“I have no choice.” I turned to him, pleading. “You’ve seen what Ian is capable of. If I don’t go out there, what might he do? And I can’t walk that far.”
“He’ll do it anyway,” Alistair said.
“I have to try,” I insisted. “In my situation you would do the same.”
“I’ll come with you, then.”
I shook my head, thinking of Mary upstairs and their pretty, red-headed daughter. “Just help me get on a horse.”
“And once you’re out there, what is your plan then?”
Nothing. “No plan. I’ve had no vision.” That was what he was asking. Was there something I’d not told him that might make this decision less foolish than it appeared? “I have only my life in forfeit. It was me Ian asked for. Perhaps that will be enough.” I could see by Alistair’s sober expression that he didn’t believe that anymore than I did.
I waited near the corner wall as he went to retrieve a horse. The usually busy yard and outbuildings were eerily still today, their occupants in hiding somewhere, waiting anxiously to see what would happen.
I thought of Ian when I had last seen him close up, face to face at the riverbank when he had held a knife to my throat, expecting me to cry out for Collin. So he could murder him as well.
Was I a complete fool to even hope Ian would attempt to save his brother from the English? Or would Ian simply be glad Collin, the obstacle in his quest to be laird, had been removed?
Why am I doing this? I glanced toward the castle doors, knowing there was no turning back now, not when Brann knew I was alive.
Alistair returned with Ian’s black stallion. Seeing the beast brought strange comfort. I had last ridden him with Collin. This was as close to him as I might get.
Alistair helped me climb onto a low wall and from there to Ian’s horse, sitting side-saddle instead of astride, and even that not without a great deal of tears and struggling on my part.
To my dismay, Alistair took the reins. “I’ll go with you to the gate at least,” he said.
“Thank you,” I said, relieved that he would stay with me that long but would not endanger his life more than necessary. His presence was a comfort. I sat upright, as straight as possible, and cradled my arm against my stomach, my balance precarious at best.
We had no words until we reached the gate and waited for the guard to open the small door for us. All else had been secured— the first time I had seen it so since my arrival.
“This isn’t right,” Alistair said suddenly. “What kind of a man sends a lass out to face the enemy?”
“One whom the lass commands to do so,” I replied. With great affection I looked down at him. “Nothing has been right here for a very long time, I think. If I am to shortly meet my grandfather and mother, I should like to be able to tell them that I tried my best to change that.”
Alistair nodded and swiped the back of his sleeve across his eyes. “God bless you, lass.”
“And you.” I reached to take the reins from him and caught the glint of gold in a patch of grass.
“Look.” I pointed. Alistair crouched and combed his fingers through the blades until he came up with a five-guinea coin. One of those I had thrown the morning Collin was taken? Alistair handed it to me, and I clutched it in my hand. It wouldn’t be nearly enough to convince Ian to let me go and leave us in peace, but possibly it might entice him to follow the trail of the English, in search of treasure if not of his twin.
With a last look at Alistair, I entered the narrow corridor between the walls and heard the gate close behind. It took but a minute, and I came to the other side.
Out of the wolf’s den to meet the lion.
Chapter Nineteen
My first glimpse at the long line of men encircling the castle caused my breath to catch in my throat, thick with sudden fear. The reins slackened in my hand, and Ian’s horse paused, as if he, too, did not wish to proceed any farther.
I’d read stories of the bare-skinned, painted natives found in the Colonies, and had wondered if the authors of such articles had, perhaps, exaggerated the truth. The wall of half-naked men with painted faces spread out in front of me made me rethink my skepticism. One does not have to travel across the ocean to see barbarians.
The wild men stood frozen, then began to advance suddenly as one. At a signal from their leader they fanned out in a wide arc, moving steadily and heading straight for me, as if with intent.
For the first time in days fear overcame my pain. I don’t want to die. Neither could I see how I would live. But for Collin I must, a little longer. Long enough to make a plea to Ian.
I pictured Collin in my mind, drawing on his memory for strength. Fourteen years servitude. The Colonies. Was he still in prison somewhere or already on a ship crossing the Atlantic? Is he alive? I hadn’t had the courage to search my mind to see if I might know. But I found courage enough to urge the horse forward, and to beg Ian to seek out his brother.
I plodded across the courtyard, each step an agony of body and soul. The rain continued, soaking through the sheet and my nightgown. Hair plastered to the side of my face and in front of my eyes, partially blocking my view, but I hadn’t a free hand available to push it away.
Where are the English soldiers now? Though the MacDonalds were still far away and my vision clouded, I could see the outline of weapons— swords held high in the air as they advanced. These men had come for war. And at their head— Ian.
Heaven help us. I thought of Eithne and Gavin and prayed that they, and those like them living far from the castle, might somehow be safe.
And those inside... I couldn’t think of that now.
The line of men stopped as suddenly as they had started, and Ian continued on alone. We drew closer to one another, on a path that would have us meet directly. Fear moved from my throat to my stomach, icy fingers of dread that spread as swift as the river’s penetrating cold when Ian had tried to drown me.
The closer we came to one another, the more I could see that something about him was different— wrong. His long hair did not billow behind him as it usually did when he rode, but was bound tight to his head with a blood-soaked bandage.
A patch covered his left eye, reminding me again of a pirate, and his right eye had been blackened, with a wicked cut slicing across his cheekbone. When he stopped his horse beside me, close enough that our legs were nearly touching, I saw that matching, bloodied bandages wrapped around his hands. A fresh scar ran up his arm, with other vicious bruises marring his face to the point that it was nearly unrecognizable.
The Campbells were not to be his first battle since we had parted.
I brought my gaze up to meet the intense look coming from his visible eye, as it scanned me from head to toe. His mouth turned down even more than it had been. “Who is responsible for your injuries?”
“Brann Campbell, but that matters not.”
“The same who sent you out here alone, to beg for your people?”
“I came of my own will. I must tell you of Collin.” Ian had expected me to scream at our last meeting. This time he wished to see me beg. I would, if it would make a difference. I held my hand toward him and uncurled my first, revealing the gold coin. “The English came nearly three weeks ago. They took Collin and intend to put him on a ship bound for the Colonies. They gave our laird a bag of coins like this in exchange. They had many prisoners, purchased as Collin was. It is probable the soldiers carry more gold with them.”
“Put your coin away.” Ian flicked his hand, dismissively. “Your money is no longer of interest to me. I’ve a better prize in mind.” He raised his eyes and looked beyond me toward the keep.
“Please,” I begged. “Collin is your brother. Won’t you go after him?”
“And leave you here alone, with the man who treats you so cruelly.” Ian reached a hand out toward me, and I flinched. His gaze hardened. “What else has he done to you, I wonder?”
“I— I will go with you, and do your bidding, if you will search fo
r Collin.”
“So easily she bargains.” Ian scowled. “And yet she is not in a position to do so.” He lifted a hand in the air and waved those behind him to come forward. “I’ve no reason to leave,” he said. “With a castle and its fair lady here for my taking.”
No. He must not refuse. My fist curled around the leather strap as I fought off the waves of nausea washing over me. “Please, Ian. Your brother—”
“—is no longer a consideration.”
The row of men that had come up behind him parted, opening the way for a new procession, a dozen others who surged forward, hands hoisted near their shoulders, bearing a crudely made casket.
“Your husband,” Ian said. “I have returned him to you.”
Part Two
One for sorrow, two for joy,
Three for a girl, four for a boy.
Five for silver, six for gold,
Seven for a secret that must never be told.
Chapter Twenty
“Shh. Quiet now, lass.” A finger pressed to my cracked lips.
I turned my head toward the voice and tried once more to speak my request. “Water,” I croaked, or attempted to as I blinked in confusion, taking in my room and trying to remember how it was I’d come to be here— again.
Bridget held a cup out to me, her normally steady hand trembling.
An attempt to sit up confirmed the nightmare of the past several days as reality. I lay my head back on the pillow with a groan, feeling as if my insides had been split in two.
“Shh,” she scolded again, in a voice barely above a whisper. “Take care for your bandages. You’re bound up tight.” She helped me lift my head, then brought the shaking cup to my parched lips. I parted them, and she poured her medicinal tea down my throat, heedless that most of the liquid dribbled down my chin.
“There now. Close your eyes again. You don’t want him to know you’re awake. Been in here a dozen times asking after you, prowling and raving like the devil himself.”
“Water,” I begged once more when the last of the tea was swallowed. Bridget obliged, and I gulped down as much as I could until I hurt too badly to keep my head up.
She cast an anxious glance at the half-closed door, as if she expected it to come crashing down any minute.
“Brann?” I stiffened. When had he discovered I was alive? What had he done to those who’d aided me?
“Not him.” Bridget clucked her tongue. “Brann and what others could get away took off as soon as Alistair said you were killed.”
“I’m not, am I?” Heaven couldn’t be this painful.
“Of course not.” She patted my arm gently, and even that made me wince. “Not yet, anyway,” she amended at my sudden intake of breath. “You only fainted, and the MacDonald caught you. Fell forward, right into his arms, you did. He brought you here, all slumped over like, as if you’d been stabbed or shot. We thought it so.”
Her words, or one particular— MacDonald— lifted the fog from my mind. My clansmen often referred to Collin as the MacDonald. My heart soared with hope. “Collin? He’s here?”
“Oh. Dearie.” Bridget turned away, hand to her face. “Don’t fret about any of that now.”
About what? Apprehension unfurled in the pit of my stomach. “Is Collin here?” I asked once more, my voice rising in spite of her warning. If Brann was gone, then who was there to be afraid of?
Bridget’s face was a stoic mask of sympathy. Her lips trembled along with her hands as if she either sought for or fought against the right words. “I thought you knew. Your husband isna with us anymore. It’s the other MacDonald come for you. Your man is— dead.”
I’ve returned him to you. Ian’s face loomed in memory. With piercing shock, I remembered our confrontation.
Brann, gone. Ian, here. Collin, dead. I squeezed my eyes shut but not before tears started, leaking down either side of my face.
“O, ach bronach! Bronach,” Bridget whispered with a louder sniffle. “Oh, but sorrowful, sad news. Alistair told me they’ve laid him out in the hall, as proper as if he were the laird himself.”
“He was.” Collin would still be laird to the MacDonald clan if not for his promise to my grandfather and me. He would still be living, breathing, caring for his people who were now subject to the commands of his malevolent brother. My breath came in short, choppy gasps as Bridget prattled on, her hushed voice growing more anxious with each word and glance at the half-open door.
I turned my head away, not wanting to hear, but already picturing the casket on the table below, just as I’d seen in my dream weeks ago. Why hadn’t I recognized it as a vision of the future? I should have known. We should have left this place or never come here. Crushing despair consumed me as it had then. Only this time I would not wake up. Oh, Collin. A sob tore from my throat.
Bridget pressed a finger to her lips and leaned over the bed. “You mustn’t cry out so. I’m sorry, lass.” Her head bent as she struggled to hold in her own emotion. “He seemed a good man. Your grandfather believed him so. But his brother—” She shuddered.
“Don’t tell Ian I’ve woken,” I whispered. “Please.”
“Too late for that.”
I turned my head toward the voice, as if he’d compelled me to his wishes already.
Ian filled the doorway, looking as battle-scarred and ferocious as he had when we’d met in front of the keep.
“Leave us.” He stepped aside, and Bridget hurried to do his bidding, without so much as an apologetic glance my direction. He stopped her on the way out, gripping her arm tightly. “Tell no one she is awake.”
Bridget nodded jerkily, looking like a frightened mouse. She’d had no trouble standing up to Brann. But Ian was not Brann.
One does not argue with a pirate. No matter that he had not a ship to command. He had a castle at his disposal now.
Ian shut the door behind her and rammed the bar across, his anger rolling off of him in waves. I heard Bridget’s footsteps as she hurried away, abandoning me. Ian stared about the room, like a beast on the prowl. It would not take him long to hone in on his prey. I looked at the bar thrust firmly over the door and knew that even was he to move from it and I to somehow reach it before he caught me, it wasn’t likely I would be able to wrest it open in time. How ironic that the thing Collin meant to protect me now trapped me.
Collin. My chin trembled as I held back a sob.
I tracked Ian’s progress across the room as he took one of the chairs before the fireplace, lifted it easily, as if it weighed nothing, and dropped it beside the bed. Only as he lowered himself into it did I catch his brief grimace, an indication that he, too, suffered. His many cuts and bruises perhaps indicated a deeper wound or wounds. I could only hope.
Once he was seated, his visible eye narrowed on mine. “Might you carry his child?”
I sucked in a quick breath and paid for it with blinding pain. Nothing, compared to what I suspected Ian could do. If I answered his question in the affirmative, would he kill me? My mind flashed to the casket downstairs, to Collin. What had I to live for? To tell Ian that I carried Collin’s child could mean deliverance.
I spoke before I could lose my courage. “Yes.”
With a howl of rage Ian jumped from his chair, lifted it over his head, and sent it crashing across the room. The pitcher on the stand came next, the porcelain exploding in dozens of pieces when he hurled it into the fireplace.
Inhuman sounds tore from Ian’s throat as he rampaged the room, destroying everything he could move. He came to one of my mother’s paintings, ripped it from the wall, then stopped suddenly, the canvas in midair about to be broken over his knee. He set it aside, almost reverently, and began pacing the room in long strides. The action, so reminiscent of his twin, and the shock of his brutal destruction forced another sob from my throat. Unable to move enough to roll away from him, I covered my face with my hand and wept.
“I’ll kill him.” Ian’s footsteps turned to stomping. He kicked a log from the stack near the
fire, and it spun across the floor.
I imagined a child being torn from my breast and knew a little relief that such a scene should never come to pass. There would be no child of Collin’s. Watching Ian, I understood how right Collin had been in his unwillingness to risk a babe being conceived.
“Why wait until the child is born?” I asked. “Kill me now and be done with it.”
Ian turned sharply to glare at me. “What?”
“If you allow me to carry the child, you risk my escaping, and Collin’s son— with Campbell and English blood— someday taking your place as laird. Better to end my life now.” My bold words came out in little more than whispers, my throat still swollen and dry. “Better to kill me than wait to end the child’s life.”
“I am not speaking of a child or Collin, but of your foul relative— Brann.” Ian leaned over the bed, his face frighteningly close to mine. “I’ll kill him for what he has done to you.” He pulled a knife from his belt and held it up. Blood still stained the blade.
Collin’s? I forced the horrifying thought aside, knowing it would haunt me later— if I lived long enough.
How had he died? I’d assumed the soldiers responsible, but if Ian had killed him, maybe any child of Collin’s was no longer a threat. Then why should he care what Brann had done? My mind swam with confusion until it settled on one point of offensive clarity. He thinks I’ve lain with Brann.
Swiftly, and with an accompanying arc of pain, my good hand struck Ian’s bruised cheek. I was certain the fury in my eyes matched that in his. “I’ve been faithful to your brother.”
Ian’s hand touched his face. “You just said—”
“I was speaking of Collin, not Brann. How dare you assume—”
“Collin?” Ian’s brow furrowed. “You swear it?” He pressed into the mattress on either side of me, the knife still in his hand, brushing my arm. “You swear Brann didn’t touch you.”
“Only with his boot and his fist.”
A Promise for Tomorrow Page 14