Fianna Leighton - Tales of Clan Mackay

by Return to the Highlands

  She wanted more, knew he would provide it. She tangled her fingers into his hair to urge him further.

  Nicholas froze, his body suddenly all muscle, breath held as he slowly looked up.

  “There is going to be trouble, Mary,” Nicholas muttered in a low voice.

  Mary scrambled from underneath Nicholas as he pushed himself to his feet. The darkness suddenly seemed overwhelming, the shadows cast by the moon malevolent. There was little sound to know what had alerted Nicholas. Mary looked around anxiously. Perhaps some inner sense of the Highlander had gone off but Mary could see nothing unusual until one of the shadows moved.

  “Macleod,” Nicholas snarled. He shoved Mary behind him and she looked apprehensively at the precipice. They were trapped against the drop.

  Macleod stepped closer. His sword glinted in the moonlight. More men appeared, shadows that turned into Highlanders bent on mischief. “Good to see you, Mackay.”

  Nicholas hissed angrily. “God damn it man, you are on Mackay land.”

  “Aye, that I am,” Macleod agreed. “Come to pay Nicholas a visit, I have.”

  “How did you know I was here?”

  “I’ve been waiting a very long time now to hear of yer return. When news came I acted,” Macleod said simply. “Getting through Mackay land is not an easy task, but we slipped past yer guard, knowing you well enough to know where to find ye.”

  Mary slipped behind Nicholas to grip his waist. She was surprised to see a thin dagger hidden in the palm of his hand, the blade held against his wrist. The dagger did not seem enough in the face of Macleod’s sword and the number of men.

  “Your vengeance is misplaced. I’ve told you before, Torquil; I did not kill you r son.”

  Macleod spat on the ground. “So ye say, lad. But I’ve a mind to think otherwise.” He pointed his sword at Mary as she peered around Nicholas. “Thought ye might like to introduce me to yer new lass.”

  Mary did not like the look of the man. He was rough, with a full beard and long scraggly hair to his shoulders. Colorless in the moonlight, Mary imagined his hair was red to match the man’s temper, a bull unable to see clearly for the blood coating his eyes. He was dressed only in a plaid and shirt, with a thick strap crossing over his chest from shoulder to hip. Thick leather vambraces covered his wrists, his feet were bare. The confident grip on the sword in his hand marked him as deadly.

  “I prefer not,” Mary decided, not wanting any contact with the man at all.

  Nicholas growled faintly. “I was hoping you’d be dead, Torquil.”

  The man chuckled. “Many do. I heard ye were at Bannockburn.”

  “Aye.”

  “We fought there as well,” Macleod noted. “But it does not change things.”

  “What do you want?” Nicholas hissed.

  Torquil Macleod smiled his teeth white in the dim light. “You, lad, I want ye very badly.”

  Chapter 17

  Nicholas shoved Mary to the ground, spinning to deflect the sword Macleod flung toward him with the small blade in his hand. The steel dagger scraped along the longer edge of the sword, but held long enough to allow Nicholas to evade the weapon. He shoved Torquil backwards, landing on top of him as the scot tripped over a rock. Hands grabbed Nicholas’s arms to drag him off Macleod. Someone kicked him hard in the hip, while someone else held a knife to his throat.

  He froze only when Mary stumbled in front of him, her arm twisted behind her back by the clansman gripping her hair. Fear clenched his heart in an iron fist, squeezing so tightly he felt it would not be able to beat at all.

  “Women,” Macleod snarled as he stepped in front of Nicholas, “always make a man vulnerable.” Nicholas jerked back, anticipating the blow he knew was coming, but the Chieftain was faster. He slammed his fist against Nicholas’s jaw, nearly throwing him out of the arms that held him.

  Another punch found the still tender spot on his ribs and Nicholas nearly collapsed as the breath whooshed out of his lungs.

  Macleod grabbed Nicholas’s shirt and jerked him close. “I’ve been waiting for ye for a very long time.”

  “Go fuck you rself,” Nicholas spat.

  “Nay, I plan on doing that to yer wife.”

  **

  Mary struggled in one of the Macleod’s grasp, kicking as she could, biting him once only to be slapped so hard she dropped to the ground. Nicholas fought bravely, resisting the efforts of the clansmen to hold him. There were too many, however, and the Highlander was quickly subdued, his lip swollen from Macleod’s blow, stumbling in between two of the Macleod clansmen. Mary knew Nicholas well enough to sense his outrage and frustration. Had they been naive? She had to believe Nicholas felt they were safe, his dependence on his clan and their powerful control so deeply seated he would not think twice, even with the warnings presented by his family.

  Yet the Macleods had come upon them, silent as the shadows until it was too late. Macleod had Nicholas firmly in his grasp, shoving the Highlander unmercifully before him, laughing when Nicholas fell, dragging him back to his feet to push him further down the mountain. A heavy oppressive despair settled on her shoulders. They would not get free. Macleod was surely intent on some grave harm, both to her and to Nicholas. As she had feared since leaving Perth, she would lose Nicholas, to a feud between clans, to the sharp glittering steel of Torquil Macleod’s sword.

  And what of her? Could the men actually kidnap them from Mackay land without alerting any of the clan? What of Donald? Wesley? They had to travel relatively near the crofter’s cottage, yet the Highlanders, even with Nicholas still resisting, were like wraiths in the night. They moved with a confident air, weapons held quietly, without fear of retribution.

  The man gripping her arm told Mary not to scream, that to do so would guarantee Nicholas’s quick demise. She doubted help could come quick enough to save either him or her. She thought of Rory promising to stay behind. She thought of Donald, so pleased to have his son returned, of Bastian with his quick smile and intimidating gaze. Men well used to fighting to protect their own.

  Yet they were not there. Nicholas was alone, down once more on the ground after being pushed by Macleod. He lay on his side breathing harshly, his face hidden by the thick strands of his hair. Macleod crouched beside Nicholas and tapped his shoulder sharply with the flat of his blade.

  “Ye fight so bravely, lad. Always a scrapper ye were, reputed to be willing to go to any length to win. But ye’ve lost this time, Mackay,” Torquil taunted. “Yer wife is a might pretty, even in the dark.”

  Nicholas heaved himself to his feet to swing his fist at Torquil. Macleod ducked and slammed his shoulder into Nicholas’s chest, sending the Highlander stumbling back several steps. Nicholas would have come at him again but two Macleods grabbed him first.

  “Tsk, such a temper ye have, Mackay,” Torquil sneered. He looked up at the moon. “Time is short, it’ll be light soon.” He waved at his men and they turned away, dragging Nicholas with them. Torquil caught Mary’s arm, his fingers biting painfully into her skin. “He’s a man to be reckoned with, aye?”

  Mary’s futile attempt to get free was laughable but she had to keep trying. “Ye have no reason to do this,” she said in an attempt to reason with Macleod.

  Macleod laughed sourly. He pulled her with him, his grip painful on her arm. “But I do, lass, I do. He’s not told you of his mischief? Of the reputation he owns of being a man of temper, unforgiving enough to stab a boy in the heart?”

  Mary struggled, both with Macleod and the idea Nicholas could be so cold. “Nay, I’ll not believe it. He’s not like that.”

  Macleod scowled. “Oh he is lass, trust me. He’s killed my Aodh, and he’ll pay for that. Ye will be a sweet final bit of dessert after I’ve carved yer husband’s heart from his chest.” He laughed, stopping to pull her closer. Mary drew back as far as she could, terrified by the mad gleam in Torquil’s gaze.

  “Nicholas won’t stop fighting,” Mary hissed.


  “Nay, lass, he won’t, which makes it all the better for me.”

  They reached the outcrop where Nicholas had left his horse. Macleod stopped and shoved Mary into the hands of one of his men. He turned around, brows drawn to a point over his nose. “Where are my men? Where is Mackay’s horse?”

  “Where he left it,” Rory Drummond replied in flat voice, appearing on top of a large boulder.

  Mary stared at her brother in both shock and elation that he had ignored Nicholas’s demand to stay behind. Rory looked menacing, his sword strapped to his back, nearly a giant on the rock above.

  “We did have to deal with a couple of yer clansmen thinking to steal it.” He waved a hand to encompass the Macleod’s beneath him then settled his hand at his hip with a grim smile that touched briefly on Nicholas and then her.

  Hope appeared like a ray of light for Mary. If Rory was here, then Bastian might be as well. She struggled with the man holding her. Macleod shoved Nicholas to his knees and then stared at Rory in confusion.

  “And who might you be?”

  Rory’s smile faded. Eyes narrowed on Macleod, her brother grunted and then crouched down to speak, his voice icy, his expression menacing. Mary knew that look and shivered. Nicholas had lifted his head to stare at Rory as well, hands planted on the ground. Both men seemed poised on each other in a way Mary could not quite understand. Rory pointed at Mary and frowned. “I am brother to the woman ye are abusing. I have to tell ye it’s not a sight that makes a man happy.”

  Macleod held his sword to Nicholas’s throat to keep him still, the other hand twisted in the Highlander’s hair. “One of the Mackay then,” he sneered.

  “Drummond,” Nicholas corrected in a raspy voice, “Rory Drummond of Clan Drummond, distant kin to the Bruce.”

  Macleod kicked Nicholas away from him. “I have no quarrel with the Drummonds, but I will have my way in this.” Macleod leaped toward Rory, climbing the rocks, blade raised into the air. Rory pulled his sword free of its sheath and blocked the oncoming blow, tangling their swords together as Macleod reached him.

  A man behind Mary shrieked and went down as Sebastian appeared with blade swinging. The man holding Mary gasped, letting her go so quickly she stumbled forward. Donald Mackay materialized beside her and caught her before she fell then set her aside, his expression grim. Mary looked back at her captor to find him dead. Wesley nodded at her, braced upright on Rory’s crutch, the blade in his hand bloody to the hilt.

  Macleod continued to fight Rory. Steel echoed as the swords clashed together. Shadows hid the men as they moved in and out of the moonlight. Macleod pressed hard, but Rory was a mountain, beating the man backwards until he stumbled and fell. Rory leaped to the advantage but not before Torquil recovered, rolling away from Rory’s blade as it slammed beside him.

  Mary cringed. There was no softness at all in the men surrounding her. Donald stood protectively in front of her, the least active in the fight, yet no less intimidating. Nicholas pushed himself to his feet and dragged a nearby sword into his hand. He rushed behind MacLeod and caught his shirt, spinning him around.

  Mary knew a moment of heartrending terror as Macleod turned, his sword barely blocked from impaling Nicholas. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t pull her eyes from the sight of Nicholas as he flung aside Torquil’s sword, reaching in with his other hand to shove Macleod back.

  It would end horribly she just knew it. Nicholas was hurt, exhausted, his breathing labored.

  Torquil fought on, insane with the need for revenge.

  Rory moved out of Nicholas’s way, the two men communicating in some primal way. Mary clasped her hands to keep them from shaking, unable to draw a breath. Macleod was off balance, teeth bared in a grimace as Nicholas beat him back with furious strokes of his sword. Mary expected Macleod to retaliate, to thrust forward at any moment. She closed her eyes, fearing the worst. Images of Nicholas flooded her mind, of him lying on the ground, blood pouring from a wound to his chest. She covered her mouth to hold back a scream but when she opened her eyes she found Nicholas still locked in battle with Macleod. She could see the Highlander was tiring, his parries slower, if no less determined.

  Macleod, breathing heavily, stumbled. He staggered trying to regain his balance but Nicholas pressed him hard. Gasping in pain after Nicholas sliced his thigh; Macleod staggered backwards out of reach and lowered his sword. “I call for mercy.”

  Mary saw her chance. Without thought, she screamed as Nicholas snarled and drew back, his sword balanced, arm trembling in his rage.

  “No!” She ran forward, stumbling to her knees beside the two men. “Please god, no, Nicholas!”

  Flinching, Nicholas shifted his aim, missing Torquil by a hair. He threw the blade on the ground and caught Macleod by the tunic when he tried to run. Dragging the man forward, Nicholas turned his head and glared at Mary. “What the hell are you doing, Mary?”

  The men around them froze in shock, all eyes turned toward her. She breathed shallowly to ease the restriction around her chest, hand on her breast. She pushed herself slowly to her feet. How could she explain? How to let Nicholas know the terror she’d felt, the despair of losing him? She’d do anything to prevent his death, anything. Torquil was devious; she was sure the request for mercy a ploy to draw Nicholas closer. She knew it; could see it in the man’s shifty eyes.

  Mary lifted her head to meet a stony green-eyed gaze. Nicholas looked at her, lips tight, his face sculpted granite. Wild and unfettered, he made her heart slam painfully in her chest. “Ye cannot kill him,” she whispered, “please.”

  She heard silence. Even Torquil looked at her in surprise. Rory laid a hand on Mary’s shoulder, his fingers hurting. “He has every right,” Rory said. His voice carried across the silence, the expectant pause of men unsure of what to do. Both Mackay and Macleod stood still with swords held tightly, faces grim.

  Mary knew the Highlander’s code of conduct was not that much different from her brothers’. Yet, even so, she couldn’t let the fight continue. She couldn’t let Nicholas become like Macleod, a man he clearly despised. She could stop it. Blindly, not thinking of the consequences she faced Nicholas stubbornly.

  “Yes he does, but he does not have to employ it.” Mary held his gaze. Macleod remained frozen, watching them warily.

  Nicholas expelled a hiss of anger and shoved a hand into his hair. “He had plans for ye, Mary.”

  Mary glanced sharply at Macleod. She would not defend him, but would prevent bloodshed if she could. “Aye, he did, but ye have already prevented it. Ye can be the better man, Nicholas. Don’t lower yourself to his level.”

  Nicholas stared at her, clearly taken aback. “Are you mad, woman?”

  She was. Madly in love with a ferocious Highlander bent on his own revenge for something that had not yet happened. She pressed her hand to her chest to calm her heart, wishing it was all a dream. “Perhaps I am,” she agreed breathlessly. She looked at the men waiting expectantly, their censure clear in their eyes, faces forbidding and set with displeasure at her interference.

  Still, the thought of losing Nicholas, the thought that maybe, just maybe she could save him from the fate Macleod meant to employ. Already, five men lay dead already on the ground leaving their number equal. Mackay against Macleod in an age-old conflict that perhaps, she, Mary Drummond, could challenge one small time.

  She didn’t move, but stood with her fists clenched tight. “I can’t let ye do this, Nicholas. Infected with blood lust, ye cannot see beyond the tip of yer sword and the need to plant it in someone’s heart.” Had it been that way with Macleod’s son? She looked at Nicholas and believed it was not. Nicholas, even in anger, still had control. Or had, except when it came to her, when he would murder a man to alleviate his rage. She could not fault him, yet still could not bear to be the instrument that guided his hand.

  Mary looked imploringly at Nicholas’s father. “Tell him he does not have to do this.”

&nb
sp; Donald looked at them both. “It is his choice. He defends his honor and that of yours, Mary.”

  “Macleod did nothing more than threaten me.”

  Nicholas snorted rudely and looked pointedly at her torn gown, the bruises from the men who had held her.

  “I am,” Mary reminded him stubbornly, “relatively unscathed, not harmed enough to have him die for it. Send Macleod off yer land, threaten him with death if he returns, but ye will not, this night, kill him on my account.”

  She knew the men did not side with her. Even Torquil looked baffled, brows lifted high.

  “Come away from him,” Nicholas growled. He caught her waist when she stepped forward, and then set her on her feet behind him. He turned stiffly toward Macleod, his body hard where Mary’s brushed against his, fingers, like Rory’s, painfully conveying his displeasure where they gripped her waist. “Count yourself lucky to be alive, Macleod.”

  Macleod touched his brow mockingly. “I thank yer wife. But this does not end here.”

  Nicholas nearly vibrated with scorn. “Nay it does not, but step onto our land once more and I’ll kill you where you stand.” Mary shivered at the tone of his voice, the chill that blanketed his words, promising retribution to come.

  Macleod looked at Donald. “My men?”

  “Gather yer dead, Torquil,” Donald replied. “Take them and go before my son changes his mind. Remember that ye live at Mary Drummond Mackay’s entreaty.”

  Macleod limped a few feet and then turned to look back. The remaining Macleods picked up their fallen, bodies slung over their shoulders to await their Chieftain. Macleod sent a chilling smile toward Mary but focused on Nicholas. “Ye will see me again, Mackay. My son is dead because of you. I will have my revenge.”

  “Your son died by no hand but your own,” Nicholas replied stiffly.

  Macleod spat, his anger renewed. “Yer story, lad, but I know ye had a hand in it, no doubt in my mind. Ye fled before justice could be done. Well ye are back, man, and ye best look behind ye at every step.”