by Ruth Kaufman
Lia wanted to scream, her heart in her throat. She had seen Ronan’s practice with the claymore. His fighting style was so very different than the one she had just witnessed Aidan perform. Ronan saw the laird charging toward him. He set his feet and brought his claymore on guard.
Lia’s thoughts scrambled until she remembered Ronan’s words. The Scottish claymore was designed for a man on foot to defend against a mounted attacker. MacFarlane was playing to Ronan’s strengths.
But that didn’t stop the terror raging within her as MacFarlane closed the distance. He lifted his bastard sword and bellowed his battle cry.
The Demon Laird answered.
Ronan took one step to the side, his movement balanced and controlled. With his own bellow, he launched the claymore outward, using his great reach and that of the weapon’s to his advantage. The claymore batted the bastard sword out of its path. Its weight descended and Ronan threw his massive power into the strike. The claymore cleaved through armor and smashed into MacFarlane’s chest. Blood erupted as MacFarlane toppled from his horse.
The Demon Laird strode to the prone man and he lifted his claymore a second time.
Ronan’s horse squealed and vaulted sideways. Lia turned her attention to him, but suddenly she felt as if she slammed into an unseen wall. The force of it knocked her from the stallion’s back, and she hit the ground hard.
She couldn’t suck air into her lungs and agony radiated in her right side. She looked at herself and horror clawed at her mind when she saw an arrow protruding from her body. She choked on the blood in her mouth. Her vision blurred, but she looked to the castle and saw archers on the walls. She had no idea she had been within bowshot. Men mounted on horses streamed from the gates. She looked for Ronan and found him.
His back to her, he hefted MacFarlane’s head and held it for all to see. “MacGrigor!” he thundered.
Her hand reached for him, even though he was so very far away. “Ronan,” she gasped, but her voice was nothing more than a tiny whisper. Her hand dropped to the ground and her consciousness mercifully abandoned her.
Chapter Twenty-One
Ronan held his grisly trophy aloft and grinned as the remaining men ran in terror before the Demon Laird.
“MacGrigor!” his men bellowed in response, raising their swords in victory.
The scream of his stallion sent a chill of dread through Ronan. He spun around and saw the animal rearing, pawing the air, its saddle empty.
What—?
Then his gaze found Lia lying on the ground, an arrow embedded in her body. She was so very still.
“Nay,” he whispered, dropping MacFarlane’s head. His feet started toward her. One step, two. “Nay!” His feet moved faster, three steps, four. “Nay! Lia!” he screamed. He hit full stride and closed the distance in a heartbeat.
He slid to his knees beside her. She still breathed, thank the Lord, but he stared at the arrow and the blood. “Nay, Lia! Please, Christ Almighty, nay!” For a moment, he was afraid to touch her, but his shaking hand reached for her. He caressed her face, smoothing the hair from her brow. “Lia, my sweet, bonny lass,” he whispered.
Aidan stopped beside him and his men gathered, Connell and the others dismounting. “Ronan, the baron sends men from the castle. We need tae leave now!” He saw Lia. “Oh, Sweet Jesu.”
Ronan wanted to scream his agony. He wanted to hold Lia and beg the Lord to keep her with him. Then Lia’s voice whispered through his thoughts.
Be calm. Think. Your mind is your greatest weapon.
He had to remove the arrow. “Aidan, I need yer help.”
“Ronan, the baron’s men are coming.”
“Aidan, now! Or she will die.” He carefully turned Lia on her side. The arrow barb had gone through. Thank God it was not embedded.
Aidan leapt from his horse and knelt beside Lia. “What do ye want me tae do?”
“I’ll hold the shaft; I need ye tae snap it.” Ronan gripped the arrow close to Lia’s body, her blood soaking his hand.
Aidan’s hand closed on the shaft. “Ready?”
“Aye.”
He snapped it easily and Ronan withdrew the remainder.
“Connell, ye have yer flask?”
“Aye,” Connell said and handed it to Ronan, but his expression conveyed his confusion.
Ronan tore Lia’s dress to give him more room to work, and he removed as much of the cloth from the wound as he could. He poured the whiskey onto the wound. Lia’s muscles clenched and she groaned. He looked up, hoping she would awaken, but she didn’t. He did the same to the exit wound on her back, and then began ripping strips from his tunic.
“Ronan, the baron’s men are closing fast.”
“Help me sit her up, I have tae bind the wound.” He soaked the strips he had torn in whiskey as well.
“Ronan—”
“Help me!”
Aidan did so and Ronan bound Lia’s wound as tightly as he dared.
“Five hundred paces,” Connell said, looking over his shoulder. He drew his sword.
“Get tae yer mounts,” Ronan said and rose, lifting Lia in his arms. “Aidan, I just need yer help.”
“Aye, brother,” he said, taking Lia from Ronan.
“Four hundred paces,” Connell said as he swung up on his horse.
Ronan grabbed the reins of his horse. The animal calmed and shoved his head into Ronan’s chest as if to apologize. “The fault does not lie with ye,” Ronan muttered as he vaulted into the saddle. “But I fear I must ask a boon of ye.” He reached out and Aidan placed Lia into his arms. “I must ask ye tae run harder and faster than ever before.”
“Two hundred paces!” Connell barked.
“Go!” Ronan snarled and drove his spurs into the stallion’s side.
The animal squealed, shifted its weight to his haunches, and lunged forward with a strength that snapped Ronan back and forced him to grab the animal’s mane.
Ronan had never been more proud, nor as grateful to a mount, as he was of his war stallion. The animal, even burdened with two, had threatened to outpace the mounts surrounding him. Fury slid to a stop in Ronan’s keep and screamed his challenge, as if calling every able body to assist their laird. Ronan dismounted and looked at the horse.
“Thank you, my friend.”
The stallion nickered softly as a page grabbed his reins.
“Cool him down and give him extra oats,” Ronan said, cradling his precious burden close. “He’s earned them.”
The page’s gaze fell on Lia in Ronan’s arms. “Nay,” he whispered. “Not milady.”
“What is this?” a voice screeched from the bailey. “What have you done to my charge?”
Ronan’s head snapped around and he saw an old woman, as old as the hills, moving forward, leaning heavily on her staff. She lifted her gaze and Ronan saw tears in her green eyes. “Lia, what happened to you?”
Ronan could not explain how he knew, but he did. “Sueta.”
Sueta shuffled toward him. She stopped, staring at Lia in his arms. Her gnarled hand reached out and traced gently over Lia’s brow. “My dear child,” she whispered. “What has become of you?”
Ronan’s heart soared. If anyone could save Lia, it was the woman who had taught her. He discovered himself shaking violently. “Sueta, what has brought you here?”
“I heard tell the Laird MacGrigor planned a wedding. That a Sassenach healer healed you heart and soul. Although Lia believes me too frail to travel, her wedding is one thing I would not miss. But on my way here, I also heard tell the moment she fell into English hands.” She paused and glared up at him. “I heard how you doubted her love. It is your fault she was harmed. If you did not hold her in your arms, I’d beat you within an inch of your life for this.”
Ronan placed Lia carefully on the bed in his solar then stood back as Sueta and servants swarmed around her. His heart rejoiced that Sueta was here, but as he looked at Lia’s pallid face, his hopes crashed. She was dying.
Sueta cut awa
y the strips binding Lia’s wound, but she paused and peered at them closely. “Who has done this?” she asked.
“I did,” Ronan said softly. “I saw Lia—” His voice cracked.
Again Ronan watched a gnarled hand reach out to Lia and trace gently over her brow. “My dear girl, have ye discovered something I have not?” She lifted her head and Ronan saw tears streaming down her face. “My blessed child, you have done more than I ever imagined. More than I could ever do.”
Hope blossomed within his soul and Ronan stepped forward. “She will live?”
Sueta rounded on him, hatred in her eyes. “Get out!” she snarled. “My girl gave everything for you, still you doubted her. Get out!” She thumped him on the shoulder with her staff. “If she dies, it will be on your head. Get out!”
Ronan turned for the door and Sueta’s staff thumped him again, this time on the back of his head, close to the wound he had received. Stars exploded in his vision and he staggered, realizing why Lia had been so fearful of him receiving a such a blow.
He tumbled through the doors and straight into Aidan.
“Ho there,” Aidan said as he caught him. “Ronan, what goes?”
“It’s my fault,” Ronan snarled and tore himself away from his brother. “I fear she will die because of me.” He lunged down the stairs, leaving Aidan watching in stunned confusion.
Aidan swallowed hard, summoned his courage, and stepped into the solar. An ancient wench tended to Lia, but the moment the door shut behind him, the old woman rounded on him. “I told you to get out!” she snarled, hefting her staff.
Aidan did not move.
She scowled at him and lowered her staff. “What is this? You be not the MacGrigor.”
Lia groaned and blinked her eyes open. “Ronan?” She focused on Aidan, and he hated being the reason for the disappointment he saw in her eyes.
“Lia?” the old woman said, limping toward her.
“Sueta?” Lia stared at her for a long moment, then smiled, clutching at the old woman’s hand. “Praise be.”
“’Twill be all right, girl,” Sueta said, patting her hand.
“Where’s Ronan?”
Aidan stared at the ground, unable to tell her Ronan blamed himself.
“Oh God, he’s not dead. Please tell me he’s not dead.”
Aidan’s gaze locked on hers. “Dinna fash yerself, lassie. Ronan is alive and uninjured.”
Lia squeezed her eyes closed. “Thank the Lord.” Then she snapped them open again. “Where is he? Why isn’t he here?”
Aidan took a breath to reply as Lia struggled to sit up in bed.
“Nay, Lia,” the old woman said, gently pushing her back down.
“Why isn’t he here? What happened?”
“Lia—”
“Ronan?” she called.
“Be at ease, lass,” Aidan tried.
“Where is he?” She recoiled in pain but drew in a deeper breath. “Ronan?”
“Child, cease.”
“He’s not here. What’s wrong? Why is he not here?” Her hazel eyes were glazed, panic-stricken. She drew another breath only to scream louder. “Ronan!” She clawed her way into a sitting position, even though her face turned dreadfully gray from the effort. “Ronan!”
To Aidan’s horror, she tried to rise from the bed. Her bandages had been removed and fresh blood soaked her side. Too much blood.
Sueta barely managed to stop her. She glared at Aidan. “Bring him here, now.”
“Ronan!” Lia screamed.
Aidan charged out the door knowing he would never forget the sound of Lia’s screams to his dying day.
They searched the keep and grounds for Ronan all night. Only as dawn appeared over the mountains did Lachlan come running. “My lord,” he said, sliding to a stop before Aidan and bowing his head. “I found him.”
Aidan vaulted to his feet. “He is hale?”
“Aye, as far as I can tell it, but something be terribly wrong.”
“What?”
“Come with me, please,” Lachlan said and turned on his heel.
Aidan followed the boy down the stairs and past the kitchen. Lachlan led him to the stairs for the cisterns.
“I thought the other servants checked down here,” Aidan said, knowing Ronan used to work with his claymore in the storage area.
“They did, but I fear there was one door they didna open.” Lachlan turned to his right and lifted the latch on a heavy-banded oak door. The only door with a latch on the outside because it was designed to keep people in, not out.
“The dungeon?” Aidan whispered in disbelief. He followed Lachlan down the stairs.
Lachlan stopped at the base and gestured toward a cell. “He willna talk tae me; perhaps ye will fare better.”
Aidan strode forward, his heart in his throat. He stopped at an iron-barred cell. Ronan sat on the floor, his cloak tight around his shoulders and the cowl pulled low over his face. He braced his back against the wall as he fiddled with one of the manacles on the chains. Ronan snapped it shut then popped it back open.
Aidan stepped into the cell but Ronan did not look up.
Clink . . . snap. Clink . . . snap.
“Ronan, what are ye doin’ man?”
Clink . . . snap. Clink . . . snap.
“Does she live?” Ronan asked his voice unrecognizable.
“Aye she lives, and she’s askin’ for ye.”
Ronan looked up and Aidan saw the tearstains on his face. “Does Sueta ken if she will survive this?”
“I dinna ken. But her fever grows worse. What are ye doing down here?”
Clink . . . snap . . . clink . . . snap.
“The Demon Laird was born in a dungeon pit.”
“What mean ye?”
Clink . . . snap . . . clink . . . snap.
Aidan ground his teeth. “Ye addlepated fool! Canna ye hear Lia calling for ye? She only stopped because she be too weak tae cry out more.”
Clink . . . snap.
“She needs ye like ne’er before, and here ye sit, hidin’ like a coward.”
Ronan’s head snapped up. In an instant, he was on his feet. He grabbed the front of Aidan’s tunic and shoved him against the stone wall of the cell. “I be no coward,” he snarled.
Never had Aidan seen such a look on Ronan’s face. His gray eyes were flat, soulless. Fear cut through Aidan. This was not the brother he knew. This man would end his life in a heartbeat.
“She never feared me . . . but they will.”
“Ronan?” he whispered, his horror growing in strength.
“Warn them,” Ronan growled. “Warn them if she dies, the Demon Laird will come for them. I will see Clans MacFarlane and MacLaren destroyed tae the last, along with any Scot who tries tae stop me. They all said I made a deal with the devil, remember? Well this devil will demand his due in blood. They will pay for what they did tae her.” He shoved Aidan away and stalked out the door.
Ronan ascended the stairs. He knew his sanity was slipping away with each passing heartbeat. It was a strange sensation to know what was happening but be unable to stop it. What was even more curious was that he realized he didn’t care.
He opened the door to his solar and stepped through. His gaze fell on Lia’s pallid features, and suddenly, his apathy wrenched into heartbreaking grief.
She stirred and looked at him. “Ronan,” she whispered and reached for him.
Sueta, sitting at her bedside, said nothing. She rose, and leaning heavily on her staff, she left the room.
“Ye promised,” Ronan whispered shaking violently. “Ye canna leave me. Ye promised I’d never be alone again.”
A tear rolled down her cheek.
Something shattered within Ronan and he lunged to her side. He wrapped her in his arms and held her as tightly as he dared.
“I love you, Ronan,” Lia whispered.
“I love ye too, lassie.”
She reached up and caressed his cheek, then her hand traveled upward where it caught his cowl an
d pushed it back. “Then take that bloody cloak off and stop hiding.”
Hours later, Ronan jerked his head up sharply. He had dozed off in his chair beside the table. His gaze immediately fell on Lia in his bed. She huddled under a single blanket, still shivering with fever chills.
Marta rose from the chair at the bedside. He had moved out of the way so Marta and Sueta could work, trying all they could to help Lia.
“No change,” she whispered.
Ronan nodded. “Where is Sueta?”
“Below stairs, poring over Lia’s journal. She is trying tae understand all that happened here since Lia’s arrival.” Marta studied him a moment, then patted his arm with a surprising show of familiarity. “I will see ye in the morning.”
“Aye.”
“MacGrigor, ye barely dozed an hour. Get some rest tonight.”
“I will try, Marta.”
“I mean this. I see it on yer face, I ken this weighs heavily on yer shoulders, but if ye fall tae an attack, ye will only upset the lass more, and she doesna need that right now.”
He realized he had forgotten to take his medicant again.
Marta seemed to understand his thoughts and gave him a toothless smile. “It’s on the table. The iron heats in the embers. Ye only have tae warm the wine.”
“Thank ye, Marta.”
She nodded again and silently left the room.
Ronan moved to heat the cup of wine and held it for a moment, bracing himself for the foul taste. Damnation, would he ever grow accustomed to it? He downed it and nearly gagged. Nay, it only grew worse. Perhaps that was why he so often forgot to take it. He quickly followed it with another cup of fresh wine to wash away the bitter taste in his mouth.
He sat in the chair Marta had vacated. Picking up a clean cloth from the table next to the bed, he dampened it in water and gently touched it to Lia’s brow.
She groaned softly and opened her eyes, glazed with fever. Ronan swallowed hard; he could not abide seeing her like this, but he could not abandon her either, not when she needed him.
“Ronan,” she whispered.
He quickly set the cloth aside and took her hand. With his free hand, he gently caressed her hair, noting the bruises on her face had gradually turned an awful shade of purple. But at least there were no broken bones, only the arrow wound in her side, which now threatened to end her life.