He fisted his hands. “This cannot be the end of the MacLeod.”
“My laird,” Edward shouted as he rushed into the great hall.
Jamie turned and looked at the young stable hand. “What is it?”
“A rider from the MacDonnell has been spotted.”
Matthew lunged to his feet. “Prepare for battle!”
The room erupted into chaos. Grant unsheathed his broad sword. “I am ready for blood, my laird.”
“Hold,” the young lad cried, waving his arms.
“Silence,” Jamie bellowed.
Everyone froze. Jamie turned to Edward. “Speak,” he snapped.
“The MacDonnell bears the colors of his clan alongside our own colors.”
Jamie straightened. “Are ye certain?”
The lad nodded, wide-eyed.
Jamie turned and stormed from the great hall, down the wide steps, and into the courtyard. He raced across to the inner wall and thundered up the stairs to the top of the battlements, taking them three at a time. Straightway, he spotted the lone rider who sat astride his horse, and, sure enough, he held two banners high—one bearing the colors of Clan MacDonnell and the other, the crest of Clan MacLeod.
Jamie turned and shouted down to Michael. “Prepare for an attack but make no move unless I give the signal.” Then he called to the guardsmen at the gate, “Lower the bridge.”
Jamie stood with his feet wide and his arms crossed over his chest while he watched the rider nudge his horse cautiously into the courtyard of Castle Làidir. With a wary eye on Jamie, the warrior dismounted and dipped his head in greeting.
“I am Robert MacDonnell.” He withdrew a missive from his sporran. “I bring ye an urgent message from my laird.”
Jamie took the offered parchment and motioned his scribe to his side. “Phillip, what do ye make of this?” he asked, handing off the scroll.
Phillip’s eyes darted over the page, his lips moving in a quick flutter. Then he looked up at Jamie. “The MacDonnell wishes to unite with the MacLeod against their common enemy.”
Jamie arched his brow. “And who is that meant to be?”
“It says here Clan MacKenzie.”
Jamie crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the messenger. “If yer chieftain’s daughter is betrothed to the son of the Mackenzie, how is the Clan MacKenzie our common enemy?”
Robert’s eyes widened. “Do ye mean ye’ve not heard?”
Jamie lunged forward and grabbed the top fold of Robert’s plaid. “What have I not heard?” he snarled.
“The MacKenzie is dead and so is his son, both murdered,” the messenger blurted.
Jamie froze, then slowly released his grip on the man’s plaid. “Donald MacKenzie is dead?”
Robert made the sign of the cross. “He is, may God rest his soul.”
Jamie repeated the action of the MacDonnell warrior before he asked, “By whose hand?”
“His own brother, Ranulf MacKenzie. He has taken the clan by force.”
Jamie remembered seeing Ranulf MacKenzie at a gathering of the clans when Jamie was just eight years old. Ranulf had been regarded as the fiercest swordsmen at the games and won every honor in which he competed. It had been years since Jamie heard his name spoken. “The last I heard, Ranulf MacKenzie was a hired sword, making a fortune in England.”
Robert nodded. “Indeed, but now he has returned with the spoils of his trade, a fortune in gold and a small army of lethal swordsmen. They have adopted the MacKenzie plaid, but wear black leather jerkins that bear Ranulf’s own crest.”
“How has he come by his own crest?” Jamie asked.
“He claims to have been awarded the prestige by an English lord.”
Jamie shook his head in disbelief. “He is a traitor to his kin and his king.”
Fury coursed through him. It all was beginning to make sense. His own clan had not feuded with the MacKenzie for more than a hundred years. Jamie had assumed his enemy, Laird MacDonnell, had turned Laird MacKenzie against Jamie’s clan when their children became betrothed. But now, Jamie understood that the MacDonnell and his own clan did, indeed, face a new and treacherous foe. The recent, vicious attacks—the slaughter of innocents—revealed the character of Ranulf MacKenzie. He was a tyrant who needed to be stopped.
“Come inside the keep, Robert,” Jamie said, turning on his heel. Once inside the great hall, he started pacing.
Alone, his clan was powerless against the might of the Mackenzie, but how could he join with the MacDonnell? The feud between their clans went back hundreds of years. The origins of their conflict were now forgotten, but many of the elders remembered the last time the two clans had tried to reconcile.
Jamie’s grandfather, Angus MacLeod had agreed to a betrothal with Flora MacDonnell, the chieftain’s fifteen-year-old daughter. Flora arrived at Castle Làidir on Christmas, but the ceremony was not arranged until the feast day of the Epiphany. But when the day arrived, Angus was left standing at the altar, humiliated in front of his kin. As it turned out, the MacDonnell wench had stolen away in the night and demanded sanctuary at the kirk in a village south of MacLeod territory. Later, Angus and his father learned that she had accused them of battering women and claimed that she had been forced to flee for her very life.
No doubt, Flora had been in love with another or did not think Angus handsome enough. For Angus and his father had been good men who would never have touched a woman in anger. Although Angus and his father had been disappointed at the time, for they had truly wanted peace, they had not been surprised.
What else should they have expected from a MacDonnell lass?
“This is the opportunity for which we were hoping,” Matthew said, intruding upon his thoughts. “If we make an alliance with the MacDonnell, then yer cousin will send the warriors we need.”
Jamie whirled around. “Are ye mad? Ye want to put yer faith in them?” he said, jerking his head toward Robert.
“What other choice do we have?”
Fingal, one of the elders, came forward. Bushy gray brows shadowed his keen eyes. “How do we know this isn’t a trap? Our laird is right. We cannot trust the MacDonnell. His warriors have stolen twenty head of cattle this year alone.”
“Only after ye stole ours,” Robert growled.
Matthew reached for his sword, but Jamie stayed his hand. “Ye see, Matthew, even now we fight.”
Robert turned to Jamie. “Forgive my outburst. I ken our clans share no affection. This is known to all. We tinker each other’s cattle and raid each other’s stores, but what we have suffered at the hand of the new MacKenzie does not compare. The madman has butchered women and children. He is after blood. They didn’t steal from our stores; they burned them to the ground. This vile tyranny cannot go unchecked, nor can either of our clans stand alone against their strength.”
“What of the MacKenzie people? Have they forgotten all goodness and decency, or do they cower beneath the might of this Ranulf?” Jamie asked.
Robert lifted his shoulders. “No one knows for certain what goes on at the MacKenzie keep.”
Jamie’s mind was reeling from the news. What was to be done? Robert was right—they had to resist, but after generations of war, how could the clans MacDonnell and MacLeod put aside their own prejudices?
He turned and looked at Robert. “I do not know how I can ever trust yer laird,” he said flatly.
“What choice do any of us have?” the man shot back.
“Might I make a suggestion,” a weak voice said, coming from the table in the corner. Argyle, the eldest of the MacLeods, slowly stood. Gripping tightly to his cane, he hobbled across the room, his back stooped, and stopped in front of Jamie.
Jamie bowed his head in respect to the older man. “What do ye have to say, Argyle?”
“If the MacKenzie’s lad is dead, then the MacDonnell’s daughter is unwed.”
Jamie knew what the old man was suggesting. He gritted his teeth at the idea of marrying the haughty slip of a woman he had
met in the forest. He turned to Robert, knowing he could not discuss such an arrangement with a member of Clan MacDonnell present. “Robert, ye must be tired and in need of food.” Then he motioned to the lad still standing near the door, his young eyes wide and eager. “Edward, take Robert to the kitchen and see that he is properly fed.”
After Robert followed Edward from the room, Jamie turned back to Argyle and shook his head. “Do ye remember the last time a MacLeod man was betrothed to a MacDonnell woman?”
The old man wrinkled his brow. “I am one of the few still alive who does.”
“I have met this Fiona. She is no different than any other MacDonnell woman. They are inconstant, fickle, and weak. How can I bring such a lady into my clan, to be the example to my kin?”
“I do not think ye have a choice,” the old man rasped. “Without this alliance, ye may not have a clan at all.”
“Damnation,” Jamie cursed. His hands clenched in tight fists at what he had to do. “Matthew!”
His second stood up. “Aye, my laird.”
“See that my horse is readied. Then double the watch on the outer wall and on the watch towers throughout our land. Ye’re in command in my absence.”
“Where are ye going, my laird?”
Jamie didn’t answer. He couldn’t bring himself to utter the words.
“My laird?” Matthew repeated. Then finally he snapped, “Jamie!”
Jamie turned around. “I’m going to the MacDonnell to make an alliance.”
“But Jamie,” the older man called out. “Ye’re still covered in soot and blood. Should ye not bathe first. That is no way to ask for a lady’s hand.”
Jamie shook his head. “She’ll have me as I am or not at all.”
Chapter 7
Fiona sat at the high table with her father on one side and Alasdair, the captain of the MacDonnell warriors, on her other.
The trencher she shared with her father went untouched.
She reached out and squeezed his hand. “Da,” she said softly. “Ye must eat. Ye will not serve yer clan by starving.”
He turned to look at her, a soft smile curving his lips. His faded blue eyes crinkled at their corners. “I could say as much to ye, but I will not, because I doubt ye could eat any more than I.” He released her hand and patted the slight roundness of his belly. “A few missed meals when my table has never known shortage will not hurt me.”
She lifted her shoulders unable to argue her point further. Even the idea of biting into a simple bannock twisted her stomach. She was a bundle of nerves as they waited…but for what?
Another attack from Ranulf MacKenzie?
For Jamie MacLeod to take advantage of their weakened state and raid what remained of their stores?
She shivered, imaging the fierce MacLeod standing in front of his men, his hair in tangled disarray, his fierce brow furrowed, his sword raised high as he declared war against her people.
“No word as yet from Robert?” her father asked, his words thankfully dispelling the unsettling images from her mind.
She shook her head. “Not yet.”
Although her father had sent Robert to Castle Làidir with the authority to form an alliance that would unite their clans against Ranulf MacKenzie, she placed no hope in that arrangement. Tears stung her eyes. She choked down the despair that fought to unravel her control. Jamie MacLeod was a hard, hateful man who would never consent to an alliance. She had no reason to hope at all. If she were honest, what they were waiting for…was the end—for they were doomed.
A flurry of activity outside the doors to the great hall drew her gaze. Her body tensed. A guard rushed into the room. “The MacLeod has arrived. We told him to wait in the courtyard but—"
“Get out of my way,” a booming voice shouted outside the hall.
She gripped the table. Both her father and Alasdair lunged to their feet.
A breath later, Jamie MacLeod’s towering figure thundered into the room. He was even more fearsome looking than when she met him just a fortnight before in the woods. His dull hair hung in even thicker tangles about his shoulders. Filth smeared his face and chest and streaked his legs.
He stormed toward the high dais, his muscles flexed with tension, his head tilted down but his eyes lifted and glaring at her.
Her heart quaked. From the corner of her eye, she saw Alasdair motion to several warriors to move in. They raised their swords, forming a line to block the MacLeod’s way. With a growl he reached behind his back and withdrew his sword. “Ye send a messenger to my keep, asking for my help, and this is how ye welcome me,” he snarled. His nostrils flared. Up close, she could see that his hair was matted and dirty.
Despite her fear, Fiona could not believe his audacity. He was still one man surrounded by half a dozen MacDonnell warriors.
“What kind of welcome should ye receive when ye arrive in the state ye’re in?” she admonished.
His eyes shone bright amber against the streaks of soot sullying his face. “If my appearance offends ye, my lady, then mayhap I will leave, and ye can face the might of Ranulf MacKenzie alone.”
“That will not be necessary,” her father called out. “Stand down,” he ordered his men before casting Fiona a look of warning.
When the warriors stepped back and parted their swords, Jamie MacLeod stood for a moment with his blade still raised high. He turned in a circle, his scowl plain for all to see. Then he slowly lowered his weapon, although he did not return it to the sheath strapped to his back.
Pushing past one of the guards, he crossed the room and stood in front of the high table. He did not bow, nor did he dip his head in greeting. His eyes locked with Fiona’s and did not waver. Hatred pulsed from his gaze, stealing her breath. Even when he had found her trespassing on MacLeod land, he did not look at her with such naked aggression. It was all she could do to maintain her seat and not race from the hall. She now wished more than anything that she had held her tongue about his appearance. As much as she wanted to be brave and meet his gaze without fear, her heart pounded wildly in her chest.
“Ye’re welcome in my home, Laird MacLeod,” her father said. “I am glad and grateful that ye’ve come. I bid ye invite yer men inside. They are welcome at my table.”
Although it was her father who spoke, the wild Highlander’s gaze remained fixed on her. “I have come alone,” he said. “My men wait for me beyond yer outer wall.”
“Then ye have come to make peace?” her father asked, his tone hopeful.
Fiona shifted in her seat as Laird MacLeod’s eyes grew increasingly hostile. If looks could kill, she did not doubt her heart would have stopped beating the very moment he entered the hall.
Jamie put away his sword and crossed his arms over his chest. “I have come to make an alliance between our clans, but ye see, the problem is that I do not trust a MacDonnell.”
Grumbles of protest rose up from the tables.
“Silence,” her father shouted. He stood and addressed his people. “Do ye forget yer fellow clansmen and women who even now lay cold in our chapel? Have ye forgotten what the MacKenzie has done to our stores, our crops?”
Fiona glanced at her father who looked once more upon the MacLeod. Shifting her gaze forward, she realized Jamie still stared only at her.
“How do ye propose we heal the rift between our clans?” her father asked
The intense hostility emanating from the MacLeod’s gaze was too much to bear. She could take it no longer. She lunged to her feet. “If ye will excuse me, Father.”
“Sit,” the MacLeod shouted at her. His voice echoed off the high ceiling and blasted through her, making her legs weak.
Her father slammed his fist on the table, causing her to jump. “Ye will not address my daughter in such a way!”
The MacLeod at last shifted his gaze away from her to her father. “I do not trust ye, old man,” he began. “If ye want to make an alliance, then I need to be certain ye won’t turn on me in the end.”
Her father t
ook a deep breath, clearly trying to regain his calm. At length, he asked, “What do ye propose?”
A look of disgust flashed across Laird MacLeod’s countenance. His lip curled when he spoke. “If ye wish our clans to ally against the threat of the MacKenzie, ye must give me yer daughter.”
She sucked in a sharp breath. “Nay, father!”
“Ye have heard my request,” the MacLeod said and started to turn on his heels.
Gordon’s face reddened. His fists clenched, betraying his anger. Fiona knew he was going to tell the MacLeod exactly where he could stick his demand, but then his shoulders sagged. Slowly, he turned to face her. “Forgive me, my child,” he whispered.
Her eyes widened. She frantically shook her head, but her father released a heavy sigh. She knew then that he had come to the same conclusion as she—the MacLeod was their only hope. Without an alliance, the MacDonnell clan would fall. Tears flooded his faded blue eyes before he turned away from her. “MacLeod,” he barked.
Jamie turned back around, an expectant look on his face.
Her father frowned. “So be it.”
Terror shot through her. “Nay,” she cried.
~ * ~
Jamie could not believe he was standing in the great hall of the MacDonnell proposing marriage with the laird’s daughter. It was all too clear what she thought of the match. She had nearly fainted at the idea. He resisted the urge to shrug. Let her writhe with displeasure. She would find no quarter in his keep. He would offer her his protection but never his heart.
A murmur of unrest grew throughout the hall. Some of the villagers glared at him while others shed tears on behalf of their lady—as if marriage to him was some kind of death sentence. The protests began to grow louder.
“Spare yer daughter, my lord,” a man shouted from one of the trencher tables in the back of the room.
“We do not need them. We can fight the MacKenzie ourselves!” another voice cried out.
Captured Hearts and Stolen Kisses Page 111