by Highlanders - The Warriorand the Rose; The Forbidden Highlander; Rescued by the Highland Warrior
She began to shake. Her men had been murdered, and she knew that this Highlander meant to murder her bishop, too.
Her fear intensified. Was he Alasdair Og, the eldest son of Angus Mor, Lord of the Isles?
His father was a ruthless warrior who considered himself a king. And in effect, he was just that. Angus Mor commanded not just Islay and Kintyre, but other, smaller islands, lands in Argyll and Galloway, and a great deal of the high seas. No other regent dared to assert authority there. The kings of Scotland, England and Norway had tried and failed.
Angus Mor was an older man now, but she had heard it said that his son was as ruthless, as fearless, as ambitious, and one day, perhaps soon, he would be Lord of the Isles.
He was not just tall, a head taller than most, but he was hewn like a statue of stone. His broad shoulders, chest and arms were those of a Highlander who had spent his entire life hefting axes and swords. And his hair needed to be cut. It was well past his shoulders. Now, she saw a blue feather woven into a braid, the color almost as pale as his eyes.
Juliana jerked, for she realized she was staring—and she saw that Alasdair was staring as intently back at her.
She suddenly flushed. He did not appear as ruthless just then, for his gaze was narrowed, and he was staring at her red hair, which had come free of its braid and now spilled over her chest.
“What do you want?” she managed to ask.
His mouth curled and he removed his foot from Alan’s back. Alan scrambled across the floor, crawling frantically away from him but Alasdair took two steps towards Alan, reached down, seized his shoulder and dragged him to his feet. “Can ye not crawl away faster?” he mocked.
“I have done nothing ill, my lord!” Alan gasped, his cheeks stained with tears.
Juliana could not stand such abuse. “Stop!”
Mary seized her hand and gave her an incredulous and warning look.
Alasdair faced Juliana, and suddenly it was so still and silent in the cathedral that Juliana could hear her own breathing, which was labored, and her sister’s, which was as harsh. “I beg yer pardon?” One black brow slashed upwards.
She now noticed just how even his features were, and that he had a crescent scar under his right eye. She wet her lips. She could hardly order Alasdair MacDonald around. “Please, reconsider what you intend to do.”
He smiled, amused, and turned to his foremost soldier, a Highlander with long, curly red hair. “Take him outside. Shackle him. I’ll be out to dispose of him in a moment.”
“I didn’t betray you!” Alan screamed.
“Liar.” Alasdair struck him with the back of his hand, across the face. The slap was made effortlessly but was so powerful that bone and cartilage cracked, blood streamed, and Alan was propelled across the nave. Another soldier caught him before he fell and forced him outside.
She could not allow this! Juliana rushed forward. “Stop! What quarrel do you have with the bishop? Why do you torment him so?”
His eyes wide, he looked at her anew. This time, speculation was clear in his gaze. “The bishop has betrayed me, lady. If ye must ken.”
“Could there be a mistake? I have known the good bishop for ten years, if not more. He is a good man.”
“Ah, why am I not surprised that ye, lady, would think so?” He slowly smiled, and she shivered because she did not care for the way he was regarding her—he was looking very carefully at her every feature and at her figure. “Ye must be the lady of Lismore.”
He had been bound to realize her identity, sooner or later. It was common knowledge that Lismore was her dowry. She was clearly a noblewoman, and her red hair was always the cause of interest and admiration—it often gave her away. “I am Lady Juliana MacDougall.”
“The bards have not done ye justice, lady,” he said, very softly. “They have sung of yer beauty, but not well enough. Their songs cannot match it.”
Juliana trembled. Ian lay dead not far from the vestibule, as did another of her knights. And he dared to flatter her now? “You have attacked my lands, you have killed my men!”
“And I am sorry—but the bishop must pay for his treachery.”
Juliana did not want to argue with him. “Bishop Alan does not have a treacherous nature.” She did not add what she wished to state—that he must be wrong.
“I am not surprised ye’d be loyal—yer a MacDougall.”
She tensed, breathing hard. “Are you Alasdair Og?” she finally asked.
He smiled. “The very one.”
So she was confronting her worst enemy. “I thought you were in the south—fighting with Robert Bruce.”
“I returned—for revenge.”
“What do you think he has done?” she cried.
Mary now hurried up to her. “Juliana, leave it be. You cannot save him.”
Her sister was so pale, and her hand was on the protrusion of her pregnant belly. She knew what Mary truly meant to say—leave war to the men. Their brother would hunt down Alasdair for what he had done today. Of that, there was no doubt.
But she had to do something, to try to save Bishop Alan’s life. Juliana took Mary’s arm and guided her to the steps before the altar, pushing her to sit. “I do not want you to jeopardize the babe,” she said low.
“You are placing yourself in jeopardy. You will never persuade him to leave the bishop in peace,” Mary whispered back, but her gaze was on Alasdair.
He hadn’t moved, and from the end of the nave, he stared at them.
Juliana turned back to her sister. “Too many have already died! And he has attacked my land!”
Before Mary could rebut, Juliana straightened and walked back to Alasdair. He shook his head. “Ye should heed yer sister—she is wise.”
“What did he do?”
“I will not debate ye, Lady Juliana. But I am pleased to tell ye the truth. The good bishop came to me, claiming to support Bruce as king. But I am no fool. I tested him and discovered he was naught but a spy sent by your brother. He spied on me, he spied on my brother and he spied on my father. I cannot let such treachery go.”
Juliana knew her brother—he was a man of great ambition as well. He had played kings against one another—and he had won. It was probable that he had pushed the good bishop to spy.
“I see ye believe me.”
She met his gaze, which wasn’t as ice-cold as before. “Please spare him,” Juliana heard herself whisper.
His stare was piercing. “And what would I gain from such an act of mercy? Yer brother will have won. He will think to send another spy—and another one.”
“I am not my brother.”
He shook his head, as if perplexed—or amused. “When I leave here, ye will run to yer brother, and even if ye do not, others will.”
“I can hardly ignore this attack.”
“Ye have courage, Lady Juliana, but ye should not be in the midst of wars between men.”
“You have put me in their midst. And you are in God’s house. Maybe God will forgive you for the blood spilled here, today, if you spare Alan. Maybe you will gain God’s grace.”
“I have no use for grace, not even from God.” And he whirled and strode down the nave, vanishing into the vestibule.
Juliana felt her knees buckle. As she fought to stand, her mind spun. She looked at her two dead soldiers, and another dead Highlander, one of Macdonald’s.
Mary reached her, taking her arm. “We cannot save him.”
“We must save him!”
“How can we manage that? Juliana—you cannot stop Alasdair Og, a warrior well versed in revenge, by every account I have ever heard! And you heard him yourself. He doesn’t care whether he goes to hell or not!”
Mary was right. Juliana had tried to reason with MacDonald, but she had failed. She could not think just then, not at all, and certainly not of another way to beg for the bishop’s life.
“We should go—we should get back to Coeffin Castle,” Mary said, “where we will be safe.”
Juliana looked
at her, suddenly afraid. She had not considered that Alasdair might also mean to harm them.
They hurried outside. Clouds were gathering, and the bishop was hanging from a makeshift gallows on the other side of the courtyard. Juliana felt sick, and she purposefully averted her eyes. Mary put her arm around her and held her close. “He will go to Heaven,” she whispered.
Juliana blinked back tears. She could hear a crowd whispering nervously amongst themselves. She wiped her eyes and looked up.
The monks from the monastery had rushed up the hill once they had heard what was happening. A great many villagers had also gathered, mostly fishermen and their wives. None of her soldiers had survived, she saw, and it was too soon for any other soldiers from Coeffin Castle to have arrived. They would not have heard of the attack yet.
“Oh my God,” Mary cried, jerking on her arm.
Juliana turned and saw MacDonald’s men throwing brush, wood and faggots around the cathedral. He meant to burn St. Moluag’s Cathedral down. She could not believe her eyes.
“Surely, he does not mean to burn down a house of God,” Mary gasped.
Juliana wondered if she looked as wildly frightened as her sister. And then she saw Alasdair striding to her. “Why would you burn the cathedral?”
“A message fer yer brother,” he said flatly. “And he canna but receive it.”
“Please don’t!” Juliana cried, seizing his arm.
His eyes widened and he stared at her, as if shocked by her touch.
She realized she was holding his muscular forearm—and she released it as if burned. “Bishop Alan is dead. My brother will surely understand that.”
“Yer too brave fer yer own good.” He paused, his gaze frighteningly cold. “The next time yer brother thinks to play me for a fool, he’ll think twice.” He turned. “Burn it.”
His men began lighting the wood with torches. The fire caught instantly, consuming the kindling, while licking at the century-old cathedral walls.
In horror, Juliana watched the walls catching fire. Tears filled her eyes as she thought of Bishop Alan, who had died for naught.
Mary took her hand. She was crying, too.
“Alasdair!”
Juliana jerked as a rider appeared at a gallop, halting his horse before Alasdair. “MacDougall is at sea—and almost upon the beaches.”
Alasdair turned. “We go back now!” he shouted at his men.
Juliana could barely assimilate what was happening as Alasdair leapt swiftly upon a gray warhorse. All of his men were mounting as quickly. She had not yet exhaled before his men were galloping away—but Alasdair paused his stallion before her.
Stunned, she looked up.
As his horse danced wildly about, he said, “I am sorry ye were here today.” And he spurred the steed, galloping after his men.
Suddenly Juliana and Mary stood alone. Not far from them, the dead bishop twirled from his noose. Her dead Highlanders lay scattered about the courtyard and the end of the road. The crowd hadn’t moved, equally stunned as they all watched the cathedral burn.
CHAPTER TWO
JULIANA STRODE BACK and forth across her great hall. Her mind would not stop racing. She kept seeing Bishop Alan swinging from that noose, just as she could not shake off the memory of her dead men as they lay scattered about the cathedral’s nave, the vestibule and the courtyard outside. Finally, she could not get Alasdair Og’s dark, frightening image out of her mind.
Her desperate pleas had fallen upon deaf ears, she thought grimly.
But had they saved the cathedral? She, the monks and the villagers had been frantically fighting the fire when her brother and his men had arrived. Alexander MacDougall had immediately ordered both of his sisters back to Coeffin Castle, taking over the effort to save the cathedral. Juliana had not wanted to go, but Mary had been feeling faint and she had accompanied her sister back to the castle.
Mary was resting now, and comfortably. Juliana thanked God for that.
Juliana heard Alexander and William’s voices and she whirled as they came marching through the door, shaking snow from their mantels, followed by two dozen of their best soldiers. As they came into the hall, Alexander smiled at her.
He was a tall man in his late thirties, with strong features and brown hair. Like most Highlanders, he wore a simple short-sleeved linen leine, belted, his legs bare except for knee-high boots. Today he wore a shirt of mail over his leine. His wool brat was red striped with white—the MacDougall colors. “It is done. Yer cathedral is but a wee worse for wear. She stands.”
Juliana was flooded with relief.
“Mary?” William rushed forward. Three years younger than his wife, he was a tall, blond man with attractive features, clad in a long-sleeved red tunic, a brown surcote, hose and boots.
“She is resting upstairs,” Juliana told him and William rushed from the hall.
Juliana began to shake, thinking once again of Bishop Alan—thinking of Alasdair Og.
Her brother no longer smiled. “Tell me everything, Juliana.”
She inhaled. “No—you tell me!”
He was taken aback. “I beg yer pardon?”
“Did you urge Bishop Alan to spy? Did you send the poor bishop into that den of wolves?”
“I dinna ken what ye speak of!” he snapped angrily.
She felt like striking him, but he was chief of their clan, and she knew better. “You sent him to spy upon the MacDonalds—knowing how dangerous they are—knowing poor Alan is a man of peace, not war!”
“Ye blame me?” he cried.
She bit her lip, hard. Her brother was a ruthless man. She cared for and respected him, of course she did—but she also feared him. “He is dead because of it.”
“Ye go too far, Juliana,” Alexander said, his blue eyes dark. He now strode past her and threw his gloves down on the table.
He was right, she thought with trepidation. She would gain nothing now by accusing her brother of sending Alan to his death. “I need an army,” she said.
He whirled. “Ye what?”
“I want revenge.”
Alexander finally smiled—and then he laughed. “Yer mad!”
She had been thinking of revenge ever since leaving the burning cathedral. She did not think she had ever been so angry. “Vengeance is mine, said the Lord.”
“Yer a woman.”
“I’m your sister.”
He eyed her. A long moment passed. He finally said, “Do ye really think I’d let ye take an army and attack him? Ye ken nothing of war!”
Alasdair Og’s image flashed in her mind, hard, cold, proud—frightening. Her brother was right. She knew nothing of war, except that it so often took the lives of the innocent and the young. “He attacked Lismore,” she said, sinking to sit down on the bench. “He killed my knights, our bishop. He tried to burn down the cathedral.” She felt ill—as if violated. “Mary could have lost her child.”
“But I did not,” Mary said softly, from the threshold of the room.
Juliana turned to see her and William, arm in arm. Her sister’s color had returned, and she was smiling, her blue eyes alight. She looked very much like a woman in love.
“Ye dinna need an army,” Alexander said to her, and he was final. “I’ll make him pay for the bishop’s murder, Juliana. I’ll attack Ardtornish castle.” He suddenly paced, thoughtfully. “It’s a new stronghold. Strong, well built, with thick walls. ’tis said they’re proud of it. He’ll be furious to lose it.”
“Will you burn it?” she asked.
“Aye.”
As Mary and Will came to sit down beside her, Juliana stared at her brother. The one thing she knew was that Alexander usually attained his ambition. He had taken over leadership of the clan and its extensive lands at the age of seventeen—twenty-one years ago, before Juliana was even born. In the past two decades he had fought off every major threat to his power, from rival clans, from Clan Donald, and even from the kings of Scotland and England. Alexander MacDougall was a ruthle
ss but excellent warrior—and he had proven it. His control of Argyll and Lorn had never been greater.
“When will you attack?” Juliana whispered.
“Soon—as soon as I can.” His smile was savage. “The bastard will pay, Juliana—ye’ll have yer revenge.”
Mary took her hand. Juliana did not look at her. For suddenly there was dread—and she wondered if she had just set a new and terrible feud in motion.
* * *
“YOU HAVE BEEN behaving oddly—ever since the attack on the cathedral.”
Juliana was helping Mary to dress. It was early morning, and a fire roared in the hearth of her sister’s chamber, but it did not chase the winter chill away. Nor could it calm her ever-racing thoughts. Almost a week had passed since Alasdair Macdonald had attacked the cathedral and murdered Bishop Alan.
Almost a week had passed since her brother had sailed away toward Ardtornish Castle. And he had attacked two days ago—a messenger had been sent to tell them.
Juliana finished braiding her sister’s long, thick hair. Her stomach churned. “I am wondering what has happened.”
Mary turned, understanding her. “No news can be good news. And an attack on a castle like Ardtornish could take days or even weeks.”
Juliana did not point out that her brother had said he would destroy the castle, not besiege it. And because Mary was staring far too curiously at her, Juliana walked away.
“What is wrong with you?” Mary asked quietly. “You are so anxious. Are you worried about Alexander?”
Juliana hesitated. Every time she considered a confrontation between her powerful brother and Alasdair Og, she was filled with an odd dread. Too late, she did not think any good could come of pitting two such men against one another. “I am worried,” she finally said. “But not about our brother—he is invincible.” She smiled, then hoped she had not misspoken. “I don’t know what is bothering me so much...I cannot get over Bishop Alan’s murder.” That much was true, for she felt guilt every time she thought of him. At night, she dreamed of the damned attack. She saw her dead soldiers. She saw Alan, begging for his life. And she saw Alasdair Og, his blue eyes as cold as ice.