Rowan's Lady (48 page)

He howled in frustration and let loose his hold on
her. Arline fell to the ground in a heap, while Rowan, Duncan and Findley
sprang into action.

Archie continued his retreat. Unsheathing his
broadsword, he held it outward with one hand, the dirk in the other. Waving
them back and forth and the three men approached.

“If Scotland falls, I’ll make sure the whole world
kens it to be yer fault, Rowan Graham!”

“If Scotland falls, it will no’ be because of me
or Arline. It will be because cowards and traitors,” Rowan said as he pursued
Archie.

Once Arline heard the men walking away, she pushed
herself up to her feet. Though she no longer feared for her own safety, she did
fear for Rowan’s. Of the men surrounding Archie, Rowan was the closest.

 “That is what we are tryin’ to avoid, ye fool!”

“I be no more a fool than ye, if ye think one slip
of a woman can save Scotland.”

She didn’t take it as a personal affront. Arline
knew Rowan was simply trying to get matters under control.

Archie lunged forward, toward Rowan. Rowan saw it
coming and jumped sideways. The blade of Archie’s sword barely missed Rowan’s
abdomen. Too stunned and terrified to move, Arline could only stand by and
watch, utterly helpless to do anything.

Findley took note of Arline’s distress. Uncertain
if she would fall to pieces or do something foolish and attempt to intercede on
Rowan’s behalf, Findley went to her side. With one hand on her shoulder and one
on her elbow, he stood beside her and tried to offer her some reassurance.

“Rowan’s good with his sword, me lady. Ye needn’t
worry.”

Arline thought his statement one of the most
ridiculous that she had heard of late. Do not worry? How could she not?

“Lad, ye do no’ want to do this,” Rowan told
Archie. “Put yer sword away and ye can live.”

Incensed, Archie refused to back down. “Nay! I
shall no’! Ye dunna understand what yer up against, Rowan. ’Tis something much
bigger than either of us. Let me take Arline and ye can go on about yer life!”
Rowan met Archie’s sword as he swung it sideways, successfully blocking his
shot.

There was not much room in the tiny clearing
amongst the evergreen trees. Soon, the perimeter was surrounded with Rowan’s
men. They would not interfere or act on his behalf unless it was absolutely
necessary. This was a fight that Rowan had to battle alone.

Rowan made no attempts to swing or thrust. Archie
was too angry, too infuriated to battle well. His movements were jerky, choppy,
and Rowan knew he would soon wear out and tire. All Rowan need do was take a
defensive stance, block the unbalanced and erratic thrusts, jabs, and swings.

Archie grew more frustrated with each swing that
missed his intended target. He was coming apart at the seams, losing control;
something shadow men never did. He tried channeling his anger, controlling it.
He was slipping and he knew it.

Hope was quickly replaced with despair. He was
surrounded by Graham men. Good, decent men who were loyal to Scotland, but they
were first loyal to Rowan, which in his mind made them just as dangerous as the
traitors he sought. He needed more men to help him fight Rowan and the men of
Clan Graham. If he could just get to his horse, he could go to the camp where
Arline’s father awaited them. In little time, he could have at least fifty men
at his disposal, men who would fight tooth and nail to get Arline back.

As he contemplated his next move, turning in
circles, thrusting his sword wildly, Rowan stumbled over a large rock and fell
backward, landing on his back.

Archie took no time in making his move. He lifted
his sword high above his head, ready to plunge it into Rowan’s chest. The only
way to get Arline to agree to marry anyone was to kill Rowan Graham.

Duncan acted swiftly before Archie could bring his
sword down. Flinging his knife through the air, it landed exactly where he had
aimed: left of the breastbone, straight into his heart. Archie fell to his
knees, still holding his broadsword high above his head.

Rowan rolled away before Archie fell forward,
plunging the knife in even further. The sickening sound of blood as it gurgled
in his throat and sputtered from his mouth made Arline turn into Findley’s
chest and cover her ears with her hands.

Duncan immediately came to Rowan’s side, extended
his arm and helped him to his feet.

Rowan let out a big breath of air, shook his head
and thanked his friend. “Thank ye, kindly Duncan,” he said as the color finally
returned to his face. “I thought fer certain I was dead!”

Duncan gave him a firm slap on his back. “No man
should die on his weddin’ day!”

Rowan gave him a quick nod before he rushed to
Arline. He pulled her away from Findley and held her close, rubbing her back,
and offering soothing words of comfort.

“Wheesht, lass, I be well. ’Tis over.”

Arline knew it wasn’t over. It would never be over
until she settled matters with her father once and for all.

Someone offered a cloak to Rowan who carefully
wrapped it around Arline’s shoulders. “Come, let us go home,” he said as he
kissed her cheek.

More than anything, she wanted to return to
Áit
na Síochána.
She wanted to marry Rowan and begin a life with him. Fearful
that her father or one of the shadow men would eventually interfere with that
plan, Arline shook her head.

“Nay, Rowan,” she said firmly. “There is one more
matter we must deal with before we go home.”

Arline sat on Rowan’s lap as they headed to her
father’s encampment. With his arms protectively folded around her, Arline
explained matters as best she could and as she knew them. The more Rowan
learned, the more furious he became. Grinding his teeth together, he remained
silent as he listened to her tell her tale, beginning with the events that took
place more than seven years ago.

She left nothing out. She told him about Robert
Stewart, the letter in Carlich’s box, the shadow men; everything was laid bare
before him.

He was proud of his wife. Aye, they weren’t
married in the biblical sense just yet -- he hoped to have that issue resolved
completely before the sun rose on the morrow -- but still, he thought of her as
his wife. Although she’d been through much these past seven years, had been
married to two suspected traitors to Scotland, had been beaten, nearly killed by
an arrow, drugged and taken from her home, she still held on to her dignity and
pride. She hadn’t fallen to pieces, hadn’t cowered in fear. Nay, she faced it
full on, as brave as any warrior he knew.

And she was about to face one of the main sources
of her fear. She’d not back down from her father. She’d not cry or plead or beg.

The more she talked, the more indomitable she
became. Rowan was quite glad to have her as an ally and soon, as his wife.

Her father’s encampment was not far from where
Archie lost his life. He was housed in a small clearing, scattered with tents
and fires. A quick survey told Rowan that Arline’s father had mayhap only
twenty men with him. Most of them looked barely old enough to have sprouted
chest hair.

 Rowan stopped near a group of lads sitting around
a fire. “Where is Orthanach Fitzgerald?”

 Three sets of fearful and confused eyes stared
back at him. Only one lad moved. He raised and arm and pointed toward a group
of larger tents. “He’s in the big one at the end,” the lad answered nervously.

Apparently Orthanach had not felt it necessary to
bring men or soldiers instead of inexperienced lads, who didn’t even bother to
inquire as to who he was or what he was doing here.

That could prove a fatal assumption on his part.

Rowan clicked his tongue and urged his horse
forward. They passed a few more young men, all with the same confused looks on
their faces as the lad who had directed him toward Orthanach’s tent.

Rowan brought his horse to a stop, swung a leg
over and lowered himself down. His men followed suit, each of them keeping a
watchful eye on their surroundings. Rowan lifted Arline down from the horse and
took her hand in his.

He did not stop to ask her if she was certain she
wanted to face her father. Her green eyes flickered with purpose. She would do
this and he would stand beside her while she did it.

Rowan held the tent flap open while Arline ducked
inside. He followed in behind her, but remained back a few steps, with his hand
on the hilt of his sword.

The tent was large. A full-sized bed stood off to
the right. Finely upholstered chairs sat around a large round table. Carpets
adorned the floors while tapestries hung on the walls. Dozens of lit candles,
some in silver candlesticks, others in large candelabras, were scattered about
the room. Ostentatious was the first word that came to Rowan’s mind.

Orthanach Fitzgerald sat behind a long table in an
ornately carved chair. His booted feet were propped up on the table as he held
a document in his long slender fingers.

He had short-cropped light brown hair that had
grayed at his temples. His nose seemed far too large for his hollow-cheeked
face. Dull blue-gray eyes looked up, first at Arline then at Rowan.

Orthanach made no effort to stand. He carefully
laid the document down, twined his fingers together and rested them on his
belly.

“Arline.”

There was no warmth in his voice, no sign of
fatherly affection.

Arline refused to offer him a curtsy as was due
his station and title. She was not going to beat around the bush.

“I’ve been told ye arranged yet another marriage
fer me.”

He gave a barely perceptible nod of his.

“I’m here to tell ye that
that
won’t be
happenin’.”

He breathed in deeply through his nostrils and let
it out slowly. “What’s done is done. We leave on the morrow, fer Edinburgh
where ye will marry Phillip Randall.”

Arline did not so much as bat an eye. She did not
flinch or move or otherwise act afraid or frail. She stood her ground. “Nay, I
shan’t.”

“Arline, do no’ give me any grief over this. The
arrangements have been made, the bride price paid. Ye shall go to Edinburgh and
ye shall marry Phillip Randall.”

Arline walked forward, placed her palms on the top
of his desk and leaned in. “Nay. I shan’t. I will no longer be yer pawn. I will
no longer cower and bend to yer will. I am of an age where I can decide who I
want or do no’ want to marry.”

Orthanach was about to speak when a small
commotion began just outside the entry to the tent. Rowan lifted the flap and
stepped aside.

Findley came in, bearing Archie’s lifeless body
over his shoulder. “Where do ye want, this Rowan?”

Rowan motioned toward the desk. Orthanach shot to
his feet as he watched Findley give a curt nod to Rowan. He walked toward
Orthanach and Arline, went to the side of the desk, and with a slight heave, he
tossed Archie’s body off his shoulder. It landed with a thud in a heap next to
the desk.

Findley gave a slight nod and cast a smug grin at
Orthanach and quit the tent.

Arline stood with her hands crossed over her chest
and glared at her father. “I believe ye ken who that is?” she asked, giving a
nod toward the dead body at her father’s feet.

Orthanach was speechless. He looked dumbfounded as
he stared at Arline.

“I ken him as well. Or did.”

Orthanach looked down at Archie. He was visibly
shaken and pale when he turned his attention back to Arline.

“Hear me, and hear me now,” Arline began. Her tone
was serious, firm, unyielding. “Ye will
never
contact me or me sisters.
Ever. Ye shall leave the three of us in peace. No more barterin’ fer marriages.
No more bargains with Robert Stewart. I’ll never be yer pawn again.” She took a
breath as she leaned forward to look him in the eye. “Ye will never threaten
me, me sisters, me husband, me daughter, or any future children I may have. Ye
shall never send the shadow men fer me or mine. Fer I swear if ye do, I will
run me blade through yer heart, just like I did Archie’s.”

Orthanach didn’t need to know who actually plunged
the blade through Archie’s heart. It was enough to keep him guessing, fearful,
and understanding that she meant every word she spoke.

Orthanach leaned over the desk, placing his hands
palms down on top of it. “Ye wouldna dare,” he challenged her.

In the span of two heartbeats, Arline drew the
dirk Rowan had given her and thrust it through her father’s right hand until it
hit wood.

 For several long moments, he was too stunned to
speak. He looked disbelievingly at the knife sticking through the top of his
hand. Blood trickled from it.

Arline held on to the hilt and leaned in closer,
her nose almost touching his. “That will be yer only warnin’. Heed me words or
ye’ll no’ live to regret the day ye didn’t.”

Using both hands, she removed the knife from his
hand, turned and walked away.

Blood spilled out and ran down his arm as he
lifted it to his chest. “Ye stabbed me! Yer own father!” he cried out in shock
and pain.

Arline stopped and turned back to him. “Remember,
that
was yer only warnin’. Ye’ll no’ get a second.”

She took Rowan’s hand and hurried from the tent.
She didn’t want her father to watch as the blood drained from her face. She
didn’t want him to see how ill she’d become.

Rowan climbed on to his horse, extended an arm to
Arline and lifted her up. He wrapped his arms around her and without speaking,
he took her away from the encampment.

Night had fallen but Arline begged Rowan not to
make camp for the night. She wanted to go home, back to
Áit na Síochána.
She
wanted to wrap Lily in her arms and hold her. She wanted to marry Rowan before
dawn, and fall asleep in his arms.

A sense of peace, a kind of comforting peace she
was not accustomed to, draped itself around her. Arline knew that her father
was neither dumb enough or brave enough to test her promise. She was certain he
would never bother her, her sisters or her family ever again.