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

failed so terribly. Dying not only from a sword strike but also from disease. God has surely forsaken him. Joshua Sinclair, a weak failure of a man.”

The bastard was goading Joshua, daring him to leap up from the grave in vengeful outrage. Kára’s hand tightened in his as if she were afraid that was exactly what he would do, but Joshua lay still, imagining Dishington’s gaze waiting on his face for any twitch of life.

“He even lost at South Ronaldsay,” Dishington continued. “Practically killed that lad who trusted him.”

Joshua summoned his strength to stay still, unmoving as the man slandered him. In times past, Joshua never would have been able to rein in his temper. But the warmth of Kára’s hand rooted him, shielding him from the effects of the man’s insults.

“Now leave us to our goodbyes and prayers,” Calder said.

“The marker does not say she took his name,” Patrick said from above their heads.

“There…there was no time to consummate it,” Osk said, sounding like he was at the end of his patience.

Dishington snorted. “If it had been me, I would have leaped upon the woman before the cleric could make the sign of the cross. Joshua Sinclair, a failure of a man, too.”

“Blasphemy,” one of Hillside’s men muttered. As planned, a number of them had moved out of the shadows to encircle the chapel and graveyard, outnumbering Robert and his small band. Would it be enough to deter them from meddling more with the burial?

Harriett began to cry harder, her breathing becoming labored as she crooned in their ancient Norn language.

“Hold your tongue, old woman,” Robert called from a distance.

“I want to see you cover them,” Dishington said. “Completely buried.”

“Stay away from my girl,” Harriett wailed.

“Lord Robert, beware the plague,” a voice called from farther off. It sounded like Mathias. “Your son, and certainly Sheriff Dishington, are too close to the bodies.”

“Back away,” Calder called, “so we can lay them to rest.”

Dishington’s voice came close to Joshua’s face. “I am no fool, Highlander,” he whispered and stood. The sound of his boots crunching pebbles as he spun and strode away allowed Joshua to draw in air once more. The man did not believe he was dead, despite the blood and marks of disease, despite the burial and goading without winning a reaction. John Dishington was not ready to let him go. The realization that he never would stop hunting him hardened inside Joshua’s chest.

As Harriett lowered small treasures into the grave around Kára and him, she whispered, “He watches but cannot see inside the grave. Breathe before we cover you.”

The large jug that they had carefully cracked in half was lowered inside. Under the edge of the grass, Harriett split it open. Joshua smelled the rank seal beneath them, the soil, and the herbs scattered over them. Harriett lowered one half of the clay vessel over his face, blocking out the sound of the sea birds overhead. The wind was muted, as were the voices around them. The first toss of dirt onto his targe sounded loud, a hollow thud that almost made him jerk upright in defense. Kára squeezed his hand hard at the macabre sound of them being buried alive. He might have nightmares, too.

Joshua turned his thoughts from the dirt piling up over his legs and chest to the fact that Dishington would try to make certain he was dead. He had his arms left unwrapped under the outer blanket and targe in case he had to punch his way up out of the soil to save them. Kára had opted for the same. Did Dishington believe her to be dead? Or would he try to make certain she was truly a corpse, too?

Bloody hell. This ridiculous plan had too many parts that could go foking wrong. He had anticipated Robert and Patrick would believe the farce because they wanted to. Patrick could brag that he had killed the Horseman of War and Robert would not risk infection to verify it. The killing would feed Patrick’s conceit, and the disease would feed Robert’s fear. But John Dishington wanted Joshua to be alive and cared little about disease, living his life by walking the thin line of victory and death as a mercenary. Of course, he was not fooled. But what would he do about it?

…

Kára concentrated on breathing evenly as the weight of the dirt pressed in on her. Osk had pulled out all the heavy rocks, but the soil itself was heavy after several inches. Their faces, under the pottery jug, would be last to be covered, giving them as much air as possible.

Slow breaths. Birds flying in a blue sky. Wide open moors covered with purple thistle and bluebells. The scenes were to keep her calm, but with each drop of dirt, her breath stuttered, threatening to make her gasp. Instead, she squeezed Joshua’s hand, and he squeezed back, his thumb rubbing against her own the smallest amount that the encasing dirt would allow. Could the dirt grow heavy enough to crush her chest? Of course it could, but they would fight their way out before that happened if Osk didn’t shovel it off fast enough. The thought made her heart thump faster, which made her pull in a fast couple of breaths before she caught herself.

Tears leaked out of her eyes, sliding down the sides of her face. Amma would be angry if she smeared the white paste with them. The thought made her smile there under the pottery in the dark, cold grave.

Joshua squeezed her fingers again, and she returned it gently. One squeeze only. They had worked out the signals beforehand. Three squeezes in rapid succession meant that they needed to get out fast. It was her key to unlock this hell if she felt like she couldn’t breathe or bear the press of death anymore.

“I promise I will uncover you soon.” Kára heard Osk’s voice outside the pottery covering her face right before the sound of dirt falling on it