by Lily Baldwin
“I hope,” she said out loud.
Several hours had passed since Tormod had checked on her. She’d already finished the dried meat and bannock he had brought earlier. Her stomach growled, confirming the passing of time.
Just then a quiet knock sounded at the door. A breath later, it swung wide. She scurried away, pressing her back against the wall as a figure, wearing a black cloak with the hood pulled low, walked into the small room.
“Do not be afraid, my lady,” the intruder said, the instant before he pulled his hood back. “’Tis I, Thomas!”
Relief claimed Fiona as she looked upon the familiar face of Abby’s suitor. “Thomas, ye gave me such a fright. I’ve never been so relieved! Is it over then? Have we won? Where’s Jamie?”
“We have, indeed, won,” Thomas smiled and took her hand. “Jamie is awaiting ye downstairs. I will take ye to him.”
Fiona followed Thomas. She had to keep herself from running. She wanted so much to feel Jamie’s strong arms around her and to know that all was well, although another part of her was nervous. No doubt, he would be livid with her for taking such a risk. But, she also knew no matter how angry she made him, he would never hurt her. Still, she hated the idea of disappointing him or causing him worry, but since they had won, she knew he would be quick to forgive her.
Thomas wound through the corridor and led her to the MacKenzie solar—a circular room with doors set at each of the four directions. She rushed inside but stopped short when the tall man in front of her turned. Cold, black eyes locked with hers.
“Boo!”
A scream tore from her lips. She turned around and ran straight into Thomas’s hard chest. “’Tis Ranulf MacKenzie, Thomas. Run!”
“Quickly, Thomas, run!” Ranulf mimicked her. Then he reached for her, grabbing her arm. “Ye’ve no place to run, Lady MacLeod. And Thomas is no longer here.”
She struggled to escape the villain’s biting fingers but couldn’t break free. Her gaze darted around the room, which was crowded with MacKenzie warriors. All but two wore the telltale black leather jerkins, bearing Ranulf’s fierce crest. Another figure lay on the floor, wrapped in a MacKenzie plaid, but she could not see his face.
“Thomas, please help me,” she cried. She locked eyes with the lad.
He looked away, his face impassive, as he walked further into the room, turning his back to her.
“Thomas!” she cried.
Ranulf grabbed her other arm and jerked her around to face him. “There is no Thomas, just my bastard son, Fergus,” he snarled, his gaze roaming over her body. He reached out and palmed her breast.
“Get yer hands off me,” she gritted, pushing against his hard chest. But he did not budge, his body as solid as the walls holding her captive. She glanced at Thomas, but he did not look at her, nor did his expression reveal his thoughts.
“Is it true?” she cried, although she knew the answer. The lad’s resemblance to Ranulf was undeniable.
She wanted to rail at him. How could he betray her? But she needed to stay calm. Panicking would only steer her toward error, and right now, she had to focus on staying alive.
“Such a beauty,” Ranulf said, stroking his finger down her cheek. “Jamie MacLeod is a lucky man, or at least, he might have been, if I wasn’t going to kill him myself.”
He sneered at her. “Ye seem surprised, my dear. Did ye think an army could sneak up on me and take me by surprise. I have eyes and ears everywhere. My men are spread throughout the region. Fergus, here, has been living with yer clan since the very day I killed my brother, gleaning all manner of delicious secrets from yer sweet, wee maid.”
Fiona’s eyes widened. “That is how ye knew the secret route we took from my home.”
“Indeed. My plan was to take ye for myself. Had my men not failed me, ye would now be my wife.” He thrust her against him. “I would have been the man to break your maidenhead.” A leery smile curved his lips. “No matter. After yer husband is dead, and ye become my leman, I will have a lifetime to punish ye for letting another man touch ye.” Again, he squeezed her breast, causing her to wince. “Ye will forget his gentle touch, and ye will come to know the way a woman was meant to be taken, hard and rough. I will make yer virgin blood flow again, that is my vow.”
She cried out as he grabbed her by the hair. “On yer knees,” he spat, shoving her to the ground. “Ye can watch me train,” he said. “Bastard, bring me my sword.”
Fergus crossed the room and took up a broad sword from a long trencher table and handed it to his father.
“This is the sword with which I shall slay yer husband, from stem to stern. He is a fool to march against me. My keep is strong and my supplies limitless. He and his men will grow weary of their fruitless siege, and I will cut them down.” Ranulf passed his sword back to his son.
Fiona trembled as she watched him push the top part of his plaid off his shoulder before whisking his shirt over his head. Scars decorated his chiseled muscles. “I was not born to title like my poor, dead brother. I knew that if I wanted anything of value in life, I would have to fight for it. And I have—every treasure I possess, all my gold, the loyalty of my men—I have bled to possess them all. I do not fight for honor. I do not fight for love. I fight to win, and I give no quarter.”
She steeled her shoulders. “I would never ask for mercy.”
He grazed the back of his fingers down her cheek. Then his hand dropped to her throat. He squeezed. “Nay, ye will beg for it.”
“Never,” she strained to say.
Grabbing back his sword, he pressed the edge to her neck. “Beg me for yer life.”
She swallowed hard, but her eyes narrowed on him. “Never,” she rasped.
A wicked glint shone in his eye. “Kenric, bring me the good captain,” he called. One of Ranulf’s warriors crossed the room and grabbed the arm of the man lying near the hearth, dragging him toward them. Fiona gasped. Blood covered one side of the man’s face, dripping from an angry gash on his temple. His eyes were nigh swollen shut, and his lips were cracked and bloody.
Her heart sank when she recognized Captain Tormod.
“Get the captain up on his knees, Fergus.”
Fiona watched in horror as the young man known to her as Thomas took hold of the tortured captain and moved him closer to his father.
Ranulf circled around the hurt man. “When Fergus arrived today and told me how ye were taken prisoner by one of my warriors, it took me some time to flush out which one. It was not until I threatened the lives of the village children that Captain Tormod came forward and told me he’d taken ye. When I asked why he did not bring ye to me right away, he refused to answer. Ye can see how hard I’ve pressed him. I’ve beaten him to within an inch of his life. Still, he tells me nothing.” Then he turned to look at her. “Why is that, do ye think, my lady?”
Fiona’s gaze darted to the captain who struggled even to draw breath. Her mind raced. She realized then that Ranulf still did not know their ultimate plan to unite the clans. Her gaze darted to Thomas. His eyes dropped to the ground.
Did Thomas know?
Ranulf’s fist shot out, striking the captain’s temple. “Tell me,” he snarled at her.
“He wanted me for himself,” she blurted. “He said his desire for me began when I would come here and visit Adam. He intended to hand me over to ye, but first, he wanted to have his way with me.”
“And did he take ye?” Ranulf asked greedily.
She shook her head. “Nay, I told him that he invited yer wrath, and he ceased his advances.”
A sickening smile curved Ranulf’s lips. “I can’t blame him. Ye’re too fine for any man not to want.” He turned and kicked the captain in the gut. Tormod groaned and fell onto his back. Ranulf stood above him with the tip of his blade hovering over his heart. “Do ye think he deserves to die for his treatment of ye?”
Fiona shook her head. “As I said, he never actually touched me.”
Ranulf looked up and locked eyes with
her. “Then beg me for his life.”
She looked down at the captain, then back at Ranulf. “Spare him.”
“Beg me,” Ranulf shouted, raising his blade, ready to drive it back down into the captain’s heart.
“Spare him, please,” she pleaded. “I beg ye. Spare his life!”
A slow smile stretched his lips wide. He stepped over the captain, back to her side and cupped her cheek. “I look forward to breaking ye.” His grip on her jaw tightened. She winced as he squeezed. Then he dropped his hand. Backing away, he called to Kenric, “Tie the lady up, and throw the captain in the dungeon.”
Now, she knew who the real Devil in plaid was.
Chapter Thirty One
Ranulf swung his sword, striking the blade of one of his dead brother’s so-called fierce warriors. His opponent’s sword dropped to the ground.
“What has happened to the Highlands that I can’t find a worthy challenger?”
Ranulf stormed toward the warrior with his blade raised high, but the young man stood his ground. His face held neither defiance nor fear. He simply stood, unwavering, as if he had given his fate up to God…or the Devil.
Ranulf’s lips curved in a slight smile. “What ye lack in strength and skill, ye have in courage.” He dropped his sword at the young man’s feet. “I will allow ye to live. Now, polish my sword.”
“Father!”
Ranulf turned. “What is it, ye bastard?”
“Scouts are reporting the army will reach our outer walls before the sun reaches its highest point. Their cavalry is one-hundred strong, and five times that number march on foot.”
Ranulf walked through the door that led out to the battlements. “Let them lay siege. We shall watch their struggle from above and bring Hell down upon their heads.” He turned then and looked at Kenric. “We’re prepared. Our stores are full, and my defenses are in place. We can hold them off for months.”
“Father,” Fergus stepped forward. “Should we not alert the villagers and bring them within the baily?”
“Nay,” Ranulf snapped. “They, too, can defend my chiefdom.”
Still, Fergus persisted. “But the villagers are farmers and women and children. They are no match for an army of trained warriors. They will be slaughtered.”
Ranulf had never wanted to kill his bastard son more. “What has happened to ye? Has clan life made ye soft? Ye know as well as I that only the weak will die. Clan MacKenzie will be stronger for it.”
Fergus knelt at his feet. “Forgive me, Father, but Clan MacKenzie will be ruined. Ye need the cottars to farm the land. Without them, ye’ve no food to feed yer strong warriors.”
Ranulf grinned, realizing his son’s logic. “Stand Fergus.” He reached out and placed his hand on his son’s shoulder. “Ye’ve done well.” He smiled before turning to another of his men. “Gregor, bring the villagers within the baily.”
Then Ranulf returned to the solar and shouted, “Captains, to yer positions.” He watched his men hasten from the room, all but Kenric and Fergus.
Ranulf strode to the bowl of water on the table and splashed some on his face. He took the piece of linen from Kenric’s outstretched hand, patting his face dry. All the while, his thoughts raced. Finally, the day had come. He had no doubt that his clan could defend the castle. They would wear down the approaching army. And when the time was right, he would unleash his forces and annihilate the enemy. Then, at last, the entire northwest region of the Highlands would be his, from beyond the Summer Isles to Loch Carron.
And this was just the beginning.
Fergus handed him his newly polished sword. The sound of it sliding into the scabbard attached to his back made his cock hard. Had Donald shared his vision and wisdom, he might have stood at Ranulf’s side. Instead, his bastard son and his second in command were the only men lucky enough to share in his victory.
“Come,” he said to both men as he returned to the battlements. He stared out past the outer curtain and nodded approvingly as he scanned his warriors at the ready. The outer wall was lined with archers and warriors with crossbows. Catapults were pulled taut and loaded with jagged rocks. Logs as thick as a man’s waist reinforced the gate while cauldrons of water and oil boiled over hot flames.
The inner curtain was also lined with men, and along the battlements to his right and left, fierce warriors stood at the ready to protect his keep. At the far end of the parapet, he also spied three torches blazing brightly. He felt emboldened by the fiery sentinels, a clear warning to the approaching enemy—only fire and death awaited those who stood between him and his pursuit of power.
“Kenric, ye’ve done well,” Ranulf said, patting his second on the back. He continued to scan the courtyard below. Villagers had begun to stream through the stable entrance. Women clung tightly to their crying whelps. Cottars huddled with their families.
“Ye know the one thing I despise about being laird,” he said to Fergus.
“What is that, Father?”
“Having to tolerate the people,” he sneered.
“Many of those children are warriors in the making,” Fergus pointed out. “While the others are labor for yer fields.”
“Perhaps, ye need to make them work harder,” Kenric suggested.
“Ye’re right, Kenric. When this battle is over, I will raise the rents. I will also ensure that every son suited to the challenge is trained in the ways of the hired sword.”
Kenric smiled. “Give no quarter. Take no prisoners.”
“We will dominate the Highlands!” Ranulf turned to his son. “Where is the MacLeod’s bride? I want her here by my side to watch her husband’s defeat.”
~ * ~
Fiona sat on the floor of the empty solar, straining to free her wrists from the tight bindings. Breathless, she leaned against the wall, resting her head against the cool stones, taking a break from her efforts. Her eyes darted to each of the doors around the perimeter of the room. Ever watchful, she feared when one would open, inviting in new danger.
Taking a deep breath, she held her wrists to her mouth and chomped down on one of the loose ends of rope and tugged hard. She screeched in frustration as the bindings only tightened. A moment later, the door that led to the battlements opened. She glimpsed Ranulf, his back to her as he looked over the parapet, but it was Thomas, or rather Fergus, who entered the room, closing the door behind him.
“My father has requested yer company,” he said, gently taking her by the arm and helping her to her feet.
“Was it all a lie, Thomas?” Fiona asked.
The young man’s gaze darted to the floor. “My name is Fergus,” he said simply.
“Or is yer name Bastard?” she snapped. “Because I’ve heard yer father call ye both?”
Fergus’s eyes flashed with anger. “Be careful, my lady. I do not take kindly to being insulted.”
“It was not I who did the insulting, but rather yer father. He does not love ye, Thomas, not like Abby does.”
Fergus hesitated. “She loves me?”
“With her whole heart,” Fiona answered.
His face softened. He seemed to consider her words, but then he shook his head. “She loves Thomas, the legitimate son of cottars. If she knew I was a bastard she would never love me.” His eyes grew distant and hard. “No one could ever love a bastard.”
“That’s yer father speaking,” she argued. “He could never love ye. His heart is not capable of love. But Thomas—ye have spent time with my clan. Ye have now experienced the love kin are meant to have for each other. Do ye not see that there is more to ye than a young man willing to do anything for his father’s love.”
“Enough,” he snapped.
“Thomas, please—”
He jerked her toward the door that led out to the battlements. “My name is Fergus.”
Chapter Thirty Two
Ranulf stood on the battlements, watching the army approach. He licked his lips and gripped the wall as a frenzy of excitement shot through him. Without even a dro
p yet spilled, he could smell the blood about to be shed. He inhaled deeply, imagining the iron taste in his mouth. Soon, agonizing cries of the dying would rend the air, the sound mingling with the roar of the victor. He relished the anticipation coursing through his veins. He was close to achieving his longstanding dream of dominance. His reign would be vast, and all would bow to him.
“Let them come,” he shouted as the enemy marched across the green and curved around the moat. Hundreds of Highland warriors, clad in the MacDonnell and MacLeod plaids stood just beyond the outer wall, and yet, Ranulf knew no fear in his heart.
The wealth of Clan MacKenzie was great even before Ranulf added the spoils of his own hard-earned coin to the coffers. His keep was strong and well-defended. He did not doubt that he could squash any attack, especially when the wife of the commander was his captive.
“Yer husband should have stayed home and found a new wench to warm his bed. Now, many of these men will die. ‘Tis a pity, really. I would have given yer warriors a chance to join our ranks.”
He relished the raw emotion passing over the lady’s beautiful face.
His words made her eyes narrow. “They would rather die than swear fealty to a murderer like yerself,” she spat.
He crushed her to his chest and kissed her lips hard. The more she struggled in his arms, the more aroused he became. He turned her around and pressed her up against the wall, so that she faced outward. He gripped her head with his hand. “Now, watch as yer warriors fail.”
He gazed out upon the vast army, waiting for the glorious sound of metal slicing the air as they unsheathed their blades. But they did not draw their swords, nor were they positioning a battering ram. They stood, silent, unmoving. Suddenly, from the lips of a single warrior, the battle cry of the MacDonnell rent the air. The entire army repeated the cry. The same warrior sounded the call of the MacLeod. Once again, the entire army thundered the words across the battlements.
Ranulf sneered. “Those words will be their last.”
And then the warrior unsheathed his blade and raised his sword high and shouted the battle cry of the MacKenzie—Ranulf’s own call—the cry of his people. His hands gripped the battlements in confusion as the entire army sounded the battle cry of the MacKenzie.