Trouble with a Highland Bride Page 3

  He roared with frustration and pain as he regained his feet. The hot, searing pain of his foot was only rivaled by his frustration that this simple task was going so horribly wrong. And now she had his golden knife. It had been a present from his father, one that his uncles had muttered had been too extravagant for him. Jack would not, could not, return to camp to say he lost it. Worse yet, the Scots could show it to his uncles to gloat that they had disarmed one of their soldiers. No…no, he could not let that happen.

  He raced to the girl, ignoring the pain. She opened the gate, but he was right behind her. She shrieked and ran from him. He staggered in the gate, the hilt of his sword catching on the iron door and slamming it shut behind him. He did not care; he would catch this Highland wench if it was the last thing he did.

  ***

  Gwyn sprinted to the second gate, her heart pounding, a silent scream on her lips. The English soldier was staggering toward her at a fast clip. If he caught her…if he caught her he would have the keys. He could storm the castle and kill her and everyone she loved. And then her brother would strangle her in the afterlife for being so colossally stupid as to unlock the gate while their enemy was camped outside it. He would have a point.

  She reached the locked gate and searched for the right key on the ring with shaking hands. Behind her, the inhuman grunts and groans of the soldier grew ever louder. He was right behind her. The key—she must find it! Which one was it? Which one?

  She found the one and tried it on the lock; it would not turn. Wrong key! She swallowed down fear and forced herself to focus on what she was doing. She must get through. She must. She jammed another key into the lock. The man was so close behind her, she could almost feel his breath on her neck.

  The key turned and she pushed open the gate even as he grabbed for her. She slipped past and tried to push the gate closed, but he leaned on it, preventing her from shutting it. She pushed with all her might, but he was stronger and was slowly opening the gate, forcing her feet backward on the dirt floor. He wedged a foot between the wall and the gate. She stomped on it, and he surprised her by howling in pain.

  Unsure how her boot had caused such agony, she quickly took advantage of the moment and shoved the gate shut, locking it. The English knight was breathing hard, leaning against the wall. She backed away from him, unsure if he would attempt to throw something at her through the iron lattice. The knight stared at her through his helm without speaking. Finally, he pushed himself off the wall and limped toward the outer gate. When he reached it, he pushed at it, but it would not budge. He rattled the iron door with a howl. It was locked tight. Gwyn stared at the keys in her hand.

  She had trapped an English knight.

  Four

  The trapped knight rammed into the solid iron door with his shoulder several times, trying to break through. It was a hopeless exercise. He leaned against the door for a moment. She could hear his labored breathing all the way down the corridor. He turned slowly and limped back to the gate where she stood.

  Gwyn instinctively stepped back, though she knew he had no more hope of getting through the second gate than the first. He rattled and shook the gate, the loud clanging of iron on iron echoing down the corridor.

  “Let me out!” he demanded with a growl.

  “Are ye daft?” Gwyn would not come near the gate for anything. Her heart pounded in fear and excitement, and she put a hand to the stone wall to steady herself. She had trapped a knight. An English knight!

  The man rattled the gate again, and Gwyn covered her ears. “Will ye stop that racket? Yer English castles are built strong, I give ye that. Ye have no hope of shaking yer way free.”

  The man slumped against the gate. “I might appreciate it more if I were not locked inside.”

  Gwyn backed away to the door. She would tell her brother she had trapped a knight. He would be so pleased and proud and…

  Gwyn stopped, her hand on the door latch. David would not be pleased. If her brother discovered she had gone outside for an elder plant, he might kill her.

  The knight took off his helm and Gwyn’s hand fell from the latch. It was the young knight who had spoken during the parlay. She thought him handsome from afar, but now she knew he was the bonniest man she had ever seen, with dark brown hair, brown eyes, and chiseled, Romanesque features. “Ye’re Sir John Lockton!” she cried without thinking.

  He looked at her from between the iron bars, his eyebrows raising high. “And who might you be that you know my name?”

  Gwyn paused before answering. “I…I am Gwyn Campbell, sister o’ Laird Campbell.”

  “But how do you know me?” he asked, his brown eyes surprisingly intense.

  She was trapped now. There was very little point in denying her involvement. “I saw ye during the parlay. Ye removed yer helm and introduced yerself.” Her only hope was that, with all the other excitement, he would not realize—

  “But how could you see me from the castle?” His eyebrows clamped down over his eyes. “You were one of the mounted party come to parlay.”

  “I was there only to rescue the poor folk that were caught in the valley when ye marched in,” defended Gwyn. “There were children playing in the fields.”

  “Rescue them from what? It was not as if we would slaughter innocents in our path,” argued Lockton.

  “Dinna try to deny it. I saw a scout trying to attack a young lass. And ye attacked me yerself!”

  Lockton opened his mouth as if to argue, then shook his head and leaned against the wall. “I did not intend to hurt you. I only wanted the key to the gate.”

  “Ye dinna intend to hurt me? Look at me!” Gwyn motioned down her gown. It was dirty and torn. In truth, she had done worse to her gowns and she cared little for it, but it was the principle of the thing. It was one thing to get dirty herself. It was another to be knocked down by an English knight—even if he was undeniably attractive.

  “The gown looks fine,” said Lockton.

  “Are ye daft? Look at these stains? How am I to explain to Isabelle I ruined another gown?” She stepped closer to show him the damage.

  “Naught but a little dirt, it will brush right off.”

  “This is a tear!” Gwyn held out the injured gown.

  “Where?”

  “Here!” Gwyn stepped up to the gate so he could see. He bent over as if to look, then quick as a snake reached though the bars and grabbed her around the waist, pulling her against the gate. He thrust his other hand in her pocket and pulled something out, releasing her before she could even think to scream.

  “Ha!” He held his hand aloft, grasping the sprig of elder. His triumphant grin vanished when he realized what he had. “That is not the key.”

  “Oh, no! I need that,” cried Gwyn, suddenly remembering why she was outside to begin with.

  “Give me the key to the far gate and I’ll give you the twig,” said Lockton, his eyes gleaming at her with intensity.

  Gwyn’s heart twisted with the sudden remembrance of the urgency of her mission, the reason she had braved going outside in the first place. If she lost the elder branch now, everything she had done would be for nothing. “I canna give ye the key. But please, I do need the plant.”

  “And I truly need out of here, with my knife if you please.”

  “Here, take yer knife. I’m no thief.” Gwyn threw the golden knife through the bars of the gate, and it landed with a soft thud on the packed-dirt floor. “Now ye give me the elder twig.”

  “What I need is the key. I promise to let myself out and leave it on the ground. All I want to do now is return to my camp.” Lockton’s eyes were open and honest. But she knew she could not give their enemy the keys to the castle, even if he did look like an angel from heaven above.

  Gwyn’s mind spun trying to figure out how to get the plant from the knight’s hand. In desperation, she turned to the truth. “I need the el
der branch to make a medicine, a tincture for a wee lass wi’ the croup. She struggles with every breath. That twig ye hold may be the only thing that can save her.”

  Lockton’s lips tightened into a thin line. “And it was on an errand of mercy that you were outside that castle?”

  Gwyn nodded.

  The knight held the elder twig out through the bars of the gate. Gwyn took a step forward but hesitated. He had tricked her once before.

  “And what is yer demand in return?” she asked.

  “If your mission is one of mercy for an innocent, then as an honest knight, I am honor bound to support your efforts. I ask you for nothing.” His eyes were strong and deep, pulling her closer.

  She stepped toward him, swallowing on a dry throat. She stopped just outside of his reach. Could she trust him? No, definitely not. But she would do it anyway. She took one more step, snatched the elder branch from his hand, and jumped back to safety. She spun to leave, reached the wooden door, and paused, turning back.

  “Thank ye. I dinna expect chivalry from a Sassenach. Ye surprise me.”

  He shook his head. “If somewhere in those insults was a compliment, then I thank you kindly. Farewell, Gwyn Campbell, sister of Laird Campbell.”

  “Farewell? Ye winna be going anywhere,” Gwyn said with a slight smile.

  “But you will tell your brother, and they will come to find me here. And then I fear I will never see you again.”

  Gwyn’s smile faded as fast as it had come. She gave a short nod of acknowledgment and fled. She should not feel anything for this knight, her enemy. But he had given his only leverage to save a child. Why would an English knight show mercy? And not just any knight, but the next in line to inherit Alnsworth Castle.

  Gwyn shook her head to banish such confusing thoughts and ran to the huts by the kitchens, hoping she was not too late. Isabelle sat on the floor next to the little girl as she tried to breathe.

  “Isabelle, here. The elder plant.” Gwyn all but shoved it in Isabelle’s face.

  “Oh, thank heavens! You are an answer to prayer, Gwyn.” Isabelle stood and threw her arms around Gwyn.

  Gwyn returned the embrace with a guilty conscience. If Isabelle knew what she had done and who was trapped in the cistern gate passageway, her reception would be decidedly different. “Isabelle, I have a question.”

  “Yes, I will show you show to make the tincture, but not right now, darling. I need to do it as fast as I can. You understand, yes?”

  “Aye, o’ course.” Gwyn backed away from the scene. She had done everything she could for the little girl. Now Isabelle needed to do what she did best. If there was any hope, Isabelle would find it. Gwyn walked back out into the upper courtyard. Her eyes returned to the plain wooden door that led to the side gate.

  She knew what she needed to do, but it was with heavy feet that she mounted the stairs to the Campbell solar. She needed to tell her brother what had happened. And in doing so, she would return the mercy shown by the English knight with condemnation. And bring judgment down on herself as well. She sighed, but she had never been one to run from problems and took perverse pride in owning up to her mistakes, as many and as grievous as they may be.

  She walked into the solar only to find it packed with leaders of the many clans who had come for the May Day celebration. As she entered, the conversation stopped and all eyes turned to her.

  “Gwyn!” David addressed her with the terse voice he used when he was conducting important business. “We are having a meeting o’ the clans. I will speak with ye later.”

  “But I need to tell ye—”

  “Nay, no’ now. I will speak wi’ ye later.” His tone brooked no opposition.

  “But David—”

  “Later, Gwyn. Ye will leave now.” David folded his arms across his chest. The conversation was finished.

  Gwyn had little choice but to curtsy and leave the room. She left the main keep with feet that flew over the stone steps and danced across courtyard. It may only be a temporary reprieve, but she had more time before the inevitable. The cause of her delight at the delay she did not wish to contemplate. Somebody had to guard the prisoner after all…

  Five

  The evening was not going well. Jack slid down the stone wall and leaned his head back against it. He was trapped in the castle, he most likely faced death either at the hands of the Highlanders or his own uncles, and his foot was starting to throb. Maybe his uncles were right about him. He was too soft, too tenderhearted to be a true leader. People needed to be led with an iron fist, otherwise, they took advantage.

  Surely his uncles would never have given up the twig of leaves without getting something in return. They would never have gotten in this position in the first place because they would have taken out Gwyn Campbell by any means necessary. They would not have stayed their hand, letting her go. They would have most likely subdued her by shooting her in the back from behind a tree. His charity would be the death of him.

  He heard the door open and he struggled to stand. He would face death, torture, or whatever they planned for him with the courage and reserve of an Englishman. When the lovely Gwyn Campbell slipped inside the wooden door, his relief was palpable. He took a shaky breath. He was resolved to meet his fate with courage, but he would so much rather talk to a pretty young thing, even if she was a Scot.

  She approached cautiously, though there was nothing of timidity about her. Her green eyes shone bright and her long, blond hair was simply dressed in two long plaits. She wore no veil, though her body showed her to be of age. She was clearly young and perhaps had not yet taken up the veil. Her green kirtle matched the color of her eyes and hugged her shapely body. Jack closed his eyes to stop the direction of his thoughts. This was how he had gotten himself into trouble in the first place.

  “Greetings, milady.” He stepped closer, forgetting his injury. He winced as pain shot through his foot up his leg. He grabbed on to the gate to keep from falling and managed to slide down the stone wall slowly to a seated position on the ground without falling over or hollering in pain, but he still felt the fool.

  “What is wrong?” Gwyn rushed toward him, though careful this time not to get within arm’s reach. “Are ye hurt? Is that blood?”

  He was bleeding through his boot, but had hoped not to call attention to his injury. This was not the time to show weakness. “Was that not your plan, to injure me?” He closed his eyes to fight a wave of nausea. His foot was paining him something awful.

  “I did try to kill ye, I fear. But I dinna ken I cut ye.” She crouched down to see him better. “How have I hurt ye?”

  “Not you. I hurt myself.” He tried to give her a smile but feared it came across as more of a grimace. “I stepped on one of my own caltrops.”

  “Caltrops! Ye were dropping those vicious things outside our door?” Gwyn rolled back on her heels and stood up, her momentary sympathy assuaged.

  “Yes. It was a poor choice,” he admitted.

  “Do ye mean to tell me there are more caltrops out there to maim unsuspecting folk, friend and foe alike?” Gwyn folded her arms across her and glared down at him, the softness in her eyes gone.

  “Yes, and so far the only one I have injured is myself. Since I have been the only one to be afflicted, perhaps you will consider me well punished of my own accord.”

  The corner of her mouth twitched up. “I will agree only that ye have gotten what ye deserve.”

  “I would never disagree with such a fair lady.” When in doubt, flatter. And yet he did not have to stretch the truth to say he found her attractive. In truth, he wished she had been more hag-like in order to retain cogent thought when she was near.

  Gwyn shook her head and crouched down once more to look at the extent of the damage. “There is a good deal o’ blood here. Ye need to get this wound dressed.”

  “It will not matter much once your
brother comes and the torture begins.” Jack had spent too much time with his uncles not to have a firm understanding of how the real world worked. It was not pretty—much unlike the sweet thing before him.

  “Ye think my brother would torture ye?”

  “I believe he will treat me to the same hospitality that my uncles would show him if the situation was reversed.”

  “Then yer uncles need a lesson in hospitality. And we Highland Scots will have to give it to ye.” Gwyn had fire in her eyes in a manner most becoming. If she could prevent him from being hurt or killed, her value in his estimation would raise even higher.

  “I would be most obliged to be taught this lesson in hospitality.”

  “Well then.” Gwyn wiped her hands on her kirtle in a direct manner. “Let me inspect yer wound and dress it.”

  “You would provide me aid?”

  Gwyn gave him a critical appraisal, leaving him to wonder if he met her approval. He would feel more a man if he could stand on his own feet.

  “I will help ye, though ye dinna deserve it.” She frowned at him. “Toss yer weapons beyond yer reach, for I have learned to be cautious.” She stood and stepped back from the gate.

  He could hardly blame her. He paused for a moment, considering his limited options. He was not sure why she had returned only with herself, not an armed contingent of angry Highlanders, and could only assume that for whatever reason, she had not told anyone of his capture. He did not believe for a moment that she would be here alone if his presence was known. But why had she not revealed him?

  Whatever her reason, she might be the only reason he was still alive. He needed her. Besides which, a sword would do him little good trapped between the gates. They could simply use him for target practice. He unbuckled his sword and tossed it aside, though further down the corridor, not through the gate. He took the golden knife and did the same.

  Gwyn crept closer. “Now put yer foot through the gate, and I’ll look at it.”

  Once again Jack paused. She could either be wanting to help or wanting to cut his foot clean off. He shoved his boot through the hole in the gate. His foot hurt so much, cutting it off might be a relief.