Chapter Fifteen
“Dougal!”
Duncan Sinclair’s voice rang through the training yard, halting fights and causing his men to turn his direction. Rory knew Citrine had spoken of her father’s illness, but it didn’t seem to affect him now. In fact, he looked strong as an ox, striding toward his commander.
Citrine exchanged glances with Rory, and the two of them followed. He couldn’t help but notice her hand was on her sword’s hilt, same as his.
They were ready for anything.
Although he probably had no right to feel this way, he was inordinately proud of her. Only hours ago, she’d discovered her mother—the woman she’d mourned—was still alive. Granted, living in that hidden grotto as a hermit hardly counted as “alive”, but it was remarkable, nonetheless. And to discover not only was Mala Sinclair still alive, but she’d been subtly influencing her daughters’ futures through her meetings with the laird…it was hard to take in.
Rory was reeling, so he could only imagine what Citrine was feeling right now.
But her expression didn’t show any of it. She kept her chin high in that stubborn way of hers, and her golden eyes flashed with fire in the noon sun as she glared toward her father’s cousin, who slowly straightened from where he’d been showing a block to a younger man.
As Rory strode beside his betrothed, he eyed the men surrounding them. Duncan was leading them into the center of a mass of Sinclair warriors. Warriors who should be loyal to their laird, but who’d spent years training with Dougal.
Whose side would they choose, when Duncan challenged his commander?
The Sinclair laird halted in the middle of the yard, and Citrine moved to stand beside him. Rory stepped up to his other side, but angled his body to keep as many of the other men in his sight as possible.
“Dougal Sinclair!” the laird bellowed. “I kenned ye were up to nae good. I kenned ye wanted my position when I was gone!”
Frowning, Dougal pointed the tip of his sword at the ground, the sun reflecting off the sweat on his shoulders, reminding Rory he’d be tired…but ready to fight.
“Aye, and what of it, cousin? I am yer closest male relative.”
“But no’ my son.”
Dougal shrugged. “Ye have nae sons, auld man. And yer daughters cannae be laird after ye.”
Before Duncan could speak, Rory did. “Why no’?” When all eyes turned his way, likely wondering who he was, he shrugged innocently. “Why can no’ of the Sinclair Jewels be laird? If she were strong and capable?”
Dougal scowled, nodding to Citrine. “I suppose ye speak of this unnatural chit—”
Duncan took control of the conversation once more, stepping forward to interrupt. “Ye were no’ content to wait though, were ye? Ye thought to help me along. Murder,” the older man spat. “Murder is never the honorable way.”
Around them, mutterings began, and Rory found himself praying that was a good sign. If the Sinclair warriors weren’t aware of Dougal’s attempts, then that meant they didn’t support his bid for the lairdship. Right?
For his part, Dougal said nothing. But his frown grew as he glared at Duncan, whose face was turning red from anger. The older man’s hand didn’t leave the hilt of his sword, but he jabbed a finger from the other hand toward his cousin, rage in his eyes.
“And if poisoning me wasnae enough, ye try to murder my daughters? Ye thought to marry one, and if that didn’t work, to eliminate them?” He scoffed. “So, ye are afraid a woman could hold this position? Ye thought to remove them from yer path?”
“What’s this, then?” someone called from the crowd.
“Murder? Dougal?” another shouted. “Our wee lasses?”
Rory could see Duncan was too angry to think clearly. He could confront Dougal, but without the support of his warriors, he’d eventually lose. Holding up his hands, Rory lifted his voice to be heard by the gathered crowed.
“’Tis true! Dougal was behind the attack on Pearl when she traveled south. Ye remember the bandits who ambushed them, and the Hound rescued her?” He waited until he heard the grunts of agreement from the men around him, then pointed to their commander. “Dougal gave the orders to arrange it, to contact the lawless bandits. He kenned how much good Pearl did for the clan—did for ye, and yer wives and bairns and families—and kenned she needed to be removed far from home. Living here, she’d always be a danger to him, by dint of her bloodline.”
When he mentioned the good sweet Pearl did for the clan, the men’s nods turned to anger, and by boldly stating Dougal’s sins, Rory was hoping to turn them to outright rage against their commander. Judging from the way they scowled at Dougal, it was working.
“Lies!” the commander bellowed, his other hand wrapping around his sword’s hilt. “This is all lies!”
“Nay!” Rory called before Duncan could. He knew he could control this crowd, these men. It was what he’d been born to do, the reason he’d found fulfillment at sea. “Nay, and we have a confession! William, one of ye!” His gaze swept the gathered men, watching as they began searching for the young man. “William, who’d once fancied himself a match for one of the Sinclair Jewels, aye? But was nothing but a weak coward. Ye ken him!”
“Where is he?” someone called.
“Always kenned he was bitter about no’ being good enough!” came another voice, and others nodded or called out their agreements.
“Aye!” Rory turned so he could address all the men at once. “William, who was assigned to the guards who went south with Pearl. Two good men—yer friends, men ye’ve fought beside—died in that attack!” Rory couldn’t recall their names, but he wouldn’t admit that right now. “But wee William conveniently survived, returning home a hero, aye?” He didn’t wait for their agreements, before continuing, “’Twas he who told of the attack and of Pearl’s adventure…but he who arranged it all, on Dougal’s orders!”
“Lies!” Dougal said again, but with less conviction. He was eying the men around them, as if judging how much they believed. “I’ve never confessed to this!”
“Ye didnae have to!” Rory bellowed, gaining the men’s attention. He saw Citrine glance at him, an approving glint in her eyes, before she went back to studying the crowd. Interestingly, Duncan looked content to have Rory hold the crowd’s attention.
“Ye didnae have to,” Rory repeated, not even looking at Dougal, “because William confessed it all. He told how Dougal promised him the position of commander when Dougal was laird…when he became laird by dishonorably murdering Duncan!”
He waited for the jeers to begin, and as soon as Dougal opened his mouth to deny it, Rory hurried to interrupt him.
“And ’tisnae all! William—that same, sniveling cowardly traitor—was in charge of Citrine’s safety, aye? Yet he returned here just days ago, telling of her capture by pirates? What he likely didnae mention was he stood by and let their captain kidnap her! Didnae even lift his sword to protect her!”
Outraged mutters began again, and Citrine stepped forward. “’Tis true,” she called loudly, capturing everyone’s attention. “He allowed the notorious Black Banner to take me off that ship, and I might’ve been going to my death. But ’twas his plan! He confessed all, aye, and told us if the pirates hadnae stolen me, Dougal had ordered him to kill me on the way to Lewes.”
“Nay!” and “That bastard!” rang out among the gathered men. “Ye fought bravely, lass!” someone called.
“Aye,” she agreed, not at all arrogantly, “And I would’ve fought him, had I kenned. But this man, my betrothed”—she pointed proudly at Rory—“by my father’s own hand, saved me. Rory MacLeod of Lewes, also a sailor, saved me, while William was willing to let me die, by Dougal’s orders. And for what?”
When she spat on the ground, more than a few of her father’s warriors did the same, and Rory knew they were loyal to Duncan and his family. All the sneaking around for the last day had been unnecessary, had they known whom the Sinclair warriors would follow.
“
The lad was promised a position of power,” Rory growled. “But the real traitor stands before ye!”
Dougal had actually backed up a step, a conflicted expression on his face. He was glancing to both sides, but it was impossible to tell if he was looking for a way out or hoping for more support.
And he still hadn’t confessed.
“Where is William?” someone called from the back of the crowd, and others took up the question.
Rory lifted his hand once more. “Ye’ll find him north of here, at the edge of the patrols’ range. He was alone when we found him, and he tried to finish what he’d failed to do…kill Citrine.” With his other hand, he patted his sword. “I didnae allow it.”
It wasn’t said smugly, but there were more than a few approving grunts from the warriors.
Citrine called out, “If anyone besides the carrion birds want to ken where his body lies, I’ll show them after this is over.” She faced Dougal squarely, challenge in her eyes. “I spat on his body, and I’ll do the same for yers when ye lie dead at my feet for what ye’ve done, cousin.”
The reactions of the gathered men ranged from approval to concern. One older man crossed his arms over his chest and scowled, while two others called out encouragement.
Rory, however, felt as if he’d been kicked in the chest. God’s blood, what was she doing?
“In light of yer crimes against my family, I challenge ye, Dougal Sinclair, for the position of laird’s heir!”
Well, shite.
Frantic, Rory exchanged glances with Duncan. Her father didn’t look alarmed; if anything, he seemed at ease with the idea of his daughter challenging an older, more experienced warrior. Was he smiling? Nay, surely it was just a show of confidence?
By His wounds, the men were actually backing up, giving the combatants space? Rory turned in a circle, trying not to let his concern show, as it became obvious—despite their grumbles or support, the Sinclair warriors were going to let Citrine fight the bastard!
Desperate now, Rory managed to catch Citrine’s attention. He couldn’t forbid this fight, nay, but surely…surely something could be done? Could he fight in her place? He did his best to show her—to beg her—and she understood. She must’ve understood, but she gave a little shake of her head to let him know she wasn’t going to back down.
Damnation.
Taking a deep breath, Rory knew there was nothing he could do. By speaking against this match, he’d be denying her his support.
He squeezed his eyes shut momentarily, then took a deep breath and met her fiery gaze once more. “I love ye,” he whispered, knowing she wouldn’t be able to hear him.
Mayhap she read his lips, or mayhap she was thinking the same thing, because she nodded…and smiled.
God help him, but he was going to have to stand by and watch the woman he loved battle a warrior.
To no one’s surprise, Dougal was grinning evilly as he made a show of limbering up his muscles and stretching his shoulders. When Citrine finally looked his way, he gestured imperiously. “I’ll gladly prove my worthiness as the next Sinclair, but killing a wee lass will no’ do it.”
To her credit, Citrine didn’t blanche or even look nervous at his casual words. Instead, she scoffed. “So, ye’re backing out of the challenge? Can I be the first to call ye coward?”
“Nay,” Dougal growled, lifting his sword. “Ye’ve called me murderer and traitor today, but ye’ll no’ call me coward. I’ll kill ye for that, bitch.”
Instead of reacting to his taunt, Citrine shrugged as she reached between her legs and pulled up her skirts to tuck them into her sword belt, making an awkward pair of trews. “I still call ye traitor, but without yer confession, I’ll make do with calling ye a failed claimant to my father’s position.” She pulled out her sword and settled into the ready position.
Dougal spat on the ground, showing her what he thought of her claims, and the men around him murmured disapproval. Then Rory stopped caring what the crowd was doing, because Dougal attacked.
He gave no indication, just flashed into action. Citrine got her sword up in time to block, but it was clear he didn’t intend to go easy on her. By Dougal’s third blow, it became apparent that he was by far the stronger of the two opponents, and Citrine was struggling to block each strike.
It took everything in Rory not to step forward, to draw his own sword, and save her. His knuckles were white, he was gripping his hilt so tightly, and he held his breath as he followed the battle before him.
Luckily, Citrine had trained with larger men. He remembered his fight with her on the deck on the birlinn, and then later their sparring session; she was not only a willing and capable student, but she’d learned plenty of moves to account for her smaller stature.
Still, that knowledge—even watching her—didn’t make Rory feel any better about what he was seeing.
Citrine leaped and twisted around her larger opponent, ducking his blows and coming in from unexpected angles. She didn’t so much throw off his strikes as move away from them; so, their blades would engage, but then suddenly she just wasn’t there anymore.
There was a moment when she’d fallen back, that Dougal didn’t attack again. Instead, he shook his head, not even breathing heavy. “Ye think to use my own moves against me, bitch? I taught ye everything ye ken!”
Citrine was breathing heavy, but she shrugged. “No’ everything.”
And then she attacked.
God’s blood!
She was a vision, an angel—a jewel—striking against Dougal. Her hair glowed gold in the sunlight, and her gown matched the color of the clear sky.
I taught her that move!
She was a firebrand, and Rory would be damned if he’d let Dougal harm her.
He was already stepping toward the battle when he glanced at her father. The laird was frowning now, as he should be, his eyes flicking between his daughter and his cousin. Rory paused, waiting for the old man to stop this battle, but Duncan kept his lips pressed closed.
Rory might not understand the man’s actions, but he understood his own feelings. He’d protect the woman he loved.
And he’d have the chance.
Before he’d gone more than two steps, Citrine’s luck ran out.
She was twisting, ducking under one of Dougal’s strikes with far more power than she could hope to block…and her gown loosened. When she stepped sideways, her foot caught in her skirts and, unbalanced, she began to fall.
The world seemed to slow as Rory watched her throw out her hand to counter-balance herself. Dougal’s lips curled into a savage grin as he saw his opponent’s opening and lifted his blade for a finishing blow. And Rory wouldn’t get there in time.
But he’d try.
In one move, he leapt toward the pair and drew his sword, bellowing his war cry to distract Dougal.
“Beware the Black!”
It worked.
Dougal jerked at the sound, halting his strike long enough to assess the new danger, just as Citrine hit the ground. That pause likely saved his life, because Rory was prepared to stab the man in the back to protect her. But Dougal managed to raise his blade enough to catch Rory’s, stumbling back in the process.
Dimly, Rory registered the calls and jeers from the men around him, but he had no time to listen. Instead, he focused on Dougal, and wished like hell for Bull’s strength or Bartholomew’s wit.
Nay.
He was alone here, without his loyal men.
Ye have Citrine.
And that was enough. He had her, and he would keep her. With a growl, he threw off Dougal’s block and began to harass the other man. He didn’t have the commander’s experience, aye, but he was younger and stronger.
And he was the Black Banner, by God.
He would protect Citrine.
Dougal’s blocks were becoming slower, and Rory used his age against him, forcing the older man to move constantly to protect his sides as well as his front. Years spent battling onboard a ship had honed Rory’s bal
ance, and he used it all—plus his strength—to his advantage.
As outmatched as Citrine had been against Dougal, it was soon clear Rory would win this bout.
But should he?
This was Citrine’s fight.
He halted in his attack for a moment, giving up an advantage to risk a glance at where she’d fallen.
She wasn’t there.
But Rory didn’t have the time to look for her, because Dougal took advantage of his distraction to launch his own attack, bellowing wordlessly as he threw himself toward the younger man.
Lifting his blade in time, Rory caught the other man’s sword against his weapon and, knowing he had the stronger position, threw it off. But before he could lunge forward, Dougal’s sword swept toward his knees.
Cursing his own distraction, Rory leapt back, managing to keep his balance and his sword up. Which was good, because Dougal used his momentum to bring another crushing blow toward Rory’s neck.
Rory’s blade caught the other man’s, but it was to be a contest of strength.
Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of gold and blue.
Before he had a chance to call a warning, Citrine was there, ducking under their raised arms, and shoving the blade of her shorter sword deep in Dougal’s chest.
The man’s eyes widened as his mouth opened. No sound emerged, but when he coughed weakly, blood leaked down his chin.
Then, slowly, he stumbled backward, his hands still gripping his sword. As his knees gave out, he fell to his side on the ground, coughed again, then was still.
Panting, Citrine straightened and met Rory’s eye. “I’ll no’ apologize.”
He remembered how to breathe. “What?”
“I’ll no’ apologize for killing him. I will thank ye for saving my arse when the stupid gown tripped me, but it was my challenge.”
Rory’s blood was still pounding in his ears, his vision still tinged red at the edges. He forced himself to breathe deeply, to try to push aside the terror he’d felt when she’d tripped.
It didn’t work.
With a snarl, he reached out with his free hand and grabbed the back of her neck. Before she could object, he’d pulled her closer, slamming his lips down on hers.
The MacLeod Pirate Page 15