“And I you.” She reached between them, gripping his hard length, guiding him to her. “I believe I have since I first felt you deep within my heart. Perhaps even before. I shall love you until the end of all my days.”
“Our days and beyond,” he amended, at last nudging her, pausing only for a heartbeat at the thin barrier of her virtue. “Nothing shall part us,” he swore as he pushed into her honeyed depths, losing himself in the satiny tightness of her. His heart split, cracking open to absorb everything she was to him and he to her.
Everything they were to each other.
And always had been.
“You are glorious,” he managed, the first edges of his verging release crashing over him as he moved inside her, taking her with him to the most wondrous place he’d ever been.
Unable to withhold himself a moment longer, he drew back, then plunged full inside her. He captured her cry with his lips, kissing her deeply as their hearts and bodies came together in a burst of brilliant, sweeping need.
She arched high against him, her fingers digging into his shoulders, clutching at him in abandon, her glory in their union stealing any discomfort and banishing any last doubts about the rightness of their joining, as he cried out her name and collapsed against her, fully spent and wholly hers.
This night.
And for all nights to come. Regardless of the morrow and its fast-approaching shadows.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Not long after first light, on a dark and dreary morning, Iain and those who’d accompanied him halted in the shelter of the wooded uplands some distance behind Abercairn Castle. The day’s threat of rain and drifting sheets of fine, whitish mist created a welcome cloak to shield them from any guardsmen patrolling the stronghold’s curtain walls.
Heavily battlemented, Abercairn loomed atop a ridge, and even at this early hour, flickering light shone through many of the arrow slits, and glimmered in some of the larger, upper floor windows. Torches blazed on the parapets, their orange-glowing flames eerie in the cloud-cast morning. And even at this distance, men could be seen moving about the wall-walks.
Rolling pastureland dotted with heather and broom stretched between their hiding place and the castle walls, but much to Iain’s relief, the only thing stirring on the ground ahead appeared to be a small cluster of fat and slow-moving cattle.
Turning in his saddle, he cast his gaze over the little band of men who’d accompanied him. Gavin MacFie and twenty of his kinsmen dashed about hacking at gorse bushes, collecting great bundles of the prickly branches and tossing each armful into three abandoned cot-houses set conveniently near the banks of a fast-running burn.
The firing of the heather-thatched cottages would provide a smoke screen, yet were too far from the castle walls for any stray flying sparks to catch fire and damage Madeline’s home. The burn would supply water to douse the flames once Abercairn had been taken.
A feat only possible if Beardie and Douglas succeeded in getting MacNab to send a good-sized host of his best fighting men.
Iain’s lady, who surely shouldn’t have sat on a horse so soon after the night’s sweet diversions, and her friend, Nella, made up his only other sets of hands.
The ladies helped without complaint, patiently piling bundles of cut gorse and heather, and even gathering whatever rusted farming or domestic tools that could be clashed together to cause a din.
Looking eager to make a ruckus of her own, Madeline crossed the short distance from the cottages to where Iain sat his horse.
“Ho, lass!” He leapt down from his saddle, bracing himself for another round of the ongoing arguments they’d exchanged since she’d learned she wasn’t to ride with him to the castle’s main gates.
Reaching him, she planted fisted hands against her hips. “The old smithy’s is-”
“The best place for you and Nella to await the outcome,” Iain finished for her. As he’d done all morning, he began counting off the reasons the women should best wait at the smithy.
“The forge hasn’t been used in years,” he noted its first advantage. “You said yourself no one ever nears it. Better yet, its location outside the curtain walls and the village will allow you and Nella to make a swift and unseen escape if things go wrong.”
If anything went wrong, she’d just as soon not escape.
Hoping it wouldn’t come to that, Madeline turned to Nella. “What do you think?” she asked, only to regret doing so when she saw Nella’s annoyingly sensible eyes.
Madeline frowned. “Don’t tell me you agree with him.”
“I do.” Nella glanced at Iain, then back to her. “I think as little of two women standing about in the middle of a castle siege as I did of us traipsing across the land disguised as postulants,” Nella said in a mild and reasonable tone as annoying as her calm expression.
“Ahhh… a woman of my own heart,” Iain declared, nodding. He folded his arms. “I, too, think little of disguises, my lady.”
Madeline whirled to face him. “You traveled about as a pilgrim,” she reminded him. “And a poor one, too. Never have I seen a man less likely-”
“Agreed.” He flashed a smile. “But, lass, I was on a pilgrimage of sorts, doing penance as you ken. The pilgrim disguise was for the protection of the relic I must yet deliver to Duncairn Cathedral. You can be sure I was no’ fond of the fool garb.”
Unable to argue, Madeline shot a frustrated glance at Nella. “I suppose you think we should cower in a musty old forge that is very likely swimming with bats and vermin?”
“Not cower, my lady. We shall wait there.” Nella didn’t budge. “Better the dust of steel shavings and the reek of mold than take a fire arrow in the back or accidentally get in the way of a fast-arcing blade,” she said, with a shrug and a grating little smile. “Bats, rats, and any other critters will not harm us.”
“No man, friend or foe, would hurt a lady,” Madeline objected.
“You ken that isnae so, sweeting.” Iain rested a hand on her shoulder, squeezed lightly. “Have you forgotten that Silver Leg’s men were searching for you when we spotted them in the common room of the Shepherd’s Rest?
“You must remain from view.” He dropped a kiss on the top of her head to soften words he knew would vex her. “It will all be over soon, I promise you.”
“Iain!” Gavin rode up, appearing suddenly out of the mist. He led the women’s two mares behind him, and a great smile split his red-bearded face. “MacNab’s men have been sighted! A great host of the bastards and riding fast. Warriors, all, by the looks of them.
“A few knights, as well.” He swept the back of his hand across his brow. “They should be here soon.”
Iain threw back his head and whooped. “All the gods!” he roared. “I knew MacNab would come through.” Digging in the leather purse at his belt, he pulled out a length of thin rawhide and, reaching behind him, used it to tie back his hair.
Madeline blanched.
He didn’t want his thick, shoulder-length hair to get caught in the path of an enemy’s swinging blade.
Or have his unbound locks hamper him in the wielding of his own steel.
Her heart hammering, she watched a transformation take place. Her shadow man, her magnificent and sensual Master of the Highlands, was becoming a fearsome warrior before her eyes.
A hard man, ready to spill blood for what he believed in, and willing to shed his own for the same cause if need be.
Feeling ill, she glanced at the two mares, considered defying his orders about the forge. But she would heed his wishes and ride with Nella to the old smithy.
The last thing she wanted was for him to worry about her. He’d need all his wits for the coming fight.
So she’d do as he’d bid her, remaining at the forge until the battle ended and he came for her. Or sent Gavin in his stead, a possibility she didn’t want to consider.
Before she could think further, the fast-approaching thunder of iron-shod hooves on dew-drenched and stony turf split the air. From th
e sound, a great many horsemen moving fast. Wind carried the rapid jingle of harnesses and the rhythmic creak of saddle leather.
Most telling of all was an indistinct humming… the low swell of men’s excited voices.
The MacNabs.
It was time.
~*~
Only Madeline wasn’t ready, especially if she had to wait in the rotting hulk of an ancient forge. Even so, her breath caught and hope swelled inside her as the sounds of the nearing horsemen grew louder – warriors come to join Iain in the retaking of her home.
Little else mattered.
And deep in her heart, she was sure Iain would emerge unscathed, regardless of the outcome.
Shadow men lived on in dreams, and Masters of the Highlands were too bold to lose.
All that frightened her was her father’s fate.
Frail old men did die.
And having to face the finality of accepting his passing a second time, now that she’d let hope rekindle in her breast, would be an agony beyond bearing.
She wanted to believe Iain, tried so hard to accept that perhaps her father had been spared the pyre’s flames. But in truth, she couldn’t know.
As if he’d heard her thoughts, Iain turned back to her, and her pulse leapt, her knees weakening. The change she’d sensed was even more stunning now, even if she couldn’t see exactly what made the difference.
His dark eyes softening, he took her by the arms and drew her close.
“I thought you had faith in me?” His deep voice, smooth and calm, spilled the familiar warmth through her and took away some of the chill icing her veins.
“Did I err? You look so full of doubt.” He angled his head. “Have you so little trust in my sword arm?”
“Of course, I have faith.” She lifted her chin, forced a smile. “It is my father’s fate that worries me.”
“He will be found alive, sweeting. I know it within me.” Taking her hand, he pressed the flat of her palm against his heart. “Believe it.”
“I shall try.”
“That is enough.” Releasing her then, he took her face roughly between his hands and slanted his mouth over hers in a deep, searing kiss, pulling away from her much too quickly.
She gasped, reeling. She tried to cling to him, but before she could even blink, he’d hoisted her onto her mare’s back.
He did the same for Nella, only without the kiss. Then he gave their horses a slap on the rump. “Away with you, now! And be of great heart, lassies. All will be well!”
Whether from the slap or the order, the horses surged forward, racing into the mist.
“Godspeed!” Madeline thought she heard him call after them, but it wasn’t until a short while later when she and Nella reined in before the abandoned forge, a semi-ruinous open-sided structure with an ancient stone-walled enclosure behind it, the smithy’s cottage, that she realized what it was that had been so different about Iain.
Every last shadow had vanished from his eyes.
~*~
The MacNab had outdone himself.
On and on his warriors came, a great host of bold, hot-blooded Highlanders approaching at fullest speed. A fierce lot when raised to battle, they poured over the crest of the rolling, heathery slopes, an impressive array of weapons sheathed at their sides, hanging down their backs, or tucked wherever a place to secure a dirk or mace or battle-ax could be found.
As they rode forward, their steel glinted in the morning’s gray light while their ruddy faces and wild-maned reddish hair hinted at fiery tempers and mean-swinging sword arms.
“By the gods, there is a sight!” Iain grinned clear to his foot soles.
“Praise be!” Gavin agreed.
Almost laughing, Iain vaulted into his saddle. If his lady had still been at his side, he would have swept her off her feet and whirled her in a circle so that she would become so dizzy from spinning, and so giddy with excitement, she’d have little choice but to fall right into his sheltering arms.
And it was into his arms he hoped to see her running again very soon. With God’s good grace and the help of the old ones, as well, he would, too.
“Well done,” he called to the small host of MacFies. Together with Beardie and Douglas, they were already torching the three cottages. Soon, they’d raise chaos and mayhem, their ruse allowing Iain, Gavin, and the MacNab men to storm Abercairn’s main gate.
He glanced through the mist to Abercairn’s curtain walls, his blood boiling. His famed temper hot and high – but for good reason this time.
“Come, Gavin,” Iain called, spurring forward. “Let us give those fiends a taste of our steel.”
Already shouts could be heard from within the castle. Garrison men ran along the wall-walks yelling and pointing at the smoke rising from the cottages, the orange flames leaping high into the gray, early morning sky.
Muffled shrieks, war cries, and a tremendous clashing and rattling of swords sounded behind Iain as the MacFies set about their task with gusto.
As he hoped, Silver Leg’s men mistook the smoke and flames of the burning cot-houses and the wild cries of a small band of loyal and eager-for-excitement Highlanders for a great host of attacking men.
Indeed, they made a loud enough ruckus for the castle’s morning patrol to ride hotfoot back to Abercairn. Iain’s heart soared upon seeing their swift approach. The large party of MacNabs neared, too, charging forward at a strong canter.
Iain kneed his horse, riding hard to intercept them. Within moments, he drew up before their ranks, bringing his foaming beast to a slithering halt. He returned their grins, raised his sword in greeting.
“To cover in the shadows,” he urged them, already wheeling about. “Stay close to the gate. Keep your mounts still, and when the drawbridge is lowered for the patrol, we surge up out of the gloom and ride in behind them.”
As quietly as they could, they picked their way through the half-dark, moving ever closer to Abercairn’s looming walls, trying their best to blend in with the shadows cast by large outcroppings of rock near the gatehouse.
They’d no sooner gathered into a dark, silent group, when the patrol pounded past them, to a man bent low and beating their horses’ flanks with clenched fists. At once, the drawbridge dropped in a loud clanking of chains and the portcullis rose with a series of metallic creaks and groans, quickly followed by the hollow-drumming clatter of racing hooves on heavy-planked wood.
“Now!” Iain shouted, his own horse leaping forward. He dug in his heels, urging the beast to greater speed before the bridge could be lifted.
He tore after the patrol, his own steed now racing across the wet timber of the drawbridge. The MacNabs thundered close on his heels, following in a tight-packed arrowhead formation and yelling a series of angry, Gaelic war cries.
Their massed steel drawn and flashing in furious, killing arcs, the whole of them streamed into the castle’s inner courtyard, cutting down any and all who stood in their way.
The shouting of men and the wild clashing of swords filled the bailey, and within moments its damp cobbles ran red with the spilled blood of a garrison caught unawares.
The gods – all of them – smiled indeed on Iain and his friends.
Very soon they’d also know if they’d truly won the day.
Iain hoped so.
Victory alone was acceptable.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Somewhere a dog barked.
And as red-stained mist swirled across Abercairn’s blood-stained bailey, the few of Logie’s men yet cowering in the shadows of the gatehouse lost their lives to a battle-ax or long sword. Swinging down from his winded steed, Iain nearly landed on the twitching corpse of one of the miscreants who’d hoped to seize Madeline in the ale-house.
Iain stepped over the blackguard’s body, not for a moment grudging the bastard a portion of fine Highland steel as his last supper.
Looking around, he searched the faces of the surviving garrison men. Some still clashed swords with the hot-blooded MacNabs, others
stood already subdued.
Gavin held his own in a far corner of the bailey, his fierce swinging blows sending one man-at-arms after the other crashing to the slick and bloodied cobbles.
But no matter how carefully Iain scanned the curtain walls or the timber lean-to buildings huddled against them, he couldn’t locate the second man from the Shepherd’s Rest.
Nor did he see anyone who even remotely resembled the description he’d been given of Silver Leg.
All other hapless souls faced the grave danger of meeting a swift and steely end if they so much as batted an eye against the Highland brawn that held well-muscled arms around their necks, and well-honed blades against their throats.
A sea of flame now bathed the morning sky behind Abercairn, streaking the pearly gray horizon with a hellish orange-red glow, and those garrison men still breathing stood stunned in the cold smir of rain just beginning to fall.
Stiff-lipped with defiance, their eyes wide with disbelief, and their hands without swords, the men of Logie’s garrison offered little resistance, some even stumbling from the various outbuildings without so much as a nightshirt or shoe.
“Who amongst you will own to being Sir Bernhard?” Iain called out, swinging down from his saddle. He gazed around him, then began pacing before the captured men.
Sensing a movement behind him, he whipped about, his gleaming brand flashing in a deadly arc, the huge sword slashing down on his would-be assailant, striking at just the vulnerable spot where neck meets shoulder, his blade slicing deep into flesh and muscle. The man’s shock-widened eyes still staring, he toppled sideways, his sword clanking useless to the cobbles.
Spinning back around, Iain raked the gaping garrison men with a glare.
“Well?” He jabbed his reddened sword in their direction. “Who is Logie?”
No one answered.
But proud and granite-faced as they gave themselves, none made further attempts at resistance. As so often, the threat of losing their lives overrode their loyalty to their absent liege.
For truth, Iain might have missed the fiend had he not spotted the dark-frowning dastard slinking along in the shadows cast by the lee of the curtain wall. Two men and a pair of frightened-looking greyhounds accompanied him.
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