Highland Steel: Highland Chronicles Series - Book 3 Read online

  “God’s eyes, this isna guid, Jack,” he said to his wolf, approaching the first guard, checking for life signs. The man was dead. Jack sniffed around and followed on Logan’s heels. Sure enough, all six guards had been killed and robbed. Even their horses were missing.

  Seeing a man face down on the ground still wearing the cloak of a noble, Logan figured it must be Rhoswen’s father. Walking up to him, Logan shook his head at seeing the puddle of blood around the man. His clothes were sliced and ripped while the guards’ clothes weren’t. It almost looked as if the attack were directed specifically toward him. Wanting to check for life signs, he flipped the man over. With a dagger gripped in his hand, the wounded man sat up and swiped at Logan. Logan jumped back, out of the way of the blade.

  “I’ll kill you!” shouted the man with vengeance in his eyes. His face was slashed and his body gashed. His clothes were almost torn to shreds.

  “Och, stop it!” commanded Logan, never even drawing his sword, since he didn’t need it. The wounded man figured he was an attacker. If Logan even touched his weapon, he would be seen as a threat and he didn’t want that. He raised his hands in the air to prove he wasn’t going to hurt him. “I wasna the one to attack ye. I am here to help.”

  Jack growled and moved forward slowly with his head down.

  “The wolves are already here to feast on my flesh,” spat the man, seeming to use all his energy to speak. With what little strength he had left, the man pushed up to his knees, slashing out at Jack now.

  “That’s enough!” Logan kicked the dagger out of the man’s hand and grabbed him by the arm. “That is my wolf and ye willna touch him. Do ye understand?”

  The man struggled against Logan’s grip but was no match for him, especially in his condition. With another yank, Logan dragged him to his feet.

  “I’ll kill you, you bastard!” The man swung at him next, but Logan clamped his hand around the man’s wrist and stopped him.

  “I willna tell ye again,” Logan ground out through gritted teeth. “I am here to help ye. At yer daughter’s request,” he added.

  “My daughter?” The man stopped struggling and looked up. “Where is she? Where are the others?” Then his eyes fell to the dead guards sprawled out on the ground around them. “God’s eyes, please don’t tell me they are all dead.”

  “Papa,” came the cry of a female from behind them before Logan could even answer. He turned around to find Rhoswen riding up to join them. A frustrated groan lodged in his throat. She shouldn’t be here. Why had he thought the girl would really listen?

  “I thought I told ye to go to the tavern with the others,” spat Logan.

  “Newell took Blaine there, but I wanted to come back to see my father.” The girl hopped off the horse and ran to her father, gathering him into her arms. She winced as their bodies met. When the wind blew her cloak aside, Logan could see her torn gown and bare leg. Her leg was bleeding.

  “Ye’re hurt, lassie,” said Logan.

  “What did those bloody Scots do to you, Rhoswen?” asked her father, who was in worse shape than his daughter.

  “They didna touch me, Blaine or Newell,” Rhoswen assured him. “I scraped my leg when my horse reared up and I fell, that’s all. Papa, are you all right? I thought you were dead.”

  “Nay, I’m . . . I’m . . . ” Her father wavered and his eyes drifted closed. Logan jumped forward and caught the man just before he hit the ground.

  “Papa!” cried Rhoswen.

  Jack growled lowly, which told Logan they were being watched.

  “Get on yer horse and go right now,” Logan told Rhoswen in a low voice, his head staying stable but his eyes darting back and forth.

  “Nay. I won’t leave my father,” she answered stubbornly.

  “I’ll take him on my horse. Now, do as I say.”

  “He is injured and needs to be tended to right here. We can’t move him yet.”

  “Ye’ll listen to me, and ye’ll do it now if ye ken what is guid for ye,” spat Logan. Jack growled again and Logan heard a twig snap in the forest. Rhoswen heard it, too. Her head jerked upward and her eyes opened wide. Then she turned and ran for her horse.

  “Get rid of them, Jack,” Logan told his wolf, throwing the wounded man over his shoulder, carrying him to his horse. He didn’t like leaving here if the attackers were still in the area, but he didn’t have a choice. He couldn’t fight them and protect the girl and her wounded father all at the same time. Nay, he would have to come back later. Right now, he needed to get them to safety and tend to their wounds. Rhoswen’s father didn’t look good and Logan wasn’t even sure he was going to live. He threw the wounded man over his shoulder and headed for his horse.

  “Ride for the tavern and dinna stop until ye get there,” he told Rhoswen. “And dinna turn back . . . no matter what ye hear or see.” They rode away, hearing the snarls of his wolf from behind them.

  Chapter 2

  Logan stopped and tethered his horse at the back of the tavern, looking around once more in case they were being followed. To his surprise, even though he was sure they were being watched, they hadn’t been bothered by the bandits. He had Jack to thank for scaring any stragglers away. Looking down, he ran a hand over his wolf’s head. “Ye’d better stay here, Jack. Auld Callum will have my head if ye come inside after ye stole the chicken out of the soup pot this mornin’. I’ll try to bring ye somethin’ though so dinna worry.”

  Before he could even help Rhoswen dismount, she was off her horse and running over to him.

  “Is he dead?” she asked with tears in her eyes, looking at her father.

  “Nay, but close to it.” Logan collected her father into his arms, taking him from the horse. The man moaned and his eyes flickered open.

  “Rhoswen,” said her father in merely a whisper.

  “Papa, don’t try to talk. Save your strength.” Rhoswen hurried alongside Logan, talking as they made their way to the back door of the tavern. The horses of Blaine and Newell were tethered there as well, so Logan knew they were safely inside.

  “They stole . . . the sword,” said her father.

  “I know,” she answered. “I’m sorry.”

  “You need . . . to find it.”

  “I will, Papa. I promise, I will get it back.”

  “No more talkin’,” said Logan, thinking these Sassenachs were addled. The man was on the edge of death and yet all he seemed to care about was his stolen sword. He even had the nerve to tell his daughter to find it, and she so obediently agreed. Didn’t they realize the danger they were in? And telling a girl to do the job of a man was preposterous. Especially when they were English on Scottish soil.

  “Logan, is that ye?” Caleb stuck his head out the back door of the tavern. He jerked backward when he saw them. “What in the bluidy hell is goin’ on?”

  “Clear off a table, quickly,” Logan instructed. “We’ve got a man here that is close to death and needs immediate attention.”

  “Blethers! Callum is goin’ to kill ye, bringin’ a wounded Sassenach into his tavern,” Caleb warned him. “He’s already no’ happy about the youngins that came in earlier sayin’ ye sent them here.”

  “The table,” Logan repeated, having no patience for Caleb and all his idle chatter right now. He swore the man talked more than a wench sometimes!

  Caleb rushed over to a kitchen table, using his arm to swipe the items atop it to the floor. Metal tankards, wooden bowls, freshly-baked bread, and cooking spoons hit the ground with a loud clatter. Caleb’s pet pine marten ran across the table next and dropped to the floor as well.

  “Hey, what are ye doin’!” shouted the burly cook as he looked over from stirring a pot at the fire. “Get the hell out of my kitchen and take that bluidy Sassenach with ye!” His arms waved wildly in the air, still holding the ladle.

  “It’s all right, Mule, calm down,” Logan told him. “These people were attacked and we need to help them.” The cook was a tall man with a big belly whose name was really C
uithbeart, or Cuddy. But Logan and his friends liked to call him “Mule” since he often acted like an ass. Of course, that only ruffled Cuddy’s feathers more than ever.

  “Mayhap ye should no’ call him Mule right now,” Caleb whispered. “I dinna think he likes it.”

  “First, yer wolf steals my chicken and now ye push a mornin’s worth of bakin’ to the floor, and ye have the nerve to ask me to help ye?” the man ground out, throwing down the ladle and pulling a cooking hatchet from a block of wood as he moved closer.

  “Now, now, Cuddy, that was Caleb who threw yer bread on the floor, no’ me,” Logan pointed out.

  “Mmph,” growled Cuddy, his eyes settling on poor Caleb.

  “Wait a minute!” Caleb held out his open palms and took a step backward, away from an angry Mule with the hatchet in his grip. “Logan, ye were the one who told me to clear the table, so I did.”

  “Please,” begged Rhoswen, bravely stepping in between Logan, Caleb, and the cook. “My father is nearly dead. I will pay you to help him.”

  Cuddy grumbled, slammed the hatchet down into a wooden butcher’s block, and wiped his hands on a towel. Then he headed over to the table. “It’ll cost ye five shillin’s for me to look at him.”

  “I don’t care,” said the girl. “My father’s life is worth much more than that.”

  “Really.” Cuddy looked up at her and smiled a broken-toothed smile. He was an opportunist, just like Old Callum sometimes. “Then it’ll cost ye –”

  “Just do it, Mule,” snapped Logan. “We can discuss payment later. The man is dyin’.”

  “All right, all right,” grumbled the cook. “But stop callin’ me Mule or I’ll no’ help ye at all.”

  “Sorry, Cuddy,” said Logan, trying to make peace. Cuddy was the cook at the Horn and Hoof, but he also doubled as the town’s healer. That came about from all the injuries that took place in the tavern with drunken men hurting themselves and sometimes fights as well.

  “I dinna ken. He’s lost a lot of bluid,” said Cuddy, inspecting the man and shaking his head. “Caleb, bring me my bag so I can try to sew him up.”

  “Of course,” said Caleb, rushing over to a shelf, grabbing the bag and bringing it back to Cuddy.

  “Will he live?” asked Rhoswen with hope in her voice. “Please. I can’t lose my father.”

  “I dinna ken. He’s wounded badly,” said Cuddy, pulling a needle and thread from his bag. He stuck the end of the thread between his lips and studied her with narrowed eyes. “I will no’ lie, lass. It doesna look promisin’.”

  “Rhoswen!” The door to the kitchen banged open and there stood Blaine with Newell looking over her shoulder. Blaine rushed over to the table with Newell on her heels.

  “Please call me Lady Rhoswen, Blaine,” Rhoswen softly reminded the girl. Logan found it odd that the handmaiden couldn’t remember how to address her superior.

  “What did those attackers do to him?” asked Newell, stretching his neck to see.

  “My lord, can you hear me?” asked Blaine, taking the wounded man’s hand in hers.

  “We were lucky to find him alive,” Rhoswen told the others.

  “Did you find the sword? What about the sword?” asked Newell in a low voice.

  “What is so important about this sword?” asked Logan.

  No one said a thing.

  “It’s gone,” mumbled the man from the table, trying to lift his head. Blood soaked into the wood beneath his body. “It –”

  “It’s just a sword,” said Rhoswen. “Papa, your life is what’s important and nothing else. You need to pull through, so save your strength and try not to speak.”

  “Nay. I need to talk to you, Daughter,” said the man, wincing in pain.

  “Bid the devil, I canna work with all this clishmaclaver!” Cuddy waved his hands wildly in the air and called a scullery boy over to help him. “Everyone else out!”

  “Nay, I won’t leave Father,” protested Rhoswen stubbornly. “I want to stay at his side.”

  “Me, too,” added Blaine. Both the girls had tears in their eyes. Even Newell seemed a bit choked up over this.

  “Come on,” grumbled Logan, taking the girls by the arms and pulling them toward the door.

  “I’ll stay here in case I’m needed,” said Newell, not moving.

  “Caleb? A little help here?” Logan looked over at his friend and raised a brow.

  “This way,” said Caleb, escorting the squire to the door that led to the tavern. Slink, Caleb’s pine marten, darted out of the shadows. Caleb scooped it up, along with a loaf of bread from the floor as they entered the other room.

  Stepping inside the tavern of the Horn and Hoof, Logan took a moment to scan the area for anyone who looked suspicious. The attackers could still be nearby and he didn’t want any surprises. The aroma of soup – minus the chicken – filled the air and it made it hard to concentrate. Many of the patrons were eating and now all Logan could think about was his empty stomach.

  The tavern’s small kitchen was attached to the back of the building while several bedchambers were upstairs. The rooms were rented out to travelers and nobles when they passed through, so they could stay the night in privacy with a roof over their heads and something to eat. A long drink board lined one wall with Scots standing at it leaning over their tankards. These men were only here for a quick dram of whisky as they passed through. Tables, benches, and chairs filled the rest of the area, all occupied by the local patrons. A large wooden bowl of either steaming hot soup or pottage was placed in the center of each table along with several spoons so everyone could share.

  Daylight shone in from the open shutters. The smell of damp earth and spring flowers drifted in on the breeze. Logan could hear the chirping of birds that congregated in a tree outside. With only a few small windows on one wall, the door of the tavern was often left open for fresh air to mask the scent of body odor and alcohol. Candles burned all day long to light the small, dim enclosure. The scent of tallow, animal fat from the candles, blended with the smell of strong whisky and piss. Although Callum ran a clean place for the most part, Ethan’s wolfhound had a habit of pissing in the rushes whenever they passed through on their way back to the MacKeefe camp in the Highlands. It was just one more thing to make the old man mad.

  Logan’s stomach growled. He was hungry, not having eaten all morning. If his wolf hadn’t angered Callum earlier, mayhap he’d have had at least a bowl of soup or a heaping helping of pottage in him by now. Mule knew how to make a hearty pottage that consisted of roasted pork, root vegetables, and boiled grain that could fill any man’s belly and keep him satisfied for days. But right now, Logan would be happy with even just a bowl of chicken-less broth.

  He looked around the room but every table was taken. Escorting the English to a table of four Scots, Logan halted right in front of the men. He recognized them as local patrons.

  “Get up,” he told them. “I need the table.”

  The men grumbled, but didn’t want to mess with Logan or his friends since they were MacKeefes, so they vacated their seats quickly.

  “Sit down,” Logan told the English travelers. They didn’t say a word, but Logan noticed the glare coming from Rhoswen as they took their seats.

  Caleb stood munching on a loaf of bread, having stopped next to the drink board. His pine marten was nestled in the crook of his arm and he let it nibble at his food.

  “Caleb, give me some bread,” Logan called out, motioning to him with an outstretched arm. “I’ve got a powerful hunger and that weasel doesna need to eat before me.”

  “Nay, I dinna think so,” said Caleb, shoving an entire hunk of bread into his mouth at once. “Auld Callum is madder than a wet hornet and has forbidden any of us to give ye or yer wolf any food,” he told him as he chewed. “And dinna call Slink a weasel because he doesna like it.”

  “Losh me! It was only a chicken that went missin’, and it wasna me who took it. Jack is an animal and canna help his ways,” spat Logan, moving clos
er to Caleb and reaching for the bread. He was stopped by a hatchet flying through the air and slamming into the wall just behind them. Caleb swallowed hard, almost choking when he saw the weapon lodged into the wood so close to his head. His pine marten jumped from his arm, landing on the drink board. Logan yanked back his hand in one motion, quickly checking for all his fingers, before turning and drawing his sword.

  His heart sank when he saw Old Callum standing there with his hands on his hips and an angry scowl on his face.

  “I thought I told ye to leave here,” hissed Callum, his long, white beard moving as he spoke. He had gone missing for years, living like a hermit at one time. People thought he’d died. But Callum had more life in him than most people half his age.

  “Nay,” said Logan, resheathing his sword. “Ye told me to get my wolf out of here and I did. I left him out back.”

  “Ye owe me a chicken,” spat the old man in a high, gravelly voice. Callum might be older than dirt and as small as a wench, but no one messed with him when he was angry. The man drank Mountain Magic all day long, and the powerful brew made him a little crazy. So when a hatchet came flying at them, Logan figured mayhap it was time to make amends.

  “I’ll pay ye for the bluidy chicken,” said Logan, pulling a coin from his sporran and slapping it into Callum’s hand. “And now I’ll pay ye another coin for a bowl of pottage and a tankard of ale.” He repeated the action.

  Normally, the MacKeefe Clan wasn’t charged for food or drinks since they were considered family. But in goodwill, Logan figured he’d better pay up or risk losing a finger or two before he left the place.

  Callum inspected the coins. Then with a jerk of his head, he motioned to the bouncer at the door to join him. “Make sure these bounce,” he said, handing the man the coins. The man took out a board from under his arm and, one at a time, bounced the coins atop it to make sure they were real. Then he gave them back to Callum and headed back to the door. Callum quickly stuck the coins into the sporran tied at his waist.