by Cathy MacRae
He cupped himself with both hands, bowed over as he glared at her. “Ye will pay for this.”
Riona took momentary pleasure from the hoarseness of his voice as he ground his words between gritted teeth.
“Ye’ll have to catch me first.” She darted past him, reaching for the hidden club hidden beneath her pillow.
A hand dropped heavily to her neck, pitching her forward onto the bed. Morgan landed on her back, pressing her deep into the mattress. The linens piled around her face, burying her in their softness, and Riona could scarcely breathe. She fought him, terrified of losing consciousness, helpless at his hands.
Morgan grunted as her elbow made contact with his ribs. He jerked to one side, and Riona followed up her slim advantage, scrambling to crawl from under him. Morgan grabbed her shoulder and rolled her over, her gown twisting about her hips. Digging her heels into the mattress, she arched her back as she reached for the weapon she’d hidden under her pillow.
Morgan grabbed her wrists in one hand, pinning them above her head. He levered himself on top of her, his breath hot and fetid in her face. She could feel the lump of the table leg beneath the pillow, and the bulge of Morgan’s swollen cock against her thigh. She hadn’t hurt him enough. She writhed beneath him, trying to pull at least one hand from his ruthless grip.
“Get off me!” she shrieked.
With a laugh, Morgan lowered his lips to her neck, nuzzling her, his beard rasping and harsh against her skin. His stench, that of a man too long at sea, the stained leine saturated with salt and old sweat, overwhelmed her. She bucked against him, though she knew her resistance fed his lust.
Morgan shifted his weight, raking his fingers across her breasts, kneading them roughly. Riona shivered with impotent rage as he shoved a hand inside her bodice. She strove to bring her knees up behind him and push him off balance.
Groaning, he grabbed the neckline of her gown, ripping the seam, baring her shoulder and the top of her breasts. He rubbed himself against her, growing more excited. His hand scraped along her side, pausing to fondle her hip before grabbing at her gown and tugging it upward until it cleared her thigh.
When he caressed her skin with his rough, calloused hand, Riona threw her body from side to side, trying to dislodge him.
“Ye like it this way, don’ ye?” he panted, flicking his tongue along the curve of her ear.
“I hate ye!” she cried, furious to find herself as helpless against him now as before.
“‘Tis nae way to start a relationship.” He chuckled, shifting to ruck up his kilt. His bare cock, hot and hard, branded her skin, and Riona screamed. He covered her mouth with his, and without hesitation, she bit him, hard.
Morgan reared back, fingers pressed to his bloodied lip, a look of furious disbelief on his face. Riona yanked her arms. The shift in his position wasn’t much, but it proved enough. She pulled her wrists free of his grip and plunged her hand beneath the pillow. With all her strength, she swung the cudgel, landing it against his head with a solid thunk.
With agonizingly slow movements, Morgan’s eyes rolled back into his head and he fell off the bed to the floor, unmoving.
Panting with exertion and fright, Riona came to her feet, carefully avoiding Morgan’s crumpled bulk. Jerking her gown into place and ignoring the rend in her bodice, she darted for the door. She clutched the latch, then with a jolt remembered the men stationed outside.
A commotion beyond the door drew her attention. Footsteps pounded in the hallway and voices rose as a clamor sounded without. The latch rattled and Riona jumped. She spotted the ewer and grabbed it, holding it by the handle as she waited.
The door opened a few inches. “Laird?”
Riona held her breath, making no sound or move to alert the man at the doorway. The door creaked open farther and a bearded head poked inside. Without hesitation, Riona brought the ewer down on his head in a crushing blow. A surprised grunt escaped him before he crashed to the floor.
Aghast at the noise, Riona expected it to attract more guards, but, as the seconds passed and none appeared, she stepped over the man’s body and crept to the portal.
Chaos of sound and movement surged around her. Men rushed through the hall, voices mingling with stomping feet and the clang of weapons drawn. They called to each other, shouted questions and orders.
Riona glanced quickly over her shoulder and reassured herself Morgan still lay unconscious on the floor. Turning to the man at her feet, she knelt and grabbed him beneath his arms. With grim determination, she dragged him the rest of the way inside her chamber and dropped him, then rushed to the door and latched it behind her.
Riona hurried down the hallway, quickly losing herself in the scramble of soldiers and servants in the lower hall.
Ranald and Finlay squirmed through the brambles and into the open spaces of the bailey. Clinging to the outer wall, the men sped along, their shadows merging among the gloom still gathered there.
Something wasn’t right. The increased activity wasn’t the overprotection of a newly-conquered garrison. Men gathered on the wall in small groups, gesturing beyond the castle gates. More men crossed the bailey, charging up the stairs to the parapet. No one paid attention to the two men lingering along the edges of the rising conflict.
Ranald shifted impatiently. “Can ye tell what is happening?”
Finlay craned his neck to see. “Someone approaches.”
“Aye. But who? I left soldiers to follow when Ree and I rode back to Scaurness. There aren’t enough to take the castle.” Ranald gestured furiously. “Manus found it too easy to turn the Macrorys against me.”
“Some went willingly to Manus’s side, others were swayed on the strength of their long obedience to him,” Finlay pointed out. He gripped Ranald’s shoulder, hard. “Many others are in the dungeon, injured. Angry, but still maintaining the loyalty they swore at yer table.”
“Can we get them out?”
Finlay shook his head. “No’ without a huge distraction.”
A shout rang out from the parapet, quickly lost in the sound of a horn blast of warning. Men broke into a run, calling to each other as they hurried to their posts. The din grew, mounting to a panicked edge.
Ranald drew his sword. “Yon is yer distraction. Go get the men.”
“I willnae leave ye. Ye will have no protection.”
Ranald grinned broadly, the light of battle in his eyes. “I will have loyalty.”
His conviction was contagious. Finlay matched his grin. “Aye, then. I’ll fetch yer soldiers.” He spun to the dungeon’s broad doorway, its portal outlined by the contrast of sunlight on the impenetrable darkness. “Dinnae start without me.”
Ranald laughed and hefted his sword in the air, the blade sparking fire in the morning sun. His voice rang above the frenzied sounds of the bailey.
“To me, a Macrory! To me, a Scott!”
The clamor around them stopped. Heads swiveled in their direction. Men’s eyes flashed with sudden fervor and their voices raised as they took up the cry.
“A Macrory!”
“A Macrory!”
Ranald waved Finlay away. “The Scotts, it seems, are all in the dungeon, lad! Bring them out!”
Chapter 28
Riona burst through the entrance of the hall into the bailey and came to an abrupt halt, skirts swirling about her legs, gaping at the scene before her. Men fought furiously, swords clanging, angry shouts rising above the keening of the wounded. More men poured from the dungeon, their bandaged wounds splotchy in the sun, dark red on stained linen. Feet pounded, legs pumped as they entered the fray with a roar.
“A Scott!” The cry erupted from twenty throats.
“A Macrory!” came the answering cry from men scattered about the bailey and on the parapet.
Someone shoved her rough
ly from behind, pushing her out of the way. Soldiers swarmed, paying her no attention as they joined the battle.
“A MacEwen!”
The sound energized Riona and she roused instantly from her daze. She darted to one side, peering around the bailey for anyone she recognized. After a few moments she gave up, unable to view the bloodshed without feeling sick.
Steel clashed behind her and she jumped, wheeling on unsteady legs. Two men, grunts of effort forced from their chests, were locked in mortal combat only a few feet away. Swords lodged at their hilts, legs and arms straining, they strove against each other. Suddenly, one man twisted to the side, catching the other with the tip of his sword as he tripped and fell. With a last, dispassionate look, the victor lurched over the body and hurried away.
Swallowing the gorge rising in her throat, Riona cast a furtive look at the dead around her. Nearby, she spied a bow and quiver, and she ran to pull it from its owner’s limp grasp. The wooden bow filled her hand, smooth and familiar, and she spared a brief thought for Fergus who had taught her skill with the weapon.
Now fortified with a sense of power and control, she turned back to the battle, its horrors displayed more clearly than before. She saw men, their feet slipping in the mud that churned with last night’s rain and freshly spilled blood. She heard the harsh cries of voices, the crash of steel. And inhaled the stench of death and dying.
Across the yard, a familiar pair fought back to back.
Ranald! Finlay!
Riona almost dropped her bow and quiver as acute relief weakened her muscles. They lived. Stiffening her spine, she picked out others in the crowd, silently, fervently urging them on.
Another group of men burst through the portal of the great hall, pushing past her with scant notice. The tallest of the group, notable for his arrogant demeanor and coal-black hair, crossed the bailey with long, easy strides.
Manus.
Her heart lurched and she shrank into the shadows against the wall. He scanned the melee before him and Riona knew the instant his gaze locked on Ranald and Finlay.
No!
Manus drew a deep breath, his voice catapulting across the bailey as he bellowed a challenge. “Ranald!”
The laird’s head jerked to attention. The two men faced each other across the churned grass and mud. Slowly, as though none others existed around them, they dropped the points of their swords, shifting their hands about the hilts as they advanced in the loose-hipped stride of men readying for action.
Riona gripped the bow tightly, the urge to shoot Manus strong. She was too far away, and a miss would endanger Ranald and others as well. Her chance, fleeting though it was, had come and gone. She was left with the devastating knowledge her inaction cost her the opportunity to save Ranald.
Her heart lurched and she swallowed against the urge to vomit. She blinked to clear the sting of tears, unable to look away.
No words passed between the men as they circled each other on the bloodied ground. Helplessly, Riona crept closer, uncaring that someone might recognize her and thus label her a target.
Feinting and retreating, the men tested each other for weakness, but Ranald drew first blood. Bright red blossomed on the sleeve of Manus’s sword arm. He grinned, swinging his blade about, testing his grip. Shifting the sword to his other hand, he ignored the seeping wound.
“First blood doesnae go to the victor this day, Laird,” he taunted. “The MacEwen cannae stay long away from his ships, and I will rule Scaurness in his stead.” He lunged at Ranald but skidded on the slippery grass. He recovered instantly and retreated, his sword held en garde.
Ranald growled, “Save yer breath, ye traitorous bastard. Ye’ll be without it soon enough.” He exploded in a series of lightning-quick attacks, pressing Manus back as he struggled to parry the onslaught. Steel blades screeched and metal hilts clanged as they slammed together.
Manus dropped to one knee, his head slightly bowed, his sword over his head as he held Ranald at bay. Then, in a sudden move, he slid a knife from his boot and brought it into play with a sweeping upward arc of his arm.
Jerking his elbow up, Ranald deflected the blow from his ribs, though it slid along his upper arm, opening a crimson path in its wake. With a hard blow to the inside of Manus’s wrist, he sent the knife thudding to the ground.
Following immediately on his attack, Manus surged to his feet, crashing his fist into Ranald’s bloody shoulder. With a grunt of pain, Ranald spun around, arm stretched out to stop his fall. He landed on his side and rolled quickly to his back, his sword countering Manus’s next move.
Riona’s heart skipped as Manus stood over Ranald, swaying, his lungs heaving. With his back to her, she saw the opening she’d missed earlier.
Notching an arrow to the string, Riona wasted no time bringing the weapon to bear. An instant’s judge of accuracy before she released the arrow, and it buried itself deep in Manus’s back.
He jerked as the arrow pierced him, its momentum forcing him to his toes. He hung an agonizing moment in the air as though suspended by invisible ropes. His hand seemed to spasm and his sword clattered to the ground.
Ranald scrambled backward as Manus lurched forward to land face down in the mire. Leaping to his feet, he twisted about, searching for his defender. And with a jolt of shock, he spotted Riona by the bailey door, bow in one hand, the other bent back to draw the next arrow in the quiver. She was alive!
With heartfelt gratitude and relief, he sketched a brief salute before returning to the fray.
A horn sounded in the distance. Men clustered about the gate, struggling for possession. Ranald shoved past them as he raced to the bailey stairs, taking them three at a time.
He stopped at the parapet, leaning over to survey the newcomers, then shouted, “Open the gates!”
Sounds of battle died as men put their shoulders to the bar locking the massive, iron-clad double gates. Released, they swung wide with a protesting groan.
In the guardhouse, men gripped the windlass controlling the portcullis. Chains clattered and wood creaked as they turned the enormous wheel. Around them, soldiers ranked, swords menacing outward as they protected the men doing their laird’s bidding.
Slowly the portcullis edged upward, baring the castle to those who waited, their tattered blue standard snapping in the morning breeze, the stag emblazoned on it prancing as it waved.
Ranald leapt down the stairs, skidding to a halt as a shriek rent the air. He peered over the heads of the people and spied Riona as she flung her bow and quiver to the ground. Clawing her way through the crowd, she headed straight for the gate.
“Riona!”
She showed no indication she heard him.
Damn! He was certain of the identity of the man leading a score of men through the gate, but MacEwen soldiers still lurked about, and to draw attention to herself that way . . .
Shite!
He motioned for Finlay to follow her, but his captain had already taken stock of the problem, and even now dogged her heels, bringing three more Scott soldiers to flank her as well. Her skirts billowed at her heels and her white shoulder glistened bare in the morning sunlight. Ranald jerked his gaze back to her torn gown, pure hot fury shooting through him. His cursing became more creative as he rushed to greet his guests.
“Kinnon!” Riona’s voice choked on a sob.
Ranald’s long strides carried him to her side and he motioned to Finlay with a nod. “Secure the castle, then see to the wounded.”
Finlay bowed his head and turned to do as bid. Ranks of soldiers fell in with him, and Ranald spared a moment’s attention as MacEwen soldiers were rounded up and marched to the dungeons. He pivoted to the tearful reunion mere feet away.
A young man, scarcely older than himself and heartbreakingly gaunt, struggled to stand against Riona’s crushing hug.
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“Dhe, eisd ri m' urnuigh,” Tavia sang softly as she rocked Gilda in her arms. The comforting lull of her voice could not drown out the sounds of battle only a few feet away, but the wee lass seemed reassured by the words . . .
‘God, Listen to my prayer
‘Bend to me Thine ear,
‘Let my supplications and my prayers
‘Ascend to Thee upward . . .’
The cries and clashes outside the old stable increased and Tavia’s voice faltered. Something had changed, and she could not tell what. Gilda shifted in Tavia’s lap, a pout of protest whimpering from her lips at the silence.
“Wheesht, lass. I must listen,” Tavia cautioned.
Gilda grew still, her body curling smaller against her. Tavia stroked the tangled red curls soothingly. A horn blared in the distance, walls and vegetation muting the sound.
Grasping the bairn close, Tavia rose to her feet. She swayed beneath the healthy load, settling Gilda to her hip as she crept to a crumbled window in the wall. Through the yellowing leaves, she saw men rushing the gates, their bodies bent to lend power to the task of turning the massive windlass, raising the portcullis. She could almost hear the grunts of effort as others shoved their shoulders beneath the bar holding the iron-studded main gates closed.
“What is it, Tavia?”
Tavia did not break her gaze away from the activity in the yard as she answered the child’s whispered question. “Someone is coming to the gates.”
Gilda lifted her head from Tavia’s shoulder. “Are the bad men gone?”
“I dinnae know, lass.”