Once a Warrior (36 page)

“She didn’t want me,” Malcolm objected. “She felt pity for me.”

“Because no woman could want a man with such a horrendously battered body and spirit?”

He looked away, unmanned by the truth.

“Then tell me, MacFane, how do you explain what happened between you and Ariella last night?”

The memory of her clinging to him stirred his body. Her kisses had been sweet with desire, her touch restless and burning, as if she were trying to capture something she wanted desperately but knew she could not have. Standing before her in that fire-washed chamber, he had felt neither ugly nor pitiful. For one brief, impossible moment he had felt whole and strong, like the man he had once been before that terrible day on the battlefield. Ariella had seen him naked before, had laid her patient, soothing hands on every jagged scar and aching muscle. She, more than anyone, knew the full extent of his injuries and imperfections.

Yet she had wanted him with a passion he had never known.

It meant nothing, he reminded himself bitterly. Wanting him in that heated, stolen moment and thinking he could be laird of her people were two entirely different things. Therefore, pursuing this ancient sword was a waste of time. He could barely bring himself to believe it might actually exist. But if by some remote chance it did, and finding it depended on Ariella’s wanting him to lead her clan, then he had no hope of ever doing so.

He should find some rusty old substitute and seek out Roderic now, before more precious time was lost.

“You must try to find the sword, MacFane,” Alpin told him sternly, interrupting his thoughts. “No matter how ludicrous or unfeasible this quest seems, you must try.”

The old man’s eyes were grave, two pools of black glittering against the sagging folds of his decrepit face. An inexplicable chill swept through the room as he held Malcolm with his gaze. In that frozen, hushed moment Malcolm could almost believe that this ancient man had seen a hundred or more years rise and fall across the emerald ring of these mountains. Alpin had no special powers, he reminded himself firmly, and although he couldn’t understand how the old man knew so much, Malcolm was damn sure he wasn’t a seer. But something in the intensity of that aged black gaze cracked the armor of his cynicism.

If saving Ariella and Catherine meant going after the sword, then he would do so.

But if by first light he did not hold it in his grasp, he would go after them anyway, and kill Roderic with his bare hands.

The air was sweet with the fragrance of crushed pine needles, damp earth, and the faint breath of heather wafting down the mountains. They were dark, mysterious scents, far different from when they played upon a sun-warmed gust of midday wind. They permeated his senses as he slowly threaded his way deeper into the thick woods, sharpening his awareness. After a while the world began to roar with the uneven sigh of earth shifting beneath his feet, the soft cadence of his breath, the steady pounding of his heart. Never before had he been so acutely conscious of himself and his environment. If Roderic’s men were scouting the area, he would sense their presence long before they were near.

Of course, with no weapon other than his exhausted, limping body, he had virtually no chance of surviving an attack.

He was an idiot to have allowed Alpin to convince him to do this. And yet, despite the insistent voice of logic telling him he was wasting time and should turn back, he did not. Instead he warily moved through the black pillars of trees, wondering how much farther it would be before he found a place to lie down and sleep without waking to find his throat carved open. The prospect kept him moving. That, and the fact that with Ariella and Catherine in danger, the last thing on earth he wanted to do was take a nap.

Roderic was clever, he mused, infuriated by his own stupidity. Malcolm had focused his attention on making the castle impenetrable. He had analyzed the structure and demanded the installation of every fortification possible. He had risen at the ungodliest hour every morning, no matter how weary and alcohol sodden he was, to drill endlessly beneath drizzling skies with a preposterous assortment of pipers, tumblers, and poets. And slowly, incredibly, he had transformed them into warriors. Not warriors who would savagely kill and maim in the bloodiest of battles, as his own men had. But brave men and women who were ready and able to defend their homes and loved ones. He had not done it for the lure of gold, though that was what initially had drawn him here. He had done it because he owed an immeasurable debt to Ariella for failing her so miserably. And after learning she lived, he had labored even harder to make the MacKendricks safe, realizing that her very survival endangered her clan. Every weakness of the castle had been exhaustively appraised, the training intensified, and alliances with neighboring clans secured. He thought he had done everything within his power to keep the MacKendricks safe.

What he hadn’t foreseen was Roderic resorting to the despicable act of using Catherine to force Ariella to surrender.

He had reached the densest part of the woods, where the trees clustered together and formed a high, feathery arch. A thick mound of moss and ferns grew beneath him, which appeared to be dry. This was as good a place as any, he decided, stiffly lowering his aching frame onto the soft mattress. Leaning back against a tree, he stared into the surrounding shadows, wondering how the hell anyone could expect him to actually fall asleep. Realizing, however, that sleep was a requisite, he folded his arms across his chest, closed his eyes, and ordered himself to relax.

Barely a moment passed before he was aware of being watched. He snapped his eyes open and instinctively reached for his dirk. His fingers grazed only his plaid, and he remembered in frustration that he had no weapons with him.

The ghostly silhouette of a wolf stood a few feet away, perfectly still. Malcolm kept his gaze locked on the powerful creature as his hands swiftly searched the ground for a heavy stick or stone. There was nothing. The wolf took a step toward him. Malcolm’s body tensed, preparing to fight it with his bare hands. Another step, this time more faltering. The animal was limping, Malcolm realized, experiencing a stab of empathy. The wolf studied him a moment, its amber eyes emanating not menace, but wariness and curiosity.

I am losing my mind.

What could possibly make him think this wild creature wasn’t about to tear him to pieces? And yet, after another moment of perusal, the wolf lay down, placed its head on his front paws, and let out a long, weary sigh.

It was strange, but now that he no longer felt threatened, the presence of the animal was almost comforting. Malcolm also sighed and closed his eyes, overcome with exhaustion, and inexplicably calmed by the fact that this deadly animal was near, watching over him. He settled back against the tree, still aware of every whisper of sound, and rapidly fell into the warm waters of sleep.

Ariella’s screams jerked him awake.

He opened his eyes to see a wooden tower engulfed in flames, exhaling a black cloud of smoke and cinders into the air. He rose from the ground and tried to run, but his legs were leaden and he could barely move. When he finally reached the blazing structure, it began to collapse, showering him with fire. He kicked the door open and went inside, choking on the acrid haze. His eyes were stinging, his flesh almost melting from the scorching heat, but still he limped up the stairs, knowing full well the fire was closing behind him as he did. He would find Ariella and take her out of here, or die in the attempt.

It was that simple.

Three doors faced him on the next floor. Ariella’s voice called to him from each. He hesitated barely an instant before heaving himself against the third door. She stood trapped amidst a ring of flames, which were lapping at the hem of her white gown. Malcolm raced toward her, wrapped his arms around her, and pulled her from the inferno. But fire now blocked the doorway, and there was no escape for either of them. He had failed, he realized desperately, sinking with her onto the stone floor.

“Forgive me,” he pleaded roughly, brushing a lock of auburn hair off her forehead. Suddenly she began to change; she was no longer Ariella, but Marrian, who lay pale and still in his arms. She reached up and tenderly laid her hand against his cheek, her blue eyes liquid with regret. Then she disappeared, and in her place a thin shoot emerged from what was now the ground. Up and up it grew, until finally an enormous tree with leaves of flame stood before him. A terrible heat radiated from it, and the air was thick with the battle stench of blood and death. From somewhere high in its branches, Ariella was screaming. He let out a roar of rage and began to climb, stiffly, slowly, his treacherous body protesting every movement. The leaves of fire lashed his face and arms and legs, burning his clothes and flesh, filling his lungs with a heat so intense, he did not think he could endure it, but he did, because nothing mattered except that he reach Ariella. Finally he was close enough to grasp her hand, but as he pulled her toward him, the last of his strength drained away. They began to fall through the fiery leaves, and Malcolm knew he had failed once again.

“Forgive me, Ariella,” he pleaded, closing his arms around her to cushion her fall, in the vain hope that she might somehow survive.

Ariella stared at him, her gray eyes wide and uncertain. And then suddenly her mouth curved into a gentle smile. “Follow the wolf, Malcolm,” she whispered softly, pressing her lips to his. “He will lead you home.”

Malcolm shook his head, overwhelmed with despair. “I have no home.”

She raised her fingers to caress his cheek. “Follow the wolf.” Then she disappeared, leaving him alone.

Malcolm sat upright, breathing deeply.

It was still dark, but the first gray shadows of morning were imminent. The wolf’s eyes met his. Then the animal suddenly leaped to its feet. It took a few steps, turned to look at him, then disappeared into the trees.

Malcolm awkwardly rose and began to follow him, his leg taut with pain, his back aching from lying on the cool ground. He thrashed his way through the darkness, breaking through a dense growth of trees and bushes as he struggled to keep up. He had no idea where he was, but somehow that didn’t bother him. The wolf moved swiftly despite its limp and was forced to stop occasionally so Malcolm could close the distance between them. They traveled for what seemed a long time, but the woods remained dark, and Malcolm was not sure his perception of time was accurate. On and on they went, until finally the wolf disappeared behind a thick wall of bushes. Breathing heavily, clenching his jaw against the pain, Malcolm separated the dense foliage and stepped through.

The darkness lifted with a sigh to reveal a glittering blue loch nestled below a heather-cloaked mountain. The air was perfectly still, leaving the veils of mist shrouding the purple peak to hang immobile, as if they had been delicately painted against the dove-gray sky. Beside the loch stood a glorious thickly branched tree, with brilliant, wavering leaves of rust, melon, and gold. The wolf stood beside it, staring at him. Malcolm recognized it as the tree from his dream, except that its leaves were not flames now, but only the color of flames, and no desperate screams poured from it. He approached it with caution, aware that its beauty could be deceiving. The wolf waited patiently for him. As he drew nearer, the wolf glanced at the trunk. Malcolm followed its gaze to see a brilliant flash of silver.

Frowning, he moved closer.

A magnificent sword leaned against the hoary bark, its intricately carved hilt studded with enormous sapphires and rubies, its gleaming silver blade radiating an aura that was almost blinding in the soft light. At first Malcolm could do little more than stare, so overwhelmed was he by the weapon’s sheer artistry. It was unlike any he had ever seen, and he could not imagine the countless hours of expert, loving craftsmanship that had gone into creating such a splendid piece. He reached out and wrapped his hand firmly around the hilt. It conformed perfectly to his grip, as if it had been forged to fit no palm other than his. Using both arms, he raised the weapon high into the air, then brought it down with a savage slice. The sword was solid and well balanced, yet remarkably light.

It was, without question, the most extraordinary weapon he had ever seen.

The sword may appear for you, but only if Ariella wills it. If she does, it means she has accepted you as laird of her clan.

It was impossible, he thought, staring at it now in disbelief. It was unthinkable. Ariella had made it eminently clear he was not worthy to lead her people. And she was probably right. Yet here he was in this green, silent enclave, with the warm, solid hilt of the MacKendrick sword planted firmly in his grasp.

Follow the wolf,
she had told him.
The wolf will lead you home.

He glanced over at the wolf. The animal calmly returned his scrutiny. Then it suddenly turned and disappeared through the emerald wall leading back to the woods, leaving him alone.

Malcolm did not follow. The wolf had brought him here. By doing so, it had shown him where Ariella’s troubled heart truly lay.

Until Roderic was dead and Ariella safe in his arms, he had no home.

C
HAPTER
15

Ariella closed her fingers around her dirk, enjoying the cool touch of steel against the warmth of her palm.

Gray threads of light filtered through the fabric walls of her prison, heralding the arrival of morning. She held up the weapon and watched it glimmer in the somber shadows.

Soon you will be buried deep in Roderic’s chest. Then my father’s life will finally be avenged. And the lives of all the others Roderic has taken in his bid to steal that which does not belong to him.

Whatever happened, Roderic would die. His lust for the sword was absolute, and as long as he lived, he would threaten the safety of her people. Ariella could not permit that. It was her duty to keep her clan safe, and to make certain the MacKendrick sword did not fall into the hands of one who would abuse its powers. Harold was on his way, but when he arrived without the sword, Roderic would realize he had been tricked. In that moment his rage would know no limits. He would put a knife to Catherine’s throat, until Ariella finally surrendered and gave him what he wanted.

She had no choice but to kill him first.

All through the night she had desperately tried to think of a plan to get Catherine and Agnes away from the camp. Without her sister Roderic lost his power to threaten her. He would not kill Ariella, because she was the only one who could give him the sword, though he would take pleasure in trying to force her to submit to him. She intended to kill him first. Once he was dead, she could expect no mercy from his men. All she had hoped was that Catherine and Agnes might somehow escape. Now that morning was sifting through the dark shadows of her tent, she realized this was impossible. Roderic’s warriors completely surrounded the camp and filled the woods. If her sister and Agnes somehow managed to break free, they would quickly be found and dragged back. The thought of little Catherine being hunted down like an animal was too ghastly to contemplate.

If they were to die, they would die together.

Regret tore deep into her throat. Not for the sacrifice of her own life, which was of no significance compared to the protection of the sword and the safety of her people. But for Catherine, who was so young and had already suffered so much. She also felt sorry for Agnes, despite her betrayal of her clan. Agnes was a foolish girl who had been blind to the evil soul of the man she had chosen to love. It was not difficult to understand. Even Ariella had not seen Roderic as he really was until the day he attacked her castle. Given the swell of Agnes’s belly, it was clear that by that time she already carried his child. He must have seduced her during the weeks he’d spent convalescing at the castle, while trying to capture Ariella’s heart at the same time. Roderic was adept at concealing his vileness behind the shield of his handsome face and practiced charms.

Unlike Malcolm, who never pretended to be anything other than the bitter, broken warrior he was.

It agonized her to think of the wrath that had spilled from him in their final moment together. For the rest of his life he would hate her with a vehemence she could not bear to contemplate. Still, the pain searing his gaze as he had collapsed to the floor convinced her she had had no choice. She could not have faced Harold with Malcolm standing by, despising both of them. And she wanted to shelter both Malcolm and her people from the horrendous truth of his past, even though she could no longer condemn him for it. The blood of those innocent women and children dripped solely from Roderic’s murdering hands. Ariella knew Malcolm well enough to realize that, drunk or sober, he would have done anything within his power to save them, had he been able.

Just as she now realized he would have come at her father’s request had he believed he’d had anything to offer.

The heavy, sleep-drenched sounds of the camp stirring to life pulled her from her thoughts. An unpleasant litany of groans and belches told her Roderic’s men were reluctantly rousing.

Soon it will be over,
she thought, calmly caressing the blade of her dirk.
Roderic will be dead. And the sword will be safe.

The ground began to tremble with the pounding of hooves, and excited cries rang through the camp. Ariella slipped her dirk into her cloak and moved to the entrance of the tent, where she cautiously parted the opening.

Roderic stood in the center of the camp, his thickly muscled arms crossed and his legs braced, listening to the report of three riders. It was clear he had risen early, or perhaps had not slept at all, for his face was freshly shaven and his hair brushed to a golden gleam. He wore an intricately stitched shirt and a precisely arranged plaid that Ariella instantly recognized as the handiwork of her clan. Evidently he wanted to look his finest as he forced her people to kneel before him and swear their undying loyalty.

The only weapon you will receive today is my blade thrust deep into your foul heart,
she thought darkly.

Roderic stroked his scar pensively as his men finished their report. His expression was calm, but also perplexed, as if something had happened he had not expected. He gave some orders to his men, which Ariella could not hear. Then he turned and strode toward her tent.

“Agnes! Catherine!” she hissed, retreating from the entrance. “Wake up!”

Catherine sat up and sleepily rubbed her eyes. “What is it?”

“Roderic is coming.”

Agnes’s tear-streaked face contorted with fear. A purple stain had formed around her mouth where Roderic had struck her, and her lower lip was swollen and crusted with blood.

Ariella gave them both an encouraging smile. “It will be all right,” she assured them gently. “Just stay there and don’t say anything.”

“Good morning, miladies,” called Roderic pleasantly, entering the tent. “I trust you slept well?”

Ariella glared at him.

“Excellent,” said Roderic, undisturbed by her manner. “I would speak with you a moment, Ariella.” He raised the tent flap so she could precede him outside.

She adjusted her cloak around her shoulders and stepped into the cool morning air. Roderic’s men were hastily collecting their weapons.

“What is it?” she demanded, feigning far more calm than she felt. “Does Harold come?”

“It seems you have a gallant savior on his way to rescue you, fair Ariella,” drawled Roderic. “Your wounded Black Wolf has been spotted riding toward the camp. Alone.”

She tossed him a scornful look, wondering what game he played with her. “That is impossible. MacFane has left MacKendrick lands. Forever.”

“Impossible or not, he comes,” he assured her. “And he is carrying a magnificent sword, the like of which my men have never seen. Which leaves me to wonder if you lied to me about sending the weapon to Harold.” He roughly grabbed her hair and jerked her head back, forcing her to look at him. “Did you, my sweet?”

“No.”

Her mind raced as she absorbed what he was telling her. MacFane was coming here. Alone. Which meant he was either drunk or mad. Obviously he had returned to her castle and learned of Roderic’s demand for the sword. And so it seemed he was bringing a false sword, which he would offer to Roderic under the pretext that it was the weapon he sought. She could think of no other explanation.

The moment Roderic held the weapon in his hands, he would cut Malcolm in two, with or without the sword’s powers.

“If you didn’t give the sword to Malcolm, how did he get it?” demanded Roderic furiously.

Grasping for a plausible answer, Ariella quickly offered, “
If
it is MacFane who comes, and
if
he has the sword, then he must have stolen it from Harold. There is no other way he could obtain the weapon.”

Roderic’s green eyes narrowed. “Malcolm is far too weak and drunk to steal anything from Harold.” His fingers wrapped around her throat. “I think you lied to me, my sweet, and gave the sword to him.”

“Can you honestly believe I would give the sword to MacFane?” she demanded scathingly.

He hesitated, considering. Then he abruptly released her. “Either way, that goddamn sword will be mine,” he vowed. “And to celebrate this glorious occasion, my first act with it will be to sever Malcolm’s head from his shoulders. That will be a more than fitting retribution for all the misery he has caused me.”

“You tried to destroy him, and he cast you out, which was a far more lenient punishment than you deserved,” declared Ariella. “So you went back and savagely slaughtered the women and children of his clan. How can you possibly think you are the one who has been wronged?”

“I should have been laird of the MacFanes,” he snarled. “Yet that honor went to Malcolm, despite how unfit he was, because the laws of tanistry said he must inherit the position of his father. Any fool could have seen I was a better choice than that drunken cripple.”

“Malcolm was a far superior choice, regardless of his weaknesses,” Ariella retorted. “To lead a clan requires honor and integrity. It is a responsibility that calls for absolute devotion and unfailing courage, even when you think you cannot possibly bear the burden of it another moment.
You
want to be a laird because you believe forcing people to submit to you will give you power,” she observed, her voice dripping contempt. “A true laird would seek the duty because he believed he had something to give, not because he wanted to take.”

Roderic crossed his arms and regarded her sardonically. “And you believe Malcolm has these valiant attributes?”

“Malcolm has them and more,” she assured him. “Because he knows what it is to suffer. Yet he summons the strength to rise every morning and go on helping others, in spite of that suffering. That,” she finished caustically, “is a kind of power and courage you could never understand. It is the difference between thieving, murdering scum like you, and a true warrior like Malcolm MacFane.”

“I am flattered, milady, by your faith in me.”

Ariella gasped and whirled around.

Malcolm sat tall upon his black charger, regarding them both with deliberate calm. Unlike Roderic, his shirt and plaid were rumpled and worn, his dark hair tangled, and his jaw bore the shadow of some two days’ growth. Weariness had chiseled the lines of his face into deep grooves—weariness, and pain, and perhaps even a hint of concern, though Ariella could not imagine he could have cared what happened to her after her unforgivable betrayal of him. And yet, despite his lined face and disheveled attire, despite the jagged scar down his weakened right arm and the pain she knew at that moment was gripping his back and leg, an extraordinary power and confidence emanated from him. His stature was tall, his body taut, his expression deadly calm. His gaze flicked over her in a cursory, almost disinterested appraisal. Then he clamped his attention on Roderic. To all who watched, it seemed the Black Wolf was only vaguely concerned with her well-being. But Ariella had glimpsed a terrible rage smoldering deep within his eyes.

In that moment she almost believed Malcolm’s fury alone would enable him to kill Roderic.

“What an unexpected surprise this is!” quipped Roderic, clearly enjoying himself. “Here I was thinking I was going to have to face Harold and his army, which would have probably meant sacrificing poor little Catherine. But you have come instead, and my men assure me you were actually foolish enough to journey alone.” He paused and stroked his scar, considering. “You’re not drunk, Malcolm, are you?”

“No,” replied Malcolm, his voice deceptively soft. “I’m not.”

“Excellent! And I see that you have brought the sword.”

Ariella glanced at the weapon Malcolm carried at his side, her confusion growing. It was a magnificent piece, with a heavily jeweled hilt and a deadly sharp blade that flashed silver in the soft morning light. Although she had never seen the MacKendrick sword, this weapon was a splendid rendition of what her father had once described to her. Could her people have consulted Alpin and created this copy for Malcolm to bring to Roderic? His own sword was nowhere to be seen. Her heart sank as she realized what Malcolm’s purpose must be. He had been naïve enough to come in good faith, thinking simply to exchange the sword for Ariella and Catherine’s release.