Chapter 19
Darkness pressed in on Clara from all angles within the shuttered cottage that smelled of greasy stew and smoke. Outside came the cries and calls of battle, all slightly muted by the closed door. How she longed to have even that sliver of moonlight back, anything by which to see.
The need to open the door and look out at Reid clawed at her, becoming more desperate with each passing second. But she held back, afraid that in doing so, she might distract him. Coming to the village had indeed been a mistake. One she could not undo.
The quiet gasp of a sob broke the air.
Clara stiffened.
“Who’s there?” she asked into the darkness.
The only reply was a whimper.
“Who are ye?” she asked again.
“Are ye English?” the voice was small and scared.
A child.
“Only half,” Clara said. “My husband and grandda are outside fighting with the Scottish to save the village.”
“And what of ye?” the little voice asked.
“I tried to help.” Clara closed her eyes against the pain of knowing Reid was out there and she was in here.
In truth, she felt ashamed to have followed, assuming he needed her protection. He had not.
Her husband was one of the finest men on the battlefield from what she had witnessed. His blade moved with incredible accuracy, his body powerful and strong, even with his injuries. He was beautiful to behold, graceful and confident. A true warrior if ever there was one.
No doubt her coming to “protect” him had been difficult for such a man to swallow. An insult.
“Can ye help us?” the child asked.
Us?
“Aye,” Clara said. “Of course I can.”
The scuffle of feet over the hard-packed dirt floor filled the home, and a cold, wee hand curled into hers. An ache filled her chest for these bairns who should never have been subjected to war.
“Is this yer home?” Clara asked.
“Aye,” a different child said. “Mum said she’d be back, but she hasna returned.”
“I’ll make sure ye stay safe, aye?” Clara folded her hand more firmly around the tiny fingers resting against her palm. Most likely, the children’s mother was dead.
Footsteps approached the cottage door. The child at her side tensed. “I believe that is my husband,” she spoke in as calm a voice as she could muster and released the bairn’s hand. “But I’d like ye to get behind me just in case.” She slid two daggers free from her belt, ready to attack.
For the first time in her life, she appreciated Drake’s efforts in teaching her and her sisters to fight.
She had never thought she needed such a skill, that it might be the one thing that stood between herself and survival, or that she might use it to keep others safe.
But then she had underestimated the brutality of the English against the Scottish.
Brutality that Drake was no doubt accustomed since he’d been Captain of the Guard to an English lord on the English Scottish border.
The door rattled and swung open. A shadowed figure filled the doorway, backlit by the blaze of several fires.
“Clara,” Reid said.
She exhaled slowly so the little ones wouldn’t know that she had been holding her breath with anticipation. With fear.
For if it truly had been English soldiers, there wouldn’t be much she could do to save them all.
“Who are they?” Reid asked, nodding to her new charges.
Clara looked down at the children hiding behind her, seeing them for the first time.
Three bairns with mussed brown hair—an older lass around the age of seven, a lad of mayhap five and another small girl who appeared barely more than two with a thumb thrust in her mouth as she stared up at Clara with large, blue eyes.
“They’ve been separated from their mother,” Clara replied.
Reid cast a worried glance behind his shoulder where the world appeared to be entirely aflame, and she knew what he was thinking. They couldn’t stay in the cottage. It wasn’t safe. Not when so many homes were being set ablaze by the English.
“I can get them into the forest,” Clara said with more confidence than she felt.
At least there, they would be under the cover of the shadows.
There would be somewhere to run if need be.
They also would have more freedom to remove themselves from combat by venturing deeper into the forest, where they would be safer.
Reid nodded. “I’ll protect ye while ye get them out of the village.”
Clara hesitated, knowing that in protecting them, he was putting himself at great risk. She knew he was strong, and he had great skill in fighting. She had to put her trust in that, to know that he would remain safe and come back to her as he had promised.
“I love ye,” she said softly.
“And I ye.” He caressed her face, his expression one of longing.
A band of tension constricted around her chest, squeezing until she felt as if she could not breathe. She turned toward the bairns and crouched to speak with them at their level. Three sets of wide eyes stared at her with fear and uncertainty.
“We are going into the woods where it won’t be as dangerous,” she said. “When we get outside, ye need to stay by my side, aye? No running off.”
The three nodded in unison.
Apprehension twisted in her stomach. She didn’t even know if they could get to the forest without being seen by the English. But she had to try, at least. For it truly was their only chance to make it through the battle.
She waved them toward her, and the two older children stepped forward, both taking hold of the hem of her gambeson. The youngest lifted her arms up in preparation to be carried, and Clara hefted the girl up, hugging her close.
Never had Clara been charged with so precious a task as seeing her charges to safety. No matter what it took, she would not let anything happen to them.
Reid pulled something from his pocket and handed it to the smallest girl. She examined the small carved fox and hugged it against her chest. He caressed Clara’s face one last time and nodded, to which she responded with her own silent nod.
They were ready.
He crept outside and glanced about before motioning for her to follow. Clara’s heart leapt into a gallop. Holding the little girl tight, she strode forward with the other two clinging to her as if they were survivors on a bit of driftwood after a shipwreck at sea.
Outside, the fighting had spread from the center of the village through to the entirety of it. All around, men were hacking and slashing with their weapons. Bodies lay strewn about, and the ground was soaked with blood.
Clara was grateful she’d told the children to stay by her side. Hopefully, she could prevent them from seeing most of the grim sights. The youngest tried to lift her head, but Clara settled her hand over the girl’s downy hair. “Keep yer eyes shut,” she said softly. “We’ll be in the forest soon.”
The bairn relaxed and lay against Clara, making her weight easier to hold.
Reid’s head turned from side to side as he found a path for them to follow.
Clara and the children rushed as quickly as they could.
They were between two cottages when a group of Englishmen rounded from another home and pointed toward them.
“Get in the cottage,” Reid shouted.
Clara wanted to protest, to refuse to leave his side. But with the lass in her arms and two more clinging to her in terror, she held her tongue and obeyed without hesitation.
She spirited them all through the open door to the small, ransacked one-room home and slammed it shut, plunging them immediately into darkness. The boy began to cry, as did the girl in Clara’s arms.
“Ye dinna need to be afraid.” The eldest lass’s voice trembled and belied the fear behind her bravery. “We have help now.”
Outside came the clash of weapons striking one another. Clara’s heart was caught in the grip of fear. How many men were there? Four? Three?
She hoped three, but it had happened too quickly for her to assess before she’d gotten the children into the safety of the cottage.
The glow from the fires raging outside limned the doorframe and allowed a modicum of light in.
Once their eyes adjusted to the darkness, it was at least enough to see by, so they were not in complete blackness.
There was nothing Clara could do to see what transpired outside, but it didn’t mean it didn’t weigh on her mind or her heart. She could not escape the thought that Reid was putting his life on the line to save them. That he was fighting three or four men in his wounded state.
And the odds would not be in his favor.
There was nothing for it but to wait, helpless and frightened that she might lose everything this night.
Taking on four men was never easy. It was significantly more difficult when exhaustion left Reid’s limbs weighty and his back burned with the pain of his unhealed wounds. Sticky wetness at his leine confirmed what he already knew; his wounds had reopened.
He’d managed to dispatch one Englishman, but three more were still fighting him at once, their blades slashing with speed Reid could scarce keep up with. He would not give up. He pushed past the weight of his fatigue, through the agony at his back.
For Clara.
For the innocent bairns that he knew she would die to protect.
He swung his sword with a growl, and a second man fell.
Reid shoved back from the men, pausing a split second to catch his breath. The air stank of burning thatch and smoke that seared into his lungs, hovering on the edges of a nightmare that wanted to consume him.
It would be so easy to fall prey to his fears, to let the memories unravel his resolve, and relive the terror that had robbed him of everything.
He pulled in a deep breath, focusing his mind, moving past the fear. It took only a moment to recover himself. And it was all he needed.
With a rush of vitality, he came at his opponents, whipping his blade to the right, and then jabbing hard to the left. Both men crumpled to the ground with their brethren.
Reid staggered to remain upright; his body taxed from the effort of defeating the four men. His arms hung limp at his side as he tried to calm the rapid beating of his heart.
The air in front of him cleared of swirling smoke, blown from his path by an unseen wind, highlighting the man who rode on horseback through the village with an aristocratic air. The caparison draped over the horse was one Reid knew well.
A blue background with a fiery golden sun.
Lord Rottry.
Raw energy crackled through Reid’s body, giving vitality to his heavy limbs, and filling them with power. Everything faded around him—the fire, the smoke, the fighting and death. The only thing visible, the only thing that mattered, was Lord Rottry and the sweet promise of vengeance.
Reid’s breath shuddered from him, a pained exhalation from a lifetime of torment, the enormity of loss and its resounding impact. His mother’s charred body with Ewan still held in her arms. His da cut down amid jeers, like sport.
A snarl growled low in Reid’s throat. Since that day, he had not had the opportunity to see the baron, let alone the chance to attack.
To kill.
Vengeance.
Now would be the perfect moment. Battle waged around them. Both men on opposites sides of the war. His enemy, in more ways than just one.
Reid tightened his grip on the pommel of his sword. It would taste English noble blood this night. However, his steps were halting as he moved first one foot forward and then the other.
Clara.
He turned back toward the cottage. It remained unmolested and free of any English guards. He had dispatched the men with relative ease despite his injuries. Surely, he could do the same of Lord Rottry.
Reid’s gaze swept once more to the baron to find the smoke wall was billowing into place, and Lord Rottry’s horse was trotting away.
Nay.
This time, there were no other thoughts in Reid’s mind, save those of his parents and his brother.
And the pathetic wee lad he’d been on that fateful day and how it impacted every one thereafter.
His had been a life of loneliness, one seasoned with the brutality of an orphan’s survival on cruel streets.
No family. No love. No happiness.
Reid roared with a ferocity that tore at his throat and raced through the curling tendrils of smoke.
The man on the horseback turned toward him, eyes narrowed.
The baron had aged in the years that laid between them, his face lined, and a soft paunch where his stomach was once flat.
He regarded Reid with obvious disinterest, a similar apathy as he’d possessed the day that he had ordered Reid’s entire family to be slaughtered.
Lord Rottry waved one slender hand in the air. “Kill this vermin and let us be on our way.”
The two men beside him turned their horses around and charged at Reid. When Reid lifted his sword and swung it, there was no pain in his back, nor was there fatigue in his muscles.
All that consumed him was rage and hate and the savage need for vengeance.