My Captive Highlander (Highland Adventure Book 7) (10 page)

"Ah… a sister?" Dermott said in a teasing tone.

"Aye, we must take her with us when we leave this hell-pit."

"You mean to steal yourself a bride?"

Imagining Maili as his bride, Shamus held back a grin. "You could call it that."

"Saints!"

Shamus limped toward the stairs and sharp pains gored him. He hunched forward, a groan escaping him before he could prevent it.

"What did they do to you?"

Shamus stopped, breathing hard and praying the pain would vanish. "To make a long story short, the lady helped me escape last night, but we were caught this morn. Her brother and his men gave me a sound thrashing for it."

"Bastards," Dermott ground out. "You'll stay by my side."

Shamus dragged himself up the steps after his brother. At the top, next to the guard's dead body, Dermott paused, snatched the man's sword and turned to Shamus. "Are you able to wield a blade?"

"Aye." His sword arm was still in fairly good shape.

Dermott handed him the guard's sword, dirk and
targe
. "Remember to stay behind me."

"Aye, we must retrieve Maili from her chamber. Her brother will punish her severely for helping me if she remains here."

Once they reached the bailey, Shamus frowned at all the men lying unmoving in the torchlight. Were they
MacKenzies
or
MacDonalds
? Upon further inspection, he saw that all of them except one were
MacDonalds
.

"Shamus!" His oldest brother approached, his clothing and face splattered with blood. "Glad I am to see you alive and kicking." Cyrus grabbed him around the neck.

Pain shot through his body and he growled before he could stop himself.

"What is it?" Cyrus released him, scrutinizing him through the dimness. "Are you hurt?"

"They beat him," Dermott said.

Shamus breathed sharply, willing the pain away. Damnation, the side of his chest hurt. He might have a broken rib.

"How badly?" Cyrus asked. "Do you have any broken bones?"

"I'm not certain. 'Haps a cracked rib." Shamus clenched his teeth, trying to downplay his injuries. Real men didn't whimper and moan.

"Bastards," Cyrus growled. "I'll give them what they're asking for."

Fraser approached but Shamus barely had time to greet his younger brother before more
MacDonalds
rushed from the castle's portal.

"Kill them all!"
Elrick
yelled, his voice echoing between the castle's high walls.

"Their chief," Shamus told his brothers.

"He's the one I want, then," Cyrus said. "Stay between us."

The four brothers advanced toward
Elrick
and his five bodyguards. Shamus struck out at the one closest to him, but he lifted his
targe
to block the blow. Much swordplay ensued and after a few more slices, Shamus cut the man's throat.

When his foe dropped to the cobblestones, Shamus lifted his gaze to
Elrick
. The fighting continued around him, but his sights were set on the whoreson who had beaten him while his hands were tied. A spark of fear widened
Elrick's
eyes for an instant. Shamus sent him a humorless smile and rushed him.

His pain and injuries forgotten in the bloodlust quickening his body, Shamus slashed at the whoreson, from the right and the left, driving him backward, his sword cutting chunks from the other man's wooden
targe
.

The tip of
Elrick's
blade cut Shamus' arm but 'twas shallow and he barely felt the burn. He slipped a sword thrust beneath the other man's
targe
. His weapon drove deep into
Elrick's
abdomen.

Elrick
shouted and dropped, then kicked about upon the ground, groaning and crying out.

From the corner of his eye, Shamus glimpsed another man charging him. Before he could turn and raise his
targe
, a blade cut deep into his upper arm—his sword arm. Though he tried, he could not raise his sword. The next slice was to his abdomen. Pain pierced through him. With his
targe
, he blocked the next blow but could not strike out and defend himself.

Cyrus dragged his attacker off. The two struggled, trying to dirk each other.

Shamus glanced down, seeing his sleeve and his shirt drenched in blood. He even felt the liquid heat of his blood soaking down into his plaid. Without the use of his sword arm, he was as good as dead if someone came at him. Although he could still use the dirk he grasped in his left hand.

He glanced about, aware he couldn't think clearly, then noticed everything fading to darkness. He tried to stay on his feet but the night closed in on him. He toppled to the cobblestone ground.

Maili stood at her chamber door, listening in the darkness. The sword clangs were fewer and farther between now, and she thought she heard women's sobs.

Dear God in Heaven, please don't let all the MacDonald men be dead. And Shamus… most of all, please keep him safe.

Her stomach ached. What was happening out there?

She banged on the door as she had countless times already. "Unlock this door!" She needed her freedom so she could see if Shamus was all right.

No one responded. Her guard must have gone outside to join in the fighting.

Her maid cowered in the corner, praying and crying.

Finally, the key wiggled in the lock and a click sounded. Who was releasing her? She had left the candles unlit so she might see out the window more easily.

She stepped back, then froze. The door creaked open slowly and a man stood on the threshold. The candle in his hand cast odd shadows upon his bearded face.
Sleat
? What in blazes was he doing here?

"M'lady, I've come to rescue you." He closed the door and barred it.

What? Nay. What was his intention?

He set the candlestick on the mantel and faced her. He was a big man, his graying hair in a queue and his dark beard reaching halfway down his broad chest. He was more than twice her age but still strong and in fine health. One thing struck her as odd—his clothing and face were clean. He obviously had not fought alongside her clan.

"The battle did not go well for your clan," he said. "I'm here to protect you from the
MacKenzie
heathens."

"You didn't fight," she blurted, trying to figure him out.

He grinned. "Nay. I wasn't the one who took a
MacKenzie
hostage. I have no quarrel with them. Why should I risk my life for your daft brother's sake?"

"Where is
Elrick
?"

"Dead."

"What?" She felt stunned for a moment, unsure how she felt about that. Though she loved her brother, as she did any family member, he had been cruel to her the last several months. And her jaw still ached from where he'd struck her. Most importantly, who would lead the clan? "How many died?" she asked.

"I know not, but have no fears. I still intend to make you my wife… after we wait and see if you're carrying a
MacKenzie
bastard."

Saints! What if she was carrying Shamus'
bairn
? A startling combination of joy and fear sliced through her, taking her breath away. More than anything, she wished to be with him and have a family together.

Whether she was with child or not, she would never willingly marry
Sleat
. Immersed in a real life nightmare, she shook her head.

Sleat
frowned, his face darkening. "What is this? Are you refusing?"

"Aye. I don't wish to marry you."

"That whoreson
Elrick
lied to me,"
Sleat
said, then shrugged. "Marriage is not necessary for what I want anyway." He moved toward her.

"Nay." She backed toward the window, trying to think of a solution… or what she could use as a weapon. The stoneware jug was on the opposite side of the bed. "Stay away from me!"

"I've been watching you, lass, and I want you under me at least once." He crept forward, a malicious grin on his face. "Aye, 'twill be a great pleasure to plow your meadow, even if I'm not the first. You little whore."

Her
sgian
dubh
! It was strapped to her ankle. She would stab the bastard.

Pretending to cower, she crouched in the darkness behind her bed, reached down to her ankle and slid the small knife from the scabbard.

When he bent down, grasped her shoulders in his large, strong hands and lifted her, she stabbed the blade up into his gut. He growled like an enraged monster, shook her and threw her onto the bed. As he was grabbing for her weapon, something cracked and he fell on her like a massive sack of grain.

She glanced up to see
Anora
holding an iron fire poker over her head, her terrified eyes wide.

Maili shoved the dead weight of
Sleat
off her and scrambled from the bed. "Oh thank you,
Anora
! You knocked him out cold." She embraced her trembling maid. "I'm proud of you. You are truly a female warrior."

Anora
dropped the poker and sobbed against
Maili's
shoulder. "M'lady. I couldn't let him do that to you."

"I thank you. You saved my life." Maili didn't think
Sleat
would've let her live after raping her. He would've pretended one of the invading
MacKenzies
did the evil deed, or one of
Elrick's
boorish guards. Obviously,
Sleat
had only been marrying her so he could drag her to his bed, whether she wished it or not.

"Come, let's quit this place afore he awakes." Maili urged
Anora
out of the room and locked the door.

They raced down the stairs as the first of dawn's light gleamed in the east. Though she was fortunate to have escaped a horrible fate, her heart was heavy with dread about what she would find below in the great hall and the courtyard.

When she reached the bottom of the steps, a dark-haired stranger turned, then strode across the great hall toward her, his hand on his sheathed sword hilt. Spattered and smeared blood covered him. A
MacKenzie
. She froze, but as he came closer she saw his resemblance to Shamus, though his eyes were lighter in color.

He glanced down at her clothing. "Are you Lady Maili?"

"Aye."

"Shamus is asking for you."

Concerned, she glanced about the hall, seeing several people, but not Shamus. "Where is he? Is he well?"

"Nay, he was badly injured in the fighting."

Icy fear drove through her. "Nay," she whispered in denial. "I must see him."

The man nodded. "I'm Dermott. Shamus is my brother. I'll take you to him. He has called out your name several times."

"Saints." Tears pricking her eyes, she quickened her steps. "Is the healer with him?"

"Aye. The
MacKenzie
healer." As they crossed the hall, Dermott asked, "Did someone hit you?"

His question startled her, for she could think of naught but Shamus. "What?"

"A large bruise covers your cheek and jaw."

"Oh, aye." She stroked her fingers over the sore spot the size of
Elrick's
fist. "But I'll be fine.
'Tis
Shamus I'm most concerned about."

"I thank you for taking him food while your brother had him imprisoned."

She nodded, knowing she could've done naught else.

She entered the guest chamber where Shamus lay. Strangers, whom she assumed were his clansmen, stood along the walls. Another man was sewing up a bleeding cut on Shamus' abdomen. Was he the
MacKenzie
healer?

When she looked at Shamus' face, a fresh wave of cold fear washed over her. "Saints, he is so pale," Maili whispered.

"He lost a lot of blood," Dermott said behind her.

A melee of confused thoughts and sharp emotions spun within her. Could she use her "sight" to see if he would heal? Should she pray? Uncertain, she sat in the wooden chair by the bed and took his hand. "Shamus?" Her voice caught on his name and she leaned toward him. "
'Tis
me."

"Maili," he whispered, his hand tightening around hers. "Hurt?"

"Nay. I am well." She smoothed his hair back from his forehead. "But you are hurt badly."

"
'Tis
naught," he whispered, then took a shallow breath.

"Are you in a lot of pain?"

He remained silent, seeming to have fallen asleep. His breathing grew deep and even and she prayed he was truly resting so that he might heal. One of her clansmen, 'haps even her own brother, had done him grievous harm. Another bloody bandage was wrapped around his muscular upper arm. A multitude of blue and purple bruises covered most of his chest, ribs, and abdomen. Dear heavens! That was where her brother and his men had beaten him the night before.

"Is that her?" a deep voice asked behind her.

Maili turned to see a large, commanding warrior with midnight hair and dark brown eyes. A far more frightening version of Shamus.

"Aye, this is Lady Maili." Dermott motioned toward her.

"M'lady." The man gave a brief bow. "I am Cyrus, the
MacKenzie
chief." His voice seemed too loud for this small room.

Of course. How could he be anyone else? He had the same dangerous presence she had sensed in her visions.

Releasing Shamus' hand, she arose from the chair and curtseyed. "
M'laird
."

He eyed her curiously. "I've been told you helped my brother."

"Aye."

"You brought him food and helped him escape," he said in a matter-of-fact tone.

She nodded, feeling the urge to lower her gaze from his intimidating one, but she did not.

"I thank you," he said. "I owe you a debt of gratitude."

Behind her, Shamus uttered words and she turned to him. "What did you say?" She leaned down toward him and stroked his beard-roughened cheek.

He fell silent, appearing to be sleeping.

She sat on the chair again and held his hand.
Please, God, help him to heal and recover. I have not known him long but I know he is a good man. The only man for me.

Moments later, someone tugged gently on her sleeve. "Pray pardon," Lettie, one of the maids whispered. "M'lady, the clan elders wish to speak to you."

Annoyed that someone would ask her to leave Shamus' side, she frowned. "Now?"

"Aye, they told me to find you and bring you to the solar.
'Tis
urgent."

Though she didn't wish to be away from Shamus even for a minute, she knew she had to help her clan. "I will return soon, Shamus," she whispered and kissed his forehead. Reluctantly, she let go of his hand, praying he would be improved by the time she returned. "I'll be in the solar for a few minutes. If anything should change, please send someone to get me right away," she told Dermott.

He nodded.

Why did the elders wish to speak to her so soon? She did not even know how many of her clan were dead or injured yet.

In the solar, she closed the door behind her, then sat down at the table, surrounded by six clan elders, all men. Their long, bearded faces and reddened eyes showed the utter grief they felt at the loss of so many clan and family members.

"The
MacKenzie's
have near destroyed the whole of our clan, lass," the ancient warrior, Hugh, growled. His gnarled hand clenched into a fist upon the table. "I do not ken whether we can survive this."

"How many died?" she asked.

"Five and twenty, our chief among them. With three more gravely injured."

Good Lord. So many? How could their clan endure such a great defeat? Her throat tightened, and tears burned her eyes.

"But 'twas no more than
Elrick
asked for when he took the
MacKenzie
lad hostage," her great uncle
Bhatar
said, his voice rough and raspy.

"I agree," Maili said, forcing her emotions aside, "and I saw this devastation in my visions. I warned
Elrick
but he would not listen to me."

The men nodded. "He refused to heed our council as well."

"We have sent three men after Neacal,"
Bhatar
said. "We pray he is still living in the crofter's cottage on
Eilean
Fraoch
Dubh
."

Indeed, she hoped so, too.

Hugh frowned, his bushy white brows forming a V. "I told them not to send for him. He'll make a terrible chief. He's half mad. He could lose his sanity and kill the rest of the clan."

The other men grumbled their disagreement.

Maili's
heart ached for her tormented brother. "Neacal has never killed anyone outside of battle."

"But you must admit, lass, that he is half mad."

Truly not believing he was, she shook her head. "The men have said he was tortured.
'Twas
almost more than his mind could withstand. Any of us might end up the same way if we were tortured."

Three of them nodded.

Hugh remained unmoved. "Still, I'm nay certain he will be the best leader for the clan."

"Who else then?" she asked.

"Three good candidates were killed in the siege," Kendrew said, his long white beard swaying as he looked back and forth at his comrades.

"Neacal has a different nature than
Elrick
," she said, hoping and praying her brother was able to be chief.

They all nodded.

"He has a good heart and he is intelligent."

"What if he doesn't wish to be chief?" Uncle
Bhatar
asked.