For two hours they rode until they reached the borderlands where they would have to change their tactic slightly. The men all changed from their uniforms that gave them passage through England into the roughshod clothing that would allow them to travel through Scotland with only mild suspicion.
William Forrester came to the front to ride alongside Bolton. He had the best false Scottish accent of the crew and would be their spokesman. It always made Bolton laugh to hear that accent coming from his mouth, but here and now it would give them a freedom otherwise denied.
With their cover story ready, they charged through the lowlands of Scotland for a few hours, noticed only when they passed through two small villages. Claiming to be the McFries clan returning from battle, they were fairly ignored.
They wound around Edinburgh, still passing through only a few small villages and decided to rest afterwards.
“Eat up, men!” Morgan ordered, walking through the crowd of them. He himself was unsure if he wanted food but knew it would do him good to keep up his strength.
In the pit of his stomach, his anger was the only thing keeping him going thus far.
Not only had those clansmen taken Georgina but her father was even weakening, telling Bolton to be patient, and that if Georgina never returned, he would have to accept it.
He would never accept it. She was his, fair and square. They had a deal and now she and her lousy father were backing out. It simply wasn’t done. Not to Bolton. He was unaccustomed to that sort of disappointment and he had no intention of learning to handle it.
An hour passed, longer than Bolton liked to stay in one spot, although these lands seemed fairly abandoned. Finally, he rallied the troops and they prepared to push forward.
They were maybe six hours away if they rode hard enough. But it was better to allow the horses a decent chance at keeping up with the battle, so Bolton decided a slightly slower pace would be a better tactic.
What mattered most was that they arrive unsuspected.
“Oh, Fiona! It is from him! It is from my father!” Georgina said excitedly. She had been desperate for another letter from him, any kind of response to what she had said in hers.
Anxiously, she ripped open the paper.
My dear Georgina,
You must understand the difficult position you have put me in. Bolton and I had struck a deal. I know it was not what you wished for, but I made the decision for your betterment. Being wed to a man like Bolton would have given you great opportunities in life.
I cannot say that I understand or support your decision to stay with the Laird, but I must say that I have been rather unhappy with what I have seen of Bolton’s behavior of late. Perhaps I was wrong to wish the two of you together, after all.
Remember who you are, Georgina. You are not one of those feral Scotsmen. You are my daughter, you are English, a proper young lady. I would hate to see what they might turn you into up there.
I know this is not what you wished for me to say but as your only parent, I have to look out for you and decide what is best. This is what is best. Come home.
I will not force you into a marriage with Bolton, not now, not after how I have seen him behave since your departure. But I wish to see you live a proper life, the kind befitting a woman of your station. And that cannot be found in Scotland.
Your loving father
Georgina sighed. It was not what she hoped but it was exactly what she had expected. She was no longer a proper British woman and she didn’t know how to make her father see that.
She had become so much more than all of that.
Nevertheless, she held the letter and read it a few more times, hoping some miraculous invisible words would jump off the page declaring his support of her desire to live in Scotland. She hoped he would acknowledge they were not savages.
But the words did not jump at her.
“Are ye well?” Fiona asked after a few moments of silence.
“I suppose. I should not have expected anything more than this. He is doing what he believes to be right and best for me. He has no idea how wrong he is about it, or how much more I am than just a doll to be traded for anyone to play with,” Georgina said with an edge to her voice.
“Dinnae worry, lass. Ye have the rest of yer life for him to come around. It isnae going tae happen in an instant but over time, ye will have all the freedom ye desire,” Fiona encouraged.
“I can only hope,” she said.
“In the meantime, we had best ready ourselves and the other women in the castle. We dinnae ken exactly when the army will arrive. Duncan is on the lookout, he’s our best watchman. But we’ve got tae be ready before that arse shows up,” Fiona said.
Georgina nodded sullenly, still bothered by the news Marcas had told her that morning about the battle and followed her to the hidden catacomb that offered protection and escape. A few dozen other women were already there, waiting, and Georgina and Fiona made up the last.
“So, we really must just stay here and wait?” Georgina asked, feeling terribly bored already.
“Yes, it’s awful. Ye never ken what's happening above. I mean, I've only lived through one other battle taking place at Carnarvan, but I can tell ye it was boring as anything. All I wanted tae do was jump out and fight with me brothers.
“Of course, I was only about thirteen at the time so that would have been a terrible choice. But the thought of fighting on behalf of me clan was far more enticing than being trapped down here in this hole,” Fiona replied.
“Dearie, ye ken it’s for yer own protection,” said an older woman that Georgina had seen in the castle a few times before. Her tone told them to shush and stop risking their hideaway.
“I ken, Mab, but not all of us are cowards who want tae hide all the time. Some of us are brave and cannae show it on the count of being women and having a couple of tough, battle-ready brothers.”
Georgina allowed her thoughts to travel to one of those brothers and the way he moved against her the night before. She missed the feel of him already, missed the way he smelled, the sound of his voice when he was filled with desire.
She would give anything to be with him right now.
But Georgina knew that he was off away, preparing to fight the man he helped to save her from. This was really all her own fault. It was because of Georgina’s petulance that her father was disappointed in her, that the clan was risking their lives in battle.
And still she wondered, would Conall be willing to hand her over easily? She had jilted him, and his duty was to his clan, not to her.
It was terrible to consider but it was also an absolutely possibility. Conall had a job to do and it did not include protecting Georgina.
Marcas would never allow her to be handed over easily, but what choice would he have? If Conall said the word, the clan members would obey.
Georgina’s eyes gazed down the tunnel and she began to wonder. Should she start walking? Should she try for a safety beyond the protection she was currently being offered? A protection that could easily be stripped from her the instant Bolton appeared?
The blackness ahead did not look inviting. There was no telling what might lie ahead, but there was also no telling what was coming behind.
“Fiona…”
“Aye?”
“I think I need to go.”
“Lass! Ye cannae do that! What are ye thinking?” Fiona exclaimed.
“Do you really think Conall won’t be willing to trade me if it means keeping the clan safe?” she asked.
Fiona was quiet, considering this possibility.
Georgina looked at the black tunnel, knowing a choice had to be made.
Chapter 33
Duncan, the soldier Conall had chosen as lookout, saw the English from a great distance. It had to be them, the size of the army confirmed it. He hopped on his horse and cantered quickly to close the gap between him and the castle.
Conall and his men were ready to get into formation at his word. As soon as he saw Duncan, Conall turned and gave
the command to his army and they got into place.
“Me Laird, I’d say there are around three hundred. They are dressed like us, probably hoping to avoid suspicion. But I ken it’s them. None of the nearby clans are going to battle that I’m aware of, and there’s no other reason for a group this size to be on the move,” Duncan reported.
“Thank ye. We are ready. Join the archers,” Conall ordered.
Duncan rode back and left his horse in the stable, then quickly made his way up to the turret and into his place beside Marcas and Alpin.
“How’s it going, lads?”
“Right well, Duncan. Tell us, what are we expecting?” Marcas asked. Duncan relayed what he had seen and Marcas nodded. It was exactly what he had expected.
“I’m thinking it’s not going tae be the longest battle. There’s not a whole lot of men on either side. But we’re on our own turf. That means Bolton has a few unexpected surprises in store,” Marcas said.
He thought of the well-disguised pit the English would have to come through and, indeed, in that instant, he heard a loud crack coming from just beyond the clearing where they would soon see the remaining soldiers.
The pit had enough branches laying across it to cover it with plenty of flora and make it look like the forest floor. It was a fairly small forest but dense enough to hide the little details. Marcas guessed the pit had taken out at least thirty men.
Before long, the rest began to emerge from the trees, finally exposed to them.
The English, aware of their position shouted their attack and it was then that they began to realize that it had not been the surprise they had anticipated.
The small but strong army of the McGowan clan was ready for them.
The first waves of each side clashed together with their swords. Marcas could see them slicing at one another but he looked away to prepare arrow after arrow and shoot at any target he could see coming at one of his own men.
Frustrated by their use of native clothing, Marcas saw that the English had each tied a red strip of cloth around their left arm to help them identify one another. That was the key - aim for the chests belonging to the red strips of cloth and nothing else.
He watched the arrows take out dozens of men. The English archers did not have their benefit of a rise and while they aimed at the Scottish archers, most of the arrows snapped against the turret.
It was perfectly clear that the Scotsmen had every advantage and the English were gravely underprepared. Marcas smiled at their weakness and it caused his own pride to swell. He confidently took out swordsmen all over the front and then aimed at some of the archers as well.
The clan had lost a handful of men, but the English numbers were dwindling swiftly. It was hardly even a battle.
But Marcas began to wonder. He had assumed Bolton would come in first, before the attack, to try to convince Conall to trade Georgina. So why hadn't he? Was there another plan at work?
He looked into the field, stopping his arrows for a moment. He could not see Bolton anywhere. Conall was gone as well. Something was amiss.
It was his duty to remain and guide the archers but Marcas’ heart was torn at the unknown whereabouts of his brother and his greatest enemy.
“Alpin!” he shouted.
“Aye!”
“Do ye see Bolton?”
“I dinnae. I was looking for him, too. I wanted to be the one that killed the blighter who murdered me family. But he's nowhere, Marcas,” Alpin said.
“And Conall?” Marcas asked.
“I dinnae see him either. Marcas, what are ye thinking? Why dinnae ye go and try tae find them?”
“I cannae leave the turret,” Marcas declared.
“Ye have tae. It’s for the sake of yer brother, isnae it?” Alpin asked. Both men knew that Georgina was his concern, but he did have to find the Laird as well.
“Right men! Follow Alpin!” he shouted, ducking himself away, grabbing his sword and descending the stairs quickly. He had to find Bolton and Conall. He had to see if they were striking a deal over Georgina.
Marcas made his way down to the catacomb. It was not a short distance, but his eager legs pulsated with the effort at a quick descent.
Finally, he reached the entrance. It was still blocked. It was unseen. That was a good sign. It mean that no one had come this far yet. It meant that Conall and Bolton hadn’t been here.
Leaving the terrible question of where it meant they might be, Marcas made his way back up the stairs and to the entrance of the castle. He was quiet, listening, uncertain.
Seemingly out of nowhere, a blade shot at him, jabbed forward by one of the English army. The man was thin with rat-like teeth and hatred in his eyes.
Marcas dodged the blade and thrust his own toward the man. He also missed and the two danced in their quest to spill one another's blood.
With a solid effort, Marcas spun the hilt and swiftly sliced the man across the chest. He stumbled back as Marcas continued towards him, ready to strike.
But the man was faster than anticipated and struck back unexpectedly, stabbing Marcas through his left bicep. The shock of it stunned Marcas long enough for the man to raise his foot against Marcas’ chest as leverage to pull the blade back out, leaving Marcas a bloody mess.
Adrenaline pumped through his veins, numbing what would certainly later be an agony and he reengaged in the battle, one armed. Marcas knew that he was too disabled to win the fight but there was nothing else he could do.
Finally, from the corner of his eyes he saw Conall’s form sneaking into the foyer behind the Brit. With one blow, the fight was over and Marcas was safe.
“Thank ye, I’d hate to have seen where I’d be had ye not come,” Marcas said, the adrenaline waning and causing his arm to ache worse than any injury he had ever sustained.
“It’s nae problem. I cannae have ye being mortally wounded this time. But damn, ye had best get some more training. I’m sick of seeing ye getting injured all the time. Ye cannae prevent it?” Conall teased.
Prior to the recent battles, Marcas had generally been fairly decent with his defense. Lately he had been slacking, distracted. He needed to get himself back on track and power through.
“Have ye seen Bolton?” he asked, remembering the other reason he had been searching for his brother.
“Aye. That’s why I came in. I saw him creeping around the back and I figured he was trying to look for yer lassie. There’s no chance he can get through all of Carnarvan in the time it will take us to knock off the rest of the buggers out there. I dinnae ken what he was thinking,” Conall said and laughed.
“Most likely he's heading up to the tower. Probably thinking we'll have hidden her the farthest possible spot. I already checked the catacomb and he isnae there. I say the tower is our best bet,” Marcas decided.
“Lead on, brother,” Conall said.
They began to ascend the stairs quietly, keeping an eye on each floor for any sign of the bastard on their way up. The castle was quiet, with everyone either hidden in the catacomb or fighting in the battle.
Before long, they reached the landing that housed a small, winding staircase to the tower.
“After ye?” Marcas offered to his brother with a quiet laugh.
“Not a chance, she’s yer lass. Ye can be the knight this time, the one that rescues her,” Conall said.
Marcas smiled at the thought. He climbed the stairs with Conall closely behind. When they reached the top and entered the tower, the room was empty.
“Where is that dirty bugger?” Conall asked with irritation.
“It doesnae make any sense. He cannae have disappeared,” Marcas replied.
They began to make their way back down when they realized.
Blocking their passage to the landing stood Bolton and four of his fiercest fighters.
They must have hidden while the brothers were ascending, waiting to trap them and block off any escape route.
“Are ye kidding me?” Marcas asked. “What a load of rubbis
h!”
He and Conall looked at one another. It was an effective strategy, blocking them, but they were confident that they could normally take out the five men easily. It would have been humorous if it weren't for the fact that Marcas could use only one arm.
Marcas charged first, coming to blows with the largest of the men. He was ill equipped to do so at the moment, but it was better than trying for the smallest and having this man come at him from behind. As the others made for Conall, the Laird took a quick strike at the large man, through his back.
The brute slumped in front of Marcas just as the others began to have at Conall.
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