Heavily battlemented, Abercairn’s strength loomed atop a distant ridge, and even at this early hour, the castle appeared anything but dark and sleeping. Pale, flickering light shone in many of the stronghold’s narrow rectangular arrow slits, and glimmered in some of the larger, upper floor windows. Lit beacons blazed on the parapets, their orange-glowing flames eerie in the gray-washed and watery morning, and even at this distance, men could be seen moving about on the wall-walks.
Rolling pastureland dotted with whin and broom bushes stretched between their hiding place and the castle walls, but much to Iain’s relief, the only thing stirring about on the ground ahead appeared to be a few fat and slow-moving bullocks.
Turning in his saddle, he cast his gaze over the little band of men who’d accompanied him. Gavin MacFie and approximately twenty of his kinsmen dashed about hacking at the gorse bushes, collecting great bundles of the prickly branches and tossing each armful into three ruined cot-houses set conveniently near the banks of a fast-running burn.
The firing of the heather-thatched cottages would provide a fine smoke screen, yet were too far from the castle walls for any stray flying sparks to catch fire and damage Madeline’s home. The rushing burn would provide water to douse flames once Abercairn had been taken.
A feat only possible if Beardie and Douglas succeeded in getting MacNab to send a good-sized host of his best fighting men.
His lady, who unquestionably ought not have sat on a horse so soon after the night’s sweet diversions, and her friend, Nella, the lass who apparently had e’er claimed to receive ghostly visitations, and now, thanks be to him, truly had, made up his only other sets of hands until the arrival of the MacNabs.
The ladies helped without complaint, patiently piling bundles of cut gorse and heather, and even gathering whatever rusted farming or domestic implements they found that could be clashed together to cause a din.
Appearing eager to make a ruckus of her own, Madeline crossed the short distance from the three little cot-houses to where Iain sat his garron.
He leapt down from his saddle, bracing himself for another bout of the ongoing discrepancy of views they’d been exchanging ever since she’d learned she wasn’t to ride with him to the castle’s main gates.
Reaching him, she planted fisted hands against her hips. “The old smithy’s is—”
“—The best place for you and Nella to await the outcome,” Iain finished for her. He began counting off the reasons the two women ought best wait at the smithy.
“The forge is abandoned and hasn’t been used in years,” he cited its first advantage. “You said yourself no one has neared it in years. Its location outside the curtain walls and the village will enable you and Nella to make a swift and undetected escape if aught runs amiss.”
If aught went amiss, she’d just as soon not escape.
Ignoring any such possibility, she turned to Nella. “What say you?” she asked, only to regret the bother the instant she saw Nella’s annoyingly practical eyes.
“I think as little of two women standing about in the midst of a castle siege as I did of us traipsing across the land disguised as postulants,” Nella said in a mild and reasonable tone as annoying as her calm expression.
“Ahhh… a woman of my own heart,” Iain declared, nodding. He folded his arms. “I, too, think little of disguises, my lady.”
Madeline whirled to face him. “You were disguised as a pilgrim!” she reminded him. “And a poor one, too. Ne’er have I seen a man less likely—”
He shrugged. “But, lass, I was on a pilgrimage of sorts… doing penance, as you ken. And the pilgrim disguise was for the protection of the priceless relic I must yet deliver to Dunkeld. You can rest assured I was not fond of donning that fool garb.”
Unable to dispute his reasoning, Madeline shot a frustrated glance at Nella. “I suppose you think we should lock ourselves in a musty old forge that is very likely swimming with bats and vermin?”
“Better the dust of steel shavings and the reek of mold than take a fire arrow in the back or to accidentally get in the way of a fast-arcing blade, my lady,” Nella said, with a shrug and a grating little smile.
“No man, friend or foe, would harm a lady,” Madeline objected.
Iain rested a hand on her shoulder, squeezed lightly. “You seemed to feel otherwise when Silver Leg’s henchmen were coming your way in the common room of the Shepherd’s Rest, my sweet.” He dropped a kiss on the top of her head to soften words he knew would vex her.
“Ho, Iain!” Gavin rode up, appearing suddenly out of the drifting mist. He led the women’s two mares behind him, and a great smile split his red-bearded countenance. “MacNab’s men have been spotted! A great host of the bastards and riding fast. They ought be here forthwith.”
Iain threw back his head and whooped. “All the saints!” he roared, “I knew MacNab would come through.” Digging in the leather purse hanging from his belt, he pulled out a length of thin rawhide and, reaching behind him, used it to tie back his long hair.
Madeline blanched.
He didn’t want his thick, waist-length tresses to get caught in the path of an enemy’s swinging blade.
Or have his unbound locks hamper him in the wielding of his own steel.
Swallowing hard, she watched a transformation take place. Her shadow man, her magnificent and tender Master of the Highlands, was becoming a warrior before her very eyes.
A hard man, ready to spill blood for what he believed in, and willing to shed his own for the same cause if need be.
She glanced at the two garrons, considered defying his orders about the forge. But she would heed his wishes and ride with Nella to the ancient and out-of-use smithy.
And, as he’d bid her, she would stay there until he came for her.
Or sent Gavin in his stead… a possibility she didn’t want to consider.
Before she could think further, the fast-approaching thunder of iron-shod hooves on dew-drenched and stony turf split the damp air. From the sound of it, a great many horsed men moving fast. Gusty wind carried the rapid jingle of harnesses and the rhythmic creak of saddle leather, too.
But most joyous of all was an indistinct humming… the low swell of men’s excited voices.
The MacNabs.
It was time.
Only Madeline wasn’t ready, especially if she had to wait in a musty old rotting hulk of a forge. Even so, her breath caught in her throat and hope swelled inside her as the sounds of the nearing horsemen grew louder.
Truth to tell, she didn’t really care about being spirited away to wait out the outcome. Nor did she harbor any earnest doubts in that regard. Deep within herself, she knew Iain MacLean would emerge unscathed, regardless of what happened.
Shadow men lived on in dreams, and Masters of the Highlands were too bold to be bested.
Nay, ’twas her father’s fate that frightened her.
Frail old men did die.
And having to face the finality of accepting his passing a second time, now that she’d let a wee spark of hope rekindle in her breast, would be agony beyond bearing.
She wanted to believe Iain MacLean, wanted to trust that mayhap her father had been spared. Learning otherwise would be like having her soul ripped out.
Iain turned back to her then, and her heart slammed against her ribs. Something about him was different. A more stunning change than she would have imagined, even if she couldn’t see what subtle nuance made the difference.
His dark eyes softening, he took her by the arms and drew her close. “I thought you had faith in me?” His deep voice, smooth and calm, spilled the familiar golden warmth all through her and took away some of the chill icing her veins.
“Did I mistake? You look so doubtful.” He cocked his head, studied her. “Have you so little confidence in my sword arm?”
Madeline lifted her chin, forced a little smile. “I do have faith in you,” she said, not wanting him to think she doubted him. “’Tis my father’s fate that worr
ies me.”
“He, too, will be found alive. I know it within me.” Taking her hand, he pressed the flat of her palm against his heart.
Releasing her, he took her face a bit roughly between his hands and slanted his mouth over hers in a deep, searing kiss, pulling away from her much too quickly.
Madeline gasped, almost sagging against him. Her entire body trembled. She tried to cling to him, but before she could even blink, he’d hoisted her onto the garron mare’s back.
He did the same for Nella… only without the kiss, then he gave their mounts a rough slap on the rump. “Off with you, now! And be of great heart, lassies. All will be well!”
Whether from the stinging slap or his resounding order, the two garrons surged forward, spurring away into the shadows of the surrounding birchwoods and bracken.
“Godspeed!” Madeline thought she heard him—or someone else with a deep, rich-timbred voice call after them, but it wasn’t until a short while later when she and Nella reined in before the abandoned forge, a semi-ruinous open-sided structure with an ancient stone-walled enclosure behind it, the old smithy’s cottage, that she realized what it was that had been so strikingly different about Iain MacLean.
Every last shadow had vanished from his eyes.
The MacNab had outdone himself.
On and on his warriors came, a great host of bold, high-spirited Highlanders approaching at fullest speed. A bloodthirsty lot when raised to battle, they appeared over the crest of the rolling, heathery slopes, a veritable panoply of weapons sheathed at their sides, hanging down their backs, or tucked wherever a place to secure a dirk or mace or battle-ax could be found.
As they rode forward, the impressive array of metal glinted dully in the early morning’s gray light and their ruddy complexions and wild-maned reddish hair hinted at fiery tempers and mean-swinging sword arms.
“’Fore God, there is a sight,” Iain cried, smiling clear to his foot soles.
“Praises be!” Gavin agreed.
Almost laughing, Iain vaulted into his saddle. If his lady had still been at his side, he would have swept her off her feet and whirled her in a wild circle so that she would become so dizzy from spinning, and so giddy with excitement, she’d have little choice but to fall right into his sheltering arms.
And it was into his arms he hoped to see her running again very soon. With God’s good grace, he would, too.
“Well done,” he called to the small host of MacFies. Together with Beardie and Douglas, they were already torching the three cot-houses. Soon, they’d raise general chaos and mayhem, their ruse allowing Iain, Gavin, and the MacNab’s men to make short work of pushing through Abercairn’s main gate.
“Come, MacFie,” Iain called, spurring forward. “Let us give those bastards a taste of our steel!”
Already a hue and a cry had been raised within the castle. Garrison men ran along the wall-walks shouting and pointing at the smoke rising from the cot-houses, the orange flames leaping high into the gray, early morning sky.
Muffled shrieks, war cries, and a tremendous clashing and rattling of swords sounded behind Iain as the Mac-Fies set about their task with gusto, and, as he’d hoped, Silver Leg’s men clearly mistook the smoke and flames of the burning cot-houses and the wild cries of a small band of bored and eager-for-excitement Highlanders for a great host of attacking men.
Indeed, they made a large enough ruckus for the castle’s morning patrol to ride hotfoot back to Abercairn. Iain’s heart soared upon seeing their swift approach. The large host of MacNabs neared, too, charging forward at a strong canter.
Iain kneed his horse, riding hard to intercept them. Within minutes, he drew up before their ranks, bringing his foaming garron to a slithering halt. He scanned their faces, raised his sword in greeting.
“To cover in the shadows!” he urged them, already wheeling about. “But stay close to the gate. Keep your mounts still, and when the drawbridge is lowered for the patrol, we surge up out of the shadows and ride in behind them.”
As quietly as they could, they picked their way through the half-dark, moving ever closer to Abercairn’s looming walls, and trying their best to blend with the shadows cast by large outcroppings of rock near the gatehouse.
They’d no sooner gathered into a dark, silent group, when the patrol went pounding past them, to a man bent low and beating their horses’ flanks with clenched fists. At once, the drawbridge dropped in a great clanking of chains and the portcullis rose with a series of metallic creaks and groans, quickly followed by the hollow-drumming clatter of racing hooves on heavy-planked wood.
“Now!” Iain shouted, his own beast surging forward. He dug in his heels, urging the garron to greater speed before the bridge could be lifted.
He tore after the patrol, his own steed now pounding across the wet timbering of the drawbridge. The Mac-Nabs thundered close on his heels, following in a tight-packed arrowhead formation and yelling a series of angry, Gaelic war cries.
Their massed steel drawn and slashing in furious, killing arcs, the whole of them poured into the castle’s inner courtyard, cutting down any and all who stood in their way.
The shouting of men and the wild clanking of swords filled the bailey, and within moments its damp cobbles ran red with the spilled blood of a garrison caught unawares.
Somewhere a dog barked, and the few of Logie’s men yet cowering in the shadows of the gatehouse pend lost their lives to a MacNab battle-ax or long sword. Swinging down from his winded garron, Iain near landed on the twitching corpse of one of the two miscreants who’d sought to seize Madeline in the ale-house.
Resisting the urge to spit on the bastard, he stepped over the blackguard’s body, not for one instant grudging the dastard a portion of fine Highland steel as his last supper.
Looking around, he searched the faces of the other garrison men. Some still clashed swords with the hot-blooded MacNabs, others stood already subdued.
Gavin MacFie held his own in a far corner of the bailey, his fierce swinging blows sending one man-at-arms after the other crashing to the blood-stained cobbles.
But no matter how carefully Iain scanned the strong-hold’s massive curtain walls or the timber lean-to buildings huddled against them, he couldn’t locate the second man from the Shepherd’s Rest.
Nor did he see anyone who even remotely resembled the description he’d been given of Silver Leg.
All other hapless souls faced the grave danger of meeting a swift and steely end if they so much as batted an eye against the Highland brawn that held well-muscled arms around their necks, and well-honed blades against their throats.
A sea of flame now bathed the morning sky behind Abercairn, streaking the pearly gray horizon with a hellish orange-red glow, and those garrison men still breathing stood flummoxed in the cold smir of rain just beginning to fall.
Stiff-lipped with defiance, their eyes wide with disbelief, and their hands without their swords, the men of Logie’s garrison offered little resistance, some even stumbling from the various outbuildings without so much as a nightshirt or shoe.
“Who amongst you will own to being Sir Bernhard?” Iain called out, swinging down from his heaving garron. He gazed around him, and began pacing before the ranks of captured men.
Sensing a movement behind him, he whipped around, his gleaming brand flashing in a deadly arc, the huge sword slashing down on his would-be assailant, striking just at the vulnerable spot where neck meets shoulder, his blade slicing deep into flesh and muscle. His shock-widened eyes still staring, the man toppled sidelong, his own sword clanking useless to the cobbles.
Spinning back around, Iain raked the gaping garrison men with a heated stare. “Well?” he demanded, jabbing his bloodied sword in their direction. “Who is Logie?”
No one answered, but proud and granite-faced as they gave themselves, none made further attempts at resistance. As so often, the threat of losing their lives overrode their loyalty to their absent liege.
For truth, Iain might
have missed the lout entirely had he not spotted the dark-frowning dastard slinking along in the shadows cast by the lee of the curtain wall. Two men and a pair of cowed-looking greyhounds accompanied him. Iain stared, open-mouthed, stunned that a man of Silver Leg’s infamy would stoop to such an ignoble flight.
One of the men with him walked somewhat hunched over, his resentful scowl even blacker than Silver Leg’s own. His blood firing, Iain recognized him as the second man from the Shepherd’s Rest.
But it was the other man, the third, who truly caught Iain’s attention, had him sprinting after the other two blackguards, his heart lodged so tight in his throat he couldn’t call out for the bastards to halt.
Couldn’t shout a warning that their days of nefarious deeds had come to an end. Truth be told, he could scarce see to run either, for a few particles of dust seemed to have been blown into eyes, causing them to burn and water.
Almost as if he had tears in his eyes.
And mayhap he did, for the third man was the reason the bastard from the ale-house couldn’t walk upright. The bastard was carrying the third man slung over his shoulder like a sack of coal.
A sack of pathetically unimpressive coal, for the old man bouncing along against the blackguard’s back was quite thin indeed.
A frail old man.
A fine-boned graybeard who looked to be ailing.
Madeline Drummond’s father.
“Da!” If he hadn’t guessed right yet, his lady’s tearful shout told the tale.
Iain’s blood froze. He spun on his heel, turning full around in time to see her rein up, then leap from her saddle just outside the shadows of the gatehouse pend.
Shock tying his tongue in knots, Iain stared, slack-jawed, as she streaked across the bailey towards her father. Ne’er had he seen anyone—male or female— fling themselves from a horse’s back with such speed.
Nor would he have believed that a lass could run so fast.
Or so brazenly defy such bitter-earnest orders as he’d given her!
Sue-Ellen Welfonder Page 23