Highlanders: The Warrior and the Rose / The Forbidden Highlander / Rescued by the Highland Warrior

His stare was piercing. “And what would I gain from such an act of mercy? Yer brother will have won. He will think to send another spy—and another one.”

“I am not my brother.”

He shook his head, as if perplexed—or amused. “When I leave here, ye will run to yer brother, and even if ye do not, others will.”

“I can hardly ignore this attack.”

“Ye have courage, Lady Juliana, but ye should not be in the midst of wars between men.”

“You have put me in their midst. And you are in God’s house. Maybe God will forgive you for the blood spilled here, today, if you spare Alan. Maybe you will gain God’s grace.”

“I have no use for grace, not even from God.” And he whirled and strode down the nave, vanishing into the vestibule.

Juliana felt her knees buckle. As she fought to stand, her mind spun. She looked at her two dead soldiers, and another dead Highlander, one of Macdonald’s.

Mary reached her, taking her arm. “We cannot save him.”

“We must save him!”

“How can we manage that? Juliana—you cannot stop Alasdair Og, a warrior well versed in revenge, by every account I have ever heard! And you heard him yourself. He doesn’t care whether he goes to hell or not!”

Mary was right. Juliana had tried to reason with MacDonald, but she had failed. She could not think just then, not at all, and certainly not of another way to beg for the bishop’s life.

“We should go—we should get back to Coeffin Castle,” Mary said, “where we will be safe.”

Juliana looked at her, suddenly afraid. She had not considered that Alasdair might also mean to harm them.

They hurried outside. Clouds were gathering, and the bishop was hanging from a makeshift gallows on the other side of the courtyard. Juliana felt sick, and she purposefully averted her eyes. Mary put her arm around her and held her close. “He will go to Heaven,” she whispered.

Juliana blinked back tears. She could hear a crowd whispering nervously amongst themselves. She wiped her eyes and looked up.

The monks from the monastery had rushed up the hill once they had heard what was happening. A great many villagers had also gathered, mostly fishermen and their wives. None of her soldiers had survived, she saw, and it was too soon for any other soldiers from Coeffin Castle to have arrived. They would not have heard of the attack yet.

“Oh my God,” Mary cried, jerking on her arm.

Juliana turned and saw MacDonald’s men throwing brush, wood and faggots around the cathedral. He meant to burn St. Moluag’s Cathedral down. She could not believe her eyes.

“Surely, he does not mean to burn down a house of God,” Mary gasped.

Juliana wondered if she looked as wildly frightened as her sister. And then she saw Alasdair striding to her. “Why would you burn the cathedral?”

“A message fer yer brother,” he said flatly. “And he canna but receive it.”

“Please don’t!” Juliana cried, seizing his arm.

His eyes widened and he stared at her, as if shocked by her touch.

She realized she was holding his muscular forearm—and she released it as if burned. “Bishop Alan is dead. My brother will surely understand that.”

“Yer too brave fer yer own good.” He paused, his gaze frighteningly cold. “The next time yer brother thinks to play me for a fool, he’ll think twice.” He turned. “Burn it.”

His men began lighting the wood with torches. The fire caught instantly, consuming the kindling, while licking at the century-old cathedral walls.

In horror, Juliana watched the walls catching fire. Tears filled her eyes as she thought of Bishop Alan, who had died for naught.

Mary took her hand. She was crying, too.

“Alasdair!”

Juliana jerked as a rider appeared at a gallop, halting his horse before Alasdair. “MacDougall is at sea—and almost upon the beaches.”

Alasdair turned. “We go back now!” he shouted at his men.

Juliana could barely assimilate what was happening as Alasdair leapt swiftly upon a gray warhorse. All of his men were mounting as quickly. She had not yet exhaled before his men were galloping away—but Alasdair paused his stallion before her.

Stunned, she looked up.

As his horse danced wildly about, he said, “I am sorry ye were here today.” And he spurred the steed, galloping after his men.

Suddenly Juliana and Mary stood alone. Not far from them, the dead bishop twirled from his noose. Her dead Highlanders lay scattered about the courtyard and the end of the road. The crowd hadn’t moved, equally stunned as they all watched the cathedral burn.

CHAPTER TWO

JULIANA STRODE BACK and forth across her great hall. Her mind would not stop racing. She kept seeing Bishop Alan swinging from that noose, just as she could not shake off the memory of her dead men as they lay scattered about the cathedral’s nave, the vestibule and the courtyard outside. Finally, she could not get Alasdair Og’s dark, frightening image out of her mind.

Her desperate pleas had fallen upon deaf ears, she thought grimly.

But had they saved the cathedral? She, the monks and the villagers had been frantically fighting the fire when her brother and his men had arrived. Alexander MacDougall had immediately ordered both of his sisters back to Coeffin Castle, taking over the effort to save the cathedral. Juliana had not wanted to go, but Mary had been feeling faint and she had accompanied her sister back to the castle.

Mary was resting now, and comfortably. Juliana thanked God for that.

Juliana heard Alexander and William’s voices and she whirled as they came marching through the door, shaking snow from their mantels, followed by two dozen of their best soldiers. As they came into the hall, Alexander smiled at her.

He was a tall man in his late thirties, with strong features and brown hair. Like most Highlanders, he wore a simple short-sleeved linen leine, belted, his legs bare except for knee-high boots. Today he wore a shirt of mail over his leine. His wool brat was red striped with white—the MacDougall colors. “It is done. Yer cathedral is but a wee worse for wear. She stands.”

Juliana was flooded with relief.

“Mary?” William rushed forward. Three years younger than his wife, he was a tall, blond man with attractive features, clad in a long-sleeved red tunic, a brown surcote, hose and boots.

“She is resting upstairs,” Juliana told him and William rushed from the hall.

Juliana began to shake, thinking once again of Bishop Alan—thinking of Alasdair Og.

Her brother no longer smiled. “Tell me everything, Juliana.”

She inhaled. “No—you tell me!”

He was taken aback. “I beg yer pardon?”