My Lady Captor. Hannah Howell
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laughed and nodded, in complete sympathy. “Go and rest. I will take the first watch.”
“Are ye sure we must be so vigilant? Ye must be as weary as I, and I could use far more than the few hours of sleep I can allow myself.”
“Margaret, we are in the land both Scotland and England claim, yet neither can rule. ’Tis an area that teems with rogues, thieves, and men banished from both countries. Our family has suffered from living just on the edge of this wild land. Aye, we must guard the camp. Shelter the fire so that ’tis enough to keep wild animals at bay yet not so large it will act as a beacon for the villains who call this land home.”
Nodding, Margaret left to spread their bedding out by the fire. Sorcha sighed, checked her weapons, and strode into the wood encircling the camp. She would establish a circular guard out of sight of the camp. As she studied her shadow caused by the moonlight shining through the trees, she realized she would present a small obstacle to any ruffian who wished to attack the camp. Her skill with bow, sword, and dagger was good, but it could never fully compensate for her lack of size and strength. Shaking off a brief attack of fear, she began her steady, watchful pace around the camp.
With each step she cursed her brother. He knew he was needed, desperately so, to carry on the line. While it was true that she could take his place as laird of Dunweare, that whatever husband she might gain could stand for her in court or in battle, it was not the same. The line could weaken, losing the strength it would gain in going from son to son. Eventually the Hay name itself could fade. Dougal had bred no heir yet, had not even tried to find a wife. It was his responsibility to ensure the continuance of the line before he threw his life away on some battlefield. He had been told that since boyhood, so he had to know, yet he continuously shirked his responsibility. This time his inconsideration, while not fatal, had seriously affected her and Margaret. If Sir Ruari Kerr was the vengeful sort, it could even affect the whole clan. It was past time someone forced Dougal to listen to reason.
“Better yet, mayhap I should slap some sense into his empty head,” she muttered then nervously looked around, her voice sounding far too loud in the quiet forest.
She sighed, kicked at a stone, then silently cursed as her toes painfully reminded her that her soft rawhide boots were not much protection against such nonsense. It alarmed her a little, but she had to admit that some of her anger at Dougal was because of Ruari Kerr. She did not understand why she was so attracted to the man or why the feelings had become so strong so fast, but she could not deny it. Because of Dougal’s foolish act, she was forced to make Ruari an enemy. That both infuriated her and saddened her. All she could do was let matters take their course and pray that Ruari would not turn the whole incident into a long, bloody feud.
Chapter Three
“A prisoner?”
Sorcha stared at Ruari in surprise, amazed at how loudly he could shout. He looked so furious, so prepared to leap off his pallet and do her physical harm, she began to worry that she had told him the truth too soon. They were only yards from the heavy gates of Dunweare, a welcome sight after three long days of travel, but it might not be close enough.
“Aye, a prisoner for ransom,” she replied, signaling Margaret to urge the pony to a slightly faster pace. “I intend to ask your clan to buy you and Beatham back.”
“Ye would stoop to this when your own brother is being held for ransom?” Ruari demanded.
“I stoop to this because my brother is being held for ransom. I need the coin to buy the fool back.”
He cursed her and started to sit up. Sorcha put one small, booted foot on his chest and pushed him back down. That she could accomplish such a feat told her how weak the man was. The way he glared at her through his tangled black hair revealed how furious that made him. Sorcha quickly removed her foot, pleased to see that they only had a few feet left to go and that the people within Dunweare’s imposing walls had already moved to greet their arrival.
She glanced toward Beatham who, weakened from travel, rode on Bansith. He also looked furious although, on his softer features, the expression was more sullen than threatening. Beatham made no attempt to escape, however. Sorcha suspected his compliance was due mostly to the fact that Margaret held Bansith’s reins. To break free, Beatham would have to strike her down. It was clear that no matter how angry he was, he could not bring himself to do that.
Cries of welcome from within the walls of Dunweare caught Sorcha’s attention. It was not going to be easy to make her family understand why she was doing what most of them would consider a crime. Taking a person for ransom had not been the way of her clan for many a year. After a quick glance at a fierce-eyed Ruari, she hoped her family would have the strength to hold firm to their prisoners until the ransom was paid.
Ruari cautiously shifted his position on the litter in order to get a good look at Dunweare before he was dragged inside its walls. What he saw made him curse. It could well prove impossible to escape from such a stronghold.
Dunweare sat atop a rocky hill, the path to its gates little more than a twisting, narrow rut. Its high thick walls seemed to grow out of the rock itself. Little more than moss, thistle, and wind-contorted thornbushes grew all around, providing little cover for an attacker, or for anyone trying to flee the dark towers of Dunweare. Near the base of the hill where its incline softened and was greener, was a circle of cottages, an excellent first line of defense. The people living there would certainly make it difficult for anyone trying to cross the moat ringing the two sides of the hill that did not border the river. If a family had to live in one of the most dangerous places in Scotland, the Hays had chosen the best place to do so.
And, he thought, turning enough to glare at the huge, wooden, iron-studded gates he was being dragged through, such a stronghold had cost a lot to build. Sorcha had to be lying when she tried to justify her actions by claiming poverty. It struck Ruari as decidedly odd that he found her dishonesty more infuriating than her actions themselves.
A moment later his full attention was caught by the people crowding around them as they entered the bailey. He shifted a little, made uncomfortable by the dozen or more pairs of eyes fixed upon him. He frowned as he realized the curious crowd consisted mainly of the very young, the old, and women. There were a few armed men, but he would not deem them soldiers. A quick look up at the walls revealed only a few more men. He was certain Dougal Hay had come to the battle alone. This scarcity of soldiers puzzled him. He looked around, hoping that someone would say something that would answer at least a few of his questions.
Sorcha grimaced then laughed as four of her five aunts living at Dunweare rushed up to hug her. They all talked at once, their greetings and questions blending into an indecipherable babble. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw Robert, the armorer, elbow his way through the crowd. He stood before her, his big hands on his hips, and stared first at Beatham, then at Sir Ruari, and finally at her. “Where is Dougal?” he asked, his voice so deep and authoritative everyone else grew quiet.
“Alive.” She waited for the mumbles of thanksgiving to ease before adding, “But taken captive by the English.”
“Curse that foolish boy. The Lord clearly made him pay for his bonnie face with his wits. Aye, I am glad he is alive, but I must ask for how long? We havenae anything to buy him back with.”
Grizel Hay, the next to youngest of Sorcha’s seven aunts, stepped up next to Robert. “If we try verra hard we may be able to gather together a small ransom. We cannae just shrug our shoulders and leave poor Dougal to his fate.”
Sorcha smiled at her plump little aunt, noticing fondly that Grizel’s big brown eyes held her usual expression of sweet optimism, and her brown hair was untidy as always. “I fear, Aunt, that a small ransom willnae do. The English lost the battle, and Sir Henry ‘Hotspur’ Percy himself was captured. The English will ask a heavy ransom to soothe their pride and try to recoup some of what they will lose when they must ransom their own men.”
“Then Dougal is doomed,” wailed Bethia Hay, Sorcha’s spinster aunt, a too-thin, frettish woman who appeared to be one tiny bundle of dull brown from