Chapter Nine

A persistent sound teased Diarmad’s ear, penetrating the deep layers of his sleep. He opened his eyes and struggled for memory. He had kept first watch last evening beneath the ice-cold stars while Mara burrowed into the shelter he’d made and at last stopped her shivering. At some point during the night she had appeared at his side and bidden him go take her place. The last he knew, she was stationed, on guard, just outside the mouth of the shelter where he lay.

Now darkness still hovered beyond the pine boughs, and the susurration of waves from the lochan came to him discordantly. Aye, he heard the sound of the water—and something else besides. Where was Mara? He sat up, and the bracken bed rustled. He saw her then, no more than a dark shadow huddled in the open doorway. She waved a frantic arm in his direction, a clear demand for silence.

Alarm and relief tangled together inside him. She was all right, but surely that was a voice speaking at a near distance. Nay, a number of them.

He strained his ears and caught intelligible words. “They came this way, I tell you, and must be nearby. My nose is never wrong.” Deep and gravelly, the tone lifted the hairs on Diarmad’s arms.

“Your nose,” another male voice jeered.

“Aye, Marcus, and ha’ you ever known it to be mistaken? We owe our fortune to this nose, so we do.”

Soldiers? But nay, these were Scottish voices—and Highland. Refugees from the battle? Perhaps so. Dangerous?

Och, aye. Every instinct told him so, and he gathered himself, preparing to move despite Mara’s wave to caution. He felt for his sword and found it within reach on the ground. And his long knife? There, also.

His ear caught a laugh. “Better if your nose led us to a woman.”

“One of them is a woman, I tell you. So those villagers did say, just before we burnt their shieling.”

He saw Mara’s shadow rear and tense. Sudden fear for her clogged his throat. He knew her now, could virtually sense the rash will that took hold of her from time to time. Would she be so mad as to rush out there, filled with indignation?

As silently as possible, he scooted toward her, the sound covered by that of the conversation which continued on the shore of the lochan.

“You should ha’ led us to a brothel. ’Tis what I need this night.”

Diarmad peered over Mara’s shoulder at the scene beyond, silvered by starlight. Four men, all on horseback and most definitely not soldiers. Renegades, then, and as a sinister glitter revealed, all heavily armed. But what sort of renegades claimed the luxury of horses?

Mara turned her head and looked at him. Wide eyes conveyed her dismay and alarm, but she pressed her lips together and did not speak. She had no need to; her expression conveyed all. Were they safe beneath the pine boughs? If they remained silent, would they escape discovery?

He touched her arm for reassurance, and raised the sword in his hand, trying to convey his intent to fight for her—to the death, if need be. He did not know what manner of men these were, but four did not make impossible odds. And, he discovered with some surprise, he would shed the last drop of his blood for this woman.

The men at the shore of the lochan went on talking, jibing and challenging one another.

“You remember that time wi’ the wee lass near Callander? How many times did we each tak’ her before we were done?”

“Before she was done, daft cow. I do no’ ken why she greeted and screamed so. What’s a woman made for, save rutting?”

“Plenty of women left alone in their shielings now, since yon battle. Ripe for the plucking. Why do we have to chase this one?”

“Aye, ’tis accursed cold this night.”

“Fools! This is more than just a woman. Those folk back there said she guides an important personage away from the battle. Do ye no’ ken what that means?”

“It means you are chasing boogies through the heather when I stand in need of a warm bed.”

“Aye, and if her charge is who I think he is, we need preserve only him and not her—she can warm your blood right enough, once we catch them.”

Mara shuddered beneath Diarmad’s hand, and he heard the breath catch in her throat. But the conversation beside the lochan went on.

“My nose tells me she is close by. Hiding, mayhap.”

Damn the fellow’s nose anyway. Diarmad swallowed a groan, and Mara stiffened as her alarm increased.

“Light a torch, Neal, and we will look about. You follow that nose o’ yours.”

“Sweet heaven,” Mara breathed.

“Whisht!” Diarmad exhaled into her ear.

He thought furiously. How well-concealed was their shelter? He had put it together with an eye to comfort and warmth rather than obscurity. Now surely no more than fifty paces separated them from the men. He began to sweat as he weighed their chances of remaining hidden and found them sorely lacking. All a searcher might need was light. If they lit that torch…

He would fight them, och, aye. But if they took him down, what would happen to Mara? Naught to the good, and that meant she would do better to escape.

The men below dismounted and began moving about; one of them struck a flame, and under cover of the distraction Diarmad whispered to Mara, “List to me, I want you to run. Do you hear me? Head up the hillside into the darkness and find cover. Promise me, now.”

Once again she turned her head and gazed into his eyes. What did he see by the pale starlight? A world of emotion brimming over.

“Nay, I will no’ leave you,” she breathed.

“You must. You heard what they said. I will stay and engage them, give you every chance to get away. But you maun run like a hind, lass. ’Tis the best hope I can give you.”

“Nay,” she said again before bending forward and pressing her mouth to his.

Aye, and even at such a moment as this her kiss seared him to the tips of his fingers and toes. All the emotion he’d seen in her eyes—that he could not quite identify—came rushing at him in a torrent. He felt her protest, her denial, and so much more.

Diarmad’s heart, already racing, began to pound in his ears like a big, deep drum. Only his fear on her behalf caused him to push her away and steady her. “Promise me,” he insisted.

Before she could answer, light flared at the edge of the lochan. The sudden radiance caused both Diarmad and Mara to stare. Diarmad’s heart tripped in his chest; there beside the lochan lay something revealed by the light, something he could not identify. But the men fell on it like ravaging crows.

“I told you she was near! Is this no’ a woman’s shawl?”

In agony, Mara lamented, “By heaven, I maun have dropped it in the dark…”

“Hush,” Diarmad told her and raised his sword before him. As he saw it, he had but one choice. He would not hesitate to buy her safety with his own.

“Come out, come out and play, wee lass! We ken fine you are here.” The call came mockingly from the loch side.

Diarmad started forward, but Mara threw both her arms around him.

“Nay!”

All the renegades’ heads swiveled toward her, as one.

“We hear ye, lassie!” In a body, the four men, with the one in the lead carrying a torch, moved toward them.

Diarmad’s heart plummeted sickeningly. No time now for Mara to run. He shoved her behind him and told her fiercely, “Follow my lead.”

He sprang up out of the shelter and to his feet. For an instant everything froze. The man in the lead, torch in his hand, halted. Diarmad fingered the hilt of his sword but did not raise it—not yet.

After a measured moment, the leader spoke. “Well, now, what have we here?” In the garish light, Diarmad saw the man grin. “Is it a cockerel?”

“Nay,” Diarmad said as imperiously as he could manage in his bare feet, “it is your Prince.”

****

Shivering with alarm and cold in the chilly air, Mara stared incredulously. What had the Ramsay just said? Had he gone mad entirely?

“Our what, do ye say?” the villain facing them demanded.

Swiftly, Diarmad returned, “Do you not know your rightful Prince, Charles Edward Stuart?”

Mara hissed between her teeth. The Ramsay almost made it sound convincing, for his voice—haughty and disdainful—held a note of command.

The other three men had paused behind their leader. “What is that?” cried one of them. “Who did he say he is?”

Their leader grunted. “Just as I thought. Your Highness,” he stated mockingly, “I have had word of ye here about the countryside. Indeed, there is news of you having been seen all around the Highlands.”

Mara could not see much of the man’s face in the garish light, but his voice held a note of cunning. “Those who ha’ glimpsed your passing say you travel alone but for a lass.”

“A brave lass,” Diarmad concurred, “under my protection and in service to her King.”

So that was what the Ramsay was about! Mara caught her breath again. If he hoped to appeal to these scoundrels’ better natures—or their fealty—she feared the worst.

“And,” Ramsay went on, “are you likewise brave men? Did you fight at the battle not long past and shed blood for my father—and me?”

“We may ha’ raised our swords there,” the leader said in a measured tone.

One of the others interrupted to jeer, “You are a fool, Neal. That is no’ Charles Stuart.”

“Well, now,” the leader—Neal—said, “do no’ be so certain.” His narrowed gaze, quick in the torch light, gave Ramsay a closer inspection. “The Prince was hastened away out o’ that furious battle, was he no’?”

“Aye, mebbe, but what would he be doing out here wi’out guards or any comforts?”

“Running like a fox,” Neal replied. “Unfortunately for you, Your Highness, you ha’ run straight into our hands. Pull your lass out o’ there and let us take a proper look at her.”

Ramsay lifted his head. “I will not. As I tell you, she is under my protection as well as that of my father’s crown, and I will do as I must to protect her.”

The men stirred, and Neal grinned disconcertingly. “You mean to engage us, sir? I do not think you will find any of us reluctant to shred your royal hide. Yet you are worth far more alive than dead. For her life, though, you will need to bargain.”

Mara closed her eyes in agony. With what did Ramsay have to bargain? She feared herself doomed—she would be used by these scoundrels before her throat was slit, and Ramsay would be forced to watch. Worse, her father and Robert would never know what had happened to her. And she would never have another chance to kiss Diarmad Ramsay…

Carefully, she eased the skean dhu Robert had given her from the pouch at her side. Aye, well, she would not go easily, so they would find.

“I did no’ see you, sir, at Culloden field,” said one of the men at Neal’s back unexpectedly, “but I was there at Glenfinnan when the clans were raised. For all the good that did any of us.”

Aye, so, Mara thought. Diarmad Ramsay was not the only Highlander disillusioned with the cause.

Ramsay turned his face toward the man. “Then you saw me there—and you will recognize me now.”

The man said nothing in the leaping torchlight.

Ramsay altered his tone. “List to me. I know well how many brave men fought and died—for my father’s Cause and mine. We both owe the people of this country a debt we can scarce repay. That does no’ mean I can let you abuse a woman under my protection.”

Neal waved the torch for emphasis. “I would like naught better than to see Your Highness take on these rogues at my back. A prince fighting in defense of a peasant lass! What a story ’twould be to tell round a fire. But if you be who you claim, I can take no such chances. Accompany us quietly, Your Highness, and I give you my word the woman will come to no harm.” He glanced at his men. “Archibald will want to see them, and that means you will ha’ to forego your rutting, my lads, for the time.”

That prompted a chorus of protest and grumbling, all of which Neal ignored. Mara scrambled to her feet at Ramsay’s side, aching to reach for his hand, and slid her knife back into her pouch. It seemed they would live a while longer. But for better or worse, she could not tell.