The Arrow Read online

  Lamont turned away. He didn’t seem to expect a response and Gregor didn’t have one to give him. What could he say? It was true. The blackened bodies they found at each holding left no doubt.

  Rage replaced some of his horror. No more, he vowed. Once Bruce was on the throne, nothing like this would ever happen again.

  The importance of this mission to Bruce was evident by the man who spoke next. Tor “Chief” MacLeod, the leader of the king’s secret band of elite soldiers known as the Highland Guard, hadn’t left the king’s side for more than a few hours in recent weeks. Personal bodyguard, enforcer, protector, advisor, MacLeod was everything for Robert the Bruce. Yet the king had sent his most trusted man to check on the loyal villagers who had given a handful of his men shelter after the worst disaster of a short reign that had been filled with disasters.

  The fearsome West Highland chief cursed, his stony expression revealing a rare glimpse of emotion. “For once I wish our informants had been wrong.”

  Gregor nodded. “As do I.”

  They’d come as soon as they heard the first whisper of rumor that the English had retaliated against the village that had given the “rebels” aid. Leaving their temporary base in the hills and forest of Galloway, they’d raced the forty miles or so east through Dumfries to Lochmaben. But they’d never had a chance to prevent the slaughter that had taken place here.

  As soon as MacLean rejoined them, MacLeod turned to him and his partner, Lamont. The two Guardsmen were among the handful of men who’d escaped the disaster at Loch Ryan and taken refuge here. “No one could have foreseen this. This is not on you—either of you. Do you understand?”

  His voice was hard and commanding, without a hint of compassion or reassurance. Lamont and MacLean were warriors; they understood orders, not coddling.

  Neither man responded for a moment. They exchanged a glance, and then Lamont gave a short nod, one that was mirrored a moment later by his partner.

  “Good,” MacLeod said. “Then let us give the villagers a proper burial and return to the king to tell him what we have found. But do not doubt that what has been done here will be avenged.” He turned to Gregor. “Gather the bodies and bring them here.” They were standing in what had been the village kirk—identifiable by the scraps of the robe left on the body of the priest. “The three of us will dig.”

  Gregor nodded and began the grim work of gathering the charred remains of the dead.

  Someone will come for me …

  Cate dreamed of knights from troubadour’s tales. Of strong, handsome warriors on white chargers with shimmering mail, colorful tabards, and banners streaming in the wind as they rode in to the rescue. Noble knights. Valiant knights. The knights of her childhood. The knights she’d once believed in. A knight like her father.

  “My father is the greatest knight in Christendom!” The boast she’d made when the other children teased her about being a bastard had only provided more fodder for them after he’d left.

  “Where’s the greatest knight in Christendom now, Caty?” they’d taunted.

  Not here.

  She woke with a start. Delirious with hunger and thirst, barely strong enough to unfurl from the ball that she’d been rolled in for God knew how long, at first the sound of voices confused her. She’d prayed so hard and for so long without response that when it finally came, just when she’d resigned herself to her fate, it seemed a cruel taunt of her imagination.

  But then the voices grew stronger. Men’s voices. Was it the English soldiers? Had they come back to torment her? To finish what they’d started?

  A fist of irrational fear gripped her, and her raw lips—which had parted to cry for help—clamped shut. But then she realized she had to take a chance. If the men were friends, it might be her only chance of rescue. And if they were English …

  Perhaps they would put her out of her misery.

  She opened her mouth to cry for help, but in some kind of cruel, twisted irony, her voice strangled in her throat. Tears of desperation and frustration sprang to her eyes. She willed her voice to work with everything she had left, but it wasn’t enough for more than a faint whisper. “Help! Please, help me.” She started to cry at the futility, precious fluid rolling down her cheeks. “Help me.”

  God, this couldn’t be happening! She was strong. She wouldn’t give up. She didn’t want to die.

  She thought of her mother, of the brother or sister she would never have a chance to know, of her friends and neighbors she’d known her whole life. Someone had to remember them. Someone had to see that the men who did this paid.

  She tried again. “Help!” It was louder this time. Not much, but enough to give her encouragement. She sat up a little straighter, looked up through the tunnel of light, and tried again. And again.

  Her efforts were rewarded by a shout, a voice that seemed to be coming closer to her. “I think someone is down there.”

  It wasn’t her imagination. She cried out again, sobbing with both hope and fear. Don’t go … Please don’t go! I’m here.

  With a burst of energy, she wobbled to a stand, using the mossy stones of the wall to help keep her upright. She looked up as a shadow crossed over her head. A man’s face appeared above her, peering down.

  She gasped. Blinked. Felt her knees grow wobbly—and not from exhaustion or starvation.

  From his face. The most perfect she’d ever seen.

  Sunlight blazed behind him like a halo, bathing his tawny hair in golden light. His nose was straight and strong; his jaw firm, lightly clefted, and not too square; his cheeks high and sculpted; and his mouth … his mouth was wide and full of sin. His eyes were light in color—blue or green, she could not tell—set below brows arched like the wings of a raven. There wasn’t one part of him, not one bone or one inch of golden skin, that had not been put in exactly the right position.

  Dear Lord, he wasn’t a man, he was an angel.

  And that meant …

  I’m in heaven.

  It was her last thought as the ground rose under her feet.

  “Is she alive?”

  A deep voice pulled her from unconsciousness. She had the sensation of floating. Nay, of being carried. A man’s arms were around her. Arms that were strong and safe.

  He put her down on the ground. The gentle warmth of his breath as he leaned over her caused her eyes to flutter open.

  Their eyes met: hers and her angel’s.

  “Aye,” he said softly, brushing a clump of matted hair from her forehead. “She’s alive.”

  The gentleness in his voice made her chest swell with emotion. She opened her mouth to speak, but all she could do was lick her dry lips. The next moment a skin was brought to her mouth and the first precious drops of water slid down her parched throat. She drank hungrily—greedily—until he murmured for her to slow; she would make herself ill.

  When he pulled it away a moment later, she would have tried to snatch it back had she not been distracted. He was cradling her against his chest, and his heavenly face was so close, all she had to do was reach up and touch it. Green. His eyes were green and framed by the thickest, most glorious lashes she’d ever seen. Unfair—even for an angel.

  Alive? She frowned as his words penetrated. “But you’re an angel.”

  She heard what sounded like a sharp laugh coming from behind her. “Hawk is going to have fun with that one.”

  Her angel shot an angry glare in the direction of the man who’d spoken, but his words and gentle voice were for her. “You are alive, child. And safe.”

  The reminder of what had happened made her clutch at him in renewed terror. With her head pressed against his leather-clad chest—a very hard and broad chest—she glanced behind her, for the first time seeing the three men standing there.

  She gasped, shirking in fear. They were massive. Clad in black leather cotuns studded with bits of steel and darkened nasal helms (her rescuer’s was on the ground next to her, she realized), the tall, muscular warriors made her shiver. Good t