Once a Warrior (13 page)

“It’s not in deep,” he concluded, studying the wound. “I can take it out here.”

“No!” gasped Rob, horrified. “Don’t you—”

Firmly holding his arm, Malcolm pulled the arrow out in one quick motion. A startled cry of pain cut the air.

“There,” he said gently. “It’s out.” He tossed the arrow away and began to bind the boy’s arm with the torn linen of his sleeve. “Are you all right?”

Rob took a shuddering breath and nodded. Tears began to slip down his smudged cheeks.

“Good. When we get back to the castle, we will have someone stitch it and bandage it properly. You will ride with me.”

“I can ride my own horse,” the boy told him, his voice shaking.

“I know you can,” agreed Malcolm. “But you have been injured, and I would prefer you ride with me.”

He stood and helped the lad to his feet. Then he placed his hands on his waist, to lift him onto Cain. Instead of feeling the lean, bony quality of most lads his age, Rob was surprisingly soft beneath his touch. Frowning, Malcolm adjusted his grip. The gentle curve of hips flared beneath his fingers.

“Take your hands off me!” snapped Rob. “I said I can ride my own damn horse!” He stalked over to the animal, took a deep breath, then awkwardly hoisted himself up.

Deciding not to argue the matter, Malcolm mounted Cain. Cool darkness wrapped around them as they silently rode through the woods. Malcolm was careful not to ride too fast, for fear his pace would prove overly difficult for his small, wounded friend. This gave him time to reflect on what had happened.

And to accept with absolute certainty that the arrow had been meant for him.

Laughter and music wafted merrily toward them, indicating that the feast was well under way. Amber light spilled from the castle’s windows, and the spicy aroma of roasting meat pervaded the evening air. Malcolm swung himself down from his horse.

“We must minimize this event to the clan, MacFane,” Rob said, his expression grave.

Malcolm looked at him in disbelief. “You were shot. With an arrow meant for me.”

“It will not help for the clan to know that,” the boy argued. “It will only make everyone worry.”

“They goddamn well should worry,” growled Malcolm. “You could have been killed. And I don’t enjoy being shot at.”

Rob shook his head impatiently. “If we hope to find out who did it, we can’t have everyone watching everyone else. It would be better to let the attacker think we believe I was hit by a stray arrow.”

Malcolm considered a moment. Perhaps the lad was right. An attacker who believed he had escaped detection was less likely to exercise caution. And would probably try again. “Very well.” He raised his arms to help the injured boy off his horse.

“I can get down myself,” Rob told him tautly. His brow creased with effort, he dismounted, leaned against his mare a moment, then stepped away.

Malcolm caught him as he collapsed to the ground.

“Your injury has bled and made you weak.” Grunting against his own pain, he awkwardly hoisted the lad into his arms.

“I don’t want you to carry me,” protested Rob.

“I don’t really see a choice in the matter,” observed Malcolm as he slowly limped toward the castle. “Next time you can carry me.”

The great hall swirled with gaiety and music. When Malcolm entered carrying Rob, everyone stopped and stared at them in shock.

“No!” cried Elizabeth, dropping the cup of wine she had been offering to Gavin into his lap. She rushed toward them, with Agnes, Helen, and little Catherine following close behind.

“Where are you injured?” demanded Duncan.

Gavin rose from his chair, heedless of his wine-soaked plaid. “What happened?”

“It is nothing,” Rob assured them as Malcolm carefully stood him on his feet. “A stray arrow during the hunt. It struck me in the arm, and MacFane took it out.” He took his little sister’s hand and gave her a weak smile. “I’m fine.”

Relief washed over the room. Malcolm studied the expressions around him, searching for a hint of guilt—or perhaps of regret that the arrow had not found its intended target. All he saw were surprise and concern—except from Alpin. His keen black eyes returned Malcolm’s perusal tranquilly, as if he had always known this would happen and was not disturbed by it.

And from Niall, whose face was twisted in fury.

“The wound will need cleaning, and a few stitches,” Malcolm informed Duncan. “Take the lad to my chamber and strip him of these filthy clothes. Let us use this as an opportunity to finally bathe him.”

The women in the hall gasped.

Malcolm frowned, not understanding their reaction.

“Perhaps, MacFane, it would be better if Rob stayed with me and Andrew,” Duncan suggested. “We have ample room, and we can take turns watching over him tonight, in case he needs anything.”

“Yes,” agreed Rob quickly. “That would be better.”

“Agnes and I will look after his wound,” offered Elizabeth.

“And I’ll tell him a story to make him feel better,” declared Catherine, clinging fast to her brother’s uninjured arm.

Malcolm shrugged. What did it matter who tended the boy, as long as he was looked after? “Very well.”

“Well, now, seeing as the lad is going to be fine, there’s no reason we shouldn’t continue our festivities,” remarked Angus as Rob was led away. He regarded Alpin uncertainly. “Is there?”

“No reason,” Alpin agreed brightly. He lifted a gnarled hand into the air. “Musicians play!”

A deafening blast of bagpipes assaulted Malcolm’s ears. He glanced at Gavin, who nodded. Then he turned and slowly headed toward his chamber.

“You believe the arrow was meant for you?”

“Rob saw the fellow taking aim,” Malcolm told him. “That’s why he tried to knock me out of the way.”

“But once the attacker realized his mistake, he didn’t shoot again,” pointed out Gavin. “It could be he was just trying to scare you, not actually kill you.”

“Then he is exceptionally confident of his aim,” observed Malcolm darkly. He took a deep swallow of wine. “Either way, someone wants me gone. If he didn’t intend to kill me, then he was hoping I would decide to leave. The question is, Why does he want me to go?”

Gavin gazed pensively into the fire. “From what I can see, the MacKendricks are beginning to accept you as their military adviser. Not knowing you were hired to come here, they believe you genuinely want to help them. And most of them accept that they need your help, at least until they find their new laird. But,” he continued hesitantly, “Elizabeth has told me there are those who blame you for the attack on the clan.”

Malcolm looked at him in disbelief. “Why the hell should they blame me?”

“MacKendrick promised his people you were coming with your army, to marry his daughter and assume the position of laird, as Alpin had foreseen,” Gavin explained. “Everyone had heard the tales of your past, and they were excited by the prospect of having the great Black Wolf as their chief. When the clan was attacked and MacKendrick and his daughter were killed, the people were devastated. They adored the old laird and his daughter. Apparently she was exceptionally beautiful.”

Malcolm stole a glance at the sculpture on the desk. If that elegant carving was any indication, then Ariella must have been exquisite.

“She was also a girl of some courage,” mused Gavin, “to sacrifice herself for her people the way she did.”

Malcolm returned his gaze to the fire, unable to look at her. Instead of finding comfort, he was tormented by the image of her lovely face slowly being engulfed by flames.

How long did she wait for me?

“I find there is a reluctance to talk about her,” Gavin continued. “Elizabeth says it is because the memory is still too painful.”

Of course it would be. Just as the death of Marrian had been an agony for him. Marrian’s death, and all those other helpless MacFane women and children who had died because of his drunken ineptitude.

He took another swallow of wine, loathing himself.

“It could be whoever shot at you wants to punish you for failing to come,” Gavin suggested. “The MacKendricks were brutally awakened from a peaceful slumber that had lasted nearly a hundred years. Perhaps one of them blames you for their loss of innocence. He wants you to leave because he thinks you failed them and have no right to be here.”

“He is right.”

Gavin cast him an irritated look. “You did not come here because you thought it was your right, Malcolm. You came because you were asked.”

“No,” he countered, his voice thick with contempt. “I came because I wanted the gold they offered.”

“Even so, your reasons for coming have nothing to do with what you accomplish while you are here. If you can help the MacKendricks, what does it matter if you are paid for doing so?”

Malcolm was silent as he contemplated this. Perhaps the fact of being hired would not have bothered an ordinary warrior. It certainly hadn’t bothered him when Duncan had made the offer. But he was not an ordinary warrior. He had been the Black Wolf, and laird of the mighty Clan MacFane. A few years ago he would have given his help solely because it was right to do so, not because he expected payment in return.

“There is another, more disturbing possibility,” he mused, pushing aside the thought of how low he had sunk. “It could be someone wants me gone because he is concerned that the clan is becoming stronger.”

Gavin frowned. “Who would want the clan to remain weak?”

Malcolm drained his cup, then regarded his friend grimly. “Someone who knows it will be attacked again.”

The fire was a mound of pink and gray embers as Malcolm vainly tried to coax a last drop of wine into his mouth. Irritated at finding the jug empty, he hurled it aside, listening with complete indifference as it shattered against the stone floor. Blinking wearily, he focused his gaze on the candle, which was perilously close to drowning in a yellow pool of wax. He did not want it to go out. If it went out, there would be nothing left to illuminate the smooth, high cheeks and small, straight nose of the girl who might have been his wife. But then, if he had still been laird of the Clan MacFane, she wouldn’t have been his wife, he reminded himself dully. Because if he hadn’t been injured, if he hadn’t been so tortured by pain, if he hadn’t become so dependent upon alcohol just to get through the endless days and hours and minutes, he would be married to Marrian now, with a child born and perhaps another growing deep within her.

He lay his head against his aching arm and studied the red-gold flame, which reminded him of the color of Marrian’s hair. His little cousin had worshiped him for as long as he could remember, traipsing around after him from the time she had begun to walk on her chubby little legs. Shy Marrian blossomed into a tall, lush beauty, and he had considered himself lucky indeed when his father arranged a marriage between them. She had been but sixteen and Malcolm twenty-eight, and it was agreed they would not marry until Malcolm returned home to stay. Often when he had camped at night, he would imagine that moment, of the Black Wolf returning proud and strong at the front of his great army, and Marrian running across the meadow to greet him, her cheeks flushed and her sunlit hair floating behind her.

Instead Gavin had brought him home in the back of a cart, broken and bleeding and dazed with fever. Not so dazed, however, that he couldn’t see the horror clouding his betrothed’s lovely face as he’d been carried into the hall. Horror, and pity, and even a shade of revulsion.

In that moment he knew he would never marry.

The stone face of the girl named Ariella regarded him silently. He looked away, embarrassed by his self-pity. He was alive, while both the women he might have married were dead. Marrian had been slaughtered while he was drunkenly leading his men away from his castle, leaving it hopelessly vulnerable. And Ariella, who had loved her clan so selflessly she would sooner die than permit them to suffer, had finally accepted that he would not come and killed herself. Had she hated him, in that terrible moment? Had she stolen one last, desperate glance at the horizon, searching for some sign of the man Alpin had promised would save them? He experienced a suffocating wave of guilt; it choked the room, making it hot and small and airless. This was MacKendrick’s chamber, he reminded himself harshly. He had no right to be in it. The candle sputtered and drowned, abandoning him. He pulled himself to his feet and staggered through the darkness, fumbling for the door. Then he limped along the corridor, down the stairs, and out the front door, searching for the cool, clean air and endless black of night to steady his reeling senses.

A velvet sky stretched above him, silent and unfathomable. He stumbled forward, searching for a star to focus his gaze on. There was only the moon, and it seemed too large, too brilliant, nearly blinding him with its aura. He closed his eyes and sank to the ground, drawing comfort from the feel of hard earth beneath his knees. His body ached, but the pain was dulled by the wine flowing through his veins, enabling him to think of other things. He thought of Marrian, and what it had been like to chastely press his lips against her sweet, smiling mouth. And Harold, his cousin and Marrian’s half brother, teasing him about what he would do if anything ever happened to his sister.
He should have killed me,
Malcolm thought bitterly.
He believed he was being merciful by letting me go.

He should have run me through with his sword and been done with it.

A sound escaped his lips, a sob or a groan, he was not sure. Startled, he searched the darkness to see if anyone had heard. The castle was asleep, its windows yawning caverns of black—except for a shaft of gold spilling from an opening high in one of the towers. He gazed at it, vaguely consoled by the idea that he was not alone, that someone else could not rest on this lonely summer night. Suddenly a woman stepped into the amber beam. Her face was shadowed, her silhouette small and fine, but the unhurried grace of her movements left no doubt it was a woman he saw, not a child. She leaned forward, searching the sky for something, or perhaps to feel the coolness of the air upon her cheek. Moonlight splashed across her face, revealing her features in a shower of silvery light.