by Sabrina York
He gaped at her. “Do you want to escape?”
She snorted a laugh. “No. But we can send our best archers out once it gets dark. They can hide in the woods around the enemy encampment and then, upon our signal, send flaming arrows into their camp.”
“Flaming arrows?”
“Tell them not to aim for the men,” she said. They were far too easy to miss. “Aim for their tents and supply stores.” Demoralizing the enemy was rule number one in warfare, according to Richardson. She was so glad she’d read his book. “And target their trebuchet and their battering ram as well.” All those weapons were made of wood. It was probably folly to imagine a few arrows could destroy them, but it didn’t hurt to try. A pity it was too dangerous to send a man into their midst to douse the weapons with oil first.
But then an idea blossomed. She snapped her fingers and grinned at Ewan.
“What?” He stared at her, thoroughly bemused.
“A Molotov cocktail.”
“A what?”
“We send the archers in with jars filled with oil, which they launch into the weapons store, and onto those machines. Then follow with flaming arrows.”
Ewan’s nostrils flared. “You are a fierce lass.”
“Oh, and I want oil poured on the moat as well.”
“On the moat?”
“If we need to, we can light it. No doubt they’ll try to breach the walls with ladders.”
Ewan shook his head. “Where did you learn all this?”
She merely smiled sweetly in response. “Oh, and one more thing. Was that an apiary I noticed by the garden?”
He blinked. “Aye.”
“I would like to speak to your beekeeper.”
His brows knit, but he nodded.
She clapped her hands. “Well? Come on. Let’s get moving.”
She had a castle to save.
* * *
Bluidy hell.
They were too late.
The Camerons were already here.
Dominic peered over the rise at a sight that curdled his blood. The enemy had his castle surrounded. Their bluidy blue banners snapped merrily in the wind. Thank God it was nearly nightfall and they weren’t quite set up for an attack. Torquil would most likely wait until dawn. For now, he had his drummers playing and his men chanting and pounding their spears in an attempt to frighten the castle denizens.
He’d trained his people, warned them what tactics an enemy might take. He hoped they remembered his exhortations. He also hoped that Angus was fleet of foot. That he would bring reinforcements from the other clans. Judging from the army Cameron had amassed, they would need help fighting them off.
For now, he had to get into the castle.
It was a damn shame he had his best strategists with him. Between Declan and Liam, no one was better.
“Come on,” he whispered. Voices carried on the night air. “To the sally port.” It would take them a while, as he knew they had to go on foot, and circle the valley. If they were lucky, they’d get there by dawn.
As they made their way through the woods, parallel to the enemy’s camp, campfires flared and the Camerons settled in for the night. Dominic knew it was far too soon to feel relief, but he was glad they had not elected to attack at once.
No doubt, they felt confident that their presence would be intimidating enough to keep their prey on edge all night.
To his surprise, he saw an arrow, one lone flaming arrow arch from the ramparts and through the sky. It landed woefully short of the enemy camp, thudding impotently into the dirt. His chest clenched. Who the hell was running things on the ramparts? Did they not know the range of an arrow?
But then, to his surprise, other arrows began to fly—and not from the castle. From the woods. A fiery rainstorm of them. And they kept coming. He watched in shock as the blazing arrows landed on the Cameron tents throughout the camp, on their supply carts and their war machines, wreaking havoc.
One arrow hit their trebuchet and it exploded into flames.
Cries rose and men scattered, batting at flames and running for water.
Dominic bit back a smile.
Brilliant.
Brilliant strategy.
Who was running the defenses from the ramparts?
Whoever it was, they would be joining his elite team of warriors…if they all survived this.
With the Camerons distracted, Dominic and his men raced through the woods toward the sally port, the secret gate that led into the castle. Dawn was just breaking as Dominic pulled a stone from the wall and pulled out the hidden key. He fit it in the lock. It creaked as he turned it.
The door had not been used for decades and the gate had rusted. There was a mound of dirt blocking its path. Dominic set his weight against the bars and pushed it open. It took a while to create a passable gap.
He eased through and his men followed.
Liam was the last through. He set his shoulder to the grate to push it closed. It resisted. “I’ll lock it,” he said. “You go on.”
Dominic nodded and sped up the stairs, through the second and third gates, which opened and locked using a series of hidden levers.
They emerged in the larder, behind a shelf of crockery and raced through the castle halls into the bailey. Then they bounded up the rampart steps.
Dominic stopped short.
Maggie—glorious and fierce, with her hair streaming out behind her—stood by Ewan, barking out commands.
And his men were obeying her.
It took a moment for this to sink in.
He cleared his throat.
She whipped around. Her eyes widened and her lips parted. Damn, she was beautiful in the soft morning light. A flush rose on her cheeks. “Dominic.”
“Maggie. I…what are you doing?”
Apparently she did not care for his tone. She set her fists on her hips and snapped, “Mounting the defense of your castle.”
He glanced at the small trebuchet, one they kept for defense and target practice, and then at three small bundles wrapped in rags. Oddly enough, they…hummed. “Ah… What…what are these?”
She grinned. It was a heinous, evil, wicked grin. “A wake-up call.” She turned to Ewan. “Are we ready to launch?”
Ewan glanced at him for guidance—Dominic shrugged—and Ewan nodded. “Let’s do it.”
The trebuchet released its first strange missile. As it flew through the air, the rag wrapping it whipped away. The missile fell dead center in the enemy camp. But before it landed, Maggie was already repositioning the catapult and placing the second missile gently in the cup.
A yowl rose from the camp below. Dominic glanced that way and his eyes widened. Camerons scattered, hither and yon, howling and batting the air around them.
“Fire two,” Maggie warbled. Her tone held far too much glee.
She quickly re-sighted and fired the third and final missile. In short succession, those missiles landed on either side of the camp with similar results.
“What, may I ask, did you send them?” He had to ask. Whatever it was, it was ingenious and evil. The Camerons were in chaos.
“Just a little something sweet.” Like her smile. He longed to kiss her but this was hardly the place.
“What?”
“Beehives,” Ewan said.
Dominic looked out at the field again and his lips quirked. A chuckle rose up within him, and then a laugh. It rang across the ramparts and over the bee-infested lea.
Below, Torquil Cameron glared up at him. And then he shook his fist.
And then, of course, he howled and swatted at his neck. But it was far too late. The bees had found him.
CHAPTER TEN
Battle was invigorating. Maggie found it suited her well. And not just because she’d spent a lot of time studying the history of military strategy, but because it was a damn lot of fun anticipating an enemy’s move and squelching it before it could come to fruition.
She had been right about the clumsy tower. Two iron bolts fired
They launched the Molotov cocktails first of course, soaking the structure in oil. When the flaming arrows hit it, the conflagration was spectacular. They had the same luck with the cart carrying the battering ram.
The poor Camerons were being trounced. When a ladder came up over the castle walls, her men doused it in more oil and lit it on fire. Then they pushed it back down with long spears. Whenever the enemy amassed to launch another attack, they received another bumble of bees. Any time they ventured too close, her archers let fly.
Just before midday, the enemy drew back, but Maggie didn’t have any delusions that they were giving up. Indeed, the silence was unnerving.
“What do you think they’re up to?” she asked.
Dominic, who had remained by her side, set his arm around her shoulders. “They probably need a rest. So do you.”
She frowned at him. “This is warfare. There’s no naptime in warfare.”
“It concerns me that you are enjoying this so much.” But he said this with a smile.
“It’s kind of fun.”
“Will you at least come down into the bailey and eat?” A table with food and drink had been set up for the fighting men along one wall.
“All right. But I want to know the moment anything changes.”
Dominic glanced at Declan who stepped up to take his position. “You heard the lady. The moment anything changes.”
“Aye.” Declan fixed his gaze on her. She was gratified to see it lacked his usual derision. In fact, there might have been a hint of admiration in his eyes.
Dominic led her down the stairs, holding her hand to keep her steady. Though she hardly needed his help, she liked the feel of his fingers laced in hers. “You were right, you know.”
“Hmm?”
“About the ambush.”
She nodded. “I know.”
His head whipped around and he gaped at her. But then he chuckled. “Are you right all the time?”
“No.”
“Thank God for small mercies.”
“I didn’t know the Camerons would attack.” Indeed, they hadn’t. At least, not in the history she knew. But then, she’d changed history, hadn’t she? When she’d saved Dominic and his men from the ambush, she’d changed the course of the river. Of course that would cause ripples. It stood to reason the Camerons would attack if they’d failed in their attempt to take out the Macintosh.
She had to wonder what other effects her small act of mercy would have over the next few millennia. Hopefully nothing too drastic. She’d hate to go home and discover something terrible…like the Nazis had won WWII or that Starbucks only served decaf.
The thought palled.
And then another thought hit her and hit her hard.
Go home?
Her stomach clenched at the thought.
Oh, she loved coffee and cheesecake and couldn’t say enough about the miracles of fast food restaurants and reality TV, but the prospect of living the rest of her life without Dominic…well, it made her want to weep.
She glanced up at him, studying him. Trying to picture him in Seattle.
An old woman came up to him and handed him a cup. He took it with a smile of thanks and exchanged a word with her, and with another. It was there on his face, his dedication to these people. To his lands.
He would not be happy in Seattle.
He would not be happy leaving his homeland.
He would hate the frustrations of modern times. Traffic and pollution and man’s inhumanity to man. Mostly the fact that he would be able to control none of it.
He was very much the kind of man who liked having control of his own destiny. Very few people did in her world, though they liked to pretend they did.
No. If they were to be together, she would have to stay—if he wanted her to stay.
He turned and caught her gaze on him. His smile faded and he came to her, cupped her cheek in his broad palm. “What is it Maggie-mine?”
Ah. She’d never thought to hear those words from him again.
“Have you forgiven me for what I did?” she asked, staring up at him, half afraid he would step away.
He stared at her. “For what? Saving my life? My brother’s life?”
“Technically, I just warned you.”
“Technically, you saved my life. Without that warning, without your interference, I would no doubt have been slaughtered with my kinsmen.”
“You would have been.”
“I appreciate what you did. I apologize for my anger at you. Can you forgive me?”
She wrinkled her nose. “That depends.”
He paled. His hand shook, just a tad. “On what?”
“Will you believe me next time?”
“I will…but Maggie?”
“Yes, Dominic?”
“Have a care who you share information like this with.”
“I…of course.”
“Because at best, they’ll think you’re mad. At worse, they’ll accuse you of being in league with the devil.”
“You won’t let them burn me at the stake, will you?”
Her joke went awry. His expression hardened. “Promise me you will be careful. Promise me you will keep this a secret. I couldna bear it if you were harmed.”
Her heart lifted with this declaration. Hardly a loverly vow, but close. “Oh?” She wrapped her arms around his waist and gazed up at him. “Do you like me then? Maybe a little?” It was wrong to tease him, but she couldn’t resist.
“You know I like you. A lot.”
“I like you a lot too.” A whisper, but she barely needed to speak up, as his head was descending. His lips touched hers and it was heaven. There was no telling how much time they might have together, but she wanted to spend every moment she could just here, with him. Like this.
A cry arose to her left and Dominic’s head jerked up. His expression twisted in fury.
Maggie glanced in the direction of his glare and was horrified to see a horde of blue-clad Camerons pouring from the castle into the bailey, bristling with weapons.
To her dismay, she saw that one of the men held Liam prisoner with a blade to his neck. Her heart froze.
Oh God.
She had changed the course of the river.
Liam had been the only Macintosh to survive the massacre at Urquhart. He had gone on to be the Laird of Dundragon in Dominic’s stead; he had fathered a wealth of sons—one of whom had been her great-great-great-whatever grandfather.
Should Liam die, she would never be born.
She had to do something. Something to save him. She wiped the sweat from her brow as her mind whirled. The sun was cresting the clear sky. The day was hot.
“Macintosh!” One of the Camerons yelled. She took from this that he was the leader. “Stand down or your cousin dies.”
At her side, Dominic bellowed, “Torquil, you will hang for this.”
“Will I?” Torquil Cameron stepped forward. His face was a moonscape of bumps and bulges that could have been beestings…or an early manifestation of the plague. His features were harsh and lopsided. His eyes were piggish, his nose flat and squat with prominent nostrils. His chuckle was coarse, like gravel. “Word is, ye and yer men killed every laird who attended the convocation. I’ll be lauded a hero for taking you down.”
“We dinna kill anyone and you know it.”
“Yet you are the only laird of the confederation to survive. Convenient, that. A logical pick for chief. Nae doubt the other clans will see it that way.”
“Will they?” Dominic pulled himself to full height. “We’ve sent word to Cattanach telling of your collusion with MacPherson. By now everyone knows of your perfidy.”
Torquil’s nostrils flared, which was something, because they were already quite large. “You bastard.” He lifted his sword and lunged forward.
Trepidation curled in Maggie’s chest. Dominic had no weapon and no protection.
Thinking quickly, she lifted a heavy pewter platter from the table and slapped it against his chest just as Torquil’s blade landed. It hit hard, sending Dominic back a step, but with all the force Torquil had invested in the blow, the heavy claymore bounced off and clipped him on the ear.
He howled and whirled on her. “Who is this woman?”
“She is mine.” A snarl.
Cameron narrowed his gaze on her and lifted his sword.
Maggie knew she had to do something, say something drastic. If she did not, Torquil would attack again and Dominic might die—a platter was not much of a weapon, even though it was made from a toxic metal.
She stepped forward and loudly proclaimed, “Torquil Cameron, if you value your life you will cease and desist at once.”
The Cameron froze, mid-swing. He looked her up and down; though his eyes glimmered, his face twisted in a sneer. “I like your bravery lass,” he hissed.
“Tis not bravery.”
“It is. To challenge me like that.”
She laughed, though it cost her. “It’s no act of bravery to challenge a dead man.”
Silence fell over the bailey with a dull clang.
Cameron peered at her with one eye half closed. “What did you say?” Her hackles rose at his tone, but she could not allow herself to sink into fear. There was far too much at stake.
With all the nonchalance she could muster, she picked up a flagon from the table and took a sip. She couldn’t hide her grimace. She didn’t care for mead, she decided. It tasted a little bit like honey-flavored shit.
“Woman. Answer me.”
She set the cup down. “I think you heard me.”
He stilled. His face went a trifle red. He lunged for her.
He should not have. For one thing, he gave her far too much warning. As he approached, she stepped forward, into his attack, grabbed his arm and whipped around, pulling him toward her. Then she used the leverage of his momentum to toss him over her shoulder. He landed on the stone cobbles with a shuddering thud.
As a huge gasp rose up among the gathering, she plucked an errant thread from her sleeve.
“Please doona do that again,” she said in a warning tone. She hoped he would be warned, but he was a bull of a man and they tended to be dense. She decided to go on the offense. “I would hate to be the one to end you.”
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