Twenty-two
The woman’s scream sounded eerily in the distance. Darach reined in his mount and looked southwest, across the glen the men rode through on their way back to the castle. Unease crawled up his spine. Cloud sensed it and snorted beside Darach. He laid a calming hand on the stallion’s nose and listened, hoping to get a fix on the woman’s location.
The other lairds had heard it as well and unsheathed their swords as they spread into a defensive position. Lachlan was closest to Darach. “That couldnae be more than a mile away. Maybe by the summer field. Do you have cattle up there?”
“Not yet.” Darach spurred Loki, and the others followed. They had to proceed with caution. Darach knew it could be a trap, but his gut told him to ride like hell. What if…? Nay, Caitlin was back at the village. Safe.
He urged the stallion faster.
The field wasn’t that far away as the crow flew, but they had to traverse a mountain river that was still high and swift with the spring runoff. Finding a place to cross would add another twenty minutes to their journey. The woman, whomever it was, might be dead by then.
Not. Caitlin.
When they finally reached the summer field, a good forty minutes had passed. Darach’s stomach was cramped with worry and his lèine drenched in sweat. He couldn’t stop picturing Caitlin in the grass, her head bashed in or an arrow through her heart—horrible images that he knew weren’t true. Couldn’t be true.
They approached the field cautiously on foot, from the north, spreading out amid the trees to minimize their vulnerability should there be an attack. It would be a boon for his enemies to kill all six lairds at once—especially one as powerful as Gregor. But if there was an attack, Darach couldn’t have asked for better fighters by his side. Gregor had taught them well.
Scanning the field from his concealed position, Darach saw a woman lying on the ground near the trail that wound up from the east. Sunlight glinted off long, red hair, and the relief that rushed through him was so intense he was almost ashamed of himself. A MacKenzie woman lay injured, possibly dead, and he was overjoyed it wasn’t his wife.
He composed himself and strode quickly along the tree line toward her. She lay facedown on the blood-soaked ground. He turned her over and frowned.
“That’s the woman from yesterday. She rode in with us,” Gregor said from behind him.
“Aye. Wynda MacIntyre. Her throat’s been cut.” He reached down and closed her wide, lifeless eyes. She’d died within minutes. Even if he’d been here sooner, he couldn’t have saved her. Maybe she’d stumbled upon some of Fraser’s men who’d managed to get through the MacKenzies’ defenses.
He’d known they would come; he just hadn’t thought it would be so quick. What else hadn’t he thought of?
“Darach!” Lachlan shouted at him from down the trail.
His heart pounded in response. He could tell by Lachlan’s voice it was bad, and the fear for Caitlin rose again. His feet couldn’t move fast enough as he ran toward his foster brother. Lachlan was at the bend in the path about two hundred paces away. He held someone up.
Hope soared for an instant before crashing with heart-stopping anguish as Darach recognized Dearg, the head of Caitlin’s guard. He was hunched over, grimacing with pain, but his eyes were filled with regret as he looked at his laird.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Darach threw back his head and howled.
* * *
Darach raced on a sleek, dappled mare along mountain streams and game trails in the moonlit night. Branches scraped his skin, but he never felt it. Beside him, Lachlan rode with twenty other MacKenzies who’d been waiting at the border with fresh horses and supplies. They’d been alerted the attack on the Frasers had begun when Darach had blown his battle horn a few hours earlier.
His first instinct had been to race after Caitlin and abandon the plan he’d set in motion years ago, the plan that would end the Frasers’ cruelty in the Highlands for good, but Gregor had made Darach see past his fear and think clearly. They couldn’t catch the Frasers before they reached their keep and locked Caitlin inside. All the MacKenzies could do was mobilize a force, led by Gregor, to hound the blackguards the entire way, so they never had time to hurt her—anymore than she’d already been hurt.
Now, troops of the six lairds were in strategic positions across the land, bracing themselves for the onslaught Fraser would unleash against Castle MacKenzie, while Darach prepared to infiltrate and conquer Castle Fraser.
As Gregor attacked from the outside, Darach would take a smaller force into the keep through a secret passageway Moire had shown him years ago. A dangerous route to get in and out, for sure, but one to which Fraser was oblivious…they hoped.
The passage led to Moire’s old bedchamber, which was on the third floor. He prayed Caitlin would be nearby. After she was taken to safety, the MacKenzies would overrun the keep from the inside, disable as many of Fraser’s war machines as possible, and lower the gate, letting in Gregor’s attacking army. Afterward, Darach intended to burn the entire castle.
He would show no mercy to any fighting man.
The group approached their position outside of Castle Fraser and slowed. They’d arrived before Gregor and his forces, and Darach yearned to forge ahead, but it would do Caitlin no good if they were discovered and killed. Instead, he dismounted and watched the unfolding drama from his vantage point behind the trees.
Most likely Caitlin was already inside. The gate was raised, and men ran with haste along the top of the battlements, in preparation for war. They would be scared but certain of victory—which worked in the MacKenzies’ favor. The Frasers would never expect the second attack from the inside.
Lachlan stretched out silently on the ground beside him. Moonlight illuminated his blue-painted face and braids, an homage to his Pictish ancestors that all the brothers wore during battle—had done since childhood—giving him a frighteningly grim visage. His eyes were cold and hard yet burned with ferocity. A warrior’s face.
A reflection of Darach’s own face.
“I will see my sister home,” Lachlan said.
A lump formed in Darach’s throat, but he forced it down and calmed his thoughts. He looked up at the moon. Clouds drifted toward it like leaves on the water. He had no doubt Gregor also watched the sky, waiting for the right moment to signal Darach.
When the clouds covered the moon, an owl hooted twice, then once again—a sign from Gregor that he was in position, ready to attack from the outside and draw attention away from Darach’s smaller force as they snuck into the castle.
Darach motioned to his men. He looked at Lachlan, grasped his arm. “If I die tonight—”
“You willna die.”
“Aye, but if I do…”
They stared at each other. Brothers. Friends. Warriors. Lachlan clasped Darach’s arm. “My promise to you stands. I’ll protect her always. As sister…and as wife. But it willna come to that. You will come back to us, Brother.”
* * *
“Your husband will hang in the morning. By his own choice.”
Caitlin peeked through the tangled knots of her hair and across the musty, cold bedchamber at Fraser. As usual, he was filthy. Maybe as filthy as her, for she was covered in dirt, blood, and bruises. Her uncle hovered in the background, a smile on his bloated face.
The journey here had been agony—tied and gagged, with a hood over her head, riding hard for hours on end with rough men handling her. But she’d take those circumstances any day over staring into Fraser’s soulless eyes.
“What do you mean?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper. She couldn’t quite catch her breath and her knees felt like they might fail her at any moment. To stay upright, she grasped the bedpost beside her.
Fraser tossed a piece of parchment in her direction. It landed on the dirty wooden floor. She picked it up with trembling finge
rs. He probably thought she couldn’t read and had given her a letter full of nonsense, but Darach’s broken seal was attached to the outside. Spreading the note, her throat tightened at seeing his familiar handwriting.
Me for her—but only if she remains untouched. I will hang at sunrise to see my wife safe.
Laird Darach Alasdair MacKenzie
Alasdair, defender of men. Caitlin sank onto the ragged quilts on the bed. He would save her again. This time with his life. The agony that ripped through her body pushed her forward over her knees. Her mind shut off, unable to take the pain, and she howled in anguish. A hand grabbed her hair and yanked upward. Her uncle sneered down at her.
“Not so high and mighty now, are you, lass? Just the daughter of a whore. That’s what you’ll be too, before we’re through. I’ll get my money for you one way or another.”
Hatred so intense filled her that she thought she might burst. She leaped at her uncle, kicking and biting and scratching like a wild animal. He screamed and tried to fight her off. Finally, he hit her with a heavy hand and sent her flying against the bedpost. She crumpled to the floor as Fraser laughed behind them.
A devil of a man, if ever there was one.
Her uncle stepped toward her, fist raised, but Fraser held him back.
“Nay, MacKenzie wants her untouched. She’ll remain so. For now.”
Outside, the sounds of battle erupted, and her stomach clenched. Was Darach with them?
Fraser’s fiendish eyes caught hers, and she shivered, making him smile. “Your clan and allies will soon be dead. Your husband, your friends, sacrifice themselves for nothing. We can withstand their onslaught for months.”
He lifted Darach’s letter. “But your husband willna wait that long.”
He laughed again, amused by her anguished sob, and walked toward the door. Her uncle followed. She saw guards in the dark corridor before the door shut and a bar scraped into place with an irrevocable bang. Her breath echoed frantically in the cold, neglected chamber.
They’d left a candle burning on the table. It shed enough light for her to see a window with one broken wooden shutter, a chair in front of the cold hearth, and a faded tapestry on the wall. Maybe the chamber had once belonged to someone special.
A daughter. A wife. Just like her.
Caitlin dropped her head to her knees and gripped her hair. She’d had to stand by and watch her parents die; she couldn’t do the same for her husband. She loved him too much, needed him to live, to protect the MacKenzies and keep his part of the Highlands safe, along with his brothers and Gregor.
A demon like Fraser could not triumph.
Her gaze traveled the room again and fell on the window. It was small, but she might fit. She rose slowly and limped toward it, heart pounding.
Pushing the shutter back, she looked out. A sharp wind carried the sounds of men at war. Shouts, horses screaming, a volley of arrows.
Returning to the bed, she ripped the linens from the mattress and fashioned a rope as best she could. Her hands shook as she knotted the covers together, tied the line to the bedpost, and tossed it out the window.
Closing her eyes, she made the sign of the cross and said a prayer, asking for strength and courage. When she finished, she dragged the chair over from the hearth, stepped onto it, and put her head and arms through the window. The ground was terrifyingly far away, but she ignored her fear and grabbed the rope, thinking to slide or climb down once she was through.
Behind her, she heard a scratching noise. Blood rushed through her veins and pulsed in her ears, blocking out further sound. She squeezed one shoulder out the window, then the other, uncaring that her clothes ripped and her hair pulled. Looking down, the ground seemed even farther away. She closed her eyes, continuing to wriggle forward past her ribs to her waist. Her hips caught and she pushed with her arms against the outside of the castle wall. One last shove, and she would be free.
Just as her hips gave, however, hands clasped her legs and pulled her back. She screamed. Darach couldn’t die tomorrow because of her. She fought fiercely, kicking and writhing, but she was dragged in past her hips and waist. An arm came underneath her and hooked around her shoulder, twisting her until she was all the way through.
Then she was squeezed against a broad chest, a pounding heart. She still couldn’t hear, but the man crushing her felt right. Like Heaven and Earth rolled into one.
Like Darach.
Maybe she’d fallen and didn’t know it. This was the afterlife.
Her arms wrapped around him. Slowly her hearing came back, and she could make out soft, frantic words.
“You will ne’er do that again. Do you hear me? You will ne’er go near a window or an ax or a river again. You will ne’er be taken from me or leave the castle again. I’ll lock you in our room if I have to. If you damn well die on me, Caitlin MacKenzie, I will ne’er forgive you.”
She sagged against him and let his words wash over her. Others moved around them, whispering to each other, but she paid them no heed, too intent on the feel, sound, and smell of her husband. Finally she tilted her chin and looked into a fierce, blue-painted devil of a face. A scream erupted from her throat before she could stop it. His calloused palm clamped over her mouth.
He shook his head, then removed his hand and pressed his lips to hers. Hard. It hurt against her bruised mouth, but she welcomed the pain. She was alive. Darach was alive. Everything would be all right.
He pulled back, her fierce, mighty warrior, looking like the Picts of old: bright-blue paint on half his face and body. His eyes had a frightening intensity she hadn’t seen before.
“Are you hurt?” he asked quietly, eyes and hands running over her.
She shook her head, but then winced as he squeezed her shoulder.
His gaze narrowed. “You will tell me what hurts,” he commanded, the whispered words sharp as daggers.
“My ankle. That’s the worst.”
He crouched down in front of her to examine her leg. When he wiggled her toes and rolled her foot, she bit her lip to stop from crying out.
“’Tis unbroken.” He checked her other foot. “Anywhere else?”
“My hip and shoulder, but bruises and scrapes mostly from jumping off my horse.”
He moved up her body, making sure for himself, then held her head and stared at her. “Did they touch you?”
Her heart expanded at the pain beneath his clipped words. “Nay. Your note dissuaded them.”
He pulled her into his embrace. Hands weaved through her hair, and his body trembled.
A tangle of emotions rose within her—fear, relief, pain, worry. She blinked hard to hold back tears and tried to breathe through her rising panic.
He rubbed his hand up and down her back. “I’m here, Caitlin. Everything will be all right. Take a deep breath now. Doona cry. Be brave, sweetling.”
He gazed down at her for a moment, making sure she was all right, then turned her to face the room. For the first time, she noticed it was filled to the brim with MacKenzies, all as fierce-looking as Darach. Where had they come from? And Lachlan too, though she scarcely recognized him as the lighthearted brother she loved.
“Fraser told me you were going to trade yourself for me in the morning?”
“That was only if I couldnae get to you first, aye?”
Her gaze shifted to the window through which she’d tried to climb.
His eyes darkened. “We’ll talk about that later.”
Lachlan stepped forward and Darach passed him her hand. The brothers’ eyes met. “Remember your promise.”
Slipping an arm around her waist, Lachlan nodded, then led her toward a chest near the wall she hadn’t noticed before. She looked back, but Darach had turned away from her.
“Lachlan,” she protested.
He crouched down and directed her into a dark, narrow tunnel. �
�Hush, Caitlin. The battle has just begun.”
* * *
Darach knocked on the door. The guards on the other side didn’t respond. He waited a moment, then knocked again. This time he could hear them talking in the corridor. How many were there—maybe three? He knocked a third time.
One of the guards yelled, “Quit your bangin’, slut, or I’ll come in there and bang you back.”
Darach’s blood surged, and he clenched his jaw. They were animals. He would slaughter every one of them for even thinking of laying their hands on his wife. He knocked a fourth time. His men were ready in the darkened room, hidden in the shadows and behind the bed. Stealth was necessary for the plan to work; otherwise, they would have to retreat.
“Please,” he whispered in as high a tone as possible. “I’ll do anything.”
The voices murmured outside. A second later, the bar grated as it slid back. Darach stepped into the shadows, dirk at the ready. The smallest of his men sat on the bed, half-hidden by the post, covered in a quilt, with his hair down, pretending to be Caitlin. He would take much teasing from his clansmen after the battle.
For now, everyone concentrated on the task at hand: exit the room undetected, overtake the battlements, and raise the portcullis. With only twenty-one men.
Darach needed to behead the snake so it wouldn’t rise again, and that meant killing Fraser and destroying his nest for good. No one in the Highlands would be safe otherwise, especially Caitlin.
The door opened and a man entered. Another came in behind him. A killing rage rose within Darach at the thought of what would have happened to Caitlin had he not been here.
The first man dropped his sword and twisted his sporran to the side as he approached the bed. “Turn over, ye wee slut.” The second man stopped about halfway into the room to watch and wait his turn. The third man appeared in the doorway, looking nervously up and down the corridor.
Their deaths happened at once, like a well-timed Highland reel. An arrow to the head killed the guard at the door, Darach slit the second guard’s throat from behind, and the third man got a surprise when he tried to turn over the “lass” on the bed. Not a sound was heard by any but the devil, who was surely waiting to lead the men to Hell.
Highland Promise Page 28