Prologue
St. John's Church, Ayr, Scotland, April 20, 1307
Arthur Campbell wasn't there--or at least he wasn't supposed to be. He'd told King Robert Bruce about the silver changing hands at the church tonight on its way north to the English garrison at Bothwell Castle. His part of the mission was over.
Bruce's men were concealed in the trees not fifty yards away, waiting for the riders to appear. Arthur didn't need to be here. In fact, heshouldn'tbe here. Protecting his identity was too important. After more than two years of pretending to be a loyal knight to King Edward, he'd invested too much to risk it on a "bad feeling." It wasn't just explaining himself to the English that he had to worry about. If King Robert's men discovered him, they would think he was exactly what he appeared to be: the enemy.
Only a handful of men knew Arthur's true allegiance. His life depended on it.
Yet here he was, hiding in the shadows of the tree-shrouded hillside behind the church, because he couldn't shake the twinge of foreboding that something was going to go wrong. He'd spent too many years relying on those twinges to start ignoring them now.
The clang of the church bell shattered the tomb of darkness. Compline. The night prayer. It was time.
He held perfectly still, keeping his senses tuned for any sign of approaching riders. From his initial scouting of the area, he knew that Bruce's men were positioned in the trees along the road approaching the church. It gave them a good view of anyone arriving, but left them far enough away to be able to make a quick escape in the event the occupants of the church--which was serving as a makeshift hospital for English soldiers--were alerted by the attack.
Admittedly, St. John's wasn't the ideal place to stage an attack. If the wounded English soldiers inside weren't enough of a threat, the garrison of soldiers stationed not a half-mile away at Ayr Castle should give Bruce's men pause.
But they had to operate with the intelligence they had. Arthur had learned that the silver would change hands tonight at the church, but not by which road it would leave. With at least four possible routes out of the city to Bothwell, they couldn't be certain which one the riders would take.
In this case the reward was worth the risk. The silver--perhaps as much as fifty pounds--intended to pay the English garrison at Bothwell Castle could feed Bruce's four hundred warriors hiding in the forests of Galloway for months.
Moreover, capturing the silver wouldn't just be a boon to Bruce, it would also hurt the English--which was exactly what these surprise attacks were calculated to do. Quick, fierce attacks to keep the enemy unsettled, interfere with communication, take away the advantage of superior numbers, weaponry, and armor, and most of all, to instill fear in their hearts. In other words, they would fight the way he'd always fought: like a Highlander.
And it was working. The English cowards didn't like to travel in small groups without an army to protect them, but Bruce and his men had been giving them so much trouble, the enemy had been forced to use furtive tactics in attempting to sneak the silver through by using a few couriers and priests.
Suddenly, Arthur stilled. Though there hadn't been a sound, he sensed someone approaching. His gaze shot to the road, scanning back and forth in the darkness.Nothing. No sign of riders approaching. But the hairs at the back of his neck were standing on edge, and every instinct warned him otherwise.
Then he heard it. The soft but unmistakable crackle of leaves crushed underfoot, coming from behind him.
Behind.
He swore. The couriers were arriving via the path from the beach, not the road from the village. Bruce's men would see them, but the attack would be much closer to the church than they wanted. They'd been trained to expect the unexpected, but this was going to be close ... very close.
He hoped to hell the priest didn't decide to come out and investigate. The last thing he wanted was a dead churchman on his soul--it was black enough already.
He listened harder. Two sets of footsteps. One light, the second heavy. A twig cracked, and then another. They were getting closer.
A moment later, the first of two cloaked figures came into view on the path below him. Tall and bulky, he stomped forcefully up the winding path, pushing branches out of the way for the soldier trailing behind. As he strode past, Arthur could just make out the glint of steel and the colorful tabard beneath the heavy folds of wool. A knight.
Aye, it was them all right.
The second figure drew closer. Shorter and slimmer than the first, and with a much more graceful step. Quickly dismissing him as the lesser threat, Arthur started to turn back to the first when something made him stop. His gaze sharpened on the second figure. The darkness and hooded cloak blotted out the details, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right. The soldier almost seemed to be gliding along the path below him. There was something under his arm. It looked like a basket--
His stomach dropped.Ah, hell. It wasn't the courier, it was a lass. A lass withextremelybad timing.
Arthur's senses hadn't failed him. Something bad was going to happen all right. If the lass didn't get out of here, he had no doubt Bruce's men would make the same mistake he had. But they wouldn't have time to correct it. They'd be attacking as soon as she and her knightly companion came into view--which would be at any moment.
He tensed as she swept right by him, the faint scent of roses lingering in her wake.
Turn back, he urged her silently. When she paused and tilted her head slightly in his direction, he thought she might have heard his silent plea. But she shook it off and continued along the path, walking right into a death trap.
Christ. What a damned mess. This mission had just gone straight to hell. Bruce's men were about to lose their element of surprise--and kill a woman in the process.
He shouldn't interfere. He couldn't risk discovery. He was supposed to stay in the shadows. Operate in the black. Not get involved. Dowhateverhe had to do to protect his cover.
Bruce was counting on him. The prized scouting skills that had landed him in the elite fighting force known as the Highland Guard had never been as valuable as they were now. Arthur's ability to hide in the shadows and penetrate deep behind enemy lines to gather intelligence about terrain, supply lines, and enemy strength and positions, was even more important for the surprise attacks that had become a hallmark of Bruce's war strategy.
One lass wasn't worth the risk.
