Once a Warrior (32 page)

“I—I don’t know,” she stammered. Her gaze fell upon Alpin, pleading for help.

Alpin closed his eyes and drew his snowy brows together, searching for a vision of Harold. A low incantation rumbled in his throat, which grew louder and louder, filling the vast cavern of the great hall. His arms opened wide, spreading his silver-and-black cloak like giant wings, and his frail body began to tremble. Finally he opened his eyes.

“He didn’t do anything,” he announced with a shrug.

“Nothing?” said Angus.

“Surely he must have done something,” protested Dugald. “Why else would the lass have chosen him?”

“He is a strong and fair man,” declared Ariella, grasping for something. “He will make a fine laird.”

Angus regarded her dubiously. “How do you know?”

“I met him once,” she said. “And I saw him in a dream.”

The two council members exchanged doubtful glances.

“He will make a fine laird,” she repeated.

“So would MacFane,” pointed out Angus.

“MacFane is not the one,” she stated firmly. “He will never wield the sword, and he will never be a MacKendrick.”

Disappointment washed across their faces. They knew they could not argue with her, that the decision was hers alone. But it was clear they did not care for her choice, despite the fact that they had not met Harold. The only way to make them understand was to tell them about Malcolm’s past. Yet she could not bring herself to do it. To shatter his image so completely, after the long months he had spent winning her clan’s friendship and respect, was unthinkable.

She was not convinced they would believe her anyway.

The sun was painting soft ribbons of melon and gold across the gray edge of the sky. Ariella stared out the window of her chamber, watching for Catherine and Agnes to emerge from the woods, or perhaps to appear on the grassy banks surrounding the loch, carrying their basket of treasures. The day was in its final veil of light, and Ariella had expected them back long ago. She knew Catherine was profoundly distressed by Malcolm’s sudden departure, and she wanted to spend the evening with her, helping her cope with her grief. During his time there Malcolm had forged a close bond with her little sister, and Catherine was deeply hurt by the fact that he had abandoned her so unexpectedly. Seeing no sign of her or Agnes, she turned from the window and gazed restlessly about her chamber, wondering how to occupy herself as she awaited their return.

A folded paper caught her eye, peeking out from beneath the plaid draping her bed. Curious, she knelt down and opened it. It was one of Catherine’s drawings, depicting a very large warrior on a horse that was far too small to carry him, and a little girl on an even tinier horse. Scrawled in childish lettering along the bottom were the words,
The Black Wolf and Me.
The drawing must have fallen from Malcolm last night, she realized, as she’d unfastened his belt to free him from his plaid.

How was it that Catherine had come to care so much for this broken warrior? she wondered, studying the disproportionate figures. Ariella recalled the day she had brought Malcolm there, and how her clan had stared at him in shock, unable to believe he was the powerful Black Wolf they had so long awaited. Only Catherine had been undaunted as he’d awkwardly dismounted and limped onto the platform. In a gesture of pure, unconditional acceptance, she had reached up and taken his enormous scarred hand in hers. From the very beginning Catherine had been able to see beyond his damaged body, the harsh glares, the angry, impatient responses. It had taken Ariella far longer to realize there was another man trapped beneath that crippled, bitter exterior. A man who had somehow taken charge of the impossible challenges that lay before him. When she first found him, he had seemed incapable of wresting control of his own life. Yet he had come here, however reluctantly, and inspired her people to learn to defend themselves. He had shown them it was not size and might that counted most in battle, but skill, courage, and the conviction that winning was possible.

Catherine had understood his inner strength long before the rest of them.

The pounding of booted feet wrenched her from her thoughts. “Ariella!”

The door crashed open and Niall regarded her grimly, his chest heaving with exertion, a missive crumpled in his fist. Gordon, Helen, Elizabeth, and Ramsay were assembled behind him, their expressions grave.

“What is it?” she demanded. “Has Harold sent a messenger to say he is delayed?”

Niall shook his head. “It is Roderic,” he stated tautly. “He has returned.”

She had known this moment would come. Alpin had seen it. But she had clung to the hope that he would not return before Harold’s arrival.

“We must prepare for battle,” she said, affecting the brusque, authoritative manner she had seen Malcolm project when they’d been attacked before. “We repelled his assault once, and we can do so again. All we need do is hold him off until Harold arrives with his army.”

No one moved. “He has Catherine,” Niall said roughly.

Terror crashed over her, robbing her of breath and strength, and even the ability to comprehend fully what he was saying. “Catherine?” she repeated, her voice a wisp of sound against the pounding in her ears.

“He must have taken her while she and Agnes were out walking,” said Elizabeth, wringing her hands together. “Agnes is missing as well.”

It was impossible, what they were telling her. They were mistaken. Ariella opened her mouth to tell them so, but Niall held the wrinkled missive out to her, a hideous, indisputable confirmation. Her fingers trembling, she took the sheet in her hands.

My dearest Ariella,

Rest assured, I am not in the habit of taking children hostage, unless circumstances force me to do so. Unfortunately, you and your clan have resisted me twice, and I will not be made a fool of again. You will come to me, alone, bringing only the MacKendrick sword with you. You will then perform whatever ceremony is necessary to grant me its full powers, and invest me as laird of your clan. Once I am convinced these powers are mine, we will return to your castle, where your people will relinquish their weapons and swear fealty to me.

Agnes tells me no one has ever actually seen this sword, as your father foolishly chose not to make use of it. I am not an unreasonable man, and I realize you may need time to retrieve the weapon from its hiding place. You have until first light tomorrow.

If you have not appeared in the woods by then, or if you come with others, I will cut little Catherine’s throat.

Roderic

The room began to spin. She had lived this moment before, when Roderic had promised he would slaughter her clansmen one by one, until she gave him what he wanted. And so she had orchestrated her own death, robbing him of the single tool he needed to gain possession of the sword. But he would not be fooled again. Even if she did actually kill herself, he would murder Catherine anyway, and Agnes as well, just to assuage his fury.

She dropped the letter to the floor, revolted by the fact that Roderic had laid his hands upon it. More of her clan had crowded behind Niall, silently spilling into her chamber to regard her with wide, solemn eyes.

The decision she faced was impossible. It could be moments or days before Harold arrived. Even if he came before first light tomorrow, Roderic would butcher Catherine as his army approached. The only way she might save her sister and Agnes was to give Roderic the sword and order her clan to accept him as laird. But by doing so, she was betraying her people.

And condemning them to death and destruction, which would be the sword’s retribution for her choosing the wrong man.

C
HAPTER
13

Malcolm tilted his head back and swallowed deeply.

He longed to drain the wineskin of its contents and start on another, but he forced himself to exercise some restraint. He and Gavin still had two more days of travel ahead, and tomorrow night his back, leg, and arm would be yearning even more strongly for the numbing effects of alcohol. He also needed to stay somewhat sober, as in a few hours it would be his turn to watch over their camp.

They had adopted an unhurried pace since leaving Duncan and Andrew. Although Malcolm told himself he was glad to be rid of Ariella and her clan, the prospect of returning to long, empty days in that dark, miserable hut filled him with crushing despair. There was no need to rush toward the pathetic ending of his existence. Better to be out here, lying by a warm fire with a cool wash of charcoal sky over his head and the hard pressure of the earth against his aching flesh. There was a simple, harsh clarity to being in the woods, a melding of space and darkness and discomfort, intensifying his awareness of himself and his surroundings.

“Someone is coming,” he announced suddenly, casting aside the wineskin in favor of his sword. He strained to listen. “Twenty riders at least. They must have seen the fire.”

Gavin quickly retrieved his bow and quiver of arrows. “I’ll watch you from over here,” he said, slipping into the darkness of the trees.

The pounding of hooves grew louder, until the ground began to shiver. Finally the first group of riders emerged through the woods, their faces lit by the orange glow of the fire.

Malcolm stared at the three men in astonishment. “Robert? Alex? and Edward? What in the name of God are you doing here?”

“MacFane!” gasped Robert, who led the small party.

“By God, we had not thought to find you here,” added Edward.

Malcolm wasn’t sure, but he could detect no malice in either their tone or their expressions. Evidently his former warriors were too startled to reflect their true feelings toward him.

“There is only one MacFane,” stated a cold voice through the shadows.

The warriors instantly parted for a tall, bearded man astride a powerful gray charger. His shoulder-length hair was the color of firelight, the same color Marrian’s had been. He wore a neatly belted plaid of brown and purple, a crudely sewn shirt, and a darkly oiled leather jerkin. On his shoulder gleamed a brooch of finely wrought gold with a massive ruby at its center. It was a brooch Malcolm knew well, for it had once belonged to his father, before it had been briefly passed to him.

The bitterness that shot through him was staggering.

“Good evening, Harold.” His voice was calm, giving no hint of the hostility roiling within him. Even as he struggled to control it, he knew the feeling was unjustified. Harold had done what he had to do when he’d banished Malcolm from the clan. Had the situation been reversed, Malcolm would have done the same.

Or worse.

If Harold was surprised to see him, he hid it well. His gaze swept coolly over Malcolm, taking in every detail of his appearance. “You look well, Malcolm,” he finally observed. “I had heard reports describing you as filthy and unshaven, and living as a drunken hermit. Obviously these stories were exaggerated.”

It was impossible to tell from the flatness of his tone whether this revelation pleased or irritated him.

“I am faring well enough.”

“What brings you to these woods?”

Malcolm’s eyes narrowed. “I was not aware that I am under obligation to inform you of my movements.”

“You are not,” Harold assured him. “As long as you never set foot upon MacFane lands, you are free to travel wherever you like. I ask the question as one traveler to another. You need not tell me if you do not wish to.”

His comment made Malcolm feel slightly churlish. Why was he reacting this way? he wondered in disgust. It had been a simple question, nothing more.

“I had some business with one of the clans near here. It is now completed, and Gavin and I are on our way home.”

Gavin stepped out from the cover of the trees. “Hello, Harold.” He purposely neglected to use the title Harold had appropriated from Malcolm.

Harold barely tilted his head. “Gavin.”

“What brings you here with so many men?” asked Malcolm, watching as several dozen warriors halted their horses in the darkness behind him. “Are you on your way to fight a battle?”

“Nothing quite so exhilarating. I am on my way to meet my future bride.” His weary countenance suggested his pending nuptials were more an unwelcome necessity than a cause for celebration.

“Then congratulations are in order,” Malcolm managed tautly.

He tried to think of several reasons why Harold could not possibly fulfill Ariella’s expectations for her clan’s laird. Nothing beyond his own hostility came to mind. His cousin was young, fit, and strong. He was a consummate warrior who had fought alongside Malcolm in countless battles. Harold was also now laird of the mighty Clan MacFane, and he led what had once been the finest army in all of Scotland.

The army Malcolm had raised and trained.

“Who is the fair bride?” asked Gavin.

Harold shrugged his shoulders indifferently. “A girl from the MacKendrick clan. Whether she is fair or not, I cannot say. I have never seen her.”

So. It was not enough that she had ordered him abducted to be rid of him. Now she was offering everything he had labored so hard to protect to the man who had already seized Malcolm’s very life. Her betrayal was so overwhelming, he barely trusted himself to speak.

“How was this arranged?” he asked, somehow managing to keep his tone even.

“Early this summer three MacKendricks came to me, saying they were looking for the Black Wolf,” Harold explained. “Two men, and a filthy lad of about twelve. Like the messengers who had come before them, they were adamant about seeing you, even when I explained you were no longer chief of the MacFanes. Finally I told them where you were. Did they ever find you?” he asked curiously.

Of course. Duncan and Andrew had told Gavin they had first gone to Harold. Which meant Ariella had at least seen his cousin before deciding on him. He nodded. “They did.”

“The MacKendricks live within a ring of mountains some distance from here,” Harold continued, obviously assuming that nothing had come of their visit. “It seems they have spent their entire existence in virtual isolation and know little about defending themselves. The daughter of the last laird is proposing a match, in the hopes that my army will be able to keep her clan secure.”

It is my army,
thought Malcolm harshly. And of course it would keep the MacKendricks bloody secure. He wanted to laugh at the irony of it. Ariella would have the Black Wolf’s warriors guarding her, after all.

With neither the embarrassment nor the inconvenience of the fallen Black Wolf.

“And what do you get out of this arrangement, Harold?” His voice was deceptively mild.

“The girl claims her people are unusually skilled in artistry and craftsmanship,” Harold replied. “The gifts she sent as examples of their work were impressive. As it is time for me to marry anyway, the match is a splendid opportunity to expand my lands and resources.”

Naturally, he would look at it that way. Not as a chance to help a clan in need, but merely as an extension of his power. A pragmatic, logical approach.

“This clan is several days’ journey from yours,” Malcolm pointed out. “How will you manage your duties as laird of the MacFanes if you are living so far from them?”

“I have no intention of staying there,” Harold assured him. “Once I have seen for myself that these MacKendricks are capable of producing such goods, I will marry the girl and return home. Her clan will become a sept of the MacFanes, taking our name. I will leave thirty or so men there to protect the holding and run its affairs. Many of my warriors have actually volunteered to live there, as there are so few MacFane women left.”

His expression remained bland, but there was no mistaking the condemnation in his tone.
Because of me,
thought Malcolm.
There are hardly any women left because I let them be slaughtered. Including Marrian.

“I would have thought you’d want more of a marriage than that, Harold,” observed Gavin dryly. “Do you intend to visit your wife only often enough to get her with child?”

“I don’t intend to visit her at all,” he replied. “She will live with me.”

“She agreed to leave her clan?” said Malcolm, astounded that Ariella would consent to such a condition.

“Not yet,” Harold admitted. “But the issue is not negotiable. I have long been without female company, and I am not looking for a wife who lives so far away. If she will not leave, there is no match.”

It would be agonizing for her, Malcolm realized. Leaving her home would be like ripping a piece of her heart out and leaving it behind. But she would do it if she believed it was best for her clan. She would sacrifice anything to ensure her people were safe.

Including herself.

It was not his affair, he reminded himself bitterly. She had been desperate to be rid of him, and now she was. She could bloody well marry Harold and give him all that Malcolm had worked night and day to strengthen and protect. Clearly she believed his cousin was far worthier than he to lead her people. And then she would be forced to leave. She would learn the cruel lesson of having everything you’ve ever known and loved taken from you in a single blow. And Harold, goddamn him, would have everything. He would be laird of the powerful Clan MacFane, and the tiny, isolated, eccentric Clan MacKendrick. Most of all, he would have Ariella.

Leaving Malcolm with nothing.

Twice now he had lost his world to Harold—not because of his cousin’s hunger for power, but because of his own pathetic inability to hold fast to what was rightfully his. Long before his clan and title had been taken from him, he had believed he no longer deserved to be laird. Because of the wretched condition of his body, his inability to survive a day sober, his rage and self-pity—because of all these things and so many others, it made him sick to think of it. And yet, except for Roderic and a few malcontented soldiers, his people had never challenged his right to lead them. They believed, however naively, that he would overcome his physical and spiritual challenges.

Instead, he had succumbed to them.

This was why Ariella had believed he was unfit to lead her people. She condemned him for the failures of his past, as he had for so many years—for being a drunk, for letting his people die, for losing his lairdship and his army. Most of all, she blamed him for not coming when her clan had needed him.
That would have been the deed of a true warrior.
And maybe she was right. When he’d been the Black Wolf, he would have done anything to help another, regardless of the forces against him.

He wanted to be that man again.

“It is late,” observed Harold suddenly. “I must take my leave of you.”

“You are going on?”

Harold nodded. “Since the night is fair, I have decided to ride through it. If this map is accurate, we should arrive at the MacKendrick castle long before morning.”

Malcolm’s mind raced, trying to think of some way to stop him. It was vital he reach Ariella first. How he would convince her that he, with all his flaws and failures, was a better choice for laird, he had no idea.

“I wouldn’t ride on, if I were you,” he warned.

Harold regarded him curiously.

“Why not?”

“The terrain around here is heavily mountainous, and it is easy to get lost,” Malcolm replied. “The slightest deviation from your route, and you will be days trekking through the mountains, trying to find your way back. Better to wait until first light and be certain of your bearings.”

Harold stroked his beard, considering. Finally he shook his head. “I have led my men on difficult routes before. We will find this place.”

“Then there is the storm,” Gavin quickly added.

Harold frowned. “What storm?”

“There is a violent storm coming,” Malcolm lied.

Harold’s expression was skeptical. “How do you know?”