerringly, passing darkened huts and cottages, keeping to the forests and high meadows. And still the horsemen trailed them. close behind.

  By the time they reached the loch, their energy was flagging. But their mounts, eager to return to the stables, knowing that food and rest awaited them, strained against the ropes of animals dragging behind.

  Seeing that the crofter and his sons were hot on their trail, one rider suddenly drew up sharply and released more animals in order to create more confusion, while the other rider continued ahead.

  As the lone horseman reached the water’s edge, a giant loomed out of the mist, sword lifted in challenge.

  “Upton Lamont,” roared the giant’s voice. “I know what deeds you do under cover of darkness. In the name of Clan Campbell, I order you to surrender your stolen property and submit to the justice of the Highlands.”

  The figure reined in, dismounted and withdrew a sword, circling the giant warily.

  Sutton advanced on the hooded figure and was reminded of Dillon’s admonition to temper justice with mercy. His adversary was stooped and slight of stature, moving with a noticeable limp. One swipe of a sword would cut the old man into pieces.

  “I do not wish to kill you,” he called as he lifted his weapon. “But you must be taught that, on Campbell land, a man’s property is sacred. No one has the right to help himself to what another has earned by the sweat of his—”

  His voice was abruptly cut off by a dull thud. It was a sound that every Highlander knew and feared—the sound of an arrow sinking deep into flesh and bone.

  As the arrow struck, Sutton felt the heat first, as though a flaming stick had been embedded in his flesh. A second arrow pierced his back, and the heat turned to pain. Hot searing pain that ripped through him, dropping him to his knees. He tried to stand, but his body refused to obey. With a supreme effort he got to his feet. He staggered, managed a few steps, then stumbled before falling heavily. He was aware of two cloaked figures standing over him.

  “God in heaven.” The voice was hushed, breathless. “’Twas a trap. The villains have been here ahead of us, just waiting to catch us. Their arrows have killed this stranger.”

  Another voice, equally hushed, admonished, “You cannot be certain he is dead. We must take him with us.”

  “They’re nearly upon us. And a second band of riders is already riding hard and fast, to cut us off from escape. We’ve already lost the sheep. Must we lose our lives, as well, for the sake of this stranger?”

  The voice was soft but insistent. “We cannot leave him.”

  There was a sigh of impatience. “Aye, then. But we must move quickly. There’s no time for gentleness.”

  Sutton felt himself being dragged across grass, across sand, and his last coherent thought was that they were even stealing his flesh from his bones, tearing him apart limb from limb, as he was dumped unceremoniously into the bottom of a boat. And then he was floating, floating. And the pain grew and grew until, at last, darkness enveloped him, and he slipped into blessed unconsciousness.

  Chapter Two

  “You linger overlong on your prayers this morrow.”

  Shaw looked up at the sound of Father Anselm’s voice. “I had thought the chapel empty.”

  “So it is. The others have all gone.” The old monk hesitated, reluctant to intrude on the young laird’s privacy. Then, seeing the look of concern in Shaw’s eyes, he decided to plunge ahead. “I think I know what troubles you, my son. It is normal to experience some doubts as the time draws near to bid farewell to home and family. But once you are at the monastery, surrounded by others who share your burning zeal to serve God, you will realize that your decision was the right one.”

  “My prayers this day are not about entering the priesthood, Father.”

  “Nay?” The monk seemed relieved. “I had feared... What is it that keeps you on your knees, then? Perhaps if you share your troubles, I can help you find a way through them. There are few questions about our faith that I cannot answer.”

  “My fears are not for my faith.” Shaw paused, then gave a weak smile. “What has always troubled me and sent me to chapel to pray?”

  “Ah. Sutton,” the old priest said as understanding dawned.

  “Aye. I checked his pallet this morrow. It has been three days and still he has not returned from the Lamont fortress.’’

  Father Anselm gave a sigh. “There are probably dozens of lovely wenches between our two borders. And you know Sutton.”

  “I do. But this time...”

  “This time he does not have Dillon to answer to. With this first taste of freedom, he will no doubt feast at the banquet of life.” Realiz
ing what he’d just said, the old priest clapped a hand to his head and dropped to his knees beside Shaw. “I believe I’d better join you in prayer, lad,” he muttered. “Lest Sutton’s appetite get the better of him.”

  Shaw looked up from his ledgers as a servant entered carrying lighted tapers. Because of his tutoring by the monks, and his patience with the painstaking work involved in the keeping of books, it was only natural that he had been given the duty of seeing to the account ledgers for the clan. It was a job he did willingly, to ease his eldest brother’s burden. Dillon much preferred overseeing clan property to looking over dusty ledgers.

  Rubbing a hand over his weary eyes, Shaw asked, “Can the day have fled already, Dara?”

  “Aye, my laird.” The young servant added a log to the fire. “Mistress MacCallum sent me to summon you to sup.”

  “Thank you. Tell her I shall be along shortly.”

  Absently rubbing at a knot of tension in the back of his neck, Shaw walked to the window and studied the lengthening shadows as dusk settled over the land. He was not one to worry. He had learned long ago to place all his cares in God’s hands. Still, the nagging little feeling persisted. It was not like Sutton to stay away so long. Especially since, with Dillon gone, Mistress MacCallum lavished so much attention on the younger lairds. She had promised Sutton his favorite tarts every night. Shaw smiled. Not even the most charming wenches in the Highlands could compete with the housekeeper’s sweet confections.

  With a sigh he crossed the room and strode toward the great hall. While he walked along the cavernous hallways, he convinced himself that Sutton was probably already there, tucking into his first hearty meal since leaving Kinloch House. As he entered the hall he scanned the faces of those present.