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

by Avery Maitland

  “Nothin’.”

  “Did anyone come tae see them?”

  Cat shook her head. “I wouldnae know. I left them alone tae eat.”

  Lachlann shoved his knife back into the sheath at his hip. “The monks dinnae have good news—the laird asked for them.”

  Cat’s face fell and her shoulders slumped before she recovered herself. “I’m sorry tae hear it,” she said. “He didnae deserve tae die at Manus’ hand.”

  Lachlann was about to take her hand when she darted over toward the bed and pushed at the wooden frame. Lachlann watched her curiously until she cursed and looked up at him with a furious expression on her face.

  “Will y’help me then?”

  Lachlann chuckled and came forward to lend his weight to her efforts. The bed slid across the stones and Cat let out a small cry as a wooden door was revealed. Lachlann cursed loudly and pushed it aside to reveal a set of narrow stone stairs that descended into the darkness below.

  “How…”

  Cat pointed to the table. “There were three candles when last I came tae see them. They left one behind…”

  Lachlann looked over at the table and shook his head. One candle.

  Cat peered down into the darkness, but made no move to step down to follow. “Where have they gone?”

  “South,” Lachlann guessed. “Her mother was not of these lands… She’ll take refuge with her people. There is nothing left for her here.”

  “But the laird—”

  Lachlann laid a hand upon his wife’s arm. “He will not see the sunrise.” Her eyes widened in surprise, but he could see in her eyes that even she knew that his wounds were too severe to hold out any hope of survival. She nodded dumbly and allowed him to lead her from the room.

  “We’ll ride tonight before the sun sets. My mother will be overjoyed tae see ye well. She had a fair few words for me when she discovered I had lost ye.”

  “Ye didnae lose me,” she said. “I always said I would come back tae ye.”

  Lachlann smiled and squeezed her hand. “Go down tae the courtyard. Mackenzie has a horse waitin’. I must speak tae the monks.”

  ***

  * * *

  Cat was perched in the saddle when he came down the stairs. “How is he?” she asked as he swung up into the saddle.

  He shook his head. The laird was not well. He had ordered the months to let him sleep.

  There was nothing else to be done.

  “He is resting under the care of the monks,” he said.

  Cat wound her arms around his waist as he settled into the saddle and pressed his heels into the horse’s flanks.

  They thundered through the gates and Lachlann felt the heat of the fire that consumed the bodies of Manus and his men and Cat pressed her face into his back as the horse’s strides lengthened.

  The sunset stained the clouds of smoke scarlet and Lachlann saw the shapes of Nigel Mackenzie’s men on horseback as they chased down Manus’ followers.

  He had done his duty to the laird. His duty to Argyll.

  * * *

  When they arrived at the gates of his mother’s keep, Lachlann could see the light of torches and the great hearth in the banquet hall.

  His stomach rumbled and his mouth felt dry—there would be no celebrating, but he would not say no to the prospect of falling into bed with a head full of ale and his arms full of his wild wife.

  Ginny Mackay was fairly leapt down the stone stairs to greet them, and she reached up to pull Cat down from the saddle and folded her into a tight embrace. “My girl! I knew ye’d come back tae him safely. He doesnae deserve ye!”

  Lachlann slid down from the saddle and a stable boy ran out to grab the reins and take the horse away to the stables. “Ye’re right,” he said. “She doesnae deserve the likes of me as a husband.”

  “I wouldnae take anythin’ less,” Cat laughed.

  Ginny Mackay ushered them into the banquet hall and ordered food and drink brought.

  They ate together, and Lachlann drank deeply of the ale that was brought. The weight of the day, and the ache of battle, settled into his bones, and while the ale would dull some of that pain—it would return all the keener in the morning. And with it, his responsibilities to the laird he had left behind at Inveraray.

  Ginny Mackay listed to everything he said without commenting. A strange thing for her. She set down her cup of ale and looked at him thoughtfully.

  “The laird called for you? Above all others at the keep?”

  Lachlann snorted into his cup. “There were none left alive.”

  His mother’s eyes widened in disbelief. “All of them… And Alistair MacCullach didnae dare show his face—” She turned to Cat, “I’m sorry, my dear, but yer father is a coward… and he’d do well not tae show his face in Argyll again. He abandoned his laird, after everythin’ that fool of a man gave him her his so called loyalty.”

  Cat’s shoulders straightened and she drank deeply from her cup of ale. “He has never had anyone’s interest at heart except his own,” she said simply. “I wouldnae doubt that he is long since departed these lands.”

  Ginny Mackay made a face and refilled her cup. “And what of the monks— Did they say anythin’ tae ye?”

  “The laird willnae survive the night. I bid them give him enough poppy tae let him sleep.”

  “That Maili McArthur… I didnae expect her tae run so quickly. I thought she would press for a new alliance—”

  “There are none left for her,” Lachlann said. “Manus saw tae that whether he knew it or not.”

  “It could be yours,” his mother said softly. “The laird chose ye, in his dying breaths— You could be Argyll.”

  Lachlann frowned into his empty cup and set it down upon the table. Despite all that had passed—Ginny Mackay had never wavered in her support of him. But this? Ridiculous.

  “I am no laird.”

  “But ye could be,” she said. “How d’ye think Nathan McArthur’s grandsire became laird? He wasnae given it by an ailing old man. He took it in battle and slew the seated laird’s entire family save for the girl he married, the dead laird’s youngest daughter.”

  Lachlann blinked at her in surprise. He had never heard this story, but he was not surprised that Nathan McArthur chose to speak in glowing terms about his father and uncles instead of his grandsire.

  “Could Maili McArthur come back tae claim the seat?” Cat asked.

  His mother laughed bitterly and refilled Cat’s cup. “She might try, but she has no claim, and no son tae bargain with.”

  “And no man who would seek the laird’s daughter as a wife,” Lachlann said. He reached for Cat’s hand and held it tightly.

  “Y’must go back tae Inveraray.” His mother’s voice was firm but Lachlann shook his head.

  “No. I’ll sleep here tonight and return in the mornin’.”

  His mother pushed his cup away and glared at him. “No. Ye’ll go now. Ye must be seen tae be at Inveraray when the laird passes. If ye say he willnae see sunrise, y’must be there tae watch it for him.”

  “Mother—”

  “Get out,” she snapped. “Get out of my hall and see tae yer future, Lachlann Mackay!”

  Cat scrambled up from her seat and pulled on his arm. Lachlann glared at his mother, matching her ire with his own. He wanted to sleep. He was sore and exhausted to the depths of his bones. Every muscle ached, and he was in dire need of a hot bath and a soft bed.

  “Back tae Inveraray. Ye must be at the laird’s side—”

  “Very well, ye’ll have yer way,” Lachlann roared as he stood up. He slapped the cup of ale and it flew off the table and crashed against the stone wall. Ginny Mackay laughed and crossed her arms over her chest.

  “I’ll come tae ye in the mornin’” she said. “Tae pay my respects tae that bastard McArthur.”

  Lachlann gritted his teeth and thought better of giving a reply to his mother’s smug statement. She had never liked the laird, or his haughty wife, and the truce be
tween them had been an uneasy one at the best of times, but Lachlann knew that she respected the man—enough to pay what homage was due in death.

  “Can ye ride?” Lachlann asked Cat as they descended the stairs that led down to the courtyard. He could hear his mother shouting for his horse from above him and the thud of boots on stone as men rushed to follow her orders.

  “Aye,” Cat said through a yawn. “Though I cannae promise that I’ll stay awake.”

  “I wouldnae expect it of ye,” he said and kissed her gently.

  A fresh horse was brought, and Lachlann helped his wife up into the saddle before climbing up behind her. It was good to have her in his arms once more, and he could not wait to have her naked heat beneath him.

  His mother waited upon the wall and this time he raised his arm in farewell.

  “Expect me after sunrise,” she said. “And see that ye’re bathed properly before then. Yer poor wife.”

  Cat laughed against his chest and smiled up at his mother as Lachlann urged his horse forward and they galloped through the gate and into the night. He could see the glow of the bonfires around Inveraray against the horizon, and the moon lit their path with silver.

  Laird of Argyll. Could he even dare to believe it could be so?

  Chapter Twelve

  She dozed in the saddle; the steady rhythm of the horse’s gait, and the warmth of her husband’s solid chest behind her made it almost impossible to stay alert. She felt the heat of the pyre that burned Manus’ body against her face, and opened her eyes just as Lachlann reigned in his horse and slowed the gelding’s pace.

  They came through the scorched gates and Lachlann slid down from the saddle before the horse had come to a complete stop. Cat gripped the saddle, and then jumped down into his arms. He caught her easily, but she saw him wince in pain as he was reminded of his wounds. He had not escaped Manus’ reach unscathed, but he had refused the monks’ ministrations until his men were seen to.

  “Ye’ll need tae see the monks,” she said quietly.

  She touched his shoulder gently and her fingers came away wet with blood.

  “No the now,” he grunted.

  “But soon.”

  “Aye. Go and find yer sister.”

  “D’ye not want me wi’ye?”

  Lachlann took hold of her shoulders and looked into her eyes. She had only been teasing him, but it was clear that the time for lightness had passed. “I do. But I have tae stay wi’the laird until sunrise. It’s not long away.”

  “Will he really die?”

  “Manus saw tae cuttin’ short his time as Argyll. Greater men have died from lesser wounds. ‘Tis a miracle he’s survived as long as this. He should have died on the floor.”

  Cat blinked quickly, fighting back tears. She did not weep for the laird, but for everything that had happened in so short a time. She had almost lost her sister, and then her husband—all of this death and ruin sprung from the same monster who now lay burning in the grass outside Inveraray’s walls.

  Lachlann pulled her into his arms and held her tightly, but Cat did not allow herself to cry. There would be time for tears later, away from prying eyes and wagging tongues.

  She did not really have any concern for what others thought of her, but she had more to think about than just herself.

  Especially if—

  “Go now,” Lachlann said. “I’ll come tae ye at sunrise.”

  “Ye’ll not tell him that his wife has gone, will ye?”

  “No. I wouldnae burden him like that. Maili has made her choice.”

  “So y’willnae try and find her?”

  Lachlann raised an eyebrow. “And do what wi’her? She’s the wife of the laird, she would have a place of honor here, but what then? She cannot rule, and her daughter is too young for any marriage tae be considered.”

  “Why can she not rule?”

  Lachlann chuckled. “Would ye really want tae kneel before Maili McArthur?”

  Cat made a face and slapped her husband lightly on the chest. “This is not the time for such talk,” she said. “Go and see tae yer laird. He’ll have need of some comfort.”

  Lachlann brushed a hand over his mouth and his smile disappeared. Cat rose up on her toes and kissed him quickly. “I’ll be waitin’ fer ye at sunrise.”

  There were only a few hours until dawn, and sleep seemed impossible to even consider.

  Lachlann ran up the stairs ahead of her and disappeared into the keep. She wanted to go with him, but understood why it was impossible. Ginny Mackay’s suggestion that Lachlann could be named to the lairdship was almost too much to bear.

  She walked up the steps slowly and looked out over the courtyard. Torches flared beside the stone houses, but all was quiet. Lachlann’s men and the remainder of the laird’s forces had given in to their exhaustion and slept in the barracks and stables. The smell of smoke, mud, and blood was still heavy in the air, and the sickly sweetness of burning flesh hung beneath it all as the pyres that had been lit under the bodies of Manus’ men continued to burn.

  Instead of looking for Morag, Cat went back to Maili McArthur’s bedchamber. The other woman’s escape intrigued her, and she had a dreadful need to know where the narrow staircase led.

  Why had she fled without knowing what would happen to her husband?

  The chamber had not been touched since she had last been there, and she had not thought to ask what had happened to the maids who had attended her ladyship so loyally. No doubt they had fled Inveraray with her.

  The remnants of a fire still glowed in the hearth and Cat rushed over to it with the last remaining candle held tightly in her hand. She fell to her knees, blew on the embers, and held the candlewick into the tiny flame that flared up.

  With the candle raised, she turned toward the narrow stone staircase and took a deep breath before setting her foot upon the top stair. A cold breeze blew across her cheek as she descended, and Cat held on to the edge of the wooden floor with a tight grip as she stepped down into the darkness.

  The candle threw only a small circle of light, and Cat could only see a small distance ahead of herself.

  “How did you do this, Maili?” she whispered.

  The stairs were smooth, almost slippery under the heel of her boots and she flailed blindly for a handhold and found nothing but a stone wall on her left side. She pressed her shoulder against it and took another tentative step down into the dark. She looked up at the small square of pale light above her and tried to decide if her curiosity was enough to keep her going.

  And then she heard a voice—barely a whisper from the darkness below. That was enough. What if she could find the laird’s wife and bring her back to see him? Lachlann would see that she and her child would be protected. She could not imagine the terror of uncertainty that Maili McArthur would be feeling at that very moment, but the prospect of traveling far across country without an escort, without weapons, without help… it was too much to bear.

  She tried to move more quickly, but the prospect of slipping and falling and not being found was too great. What if they had slipped? What if they were down at the bottom of the stairs, injured and unable to call for help...

  The candlelight flickered and then surged as the slight breeze that had feathered against Cat’s cheek when she had first stepped below the floor strengthened.

  She had lost count of the stairs, and the square of pale light above her had grown smaller. All at once, the stairs turned sharply to the left and Cat lurched to the side as the wall she had braced her shoulder against disappeared.

  Cat bit back a thin scream as she reached into empty air. The candle tumbled from her hand and she grabbed for it desperately, succeeding only in sending it cartwheeling into the dark.

  The stone wall was rough against her palm, and her fingers scrabbled desperately for something to hold on to, finally catching on the edge of a raised stone.

  Her chest slammed against the wall and she clung to it, panting, as her eyes adjusted to the dark, but sh
e could see nothing but the slick stone wall and blackness.

  She closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the stone. Her breathing was hard and rasping in her throat and she swallowed thickly as she tried not to think of how close she had come to pitching headfirst down the stairs as her candle had done.

  “Move,” she murmured. “Move…” The only way she could go was down. She could no longer see the square of light from Maili McArthur’s chambers, and the chill wind that blew up from the depths of the staircase encouraged her onward. The stairs had to end somewhere…

  She pushed off the wall and leaned her shoulder against it once more. Her fingertips throbbed where they had scraped against the stone and Cat pressed her lips together to keep from gasping with the pain every time she touched the wall.

  She heard the whisper again, and pushed herself to move faster. “Maili?” she whispered as loudly as she dared into the dark, but there was no response.

  Below her, an orange glow flickered and her heart leapt in her chest.

  A torch.

  The glow became larger as she hurried down the stairs and the breeze tugged at her hair. Relief choked her throat and Cat could barely keep from sobbing in relief as her boots hit the last stair. She staggered just a little, and then caught her balance. The torch illuminated an arched doorway and Cat staggered through it, bracing herself on the stones.

  “The stables,” she whispered.

  The stars had begun to fade, and the sky was just beginning to lighten as the sun prepared to rise, but the stableyard was silent save for the quiet whickering of the horses in their stalls.

  A soft thump, drew her attention, and Cat looked over to see one of the stall doors open and close again, pushed by the gentle breeze.

  She smiled briefly and walked over to the stall to close the door and draw the latch closed. Maili had gone, and there was nothing she could do to stop her. They had had help to leave, but there was no way to know who had done so—and she was not certain that it mattered. Was it possible that the McArthurs would return to try and take back the seat Nathan McArthur had vacated in such a devastating way.