by Ruth Kaufman
She laughed softly and brushed her fingers over his cheek and held them up for him to see. They were covered in black soot.
He arched an eyebrow at her, moved her hand, and proceeded to kiss her, his men encouraging him with bawdy hoots and laughter. He lifted his head, grinning down at her, her beautiful face now also streaked with soot. But the crimson staining her cheeks shone through all of it. He laughed again, wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and escorted her to the high table.
Lia laughed as the men broke into yet another drinking song. How many they had sung thus far, she had lost count. But ale and wine flowed, along with flasks containing the precious MacGrigor whiskey.
Ronan had even produced his own flask as if by magic. He took a drink and handed it to her with a wink.
She stared at it and shrugged. “Why not?” she muttered and took a tentative sip. She gagged and choked, quickly handing the flask back to him. “Mary have mercy, and you say my medicants are foul?” She turned her head away from him, certain she would breathe fire at any moment.
He chuckled and returned the cork to his flask. “Dinna say it be so, lassie.”
“What be the problem?” Ian asked, peering at her with bloodshot eyes.
“It seems our newest clan member doesna like MacGrigor whiskey.”
Ian pressed his hand against his heart. “Oh, nay lassie, say it’s not true.”
“I like it just fine,” Lia said. “As long as you are drinking it and I am not. After all, someone has to hold your heads in the morning as you curse the light and the pounding in your skull.”
He blinked at her owlishly then tried to focus on Ronan. “Did she say what I think she did?”
Ronan laughed. His eyes were glazed, but he was not near as drunk as the others. “I believe she did, Ian, but worry not, that leaves more for us.”
Ian blew a breath through his lips, sounding like a snorting horse.
“Besides,” Ronan said, “methinks we’ll appreciate her medicants in the morning no matter how foul the taste.”
She smiled sweetly at him. “And if you behave, I might not make them even more foul than they should be.”
“Now, now, lassie. Ye dinna realize that the best cure for the morning after MacGrigor whiskey is tae drink more of it.”
Before Lia could reply, Ronan opened his flask and held it up. “MacGrigor!”
“MacGrigor!” the others shouted.
Ronan took a long pull and lowered the flask. This time he started the drinking song. Lia looked at him in surprise. He had a fine singing voice but seemed to have to be a bit into his cups before he allowed anyone to hear it. It was a shame, she thought.
The song was a lively one, with Ronan carrying the lead and the others joining in, not only on the chorus but shouting various responses here and there. Lia found herself laughing at their antics. Through it all, she saw Ronan’s bright smile was freely given, and his personality and quick wit played off the others. She thought she caught a glimpse of what life had been like in his clan, and especially in his great hall, before his wounding.
Despite what he had suffered, despite all he had been forced to overcome, they were returning to it. His kinsmen welcomed the return of the laird they knew and loved. Even with an enemy camped outside their walls, they were happy to drink and sing with him. They no longer feared the Demon Laird, but laughed at the great jest Ronan played on the English.
As soon as the song finished, Lia rose and stepped beside Ronan. “It grows late, I must be to bed.”
“Aye, lassie,” he said and caught her hand, kissing her fingers softly.
The men started with their hoots again, but Ronan waved them off. They grumbled but fell silent.
Lia reluctantly withdrew her hand and walked to the stairs.
“Well, laddie,” she heard Ian say. “When be the wedding?”
“After I send these whoresons back tae Longshanks with their tails ’tween their legs. That is . . . if she’ll have me.”
Lia’s heart lurched and thudded painfully in her chest. Dear God, could it be true? Nay, he must have been drunker than she thought. Her fingers clutching her skirts, she hurried upstairs, terrified she would hear him deny the words he had just uttered.
Chapter Sixteen
The sound of a trebuchet launching awoke Ronan at dawn, only a couple of hours after he had fallen asleep. He groaned and squeezed his eyes shut, wondering for a moment if the sound he had heard was actually caused by the pounding in his skull. One heartbeat passed, followed by a second. Then he heard the shattering sound of rock striking the solid stone of the west tower on the curtain wall. He flew out of bed and stared through the loophole. War Wolf had been slightly off on its range.
The tower had suffered only a small amount of damage, thankfully. But he knew it wouldn’t take the English long to correct that mistake. A siege engine that large could bring down a huge section of curtain wall with one blow. As soon as the English corrected their aim, the tower didn’t stand a chance. He saw his brother on the walls, shouting orders to the men as they readied their crossbows, preparing for the moment the ground troops attacked.
His gaze traveled over the enemy troops and his eyes widened. He didn’t need a sentry to tally the numbers lost to desertion. Le March’s army was less than half its original number.
He noted the siege tower, while not completely burned, had been rendered useless unless le March could make extensive repairs, and the battering ram near it was nothing more than ash and a black log less than half its previous size.
Ronan understood why le March chose to attack. If he did not turn the tide of this battle, he would not have an army left. He counted on the massive trebuchet to destroy the defenses so totally they wouldn’t need a siege tower or battering ram. But to Ronan, it seemed le March’s attack was hasty and ill prepared.
War Wolf launched its deadly load a second time, the sound unmistakable.
“Lia,” he murmured and quickly hauled on his trews. Not bothering with his tunic or boots, he sprinted for the door and threw it open. He reached the middle of the stairs before the massive boulder slammed into the tower. But he could tell from the sound that they still had not corrected their aim. The tower still stood. The keep shivered slightly, dust falling from the giant support beams overhead. His gaze searched the great hall and he spotted Lia, frozen near the high table, her face a ghastly shade of gray.
“Lia!” he called and ran to her.
She didn’t move, her hazel eyes wide but staring at nothing.
He slowed his approach and gently touched her shoulder. “Lia?”
Slowly, she looked up at him.
“Sweet Jesu,” he whispered and hauled her into his arms, holding her tightly. He tucked her face against his neck. Dear God, he had never felt anyone shake so hard. “’Tis all right, lass,” he murmured.
She released a ragged breath and her arms wrapped around him. “Ronan,” she whispered. Her body felt as if it slowly uncoiled.
“I want ye above stairs,” he murmured.
She pulled away, enough to look up at him again. A tear welled in her eye and trickled down her cheek.
The door to the keep smacked open, causing both of them to start.
“Milady,” Lachlan called, helping a clansman who limped badly, blood streaming from a cut on his head, into the hall. “There were men in the tower,” Lachlan continued as he assisted the man forward. “Three of them were wounded when the trebuchet struck it.”
Ronan felt Lia’s spine stiffen and her shoulders straighten as she pulled away from him. “How bad?”
“Minor as far as I can tell it,” Lachlan said as he glanced over his shoulders at his friends helping the other two.
Ronan snagged Lia’s arm. “Nay,” he said, stopping her as she stepped forward. “I want ye in the solar, now.”
“Ronan,” she said, blinking at him in surprise. “I cannot. The wounded—”
“Are minor. They can wait.”
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“Nay,” he said, more sharply than he intended. Yet he marveled at her for a moment. She was so frightened, tears continued to drip down her face, but she would not allow her fear to stop her when there were wounded to be helped. Had the situation not been so dire, Ronan would have smiled. “My solar is the safest room in the keep,” he said firmly, keeping his voice low. “Ye will await me there.”
She took a breath to argue with him, but Ronan would have none of it. “Lachlan,” he snapped, turning for the stairs and gently but firmly taking Lia with him. “Ye and Marta can see tae the wounded for now.”
Lachlan looked at him in surprise but nodded. “Aye, MacGrigor.”
Ronan did not break stride as he hit the stairs and wrapped his arm around Lia’s shoulders, not giving her the choice.
He entered his solar and closed the door, guiding her to sit on the bed. He cupped her face in his hands and gently tugged until she looked up at him. “Stay here, Lia.”
“Ronan—”
“Please,” he said, his voice losing its hard edge. “I need ye safe.”
She blinked at him, another tear sliding down her cheek.
“As I said, my solar is the safest room in the keep. I must go below stairs and help my brother.”
“But I thought you wanted them to see you only at night.”
His lips lifted and his fingers gently dried the tears from her cheeks. “The MacGrigor brothers have long terrorized the English on the battlefield, lass. Now seeing Aidan and the Demon Laird join forces will destroy what little morale they have left.” He rose and quickly dressed, donning his armor.
Ronan hesitated, again looking at Lia sitting on his bed. He stepped to her and his fingers caressed the soft silk of her cheek. He lowered his head and touched his lips to hers, kissing her with everything within him. His tongue swept across hers and his blood ignited. For Lia, he would face the hordes of hell and come away victorious.
He reluctantly ended the kiss and stared down at her, longing to say the words, but they froze in his throat and he could not utter them. He traced his fingers over her cheek one last time and forced himself to step away from her. He left his solar, closing the door behind him.
In the bailey, Ronan was grateful to see his own trebuchet assembled. He was even more grateful to see that Connell managed it. Ronan approached. “Have ye fired yet?”
“Nay, MacGrigor,” Connell replied, staring at the damaged but still standing tower. It seemed the English continued to struggle to correct their aim.
“Connell,” he growled. “I need the War Wolf damaged. One blow from that damned machine can take out a quarter of our defense.”
Connell’s face paled. “MacGrigor, ye ken we canna match the range of the War Wolf.”
“We can!” he snapped. “We hold the high ground. The motte the castle is built on gives ye an advantage. Use it!”
Connell hesitated, his brow creased in thought. “Clay casks of flaming pitch?”
Ronan grinned at him. “Now ye have it aright. Increase the counterweight if you must.”
“But we dare not crack the throwing arm.”
“She’ll hold together,” Ronan said firmly.
“Aye, MacGrigor,” Connell said.
Despite the distance the War Wolf was from the castle, Ronan clearly heard the sound of its massive wheel turning to reset the counterweight for another shot. Surely they had found their range by now. He sprinted to the barbican. He would stand with his brother and with his clan even if he had to face the fires of hell to do it.
Just as the heavily cloaked Demon Laird reached the top of the barbican, his own trebuchet launched the flaming casks of pitch over the walls. Ronan drew his claymore and held it over his head. “MacGrigor!” he roared. The clay casks made a strange whistling sound as they passed over his head and then descended.
His clan answered his battle cry as the casks smashed to the ground, spilling flaming pitch over men and equipment. But to Ronan’s fury, they did not strike the War Wolf.
Yet with his appearance on the walls, in the middle of the day, more enemy soldiers cried out in fear and ran from the fighting. Nothing the nobles did could control them. They would prefer to die at the hand of a mortal rather than face the specter of the Demon Laird.
Orders rippled through the enemy ranks, hastily shouted, and what Ronan understood chilled his soul. The War Wolf changed its target.
“Connell!” he barked. “Adjust six paces right, increase weight ten stone.”
“Aye, MacGrigor!”
The benefit of having a smaller engine meant that it did not take as much time to reset the counterweight. Long before the War Wolf was set to get off another shot, Ronan’s trebuchet launched again.
The flaming casks sailed over the walls, again striking men and equipment, splashing fire. More troops ran in terror. But they were still a good twenty yards from their goal.
“Connell! Direction is good, increase weight another ten stone.”
“Aye!”
He heard a roar from the enemy and saw the troops lifting ladders. They meant to charge his keep? The fools!
“Archers ready!” Aidan snapped.
Ronan’s lips lifted.
The enemy charged his walls.
“Fire!” Aidan bellowed.
A sheet of arrows from the ramparts and loopholes stopped the enemy in their tracks.
Ronan could not help the laugh that bubbled within him. “Le March! Ye are no’ Longshanks, and it shows!” he roared.
Lia sat on Ronan’s bed, shaking, but it was not due to her fear of the trebuchet or her memory. Instead, it was due to Ronan’s kiss. Her heart raced and she gulped a deep breath into her lungs. But as the sounds of battle grew louder, her fear crept its way back into her heart.
Stay here . . . I need ye safe.
She swallowed hard. She couldn’t—there were wounded below stairs who needed her. She couldn’t stay here with nothing to do, wallowing in her own fear. She had to pull her wits together. She would not let herself fall prey to this.
Lia rose, her hands fisting into her skirts, but she lifted her chin, summoned her courage, and took a step for the door.
Then she heard the snap and the sound of a massive counterweight descending, the groan of lumber under great duress, and the hiss of a sling as it arced through the air.
For an instant, terror froze her in place. A sudden, terrible memory broke free and drove her to the floor, next to the bed, just as the south wall of the solar imploded.
Ronan heard War Wolf launch and looked up from the battlements, his gaze searching the sky. A boulder appeared, tiny at first, but it rapidly grew in size. Ronan scowled as he realized it would miss the tower and curtain wall entirely. Then his eyes widened—they were firing into the bailey, no doubt trying to hit his own trebuchet. But as it passed over the wall and descended, horror cut through him. They had once again missed their intended target. It would instead hit his keep.
“Nay!” he cried, sprinting from the walls. The rock dropped, targeting his solar and what Ronan held most dear. It slammed into the floor above, collapsing the roof of the keep and leaving a gaping hole.
“Lia!” he roared, running with all of his might, his heart in his throat. He hesitated only a moment as he approached Connell.
Stone had showered down around the troops manning the trebuchet, but no one appeared injured.
“Connell,” he barked, grabbing the man by the shoulders.
Connell, covered in white dust, coughed and choked. “Aye?” he asked hoarsely.
“I dinna care what ye have tae do, set the War Wolf on fire!”
“Aye!” He pulled away from Ronan. “Fire!”
His own trebuchet launched.
Ronan spotted a barrel of water near the trebuchet. Practical considering what they were launching. He looked again at his keep, now seeing smoke and flames rising from it. He removed his cloak and ran to the barrel. He doused it completely with water and returned it to h
is shoulders. Terror roared through him as he pulled the cowl over his head and sprinted into the keep.
Men and woman did not scream or cry in panic. They formed lines, passing buckets, fighting the flames. Ronan could not be more grateful for them. But he could not stop to help. Flames grew in strength on the stairs. He had only moments to find out if she still breathed. Without care for himself, Ronan dove through the fire and ran up the stairs. He arrived at his solar to find the door slightly ajar but stuck in place.
“Lia!” he cried, using all of his strength to shove the door open. He managed to squeeze through, the flames and smoke choking him. Dear God, he couldn’t bear to lose her. “Lia!”
Lia cried for her mother as the smoke and flames engulfed her. She felt as if she stood with one foot in memory and the other reality, but could not lose herself to either. She huddled next to the huge bed on the floor, unable to move.
The ceiling had caved in, a large timber had fallen across the bed, but thankfully, the bed had not collapsed entirely. The beam trapped her leg, but she was still alive. She moaned, fighting to shove the timber off of her, but it was too massive. She coughed violently, knowing the fire would kill her. Where was her mother?
She shook her head. Her mother was dead and she was no longer a child. She had to defeat this terror; she had to fight for her life. She again battled to free herself and screamed in impotent rage. The timber wouldn’t budge.
“Lia!” a deep voice called.
Her heart hesitated in her chest and she looked up, blinking, certain the smoke and flames had made her hallucinate. A heavily cowled figure stepped from the shadows, uncaring of the flames.
“R-Ronan?”
He dropped to his knees beside her. “Thank God,” he murmured and pulled her into his arms. “I feared ye dead.”
She buried her face against his massive chest, realizing his cloak was soaking wet. He closed the folds around her and she found it much easier to breathe.
“Are ye injured?”
“I-I don’t think so.” Damnation, she had to regain her wits or they would both die. “I’m stuck.”