A Warlord's Prize: A Medieval Highland Romance (Highlander's Honor Book 3)

by Avery Maitland

  Of course, he could never let that happen, but the longer he thought about it, the more attractive that possibility became.

  Eliott would support him, as would his mother, but what would his wife have to say about sacrificing not only the laird, but also her father, to Manus’ brutality?

  No matter what she might have felt for her father, she would not thank him for such a cruel act.

  He spurred his horse forward and ignored Eliott’s angry grunt. They could do nothing but wait. Nathan McArthur would either come to his senses, or he would fall victim to his own arrogance, and Lachlann did not hold out any hope that the laird would put aside his pride any time soon.

  * * *

  ***

  * * *

  As Lachlann had expected, Ginny Mackay’s surprise at their return turned to outrage in an instant.

  “Ye were supposed tae come back tae me with Manus’ head on a stick,” she spluttered as the men walked through the tall doors that led into the banquet hall. “Instead I find ye comin’ through my gates before sunset with long faces and clean swords.”

  “He wouldnae listen,” Lachlann said.

  His mother made an incredulous noise and called for ale. “What did the wise Argyll have tae say?”

  “Nothin’,” Eliott said loudly. “All but accused him of lyin’ tae his face. How can this man truly believe that Manus is not a threat?”

  “The man is a fool tae take such unwise council,” Ginny Mackay mused. The ale was brought and deposited upon the wooden tables. Lachlann took his cup gratefully, but only sipped the amber liquid while Donnal and Eliott drank deeply.

  “Lachlann should have made him see reason,” Eliott growled.

  “Oh, aye?” Ginny Mackay said sharply. “And what would y’have him do, Graham Eliott? Call the man what he is and be thrown intae Inveraray’s dungeons for his trouble? Maili McArthur would have written most urgently tae gloat over such a thing.”

  Lachlann smiled into his ale. He knew that his mother would support him, but he had not expected such a vehement response. He had always known that his mother did not hold a goodly opinion of the laird’s wife, she had no patience for ‘ornamental’ women— Ginny’s own words echoed in his mind as he refilled his mother’s cup: “If they could not wield a sword to protect their own bairns, what good are they?”

  He knew that Cat had passed that test. His mother liked her, and Lachlann had no doubt that his wife would do whatever was required to protect their family.

  “Did Mackenzie return?” he asked suddenly.

  His mother shook her head. “No word, no sign. Are y’certain that she was bound for Oban?”

  “Aye. She could not have covered much ground before I sent him away.”

  His mother had laughed at him earlier for losing his wife, but she did not laugh now. “I’ll send out a scout,” she said. “Oban is only three days’ ride from here, I would like tae know Manus’ pace.”

  “He’ll not come this way,” Lachlann said. “His eye will be fixed upon Inveraray, and he will stay clear of the road.”

  “Unless he is secure in the support of the landowners and those he might pass,” she said thoughtfully. “If he is bold, he’ll take the road and collect followers as he goes. He doesnae strike me as the type tae make careful choice of his companions.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Donnal’s head drop slightly, but he did not argue.

  “Where is Brother Aldus?” Lachlann asked. “He’ll need tae see tae Donnal’s wounds.”

  “I’m fine,” Donnal growled into his ale.

  “Aye, and broken ribs have been known tae heal themselves wi’the application of enough ale,” Ginny laughed. “Get ye gone. The monk will have yer teeth if ye’ve done yerself more injury by bein’ a stubborn fool.”

  Donnal drained his cup and stood up from the table, and Lachlann swallowed his laughter as the broad man nodded to his hostess and left the hall.

  “Ye have a way with words,” Lachlann said with a smile.

  Ginny’s answering smile was broad and her eyes sparkled in the torchlight. “Always have, Lad. How d’ye think I kept yer father alive fer so many years?”

  “Stubborn luck,” Eliott grunted.

  Ginny Mackay laughed loudly and struck the commander roughly on the shoulder. “Aye, stubborn men are much harder tae kill, would ye not agree?”

  Now Lachlann allowed himself to join in his mother’s laughter. It felt odd to be merry, especially with the cloud of Manus’ approach hanging over the horizon and Cat’s absence weighing heavily on his mind.

  “We’ll wait two days,” he said suddenly. “In two days’ time we’ll ride for Inveraray. If Manus has not pressed his advantage and made out from Oban—then we are, indeed, fools.”

  Graham Eliott set down his cup and refilled it. “And if we find him upon the road?”

  “Then we fight, with or without the laird’s support.”

  “An unfair fight,” Eliott grunted. “The only kind I enjoy.”

  Lachlann looked to his mother. “We’ll send another messenger tae Argyll.”

  “Why? What good will it do?”

  “I have tae try tae warn him again. Even if he will not listen tae me, I cannae abandon Inveraray to ruin.”

  Ginny Mackay shook her head but then sighed heavily. “Aye, write yer message and we’ll send out a boy. But I cannae see the point!”

  “Nor do I,” Lachlann muttered. The tightness in his stomach did not fade, and the feeling that something was not right—something he could not identify or correct—prodded at him.

  Two days.

  Two days to wait.

  Chapter Nine

  The messenger departed just before sunset, but while his men relaxed, Lachlann could not. He paced the great hall until even his mother had grown tired of it.

  “Ye’ll not be fixin’ anythin’ by wearin’ a path intae my flagstones,” she called out. “Sit. Eat. If ye’re lookin fer a way tae spend yer time, at least put some meat in yer mouth and make yerself useful.”

  “I cannae eat,” he growled.

  Ginny Mackay slammed down her cup of ale and gestured to the massive platter in front of her. “Ye can and ye will. My men brought down this damned boar by hand. The bastard took two of my best dogs before Crannagh put a knife intae it.”

  “A pity,” Lachlann muttered. He knew how much his mother loved her hunting dogs, but he could not be moved to fill his belly. It was already too full of dread.

  “That Donnal— Brother Aldus tells me that he is a cantankerous sort. Y’best tell him tae behave himself within my walls.”

  Lachlann sighed heavily. “He’s no wildman, mother.”

  “Brother tae Manus Camran…” she reminded him.

  “Donnal is a legitimate son of the Camran clan,” Lachlann said. “There is none of that honor in Manus, he doesnae deserve the name he’s taken from better men.”

  His mother raised an eyebrow and poured him a cup of ale. “We shall see,” she said as she pushed the cup toward him.

  Lachlann took it, but he was not thirsty. He held it lightly and walked to one of narrow windows that looked down over the courtyard.

  Darkness had crept up over the trees, and the light of a half-filled moon fell over the fields of heather and waving grass. He frowned and looked down into his cup. “The messenger—he would not stay the night at Inveraray…”

  “No,” Ginny Mackay laughed. “Maili McArthur would not extend her hospitality to one of my men unless she had no choice.”

  “Then he is late.”

  The frown on Lachlann’s mother’s face echoed his own, and she rose from the table and came to the window. She pushed her son aside to look out into the gathering dark.

  “There!” she cried after a moment. “There! Call for horsemen. Torches!” She strode from the window, calling for her men. Lachlann peered out the window and scanned landscape. Then he saw it. The outline of a horse against the dark brush and trees. Riderless.

&nbs
p; Cold fear snaked up his spine as he turned from the window and followed his mother out of the hall. Her voice echoed in the courtyard as more torches were lit and Brother Aldus emerged from the wine stores near the edge of the courtyard.

  “Go out and get him ye great lump,” Ginny Mackay cried as she pushed at her men.

  He could see concern and a hint of something more in his mother’s eyes as her personal guard grabbed torches from the stableboys and mounted their hastily prepared horses before galloping out into the night.

  Ginny Mackay’s lips were pressed into a thin line, and Lachlann tried to recall the last instance that he had seen his mother in such a state. She was unfailingly strong and intimidating, but he could see that she was shaken.

  “Attackin’ a messenger,” she murmured. “Why would someone do such a thing?”

  “Ye dinnae know what happened yet,” he said. He had not seen anything more than the horse, it was impossible to tell from that distance, and in the dark.

  “I had a bad feelin’ about sendin’ him out,” his mother said. She leaned over the wall and squinted at the darkness. Lachlann could see the flickering torches the guards carried and heard shouts echoing across the field.

  Hoofbeats filled the air and his mother tightened her grip on the stone wall as the guards thundered into the courtyard. “Close the gate!” she cried.

  The messenger’s horse pranced nervously, its halter held by two grooms from the keep’s stables. The horse was wild-eyed and the blood that stained its neck shone darkly in the torchlight.

  Lachlann ran down the stairs behind his mother. His throat was tight, and he was thankful that his mind was not clouded with ale.

  The guards who had gone out to fetch the messenger were stone-faced. The messenger, wrapped in a bloodstained cloak, was passed down to Brother Aldus who barked orders at two of the stable lads who helped him carry the messenger into the keep.

  Lachlann had coughs sight of the messenger’s face, but his features had been obscured by blood from a large wound upon his forehead.

  “Bastards!” Ginny Mackay seethed. “Tae attack a messenger is an act of war—“

  “I dinnae think Manus cares,” Lachlann said tersely. The horse was being brought under control and Lachlann strode toward it to check the boy’s saddlebag. He fingered the raw ends of the straps where the leather had been cut and his stomach tightened.

  “What is it?” his mother asked.

  “I hope ye didnae write anythin’ important in that message,” he said grimly. “It’s in Manus’ possession now.”

  Ginny Mackay spat into the mud. “Bastard.”

  “He’ll know we’re here—and that we’re on the laird’s side.”

  “He’ll also know that the laird refused yer help,” his mother snapped. “We can hope that he willnae expect yer attack.”

  Lachlann nodded. “Aye. We’ll ride at dawn. Manus is too close for comfort, and we cannae delay our departure.”

  * * *

  The courtyard was crowded with men and horses well before dawn. The horses were as restless as the men, and Lachlann tried to keep his mind focused on what lay ahead of them. Manus might not be expecting them to attack, but he knew the strength of their force, and the direction they would be coming from. He would have set men and scouts in their path.

  The men he had ordered into the surrounding countryside had returned with no news, but that did not mean they were clear of danger.

  Brother Aldus had brought the wounded boy back to consciousness, and he had told them groggily about an ambush. Riders had overtaken him just outside the walls of Inveraray. He’d had no time to shout for help, and Brother Aldus was astounded that he had survived the attack at all.

  Manus had moved much faster than they had anticipated—and now he was at the gates of Inveraray.

  Beside him, Graham Eliott gripped the edge of his saddle as he tightened the straps that held his sword in place. His face was tightly drawn, and Lachlann pushed at his shoulder. “Will y’be able tae keep yer seat?”

  Eliott grumbled a response and Lachlann chuckled. He had seen his commander fight in worse states than this one. The ride to Inveraray would set him straight.

  “You cannot be serious! You are not fit to ride—and certainly not well enough to fight!”

  Brother Aldus’ angry voice echoed through the courtyard and Lachlann watched the monk as he chased after Donnal who strode toward him through the crowd of men and horses.

  “This clucking hen doesnae think I’m fit fer battle,” Donnal growled as he approached. His limp was obvious, and Lachlann knew that he was still gravely injured, but Brother Aldus should have known better than to try and tell the man to stay abed at a time like this.

  “This ‘clucking hen’ is the only one who will be stitching you back together when, and if, you are dragged back here!”

  Brother Aldus’ face was red with anger, and while Lachlann was inclined to agree with the monk—this was personal.

  “He’ll fight,” Lachlann said firmly. Donnal nodded briefly and left him to take a horse from one of the waiting grooms.

  “Do you know what you are doing?” Brother Aldus hissed. His eyes were hard, but Lachlann was not in the mood for the monk’s lectures.

  “Well enough.”

  “Do you have a plan?”

  Lachlann shoved his sword into the saddle and turned to face the monk. “Unless ye’re plannin’ tae mount a horse and ride intae battle wi’us, ye can shut yer mouth.”

  The monk’s lips pressed into a hard line and Lachlann steeled himself for an argument. But Brother Aldus surprised him by nodding.

  “Your mother has great faith in you. More than I would say you deserve.”

  Lachlann laughed and the monk smiled wryly in response.

  “Ye might surprise yerself, Monk,” Lachlann said. “I’d like tae see ye wield a sword.”

  “Oh, no. I think not.”

  Lachlann swung up into the saddle and the other men followed his lead. “Are y’afraid ye might like it?” Lachlann was teasing him now, but the monk’s expression was stern.

  “That is not my fear.”

  Lachlann smiled at the monk’s seriousness, gripped the reins, and spurred his horse forward. Donnal and Graham Eliott fell into pace alongside him, and the men rode out of the courtyard and away across the fields. Lachlann knew that his mother stood on the wall to watch them depart, he could feel her eyes on him. There was no need for a farewell. She knew that he would come back.

  * * *

  ***

  * * *

  Inveraray was only a few hours’ ride south, but the sun had risen over their shoulders by the time they sighted the keep’s stone walls.

  Lachlann pulled his horse back, and Eliott shouted back to the men to slow their pace.

  “We’re late,” Donnal said.

  Lachlann glared in the direction of the keep. “Aye.”

  A thick column of black smoke rose from the gate, and more fires were burning inside the courtyard.

  Eliott’s horse whinnied sharply.

  “That bastard has breached the gate!” he cried.

  The men behind them roared their eagerness for battle and Lachlann turned to them with a smile upon his face. “We were not invited tae this feast, men. But there should be enough remaining for us tae have our fill!”

  Whistles, shouts, and the sound of hoofbeats deafened Lachlann briefly as they kicked their horses into motion and galloped toward Inveraray.

  The noise of battle reached them swiftly and Lachlann pulled his sword from its scabbard and held it aloft as his men raged behind him.

  Their forces fell upon the men at the gate—there were only a few on horseback, and they turned quickly to trade blows with Lachlann’s men. The laird’s forces, upon realizing that they had gained unexpected allies roared their appreciation and turned harder into the fight.

  Manus’ men were greater in number, but ill-equipped, their weapons either homemade or stolen. Lachlann’s
sword rose and fell with a terrible rhythm and he and his men cut a path through Manus’ forces, clearing the way to the gate of Inveraray. His men dismounted and fought hand-to-hand, and Lachlann joined them with a roar.

  Those still outside the gates were stragglers, left to keep guard of the camp that had been established just beyond the walls while the laird and his family slept.

  He could hear Graham Eliott’s full-bodied laughter as he flung himself into battle. His sword was red with blood and his smile was broad as his sword rang against his opponents.

  Donnal, too, fought nearby. Even wounded, he was a formidable warrior. For all of their bravado, Manus’ men were tired and untrained. Many of them dropped their swords and weapons and ran even as Lachlann and his men pressed forward.

  The courtyard was full of fighting men, and Lachlann pulled an axe from his belt as he charged through the gate and more of the laird’s men flowed down from the walls to join their charge.

  The men at the center of the fray fought desperately, and Lachlann began to see familiar faces within the knot of combatants.

  “Nigel Mackenzie!” he roared. “Throw down yer weapons! Yer men are dead, and y’stand against yer laird tae yer own downfall! I will not see ye give up yer life fer that bastard Manus!”

  A man’s head came up and Lachlann saw recognition on his face. Nigel Mackenzie had always been a changeable man—but he had been a good friend to his father and they had fought together for the last laird to sit upon Argyll’s seat.

  “Mackenzie ye stubborn bastard, ye’re beaten!”

  Lachlann’s men closed their circle, and Nigel Mackenzie’s stubborn expression changed as he realized that they were outnumbered.