Free Highlander's Sword by Amanda Forester

sweet revenge.
       The more he thought on it, the more a desire to return to Dundaff burned within him. Why was he lying in the mud when his beautiful bride lay in bed waiting for him? Her soul may be vile, but her body was not. And truly, what more did a man need? He was about to call the men to return to the castle when a soft noise drew his attention. He peeked above the dirt embankment; torches were headed his way.

    Aila woke early. So early, many would call it the dead of night. Somehow she had fallen asleep on the stone bench, and she stood gingerly, her body cold and sore. Some wedding night. The groom had never bothered to show. She felt like a mouse battered by a cat all night and then discarded, not even worthy enough to kill. Her mother had been right all along; men brought nothing but pain and rejection.
       The red-jeweled bottle of whiskey still waited for her wedding-night celebration. Perhaps a draft now would do her good. She walked slowly over to the bottle and took out the stopper, breathing in the contents. Instantly she pulled back as the unfamiliar alcohol fumes hit her like a restorative. Making a face, she put the stopper back into the bottle.
       Though it was the wee hours of the morning, she generally awoke at this time. With growing anticipa tion, she decided to follow her normal routine and do what she usually did at this time of the morning. She had thought this lost to her, but since MacLaren was not here, there was no one to stop her now.
       With some difficulty, she shed her fancy clothes, and in the dim light of the moon, she donned a pair of men's breeches, leather boots, and a thick woven shirt belted at the waist that hung almost to her knees. Over this she put on a pale blue silk cape that had once been her grandmother's but had long since faded into grey. Aila valued the old, tattered garment for its inner layer of thick wool, which kept her warm from the chill night air. She quickly spun her hair into a bun and attached her head covering, pinning the hood of her cape to the wimple so it obscured her face from view.
       Moving on soft feet, she descended the staircase and stole through dark corridors as silently and confidently as a cat. Through her daily excursions she knew all the hidden passages about the castle. Exiting the tower, she skirted the courtyard, keeping in the shadows to avoid the sentry's eye. Most of the revelers had gone to sleep, many simply sleeping on the ground, but a few stood guard by the bonfires, ensuring the flames did not wane till dawn.
       Aila crept silently past the guards and then plunged into darkness again, entering the enclosed staircase to the lower bailey. Exiting the tower stairs, Aila slipped quietly into the back door of stables and walked down the short corridor past the stable master's quarters, turning right into the long corridor of the main stables.
       "Good morn to ye, lass," said the old stable master, who was tightening the leather straps of a saddle onto a tall horse. The stable was warm and cozy, lit by the glow of a single lantern.
       "Good morn to ye, Fergus. Lovely day for a ride. How's he doing this day?" Aila walked up to the misty gray stallion, who nudged her softly. Aila responded to his affectionate greeting by stroking his silky nose. The stallion twitched and pawed the ground.
       "He's ready to run," said the old man with a smile. Shadow was a fine piece of horseflesh, the best in the stables. He had been her brother's charger. The horse had returned from war uninjured, but would let none ride him. After repeatedly tossing some of the castle's finest riders, Laird Graham decided Shadow was no longer trustworthy as a warhorse but still kept him for stud. Aila was more persistent and gradually restored the high-spirited horse's trust.
       "Shall we ride today?" Aila murmured to her mount, taking up the reins and following the stable master's slow but steady steps down the long corridor of the