Chapter Four

Abby stood with her kin and half a dozen bags on the coast of Kylerhea, overlooking the strait toward Glenelg on the mainland. She wasn’t afraid of the journey she was about to take, but she’d never left Skye before. She’d never left her clan. Some of her kinsmen would travel a day behind her, but she wouldn’t see them. The queen’s men couldn’t know they were there. She was to arrive in England with only the queen’s men as escorts and that was exactly how it must appear to the queen.

The cup of whisky her uncles had given her before they all left Camlochlin afforded no comfort to her frazzled nerves. Instead, she reached for the comfort of a man’s strong hand.

She looked up into his tender gaze and felt the sting of tears in her eyes. “I thought he would come, Grandpapa.”

Callum MacGregor looked over his shoulder at the empty road they had traveled. Her father wasn’t there. He wasn’t coming to see her off, to wish her a safe journey. It almost stopped her from leaving.

“I remember the day I asked him to travel to England,” her grandfather told her. “Our clan was invited to King James the Second’s coronation. Rob didna’ wish to go, believin’ that the safety of the clan depended on us bein’ here to protect them. The clan’s safety always came first to him. Just like it does to ye, Abigail.”

She smiled at him, loving him for the comfort he gave her in this moment.

“Was the trip to England when he met Mother?”

“Aye, ’twas.” He smiled at her and for the life of her she couldn’t imagine him slaughtering a regimen of men with his little sister tossed over his shoulders. “He’ll come, love. Dinna’ fear. Ye’re his treasure.”

“I know he loves me, Grandpapa. I hope he’s not too late though.”

She knew Queen Anne’s men had to be close. It had been a fortnight since her aunt’s reply arrived with her instructions to Abigail and an estimate of the day her escorts should arrive.

Today was the day. They were coming today and they knew nothing about her save for what Anne had told them, that she was to be one of the queen’s handmaidens.

What would England be like? What if her aunt tried to have her killed? The thought had crossed Abby’s mind. What if the queen didn’t give a damn about assurances? What if she didn’t care if she killed the true heir or the heir’s daughter? She could go after the next one later. Abby had thought about it being a trap. But still, she had to go. There was no other choice. Of course, there was the chance that Abby’s relative would be welcoming. Given the chance, Abby would win her over.

She felt the slight touch of strong, broad fingers against her arm and turned up to her father. He said nothing while he pulled her shoulder closer within the rippling power of his chest.

“I feared I missed ye, Abby.”

She closed her eyes against his arm. “I’m glad ye didna’ miss me, Faither.”

When he swept her up in his embrace, she smiled over his shoulder at her grandsire, who winked a turquoise eye at her.

“I dinna’ want ye to do this.”

She knew. She knew what this was taking for her father. He was the protector, the guardian of the clan, as his father had been. But he could do nothing to assure his own daughter’s safety against an entire kingdom.

“Remember,” he warned, his powerful blue eyes wide with worry. “We are proscribed. Tell no one yer name. Ye are Abigail Campbell if questioned.”

“Aye, Faither,” she obeyed. “Is Mother all right?”

“She weeps fer ye but yer aunts and grandmother are with her. She will be fine as long as ye are fine, as well.”

“I will be. And ye will be close behind.”

“Aye.” He smiled, as handsome as any man had a right to be. “I’ll be close behind.”

“Rob.” Colin came to stand beside his brother and pointed to the ferry coming in from the opposite shore.

Abby’s heart clamored in her chest. Her thoughts turned to her mother weeping over her, her brothers and cousins, Mailie, Violet, and Nichola. When would she see them again? She felt responsible for them all. They needed her.

Determined to make it back for them, she conquered her sadness and her fear and stepped away from her father when the ferry dropped anchor and the queen’s escorts gained their saddles and rode toward them.

She braced her legs, setting her boots firmly on the ground, and lifted her chin. She knew her defiance was born mainly from the sheer strength and power coming toward her. These men were escorts, nothing more. She didn’t want their first impression of her to be that she was a sniveling woman afraid of them just because they were English. She was born of a long line of warriors. Her first instinct was to defend. She understood only too well that her country was being conquered slowly but surely by the English, perhaps even by the very men who trampled the delicate heather beneath the hooves of their stallions as they approached.

“The queen sends only four men to guard my daughter when she crosses the country,” her father muttered angrily moments before the riders reached them.

Each wore a common man’s dress of long coat and breeches, and a sheath dangling from his hip. Three of the riders held back, creating a line of brawn and steel as they drew their swords behind one whom Abby guessed was the leader. The four men were outnumbered at least five to one. If her kin attacked, the escorts’ meager swords would offer them little aid.

For a moment, no one spoke a word while Abby tilted her head up to have a view of the mounted men. She could sense the thick tension emanating from her kin and she prayed none of them, especially her brothers, did anything foolish. When she turned to the lead rider, she was amazed to find only cool arrogance in eyes the vivid green of a glade on a summer day staring back down at her. A shiver, neither hot nor cold, trickled down her spine and quickened her breath. He was terribly beautiful, arrayed in strength and deep confidence. In fact, he looked positively fearless on his snorting black destrier with sunlight radiating off his broad shoulders and setting fire to his clipped auburn locks. She squinted up at him and scowled at herself for being moved by his appearance. He was no boy, but five to ten years older than her cousins. Experience and mistrust hardened his features. Taller in the saddle than his comrades, he radiated an air of authority of one who demanded instant obedience. She looked away before he did, sensing a power in this man that challenged her. Perhaps another day, she thought, biting her tongue. She was used to intimidating warriors and she wasn’t afraid of him, but she wouldn’t foolishly provoke him in front of her kin and get him killed.

“I am General Daniel Marlow of Her Majesty the Queen’s Royal Army.” His voice fell in deep, rich tones around her ears.

“And knight of the Most Noble Order of the Garter.”

Her cousin Malcolm stepped forward. Malcolm had traveled to England on a number of occasions and must have heard of him.

“And also the Earl of Darlington, aye?” Adam added. Everyone there from her clan, including Abby, turned to offer Adam a surprised look that he would know such things.

So, her escort was a general, an earl, and a knight of the Most Noble Order of the Garter? Abby gave him another looking over, deciding as her eyes lingered on his booted legs and muscular thighs, his rigid posture in the saddle, the sun gleaming off his head, and the long broadsword dangling from his hip that he indeed resembled a knight.

“That’s correct,” he answered, sounding bored before he set his eyes on her again. “Miss Abigail MacGregor?”

Her blood heated her veins and rushed to her heart. Her knees went weak beneath her and, not for the first time since Queen Anne’s letter had reached them, she wished her kinsmen were escorting her.

Her father stepped forward. “I am clan chief Robert MacGregor of the MacGregors of Skye. Her father.”

General Marlow turned his head and simply nodded at her father. Abby narrowed her eyes on him. She wasn’t used to seeing anyone show her father so little respect.

“Is this the girl?” he asked, turning back to her, his expression darkening on her Highland attire. His distaste was obvious. He didn’t like Highlanders, or mayhap it was Jacobites he had an aversion to. Either way, she didn’t like him either. Knight or not.

This trip wasn’t going to be pleasant.

“My father is the clan chief of one of the most fearsome clans in Scotland.” She gritted her teeth as she spoke. “You should be off yer mount and on your knees thanking him fer not skinning ye alive.”

The rider glanced down at her with eyes of fathomless, faceted green. “Lady,” he said, his voice a compelling blend of elegance and cool undertones, “I serve God and Queen Anne. Since neither has decreed your father’s royal status to me, I remain in my saddle.”

He looked briefly to his right. “Hubert, unarm the lady of her sword.”

Abby stepped back, placing her fingers on the hilt at her side. She raised her chin with an icy stare in the leader’s direction. His expression changed in an instant from uninterested to threatening. He said nothing, and yet the raw challenge in his glare stilled her heart. She’d trained almost every day of her life but never actually fought an enemy. And she didn’t want to fight one now, especially since her father would most likely kill the poor fool before she had time to fight, and then Queen Anne would send her forces to Skye for battle rather than diplomacy.

The brute called Hubert dismounted and held out his hand to receive Abby’s weapon. She handed it over without comment, but managed a black glare to the general.

“I willna’ have my daughter ride all the way to England withoot protection,” her father growled.

“That’s what I’m here for,” Marlow said without taking his eyes off her. “She will—”

He didn’t flinch when he felt the steel of her father’s claymore between his legs. He merely looked from the chief’s deadly eyes down to the tip of the blade and lifted an eyebrow.

“Before even one of yer men can move to save ye,” the MacGregor chief warned him, his eyes burning fire into the arrogant rider, “I will have driven my blade into ye, riddin’ England of any future heirs ye may have. The blade will then sever yer mount’s spine. The beast will fall to the ground, and ye will find yerself on yer arse before me. I dinna’ seek homage from ye, Englishman, only the respect due to my daughter.”

The air went deadly still. Even the knight’s own men dared not take a breath while their leader stared, seemingly unfazed, into the face of the man who threatened him. Then, to Abby’s astonishment, the English knave had the audacity to curl his gloved fingers around her father’s blade and lift it away from his precious nether region. He positioned it, instead, at his throat.

“I despise the senseless bloodshed of horses, especially that of a beast as fine as Vengeance. If you wish a display of why the queen sent me and not anyone else to escort your daughter to her, I would be happy to show you. But I will not kiss your arse, or hers, no matter how many men stand behind you.” He looked over the chief’s shoulder and spread his eyes over the rest of her kin.

Abby thought they looked damned fearsome. This knight was mad not to fear them. Either that, or the confidence he oozed from every nuance of movement was authentic.

In the next instant, he proved that it was.

Abby had to admit that lifting her father’s blade to his throat had been risky, but now, as he moved, she saw the advantage.

No longer impeded by steel, the English knight swept his legs over the saddle in one fluid motion and was on his feet, his own sword positioned at the chief’s neck.

Rob MacGregor smiled. Behind him, Abby squeezed her eyes shut. “All right then,” her father said, “show me how ye will protect my daughter.” He took a quick step back, his neck just out of reach of the other man’s blade, and swept his fur cloak off his wide shoulders. “Ye’ll begin with one man, me. Ye must work yer way up, if ye still can.” He swung. He swung hard.

For an instant, his opponent blinked, then scowled as the MacGregor chief’s shocking strength became apparent.

Abby gasped when the queen’s man lifted both hands to stop her father’s sword from descending upon his unprotected skull. He fought defensively for the next several moments, barely escaping the crushing weight of Rob MacGregor’s sword arm. But he made the necessary adjustments fast, using his lithe, less bulky body to evade such power and find victory against it.

There was no doubt watching him. He intended to win. He moved very quickly and with precise intentions. His long coat snapped around his legs as he spun around and brought his sword up, almost slicing off the chief’s arm when her father swung, barely an instant slower than the knight.

Abby watched with her heart in her throat. She would not gasp or even breathe loud enough to distract her father. She knew he was not fighting to the death, else he would have killed this General Marlow already. Still, she was loath to admit the knave was doing surprisingly well against her father.

They fought for another quarter of an hour before her uncle Colin stepped into the fray and let his sword dance under the stark sun. Hell, no one ever beat Uncle Colin.

It wouldn’t be fair for any man to have to fight her father and Colin, but she wasn’t usually placed in the care of any other man. If Marlow couldn’t save her from a group of men, which was likely to be found in the forests leading toward England, then he wasn’t fit to escort her. The fight was fair.

Amazingly, the general took them both on, slightly winded, but still quick enough on his feet to avoid most strikes. When the rest of her uncles joined the dance, Abby found her gaze fixed on the knight. Heaven help her, she hated to admit that he was astounding. Aye, his breath came hard and deep, the Highlanders had exhausted him by forcing him to defend himself against so many strong arms, but he didn’t surrender and he didn’t falter. His stamina and sheer determination moved her. When her brother moved to have a go at him next, Abby’s grandsire stopped him.

“Ye need more time in the practice field, lad.”

Adam didn’t argue. Their grandsire commanded the respect of all his kin. They gave it gladly. Besides, he was fully correct about Adam. He didn’t practice often and wasn’t skilled enough for such a contest and would end up hurt.

Abby turned back to the fight. She watched for a moment, knowing that the only way to gain victory was to take out the chief. General Marlow knew it too, and with what looked to be his last ounce of strength, he feigned a right turn and came back left with lightning speed and brought his blade back to where it had begun. At her father’s throat. The others all froze and then backed away. Her grandpapa smiled and nodded his head with approval.

With his spine stiff against the bracing Highland wind and the chill of steel against his pulse, Rob stared into Daniel’s eyes. “Well done.” And then he grinned and dropped his gaze to his own blade, carefully positioned exactly where it too had begun, between Marlow’s legs.

The general straightened, the hint of a smile more dangerous than his sword. He withdrew his weapon and stepped back. “Word of your skill and strength are true, Chief. I thank you for acknowledging mine.”

So, Abby thought, watching him, he’d asked about her father’s strength and skill before coming here. He was prepared. A good trait in a warrior. And this man who’d just taken on her father and her uncles, including her uncle Colin, was a warrior indeed.

“My daughter’s life will be in yer hands, General.”

Her father went to her, took her hand, and kissed it. “Will ye no’ change yer mind?”

“I canna’ change it, Faither,” she told him. She saw the helplessness on his face and felt sorry for him because she knew he didn’t like feeling helpless. She knew what it was doing to him and wished there was another way.

He returned his attention to her escort. “General, will ye fight fer her with the same passion and determination ye had whilst fightin’ all of us?”

The general straightened his spine as if his words meant more to him than they realized. “You have my word that I will. She will arrive in England safely and return to you as she left with no mar or flaw.” While he spoke, he looked over her father’s shoulder at her cousins, who were carrying her bags to the horses. “What do you think you’re going to do with those sacks?” he called out, stopping the lads.

“We’re goin’ to secure them to—”

The general shook his head and stepped around her father. “No. One bag. Our mounts won’t be saddled down with useless trinkets and more gowns than the lady needs. One bag.”

He turned his gaze on her, as did the rest of the men in her company. She could protest; being a woman, it would be expected. She believed she needed every item she’d packed, and she didn’t know how she would do without them, but she would, damn it. For her kin, she would. She pointed at her brother, knowing what was inside the bag he carried. “Adam, just the bag ye carry then.”

Marlow turned away without even thanking her for being so agreeable. She didn’t like him.

Her father took her in his arms, looking miserable; Abby almost didn’t want to go.

“Do I have yer word ye will remain with him throughout yer journey, no matter how he angers ye?”

“Aye, Faither, ye have my word.”

After long, teary farewells to her kin, Abby tossed her escort a murderous glare when he spoke again.

“You can ride, I hope? I won’t put my mount to the task of carrying us both all the way to England.”

“If I didna’ know how to ride, I would learn now. I’d rather walk than ride with an Englishman.”

He didn’t smile while he mounted his horse with a single leap.

After he gave the order to his men to ride out, he rode beside her toward the ferry, quiet and uninterested as she turned in her saddle, wiped the tears from her eyes, and waved farewell to her father and the rest of her kin one last time.

“That’ll be enough crying, lady.” He finally spoke to her. “This journey will be arduous enough. I don’t want to hear that the whole way.”

Abby glared at his back when he rode ahead of her. She didn’t dislike him.

She hated him.

And she’d just given her father her word to remain with him no matter how he angered her.

“Let’s strike a bargain between us, General. Ye dinna’ speak to me and I will hold back my emotions and not smash a rock over yer head while ye sleep.”

Damn it, was that a smirk half concealed on his face? She couldn’t tell, because he moved forward and rode at her mount’s shoulder. She should be afraid that the general had a temper and might strike her. But she was certain the queen had warned him not to let any harm come to her… at least not yet.

“Very well, Miss MacGregor, if you prefer to be bound while I sleep, I’ll see it done.”

Not if she killed him. But first, she had to get her sword back.