Sue-Ellen Welfonder - [MacLean 01]

by Knight in My Bed

  Donall gaped at his brother.

  Gaped at the MacKinnons.

  They, too, wore smiles.

  Smiles, and what looked suspiciously like MacLean armor. Not that Donall begrudged them the gleaming ware. He was too happy to see all of them. His men and the Mac-Kinnons with them. He’d wonder later why Iain had outfitted them with MacLean steel.

  Even the dark-haired Lugh sported a child-sized mail shirt of Baldoon origins. The lad grinned, too. The first smile Donall had seen on the quiet boy’s face.

  But the lad wasn’t smiling at him. He’d twisted in Iain’s strong arms and peered up at Donall’s brother with a look of pure adulation shining in his eyes.

  “Well, by the dark crack of the devil’s arse,” Donall muttered beneath his breath, a smile of his own curving his lips. “ ’Tis a time for miracles,” he said, loud enough for all to hear.

  Iain laughed, a wondrous feat in itself. He tousled Lugh’s head. “Your young friend here tells me you’ve a lady in need of a few braw and ready sword arms?”

  Donall opened his mouth to laugh as well, but snapped it shut as quickly and made do with a gruff nod.

  Saints preserve him, but if he’d held his mouth open one second longer, the great wracking waves of relief and joy filling his breast would’ve flown out to shame him before the whole fool grinning assemblage!

  And, of a mercy, they would have sounded embarrassingly like great, wracking sobs.

  “Aye, he does have a lady awaiting our assistance,” Gavin answered for him, his own voice suspiciously thick. “And a most fair maid she is,” he added, catching the two sword belts old Gerbert tossed to him.

  Looking quite pleased with himself, he also accepted the two fine MacLean swords the white-haired seneschal handed him. He gave one of the wide leather belts to Donall, and as he secured it low on his hips, Gavin clamped a rough hand on his friend’s shoulder.

  “It will soon be over, my friend,” he said with a slight inclination of his head, an earnest look in his usually mirth-filled hazel eyes.

  A private exchange.

  A gesture of reassurance between friends, and meant for Donall alone. “The lass has a bold heart,” Gavin said, his voice low, hoarse with his own emotion. “She will stand until you can pull her into your arms again.”

  Donall reached up and squeezed his friend’s hand, his heart too full for him to speak. He didn’t trust his tongue to form aught but foolish babble should he dare attempt to voice his appreciation.

  To Gavin.

  To them all.

  Then Gavin handed him a sword, and he took it gladly. Not his own, stored somewhere at Dunmuir, but a blade near as fine. Equally deadly.

  Comparably light and welcome in his hand.

  Lifting it, Donall kissed the sword’s cross-hilt, and at that instant, a great roar arose from the gathered men. “Onward to Dunmuir!” they cried. “Onward to Dunmuir and may God have mercy on any fool enough to try and hinder us!”

  His chest still too tight for him to join his men’s boisterous shouting, Donall held the borrowed blade high, thrust its gleaming steel upward at the cloud-cast sky.

  “Onward to Dunmuir,” he called out, but the shout proved too hoarse, too choked, for any but those standing nearest to hear. A squire led his steed forward then, and Donall sheathed the sword before he vaulted into the saddle, eager to be on.

  He whirled his mount in the direction opposite Baldoon. Raising a hand, he found his voice at last. “Onward to Dunmuir!” he roared, the cry bursting from his lungs, from his heart. “On to save my lady!”

  Then he kicked the beast in the sides and tore off across the moorland, leaving his men, his doughty seneschal, and his newfound companions-in-arms, the MacKinnons, no choice but to chase after him.

  Not long after, the sprawling bulk of Dunmuir’s half-ruinous walls rose up against the horizon. His jaw clenching, Donall drew rein and stared at the dark mass, black against the morning’s gray, cloud-chased heavens. His heart began to pound in slow, hard thumps against his chest. His lady whiled behind those walls, and he prayed God she did so unharmed.

  From his vantage point, still high on the open moors, MacArthur’s war-galley could be seen riding anchor off Dunmuir’s shingle-beached shore. High-prowed and low in the water, the single-masted warship banked what looked to be forty oars, and its mere presence made his stomach reel and put a taste like stale ash in his mouth.

  Determined to see the galley’s oarsmen straining at their long sweeps, its square sail flapping on a stiff homeward-bound wind, Donall spurred his horse and galloped the rest of the way to Dunmuir’s gate.

  The heavy, iron-spiked portcullis clanked upward at their approach, and without hesitation, he and all those riding hard behind him thundered beneath it. They clattered through the tunnel-like gatehouse, and straight into Dunmuir’s silent and deserted bailey.

  To his surprise, or mayhap not, two figures stepped from the shadows. Lorne, the old knight, and the dark beauty, his rescuing angel.

  They hurried forward, Lorne’s eyes mirroring a trace of reserve, his lady’s glowing with relief. And Donall didn’t doubt she was the valiant graybeard’s woman.

  Ne’er had a pair looked more at ease together.

  Donall’s heart lurched. Lorne and the black-garbed angel shared the air of trust and loving he hoped to share with his lady.

  Share with her for all their days.

  And nights.

  Impatient to fetch her, he swung down from his saddle. “Lady Evelina, Lorne.” He gave them terse nods.

  She started to reply, but Lorne shot her a warning glance. “My lady and I are relieved you’ve returned, Sir Donall,” the old knight spoke for them both.

  “He is a good man, as I’ve told you.” Evelina slanted Lorne a pointed look. “As you have seen for yourself.” To Donall, she said, “God be thanked, you came.”

  “Did you doubt it?” He angled a brow at her.

  “Nay. I”—she glanced at Lorne again—“we knew you would return. Bless be, you made such haste.”

  Iain must’ve dismounted or lowered Lugh to the ground, for the boy dashed past Donall and threw his arms around Evelina’s skirts. She rested a hand on his thin shoulder. “ ’Tis a braw lad you are,” she soothed, tousling his dark hair. “I knew you’d get word to Laird MacLean’s brother.”

  “And he would see his brother’s fair lady,” Iain said, stepping up to them. “Where is this lass who’s done the impossible and claimed Donall’s heart?”

  Lorne cleared his throat. “Struan banished her to her bedchamber,” he said with a sidelong glance at Donall. “Good sirs, you came swiftly, but we must make greater haste now. I do not trust Struan not to suffer a worse penalty upon her than merely locking her in her room.”

  “Then let us go fetch her down.” Ill ease roiled in Donall’s gut. “I shall deal with Struan afterward. First I would know her safe. I swear ’fore God the bastard shall regret being born if even a single breath that has passed my lady’s sweet lips has suffered harm.”

  Not caring for the queer look moving over the old knight’s face, Donall asked, “Where is Struan? Do not tell me he is yet with her?”

  “I know not where he is,” Lorne said with a glance over his shoulder at the hall’s outer stairs. They loomed steep and rain-slick behind him. “No one has seen Struan since he hauled her abovestairs,” he added, moving toward the steps.

  “We must hurry.” Already, he was bolting up the stairs. “Niels and Rory have vanished as well. It is all full troublesome.”

  Donall ran after him, taking the stairs two at a time. His entire entourage followed suit, leaping from their steeds and drawing their blades from the sounds of it, their collective shouts and curses lost in the hiss, zing, and scraping of swords leaving their scabbards.

  The instant he crested the landing, Donall shouldered past Lorne and wrested open the iron-shod door, yanking it wide so his men could pour into the hall.

  An outcry rose up from
those within. Shocked, angry rumblings that swelled to a great roar of outrage when he entered.

  ’Tis him!

  Defiler of Isleswomen!

  Skirt-chasing cur!

  Impervious, Donall made straight for the dais end of the hall and the entrance to the stair tower yawning just beyond the raised area.

  The curving turnpike stair that led to her chamber.

  At the base of those stairs, he turned and scanned the throng. His men, and MacKinnons with them, formed a broad and menacing line around the entirety of the hall. Not that such a measure was needed to subdue the lolling mass of ale-headed feasters crowding Dunmuir’s great hall.

  All present appeared sorely spirit-fogged.

  Regardless, his men and the surprisingly companionable MacKinnons would keep a watchful eye on them while he went to free his sweet Isolde from her chamber.

  Well content to leave the glassy-eyed carousers to their cups and his men’s competent charge, Donall turned and bounded up the winding stone steps, Gavin, Iain, Lorne, and Evelina hard on his heels.

  As they’d expected, they found the door to the bedchamber barred from the outside.

  As they’d not expected, the room proved empty.

  Wholly quiet.

  Vacant save Bodo, who sat atop the great four-poster bed, staring at them with a troubled, crooked-toothed look of great consternation.

  But not for long.

  Before any of them could voice their surprise, the little brown and white dog leaped from the bed, shot out the opened door, and streaked down the darkened corridor as fast as his short legs could carry him.

  He stopped once, glanced back over his shoulder, a pleading, eager look on his face, before he dashed off again, barking frantically as he ran.

  Donall ran, too.

  All of them did.

  His sweet Isolde’s wee champion was leading them to his mistress.

  A familiar sound called Isolde out of the dazed state she’d drifted into to block out her uncle’s mad ravings. For hours he’d paced the cell, at times stalking so near to the yawning crack in the floor, she’d held her breath, expecting . . . hoping . . . he’d step wrong and plunge into the crevice.

  But he seemed more surefooted than a mere mortal man should be, not even blinking when, once or twice, he’d strode along the very lip of the opening.

  And all the while he’d bemoaned his ill-fated lot in life, his hatred of her father, his love for her mother, his hatred of her.

  His crazed plans to seize hold of all of Doon.

  So she’d leaned against the cold stone wall, shut her eyes, closed her ears, and prayed.

  Prayed for Donall to come for her.

  Prayed for a miracle.

  And now that miracle’s barking sliced through the fog she’d let herself sink into, and filled her heart with renewed hope.

  With joy.

  Bodo, her sweet precious Bodo, was coming for her. And since she’d left him locked inside her bedchamber, his frantic, ever-nearing barks could only mean someone had let him out.

  Someone who must’ve been searching for her.

  Someone she hoped was Donall the Bold.

  Struan heard him, too.

  At last he ceased his pacing and whirled to face her. “It would seem your savior has four legs rather than the hoped-for two,” he taunted, his mouth twisting into a sadistic smile. “I shall take as much pleasure in sending that yappy little beast into the oubliette as when it is your turn to follow him.”

  “Nooooo!!!!!” Isolde pushed away from the wall, blind panic chasing away her caution. “Don’t you touch my dog!” she cried, lunging at him, her fear for Bodo making her bold.

  Her steel, white-hot and glowing.

  He laughed and danced away from her. “Have a care, lass, or you shall land in the pit without my help,” he jeered, his eyes a-fire with a wild light.

  “I cannot allow you to steal the recompense I shall enjoy by pushing you myself.” His smile became a cruel sneer. “But before I do, I am desirous of watching your face when I drop your yelping cur down the crack.”

  “I’ll kill you first,” Isolde screamed, flinging herself at him again.

  He laughed, easily sidestepping her. And rather than toppling him into the crack, she stumbled herself. Her arms flailed, flying out for balance as she fell near the edge of the crevice. Pain slammed into her at the impact, the rough stone floor cracking her knees and abrading her flattened palms.

  Struan leaned over her. “So eager to die, chieftain?” He nudged her with his foot. “Shall I ease you over the edge? I promise to send your wee beastie after you.”

  Her breath coming in ragged, painful gasps, Isolde crawled away from the opening, great shudders wracking her body. “Don’t you dare touch Bodo,” she panted, struggling to her feet. “Don’t you da—Bodo!”

  In that instant, amidst a frenzy of snarling barks worthy of a much larger, more ferocious-natured dog, Bodo shot through the cell’s entrance gap and launched himself at Struan.

  The little dog slammed into her uncle’s legs, sinking his teeth deep into Struan’s flesh. Howling with pain, Struan hovered on the very edge of the crevice, shaking his leg in a vain struggle to dislodge the animal.

  For one agonizing long instant, Struan stared at her, his eyes wide with horror, his arms wheeling. And then he was gone. Over the edge in a blur of flailing arms, legs, and brown and white fur.

  “Bodo!!!! Noooooo!!!!” Her own screams of terror blending with Struan’s, Isolde dove forward, tried desperately to grab hold of her dog, but her arms closed on thin air.

  Bodo had vanished into the oubliette.

  Near blinded by tears, her heart crushed by the tight, searing pain in her chest, Isolde collapsed to her knees at the crevice’s edge. “Bodo, no . . .”

  Her cries came small now. Pathetic little gasps, wooden and ragged, torn roughly past the hot swelling in her throat. “Oh, Bodo, no . . .”

  And then she heard it.

  A frantic clacking sound.

  Claws on stone.

  And a bark.

  Bodo.

  Opening her eyes, she saw him through the stinging veil of her tears. He clung to the lip of the crevice with his forepaws, desperately struggling to pull himself up over the edge.

  Her heart bursting, hot tears spilling down her cheeks, she grabbed him, pulling him swiftly to safety.

  Into her grateful arms.

  Laughing and crying, she held him tight, stroking and soothing him while his panting subsided and his racing heart calmed. “Oh, sweet Bodo,” she murmured against the warm fur of his shoulder, “You came for me, you came for me.”

  “And I, fair lady?”

  Isolde’s breath faltered. He’d come. “Donall?”

  “I should hope you were not expecting another braw knight to save you?” he drawled, his smooth, deep voice spilling light over her.

  Pouring love into her heart.

  She blinked up at him, half-afraid she was imagining him, still too blinded by tears to see him properly. But it was he. That she knew. Ne’er could she mistake his tall, broad-shouldered form, his slow, disarming smile, his bold stance.

  His magnificence.

  His love.

  It shone so bright in his rich brown eyes, its brilliance was almost more blinding than the salty wetness of her tears.

  “You came,” she said, the words choked. Thick.

  “We came,” he said, leaning down to gather her and Bodo into the shelter of his strong, knightly arms. “We who love you.”

  “We who love me?” she asked, seizing the implication, her heart swelling with the joy of it. Then the others he’d meant gathered ’round, and another kind of happiness filled her heart as well.

  The comforting happiness of home, family, and trusted friends.

  Friends old and new, each with a bold and open heart.

  Gavin with his lopsided, boyish smile. Lorne and Evelina, their own love shining bright in their eyes. Iain, her love’s
brother, her sister’s widower, handsome and braw as his brother, concern and relief in his dark, innocent eyes.

  And even young Lugh, smiling shyly from the cell’s entrance, a look of wonder and a smattering of pride lighting his small face.

  “ ’T-twas h-him, Uncle Struan. He’s mad . . . he l-locked Niels and Rory in the cell,” she stammered, needing to tell them, then block Struan’s face, his last horror-filled scream, forever from her heart.

  “He killed Lileas, even Da.” Her gaze sought and found Lorne’s. She saw his grim nod, saw he’d already guessed. “He would have killed me, had Bodo not . . .”

  “Hush, you,” Donall soothed her, smoothing back her hair, wiping the tears from her eyes, off her wet cheeks, as he carried her through the cell’s narrow opening. “ ’Tis over now.”

  “And may God be praised!” someone said. She couldn’t tell who, but the three words broke the tension and they all released their collectively held breaths.

  Speaking all at once, they huddled close, clustered, smiling like fools, around Donall as he carried her and Bodo from the cell.

  Murmuring love words against her hair, words for her ears alone, he strode through the stinking muck of the latrine passage, up the sea tower’s slime-coated stairs, and out of

  Dunmuir’s dungeons.

  An hour or so later, he carried her again.

  A blissfully delightful state she could easily become most accustomed to.

  A state she intended to become accustomed to.

  Freshly bathed and so in love, she snuggled happily against Donall the Bold’s bonnie chest as he strode into Dunmuir’s great hall. She wrapped her arms soundly around his wide-set shoulders and twined her fingers in the heavy silk of his hair. With a sigh of pure contentment, she pressed herself to his braw and knightly form.

  For once not feeling a single twinge of guilt or shame.

  She looked up, caught his eye. I love you, she mouthed the words, still a bit shy about voicing them aloud.

  “And I you, lass,” he said boldly, without a trace of her own hesitation, his mouth curving into one of his seductive, heart-stealing smiles.

  Lileas smiled, too.