Chapter Four

Shaw rode his large bay stallion, Rìgh, at the rear of their small party, his senses alert for anyone who might follow. He had allowed Alana to wear the bairn strapped to her after he’d seen that she was indeed a fine rider now that she wasn’t worn out from battle. It would be easier for him to act as protector and guard if he didn’t have to worry about harming the infant.

Alana rode in the middle of their group as they worked their way along a windy path down the steep hills at the base of the Grampian mountain range. Like last night, half of her hair sat piled up on top of her head, caught with the weaving of her hair spike, while the rest of her waves swayed down her straight spine with the gait of her horse.

He ignored the ache where she’d stabbed him. Logan’s handiwork with a needle had pulled the flesh neatly back together, and it should heal without issue unless she stabbed him there a second time. But he wouldn’t have her feeling completely helpless without any type of weapon. He’d felt helpless as a lad, living under the drunken rule of his mother’s brother. It could break a person’s spirit. Alana Campbell hadn’t been harmed physically, but her spirit was surely bruised.

“The sun will be going down soon,” Logan called over his shoulder toward Shaw. “We will not make it to a village tonight, and we are almost out of cow’s milk.”

Shaw scanned the woods behind them, his gaze always looking for threats. “We will stop at the bottom of this hillside. There is a river off to the north.”

The bairn had sucked down the warmed milk they had brought from the festival, but they would need to find more soon or broth with crushed millet or oats in it. After feeding her this morning out of his own leather glove since they’d lost the first one back at the festival, Alana requested to wash the bairn. There hadn’t been time. Traveling at this rate, it would take them another three days to reach the ruins of St. Andrews Castle on the sea where the bairn must be delivered.

The frosty grass on the side of the hill had melted in the afternoon sun, making the horses step carefully to keep from slipping. Alana kept her hand on the top of the bairn’s head or back and held the reins with the other. She bent her head to whisper to the infant or call “good boy” to her hound, who trotted nearby obediently, weaving between the trees. Other than that, she hadn’t uttered a word to any of them on the ride. Not that Shaw required or wanted to engage in foolish chatter. However, it was more difficult to read the emotions playing inside the woman without hearing her voice or seeing her face. The swaying of her lush, gold-streaked hair didn’t tell him if she was planning to stab him again or break away into a sprint with the bairn when the landscape flattened out.

As if feeling his gaze, she turned in her seat to find him. Her pink lips were pinched tight. “Violet needs to be changed. Now.”

“Violet?” Rabbie asked from his horse riding in front of Alana. “Is that her name?”

Alana ignored the man, keeping her gaze on Shaw. “She has soiled herself and leaving her in it will harm her delicate skin.” Against her, the bairn squirmed in the binding, and Shaw could hear her cries.

He looked behind over his shoulder. So far, there had been no sign of pursuit even though the Lowland Scot who had handed the infant off at the festival said that the courier from London reported radicals in pursuit, led by the devilish Major Dixon. Shaw turned forward. “At the base of this hill there is fresh water for her bath.”

He caught the gaze of Alistair up ahead and raised his fingers in a forward sweep through the air. Alistair nodded and lay low over his horse’s neck, riding faster along the path to reach the bottom first, a scout to draw out any ambush. Shaw continued to scan the terrain, which was covered with brightly colored leaves. No tracks were apparent except for the fresh horse and dog prints. Alistair raised his hand, fingers extended, to indicate that he saw no threats, and they continued. When they reached the bottom, Shaw moved up beside Alana and dismounted. He could hear the river off to the left.

“Take her,” she said from up on the horse, unstrapping the bairn. Logan had already dismounted and quickly grabbed the reins from her just in case she thought to break away once the child was handed off. She glared at him.

Shaw easily lifted down the small infant, and a foul smell descended with her, thick and pungent. Alana jumped down and looked toward Rabbie, who was the closest on the other side. “I need warm water to wash her, so a small fire is needed.” The lad looked toward Shaw, and he nodded, sending the young warrior off in search of dry twigs.

Mungo jumped down from his horse, performing his usual bends and jumps that he liked to do. Alana just stared at him, and he came closer to her. He hopped from one foot to the next, his hands raking through his hair to make it stand on end. Damnation. What was Mungo about? He didn’t need to scare the woman any more.

Shaw was about to intervene when Alana stepped before the man, her eyes narrowed. “Why do you do that?” she asked.

“He does not talk,” Alistair said from where he took out a package of wrapped bannocks to pass out.

“Not talking does not make one prance around with wild eyes,” she said, trying to catch Mungo’s gaze. “Have you ever spoken?” she asked him, but he hopped away.

If someone took interest in him, Mungo would act stranger and stranger until the person left him alone in fear for their lives. “Best ignore him,” Shaw said.

Alana planted hands on her hips. “Has anyone looked in his mouth? I have known babes to be born with their tongues tethered, stopping them from speaking.”

Shaw was too busy with the squirming, stench-exuding bairn to answer, holding the swaddled infant away from his body. “I think there is shite up her back,” he said, spying the stains seeping through the swaddling clothes.

Logan and Rabbie made disgusted sounds while Alistair spit on the ground.

“I told you she needed to be cleaned,” Alana answered.

He stepped before her with the infant, but she turned to walk toward the fire that Rabbie was blowing under. “Do we have water to warm?” she asked.

“I will get some from the river,” Logan said, hurrying away from the smelly bairn. They were near the Tummel River. Streams cut through the countryside, and from the sounds of the burbling water, there was a fast-flowing one nearby.

The lass tsked. “One would think that none of you have seen a babe. They drink, piss, and shite. That is how they grow. Food and drink in, food and drink out.” She looked at the warriors, who stared at Shaw holding the bairn out from his body with straight arms, yet the stench still wafted to him on the breeze. Hopefully it wouldn’t stick to him. There were certain odors that just clung: blood, decaying bodies, vomit, and shite.

“None of you have ever been around a babe before, have you?” she asked.

Alistair and Rabbie shook their heads. Mungo just skipped away, leading his horse and Rìgh to find water.

Alana bent to grab some freshly fallen leaves and stomped over to Shaw. “You do not hold her out from you like she is a diseased leper.” He gladly let her take the fussing bairn, and she lay the clump of leaves along the bairn’s back before cradling her in her arms. “Come along, Violet,” she cooed, brushing her lips over her scrunched forehead. “Let us get you clean.”

Everything about Alana Campbell softened as she spoke to the bairn. Her frown relaxed into a gentle smile as she loosened the blanket around the wee face. The woman was quite bonny with creamy skin that likely felt like soft doe hide. He remembered her curves in her tight black trousers from the other night, and her dress fit her form well. What would it be like to have her smile at him that way?

Shaw grunted in the back of his throat and grabbed the bags Mungo had taken off of Rìgh’s back. Alana would despise him until he was dead and picked apart by ravens for carrying her off the way he had. And…her mother was apparently Violet Campbell. His chest tightened.

“There are more wrappings for the bairn in here,” he said, dropping the bag near the fire where Alana had laid out a woolen blanket. Logan came back, setting a small iron pot of river water over the crackling flames of the small fire.

“So, her name is Violet?” Alistair asked. “Violet Campbell?” His eyes opened wide as he stared between Alana and Shaw, but Shaw turned to crouch next to the fire, feeding small twigs into it.

“If anyone asks, yes,” she answered.

“I named her Boudica,” Shaw said and blew, feeding the flames under the pot. “’Tis a fitting name for a strong lass.”

“So is Violet,” Alana countered. “And one that she will not hate when she grows up.”

He turned his face to meet her gaze. “We will know no more of her after we reach St. Andrews,” he said softly. “She will be given her name by people who know her.”

“Family, then?” Alana asked. “We are bringing Violet to kin who will love her?” Her hands paused on the ties cinching the bag, waiting for his answer.

“She is being taken away to keep her safe, so regardless of the blood relation, the bairn will be protected.”

“And loved?”

“Just because one is raised in a family does not mean one will be loved,” Alistair said. Shaw felt his friend’s gaze but ignored it. Pity was not something Shaw would ever acknowledge. His own family had been cold, hateful, weak, or drunk. Nay, he wouldn’t wish a family on the bairn.

“True,” Alana said, looking down at the wee thing on the woolen blanket as she unwrapped her breech cloth. “Perhaps, though, if she will not be loved, she should be raised and loved by someone other than her family.”

“Ye cannot keep the bairn,” Shaw said.

“I am just saying that for a child to grow to be a strong adult, she or he should be loved and—”

“The bairn will continue on the journey she started. Ye can pray for her to be loved if that would help ye,” Shaw said. “And a child does not need to be loved to grow strong.” Wasn’t he a prime example of that? In fact, he often thought of himself stronger from the pain he’d survived. Even the tightness of the flogging scars across his back reminded him how much he could endure and survive. That knowledge made a man stronger.

Alana didn’t look up, but he could see from the tension in the delicate edge of her jaw that she was frowning. Better for her to understand the parameters, so she could guard her heart. Women were sometimes led astray by their hearts, especially when bairns were involved. The love his own mother had carried for him had made her weak and vulnerable to more abuse when he was a small lad.

“Holy God,” Alistair said, staring down at the soiled cloth as Alana rolled the infant out of it. Brown, clinging shite had leaked up the bairn’s back nearly to her neck.

Logan leaned over her with a grimace. “She is ill. Her shite looks different from before.”

Rabbie rushed over, his fingers fanned through his longish hair. “Bloody hell, it was yellow before.” He shook his head, his nose scrunched. “What can we do? The bairn is sick.”

Alana looked from one to the next, all of them, including Shaw, waiting for her pronouncement. “Will she die, then?” Shaw asked.

Alana huffed, dropping her head forward with the force of her exhale in dramatic annoyance. “If you change what you feed a babe, what comes out of a babe changes, too.” She used the cleanest part of the soiled clothes to wipe off most of the brown, stinking mess while the bairn cried. “’Tis perfectly normal for her cac to look brown on cow’s milk, mashed bread, and broth.”

“And stink like the foulness of death?” Rabbie said.

“She does not stink like death,” Alana said.

“As bad as a curdled, decaying corpse,” Alistair said, and Logan nodded in agreement.

“She does not,” Alana said.

“Or like Logan after a night of drinking whisky,” Rabbie said, a smile returning to his face.

Shaw dipped a finger into the water sitting in the small fire, which already felt warm to the touch. He brought it over for Alana to use. “We need to keep moving. Get her cleaned up as fast as ye can.”

Alana met his gaze with a slight smugness. Her eyes were a glorious shade of green with brown flecks in them. “You think my…Kerrick and the Roses are following? You are worried about them.”

My Kerrick? Was the Campbell warrior who had accompanied them to the festival courting Alana? Was he her Kerrick? Shaw had seen the man near Alana often but hadn’t seen him kiss her or even hold her hand. “They may be following,” he answered. “At a slower pace than your dog.” Her hound sat next to the blanket, bending its head low to sniff at the soiled wrappings. “I would rather not have to kill your Kerrick if he tries to stop us.”

She had returned her attention to the bairn, wiping her with warm water. The shite had spread all up her small back, coating her white skin. Her little limbs looked thin and without the chubbiness that he’d seen in older bairns. Alana sought out all the crevices, even the black stub on the bairn’s belly. “She is very young to still have the cord stump,” Alana murmured. Robert’s big black nose nudged close, sniffing at the bairn until Alana pushed his massive head away. “Go on,” she said.

“I saw that black bit when I changed her yesterday. What is it?” Rabbie asked, squatting down to get a better look. “It is hard and rough.”

“The vein that attached the babe to the mother on the inside. It is cut when the babe is born and usually falls off within the first three weeks of life,” she answered, cleaning around it while the bairn kicked impotently and fussed at the coolness. “She is so young and needs to be with her mother.”

“She could die with her mother,” Logan said, and Alistair knocked him in the shoulder with a balled fist. “Och,” Logan said, rubbing it.

“She needs to be warmed,” Shaw said, ignoring the questions in Alana’s eyes, and grabbed the satchel to yank out a change of bindings and swaddling clothes that had come with the infant.

“As soon as she is clean and dry,” Alana said, wiping down the bairn’s legs to her wee little feet, the toes on each one being no bigger than a swollen barley grain.

“Shouldn’t ye cover her…” Rabbie said, pointing down to her female anatomy.

Alana glanced up at him. “Or you could walk away so I can get this done quickly.”

Alistair shoved Rabbie, and the three men turned to meet Mungo as he led back the two horses. Mungo and Rabbie took the remaining horses for water, the wolfhound trotting after them. Shaw watched Alana work with the bairn in silence.

She kept her eyes turned down as she rinsed out the rag and washed her little back. “I would strike a bargain with you,” she said, glancing quickly at him and then back to her task.

“A bargain?” The woman had little with which to bargain.

“Yes,” she said, sitting back on her heels. She covered the bairn’s naked body, leaving her little feet out to finish. Alana’s chin rose slightly, her lush lips pursed. “I happen to need to go east toward St. Andrews, actually to Edinburgh, which is less than a day’s journey from where you are forcing me to ride.”

“The Campbells were planning to travel this way, too?” he asked.

“Yes, eventually, but I worry that they will be too slow, waiting for my brother to send troops.” Her nose wrinkled, and she let out a long exhale as if warring within herself about how much to reveal. When he didn’t respond, she lifted her gaze to his. “My mother is a prisoner at Edinburgh Castle. I just found out that she still lives, but I believe her to be failing. She might not survive another winter there, so I am going to free her.”

“From a fortified castle?” he asked. “Alone?”

“I plan to petition for her release first, but if it is not granted…” She tipped her nose higher, a look of fierce determination on her delicate features. “Then yes, I will find my way in and free her.”

She didn’t seem like a lass lost to fantasy, so she must be desperate. “What is your proposed bargain?” he asked, watching her closely.

Her shoulders dropped as if relief had melted away the tension holding her stiff, and she inhaled fully. “I will help keep the babe alive, without you needing to guard me every second and worry about me…slitting your throats or trying to tell the authorities in any town we happen upon…” She sat straighter, her slender neck exposed above her shawl. “And you will take me to Edinburgh as soon as we deliver the babe in St. Andrews.”

“So ye can free your mother? Alone?” Alana was exceedingly brave or delusional.

Flustered, her shoulders raised in a shrug and then fell. “If you help me in any way to free her there, then I will convince my brother and the rest of the Campbell clan not to hunt you down and slaughter you in retribution for taking me from the Samhain festival.”

They stared at one another for long seconds. The thought of battling Campbells actually filled Shaw with anticipation, not dread, so her veiled threat didn’t have the effect for which the lass was hoping. But having her willingly help them instead of the continued stiff silences and glares was enticing. Not that he thought she’d ever forgive him, but if he helped her save her mother, perhaps she wouldn’t wish for his painful death with each breath. And just maybe the guilt that had plagued him since the battle outside Stirling would stop eating away at his gut.

“Agreed,” he said. “But I speak only for myself. I will not order my men to help, but ye can ask them. Logan has a kindness that makes him want to rescue anyone who needs it. Alistair is always up for a mission that might lead to death, and Mungo usually follows him. Rabbie will likely help if ye smile at him when ye ask.”

She blinked, taking in his advice, and finally nodded. “It is agreed, then. I will help you, and you will help me.”

She looked back down at the bairn, who was making little circles with her lips as if she just realized that she had dominion over them. Her thin legs kicked out from the blanket, and Alana caught one of her feet to wipe it clean, taking up the second. Rubbing, she paused, leaning in, and scrubbed at the wee toes.

“What is this?” she murmured, inspecting the digit.

Shaw couldn’t see what she was looking at. They’d only had the bairn for less than a day before they left the festival. Perhaps she had an odd birthmark?

Alana bent down low, tipping her head to meet Shaw’s gaze. She swallowed, her soft-looking lips parting. She held the wee toe as the bairn whimpered. “Shaw,” she said. “This babe has been…branded.”

…

Alana stared up at Shaw, but she didn’t see guilt, only anger in the bend of his brows. “The burn is nearly healed,” she said, warming the little foot in the palm of her hand. “It must have been done soon after she was born.”

For the largeness of the man, Shaw moved with rapid grace as he squatted down, taking up the tiny toe to examine the red circle, coated with dry scabs, on the bottom of it. With slow movements, his fingers pinched, he picked at the wound.

“Do not break it open to bleed,” Alana said.

“It is a design,” he answered and grabbed the wet rag Alana had used, finding a clean corner. He dipped it in the water and wiped away a bit of the scab that had come loose and looked up to meet Alana’s gaze. “It looks like a rose.”

A rose? She met his gaze. “Do you know what it stands for?” she asked.

Before Shaw could respond, the Sinclair with the full brown beard, Logan, ran up to them, squatting down as if hiding. “Riders,” he said. “Coming across the side of the hill from the south.”

“My students.” Alana quickly wrapped the babe up in the swaddling clothes and wool blanket.

Logan shook his head, his sword already unsheathed. “They wear red and carry muskets from what Mungo could see.” He nodded to the south, where Alana saw Mungo running toward them in a low crouch.

English. She picked up the infant, sliding her snuggly into the wrapper that she twined around her own body, so Shaw wouldn’t grab the baby away. “The English are coming for their babe,” she said. “Perhaps the mother sent them.”

Shaw’s hands landed heavily on her shoulders as she cradled the infant between them. He bent to look in her eyes as if willing her to believe what he was about to say. His gray eyes came so close that she could see the darker flecks around the centers. “The English are coming to slaughter this bairn, not save her. We need to hide her.”

“Why would they want to kill an infant?” she argued, but the force in his words told her that he believed what he’d just said, believed and was willing to die to keep the child from whoever was coming down the steep hillside.

“Why would a mother secret her newborn bairn away except to hide it?” he asked but didn’t wait for her reply. He looked to Logan. “We will move near the river until they pass.”

“The fire—” Logan said.

“Scuff it out and hide the soiled clothes. Let’s hope they think we have moved on.”

“If they do not?” he asked.

“Do not let them cross the river,” he answered and grabbed Alana’s arm. It was a strong grip but didn’t bruise. “We need to go,” he said, his deep voice adding to the increased thudding of her heartbeat beneath the baby. There was no burning castle in which to be locked, but angry English soldiers were dangerous on their own. And she had a baby to protect.

To the right, she spotted Alistair and Rabbie crouched down in the undergrowth. Mungo must be with their horses at the river. And Robert? Where was he?

Clutching the baby to her chest, Alana began to run through the deeply colored woods toward the sound of rushing water. Her damn skirts were catching on limbs and slowing her legs. Her gaze swept between the trees.

“Shaw, my dog.”

“There’s no time. He will follow your scent this way.”

She kicked at her skirts as they ran, a few shouts coming from behind them. They’d been seen. She tripped on a tangle of bramble and would have fallen with the child if Shaw’s grip weren’t under her arm. “Damn skirts,” she said in a soft rush of breath. “They tie a woman’s legs.”

She gasped as Shaw’s arm hit the back of her knees. He bent to lift her without breaking his stride, his boots leaping over limbs as he ran. She no longer heard the men behind her. Shaw’s dashing through the undergrowth, mixed with the increasing rush of the fast-moving river ahead and the pounding of her own heart, had obliterated all other sounds in the world. She felt the babe squirm and cupped her little head, hopping the jarring wouldn’t harm the delicate girl who was already having a very difficult life. Branded, sent away from her mother, and now chased by English devils who may want her dead.

She leaned into Shaw’s strong chest, wrapping one arm around his neck to steady them while the other clutched her precious bundle. Up ahead, the river rushed by. “How deep is it?” she asked.

Shaw paused, looking across and along the leaf-covered bank. Far downstream, Alana could see the horses. If she could reach Rainy, she and the baby could ride farther and faster to hide. “The horses,” she yelled over the sound of the water. Robert bounded out of a clump of brambles next to them, chasing a pheasant that took flight. “Robert, come,” she called.

As soon as the words fell from her lips, a pair of red-coated soldiers rushed up to the horses with muskets. “No!” she yelled as Shaw yanked her around a thick tree trunk so that only their faces could be seen. “Robert,” she whispered, watching in horror as her loyal friend ran up to the men, barking. But he didn’t attack. He didn’t know the darkness in their hearts, the darkness that would make them hunt an innocent baby.

“Mo chreach,” Shaw said, his jawline hard as his head whipped around, looking for a place to run.

Alana stuck her smallest finger in the babe’s mouth to keep her from crying out. Violet sucked on it, her eyes open, watching her face.

Shaw shifted them in his arms, tugging at his kilt, and it fell into the leaves at his booted feet.

“We are going across the river,” he said, lifting her higher in his one arm as he bent to yank his sword from his scabbard that had fallen with his kilt. With a muttered curse, he dropped the sword again and grabbed her more securely with both hands.

“Robert,” she said, yanking open her skirt strings at her waist with her free hand.

“He will follow ye to the other side. Meanwhile, he’s distracting them with the cunning of a talented jester.”

Alana glanced around the tree to see Robert dancing around the two men, his thick, shaggy tail wagging as he tried to make friends. The men were too close to fire at him but threatened him by swinging the weapons in his direction. Robert thought it great fun, like when Alana threw sticks for him.

“Set me down so I can rid myself of these heavy skirts,” she said and slowly removed her finger from the babe’s mouth.

“Quick, then. Before they notice us.”

As soon as she felt the ground beneath her boots, she shook her hips and let her skirts drop, pooling below. She was left in her black woolen trousers with her stays over her long white smock. She gathered the end of the underdress, tying it high in a knot at her waist. The babe whimpered against her.

“Here,” he said, handing a sgian dubh to her. It was her own dagger, snatched away by Alistair when they were back in the tent at the festival. “Ye may have need of it.”

Shoving the blade into the holster in her boot, she glanced at Shaw’s bared legs under the long tunic he wore. They were corded with muscle, holding his large frame easily as he waited for her. “Your kilt would weigh you down in the water?” she asked.

His arm caught under her legs, and her breath hitched as he lifted her up. He peered around the tree. “I fight better without it.”

Alana had read about the legendary Celts who fought without wearing a stitch of clothing. Did the Sinclair clan follow the same strategy?

“Hold tight,” he said, giving her only a heartbeat to draw in air before he plunged out of the tree line, his booted feet taking them directly into the cold river. With barely a splash, he surged forward, holding her and the baby above the waterline. How deep was it? Would they be carried away with the current? Fear, as cold as the water rising up past Shaw’s waist, clasped Alana. Over a year ago, Alana had nearly been killed by fire. Now would she die by the cruel, unstoppable water?

“Stop!” one of the English soldiers yelled, and she saw him lift his musket. Shaw pressed against the mighty current, which was so much stronger than what appeared from the bank.

“Good Lord,” Alana prayed, her arm clutching the crying child to her. “Save us.”