Behind her Shaw moved more slowly, determined to keep her in sight, while still remaining hidden from her view.
As she suddenly broke free of the forest, she no longer paused to cast searching looks behind, but strode purposefully ahead.
Racing across a grassy Highland meadow, she never broke stride as she passed a darkened thatched-roof cottage. She continued running until she reached a pasture. There, several dozen horses stood dozing. As Shaw watched, she pulled a length of rope from beneath her cloak and began tying the animals.
He could no longer remain a mere observer. He would not be a party to theft. “Little fool. What do you think you are doing?” Shaw demanded, coming up behind her.
She whirled, cursing like a soldier. “So, the footsteps I heard were not in my mind. You were following me. Be gone, Campbell. You do not belong here.”
“Nor do you, woman.” He grabbed her roughly by the arm. “Is this what the Lamonts have become? Thieves? Villains?”
“Aye.” She shook off his hand and turned her back on him. “I’ll steal if I must.”
“I will not permit this.”
“You?” She spun around, eyes blazing. “You will not permit...?” She clamped her mouth shut on the curses that sprang to her lips. Instead, she challenged, “Tell me, Campbell. Is it stealing if a man is merely taking back what was stolen from him?”
He gave her question considerable thought, as his confessors often had, then replied, “Nay. That would not be stealing. ‘Twould be a just deed.”
“Then leave me to my... just deed, since the horses I steal are my own.”
“I do not believe you.”
“See for yourself.” She tugged on the rope she held, drawing a sleek black stallion close enough to be seen in the darkness. “Is this not the steed you rode upon when you left your own land?”
“What lies...?” But even as the words escaped his lips, he recognized the horse as his. Thunderstruck, he touched a hand to the animal’s smooth mane as he glanced around at the other horses milling about. “How did you know where to find these?”
“I tracked them earlier today. That is where I was coming from when I came upon the herd of deer.” While she spoke she continued tying each horse, until all were secured. Then she affixed a long lead rope, before pulling herself onto the back of one of the horses.
“You had better be prepared to ride hard and fast, Campbell,” she called as she nudged her horse into a gallop. “For your interference has cost me valuable time. And the thieves who helped themselves to our horses will not be pleased to give them up.”
Before he could respond, she and the horses tied to the tether were sailing across the meadow.
He pulled himself onto the bare back of his steed and looked up in dismay as the light of a torch suddenly rent the blackness.
A man’s voice could be heard shouting orders. In the torchlight, several figures could be seen spilling out of the little cottage.
Merritt was heading right toward them. There was no way she could change direction with so many horses thundering behind her. She would be forced to ride into the thick of an armed mob.
With his heart pounding, Shaw charged ahead.
“It is the Avengers,” shouted a voice in the darkness.
“Nay,” Shaw called, hoping to calm the frenzied mob. But no one could hear him above the thundering hooves and the clash of sword against sword as Merritt fought to break free.
“Hear me,” Shaw cried, reining in his mount. “We are merely reclaiming what was taken from us.”
“Thieves. Scalawags. You are the infamous Avengers,” came a voice as the blade of a sword glinted in the torchlight.
Shaw resisted the urge to reach for his own sword. These were, after all, kinsmen. He would reason with them and set everything right.
“I am Shaw of Clan Campbell. My brother Dillon is laird.”
“And I am Robert the Bruce,” came a muttered reply as an arrow pierced Shaw’s shoulder.
For a moment he was so stunned by the heat and pain he nearly toppled from his horse. Then, gathering all his strength, he maneuvered his mount through the sea of men until he reached Merritt’s side.
She was fighting like an enraged she-bear, her blade flashing, her curses splitting the night air.
“May you be damned to hell, Campbell, for slowing me down.”
Her words cut as fiercely as the blades that had been lifted against him.
When one of the men leapt onto Merritt’s horse, Shaw struck out with his fist, sending the man pitching headfirst to the ground beneath her horse’s hooves.
She seemed not to notice as she battled furiously, her blade flashing in the reflected starlight. As she dodged the thrust of a broadsword, she grunted, “So, Campbell, you have chosen sides with your clansmen.”
“Nay. But fighting never solved anything.”
“Neither did cowardice. Fight, damn you. Or die a coward’s death.”
When another man came at her from behind, Shaw lifted his foot and drove him back with the heel of his boot. Merritt sent him a quick nod of acknowledgment, before resuming the fight.
“Behind you,” she shouted, and Shaw had only a moment to turn and duck away from the brigand who had attempted to attack with a knife.
The arrow in Shaw’s shoulder had turned hot pain into a raging fire. Perhaps it was the blinding pain, or the madness of the battle, but he suddenly discarded any attempt at diplomacy and, against all his years of training as a peacemaker, was forced to join in the fighting. Still, he could not bring himself to use his father’s sword against these men, in the event that they were truly Campbells, as Merritt claimed. Instead, he used his wiles.
Calling on all his skill as a horseman, he urged his mount into the thick of the fray. One after another, men let out cries of fear and rage as they pitched forward from his fists and the thrusts of his knife.
“We must flee,” Merritt commanded.
But as she wheeled her mount, a man’s burly figure flew through the air, tackling her, dragging her to the ground. At once Shaw leapt from his mount and joined in. The others swarmed around them, over them, swords flashing, clubs flying.
Shaw waded through the bodies, frantically trying to save Merritt. But even his size and strength were no match for the frenzied mob, many of whom wielded clubs.
The first blow to Shaw’s head merely staggered him. He turned, dirk lifted to attack, when a second blow dropped him to his knees.
“You do not understand. You must not harm the woman. She is under my protection. I am Shaw of Campbell. Your laird—”
“Our laird is in Edinburgh, dining with the king. And by the time he returns, he will discover he is laird no more,” said the angry voice as the club was lifted and brought crashing against Shaw’s skull.
Bright splinters of light danced behind his eyes. Pain, hot, searing, seemed to radiate from his brain. He felt bile rise up to his throat, threatening to choke him. And then he was falling, falling through a bottomless black hole.
Shaw felt himself being battered, and he could not find the strength to fight back. Rough hands jarred him out of his stupor each time he began to slide back into blessed oblivion.
“Nay. Leave me,” he muttered, rolling to his side. But that only made the pain worse, and he moaned and tried to escape the fire that raged through him. What was causing that white-hot flame in his flesh?
“Campbell, you must wake.” Merritt shook him, but his hands caught her in a viselike grip, stopping her movements.
“Be gone, witch,” Shaw mumbled. “You’ve done enough.”
‘Not nearly enough,” she whispered as she worked her hands free and started shaking him even harder. “You must not go back to sleep. Unless we devise a plan of escape, we will both die.”
Her words worked their way through the layers of fog that shrouded his brain. He opened one eye and felt a stab of pain as he peered through the gloom at the walls of a rough shed where they were imprisoned. “You mea
n I am not dead yet?”
“Nay. But soon, Campbell.”
He opened his other eye and looked around. “Why did they not kill us?”
“Your kinsmen are awaiting word from someone they called the Black Campbell.”
“Black Campbell.” He tried the name on his tongue, then slowly shook his head. “I do not know such a one.”
“Nor do I. But they are awaiting orders from him. From the manner in which they spoke his name, he must be their leader.”
“But if they are truly Campbells, they swear allegiance to but one Campbell.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “Where are our captors?” he asked, forcing himself to sit up. At once the room spun around and he thought he might be sick.
“They are in the cottage. From the sounds of them, they are celebrating our capture with great quantities of ale.”
He strained, and could hear loud voices and laughter. “Why are we not tied?”
“Two of their company stand outside the door of this shed, to see that we do not escape. Besides, since you never even drew your sword, they have branded you a coward who needs naught but a guard.”
He touched a hand to the arrow that protruded from his shoulder and gave a sudden hiss of pain. “Remove this.”
“Nay. I have already examined it, hoping I could pull it out. It is embedded far too deep. To remove it is to risk bleeding to death. We will have to leave it where it is until we return to Inverene House.”
The pain had him gritting his teeth, but he forced himself to stand. Staggering to the door of the shed, he peered between the cracks and studied the scene. A torch sputtered, illuminating a small circle of the darkness. Two Highlanders stood guard. Both held swords at the ready. It was plain that they were taking no chances that their prisoners could escape.
“You must find a way to get them inside,” Shaw whispered.
“But how?”
He touched a hand to the swollen mass at the base of his skull. He couldn’t seem to make his brain work. “We must think of something.” Suddenly he said, “I know. Tell them I am dying.”
He stretched out on the earthen floor, and the groan that escaped his lips was not an act.
Merritt mulled that over, then shook her head. “Nay. These men care not whether we live or die. But there may be a way...”
He could tell by the tone of her voice that she had already thought of something. “What are you planning?”
She glanced at Shaw. Instead of answering him she asked, “Are you certain you can overpower them?”
“Aye.”
“You will not faint, Campbell?” Her tone was smugly superior.
He clenched his teeth. “If you bring them in, I shall see they do not leave. Now tell me what you plan.”
“These men will surely resent having to stay out here and guard us when the others are warm and snug by the fire, enjoying a tankard of ale.”
“Aye. So what is it you plan?”
“I plan to invite them to come in out of the cold.” Shaw braced himself as Merritt walked to the door of the shed. The searing pain nearly blinded him, but he knew he must remain alert, for he would have but one chance to overcome these brutes. Grasping a rock in one hand, and a handful of sand in the other, he watched and waited.
Opening the door, Merritt tossed aside her heavy cloak to reveal a torn, bloody shirt that exposed more of her bosom than it covered, and a pair of men’s breeches that molded her hips and thighs like a second skin.
In the blink of an eye she transformed herself from young innocent to seductress as she cooed, “I am cold. And lonely. I need a man to warm me.”
Too late, Shaw realized what she really planned to do. But to stop her now was to court death for both of them. All he could do was watch in stunned silence.
In the light of the torch, the guards’ jaws dropped as she placed her hands on her hips in an enticing manner and beckoned them closer.
“What of your own man?” one of them asked.
“He is not my man. He was merely an addle-brained peasant oaf in need of coin, who agreed to accompany me. Besides, I think he is dead.”
In response, Shaw muttered an obscenity beneath his breath. “An oaf, am I? You will pay for that, wench.”
“Hush,” she cautioned. “Have you never playacted?”
“Nay. But apparently you have had much practice.”
She turned away from his censure and shot a brilliant smile at the two guards.
“It is a trick,” one of them cautioned.
“Trick or no,” the other muttered, “she is a comely wench. You can remain here and stand watch. I intend to pleasure myself.”
While the one guard remained aloof, the other crossed the distance between them and tried to draw her into his arms. But Merritt was too quick for him, ducking just out of reach inside the shed.
The guard swore and stepped closer. “Hold, wench,” he said, snaking out a hand to stop her.
She allowed herself to be caught, then, in full view of the other guard, allowed the man to gather her into his arms. The second guard, jealous of what he was missing, stepped closer. Out of the corner of her eye Merritt watched him, knowing he would not be able to resist the temptation for long.
“Mmm,” she muttered aloud. “You are so strong. I have always had a weakness for strong men.”
From his position on the floor Shaw’s fury rose like bile to his throat. The thought of the brute’s hands on one as young and unsullied as Merritt had his blood boiling.
“And I have always enjoyed a warm, willing wench,” the guard said, as he covered her mouth with his.
Merritt nearly gagged as his foul breath mingled with hers. It took all of her willpower to keep from pulling away and scrubbing her mouth with the back of her hand.
When he lifted his head, the second guard crossed the distance in quick strides to stand beside them, awaiting his turn.
Forcing a laugh to her lips, Merritt tucked a hand beneath each man’s arm and led them into the shelter. After the torchlight, their eyes needed a moment to adjust to the dim interior of the shed.
That was all the time Shaw needed. Rising up, he tossed sand in the first guard’s eyes, blinding him. He brought the rock against the second guard’s temple, sending him sprawling. While the first guard was still rubbing his eyes, Merritt dropped her cloak over him, then began pummeling him with her fists. As he struggled to free himself, Shaw gave him a resounding blow that had him joining his friend in the dirt.
“Come,” Shaw said, removing his father’s sword from the villain’s scabbard. “Someone may have heard the scuffle. We must flee.”
But as they ran from the shed, she veered away from him and raced off across the meadow.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
“I will not leave without my rightful property,” she cried. “Else all of this would have been in vain.”
While he watched in consternation, she secured the horses once more, then pulled herself onto a mare’s back. When she reached Shaw’s side, she freed his stallion.
As he mounted, the door to the cottage opened, spilling light from the fireplace into the night. Several men stumbled out, laughing and talking, swilling ale.
Merritt swore under her breath. “Once again, it seems, Campbell, you have managed to slow me down just enough to get caught in a trap. If I did not know better, I would think it was deliberate.”
At that moment the men looked up and realized that, in the darkness, the horses were heading toward them and the prisoners were escaping. Struggling to remove their swords from their scabbards, and clumsily fitting arrows to bows, they began shouting for the others.
“There is no time to waste,” Merritt called. “Ride, Campbell. Or prepare to meet your Maker.”
Chapter Nine
Dozens of knives and arrows whistled over their heads as their steeds raced across the meadow.
Shaw, bent low over his horse’s neck, was forced to endure torturous pain with every jarrin
g movement as hewhipped the animal into a gallop.
Ahead of him, he saw Merritt suddenly stiffen, then slump low over her horse’s back. Racing to her side, he saw the arrow that pierced the flesh of her upper arm. He caught her in his arms just as she was about to fall to the ground, and was amazed to see that she still held the rope attached to the horses. Despite her pain, the lass kept her wits about her. Taking the rope from her hands, he wrapped it around his wrist.
“Is it embedded deeply?” he demanded. “Are there other wounds?”
“Nay. Hush.” With just a slight hiss of pain she tore the offensive arrow from her flesh and discarded it. “It is not serious. It just caught me unaware. I never get hurt,” she said, still reeling more from the surprise of it than from the pain.
Though he was amazed at her callous disregard for her own safety, he shouted, “Hold fast to me, then, for we dare not slow down yet.”
She wrapped her arms around him, and he urged his horse into a gallop. As she clung to him, her fingertips encountered a warm, sticky mass. His tunic was soaked with his own blood. And his wounds, unlike hers, were dangerously deep.
“Can you continue to ride?”
He gave a nod of his head and spurred his horse faster.
Behind him, the men cursed and swore as they tried to follow on foot. But without their horses, they were soon forced to drop back. When Shaw and Merritt were out of range of the arrows, he allowed his horse to lessen its frantic pace.
Once they reached the forest, he slowed his steed to a walk. The other horses, accustomed to the rugged Highland terrain, picked their way easily over rocks and boulders.
Shaw set his teeth against the blinding pain and prayed that he could remain conscious until he reached Inverene House. But with every mile, his determination faded. Perhaps it would be best if he could just die now. Death would be preferable to the pain he was enduring.
“Hold on, Campbell,” came Merritt’s voice from a long way off.