She had nowhere to go. Fleeing was impossible, she had neither the strength nor skill to evade the highland earl. She was frightened, yet curiously calm. Worry, however, consumed her. Where was Nicholas?
The Earl ducked the attempt she made to smash the goblet against his head, grinning as he pulled the weapon from her hand far too easily to toss it aside. He pushed her roughly onto the bench near the fire. Ann stepped forward but a swift backhand had her stumbling to her knees. Fiona rushed to her side, but said nothing as Sutherland lifted his sword in warning. “Please do not make me use this.”
Mary pulled Ann beside her on the bench, frowning at the bruise already forming beneath her eye. The Mackay men would be wild with rage if they saw their mother now. The thought made Mary shiver with both fear and pride.
Sutherland settled onto another bench. He rubbed his chin, eying the two women thoughtfully. “I have a proposition,” he said.
“As I have one for ye,” Ann countered rudely. “Leave before my husband returns in a rage at yer offense, with every intention to kill ye.”
Sutherland lifted a brow. “Good advice, perhaps, Lady Mackay. But let me offer mine before you speak further.”
Ann ignored his suggestion. She folded her arms over her breasts and lifted her chin in disdain. “Donald will return shortly, as will Hugh and the others. Ye’ve made a terrible mistake, one ye will certainly regret,” Ann promised. Mary did not like the amused smile on the earl’s face.
“Donald has gone to see Mackenzie,” Sutherland replied. “I saw him leave. Hugh is with that great ox of a Scot to see to your crofters. Illness, I suspect?”
Ann stared regally and did not answer.
He leaned back and stretched his legs. “The keep, though usually well guarded, was surprisingly vulnerable.” He glanced at the men lying nearby with a malicious smile. None had been able to rise to defend the women; most were unconscious or nearly so. “You have no fence, no way to close yourself inside. I rode in and found very few of your men able to challenge me at all. Those few are now dead.” Sutherland shook his head, his expression grim. “It seems many of your men at arms have become ill.”
Mary gripped Ann’s hand tightly, glancing at Fiona. “Aye, and ye’ve taken a chance you might get it as well coming among us. It might be the plague or some such awful disease.”
Sutherland searched the leather bag at his hip and then closed the sporran after drawing out a pipe. The time he took to light it and draw a deep breath set Mary on edge.
“I believe it’s more a case of intentional distress, by some sort of herb or plant. I’ve no knowledge of just what it was, but it was done quite well. None of the household has become sick?”
The way he said it, so matter-of-factly sent a wave of fear through her. Mary clutched Ann’s hand, silent drawing on the woman’s calm demeanor. Had they escaped Macleod for something, someone worse? Who would have done something so terrible as poison their men and for what?
“We have no quarrel with ye, Sutherland.” Ann squeezed Mary’s hand back, but did not look at her.
“There is always tension between our clans, Lady,” the Earl replied smoothly, staring thoughtfully at his pipe. “When offered an opportunity to overtake Varrich castle, I could not help but relish the outcome. I expect your men were not told of my coming.” Sutherland chuckled in amusement, his gaze glinting over the pipe.
Mary gasped as realization dawned. Ann’s lips tightened, her face turned gray. “Branwen!”
Sutherland nodded grimly. “The Welsh lass is vindictive. She has ambition and an amazing desire for revenge.”
“Where is she?” Ann demanded. “What has she told ye?”
The Earl put away his pipe, tamping the ashes onto the floor. “She is safely away, I imagine, her plotting well in hand.”
“What do ye want? What harm has been done will be accounted for, but don’t make it worse.” Ann leaned forward. “Ye know the Mackay temper.”
“Indeed I do, my fair lady. I rely on that quality quite heavily in my intentions,” the Earl agreed and then turned to Mary as he continued. “I will do nothing more if Mary agrees to my proposition.” His gaze flickered over Ann as if with regret. “I will leave Lady Ann here to relay my instructions to her husband when he returns. Mary Drummond, I will take you to Sutherland. You can come peacefully or otherwise, it is your choice.”
Mary blanched, but said nothing, fists clenched at her sides.
“Choose to fight,” Sutherland rose to his feet, “and Ann Mackay will not find me so pleasant, nor will the servants within this hall. And,” he added with a malevolent grimace. “It will mean death to those men who ride up that road.”
Mary knew she had little choice. The Earl of Sutherland knew it.
“I will go only if ye honor yer promise to leave the others unharmed.”
“My word on it,” the Earl agreed.
Mary kissed Ann’s cheek. She didn't know why Sutherland wanted her, more clan politics she did not fully understand. Would Nicholas understand her decision to go? Would he assume she had run away, much as he had thought Ann had so long ago? Nicholas had told her about it, would certainly compare this day to that. She could only hope Ann would tell him of Sutherland’s threat. Mary gripped Ann’s fingers tightly to convey her worry. “Tell Nicholas I did not leave the room without cause. I know he will come for me.”
“Nicholas will think ye very brave,” Ann whispered back, her arms wrapped tightly around Mary. She hugged Mary and then let go to pick up a wool shawl she’d been repairing. She placed it on Mary’s shoulders, her gaze a vote of confidence. “Be strong lass. Ye know what ye want.”
Mary straightened her shoulders. “Tell Nicholas…” she stopped and looked at Sutherland. Taking a deep breath, she turned back to Ann. “Tell him…”
Ann reached out to grip Mary’s hands. “I will tell him. Go now.”
Mary walked out the door, with the Earl of Sutherland right behind her.
***
Nicholas and Sebastian hadn’t gone far into Macleod’s territory before coming across signs of the clansmen. Creeping low through the rugged terrain, they worked their way to where three men sat around a small fire. The smell of peat filled the air; the smoke wreathed the hill, mixed with the fog that had risen during the night.
Nicholas settled on his stomach, edging up to the top of the hill, hidden by the tall grass. He peeked over some rocks to study the men below.
The two other Mackay clansmen settled to his right. Bastian lay a few feet away on his left.
The mist chilled him. Winter felt only days away.
The Macleods passed a flask, laughing, conversing in low voices until the whinny of a horse brought them to their feet. They waited expectantly while Nicholas held his breath, ready to spring into action. Bastian hissed angrily when the rider appeared out of the mist. Nicholas gritted his teeth, furious when he saw just who it was.
Branwen pulled up short. Dressed in a deep green skirt with a dark plaid over her shoulders, her hair free of constraint, she radiated a familiar air of command. “Where are the others?” she demanded.
“The Laird sent them on. We lost too many to the Mackays,” one man sneered. “We were to wait for ye and tell ye things did not go as planned.”
Branwen scowled. The sight of her brought Nicholas back to the pub so long ago, when she had robbed him. Even then, she had been the one in control, with men to do her bidding. He shook his head. How had they not seen her machinations, her greed for power and control? It mattered not, for here was proof, her meeting with the Macleods sealing her fate. He glanced at Bastian with a hand to his eyes and then toward the woman, noting the horse was not one of the Mackay stock. The animal pranced nervously under Branwen’s hand, skittering in a circle as she glared at the men before her. Bastian flicked his fingers at their clansmen and the two men obeyed the silent order to melt into the mist.
“I told you not to wait, fools,” Branwe
n complained heatedly. “Must I always tell you what must be done? You should have attacked, destroying them all. It was the plan, have you no brains at all?” She brought her crop down on the man who thought to hold her horse and he leaped back, cursing. “Where is Macleod?”
“Gone, ye wicked wench. Go back to Varrich. Macleod will send word when he’s ready to move again.”
“No, it’s too late for that,” Branwen snarled. “Things have been set into motion!”
The Macleod man shook his head. “We’ve our orders,” he began but then turned around when Sebastian heaved himself to his feet and leaped over the crest of the hill, sword drawn. Nicholas followed quickly, slamming into the first clansman near the fire. They fell and rolled, back on their feet instantly. Branwen shrieked, her horse rearing in panic as she jerked on the reins.
The mist closed in. Bastian almost disappeared as he slashed hard at the man he fought. Their swords screeched when drawn apart, sparking bright bits of glitter against the fog. Nicholas ducked the blade that swung at his head, feinted left past another attack to slam his shoulder into the man’s chest. The Macleod staggered backwards, fighting off Nicholas’s advance.
Behind him, Branwen cursed, and he heard the sound of her whip hit someone, as well as another of her shrieks. Nicholas wasn’t sure if was the Mackays or Macleods that were giving her trouble. He stabbed his sword at his opponent, putting off all thoughts of Branwen. They circled warily, the man facing him well trained, his sword a gleaming flash in the mist, his plaid a dull shadow even at a pace ahead. Nicholas turned away a thrust to his side, twisting around the blade to slam his sword against the man’s shield. The sound muffled by the mist, the blow sent the man staggering, swearing fluently but defenseless for a brief moment. Nicholas didn’t wait for him to retaliate, drawing back and then plunging his sword forward through the man’s chest. The Macleod gasped a gurgling complaint and dropped to the ground.
Bastian’s shouting drew Nicholas’s attention and he found him fighting with Branwen, trying to drag her from the horse. A red slash lay across his cheek from her crop, yet Bastian had her firmly in his grasp. He jerked her down and then shoved her to the ground next to the last dead Macleod.
She lay breathing heavily, glaring at Bastian as he stood over her. He touched his cheek and then looked at the blood on his fingers. “Bitch.”
Nicholas sheathed his sword after cleaning it on one of the men’s plaid. “What have you done Branwen?”
She smiled grimly. “I have done everything I can to bring you down.”
Bastian leaned over her, his stance more than threatening, his fury a dangerously held entity. “I could hang ye now and be done with it. Meeting with the Macleods is treason!”
Nicholas frowned, stepping forward to grasp Sebastian's shoulder. Branwen did not seem frightened, but almost gleeful, her hair covering one eye, lips curved into a sneer.
“Do your worst, Highlander, but things will not change. I will have already destroyed all that you love. Varrich is doomed, no longer will the Mackay rule these lands.”
Nicholas jerked Bastian back when his brother sucked in a breath, ready to strangle the woman for her impudence. They needed more answers. “Why?” Nicholas demanded.
Branwen rose to her feet, struggling with Bastian as he pulled a length of twine from the leather pouch at his hip. Nicholas circled around them, trying to think, to calm the fury and distrust in his mind. “We accepted you as family. What grievance have you to deal with our enemies?”
“Bah, stupid Highlanders,” Branwen complained. She tried to resist Sebastian’s attempt to grasp her wrist but could not evade him for long. Bastian tied her hands in front of her. “You are so bloody loyal to vows you make. Well hear mine: I hate you, I hate Varrich and the godforsaken Highlands.”
“Hugh loved you once,” Bastian growled. “I have stood aside even when I knew ye were bad for him, for Hugh's sake. I'll not leave it go this time, wench. The man is a saint for keeping ye as long as he has. “
Branwen laughed at them. “He still loves me, Sebastian. He'll not let you harm me.”
Nicholas gripped her arm, holding her between them. “He made a vow, aye, he did. God cannot fault him for keeping it this long. You should have been put out after a week at Varrich.” He ignored her hiss of anger, staring at her grimly. “I should have killed you when I first saw you.”
Branwen only glared back defiantly.
Nicholas turned to look back toward Varrich, hidden by the mountains, several days ride back. A icy calm settled in his mind, emotion submerged beneath the need for action. He pulled Branwen closer. “You will regret whatever it is you have done. We are finished with you.” He pushed her onto her horse. Bastian whistled sharply and the Mackay men appeared with their horses.
“Let us hope we are not too late,” Bastian growled.
Chapter 22
They pushed the horses to near exhaustion, arriving below Varrich a good half day faster than normal. Hooves rattled over the narrow wooden bridge that spanned the narrow part of the Kyle. Above them Varrich sat silhouetted against the sky, three stories of rough-hewn rock, a lone sentinel against the bright blue sky. Nicholas stared at the keep in concern for no men stood on the ramparts that he could see. They met Hugh and Rory at the edge of Varrich wood, riding in fast from the south.
Hugh pulled up abruptly on seeing Branwen tied to her saddle. “What is the meaning of this?”
“We found her meeting with the Macleods,” Sebastian replied tersely.
Branwen only grunted angrily, her eyes flashing. Hugh slid off his horse. He strode to her side, grasping her arm to pull her down towards him. “Macleods? What were ye doing with any Macleod, wife? Where did this horse come from?” His face pale with fury, Hugh nearly pulled her off the horse. “What have ye done now, Branwen?”
She refused to answer.
Nicholas shifted impatiently. “We’ve no time for this. There are no men in sight at Varrich, something is wrong.”
Rory agreed, adding his voice to Nicholas’s mounting concern.
Hugh turned to look up the hill, eyes narrowed. “Donald was there when we left, plus a good number of clansmen.” He turned his head sharply when Branwen gave a muffled laugh behind her hand, the gleam in her eyes unmistakably filled with triumph.
Nicholas urged his horse forward, leaving Hugh behind. “You can ask more questions when we get to the keep,” he called back. The road seemed far longer than normal, the rocks loose and skittering under the horse’s hooves as the stallion lurched up the hill. Nicholas was off the animal and on his feet before it fully stopped, running the final few feet to Varrich.
The yard was empty but for a few clucking chickens. Red stains on the ground bore evidence things were not well. Nicholas ran up the stairs to the door and flung it open, staring at the darkened hall. The fires were out, the table bearing the remains of a meal. Nicholas stepped inside and called for Ann, for Donald. He leaped up the stairs, his heart an icy weight in his chest to find the door open to his room. He caught the door frame as he looked inside, knowing it too would be empty.
Bastian cursed below, his voice carrying in the empty confines of stone walls.
Nicholas turned around and went back downstairs. He followed Sebastian outside and then stopped at the top of the steps. Hugh had pulled Branwen off her horse and was shaking her violently.
Rory hurried out from the stables. “Whatever horses there were are gone. No servants, nothing.”
Hugh dragged Branwen closer. She smiled grimly.
Nicholas shivered, her expression chilling him deeply.
“What has happened?” Hugh’s voice dropped to a dangerous level, a low icy tone of command. “Where is everyone? What the bloody hell have ye done?”
“He was supposed to be dead.” Branwen finally spoke, glaring heatedly at Nicholas.
Hugh jerked her forward, pulling her nearly nose to nose. “Nicholas? I don't understand.” H
e shook her again. “Tell me, Branwen. What do you mean?”
Branwen spat in Hugh’s face. She shoved her hands up between them and Hugh let go to step back, wiping his cheek. She pointed her hands at Nicholas. “He should not have come back,” she hissed defiantly. “I should have slit his throat when I had the chance.”
Hugh caught her arm to hold her fast. He stared at her incredulously. “What has he done to you to deserve that? This can’t be from your grudge from so long ago?”
Branwen jerked free of Hugh, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I’ve wasted years in this hovel, thinking maybe it would be worth the wait. The chance that, with Nicholas dead you might eventually become Laird, was tempting.”
Hugh frowned. “Ye've forgotten Sebastian.”
Her smile made Sebastian take an angry step forward. Nicholas held him back, impatient for more information.
She laughed at them both. “I could have accepted this place; there were enough men to satisfy me here, so I thought. But loyalty runs high here, any Mackay I found tempting laughed at me when I offered him fortune and power. I was nothing here but the wife of Hugh.” She spat at her husband's feet. “I was born from royalty! I am cousin to the Welsh King! So I began to look elsewhere.” She stepped back with a sniff, dragging her bound hands across her nose. “But then I received word from my sister.” She turned a malevolent gaze on Nicholas. “From Greece.”
Nicholas returned the gaze impatiently, unaffected by her ire. “What has that to do with anything?”
“It has everything to do with this,” she hissed. “My sister is dead because of you, Nicholas Mackay.”
Nicholas shoved his way past Sebastian and down the steps. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
Branwen lifted her chin high. “My father often traveled with the Prince of Wales. He was a man known to have affections,” she smiled coldly for a moment. “My sister was born in Greece, her mother a local woman. We were very close, even with such distance. The last thing I heard from her was that she’d been taken for aiding a man named Nicholas Mackay, wanted by the church for being a Hospitalier Knight.” She spat at Nicholas. “She is dead because she helped you escape. You ran leaving her to face certain death.”
Fianna Leighton - Tales of Clan Mackay Page 23