Maybe This Time, page 7
Megan often spoke of the flutterings she’d felt on catching a mere glimpse of Paul, God rest his soul. True, Megan had loved her husband. But Alyssa was dutiful. She cared for Kenrick. She should feel something good inside.
Soon, she supposed, he would take her to wife. It was unavoidable. She was already twenty-two, long past marriageable age. But he’d yet to mention fulfilling their contract, and she’d just as soon remain a maid as wed him. The man was boastful of his worth. Sinful, that. For now, it seemed that they were both content to leave things as they were. Yet when he demanded she marry him, she would do her duty and become his wife. How she dreaded that day.
He paced impatiently from the table to the hearth. The firelight made his hair look like shiny carrots, and—good God, the man was dressed for battle! How could she not have noticed?
From the steps, she scanned the hall for her father, but he was blatantly absent—again. Megan stood quietly beside a lump draped in cloth on the floor. What had her riled enough to make her wring her hands?
Alyssa entered the great hall, stopped beside one of the long wooden tables in the rear, and waited until she caught Duncan’s eye.
When he looked at her, she dipped her head, as was proper, and caught his answering glint of approval. He’d taught her the behavior of a warrior—both on and off of the training field. And one of her first lessons had been to lull others into complacency.
Flaunt not your abilities. Being physically inferior, surprise is your strongest defense. Duncan’s creed. How he had drummed those words into her mind!
He addressed her now, his wooden cup clunking against the hilt of the sword strapped to his hip, his expression as rigid as his body. “Lady Cameron.”
Her proper title was Lady Alyssa, of course. But when her mother had died, her father had insisted Alyssa be titled Lady Cameron. She hadn’t wanted the public recognition; bestowing upon his daughter the title reserved for the lord’s wife would surely spur gossip, and the last thing she needed was for the Buchannan to note happenings at Cameron hall too closely. Yet, after losing her mother and her brother, Paul, Alyssa didn’t want to lose her father, too. Objecting would have offended him immensely, and her father offended was not something Alyssa or the clan desired or enjoyed.
Chewing a bite from a fat wedge of cheese, Kenrick ambled toward her. “Mayhap you can ferret out your father.” He waved the pungent wedge at her. “I’ve great need to speak with him.”
So much for greetings, Alyssa thought. One look at Megan and her sister-in-law’s expression said all that needed saying between them. John Cameron was abed. Sotted—again. “My father is indisposed, my lord, but might I be of assistance?”
“Indisposed?” Kenrick’s voice thundered through the hall. “Well, un-indispose him, my lady. The Buchannan has called up his allied-vassals. We must leave at once for his castle.”
Alyssa’s heart skipped, then thudded a wild beat. The Buchannan was mighty. A strong, ruthless chieftain, if legend were believed. He was laird of many clans. Some had no choice. But some, including her own, had pledged him their fealty in return for his protection. Clans Cameron, Innes, Grant, MacMillian, and Lindsay, being the larger of these vassals. And exercising sovereign rights granted him by King Edgar, the Buchannan granted them their own identity as an allied-vassal, a clan, when in fact they were his vassals. Aside from those, his allies were many. Though Scots were brave, not many chose to willingly feud with the Buchannan.
The horrid truth struck her. The Buchannan would have no need to call up his allied-vassals for a feud; alone, his numbers were too great. Which could mean that King Edgar had summoned. And, oh God, that meant war!
She swallowed down a lump of fear. “He has called up Clan Cameron?”
“Aye,” Kenrick replied, taking the cup of ale that Megan offered him.
“For what purpose?”
Kenrick slammed the cup down on the long wooden table at Alyssa’s side. Ale sloshed over its rim and splattered her bliaut.
“You dare to ask, woman? Summon your father at once. ‘Tis not your blood what’s called for spilling!”
Anger boiled in Alyssa, but she caught Duncan’s warning look and swallowed the sharp reply burning her tongue. “I meant no offense, my lord. I shall—”
“My lord,” one of his men interrupted, calling out from the entrance to the hall. “We must ride. A storm blows from the south.”
Kenrick gave his man a curt nod, then turned to Duncan. “I leave the task in your hands—and on your head—to deliver the call to Lord Cameron.”
Duncan’s faded eyes blazed. “Clan Cameron will answer its chieftain’s call, Lord Innes.”
Kenrick strode from the hall without seeing the anger in Duncan. An anger Alyssa knew well—and avoided at any cost, save truth. She gripped the rough table edge to steady her nerves, but her voice still shook. “It is war, is it not, Duncan?”
“Aye, my lady.” He gave her a resigned look. “It is war.”
“Why north to the castle?” She dragged her nail over a notch someone had carved into the wood. “Why not south to England?”
“‘Tis not a war with England, my lady. Though ‘tis the English what attack the Buchannan.”
Alyssa grimaced. “Raiders?”
“Aye.”
She shook her head. “Fools.”
“Aye, fools,” Duncan agreed, taking a long draw from his cup. “The Buchannan wants a show of strength to quell any desire the Raider’s countrymen might have to follow their lead.”
Relieved, Alyssa breathed easier and let go of the table. The splintered grain left pressure dents in her fingertips. Her king had not summoned. Mayhap her secret of leading her clan was safe. “The Buchannan will kill them,” she predicted, then called out. “Megan, where is my father?”
“He’s on the floor, my lady.”
“What?” Alyssa spun to face her sister-in-law. Standing as stiff as a corpse, the woman looked waxy pale. Any second, she’d blink her lashes right off her lids.
Megan bent down and lifted a burlap cloth from the lump on the floor. “I—I knew not what to do, Lady Alyssa. I didn’t want to be disrespectful, but there was no time to move him before Lord Innes arrived.”
Alyssa’s face burned fire hot. She rolled her gaze heavenward, wishing the dirt beneath the rushes would crack open and swallow her.
John Cameron, Lord of Clan Cameron, lay sprawled in a drunken heap on the earthen floor.
Silently, Alyssa cursed her father’s weakness. “It’s all right, Megan. Your quick thought saved us Innes’s scorn. Kindly have your lord put to bed.” Duncan’s disgust was evident to those who knew him. And, though he tried to hide it, his lady knew him well. “I’m sorry, Duncan.”
Duncan cleared his throat. “We must respond to the Buchannan’s call.” She knew the anger glistening in Duncan’s eyes wasn’t directed at her, but at her father.
That was worse. Grief made her father like he was. Soul-deep grief. “Aye. Summon the men. Leave only enough to protect the holding. I’ll ready quickly.”
“Ready?” Duncan’s jaw fell slack. “You canna answer the Buchannan’s call, my lady! War is men’s work!”
In her training, Alyssa had learned the value of suppressing her emotions. She buried her impatience with little effort, and spoke in a deceptively soft voice. “Would you rather have my father guard your back?”
Duncan lifted his gaze to the open stairway. Two guards were carrying a limp John Cameron toward his quarters. Spittle dribbled from the corner of the lord’s mouth and his red-streaked eyes rolled back in his head. A shiver crawled up Duncan’s spine and anger churned in his belly. “Nay, my lady. But my back is less important than your safety.”
“Not to me.” She smiled at her faithful second. “I can’t ask my soldiers to do battle, if I myself am unwilling. I will not. Surely you see that honor gives me no choice. Not to go would be unjust to my men.”
Duncan frowned, deepening the creases in his leathery skin to grooves. “Aye, my lady, I see it. But I don’t have to like it.”
THE CAMERON soldiers rode due north for two days. Although it was late summer, the wind had a sharp bite to it and the temperature had grown cooler with their climb.
The mountainous terrain gave way to the stark and rugged plateau that marked the border of Buchannan lands. Alyssa had never been this far into the Highlands, and her interest showed. Duncan had long since become exasperated with her many questions. Duncan drew his horse alongside hers. “Well?”
She pulled her plaid closer around her and secured it with a leather strap at her waist before looking at him. “Well, what?”
“What do you think of it?”
“It’s a harsh and unforgiving land, I’d say.” The air was crisp and sparkling clean. She breathed in deeply. “But a lovelier land I’ve never seen.”
Duncan looked stunned. “Lovely? Bah, you jest, Lady Alyssa. ‘Tis barren.”
“I do not jest,” she insisted. “‘Tis lovely. Vast and rugged and strong. God is a most able artist, is He not, Duncan?”
He ignored her question. She gave Streak a pat on the neck and looked up at the late afternoon sky. It was more blue than any she’d looked upon before. “Duncan, mayhap you should not address me as a lady. We are going into battle.”
“I still dinna approve—”
“So you’ve said at least a hundred times in these two days past. Nevertheless, I am going.”
“Very well, my la—lord.”
Alyssa laughed deep from her throat. “That sounds strange. Well, I can fight as well as a man. Lord will suit, I suppose.”
Duncan mumbled the penalty for humility, or, more accurately, for Lady Alyssa’s lack of it. “‘Tis time we stopped and readied ourselves.”
A SHORT TIME later, Alyssa stood at Duncan’s side and faced her soldiers. The Cameron plaids were pleated and secured at the waists of her men. Most were bare-chested, but sprinkled through the group were a few warriors who’d added a deep green shirt. And now and then, mainly among the younger warriors, she saw some wearing pairs of black boots.
Her men recognized her, though outsiders would find nothing female in her dress. She’d disguised herself from head to toe. The only color in her garb was her plaid. A black hood concealed her silver hair. Black breeches and soft boots concealed her legs and feet—and, God willing, her sex. Thanks to Duncan’s foresight, her disguise would not hinder her ability to fight. He’d insisted—though she’d cursed him mightily for it at the time—that she train in this attire, just in case. Aye, he was a man of vision.
Duncan raised his hand and the soldier’s rumblings ceased. “The Lady Alyssa is to be called Lord Cameron until we return to Cameron hold. Any man who defies this order shall die by my hand.”
It was the longest speech Alyssa had ever heard Duncan make. When he seated his mount afterward, she knew his patience was on a short tether and she wasted no time in taking to Streak.
They’d been riding a short while, when in the distance, Alyssa saw her scout guard returning to them. His horse’s hooves kicked up a cloud of dust that told her he rode at full speed. “Duncan.”
“Aye, I see.”
Her stomach tensed and Alyssa spurred Streak at the same time Duncan did his horse.
When they drew close enough, the winded guard shouted between gasps. “My lady, they battle!”
Alyssa jerked back on Streak’s reins. The horse reared and using her knees Alyssa settled her mare near the guard. “Call me your lord from now on, Sewn. Close your jaw, for pity’s sake. It’s by Duncan’s order. He’s threatened the head of any man who doesn’t.”
Streak tried to take a bite out of Sewn’s knee, but Alyssa’s sharp reprimand stopped her. “Is the battle far ahead?”
“Nay. In the next clearing.” Sewn drank thirstily from his pouch. “But there are many men.”
She turned in her saddle and motioned to her soldiers, who were now within shouting distance. “We ride!”
Spurred, Streak thundered across the flat land. The smells of wild leek and heather grew pungent. Alyssa never had been in real battle, and her heart hammered with the force of her mare’s hooves. She whispered a prayer to her Maker for the safety of her men, then turned her prayers to preparing herself. She asked for strength, ability, and, please God, courage to do what she must in taking lives.
The battlefield was every bit as horrid as Duncan had sworn they were in his stories of the old days. The ground was littered with bloodied bodies, mostly English, but too many Scottish plaids had fallen for Alyssa’s liking.
From her mount, she saw him. A raven-haired giant, dressed only in his red and black plaid. Muscles that were massive and thick bunched in his arms, in his bare chest, and across his broad back. And the hard expression on his face gave truth to every story she had ever heard about his being fierce and ruthless.
Fighting three men at once, he could be no other than the Buchannan.
Skirting the reach of the first man, the laird felled a second one with his sword. The third was not faring well, due to a powerful sword thrust and a sharp kick to his midsection that required a physical strength Alyssa envied.
Two new raiders replaced the ones who’d fallen, approaching the Buchannan from behind. He was still engaged with the third of the initial three raiders, and Alyssa knew he did not see their approach. Her hackles rose, along with her protective instincts. Why was no one guarding the chieftain’s back?
Alyssa spurred Streak, then jerked back on her reins. There was no time to waste in getting to him! She readied her bow in a smooth, flowing motion and let the arrow fly. Hitting her mark, she reloaded, and shot again. The Buchannan spun just in time to see the second man’s raised sword slip harmlessly from his hand. The man collapsed at his feet, her arrows in his chest. When her laird looked up at her and nodded, she knew he’d seen her bow.
Wave upon wave of raiders assaulted him. And still no one guarded his back. He was an awesome warrior, the most skillful she’d ever seen. But, damn it, he was only human! He was laird, chieftain—vassal to Edgar himself. And someone should protect his back!
Protecting him was her duty. She slid down from her mount and unsheathed her sword . . .
How many souls she sent to their Maker, she didn’t know. Nor was there time to ponder on more than staying alive. The battle raged.
Four men attacked at once. The Buchannan felled two. Alyssa engaged the third with her sword. The man was much larger and stronger than she, but he was slower than pine sap. She ended their conflict with a sharp thrust to his heart, then turned.
Her laird now fought two men. She narrowed her gaze on one of them. She had the chance. She should take his back. But even in battle, she considered that dishonorable, so she called out to him. “Come, raider! Fight me—if you’re tired of living!”
The raider had no qualms in doing so. “One Scot dies as good as another!”
He was accomplished. Alyssa used every maneuver Duncan had taught her, and a few she’d devised herself, but the man still could not be outwitted. Sure that if her arm suffered one more clash of their swords it would jerk from its socket, she dug deep, called up every ounce of her reserve strength, then feinted left. Her opponent sped past her, and muttered an oath questioning her parentage.
Finally, she’d discovered his weakness. The raider was a hothead, and Duncan had taught her how to disarm a hothead.
She goaded him, teasing and taunting until the man’s face was purple and the cords in his neck bulged. Soon, she saw in his eyes the flare she’d been waiting for. His temper had taken over.
Seizing the advantage, she changed tactics, and again fought with aggressive skill. This time, the raider fell.
She turned and saw a dagger raised against her laird. Again, at his back. That he was engaged with another meant nothing to the raider. Had they no honor?
She slid her dagger from her belt. Without pausing to aim, she let it fly. The raider crumpled to the ground. She retrieved her dagger from his neck and closed her eyes to the blood staining it.
Her stomach lurched, threatening to revolt. Blood. The countryside seemed like a river of blood, flowing death.
As quickly as it had begun, the battle ended. The raiders retreated, abandoning their dead—something no Scot, ally or enemy, would do. From King Edgar to the lowliest serf, Scots were loyal to their own. And they buried their own.
On the battlefield, Alyssa bent her head and squeezed her eyes closed. She’d done her duty. She’d killed men, defended her laird, her homeland. Done was done, and she wasn’t sorry for her part in it. But she’d be damned to Hell if she had to look upon the blood-soaked ground without losing her stomach. If she had to see the ravages left by war, now that the battling had ended and her laird was safe. She let out a shrill whistle, calling Streak.
“Lord Cameron!”
Stroking her mare, Alyssa heard Duncan’s voice and looked around. Seeing him still searching for her, she called out to him. “Here, Duncan. To the east.”
She knew the moment he spotted her. His relief was clear and he quit his frowning.
When he stood beside her, she saw an anxious twitch in his cheek. “You are unharmed?” he asked.
“Aye.” She smiled at her taciturn second. “I am fine. Weary, but unharmed.”
“Return to our camp, my lord. Rest. I will see to burying our dead.”
Alyssa swallowed the knot blocking her throat. “How many men did we lose?”
“Seventeen, my lad—my lord.” His leathery cheeks flushed at his slip of tongue, and he shot a worried look around to make sure he hadn’t been overheard.
Pretending not to notice, Alyssa turned toward a small copse of trees. “Locate the priest. Verify that the ground where my men will rest is consecrated.” Her voice sounded strained even to her own ears. When she was certain it wouldn’t again crack, she finished. “Call me for the burial. I’ll be in the wood.”
