The man’s roared curses that echoed off the stones and Lachlann’s men pulled away as Nigel Mackenzie threw down his sword. He charged through the men, pushing them aside until he reached Lachlann. Donnal stepped in front of him barring the man’s progress and Nigel Mackenzie narrowed his eyes at him.
“I know ye,” he said. “I didnae think they’d have let ye live.”
“They did their best,” Donnal replied.
“They didnae try hard enough,” the man laughed.
Lachlann smiled and laid a hand upon Donnal’s shoulder, but Donnal did not relax his sword arm.
“Where is Manus?” Donnal demanded.
“That bastard is in the keep,” Mackenzie spat. “He left us here tae clean up the mess. I’ll not lose the last of my men tae his foolish quest for power.”
“Take us tae him,” Lachlann said. “Manus will not share his power—but the laird will reward ye for yer service tae Argyll. I’ll see tae it.”
Lachlann recognized more familiar faces in the crowd of new recruits, Iaian and Callum Russell, roguish lads who had ridden on raids with him before his wedding, they joined his forces with enthusiastic cries.
Some men stayed behind to see to the wounded, recapture the horses, and bring the last of Manus’ men under control—but Lachlann, Eliott, and Donnal charged up the stone steps that led into the keep. Those that were not otherwise occupied ran after them with swords drawn, eager for more battle.
The sound of sword on sword and the cries of wounded men echoed down the corridor and Lachlann pushed himself faster.
“He’s in the banquet hall, the damned fool,” George Eliott said as they turned to follow the noise. Dead men—the laird’s guard—littered the stones, cleaved by swords and axes.
The clash of swords and the telltale thud of axes biting into wood reached them and Lachlann’s grip tightened on his sword. Only a few of the laird’s men were left standing, and they fought with desperate cries as Manus’ men set upon the tall wooden doors of the banquet hall with axes. Manus stood in the middle of them all. A towering figure, dark and bloodstained. He held a short, broad sword in one hand, and the helmet of one of the fallen guards in the other.
He slammed the helmet against the door as his men chopped. “There are wolves at yer gate McArthur,” he roared.
Another guard screamed as he fell under the sword of one of Manus’ men, and Lachlann heard Donnal curse loudly before he charged forward and met the man’s downward stroke with his own sword. The guard fell heavily to the floor and lay there gasping for his last breath as his life poured out onto the pale stone.
“Manus!” Lachlann roared, and the big man paused long enough to look over his shoulder and see his attackers before he grabbed an axe out of the hand of one of his men and set to shopping at the door with large, heavy strokes. The door vibrated with each blow, and Lachlann thought he heard a woman scream—but the laird would not be foolish enough to bring his wife and child into the banquet hall with him… surely not. And yet—
Lachlann cut down the first man who charged at him, avoiding his sword easily. Eliott took down the next man, and the next, while Donnal pushed forward to where the wooden doors of the hall shook with every blow.
Suddenly, the great doors splintered and buckled. They hung on their hinges at a strange angle as Manus’ axes finally broke through. The big man’s dark laughter filled the hall beyond the doors and Lachlann felt the iron grip of fear close upon him as a girlish scream made Manus laugh.
“Keeping all your chickens wi’ye, McArthur? Not a wise decision when their are wolves abroad in yer lands…”
Lachlann swung his sword desperately and caught the man in front of him in the shoulder. He fell against the wall with a cry of pain and lunged forward. Donnal blocked the man’s sword easily and the weapon clattered to the ground as the man’s fingers lost their strength. He slumped against the wall and Donnal smiled briefly.
“Manus!” Lachlann shouted again.
This time, Manus paused and looked at him. “I knew ye’d come, Mackay. But ye’re too late tae help yer laird. He has already denied ye once out of pride… Would ye take his word now in defeat?”
“It’s you who must surrender,” Lachlann shouted.
Manus laugher coldly as his remaining warriors surrounded him. The men were blood-spattered and exhausted, but they had found a new drive now that the end seemed near. All they needed do was take the laird hostage—but Lachlann could not allow that to happen.
“Yer men are dead or turned against ye,” Lachlann called out. “What d’ye have tae bargain with now?”
Manus’ eyes narrowed as he caught sight of Donnal. “I see ye’ve collected a traitor of yer own.”
Donnal’s teeth were stained with blood when he smiled and Lachlann stepped toward the knot of Manus’ men with his sword raised.
Over the rebel’s shoulder he could see Nathan McArthur, sword drawn. He stood behind a large wooden banquet table, shielding his wife and daughter from the men who threatened them.
“Mackay!” the laird cried out. “I didnae think tae see ye—“
Manus slammed his axe down upon one of the long tables, and grunted as it crashed to the floor. Another thin scream followed the show of force and Lachlann wondered what his mother would have done if it were she who had been brought here by her cowering husband.
“Enough talk!” Manus roared. “All y’do is talk, McArthur.”
“I am yer laird!” he cried out. “I command ye tae cease this madness and call off yer men!”
“Ye’re not my laird,” Manus snarled. “Come our from behind yer women and face me. Or I’ll have my men drag y’out.”
“Ye’re outnumbered,” Lachlann cried. “Surrender now and the laird may yet show ye mercy.”
“Mercy? There is no mercy for rebels!” Nathan McArthur’s neck was red with anger and he marched around the banquet table with his sword raised. “I’ll see ye strung from the walls of Inveraray as a message to all who might stand against the might of Argyll!”
Manus laughed, unintimidated by the laird’s threats. “Bold words from a man who was given his lairdship by a weaker sire. Men follow greatness, and I see none of that here.”
“My lord Argyll, ye’ll not meet this challenge,” Lachlann called out. “Let me fight in yer stead!”
“How dare y’presume tae command me,” the laird snapped and Lachlann’s blood went cold as Manus smiled.
“Aye, let the laird fight fer somethin’ in this life,” he said dangerously.
“Stand back! I will defeat this foe, abd then address ye’re presence here.” Nathan McArthur’s voice shook with anger and arrogance and Lachlann stepped back in surprise.
Manus’ men advanced on them, pushing tables aside to clear a space for their leader to fight. Lachlann could see Donnal, tensed and ready to leap into the fray, and Eliott’s grip on his sword flexed.
The rest of his men were in the courtyard and the halls of the keep. They had been tasked with taking down the remainder of Manus’ forces—but if the bastard brought down the laird… there would be no stopping him. If he took the seat of Argyll—
The Lady of Argyll’s shrill scream broke through Lachlann’s whirling thoughts as Manus’ axe crashed down upon the laird’s raised sword.
“Quiet, woman!” Nathan McArthur shouted. His concentration wavered, and Manus pressed his advantage by charging forward. The laird raised his shield, but it splintered under a blow from Manus’ broad sword.
“He will not survive this,” Donnal whispered.
“We cannae just stand here—” Eliott’s voice was strangled, but Lachlann could not allow them to step in. If the challenge were interrupted, the laird would not thank them for it, and even if they had saved his life, they would just as likely be thrown into the dungeons for their efforts.
He had always known that the McArthurs hated his family, but it had only just now become clear to him how deep that resentment lay.
“Wait,�
�� Lachlann said. His eyes were upon the men that had accompanied Manus to the great hall. They knew Donnal, and were obviously held high in Manus’ esteem—and their eyes were murderous. They would not just allow any of them to charge into the fray without a challenge.
Behind the circle of Manus’ men, Nathan McArthur threw his shield aside with a loud curse and swung his sword wildly at Manus. The big man dodged it easily, but the laird managed to score a lucky hit with his second strike, opening a wound in Manus’ shoulder that soaked his tunic in blood.
“Yield now!” the laird cried, but his command was ill-timed. The wound seemed to have only inflamed Manus’ anger, a scratch on the hide of a massive bull, and he charged at the laird with a deafening roar. The wound had not been deep enough to cause any real hindrance to the rebel’s attack. Nathan McArthur tried desperately to dodge out of the way, but Manus’ sword and axe swung with unchecked ferocity at the laird who somehow managed to land one more glancing blow that opened a shallow cut on Manus’ brow.
The rebel paused long enough to wipe the blood out of his eyes, and Lachlann flinched forward, willing the laird to attack, but the man was gasping for air as though he had run a hundred yards while fully armored, and he was in no shape to take advantage of Manus’ momentary weakness.
Manus laughed and spat a mouthful of blood onto the pale stones. The sound caught the laird off guard, and he was not ready for Manus’ fresh attack. The sword was pushed aside, but the axe bit deeply into the laird’s ribs, and Maili McArthur let out a choked scream as her husband lurched to the side. Manus wrenched the axe from the man’s ribs and kicked the man’s legs out from under him. The men who kept Lachlann at bay cheered loudly to see their leader victorious—it was obvious that they believed the battle had gone on far longer than it should have.
Maili McArthur screamed again and clutched her daughter to her side, covering her eyes with a shaking hand. Nathan McArthur fell heavily to the stone floor, and his sword fell from his hand. Manus kicked it away and stood over his fallen foe. “Ye’ve had enough, my lord. I’ll be takin’ Argyll fer myself,” he said.
“No!” Lachlann cried. He leapt forward and brought his sword down upon the man in front of him. Taken by surprise, the man had no time to parry Lachlann’s strike, and the blade sank into the man’s neck at the joint of the shoulder. He fell like a bag of stones, and Lachlann stepped over his body as Donnal and Eliott attacked the other men. Donnal barely blocked a heavy blow from an axe, and Eliott cut down his man with a quick stroke, his sword taking the man in the throat.
Lachlann strode through the fray, and Manus turned to him with an odd smile upon his face. “Would y’challenge yer laird?” he asked.
“Aye,” Lachlann replied grimly. He shifted his grip on the axe in his left hand and raised his sword. “And ye’re not my laird.”
Chapter Ten
Cat had lost track of the passing days.
Somehow, following the stream, they had found the road and stayed parallel to it. They slept sparingly and walked as long as Morag could bear it. Once or twice they passed stragglers who had followed Manus too late from Oban and Cat took what opportunities she could to steal food from their carts and return unseen into the woods.
When the road turned, Morag begged to leave the forest.
“I miss the feel of sunlight on my face,” she said. “Manus kept me locked away for too long—”
“The road is dangerous, and we have nothin’ tae protect ourselves…”
“We’re within the laird’s boundaries now,” Morag reasoned. “If anythin’ happens tae us, they’ll have tae answer tae him.”
Cat could not persuade her sister otherwise, and she kept her hand tight on the hilt of her knife as they pushed through the underbrush and came out onto the road.
Morag sighed deeply as the morning sunshine hit her upturned face, and Cat felt some of her despair and anxiety ease its grip on her heart.
They were close to Inveraray. Small stone cottages with dairy cows tethered to stone walls, sheepfolds, and bright vegetable gardens dotted the landscape. Familiar sights that threatened to put them both at ease. Morag’s steps seemed lighter, but the uncertainty of what lay ahead of them only made Cat’s pace more determined.
“What will we do when we reach Inveraray?” Morag asked.
“Lachlann will be there,” Cat replied. “He’ll know what tae do. Manus is ahead of us—but there is a chance that he will have turned away…”
Morag laughed. “Turned away? For what?”
“I— I dinnae know,” Cat fumed. “But anythin’ could have happened between here and Inveraray! They may already be fightin’!”
“I hope they are,” Morag said darkly. “I hope Manus is already dead.”
Cat tried desperately to think of something to say, but Morag changed the subject quickly.
“Are ye happy wi’Lachlann?” she asked. Cat was surprised by the question, but it did not seem angry or accusatory, but she took a deep breath before answering.
“It was a surprise, tae be sure… I didnae ask for it.”
Morag took her hand and squeezed it gently. “I know. Our father made the decision. He had a bargain tae keep with Ginny Mackay. Is she as terrifying in person as she seemed?”
“Aye, she is,” Cat laughed. “But she’s fierce and kind as well. But I pity any man who dares tae cross her or tries tae cheat her of what she’s owed.”
“And are ye happy?”
Cat frowned for a moment and looked down at the dirt road beneath their feet. “Aye. I think I am… He’s… he’s not what I expected.”
“Does he treat ye well?” Cat’s cheeks flushed hotly and Morag laughed at her embarrassment. “Ye dinnae need tae answer that!”
Morag pressed her hands to her swollen belly briefly and the joy in her face faded in an instant.
“What will ye do?” Cat asked.
Morag shrugged. “I supposed I’ll have tae find my own way. Father willnae take me back. Not like this.”
“What about Donnal? He’s alive… and with Lachlann. D’ye not care for him?”
Morag swept her dark hair over her shoulder and squinted into the distance. “Aye… But what is he tae anyone? Can he care for me or his child? I’d be better off alone.”
Cat grabbed for her sister’s hand and held it tightly. “Ye’ll never have tae be alone,” she said firmly. “Ye’ll come with me back tae Narris. It’s cold and it rains all the time, but ye’ll always have a place with me.”
Morag laughed. “I should be the one takin’ care of ye,” she said and Cat’s heart tightened as she saw the tears that filled her sister’s eyes. “Not the other way ‘round.”
“There’s plenty of time for that,” Cat said. “Until then, will ye come with me?”
“Aye,” Morag replied. “I will. I dinnae mind the rain.”
Cat made a face. “We’ll see about that.”
As they rounded a stand of trees, Morag’s laughter died in her throat. “D’ye see the smoke?” she murmured.
“Aye.”
It was impossible to miss, and Cat did not know how they had not seen it sooner. Inky black plumes of smoke stained the mid-morning sky. They ran down the road, and Cat let out a horrified gasp as she saw the source of the smoke.
“Inveraray! It’s under attack!”
Morag’s own cry was strangled, but Cat could not wait to make a decision about what they should do. Lachlann was there. She had to go to him.
“Hurry!” she cried.
“I’m not runnin’ intae battle,” Morag shouted after her, but Cat could her hear footsteps behind her as she broke into a run. Inveraray’s gates were burning, and Manus was already upon them.
* * *
***
* * *
The gates were black, and men in armor threw buckets of water on the flames that still dared to lick at the raw wood. Other fires that had been burning in the courtyard had been extinguished, but the scream of horses from the stables and t
he smell of burning thatch was thick in the air.
Cat and Morag dodged around men and horses, and their feet slipped in the mud that had been churned up by the fighting.
Morag cried out as she recognized a face in the crowd and she pulled Cat to an older man, his face smudged with soot and crusted with dried blood. She flung herself at the man and grabbed for his arm. “Mackenzie,” she gasped, and Cat stiffened to hear his name—the man she had killed upon the road was a Mackenzie, and she had a wild hope that the man she had killed had not been a dear relation.
“What’re ye doin’ here, Lass?” the older man cried. “This place isnae fit fer ye.” He looked down at Morag’s stomach and his eyes widened.
“Where is Manus?”
“That bastard is inside the keep, Lachlann Mackay and his men went tae bring him down.”
Morag blanched. “What side d’ye fight for?” The question was wary, but the older man’s smile was broad and reassuring. He looked away to shout at some of the men throwing water on the gates and then turned back to Morag.
“We’re with the Mackay’s,” he said. “Damn that Manus straight tae the pits of hell.”
Cat laughed with nervous relief and she pulled on her sister’s arm.
Morag ignored Cat’s silent plea. “Where is the laird?” she asked.
Nigel Mackenzie shrugged. “All I know is he’d best be grateful that we’ve saved most of his gates,” he said bitterly.
“I’m certain he will be,” Morag said. She turned to walk away, but paused as though she were going to ask something else.
“Donnal is with the Mackay men. He’s wounded, but hides it well. Manus will not be pleased tae see him.”
Morag nodded stiffly, but she allowed Cat to push her away. They ran through the gates and up the stairs that led into the keep. Morag smothered a cry with her hand as they came upon the bodies of Inveraray’s guards that were strewn through the corridor. Blood stained the hems of their dresses and their feet slipped on the stones. Cat gritted her teeth against the sudden roiling of her stomach.
A Warlord's Prize: A Medieval Highland Romance (Highlander's Honor Book 3) Page 9