A Sword Upon the Rose

Alana was furious. She ran after him and reached for his arm, jerking him back. He whirled, incredulous. “I have done my part. How can you do this?”

He shrugged his arm free. “I dinna ken what part ye play, but ye cannot go on to Nairn. I will not put ye in harm’s way. Make some other choice or ye can return to Brodie.” He was final.

“You do not care about me,” Alana finally said, but she felt as if she were asking a question. “Why would you care where we go? Or if we are at Nairn when it is attacked?”

For a moment, he did not answer. Then, for the second time that morning, he tilted up her chin. “Ye said so yerself—I owe ye a great debt,” he said softly.

She began to tremble. What was he doing? Were his eyes dark and smoldering?

“Then let us go to Nairn,” she said.

He made a harsh, disbelieving sound. Then he lowered his mouth to hers.

Alana went still, shocked, as his mouth claimed hers—in a hard, demanding, aggressive kiss.

And when he stepped back, her heart was thundering, her skin aflame and her knees buckling.

He gave her a look that could not be mistaken before he strode away, calling to his men.

Alana stared after him. What had just happened?

Iain did not trust her—but he had kissed her. She had never been kissed before. Men did not desire her, they feared her.

Except for Iain of Islay—who did not know she was a witch.

She became aware of Eleanor, for her grandmother had approached. Still stunned and breathless, Alana dared to face her.

There was no censure in her grandmother’s eyes. Alana saw speculation, instead.

“Will you speak?” she asked. “Will you berate me?”

“I have no desire to berate you, but later, we should talk about the Highlander. We must get to Nairn, and we must do so before it is attacked.”

Alana was finally jerked back to some sensibility. “He is sending us back to Brodie.”

“If your father and uncle were not on their way, I would wish to return to Brodie. We must get to Nairn, Alana,” Eleanor said. “I can make up a potion for Fergus, one to make him ill.”

Alana nodded grimly, as they had no choice but to poison Iain’s soldier. She gazed across the land. His men were all mounted now. The camp had been entirely dismantled, with no sign of it ever having existed. A dozen wagons were filled with their tents and war equipment. Beyond the army, the manor was a pile of rubble, except for one lone chimney that was still standing.

Their wagon and the mule had been brought forward, and Mistress MacDuff was beside it, with her two children in the back. Fergus held the mule’s bridle, and that of his warhorse.

Only Iain remained afoot, his long hair streaming about his fur-clad shoulders. It was as if she could still feel his lips on hers.

His squire led a big dark horse over to him. Iain leaped astride easily enough, gathering up his reins. And for one moment, the land was silent, except for the snorting of horses, the creak of leather, the jangle of bridles. Iain’s gaze was on her.

Alana stared back. He had been hostile and suspicious since meeting her, but he had kissed her with unimaginable passion. She did not know what to think.

He turned to face his men, standing in his stirrups, and he lifted his hand. “A Donald!” he roared.

A hundred men roared back at him, a reverberating Highland war cry. And then the army was galloping away from the burned ruins of Boath Manor.

Beside the mule and the wagon, Alana held her grandmother’s hand, staring after Iain until he was gone and only snowy mountains remained.

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_e39174f8-b8f5-5381-8885-7ce89a22af2c)

“NAIRN,” ELEANOR SAID.

Alana trembled, seated beside her grandmother in the front seat of the wagon, Mary MacDuff and her children huddled under wool blankets in the back. The dark stone castle rose out of a promontory on a hill above the town, the skies blue and sunny above it. Snow was clinging to the rocky hillside, and the deep blue waters of the Moray Firth were visible behind it.

It had taken them a few hours to travel the short distance from the MacDuffs’ burned manor to Nairn. Poor Fergus had been left in the woods not far from last night’s camp, retching up his breakfast. In a few hours he would be well enough to go on his way.

From the towers, shouts rang out.

Alana tensed. She had been to the town of Nairn many times, as it was a bustling port and she enjoyed the market there. But she had never been within the castle, which had always seemed threatening.

It had been garrisoned with royal English troops for years because the great barons of north Scotland were at war with England more often than not. Edward I had taken Nairn and provisioned it for his use, and now, English archers loyal to his son were upon its walls, staring down their bows at them.

Of course, they would not fire upon a wagon with women and children, not unless ordered to do so. Duncan had been given command of Nairn two years ago, by the Earl of Buchan. She wondered if the earl had arrived; she wondered if Sir Alexander was within.

She wondered if Iain of Islay would be amongst those attacking Nairn, if that is what Bruce did.

“They have seen us,” Eleanor said.

Alana smiled grimly and lifted the mule’s reins, clucking to him. Her tension felt impossible to bear. It had been difficult enough forgetting her every encounter with Iain, especially that shocking kiss. She felt fortunate to have escaped him, and she was determined not to dwell on their strange meeting or even stranger parting. No matter what he had said, it was unlikely that she would ever cross paths with him again.

She had more urgent matters to consider. She would soon meet her powerful uncle, and see her father for the second time in her life.

The journey up the road to the castle’s front gates seemed endless now. The hill was steep, the road rutted and frozen. The going was slow, made the worse by anticipation and dread. She wished she knew if the earl and her father had already arrived at Nairn, if they were within, and preparing to receive her.

When they finally reached the very top of the road, and were but a shout away from the watchtowers, a group of English soldiers galloped out of the barbican to meet them. Alana halted the mule, her heart skipping as the knights thundered up to them.

The knights formed a tight circle around them. They were clad in full armor, but each man had his visor up. Alana saw a dozen hard faces, the elderly ones lined, the young ones boyish and pale, and a dozen pairs of hard, cold eyes.

A middle-aged knight with a gray beard and chilly blue eyes rode up to her. “Identify yourself.”

“I am Alana le Latimer and this is my grandmother, Lady Fitzhugh,” she said quickly.

“Sir Duncan has been expecting you,” the elderly knight said. “I am Sir Roger, Duncan’s sergeant at arms. You’re a day late. What has kept you?” He was harsh.

Alana somehow smiled. “There was a battle at Boath Manor. We were put out to hide, and then we wished to aid the mistress and her children. So we had to wait until Bruce’s men were gone. They did not leave until dawn.”

The knight nodded, glancing at Mary and her children in the back of the cart. “I will escort you to Sir Duncan. He is impatient to speak with you.”

Alana did not look at her grandmother as they drove the mule into the keep. Because of Mary’s presence, they had not discussed the impending interview with Duncan. But Alana had spent the past few hours considering it.

Duncan of Frendraught would want to know about her encounter with Iain of Islay. She could not tell him that she had succored his enemy. He would be enraged. He might even accuse her of treachery. It seemed better to insist that the battle at Boath Manor had delayed them, and that they had spent the night in hiding.

Iain might be the enemy, but just then, she preferred him as her ally against Duncan. She was acutely aware that how she felt was inappropriate, but Duncan was even more intimidating than his son. He had absolute control over her, and Alana despised him even more greatly than she did Godfrey.