Once a Warrior (21 page)

Yet as she stood beside him watching the even rise and fall of his chest, she could not help but wonder what would happen to MacFane when he left. He had no family or clan who would joyously celebrate his return. Instead he would go back to the dank, filthy hut he shared with Gavin, where his days were nothing but long, empty hours filled with pain, drink, and bitterness. Although this fact had never bothered her before, suddenly she found the idea abhorrent. However MacFane had failed his people, did he really deserve to be condemned to such a miserable existence?

His brow was creased, indicating he still struggled with his pain. He moaned slightly and buried his face in his arm, as if trying to escape his discomfort. A dark lock of hair slipped across the clenched line of his jaw. Without thinking, Ariella leaned over and gently brushed the hair off his face, her fingers grazing the sandy surface of his cheek. MacFane’s hand instantly clamped around her wrist, binding her to him with bruising force.

He opened his eyes and glared at her, his gaze menacing as he fought to clear the mists of alcohol and herbs. When he realized who she was, his grip eased, but he did not release her. Instead he pulled her down, until she hovered barely a breath away from him.

“I will not leave you, Ariella,” he whispered roughly, “until I know you are safe.”

Ariella stared at him, her heart beating rapidly, wondering how he could have known what she was thinking. “You cannot stay, MacFane,” she countered. “Whoever wants you gone will not stop until you are dead.”

Malcolm released her wrist and waited for her to move away from him. When she did not, he hesitantly laid his fingers against her cheek. “I’m already dead,” he murmured, fascinated by the softness of her skin. “I have been for a long time.”

They stayed like that a moment, staring at each other. And then, overcome with weariness, Malcolm sighed and drifted into sleep, his hand still pressed against the silk of Ariella’s cheek.

C
HAPTER
9

Laughter floated through the still evening air, merrily blending with the strains of harp and bagpipes.

“Sounds like they’re havin’ a fine time,” drawled Tavis, scratching at his filthy scalp. “They seem to have recovered, all right.”

Gregor sniffed the air. “I smell roastin’ meat.” He spat heavily onto the ground. “I say we attack now, while there’s still plenty of food.”

“Aye,” agreed Murdoch. “No point waitin’ till it’s all gone.”

“Patience, gentlemen.”

Their leader stood with his feet braced apart and his hands lightly clasped behind his back, calmly surveying the MacKendrick castle. “Many an attack has been lost by overzealous men who followed their appetites, instead of waiting for the right moment.”

“With these MacKendricks, there’s no need to wait,” sneered Gregor. “We just go in and take what we want, same as last time.”

“They have no defenses, and they sure as hell don’t know how to fight,” added Murdoch. “We might as well get in there, eat a decent meal, and find a lass to keep us warm tonight.” He started to move toward his horse.

“Wait.”

The command was given softly, but Murdoch obeyed.

“I agree they will be easy to overcome,” said Roderic, turning away from the castle. “But they have been training and fortifying their castle, which might make the task a little more troublesome.”

“You said they’ve been training under a drunken cripple,” sneered Tavis. “What could he have possibly shown that group of jugglers?”

“Probably nothing,” agreed Roderic. “Still, a new gate was being forged, and they are building the parapet higher.”

“But it isn’t finished,” pointed out Murdoch dismissively. “We can easily get over the curtain wall.”

“Once we’re in, they’ll be too scared to put up a fight,” snorted Gregor. “We’ll grab MacKendrick’s daughter, make her give us the sword, and that’ll be the end of it.”

“And the beginning,” murmured Roderic, turning to look at the brightly lit castle once more.

Fury burned deep in the pit of his stomach as he studied the ghostly silhouette of the unfinished tower. The deceiving little bitch thought she had tricked him. First she had carved open his cheek, forever marring his once perfect face. And then, just as he had found a way to force her to give him the sword, she had foiled him by setting the tower afire. He remembered his shock when he had seen flames leaping out the windows and licking at the dry wood of her prison. In that moment he had believed the powerful MacKendrick sword would never be his.

But she hadn’t died.

To make this unexpected revelation even more interesting, Malcolm was here. Roderic could not imagine what had induced his former commander and laird to think he could be of any help to these people. The great Black Wolf was nothing more than a pitiful, mangled animal, who survived the emptiness of his days by drinking himself into a stupor. The MacKendricks were deluding themselves if they thought Malcolm had anything to offer them. He briefly considered the possibility that Ariella had given MacFane the sword, then quickly dismissed it. According to his contact, she did not believe he was the next laird. Given her penchant for physical and moral perfection, this was not surprising. If there was one thing Roderic had learned during the weeks she had so carefully nursed him, it was that Ariella was convinced the next laird would be perfect.

The scarred, lame, drunken Black Wolf hardly fit that description.

He lifted his hand to his cheek and absently stroked the ugly, thick line she had left there. For a while he had nearly had her convinced that he was the man she sought. Then she had gone to that babbling old fool who claimed to see the future, and he had told her he was not. Although disappointed, Ariella was resigned to Alpin’s opinion. Apparently the responsibility she felt toward her people outweighed her own personal preferences.

That was when Roderic had realized he would have to take firmer control of the matter.

“The MacKendricks will be no harder to overcome this time than last,” he assured his men. “Once I have the girl, I will make her see how extremely perilous it will be for her people if she does not give me the sword. But we will wait until they have eaten and drunk their fill just the same. Then we will attack, when their minds are clouded and their bodies clumsy.”

“But the food will be gone,” protested Gregor sulkily.

“The castle will be ours,” pointed out Roderic. “We will have them make more.”

Moderately appeased by this thought, his men joined the other warriors to inform them of his plan.

Roderic returned his gaze to the golden shafts of light spilling from the windows of the castle. Soon the sword would be his. Once he was certain its powers were transferred to him, he would initiate his new wife to her duties in his bed.

And then he would cut her face, so she would understand the price of inciting her new laird’s fury.

The great hall was swirling with color and merriment as the MacKendricks joined hands and danced in a huge circle around the room. The men were dressed in their best shirts and plaids, the women in their finest gowns, which they hadn’t worn since the day MacFane had arrived. The tables were laden with platters of roasted meat and fresh fish, great rounds of dark bread, thick wedges of cheese, and sweet tarts garnished with plump berries. All this was being washed down with endless pitchers of ale and wine, and the result could be seen in the sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks of the dancers. Graham and Ramsay were playing their bagpipes with particular enthusiasm from the wooden gallery above, while Bryce and Hugh kept stopping to take a hearty draft of ale before attempting an even more astounding juggling feat.

“That Gavin is the most vexing man,” complained Elizabeth, adjusting the neckline of her gown for what seemed to Ariella the hundredth time. “There he is sitting at that table with Angus, Dugald, and my father,
talking,
when he should be up dancing with everyone else.”

“Why don’t you go over and ask him to dance with you?” asked Ariella.

Her expression brightened. “Do you think I should?”

“It would be terribly forward,” said Agnes, clearly uncomfortable with the idea.

“Gavin is a guest here,” pointed out Ariella. “He is probably reluctant to invite a woman to dance, for fear she might think he is courting her. But if
you
ask him to dance, no one will mistake his intentions. He will accept to be polite, especially if you ask in front of your father.”

“You’re right!” said Elizabeth, evidently not troubled by the fact that he might be an unwilling partner. Shifting her neckline marginally lower, she abandoned her friends and made her way across the room.

Gavin watched over the rim of his cup as Elizabeth strode purposefully toward him.

“Gavin MacFane, are you planning to sit in that chair all night, or will you get up and dance with me?” she demanded.

Her father looked at her in surprise. “Have you taken leave of your senses, lass? That’s no proper way to talk to a man.”

“Gavin is too shy to ask me to dance, Papa,” she explained, “so I’m doing the asking for him.”

“Young lassies today have such spirit,” commented Angus, shaking his head.

Gordon stared at Gavin in bewilderment. “Is this true?”

“Is what true?” asked Gavin.

“That a warrior like you is too shy to ask my daughter to dance?”

“Of course not.”

“There, you see?” said Gordon to his daughter. “He’s not too shy.”

“Well, then, why doesn’t he?” persisted Elizabeth, casting Gavin a challenging look.

Gordon frowned, considering. “Are you saying my daughter isn’t pleasing enough for you?”

“No,” Gavin assured him. “Your daughter is beautiful.”

Elizabeth’s expression softened. “Really?”

“But that isn’t the issue,” he added firmly.

“Ah, you’re married, then,” concluded Dugald.

“No.”

“Spoken for?” asked Angus.

“No.”

“Not much of a dancer?” suggested Gordon.

“No.”

“Well, what is it, then?” asked Dugald.

They were all staring at him, expecting some kind of explanation. “I’m too old for her,” he finally muttered.

Angus looked at him blankly. “You’re what?”

“Too old.” Suddenly he was feeling foolish.

“Did the lad say he was too old?” demanded Dugald, looking incredulous.

“Of course not,” scoffed Angus. “He said he was too cold.”

“Go on then, Gavin,” said Gordon, slapping him heartily on the back. “We MacKendricks are not in the habit of forcing a man to marry a lass just for dancing with her. And if I know my Elizabeth, she’s not likely to leave until you say yes.”

Gavin looked up at Elizabeth, whose pretty mouth was curved in a triumphant smile. “Very well,” he conceded, rising from the table. “Elizabeth, would you honor me with a dance?”

“Why, I’d be pleased to, Gavin,” she returned sweetly. “If you think a man of your advanced years will be able to keep up with me.”

Ariella watched as Gavin led Elizabeth to the center of the hall. He swept into a low bow, then grasped her hand and proceeded to lead her through a lively dance that Elizabeth had some trouble following. She was eager to learn, however, and by the end of it they both looked as if they might collapse from breathlessness and laughter.

Ariella smiled.

Just a few months ago she had danced with her father in this very room. Laird MacKendrick had been a handsome, accomplished man, skilled at poetry, hunting, and playing the bagpipes. His wisdom and compassion had made him a respected chief, and all the MacKendricks had loved him. Although her clan had been shattered by his death, and the deaths of all the others who had fallen that day, tonight she could detect no trace of sadness in the room. Except in her. She found herself missing her father’s comforting presence, and the safe feeling she had known every time he had wrapped his burly arms around her and tickled her cheek with his graying beard as he’d kissed her good night. The burden of her clan’s welfare was also weighing heavily on her shoulders this evening. Despite their recent progress, Ariella knew they could never repel an attack for long. MacFane had said so himself.

“Is MacFane coming down?” asked Duncan as he, Andrew, and Niall joined her and Agnes.

“I don’t know,” she replied. “He is much better than he was three days ago, but I doubt he will feel like joining us. The medication I have been giving him for the pain makes him tired.”

“Careful he doesn’t grow too fond of it,” remarked Niall dryly. “He might find that your powders work faster than all the wine he consumes.”

Anger flared within her. “Why do you dislike him so?”

His expression hardened. “You know why, Ariella. He failed us. Your father and many others died because he couldn’t be bothered coming here. My God, you could have been killed. And then he finally arrives, but without his army. He is clearly not the next MacKendrick, yet you permit him to stay here, sleep in your father’s chamber, and order us about as if he were.” He shook his head in disgust. “His very presence is a dishonor to your father’s memory.”

Ariella searched Niall’s eyes as he spoke. It was obvious he had nothing but contempt for MacFane. Was his loathing great enough that he was trying to drive the man away?

“It hurts me to hear you speak so,” she told him quietly, “when you know I would never do anything to dishonor—”

“MacFane is here,” interrupted Andrew.

Ariella lifted her gaze to see MacFane at the top of the staircase. He stood tall as he surveyed the room, betraying no evidence of his injury of three days earlier. He wore a new pleated shirt, which was elegantly stitched about the neck and wrists in a pattern of fine gold thread. His green-and-black plaid was neatly belted about his waist, then swept over his shoulder and secured with his battered old brooch. As he looked down at the celebrating MacKendricks, his muscled legs braced wide and his expression cool, he seemed every inch the powerful, commanding Black Wolf, a man of enormous strength and fortitude.

Then he began to stiffly descend the stairs, shattering the illusion.