The Clan MacDougall Series (87 page)

“Please, Findley, I want to leave,” she choked. Her emotions ran from relief to terror to anger and back again. She wanted her son and she wanted to get as far away from this place as she could.

“Aye! We’ll be gettin’ ye out of here now, lass!” Findley said. “Do ye ken where the key to the shackles are?”

Maggy shook her head. “Malcolm, I think he has it,” she choked. Desperation and panic began to set in. “Ian! Where is Ian?”

“Me friend Nial and his men are gettin’ him lass,” he told her. For now, he would pretend that he hadn’t heard Maggy’s confession to Traig. They would have time to discuss that later. For now, he had to get her and Ian out of the keep.

He studied the chains that bound her to the wall. They were too thick to cut through with his sword and the hooks that held them into the wall were just as sturdy. He tried pulling on the hooks in hopes they would magically pull from the wall. He’d need a hammer and chisel or the damned key!

Rowan pulled on the chains with the same fervent hope, but to no avail. “We need the key, Findley,” he whispered. “Ye go find Malcolm. I’ll stay here with yer lass.”

Findley did not want to leave Maggy. He’d tear the room down, stone by stone if he had to, to get her out of the shackles. He was torn between wanting to stay to protect her and wanting to get the hell out of the keep and back to Gregor. The best thing would be to find the key.

“Maggy,” Findley whispered as his trembling fingers held her face gently. “This is Rowan, a good friend of mine. He’s going to stay here and guard ye while I go find Malcolm and get the key.”

“Nay! Do no’ leave me, please!” she cried, pulling on the chains, as she had done dozens of times over the past few days. Fire burned in her wrists and sent shocks of pain up to her shoulders.

“Maggy, I promise, I’ll come back with the key,” he told her before giving her forehead another kiss. “I promise!” he knew the longer he stayed, the longer it would be until he found the key.

He turned to Rowan. “Ye guard her as if she’s the queen herself, Rowan.”

“Aye, I will,” Rowan said. “Now go!”

Findley reluctantly quit the room to go search for the key. He could hear Maggy crying and Rowan trying to console her as he stepped into the hallway. Her sobs wrenched his heart and tore at his soul, causing the anger to build with each step he took away from the room, away from the love of his life.

He muttered under his breath as he raced down the long corridor. Malcolm Buchannan if ye be no’ dead yet, ye soon will be.

H
e’d be damned if he’d let the MacDougalls or anyone else get Maggy or the boy out of this castle alive.

When he’d awoken to the sound of the warning alarms, Malcolm knew instinctively that the doors to hell had just opened. As he threw on a tunic and trews, one of his men appeared at his door to let him know that hundreds of MacDougalls, McKees and McDunnahs were attacking.

No one needed to explain to him why they were here. The reports he’d received from the men he had posted in Stirling had told him that Maggy was seen in the company of MacDougall men. It was enough information for him to put two and two together.

He cared not what the reasons were behind Maggy being with the MacDougalls. All that mattered was the fact that his plan was not working out as he had hoped. His future as an earl with vast holdings, power and coin, was rapidly slipping away from his grasp. He felt very much like a man who had just lost his footing and was now holding perilously to a thin vine at the precipice of a large chasm. At any moment, he’d slip and fall to his death.

Malcolm pulled on his boots and donned his scabbard and sword as his mind raced in a thousand different directions at once. “Get me ten men!” he shouted to the man who stood in the doorway. “I want horses readied immediately.”

He grabbed the key to Maggy’s shackles from the table by his bed, draped the leather tie around his neck, and headed out of his room, pushing the man aside.

“But m’laird!” the young man called after him. “There are hundreds of them!”

“I do no’ care if there are thousands!” Malcolm called over his shoulder as he headed toward Ian’s room. “Get me ten men, ready my damned horses and meet me in the whore’s room!”

The young man’s brow creased as he watched Malcolm stomp toward the boy’s room. The orders his laird had just given him confirmed the rumors that had been going around the castle of late; their laird, their leader, had lost his mind.

There were hundreds of men storming the keep and all Malcolm cared about was the woman and child. The young man tamped down the anger he was feeling toward his leader. Instead of defending their keep, as a good leader would do, his laird was planning his escape.

The young man wouldn’t have it. Malcolm could ready his own damned horses and gather his own men.

As the alarm bells rang out, piercing the quiet night, Ian awoke, with a jarring sense of fear. When he heard the sounds of battle carried in through the cracks in the window of his room, his fear immediately turned to relief. He was certain that someone had finally come to rescue him and his mum.

Ian leapt from his bed and fumbled around in the dark for his clothes. If he was getting rescued tonight, he’d want to be wearing his clothes and not a nightshirt. Dingle didn’t budge from his spot on the warm bed; he looked up only once, gave Ian a disinterested glance, yawned, and laid his head back on his paws.

“Yer no’ much of a guard dog, ye flea-ridden beast!” Ian mumbled.

Just as he was pulling on his second boot, Ian heard heavy footsteps coming down the hall outside his door. Quickly, he grabbed Dingle, who yelped in protest at having his sleep disturbed. Ian’s intent had been to hide in a dark corner or under his bed, but the door flew open before he could do any such thing.

Ian spun around to see Malcolm standing in his doorway. Light from the torches spilled into the room. Ian swallowed, the fear rising with bitter bile that burned at the back of his throat.

“Son!” Malcolm nearly shouted. “We’re under attack! I’m here to take ye and yer mum to safety,” he said as he held out his hand.

Ian hated it when Malcolm called him “son”; he’d rather have his eyes plucked from their sockets by scavengers than to be Malcolm Buchannan’s son, real or otherwise.

Ian knew instinctively that Malcolm wasn’t there to help. Something deep within his heart warned him not to leave with this man. They weren’t under attack by someone wanting to harm either him or his mum, that much he was sure of. Whoever was swarming over the walls and fighting with the Buchannans was here to help.

“Come, lad! We must hurry! We have to protect yer mum!” Malcolm said as he extended his hand further.

He couldn’t move, his feet firmly planted, not from a stubbornness but from sheer, unadulterated fear. Nay, Malcolm no more wanted to protect Ian and his mum than he wanted to jump from the nearest cliff.

Having enough of the child’s nonsense, Malcolm rushed into the room and scooped the quivering boy into one arm. He grabbed Dingle by the back of his neck and tossed him on to Ian’s bed.

“Yer fearful, ’tis to be expected,” Malcolm said as they walked out of the room and into the corridor. “We’ll be out of harm’s way in short order, lad. Ye, yer mum and me will be ridin’ away this night.”

There was something sinister in Malcolm’s voice, a menacing tone that made the hair on the back of Ian’s neck stand up. Chills ran down his spine and he had the sudden urge to pee. Fear kept him stiff and made his fingers tremble.

Malcolm drew his sword with his free hand as they sprang down the stairs. Ian could see dozens of men in the great room below, dozens of swords clashing against swords, maces flinging through the air, and fists crashing against jaws. The smell of blood and sweat filled the air and made his stomach churn uneasily.

As they rounded the corner Malcolm came to a dead stop.

“Just the man I wanted to see.”

Ian knew this man! ’Twas one of the men who had taken him back to his mum that summer!

“Who the hell are ye?” Malcolm asked.

“I’m the man whose here to send yer sorry soul to hell,” Findley said calmly. He was relieved to see that Ian was still alive and apparently well, though the child did look terrified. He hoped the boy remembered him.

A flood of relief washed over Ian. Anyone that wanted to send Malcolm Buchannan’s soul to hell was a good man and friend.

“Lad, ’tis me, Findley,” he said as he took a small step toward them. “Do ye remember me?”

Ian nodded his head and took note of the blood splattered on the man’s face, mail, sword, and hauberk. Finding courage, Ian began to wiggle against the tight hold Malcolm had on him.

“Be still!” Malcolm warned, not taking his eyes from Findley.

“Let me go!” Ian cried out. “I will no’ go with ye!”

“Put the lad down, Malcolm,” Findley said as he took one step closer. He hoped Malcolm would be distracted enough so that he could get close enough to run him through without harming the boy.

Malcolm tilted his head as he turned to look at Ian. “Shut up, ye brat!”

Ian struggled against Malcolm but that only angered him further. “Be still or I’ll feed yer carcass to me dogs!”

There was no doubt in Ian’s mind that given the chance, Malcolm would do just that. Mustering up more courage than he knew he had, Ian balled his hand into a fist and swung at Malcolm’s face. His blow, though admittedly it wasn’t a mighty one, landed between Malcolm’s eye and nose. It was enough to send him into a fit of rage.

When the boy’s fist landed on Malcolm’s face, Findley’s stomach lurched. He didn’t need the boy angering Malcolm to the point of murder, but the look on Malcolm’s face was a good indicator that he was to that point.

“Ye little bastard!” Malcolm shouted as he let loose his grip. Ian began to fall from Malcolm’s arm, but Malcolm caught him by the back of his tunic. In one swift motion, he lifted him into the air and stepped closer to the short railing.

“Ye’ve a death wish, lad?” his voice dripped with menace and seething anger as he lifted Ian up and over the railing. If he let go, Ian would surely fall to his death!

“Nay!” Findley yelled as he stepped toward Malcolm.

Malcolm grinned maliciously at Findley. “Stop!” he shouted. “Come closer and I’ll drop him!”

Rage simmered just under the surface. Findley hadn’t come this far only to have the boy die now. His jaw clenched as he gripped his sword tighter. He looked at Ian, whose eyes and mouth were agape with fear. Even from where he stood, some good eight to ten feet away, he could see the boy tremble, his face turn pale with fear.

“If ye drop that child, ye’ll be dead before he hits the floor below.” It was a promise he fully intended to keep.

Findley could see a few of his men making their way quietly up the stairs but the fighting below did not cease. He shot them a look and a slight shake of his head, fearing they’d do something to either startle or anger Malcolm that would cause him to let loose of Ian. The men held their positions.

“If ye want the boy to live,” Malcolm said, as a thin sheen of sweat began to break out over his face, “ye’ll step aside.”

“There be no way out fer ye Malcolm,” Findley warned.

Malcolm was growing quite impatient. With a tilt of his head, he said, “Do ye think I fear ye?”

Findley shook his head. “Nay. But I think ye fear death.”

Fury exploded over Malcolm’s face. “Fear death?!” he shouted. “I fear nothin’! I merely want that which is mine! Let me pass now!”

“Nay,” Findley said, shaking his head, again attempting to keep his voice level and calm. His insides however, were anything but calm. He wanted nothing more than to run his sword through Malcolm’s heart.

“I can no’ do that, Malcolm. Give me the boy and we shall let ye live this day, that I do promise.” He’d hang the bastard tomorrow, so ’twasn’t a full out lie.

Though the lad was small, holding him by his tunic and dangling him out over the railing was a strain on Malcolm’s muscles. His arm began to shake slightly and he knew he couldn’t hold on to the boy forever.

Malcolm turned his head to look at Ian. The boy had grabbed Malcolm’s forearm in a death grip, holding on with both hands. He could feel his sweaty little palms and fingers and could see the panic in his eyes.

It angered Malcolm to no end. ’Twas the brat’s fault he was in this predicament. Had the little shite not fainted at the sight of his scarred face all those many days ago, had he not awakened long-buried feelings of compassion and kindness, then Malcolm would have proceeded in a far different manner.

He would have hunted Maggy down and forced her to marry him. His seed, he was certain, would have already been firmly planted in her belly and his dreams of a title, lands, and power would well be on their way to fruition.

But nay! The brat had to faint! He had opened old wounds, old feelings and turned Malcolm’s life upside down. Admittedly, he had begun to grow fond of the lad. And that, he realized, had been his downfall. The beginning of the end.

There was no way out. He’d not be marrying Maggy. He’d not gain a title, lands, or respectability. All because of the lad who now dangled precariously from his hand.