The Reluctant Bride
Page 2
Logan drew a deep breath and, straightening his shoulders, nudged his mount forward. He was weary of war and its horrors, yet he must enter the castle and search for the body of Gowain’s daughter. If naught else he could see to a proper burial for a noblewoman.
The majestic steed responded to the silent command, tossing its mane and flicking its tail nervously.
“Easy, boy,” Logan soothed. “There’s no more danger here.” Still he drew his claymore, his eyes black with purpose. At a touch, the gate swung open on its broken hinges. No protection there. Logan guided Kermichil into the middle bailey.
The attack came suddenly and would have been fatal if not for Kermichil who whinnied a warning and shied away from the deadly blade aimed for Logan’s head. As it was, the sharp steel bit deeply into his thigh.
Few men could swing a claymore with one hand, but Logan did so now, cursing at his carelessness. He saw a blur of movement as his attacker nimbly leaped clear of his thrust. Logan had gained enough time to wheel Kermichil and assess the danger. One young guardsman had dared attack. He stumbled to his feet and crouched, his sword held at the ready, his eyes hard and determined. His young face was dirty and bloodied, his mouth swollen grotesquely. Still he stood his ground while on the wall behind a wailing woman huddled against the battlements.
Cailla MacLaren! Obviously a father’s love for his daughter had blinded him to her shortcomings. Cailla MacLaren was well past a maiden’s blush and not nearly as comely as Gowain had asserted in all his many reminisces. A buxom, plumb figure testified to her love of food. Dull, brown hair flapped dismally around her puffy face.
At least she was alive thanks to the loyalty of her guardsman. ‘Twas that young figure that held Logan’s attention at this moment.
“Brave lad,” he called. “But I’m na’ your enemy. I come in friendship.”
“Aye, I saw the evidence of your friendship when you and your men attacked the Moncrieffes,” the boy answered gruffly.
“You have me wrong. ‘Twas them that attacked your castle.”
“And you’re here to gather the spoils,” the guard cried, his voice breaking into a girlishly high tone before he consciously lowered it to the gruff growl he affected. As if to accent his masculinity, he wiped at his nose with the back of his sleeve.
Logan repressed a grin. The boy was younger than he’d thought. “Is this all that’s left of your mistress’s defenses, a beardless lad barely able to wield a sword?”
“But wield it I have,” the arrogant young pup boasted, pointing at Logan’s bleeding thigh. “You’d best leave us while you can still ride, thief.”
Logan threw back his head and laughed, the sound echoing around the bailey “Come, lad, lay down your weapon. My men will return soon and you can’t fight us all.”
“Boast all you will but your men are not here now and you’ve not the skill to best me!”
The boy darted forward, his sword flashing. Only Logan’s quick reflexes saved him further injury. He blocked the lad’s thrust and temporarily drove him back.
The guardsman danced aside and faced him once more. “Come down off your horse and fight,” he demanded. “Or are you afraid?”
“Nay, lad, I’m not afraid,” Logan answered wearily and climbed out of the saddle. He had no wish to wound the brave stripling but the lad wouldn’t listen and Logan had to get past him to address the woman.
Before his foot was out of the stirrup, the boy dashed forward, sword upraised, letting the momentum of his attack lend strength to his thrust. Caught unawares, Logan parried weakly and felt the lad’s blade slide down his own and bury itself deep in his right shoulder. His arm went numb and his blade fell from his hand. At once the lad placed the point of his blade against Logan’s neck for the death thrust. Logan realized he was but moments from death.
“Stay your hand. Gowain MacLaren has sent me,” he cried out.
The boy hesitated, and in that moment, Logan swung his arm, knocking the blade arm aside. The boy tried to regain his lost advantage, but Logan spun him around, locking an arm around his neck.
“Now drop it, lad,” he ordered gruffly, “or you’ll feel my dirk bite your backside.”
The lad ceased struggling and stood passive. He must be half-starved, Logan observed for there was hardly any muscle to him. Only the mesh shirt added girth. Below the shirt, soft buttocks cushioned Logan’s manhood, which chose that moment to respond.
Roughly, Logan pushed him away, his cheeks flaming beneath the beard. There were such men as used young boys to satisfy their lust, but he was not one of them. God’s teeth, he needed a woman. To think that beardless effeminate youth could cause such a response. Logan shook him to signify his anger.
“I am Logan MacPherson and I would see your mistress,” He said hoarsely. “Take me to her at once.”
“My m-mistress?” the boy stuttered.
“Cailla MacLaren, lad. Play me no more of your tricks.”
“What would you have of her?”
“I bring her news from her father.”
“Laird MacLaren is dead. We received word a week ago.”
“Aye, he’s dead right enough, but before he died, he sent a message. Now show me to your mistress.”
“Then release me, you blackguard,” a very feminine voice demanded.
Shocked, Logan released his hold and stepped back. His thigh was bleeding profusely and his shoulder ached. He could feel blood trickling inside his shirt. Still his thoughts were on the young guard who whirled to face him. Now that he wasn’t forced to fend off attacks by the young brute, Logan had time to study his foe more closely. His mind recoiled at the new impressions that presented.
Thick lashed eyes darted smoldering bolts of anger at him. A smattering of freckles bridged a delicate nose while soft pink lips thinned and clamped together in a straight stubborn line. The mesh cowl was thrown aside so a thick silken braid tumbled free of its loose plait. Glorious hair so rich in texture and fiery color as to take a man’s breath swirled in glossy waves around slim shoulders.
“I am Cailla MacLaren,” the creature spoke again in dulcet, melodic tones, though her chin jutted rebelliously and her eyes were wary.
Logan silently cursed himself for missing the signs. The fineness of the hands and wrists that held the sword as steady as any man could, the delicate eyebrows over fierce gray eyes, the petite slim figure, the softly curving buttocks, all should have warned him. Such a mistake could have cost him an ignominious defeat. As it was, he stood wounded and losing blood. Shaking his head in disbelief, he glared at her.
“You’re naught but a lass!”
“Aye, but able to best you in battle,” she boasted, her gaze unwavering as it challenged him.
Logan grimaced, feeling light-headed from the loss of blood. But he willed himself to stay upright. He’d suffered humiliation enough at the hands of this arrogant wench.
“You had the advantage. I was trying not to hurt you,” he muttered gruffly, leaning on his claymore for support.
“You didn’t!” she replied haughtily “And if I’d the strength of a man, you’d not be standing now. You’re lucky to have your leg still. Now tell me about my father, if you truly knew him.”
“I knew him well enough for I fought at his side in Montrose’s rebellion and starved and rotted beside him in Edinburgh’s festhole of a prison.” He pressed his tartan against his thigh to staunch the flow of blood. She seemed not to notice or care.
“I thought Montrose’s forces were invincible,” she declared bitterly.
“Aye, ‘twas thought so by many and at first we were. We conquered much of the country, but our forces were badly depleted. Leslie, the turncoat, rallied with renewed forces and we couldn’t overcome his advantage. Montrose barely escaped but many of his men, even the camp followers, women and children were slaughtered.”
“And what of my father?” she asked stonily. “How were you able to get away and he couldn’t?” Her expression showed no emotion.
“We stayed hidden until he breathed his last, then we buried him on a rocky slope North of Edinburgh.” He paused, shaken at the memory of the loss of his friend. Gowain had been possessed of great vitality and strength. To think the life of such as he could be so easily snuffed out by the departing blow of a cowardly fleeing guard made a man question his purpose on earth.
Logan’s voice was husky with regret. “Before he died, he bade me come to Tioram and warn you.”
“Warn me? Of what, pray?” Her clear eyes held no real fear he noted. There were no tears either and he wondered what manner of lass was this to dress and fight like a man and to show no sorrow over the death of a loving father.
“Of your enemies,” he said flatly and swayed. His wound was deeper than he’d thought.
“I’m fully aware of who my enemies are,” she snapped, vivid tendrils flaming around her delicate face. There was nothing delicate about her chin or the expression in her eyes. She reminded him of an avenging angel with her pale face and fierce gaze.
“But I haven’t enough men left to guard my castle.”
“The Moncrieffes are not your only enemies,” Logan said and cursed beneath his breath as his knees gave way beneath him. He bit back a groan. His thigh ached, his braes were soaked with blood. Tearing a piece from his tartan, he tightly bound his thigh. The whole time Cailla MacLaren kept her distance, offering neither help nor concern for him, merely watching him with a detached air. What manner of devil’s spawn had Gowain MacLaren reared?
“Well, don’t worry about helpin’ me, lass,” he muttered plaintively, loud enough for her to hear.
“You don’t need my help,” she replied without a shred of remorse. She leaned forward, seemingly intent on gleaning as much information as possible before he lapsed into unconsciousness.
“What do you mean the Moncrieffes are not my only enemies?” Her gaze was unwavering, her expression fearless.
And why should she fear him, Logan asked himself when he wallowed on the ground like a wounded boar in the last throes of death. He felt an unreasonable surge of anger. She was a remorseless, unfeeling bitch and he’d be damned if he’d let her best him. With enormous effort, he pushed himself to his feet, swaying as he sought to keep his weight on his uninjured leg.
Silently, she watched his efforts but her face revealed nothing. Logan reminded himself Gowain had been his friend and he’d made a promise to protect his headstrong daughter, so he took a deep breath and quelled the urge to warm her backside with the broad edge of his claymore. She’d not willingly submit to such abuse and at the moment he wasn’t certain he had the stamina to apply the much-needed punishment.
As if reading his mind, she braced herself and brought the point of her weapon to bear. “I warn you, sir, you are in no condition to challenge me. Explain yourself. Other than the Moncrieffes and you and your motley band of roving thieves, who else have I to fear?”
“Are you daft, woman, that you give no thought to what’s happened? Your father fought on the losing side and now Leslie’s forces are seizing the estates of the clans that participated in the rebellion. ‘Tis only a matter of time before Lundy MacAuley arrives to take MacLaren lands and Tioram in the name of the crown.”
“He’ll have to fight the Moncrieffes for it and the Campbells as well once my uncle arrives with his clansmen.”
“When is your uncle due?” Logan grunted, his attention more on stanching the flow of blood than on her dilemmas. He glanced up and made a noise of disgust. Her expressive face gave up its secrets too easily.
“You’re not even certain he will come,” he said.
Cailla’s chin went high, her eyes flashed. Her voice was shrill as she spoke. “Aye, he will come. He was married to my father’s sister. He wouldn’t leave me without protection.”
She stopped speaking abruptly and bit her full lower lip. Her eyelashes lowered but he’d seen the hint of tears. Just as quickly she raised her gaze to his again and there was no sign of vulnerability about her. Logan felt a grudging admiration. She was Gowain’s daughter all right.
“When did you send word of your plight to your uncle?” he asked gently.
“A fortnight ago.”
“And he has not come? Don’t you think he might not?”
“It takes time to raise men,” she said stubbornly.
“Not that long!” Logan tried to rise and cursed when his leg gave way beneath him. He glared at her accusingly and forced himself on his feet. “Nay, lass,” he glowered down at her. “I’m the only savior you have at the moment and you’ve done your best to render me useless.”
“M’thinks you were useless enough before you met my blade,” she snapped, jaw jutting forward. “And woe to me if the likes of you is meant to be my savior.”
“Don’t scoff,” he growled, forcing himself to take a step toward her. He hardly blamed her lack of confidence in him leaning upon the hilt of his claymore as he was. “Get ready to leave as soon as my men return,” he ordered.
“I won’t leave Tioram,” she declared. “‘Tis the home of my ancestors. I can’t give up without a fight.”
“Be reasonable. You have nothing left to fight with. You’re not safe here and you don’t have the men to defend the castle. I’ve come to take you north to my own castle. You’ll be safer there.”
“Pray why would that be so?” she demanded. “I have no kinsmen in the north. Besides, if you knew my father as you claim, you’d understand that no MacLaren would give over his lands without a struggle.”
“God’s blood, woman,” he cried in exasperation. “There’s no time to go into this now. You know me and I’m in charge of you by your father’s dying request.”
“God’s blood,” she repeated mockingly. “No man is in charge of me,” she flared, standing before him with slim legs braced, hands on hips, head thrown back in a gesture that was so purely Gowain MacLaren Logan ached for his old friend. At the same time, he felt anger such as he’d never known save against the wretched English.
“By God,” he roared. His self-righteous anger diminished somewhat by his struggle to stay on his feet. “Gowain gave you to me as a bride. ‘Twas his dying request. Do you think I’d risk my men to come here with Lundy fast on my heels if I hadn’t promised your father? Come now, be a good lass, and I’ll take you to the safety of Cluny Castle.”
Cailla studied his face and slowly shook her head. “Your anger does not inspire confidence nor does your reasoning. My father would never give me in marriage without my consent. ‘Twas a promise he made to me! MacLaren blood runs in my veins, sir, and a MacLaren would fight to his last breath to protect what’s his. Mayhap a MacPherson wouldn’t understand that.”
Her barb sank home. Pride and cold anger warred within. He feared he might strike her for the slur against his clan, but he surprised himself by throwing back his head and laughing, a sound that rolled through the abandoned courtyard.
By God, she spoke the truth well. The same fierce MacLaren blood of Gowain ran through her veins. It showed in every stubborn, defiant inch of her from the tilt of her obstinate chin to the rebellious lights in her eyes. Still, she had yet to understand the MacPhersons were every bit as proud as the MacLarens.
“You would laugh, you bounder, when my men lay round about me dead?” she cried in outrage.
He sobered. “Aye, lass, you learn to laugh in the face of death and defeat or you don’t survive.” He shifted. “Your words show your ignorance about my clansmen. The MacPhersons won their lands and titles fighting with Robert the Bruce and are known as the Clan of the Three Brothers. Have the MacLarens as illustrious an ancestry?”
Despite his fatigue and the urgency of his mission, Logan grinned. He saw something change in her expression when she looke
d at him. He imagined what she must be seeing, a ragged, grimy faced man weary and worn from battle. He couldn’t imagine any woman could look at him with favor. Judging by her face, she’d decided he was of little worth. His lips tightened, but he said nothing as she continued to berate him.
“In your own ignorance, sir, you’ve heard naught about the MacLarens who are descended from Lorn, son of Fergus MacErc, founder of the kingdom of Dalriada in the Sixth Century. Spare me your misplaced arrogance, if you’re truly a MacPherson as you claim. My ancestors fought at Bannockburn.”
“Ah, but on what side, pray? Did not three of your noblemen sign the Ragman Rolls swearing allegiance to Edward Longshanks?”
Cailla flushed with anger and raised her claymore. “You’re no friend of my father with talk like that,” she stormed. “Prepare to feel the flames of Hell licking at your backside, scoundrel.” She raised her blade, preparing to attack.
“Aye, you’d fight a wounded man?”
“I’d finish what I started,” she said evenly so he had no doubt she meant what she said.
“M’lady, men are coming,” the woman who must be a maid, he surmised, called urgently. She knelt, peering over the walls.
“Those are my men. You need have no fear,” Logan reassured them.
“Someone’s chasing them. I believe ‘tis the Moncrieffes,” the woman cried.
Cailla cast him a derisive glare and raced up the steps. Cursing mightily, Logan limped along behind.
Chapter Three
In the distance, the small band of ragged Highlanders raced toward the castle as if chased by all the howling demons of Hell. Indeed, they might have been for Donel Moncrieffe and his remaining sons rode at the front of a full army of clansmen.
“‘Tis the Moncrieffes again!” Cailla cried in dismay. “‘Tis Donel himself and his full force.” She slanted a sideways glance at Logan MacPherson. “I see how well your men stand and fight. They’ve tucked their tails between their legs and fled straight back to Tioram.”
Logan glared at her. “They can’t take a stand against superior numbers in the open.”