Every muscle, every bone, in his body hurt. His head would surely burst asunder any moment, and his hall seemed wont to spin and dip around him.
But for naught in the world would he admit it.
Blinking to clear his vision, he searched the throng, looking for Murdo. To his relief, he didn’t need to search long. The accursed mucker still stood near the foot of the trestle table.
And he had the effrontery to bestow another of his yellow-toothed smiles on Duncan. “Be you hurting, Laird MacKenzie?” he wanted to know.
“Nay, but you will be,” Duncan fair growled. “Soon.”
Murdo’s nostrils flared. “Yer makin’ a grave error. The MacLeo—”
“Is not your laird,” Duncan finished for him. “’Tis Kenneth’s man you are.”
The stranger’s coarse features hardened, and his hand stole beneath the gathered folds of his grungy tunic. His blade flashed and gleamed for but an instant before Malcolm wrested it from him, then pressed the wicked-looking blade against the man’s throat.
Marmaduke positioned himself at Malcolm’s side, his own sword drawn and at the ready, the look on his scarred face, feral.
“If you harm me, Kenneth will slit yer lady wife’s throat… after he’s had his way with her,” Murdo swore. “You’ll never see—”
Duncan slammed his fist on the trestle table. “’Tis you who’ll ne’er see aught again lest you answer my questions, and dinna ask what’ll happen if I don’t care for your answers.”
“I’ll tell you naught,” Murdo sneered.
“Think you?” Duncan’s lips curled in a sneer of his own.
He pushed away from the table and made straight for Murdo. One grueling step at a time. Only the heat of his fury enabled him to cross the short distance without his knees buckling, without giving voice to his pain.
Leaning so close to the officious cur’s face, the man’s hot, foul-reeking breath meshed with Duncan’s own, Duncan snarled, “There wasn’t a fire at John MacLeod’s keep, was there?”
Murdo clamped his mouth shut and stared fixedly at a point somewhere beyond Duncan’s shoulder.
“The fire was a ploy, a ruse to make me send my men on a fool’s errand,” Duncan breathed, his tone icy, his deep voice calm, without a trace of the raw anger coursing through him. Nor of the bone-jarring pain each movement, each word cost him. “Do not lie if you value your life.”
Murdo remained silent.
“Very well,” Duncan said, his voice low, his every nerve taut. “I grow impatient with you. Admit you lie.”
Murdo spat on the floor.
Duncan’s anger surged anew. “You are a brave man,” he said simply, then nodded once to Malcolm, who still held the loathsome churl’s own dagger to his throat.
The tall kinsman obliged, pricking Murdo’s throat with the sharp tip of the dagger. A dollop of bright red blood appeared, another followed, turning into a slow, steady trickle.
Duncan nodded again and Malcolm pressed the blade deeper.
Murdo’s eyes bugged and he wet his lips.
“Where did Kenneth take my wife and the boy?” Duncan asked coldly.
Murdo fidgeted, but when Duncan’s gaze slid back toward Malcolm the miscreant lost his nerve. “I dinna mean you no harm,” he said in a rush. “’Tis following orders, I was, dinna you see?”
“I see more than you ken. Where is my wife?”
“To… to the south,” Murdo stammered, trying to lean away from the knife. “To the south.”
Duncan feigned a look of mock surprise. “Did you not say ‘by galley to the northern isles’?”
Beads of sweat dotted Murdo’s forehead. “’Twas as you say, a ruse. I was to escort you north, some of your men were to go to MacLeod’s, and whilst your men were scattered elsewhere, Kenneth meant to ride south without you on his trail.”
“And my lady? The boy? They are to be ransomed?”
Murdo gulped, his face paling.
“Speak or die.”
“I dinna ken,” the man blurted, “on my life, I dinna ken what he means to do with them.”
“Your life is forfeit, but it is not here you will lose it,” Duncan said, his voice flat, toneless. “Take the pouch,” he bade the Sassunach, jerking his thumb toward the leather purse hanging from Murdo’s belt.
Marmaduke handed him the pouch and he peered inside it. John MacLeod’s brooch winked up at him, its red gemstone catching the light from a nearby wall torch.
“This brooch was stolen,” he said, closing the pouch and tossing it to Alec. “You shall return it. Alec and Malcolm will escort you. What John MacLeod does with you is none of my affair. If he does not kill you, be warned lest you e’er set foot on MacKenzie land again, for I will not hesitate to have done with you myself.”
To Alec and Malcolm, he said, “Be off with him, he’s sullied the air in my hall long enough.”
Duncan stood ramrod straight until they disappeared from view, then he sagged against the nearest table and closed his eyes. His left arm throbbed and burned and he didn’t need to glance at it to know the wound had started bleeding again.
But the fire in his arm was naught next to the smoldering flame burning inside him.
Rage over the taking of his loved ones and fear for their safety fired his blood, filling him with a fury so intense the pain of his wounds seemed paltry by comparison.
“I vow that whoreson was your lady’s two-headed man,” Sir Marmaduke said, resheathing his sword. “The one in the flames.”
Duncan cracked his eyes open and slid a sideways glance at the Sassunach. “Aye, and for once I didn’t need you to figure it out for me.”
One corner of Marmaduke’s mouth lifted into a twisted smile. “And so I observed, my friend. Mayhap there is hope for you yet.”
Duncan’s brows snapped together. “I am not a dullwit. ’Twas his use of the word ‘brother.’ No friend or ally would dare grant Kenneth such status to my face.”
Marmaduke glanced at Duncan’s left arm. “Your arm bleeds.”
“‘Your arm bleeds,’” Duncan echoed grouchily. “Think you I am not aware of that? ’Tis a wonder my whole body is not bleeding considering all the holes in it.”
“Aye, laddie, and Elspeth will want to re-dress your wounds, especially your arm. It doesna look good,” Fergus agreed, stepping up to them. He tilted his head to the side and peered sharply at Duncan’s injured arm. “I’m a-thinking we should cauteri—”
“And ‘a-thinking’ about it is all you’re going to do,” Duncan groused, pushing away from the table’s edge and fixing Fergus with his most intimidating glare.
Undaunted, Fergus affected a look he’d used with much success in Duncan’s childhood.
It didn’t impress Duncan the man.
“You canna walk about with that arm spewing blood all o’er you,” his seneschal pressed.
“I can and I shall.” Duncan stood firm. “Now cease blathering on over a few wee drops of blood, you grizzled-headed old graybeard. If you desire to be useful, see our swiftest horses saddled and made ready to ride.”
Fergus’s bushy brows shot upward. “Mounting a horse will be the death o’ you, boy, and your men need to rest their bones,” he protested. “We’ll send out a party of our most braw men on the morro—”
“On the morrow is too late. We ride now, through the night,” Duncan vowed, refusing the notion he might not have the strength to carry out his plan.
Searching the throng for his first squire, Duncan signaled the lad to come closer when he spied him. “Lachlan, fetch my clothes and weapons,” he ordered, his voice surprisingly strong.
“And dinna drag your feet,” he added, glancing irritably at the irksome yards of linen wrapped around nigh every inch of his aching body. “I tire of being swaddled like a newborn babe or a corpse awaiting burial.”
Rather than dashing off to do Duncan’s bidding, Lachlan remained rooted to the floor, worriedly seeking out Marmaduke with his eyes. Scowling, Duncan planted
his balled fists on his bandaged-wrapped hips. “I am laird, not Sir Marmaduke,” he said, the harshness of his tone smothering the gasp of pain he’d almost let loose. “Do as I say, or would you have me ride out garbed in naught but rags?”
Two spots of color appeared on Lachlan’s pale cheeks, but he inclined his head and took off at a run.
Duncan watched him go, then blew out a shaky breath, releasing some of the tension coiled within him. Turning back to Fergus, he said, “Send a party of men to my bedchamber. Behind the largest tapestry, they’ll find the door to a hidden passage. It leads to the base of the tower. Be sure they seal it at both ends. Permanently seal it.”
Beside him, Marmaduke drew a quick breath. Duncan couldn’t resist flashing the all-knowing lout a triumphant smile. “Aye, my good friend, it would appear there were a few things you didn’t know.”
To the rest of his men, he said, “Lads, I know you are weary, some of you wounded. I will not ask those too fatigued to join me. Nor can I vouchsafe you will return whole if you ride with me. Kenneth is a daring and able warrior. His men are no less adept as we’ve seen. Any of you who choose to stay behind, I bid you seek your pallets now so you are well rested and can best protect these walls in our absence.”
He paused, waiting.
No one moved.
Then, from the back of the hall, someone called, “Cuidich’ N’ Righ! Save the king!”
Others joined in, and soon the MacKenzie war cry filled the air until the walls fair shook. Duncan clasped his hands behind his back and nodded in approval.
The saints knew he couldn’t do much more. Not with his throat painfully tight and the backs of his eyes afire, so moved was he by his men’s stout showing of support.
When the ruckus died down, a firm hand grasped his elbow. “Let me lead the patrol,” Sir Marmaduke offered, leaning close to Duncan’s ear. “No one will look askance if you stay behind. ’Twould be madness for you to sally forth. Fergus is right, you are in no condi—”
“My lady and my son have been taken,” Duncan said, his voice as cold and unyielding as steel. “I mean to fetch them.”
Sharp intakes of breath issued from those gathered near, then low mumbles spread throughout the entire hall, followed almost immediately by stunned silence.
To a man, his kinsmen stared gog-eyed at him, their fool mouths hanging open as if they sought to catch flies.
And Duncan knew exactly why they gawked.
What he didn’t know was why the words had slipped so easily from his tongue. He hadn’t meant to say them, still doubted Robbie had sprung from his loins.
But of a sudden, now that the wee lad was gone, his true parentage mattered naught.
Only his safe return.
Then the silence was broken… someone sniffled.
A loud and sloppy wet sound, made louder by the awkward silence hanging over the hall.
The noise came again and to Duncan’s amazement, he saw it was old Fergus. The bandy-legged seneschal rubbed his nose with the back of his sleeve and turned quickly away.
But not before Duncan caught sight of the telltale moisture glistening in the old man’s eyes.
Heat crept up his neck and he swept the lot of them with a furious glare. “Cease gaping like witless varlets and make ready to ride,” he chided them. “And dinna think to start telling tales about me going soft. Naught has changed.”
To his great annoyance, his men didn’t look like they believed him.
Her legs stretched before her on the chill, damp ground, Linnet leaned against the trunk of a tree and rested her weary bones. Ever since Kenneth had unbound her, she’d been forced to wait upon her captors, coerced by threats upon Robbie to heed their constant demands and tend those wounded in the siege.
Seeing no choice… for the moment… but to acquiesce, she’d bowed to their will, catering to their every whim until her back ached so fiercely she’d begun to walk like a crone, one hand pressed to her hip, her shoulders hunched in pain.
’Twas sometime in the mist-hung gray hours before dawn on the second day since they’d been taken and for the first time, she’d been allowed to sit with Robbie. Sleeping peacefully, praise the saints, the boy curled next to her, covered with a threadbare blanket one of Kenneth’s men had deigned to toss over him.
Most of the brigands slept. To Linnet’s dismay, Kenneth was amongst the few who did not. He lounged near the low-burning fire, nursing a cup of wine and conversing in low tones with one of his men, a shifty-eyed weasel of a lout who suddenly held his cup aloft and motioned for her to refill it.
Rather than scramble to her feet as the miscreant surely expected, Linnet sent him an icy glare.
Truth to tell, she was too fatigued to stand.
“’Twould seem the lady’s grown tired of serving her lessers,” the weasel taunted.
Kenneth made a coarse huffing noise. “Mayhap her attitude will change once we’ve all had a turn at showing her how pleasurable servicing the lowborn can be. Once we’ve covered a bit more ground, we shall enlighten her.”
“Och!” The other man slapped his thigh. “Wait’ll she’s seen the size o’ yer—”
“Enough,” Kenneth admonished. “I wouldna want her to suffer from yearning. There will be time aplenty for her to explore my maleness, and yours, later.”
He glanced at her then and the raw lust in his gaze nigh curdled Linnet’s flesh. “She may find herself so taken with our charms, she’ll prefer us to my loathsome brother.”
His gaze still on her, and in a most disconcerting way, Kenneth pushed to his feet. Linnet willed her fear not to show as he came toward her. Beneath the folds of her cloak, her cold fingers found and closed around a small, leather-covered flagon.
A flagon she’d almost forgotten she had with her, secured as it was in a small linen pouch beneath the many layers of her clothes.
A flagon filled with pure essence of valerian.
Filled, too, with her only hope of escape.
Kenneth loomed over her then, saying not a word, but prodding her hip with his foot. When the foot caught and lifted the hem of her cloak, exposing her ankles and calves to the brisk night air, and any leering eyes that might be gawking at her, Linnet forgot all pretense of appearing calm and frowned up at him.
“Leave me be, you swine,” she hissed, her hand curling tighter around the flagon. “Dare touch me, and I shall unman you at the first opportunity.”
Snickers and ribald comments issued from those men still awake. Kenneth’s face suffused a dark red. “You need the sharpness stolen from your tongue. I vow my brother did not break you well enough!” he fumed, barely restrained anger heavy in his every word.
He leaned close. “’Tis an oversight I shall enjoy rectifying. And in his bed… once I’ve ousted him from what would have been mine had his whorish mother not stolen our father’s affection.”
Linnet pressed her lips together and glowered at him.
Her silence seemed to fuel his anger, for he grabbed her arm and yanked her roughly to her feet. His fingers digging deep into her flesh, he jerked his head toward the unwashed cur who’d waved his cup at her.
“Replenish our wine.” The words were curt, his gaze, thunderous.
Linnet returned his glare. “I canna fetch aught lest you release my arm.”
He did, but not before narrowing his eyes at her. “Watch your manners, lady. I’ve had done with less bothersome bawds than you.”
Linnet made a deliberate show of dusting off her sleeve. Then, her chin high, she made for the messy heap of supplies just beyond the circle of mostly sleeping men. ’Twas where her captors kept their store of near-rancid wine, and not far from where their horses were tethered.
Horses too noble-looking to be aught but stolen. Not that she cared… she meant to steal one, too.
As soon as she tainted the wine with valerian and Kenneth imbibed enough of the sleep-inducing brew to fall into a deep slumber.
“Make haste,” he called to her. “O
ur thirst is great.”
Linnet smiled.
A hearty craving for the soon-to-be potent brew would suit her well.
Her back to the men, she plucked an earthen jug from the untidy pile. The moment her fingers touched the vessel, cold waves of ill ease crept up her spine, but she forced herself to remain calm as she withdrew the flagon from its hiding place beneath her cloak.
Then, after a quick but wary glance over her shoulder, she removed its stopper and tipped the entire contents into the sour-smelling wine.
Kenneth extended his cup at her approach. “You make a comely serving maid. ’Tis good, for soon you shall be offering up more than mere wine,” he drawled, his gaze sliding down the length of her. “Much more.”
Linnet said naught and filled his cup to the brim.
Again and again until his eyelids drooped and his words slurred.
Then she returned to her resting place by the tree and waited.
Waited and watched.
For what seemed hours, she kept her vigil, her assessing gaze touching lightly on each slumbering man. Especially the one who, in sleep, looked so much like her husband, her heart twisted painfully within her chest.
Then… finally… a hush settled over the campsite. The fire burned low, the brigands’ restless tossing and turning ceased, and only a few hardy souls amongst them still snored.
All slept.
’Twas time.
Half-afraid to breathe, lest she make a noise, Linnet gently nudged Robbie’s shoulder. His eyes fluttered open, the wariness in them giving sad testament to how heavily the ordeal of the past two days weighed on him.
He opened his mouth to speak, but Linnet quickly pressed two fingers over his lips. “Hush,” she whispered close to his ear, “’tis time for us to be gone from here. Can you be very quiet? Not make a sound no matter what happens?”
Robbie regarded her with rounded eyes and nodded.
Linnet returned the nod and ran the backs of her fingers down the boy’s cheek in what she hoped to be a reassuring gesture. Then she pushed slowly to her feet, gathered Robbie into her arms, and stole into the trees.
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