Highland Destiny Read online

  The chilling sounds of battle cruelly destroyed the peace and pleasure of the unusually warm spring morning. Maldie Kirkcaldy cursed and hesitated in her determined march toward Dubhlinn, a march that had begun at her mother’s grave three long months ago. As her mother’s shrouded body had been lowered into its final resting place, she had sworn to make the laird of Duhblinn pay dearly for the wrongs he had done them. She had carefully prepared for everything—poor weather, lack of shelter, and lack of food. She had never considered the possibility that a battle would impede her advance.

  Maldie sat down at the edge of the deeply rutted wagon track and scowled toward Dubhlinn. For a brief moment she considered drawing closer. It might be useful to know which one of the bordering clans was trying to destroy Beaton. She shook that tempting thought aside. It was dangerous to draw too close to a battle, especially when one was not known to either side. Even those who were trailing their clansmen, known to friend and foe alike, risked their lives by lingering too close to the battle. There was, however, always the chance of meeting with Beaton’s enemies later, she mused. All she had to do was convince Beaton’s enemy that she was his ally, and a good and useful one at that.

  Idly drawing a pattern in the dirt with a stick, Maldie shook her head and laughed at her own foolishness. “Aye, and doesnae every fine, belted knight in the land cry out his eagerness to call wee Maldie Kirkcaldy his companion in arms.”

  After a quick look around to reassure herself that she was still alone, Maldie dragged her hands through her thick, unruly hair and cursed herself. Although slender and small, she had survived three months alone wandering lands she did not know. It would be madness to lose the caution that had kept her alive, especially now when she was so close to fulfilling her vow. She had never spent so long a time so completely alone, her only companion her own vengeful thoughts, and decided it was starting to affect her wits. Maldie knew she would have to be even more careful than she had been thus far. To fail now, when she was so near to gaining the revenge her mother had begged for, would be bitter indeed.

  The sounds of battle grew less fierce and she tensed, slowly rising to her feet. Instinct told her the battle was ending. The road she stood on showed clear signs of a recent passing. That army would soon return along the road, either heady with victory or bowed with defeat. Either mood could prove to be a threat to her. Maldie brushed the dust from her much mended skirts even as she backed into the thick concealing shrubs and wind-contorted trees bordering each side of the road. It was not the most secure shelter, but she felt confident that it would serve. If the army that would soon pass her way had been victorious, it would be little concerned about any possible threat. If it had lost, it would simply be watching its rear flanks. Either way she should be safe if she remained still and quiet.

  After crouching in the bushes and staring down the road for several moments Maldie began to think that she had guessed wrong, that no one was coming her way. Then she heard the faint but distinct jingle of horses’ harnesses. She tensed and frantically tried to decide what to do. Although a prideful part of her stoutly declared that she was doing very well on her own, she knew that an ally or two could be very helpful. If nothing else she might be able to gain a more comfortable place to wait as she decided the best way to use all the knowledge she had gained in the last three months.

  She had just convinced herself that Beaton’s enemies were her friends, that it could only benefit her to approach them, when she caught her first sight of the army and her confidence in her decision faltered. Even from a distance the army marching away from Dubhlinn looked defeated. If an army of trained knights, weighted down with armor and weaponry, was not enough to defeat Beaton, what hope did she have? Maldie quickly shook aside that sudden doubt in herself. She could not so easily cast aside or ignore her doubts about the men stumbling toward her. If Beaton could win against them with all their strength and skill, what use could they be to her? As they drew near enough for her to see the grief, weariness, and pain on their begrimed faces, she knew she had to make her final decision.

  A once defeated ally was better than none, she told herself as she slowly rose to her feet. If nothing else they might have knowledge she did not, knowledge that could help her gain what she sought—Beaton’s death. That was if they did not kill her first. Praying fiercely that she was not just inviting a quick death, Maldie stepped out onto the road.

  Chapter Two

  Maldie prayed that the tall, dark knight coming to a cautious halt before her could not hear how swift and hard her heart was beating. He made no threatening move toward her, and she fought to calm her fear. When she had first stepped out of the shelter of the thick brush to stand before the battered, retreating army, the possibility of gaining a few allies had made such a rash move seem worth the risk. Now that she was actually face to face with the men, seeing the cold looks on their faces, the mud and blood of battle smearing their clothes and bodies, she was not so sure. And, worse, she was no longer certain she could adequately explain her presence there, alone, on the road to Dubhlinn, or that she could immediately reveal her dark plans of revenge. These men were warriors, and she was not contemplating a battle, but a righteous murder.

  “Might ye explain what a wee lass is doing alone on this road?” Balfour asked, shaking free of the hold of her wide, deep green eyes.

  “Mayhap I just wished to get a closer look at how badly old Beaton has defeated you,” Maldie replied, wondering a little wildly what it was about the broad-shouldered, dark-eyed man that prompted her to be so dangerously impertinent.

  “Aye, that bastard won the battle.” Balfour’s deep voice was rough and cold with fury. “Are ye one of those carrion who seek to pick o’er the bones of the dead? If ye are, ye had best step aside and keep walking down this road.”

  She decided to ignore that insult, for it was one she had earned with her own ill-chosen words. “I am Maldie Kirkcaldy, just down from Dundee.”

  “Ye are a verra long way from home, lass. Why have ye wandered to this cursed place?”

  “I seek a few of my kinsmen.”

  “Who? I may ken the family and can aid ye in the finding of them.”

  “That is most kind of you, but I dinnae think ye can help me. My kinsmen wouldnae have much call to ken a mon as highborn as yourself.” Before he could press for a more informative reply, she turned her attention to the man on the litter. “Your companion looks to be sorely wounded, sir. Mayhap I can help.” She stepped closer to the wounded man, ignoring the way the large knight tensed and made a subtle move as if to block her. “I make no false, vain boast when I claim to have a true skill at healing.”

  The firm confidence weighting her words made Balfour step aside, and then he scowled. It did not please him to be so easily swayed by a woman’s words, nor was it wise to so quickly put his trust in a complete stranger. She was unquestionably beautiful, from her wild raven hair to her small booted feet, but he sternly warned himself against letting his wits fall prey to a pretty face. He moved to stand on the opposite side of Nigel’s litter and watched the tiny woman carefully as she hiked up her skirts and knelt by his brother.

  “I am Sir Balfour Murray, laird of Donncoill, and this mon is my brother Nigel,” he said, crouching so that he could watch every move of her pale, delicate hands, and lightly resting his hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword. “He was cut down when our enemy used guile and treachery to lure us into a trap.”

  As Maldie studied Nigel’s wounds, quickly deciding what needed to be done for the man and silently cursing her lack of the right supplies, she replied, “I am ever and always amazed o’er how men think every other mon will follow the honorable laws of war. If ye would all tread a wee bit more cautiously, ye might not continue to be cut down in such great numbers.” She grimaced with distaste as she quickly removed the dirty rags covering the man’s wounds.

  “’Tis nay unreasonable to believe that a mon who has attained the honorable title of a knight will act as
befits his position.”

  Balfour frowned at the soft, deeply scornful noise she made. It was just a little noise, but it carried within it a wealth of emotion—anger, bitterness, and a complete lack of respect. Although her coarse black gown implied that she was lowly born, she offered no deference to a man of his higher standing, nor to anyone of higher birth if he judged her correctly. Balfour wondered who had wronged her, then wondered why he should even care.

  He studied her carefully as she bathed Nigel’s wounds and bound them to slow the bleeding. Nigel was already looking more at ease. Balfour decided that her claim of having a healing skill was not an empty one. It was almost as if her mere touch was enough to ease Nigel’s pain. As he watched her smooth the hair from Nigel’s forehead, Balfour found himself thinking of how her small, long-fingered hands would feel moving against his skin. The way his body tightened startled him. He struggled to shake aside the thought and the ill-timed arousal it had invoked.

  There was a lot to be drawn to, he reluctantly conceded as he thoroughly looked her over. She was tiny and her gown was old and worn, fitting her slim, shapely form with an alluring snugness. She had high, full breasts, a tiny waist, and temptingly curved hips. For such a small woman she had very long legs, slim and beautifully shaped, which led to feet nearly as small as a child’s. Her wild raven hair was poorly restrained by a blackened strip of leather. Thick, curling tendrils fell forward to caress her pale cheeks. Her rich green eyes were so big they nearly swamped her small, heart-shaped face. Long, thick black lashes framed her lovely eyes and delicately curved dark brows highlighted them perfectly. Her nose was small and straight right to the tip, where it suddenly took a faint turn upward. Beneath full, tempting lips was a pretty, but clearly stubborn, chin. Balfour wondered how she could look so young and delicate yet so sultry at the same time.

  I want her, he thought with a mixture of astonishment and some amusement. His amusement was born of wanting such a tiny, impertinent, disheveled woman. His astonishment was born of how quickly and strongly he wanted her, faster and more fiercely than he had ever wanted a woman. The hunger she stirred inside of him was so deep and strong it almost alarmed him. It was the kind of hunger that could make a man act unwisely. He struggled to clear his head and think only of Nigel’s health.

  “My brother already looks more hale,” Balfour said.

  “Words courteously spoken, but which tell me that ye ken verra little about healing,” Maldie said as she sat back on her heels, wiped her hands on her skirts, and met Balfour’s dark gaze. “I have done little more than bathe the blood and filth away and bound the wounds with cleaner rags. I dinnae have what I need to tend his injuries as they need to be tended.”

  “What do ye need?” His eyes widened as she recited a long list, many of the things unrecognizable to him. “I dinnae carry such things to battle.”

  “Mayhap ye should. After all, ’tis in battle that ye fools gain such wounds.”

  “’Tis nay foolish to try and retrieve one’s young brother from the grasp of a mon like Beaton.” He made one short slash with his hand when she began to speak, silencing her. “I have lingered here long enough. I cannae be certain Beaton’s dogs are back in their kennels. They may weel be baying at our backs. Nigel also needs to be sheltered and cared for.”

  Maldie stood up and brushed herself off. “Aye, that he does, so ye had best hurry along.”

  “Ye have done so weel in tending him even without all ye said ye needed. I will be most curious to see what miracles ye can perform when all ye require is right at hand.”

  “What do ye mean?”

  “Ye will journey to Donncoill with us.”

  “Am I to be your prisoner then?”

  “Nay, my guest.”

  She opened her mouth to give him a firm, rude refusal, then pressed her lips together and swallowed the sharp words. This was not the time to be stubborn or contrary. She struggled to remind herself of the many advantages of joining her fate with that of Sir Balfour. He was at war with Sir Beaton just as she was, and, even though he had lost the battle today, he still had the men and arms to inflict some true and lasting harm to the laird of Dubhlinn. She would also have shelter and food while she plotted her revenge.

  There were some disadvantages, too, she mused with an inner grimace. Beaton had clearly done Sir Balfour a great harm. If he discovered the truth of her parentage, she could find herself in danger. There could also be trouble ahead for her if he discovered exactly why she was on the road to Dubhlinn. If she went with him she would have to deceive him, and every instinct she had told her that Sir Balfour Murray would not easily forgive deceit. Her plan to gain an ally was proving itself to be far from simple.

  As she studied him, one other possible complication presented itself. She recognized the look in his fine dark eyes. It was one she had seen far too often. He wanted her. What worried her was that she could feel herself responding to that, something she had never done before. This dark knight’s lust did not arouse the anger, disgust, and scorn other men’s had.

  Although that worried her, it also made her curious. He was undeniably handsome, but she had seen other men just as handsome. There was a lean strength to his tall body that any woman with eyes in her head had to appreciate. His face was a delight to look upon with high cheekbones, a long straight nose, and a firm jaw. His deep brown hair was thick and wavy, hanging to his broad shoulders, and faintly gleaming with red wherever the sunlight touched it. It was his eyes that truly drew her interest. They were a soft, rich brown, surrounded by surprisingly thick black lashes and set beneath faintly arced dark brows. A little unsettled by his steady gaze, she glanced at his mouth and quickly decided that was a dangerous place to look. He had a very nice mouth, the bottom lip slightly fuller than the top. She could all too easily imagine how it would feel to kiss him.

  She hastily turned away from him and picked up her small sack. “’Tis most kind of you to offer me shelter, but ’tis late spring and there are but a few short months of fine weather ahead. I cannae pause now. I must find my kinsmen ere I am forced to seek shelter from the ill weather of winter.”

  “If tending to Nigel takes too long, then ye can shelter at Donncoill.” He grabbed her by the arm and tugged her toward his horse. “Nigel is in great need of your skills.”

  “So, my laird, this isnae an invitation, but a command.”

  Balfour grabbed her around her tiny waist and set her in the saddle, musing fleetingly that she needed a few good meals, for she was not much heavier than some child. “It would make your stay at Donncoill more pleasant if ye would try to think of this as an invitation.”

  “Would it? I am nay sure I can tell myself such a large falsehood.”

  “Try.”

  He smiled at her and Maldie felt her breath quicken. His smile was alluring in its complete honesty. There was no guile or arrogance behind that crooked grin, just a simple amusement he was silently inviting her to share with him. It was not only his good looks that could prove a danger, she realized, but the man himself. It was beginning to look as if Sir Balfour Murray held a lot of those good qualities she had long ago decided no man could ever have. Maldie knew that could make it very hard to keep her secrets.

  She smiled faintly. “As ye wish, m’laird. And, when your brother has healed, I will then be free to leave?”

  “Of course,” he replied, and wondered why those words had been so hard to say.

  “Then we had best ride on, Sir Murray, as the day rapidly wanes and your brother willnae fare weel in the chill that comes with the setting of the sun.”

  Balfour nodded, signaled his men to begin their march again, and then fell into step by the side of his brother’s litter. He noted that little Maldie had no trouble with his horse, despite the litter attached to the animal. In fact, his mount seemed very pleased to have the tiny lady on his strong back, his ears turned back to eagerly catch the words she was murmuring to him.

  “The lass has a way with the animals
as weel,” Balfour said, glancing down at his brother.

  “Aye, horses and men,” Nigel muttered.

  “Why are ye so troubled by her? She has eased your pain. I can see the truth of that in your face.”

  “She has eased my pain. The lass certainly has the touch. She is also a bonny, wee woman with the finest eyes I have e’er seen. Howbeit, ye dinnae ken who she is. The lass has some secrets, Balfour. I am certain of it.”

  “And why should she tell us everything about herself? She kens who we are no better than we ken her. The lass is just cautious.”

  “I pray that is all I sense, simply a natural caution with strangers. This is a dangerous time to trust too quickly, or to let one’s wits be turned by a sweet face. A misstep now could cost Eric his young life.”

  Balfour grimaced as he stared at Maldie’s back. Nigel was right. This was a poor time to have his thoughts scattered by a bonny lass. He could not bring himself to set her aside and let her walk away, but he swore he would be cautious. His family had already suffered from the consequences of thoughtless lusting. He would not repeat his father’s mistakes.

  Maldie’s first sight of Donncoill came as they cleared a section of thick trees. It sat atop the slowly climbing hill they rode up, looking both secure and threatening. The lands around it looked rich, able to supply the Murrays with a wealth many Scots would envy, but even a cursory glance told her it was not being used to its full potential. Its promise was still locked in wide expanses of untilled soil and ungrazed fields. Maldie suspected that this battle was just one of many, the constant need to fight stealing the time and men it would take to fully harvest the richness of the land. She wondered sadly if men would ever gain the wit to understand what they lost with their constant feuds and battles.