Highland Warrior by Heather McCollum (the rosie project TXT) 📗

She would argue against both for having gone up there alone in the first place and then trembling like a blade of grass in a tempest. But she smiled softly instead. “Thank you for helping…clean up.”

“Langdon is about to pull anchor. Lamont is helping him dump the bastards far out.” Asmund leaned in. “Robert will never find a trace of them. I even hauled up a bucket of water to wash the grass free of blood.”

She squeezed his hands tightly. “I am grateful.”

Joshua stood at the open door, half in and half out. It was still Samhain. Didn’t he know it was dangerous to stand in thresholds? She walked over, but he stopped her from exiting, a hand holding her shoulder. “Someone approaches,” he said, barely moving his lips as he stared out. He moved them back inside, shutting the door. “Hide until we know who it is.”

“Dróttning,” Asmund said, beckoning her toward the back of the room where steps led above. “Stay tucked up there.”

She ran up the steps and perched at the top in the shadows where she could still hear. Pulling her knees up under her dress, she rested her chin, barely breathing as the door opened. Several sets of boots thudded on the wooden floor.

“Joshua Sinclair.”

“Lord Patrick,” Joshua responded, a bored tone to his voice. “What brings ye out from behind your father’s walls?” Patrick was Robert’s second eldest legitimate son. She knew little about him, except that he was not as cruel but still condescending and privileged.

“Ye have blood on ye,” Patrick said. Kára could hear the suspicion in his voice.

“I am the Horseman of War,” Joshua answered. “I always have blood on me.”

Kára heard someone slide chairs on the floor as if to sit. How many guards did he have with him? She pulled her mattucashlass from her boot and held it, her fingers curling tightly around the handle. The trembling had come back to her hands, and she breathed deeply, trying to dispel it. But all the breathing did was hurt her throat and make stars spark in her vision. She’d be little use to Joshua like this.

“Ye said ye were leaving Orkney, but then ye show up to steal away my father’s healer and my sister’s horse. Ye are helping the thieves now.” Patrick tsked. “He has given us free license to kill ye for it.”

Kára’s heart hammered, beating at the inside of her chest. Holy Lord. She did not want to kill anyone else this day. She pushed herself up against the wall as if trying to shrink into the wood boards framing the stairs.

“The healer,” Joshua said, “is not Robert’s. He does not employ her, giving her a wage for her services. Instead, he chained her to a rock, an old woman, inside his palace, enslaving her, leaving her in filth. I merely freed her.”

“We will retrieve her,” Patrick said, and Kára could imagine him waving his hand, dismissing all his father’s sins as if he were the Pope. “And Jean’s horse.”

“The horse was also imprisoned from its true owner. Ye can add horse thievery to your father’s sins. ’Tis a hangable crime where I come from.”

“Is that why ye are working for the enemy now, Sinclair?” Patrick asked. “Whatever money they pay ye is likely ours. They have won your loyalty with stolen gold.”

“I am loyal to God and no one else,” Joshua said. Kára could hear the warning in his voice. She longed to see the expressions of those below but didn’t dare move. Even a pebble kicked from the steps would alert them that she hid there.

“How about the King of Scotland, my cousin?” Patrick asked. Would Joshua admit his disloyalty to the crown before Patrick and his men, marking him as a traitor?

“Questioning loyalty?” Joshua asked, a grin in his voice. “With an inscription that calls Robert the king of Scotland carved in stone over his door?” It was a much-refuted engraving on the entry arch of the Earl’s Palace: Lord Robert Stuart, King of the Scots, son of James V, erected this building.

“’Tis a grammatical error in the Latin,” Patrick said.

“An error that has never been corrected.” Could Patrick hear the underlying warning in Joshua’s tone? “Let King James come to Orkney to see how Robert treats his subjects and what he calls himself, King of Scotland, written in stone.”

The sound of someone drinking was followed by the tap of a tankard on the stone bar. “Like ye said, my cousin does not care what goes on here far from Edinburgh.”

The sound of men rising, their scabbards jostling against stone tables and the bar, made Kára suck in a full inhale, her empty hand going to her sore throat at the ache it caused.

“Then let us not worry over royal backing. Tell your father, Patrick, to leave the people of Orkney unmolested. Pay them fairly to work and give them access to hunt on their lands.”

Patrick’s scoff made a chill prickle Kára’s arms. Perhaps he was as bad as his brother. “Or what, Sinclair?”

Joshua’s tone, even and low, held the promise of death. “Or suffer the wrath of the Horseman of War.”

“Foking cocky,” Patrick said. “One warrior against a crew that he trained. Save yourself and leave the isle.” Kára heard the door open.

“Barkeep,” Patrick called. “Have ye seen my brother, Henry, ride this way today?”

“Nay,” Asmund said. “Been minding my bar inside.”

Patrick muttered something she couldn’t hear, and the door shut. Silence held for several seconds while Kára listened to the men calling for Henry outdoors, but there would be no reply.

After a long, silent pause, Joshua’s face appeared at the bottom of the staircase. “They are leaving the village.”

Her breath came in a huff as she tried to shake off the heaviness of dread that threatened to crumple her. She couldn’t act with bravery when she still quaked. Stepping lightly, she met him at the bottom of the stairs. Asmund stared out the window. “They