Highland Flame (Highland Brides) (4 page)

She swung wildly back, fists clenched at her sides. "Well, I cannot burn forever!" Fear swelled up inside her—fear of being discovered for who she really was— a lass who trembled at the thought of danger and retched at the sight of blood. "I cannot guide them!" she said softly. "My father knew I—"

"Yer father knew nothing of ye," Troy interrupted.

A thousand sharp-edged emotions flared inside Flanna. "Am I not his?" she whispered. "Is that why his love for me turned to hate?"

"Ye are his, lass. Yer only sin was to remind him of yer mother."

She tightened her fists and took a step forward. "Are ye lying to me, Troy? Are ye lying to us all? Ye were her friend even at the end. She would have told ye the truth."

For a moment he was silent. "Ye are his daughter, Flanna MacGowan, though he didna deserve ye."

"And the babe that died with her?" Flame asked. "What of him?"

Troy turned away. "There is na reason ta discuss that, for they are dead now. Surely it can na longer matter."

Flame closed her eyes. "If Gregor had but lived..."

Troy snorted and faced her again. "Gregor was never meant ta rule. Gregor was a bonny, broad lochan with the sunlight of his father's adoration glistening upon him. But the lochan goes nowhere, lass. It becomes stagnant while the Flame swells and grows when the storm winds blow."

"I don't know what ye are saying," Flame countered. "I don't know what you—"

"Aye, ye do, lass. Ye ken exactly what I say, for ye have yer father's intellect. Ye have yer mother's caring, and ye have yer own gift with the horse. Gregor had none of these things." Troy sighed again. " 'Twas nearly ten years ago that Gregor was spilled into the water during a raid. Aye, he would have died if Leith Forbes had not pulled him out. It was then that peace was made between them and us. But it has always been an uneasy peace, and sometimes I think 'twould have been better had the Forbeses na fished yer brother from those roiling waters.

"Dunna reprimand me, lass," he said, holding up a hand. "Mayhap if Gregor had died earlier, yer father would have seen what he should have known all along. Mayhap he would have brought ye home the sooner."

Flame stared at him in silence. "I canna lead my people," she said softly.

"Aye, lass, ye can."

"I'm afraid."

Troy nodded once. " Tis a brave warrior who admits his fear."

'
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And I'm tired till death of yer meandering wisdom,'' she said.

Troy laughed, throwing back his great head for a moment. "Then I will remain silent and let ye think."

Flame smiled sheepishly into the darkness. "Forgive me, Troy. Ye know I did not mean that. My worry makes me spiteful, for I fear it will take more than the little wisdom I possess to guide the MacGowans."

"Aye, lass," Troy said. " 'Twill take the strength of yer will, too. But hear me words. Sometimes it takes a woman ta ken how ta handle a man." He turned slightly, nodding behind him. "And Forbes, he is just a man, lest ye forget."

Flame drew a deep breath, fortifying her strength and staring at the shell of the old stable. "Ye know that ye are throwing me to the wolves?"

"Aye, lass," Troy said, setting a broad hand to her back to propel her toward the door. "But ye must remember ..." he added, walking beside her. "Even the greatest wolf be afraid of the flame."

"Troy ..." She stopped abruptly, uncertainty flooding back.

" 'Twas fine work ye did in there, lass," he said gently. "I particularly favored the part with the sword." He smiled into her upturned face while poking his neck with the tips of two blunt fingers. " 'Twould have been a wee bit more believable had yer hand not been shaking like—"

"Forbes!" someone screamed.

Panic flashed through Flame. For a moment, she stood paralyzed then she jerked about and raced through the stone doorway. Troy drew his sword and thundered after her.

"Back away!" Roderic snapped. One of his forearms was poised tight and hard against Shaw's throat as he controlled him from behind. Near his feet, the tiny faggot of wood that had burned his bonds, still smoked "You! Bullock! Put down yer claymore and slide it toward me. Gilbert, isn't it?" he asked, jerking his head toward the other. Roderic's movement set his singed bonds trembling under Shaw's chin. "Don't be clever, for I have na wish ta kill yer friend."

"If we rush him..." Bullock began, but Roderic shook his head.

"Tell them na ta move, lass, or Shaw here willna draw another breath."

Flame took one abbreviated step forward, all attention focused on the pair by the fire. "If we leave now, will ye let him go?"

"Aye, ye have me—"

The whine of a loosed arrow sung of death. Flame screamed and threw herself sideways, trying to block the missile's path, but in an instant Nevin's barb sank deep in Shaw's chest.

Flame froze in stunned horror, watching the feathered shaft quiver in its victim. Shaw's lips moved, but no sound issued forth as he slid stiffly from Roderic's grip.

Behind Flame, Nevin rushed into the doorway. "Dear Gawd!" he shrieked, falling to his knees as he saw what he had done. "Shaw! No!" His voice was a desperate wail. He dropped his bow and cupped his face with shaking hands, but in a moment he lunged to his feet. Yanking out his sword, he charged forward.

"Nay!" Flame screamed. Instantly she grabbed Troy's blade from his hand, and flung herself in front of Roderic. "Nay!" She spun about. Her back was to her prisoner, her legs widespread as she held the heavy claymore in both hands. But Nevin rushed toward her.

There was a moment of breathless silence, then a growl of animal-like rage as Troy swept forward. Grabbing Nevin by the shirt, he snatched him from his feet and tossed him through the air like a hound might fling a rat.

The young man hit the wall with a resounding thud. His sword dropped harmlessly to the grass.

"The lass says nay!" rumbled Troy, turning his huge body to protect the woman protecting Roderic. "Be there others who might dispute her decision?"

"He's dead." William's voice was quiet as he knelt beside Shaw's' flaccid body.

"Gawd's truth!" said Bullock through gritted teeth. "There will be an eye for an eye!"

Troy moved with slow deliberation to face this new antagonist "Are ye willing ta spare an eye, lad?" he rumbled softly.

"Will we let this deed go unavenged?" shrieked Bullock. His sword was drawn, his face contorted with rage. Beside him, Gilbert, too, fumed. "Forbes has kilt one of our own."

"Nay!" said Flame, and though she wanted to sob with grief, she held the sword steady in aching hands and refused to look at the downed warrior's staring eyes. "He has not. 'Twas our own carelessness that caused Shaw's death." She settled her gaze on Bullock, who dropped his gaze in unison with his sword.

"I didna ken Forbes had burned his bonds through," he croaked. " 'Tis me fault. 'Tis I who should have died, na Shaw."

A silence as heavy as the surrounding mists held them before Flame was able to speak again.

"Nay, Bullock," she whispered. "None should die."
Stepping forward, she pressed the tip of Troy's sword
into the earth and put a trembling hand on Bullock's
arm. "We all take the blame. We all bear the sadness.
But we have no time to grieve now. I know Shaw was
your friend. It will be yer right to see that his body gets
safely home." ,

Drawing a deep breath, she turned. The sorrow that wrung her heart shone in the eyes of her men, but that emotion was a luxury she could not afford. "Bring up the horses," she ordered, "and prepare to ride."

Nevin pushed himself from the floor. "Forgive me, my lady. I did not think..." His voice broke and his shaking hands clasped at nothing. "I did not think whatI was doing. Tis my fault. I saw Forbes holding Shaw and I only thought to stop ... Dear God!" he wailed. "I only thought to stop him from harming Shaw, but my aim was faulty." He dropped to his knees again. "And we lose another man to the Forbeses. How many more must die because of them?"

Flame tightened her hands on Troy's sword. "There will be no more deaths this day, Nevin. Rise. We must put our sorrow behind ye. Go see to the horses."

He took a deep, shuddering breath and rose slowly, head still bowed. "Aye, lady," he said, and followed Shaw's gently borne body.

Flame turned slowly. "Do ye hear that, Forbes?" she asked.

Roderic watched her. So she truly was the leader of the MacGowans. He had heard as much but had found it difficult to believe. The MacGowans and the Forbeses had shared a cautious alliance in the years since Leith and Fiona had saved the old laird's heir from drowning. But since then, young, hotheaded Gregor had accidentally lost his life during a raid. The old laird had died shortly after. There were those who said the weight of his grief caused his passing.

"Do ye hear?" asked Flanna MacGowan again, taking a short stride toward him so that she stood even with Troy. By any standards, that warrior was a gargantuan man, with both the solid build and the stoic attitude of a wolfhound.

"There will be no more deaths this day," she repeated more loudly. The hilt of her borrowed sword nearly reached her bosom which was hidden beneath a high-necked gown of filthy, somber plaid. Whose blood was it that smeared her face and garments? he wondered. Surely not her sister's, for the laird of the MacGowans had left no other children or close relatives.

The MacGowans had lost many in the past years. Sickness and disease had taken their toll. Their enemies had surely not aided their cause. And now the clan was depleted and weakened. And yet, led by this female warrior, who could guess what they might achieve? Roderic studied her in silence. She was not a small woman. Indeed, she stood well above many of her own men. Her back was as straight as a newly forged lance and her face was as strong and noble as a conquering king's.

"No more deaths!" she hissed, stabbing Troy's sword into the earth again to gain his attention.

Roderic lifted his gaze to hers and insolently raised his brows. "Be ye offering ta set me free?"

"Nay!" She stabbed the floor again. "I am offering ye your life."

"But I already have me life, lass."

"And I will not take it," she vowed, "if ye agree to go with us peacefully."

"And forfeit the pleasure and glory of trying ta escape? Wouldna that be neglecting me duty as a Scot?"

"Ye will not try to escape!" insisted Flame, stabbing again.

Troy winced. "Please, lass," he said, stepping nearer to pry her fingers from the beautifully engraved hilt of his sword. "Gloir was me father's claymore. And his father's afore him." Lifting the blade, he examined it by the poor light. "It has done naught to deserve yer wrath. If ye need ta vent yer fury, ye have a perfectly good victim before yer verra eyes. Or"—he tested the edge of the blade with his broad thumb, eyeing Roderic as he did so. "Shall I vent it for ye?"

Roderic kept his gaze carefully level, watching the huge warrior with a steady glare. "Come on then, Wolfhound. There has yet ta be a time when a bare-handed Forbes canna best an armed MacGowan."

Troy's brows rose the slightest fraction of an inch. "But I be na a MacGowan, wee lad. I be a Hamilton. And a Hamilton is na bested by any man. And she who he guards is na bested either."

Roderic watched the other warrior for several moments, considering the danger from that front. Troy would be a worthy adversary when the time came, but that time had not yet arrived. He shifted his gaze slowly to Flanna's. " 'Twould seem I owe ye me thanks for keeping yer hounds from me throat," he said. "But 'tis hard ta be grateful since ye be the one who set them upon me at the start."

She raised her chin slightly, looking regal and invincible. "’Tis less than ye have done to us, Forbes."

"And pray"—Roderic crossed his right arm against his chest to grip the plaid near his brooch—"tell me what imagined sins the Forbeses have perpetrated against the clan MacGowan. And take yer time, lass, for I have na pressing engagements."

"It would serve your purposes well if I were to stand here and remind ye of every crime the Forbeses have committed against us, would it not?" Flame asked. "But I have no wish to be here when yer brothers arrive. Mayhap I should have let Bullock have ye."

" 'Tis too late for regrets now, lass," Troy said. "I fear we have na time ta kill him. I'll need ta knock him on the head and take him with us, instead."

Roderic let his arms drop loosely by his sides, feeling his latent temper swell. He spread and bent his legs, balanced carefully, and waited. "Ye are welcome ta try, Wolfhound."

"Stop it, both of ye. Forbes, if ye say ye do not know what sins your people have done against mine, then come along peacefully, and when we reach Dun Ard, I will tell ye the story."

Roderic remained silent for a moment, watching, evaluating. "I have been known ta appreciate a good tale, lass, na matter how outlandish it might be."

"Then ye will like this one," she said evenly, "for it tells of a powerful clan that preys on its allies. And how the wronged clan exacts revenge."

"Indeed?" Roderic narrowed his eyes. A friendly debate was well and good, but he would not allow any person to spew lies about the clan Forbes—not even a handsome, fire-breathing woman of war. "And what clan—"

"Decide now!" Troy ordered impatiently. "Do we fight or do ye come along under yer own power?"

Roderic turned slowly to acknowledge the looming warrior again. "Know this, big hound, if we fight, ye will be the one carried out." He shifted his gaze to the woman again. "Yet this tale intrigues me, and I fear I would have ta kill all five of yer men afore I could convince the lass to share her story. And by then I might be a wee bit weary." He raised his brows as if weighing the options. "Mayhap even too weary ta appreciate a well-spun yarn.

"I will come with ye," he decided suddenly, "if ye promise ta give me comfortable quarters and see ta me needs as is befitting, of course." He kept his tone irritatingly flippant.

"Ye ken, lad, I have never favored fair-haired heads," said Troy, thumbing his blade again, "but yers would look fine hoisted upon me pike."