“It would seem our ally, the MacRaes, were in a rush to pack camp and leave this morn.”
“Apparently, their small party headed north,” Symon added. “A bit of chance, eh?”
Calum grunted. “The MacRaes?”
For the life of him, he could not place a face with the name. Not an especially known clan in the Highlands, he did not recall meeting any MacRaes at the banquet. Of course, his bride had occupied his thoughts at the time.
’Twas not sheer chance the clan had fled north that morn.
“Find out what you can of the MacRaes from the others,” he spoke to Marcus. “Symon, gather the men and supplies. We ride north within the hour.”
Once his commanders rushed away to do as bid, Liam hesitated. He frowned at Calum. “Do you still suspect Longford is involved?”
“Aye,” Calum admitted. ’Twas hard to explain, but the sinking feeling in his gut told him the truth. Longford was to blame. He had no notion how the MacRaes played into the plot, but he would soon have answers. “All I can ask is that you trust me.”
“I trust you with my life, Cousin.” A faint smile ghosted over Liam’s lips. “I’ll see to the men with Symon and Marcus.”
Left to his own devices, Calum paced the courtyard, struggling to grasp on to his composure. His muscles strained from the rigid set of his shoulders. Time dragged on at a tedious crawl, heightening his unease.
He shot repeated glances toward the front gate, noting the growing number of men. Back and damned forth he paced, stuck waiting for everyone else. All the while, his insides compressed in a tight knot with each passing moment wasted. He spun on his boot heel, but halted mid-stride as Patrick pushed his way through the gathered clansmen. The stern set of his features alerted Calum to something amiss.
“We have a wee bit of trouble.” Patrick held the hilt of his sword in a white-knuckled grasp.
“What is it?” he asked.
Patrick cast a wary glance at the front gate. “I think you should have a look.”
Hell, what now?
Christ, he did not have time to deal with nonsense. With a growl of frustration, he waved Patrick onward, trailing after him.
Once they weaved through the men, Calum stopped dead in his tracks as his heart stuttered over several beats.
A substantial force of soldiers, waving the blasted king of England’s banner, advanced toward the MacGregor keep.
Chapter Twenty-Six
WHEN ARABELLA SWAM into consciousness, she wrenched against her captor’s hold, but swiftly learned the futility of her efforts. She twisted to catch sight of Mairi, but his thick arm spanned taut across her waist, locking her in place.
“Enough.” His harsh Gaelic rumble ceased her movements.
Too frightened and weary to argue, she slumped against the man and cradled her injured wrist against her stomach. Throughout the bone-jarring ride, she attempted to distinguish her surroundings, but to no avail. Blots of green, brown, and gray blurred past in a dizzying rush that made her aching head spin.
Time slipped away as tall pines blended into rough crags. The sun hung low in the sky when the horses slowed and began an uphill climb. Arabella squeezed her eyes shut, fearful one of the animals might misstep. Gravel crunched beneath each hoof beat, while frigid wind howled in her ears. Once the horses stepped on level ground, she peeled her eyes open, surprised to see moonlight peeked through the clouds.
Ahead in the distance, a gloomy pile of stones jutted up from the earth. The scent of saltwater tinged the air, signaling the proximity of the sea. As they drew near the keep, fear spread throughout her limbs, forcing her to tremble. Soon, they passed beneath an aging archway at the front gate and rode through a barren courtyard, pausing near the keep’s entrance.
In the next instant, Arabella found herself tossed from the saddle and restrained by another set of arms. She met Mairi’s angered gaze for a brief moment before rough hands hauled her and Mairi up a crumbling stairway. Inside, their captors led them down a dank passageway and into a meager hall. Wrinkling her nose against the offensive odor, she slid a quick glance over the chamber. As soon as she spotted the man seated at the high table, her heart constricted in her throat and her stomach dropped to the floor.
Geoffrey Longford.
Torchlight gleamed on his golden hair as he rose from his seat. A slow smile stretched across his perfectly-formed features, while triumph glimmered in his dark eyes. That look froze the blood in her veins. Behind her, the guard nudged her forward and she resisted, desperate to flee in the opposite direction, but strong hands held her in place.
“Oh come now, dove. I should think you’d be happy to see me.” Grinning, Longford sauntered across the hall.
Each step he took closer, her legs threatened to give out beneath her. The stifling air in the chamber practically suffocated her. She stared into the face of her own doom.
Longford halted a few feet away, casting a curious glance at Mairi. “And who do we have here?”
“MacGregor’s sister,” the dark-haired Scot holding Mairi offered. “Our agreement, Longford?”
Lifting his brow, he heaved a sigh and untangled a key from beneath his surcoat. He passed it over to the man who’d grabbed her that morn. “Finn, bring the boy.”
The Scot’s hold slipped from Mairi’s middle and she seized the opportunity, elbowing him in the ribs. She thrashed to free herself but he quickly regained control.
Longford laughed. “I see why you grabbed her.”
Mairi lunged forward, spitting in Longford’s face before the Scot restrained her against his chest. “My brother will see you burn in hell.”
Jaw clenched tight, he wiped his face with the sleeve of his tunic. He aimed a wrathful stare at Mairi. “See to your bitch before I do it for you. Get her out of here.”
Arabella looked on in dismay as the Scot tossed Mairi over his shoulder, while she kicked and screamed, and hauled her up the main stairway, vanishing from sight. A resounding slam of a door cut off her litany of curses.
Longford stepped in front of Arabella, his dark gaze pinning her in place. “Come along, my dear. You’ll need your rest before we leave for Penswyck on the morrow.”
Mindful of her precarious situation, she offered no resistance as he guided her up the stairs. He gripped her forearm, tugging her down the right passageway, away from Mairi’s muffled shouts to the left. Longford stopped her in front of a bedchamber and reached to unlatch the door, swinging the heavy wood wide. He released his grasp and pushed her in.
“Go.”
Her heart thumped wildly in her chest when he entered the chamber behind her, shutting the door with a faint clank. Wary of his presence, she bit her lip and stared ahead at the somber stone wall. The hair at her nape stood on end as his soft footfalls drew closer.
“Did you honestly believe you could best me?”
Warm breath heated her ear and she started. The calm question scarcely hid his anger.
“N-nay.” She balled her hands into fists, regretting the tremble in her voice.
Longford stepped around her, pausing long enough to glare, before he resumed pacing around her in circles. “You’ve caused me a world of trouble, Arabella. You will pay a heavy price for the offense once we’re married.”
“Married?” she blurted.
His rumbled chuckle sent a chill down her spine. He stopped in front of her, once more, searching over her features. “What did you think would happen?”
Her mind screamed in protest.
“Why? Penswyck is yours,” she cried in outrage. “You’ve murdered my brother and taken our home. What more do you want?”
“Everything,” he shouted within a hairsbreadth from her face. “You foolish girl. Half-measures gain naught. There will be no question of my claim to Penswyck. Our marriage will ensure that.”
Anger filtered through her veins, granting her a ration of courage. She met his gaze with a defiant glare. “I cannot wed you. I have a husband.”
Fast as lightning, he grabbed her jaw in a tight grip, digging his fingers in. “Do you believe that matters in the eyes of the church? Your marriage to that Scots bastard is a mockery.”
“I will not marry you,” she gritted out.
He tightened his grip and she grunted in pain. “Aye, you will, if I have to drag you to the altar by your hair.” He released her face with a shove and she stumbled back a step. “Afterward, I care not what happens to you.”
He brushed past her, moving toward the door, and she nearly crumpled to her knees.
“I suggest you learn obedience,”—his harsh voice stretched across the chamber—“Or you shall meet your brother’s fate sooner than you wish.”
The door slammed, rattling on its hinges, followed by a bar sliding in place, locking her in the bedchamber. The earth titled beneath her feet and she swallowed down the urge to retch. Unsteady on her feet, she stumbled the short distance to a small bed against the wall and collapsed on her side. She curled into a tight ball, cradling her hurt wrist to her chest, and cried.
Saints, what was she going to do now?
*
“DAMN IT, STOP,” Aaron roared.
Mairi rounded on him, renewing her struggles to break free. Exasperated with the woman, he overpowered her. Pressing her back to the cool, stone wall, he locked her arms at her sides and pinned her legs with his thighs. Panting and seething in anger, she’d never looked comelier.
“You need to listen to me. I cannot help you and MacGregor’s bride if you do not.”
“You flaming arse. Why should I listen to you? Do you have any notion what you’ve done?” Her glare would slay a lesser man.
“Allow me to explain.”
“You’ve condemned us to die, you shameless coward.”
Out of time, he shook her hard. “By the Saints, that whoreson murdered my father and threatened to do the same to my brother if I did not bring him the woman. I did what I had to do.”
Doubt flickered in her eyes.
“The only way I could free my brother was to bring him MacGregor’s wife. Believe me, if I could’ve spared Connor, you, and her, then I would have, but there was no other way.” He lowered his head close to her flushed face. “Forgive me, but I could not allow my brother to die, Mairi.”
Conflict warred in her bright, blue gaze. “Why did you not tell me? I could’ve helped you. My brother—”
“Nay, there was no other way,” he drew out each word. “Longford would’ve killed Connor out of spite.”
“But—”
“Just listen. When my brother is safe and out of Longford’s reach, I will make certain you and MacGregor’s wife are freed, but I need your promise first. I need you to promise no harm will come to Connor.”
She frowned at him in confusion.
He lifted his hand to cup her cheek. The heat of her skin scalded his palm. “Your brother will come for you and his wife. You must protect Connor from your brother’s wrath.”
“What? Calum would never.”
“Connor is innocent of my crimes. Do not allow him to be consumed by your brother’s thirst for vengeance.”
“But…” She searched his gaze. “What of you?”
“My life is forfeit, Mairi. I’ll make sure the three of you are safe, then I’ll accept my fate.” Aaron moved his thumb over her silken cheek. “If things had been different…”
He did not bother finishing the words. There was no need wishing for another life. No reason to think on what might’ve been. Fate had set him on this course, whether he wished it or not.
Tears gathered in her beautiful eyes. “I know.”
Mairi surprised him by rising on her tiptoes and pressing a gentle kiss on his mouth. Seizing the moment, he dipped his head and sank his tongue past her parted lips. Light—she was absolute light. Slowly, he drew back and swiped the tears from her eyes.
“I must go,” he said.
Nodding, she wiped any lingering wetness away with the sleeves of her gown.
He moved toward the door and glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll come back for you once I get Connor to safety. Bar the door after me.”
“Aaron?” She paced a step closer. “Be careful.”
He offered her a faint smile and slipped outside the chamber. Leaning against the door, he calmed his thudding heart and waited to hear the lock slide in place. Once she did as he bid, Aaron sucked in a few steadying breaths and pushed away from the door. The end drew near and he had much to do.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
CAUGHT FULLY UNAWARE, Calum gaped at the substantial force of English soldiers amassed outside the keep’s walls. Unease slid down his spine as he watched their numbers grow. Sunlight gleamed on row after row of plate and mail-clad men, while the blasted king’s banner waved like a shining beacon in their midst.
Why the devil was the damned king at his door?
The muscles in his shoulders stretched taut as he clenched his fists. He ground his teeth together to withhold a host of curses. By the Saints, he had more pressing matters to attend to that did not involve avoiding a cursed battle with the English. And a fight it would be—if the affronted voices of his clansmen and wedding guests around him were any judge.
For a moment, Calum simply stood immobile and strove for some semblance of control. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he tucked away the impulsive urge to release a battle cry that would hurl his kinsmen into outright war they had no chance of winning. With a loose grasp on his remaining patience, he dropped his arm and turned to regard the crowd gathering behind him.
Man after man donned the face of a hardened warrior. Wrapped in their tartan mantles, every Highlander brandished swords, axes, or bows. Their severe demeanors displayed a savage, imbued desire to draw blood. The slightest provocation and these men would fly into battle at will, but ’twas not what Calum wished. ’Twas not the time, nor the place. He needed each and every man to join his fight against Longford.
Struggling for discretion, which he severely lacked at present, he sucked in a lungful of chilled air and shifted his feet to widen his stance. Over the rattle of weaponry and the drone of displeasure, he addressed the men.
“I ask more than many of you wish to give, but I beseech you to temper yourselves.” His gaze stretched over the disgruntled crowd. “I do not know why the English have paid us a visit, nor do I truly care. What matters to me the most is the safe return of my wife and sister and, for that, I need your help. Save your sword arms, brothers, and let me handle the English. Afterward, we ride.”
Despite a few angry murmurs or glared daggers, his clansmen grudgingly yielded to his request, lowering their weapons. In truth, he understood their discord and understood it well. ’Twas a man’s place to fight his battles and protect his own but this particular fight was not his.
Steeling his nerve, Calum spun on his heel and strode to the front gate. He scanned the mass of unwelcomed visitors, while his mind spun with a reason for their untimely arrival. To be honest, the reason scarcely mattered. The faster he rid himself of their presence, the sooner he would see his family returned.
Within moments, his commanders, Liam, Fraser, Patrick and even Dougal joined him at the gate. Their strong, unspoken show of unity pleased Calum, infusing him with a store of confidence he desperately needed before facing his foes.
Sword gripped at his side, he rolled his shoulders to loosen the tense set of his back. He tipped his head toward the English. “Let’s get this over with.”
Fraser grunted. “I’ll walk out with you.”
Forcing his hands to rest lax, Calum looked on at the ranks of mounted knights and foot soldiers as he and Fraser stepped outside the front gates. Despite their considerable number, the English stood at ease, uncaring of his and Fraser’s advance.
Amid the two opposing groups, the distinct cry of a hawk overhead shattered the yawning silence. Trickles of movement surfaced from within the English ranks as three mounted riders emerged from a sea of men. The middle rider swa
yed in his saddle, and the two soldiers with him shifted closer to his flanks. The trio halted scores of feet away and raised a hand to signal no further advance.
Wary, Calum slid a glance at Fraser who nodded once. The old laird puffed out his barrel chest and strode ahead with Calum. Their dogged strides closed the remaining distance in no time, pausing mere paces away from the three mounted soldiers. Uneased hung thick in the chilled air, but he held his stance firm, not blinking when the middle rider managed a clumsy dismount. His two companions hurriedly descended their horses to move to the rider’s sides to balance his wavering frame. Calum passed a dubious eye over the plate-covered knight as the tall man shuffled closer.
The unsteady rider lifted his arms, his armor groaning from the motion. With a slight shift in footing, Calum adjusted his stance and tightened his grip on the cool hilt of his sword. From the corner of his eye, he caught Fraser’s subtle shift of position as well.
Slowly, the rider removed his helm and lowered his arms.
Stiffness drained from Calum’s body and his hand slid away from his weapon. He gaped at the pale, gaunt face of a man he thought dead.
“Iain?” he mumbled in disbelief.
The pallor alarming, Iain’s face bore signs of weariness and pain. The bulk of his mass had all but vanished, accounting for the odd fit of his armor and his wavering form. ’Twas God’s truth, the man looked as though death hung around his neck.
Fraser’s elbow to the ribs shook Calum from his stupor. The two of them rushed forward, fitting their shoulders beneath Iain’s frame before he fell flat on his face.
“You gave this old man a start, boy.” Fraser’s voice faltered. “Your sister…” The words died in his throat.
Iain’s sharpened gaze snapped to his uncle’s. “Where is she?”
“Later.” Fraser barked out.
From the laird’s drawn features, ’twas evident he did not wish to burden his ailing nephew with bad tidings. Neither did Calum for that matter. Christ, ’twas a wonder Iain survived the journey from England in his condition.
Ignoring the question, Fraser nodded at Calum and they shouldered Iain’s weight, but he asked them to wait. With an awkward glance behind him, he ordered his two companions to set camp for the eve. Calum shared a look with Fraser over that bit of information. All but carrying Iain through the courtyard, they hefted him inside the keep and through the great hall. They deposited him at a trestle table in a clank of rattling armor, and Iain groaned in relief.
Reckless Scotland: A Scottish Medieval Romance Bundle Page 92