The Rose and The Warrior (21 page)

She did not belong to him, he reminded himself harshly. For one brief, magnificent moment she had, but now it was passed. It had not been anything but a sweet, stolen illusion, as magnificent and ethereal as a wisp of snow that is hopelessly destined to melt against the ground, or else be crushed beneath the weight of the storm that follows.

“I'm sorry,” he said helplessly, knowing it could not begin to ease her anguish.

She looked at him in surprise, as if she had expected him to say anything but that.

And then she bit her trembling lip and quickly closed the door, sealing the wall between them.

C
HAPTER
7

“A quick release and my arrow drove clean into the target, showing that with a sharp eye and uncommon skill, 'twas a shot that could be made,” boasted Magnus proudly.

“Excellent work, Magnus,” praised Laird MacKillon.

Hagar bobbed his balding head in agreement. “No wonder Melantha insists you be part of her band.”

“A pity you were aiming for the bale of hay far to the left of the bucket at the time,” muttered Thor sourly.

Magnus's white brow shot up in indignation. “I most certainly was not!”

“Then why had you told your men that was the target?” challenged Thor.

“That was
their
target,” Magnus qualified. “But when ye've such keenly honed skills as mine, ye must challenge yerself, or else ye lose yer touch.”

“And I suppose you were challenging yourself that day you nearly speared my foot to the ground?” Thor's voice was quivering with anger.

“Now, Thor, I've told ye time and again ye were in no danger,” said Magnus. “I was aiming for a wee stone beside ye, and that's what I hit.”

Thor gasped in outrage. “You said it was a leaf!”

Magnus shrugged. “The details aren't important.”

“You can't remember because there was no leaf!” roared Thor. “And no one in their right mind would want to
put a hole in a slops bucket
!”

“Bea did complain about the mess it made,” reflected Hagar.

“If Magnus says he was aiming for the slops bucket, then I'm sure he was,” intervened Laird MacKillon. “After all, his exemplary skills as an archer have been proven time and again during his raids with the Falcon.”

“In case ye've forgotten, I was the one who felled Roarke just as he was about to slay Melantha,” Magnus reminded Thor. “Now, there's a shot to make ye choke on yer unsavory accusations!”

“Who in their right mind aims for a man's backside?” scoffed Thor. “You should have shot him through his greedy, shriveled MacTier heart, then plunged your dirk deep into his gut and hacked out his stinking bowels—”

“It worked, didn't it?” Magnus challenged.

“It certainly did,” agreed Laird MacKillon, “and Roarke seems to be none the worse for it. Thor, why don't you tell us how your training is going with the MacTier Viking?” he suggested, changing the subject.

“I never met a more objectionable, impatient, arrogant know-it-all in my entire life,” huffed Thor irritably.

“I have,” Magnus muttered.

Thor's dark little eyes bulged in fury as he reached for his sword. “By God, Magnus, if it's a fight you're wanting—”

“Your pardon, gentlemen, but we've no time for this,” objected Laird MacKillon. “We still haven't heard from Laird MacTier regarding our ransom demands, and the MacKenzies have refused to agree to an alliance until they receive payment in gold. As we don't know what the MacTiers plan to do next, it is essential that we be prepared for an attack. Are we?”

“Almost,” said Magnus evasively.

“Shouldn't be much longer,” added Thor.

Hagar looked at them in confusion. “How much longer?”

Magnus scratched his snowy head, considering. “A week,” he decided. “Two at the very most.”

“Two weeks may be fine for teaching a lad to pitch an arrow at a slops bucket,” snorted Thor, “but to train him to wield a sword takes longer.”

“Any bumbling lout with an arm can wield a sword,” Magnus challenged heatedly, “but to shoot well ye must learn to be one with the arrow—”

“And of course you were one with the arrow that nearly broke my bloody foot—”

“How much longer?” interrupted Laird MacKillon.

Thor thought for a moment, stroking the hilt of his weapon. “It takes a lifetime,” he finally decided.

“I'm afraid we don't have that much time,” fretted Hagar.

“Strange Laird MacTier hasn't answered our ransom message yet,” mused Magnus. “Ye'd think he would have arranged to pay for the lads'return by now.”

Hagar regarded him worriedly. “Do you think it's possible he doesn't want them back?”

“Of course he wants them back!” barked Thor. “Do you think great big chaps like that are easy to come by? Why, he must have spent a fortune just growing them to that size!”

“Then why doesn't he send a message saying he plans to pay the ransom?” wondered Laird MacKillon.

“Could be he's not botherin'with any missives, but is just sending the ransom to us directly,” suggested Magnus.

“It would take time to organize all that food and clothing,” reflected Hagar. “And don't forget, there are livestock and weapons involved as well, not to mention the gold.”

“That would take some effort to arrange,” agreed Laird MacKillon, steepling his aged fingers together. His wrinkled brow furrowed with concern. “But what if he decides he simply doesn't want the lads back?”

“Then we hack them to pieces where they stand!” declared Thor happily. “We take those mangled pieces and chop them into wee bits, and boil them over a fire to make a nice, thick stew!”

Hagar looked somewhat sickened by the prospect. “I really don't think I'm up to eating them.”

“We can't kill them,” protested Magnus.

“Why not?” demanded Thor.

“For one thing, it would start a war between us and the MacTiers, and that's a battle we've no chance of winning,” Magnus pointed out.

“Of course we could!” Thor argued. “A few more weeks of training and our lads will be able to face any army in Scotland!”

Laird MacKillon's eyes widened in astonishment. “Really?”

“No,” returned Magnus flatly.

“You're forgetting about our secret weapons,” Thor said.

Hagar regarded him curiously. “What secret weapons?”

“The traps! Those MacTier chaps and Lewis have come up with some dandy ones!”

“The traps won't hold off an entire army,” protested Magnus.

“Maybe not, but they can whittle it down to a size we can easily slay,” Thor argued.

“It would have to be a very small army,” retorted Magnus.

“But what if no one comes at all?” Hagar wondered. “Then what do we do with our prisoners?”

Thor huffed with impatience. “Are you not hearing well these days, Hagar? We've already agreed to make them into stew!”

“Your pardon, Thor, but we cannot kill them,” said Laird MacKillon. “Not after they have been such pleasant, helpful company.”

“I don't find that Viking pleasant at all,” Thor objected.

“He didn't seem agreeable at first,” allowed Hagar. “But I must say, after watching the poor fellow bravely down an entire jug of my daughter's posset without so much as wincing, I find I have had to reconsider my opinion of him.”

Magnus slapped his thigh. “Now, that was a feat, to be sure,” he said, chuckling. “Over the years I've developed a belly that can withstand the stuff, but I'd never want to drain an entire jug!”

“If we can't chop them up for stewing meat, then what are we to do with them?” demanded Thor.

Laird MacKillon sighed. “I suppose we would have to let them go.”

“But we can't,” objected Hagar. “They know who the Falcon is and where she and her band of outlaws hide. If we let them go they could lead an army back here and kill them.”

“Roarke and his men seem like good, decent fellows, even though they are MacTier warriors,” said Laird MacKillon. “I cannot believe they would ever do anything so cowardly.”

“Perhaps not willingly,” Hagar allowed. “But every man must obey the orders of his laird. If MacTier told them to return here, what choice would they have?”

“Hagar makes a good point,” Magnus reluctantly conceded.

Laird MacKillon considered this a moment. “Then there is only one thing to do,” he finally said.

The other council members regarded him expectantly.

“If the Laird MacTier does not fulfill the demands of our ransom, then we must keep the prisoners here.”

“Forever?” asked Magnus.

He nodded.

“It would be a lot easier just to carve them up and make a stew out of them,” Thor grumbled. “Do you have any idea how much those brutes will eat over the years?”

“I don't believe it will come to that,” said Magnus. “As ye've already pointed out, these are four fine big lads, and I'm willin' to wager MacTier is not about to just let his warriors go. He'll either pay the ransom and be done with it, or he'll come for a visit and try to take them back by force.”

“Then let's hope he chooses to simply pay the ransom,” Laird MacKillon responded, “and save us the trouble of having to put Lewis's contraptions to the test.”

Eric watched with swiftly eroding patience as Mungo clumsily ascended the stone stairs backward.

“Stop looking behind you,” he commanded, the rusted steel of the dull sword he had been allocated for training cracking hard against Mungo's only marginally sharper blade. “I could have killed you ten times by now, with all your stumbling and looking over your shoulder. The steps are there—now forget about them and concentrate on killing me.”

“But I could fall,” protested Mungo, stealing an anxious glance behind him at the stairs leading from the courtyard to the second level of the castle.

“You won't fall because your opponent will have his sword buried in your belly long before you make it up the first step,” complained Eric. “If you fear falling so much, then use it to drive me back—don't let me make you retreat.”

Mungo dutifully jabbed at the warrior, only to have his blow squarely deflected by Eric's pitiful weapon.

“Again!” commanded Eric, still forcing Mungo up the stairs. “Don't just stand there—thrust at me again!”

Mungo flailed his sword once more, and the blow was promptly countered.

“Faster!” ordered Eric, advancing yet another step. “I could slay an army in the time it takes you to return a thrust! Keep your blade moving!”

Once again Mungo stabbed at Eric, and once again his weapon was deflected as Mungo glanced over his shoulder and nervously ascended yet another step.

“You are leading your opponent right into the castle,” observed Eric in disgust. “Why don't you just step aside and invite me in?”

“I'm trying to keep you out!” protested Mungo.

“Then keep your eyes locked on mine,” Eric instructed, engaging him with his sword once more. “Drive me back with the sheer force of your hatred, and whatever you do, don't look behind for so much as—
look out
!!”

Mungo gasped in surprise as his body collided with another. He threw his arms up in the air in a frantic attempt to regain his balance, and might have succeeded had Eric not shoved him out of the way in his race to catch Gillian.

“Help!” cried Mungo as he toppled awkwardly over the side of the stairs and landed solidly on the grass below.

“Are you all right?” Eric demanded.