by Amy Jarecki
His heart could have burst through his chest. His legs couldn’t run fast enough. Jesus Christ, he wouldn’t blame her if she never forgave him. He was the greatest fool who’d ever walked the shores of Dunollie.
“She slipped at the bottom of the stairwell.” Angus panted, trying to keep up. “I h-heard her cry out. Lady Meg and I f-found her first.”
“Bloody hell,” Sean mumbled, running, clutching the damned hood low over his face.
He skidded to a stop outside the tent, grasped the flap and ducked inside. “Gyllis!” he said, running to her pallet. “Forgive me.”
He dropped to his knees beside Lady Meg. “I never should have let you leave alone. I should have insisted someone escort you.”
Thank God, she was awake and propped against the pillows. She reached for his hand. “Not to worry. I’ll be fine.”
“When Angus told me you were hurt, my heart seized.” He held her fingers to his lips and kissed. “I don’t know what I would have done if I had lost you.”
“She has a nasty bump at the back of her head,” Lady Meg said. “But she doesn’t appear to have any latent effects—no forgetfulness, no vomiting.”
That didn’t ease Sean’s racing heart. “As I ran the short distance from the tower to this tent, I realized there is nothing in the world more important than you. There is no one in the world I want more than you and there is no vengeance more important than your love.”
A gasp caught in Gyllis’s throat. Tears welled in her eyes.
Lady Meg stood. “I must go check on an arrow wound that has been festering. If you’ll please excuse me.”
Sean rose and bowed. “My lady, allow me.” He escorted her and held the tent flap, then quickly returned to Gyllis’s side, dipping to one knee. “Are you in pain?”
She squeezed his hand. “Aside from a wee headache, I’m well. ’Tis the problem with being an invalid, everyone thinks you’re frail.”
“But you are as fragile as a dove.” She struggled to sit up and Sean pressed his hand to her shoulder. “You must rest.”
“No.” She pushed up, a crease forming between her eyebrows, those gorgeous green eyes flashing with ire. “I’ve had enough of everyone telling me what to do—treating me like I haven’t a mind because of an illness.”
Of all the things about Gyllis there were to love, he adored her spirit the most. “You’re right, mo leannan. In my observation nothing can stop you from achieving anything you set your mind to.”
She smiled and cupped his face with her palm. “You may be the only person who believes that.”
Sean leaned into her hand then turned his lips into her palm and kissed it. “I meant what I said. You mean more to me than any other person in the entire world.” His heart ached, but he had to say it. No matter what he wanted, Gyllis was more important. “If you do not wish for me to face Alan, I shall stay behind.”
Never had he seen her smile so vibrant. That gift alone made up for the disappointment of watching another act in his stead. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him onto the pallet beside her. “By the grace of God, I love you Sean MacDougall.”
“And I you, Gyllis Campbell, with all my heart, my soul, my life, my riches. I give them all to you.”
She threaded her fingers through his. “But I cannot allow you to step away from a task I know in my heart you must do.”
Sean arched his brows, sure he’d misunderstood. “Pardon me?”
“If.” She held up a finger. “If you were to face Alan MacCoul, would you promise to return to me unharmed?”
“That’s a difficult promise to make.” He scratched his head. “A man can be injured sparring with his guard in the keep’s courtyard. Stepping in the midst of battle always bears a risk.”
“I ken.” She nodded and stared at their interlaced fingers. “If I give my consent and you join Duncan this night, will you promise to exercise every care so that you will return to my arms?”
He pulled her into his embrace and inhaled. Her hair smelled of home—exactly where his heart resided. Gyllis’s fragrance from here out would remind him of home. “You have my vow. It will make me stronger to face that demon knowing you are waiting with open arms.”
“Then you must eat and rest, for you’ll need as much strength as you can muster.”
He grinned and ran his hand up the back of her head. “Are you sure that fall didn’t do some damage?”
She gave him a playful smack to the ribs and they both laughed.
Gazing into her fathomless eyes, Sean grew serious. He’d always loved Gyllis, but in this moment, his love grew tenfold. Somehow, between when she left the tower to when she arrived in the tent, she had grown to understand him, understand what a man—a chieftain—must do to earn respect, and more so, to maintain his honor.
Aye, he would have stayed behind for Gyllis, but now he would never forget how she cast aside her conviction and stood by him. He would spend his life repaying her favor.
He closed his eyes and claimed her mouth, showing her the depth of his love. The woman in his arms would be his throughout eternity.
30
After blackening their faces with soot, Sean boarded a skiff with the most elite warriors in the Highland Enforcers and together they rowed from the pier around to the sea gate. Sean sat astern, Eoin manned the oars and Duncan sat beside his cousin, Robert Struan at the bow.
They’d left the newest member of the enforcers in charge of the army. Iain Campbell, Duncan’s youngest brother, had recently returned from his fostering with the Earl of Argyll. Better, the lad had acquired some training in the operation of the cannons Duncan’s forces had aimed to blast through Dunstaffnage’s walls.
But Sean planned to end the siege this night. Alan had been holed up, locked inside the castle for four days. Foodstuffs would be low and tempers flaring. Once MacCoul was subdued, his men would cross over, lest they all end up feeling the hangman’s noose.
Sean slid his hands up his sleeves to ensure his daggers were secure, then he did the same to the knives hidden in his hose. He didn’t have much time to slip in and find his quarry. When the chapel bell tolled the end of compline, Iain would fire a warning shot past Dunstaffnage’s walls into the Firth of Lorn. That would be the signal for all to attack. There would be no turning back this time, no volley of arrows. Ladders for scaling the walls were readied, a tree had been felled and reinforced with an iron tip. The main gate would be rammed. Five hundred MacDougalls, Campbells, Stewarts and MacGregors stood at the ready to overthrow the usurper and Sean would see an end to it once and for all.
The boat lightly tapped the stone embankment above the sea gate.
“Ready?” Duncan whispered loudly.
Sean offered a nod. This was how he wanted it. No one was more elusive. Undertaking the king’s business—the enforcer’s business—Sean had slipped inside castles from England to the Orkneys and this was no different.
He thrived on danger.
Before Robert had the boat tied, Sean jumped over the rail and crouched on the narrow wall. He didn’t look back at the others. They all knew the plan. They’d worked together so many years, there was no need to talk. If they didn’t adhere to the plan, someone would be killed—a lesson not easily forgotten. The first Lord of Glenorchy, Duncan’s father had been killed on a mission at Kildrummy Castle. They’d all followed the plan, but sometimes things happened that one couldn’t predict. Another lesson which would never be forgotten. Always expect the unexpected.
Sean pressed his ear against the wooden gate. Faint footsteps paced on the other side. He’d need to be swift and deadly.
He slid his dirk from its scabbard and held up one finger to Duncan. There was one man for certain—two if Alan had another posted at the top of the incline, but they’d know soon enough. Sean levered the pin out from the top hinge while Duncan and Eoin steadied the door.
After he’d removed the bottom pin, Duncan gave the men a nod. As they pulled the door away, Sean reached
in, grabbed the guard by the chin and snapped his neck. “Sorry, you bastard. You might have lived if you’d not paid fealty to a blackguard.”
With no movement ahead, Sean pulled the MacCoul guard through the hole while Duncan and Eoin slid the gate back into place.
Once he’d donned the man’s helm and surcoat, Sean picked up the soldier’s battleax and nodded to Duncan. “Ready.”
“We’ll cover the gate until we hear the signal. You’ll not have a soul watching your back,” Duncan warned.
Sean shoved the visor over his face. Why Campbell felt he had to say something was beyond him. Even the Lord of Glenorchy had tried to talk him into staying behind. You look like shite, Duncan had said. God’s teeth. Sean had gone without food and sleep before—mayhap things had never been as bad as his last day in the cave, but he’d eaten three meals since he’d returned and he’d slept. How much fitter did Duncan expect him to be?
He had to do this alone. Not only was he the “Ghost”, more than one newcomer would cause a stir amongst MacCoul’s men. Even one was a risk, but Sean was a master at blending in. He took the torch from the wall and held it high.
He slipped up the incline from the sea gate, into a dark cavern, praying it led directly under the inner bailey and into the catacombs of the donjon. The dank tunnel dripped with water. A clammy sweat crawled down Sean’s back as he was reminded of his recent hospitality on Kerrera. The lesions throbbed beneath his hauberk and infused his ire. He sped his pace.
Stopping at the door, he held his breath and listened. Once sure he would be met with no nasty surprises, he tugged the door open. The hinges screeched as if they’d been sealed shut for three hundred years. He slipped inside and palmed his dirk, ready for a fight. But no one came.
At the far side of the room, rats scurried away. Sean sniffed. It reeked of sewage. He strode across the dirt floor to the passageway. Dark in both directions, he continued to his left. If his bearings served him right, the tower stairwell was ahead.
He crept against the wall. At any moment, some unsuspecting bastard could venture down to the catacombs—though he doubted it. The bowels of a castle were akin to the path to Hades. And if Sean had them pegged right, this mob of outlaws would be a suspicious lot.
After he rounded the corner, dim light glowed from the stairwell. He’d chosen correctly. He doused his torch and snuck forward. Rumbles of voices from the great hall grew louder as he neared. He closed the visor of his helm. He’d need to cross through the great hall to get to the donjon—and Sean had no doubt MacCoul was biding his time in the second floor solar. It was where the king held court the infrequent times he was in residence—also where the Lord of Lorn had run his affairs. MacCoul would believe he was due such a chamber of opulence with its rich tapestries from France.
Sean’s feet made not a sound as he ascended. Before the stairwell opened upon the great hall, he froze, his heartbeat pulsing in his ears. Conversation rumbling from the pillagers was gruff.
“Even more Campbell supporters have arrived—and still no missive from the king,” a voice said. “Soon every army in Scotland will be here to drive us out.”
“I think we should fight now—show them MacCoul’s army is one to be reckoned with.”
“Aye? If our leader doesn’t move soon, we’ll be the ones they’re calling traitors.”
Sean smirked. The lot of them were already traitors—and MacCoul would receive his missive from the king—in hell.
He slipped through the entrance and moved at a meandering pace, as if he’d just been relieved of guard duty. His breath turned to mist against the helm, the eye slits barely giving him the range of sight he needed to see if there were any eyes watching him with suspicion. But he resisted the urge to glance from side to side and kept his face forward.
Ten paces to the donjon stairwell, a man stepped in his path. “Why are you still wearing your helm?”
Sean rubbed his neck. “Just returned from duty.”
Before he could stop him, the man flipped up Sean’s visor and squinted. “I haven’t seen you before.”
Sean snapped his head back and the visor dropped. Thank God the fool hadn’t recognized him. “I’ve been keeping to myself—guarding the rear.” He didn’t want to mention the sea gate. If this man put the pieces together, Duncan and the others could end up in a nasty fight. Sean tried to push past.
“Why are you in such a hurry?”
Christ, the bastard couldn’t leave it alone. “I’ve a message for MacCoul.”
The man grabbed his arm. “Have you a missive from the king?” he asked excitedly.
If Sean said yes, the entire hall would follow him above stairs. “Nay.”
“Then what is it?” His pickled breath oozed through the helm’s eye slits.
Sean wrenched his arm away. “’Tis of a sensitive nature.” Jesus, the smelly varlet wouldn’t let it be. “Follow me and I’ll tell you.”
That seemed to placate the cur because he chuckled and motioned toward the stairwell.
“After you.” Sean bowed. “I take it MacCoul’s in the solar as usual?”
Moving forward, at least the man wasn’t smart enough to stay at Sean’s rear. “Aye.”
Good, that’s all the information Sean needed from this maggot. At the first landing, he slipped one hand over the man’s mouth, pulled him into the servant’s closet and ran his dirk across the bastard’s neck. He leaned the battleax against the wall. Sean preferred to fight with a sword and a dirk, not the clumsy axe of a novice.
He wiped his dirk on the man’s chausses and then shoved it in his scabbard. “If you’d left me be, you’d still be alive.” Then Sean dashed up to the next landing, not stopping until he heard voices coming from inside the king’s solar.
Sean clenched his teeth. Alan was arguing with none other than that festering-pustule, Brus. Sean would recognize that backstabber’s grating voice anywhere. Brus had always followed MacCoul around like a leech—had laughed in Sean’s face before they’d left him to die.
Take your last breath, for hell is about to unleash its vengeance.
Sean silently lifted the latch and peered inside. Alan sat in the king’s chair, with Brus leaning against the sideboard, arms and ankles crossed as if he owned the castle. Sean fingered the dagger up his left sleeve. In one fluid motion, he pushed through the door, flung the blade, hitting Brus in the neck, then drew his sword.
Thus far, not a shout had been uttered. Staring MacCoul in the eye, Sean closed the door behind him and bolted it.
Alan shoved back his chair and drew their father’s sword. “You,” he growled unable to hide the surprise in his voice.
Gurgling empty curses, Brus clutched at the knife and fell face first on the table.
Alan sidestepped, his eyes wide with fear. “Get thee from me, ghost. I left you for dead—no man could have lived this long.”
“You are quite mistaken.” Sean leveled his sword with Alan’s heart. “Had you been honest with me from the outset, our feud wouldn’t have ended this way.”
“Oh?” he continued to circle around the table. “And I would have survived in my little brother’s shadow?”
“You’ve lost that chance. Now you will die in it.”
Alan lunged. “I think not.”
Sean skittered aside, a chair toppling over. He nearly lost his balance as he deflected Alan’s attack.
Alan advanced with relentless hacks of his blade. He’d grown stronger since Beltane.
And Sean had grown weaker.
Backing around the room, it was all he could do to deflect the onslaught of vicious strikes. Sean’s muscles burned, barely able to wield the sword in his hands. Duncan had been right. Everyone had been right. Sean’s strength was half what it should be, his movement slowed by sluggishness.
Gnashing his teeth, Alan lunged in for the kill. Sean raised his blade for the deflection, a hair’s breadth before the sword sliced him across the neck. His helm flew from his head and clattered to the floo
r. Iron screeched with iron as their blades locked until they met at the cross guards. In a battle of strength, Sean could no longer control his muscles and he quaked mercilessly. Planting his left foot, he used his right to push MacCoul away and gain enough space to run.
He sped around the table to put some distance between them. Panting, he watched Alan swing his sword in an arc. The bastard laughed—taunted Sean. “I see my hospitality has turned you into a milksop.”
Sean said nothing, sucking in deep breaths, willing the air to revive him.
Alan sauntered around the table. “After I kill you, I’ll be Chieftain of Dunollie and I’ll marry that Campbell bitch—something you never had the cods to do.”
“You bleeding bastard. You’ll not touch her!” Sean went on the attack, swinging his sword like a madman. He never allowed himself to lose control when in a fight, but rage gripped his chest like a vise. He couldn’t stop. The thought of Alan claiming Gyllis for his own drove him to the brink of insanity.
A picture of Fraser’s mutilated body sent him into a raving frenzy. “I will avenge Fraser’s death.”
“That spineless maggot?” MacCoul blocked Sean’s strike and the next. On and on Sean advanced while the blackguard continued to back around the table. “I took great pleasure in gutting your asp-biting spy.”
Rage infusing him with strength, Sean used both hands, spinning, aiming for the braggart’s head. MacCoul ducked and came up, jabbing the pommel of his sword into Sean’s gut. Wind whooshed from Sean’s lungs. He gasped for air and steadied himself.
Never had he tired this easily.
A blast came from beyond the walls. The cannon’s warning had been fired. MacCoul was already supposed to be dead.
Alan advanced. Sean deflected. Iron clanged. Sean erred with slips of the wrist and deadly mistakes. But he wasn’t about to give up. Spinning, he hurled his blade. MacCoul met his strike with equal force. With jarring power reverberating up his arms, the sword flew from Sean’s grip.