by Ruth Kaufman
Thick clouds blackened the night, and Ronan was grateful for them. The moon was full, but because of the clouds, he and the band of six men he led would not be seen. He and his brother had handpicked these men, included among them Connell, Robert, and Lachlan. Silently they stalked, gliding like black shadows, working their way closer to a particular fortified tower house in the Lowlands.
Aidan crept next to him. “Gordy sabotaged the postern. We should be able tae enter.”
Ronan nodded, making a chirping noise between his teeth. Again the black shadows moved.
As promised, the postern was unlocked. They gained entry and spread out, each taking a different path to the same goal, le March’s solar.
Ronan moved silently to the opposite side of the tower and looked up. Although Scottish tower houses were designed with war in mind, many times the laird commissioning the building would also take the opportunity to show off his wealth and power by designing certain areas for luxury instead. Ronan’s gaze searched the black wall in the darkness. At the top floor, he spotted what he was looking for. While most of the windows were actually archer loopholes and too narrow for a man to squeeze through, the windows on the top floor were wider and had an expensive, milky-white glass in them. That was the weakness, that’s where he and Aidan would enter.
Ronan tapped Aidan on the shoulder and pointed. Aidan looked up, squinting a bit, then looked at Ronan as if he had lost his mind.
Ronan barely bit back a laugh at his expression.
Sighing heavily, Aidan freed a rope with a grappling hook that he had tied to his belt. He swung it, and it made a strange humming noise as it picked up momentum. Ronan glanced around worriedly. Surely a guard would hear that.
But the bailey remained quiet, and within moments, Aidan released the hook and sent it upward. It struck the roof with a tiny clink and slid downward, catching on the edge of the roof. Aidan tested its hold with his weight, nodded in approval, and handed the rope to Ronan. Ronan also tested it and nodded.
As quick as lightning, Ronan ascended, his feet braced against the wall and climbing hand over hand. But for the first time, true fear pounded through his being. If he should have another attack at this moment, there would be nothing his brother could do to stop his fall. Ronan gritted his teeth and forced the thought away. He couldn’t worry about that now, especially not here. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Aidan following him.
Ronan’s shoulders and arms screamed at him, but he finally reached the top window. Not wanting to break it and raise even more cacophony, he drew his dagger and slid the blade in between the window frame and the support beam on the side. With a slight move of his dagger, the latch lifted. Ronan put his dagger away as he pushed through the window and entered. Aidan scrambled up the rope right behind him.
He found the door to the solar and peered at it closely. It was locked with one of the newer key locks. Ronan ground his teeth—this he did not need.
Aidan stepped forward and shouldered Ronan away, his lock pick tools in hand. As Aidan worked, the rest of Ronan’s men silently gathered before the door.
Ronan grinned as within three heartbeats, he heard a telling click and Aidan opened the door.
They entered, surrounding the bed. Fortunately, le March slept alone this night.
Ronan moved with decisive speed and clamped his hand over le March’s mouth. The man’s eyes flew open in terror.
“Ye called down the thunder. Now there’s the devil tae pay,” Ronan growled. He clouted the man on the head, knocking him unconscious. In moments, they had him bound and gagged with a bag over his head. Ronan stepped back, listening intently for guards, for an alert to sound, but nothing reached him. The occupants of the castle slept on, the minimal guard on duty unaware of their presence.
Leaving through the main door of the tower, they departed with their stolen prize. Well away from the tower house, le March finally recovered consciousness. He squirmed and whimpered on the back of Ronan’s horse.
“Be silent, ye coward,” Ronan snapped. “Yer men canna hear ye.” He paused. “Ye willna die by my hand, but mark my words, ye will answer for what ye did tae my lassie . . . and tae me.”
Dawn was not far away, but once again Ronan crept through the narrow crack leading to the prison. He hauled le March with him and had to knock the man unconscious again to get him through. Fortunately, Aidan helped him, otherwise it would have taken him all night.
“Good God,” Aidan muttered between clenched teeth. “What is that stench?”
“Ye dinna want tae ken.”
Ronan pulled himself up and out of the crack. Fortunately, this area of the prison seemed empty, and there were no guards. Ronan hauled le March out of the hole and Aidan quickly followed. They dragged him to the same cell that had housed Ronan then Lia. Within moments, they had the manacles locked around his wrists. Ronan saw le March’s signet ring on his finger and pulled it off. He lifted the bag covering le March’s head, checked the gag, and secured the bag again.
“One more thing, and we can move tae the yard.”
Aidan nodded and followed Ronan out of the cell.
Ronan reached a room and opened a door. He lit a single guttering candle. Still heavily cloaked, he stepped to the desk and found several sheets of vellum. He located the one he wanted then picked up the quill and uncovered the inkwell.
He wrote carefully, sanding the ink so it would dry. Then he lifted the golden signet ring and found the sealing wax. Using the candle, he heated the wax and watched it splash like drops of blood on the vellum. He placed the signet ring in the cooling wax.
A voice muttering in the hall reached him. Ronan extinguished the candle and returned it to its place, he and Aidan fading silently into the shadows.
Dawn arrived, and Aidan left Ronan hidden in the yard. He made his way back down to the prison; not even a whisper of air evidenced his passage through the dark corridors. Activity was increasing as the occupants roused themselves, but the shadows of the murky dungeon hid him well. He arrived in the area where they had left le March. As Aidan stared at the cell where they had tortured his brother, a white-hot fury grew in strength within him. But he forced it down. Today they would see justice done, and the English would execute it for them.
A whining voice reached him and he slowed his breathing, stepping deeper into the shadow. A small, balding man stood before two giant guards, a piece of vellum clutched in his stubby fingers. Aidan focused on the man’s face, watching his lips move, determined to understand his words.
“The new earl has arrived and is livid le March isn’t here to greet him,” the balding man said. He waved the vellum in the air. “Le March decided to go back to England but he left us a gift. He discovered the man responsible for freeing the English wench and left him in the same cell that housed her and the Scottish Demon. These orders bear his seal, and, by God, we will honor them. I don’t care what the earl says.”
“I take it he is to be hanged today?” one guard asked.
“Aye,” the balding man said, nodding. “But le March vowed he would not see his death coming, so we are to leave the bag on his head. He was forced to cut out the man’s tongue to keep him silent, so we are to ignore his nonsensical wailing.”
“People gather in the yard,” the guard said. “They await a good hanging; we should not disappoint them.”
“Now you have it aright. Bring him to the gallows.”
“Aye, my lord.”
Aidan stepped back and grinned. Within moments, the two guards had fetched le March from the cell and dragged him out. He battled them, screaming, but because of the gag, they could not understand his words. Aidan’s grin grew and he silently followed them.
Ronan watched the people gather around the gallows from his hidden vantage point. A few minutes later, two guards emerged dragging a struggling man with a bag over his head to the gallows. The crowd jeered and pelted him with rotten food. Ronan wished he could enjoy the irony of it all, but knowing how close it ha
d come to that being him, or Lia . . . he shivered violently and pulled his cloak tighter around himself.
“Ronan,” Aidan’s voice whispered softly. “Everything proceeds as planned.”
Ronan nodded. “Fetch the men and horses,” he said. “When I leave, we will need tae move fast.”
Aidan grinned at him. “I dinna believe we’ll have tae move as quickly as ye think. Ye will terrify them.”
Ronan returned his grin. “We shall see.”
Aidan disappeared and Ronan’s attention turned back to the yard.
The Demon Laird! a voice whispered in his memory. For some reason, the memory of the young lass lying so still at the base of the stairs with blood on her face intruded over his vision.
Ronan closed his eyes and shivered.
You have an illness, Lia’s voice countered.
An illness for which there was no cure, but Lia had been right there as well. With her help, he had learned to manage it, he had learned to live a normal life. He had vowed to defeat it, but it was also a part of him, and he accepted that.
He opened his eyes again, watching the happenings in the yard intently.
They hauled le March onto the gallows and forced him to stand on a tall box. The hooded executioner tightened the noose around his neck.
You are mine!
Ronan opened his hands and stared at the white scars covering his wrists. He felt the resonating echoes of each scar on his body, he knew which one he bore due to whip, knife, or hot iron with perfect clarity.
“Vous êtes si belle pour moi,” Lia had said. You are so beautiful to me.
Ronan knew at that moment that if she saw beauty within him, it was because together they had defeated the demon residing in his soul. Slowly, Ronan lifted his head.
The hangman moved behind le March and the crowd fell silent. Suddenly, he kicked the box out from under le March’s feet. Le March’s body dropped like a stone and the noose tightened, snapping his neck instantly.
You will never be free!
Ronan drew a deep breath into his lungs, his heart pounding against his ribs. For the barest instant, terror raged within him that even with le March’s death he would remain a prisoner . . . a prisoner of his own fear and hatred.
It lied then just like it’s lying to you now, Lia’s voice whispered.
Le March’s mocking voice dissolved into nothing like ash in the wind. A huge weight suddenly slid from Ronan’s shoulders and he straightened his spine. He closed his eyes and thanked the Almighty for his Sassenach healer.
He remembered his belief, that the finely made claymore he wielded was the soul of Clan MacGrigor. He suddenly realized it wasn’t.
He was.
He, along with the members of his clan. Those who laughed with him, cried with him, even those who had feared him. All of them wove together like a brilliant tapestry which resided in his heart. Nay, the claymore was not the soul of Clan MacGrigor; the glittering steel had simply reflected it.
Le March’s body twitched several times before finally falling still. The crowd cheered wildly. Ronan stepped forward a little more, continuing to watch as they cut the body down. One guard started to remove the bag.
Now, Ronan thought. He scrambled from his hiding spot and up the wall to the battlements. While he did not know this keep as well as his own, he had prowled the walls last night and devised his plan.
The guard removed the bag completely and a stunned silence descended.
A woman screamed.
“Le March!” another voice cried. “We’ve killed the baron!”
Ronan reached the top of the embattlements and looked back.
I believe in you.
All he had suffered, all he had overcome, he now understood. Le March was no longer a threat to him, his family, or his clan. Now he could truly look forward to becoming a husband, and perhaps even a father. Ronan’s deep laugh echoed through the yard.
All eyes turned to him, as he stood, his cloak wrapped around him. His laughter grew in strength.
“The Demon Laird!” someone shouted.
The new earl gazed at the body of his predecessor, then he looked up at Ronan in terror, his face turning a ghastly shade of gray. More screams resounded until everyone in the yard was in a panic.
Out of the corner of his eye, Ronan saw two enterprising guards move toward him. With a flare of his cloak, he vaulted over the side of the wall, and using cracks in the mortar and carved decorations, he scrambled down to where his brother and men waited with the horses.
He was already in the saddle as the guards achieved their vantage point. They stared at him in fear; one crossed himself. In their eyes, there was no way down the massive wall without a rope. It appeared as if he had disappeared over the edge and had gained his horse without injury in an impossible jump.
Ronan laughed again and spurred his stallion away. As he, along with Aidan and his men, galloped down the white ribbon of winding road, their horses’ hooves kicking up dust, Ronan balanced over his mount’s withers and lifted his face to the sun. He was a free man.
The Demon Laird was a part of him and always would be. He no longer feared what he was but now embraced what he could become. He was laird of Clan MacGrigor. In the face of Longshanks’s fury, he would protect what was his; he would fight for all he held dear.
Aidan pulled alongside. Ronan grinned at him, asked his horse for more speed, surging ahead slightly. Aidan arched an eyebrow as he studied his brother.
Ronan’s grin grew. “Bloody codswallop,” he barked then urged his horse faster.
Aidan cursed. “Ye sorry cur!” He drove his spurs into his mount’s sides. His horse flattened itself and ran for all it was worth, only a pace behind.
Ronan laughed and gave his mount his head. The race was on.
Epilogue
May 1304
Glen Gyle, Clan MacGrigor
Scottish Highlands
Lia, now fully recovered, heard the cry of the sentry and her nerves jumped. The wedding guests were finally arriving for the ceremony tomorrow. Butterflies rioted in her stomach, but she was grateful for Sueta, Alba, and Marta’s assistance. She never would have everything prepared in time if it had not been for their help.
“Alba, where is the whiskey?”
“Already on the table, milady.”
“And the bread . . . the cheese?”
“Peace, Lia,” Sueta said, gripping her arm, but she was smiling. “You are making yourself frantic.”
“Forgive me,” she said, ducking her head. “But what if they don’t approve of Ronan marrying me? I’m not nobility.”
“Ye will be when ye two are wed,” Alba said.
Lia looked at her in confusion.
“Child, peace,” Sueta said. “Your betrothed invited them for a reason, to join your celebration.”
Lia tried to take comfort in Sueta’s words. But she scowled, realizing she did not hear horses entering the bailey. She walked to the open door of the keep, wondering what the problem was.
On the top of the battlements of the barbican, wearing his cloak with the cowl pulled low, stood the Demon Laird with his arms folded over his chest.
Through the open gates, Lia saw three lairds and their families along with their retinues staring up at him, too fearful to enter.
Lia’s eyes widened in disbelief. She fisted her skirts, charged down the stairs of the keep, and strode into the bailey. “Ronan MacGrigor,” she barked. “Stop terrorizing the wedding guests!”
Ronan looked at her over his shoulder and shot her a bright grin. He leapt from the embrasures, and in a blink of an eye, jumped to the bailey side of the wall walk. He scrambled down the side of the wall as easily as descending a ladder, except there was none. No matter how many times she had seen him climb down the same exact way her heart still pounded in fear. She covered her face with her hands, fighting to steady her nerves.
“There, there, child,” Sueta said, patting her shoulder. Lia looked at her as Sueta offered h
er staff. “I’ve found this quite helpful in dealing with your betrothed, if you wish to borrow it.”
To Lia’s left, she heard someone laughing outrageously. She glanced over and saw Aidan laughing so hard he had to grab Connell’s shoulder to remain standing. Her worry and frustration eased as she felt her lips twitch.
“Cease encouraging him.”
Aidan lifted his hands but couldn’t stop laughing. “Forgive me, lassie. But dinna ye see the expression on their faces?”
She looked to the heavens seeking patience. “If you both continue, we shall have no guests at all.”
“I believe they kenned what they were in for when they accepted the invitation,” Ronan’s deep voice rumbled as he approached. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her tight against his side.
Lia bit back her own laugh when he hesitated and eyed Sueta’s staff nervously.
“I think I know what Sueta is giving me for a wedding gift.” She giggled as Sueta cackled gleefully.
“I shall leave you to greet your guests properly.” Still chuckling her mirth, Sueta moved toward the keep.
Lia glanced over her shoulder. The guests had finally found the courage to enter the barbican. There would be others arriving later. No doubt she would have to keep a close eye on her betrothed.
“I try yer patience,” Ronan murmured, gazing down at her, his steel-gray eyes sparkling with the fire she so loved.
“Aye,” she said, mimicking his brogue. “But I would have ye no other way.” She reached up and brushed his cheek, noting the dark scar that had cut across it had faded to a thin white line and was now lost in the smile lines of his face. What she enjoyed seeing even more was that he was indeed smiling at her. Her hand slid to the hood of his cloak, and she attempted to tug it off.
Ronan caught her hand and stopped her. “Wait.” To her surprise, he pulled it even farther over his face as he lowered his head and touched his lips to hers, the cowl now shielding his kiss from their visitors. His kiss grew more impassioned, and Lia never wanted it to end. But the sound of approaching horses caused him to pull away.