Page 68 of Keeping Kate
He lost sight of her in the fog among a long stretch of rumpled and rocky hills. The little wildcat was fleet, nimble, and familiar with the terrain. Alec was fast and fit, unhindered by long, damp skirts as she was, but he did not know these hills well.
Glancing about, hurrying, he followed instinct as much as logic as he went. Time was running short for Kate and her Highland Jacobites, he thought, and he had to reach them. Anyone attempting to conceal those Spanish weapons from the British government would be in serious trouble if found. He might be able to help them.
He had never found the chance to explain that to Kate. Last night he had been on the verge of taking the risk, telling her about his covert interest in assisting the Jacobite faction in finding a use for that cache of weapons if found. The temptation to tell Kate more about himself was growing stronger with every crack and chink in the armor that constrained him. What had protected him for years might prove to hamper him now.
But if he never saw Kate again, he would just slide back into the familiar old shell. He pursued her now for for himself, he thought, more than for his obligation to the government. The questions he wanted to ask had to do with the heart, not his orders. The secrets he wanted to share with her might help the Jacobites—and could form a stronger bond between him and the girl.
Like her, he was a spy. Like her, part of him leaned to rebellion.
And he no longer wanted to keep that from her. He had been lonely, bitter, resistant to love, intent on purpose. He had been getting along capably until Kate began to work her magic on him.
Yet the conflict, even so, was clear. No matter his leanings or hers, he was the girl’s military guardian. They had both best show up in Edinburgh soon, or their heads would share the price.
And he had better locate those Spanish weapons before the authorities forced Ian Cameron or one of the recently arrested Highlanders to reveal what they knew.
He trudged onward. The girl turned him about, ruffled and bestirred him in every way. He would never be out here, chasing after her, near lost in fog, but for her. But for his feelings for her.
“Kate!” he shouted. He paused for breath. No wonder Highlanders tended to be braw and powerful men, considering the hilltops they had to traverse. Regular sword practice had kept him strong and limber, but this steep trek was a challenge all the same. Lately, his military duties, which included more riding between encampments and more sitting to study legal documents, and less swordplay and hillwalking, had made him a little lazy. He was paying for it now. The prize, he thought, if he could find her in this thick soup, would be worth it.
“Katie!” he shouted, hearing only an echo.
He stood at the feathery edge of a wide patch of mist, staring into what looked like a magical realm: fog crowned a rugged slope and a high cleft of rock like a portal to another world. Legends thrived her. Folk might vanish to the fairies here.
Kate had disappeared somewhere in these blanketed heights. For a moment, he could well believe she had fairy magic.
“Where are you?” he called. “Kate!”
Kate...Katethe hills returned.
The way was treacherous in the heavy mist, and he was increasingly concerned for her welfare. She could slip and be hurt; she could be lost. He could not give up now.
Then he heard something else, faint and distorted. The shrill sound of steel sliding out of leather. Chills went down his spine.
He was glad he had his weapons with him, his dagger to his left, a sword to his right. As a solitary soldier venturing into Highland territory where rebels and brigands roamed, he had to be prepared. Sliding the dirk into his left hand, right hand cupped on the sword pommel, he turned warily.
He could not call out again or give himself away—and Kate’s presence out here as well. Bending, he grabbed a few loose stones and scattered them down the hill in another direction.
He heard the hiss of whispers, then footsteps scuttling off to the left. He waited, still and scarcely breathing, then carefully moved up the incline, wary, expectant.
A man leaped at him then, bursting out of the mist and over the rocks, followed by two more, in all three wild men in kilts and shabby coats, waving wickedly sharp steel, ready for blood. Alec whipped his sword out and up, equally ready, turning, shifting, watchful.
The first man lunged at him, and the sudden slam of steel against his sword jarred him to the shoulder bone, for the man wielded a heavy broadsword. Alec fought him, backing and sidestepping over rock, keeping the fellow at bay.
But the other two came at him all at once too, three on one, an older man and two younger. Alec thought he must be seeing double in the mist, for the lads seemed identical. One was here—one there, switching places, while the older fellow wove between them, his heavier blade smacking into Alec’s lighter steel, while the twin lads to right and left crossed their swords with his as well. Again and again, Alec spun, blocking and parrying, defending himself earnestly, capably.
The twin Highlanders were quick, the older one strong and fierce. Two leaped like frogs, the third man coming through the middle, more than enough challenge in fog, on a slippery, rocky slope, with Alec beginning to tire. What counted most at every step was whether a blade struck, missed, or swept past. The three were strong opponents.
Alec had mastered German, French, and Italian technique as well as traditional Highland swordplay. Clearly, his challengers had not studied any European manuals, but they were instinctive and ferocious fighters. Alec had practiced often with multiple opponents, something his father and uncle, who had trained him, had insisted on to sharpen awareness, agility, and quick thinking.
What he had not learned, and what his opponents had mastered, was fighting on uneven natural terrain. The Highlanders were agile and swift on the slope, leaping easily over rock and bracken. Alec had to glance down to avoid the hazards underfoot.
The clash of steel echoed on. He was exhausted—but so were they. He began to see signs of flagging, the volleys more brief, the breaks for breathing longer. His sword tip finally caught the thickness of the older man’s plaid, slicing into flesh. The gray-haired Highlander stepped back, turning ashen.
The lads descended on him, two at once. Alec danced back, wary, sword slashing at air, stabbing, missing. They were nimble devils, weaving back and forth, while their companion clutched his shoulder.
Then Alec saw her.
Kate stepped out through the mist and out of the very hillside as if she walked out of a fairy mountain, the queen herself in a scarlet gown, her hair melting gold. For a sliver of an instant, he stared, then turned back to the fight.
In that moment, one of the twins swept his blade across and caught Alec’s arm. He felt the strike more than the pain, looking down in surprise to see a cut to his left forearm through the wool. Blood pooled in the gap. He felt oddly stunned, stilled.
Kate, fairy queen that she seemed, spoke. The Highlanders, both of them, stopped, sweeping their blades downward, stepping back. The old man watched her with keen interest. Alec stared, released his own sword, clapped a hand over his arm, over the warm gush.
Kate ran to him, and the Highlanders came behind her, a phalanx of three. Not her enemies, he saw, but her men. A fairy host, warriors of the queen.
He sank to his knees, dizzy suddenly. Kate dropped down to kneel beside him. Her men stood over them both.
Strong hands grabbed him just as the ground slanted upward.
