Highland Promise

by Alyson McLayne

  The MacKenzies then exited in pairs, quickly moving to the end of each passageway as Darach led them to the battlements. It had been over eight years since he’d been in the castle, walked the walls with Moire on a starry night, tupped with youthful enthusiasm in her bed. Eight years since he’d crouched, hidden, and listened to her betrayal, then raced to find Oslow sick and injured, and brought him home.

  Darach had become a man that night, recognized evil for the first time. It had eaten at him from the inside until Caitlin had healed him, showed him how to love again. He would do everything in his power to return to her, but if not, he would die knowing she was safe with Lachlan, maybe able to be happy with him one day.

  Reaching the door at the top of the stairs that led to the battlements, Darach opened it slowly and peered out. Warriors manned the walls, but not many. Most were on the other side of the castle, where Gregor’s forces had amassed. Darach exited with seven men and moved behind the Frasers. They died quickly and quietly.

  The rest of the MacKenzies joined Darach and the others in the cool night. The moon had stayed covered, so only the stars in the sky and torches every hundred paces lit the darkness.

  “Lock the door,” he said.

  Someone found a heavy bar leaning against the wall and slid it through the iron loops, stopping any Frasers from coming up behind them. Then they piled the dead bodies against it for good measure.

  His men gathered around. Darach looked each one in the eye. “God’s strength and courage to you all.”

  The men quietly responded, then spread out, ten led by Darach in one direction, around the battlement; ten in the other. They were all smart, strong fighters and knew what to do. The Frasers were caught unaware each time and went down easily. Any weapons of war the MacKenzies came across were disabled: burning sand and pitch tossed safely over the side, the boulders intended to crush the invaders used to seal additional entrances to the battlement.

  When they neared the front of the castle, the enemy multiplied. Stealth and surprise were keys to the MacKenzies’ success. The unexpected attack of an invading force from inside the keep confused the Frasers as Darach’s men moved with deadly skill toward the portcullis. All would be for naught if the iron grill wasn’t raised and Gregor’s army allowed inside.

  Covered now in blood and sweat, Darach knifed an archer who peered through an arrow slit, weapon at the ready. A Fraser killed meant one more of Gregor’s men alive.

  They were in the thick of it now, and when one of his men went to his knees after a heavy blow, Darach tossed his dirk into the man’s attacker.

  From behind, a sword whistled past his ear. He rolled just in time, so the blade glanced off his shoulder. He swept out his foot with a grunt, knocking the enemy to the ground and stabbing him in the side. A second man kicked Darach in the stomach. He rolled against the far wall, losing his sword. The Fraser came at him but stopped suddenly and fell to the ground.

  The MacKenzie warrior Darach had just saved pulled Darach’s dirk from the dead man’s back. He tossed it to his laird with a grin. “Couldnae let the bastard scar your bonny face now, could I?”

  Darach caught the dirk and grinned back. “My wife will thank you for it later.”

  “Aye, women do like a pretty lad.”

  The exchange invigorated Darach, and he fought fiercely toward the stairs that led to the portcullis. Behind him, his men were using the Frasers’ own weapons against them, hurling rocks and heated pitch and sand down through the murder holes. Screams rose up to greet him.

  Gregor’s men began to climb over the unmanned walls using rope and grappling hooks, adding to Darach’s force one by one. The battle was in their favor, but if they couldn’t raise the portcullis, they would be trapped as the Frasers eventually forced their way onto the wall through one of the blocked entrances. The MacKenzies had to move quickly, while they still had the advantage.

  Fighting his way down the stairs, he yelled a warning and raised his shield just in time as a volley of arrows shot upward from below. Both MacKenzies and Frasers were hit, and Darach wondered at the stupidity of the archers. Waiting with his dirk raised for another archer to show himself, Darach hurled it at the unprotected man when he did. The archer fell without loosing his weapon, but more bowmen appeared behind him. As a battle tactic, it was disastrous for the Frasers. They had their backs to the archers and didn’t know when to get out of the way, acting as shields for the MacKenzies.

  When the bowmen retreated to string their weapons, the MacKenzies pushed forward again, moving quickly this time as the Frasers still standing ran back down the stairs to get out of the archers’ range, trampling the bowmen as they tried to reposition themselves.

  The MacKenzies reached the bottom, and full-scale fighting broke out, swords clashing, bones crunching. The archway leading to the pulley that raised the portcullis was just ahead. Darach pushed forward, and the Fraser line fell back. His other men, the ten who had gone the opposite way along the battlements, appeared on the other side of the Frasers, who were now trapped. Darach let out his clan’s battle cry—answered by his men. Seconds later, they overcame the last Fraser, and Darach raised the portcullis, jamming it open with a fallen sword.

  Gregor’s army poured through the entrance, flowing over the shocked and scattered Frasers. Hands on his knees, Darach took a moment to catch his breath and relish the victory. The Frasers would cease to be a threat to all good people in the Highlands.

  Straightening, he strode toward the castle. It was time to behead the snake.

  * * *

  Darach pushed carefully inside the dark passageway that led to the Frasers’ great hall, sword in one hand, dirk in the other, shield hanging from his belt. The fighting still raged in pockets near the curtain wall, but it would soon be over.

  After eight years, the Frasers were defeated.

  Clenching the hilt of his sword, Darach flexed each finger, noting they were stiff. His entire arm hurt, most likely from the blow he’d taken earlier to his shoulder. He considered switching the weapon to fight with his other hand, a skill Gregor had taught them all as lads, but then Darach heard raised voices, and he stilled.

  Fraser and MacInnes. The vipers were in the nest, and they were arguing. The yelling stopped and a scream rang out. Darach snuck forward. Peering around the corner, he saw MacInnes leaning against the mantel in front of the great hearth with a dagger protruding from his belly, his filthy lèine soaked in blood. Fraser was nowhere to be seen.

  Darach advanced slowly, the only source of light a few candles and a low-burning fire. The room was much as he remembered, dirty rushes on the floor, a central hearth with two chairs in front of it, benches and tables scattered around.

  Fraser could be hiding anywhere, or he could have fled. If a secret passageway existed into Moire’s bedchamber, most likely others existed in the keep as well. Damnation. If Fraser survived tonight, he might still come after Caitlin. Darach would have to track him down like a rat in a maze.

  Shifting his gaze back to MacInnes, he saw the man had dropped to his knees in front of the fire. Blood dripped from his mouth. It would have pleased Darach to hang the bastard in front of witnesses for what he’d done to Caitlin and her parents, but this would have to do. Their eyes met, and MacInnes held out a bloody hand.

  “Please.”

  Darach moved forward, his gaze scanning the room and up the stairwell. “Please what? Please help me? Please forgive me for killing my brother and abusing my niece?”

  MacInnes whimpered. “You doona understand.”

  “What’s to understand? You’re a murderer. You sold a woman for gold into a lifetime of abuse and degradation. You are beyond forgiveness.”

  Darach was within reach now and drew the dagger from the man’s belly. Blood gushed out and MacInnes sagged forward. Dropping the knife, Darach stepped away.

  “Look into the fire, Ma
cInnes. The devil awaits you.”

  MacInnes stared at the flames, his eyes wide and horror-filled. He moaned, then slumped back on his haunches, blood pooling around his knees. He opened his mouth as if to scream, but the only sound emitted was a final puff of air escaping his lungs.

  Darach could only imagine that justice was being served—in Hell—by Lucifer himself. A fitting end to MacInnes’s vile life.

  Retreating to the other side of the room, he searched for any sign of Laird Fraser.

  A mewing noise at his feet caught his attention. He glanced down and was shocked to see a tiny, white kitten with blue eyes the same intense shade as Caitlin’s. He bent over to retrieve the animal just as an arrow lodged in the wall behind him, missing his head by inches.

  Cursing, Darach dove behind one of the tables and flipped it over just as another arrow thudded into the wood. The kitten mewed again, more frantic this time, and he saw he still held it in his hand. Heart pounding, he tucked it into his sporran for safekeeping.

  Peering through a hole in the wood, he calmed his breath and searched for his attacker. Judging from the direction of the assault, it had come from somewhere near the hearth. A lone warrior? Or maybe it was Fraser.

  A man stepped out from behind a tapestry hanging on the wall, bow and arrow at the ready, then disappeared into the shadows before Darach could attack. The wall hanging had been flat a moment ago, so Darach assumed there must be a passageway behind it—which meant the man was most likely Fraser.

  “Come back to see your clan and castle destroyed, have you?” Darach asked, wanting to goad the man into revealing himself.

  It worked, and Fraser moved into the light. He’d been an excellent shot in the past, and Darach knew he was fortunate to have survived the attack. The wee kitten in his sporran had saved him—just like Caitlin.

  “My castle may burn, but not before I kill you,” Fraser said, hate thick in his voice. “That wee slut of yours will mourn you like she did her parents, and I’ll still be there, waiting to see if she’s with bairn, waiting to take your child.”

  Darach inhaled sharply, but he refused to let fear and rage overwhelm him. It was what Fraser wanted. He needed Darach to show himself too.

  Looking through the wood again, he assessed the situation. What were his advantages? Speed, strength, surprise. Fraser wouldn’t dare get close enough to battle Darach with a sword, so he’d have to take the fight to his enemy. But even if he could close the distance unharmed, Fraser would escape down the passageway.

  Aye, the passageway. That was the key. Somehow Darach had to block it before he advanced on Fraser, who had retreated into the shadows again.

  His vile, disembodied voice floated across the room “Maybe I willna wait. Maybe I’ll take your wife and cut the bairn from her. Give her to my men to use while she dies.”

  Darach ground his teeth, refusing to be provoked. He grabbed the edges of the table and set it on end, so he could stand. An arrow pierced the wood inches from his fingers. He snatched his hands back.

  Fraser had moved in front of the hearth, trying to get a better angle. Darach turned the table to stay covered and hefted his dirk. If the man ever lowered his weapon, Darach could use him for target practice. Suddenly Fraser dropped his bow and ducked behind one of the chairs. Darach hurled his dirk an instant later, but it landed in the mantel.

  Retreating behind the table again, he cursed at the wasted move. Fraser laughed before throwing a burning log over Darach’s head. It landed among the benches and tables behind him. The rushes caught fire immediately, burning like kindling. Another burning log landed closer to him. The bastard was trying to smoke Darach out, but Fraser had just given Darach exactly what he needed.

  He cleared the rushes from around him and dragged the burning log closer. Fraser stood in the open, waiting for Darach to move. He did, tossing the log back toward Fraser. It landed at the base of the tapestry, which quickly went up in flames, blocking the secret passageway. Before Fraser could decide what to do, Darach used his great strength to pick up the table like a shield and charge ahead. Two arrows embedded in the wood before Fraser turned and ran. Darach heaved the table forward and it crashed into Fraser’s legs, knocking him to the floor.

  Jumping over the table, he landed on Fraser’s back with a primal roar, pinning his enemy. The warrior in him raged with victory, and he grabbed Fraser’s hair, pulled back his head. The husband in him seethed with fury and he readied his sword. The son in him wept with sorrow and he pressed it to Fraser’s gullet, heart beating fiercely, body trembling.

  Flames crackled behind them. Smoke and heat filled the air.

  “You killed my father. You killed my clansmen. But you will ne’er touch my wife, my bairns, or any living thing again.”

  Then he slit Fraser’s throat.

  Twenty-three

  “Caitlin!”

  Caitlin’s head whipped up from the wound she’d rebandaged on one of Darach’s men, and she scanned the MacKenzie bailey, her heart racing. People chatted, rested, or were busy doing chores. She couldn’t see her husband, even though she was sure he’d been the one to call her name. Then the crowd cleared.

  There he was, by the stables, looking so big and bonny atop Loki, a wide smile creasing his face and touching her heart.

  “Darach!”

  It had been four days since she’d last seen him in Fraser’s castle, since he’d pulled her back through the window and into his arms. She’d known by the second day he was alive and well, and the Frasers had been defeated with only a few losses to the MacKenzies. They’d taken time to help the innocent victims of war as best they could—releasing prisoners from Fraser’s dungeon and freeing the animals from the stables as the keep went up in flames, helping the peaceful members of Clan Fraser who were in need, burning the dead to prevent disease. Then it had been a slow journey back home to accommodate the injured.

  She lifted her skirts and ran toward her husband, joy bursting through her body, the pain in her ankle forgotten. After just a few steps, however, she was scooped up from behind and caught in Lachlan’s arms. She struggled to free herself, but he tightened his hold.

  “You’ll damn well sprain it all over again, you daft bat,” he said.

  “Let me go. It’s Darach!”

  “I know who it is, but until I pass you over, you’re still in my care, and I willna let you run around the bailey like a headless loon.”

  Caitlin glared at him. He glared back and carried her down the hill toward her husband. She looked over at him, his beloved faced crinkled in amusement as he watched them.

  “Trouble, Lachlan?” he asked.

  “Hah! Is water wet? She’s bloody impossible. And to think you wanted to saddle me with her for good. She willna sleep. She willna rest her foot, so I made her a crutch, and she let your hounds chew it. I made her another one, and it floated away in the loch. The loch! What in bloody hell was she doing in the loch?”

  Caitlin was sure Lachlan had deliberately slowed his pace just to torture her. Or maybe so he could draw out the telling of her misdeeds. Not that she’d done anything wrong. She didn’t give the stupid crutch to the dogs; they’d taken it when her back was turned and ended up enjoying it far more than she ever had. Going to the loch had been Oslow’s idea, although afterward he’d denied it, saying she’d misinterpreted his words. How could “cool water will help with the swelling” be misunderstood? And it had helped her ankle, even though she’d lost the other crutch when she’d tried to nudge a duckling in the water back toward its mother.

  Lachlan stopped about six feet away from Darach and continued berating her. “To top it off, she rode Cloud whene’er my back was turned. What if that bloody, moody nag had thrown her? She could barely even hold the reins with her sore arm.”

  Caitlin snorted derisively. Her arm may have been sore, but Cloud had been particularly gentle with her because
of her injuries. No other horse would have done that. She struggled again to get free. When Lachlan wouldn’t put her down, she found bare skin and pinched.

  “Ow! Christ Almighty!” he said.

  Caitlin glowered at him, but inside she wore a smug smile. “Language! Do you want the devil to come-a-knocking?”

  Darach nudged Loki forward and closed the distance between them. She reached up, and he lifted her onto his lap. Her body cleaved to his, arms squeezing his neck, face pressed to his skin, inhaling his familiar scent. He did the same, chest expanding against her cheek.

  “By God, you smell good,” he said.

  His voice was thick with love, and Caitlin sighed with relief that he was here, safe. She pressed kisses all over his face until he dug his hand into her hair and captured her lips. The noise of the bailey and Lachlan’s tirade faded as Caitlin lost herself to the bliss of being kissed by her husband and held in his strong arms.

  After what could have been either seconds or days, something tickled her hand and she opened her eyes. A pair of blue ones, surrounded by the softest white fur she’d ever seen, stared back at her.

  She gasped, breaking the kiss. “Darach, there’s a kitten on your shoulder.”

  “Aye.” He continued to nuzzle down her neck to her ear. “That’s Caitlin.”

  “Who?”

  “I named her after you. She has your eyes, and she saved me.”

  Caitlin stared at the kitten. Caitlin stared back, purring loudly.

  “You canna name her Caitlin.”

  “I already did.” He straightened and nudged Loki toward the keep, then grabbed the white fur ball and held her to his chest. “She rode with me the entire way, crawled all over me. ’Tis you in kitten form. Most likely she’ll drive the male cats mad with her antics.”