Rose frowned and then stood up slowly. “I’ll go to my kin in Ireland. They’ll take me in.”
Sebastian uncoiled from his crouch, using his height to force her to look up at him. “I’ll not have it.”
She backed up a step, her hand to her chest. He studied the slim fingers splayed against the linen tunic, admired the curve of her breast behind them.
“Ye have no say over me, Sebastian Mackay.”
“A man always has a say over the woman he chooses,” Sebastian said matter-of-factly.
Rose stared at him with her mouth open for a moment. She closed her lips, her eyes flaring as she bit back a retort. Instead, she shoved the flaming stick at him and leaped for the door.
He caught her in another step, the stick brushed aside to land harmlessly on the dirt floor. He pulled her close, admiring her struggles but knowing she’d tire soon enough.
“Leave me be, Sebastian Mackay. I won’t have yer death on my hands.”
He drew her against his chest, holding her head near his heart, arms forcing her still. She trembled against him, her face buried into his shirt. “I’m not planning on dying at the point of Torquil’s sword. If anyone shall pass, lass, it will be any Macleod thinking to stop me from taking ye as my own.”
She finally grew still. He waited for another moment, his eyes closed to savor the feel of her, the smell of her hair. “I mean what I say, Rose Macleod. I mean to make ye mine, if not now then soon. I’ve no time to argue further.”
Chapter 23
Sutherland’s instructions had been clear. They were under no circumstances to try to rescue Mary, he had told Ann. He would hold to his word to keep her safe. Nicholas heard Ann speak the words yet could not focus on their meaning, his mind whirling with the need for retribution. It was a dark emotion, one he seldom harbored beyond the mindless game of reiving cattle and horses. The sight of Mary well and free, unharmed would be the only temper for the rage coursing through him. Yet he pushed the fury aside, compacting it inside his mind, putting it away for use when he’d hold Sutherland at sword point, ready to cleave the man’s heart from his chest.
Donald returned, hale and hearty with a host of Mackenzies trailing after him. He'd arrived at the Mackenzie stronghold finding no battles there, but rather in his own home. Donald paced the confines of Varrich hall with a temper rarely loosed on the clan of Mackay. He cursed, hands on his hips as they all watched warily, wondering just what the Chieftain would decide.
The one thing the men did agree on was that Branwen had indeed done her work well.
Much to Nicholas’s dissatisfaction, Donald commanded them to wait as instructed for the Samhain celebration. Observed the first of November, the festival was a secure meeting destination, set amid the time when the Highlanders gathered to celebrate the harvest, renew allies and acquaintances, and to settle disputes between clans. For Nicholas, it was days away, an eternity in his mind
Bastian had left to retrieve Rose, but said as much only to Nicholas. His confrontation with Donald over the Macleod wench would wait until after retrieving Mary, if Nicholas knew his father. He would consider only one course of action at a time, and the most relevant would be to bring Mary in from the clutches of William De Moravia. After that, Sebastian would stubbornly counter any disinclinations Donald might have toward Rose. A determination matched by any Mackay within the hall.
Unable to remain idle any further, Nicholas left the keep. The promised rain of the past few days had arrived, the wind icy as it swept over the hills. Nicholas jerked his plaid around his shoulders and strode into the wind, welcoming the chill of the rain on his face. He walked without thought, his stride long and measured, the path one he’d taken often as a child. It led him along the cliffs above Varrich, past the hill that hid the keep nearly from view, to rise further along the banks of the Kyle until he could see nothing but murky gray skies where Varrich would be. He turned from the sight and swung into a lengthy gate that ate the distance until he arrived in a small glen set between the higher hills. Protected from the wind, he was able to remove the wool from his shoulders, allowing the fabric to drop once more around his waist. He followed the narrow swath of icy water trickling down from the heights until he reached the crest of the hill. Standing on the edge, he looked down to find the land rolling out beneath him, much of it hidden beneath the heavy sodden rain clouds. Grey and murky, he stared at the land, at the heather holding so tightly to the rocky soil. He closed his eyes and inhaled the dark musky scent of the peat, the clean smell of the salt on the air, the rain as it washed over him.
He had thought to leave it all behind but Scotland had called him back, reminding him that he was a Highlander through and through.
But it meant nothing without Mary.
She had interfered, not for Macleod but for him. Ann had said she loved him, yet those words had not yet come from her lips.
He shuddered at the thought that it could all be lost to him.
Drawing his sword free of the sheath at his hip, Nicholas unbelted his plaid and tossed it aside. Tugging off his wet shirt, he left his breeches and boots on, picking up the sword from where he’d set it on the ground. Grasping the hilt firmly, he lunged forward, his foe imaginary yet very real in his mind.
Nicholas continued his fight, ignoring the rain cascading over his shoulders, oblivious to the chill to his toes, the stiffness of his hair as the wind grew yet colder. He fought fiercely, eyes narrowed against the drops coating his lashes, lips tight in a grimace of both pain and fury. His sword struck, yet he felt no relief, no joy at the motion only a deeper frustration that forced him to continue until he knelt gasping, bent on one knee, sword blade flat to the ground.
“Ye should be nigh frozen by now,” Rory said quietly from behind him.
Nicholas remained still, unable to rise as he tried to catch his breath. He grunted at the man, sliding his gaze to note where Rory stood.
The Scot had come on him silently; reminding Nicholas the man was just as skilled as he was in the art of thievery, a reiver in his own right. Rory leaned against a large rock, his hair dripping, his red plaid sodden. Yet Drummond grinned when Nicholas turned his head to glare at him.
“I’d give ye a better work out than yer imaginary friend. He gave ye too many openings if I say so myself.”
Nicholas stood up slowly, scraping the sword across the rocky ground. “I thought I’d already paid for your bloody nose.”
Rory touched his face briefly. “Aye, ye did handily. But ye look to need something more, I think. I’m willing to thrash ye soundly enough ye might be able to sleep while I carry ye back.”
Nicholas snorted rudely. “I hardly think that likely.”
“Is that a challenge then, lad?” Rory replied in a dangerously soft voice.
“Take it as you will.” Nicholas tightened his grip on the sword and eyed Rory warily.
“I accept, then, Highlander,” Rory pushed himself off from the stone and then stared up at the sky. “Nice to have a bit of a shower to cool ye off first.”
Nicholas shivered suddenly, the sensation unexpected. He wiped his arm across his brow to move his wet hair. “I find it refreshing.”
Rory grinned and tossed off his plaid. His tunic clung to his chest, the sleeves transparent against his skin. He drew his claymore from his back and then unbuckled the leather strap from his chest to toss it aside. “Targe?”
Nicholas shrugged. Ingrained into every highland boy, the Scottish art of fighting with sword and shield was legendary, add a dirk in that shield hand as well and a man could defend himself from near about anything. Nicholas had no such compulsion to be protected, preferring only his sword and the rain.
Rory’s eyes twinkled in amusement as he chose to use his shield, the targe a simple wood circle covered in leather with brass buttons lining the outside. They circled warily, the ground uneven, the rain a distraction.
Rory moved first, spinning with a high overhand cut that swept past Nicholas’s sh
oulder by a hair, followed by a mind-numbing blow of the targe to the opposite shoulder. Nicholas staggered at the hit, wincing as he clutched his arm. Rory’s arm strength had not diminished in any way. Nicholas ducked Rory’s next blow and spun gracefully in a circle, using the hilt of his sword to slam into Rory’s hip. The man staggered sideways with a foul curse that would have burned Robert the Bruce’s ears.
They continued, bashing with both swords and words, without thought to safety or hurt, until finally Nicholas dropped to his knees in exhaustion, chilled to the bone. “Enough, Rory.”
Rory sank down beside him breathing heavily. “God’s blood, man, I thought ye’d never give in.”
Nicholas rolled onto his back, shivering as the rain ran over his skin, running in rivulets mixed with sweat and some blood. “I’d never give in to a bloody lowland Scot,” he complained, “except the man packs a fine flask of whisky.”
Rory grunted sourly. “Sure and remind me that ‘tis nearly gone, lad. Besides, it’s not a night for such potent fire. Ye’ve got enough in yer belly to suit the devil himself.”
Nicholas frowned wearily and dropped his arm over his eyes. “I’ll kill him Rory.”
“Aye, I’ve no doubt of yer intention, lad.”
“Bloody King makes things difficult.”
“Ye’ll find the answer soon enough. Catch a chill, however, and it’ll do Mary no good at all.”
Nicholas sighed and sat up. “Are you still offering to carry me back?”
Rory stood up and held out a hand. “Not on yer life Highlander. I’ve dragged my arse out here to find ye, ye will drag yers right back.”
Nicholas stood up, but held Rory’s hand for a moment. “It’s all I can do not to fly to Sutherland’s keep and raze it to the ground.”
“Aye, and in doing so ye’d miss all the fun when we find him at Samhain,” Rory agreed. “Might just be the thing for ye, lad.”
Nicholas scowled. “I’ll wait. He’ll rue the day he set foot on the soil at Varrich. One scratch on her and he’ll see the point of my blade.”
Rory handed him his clothes. “Just get me by a fire and ye can boast all ye like, Nicholas Mackay.”
Nicholas slapped Rory’s shoulder and they set off, but not without a grim smile between them. They both knew Nicholas was not boasting at all.
***
Rose sat behind Sebastian on the horse, arms tucked firmly around his slim waist, her cheek pressed to the warmth of the plaid draped over his shoulder. He rode swiftly, impatient to be back to Varrich, impatient to deal with events he’d explained in a terse, short-tempered voice she’d heard in men before. But where as Torquil’s anger was often spent against those undeserving of his temper, Sebastian Mackay had good reason to be irate.
She hoped this lass of Nicholas’s fared well. She had heard of the circumstances of her arrival in the Highlands, if not the complete story. But rumors were rampant in the hills, spread like fairy dust at dawn, to stick fast where they landed in people’s minds. Nicholas had brought her out of Drymen without her consent and then married her on the spot.
Rose thought it almost romantic, reading beyond the coarse words to what had lain in between. That nothing more came from the Mackay told her the rumors, although perhaps true, did not tell the whole story. Sebastian’s grin told her far more in emotion. He was satisfied with Nicholas’s choice, as was the lass with the second son of the Mackay. Rose could well see why, for even if brought unwilling, it would not take long to change a lass’s desire when Nicholas Mackay put his mind to it.
She smiled into the warmth under her cheek, undaunted by the jarring ride to Varrich. The horse knew the way well enough, picking its path among the rocky terrain with an ease any highland pony might, without thought to breaking an ankle or leg. Sebastian rode as if part of the animal underneath him, thighs gripped tightly to the horse’s heaving sides, his hands sure on the reins, body shifting to counter the rolling gate.
She put aside her owns fears for the moment and allowed the world to whisk her along in the events at large. She was too tired to fight any further with Sebastian, his strength of will was too much for her. She had little choice as it was. She could leave, as she had said, to find the far away kin in the hidden glens of Ireland, welcomed enough as one of the Macleods. But she didn’t know them but from a few brief meetings at clan gatherings when she was just a child.
No, it was easier to allow Sebastian to have his way, accepting that he would find the right words or actions that would both protect her and find her acceptance into his clan. His mind seemed set on it, for he had allowed her no further argument at the crofter’s hut, nor even a kiss before he lifted her to his horse, hidden a distance away in the gorse and thorn bushes.
She sighed faintly into the press of scratchy wool beneath her cheek and felt Sebastian shift faintly, knew he had turned his head to look at her.
“All right lass?”
“I am fine,” Rose answered.
“Would ye rather I’d stayed to make ye mine then?”
She shivered at the thought, well aware of Sebastian’s desire for her, as well as her own, grown sharp at each touch of his body to hers, the feel of the strength beneath her fingertips. Would she have allowed him that opportunity? It was far too soon for such matters should they follow custom, politics held they should meet on occasion with most of the clan in attendance as chaperone. After a few months, she might then find him available to see in short bursts, a ride with yet another chaperone, until things were settled between clans, dowries and the like agreed upon.
A rather boring and useless endeavor she often thought, and thinking of the night with Sebastian so close, so gallantly abiding her rules, she knew she’d not follow convention in any form with him. “Aye, I might wish it, lad, but I’d not have let ye have something so valuable so soon.”
He laughed, tipping back his head to drip bits of rain water over her, his hair still damp from the ride. “Ye won’t make it easy will ye?”
“Nay, never that,” Rose agreed with a smile. “If ye mean to have me lad, ye’ll have to woo me well and good. I expect some grand things from ye, Mackay, so don’t disappoint me.”
Sebastian stopped the horse and dropped the reins to reach back for her, dragging her over his thighs to his lap. He looked down at her, his grey eyes warm with laughter. “Aye, I will try my best, lass. But ye know things will not go easy with Donald. We’ll have a bit of time until Mary is home again, but I promise he won’t be cruel to ye.”
Rose reached up to trace the line of Sebastian’s brow. “No, the Mackays are fierce when need be. Reputation holds ye are more terrifying that the Picts that ye come from. But I see the gentleness as well, the power that ye hold when ye look a woman in the eye and make her feel as if nothing would ever come to hurt her. I trust that, lad, more than any words might tell.”
He ran his thumb gently over her lips. “Aye, I’ll do all in my power to protect ye from harm, Rose Macleod. We Mackay are fiercely protective of our women, our hall and our land.”
Rose laughed softly. “And sword and horses as well. We keep odd company in the land of Mackay, but I’d have it no other way. So get on with the business of returning, Sebastian. Nicholas needs ye far more than I do right now.”
***
Sebastian did not pause when he crossed the Kyle toward Varrich, urging the horse swiftly through the thick wood along the water front and then upwards along the rocky path that led in a winding sweep up to the keep itself. The wind moaned around the stones of the castle, ruffling his hair and shirt, while Rose huddled behind him. Mackay clansmen greeted them, faces grim yet relieved once Sebastian dismounted.
He nodded at the men, noting more on the high wooden rampart that protruded beyond the third floor rooftop, swords glinting in the rare sweep of sunlight, cloaks flapping against the breeze. He pulled Rose off the horse, allowing only a brief moment to savor the weight of her in his hands before setting her gently on her feet. She looke
d at the keep and the small outbuildings with a smile.
“’Tis far homier than Castle Leod,” she noted.
“Aye, tis home,” Bastian agreed. “Let us face the dragon if ye will lass, will be easier done sooner than later.”
Rose’s smile faded but she nodded briskly, tucking her hand into his. “Aye, but he’ll no be a dragon I think, but a stern father looking out for his son’s welfare.”
Sebastian grinned. “Keep that thought with ye, love, when he breathes fire.”
She laughed, undaunted by Sebastian’s teasing. He pulled her close for a moment to inhale her scent and then turned toward the stairs. He reached the door only to have it opened before him. Hugh stood frozen for a moment, surprise creasing his brow. “I think we’ve all gone mad,” he said and shook his head. “I suppose it’s useless to point out this might not be a good time, Bastian?”
“Is there ever a good time, Hugh, to face the chieftain when ye know he’ll not be happy?”
Hugh chuckled and shook his head. ‘Nay, the sooner the better in my mind. I’ve waited long enough as a boy to know that it did no good and the waiting worse than the actual punishment. Go on inside, he’s in a mood as yet.”
“Nicky?” Sebastian added softly.
“He’s gone off into the braw hills to fight some demons. Rory’s with him.”
Sebastian could well understand Nicholas’s need for such an endeavor. He moved past Hugh, drawing Rose in behind him into the warmth of the keep. Ann sat at the fire with a lapful of needlework, her eyes studiously trained on her work. Fiona sat beside her, but the petite women had no compunction about not staring curiously at Rose. Donald was leaning against the fireplace mantle, one foot on a log waiting to be rolled into the flames, deep in thought.
Or so he seemed.
Sebastian stopped a few feet from his father. Rose’s hand trembled within his, but she stood at his side without any other sign of fear.
Fianna Leighton - Tales of Clan Mackay Page 25