Page 43 of The Story of his Highland Bride
More torches burst into life, bobbing through the impenetrable blackness behind the front line of shadowy men, as a horde of other bodies joined the first scouts. A few seconds later, a smallarmy of fifteen or so men charged out from between the mossy black elders and ghostly birches, running straight for Jackson and Eloise.
“Seize the witch!” someone howled.
“Burn her!” yelled another.
“Take her to the priest!” bellowed a third, to the beat of heavy footfalls.
It took a matter of moments for Jackson to put the pieces together, as a hurried plan formed in his mind. Father Hepburn must not have abandoned the witch’s cottage, as they had thought. At the very least, he must have left someone behind, in case the witch revealed herself, or if Eloise returned. And that someone would have heard Eloise, Jackson, and Irene discussing what needed to be done for Eloise to return home.
He put a guard around the Cairns,Jackson could have smacked his own forehead for not suspecting something so underhand.
“Can ye ride Claymore by yerself?” Jackson grabbed the reins and put them into Eloise’s hands, thinking as quickly as he could.
She gaped at him in horror. “I haven’t got a clue, Jackson. I can’t go ahead without you!”
“If ye ever want to make it back to yer world, Eloise, ye have to,” he urged, cradling her cheek. “I need ye to be courageous, as I ken ye are, and take these reins. Ride yer way through these bastards and reach those Cairns. Daenae stop for anythin’, Love. Ye follow this path that ye see before ye, and when ye see two vast oaks that look older than the world itself, ye’ve reached where ye need to be. I daenae ken what has to be done after that—it’ll be up to ye, but I can help buy yer safe passage.”
Her eyes glittered with welling tears. “But… we didn’t get to say goodbye.”
“As it should be,” he told her, pressing a swift, desperate kiss to her lips. “We’re nae sayin’ farewell, remember? We’re sayin’… “another day.” Aye, we daenae ken when that’ll be, but ye ken I’ll be waitin’. So, go, otherwise we willnae have any hope of another day.”
Father Hepburn’s holy soldiers were gaining ground with every second that passed. It would not be long before they crashed into Jackson and his men; the latter still waiting for a command from their Laird. And though it pained him to have to abandon Eloise to her own means, he refused to let her fall into the priest’s hands. If she was caught by those men, there would be no trial of fair judgment: Father Hepburn would have her killed as quickly as possible, not caring that going against the Laird was tantamount to treason.
“Go, Eloise!” Jackson roared, as he leaped down and drew his broadsword from the sheath attached to Claymore’s saddle. “I love ye, Eloise. Nay matter what happens, remember that.”
Eloise stared at him, coils of loose rein spilling out of her clenched, shaking fists. “I love you, too, but I still don’t know how to ride a—”
Jackson gave Claymore’s rear a meaningful smack, and the stallion took off, wielding his solitary rider down the path to Clava Cairns. Jackson knew his horse would not stray from that trail; the hard part would be getting through the small army of furious, violent men that were headed right for them.
“The bet willnae be in our favor, Lads!” Jackson shouted to his own men. “But whatever ye do, ye cannae let them stop Eloise from gettin’ through! Fight to yer last breath, Lads!”
Leading the charge on his side, Jackson sprinted forward with his sword raised, bellowing a great war cry as his boots thudded against the damp earth. A red mist descended over his eyes, his concentration keen, his muscles tightening in preparation for a battle.
“For Jane!” Lennox roared, spurring his horse into the charge.
“For me maither!” cried Lennox’s second-in-command.
“For Fiona!” screamed the third man.
It was then that Jackson understood; Lennox had brought men who had suffered losses at the hands of Father Hepburn, too. Men who had a vendetta of their own to fulfill. Men who wouldnot hesitate to cut down a priest, painfully aware that he was the least godly man of all.
Ye bastard,Jackson seethed, letting the anger fuel him.
It had been a long while since he had fought in a fight that he did not think he could win, but his side had one advantage: they were true soldiers, born and bred with a sword in hand, and these oncoming wretches were nothing more than farmer’s boys who had had their minds corrupted by the doctrine of Father Hepburn.
As Jackson clashed with the first enemy, striking the feeble soldier in the head with the flat of his sword, his eyes darted toward the distant trees. There, he caught his last glimpse of Eloise, her body twisted toward him as Claymore carried her to safety. And though she was too far away for him to be certain, Jackson thought he saw her lips move, mouthing “I love you” one final time.
“I love ye,” he whispered, driving the flat of his blade into the shoulder of the next man, downing him.
On either side of Jackson, his three loyal riders tore through the underbrush, outpacing him. Lennox took the lead, galloping toward the men who were attempting to pursue Eloise. All the while, Jackson dealt with the holy soldiers that swarmed him, striking left and right with his blade, arcing it around to inflict as much damage as possible. He did not want to be responsible for the deaths of these misguided men, but Eloise’s life took precedence.
His panicked gaze flitted toward Lennox, just in time to see the Man-at-Arms catch up to the pack of four men who were chasing Eloise and Claymore. Lennox did not hesitate to cut them down where they ran, and as Jackson breathed a shallow sigh of relief, his beloved vanished from sight, swallowed up by the dark forest.
Another day,he prayed, driving his boot into the chest of his next assailant.Please, give us that.
But he knew better than to believe the Old Gods would answer his wish. Not without a steep price to pay.
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