by Ruth Langan
With halting steps she approached the huge front doors. A servant removed the bracing timber and pulled the heavy doors open. When the guards outside spotted her, one of them retrieved her horse, and even secured the bundle of gowns behind the saddle.
With the guard’s assistance, Meredith pulled herself up and nudged the horse into a trot.
As she rode across the courtyard she spotted two riders approaching. Again her heart began a painful hammering in her chest. If Holden Mackay had already reached his chambers, he would discover Rowena in her place. And if he were to call out now, these two riders would seize her and return her to certain death.
She nudged her horse into a run. As she passed the two riders, she kept her face averted.
The two, intent upon their mission, barely noticed the old hunched crone who passed them in the courtyard.
Chapter Nineteen
As the hunched woman approached on her horse, Brice felt a prickly feeling at the base of his neck. Something was very wrong. Something he couldn’t quite place. Then, as horse and rider drew nearer, a name came into his mind.
Rowena. Of course. The young hunchbacked seamstress who had been cruelly banished by Catherine de’ Medici had been from the Mackay clan. He had accompanied her from France to her home in the Highlands, where Holden Mackay had promised to see to her care. Brice felt a momentary stab of regret. He had been too busy to see if Mackay had lived up to his promise.
Rowena had always been an open, friendly woman. That would explain her warm reception by the guards in the courtyard. The soldiers, if they were a decent sort, would take the time to chat with her, assist her.
With hasty movements he pulled the plumed hat low on his head and kept his gaze downcast. If she was familiar with all the soldiers at Mackay’s fortress, she might recognize that he and Angus were imposters. Worse, if she were to recognize him from their days at the French Court, she would call out his name. All their carefully laid plans would be for naught.
From the corner of his eye he watched as horse and rider galloped past. She had not even given him so much as a glance.
For another moment he continued to feel that tingling sensation, as though something was not quite right. He shrugged it off. The worst thing a warrior could do before going into battle was to allow himself to be distracted.
He and Angus approached the guards. He experienced the rush of energy he always felt just before battle. Their plan was going to work. He knew it. He felt it.
As their horses drew near, one of the guards called out to a servant inside the house, announcing their arrival. The timber bracing the doors was thrown aside and the doors swung open. Even as a stable boy was reaching for the reins of their horses, Brice and Angus, heads lowered, hats pulled low, were swinging from the saddle and striding toward the open doors.
Once inside they waited as the servant greeted them and began to close the heavy doors. A movement in the shadows of the courtyard alerted Brice and Angus that their men were in place and already overpowering the unsuspecting guards outside.
Drawing a dirk from his waist Angus held the blade to the servant’s throat.
“Step away from the door,” he ordered.
The wide-eyed servant obeyed.
“Where is your master?” At the man’s momentary silence Brice pulled his sword from the scabbard.
The servant stammered, “My lord Mackay has gone to his chambers.”
“Where?”
The servant pointed up the wide stone stairs.
“And the woman?”
The servant blinked, then stared transfixed at the sword in Brice’s hand. “With my lord Mackay.”
Brice’s hand tightened about the sword. He would kill Mackay. With his bare hands if necessary. “And where are his men?”
“In the great hall, my lord.” The servant pointed again, then trembled in fear as Brice’s men poured through the open front doors.
“Go to Meredith,” Angus whispered. “We will take Mackay’s men.”
“Aye.” With his sword drawn, Brice started up the stairs.
Just then the door to the great hall opened and several of Mackay’s men, obviously drunk, stumbled out. For a moment they simply stared at the dozen strangers who advanced on them. Then, with a shout, they drew their weapons.
Within minutes the rest of Mackay’s men spilled through the door of the great hall and joined the battle. Though Brice longed to go to Meredith’s aid, he knew that his men were greatly outnumbered.
Without a thought to his own safety, he leaped the several steps that separated them and joined in the fighting.
The air was filled with the sound of sword striking sword as every man fought for his life.
Two men advanced on Brice. With flashing blade he disarmed the first, then traded thrusts with the second soldier, backing him to the wall. As the soldier brought his arm high for the final thrust, Brice was a step quicker, and his blade pierced the man’s heart. Clutching his chest the man dropped to the floor. Before Brice could catch his breath the first man, now armed with another sword, took up the fight. Again Brice was forced to defend himself.
This man was a far better swordsman than the other. It took all of Brice’s skill to evade his thrusts. But at last he left the man gravely wounded.
Turning away, Brice found himself facing three more opponents. As they fought, Brice felt his energy flagging. The wounds from which he had so recently recovered had left him too drained. Had he possessed less skill with a sword, he would have joined the others who lay on the floor of the great hall, writhing and twisting in pain.
“Behind you,” Brice shouted to Angus.
Angus turned to find a swordsman about to land a deadly blow. With agile steps Angus managed to evade the man’s blade. With one quick thrust, the man joined his comrades who lay dead and wounded.
“My thanks, old friend.” As Angus turned his head he saw two swordsmen behind Brice, about to attack while he fended off a third.
Immediately Angus leaped to Brice’s aid. But even while he and Brice fought the three, he could see what a terrible effort this battle was costing his friend. Though Brice’s thrusts with the sword were still straight and true, there was a sheen on his forehead and his eyes were glazed with pain.
Two men cut between them, dueling until one of them fell. The other quickly joined in the fight against Angus, and he found himself unable to worry any longer about Brice. It would take all of his concentration and skill just to stay alive.
While Brice continued fighting off the attack of two men, a tall, massive figure filled the doorway. While Brice stood, sword to sword with his opponents, he glanced up and saw Holden Mackay, his sword at the ready, a look of murderous rage in his eyes.
All feeling of weakness vanished. For Brice there was only a wild, churning hatred for this vicious monster. With a few skillful thrusts Brice disposed of his opponents and advanced upon Mackay.
“What have you done to Meredith?”
For a moment Mackay could only stare at Brice with hate-glazed eyes. Could it be that the fool did not know? His lips curled back in a sneer of contempt. “I do not answer to the likes of you, Campbell.”
He raised his sword and brought the blade down with a vicious swipe, tearing open the shoulder wound that only days ago had finally mended.
With blood seeping through his tunic Brice stood his ground, exchanging thrust after thrust with Holden Mackay. And although the man was not the swordsman Brice was, he had size on his side, and the wound that was draining Brice of precious strength.
“I warned you that one day you would rue the day you banished me from your castle.” Mackay advanced, again and again, until Brice felt the cold stone wall at his back. “You should not have tried to keep the woman for yourself. The spoils of war should be shared by all.” He thrust his sword and watched as Brice dodged, and the blade pierced only the fabric of his tunic. He pulled his sword back and advanced again, determined to pin Brice. “Now,” he said through
gritted teeth, “I will have it all. Your titles, your lands and your woman.”
In an unexpectedly agile move, Brice leaped aside and turned, pinning Mackay to the wall. With his sword pointed at Mackay’s chest he hissed, “What are you talking about, man? What is this nonsense about titles and lands?”
Holden Mackay’s eyes narrowed. “I will tell you, if you promise to let me live.”
“I make you no such promise. Now,” Brice said, bringing the point of the sword closer, until it pierced Mackay’s tunic and shirt and drew a faint thread of blood, “tell me what nonsense you speak.”
Mackay began talking quickly, as if hoping to postpone the inevitable. “Gareth MacKenzie offered to share half your land with me, and give me all your titles, if I would but penetrate your castle and discover your weaknesses.”
“MacKenzie. So you have been in this with him from the beginning.”
“Aye.” Mackay’s eyes glittered. “I have long coveted the title Earl of Kinloch.”
Brice thought of his own disdain for such things. “The title was my father’s. He earned it. What good would it do another?”
“It would make me a titled gentleman. I would be as acceptable at Court as you.”
“All the titles in the world will not make you what you can never be, Mackay.” He ignored the man’s look of hatred and pressed the tip of his sword over his opponent’s heart. “What has any of this to do with Meredith?”
“Nothing,” Mackay snapped. “The woman was a personal prize that I decided to steal from you the way you stole her from MacKenzie.”
Brice’s eyes narrowed. “You knew all along that I killed the wrong MacKenzie?”
“Aye.” Mackay threw back his head and laughed. “You killed the puny brother, Desmond, whose only crime was obeying his eldest brother.”
Brice felt a terrible urge to plunge the sword through this monster’s heart. But he cautioned himself to hold his famous temper in check. He still did not know the fate of Meredith.
“Is the lady in your chambers?” Brice asked softly.
Mackay’s eyes suddenly burned with a feverish light. By the gods, the man did not know. What a wonderful irony.
“The lady is someplace where you will never find her.”
“You will tell me or I will make your life a living hell.” As Brice shouted, Mackay suddenly brought his hand upward, revealing the razor edge of his sword. He would have severed Brice’s head had Angus not stepped in and thrust his blade through Mackay’s heart.
A look of shock crossed Holden Mackay’s face as he realized he had been mortally wounded. As Angus pulled back his sword, Mackay slumped to the floor. A great gush of blood spilled down Mackay’s tunic, the brilliant scarlet spreading in ever-widening circles. His face grew ashen.
With a sense of horror at the turn of events, Brice knelt beside Holden Mackay and whispered, “Before it is too late, tell me what you have done with Meredith.”
Mackay’s lips curled into a smile. His eyes stared straight ahead. And when Brice touched a hand to the man’s throat, he realized there was no pulse.
“May you burn in hell,” Brice whispered.
With a growing sense of desperation he raced up the stone steps, Angus just paces behind him. In the great hall, the last of Holden Mackay’s men joined his comrades in death.
Rowena sat in the middle of the floor and tasted her own blood. Dazed, she wiped a hand across her mouth and stared for long minutes at her bloodstained hand. Slowly, stiffly, she drew herself to a chair and sat, staring at the flames of the fire, seeing nothing.
The lady Meredith had been correct to tie her and cover her mouth. That alone had probably saved her life. When Holden Mackay had discovered Rowena in place of Meredith, he had demanded an explanation. Once he realized that his prize had eluded him, he had flown into a murderous rage. Never, never had Rowena seen anyone in such a fury. He had picked up a chair and hurled it against the wall where it shattered into a thousand pieces. Still not satisfied he had lifted Rowena from the chair and slapped her, beat her, pummeled her, until she begged for mercy. It was only her plea that she had been overpowered that had saved her from certain death. That, and the sound of battle below stairs. When Holden Mackay left the room to join the fighting, he had been gripped by a lust for blood.
Rowena knew that she should escape while there was yet time. But she seemed gripped by some sort of lethargy. And so she sat, listening to the sounds of battle, staring into the flames of the fire.
That was how Brice found her.
He raced into the chamber, with Angus just a few paces behind. Both men came to an abrupt halt at the sight that greeted them. The room looked more like a battlefield than the laird of the manor’s sleeping chamber.
With eyes dulled by pain Rowena glanced up. In a trembling voice she whispered, “My lord Campbell.”
He was shocked at finding her here. “Rowena? Did we not pass you some hours ago outside Mackay’s fortress?”
She stared in silence, not seeming to comprehend.
Seeing her shocking condition he went to her and knelt before her. He took her hands in his. They were cold. So cold. In her eyes was a glazed look, such as he had often seen in men after battle.
In a tone meant to soothe he said softly, “You are safe now, Rowena. Holden Mackay is dead.”
He watched her shoulders slump as she seemed to let go of the terrible tension that had held her in its grip. A sigh rose up from deep within her.
“What has happened here? Where is the lady Meredith?”
Rowena stared into his dark eyes. He had always been so kind to her. She wanted to return the favor. But it was hard to think.
“Holden Mackay sent for me to dress the lady.” She stared down at the bloodstained gown she was wearing. “He chose this gown. He said he wanted her to look like the bride you would never have.”
Brice’s eyes narrowed. In his jaw a little muscle began working.
“Did he touch her?” His hand curled into a fist. “Did he harm her in any way?”
She shook her head.
“You are certain?”
Rowena met his gaze, then slowly nodded.
He felt as if a band around his heart had suddenly been removed. With a rush of relief he asked softly, “Why are you wearing the gown, Rowena?”
Why indeed? She shook her head, as if to erase the pain of Holden Mackay’s fists. Slowly, haltingly, her mind cleared.
“When we were alone, the lady Meredith asked me to change clothes with her. I put on her gown.”
“Why?”
“So that when she opened the door, the guards outside would think that she was still seated by the fire.”
“Why would they not recognize her when she opened the door?”
“The lady Meredith was disguised as me.”
Brice could only stare in silence as the meaning sank in.
“The lady wore my cloak and carried my bundle of gowns.”
Brice turned to Angus, who stood listening. “The old crone outside the fortress.”
Angus let out a moan. “Brice, she is hours ahead of us on the trail.”
“Aye.” Brice glanced down at Rowena. “And this dazed, bloody creature has taken a beating for her kindness.”
“Had it not been for the lady Meredith’s thoughtfulness, I feel certain I would not have survived.”
Brice’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you say that?”
“Because the lady kindly bound my hands and covered my mouth, saying that unless Holden Mackay was convinced that I had been forced into this, he would kill me.”
Brice and Angus surveyed the rubble that had once been Holden Mackay’s sleeping chamber.
Brice’s tone was low with wonder. “From the looks of all this, the lady made a wise decision.” He turned to Angus. “Assemble the men. We ride to the Lowlands. And pray we catch up to Meredith before Gareth MacKenzie gets news of what has happened here this day.”
Rowena caught Brice’s hand. Her eyes
brimming with tears she whispered, “Tell the lady Meredith that I send my gratitude. And my love.”
Love. Brice felt a sudden shaft of fear that left his blood like ice. Love was what drove him. It was what caused him such pain.
“Pray I do not fail her,” he murmured. “Or I may as well join Holden Mackay in the fires of hell.”
Chapter Twenty
Meredith was hopelessly lost.
The route from Kinloch House had been difficult enough to follow. But now that she had managed to escape Mackay’s fortress, she could locate no familiar landmarks. Plunging blindly through thickets and woods, she urged her mount onward, praying that eventually she would find a river or stream that would point the way homeward.
The only thought that gave her the strength to go on was the knowledge that she had persuaded Brice to remain in his Highland home where he was safe. Whenever she felt the fear begin to engulf her, she would cling to her belief that Brice was out of harm’s way. She closed her eyes, trying to picture him as she had so often seen him, lounging in a chair drawn up before the fire, a tankard of ale in his hand, his men clustered about him and Jamie hanging on his every word.
She experienced such a crushing sense of loss, she felt tears mist her eyes.
As she passed beneath a low-hanging branch, it clawed at her cloak and snagged her hair. She ducked low in the saddle, then noted over her shoulder that the bundle of gowns had pried open. Bare branches suddenly bloomed with brilliant scarlet satin, rich ruby velvet and shimmering blue silk. A breeze caught the rest of the gowns, blowing them into the brush where they were caught and held by jagged stalks and thorns.
“I leave them to you, Mistress Tree.” The strange sight gave her sagging spirits a lift. “May you look fetching for years to come.”
The sound of her own voice startled her. She had been alone on the trail too long.
Spotting an open area just ahead, she dug in her heels and urged her horse into a run.
Night had long ago fallen and still Meredith continued on. The land had gentled, from steep rocky crags to rolling hills. Though she was not yet asleep, she was no longer alert. The whir and chirp of night creatures and the steady even gait of her mount lulled her until her head bobbed.