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

by Avery Maitland

  So much blood.

  So much death.

  Manus had to pay for this.

  Shouts echoed through the corridor, and a woman’s scream cut through the clash of swords and the sound of splintering wood. Cat pressed herself against the stone wall and she pulled Morag with her before peering around the corner.

  “The banquet hall,” she whispered. She hated that room. All she remembered of it was laughing men and the cruelty of her own father. Where was he now? Where were the MacCullach men? She had not seen her father’s colors on any of the fighting men in the courtyard or outside the walls of the keep.

  Cat pushed herself off the wall, but Morag held her back, her hand tight on her shoulder. “Ye cannae go in there!”

  “I can and I will,” Cat snapped. “I’ll not wait here like a scared child.”

  “What d’ye think ye’ll do?” Morag asked hotly.

  “I dinnae know, but I’ll not stay here and wonder what’s happenin’ tae my husband!”

  She shook off her sister’s hand and bent to pull a sword from the scabbard of a dead man who had not been given a chance to draw it before he had been cut down. She strode down the corridor, and held the sword in front of her as she stepped over a line of dead men and walked through the splintered doors.

  The banquet hall was a battleground.

  Her eyes widened as she saw the long tables had been pushed aside, split with axes, and toppled by the fighting that had taken place. Dead men lay upon the pale stones, and a massive man, tall and broad with wild black hair, stood against three others.

  Manus.

  Maili McArthur’s pale, terrified face rose above one of the tables and she clutched her daughter to her side so tightly that her knuckles were white. The laird lay upon the stone floor, but his face was strangely pale and his mouth opened and closed soundlessly.

  “Lachlann,” she said in a choked whisper.

  Her husband stood facing the beast of a man who had brought ruin to Inveraray. He was defeated, his forces scattered, but he seemed not to care, and Cat knew he would not be satisfied until he had taken as many men down as he could before death claimed him.

  Lachlann was bleeding, but his wounds were not deep enough to take him out of the fight. Graham Eliott slumped against a table, his sword arm hung limply at his side, but he shouted curses at Manus all the while, his spirit undamped by pain.

  Donnal lunged forward with a strangled cry and set upon Manus with a furious blow from his sword. He struck the man with his shield, causing Manus to stagger back slightly, but as he pulled back for another strike, he faltered, staring over Manus’ shoulder.

  Cat looked around and saw her sister standing in the doorway. Her hands were pressed to her mouth and the clatter of the sword she carried as it fell to the ground filled the air.

  But Manus did not pause.

  His axe flashed down and cut deeply into Donnal’s thigh. He roared with pain and fell to the floor and Manus turned to favor Morag with an evil smile that was stained with blood. Lachlann charged in without hesitation and his blow took Manus off guard.

  He blocked with his axe, and the force of the strike sent the weapon spinning from Manus’ hand.

  Lachlann struck again, this time catching Manus’ sword at the guard. Locked in a battle of strength, Cat felt rather than saw her husband’s footing begin to slip. Without thinking, she pulled the knife from her belt and ran forward. Lachlann saw her coming, and his eyes widened briefly before he pushed back against Manus’ blade with all his strength. He could not call out to her and risk losing what advantage he might have.

  The big man roared in frustration and pushed harder, swinging his left hand in to strike at Lachlann’s head. He ducked the punch at the last possible moment as Cat dropped her sword, jumped over a fallen guard and buried her knife deep into the back of Manus’ knee.

  Manus’ leg buckled and he bellowed like a bull before falling to his knees.

  Cat scrambled back as Lachlann stumbled to the side. He regained his footing quickly but Cat was frozen in place as Manus turned to her.

  His blood-covered face was contorted in pain and his teeth were clenched in fury. He raised his sword to strike her, and Cat closed her eyes as the blade began to descend. But the strike never came.

  The sound of metal striking stone made her cry out in surprise and her eyes flew open. Manus let out a choked groan and a gout of bright blood burst from his lips as Cat saw Lachlann’s sword, buried to the hilt in his neck at the joint of his shoulder.

  Morag’s hands were on her shoulders, helping her to stand. Her knees buckled as Lachlann pulled his sword from Manus’ neck and the big man fell backwards onto the splintered wood of a ruined table.

  “Cat.” Lachlann’s voice was hoarse, and he dropped his sword and ran to her. She fell into his arms as her legs gave way and Lachlann held her tightly against his chest as she sobbed into his leather armor.

  “I thought he was goin’ tae kill ye,” she said through her tears.

  “As did I,” he replied softly.

  Cat looked over her husband’s shoulder to where Morag was helping Donnal brace himself against a table. His leg was bleeding badly and Morag’s face was pale as she tried to examine the wound.

  “I didnae think the bastard would ever die,” Eliott croaked. He held his arm tightly against his side and Lachlann smiled weakly at him.

  “He died as any traitor should,” Lachlann replied. He released Cat from his embrace but took hold of her hand instead. “Will ye see tae Lady Argyll?” he asked.

  “Aye,” Cat replied.

  “Eliott, fetch Nigel Mackenzie and more men. The laird must be moved quickly.”

  Eliott nodded briefly and left the banquet hall with quick strides and Cat could hear him shouting down the corridor for help.

  “I willnae leave him!” Mailie McArthur cried. Her face was streaked with tears as Cat pulled her away from her husband’s prone form. The laird’s eyes were closed, and his skin was pale and waxen. The wound in his side was deep and terrible, and Cat could not bear to look at it.

  “Come now,” Cat said soothingly. “Y’must let them take him tae his chambers. He should not stay on the floor like this.”

  Lachlann’s men poured into the banquet hall, they avoided Manus’ body, but lifted the laird up and placed him upon a horse blanket to take him to his chambers where the monks would see to his wounds. Cat did not know if they would be able to save him—but they would try.

  With her husband gone from the room, Maili McArthur finally allowed herself to be led from the room, but she did not speak, and would only weep and clutch at her daughter’s hand. Her position was precarious—if the laird died, she would have nowhere to turn. If she had borne the laird a son, perhaps her fate would be different, but she had not, and a daughter could not be laird.

  The laird’s wife sank down into a chair by the window and stared out over the ruin of the courtyard.

  “Can I bring y’anythin’?” Cat asked her.

  Maili McArthur shook her head and pulled her pale-faced daughter closer.

  Cat’s heart broke for the other woman, but she could just have easily been in the same position. If Manus’ sword had struck Lachlann instead— She shook her head to banish the image of her husband lying in a pool of his own blood on the stone floor as Nathan McArthur had been.

  “I’ll leave ye then, but I’ll be back with some food for supper,” she said. The laird’s wife did not acknowledge her words, and Cat closed the door of the chamber behind her with a sigh.

  She walked down the corridor with a heavy heart. From the look of the laird’s wounds, he would not last until nightfall, and that left too many questions unanswered. In front of the banquet hall, the bodies of Manus’ fallen men, and the member of the laird’s guard who had been slain had been taken away. The blood that had stained the stones had been strewn with fresh sawdust and the smell of newly cut wood replaced the stench of smoke and death.

  Lachlann stro
de toward her and caught her up in his arms. She tilted her chin up and he kissed her fiercely. She wound her arms around his neck and opened her mouth against his as his arms wrapped around her and lifted her off the ground.

  After what seemed like a lifetime, their kiss broke and Lachlann rested his forehead against hers. “My brave little Cat,” he murmured, “where did y’go?”

  “To Oban,” she replied smartly. “I told ye I would get Morag back, and I did.”

  “What happened tae Angus Mackenzie?”

  Cat leaned back and raised an eyebrow. “Is he any relation tae Nigel Mackenzie?”

  Lachlann chuckled. “No. Not that I know of.”

  “Good,” she replied. “I had tae kill him.”

  Lachlann set her down on her feet and stared at her incredulously. “Ye what?”

  Cat placed her hands on her hips and stared up at her husband definitely. “Y’heard me. I took his horse and left him dead by the woods outside Oban.”

  “And why did y’do that? Mackenzie was one of my best men!”

  “Y’deserve better,” she said. She did not feel the need to explain why she had done it. He didn’t need to know what had happened. She had solved her own problem, and made it impossible for the bastard to hurt anyone else.

  “What will I do wi’ye,” Lachlann muttered.

  “Be thankful that I love ye as much as I do,” Cat replied.

  Lachlann laughed and kissed her again, tangling his fingers in her braid and pulling her close.

  “Ye’re in dire need of a bath,” she whispered.

  “So are you,” he replied.

  “Mackay,” a voice called out and Lachlann turned his head to see who had interrupted them.

  One of the monks stood awkwardly in the corridor and Lachlann smiled briefly at Cat before turning toward the man.

  The monk cleared his throat and gestured down the corridor. “The laird is asking for you,” he said.

  “Then I’ll come at once,” Lachlann replied. He squeezed Cat’s hand briefly. “Morag is with Donnal. The monks are tending to his wounds, but she would not leave his side. She’ll need yer help.”

  Cat nodded and watched her husband stride away to follow the monk. What could the laird want with him? Why was he not asking for his wife and child?

  Cat’s mind burned with questions that had no answer. Once again, all she could do was wait. She walked quickly down the corridor in search of her sister, if she was with Donnal, perhaps Morag’s mind had been changed about how she felt toward him—the thought warmed her just a little, but not enough to take away the chill of fear that lay at the back of her mind. If the laird died… what would become of them? But more importantly—who would take his place?

  Chapter Eleven

  “The laird is grievously wounded,” the monk said softly. “There is naught we can do for him except to make him comfortable. Brother Markum has given him some poppy to ease the pain—but I fear that too strong a dose will prove too much for him.”

  Lachlann nodded absently and pushed past the monks to kneel beside the laird’s bed. They had propped him up on his uninjured side, and Lachlann could see the drugs shining in the laird’s eyes.

  “How d’ye fare?” Lachlann asked him.

  Nathan McArthur, third of his clan to hold the seat of Argyll, coughed wetly and smiled with bloodstained teeth. “Well enough,” he replied. “Get these monks away from me, I cannae abide their whispers and strange talk.”

  The monks did not need to be asked, bowed their shaven heads and left the room, their long robes swept over the stone floor as they obeyed the laird’s command.

  As soon as they were gone, the laird seemed to relax, but he grimaced with pain as he tried to shift his position.

  “Ye cannae move,” Lachlann said.

  “Aye, I know. They wouldnae tell me how bad it is.” The laird tried to smile, but a grimace of pain took its place instead. “Whatever they’ve given me, the pain shoot through it like a hawk through the clouds.”

  “D’ye want more?” Lachlann asked.

  “No… No. They’ve taken enough of my wits as it is. I saw this moment in Manus’ eyes. The moment of my death.” The laird gasped in pain, and Lachlann looked for the monks, but Nathan McArthur grabbed for his wrist and held it tightly.

  “My wife and child—”

  “Safe,” Lachlann said. “They’ll be well looked after.”

  “Dinnae let my wife marry my girl tae some ruffian,” he choked out. “She’ll be desperate—and I’ll not allow it.”

  Lachlann nodded, but did not know what he was supposed to do with such a command. Why was he the one to play audience to the laird’s final thoughts?

  “Why did ye call for me?” he asked finally.

  The laird laughed bitterly, and then coughed. Fine droplets of blood spattered the pillow and the man winced to see them.

  “Larnach is dead. Carmichael is dead. Yer own wife’s father didnae heed my summons.” He took a ragged breath and grabbed for Lachlann’s shoulder, but the movement made him cry out in pain. “I am not long fer this world,” he said. “And ye’re the only one who came tae my aid.”

  “I seem tae recall ye didnae want my help.”

  The laird closed his eyes and took a breath, and Lachlann could hear it rasp in the man’s chest. “I was wrong,” he said.

  “Monk!” Lachlann called over his shoulder. It was clear that Nathan McArthur’s time was short, but he did not want to be the one to watch him to die.

  “No more poppy,” the dying man murmured.

  “I’ll send for yer wife,” Lachlann said as he rose from his knees. The monks rushed into the room and made themselves busy with their medicines and bandages. “He asked for no more poppy,” he said to the closest monk. The man’s eyes widened, but he nodded his agreement. At least Nathan McArthur wanted to die like a warrior, with his wits intact, and not in his sleep like an old man. They could not take that away from him.

  His actions might have been foolish, but his honor would be intact when the end came.

  “I’ll come with the laird’s wife and child. Keep him awake until I return.”

  He strode from the room and went down into the courtyard. Before he fetched the laird’s wife, there was work to be done.

  Nigel Mackenzie met him at the bottom of the stone steps. He was streaked with mud, blood, and soot, but his smile was wide and his eyes sparkled with mirth and victory. “A fair day,” he called out.

  “Fair enough,” Lachlann replied.

  Nigel Mackenzie clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m pleased tae see ye alive. They dragged down that monster’s corpse and the men cheered tae see it.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “In the field. Waitin’ on yer orders.”

  Lachlann nodded grimly. “Set it alight. Burn everything from his camps and bring the horses back tae the laird’s stables.”

  “Will ye be trackin’ down his followers?”

  “Aye. Have the men give chase now, before the sun sets. If any beg for mercy, bring them back alive. They’ll face the laird’s justice. I’ll not see another uprisin’ anytime soon.”

  Nigel Mackenzie’s smile was tight, but he did not argue. “Will y’be stayin’ here the night?”

  “No. I’ll be away soon. Have two horses brought up. I’ll be takin’ my wife back wi’me.”

  “And the rest?”

  “Donnal and Eliott are both in the care of the monks. I’ll not be movin’ them tonight.”

  Nigel winked at him. “Give my best tae yer mother. I was surprised not tae see her in the fray.”

  “She wouldnae have been satisfied unless she were leadin’ the forces herself,” Lachlann said.

  The older man laughed loudly. “Aye, that she would. D’ye think she’d be keen tae take another husband?”

  “Not in this lifetime,” he replied. “And none that smell like you.”

  Mackenzie laughed harder and walked away toward the blackened gates. He shouted f
or his men and Lachlann watched them mount their horses and gallop away beyond the walls. They’d do his bidding obediently enough. Nigel Mackenzie was no fool, and he knew that he would have something to prove. Loyalty was a good start.

  He walked slowly back up the stone stairs and down the corridors that wound through the keep toward the family chambers where Cat had left Maili McArthur and her daughter.

  The wooden door was closed, and no guards had taken up position outside. He approached warily and knocked. He waited for a reply, but there was only silence.

  He knocked again, and this time, instead of waiting, he pushed the door open. There was some resistance, and he leaned his shoulder into the door and pushed harder. The door creaked open, and something heavy slid across the stone floor behind it.

  “My lady,” he called out. But there was no answer. Lachlann drew his knife from his belt and stepped cautiously into the Lady of Argyll’s bedchamber—he did not know what he expected to find.

  But the room was empty.

  A wooden chest filled with blankets had been pushed against the door and Lachlann threw open the lid and pawed through it before he kicked it aside.

  “Gone,” he muttered.

  But how?

  The door had been blocked from the inside.

  He pulled back the blankets from the bed, but it was empty. A tray of food sat untouched upon the table.

  A chair lay overturned on the floor, and Lachlann righted it and glared around the room. The door of a wardrobe in the corner sat ajar and he strode to it quickly. He reached inside and noted that some of the shelves were bare.

  He straightened and pressed his hand against the stone wall. “Maili!” he called out. “Maili McArthur!”

  “Lachlann! What’re ye doin’?” Cat rushed into the room, her eyes wide and confused as she realized the room was empty. “But— They were just here. I brought them…” She pointed at the tray of food.

  “Did she say anythin’ tae ye?”

  Cat shook her head. “She didnae say anythin’ at all.”

  “And the girl?”